Maxi

cupcake

[chipotleburritobowl]

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤpinefall valley

₊˚ ⋅ ۶ৎ ㅤsummary. heavy with the weight of a job you never had any passion for, you decided to open the envelope your grandfather gave you after shoving it in your office drawer for years. suddenly, you’re living in a small obscure town in the middle of nowhere getting more than what you signed up for.

content. town doctor!bucky barnes x fem!farmer!reader , mutual pining , bucky’s got a big fat crush on u , miscommunication , your vegetables grow really fast but let’s just ignore that , jealousy , mdni (18+) , outdoor sex , dom!bucky , unprotected p in v , marking/biting , pet names (baby, sweetheart, doll, city girl) , almost getting caught

word count. 14k

from lia. here's my little present in celebration of hitting 5(00) followers, i love every single one of u sm! this is incredibly self-indulgent but oh well. on a side note, literally in all of my stardew saves i only romance harvey (except for that one time i deliberately romanced shane for his blue chickens) bc he's....he's my man... this is also just a tiny bit proofread!

to live in the city was the only answer that stayed constant whenever someone asked about your future. whether you become a firefighter or a police officer, you had to become one that’s from the city. you were no different from other suburban children whose dream was to get out of the rural area you lived in to go to hustling and bustling new york city.

when it was time for you to make a decision that would effectively cement you into one profession for the rest of your career—you’ve already answered every occupation there is. five-year old you wanted to become a teacher, to guide and give equal opportunities for everyone—everything is rooted in education, after all.

at the age of ten you’ve dropped that ideology the moment you saw a doctor rush in from the er and into the back of an ambulance in a speed unlike any you’ve seen—and you decided you wanted to be like him, too. 

you’ve stuck to that answer until you were about sixteen, then you decided you wanted to become a photographer who has her own studio at an apartment in brooklyn—and for the most part that’s what you truly planned on pursuing, but practicality had other plans.

your knuckles were beginning to sting after forcing it open as you typed away on your computer, hunched over the keyboard like a shrimp. you’ve already drank god knows how many red bulls but you were nowhere near done with heaps of paperwork and presentations you have to catch up on.

this isn’t where you imagined yourself to be. you were in a big city, sure—and you’ve got a somewhat high paying job—but this isn’t the version of your lifelong dream you wanted to spend the rest of your career in. this isn’t the situation you’d want little you to see whenever the ghost of her decides to come visit you in your dreams tonight. 

your parents have always given you the freedom to be whoever you wanted to be, whatever career choice appealed to you the most—whether it be a mortician or a snake milker, your parents were always behind you on every decision you made.

but practicality over passion loomed above your head like a stormy cloud that won’t leave, and now you’re stuck finishing numbers your co-worker should’ve done weeks ago—though it seems like you’re the only one responsible around here—and you’ve got a bunch of other deadlines to chase after, like a fish chasing for the bait stuck in a never ending sea. at least fishes are free to swim around as they please and not get stuck in a suffocating cubicle.

letting out another heavy sigh, your fingers wrapped around the cool surface of the canned beverage shoved in the corner of your desk before taking a hefty gulp. if you were going to suffer and wallow in your decisions, the least you could do was to keep yourself energized. as your fingers hovered over the daunting keys that stared back at you in what you like to imagine the same tired expression as yours, you heard someone call your name from somewhere behind you. 

“hey! we’re gonna be heading out for dinner, you wanna tag along?” trisha, the first person you’ve ever talked to since joining the company and, admittedly, your only friend around these parts, was already halfway through the glass exit of the office, blazer in one arm and another co-worker holding tightly against the other, when she invited you to join her. she looked at you expectantly, a kind smile playing on her lips. 

she had always made an effort to keep you included in things—no matter how big or small—she made sure to invite you or tag you along with whatever she’s got going, as long as the both of you were free. you could tell it was one of the only things left that’s keeping her tethered down to earth, lest she goes insane. and honestly, you weren’t far off from that too.

a part of you desperately wanted to clock out earlier than you usually do and not stay overtime to let yourself indulge in a little treat and eat out somewhere good—maybe chinese takeout or thai— and give yourself the rest you desperately need. but, you didn’t really feel like getting into any form of conversation right now, you needed to finish this spreadsheet. 

you mirrored back a warm smile of your own, “sorry, i’ve got a lot to catch up on. maybe tomorrow?"

“aww, alright. don’t work yourself too hard!” she waved, before peeking her head out from the exit one last time, “or do, go get that bag, girl.”

with an exasperated sigh and your head in your hands, just as quick as she momentarily pulled you out of work, you were face to face with the daunting, glowing screen of your monitor. 

your eyes felt heavier the second you lifted them up to read the numerics and alphabets on the screen, that dreadful weight heavying the already awful pressure resting on your shoulders. the job you currently have was thoroughly, and utterly draining out the life out of you—and you’re sure no amount of ibuprofen can pull you out of this one.

in a fit of pent up rage finally surfacing up and out onto the tips of your fingers, you tried to drink your woes away with another sip of the caffeinated drink beside you. instead, the can slipped from the pads of your palm and spilled onto the desk, dripping its contents down on the drawers and the floor below. 

cursing lowly to yourself, you pushed the wheels of your office chair backwards—the tires screeching softly against the waxed floor. you plucked a piece or two from the tissue box on your desk to start drying up the mess you made, and just when you were about to begin wiping the floor clean, the drawer on the bottom slipped open, revealing the contents that hid within it.

amidst the dozens of haphazardly arranged random colored folders and extra stapler bullets, was the letter your grandfather gave you a few years back, sat comfortably in silence.

visions of your memories of him rekindled in your head, back to when you visited him on weekends in that sweet quaint town he used to live in, and the last words he said to you on his deathbed as he handed you the letter you were currently ogling at like it was something otherworldly.

“open this envelope whenever you feel the weight of the world dragging you down.”

you pursed your lips, hands reaching down still smelling of red bull, and the tight air around the office started to wrap around the space of your cubicle specifically.

suddenly the buzzing of the air conditioner was too loud, the clacking of keyboards from your co-workers who decided to stay behind just like you were louder than you remember, and the light still radiating in front of you glared anticipatingly.

the contents of the letter was a mystery to you, hell, you surprised even yourself for holding off on opening it for this long. you didn’t find any need to be curious about what’s inside for a long time, since the world used to spin around under your feet before atlas suddenly decided to transfer its weight to you.

in a sudden change of events, the letter now rested in your grasp like it would be the answer to all of your problems. and a part of you silently prayed that it would—prayed that the almighty stars up above will finally give you something that could bring flavor to your stale world and make you feel alive again. you’ve been feeling tired and empty, even without acknowledging it yourself—and you already knew you have been for a long, long time. 

the envelope’s flap crackled as you flipped it wide with shaky hands, and the first sight of your late grandfather’s handwriting brought you a wave of nostalgia. like the paper in your hands was the most valuable thing ever, you lifted it out from its sleeve carefully, hesitance coursing through you.

another piece of paper fell onto your lap as you held the letter, your deadlines and spreadsheets long forgotten. it was the deed to your grandfather’s piece of land and the title to his farmhouse in the country. you couldn’t stop the startled gasp that left you, because sure, you expected a message from your grandfather, but you surely didn’t expect for him to include the deed to his property. 

“oh my god.” slowly, your eyes continued to widen, both in shock and overflowing gratitude, before tears began welling up in the corners of your eyes—threatening to spill and roll down your cheeks. your heart clenching at the thought of your grandfather caring for you this much definitely reduced you to a sobbing mess right here in your office cubicle.

the sound of your computer’s motherboard whirred in the background as you read the message written like a founding fathers', eyes sharper than ever and mouth going impossibly dry.

my dearest granddaughter,

when we least expect it, life sets us a challenge to test our courage and willingness to change. i want you to remember to never let life become a burden to you, it is not a problem you immediately ned to have an answer to, it is meant to be enjoyed and celebrated. never give up, you are a strong-minded girl, just like your mother.

i’ve enclosed in this letter the deed to my place, my pride and joy: the family farm. it’s located in pinefall valley on the southern coast. it’s the perfect place to start a new life. whenever you are ready, the place will be there waiting for you with open arms.

this was my most precious gift of all, your grandmother insisted i leave it in your hands instead of letting it rot away in the hands of others, and now it’s yours. i know you’ll honor the family name, my girl. best of luck. 

love, grandpa

being the cautious person that you were, you weren’t sure if this was the right choice to be made. you’ve spent a good chunk of your life nursing the dream of finally living in a big city—and now here you were, complaining about it just seconds ago like it was a ball and chain attached to your ankle, pulling you further and further down the pit you’ve willingly jumped into. 

with an unsteady exhale, you pressed your eyes closed and basked in the office air one last time—unwilling to give yourself the time to dwell on your decision—because you knew the second you start rethinking, you’re bound to start reconsidering things and before you know it you’ll be back at square one. 

you breathed in through your nose and shut your eyes to clear your head—this is it. you needed this. you need a fresh, clean start. and if you’re gonna find that in the middle of buttfuck nowhere, then so be it.

on a rainy early sunday morning, you left brooklyn with a hole right in the middle of your chest. as much as this city brought you most of your problems and made you impossibly homesick on some days, it was still the dream, and dreams are a hard thing to forget—especially when they come true. 

you weren’t only forfeiting an apartment and a job in exchange of living a new life—you were leaving behind everything you’ve worked so hard for for the past years leading up to now. it’s definitely a lot to be dropping, even with a hefty resignation payout. and you didn’t even have the chance to bid trisha a proper farewell—you hoped she could forgive you.

the bus was empty when you stepped inside. aside from the hooded guy situated at the far end of the vehicle, it was only you and the conductor exchanging glances and smiles before you decided on which corner you were going to sit and spend your next five hours on.

you guessed it wasn’t anyone’s interest to visit a small town that’s probably not even on the map, its name reeked of old-fashion—rugged around the edges. given how there wasn’t anyone lining up to visit the place, the place has probably been forgotten by time. hadn't it been for the fact that your grandparents lived there, you would’ve never managed to find the small town of stonefield even if you were with the greatest pioneer in the world.

as you expected, the sights on the way were nothing short of breathtaking. it felt refreshing to finally see the world outside of the four walls you’ve gotten so used to seeing—from the trees to the dozens of lakes you’ve passed by and admired from behind the bus’ windows—your life was beginning to breathe back in color, number by number.

it was beginning to feel very much like a hallmark movie. you—a career-focused woman from the city moves to a quaint small town, but you’re yet to meet a charming local who would swift you off your feet.

despite the feeling of anxiety ebbing at your chest—you could feel excitement slowly bubble up in the bottom of your chest, this could either be the worst or best decision of your life, and you’re beginning to feel confident that it’s going to be the latter.

you arrived at pinefall valley at around three in the afternoon—the wind gently blew against your warm cheeks as you clutched the handle of your suitcase nervously. you picked up your phone to look at the map you pre-downloaded before getting on the bus because despite being nervous about ditching your city life for a much calmer provincial one, you were also very nervous about getting lost and eventually ending up on television.

creepily enough, you didn’t pass by anyone on your way to your grandfather’s farm—you don’t remember this place having a large population anyway, but it was still unnerving to see the lack of people at this time of day. shrugging off the unsettling feeling from your shoulders, you pocketed your phone the moment the rocky and gravel filled roads began to fee familiar to you. as the old worn-down keys jingled inside the knob and the door swung open—you breathed in the air only the countryside could offer.

on the front porch sat boxes that contained some of your stuff that probably arrived the day before by the moving company, and you let the sight before you sink in as you stepped foot on the property. it was left the same way as you remembered—with a few unfamiliar things here and there, of course. there were a few baby photos of you hung up on the wall, a hopefully working sink and kitchen counter, a refrigerator, a television, a furnace, and a cozy bedroom that housed a queen-sized bed. 

“this is gonna be a lot of work.” you murmured to yourself, already mentally taking note of all the things that could use some rework. 

the place wasn’t the biggest one out there, but it was home. it still sang of a life that was once alive and breathing—and you were determined to bring it back to its former glory.

the first week in a new town didn’t bring you anything eventful. you haven’t gotten around meeting the townsfolk and all the wonders stonefield has to offer, and you’ve mostly cooped up working on your farm.

your days were primarily filled with you clearing out the enormous plot of land that could probably house four other homes just like the one you were currently living in. how rich exactly are your grandparents? there was an abandoned greenhouse to the left of your home. it needs a lot of renovation and a ton of money, but you figured if harvesting crops was your main source of income, it would probably be a good thing to invest on while you still have the funds to do so. 

clearing out rocks and grass patches was never something you’ve ever considered doing in your entire career, everything felt new to you. however, strangely enough, you couldn’t find it in you to stop. it brought comfort to you in ways your previous office job couldn’t offer, it didn’t matter if it left you boneless on your bed at the end of the day.

while cleaning, you’ve also discovered a cave filled with fruit bats along with a shortcut that you aren’t too sure where it leads to yet somewhere between the road to the greenhouse and your home. the place wasn’t just big, it was full of mysteries, too. hopefully the bats won’t be too much trouble, though.

the rooster from the neighboring barn has long since cawed into the ripe morning air, signalling that the sun has risen and it’s time for another day filled with cleaning up the land. but after a particularly rough day yesterday, you wanted to stay in bed for another hour or two, you’re now your own boss—a little sleeping in wouldn’t set you back too much. 

but as you rolled over to the other side of the bed, blankets comfortably wrapped around you like it too didn’t want to let you go—three loud consecutive knocks pounded on your door. 

knock! knock! knock!

with a tired groan, you rubbed your eyes and slipped on your slippers to make your way towards the door. who could possibly want to visit you at this hour? but a better question is; why would there be someone knocking at your door? you never left the farm even once, and you haven’t introduced yourself to anyone, is this how tight-knit communities are?

you hastily swung the door open, your messy hair and untidy appearance the last thing on your mind.

standing in front of you, was an elderly man, maybe late fifties or early sixties, and his head was slightly balding. he wore a kind smile on his lips and held a basket in his hands, and upon seeing you, his mouth stretched into an even wider grin.

“g’mornin’! i didn’t disturb you or anythin’, did i?”

you scrambled your still sleepy brain for a response, “n-no! not at all sir. i was just about to get ready for the day!” 

“i see,” with a chuckle, the man nodded in understanding. “let me introduce myself. i’m the mayor of stonefield; everyone here calls me arthur. word's gotten ‘round a new face has made its way to town and is now living in the abandoned farmhouse. i had to come see it for m’self!” 

you tipped your head up in understanding, “if that's the case then yes, that’s me! i’ve never gotten the time to roam around town just yet—so i don’t really know anyone right now.” you sheepishly explained, hands twiddling the side of your pajamas, “the farm’s been taking up most of my time since moving in.”

it's true. you've been cooped up in the property for the vast majority of your first week in stonefield, the closest you've gotten to leaving the place was walking near the edge of the fence that bordered between your farm and the outside to take out the trash—and even then, you've only managed to see a few people pass by.

he let out another hearty laugh before continuing, “oh well, it’s nice to have someone finally take care of this place, the previous owner who lived here was a good friend o’mine.”

“you were friends with my grandfather?”

mayor arthur’s eyes seemed to widen at that, he looked like he was about to drop the basket in his hands. “you’re norman’s granddaughter? oh how fast you’ve grown! last time i saw you, you were no taller than my hips! if i knew it was you who was moving in, i would’ve arranged for a proper welcome.”

you laughed, chest warming at the sight of seeing your grandfather’s friend still alive and kicking. you couldn’t remember who he is—you were very small when you met mayor arthur, after all—yet it was still comforting to see a face that once appreciated your grandfather the same way you did. 

“anywho, i jus’ wanted to give you this small welcoming gift. it’s a few packets of tomato seeds and a scented candle. s’not much, but i’m sure it’ll remove the smell of dust in the air.” 

“thank you! i appreciate it, i promise i’ll be sure to check the town out as soon as i could.” you kindly smiled, taking the basket from his hands.

“alright, i’ll leave you to it, then. have a good day!”

the wooden floorboards of the porch rattled underneath his leather boots with each step he took further down the stairs—allowing you to breathe out a sigh of relief. you figured you should get ready to begin another day of cleaning, and getting a gift from the mayor certainly was an unexpected way to start your morning.

back in the city, you usually woke up at around five in the morning to let yourself get ready for about an hour, after which you’ll find yourself something to eat from your painfully bland pantry—however if you are in a hurry you grab whatever’s the first thing you see on the streets on the way to your office—before getting ready a second time, by fixing your hair and makeup.

you leave your apartment at seven and arrive at the office at quarter till eight—a full thirty minutes early before your shift starts. for the entirety of the morning, all you can hear are the distinct clicking sounds of keys and whirring of printing machines—and maybe you’ll catch wind of the occasional gossip from your co-workers, but that’s a post-meeting exclusive rather than a daily occurrence.

after lunchtime activities are no different, except for the fact that you’re working on reports and proofreading haphazardly-made documents. you stress on about missing meeting notes until evening, and by then you’re too tired to eat anything decent, so you grab chinese takeout on the way back home.

now, all your eyes can see until the far distance are rocks, trees, shrubs, and more trees. it’s certainly a culture shock to be going from seeing computer screens on a daily basis to staring at rocks for more than an hour or two, but you like to think it’s a good change.

you’re in love with the idea of planting your own produce and eating the fruitions of your labor, and maybe you could share them with your future-friends-slash-neighbors, and you could all share and appreciate the fruits and vegetables you’re going to work so hard on tending to.

wiping the sweat rolling down your glistening forehead, you shoved the gardening shears you found inside the shed beside the farmhouse down to the ground to let your freehand dangle freely. you’ve managed to clear up enough space to plant the seeds mayor arthur gifted you this morning—it was already around ten in the morning and the next thing on your agenda is visiting the town as promised.

right after ridding yourself of your gardening clothes, you padded into town feeling slightly nervous about the environment you’re about to walk into. you’re no stranger to people’s judgments, and usually, they don’t bother you at all—but given the circumstances and how you’re fresh out of a job from the city—you’re slightly restless about what everyone in town would about a girl who had it all and traded it for the south coast life.

the general goods store was bigger than you thought, there were racks of produce in one corner, a handful of gardening supplies in the other, and a bunch of necessities and snacks were in the other surrounding shelves. you made a beeline for the seedling packets sitting right next to the leafy greens and started looking for squash and corn seeds, since they were vegetables in season right now as per the seasonal produce guide by snap-ed you’ve graciously educated yourself on beforehand.

“good morning.”

a sultry voice suddenly pulled you out of your reading on the back of the packets, causing you to let out an involuntary squeak in surprise. because you’ve been so engrossed—you didn’t notice the man in a turtle neck standing by the vegetable rack. he greeted you with a warm smile and a hand still holding a cabbage.

“sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” he carefully apologized, “i wasn’t sure how to approach you, but it’s nice to see the face everyone’s been talking about.”

nervously, your eyes drifted down to your feet before going back to his face. “wh-what do you mean?”

“it’s not everyday someone moves into town. so word about a city girl moving in spread fast.” the man turned to fully face you, face still holding that warm smile.

only then did you notice just how much he was towering over you—he looked like he was well over six feet. his auburn hair was combed over professionally, and his biceps were still visible even under all that fabric. he wore an endearing grin to match his pretty cerulean irises that put the blue skies above to shame, he was handsome. hallmark movie it is, then.

“i’m bucky, i work at the local clinic right next to this store.”

“o-oh! i do remember passing by a clinic, it’s a pleasure to meet you!” you replied, biting back the nervous laughter you would’ve let out and possibly embarrass yourself with. you gave him a small but kind smile back along with your name, now fidgeting the packaging of the seeds in between your fingers.

“how are you finding the town so far?”

"it's—it's nice... i haven't gotten around seeing the whole place, i mean i'm in the middle of doing that right now. but so far everything's really lovely and cozy. i really like it."

"so you haven't gotten a tour?" bucky's face almost looked pleased upon hearing those words come from you, before his lips dropped into a tiny frown. "i'd love to show you around, but you know—duty calls. i've got a home visit this afternoon with the elderly couple down the road, mrs. donovan. a lovely lady with an even charming husband." he punctuated his words in a tone you could only describe as teasing, and you couldn't keep the laughter that bubbled up from your chest.

bucky, looking very pleased with himself, leaned onto the vegetable rack with confidence. watching you with eyes that were nothing short of mesmerized.

suddenly, an equally burly and muscular man appeared from around one of the shelves, presumably the owner of the store. his hair glimmered blonde from the light that came in from the store's windows, giving his head an almost ethereal crown of locks.

"buck! quit loitering by my brussel sprouts and get your ass—oh my! it's the new girl!" he cut himself off from scolding bucky, voice sounding like an overworked parent who doesn’t have any time to deal with his teenager’s bullshit right now.

"sorry, i thought he was doing something else.” the blonde apologized, turning his head to squint at bucky accusingly. “is my friend over here giving you a hard time shopping? don't worry, i'll kick him out for you."

the brunette clicked his tongue, "steve, is this how you treat the town doctor?"

steve, or at least that’s what bucky called him, elbowed him right in his side, causing the doctor to recoil in faux pain.

"wow, a new face 's in town and you're already giving her a bad first impression. i was just trying to tell her about all the very lovely people we have ‘ere, y’see she's not that familiar with the area."

steve rolled his eyes, ignoring his best friend's teasing to continue looking at you. almost as if he was trying to memories every feature on your face. "oh, and you'd just love it if you could show her around, won’t you?"

"actually, while i would love to do just that, i've got an appointment with esther. which you would know if you even tried to listen to our conversation. and for the record, i wasn't loitering. i was about to buy these cabbages."

“sure you were.”

bucky lightly shoved steve’s shoulders, keeping the atmosphere light with his oh-so charming personality. “get back behind the counter, rogers. you shouldn't butt into other people's very private and very personal discussions, you know.”

steve gave him a flat look before retreating back to where he once stood, muttering a small whatever with annoyance evident on his face. as you watched him retreat to his post, bucky looked back at you with the same grin he’s been giving you since you first uttered a word to him.

“i’ll be the first to head out, city girl. i lost track of time and i’ve got abouuut—five minutes to walk to mrs. donovan’s house before our appointment starts.” he exclaimed, all most disappointedly. “it was nice talking to you.”

city girl. for no apparent reason, you felt your stomach do somersaults at the nickname. you’ve just met the guy and somehow he’s already making you feel things that causes your cheeks to redden. in embarrassment or endearment—you’ve yet to see.

tentatively, you pulled the hem of your shirt down to try and rid yourself of the feeling of butterflies in your stomach, the sound of his voice echoing in your head and etching itself onto the ridges of your brain. “what about your cabbages?”

“i just said that so he’d get off my back, but i’ll buy one of these soon.”

your laughter echoed inside the store one last time as his lips stretched into another smile, your cheeks were beginning to ache with how much you’ve been enjoying yourself in his company, no matter how short lived it was.

“it was nice talking to you too, bucky. i’ll see you around.”

“definitely.”

with a smile, your eyes followed his frame as he began to widen the distance between the two of you snd ounded a shelf to make his way towards the door. he gave you one last glance before his hands pushed the doors to the store open, and you watched his back disappear as the distance between you two grew. and just like that, the store went back to its quiet state from a few minutes ago.

you walked up to the register with a small skip in your step this time, one hand holding the seed packets and some fertilizers in the other.

“find everything you need?” steve asked, his hands busy with handling all the stuff you bought. “i hope my friend back there wasn’t too much trouble.”

“yup! and no, not at all. he’s actually very nice.”

“that’s what they all say, wait until you see him when there’s one slice of pizza left.” he joked, pulling out a paper bag from underneath the counter. “a rabid animal, that one.”

“you guys are close?”

“we live in a small town, everyone here’s close with each other.” he teased, “but i get what you mean. we’ve been friends since diapers, bucky’s basically a brother to me. that’ll be 19.99.”

steve watched you reached into your pocket to pull out your wallet, hands flat on the counter and a curious glint in his eyes. he wondered what could’ve possibly caused a city girl like you to move down to a town as hidden as stonefield—but he figured he should hold off on the questions for now.

“oh! i never got to properly introduce myself. my name’s steve rogers. but steve’s just fine. i’m the owner of this establishment.”

you gave him your name in return as you handed the exact amount, hands holding the paper bag in your arms like you were cradling a baby, “it’s nice to meet you, steve. i think i’ll be seeing you often.” you joked, head slightly nodding towards the array of fertilizers and gardening tools.

steve laughed and nodded politely as you turned around to walk toward the exit of the place. you realized the tension you felt since the first moment you took a step into the store was long gone, now replaced with a feeling of relief and comfort. you were surprised with how quickly you were growing accustomed to the new environment, but it’s no surprise since everyone has been nothing but kind to you.

you craned your head to look behind you before pushing the doors wide, grinning politely. “thank you for the fertilizers!”

steve lifted his sturdy hand into the air to wave you off, “come back soon!”

the fresh stonefield air wafted against your face the second you stepped out into the open. you figured you could take a quick stroll around town and take a peak at the beach downtown since you could vaguely make out memories of you fishing there with your grandfather when you were young.

the streets were no longer empty when you started walking along the cemented path, children were now playing amongst themselves in the playground that was situation in the middle of the town. and there were a few people sitting atop benches talking amongst themselves. the trees were quietly dancing along with the breeze—and you could distinctly make out the sound of waves crashing against the shoreline the further you walked into town.

eventually, the smell of saltwater invaded your senses as you stumbled across a beach with pristine white sand. the sun blared, heating everything in its wake as its rays of sunlight illuminated every space under its watchful vision—your skin welcomed the warmth the big star in the sky ever so graciously gave it, making the harbor sitting by the ocean towards your left the only thing that could offer you shade.

your feet collided against the grains of sand resting beneath the soles of your sandals, warming the calluses and skins in between. you don’t remember the last time you’ve been to the beach on your own accord—you’ve never had the chance to.

it somehow felt weird to be in somewhere so mundane and presumptive yet foreign at the same time. you’ll have to come back here on a different day to properly bask in the beautiful waters this town has been keeping hidden from the world—free of the horrors and corruption you hope it would never experience.

upon closer inspection, the harbor turned out to be a fish shop. you were craving some fresh fish, since your palette has been nothing but leftover stock of food from your previous grocery shopping back in the city—it was only natural you’d want something else for a dish.

the bell sang in the air the second you opened the door; the deck's decrepit timber material squeaked with each step you took. the shack felt like it was derelict and had deteriorated from all the years it had watched gone by; the place could probably be a family heir loom at this point—yet simultaneously it looked as sturdy as ever.

you meticulously trudged inside the shop with the paper bag still in hand, gazing at all the paintings of the ocean hung up on the wall, along with the replicas of certain fish decorated across it as well.

there wasn't anyone manning the counter when you arrived, and upon your arrival, someone was yet to appear behind it. you lightly tapped on the bell that sat right beside the register and the cup of fishhooks, hoping to find someone to talk to and happily buy fish from.

apart from the sounds of waves kissing the sand like a ritual it has known since the beginning of time and the squawking of seagulls from somewhere around the dock—you could almost hear a pin drop with how quiet things are.

you were about to turn around and come back some other time before a girl clad in jeans and a shirt emerged from the back door, dusting off the fabric of her top with hasty fingers.

"hi! sorry for the wait, haul just came in. you're in luck—today's fish is fresh from the sea!"

the lady seemed like she was about to tell you more about today's catch but upon closing in against the counter, after getting a good look at your face—her eyebrows furrowed in thought and her eyes narrowed as if she was trying to recognize you.

she hummed, the sound causing you to straighten your back. "i haven't seen that face before, you must be the new girl everyone's been fussing about."

they really weren't exaggerating when they say this place doesn't get that many visitors.

“i’ve been getting that a lot.” you awkwardly laughed, fixating your view on one of the framed sardines sitting idly beside the fishing rods.

“it’s such a pleasure to meet you! welcome to town! my name’s sarah wilson, i would shake your hand right now but i figured you wouldn’t be too fond of the smell afterwards.” sarah chuckled, continuing her endeavors of cleaning her shirt that seemed to have a speck of some sort on it. “so, what can i do for you today, miss?”

you pointed towards the crate of groupers towards her right, a wave of saltine wind gushing through the open windows of the fish shop clashed against your cheeks as you spoke. "can i get three pounds of those?"

"certainly! let me go wrap it up for you."

you left the store with the smell of fish still smothered on the tip of your nose, yet somehow it mixed in just right with the briny wind of the beach.

because you were new in town, sarah gave you a discount for the bag of groupers you bought. without even knowing your name, she's already found her way through your heart with a price too good to be true for three pounds of fish. and with a lighter heart than when you first came into town, you strode away from the dock grinning to yourself—excited for your future visits to the wilson fish shop.

you're fitting in just right with the community. you realized after a few months that you’ve spent less time counting the days until you lose the feeling of missing the city and more time tending to your crops like they were your mission in life—and they might as well be.

after what months of pondering about your direction in life, you were at a place where you believed you are truly happy with yourself. your sense of belonging was finally becoming, piece by piece.

it was another fresh start of the month, and by now your face has already been memorized by the locals with how often you've been leaving your farm compared to when you first got here. you are, after all, their new source of farm-to-table fresh vegetables.

your routine consisted of waking up before the sun rises to clean up the leftover debris by the green house, to watering and tending the crops, to clearing out some more area of the farm. you finish at around twelve pm, and by then you go and visit the town to talk and interact with all the lovely townsfolk.

you've gone from acquaintances to close friends with sarah who runs the fish shop with her brother, sam—who happens to own the saloon—and wanda who owns the ranch down the block from your farm. you've also met natasha, who you've come to find out is the local carpenter and owns a home hardware store just behind your farm.

steve's also grown accustomed to your face after seeing you almost weed out all of his fertilizers within a month, and you've grown quite a bond with the store manager over rising produce demand.

much to your dismay, however, you've run into bucky less times compared to them. only seeing him whenever both your schedules permit you two to do so—but you figured it comes with the job of being the town doctor and the town’s self proclaimed greatest farmer.

but still, on the occasional event you run into him down the street on the way to the store or the library, you always made sure to give him a warm smile and wave at him to which he waves back at you in return.

bucky, on the other hand, has interacted with you exactly fifteen times in the past months, including checkups. he’s been counting every moment—and not in the creepy way—he ran into you and you’ll flash him that pretty smile of yours he’s always somehow itching to see.

normally, bucky’s got his cool always in check—his nerves calm and his hands steady. but lately, like a boy with his first crush, he has to chew his lip every time you spoke to him to stop himself from stuttering out a reply back.

he could physically feel his cheeks warm up and the tip of his nose go red at each time you compliment his clothes for the day. whenever his stethoscope draws close to your chest to hear the thumping of your heart, his own organs roars loud in his ears and he ends up hearing his own rhythmic beating in the process.

he’s found himself walking into steve’s store more times than he needs to in hopes of catching a glimpse of you around the vegetable section. and maybe he’s been going down to wanda’s ranch to “check out the cows” because suddenly he’s very invested in whatever the chickens and barn animals are up to, and maybe he’s caught himself borrowing books at the library despite having the exact same copies of it back at the clinic just to gamble on the idea of you being there at the same time as him.

underneath the collected facade he’s put on is a man whose cheeks turn pink at the thought of you.

if only his schedule would allow it, he’d visit you on your farm and bother you with whatever’s on his mind at the moment. but for now, all he could do was wallow in his feelings at the saloon—his hand clutching an almost half empty mug of coffee—and the person lucky enough to be the audience of bucky’s misery was none other than sam.

“you gotta face this head on man." sam pushed, wiping a glass. "how about you try visiting her farm. y’know, bring her some of those dishes you've been making for us. the fastest way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach, barnes.”

bucky took a sip of his coffee with a sour expression, eyes glued somewhere between the barrels of rum behind the bartender in front of him.

“i don’t know, what if she finds it weird?”

sam scoffed, “now where did all that charm you’ve been boasting about back at steve’s go?”

“i just—i want to do this right... she gets along with everybody pretty well, and i want her to be the same with me.”

“steve told me you two get along just fine.”

bucky chuckled lowly, his arms folding onto the table with. “i go all red in the face with just a quick glance from her. it’s like my body’s reacting before i could even think about what to say.”

his thumb circled the rim of his mug as he pursed his lips, his eyes carefully traced the ripples of the brown liquid inside the ceramic before continuing. “y’think i got a shot at taking her to the flower dance next month?”

sam, too focused on mixing up the cocktail order from another client, only lifted his eyes to gaze behind bucky, head not moving an inch “yeah i do. but why don’t you go ask her yourself?” he smirked.

bucky felt his feet run cold the second he heard footsteps approaching the bar counter, heart racing at speeds he's absolutely sure cannot be healthy. he looked at sam one more time who mouthed go get 'er, tiger before focusing on the drink in his hands like it wasn't almost empty and you weren't approaching the bar counter.

he straightened his slumping shoulders the second your fingers landed on the surface, face now plastered with a lazy grin. "well if it isn't my favorite city girl."

you raised an eyebrow, "you know any other city girls?"

"no, jus' you. but you're still my favorite."

you laughed as you slid into the stool beside his, "it’s nice seeing you here!" you cheerfully greeted, instantly lighting up the room with your presence—or at least in bucky’s mind that’s exactly what you did. in the corner of his eye, he can see sam's smirk grow into a playful grin before hurriedly turning around to tend to another customer. "do you come here often?"

“gotta let loose somehow.” he replied, bouncing his left foot up and down to try and quell the sudden spike of adrenaline his heart’s been pumping out the second he laid eyes on you. sam’s never gonna let him hear the end of this—so he’s giving his all to put on the charming front he’s carefully curated.

“tell me about it. as much as i love my grandfather’s farm, it’s really a pain in the ass to maintain.”

“i’ve been told the place has been looking better than ever.” bucky replied smoothly. in all actuality, no one told him that. he’s noticed it himself each time he purposefully passed by your farm on one of his morning jogs. steve teased him for suddenly taking a different route from his normal one, but the doctor kept on insisting he’s always been going down that path.

he’s even caught you working away at the farm—your back facing him, knees flush to the ground and your cheeks stained with dirt. hands pulling apart the weeds on the ground with vigor as sweat dripped down to your clothes.

bucky thanked that the sun was nowhere near out when he witnessed the sight before him, the lack of light obscured his face from being seen. he felt a deep admiration for how hardworking you were. and by the end of the jog, his brain was already replaying the image of you over and over again.

“really?” you lit up instantly, “it’s good to know that i’ve at least got some amount of progress after breaking my back for months.”

you gave sam an order of sliders and a side of mozarella sticks before continuing your conversation. after declining an offer for a drink, you turned your focus back at bucky, who was giving you a look that spent your nerves in a frenzy.

“if you don’t mind me asking, what brought you here to little ol’ stonefield?”

you shrugged your shoulders with a smile, “wasn’t a big fan of the life i was living back at the city. i tried convincing myself that living in new york with a nine-to-five job was the dream i’ve always wanted.”

bucky sat in silence, attentively listening to you talk about the life you used to live back then.

“and then i—rummaged through my office drawer one day and i found a letter from my grandfather. it had the deed to the farm and i just…booked it and ran all the way here.“

“you look a lot happier than you did the first time you moved here.”

“really?” you teased, arm coming up to rest your chin on the palm of your hand. “did my medical records tell you that?”

bucky matched the smug look on your face with one of his own, almost as if you were challenging him to a contest of sorts.

“would you actually believe me if i said yes?”

“no way.” you laughed, hand slowly approaching the plate of sliders sam placed in front of you in between your conversation with bucky. “i’m curious, by the way, where did you study medicine? is there a college nearby?”

“i studied at columbia.”

“what!” the words came out louder than intended, your hands racing upwards to cover your mouth in mild embarrassment. “what!” you repeated, a lot quieter this time. “i used to live in new york! why’d you choose to work here instead of—you know—there?”

bucky hummed in thought, resting his forearms on the furniture in front of him. "this town is near and dear to my heart. i can roam the entire world for the rest of my life, but i'll always find myself coming back here. you can take a man out of stonefield but not stonefield out the man." he remarked, "so, i figured i'd just practice medicine here."

you took a bite out of your slider, "i can see why you feel that way, this place is great. the last time i felt this happy and free was back in freshman year.”

the atmosphere surrounding the two of you began to shift as subtly leaned in closer—you would’ve missed it if you blinked—but it was there. as if he was subconsciously gravitating towards you like it was the most natural thing that occurred to him.

“you must’ve had a lot of fun back then, city girl.” bucky’s head tutted towards one of the barrels of rum sitting behind sam, playful grin still lingering on his face. “you drink?”

it was a dangerous game to be participating in—you knew you get a bit much when you go drinking, and it especially doesn’t help the fact that you’ve got a not-so little crush on the man comfortably next to you. but you’ll allow yourself to let loose just this once—you’re now getting the chance to spend time with the man you’ve seen the least since moving despite wanting the opposite. and to top it off, who are you to pass on the opportunity of drinking with a man as pretty as him?

“i haven’t found the time to drink lately.” you murmured somewhat bashfully, taking another bite out of your slider.

“‘s that so?” bucky took a hold of the glass sam placed in front of him with that lazy charming smirk. dauntingly, he moved his weight from one arm to the other, almost inclining back on a non-existent wall behind him—looking all suave and laid-back—an almost convincing ploy to cover how his heart was drumming like crazy right now. “let me change that.”

you hesitantly pursed your lips in deep thought, a small hum vibrating through your throat. saturday nights are meant to be enjoyed, you reasoned. letting out a huff, you nodded your head in agreement with a grin. veggie deliveries will have to wait ‘til monday, then.

the walk to the wanda’s ranch was one of the short periods of time where you truly got to think. while yes, you like to daydream while rummaging through the soils of your garden to keep your brain busy was what you usually do—long walks were something you appreciated on a different level. as the leaves of the trees shuffled and your feet crunched against the gravel, you’d stare at the sky and think about whatever’s been bugging you, no matter how long ago or recent it was.

as you rounded a corner that brought you closer to your destination, sam’s words ricocheted in the back of your mind. while visiting sarah to buy your week’s worth of fish this morning–and to deliver some leeks and green beans she ordered–her brother offhandedly mentioned something about the freshness of your vegetables going great with bucky’s cooking. 

“bucky can cook?”

“yeah. he’s like our personal nutritionist. always insisting on preparing us healthy meals whenever he gets the chance to. and ever since you started supplying steve with those vegetables of yours, it’s like he never wants to stop anymore.” 

“huh.”

it checks out, you suppose. he takes care of people’s health for a living, it only makes sense he enjoys creating delicious and nutritious food for the people he cares for. hearing sam say those words did send a small jolt of pride in the pit of your chest, and you did spend all morning while watering the crops thinking about it like a hopeless romantic.

you couldn’t stop the giddy smile from forming, face contorted in excitement and your cheeks slightly duster pink. the only ones to witness your look of love sickness on you were the mushrooms and carrots sleeping deep underground—who were by now probably sick of hearing you fuss about the man working at the clinic.

come to think of it, you’ve also been running into him more often at the store. you were now steve’s new supplier of produce (you lived far closer than any of his previous ones, and they were of better quality too) and on occasions you buy fertilizers—which was very frequent, you’ve always, without fail, ran into bucky. and you’d stay at the general store longer than you had anticipated, but gladly so. 

you’ve even gone out of your way to give him some vegetables yourself, more so as an excuse to his face, after sharing that eventful night with him at the bar. since then, you’ve increasingly grown closer to the town doctor to the point that appointments were one of the things you looked forward to the most. 

you remember him visiting you at the farm one quiet afternoon the day after—to your surprise, he went out of his way to check on you. you were busying yourself as always clearing out the land, when out of nowhere a tall man with broad shoulders showed up with food in his hands. 

“shouldn’t you be resting?” 

your heart practically leaped out of your chest as the voice coming from behind you boomed, making you drop your shovel in surprise.

“christ, you scared the shit out of me. aren’t doctors supposed to treat heart attacks and not induce them?” you held a gloved hand against your thundering chest. 

bucky let out a laugh as he closed the distance between the two of you. he dressed like he just clocked out of work—his long sleeves were rolled up until his elbows and his necktie was hanging loosely against the buttons on the fabric. his right hand was pocketed while the other held a plastic bag.

“sorry, thought you could hear my footsteps.” he watched you dust yourself off the ground, eyes squinted. 

bucky, overcome with concern—and slightly overwhelmed with the desperation to see you again–decided to visit you the morning after your abrupt drinking session with him at the saloon.

he only drank a decent amount, being not too fond of drinking too much, and while you did drink as much as him, maybe even a bit less, your steps were wobbly and uneven while your voice slurred the moment your feet clashed against the floorboards of the saloon, and bucky graciously took you back home with his hand warming your back and your drunken ramblings in his ear.

it was a miracle, really, that you managed to keep your feelings for the guy closed and tucked away into one of the corners of your heart–effectively saving you from the embarrassment you’re bound to face the day after not just from bucky, but probably from sam too.

“whatcha got there?” you asked, tilting your head to the side to get a better glance at the contents of the paper bag he was carrying around in curiosity.  

he lifted it up to grant you a better look, whatever was inside was contained in a brown box–so you still had zero clue about what’s inside.

“food. i thought you would’ve taken the day off so i brought you something to eat.” his head steered towards the direction of where you were previously crouched at, hat over your head and your fingers through the ground. “but i guess not even alcohol can keep a girl away from her farm.”

“damn right. these carrots are my babies.” you glanced towards your front porch, fingers already pulling off the leather material encasing them. “would you like to go inside? we can share whatever you brought.” 

“what about your babies?”

“i was about done, anyway.” you shrugged, already heading towards the farmhouse. “come on, it’s hot out here.”

needless to say—your growing adoration for him sowed deeper that day.

your knuckles clattered against the oak surface of wanda’s ranch, the basket of potatoes sat bolstered in their sack against your chest, your gloved hands holding the material with extra care. 

not long after, the door jarred open to reveal your friend wanda—who was in similar clothing as you.

“good morning, city girl.” she teased, lips curling into a grin, “i see you’ve brought my potatoes! i can’t wait to try out this new recipe i saw on tv. thanks babe.” 

she expressed her gratitude and took the sack from you, “do you have anyone in mind to be your partner for the flower dance?” wanda queried, leaning against the door frame and her voice teasing and her eyes had mischief written all over it.

you gave her a pointed look—you know that she knew who you want to go to the event with, you’ve been mouthing off his name behind closed doors for weeks now. rolling your eyes, you crossed your arms and stood tall. “i dunno. i might not even go.”

“we all know you’ll be there, girl.”

“we don’t know that.”

now it was her turn to roll her eyes. you both knew you’ll be there despite your incessant attempts of saying otherwise.

shaking her head, she held the handle to the door and looked at you apologetically, “i’d love to stay longer and chat, but i gotta get back to work, the cows won’t milk themselves.”

chuckling, you nodded in understanding and bid farewell—wanda waved you off before promptly going back to milking the cows with how loud they were howling inside the barn. 

on your way back home, you heard a pair of elderly ladies sitting on the bench chattering about. now, it was absolutely none of your business to be eavesdropping whatever they were talking about. but with how loud they were talking about said business, you can’t possibly put all the blame on yourself.

you slightly tilted your head forward towards their direction—your steps decelerated as much as you can without looking like a weirdo.

“i saw bucky looking at flowers this morning, who do you think it’s for?” one elderly woman exclaimed, crossing her legs and her hand flailed in the air. 

the other responded, “the flower dance is just around the corner, isn’t it? maybe he’ll finally ask natasha out!”

your heart sank. six feet under—maybe twice more than that. just as fast as your heart dropped down like it was held dozens of meters up in the sky, you were hit with the whirlwind of emotions that came along with it.

your feet slowed into a halt, hidden somewhere behind a tree near the old pair, but still far enough for you to go unnoticed. you already heard a lot more than you should’ve—unfortunately—might as well listen to what else they have to say and most likely crush your hopes from shattered to fine powder.

“i’ve always loved them together! they make such a cute couple!”

the lady with her legs crossed shook her head, a scowl evident on her face. “i wonder what took him this long! it was pretty obvious from the get go it was gonna be her, he could’ve asked her out ages ago!”

you left the second you the other old woman retaliated something in return, mumbling about timing and busy lives, not caring about whatever else they have to say. or rather, you couldn’t bear to hear what more they have to say, your heart was already heavy as it is.

the rest of the walk back home was a blur, and you no longer had the energy to install the water sprinklers you got from steve earlier this week–they’ll just have to wait until tomorrow. for now, you’re going to drown your misery with sitcoms and ice cream.

you didn’t feel foolish at all for liking a man like bucky, but a part of you did feel silly for feeling so defeated and disheartened just from hearing gossip. you began recounting each of your interactions with bucky that included natasha–and your mind came up with the definitive answer that the flowers were meant for her. they’ve known each other longer than you have, they’ve got a bunch of things in common, they’re basically meant for each other.  

plopping down onto the comfortable sheets atop your bed, you let out a blood-curdling muffled scream into the mattress, heart still lodged into the streets where you heard the world-destroying news from their throats. 

you were now armed with a new goal—get over your witless crush on bucky before the flower dance so you wouldn’t have to try and survive the pain of seeing him dance with another girl.

bucky didn’t know what to do. to be frank, he was completely losing it on steve’s couch. steve was sitting on a chair adjacent to the settee bucky was crying his heart out on (not really, but steve definitely sees it that way), and it seemed like steve was going to be the psychiatrist for bucky today.

“i used to talk to her about seven times a week. now it’s gone down to one, even zero! i feel like i made that one scenario up in my head to cope, so i think i didn’t see her all week.” bucky complained, gaze glued onto the ceiling light of steve’s living room.

it’s all that’s been on bucky’s mind recently. he checks on patients’ vitals a tad longer than usual with how his head is at a different place—he hasn’t been able to walk on the streets peacefully with the amount of times he thought he saw your face that day, only for him to turn around and see that it wasn’t you. 

and on the rare instance that it was you—you’d immediately duck your head and speedwalk out of whatever establishment the both of you were in. he chalked the first occurrence on bad luck, as well as the second time. but by the third—he was fully convinced that you were ignoring him.

he’s already racked his head on all sides trying to figure out what he had done for you to avoid him like he’s the plague, but bucky always circled to the conclusion that he had done nothing wrong, leaving him perplexed.

“you’ve been counting?” the blonde’s eyebrows raised in concern, slightly taken aback by what he heard. 

“subconsciously,” bucky defended, “i cherish every moment i get to see her. it’s practically part of my routine. but now, i didn’t see her once—not on the streets, your store, by the dock, it’s like she’s completely disappeared.” 

“and the problem is…?”

bucky’s blue sorry eyes shifted onto steve, “i’m supposed to ask her out to the flower dance, stevie. i already asked esther to save me some peonies.” his dragged his hands down his face, covering the flesh with his rigid fingers. 

his friend sat with his nose stuck between the pages of an art magazine, mindlessly flipping through each entry as he listened to the town doctor lavish in his feelings. “what stupid thing did you do this time, buck?”

“nothing!” he shot up from the couch, looking borderline unhinged. “i-i don’t think i did anything…i just—” bucky groaned, planting himself back onto the soft cushions. 

there were too many words in his chest and not enough courage to let them out. too many parts of him that had quietly started to expect you. with eyes full of longing and a few too many limbs craving for your presence, the words that ached to run free died on bucky’s tongue. he felt powerless—utterly crushed, even. but he couldn’t do anything but wait for you to come around again. because doctors don’t show up to checkups unless asked for. 

“i miss her.”

the days breezed by, and as fast as spring rolled around, the day of the flower dance came. you entered the secluded venue with your arm linked around sarah’s—eyes unintentionally scanning the area to look for the auburn haired man—to avoid him, of course. 

although it was your first flower dance, you knew this wouldn’t be your last. the place, though hidden in greenery, was absolutely breathtaking. the trees hid just enough of the sky and the sun’s light peeked through them like spotlights. the cool air kissed weaved through your hair as you stepped inside, all while waving at a few townsfolk. 

you were wearing an all-white dress with flowers decorated onto your hair. the dress belonged to wanda—she was kind enough to lend you the garment for the time being since it was your first time attending the annual event and you had no available white dress, you didn’t really have to prepare since you were already wearing the stress of moving in and fixing the farm.

wanda already went ahead of you, eager to go to the festival early with vision. you still had no idea who you wanted to ask to dance with—so you decided to head towards the food table for the mean time.

there were an array of dishes on display—from barbecue to dozens of seafood dishes—you set your sights, along with your stomach, on enjoying the free food the town had to offer.

as your hand carried an empty paper plate, a large warm hand cupped your shoulder. you jumped in your skin while your heart fell through your ass at the thought of whose face you’d be seeing when you turn around—it made you want to not turn around. 

before you could further debate on looking back, the voice the hand belonged to cut through your thoughts.

“lovely seeing you here.”

thank god. it was steve, you’ve never felt so refreshed when that wave of relief washed over you. 

“that’s a very beautiful dress! looks good on you.”

giggling, you turned your full attention to him. “thanks, steve.” 

he was dressed nicely—clothed in all white and a ranunculus placed in his breast pocket. he didn’t look half bad.

“who’s your partner for the dance?” you questioned, subtly trying to look around to see if you could catch a glimpse of bucky—because if steve was here, he’s bound to be in the same place as well. 

steve shrugged, coming forward to stand beside you and serve himself a cup of fruit punch. “i don’t plan on dancing.”

“what!” you shrieked, before covering your mouth and lowering your voice to a more respectable tone. “you aren’t serious. you’re wearing such a nice suit, you can’t let it go to waste!”

“no one’s asked me to dance with them yet, so i guess…i don’t really plan on participating in the dance. i’m okay with watching.”

no one’s asked him to dance?! a man that fine cannot be wasted and cast aside as a bystander!

with a look of seriousness suddenly replacing the smile on your face, an expression that steve could only slightly describe as terrifying, “dance with me, then.” you offered.

steve, shocked at what he was hearing, couldn’t help the confused sound he le out. “what? but didn’t he ask you to be—“

“who asked me to be their what?”

“nevermind.” steve shook his head, maybe bucky didn’t go through with his plan of asking you out, since here you are—standing alone and loitering around the food table. besides, you’re a close friend of his—and the festival was about begin, it wouldn’t hurt to dance with you when you asked him to. 

and he figured bucky needed a little push to grow his confidence.

 “alright, i’ll dance with you.”

steve craned his head in all directions in search of his best friend, bucky insisted he went on ahead to the festival but he is nowhere to be seen.

“alright, everyone!” mayor arthur’s voice boomed through the speakers, “to all of those ready and plan on participating in the dance, please step towards the middle with your partner!” he instructed, clearly excited to get things going.

“that’s our cue!” you cheered, grabbing steve by the hand and pulling him to where the others are gathered.

you stood in front of each other beside wanda and vision, who gave you a teasing look to which you tried waving off. 

“i see you’ve already found your partner.” 

“wanda! shhh, i’m only doing this for fun!” you scolded, voice barely above a whisper. 

wanda laughed incredulously, “i wasn’t saying anything!” 

you rolled your eyes and focused your attention back to steve, a nervous look now on your face. “okay, so i know i asked you to this dance, but i have no idea how to dance.”

steve laughed at that, genuine and sincere. “it’s alright, just follow my lead.” 

and as the music began and rang through the forest—bucky could feel his chest tighten and his fist tremble with how hard he was clutching it. 

okay, maybe he didn’t really have the right to feel this way. he wasn’t able to ask you out since he didn’t see you the entire week before the flower dance—yet it still sent a pang of sadness and worst of all jealousy through his heart at the sight of you dancing with steve. 

you looked like you were having a lot of fun. despite stepping on steve’s and your own foot more times than a normal person was capable of—you were laughing to your heart’s content. and bucky wasn’t fond of the thought that it should be him making you this happy. 

all he could do was watch at a distance and fix his tie to hide the look of hurt spread across his face.

“steve i am so so sorry!” you laughed, stepping over his foot again. “i genuinely have no idea what i’m doing.” 

the blonde holding your hands breathed out a hearty laughter, amused at your antics. “at least you’re having fun, that makes up for looking like an idiot.”

“rude. but i’ll let it slide, rogers.” 

his fingers gently guided your body to twirl around his, your dress flowing along with the air and the flowers made your smile glowing brighter with each step. 

the crowd cheered as the song subsided, and your feet were starting to go numb with how much it has collided into steve’s that noon. 

you excused yourself from steve with a giggle—claiming that you need to use the restroom and to take a breather—your heart beating relentlessly with joy from having so much fun. you made a beeline towards the small area quite a few steps away from the venue, but before you could make it any further away, a hand clasped your arm—making you stop and let out a small screech.

thinking it was steve, you quickly turned around to tell him off for scaring you the second time. 

“steve can you please stop ambushing me from behind—“

no. it wasn’t steve. no, it wasn’t wanda or sarah either. to your absolute terror and surprise, it was bucky.

“oh.” was all you could say, your throat suddenly running dry at the sight of the man in front of you.

maybe it was the side of you that was so deprived of him talking—but boy, did he look good. 

his hair was combed over, and he wore a suit similar to steve’s—but it looked so much better on bucky. his steel blue irises stared into yours, and he was angelic—with the rays of the sun shining against his back—it almost looked like he had a halo. 

he had a defeated look on his face, like he was desperate to see you. the second you turned around, the grip on his hand tightened as he murmured your name, the tone of his voice dangerously low.

“where’ve you been…?” he chuntered, grip persistent. “i haven’t seen you in two weeks.”

“i was just—busy with the farm.” you broke eye contact to look at your feet, unable to bear the look on his face because you know your resolve would crack if you stared a second longer. “can you- um…i—” 

“you can at least give me a better answer than that. i know you’ve been ignoring me.” 

you’ve been caught redhanded. and being the stubborn person you are, you held your gaze on the ground—heart starting to ache at the confrontation happening. in all honesty, you didn’t know what to tell him. you couldn’t give him the true, foolish reason as to why you’ve been circumventing away from him to an unreasonable degree.

“b-but it’s true, i have been busy.” you didn’t know if you were trying to convince bucky or yourself with how meek you were speaking, like the mere thought of raising your voice would cause your throat to close up and the dam that kept your feelings at bay to burst open.

bucky pursed his lips, his hold on you loosening but still intact, like he was deathly afraid you would disappear the second he’d let you go. “look at me when you say that.” he pressed, voice dripping with desperation.

“do you know how—how crushing it was for you to suddenly just… stop talking to me all of a sudden?” 

head still lowered down like a dejected puppy, all you could do was shift your weight from one foot to the other. 

“i—i thought i was doing things right, and then you just- just treated me like we’re strangers again, like it all meant nothing. i spent so many nights thinking and thinking about what i did wrong.” 

bucky stepped closer, the tip of his shoes almost touching yours, you could practically feel the warmth radiating from him. hesitantly, you built up the courage to look into his eyes—a decision you’ve come to regret after seeing the face of absolute devastation and sadness in them—like the act of you avoiding him was physically painful.

“and then i saw you dancing with steve, what’s up with that?” 

“wh-what do you care? the people i dance with are none of your business.”

in complete contrast to the conversation, bucky’s lips were hovering against yours. you didn’t make any effort to stop it because truthfully, you couldn’t find it in you to do so. you couldn’t lie to yourself that you didn’t like the feeling of his chest flush against yours. all your hard work of trying to forget about him dissipated into thin air the second his hands curled on your waist.

you don’t know who leaned in first, but it took you a second to realize his lips were already molding into yours, accompanied by a rough calloused hand grazing your cheek. his tongue pushing past your lips—feverish and wet and sloppy—and you could feel the jealousy practically oozing on it as it danced with yours—the intrusion causing you to let out a soft gasp bucky gladly swallowed. 

your hands grasped his neck to deepen the kiss, your own desperation growing clearer. you couldn’t think straight about how good it felt to finally feel his lips on yours—like it was something you didn’t admit you’ve been needing for a long, long time. 

bucky broke off the kiss to admire you—how pink your lips have gotten, swollen from all the kissing and your eyes—pupils blown, half-lidded and full of devotion. “tell me you want this.” 

you swallowed a breath caught in your throat, hips bucking against nothing in desperation as your cunt pulsed with pure need. “i-i wan’ you bucky— fuck please-“

you reached for the zipper of his slacks, eager and needy and wanting more.

he flipped you to face the bark of the tree, heavy hands coming to still your jittery hips desperately trying to relieve the ache in your cunt. he lifted your dress high enough to reveal the wet spot on the fabric of your pantie, and ran two fingers over it—causing you to yelp in response.

“please—bucky- i need you so bad—“

you heard the rattling of a belt clinging loose, and the thick head of his cock pressing against the entrance of your warmth, sliding it against your folds but not quite pushing in just to tease you. 

you groaned in frustration, hands scraping on the rough surface of the tree, “bucky— please put it in—“ you whined pathetically, wiggling your hips to try and entice him to end your suffering. 

“so impatient, city girl.” bucky murmured condescendingly, palm coming to run across your lower back before settling on your side, “alright, since you asked so nicely.”

bucky began to shove the tip of his cock to intrude into you, deliciously slow—he wanted to savor the feeling of being in your warm, welcoming walls before he completely ruins you for anyone else.

“fuck!” you whined, hands bracing against the tree while your hips pushed back to grind against his. “bucky—oh my god-”

“you’re so fucking tight.” bucky hissed, already falling apart just from being inside of you.

slowly, he began to pull out inch by inch, before pushing back inside all in one swift thrust. bucky had to quickly clamp a hand on your mouth to stop the loud wanton moan from echoing into the forest. 

“gotta be quiet, baby.” he leaned over closer to you, sheathing himself to the hilt inside of you—breath fanning over your ear and his hips burrowing impossibly deeper into your leaking pussy—your back bowing in the process.

wet, pornographic slapping filled the space in between the air and the bushes. his cock, thick and pulsing, began to drill into you repeatedly and you could feel your eyes go bleary and your knees give up at the sudden speed he decided to pick up at. if it weren’t for his large hand muffling the obscene sounds you were letting out—not squeezing or gripping, just strong enough to keep your sounds to himself—you would’ve been caught by anyone unlucky enough to be in these parts of the woods.

the leaves shook with each drag of his cock—sending a jolt of electricity up your spine as the knot in your belly slowly building up. he felt like he was splitting you open—your hands were scrambling behind him to find purchase as he continued to plow into your cunt, juices messily dripping down your legs. 

before you could ask for more, his thumb began to rub tight circles over your clit—swollen and throbbing—causing your hips to jerk back against him. he trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck before sucking on that particular sensitive part of your skin, leaving red and purple marks in its wake.

“feel good, sweetheart? y’think steve can make you feel this good?” he moaned, still sucking on your neck like he couldn’t get enough of you, “keep quiet, doll.”

you changed his name like a prayer behind the skin of his fingers, biting your lip harsh enough to draw blood, the pleasure sowing itself deep into your abdomen and running up from your toes and through your entire body almost too much to handle—the coil in your stomach threatening to snap. you can feel how soaked you are, your slick was practically drenching your abandoned underwear bunched up around your ankles. 

his hands were harsh against your skin, clenching hard enough to leave bruises in its wake—you’re sure to look like you got beaten in an alley but only in specific places after this.

bucky could feel you getting close with how tight you’ve been clamping on his thick cock, pushing him closer and closer to sweet release, he rocked his hips with much more fervor and intensity—and you screamed at the change of pace—he pulled you back onto him as if to say you can’t run away from it.

his sweat stricken forehead pressed into your temple, “mine.” thrusting particularly harder into you, he bit down on the space between your neck and shoulder—a loud wanton moan ripped through your throat before you could stop it, fingers desperately clutching on the large hands that enveloped your waist.

you felt yourself cum before you even realize it, gushing and coating your already damp thighs in your juices leaving your body shaking while he painted your walls white with a groan of his own—his cum slowly began to trickle down your plush, now limp and numb thighs.

bucky slowly began to pull out all the while rubbing slow, comforting circles on your bruised hips and soaked thighs. 

suddenly it struck you—now hit with the clarity of post-orgasm, you quickly clambered to collect your bearings, leaving bucky with a confused expression and struggling to catch up with you as he hurriedly tucked his cock back in his pants.

“woah woah, are you sure you can walk right now—?”

you sputtered, “i-im— this was a mistake i shouldn’t’ve-“

he flashed you a look of disbelief, “a mistake? we just—“

“what if natasha noticed we’re both missing. i don’t want to cause any drama—“

bucky held up a hand to stop your rambling, brows furrowed and his head in a doozy. “wait, natasha? what does she have to do with all of this?”

“um,” you felt like a small child being asked by her parents to explain something they probably wouldn’t understand, all you needed to do was to twiddle your thumbs and you’d get the part. “aren’t you-? isn’t she your—you know…don’t you like her?”

“what?”

“i overheard some old people talk about you buying her flowers and the flower dance was coming soon so i thought—i thought—“

before you could continue mumbling about even further, bucky cut you off with a loud, obnoxious laughter that left him clutching his stomach in pain. 

“wh-what’s so funny—“

“is that why you’ve been ignoring me? you thought those flowers were for her?”

“i mean, aren’t they-“

“they were meant for you, city girl.” he shook his head with exasperatedly, “i was planning on asking you out to the flower dance, but you went ahead and ignored me for days on end. i ended up not going through with the plan when i saw you dancing with steve.”

“oh.” 

“yeah ‘oh.’ i thought i made it pretty clear i liked you.”

“they were talking about how you were taking too long and that probably meant you’ve already liked her for a long time! so i just thought you were being—you know—nice.” 

annoyingly enough, he let out another laugh. now suddenly feeling stupid, you stretched your arms forward to try and hide your face into the crook of his neck.

you were about to roll your eyes and complain about missing the food when all of a sudden bucky rushed to press his hand over your mouth once more.

“wait. shhh, someone’s there.” 

the words shut you up instantly, simmering your breathing down to barely audible to try and listen for whatever bucky heard that caused him to hush you up.

“hello?” someone called out from behind the trees, “is someone there?”

bucky held a finger against his lips and gripped your hips tighter, and you had to stop yourself from letting a giggle bubble up from your chest. 

as the footsteps began to fade out, you and bucky both simultaneously let out a shared laugh at the thought of almost getting caught by some poor townsfolk.

bucky leaned against the tree trunk he was previously railing you on, “we should um—probably get back.”

you nodded in agreement, “yeah i’m starving-“

“and you’re dancing with me this time.”

@ chipotleburritobowl. do not steal i will scissor you

[kill3ill]

with friends like these... (18+)

kinks. virginity loss, corruption, unprotected sex

synopsis. he’s known you since you were kids and uses the “we’re going to different places, let’s just do it once” excuse. after all, you owe it to him, don’t you? he’s had your back for so many years…

part of my kinktober series!

deciding to move so far away from the place and people you've known your whole life wasn't easy at all. that was the truth. what was harder to leave behind though, was your best friend.

the two of you had been a pair longer than you could remember. you've watched each other go through every stage of life so far, through every shitty haircut and awkward stage of puberty. he's the one who always waited outside your house when you were running late to give you a ride to wherever you needed to be. the one who held you after a bad day or a horrible breakup.

he's stuck with you through it all.

as you now lie in his bed on your side with your limbs slotted through his, you take in the way his room looks the same as it always does. you want to remember it, as you know you won't be seeing it in a long time. it's like him. an organized mess, easy to navigate if you know it. the smell of clean linens and heady cologne are so familiar that it makes you ache at the thought of leaving it behind. that, and you're so used to the hum of his ceiling fan and the faint whirring noise of the monitor.

"can't believe you're actually doing it," he says quietly, his voice not teasing for once, and that makes it sound so much more real and unnerving. a part of you wishes he'd make a joke at this time to alleviate all the anxieties you're going through. "feels fake. like you'll call me tomorrow and say you changed your mind."

you smile, but it's small. "you'd like that too much."

"yeah," he says, under his breath, eyes flicking down to your mouth before he catches himself. "i would."

the silence that follows isn't uncomfortable, but it is full of all the things you're both too scared to say. you shift impossibly closer and squeeze his body, closing your eyes tightly. if you think hard enough, you're sure you can merge the two of you together. strange and a little needy, perhaps, but you can't control yourself right now. he doesn't move away, moving a big hand to stroke your hair gently.

"you're gonna forget about me," he says thoughtfully.

you hug him tighter and shake your head, hating the fact that he's even considering that right now. how could you forget the most important person in your life? he's practically your soulmate. you couldn't forget about him if you tried. "not true."

"you say that now."

tipping your head up, you meet his gaze full on as his hands continue stroking your hair and body. you try to gauge what's on his mind right now, but you come up blank. you wonder why he feels compelled to say this all to you now, the night before you leave. still, you defend yourself and your relationship with him. "you're my best friend. you think that changes just because I'm not two streets away anymore?"

after a long pause, he murmurs, "still doesn't feel fair."

"what doesn't?"

"that I only get one more night with you."

it feels as though he has something on his mind that he's not telling you, which isn't a good sign. back when you were kids, the two of you had sworn to never hide anything from each other. good or bad, secrets had to be divulged so the two of you could work it out together.

he lets out a long sigh, cupping your cheek with his warm palm to keep your head facing him. his eyes stay on you as he speaks again. "you know," he starts slowly, his voice softer than usual, "i've always kind of… looked out for you."

you frown a little, not sure where this is going. "yeah, i know."

"no, i mean…" he pauses, runs a hand through his hair, and laughs under his breath. "i mean really looked out for you. since we were kids."

you press your cheek into his bicep, blinking up at him. "mhm..."

he exhales slowly. "i just keep thinking about how many times i've seen you cry... or get hurt... or make a mistake, and every time, i just- i don't know. i've just had your back, always. i'm your protector."

he shifts a little closer without meaning to, his voice getting more quiet. "like when you got into that accident and cut your leg. remember that? you were bleeding down your knee and crying so much, but i carried you all the way back to your house even though you were fussing the whole time."

you snort at the memory, embarrassed by your theatrics from years ago, but he doesn't join in on your laughter. his gaze remains steady on yours. "and every time some guy treated you like shit," he continues, "i waited until you were somewhere safe and away from him... and i taught him a lesson." you open your mouth to say something, but he keeps talking, he's afraid if he stops, he won't have the courage to start up again. and this is his last chance to lay it bare on you.

"i used to think I was just being a good friend," he says quietly. "you know, the protective one. the one who makes sure you get home safe, carries your bag when you're tired and keeps an extra hoodie for you because you always forget yours. but lately, i keep wondering if that's all it was. if I just..." he breaks off, shakes his head. "i don't know. maybe I'm just talking nonsense."

your heart starts beating faster without warning. "no, keep going. please." you whisper. "what are you trying to say?"

"just that..." he pauses, looking down at you. you figure what he's about to say must be very serious, because he sits up fully, then tugs you up so you're straddling him and looking into his eyes. "i want to make sure you don't go out into the world and give yourself up to some guy who might want you for the wrong reason. and then i won't be there to stop you or tell you he's a dick. i want to make sure your first time is special and safe. with someone you love."

you gasp when he sits you upright, your knees on either side of his hips and your crotch placed right on his. he holds the dip of your waist in his big hands, gripping you firmly so you stay in the position he put you in. your chest pressed to his, your lower halves squished together...

"you love me, don't you?"

"of course i do." you breathe out, not knowing why you're so winded all of a sudden. he bites his lower lip and groans, tugging you in closer. "say it properly."

"i love you. a-a lot."

he hums, pressing his lips to your cheek, then slowly moving them down to your jaw to trail his kisses up to your ear. "you'll let me have it then, won't you? your first time with the man you love," he says directly in your ear, one hand moving down to cup your ass through your thin pj bottoms, while the other slips sneakily under your shirt to rest against your tummy. you don't answer, soft sighs leaving you at the pleasurable sensations of his hands and mouth on you.

of course it would be okay for him to have it. why wouldn't it be? he's your best friend. no one in the whole world is closer to you than him. and he's shown how much he loves you back all the years he's been protecting you, taking care of you, reassuring you when you felt sad or unworthy. and you'd been each others firsts in other regards as well. he'd been the first to take you on a date, sleep over in your bed, and kiss you. he'd taught you how when you were younger and curious.

the both of you were laughing under the covers of your bed even though you'd told your parents he was going to sleep on the floor. he'd asked so sweetly, "have you been kissed yet, sweetheart?" when you'd kept giggling and told him no, he'd tugged you in his arms and promised he'd teach you how, and gosh, he did.

it had been sloppy at first - your noses kept bumping and the way your tongue rolled over his was sloppy, but he was patient and sweet with you, coaxing your lips to mold perfectly against his and to go at a slow, even pace until you melted into it.

it hadn't been a one time occurrence either.

after that night, you both pretended it hadn't meant anything more than teaching you. it was easier than admitting how he'd looked at your mouth every time you smiled after, or how your stomach twisted whenever he drew you to him for more "practice".

now, as his lips moved to yours and he began to kiss you slowly and gently, you couldn't find it in yourself to say anything but; "mmm... mhm, y-you can have it..."

mtch... the way his lips continued moving against yours had your brain melting. his tongue had slipped past the barrier now and had started to roll over yours, and you could feel him lift your top up to your shoulders to expose your chest. he's going so slow. taking his time to get you ready and focus on your pleasure, while giving you a chance to back out.

"you taste so good," he praises, pulling back just enough to lick his lips and catch more of your taste on his tongue, while sliding your shirt up over your head. his comes off right after. moaning into your mouth, he tilts his head to catch your tongue at a better angle, rolling it over yours noisily. "ahh- you always taste so good."

you feel heat pooling low in your body at his ministrations. the kisses are so slow and syrupy that it feels like he's devouring you with that big tongue of his deep in your mouth. his lips are closed around yours firmly, meaning you couldn't break away if you wanted. anticipation for more causes you to act without thinking, and you find yourself nudging your hips back and forth. your clothed hole rubs against the thickening bulge in his pants, catching against the fabric and creating delicious friction.

your tongues move together in tandem as your hips buck against one another. "ah- can't take much more baby," he warns, grabbing on your hips and pulling back slightly. both your gazes flick momentarily to the saliva stringing between your separated mouths. "gonna make your first time so special."

—

"mngh-! slow down, please!"

the pitiful pleading coming from your parted, swollen lips are the best you can muster as your best friend holds your thighs apart, pushing his fingers in and out of you traitorously slow. when he said he was going to make you feel special, you hadn't expected him to be fixated on your pleasure for over an hour. one hand keeps you still, while he slides two of fingers in to the knuckle. his mouth, on the other hand, is busy with your tasting you, his tongue laving over your pussy and swirling circles against the puffy folds.

"but i mmh... -can't..." he says with a mouthful of you, eyes hooded and dark. "gotta make sure you're ready for me."

his voice sends vibrations up your core, making you shiver and buck your hips closer to his face involuntarily. he grins, delving his tongue between your slick folds once more, savoring the sweet juices leaking out of you. as his fingers curl inside you, his tongue laps at you greedily.

your breathy moans fall on deaf ears as he continues fucking his fingers into you while now rubbing and shaking his tongue over your pussy. he has your arousal dribbles down his chin, and he's making the filthiest noises possible - half from the squelching of your pussy and half from his groans. "you taste so good - gosh. why've you been hiding this pretty pussy from me?"

you whimper pathetically, your voice hoarse from the involuntary cries of rapture that have been spilling from your lips for the past hour.

"asked you a question." he chastises, punishing you by slowing his fingers in you, making sure you feel every press of his fingertips against your soft walls, and the scrape of his knuckles against them.

when he twists his fingers inside you and shoves them back in at full force, you're forced to answer through a cry, unable to endure much more of this. "fuck! i'm sorry, i don't know!" you say, followed by a loud cry of his name.

each thrust of his hand forces a shudder of pleasure through your trembling body, your back arching off the bed as you writhe beneath his touch. "we should've done this before, hm? way sooner." his grip tightens on your thighs as he works a third finger into your slick channel. your thoughts are hazing with the intensity of it all.

"there now, just relax," he murmurs, placing a lingering kiss on your aching, swollen clit. " ''m not stopping 'til i've had my fill of this pussy."

he plunges his tongue deep into your dripping folds, fucking your weeping hole with the hot, thick tongue. his fingers curl and beckon, stroking along your clenching walls, stirring your insides and forcing your arousal to gush forth.

he drinks it down as if it were the finest ambrosia, his mouth lapping and suckling greedily as he works you towards your impending climax.

your body grinds against him, seeking more of the blissful torment that only he can provide. he persists, slipping his tongue into your weeping hole alongside his fingers, feeling your walls fluttering around him, gripping and squeezing as they anticipate his thick cock stretching them even further.

"y'close, aren't you?" he asks, circling his tongue inside of you before popping it out so he can finger you hard and fast. "lemme have it then. cum for me."

he sees your body seizing up, your muscles locking as your orgasm crashes over you in waves. you scream and throw your head back. your pussy clamps around his fingers, rippling and milking the digits as if trying to pull them deeper. he works you through your orgasm relentlessly, pumping his fingers to make your juices gush out to coat his hand and drip down onto the bed.

slipping his fingers free, he brings them up to his mouth and licks them clean before kneeling on the bed, his rigid cock jutting out and slapping up against his stomach. its so swollen from how long he'd been holding back from cumming, as toying with you had nearly brought him to the edge. his cock leaks shiny rivulets of precum down his shaft, wetting his heavy balls.

"i can't wait anymore," he says desperately, gripping your hips and yanking you towards him, pulling you into position to take his aching cock inside.

he wraps one hand around the base, stroking it languidly as he notches the broad tip against your hole. the warmth radiating from your core envelops the head of his cock as he teases you with the promise of being filled beyond capacity. he takes his time, rubbing himself up and down your slit, coating himself in your mess.

whining at the stimulation, your eyes widen as you feel his tip slide between your folds. "you're okay baby," he murmurs. " 'm gonna go real slow f'you, m'kay?"

"k-kay..."

he begins to push forward, his cock slowly sinking inside of you inch by throbbing inch. he doesn't stop until he's buried to the hilt, his heavy balls resting against your ass, and kissing your womb. you keen and squirm, your back arching helplessly as your body struggles to take the sheer size of him.

he lets out another shaky groan and tips his head back at the feeling of your walls squeezing him like you're trying to pull him even deeper than the hilt he's already bottomed out at.

"oh hell…" the words spill out of him in a hoarse, wrecked groan, his eyes squeezing shut for a second because the reality of finally being inside you almost knocks him out. "you're… fuck, you're so tight. pussy's hugging my cock."

you make a broken, high-pitched sound, fingers scrambling for something. he threads his hands through yours and pins them above your head, grounding you with his weight over you and the warmth of his body. his hips stay absolutely still, cock buried so deep inside it feels like he's in your guts. you can feel him throbbing inside you, impatience vibrating through his body even as he forces himself to stay still for you to adjust.

"look at me," he whispers, brushing his nose across your cheek. "lemme see those eyes. wanna see you while you take your first cock."

you blink up at him, watery and overwhelmed, and his expression shifts entirely. his mouth falls open just a little, like he's seeing something he's wanted his entire life finally in front of him.

"yeah," he breathes, "that's it. that's my girl."

you shudder under him, the praise shooting straight down your spine, making your pussy clench around him again. he feels it, every tiny squeeze, and it coaxes a deep, guttural sound out of his chest. his hips twitch forward without permission.

"d-don't-" you gasp, nails digging into his forearm. "you're… you're so big…"

"i know, baby. i know. just keep breathing, yeah?"

you try. you really do. but every inhale is shaky as your walls stretch and pulse around him. it's too much and not enough all at once. the fullness, the heat, the impossible pressure of him sitting so deep inside. he shifts slightly forward, flared tip nudging your womb, and your mouth falls open on a soft sob.

he freezes instantly. "was that good or too much?"

"g-good," you squeak, your thighs trembling around him.

his eyes darken, pupils blown wide. "yeah? felt good when i moved?"

you nod frantically, squeezing at his hands tightly to stop yourself from crying at the stretch. and then he pulls out just enough to feel the drag of your tight, slick walls clinging to him; before pushing back in so slowly.

"there she is…" he groans, thrusting just a little deeper, savoring the way your pussy flutters helplessly around him. "my perfect girl takes me so well."

his hips grind against yours, each movement deliberate, slow enough that you can feel every ridge and vein of him sliding inside you. your walls clench around him instinctively, a wet, pulsing squeeze that makes his teeth grit with need. he leans down, brushing his lips against your shoulder, then trailing hot, wet kisses down your collarbone as his cock bottoms out.

"you feel so perfect," he groans, his hands squeezing yours to keep you anchored while he rocks slowly in and out, teasing the tip against your womb.

he leans down, capturing your lips in another sloppy, desperate kiss while he thrusts into you slow and deep.

"'m all in your guts, sweetheart." he leans forward so his cock nudges even deeper inside you. "feel me filling you…' gonna make you cum so many times." he keeps going, slow, deliberate, causing your walls to clamp hard and milk his cock, and he knows immediately by the way your body locks up that you're seconds from shattering completely.

"cum for me, baby," he rasps, thrusting deep once, letting you ride the edge as your body convulses. "let go… let me hear it…"

your orgasm rips through you, your back arching as waves of pure pleasure crash over you. he groans loudly, letting you ride the tremors of your body as he watches you writhe under him.

the second your walls clamp tight around him, slick and squeezing him deeper on purpose, he chokes on a breath, fingers squeezing yours. "ah- my god, i can't hold much longer if you keep doing that-" he warns, now driving into you like an animal.

his hips snap forward, fucking into you with sharp, needy thrusts that make your body jolt up the bed with each one. he's panting against your mouth, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot and frantic. he gasps, thrusting harder, deeper. then he moves one hand under your knee to push your leg up, opening you wider. the new angle makes you cry out loud. he moans when he hears it, hips stuttering before slamming forward again.

"that's it, that's my girl. mngh- i can't slow down, i can't..." his voice is frantic, breath hitching. "been holding back all night, and now you're- ngh-gripping me like you wanna make me cum inside you-"

"yes," your whine. "y-yeah, i want it, please-!"

he loses it the second you say it, and slams one last time into you, so deep his hips tremble against yours, and he breaks. his cock throbs violently inside you, pulsing hard as hot, thick ropes spill deep in your cunt and coat your walls.

he cums so hard his body shakes above you, face pressed to yours as he pumps every last drop into you with shallow, rough thrusts that drag his sensitive cock through the slick warmth he just filled.

see more in my main masterlist

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[sheriff-bodecker]

a lesson in devotion <𝟑 .ᐟ

pairing: bestfriend!bucky x f!reader

summary: after picking you up from your failed date, seeing your eyes red rimmed and cheeks tear stained, Bucky can’t help but let everything he’s been holding back from you go.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut & fluff, crying, being stood up, dating apps, self-deprecation, texting & phone calls, reader uses sarcasm to deflect, sexual jokes, petnames (sweetheart, sweet girl, baby…), whipped!bucky, making out, kitchen to the bed, dirty talk, oral (f!rec), fingering, unprotected pinv, creampie, missionary, seb’s tongue thing (and his face scrunch), (failed) riding, subspace, cocky!bucky, (soft)dom!bucky, multiple orgasms (like three), multiple positions (like two), slight cockwarming, MAAAD BDB (bucky's got a big dick and he knows it) . . . - (wc: 7.7k)

a/n: THANK YOU TO THIS ANON ASK !!!! in my brain, 'bestfriend' automatically turns into 'college!bucky' but really, you can imagine however you like lol <3 (he is broke tho so.) im so sorry this is late, fhsdufghfsf i didnt think this would turn into a 7k word porno lmfao

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✴︎ reader is mentioned to have hair, and wears a dress, heels and make-up at the beginning. bucky also carries reader from kitchen to bed. (readers favourite movie is also Almost Famous here, why? because im self indulgent and it's a good movie.)

✴︎ it's mentioned that bucky lives in an apartment with steve, unrelated to the plot, just mentioned (as well as a couple mentions of steve/nat. also alpine is mentioned once !!)

✴︎ if i'm missing any tags please kindly let me know !!

The restaraunt still hums behind you, bustling with couples and soft, orange lighting, perfect for the night's celebrations, all the while you stand under the tiny awning trying to keep dry, arms clinging around your chest in an attempt to retain as much heat in as possible. Your hands balled into fists, one clutched your purse beneath your bicep, and the other holds your heels, feet soaked and numb, two-stepping with desperation.

You whine softly under your breath as the rain keeps pouring, sputtering against the covering and pavement, teeth chattering, chest heaving with a mix of anger and distress.

He didn't show.

After months of talking, of smiley faces and hearts sent at ungodly hours of the night, praise exclaimed with a smile on your face to friends, and a reservation you had made a week in advance, waiting for any sign to come through after an hour of waiting with a bouncy knee and chewed up lip, your chest caved inwards as a new story was posted on his account fifteen minutes ago, and your messages were simply left on read.

Calling him, demanding an explination, was pointless. It's too late to care, even as the rage boils up, heating up your stomach and shoulders, it all fizzles as exhaustion wipes over your body.

Useless. All of your attempts, the kind words that slipped from your lips about him, the reservation, the dress you kept stashed in the back of your closet, the heels you wore for special occasions, the make-up and hair you spent hours on; it was all for nothing. And now, standing pathetically outside the building, curled into yourself, you felt utterly useless.

Sniffling, you unlock your phone and, like muscle memory, find the familiar contact. Bucky. Humour is all you could ever conjure up when times felt difficult for you, even if he, your best friend, would tilt his head and eye you disapprovingly. Never malicious, his smirk would ghost his lips ever so slightly, nudging at your elbow with his own, but it's enough to get you to stop being so hard on yourself.

But tonight. You cant help but believe you deserve it.

you: the spinster life is really calling for me

bucky: you okay??

you: tbh not really lol is it okay if you could possibly pick me up? sorry if ur busy i can call an uber

Just as you clicked the little blue arrow to send the last message, Bucky's picture flooded the screen like a lifeline, and by the first buzz you were picking up.

"Hey—"

"What happened?" His voice, though crackly and muffled, eased your chest. Tone firm, curious, you can almost hear the crease between his brow.

"Hello to you too," you attempt to deflect with sarcasm, huffing a shitty attempt of a laugh and scratching your nose after a couple seconds of gruelling silence, you sighed. "I got stood up."

"Shit, i'm sorry, sweetheart."

"Not even the worst part," this time you laugh for real, "sent him some messages, turns out he's out at some party tonight, and this fucker had the nerve to leave me on read. And I stayed in the restaurant for an hour, Bucky! An hour!"

"You still at the restaurant?"

"Outside, yeah. They gave me that pitiful look, but they gave me some free bread." You hear him suck in a heavy breath, sucking his teeth like a wince, through the phone. You know the bread is already free, but its the thought that counts, right?

"You under a cover? Or at least have some kinda shelter?" You listen as he tugs on his sneakers with a huff.

"I'm under the awning but im absolutely soaked and not in the way I hoped, so," you snort weakly, "we're both pretty useless tonight."

Hesitating his movements, he tuts, brow furrowing into a scowl. "Don't say that."

"The wet part or the useless part?"

"The useless part," dragging a hand down his face, Bucky winces. "Look, i'll be there in ten, try not to freeze for me, 'kay?"

"Thank you, Bucky, seriously."

"Don't even, i'd do anything for you."

"Shut up."

He hums over the phone, "it's true."

"Sap."

"i can take the long way and make you wait another twenty—"

“You wouldn’t dare, James,” you’re sure he can hear your smile through the receiver. With a sigh you flex your fingers in and out, trying to relieve them of the cold numbness. “Plus my hands are going numb, and I kinda desperately need them.” you joke, sniffling. “You on your way?”

A car door slams, “Just got in,” his seatbelt clicks and engine revs, “you wanna stay on call or should i leave you to your thoughts.”

Tipping your head back against the brick wall, you let out a heavy sigh.“I’ll be fine with my thoughts. Gotta make sure the whole story’s straight before I give you a migraine.”

You both snicker on each end, a rustle coming through his own as he wipes his hand over his cheek and through his hair. You both stay in a few seconds of relaxed silence, warmth already seeping through your joints as you clear your throat, toeing at a pebble. "Thanks, Buck."

"I'll see you in a bit, sweetheart."

It takes six minutes before you see headlights pool against the asphalt. Tyers squeak as he haults to a stop and Bucky hops out, tugging off his jacket and sliding it over your shoulders despite your protests, making sure to flip the hood up over your head and zip it up. He guides you towards the passenger side with a palm against your lower back without a second thought. He opens the door for you, giving you a clumsy smile as you squint playfully his way.

The instant heat from the A/C hits your cheeks immediately. You groan, clicking your seatbelt in place, before holding your hands out to the heat, using the sleeves of Bucky's hoodie like kindling. It feels like you can finally breathe again.

“Yours or mine?” He asks, shuffling into the drivers seat, shaking his wet hair like a shaggy dog, and tugging his seatbelt on.

“Yours,” You reply, unsteady and croaky. “I don’t really wanna be alone tonight.”

Bucky nods as he drives off, “Well, lucky for you, Steve is out with Nat, and I was gonna order some takeout and watch a movie,” he adds softly, “also, you didn’t actually have a choice, you were coming to my place either way.”

Letting out a laugh, your body shifts in his presence. "Better than some pity bread and 27 Dresses."

Years of friendship, odd talks and questions while walking around town at ungodly hours of the night, tipsy confessions at parties in the host's bathtub, and the closeness the two of you built, it all eases the pain and misery like balm on a wound.

"So. Talk to me." His gaze flickers over to your slumped figure. Tired eyes, damp dress, hands held outwards while you pulse your fingers to get the blood bumping.

A tired noise escapes your mouth, what was supposed to be a simple sigh, now opened the dam to the waterworks, as hard as you tried to supress the tears. You breathed in and out, counted, and Bucky kept driving, his jaw locked and tense, eyes flickering between you and the road as you as your lip trembled and eyes glossed over with unshed tears. It isn't until his hand rests on your thigh, just above your knee, giving it an assuring squeeze, does your mouth finally run. Stomach twisting with a warmth you didn't want to acknowledge.

"I don't even know why I try," you whisper, voice wavering, swallowing thickly. "I mean, the reservation was for seven, I got there at six-fifty," sinking backwards into the seat, you cross your arms, fiddling at the drawstrings. You laugh humourlessly, "I checked my phone like a dumbass every five minutes."

Bucky's hand presses your knee again, thumb caressing your skin in reassurance, humming and nodding you on.

"I waited for so long, waiters would come by asking when he would show, but I saw the looks on their faces when they turned around. After like an hour, I saw that fucking story and I…" Sighing and shrugging, you barely notice the warm tears streaking down your cheeks. "I don't know why I keep finding guys like that… I feel so stupid."

"You're not stupid."

"I sat there and waited for an hour." You replied monotonously.

His chest puffs, a laugh spilling from his lungs, incredulously. Lips parting, the hand that sat snug against your thigh now wiping over his face in disbelief, and you shiver at the loss. "Why?"

"I thought, cus' it was raining a-and it's valentines, it was busy, there was no parking or something," you gulp thickly, "or…he couldn't find the place — thought if I left, he'd turn up and think I bailed," hiding your face in your hands, you inhale shakily, letting the scent of Bucky invade your senses, "It was our first date, I didn't want to just give up so fast."

The car rolls to a stop, yet Bucky doesn't cut the engine, letting the heaters run just a little longer. He rubs his hands down the thighs of his jeans, exhaling a sharp breathe before turning to you. "The right guy wouldn't just leave you sitting there wondering or waiting for a whole hour. He'd make sure you never had to second guess yourself. He'd show up,"

You stare blankly at your hands in your lap, picking at your cuticles while you listen to him.

Bucky's hand grips your shoulder, "You're too sweet for your own good, y'know that?"

A small simper eases on your face, chuckling under your breath. "So i've been told." You catch his eyes, staring at you with the kind of intensity that makes your stomach flip, reciprocating the smile. The action hits your chest, a full bullseye straight into the heart that makes your ribs shiver and lip wobble.

"I just don't understand," you whisper. "Why do that? Why just waste my time?"

"Because he's a coward," he remarks immediately, catching you off guard. Whipping your head back to look at him, his eyes still latch onto your face, and his fingers tease the soft hairs at the nape of your neck. Chills errupt down your back. "C'mon, lets get you dried up. I'll order pizza."

"Bucky—"

Before you could protest, he's already retrieving his keys and shuffling out. "Nope, don't even. It's valentines and you deserve to be treated right," he adds in a murmur, "even if it's by a broke guy with takeout and a DVD."

The apartment isn't messy, but it's never exactly clean. The right amount of chaos that borders on homely, yet very obviously owned by two guys who don't really care enough.

An old leather couch sits against the wall, the couch you helped pick out with Bucky, Steve and Nat at the thrift store, strewn atop were layers of blankets; some woven, some crocheted, all piled like someone had laid among them beforehand, as well as a peaceful ball of white fluff that made herself a cave underneath the ruckus. Posters stuck neatly on the wall where the sofa rest, framed to make the place look decent, and not like the bachelor pad it absolutely is. A coffee table adorned with years of cup stains laid crooked, Steve's abandoned laptop sat shut, along with a candle you bought as a sarcastic house-warming gift, remotes and controllers.

Physical media stayed stored meticulously. DVDs and games stayed hidden beneath the TV cabinet, and CDs the roomie's shared were lined up on shelves.

It's your second home. You love it.

You jump a little as Bucky rubs your biceps, easing heat into your skin with his hoodie. "Let's go to my room, i'll get you some new clothes." he mumbles, using his hold to stir you down the hall.

His room captured his essance and charm. Nerdy, boyish, you often teased him for the 'indie sleaze' vibe that exudes from the place, but he never denied.

The little things had their order; books and CDs alphabetised were always alphabetised, though band and movie posters stuck against all four walls in no particular order, or care, but it fit too well. His bed was made, yellow and green tartan, and a messily made blanket you'd crochet after 'buying too much yarn' and 'needing a new project'. Bucky had staked claim over it at your place, always wrapping it up and over his head or using it for naps, so ultimately, you decided to bring it over one night.

You can't help the smile that seeps into your features. A little bit of you in Bucky's room.

As you stare like you haven't been in this exact spot since the moment he had moved in, he rummages through his closet, humming to himself. Gentle tunes and clicks of his tongue.

"This shirt and," he drawls, hand stretched out to pass the item — a stretched out henley he only wears on laundry days or as a sleep shirt — while he sticks his other hand in his drawer, tongue out and eyes squinted before pulling out some sweatpants and socks.

"These," he grunts as he stands, extending the clothes out.

"You can get changed in here, just put your laundry in the basket, I can do it later," he inhales sharply. You nod, whispering a soft thanks as he ducks his head down, hands stuffed into his pockets as he makes his way to the door. "I'll make some tea. That sound okay?"

You smile, "perfect," the word catches in your throat, "thanks again, Buck, really—"

He cuts you off with a straightened palm and a toothy smile, "It's nothing. You know i'd do this for you in a heartbeat," he scratches his neck while silence envelops you. Warm, syrupy, like a heavy blanket wrapped around the two of you in the dead of winter. "I'll be in the kitchen."

As the door clicks shut, your lungs deflate, only to fill with the pure scent of Bucky like your body runs on him.

Heart thumping against your chest, one thought plagues in your brain as you rid yourself of your clothes.

You need your best friend, and not in the way you'd assumed in the past.

And tonight, you can't help but believe he needs you as well.

His sweatpants droop around your hips a little and his henley sags slightly off one shoulder, baring your collarbone as you shuffle into the kitchen.

Cozy and small, fairy lights strung under the cabinets, washing the room in a soft yellow glow. Dishes stack on the drying rack; plants sit against the windowsill, half dying, yet still holding on; The fridge, covered in reciepts, reminders, stickers and magnets — a small whiteboard reads 'need more groceries.' Followed by, 'get some then??'; Fridge-poetry stuck haphazardly in sentences created during early mornings and toothpaste stained shirts for a half second exhale through the nose; '[women] [make] [awesomest] [world]', '[drunk] [cigarettes] [do] [not] [count]', '[your] [mom]'. It's soft hum plays beneath the tension.

The floor creaks as you make your way, signaling your entry. Buck's eyes flitter up for an instant, only to look up again as you lean against the counter, despite the discomfort as it digs into your waist. He exhales at your presence, bare-faced, having wiped off your make-up in the bathroom, with a shy smile tugging your cheeks.

He's hunched over the worksurface, stirring the bags of chamomile into each respective mug, mismatched. Holding out a cup out to you with a tight lipped smile, your fingers graze as you take the drink, the soft ember that sat in the pit of your stomach since the phone call lit up once again, hitching your breath. Bucky clears his throat, ducking his head to hide the faint blush on his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

"I got your favourite movie paused in the other room," you hum inquisitively as you press the mug to your lips, sipping softly, letting the warmth seep onto your tastebuds. "Almost Famous."

He keeps stirring the teabag around his cup, evading eye contact. You beam softly at his remembrance. "That's on streaming now?"

Shaking his head, he taps the spoon against the rim and lays it on the surface, facing you fully. "No, I-uh, I got the DVD."

“Really?" He nods, "For me?”

“For you,” he replies immediately. Then, quieter, “So you’d have it here.”

Your throat tightens. Holding the ceramic against your mouth, your arm comes up to cross over your chest.

He lifts the tea to his lips but doesn’t drink, letting the scent ease his mind. He sighs, approaching warily before he asks, “… Can I ask?”

You nod once and his cup clicks against the countertop, "why do you keep choosing the most emotionally unavailable guys?"

You snort, "straight to the point."

"I'm serious."

Leaning against the edge of the counter, inhaling deeply. The scent of the tea and Bucky lingers in the air. His cologne, the one you helped him pick out last spring; bergamot, with a hint of spice.

You huff as it hits your nose and pools in your stomach, "You're gonna laugh."

"I wont." he replies plainly, arms crossed, lips tight.

You can barely look at him in the eye, voice low and anxious, as if you've never told him your deepest secrets in the dead of night. You set your mug down beside his.

"I think… I believe I can fix them," shrugging stiffly, you proceed feebly. "Don't know why. Something dumb inside me thinks I have this power to change them, prove people wrong when they tell me i'm just gonna get my heart broken."

Before you could register, Bucky stood upright. "Sweetheart," his hands hold your shoulders, facing him fully. His thumbs drag softly against your collarbones, barely there touches that tingle too hard and make your heartbeat shudder.

He has this smile on his face, lazy and sweet, the kind he gets after a movie marathon that ends with your head on his shoulder, trying to fight off sleep. A gentle tilt of his lips, and you cant help but stare at how pink they look.

"You dont need to prove people wrong, or fix anyone. At all. Nobody does," his thumbs don't stop their movements, but his hands — his big, warm hands — slowly move upwards. "You, of all people, don't deserve to put all your time and energy on some asshole who won't even think twice about you. 'Fixing' someone isn't your problem, it's not your responsibility, it's theirs."

You gulp, his hands rest against the nape of your neck like they're meant to be there, thumbs against your throat, right where your pulse thumps under his pads. It's his turn to pause, to swallow.

Silence rings thickly through the kitchen.

"Is this okay?"

Without a thought, your own hands slip around his wrists, keeping him in place. "Yeah— yes."

He nods, looking down at the floor like it had answers. Breathing in deep, expeling with puffed cheeks, he faces you again, whispering, "can I tell you something?"

"Anything." You reply. Your own thumbs graze the silky skin of his inner wrists, a move unconsious, instinctive.

"I—I, You—" shaking his head, you smile softly at his flustered expression. He inhales again.

"I've been right here," he confesses, "watching them constantly disappoint you, use you. It makes me want to say, do, something so selfish."

Your breath hitches, hands tighten around his arms. You're so sure he can feel how hard your heart is beating through your neck, how it bumps against the henley against your chest.

"Selfish?" You ask, "how?"

He trails up your neck, tighter than before, a hold that showed protection. Fingers tangling within your locks, unlocking another hitch from your lungs without permission. You only just notice how close you two stand, chests grazing, breath against breath. And his eyes, those gorgeous blues that now sit a deep navy, darker than the deepest waters ready to swallow you up, flitter between your own and your lips.

"By making sure you never second guess yourself," he inches closer, "by giving you what you deserve," dipping down closer, his breath mingles against your slack lips, touching with barely there grazes that make your knees weak. "By letting myself want you out loud."

Neither of you move, letting the air shift heavier than before. The closeness, the contact of your hands on each others skin, the breath skimming lips, it all jumbles into one another, mixing with years of inside jokes, shared playlists and sleepovers, all suddenly rearrange themselves to reveal something hiding beneath a love once disguised as 'friendship'.

His name escapes without permission, your mouth desperate to feel the shape of his name. It tugs at his skin, "I have to show you how much you mean to me, sweetheart."

Your hands find his shirt so naturally. Bucky inhales sharply, like he’s been waiting, like all the restraint he's been holding, keeping in check, can finally overflow.

The kiss is breathless. Deep, certain, clumsy with desperation and unspoken words, your tummy knots with just how sweet it feels to be needed like air.

His hands that tangled into your hair now drag down your torso, steady on your hips, anchoring you as everything from hours before collapses. Mugs sit forgotten as his touch grazes lower and his body turns to pin your back against the counter. The world narrows to heat and breath, the way you hum into his mouth, and the way he murmurs your name like it’s something sacred.

Your body moves on it's own. Legs parting, hands clutching his waist as his tongue swipes your bottom lip, and you accept him like you always have. Bucky slots himself between your thighs, pushing you both closer and closer, and you feel the unmistakable shape of his erection pressing into your hip. You whine in surprise as it drags against you, grabbing his waist, pressing yourself into him. He smirks into the kiss, pulling back an inch, letting the cold tip of his nose skim your cheek.

"I know," he soothes, palming down to your thighs, pressing a soft kiss against your lips, "I know, baby. C'mon, up for me." He lifts you, now sitting atop the surface and he closes the distance like no time passed.

As your hands find refuge in his hair, Bucky fingers the waistband of your sweats, tucking them into the elastic at your lower back, grabbing fistfuls of your flesh, moving your hips into his own until the two of you meet in between with a corse gasp.

"Can I take these off?" He rasps against your cheek, trailing lower with each second, and each ragged exhale that sticks to your sensitive skin. "Talk to me, baby."

"Yes, yes please."

Buck's smile melts into your skin. Pressing open mouthed kisses from your jaw down to your neck, all the while his hands keep tugging the flesh of your ass, each grab becoming needier and harder as he wanders his lips down, licking and sucking. You gasp with each peck, head tipping back in ecstasy, allowing him more freedom against your tendons, grazing his teeth, nipping at your collar, only to sooth with his wet tongue.

The feeling was immeasurable, fingers curling against his soft tufts, tugging him back with a dissipated pop, spit stringing from your neck against his plump lips.

Squeezing, he nuzzles back into your clavicle, "Hips up, there we go."

Hooking your ankles behind his back and hoisting yourself up with your hands pressed against the worktop, he frees your bottom-half, tugging the sweatpants down your legs.

Unlocking your legs from behind, Bucky begins his descent. Lower, shearing over his own shirt, humming into the fabric, pinching with his lips and teeth against the curve of your breasts in worshipful reverence, before following his hands, pushing the pants off your socked feet.

Dabbing chaste kisses to your knees as he presents himself between them, he sits obediently. Palms warm atop your knees, keeping them spread wide, lips and jaw open in soft pants that tickle your inner thighs, and his eyes lock in to the sight of your panty clad core. Black lace. A matching set you kept 'just in case'. You watch him stare from above, hands slightly slipping from sweat, watching him lean in closer to where you ache for him, clutching you wide by the soft skin of your thighs.

Opening you up, he huffs a harsh breath, hot on the dampening cloth.

"Wow," he drags out, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. His thumbs pull you open, tugging each side of your lips against the lace, trapping your clit, stroking your velvety skin up and down. The shock twitches your hips, bucking your knees up, placing one foot on his shoulder, letting the other open wider. "Wore these for, what… that guy?"

Warmth blossoms from top to bottom. A new etch of redness soaks your face, as a new wave of arousal paints the lace. The scent of it hits him and his heart rate picks up, cock stiffening against his boxers, sore and craving. You begin to protest, just it's quickly silenced.

"Could've been so lucky," he sucks his teeth, "oh well." Tugging your panties off ardently, he shoves them in his pack pocket. You laugh airily, but it's quickly overthrown by a shocked gasp as his mouth finally dives between your thighs.

One long broad swipe of his tongue, flat against your cunt, collecting your arousal against his taste buds. You call out his name, one hand rakes through the back his head, grounding you, while the other steadies against the counter. Groaning, his lips purse around your clit, suckling the nerve before placing a debauched kiss atop. He pushes spit out his mouth, drooling over your lips and pulling back with a grin.

"Taste better than I imagined," he grunts. Suddenly his thumb swipes over your folds, collecting the dribble falling down, smearing it up, before pressing the pad on your clit. Soft, eager, circles that make your abs clench and jaw drop. Breathy moans and whines fill the quiet of his apartment.

He looks up at you with adoration, "sound better too." He purrs, diving straight back home, nuzzling into your cunt, moving his thumb out of the way to tease your entrance with a finger. His tongue slides through your lips, locking through your arousal, wiping broad licks over your clit. You tip your head back, eyelids fluttering as he spreads you apart.

Heaving, your legs already shake, thighs trembling, pussy pulsing in his hold, while each and every inch of your body erupts with tingles of bliss. His words don't register, can't. Not while your mind and body are too occupied with his dual attack. Tongue swiping over your clit; sucking, spitting, all while he eases his middle finger inside.

"Oh-Oh… Fuck!" Your grip tightens on his scalp, eliciting a sudden moan, vibrating right against you and up your spine. Pleasure ruptures inside of you, a bittersweet ache settling in your thighs and lower back, chest heaving as your nipples peak beneath your bra.

"So fuckin' tight, Jesus, sweetheart," he says, lips pressed onto you like he didn't want to leave. A soft laugh eases, puffing air and soft reverberation, your walls cinch around his digit. His free hand pinches at your thigh, dipping into the flesh, holding you wide open for him to explore.

"Gotta to open you up real good…" He contemplates, finger curling slowly inside of you, instantly grazing your soft spot, making you gasp and hips stutter. "There she is… Right there, huh?"

Your hips move on their own vocation as he speeds up his pace, kissing your clit again and again, suctioning onto your bud and laving up your flavour, slurping up your slick straight from the source.

You're too focused on his mouth — the lewd slurps he drags out, collecting your taste like nectar, you're sure the mix of his saliva and your cum now sits in a puddle below you — to notice the second finger easing beside his middle. Only when it eases, when the two start moving in tandem, do you register the fullness. He scissors them, urging you open, curling them as they settle in deep, before retreating back. Bucky keeps up a routine, speeding up as your walls contract and pulse.

"Gonna cum, baby?" He traces, words mumbled on your slick skin. You can barely talk, not with how messy he eats, how he talks with his mouth full, feasting like a starved man, rendering a service only for your pleasure — so you nod fervently, humming out as you do, bottom lip caught between your teeth.

He moves his free hand up, grabbing your ass to pull you closer towards the edge, kneading and rubbing, while his fingers keep petting and stroking your spongy spot. Whines and moans stay locked and murmured behind your clenched teeth as he works you open and towards release.

"Mouth open, wanna hear you cum, wanna know what you sound like," Bucky slurs. Your brain, now turned into mush, complies without protest. Your jaw slacks and lips part in harsh breaths and whines, chest heaving with each sound, giggling at yourself and how good this feels, how good he is.

Your ankles lock up against his back, keeping him trapped between your thighs, and he moans. Pulsing, the sounds you coaxed from him hit you like a train. Muscles tense, walls constrict. You lock up in a silent cry, hips twitching with your throbbing cunt as you release over his fingers. Working you through it, he eases them in time with your ebbing finish. Soft strokes of his fingers, slowly moving out, and leaving your clit with the softest kiss, making you flinch from overstimulation.

Your eyes ease shut for a moment, harsh pants weakening, and one second he's on the floor, the next, your mouth fills with an unfamiliar taste. Salty and sweet, a musk that brings a brand new ache to your still pulsing need between your thighs.

Bucky crosses your legs behind him again, and find themselves on your ass, hoisting you up around him, hard on pressed against your roused pussy, soaking his crotch in your mixed stickiness, making a rumble roll from his chest. His pants are too fucking tight.

"Bed," he breathes on your lips, already down the hall, pushing his door open with his back and kicking it shut. "Wanna do this properly."

He kisses you with severity, a heightened furiosity looms inside his gut. Now he's got a taste of you, now that you marked his mouth and fingers, he can't let go.

Laying you against the sheets of his bed, his lips rest their relentless attack, pulling back to throw his shirt to the floor, revealing his toned midsection. Your eyes follow the trail of hair down from below his navel, and into his waistband. His lips skirt across yours, licking the swell. "Tell me you want this," he whispers, "tell me you want me."

You suck in a breath, "I want you, Bucky," wiggling your hips enough to graze your bare heat against the fabric against his stiff cock. Jaw tight as you buck your hips, hissing through grated teeth, "fuck, I need you."

He stills you, hands wrapped around your pelvis, pushing you into the mattress. "You have all of me, sweetheart," Knees parting your own, widening for him.

His graze moved to your wrists, "need these, baby, desperately need 'em," God, if you knew his dirty talk was this hot, you would've grinded on his lap twelve study sessions ago. Placing your hands to his crotch, you cupped the stiffness, holding him fully within your palm. Heavy was all your brain could conjure while your fingers tentatively and curiously squeezed.

"Take 'em off for me, sweetheart— that's it, good girl."

Sure, you've been friends for a long while, seeing him in baggy sweats on lazy days, sometimes even noticing the lack of underwear when he does — consequently noticing him pressing against his thigh, or poking out while he walks — but nothing, not even what your imagination would conjure up late at night or while shamefully sneaking glances, would you ever believe what he was carrying around.

"You're staring, sweet girl," his palms tap your cheek gently, just enough to throw you out of your daze, "whats on your mind?"

You swallow, trying to coax any wetness to your drying mouth while your eyes flicker between his soft gaze and dripping cock. Your friend's cock that now sits heavy against his right thigh, bobbing, twitching, drooling, while you watch with parted lips.

"… You've been carrying around that thing this entire time?"

"You surprised?"

Your eyes widen a fraction, "I-I mean, Jesus, Bucky."

He hums, smoothing over your cheek, "you can take it, princess, I know you can," he taps again, "on your back, sweetheart, c'mon."

You do as you're told, lying back against his pillows, knees parted and open as he followed suit. Crawling over you, positioning himself on his haunches, and you could feel his bare cock press against your wet heat as he pushes your shirt up your tummy and over the mounds of your breasts, leaving the fabric bunched around your collar.

Bucky stares down in awe, hands dragging up and down your sides, fingertips graze the scratchy cloth where it dips into your flesh. Bottom lip blanching between his teeth, fixed at each bump with blown, dark eyes, unable to comprehend the sight in front of him. He shakes his head, a dumbfounded sound puffs from his nose.

"A matching set," he hums, "God, you sure know how to make a guy happy, huh sweetheart?"

Blushing, you turn away from his sight. Hands rendered useless by your shoulders, and grumble into the sheets below. "Shut up, Buck."

"Something about you in my clothes… Under me with my shirt on," he ponders, hands pinching and grabbing at your tits, "you look so fucking beautiful, sweetheart, makes me wanna tear you apart."

A soft plea falls from your lips, a mewl hidden under your breath as he dips his hands beneath the lace and tweaks your nipples that were hidden under your flimsy bra. Your breath comes ragged and uneven, chest caving under his touch while his crotch slots against your own like a puzzle piece. Cock resting over your slick, pushing forward in tiny, subtle ruts forward, his tip laid over your tummy while you coat his shaft and heavy balls with your sticky mess.

"You like that? Want me to split you open? Make you forget everything except my name and how full you feel?" Leaning forward, he rests a hand beside your head, his other stays on your chest, pinching your tit. "Talk to me, baby, tell me what you need."

You whine out, arms slinging over your eyes in a mix of defeat and embarrassment. "I want all of it! I want you, so bad… Fuck, Bucky, it hurts," you laugh under your breath, tipping your hips up to try and drag his head into you somehow. You groan at the wet sounds you create, whispers spilling from the loose faucet your mouth turned into, "please, please, please—"

"Needy thing just begging so good for me," he lifts himself up again, wicked smirk plastered on his face, moving your arms away from your eyes to get a good full look at you. "Don't worry, pretty girl, just let me do all the work. Let me make you feel so good."

His head falls back in a light groan as he reaches between you, holding his cock by the base, swiping up and down your lips to coat himself. Provoking you onward as he slaps his tip on your clit, quick taps quick to sting, making you gasp and twitch, legs falling open wider.

A deep moan resonates through his chest, easing the crown of his cock forward and inside you, watching how your hole swallows him. You choke on a gasp, mouth open as he softly eases his girth with easy jerks until you sheathe him fully.

"Oh fuck." Bucky leans forward, chest to chest, and your hands scramble to touch anything of him, clutching around his back, soothing upwards, until one holds onto his shoulder, and the other claims his hair again. Your lungs stutter with whines, caving in against his weight only to pull him into you tighter, trembling from the big stretch.

Heaven feels like a lost cause now that he finally knows what you feel, taste and sound like. Your walls clench and throb around him, so soft and warm, sliding right in, resistance be damned, the strain soothed with how turned on and ready he got you. He groans a sound deep from his chest, forearms rest beside your head. He tries so hard to keep it together.

Your lips graze his jaw, crawling down his neck with soft nips and kitten licks, washing off his sweat with your tongue. He moans fortuitously, and his hips start to shift. Soft grinds in and out, his sounds stick to your shoulder, ragged breaths and whispered praises into your bones, making you strangle his shaft as he works, pace quickening, wet slaps sound around the room. Pumping into you, he just can't hold it any longer, you make him so greedy and selfish

"Bucky." You sigh, grinding your hips back and forth, matching his pace. Each buck has his tip sliding through your wet inside, so tight, he keens as you throb.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Sitting upright, back on his heels, Bucky pulls you towards his thrusts by your hips, using the momentum to push inside. Pounding into you frenziedly, corse fuzz tickling your clit with each jolt, soft tongue dipping out of his parted lips as he pants from the exertion. "God, you feel amazing."

He smooths a palm on your skin until his thumb skims across your clit again. The overload of pleasure stimulated to your already abused and puffy nerves drives a cry from your throat. Your nails dig into his shoulders, deep crescents marking his flesh for days to come, mouth open, unable to silence the onslaught of wanton moans and sighs that escape as he pierces your cunt over and over, and over again. You both look down your body, watching how he disappears inside, how you grip around his girth, how absolutely soaked his cock is — you both moan at the sight, and Bucky rolls his hips, faster, fucking into you, breath trembling with each thrust.

Throwing your head back and plunges it into the pillow, you moan, and that's when he knows he's found the right spot. He pushes his dick against it, over and over as you tighten furiously, pulsing in time with your rapid heartbeat. Your jaw clenches, unable to voice or warn him of your rapture. Squeezing his cock in a tight, sopping embrace as your eyes shut tight, hands ball into fists beside your head and back arches. Bucky doesn't slow, he doesn't relent, only drags out your orgasm with harder jabs, plunging roughly with a smirk on his face.

The tightness spreads across his pelvis like a wildfire, aching his chest. He curses under his breath while his hips stutter, shaking his head, spraying tiny droplets of sweat across your skin. Involuntarily, you clench again at the stains on your skin.

"Coming on my cock that quick, huh?" He pries breathlessly. Sweat trickles down his temples, dripping onto your belly and chest. Your head wracks with words, only for your mouth to fail you, slurring each sentence into whispers.

Pausing for a split second, he flips you both over, lying on his back and cradling you in his arms, keeping you slumped against his chest with his cock sitting snug and stiff inside.

"One more, sweet girl. I know you can do it." His hands reposition you, folding your knees to bracket his waist, making sure your face rests contented against his collarbone, before smoothing up your back, pacifying you, until a tired confirmation hums out.

"Please," you're liquid in his arms, limbs rendered useless, you sluggishly attempt to wrap your hands around his neck and arch a rhythm back into your aching folds. "Yes, please."

Leaning down, Bucky presses a kiss to your forehead, earning a high pitched hum. His knees prop up, feet plastered onto the sheets below. Big, warm palms now clutch the flesh of your ass as he strains, "Atta girl."

Brutal, swift, splitting. Skin slapping on skin, your wetness spits with each slap given with Buck's hips thrusting up and into you at a tranquillizing pace, frantically boring into you.

You cry out a moan, "Wanna be good for you." The pain of overstimulation mixing with the skin on skin contact and just how perfect he's hitting your spots.

"So fucking good," he replies in a growl, fingers obsessive against your cheeks, holding so tight, squeezing, you're sure to have bruises adorning the flesh by the morning. Head swinging back into the pillow with a snarl, jaw clenching, his hips don't wander off rhythm, holding this searing pleasure as he fucks into your used cunt like a fleshlight. "God, you're so fucking good."

The praise tugs everywhere in your body, pleasure unable to hold back when his encouragements exhales so smoothly from his lips. Your pussy flutters erratically, a fluctuating pattern that spasms harshly with bliss, humming into his neck with each pump his hips drive up into you — orgasm pulling from your depths, washing over you with a shiver, shaking in his hold as he digs inside, dragging it out again, begging you to feel how amazing he makes you feel. Bucky can't care how hard he's thrusting, especially now, as you choke his cock and his balls tighten.

A whine leaves his mouth as he whispers pleas, his thrusts starting to stutter. Red lips, wet with saliva and plump from kisses, part with heaving breaths —his brow furrows, nose crinkling like an angry kitten.

"Where… where—"

"Inside…" you beg, nosing into his neck, painting his collar with soft 'please, please, please's, drooling on him slightly.

His movements become frantic, body convulsing as he lunges upwards, pulling your hips down into his once, then twice, before he buries himself inside of you. Release and solace glaze his body as he fills you with his cum — palms clenching your skin as he humps up in tiny ruts with each rope, fucking it deep inside of you.

He pulls back after a couple of seconds, fingers easing, hips lowering softly, as he manoeuvres the both of you to the side, making sure his softening cock stays sheathed inside of your still pulsing warmth, until he's left on top of you. He lets the two of you catch your breaths, still and close in an embrace.

One arm props himself up beside your head, his free hand holds your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, making sure you're facing him. He smiles at your features, eyes lazily shut, dribble drying at the edge of your lips, your head a dead-weight in his palm.

"You feelin' okay?" He murmurs, squishing your cheeks a little to get your attention.

You manage to coax out a hum, sleepy and satisfied.

"You did so good for me, princess."

You hum again, softer this time, a small acknowledgement.

Bucky stills himself, pausing his soft caresses against your skin. You feel a huff of warm air expel against your face, a gentle rumble of his body over yours.

"I fucked you good, didn't I." He asks, so sure of himself. And even in your daze, you can't even lie.

"… mhm." You moan softly, eyebrows bowing, cunt squeezing around him. He chuckles softly, warm breath sticking to your cheek and neck as he leans forward to lay soft kisses against your skin.

"Oh, baby," he coos, voice a mumbled vibration of amusement, nuzzling closer to your face, trailing his smile wherever he could, "got my sweet girl all dumb just from my cock. Fuck, you're so pretty like this. Should keep you here forever."

With just enough energy, you nod. The hand that held your cheek moved up to your hair, smoothing his thumb over your hairline in soft strokes.

"Yeah? Wanna stay in my bed all full and cock drunk for me?" He asks, voice pitching higher. He kisses your lips, clumsy while your mind hovers ten steps behind, and he adds in a breath. "Want you to be mine. Don't gotta worry about valentines day anymore, sweetheart, not when I'm here. Not when I got you all plugged up with my cum."

He shifts his hips, bucking with emphasis, watching how you gasp. Sore and full, exhausted and his.

Another chuckle rumbles up his chest, exhaling through his nose. He nuzzles into you again, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I'll wake you in an hour, make you sip some water and eat."

Biting your lip to hide a smile, you turn away, failing with a tiny snort that burns inside of him.

"There she is," he whispers, "there's my girl." Nuzzling into your hair, unbothered and relaxed, breathing in the scent of sex that's glued to your skin.

"Go on, baby, get some rest," his thumb caresses your forehead, the repeated coax, the tenderness — his whispers, his stretch, his warmth — it all seeps deep into your skin and eases into the nighttime. "I'll take you on a real date tomorrow, hm? No cowards this time, just you and me."

Your heart aches against your ribs as you fall deeper and deeper into sleep. His soft pillows against your head, while his naked chest blankets your own — a dual warmth created by the both of you.

Tomorrow can't come soon enough. Even with memories of the morning after sleepovers as teens and study dates in college that ended in all-nighters fuelled by redbull and pure perseverance. You can't wait to see his sleepy figure against the morning light. Brown hair haloed by the sun, palms pressed against newly discovered skin, clammy from how long he's kept them there in his subconscious. Mumbling 'good morning's, stretching into groans, tired kisses with morning breath neither of you care about.

It's all brand new, and you don't have any reason to be scared. Not with your best friend holding your hand the whole way through.

a/n 2: no pizza and 'almost famous' 4 u lolol maybe next time babies :P

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marvel taglist: @colettebarnes @marvel--obsessed @pughsbelova @quantumbarnes

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© 2026 sheriff-bodecker

[tw1sters]

Darling Mine

Your deep-rooted feelings for Bucky Barnes — beautiful and untouchable — were never meant to surface. However, when he kindly invites you to spend Valentine's Day with him, you also don't expect yourself to hope for more.

▸ PAIRING: 40s!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, penetration without protection (pull out method), breeding kink, doll as pet name, bucky calls her a slut in a sexy way once (1), oral (m!receiving), fingering (f!receiving), finger sucking, pussyjob, bucky is possessive and jealous (my guilty pleasure), reader manipulates bucky's jealousy to convince him to fuck her (help), virgin!bucky who talks like a porn star ▸ WORD COUNT: 13.4K ▸ A/N: thank you @salty-tang for organizing this wonderful fic exchange! so excited to share this with my match @winnichu173 <3 i hope you enjoy this story! based very loosely on the prompt: "making fun of Valentine’s Day but still celebrating it anyways." excuse the smut (i was going through a freak filth phase) and historical inaccuracies (pretending this is before the war fully happened and people can date whoever they want in the open)!!! if you enjoyed this, please like / reblog / comment, i appreciate every single one heheh <33

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When you first met Bucky Barnes, the first thought that crossed your mind was: why the hell is Steve hanging out with a fella like this? Steve Rogers is the blonde, all-American true believer with a big heart and a greater sense of responsibility to match. Even as the little guy, he’s always protecting everyone else, the people that deserved it, even when he wound up with a battered face in a back alley dumpster. 

Bucky, on the other hand, is smooth lines and charming smiles. Based on their childhood pictures, he had grown out of his awkward, gangly teenager self into a man made of muscle formed in the hours spent working in construction on the buildings downtown. He is broad and tall and terribly handsome. All of the neighborhood ladies — even those some boroughs over — love him. 

Including you. 

You are no more than a fool when it comes to Bucky Barnes. The man could captivate the pants off anyone he met. He’s sweetly polite with the mothers, humbly self-deprecating with the fathers, delightfully hilarious with the children, and devilishly tempting to the ladies. 

It’s easy to fall in love with a man like him. 

He knows all the right things to say, even when you know he doesn’t mean them. 

Bucky’s always been a bit of a player. You don’t judge him for it — of course not. Everyone knows how gorgeous the man is, how deliciously addicting his words are. But you also knew Bucky better than most.

Steve is a good judge of character and Bucky has been his friend longer than most people have known what New York tastes like in this decade. If Steve is still friends with him, then that is a testament to his character. The man is confident with a sharp tongue. He keeps Steve on his toes — both in the way he constantly challenges him, but also holding him up, especially when Steve chooses to pick fights with people much, much bigger than him. He defends the little guys as much as Steve does. 

You quickly learn that he is a great friend to anyone he deems one. He walks you home at night after a late movie with the two of them. When he swings by your place as you’re bringing home bags full of groceries, he swiftly takes over, arms around the paper bags as he asks you about your day. It’s an act that comes so naturally, a kindness as easy as breathing.  

But that’s Bucky for you — irresistible and untouchable.

You don’t stand a chance with him. You’ve seen the girls he goes on dates with, the pretty ones. Even the wealthy girls can’t help but swoon over him when he knows exactly how to play their hearts. 

Bucky flirts with you too, romantic little quips that have you ducking your head and Steve scolding him for embarrassing you. He just laughs it off, tells Steve that he likes seeing you shy around him like that.

You figure it’s all a game to him. See how many girls he can woo in a day and you don’t think you can count the number on one hand. Ladies walking down the street are mesmerized by a simple nod of his head in their direction. 

So with Valentine’s Day right around the corner, you realize you’ve doomed yourself to another February spent alone. Another year of pining over Bucky means another year of you eschewing every other man in sight. You hope your mother has stocked up on sweets at home because that’s all you’ll be eating once the day arrives. Alone.

Steve has already decided to spend the day with his mother, treating her to a lovely mother-son day that they haven’t had since he was a teenager. Your parents had plans and so did most of your friends, because they hadn’t been busy chasing after a man they could never get. Not like you. 

“What’re you doin’ for Valentine’s Day?”

The question catches you off guard. It’s one of the rare occasions that Steve isn’t around when Bucky drops by for an impromptu visit. You’re busy mixing together a batch of muffins for your mother’s church fundraiser when you look up to find Bucky peering into the mixture curiously.

You almost think you dreamt up the question until Bucky looks up at you expectantly with those beautiful baby blues.

Opening your mouth, you’re ready to tell him absolutely nothing only to realize that it may be an embarrassing answer to have no plans for a day dedicated to romance. Bucky is probably fully aware of your life in singledom and he himself probably has a date — or two — lined up. You try not to be too disappointed.

Instead, you put on an air of indifference. “Nothing. It’s a silly day. Why would you only have one day to celebrate love? Love should be celebrated all the time. I don’t really believe in a frivolous holiday like that.”

The words sound painfully phony even to your ears. You keep your eyes glued on your batter as you finally set the bowl down. When your eyes finally lift, you find Bucky looking contemplatively at your counter. There’s a pinch between his brows that you have the strong urge to smooth out with the gentle press of your thumb. Your fingers twitch, so you grab hold of your ladle instead. 

“Why?” You clear your throat. “Have any fun plans? A date perhaps?” Or two, you think bitterly.

Bucky smiles at you, but it looks more frail than usual. Feigned joy plagued with concern. You’re about to ask him when he shakes his head. “No, you’re right. That whole day is a joke anyway.” 

For some reason, your heart sinks with his words. A part of you was hoping Bucky would deny your cynicism, that there would be a deeper meaning beneath his question, asking you if you had a plan for that specific day. A part of you was hoping Bucky would ask you to be his Valentine; however, that’s a silly, naive thought. Bucky could ask anyone else, why would he ask you?

“If you’re not doing anythin’ anyway, want to spend the day together? Stevie’s busy with his mom.”

You nearly drop the batter as you pour it into the mold. “Oh, uhm, are you sure? I figured you’d have someone special you would want to spend it with.”

Bucky’s lips quirk up in the corners, like he’s in on a joke you’re not part of. “No plans right now. I’d like to spend it with you if you don’t mind.”

Comfortable silence settles between you as you contemplate his offer for a moment. It doesn’t really make sense to you, why he would want to spend arguably the most romantic time of year with you — someone whose friendship was thrust upon him by association with Steve. But you decide to be brave for once. When else would you get Bucky Barnes all to yourself?

As worried as you are about who he is, you’re also touched that you’re the first person he thought of after Steve to spend time with him.

“I’m interested,” you nod and his face brightens, “what do you have in mind?”

The six o’clock call time should be outlawed. Bucky tells you that he’ll swing by to pick you up and whisk you away into the city. This means that you’ve been up for two hours trying to get yourself ready as best as you can. With him asking you so close to d-day and your closet looking less and less enticing, you simply have to pick out your Sunday best.

In this case, it’s a little pinstriped pale pink dress that your mother has handwashed over and over again, evidenced in the loose threads that have begun to show and the material worn from the stress of chemicals. You quietly nick a belt from your mother’s closet while she’s fast asleep and slip it around your waist for a bit of flair. After wrestling with your face and your hair for a bit, using tools and makeup you aren’t too familiar with, you finally feel you look decently presentable.

Well, as presentable as you can be at this hour.

You had told your mother the previous day that Bucky would be taking you out. She had teased you relentlessly for it but also worried over how early he plans to take you.

“It’s Bucky, Mom. We’ll be fine.”

“That’s the part I’m worried about,” she gave you a look.

She has met Bucky before. In fact, he has helped her with chores around the house countless times. Being the handyman that he is, your mother puts his free and capable labor to work, particularly when things need fixing in your leaky, creaky home.

“I’ll be fine, promise,” you smile, kissing her quickly on the cheek.

She only sighs. Mothers always know and she is more than aware of your ridiculous crush on Bucky. She doesn’t discourage it but you can see the worry and sympathy in her gaze whenever she sees the two of you together.

Steve is none the wiser. That man is too busy being patriotic, keeping track of the news and the war to pay attention to such trivial things like romance. Plus, Bucky is a renowned romancer, so it’s nothing out of the ordinary.

But now, you’re left looking in your mirror in the dim lighting of your bedroom. You don’t look so bad, a far cry from your usual drab attire that blends in with the rest of the city. For once — or for the first time in a while, you feel… pretty.

Bucky doesn’t ring. Instead, when you peek outside at approximately 5:57 to check if he is there, he’s already standing by your door, fidgeting almost anxiously. You watch him for a bit through the peephole, observing as he rocks on the balls of his feet, as he looks up to the ceiling and mutters silent words to himself, as he bites his bottom lip with a glance at the door.

You finally put him out of his misery and swivel the door open. He’s even more gorgeous in full form. With a casual collared shirt and slacks that stretch down his long legs, Bucky looks positively scrumptious. Not to mention, he’s even done his hair a bit, giving it that effortless coif.

“Morning,” you say, a little breathless.

“G’mornin’,” he murmurs, eyes tracking over the length of you. He appraises you so openly. Shamelessly. His lips twist and your heart drops. It must show on your expression because Bucky instantly softens. “You look beautiful. Too beautiful, in fact. Might have to bat off other men today.”

Heat crawls up your neck at his words as you duck your head. “Don’t be silly. That won’t happen.”

“You have no idea,” Bucky mutters.

“No idea about what?”

With a sigh, he simply shakes his head. “Nothing. Shall we?”

He guides you to the subway that takes you all the way to the Brooklyn side of the Brooklyn Bridge. The normally bustling stretch of the bridge is quiet with the sun barely peeking over the horizon. Bucky guides you along the path quietly, the two of you strolling in comfortable silence with the occasional vehicle on the lower road cruising through or the whisper of the wind in your ear.

The two of you pause in the middle to watch as the sun rises, the purplish pink sky melting into hues of orange and yellow. Bucky pops open his bag and pulls out a sketchbook, flipping it open as his pencil begins to scrape over the page. You stand next to him, shoulder to shoulder as you look out into the open waters.

Occasionally, you’d peek to the side to get a glimpse of his drawing, finding him layering lines of lead into a recreation of the bridge and the skyline.

“I didn’t know you drew,” you say quietly, as if speaking any louder would disturb the peace.

Bucky pinks but you can’t tell if it’s the sunrise coloring his cheeks. “I dabble,” he clears his throat.

“Well, you’re very good. Steve does too, have you seen his work?”

A laugh rises from his chest as he flips the book closed. “I taught him how to draw. We started off scribbling on each other’s notebooks growing up until I started sketching a little more seriously. Then I had to teach him because he needed at least one skill to impress the ladies.”

“He drew my portrait for my last birthday,” you smile, thinking to the picture you have pinned up above your desk. It was such a simple gift but one you treasure dearly. Sweet to think that Bucky had something to do with it, even if indirectly.

When you turn to look at Bucky, his mouth is curled into a small, sour frown.

“What?” You ask as Bucky purses his lips. “Why are you making that face?”

“You and Steve,” he starts then trails off, seeming to ponder his next words, “you’re both really close, huh?”

You raise an eyebrow at him in confusion. “We were friends first. We met through Steve, remember?”

“I remember,” he says a little too quickly.

“Is that— I don’t know, a problem? If you’re worried about Steve, I won’t do anything to hurt him. I know he tends to be too trusting.”

Bucky’s irritation thaws into an expression that has his blue eyes catching the sunlight, sparkling like the ocean before the two of you. “I’m not worried about Steve.” He shakes his head. “Forget about it. Come on.”

The two of you make small talk as you complete the walk up the bridge. Bucky leads you past the state’s legal courts, up through Chinatown, winding through small and large streets. Wherever you’re going, he seems to be taking many detours, opting for the long way there.

You don’t mind. It’s more time spent by his side as he tucks in close to you to fight the bristling wind and the crowds. There are occasions in which people bump into you and Bucky keeps a steady arm around your waist. When he lets his grasp fall away, the sense of loss is immediate.

Bucky keeps the conversation flowing without the need for any liquid courage. Sometimes you forget how easy it is to talk to him. While Steve can be overly focused on geopolitics and serious topics, Bucky shares anecdotes from his life, silly stories that have you giggling and snorting. He seems to take pride in making you laugh, lips stretching just an inch wider every time you have to pause to take a breath after a particularly funny story.

The more you laugh, the more animated he becomes. His hands fly around in exaggeration, painting the story in big, bold strokes that threaten to wipe out anyone in his path.

“Bucky Barnes, you did not say that to your high school teacher.”

He holds his hand to his chest. “Scout’s honor.”

“You’ve never been a Boy Scout in your life,” you tease.

“You don’t know that.”

Rolling your eyes, you let a small smile dance on your lips. “I know you.”

“Do you really?”

“‘Course I do,” you challenge right back.

“Tell me about me then.”

That catches you off guard. Your steps falter briefly before you right yourself, exuding an air of feigned confidence. “What do you want to know?”

“My favorite color.”

“Red. You’re going to say something cheesy like it’s the color of a girl’s heart, but it’s really because your mom’s favorite flowers are roses.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to trip over the sidewalk, catching himself before he can fully face-plant. He whips around to face you, eyes wide. “How do you know that?”

“We talked about it once. You said some cheesy line about the color red and Steve corrected you, said it was because of your mom.”

“Steve,” he grunts under his breath.

“Aw, don’t be upset with him,” you coo, “I think it’s very sweet.”

“I’m not sweet. I’m tough,” Bucky slaps on a smug look on his face, puffing out his chest and straightening his shoulders as he walks.

A laugh bubbles up your throat. “You’re sweet through and through, Bucky Barnes. No matter how much you deny it.”

“Alright, since you know me so well, what’s my middle name?”

“That’s too easy! Buchanan.”

“My first?”

“James.”

“Yes?”

You give him a look. He gives you a charming smile, which you’ll never admit has your heart skipping a beat.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I just like hearin’ you say my name.”

“Again, ridiculous,” you roll your eyes but turn away to hide the shameful glee that warms your cheeks.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you have a crush on me.”

You definitely almost trip and destroy your face on the pavement when Bucky catches you before you can do so, hand whipping out to catch you by the waist, the other on your hand to steady you.

“Careful there,” he whispers, soft in your ear.

You don’t realize how close he is until you look up to thank him and find him only inches away from your face. Bucky’s blue eyes appear a little darker up close, the cerulean swallowed up by his dark pupils as his gaze assesses you with genuine concern.

“Thanks,” you cough shyly.

“Now, about that crush on me.”

Quick to snap out of it, you immediately protest, “As if!”

A look flickers across his eyes. “Why? You got a crush on Stevie instead?”

“What?” You sputter, “What makes you say that?”

That doesn’t seem to be the right answer because Bucky’s lips curl downwards again into a displeased pout. “Whatever,” he grumbles, “come on.”

By the time you realize how far the two of you have traveled, you find yourself at a park. A great white arch stands tall in the distance but Bucky intertwines your fingers to tug you towards the open fields. It’s a surprisingly warm day in February and you suddenly feel tall crisp grass tickling your ankles. 

Before you can ask Bucky what the two of you are doing there, he’s pulling out a plaid sheet from his bag and spreading it onto the ground. He gestures for you to sit before the wind can whisk it away. So you kneel onto the cloth and sit with your legs tucked to the side.

Bucky joins you shortly after, pulling out more things from his bag.

“Thought you’d be hungry since it’s lunchtime,” he says. “Mom packed us sandwiches, hope that’s okay.”

You look mildly surprised. “That’s very thoughtful of her. It’s more than okay.”

He splits the two sandwiches in half so you can get a taste of each — egg salad and the other is one with slices of cold cuts and cheese. The two of you nibble on the food silently, enjoying the cool winter-spring breeze weaving through the city.

With it being a nicer day and Valentine’s Day, there are more than a handful of people out and about. Couples speckle the lawn, nuzzling into each other and feeding each other bites like a scene straight out of the big screen. 

Looking at Bucky scarfing down his own sandwich across from you, you can’t help but wonder if that’s how the two of you appear to everyone else. Two more strangers in the crowd. On a date. On Valentine’s Day.

It’s terribly wishful thinking, one created under false pretenses, and you chide yourself internally for surrendering yourself to such far-fetched dreams.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

He couldn’t pay you a thousand dollars to confess. 

“It wouldn’t be worth your money. I was just thinking it’s such a lovely day and I’m glad you invited me out.” The lie comes out smooth, but it’s worth it to see the way he lights up. 

His lips curl into a wide grin as he scooches closer to you. “Yeah? You havin’ a good time, doll?”

Doll? Your eyebrow raises in question but he doesn’t elaborate. 

“Yes, Bucky, I’m having a good time.”

“Good. I aim to please.”

The question that’s been nagging at you since he first asked you continues to tug on your thoughts, begging to be freed. So you let it out.

“Why’d you invite me out today, Bucky?”

“I can’t ask you to hang out with me? I’m hurt.”

You give him a knowing look. “Come on, it’s Valentine’s Day. You’d be the type to have a date, I doubt nobody’s asked you.”

“I am on a date!”

“Bucky,” you whine, and he only chuckles.

“Doll, I think you’re overthinking this.”

Your heart sinks. There’s one answer that rests in the forefront of your mind, one that plagues you with visceral guilt.

“If you feel bad that I was going to spend it alone, I can assure you that you didn’t have to.”

A cloud forms in Bucky’s eyes as his brows pinch lightly. “You think I asked you to spend time with me out of pity?” 

You only manage a shrug. It’s the only logical explanation.

“Is it so hard to believe that I want to spend today with you? Of all days,” he says quietly. 

It’s the most thoughtful you’ve seen Bucky. You’re seeing many sides of him today; your greed consumes you and you can’t help but want more now that you’ve had a taste. 

“I just think your time could’ve been better spent elsewhere,” you pause, “or with someone else.”

“Let me make it clear to you then,” he begins, voice gravely earnest, “I asked you out today because I wanted to spend time with you. Yes, today specifically and yes, with you specifically. It’s not out of pity, I would never even consider that. I’m more selfish than you think.”

His smile is wry when you look up to face him. 

“Would you have preferred someone else ask you to spend time together today?”

Would you? The answer comes easy.

“No,” you murmur, “I’m glad it was you.” 

“Good,” he nods, “can’t believe you’d think that low of me.”

“I felt terrible!” 

“Well, you don’t have to. I’m here because I want to be, alright?”

“Alright.”

“Now, we never really finished our conversation from earlier. You got a crush on anyone?”

Yes, you. It’s always been you. You’re once again at a loss for words; instead of answering, you say, “Oh. Uhm, why are you asking?”

“Curious,” he murmurs but the weight of his gaze seems to betray the forced airiness of his voice. 

You swallow, smoothing out your skirt to avoid his gaze. “What about you?”

“I do.”

That has you jerking back, staring at him with wide eyes. “Oh.” 

Before you can ask who it is, Bucky continues. “I have an idea,” he says with a wicked little twinkle in his eye. You stare at him once again with deep concern. “How about this — we write a letter to them. A simple letter. You can write whatever you want. The only rule is that you have to be honest.”

“Honest?”

He hums in confirmation. “Honest. Whether it’s your feelings or the weather today, you simply have to be truthful. Once you’re done, we just… never send it.”

Your brows kiss in the middle. “What’s the point of doing that?” 

“Dunno. Might be nice to put those feelings to paper. Like a manifestation method.”

For a second, you just stare at him, waiting for him to yell gotcha. But that moment doesn’t come so you do the only thing you always do with Bucky — you give in to him. 

“Alright, fine.” 

Bucky’s smile could light up a town. He grabs his book from his bag and rips out a page, handing it over to you along with a pen. The two of you sit in silence for a while. 

You think about all the words you could say to Bucky. All the things you wish he knew. 

Your hands rough and calloused from the work that wears you down, but toughens you to protect those dearest to you. Bruised knuckles and split skin as evidence of your love.

Your heart that is larger than the world ever taught it to be. Vast enough to shelter those you love, weathering the tumultuous storms until you reach calmer seas. 

Your eyes are the blue of summer skies, the kind that stretch endlessly. The blue of the rivers that kiss the edges of this island, whispering of a world far larger than our own. 

These are all the words you can never say out loud. It’ll be a betrayal of your feelings, ones you wish to keep buried to save your dignity. 

Because Bucky Barnes is a good man, but he is a good man who doesn’t love you the same way you do him. He simply has a heart that was built for love and he doles out that affection generously to those around him. You are another planet — no, perhaps a star — in his orbit. Tiny, insignificant, and incomparable to the rest. 

But you made a promise that you would be honest so you pour your feelings that have simmered and festered in your mind for months. Feelings you never allowed yourself to feel, a denial that persisted strong. Until today. Until Bucky allowed you some room to hope. 

You don’t know how long you sit there, your handwriting growing smaller and smaller as you fill the page with combinations of the alphabet that string together what you think are coherent thoughts. 

You remind yourself that it doesn’t matter if it’s coherent because Bucky will never see this. Like he said, it’s a manifestation. A silent confession to the wind. 

The only thing that gives you comfort is that — it’s perfectly okay that he will never know how you feel because there are enough people out there who will surely love him enough for you. 

When you finally dot that last period on the paper, your fingers aching from its warpath across the page, you look up to find Bucky sneaking glances at you. His hand glides across his book in long strokes.

Strokes that do not look like a letter.

“What are you—”

He cuts you off, “Don’t worry about it.”

Your eyes narrow into slits as you slowly say his name. Bucky only offers a cheeky grin. You lean towards him to get a glimpse but he’s quick to pull the paper back.

“Not doing anything nefarious, doll.”

“Then show me.”

“Nu-uh, it’s mine.”

Huffing, you purse your lips. “Don’t be childish. Come on. Let me see.”

“I’ll show you if you show me your letter.”

A gasp rises from your throat, warmth creeping up your neck. “Bucky Barnes, that is not fair. You said I wouldn’t have to show anyone.”

“Yeah, but it’s me. You trust me, don’t you? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“Bucky,” you whine, “you’re not even writing a letter.”

“I finished my letter. Now I’m doin’ other things.”

“You’re being mean on purpose.”

His smile tips up higher. “Well, it’s the only way I can get more than two words out of you.”

“What’s that supposed to—”

Before you can finish your question, you’re interrupted by a shrill Hey, Bucky! The two of you whip towards the source of the sound. 

Sheryl Jones. 

Sheryl Jones who lives in the nicer part of town where the houses are tall and the fences are white. Sheryl Jones who is the talk of the town as the most eligible bachelorette with the heftiest pockets. Sheryl Jones who has been obsessed with Bucky for as long as you can remember. 

The two of you certainly don’t run in the same social circles, you don’t even think she knows you exist, but you’ve heard of her. If not from whispers around town, then it’s from Bucky who constantly tells Steve how Sheryl’s been showering him with gifts.

The same Sheryl Jones who is now scuttling towards the two of you with two of her friends hot on her heels. 

Sheryl who looks like she came straight out of a magazine with her pristine, bold-colored dress. Flowers are stitched to the length of a fabric that looks more expensive than your entire closet. The clack of her wedges clear against the path before she approaches the two of you seated on the grass. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Sheryl smiles, saccharine sweet. 

“Hey, Sheryl,” Bucky says, flipping his book closed and redirecting that smile towards her instead. 

“You’re not on a date, are you?” She asks, a mockery posed as an innocent question. She doesn’t even spare you a glance. 

You feel yourself shrink again, a built-in response to make yourself smaller and hopefully fade into the background. Unlike Steve, you’re not one to square up when posed with a challenge. You instead make yourself invisible, hoping the threat would disappear. 

Bucky’s eyes flick over to you for a moment, looking almost conflicted before he says tightly, “No, nothin’ like that.”

If it wasn’t confirmation before, it sure is now. 

This is Bucky being a good friend to you. Yes, he wants to be here — but as a friend. You were the one who twisted it all up in your head into something you thought you could have. 

Sheryl’s eyes light up even more as she lifts the bag in her hand. The neat cursive of that new, fancy patisserie down the street printed on the front. “Great! I wanted to give you these chocolates. We sampled some in-store and I picked out my favorites for you.” 

Bucky rises to his feet to accept the gift. “Thank you, Sheryl. That’s very thoughtful of you.” 

“How about you and me get some ice cream? It’s a nice day for it. I know the perfect place.”

If your heart had sunk to your stomach before, it plummets to the ground now. That fearful despair claws at your chest, poking holes in your lungs until you feel as though you can’t breathe. 

You need to go. 

Bucky’s gaze flies to you, as if he’s asking for your permission. Of course, he’d want to spend the day with Sheryl instead. Maybe he was waiting for her to ask. 

Quickly, you fold your letter into a small square before tucking it into your purse. Bucky watches the movement with a frown. You scramble to your feet before plastering on a smile that feels too frail on your lips. 

“You should go, Buck. I should probably head home. It’s been a long day, hasn’t it? Don’t worry, I can find my way back. Thanks for today,” you blurt out. Your eyes are on him but you don’t see him. Not really. Your mind is already far away, tracking down a path on how you could get back to the safety of your home.

The home where you plan to eat all of the sweets your mom has tucked away. Alone. 

“Wait, hold on. No, we’re—”

You’re already moving off the field and onto the sidewalk again, your worn loafers taking you as fast as you can go away from that humiliating situation. You’re a big girl. You can handle rejection. Bucky’s a friend. A good friend. 

Blood is rushing in your ears as you brush past other pedestrians. The faster you get to the subway, the faster you can breathe. As long as you can feel Bucky’s eyes on you, you don’t think—

A hold on your hand. 

Your footsteps halt almost immediately, you nearly toppling over again but a hand steadies you. You look up to find Bucky staring at you with the deepest befuddled sulk on his face. “What— what happened? Where are you going? I still have a few things planned.”

“Oh,” you sheepishly glance past his shoulder to see Sheryl glaring at you before she whirls around and stomps away. 

You realize that don’t actually make it very far. The blanket is crumpled up in Bucky’s arms, bag haphazardly closed in his rush to catch you. 

“I just thought— you and Sheryl,” you mutter. “You don’t have to spend the rest of the day with me, Buck. I’m sure ice cream with her would be fun too. I can find my own way home.”

“There’s nothing going on between me and Sheryl,” Bucky says, sounding almost frustrated, “I promise. Nothing at all, doll. I’m all yours today.”

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” you say with your best attempt not to wince, “you probably want to spend it with, I don’t know, whoever your crush is. Or someone like Sheryl. You don’t have to keep me company all day.”

Bucky licks his lips as he looks up at the sky, a strangely pleading look in his eyes like he’s turning to some higher power for an answer. “Let’s just—” he stops himself with a sigh, “Come on. How about you and me get some ice cream?”

You’re still a little doubtful but Bucky’s already tugging you down the street.

That’s when you realize — he never let go of your hand. 

Down the street, past the shops selling tricks and trinkets, you find a little sweets shop. It’s beautifully decorated with bright blue walls, white countertops holding all sorts of equipment, and red barstools that look like ripe cherries. 

Your eyes roam around the place, you haven’t been to one in a while, your wallet scarcely allows you to treat yourself to such trivial niceties. It’s something you simply cannot afford with your meagre salary as a secretary in a small family office. 

Bucky squeezes your hand. “What do you want, doll? Tell me. Anythin’ you want.” 

“Anything?” You tease, “Playing a dangerous game, Bucky Barnes.”

His eyes soften as the two of you slide onto the stools. The shop isn’t too terribly crowded, so you manage to get seated almost immediately. “How about a banana split?”

You nod eagerly. 

“One banana split, good sir,” Bucky tells the waiter who looks far too tired to be working a joyous day like today. 

The waiter rattles off the price and Bucky begins to count the change in his pocket, paling when he seemingly realizes he doesn’t have enough. His hands busy themselves with digging around his bag for a miracle. 

You instead turn back to the waiter with a polite smile. “Actually, I’m still full from lunch. I don’t think I can finish an entire banana split. Can we just get a scoop of vanilla?” 

Thankfully, the waiter doesn’t seem to give it a second thought before he shares your new total. Bucky’s shoulders slump as he picks up a nickel to give to the waiter. He smiles at you gratefully. 

“Next time,” Bucky promises.

“I make a mean banana split so next time, you can come over and we can share one.” An unidentifiable emotion crosses his eyes and you mistake it for displeasure. Maybe he doesn’t want to just share it with you. “And Steve!” You throw out in panic, “We can make it at home and eat it all together.” 

The brightness of his baby blues appears to dim slightly. “Right, yeah. With Steve too.” 

You don’t have a moment to think about it too much before Bucky entertains you with stories. Stories from work. Stories from his past. Stories about Steve. You find yourself laughing as you spoon the sugar that melts on your tongue. You don’t miss how Bucky takes smaller bites to encourage you to eat more of it. 

Always so thoughtful. 

Your heart is on high when Bucky guides you to the train. Your fingers itch with the urge to hold his hand again, but you don’t think that would be very appropriate. 

This isn’t a date, after all.

As the train crosses over the bridge, the two of you get a view of the sunset over the water. The river ripples with glimmers of copper and gold. The light casts a warm glow across Bucky’s face as he regards you with the sort of gentleness that could so easily break. 

Bucky asks you more questions on the long ride home, forcing you to speak about yourself more than you have the entire period of time you’ve known him.

“I’m talking too much,” you let slip in embarrassment.

“No, you’re not. I like hearin’ you talk, especially about yourself.”

“That just makes me seem narcissistic,” you laugh. 

Bucky hums with a shake of his head. “No, that makes me curious. Don’t know much about you, doll.”

“There’s not much to know.”

“Proved to me today that that is incredibly untrue.” 

The streets are dark and deserted on your walk home. Cast iron lamps dot the street and bathe the pavement with enough light as your quiet footsteps echo down the street.

“I hope you had a good day today?”

“It was a good day,” you agree with a smile. 

By the time you walk up to your front porch, your heart is itching to say more. The words are practically hanging off the tip of your tongue. The words that could jeopardize this entire friendship. 

You want to tell him that you love him. Tell him that you want him more than anything. Tell him that you want him to stay. 

But you don’t. 

You don’t have the courage to say these words out loud, not so clearly in front of him. Instead, you swallow them down and let them settle somewhere you cannot reach. 

Bucky, with his hands buried in his pockets, searches your eyes for a moment. He’s quiet, a slight, serious pinch to his lips as he looks at you. 

He shovels through his bag again before he pulls out a couple of folded pages, taking your hand and pressing them into it. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, doll.”

Then he is taking a step back, and more steps back, until he is slowly walking down the stairs of your porch and onto the sidewalk.

Your hand still tingles where he touched you. You’re numb, brain buzzing with the kind of white noise that goes nowhere. Your trembling hands slowly unfurl the pages in your hand. The first sight that greets you is… you.

It’s you. Bucky had drawn you. It’s you but you’re… beautiful — beautiful in a way that you never really saw yourself. Beautiful in the way that only someone who adores you would see you. The sketch is simple but leaves you breathless all the same. He captured the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, the twinkle in your eye. This is proof that Bucky sees you. He really sees you. 

The second page contains words. Words that he said he would never send, but he has now hand-delivered to you. Your eyes skip over the paper, greedily taking in each word as if your heart depends on them. You swallow each one, digesting it with great care before your brain can catch up.

And then you’re moving, wind catching in your dress as you rush down the sidewalk. Your skirt billows in the window, swirling behind you as you search for him in the night. His name leaves your lips in countless, breathless pleas. 

Bucky stops and turns right on time to catch you in his arms before you can propel too far forward. “What—”

“You have terribly long legs,” you wheeze out, finding your footing with Bucky’s arms still around you, his frown directed towards you. “I— I didn’t think— I never thought—”

“Deep breaths, doll,” Bucky chuckles low. “I’m here. Not goin’ anywhere.”

“I had… a fantastic time with you today. I just— I was embarrassed to not have plans but I’m glad because that gave me you and you gave me today and today was… amazing.” 

Light flickers across his face as his lips quirk up into a pleased grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you beam and, for the first time in your life, you tell yourself to be brave. Brave in a way you haven’t been before. Brave in a way that only Bucky can make you. “And I love you too.”

The smile wipes off his face in an instant. For a moment, you worry you read his letter wrong. You worry that your mind conjured up words you wanted to see. A hallucination from a drug that you never consumed. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve absolutely, completely humiliated yourself and shattered what little exists between you and Bucky. 

It’s evident in the way you stiffen, your body slowly extracting away from him. Bucky catches you, taking your hand and clasping it against his chest. Even through the layers of clothes, you can feel the firm rhythm beneath your fingertips. An erratic thudding against his ribcage. 

“No, hold on,” he chokes out, “I need you to say it again. Maybe slap me while you’re at it too. Just to make sure I’m not dreaming.”

A giggle bubbles up your throat as you look at him. “You’re being mean now. You’re really going to make me say it again?”

“Say it again. Please, doll. Beggin’ you here.”

“You’re such a pain,” you smile and find more of your courage to lean forward and press your lips against him. You swallow his surprised gasp, feel him wrangle his arms around you to hold you close to him. His arms around your waist as you wrap your own around his neck to tug him towards you. “Love you, Buck.”

Then you’re airborne. His hands on you as he picks you up and twirls you around, laughter spilling from his lips like music to your ears. “You’re not lyin’ to me, are you? This isn’t some kind of prank. Because it’s February, not April, you know.”

“Buck!”

“Best day of my life,” Bucky grins as he sets you back down, kissing you again and again and again until you’re laughing against his lips. 

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration.” You poke him in the chest.

Bucky doesn’t cease his kisses, peppering them across your cheeks, your forehead, your jaw, before dangerously venturing south down your neck. A sinful moan slithers past your lips as he does so. His fingers tighten on your waist. 

With your swollen lips, you peer up at Bucky with a request in your gaze.

“My parents are going to be out late. They have dinner and a show and then dancing. Nobody’s home. If, you know, you wanted to come over…”

It’s the last chance for you to be a bit more dauntless, a bit more reckless. It’s the last dose of courage that you manage to muster up as Bucky holds you close. 

His eyes gloss over with the kind of desire that has your stomach flipping. They drop to your lips again, to the soft, moist spot on your neck, before rising back to meet yours. 

“Doll, I— I wanna treat you right. Take you out on a proper date before we—” he stops his words there, flushing beet red beneath the warm lamps. “I wanna do this right. Do right by you.”

“You already took me on a date, Buck,” you whisper, “let’s be real. Today was one.” You pry his hands from your waist and use them to tug his dazed state down the street back to your house. He’s stumbling after you, looking all sorts of flustered. 

It’s satisfying to see Bucky so affected by you. You always thought he was this smooth and suave man, untouchable to the everyday person. Seeing him like this, pink and shy, trailing after you like an eager pup with those awed blue eyes, you realize that maybe you’re not the everyday person to him. 

You’re you and he’s the sweet loverboy who simply loves you. 

“Don’t get shy on me now, we don’t have time for that,” you tease as you unlock your front door.

His hands land on your hips again as he turns you around to press you up against the surface. His mouth slants over yours, a groan vibrating off his chest. “Don’t worry, I won’t take that long.”

He drinks in your bright laughter as you quickly spin to open and spill through the door. 

With his hand in yours, you guide him up the steps of your quiet house. Your room sits on the far end of the hall and you momentarily panic, wondering if you’ve cleaned. This is the last thing you expected to do from your outing. 

However, before you can think too hard about it, you push open the door. 

Bucky’s gaze flits around the room, absorbing every inch of it with his lips quirked in a small smile. The photos that hang on your wall, ones of your family, ones of you and friends, ones of you and Steve and Bucky. The childish pink sheets that your mom purchased so long ago but you never cared to change. 

Now, you’re starting to think you probably could’ve put in some effort into your room. You just never expected to bring a boy here. 

“Cute,” Bucky murmurs. “It’s very… you.”

“How so?”

“Sweet,” he smiles, settling his hands on your waist again to pull you forward towards him. Bucky leans down to kiss you again, slower this time. His lips move languidly against yours as your hands find purchase on his shoulders. “Taste so good, doll.”

“It’s the ice cream,” you grin.

“Just you,” he replies between kisses. 

He cautiously walks you back against the bed, gently easing you to sit before laying you down along the length of it. He presses you back into the mattress, propping himself up by his forearms as he looks at you with a gaze so tender you could melt. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, trailing his warm lips along your jaw, firm as he kisses each spot on your skin like he’s tracing a path with his mouth. 

He runs his mouth along the column of your tongue, tongue scraping to taset that sweetness of your smooth skin as his teeth temporarily tattoo blooming prints in a trail. His hand cups the back of your neck to tilt your head up to face him. His lips find yours again, soft and steady, as he exhalest moans that match yours. 

“Bucky,” you hum quietly. 

Hesitation clouds his gaze for a moment. 

“Ever been with anyone before?”

You look embarrassed for a second, shifting your gaze away. “Once.” It’s not that you’re ashamed of your inexperience; you just wish you had more to reference to make sure this is as good for Bucky as it will undoubtedly be for you.

Regardless of what he does, you’re almost a hundred percent certain that you’ll be happy — as long as it’s with him. 

“Who?” Bucky grits out. 

The sternness of his voice has you stiffening in surprise. “I-It was just someone from the neighborhood. Summer last year.” 

His jaw clenches, a tick as his hand slides to cup your chin, turning you back to him. “Don’t let him near me, doll. Never want to imagine you with anyone else.”

“You’re one to talk,” you pout right back, “how about you?” 

Bucky’s gaze flickers away for a second before returning to you. A worried tinge to his expression. 

There’s no way— it can’t be. Bucky of all people? 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Bucky flushes. 

“You haven’t— I mean, you’re you.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I just mean, you could have your pick, Bucky. With anyone. I’m just… surprised, I suppose.”

Bucky sighs, leaning his forehead down against yours again. His breath ghosts your skin. “I couldn’t think of anyone else once I met you. Couldn’t even look at anyone else.”

“That’s just silly,” you mutter. 

“Why’s that silly?”

You’ve known Bucky for a couple of years now, starting after high school when Steve first introduced you the summer after graduation, all three of you growing up together into full-fleshed, working adults who barely have time for the better things in life. In that time, you could picture Bucky going on dates, meeting one gal after another who catches his fancy. 

But the two of you have never been more than friends, and even then, the term is a bit of a stretch. While you’re comfortable with Steve, Bucky’s charm has always intimidated you. You don’t how to interact with someone who’s so calm, so confident. You’re a bundle of nervous, jittery energy while Bucky always engages you with such cool charisma. 

“I don’t know, I just— you’ve been out on dates. I assumed you would have… at some point.”

“Didn’t care about those dates, doll. Only went along with it to help a couple of friends. I never thought about those girls.”

“I see how everyone looks at you, you know.”

“Well, I only see you.”

Your heart flutters in your chest, butterflies ripple in your stomach like the first flight of spring. 

“We’ve known each other a while.”

Bucky confirms, “I know.”

“So how long have you— I mean, why haven’t you said anything?”

His eyes trace your face again. 

“You were always so quiet with me. Not like how you are with Stevie. I thought you didn’t like me that much.”

You blink at him, a mix of confusion and astonishment. “I like you, Bucky. Of course, I do.”

“You barely say anything to me most of the time. Even when I come over, you’re always so shy. Like you’re scared of me. When I asked you to go out today, I wanted to throw it out there — it’s the first time Steve’s been busy on this day. I didn’t think you’d agree to come.”

“I wasn’t… scared of you. You’re just out of my league.”

His brows furrow in a deep frown that mars his beautiful face. “Why would you say that?”

“You’re just cool and sweet and you have all the ladies clamoring to be with you. I didn’t think you’d see me in that way, not when you have so many others.”

“No one else. There’s been no one else for me.” 

Your heart slams against your ribs, your lips morphing into a surprised smile. “I should’ve said something too.”

“Glad you came after me today,” Bucky smiles, a little weak. “I was worried you’d tell me — or Stevie — that you never wanted to see me again. Tell me to take a hike.”

You laugh. “That would be crazy.”

“I thought you’d tell me that you’ve had a crush on Stevie all this time.” 

“Me? A crush on Steve?” Bucky nods almost shyly. “He’s just a good friend.”

“He’s a great guy.”

“A great guy more in love with justice and his country than anything else. No, I couldn’t ever see Steve in that light. You, on the other hand…”

Bucky’s lips twitch as he leans forward, kissing your cheek. “What about me?” He whispers.

“You’re everything.”

“God, you’re perfect,” Bucky professes earnestly. “Be patient with me, doll. I’ll learn how to take real good care of you. Promise you I’ll make you feel good.”

You don’t doubt him. 

You can feel the fragile touch of his fingertips on your skin, quivering slightly as a sign of his nerves. For once, with confirmation of his affection, you feel bolder. Stronger. You take his hands and pry them off you. He looks at you with a combination of confusion and wary. He looks as if he’s about to ask you if he’s done something wrong. 

Before he can question you, you nudge him back gently onto his back. Sapphire eyes staring up at you in awed surprise. It’s your turn to duck your head and kiss him firmly on the lips, leaving him dazed and distracted as you slowly work off his shirt buttons one at a time, revealing more of his chest to you. 

His very chiseled chest. 

He’s unbelievable. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you whine. “How are you built like this?”

Bucky flushes, red to his beautiful pecs. “It’s because of work.”

“You’re gorgeous,” you utter with admiration dripping in every syllable. 

“Nothing compared to you.”

“Do you practice these lines with anyone else or do they come naturally?” You tease, finger tracing the lines of his chest and down to his abs. You feel him tighten, shadows deepening as his stomach clenches. 

“I mean every word when it comes to you, doll.”

With a bashful smile, you begin to venture south. Your lips press against his skin, warm and wet as you sketch the shape of him with your tongue. 

“Shit,” Bucky jerks nervously, “sorry. I’ve never— um, I haven’t done this.” 

“Ever or in a while?” The anxious shift of his gaze is answer enough. “Hey, it’s just me, Buck.”

“I know,” he flinches, “I want it to be good for you. You don’t have to do this.”

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you look at him coyly. “Trust me, this is as good for you as it is for me.”

“How—” His words fizzle out as you press your lips against his navel, lowering until you reach that sharp angle that disappears beneath his pants. 

Your fingers are far from stable as they pop open his pants, reaching for the waistband to draw them down. From this angle, with his hooded eyes staring at you, the sight of his sculpted body before you, you can’t help but lick your lips in anticipation. Your mouth is practically salivating, begging to be put on him. 

You tug his briefs down too, leaving him with only his shirt splayed open. He’s beautiful. While you’ve been with another before this, he doesn’t even come close to Bucky. His length stands tall and proud, the head flushed a desperate red as it twitches with need.

The power is almost intoxicating. Knowing how vulnerable Bucky is beneath your fingertips. The tables have turned and now you’re the one who has Bucky glowing bright red. 

You’re on your knees, fully dressed still, as you position yourself before him. Your hand reaches out to grasp him, a gasp immediately ripping out of his chest as he slams his head back against the pillow.

Your thumb brushes over the tip. He jerks again, legs jumping. “So sensitive,” you murmur. 

“Doll, you’re killin’ me,” he pants, sealing the seam of his lips in a firm, determined line. 

“I haven’t done anything yet.”

“That’s the worst part,” he gripes tightly. 

You lean forward with a giggle, the puffs of air from your lips touching his cock leaking with moisture. Bucky’s eyes squeeze shut as you begin slow strokes with your hand, your eyes drinking in how he twists and fruitlessly forces himself to stay still on the bed. 

When you bend even closer, your lips finally close in around the head. You taste a hint of him on your tongue as Bucky heaves a deep breath again. You’ve overheard conversations from other girls before, what makes this a good experience for men. You’re putting your knowledge to the test now. 

Your tongue circles the head as your fingers keep a firm grip around the base. With your other hand, you flatten it against his hip bone to steady him against your mattress. As you begin to dip your head down, taking more of his length into your mouth, he begins to writhe against you.

The weight of his cock is grounding on your tongue, you find yourself laving at his length, trying to find all of the spots that have him releasing those delicious little moans. You drag your tongue along the underside of his cock and earn a guttural groan. You suckle on the tip over and over until he’s arching slightly off the bed in search of more. Your hand moves in tandem with your mouth as you stroke what you cannot swallow, and Bucky slides his hand into your hair. 

Then you feel him yank you back, releasing him with a pop. 

Bucky grips his cock, squeezing it as his face is tinted the same color as those cherry-red stools. He gasps as the vein in his neck pulses. “Shit. Doll, you’re too good— I can’t last like this.” 

“You can cum in my mouth.”

His eyes roll to the back of his head before he lets out another pained groan. “Keep sayin’ things like that and I might cum all over your sheets before you touch me again.” 

You bite back your smile. “Let me take care of you a bit longer.”

“Doll, I need you to feel good too. Need you to finish with me.” 

“I feel good when you feel good,” you say honestly. 

Just seeing Bucky like this — coming apart, undone by your touch — is enough to satisfy that eager little devil inside you. The one that pushes you to relentlessly tease him until he’s whining and spilling those pearls from his cock. 

Bucky shakes his head and pries your hands off him before he flips you over again. His eyes have darkened with hunger, pupils wide as they wolf down your surprise. He holds your hands up above your head as he kisses you again, deep and ravenous. His tongue licks inside your mouth when you gasp, tangling against yours and drawing out those pretty, breathless moans that cling to the back of his mind. 

He’s going to hear you for days. He wants to taste you for days.

As one hand cups your cheek, the other slides down to undo your belt, casting it aside, before moving behind your back to draw down the zipper. It’s delectable how he doesn’t seem so timid anymore, confident in his actions. He mouths down your neck, catching your skin between his teeth with a firmer grip. You whimper as you feel each sting, his attempt to map out constellations that will linger for all to marvel. 

“I’ve been waiting to do this all day.”

“To have your way with me?” You raise an eyebrow. 

“To kiss you,” Bucky grins, “couldn’t stop thinkin’ about it. I wanted to do it when I first saw you in this dress this morning. I wanted to do it when the sun rose upon your face. I wanted to do it when you were giggling at the park. Desperately wanted to do it when I left you on your porch earlier.” 

“You should’ve been bolder, Bucky Barnes.”

His eyes glaze over with a molten look that melts you. “I love the way you say my name.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Hearin’ you say it over and over today, I wanted to kiss you until you can’t think of anythin’ else but me.”

You smile up at him, mellow and soft. “I already think of nothing else but you.”

Bucky shakes his head, looking over you like he can’t believe you’re real. Like he can’t believe he gets to have this. Gets to have you. His lips are back on you as he traces down your neck, as he slips the thick fabric of your dress down to your legs before he pushes it away. Then he’s leaning back, his eyes roaming over you, trailing over the shape of you like he’s committing it to memory.

“I want to draw you someday,” Bucky purrs, “just like this. Open. Vulnerable. For me.”

A shiver snakes up your spine at the thought. Your legs squeezing together. 

“Going to have this picture tucked away with me at all times. Keep you in my wallet. You with your beautiful tits, and these curves,” he mumbles as his hand reaches up to your face again, his thumb dragging along your plump bottom lip. “Whenever I want to jerk off, I’ll have this to remind me of you. A picture of you for me to ruin.”

Your eyes slide shut as a moan crawls its way up your throat. The thought of Bucky at home or at work, his strong hand wrapped around his cock, stroking himself to the sketch of you with your tits out, legs wide open, until he splatters cum that stains the pages and destroys his hard work, has you wet between your legs. 

Then you just have to do it for him all over again. Another pose, another position. Bent over, spread open, or maybe even just your face for him to paint — in more ways than one. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Bucky grins wide, “My perfect, dirty girl.” His other hand slides down between your legs and holds you there, feeling the dampness and humidity of the flimsy fabric. “So wet for me already.” 

“Bucky, please.” 

“I haven’t done anything yet,” he echoes your words mischievously. 

“You’re mean.” You stick your bottom lip out at him. 

He chuckles. “I can see the appeal, why you liked seein’ me feel good. All I can think about is how I can make you feel the same way. How do you want me, doll? Tell me what you like.”

“I-I don’t know. I’ve only done this once before.”

“I can teach you what you’ll like. We’ll learn together. I’ll know for next time how to make you squirm, make you cry, make you moan my name.” 

His fingers begin to rub slow circles over your panties. The pressure has your hips lifting to meet his touch. Bucky’s eyes are fixated on you, glued to the way your expression morphs from incredulity to pleasure to pain. He doesn’t even blink, making sure that he catches every change in your emotion, collecting all of the things that make you tick. 

When his fingers finally slip beneath the fabric and feel the sticky mess between your legs, your hands fly to catch his wrist. 

“You’re leakin’, doll. So messy between these pretty legs. This all for me?”

You’re in utter disbelief at how quickly Bucky has flipped the situation on its head. You can’t believe that Bucky’s never done this before, not with how skillful his fingers are in delivering a divine sort of punishment — or reward. His fingers push between your slick folds, gathering your juices until they glide all the way in. There’s barely any resistance with how wet you are, but his fingers are thick and you can still feel the stretch as he curls them inside you with a cocky grin. 

“So sweet for me. I love seeing you like this, doll. I want your scent on my fingers, want to be able smell you when I’m at work. None of those guys will ever know how beautiful you are like this, wrecked and open for me. I’ll think about how fuckin’ wet you are for me. Drippin’ for me.”

“Bucky, oh god, please. It feels so good.”

“Good girl,” he murmurs, “that’s it. Who’s making you feel good, hm? Who’s got you squirming and leakin’ all over my fingers?”

“You, only you.”

He scissors his fingers open inside you, stroking your walls with a friction that sparks another wave of heat through you. It’s like your brain has melted completely, smoothed out until only one thought remains in your mind. Bucky and his talented hands and his delicious lips. 

With your eyes closed, you miss how Bucky leans forward to capture one of your pebbled nipples into his mouth. The heat engulfs your sensitive bud as his tongue swirls around it, wet and hot. “Taste so good,” Bucky mumbles, his deep timbre resonating through your chest to your core. “Perfect fuckin’ tits on my perfect fuckin’ girl.” 

“Your girl?” You gasp as he nips you gently. 

“You think I’ll share you with anyone else after today?” Bucky laughs, but amusement is the last thing you hear in his voice. “You’re mine. I’ll fight any guy who tries anything with you. Even Stevie, doll.”

Your pussy clenches around his fingers, squeezing his digits at that promise of possession. You hate to admit how much you enjoy the thought of it. How much Bucky wants you, how much he loves you. How selfish he is with you. 

“You’re mine,” Bucky repeats in a growl as he burrows his fingers deeper inside you, drawing out a whimper from your lips. 

“I’m yours,” you nod breathlessly. 

“Good girl,” he hums, pleased. “I want you to cum around my fingers, doll. I want to feel you squeeze me.”

To that, you shake your head as you try to pull him out of you. Bucky’s much stronger though, his biceps flexing as he fights to keep his fingers buried inside. “I want you. Want your cock. Want you inside me.” 

He pales for a second. “Doll, I didn’t bring— I mean, I don’t have… a condom.”

“S’okay,” you moan drunkenly, inebriated from the addicting sound of his voice, the feeling of his fingers, the high of the day. “You can just pull out.”

“Doll.”

“Bucky, please.” 

His eyes betray the war in his mind. You can see the conflict behind those irises, the need to consume you battling against his strong sense of responsibility. His cock and his heart driving his mind in two different directions. 

With him partially preoccupied, you manage to get his fingers out before you’re lifting it to your lips. You run his wet fingers along your lips, his eyes snagging on the sight of the streak. Then you open your mouth and take his fingers onto your tongue. 

If possible, Bucky’s eyes darken even further, the ring of blue swallowed by the desire that devours him. 

You taste yourself and something uniquely him on his fingers. Your eyes stay on him, watching how a lustful fog rolls across his gaze at the sight of you sucking on his fingers. Your tongue slips and slides between his fingers, over his knuckles until they’re clean. 

Then you drag him down to meet your lips, your tongue sliding over his. 

You drink his moans and let them settle deep in your gut. “Fuck, look at you. I can taste you,” Bucky groans. 

“Mmm, will you please fuck me, Bucky? Pretty please,” you bat your eyes at him, a tantalizing look that has his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. 

“You’re going to kill me,” he groans. “S’not safe, doll.”

He is surprisingly resilient, more stubborn than you thought. You should’ve known better than to think you could get Bucky to cave in to your whims with your sexual wiles. What you need is to use his own weakness, his Kryptonite, against him. 

With a sigh, you release your hold on him. “Alright, fine.”

“I’ll still take care of you. Make sure you finish.”

You glance at the door with lips pressed together. “You think Stevie’s done with his mom?”

Bucky freezes. Limbs going stock still as his jaw drops open. “What— you never call him Stevie.”

“Well, maybe I’ll start. Maybe Stevie will give me what I want.”

Bucky growls, baring his teeth as he pins you down on the bed again, wrists above your head. “You tryin’ to piss me off, doll?”

“I’m trying to get fucked, Buck.”

“Then you ask me. You don’t fuckin’ ask — hell, you don’t even think about Steve.”

“I’ve been asking!”

“Such a brat,” Bucky shakes his head, realizing now what you’ve done. His eyes sparkle with that knowing look. “I’m goin’ to pull out. As much as I’d love to knock you up, get you full of my babies, I want to do right by you — and now is not the time.”

You bite the corner of your lip again at the thought of Bucky breeding you. It wouldn’t be so bad. 

“Don’t even think about it,” he mutters, “you devious little minx. If I knew you were this manipulative, I would’ve come prepared.”

A sweet smile up at him, you tilt your head in mock innocence. “You think I wouldn’t slice right through that determination of yours?”

Bucky inhales deeply, breathing out through his nose. “I’m gonna make you pay for this. Just you wait.” He uses his knee to nudge your legs open and you do so easily, knees falling apart automatically to grant him access. 

Sliding off the bed, Bucky drags you to the edge of the mattress and uses one hand to keep you restrained. His palms are large enough to hold them together, grip tight enough for the burn to warm your belly and your pussy squeezing. There’s a damp spot in your panties that has Bucky swallowing thickly before he hooks his fingers on the hem and pulls your underwear down and off you.

He brings the small piece to his nose, breathing in your scent as a grunt makes its way up his throat. Then he’s shoving it into his back pocket. “Mine now.”

Before you can protest the loss of your favorite underwear, he positions his cock at your entrance, testing the head along your lips and letting you leak onto his length. He presses his cock against you, your folds molding around him as he grinds his hips into you. Moans tumble from his lips as he soaks in the feeling of you wet and warm around him. The friction is enough to have you whining — pleasure sinking into your bones while your body begs for more. 

The intensity of this intimacy has you wriggling against him. It’s not enough, yet too much, all at once. His tip brushes over your clit, rubbing that delicate spot over again until you’re mewling into your sheets. 

“God, you feel like a dream, doll. So fuckin’ wet for me. Have you thought about my cock before?”

“Mhmm,” you hum absentmindedly.

“Touched yourself to me?” 

“Mhmm,” you admit again.

Bucky hisses as the thick head of his cock catches onto your gaping cunt. You’re practically begging for him to fuck you at this point, pussy opening up every time his cock comes close. You’re dripping all over him like honey. He tugs it out again with a groan. “Yeah, tell me what you think about.”

His name spills from your lips in protest. You scoot lower in the hopes of getting another feel of his cock inside you. 

“Tell me,” he says as he stills his hips. 

“I-I don’t know. I just think about you and your cock. I imagine myself on my knees as you push your cock into my mouth, as you fuck my throat and tell me to take it like a good girl.”

“Jesus.” Bucky’s hips jerk against you, giving you that mind-numbing traction you so desperately crave. 

Eager now that you’ve seen what your words can do to him, you keep going. “I think about you thrusting into my mouth until my throat is raw. Think about you moaning my name and spilling down my throat. I think about you forcing my jaw open to prove to you that I swallowed every single drop.” 

“Fuck, doll. You’re a goddamn dream come true.” Bucky begins to rut against you again. Sweat beads his forehead, not from the exertion of his effort, but from the force of his self-restraint. “Tell me more. Keep talkin’.”

The words flow from your lips so easily. Eagerly. “I think about you fucking me. I think about you making me spread my legs, you making me put my fingers between them to keep my pussy open for you.” A curse falls from his mouth. “I think about you sliding your cock inside me, stretching me out as you tell me how good my cunt feels around you. How my pussy belongs to you.”

His chuckle is deep and devilish as he finally sheathes himself inside you. His cock dragging against your insides as a choked gasp falls from your lips. He’s bigger than you thought, your juices barely easing the ache as he stretches you open. 

“Like that?” He breathes, “Your cunt feels like heaven. Feels like where I’ve always belonged.” 

“Just like that,” you swallow as he slides himself all the way out only to bury himself back in again to the base. 

The movement is unhurried, prolonging the burn as he enters you again. “Pussy was fuckin’ made for me. This cunt is mine, doll. Nobody else is gonna even think about touching you. I’m gonna have you smellin’ like me, imprint myself on you. Gonna leave you with so many hickeys, all the housewives down this fuckin’ block are gonna blush every time they see you. Gonna make sure my fingers bruise your fuckin’ wrists so the men can see that you’re mine. Cuffed to me with my own handprints.”

“Bucky, oh god, please,” you arch off the bed, struggling against his grasp. 

He only laughs, low and dark. “Try all you want, you’re not goin’ anywhere.” He rolls his hips slowly at first, torturing you in methods that are criminal to mankind. His cock fills you up before leaving you gaping, empty, clenching around air again. He pushes back in with emphasis, his length reaching the deepest parts of you until you’re left gasping. 

True to his word, only his name forms on your tongue. Only his name leaves your lips again and again in breathless moans, in wretched whines. 

“Never knew I could feel like this. All those nights, been using my own hand while thinkin’ of you, thinkin’ about your sweet pussy wrapped around my cock, and I could’ve had you.”

“You thought of me?”

“Every night.” His answer is swift and honest. “Every time you wore those pretty little dresses, I’d fuck my fist that night thinkin’ about what it would be like to bend you over a counter somewhere, flippin’ your skirt up, and buryin’ myself in this pretty pussy.” 

“Hnnng, Buck, please. Need you.”

Bucky picks up the pace of his thrusts, jerking his hips harder against you until his balls are slapping against your cunt. The slick sounds of his cock inside you, the smacking of skin against skin bouncing off the four walls of the room. Bucky inhales deeply, smelling the musky scent of sex that wafts through the room. The rousing scent of your desire leaking between your legs, the smell of sweat as he drills into you with a persistence that steals the air from your lungs. 

“Always imagined you needy for me like this. Didn’t matter that I never fucked anyone before. I knew I’d have you, doll. I wasn’t ever going to let anyone else touch you,” he bites out then bitterly adds, “again.” 

“Yours, Buck. I’m yours.”

Bucky grits his teeth as he sinks himself into you again, his hand moving from your hips to your clit as he digs his thumb into the mess of stimulated nerves. You whine and clamp your legs around him, drawing him in closer. 

“That’s my good girl. Do you wanna cum on my cock? Wanna soak my fat cock with your pussy, doll?”

You nod, drool practically dribbling from your lips as your mind fizzles into nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky. 

“I wanna hear you say it.” 

“Yes, Buck. Please.”

“What do you want?”

“I wanna cum on your cock,” you moan, stomach tightening with a desperation that squeezes your chest. 

“You gonna let me cum in you?”

You don’t even have to think twice before you nod. “Yes, yes. Whatever you want.”

“Fuck, doll, you’re such a desperate little slut. You don’t even care if I knock you up, do you? You want my babies, doll? Wanna be pregnant, tits full of milk, and carrying my kids?”

“Yeah, yeah, please. Anything.”

Bucky groans as his movements stutter, knees weakening with your words. Chest heavy with the weight of your desperation, how easily you give in to him. Bucky leans forward to kiss you again, pressing your legs back as he fucks into you, your own hips tilting back like he’s preparing you to take his cum. 

“Good girl, gonna breed you so good, doll.” 

“Please,” you pant. “Please, Bucky.”

“So sweet for me. Beggin’ me like this,” Bucky grunts.

You can feel your pleasure cresting, climbing and climbing until there’s no oxygen left in your lungs. Your legs tighten around him, pussy clamping around his cock. 

All you need is his permission.

“Bucky, please— please let me cum.”

“Cum for me, doll. Cum around my cock.”

And you’re nothing if not obedient. Your orgasm crashes over you in rolling tides, a gasp wrenching from your lips as your fingers dig into your palm. Bucky’s grip secures firmly around your wrists as he watches you come apart underneath him. Your hair now a mess, light streaks of mascara on your cheeks. 

Stunning. 

Bucky growls at the delicious sight of you absolutely wrecked, pumping in and out faster to chase his own climax. When he feels it coming, he quickly pulls himself out of you, chest rising and falling as he paints white across your stomach, your chest. The streaks are an abstract work of art that he registers vaguely through his hazy eyes. 

His hips are still jerking as he spurts the last of his cum across your body. He huffs with a satisfied sort of exhaustion as he looks down at the work he’s created. He releases his hold around your wrists as he ducks his head to kiss you again. 

Slow and sweet. 

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “I don’t know how you’re real, but I’m not about to start questioning God for bringing you into my life.” 

Your embarrassment with his words is swift, warmth creeping up your cheeks. “You’re too sweet with me.” 

“Deserve all of it, doll. Love you. Never said it out loud.”

You giggle against his lips. “Love you too, Buck.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up before—”

The sound of the front door creaking open has both of you stunned. Bucky scrambles off you, searching around for his pants as he buttons up his shirt again. You reach for the napkins on your bedside table and wipe yourself down. 

You hear your parents’ footsteps ascend the stairs. They always, always check on you before they go to sleep.

On cue, just as you’re holding your dress up to cover your body, you hear the knock on your door. “Honey?” Your mom’s voice calls out from the other side.

Your eyes fly to the clock, indicating that it’s much too late for you to be awake anyway. So you bring your finger to your lips to tell Bucky to be quiet. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even breathe. 

“Guess she’s asleep already.” You hear your mom say before their footsteps recede down the hall again. 

You finally let out a deep sigh of relief, letting the dress pool on the floor again. “That would’ve been bad.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Bucky flinches. “This is not how I want to face your mother for the first time as your boyfriend.”

You perk up, lips tugging into a smile. “Boyfriend?”

Bucky’s mouth quirks up in amusement. “Yeah, doll. Boyfriend. I didn’t make that clear enough?” 

“You never asked, Bucky Barnes,” you challenge.

“Feisty,” he grins, hands snapping out to grab you and draw you close. He presses a kiss against your temple. “You’re right. Will you be my girlfriend?”

“Yes,” you brighten. 

Bucky holds you at arm’s length, admiring the sight of you still deliciously naked and sticky. “Should’ve drawn you with my cum all over you earlier,” he murmurs, finger tracing down your stomach where your skin is still damp. 

“Bucky,” you protest shyly. 

“Can I see you tomorrow?”

Your eyes widen in surprise, to which Bucky grins. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

“Good. Let me take you out again. Properly this time. A real date.”

You smile, “You already did, Buck.”

“Mmm, don’t think so. I think tomorrow will be our official first date.”

“You cumming on me doesn’t count?” 

Bucky groans, leaning forward to press your foreheads together. “I wanted to be a gentleman with you,” he grouses, more so to himself.

“Well, you did pull out,” you tease.

“Cute,” he laughs. “I’m serious, doll. About this. About you. Need you to know that.”

“I know.”

His lips twitch again into a smile as he kisses you, light and sweet. “Good. Now, I’m going to climb out the window like a teenager sneaking out of your parents’ home.” 

Laughter rises from your chest again. “Be careful.”

“Always.” 

After kissing you senselessly for a few more minutes — he really is far too easy to distract, Bucky swings over the ledge and hops onto the tree outside. He blows you one last kiss before jogging down the street, glancing back long enough to flash you another smile. 

Maybe — just maybe — you won’t have to spend Valentine’s Day alone ever again. 

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Cold Eyes, Warm Hands

✦Read on a03! - Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist✦ ✦pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader✦ ✦summary: You know Bucky hates you. He's not secret about it. He hates you so much, he can't seem to stand you even getting along with an agent on a mission, and can't help but rush to your side when you need him. That's what hate is, right?✦ ✦warnings/tags: thunderbolt!reader, (not) enemies to lovers, pushy and creepy men, emotionally constipated Bucky Barnes, protective Bucky Barnes, light angst, fluff, pining, shameless smut, love confessions, (fingering, p in v sex, feral!bucky, possessive sex, softdom!bucky), no use of y/n✦ ✦author's note: Slight warning for creepy men being creepy. Not Bucky tho. My king would never. Also shoutout to @deanwinchestersunhappythoughts for convincing me to finish this one!✦

Everyone knows that Bucky hates you. 

It’s not something he hides, and if he’s trying to, he’s not doing it well. He leaves every room you enter, slipping out with a scowl and not a single word. If there’s a meeting, he sits so far across the table that it’s like he thinks you’re carrying the plague. Once he had to stand next to you in the back of a transport truck, and he spent the whole trip making a face like he was about to vomit. 

You try to ignore it. There’s not much else you can do. It’s not like you haven’t spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what you did to him. If it’s just your general face that he can’t stand, or your personality, of if you did something to deeply offend him the first time you met, and now you have no shot at even a friendship. 

You don’t think you did. There hadn’t been a bump in the elevator, or a misunderstanding in the lobby, or some time a while ago where you’d been in the same Subway car, and sneezed on him. You’d know by now, because you’ve replayed every single subway ride you’ve ever taken over and over in your head, looking for a flash of Bucky’s face. There, on the street, in a coffee shop or some random building where you might have told him to go fuck himself, and forgotten entirely. 

It seems unlikely. You don’t have a habit of telling people to go fuck themselves. 

That’s the whole reason you have this job in the first place. 

You’re the nice one. The diversity hire, who’s only there because she knows how to smile and not look like someone holding a gun to her head. You don’t run into conflict, and you always stick to the plan, and you don’t even like to leave a dirty dish in the sink for later, because you don’t want to force someone else to clean up after you. Let alone your grumpy, brooding roommates. 

It’s painfully stark, the difference between them and you. It’s only grown more apparent, as time has passed. You run training with Yelena, and she has to give you time outs every time you apologize for punching her in the face. You’ll eat dinner on the night that Ava cooks, tell her that it’s good—it’s not amazing, but it’s food, and you know she worked hard on it—and she’ll look at you like you just announced you were blowing your brains out after dessert. John has taken to covering your mouth with a hand during meetings, because you always try to offer motivation or sympathy with the targets, and none of them care about that. 

“You are weird little bird,” Alexei once told you, frowning at you from across the room. 

You’d laughed softly, folding the corner of your book between your fingers. “Yeah?”

“Yes. You smile.”

“You smile.”

“I am complex man. I live full of happiness and anger. You are only happiness.” He’d narrowed his eyes. “Is there silent anger, brimming below songbird’s surface?”

“Don’t call her that.” Bucky had muttered, and you’d blinked. You hadn’t even realized he’d entered the room. 

He’d walked over to the bookshelf, hands in his jacket pockets, not sparing you a single glance. Alexei had scoffed. 

“Bucky Barnes, I am doing investigation. This is serious business, do not mock-“

“I’ll mock, Alexei, when you’re doing something pointless. There’s nothing to investigate.” He’d grabbed a book, and turned to Alexei, his back firmly to you. “She’s clean. We’ve checked.”

He’d walked out without another word, and you’d bitten on your lower lip until you tasted blood. Of course it hadn’t been a real defense. Bucky doesn’t care enough about you to defend you. He just didn’t want Alexei to waste his time on something as pointless as you. 

So you know, that Bucky hates you. And he has no secret reason, because it’s just you. The rest of them got used to you after a few months, and even like you know. Yelena doesn’t bitch about the breaks, and lets you hold her guinea pig as long as you let her hold your crows. Ava sits with you while she reads, and doesn’t roll her eyes at every single thing you say. John once called you not entirely useless, which is John for incredibly important and useful.

Alexei made you a—rather poorly constructed, but very sweet—cake for your last birthday, and insisted everyone buy you at least one gift. They all put a shocking amount of effort into it as well, and it had been clear that you weren’t just Valentina’s happy, pretty invader anymore. 

Even Bucky had gotten you something, and you’d pretended it meant something. That it hadn’t just been because Alexei threatened to rip out his spine if he didn’t. 

It had just been a jacket. Thick and warm, shoved into your hands like he couldn’t let go of it fast enough. 

“You get cold.” He’d grunted. “On missions.”

 “I- I don’t-“

“Yes, you do. Your fingers shake, and your heart picks up. It’s dangerous.” He’d nodded to the jacket. “Wear that.”

You’d swallowed, as he’d walked away. 

And you do. Wear it. You’re the exact kind of over-emotional and pathetic fool he thinks you are, so you wear it on every mission, and look at Bucky to see if he’s noticed. 

He never has. 

The rest of them love you, but Bucky doesn’t. There doesn’t seem to be much you can do about it, but you don’t give up. You’re still nice to him, and it’s only a little in the pathetic hope that he might look at you one day and realize that he was wrong. Until then, you cling to the fact that the rest of them like you. That it was a long, natural curve to get there—given how you got here, and what you are—but they all genuinely like you. 

Of the team, Bob gets on with you the best. None of them question why—they likely assume you both just don’t like fighting—but you eat breakfast together every day, do the crossword puzzle, and go out for walks at least twice a week. 

You’ve seen Bucky glaring at you, when you get back. He might think you’re wasting time, or putting you both in danger by just going outside as superheroes. As if he doesn’t know that if anyone is least likely to be in danger of an attack, it’s you and Bob. Like you didn’t have your fucking GPS’ on the whole time, and he’s not your boss anyway.

“You’re going to catch a cold, if you keep goin’ out there.” He’d grunted once, as you’d made tea in the kitchen after. 

“That’s- Not actually how colds world.” You’d mumbled. “And I don’t get sick anyway.”

“Hm.” He might have been looking at you. You weren’t going to dignify it with a glance, because you’d see the loathing in his eyes, and your heart might split down your chest. 

He’d just walked away. You’d stood in the kitchen for about five minutes after, head bowed, taking deep breaths through your nose. 

Everyone loved you. 

It was the in your nature, quite literally, to have everyone love you. That’s why you’re here. Not to whine about your own problems, not to burden people with your pain, but to be the lighthouse. Your powers and sweetness smooth over the violence and anger of the team. Your presence calms down press events, because none of them are ever mean to you. If there’s hand to hand combat you’re entirely, hopelessly useless, but no one even throws a punch at you, so it’s not a problem. 

You’ve wondered if that’s why Bucky hates you. Because he thinks you’re messing with his brain, and he’s had enough of that for a lifetime. 

But you’ve told them. You turn it on and off, and you never use it on people you’re close to. 

Maybe Bucky didn’t believe you.

It doesn’t matter. He still hates you. 

And it hurts more, than if anyone else did. 

Because you’re an idiot, and you’ve had a crush on him since you were in fucking middle school. You watched all the Howling Commandos documentaries in history, and stared dreamily at him in the grainy footage. You’d liked his smile, and his loyalty, and his general, pretty face. When the news about Hydra, then Sokovia had broken, you’d had some friends mock you about your old man crush was a war criminal. When he’d been pardoned and ended up on the news with Captain America, you’d watch the footage maybe a little longer than you needed to. 

You’d never wanted to meet him. 

You’d never wanted to be a superhero in the first place. But college was fucking expensive, and the job market was shit, and you’d needed money fast. Valentina had offered it, as long as you used your powers. 

That was something you hadn’t wanted to do either. You didn’t want to do most things. Didn’t want to go places people could hurt you. Places you could mess up, or disappoint someone, or be seen. 

And this has been your greatest dream and worst nightmare. 

Everyone can see you. You’re in the public eye every day, and held up like a shiny diamond to be admired. 

They all love you. Last month a magazine ran a s hit piece about the New Avengers, and still called you The Princess, because you were all smiles and sweet words, lovely to look at and talk to, but not worth much in a fight. Compared to what they said about everyone else—calling John the Prince, because no one took him seriously, and he was a foolish ass for thinking they did, and Bucky The King, because he used fear from his past to enforce the New Avengers and their status now—they might as well have sent you flowers. 

People had even been mad online, that they’d ever say something mean about you. 

Bucky had heard that in the damage control meeting, and snorted. 

Your heart had turned to fractured, tiny piece of glass that cut at your stomach and hands. You’d felt sick, and hadn’t been able to do much for the rest of the day, as his cruel little snort played over and over in your head. 

He’d been your foolish dream, since you were a kid. You’d never wanted to meet him. 

Because exactly what you thought would happen, did. 

He hates you. 

Bucky Barnes hates you. 

And he doesn’t even care enough about you to do it behind your back.

 “I don’t want anyone arguing with me about this one.” He says in the jet, and you don’t bother to look up from your feet. 

You know he’s looking at you. You can feel it. And you don’t argue with him, not like the rest of them do. You just offer some ideas for how to improve the plan, or point out holes in his idea with polite words. He always looks at you like you spat up vomit on his suit. 

So you don’t say anything. 

That’s your goal for this mission. Be as nothing to Bucky as possible. Don’t let his glowers and cold words loop in your head for hours after, making you feel like you’re even less than you already know you are. Don’t think about if he’s looking at you, don’t try to be his friend, don’t indulge the fantasy of his attention. 

Any attention. Even if he’s sneering that you’re an insufferable brat who needs to be coddled, it would be attention. Even if he touched you with anger in his hands and hatred in his eyes, at least he’d be touching you. 

You’ve realized, that him hating you isn’t doing anything to make your crush on his go away. If anything, it’s making the whole situation worse, because apathy is harder to indulge than the idea of him slamming you against the wall and fucking you until all his frustration feels eased. 

Which is the exact type of thought you’re not supposed to be having. 

So you just keep staring at your hands. Bucky clears his throat, like he’s waiting for something, and you don’t give him the satisfaction.

He moves on. 

“I got us a connection with a mercenary in the area, who’s been hunting these people down for years. We’re working together, so everyone is going to be civil with him. Right?”

Ava raises her hand next to you. “What are we calling civil?”

“I don’t know. Use your judgement. Or- Actually-" Bucky sighs. “No name callin’, no yellin’, and- Try to act like you’re a damn adult for two days. Can we do that?”

“You name call all the time, Bucky-“

“I’m the oldest, Walker. I’ve earned it.”

John rolls his eyes, and Yelena jumps in. 

“Can we pheromone him?” She looks to you. “Can you pheromone him?”

“Um-“ You flush, your eyes instinctively shooting to Bucky. 

His jaw is clenched, hands braced on his hips, and glaring at you with the usual silent disgust. You swallow, heat crawling over your skin. You can’t tell if it’s shame, or just the usual hunger for him. It doesn’t really matter anyway.

“I technically can.” You mumble, ripping your gaze away from Bucky. “If we need it. But- Bucky says he’s on our side. I don’t think I need to, right?”

You look to Bucky again. His nostrils flare, the fury on his face almost leaking into the air. 

“Right.” He grunts, glare moving to Yelena. He launches into a longer brief, about the drug ring you’re going after, the agents details, but you don’t hear most of it. You’re too busy staring at the floor, hiding the tears brimming in your eyes. 

Useless.

You can’t even make a choice by yourself. Fucking useless. 

When you land, you’re first out of the jet. Your arms wrap tight around your stomach, head down, not glancing back to check if Bucky’s venomous glare is still trained on you. If it is, that’s fine. It’s fine. You’re fine, because it’s nothing new, nothing you didn’t expect, nothing you’re not just going to have to grow the fuck up about and get over- 

You’re too lost in your own self-pity to see where you’re going. 

You slam right into someone’s chest.

“Woah!” A deep voice laughs, big hands grabbing your shoulders and steadying you against a firm body. You squeak, trying to back up, but the hands just tighten. “Hey, are you-“

“She’s fine.” Bucky’s snaps from behind you, and whoever’s grabbing you stills.

“Barnes, you look like shit-“

“Six hour flight. We all look like shit. Let her go.” The man releases you, and you stumble back a few paces. Into Bucky’s chest. 

He grabs your upper arm, and your breath hitches pathetically. It’s the metal hand, and it’s solid and firm through your jacket, and your head starts to race with images of it running down your thighs with that same tight grip, sending shivers up your spine and molding you exactly how he’d want you-

He doesn’t want you. 

Bucky’s hand flexes like he can’t bear to touch you, and he moves you off to the side. You swallow down the shame. He doesn’t get the satisfaction, doesn’t get to see how he’s slowly fucking killing you. 

“What’s wrong with her?” The new man asks, and Bucky grunts.

“Told you. Long flight.”

You bite your lower lip, fingers curling on your side. If he didn’t just hate you, this might be considered cruel. It might be cruel anyway. But your skin is still burning where he touched it. And your heart still skips a beat when he says your name. 

“This is Mulder. Mulder, this is-“ “I know who this is.” Mulder cuts Bucky off with your name, and you blink up at him in surprise.

He’s not bad to look at. Same dark hair as Bucky, just beardless and a little more of a haircut. His eyes are blue as well, if not a little more gray. He’s got a strong jaw. Thick build, and a friendly smile. 

That’s directed at you. You return it tenitivly, and he laughs.

“Wow. You’re even prettier in person, sweetheart.”

You flush, standing a little taller. “Oh, um- Thank you?” “No problem. You’re my favorite, you know.” He winks, still grinning. “I like these assholes just fine, but you? Very excited to work together.” “I’m- Me too.” You offer, and Mulder opens his mouth—maybe to compliment you again, which you’re not sure you can emotionally handle right now—but Bucky cuts him off. “We have time for talking later, Mulder. You bring the car?” Mulder rolls his eyes. “Course I brought the car, Barnes. You think I’m a damn idiot.” Bucky doesn’t answer. When you risk a glance over, he’s looking at Mulder with a coldness in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Even when he glares at you, there’s some heat in the hatred. Like he’s trying to figure out what kind of fire will smoke you out, like he hates you so much it’s making him recoil and physically tense at your mere existence.  He’s tensed as he glares at Mulder, too. 

But rigid. Not a live wire set to snap. Something deeper, and less forgiving, that seems to be making his tongue sharper and words clipped. 

“You live in these… Woods?” Yelena asks as Mulder piles you into his truck, and he shrugs.  “No, just been here for years, trying to catch these bastards. They’re slick, keep figuring out how to avoid me, I’ve chased them half across the world. Who knew they’d be holed up in the backyard of my damn operation.” He chuckles, glancing over to Bucky. “But that’s how Hydra stayed underground, wasn’t it? Plain sight?” Bucky grunts. “Don’t know. Wasn’t exactly invited to all the strategy meetings.” Mulder laughs again, and you frown. Bucky doesn’t like to talk about his time in Hydra with anyone. And laughing about it makes your gut prickle wrong, your tongue aching to jump in and say something about how it’s not really anyone’s business anyway, let alone Mulder’s to comment about. But Mudler continues before you can. 

Probably for the best. 

The last time you defended Bucky at a press event, he didn’t look at you for a week. 

“We’re going to have to head into the city for a few days. Trace these asshole to their exact base, play it careful. I’ll send some of you in first, they know I’m looking for them. ‘Course, they’ll be thrilled to see me, but I’m trying to play it humble. Makes the attention I do give all the more exciting.” Mulder winks at you, and you flush. 

Bucky didn’t mention if this man had powers. If that comment was just a coincidence, of if he’d known what you’ve been thinking about Bucky. If he’s a mind-reader, that’s going to be a real problem. You don’t know how to guard against a mind reader, and all your thoughts are pathetic, and what if he tells Bucky about them- 

“How you know Bucky Barnes?” Alexei jumps in, staring at Mulder with almost open affection. “You go to pretty assassin school together? You take super solider serum?” “Nope.” Mulder laughs again. He does that a lot. “I worked with Wilson, a while ago. Back when he was just a normal guy like me. Trained in Shield, left to figure out where my life is going after the fall. I admire the enhanced, though. You’ve gotta be a good person, to go through that change and come out the other side a good person.”

Bucky, Ava, and John all tense across the Van, Alexei puffs out his chest, and you just shrink into yourself. 

Mulder says your name, still wearing that charming smile. “You especially, with what you can do? A worse person would abuse that.” “I- I don’t-“ “She barely uses it.” Bucky grunts, and your nails dig into your side.  “Wow, Barnes. Didn’t know you spoke for her.” Bucky works his jaw, and you really don’t understand what’s going on with him. He’s the one who said to play nice. 

The least you can do is try and play nice for him. 

“He’s right, Mulder.” You mumble. “It’s kind of- For emergencies only.” “Again. Admirable.” Mulder grins at you in the mirror. “And you can call me Jack.” You nod, still smiling, and glance back to Bucky. His face has settled into an almost unreadable stone mask. 

Almost. You’ve spent so much time silently staring at him that you can read. 

He’s furious.

You haven’t even started the job yet, and Bucky looks like he’s about to rip someone’s spine out. You don’t understand why—no one’s messed up, Mulder seems like a bit of an ass, but no more than the rest of you, and you haven’t done anything to piss him off yet—but you’re not foolish enough to ask. 

You just let out a slow breath, and tip your head back against the rattling wall of the truck. 

The mission is going to be long. 

And you’re going to be caught in the center of it, just trying to keep your head above water around Bucky, and be a little fucking useful to the team. 

To Mulder.

Because even if he’s an ass, you’re his favorite. And that makes the hair on your arms stand up, because what if you disappoint him. What if, when this is done, he decides that you’re not at all worth what you seem to be on paper. 

That, at least, is something you can try to prevent. You’ve already lost Bucky—though you know you never had him in the first place—so you don’t need to waste the mission worrying about if he’s seeing you. It’s going to be all about Mudler. 

“Jack,” he reminds you again, as you unload equipment in his makeshift base of a motel room. “You can call me Jack, sweetheart.”

You won’t mess this up. 

“Okay.” You smile at him. “Jack.”

He grins right back, and across the room, there’s a loud crack as something breaks. 

“Fuck, Bucky!” John shouts, and you look up to see him gaping at the mess of a computer on the floor. “What the hell, why did you-“ “It was weak.” Bucky grunts, and you can feel his glare on you again. “Just fuckin’ snapped when I picked it up. Not my fault.” Mulder laughs, giving Bucky another lazy grin. “Well, don’t go breaking any of my other shit. I might start to take offense.”

“Noted.” Bucky grunts.  He doesn’t even crack a smile. 

And you’ve seen him be grumpy on missions before. It’s almost his default setting, to act like a dad with a pack of unruly children who refuse to be house trained. But this is different. He looks like he’s seconds away from either breaking his own jaw, or slamming his fist into the wall. 

The next few days are spent gathering intel about the operation, taking what Jack already has and blending it with anything the rest of you can find. Alexei translates some Russian documents, because every time he’s thrown into a field like this he just ends up getting drunk with the gang members. Yelena and John track down a few of the inner circle members. Bucky and Ava grab them and drag some information out with questionable methods, before dumping them in the snow. You and Jack track down a few of the known bases, as well as some of Jack’s informants, and get whatever you can. 

“You should do your thing.” Jack mutters in your ear. He’s taken to standing rather close behind you. Close enough that you can feel the heat of his body. 

You don’t mind it. It’s just a little strange. “I don’t do my thing unless it’s an emergency.” You remind him softly, and he shrugs. 

“If you don’t do it, I’ll never get to see it, and we might have to be on this case for weeks.”

“Jack…” You sigh—this isn’t the first time he’s tried to make you do it, and it probably won’t be the last—but he shakes his head, cutting you off smoothly. 

“Actually,” his lips brush your ear, and you swallow. “Don’t do it. I want to stay on this case together.” 

You weren’t going to do it in the first place. But there’s not really any good response to that, so you just hum and laugh weakly. The man you were waiting for walks through the door, and you’re saved from the conversation.

When you get back to the motel room, Jack runs the team through what the man told you. And for once, Bucky isn’t glaring at you. He’s glaring at Jack.

He’s been glaring at Jack a lot. 

“We should reshuffle teams.” He grunts after a week, and Ava mock pouts. 

“Aw, you’re sick of me already, Barnes?” 

“No.” He snaps. “I just think it’s bad to stick to the same pattern on a mission like this. They’ll pick up on it.”

“Good point.” Jack nods, and Bucky shoots him such a withering glare you’re shocked it doesn’t actually kill him. “But it might be even better if we move into teams of three and four.”

Bucky opens his mouth, still glowering, but John cuts in first. “Can I be with you two? If Yelena keeps shit-talking me in Russian, I’m actually going to punch her.” Yelena snorts. “Walker, you could not lay a single little finger on me-“ “You wanna fuckin’ bet-“

“Hey.” Bucky snaps, and they both fall silent. “The hell did I say on the jet?” “Not to insult him.” Yelena nods to Jack. “There was nothing about each other.” “Yeah, Yelena’s right, we can fight, that’s our right as teammates-“ “John. Shut up.” Bucky rubs a hand over his face, letting out a low, long groan. 

His eyes flick to you, then away just as fast. He lets out a heavy breath like someone’s physically hurting him. 

“Fine. Whatever. John, you’re with them. Yelena, me and Ava.”

John grins, marching over to your side and raising his hand for a high five. You give it awkwardly, Jack a little more enthusiastically, and John flips off Bucky’s scowl. 

“Suck it, Team Loser. We’re going to grab those dipshits first.” You sigh, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Not a competition, John.”

He rolls his eyes, grumbling something about how it could be, but drops it fast.  Bucky keeps glaring at you. You bite down the pain of it, same as always. 

There’s still a job to do. Jack still likes you enough to want you on his team. You won’t mess that up. 

The next few days pass in a blur. You’re closing in on the gang, Bucky’s still acting like everyone is insulting his mother to his face, and Jack hasn’t stopped trying to get you to use your powers. 

He just wants to see it, is what he says, over and over. Even John jumped to your defense at one point, but Jack just laughed again, and said that John’s luck enough to be around you all the time. He just gets this moment.

“Unless you want more.” He smirks at you, and you flush.  John groans. “Jesus, no wonder Bucky hasn’t been sleeping.” 

“Bucky hasn’t been what?” Your eyes shoot away from Jack, and John just shrugs. 

“We’ve been bunking together. And Alexei, but I’ve tuned him out, he snores like a fucking monster truck-“ “No, I- I know that. Why isn’t Bucky sleeping?”

“Oh. ‘Cause.” John waves a hand, then moves on down the hallway. You open your mouth to call after him, but Jack stops you with a hand splayed on your lower back. 

“Don’t worry about Barnes, sweetheart. I know how he can be.” 

You frown at him. Bucky can be a dick, but you can all be a dick. And he’s got a lot on his shoulders, and a lot of shadows behind him. It’s amazing he’s standing at all, let alone still fighting. He’s earned being a little bit of an ass, even if it rips your heart out of your chest every single time. 

“Bucky-“ “Come on.” Jack cuts you off, rubbing his hand up and down your spine. “Let’s go find this ass. So you can do the thing.” 

You smile at him weakly. You won’t do the thing. But Jack, also, doesn’t seem willing to give up on asking you.  It’s almost three weeks, when you finally have a solid lead. Three weeks of Bucky looking like he wants to shoot someone and Jack being stuck to your side, before you finally have an ending in sight. There’s a bunker in the mountains, that should have all the evidence you need to bring the gang down. 

You have one day, before a snowstorm blows in, and it becomes inaccessible for months. So you’ll move out in the morning, and spend the night doing what you do before every big move on a mission. 

Drinking. 

It’s a tradition they started before you joined. It’s time honored and well-kept, to the point that you’re pretty sure Alexei would throw actual tantrum if anyone forgot. You find somewhere with a pool table, a jukebox, and liquor. Everyone drinks until the room is spinning, and you’re all giggling and forgetting about your problems. The morning seems a million miles away, and the pain seems even further. It’s not drinking to celebrate. It’s drinking so that if tomorrow goes wrong, at least you were alive tonight. 

Then you’re up at the crack of dawn, and you finish the job. 

Usually, you spend the evening next to Yelena, having whatever she puts in front of you, giggling at stupid jokes, and pretending you’re not staring at Bucky’s handsome profile down the bar. He usually sits with Alexei or Walker, silent and annoyed by the whole thing, but slowly loosening up over the night. He’ll go play darts or chat with the bartender. If she’s lucky, he’ll be in a good enough mood to give some random girl a little attention, and you’ll go to the bathroom with your mouth tasting like bile. 

You’ll splash your face, remind yourself that he hates you and you have no right to be bitter about this, and try not to look at him for the rest of the night. Which usually means dancing, trying to learn how to play pool—it’s been two years, you’re nowhere close, no matter how much John yells at you—and turning in the moment you spot Bucky’s random girl sitting on his lap. 

But tonight, there’s no girl. A few of them have walked up to him, and he’s flat out ignored them. You feel a little bad for them, as they storm back to their friends. You understand, more than they could ever imagine, what it feels like. The sour sting of Bucky’s rejection, that feels like an open, infected wound. At least their’s will heal. You just keep poking at yours, until your guts are spilled all over the floor, and you can’t be bothered to pick them up.

You really are trying, not to look at him. To pay attention to what’s in front of you, because there’s no point. Bucky hates pity, even more than he hates you, and combining the two isn’t going to do anyone any favors. But he looks so sad. Still angry and hostile, but with a slump to his shoulders that tugs on your heart. Maybe now, if you just extended a slim, delicate olive branch—just an offer to listen, that will snap in half and take you with it—he’d accept it. 

That’s all you can think about. Yelena’s sliding drinks in front of you, and Jack is cooing in your ear, but you can’t see or hear anything but Bucky. His gloved hand is turning the glass, his gaze trained on the movement of the water inside. His chest heaves, jaw ticking and mouth setting in a thin line. Jack says your name, but it sounds far away, so you just hum in acknowledgment. 

“You’re gorgeous.” He murmurs in your ear, and you tilt your head at Bucky.  He’s oddly tense. Like he’s bracing for a fight. 

“And you smell like sugar.” Jack is still talking. Bucky’s stopped turning his glass, his head bowing lower than before. “Look like an angel. Do we know if God is real, yet? Did he send you?” “I dunno.” You mumble. Bucky’s spine just stiffened. Maybe there’s danger, and he just doesn’t want to worry anyone. 

Jack plays with a strand of your hair. “If you’re not an angel, you’re a siren. I mean,” he laughs. “Cheap joke. That’s your code-name. But shit, you really nailed it. So smart, too.” “She didn’t come up with her name.” Yelena says, some distance away. “Valentina did. She doesn’t like being called it, either.” “Hm. She doesn’t like using her powers, doesn’t like her codename.” Jack laughs. “Maybe she should retire. Come live with me, sweetheart, you’ll never have to worry about anything again.” You can hear Yelena respond something sharp, but you don’t really hear it. 

A new, brave girl approached Bucky. He’d looked her up and down slowly, expression almost unreadable. The same stone mask from before, but just a little heavier. 

He’s tired. 

And he looks to you. For a split second, Bucky’s eyes lock with yours. You stare at him, leaning a little further forward. Jack is still playing with your hair, and you can feel his hand slide up your spine. 

That pure coldness flashes through Bucky’s gaze, and he looks back to the girl. 

Smiles at her. 

He never smiles at you. 

“I’m going to bed.” You tell no one particular. You don’t want to keep drinking. You’ll just start crying. 

Jack volunteers to go with you. He keeps his hand on your back, as he walks you out of the bar. You can feel Bucky staring daggers at your back as you leave. 

You’re able to hide your tears, in the sting of the cold wind. If Jack suspects they’re anything else, he doesn’t say anything. He’s mostly just babbling about how long he’s been working on this, and what he wants to do after, and what he likes doing with his free time.

 “Do you like Vegas? You must be fun in Vegas.” “I’ve never been to Vegas.” You mumble, wiping your nose on your jacket. It’s the jacket Bucky gave you. 

Your throat hurts. He’s a good man. He’s a strong, good man who sits with Bob when he doesn’t feel well, and mocks John relentlessly but has his back in fights. He helps Ava with her suit upgrades, gives Yelena advice, and indulges all of Alexei’s stories about the Good Old Days, even throwing in a few extra facts if he’s in a good mood. 

It’s just you. 

You’re the only one who he treats like this. 

So, somehow, it must be your fault. 

“What the hell is up with Barnes anyway?” Jack says, and suddenly your brain decides to pay attention.  “He’s under a lot of stress.” You mumble, and Jack rolls his eyes. 

“We all are. You know, last time I met him he wasn’t like this, he must not have gotten laid in a year.”

You make a face, but don’t say anything. Jack rubs your back, sighing dramatically. “He’s such a damn ass to you, sweetheart. Can’t stand it. You deserve better than that.” You might. You probably do. You’ve told your heart that over and over, but it doesn’t seem to be willing to hear it. The rhythm of its beat falls in line with Bucky’s name. 

You’re starting to hate yourself for it. 

Jack doesn’t need to know that, so you only hum. 

“Have you tried your thing on him?” He asks, and your body recoils. 

You stumble away, eyes wide in disgust as a foul, sickening taste creeps up your throat. 

“No- I- No.” You shake your head frantically. “I would never- I don’t use it for anything like that, I’ve never used it for that, and I- Bucky isn’t- How could you say that?” “He’s just such a dick to you,” Jack says your name, taking a large step forward. Pressing you back against the wall. “Come on, you’ve at least thought of it-“ “No, I- I would never-“

“You don’t have to lie, it’s just me-“ “I’m not lying-“

“Sweetheart.” Jack coos, taking another step forward, leaving your back pressed against wall. “It’s not wrong, to have thought about it. I would have thought it. But I also,” he reaches up, tracing a hand over your cheek, and you shrink back into your body. “Would never be so mean to something as pretty as you.” 

You swallow, tears still burning at your eyes. Jack’s breath smells like liquor, fanning over your face, and it’s making the room feel like it’s flipping and spinning. Not in the pleasant, dizzying way that Bucky’s body near yours does. 

This feels wrong. 

“Can you please back up?” You whisper, and Jack chuckles.  “Why would I do that, sweetheart.” The tears slide down your cheeks. “Please?”

Jack shakes his head, his lips brushing over yours. You try to lean back, but there’s only the wall. 

You close your eyes. He did want to see it. He begged to. 

“Jack.” Your voice slips into the other one. The sweet, musical one that’s almost floats through the air. Less of a voice. More of a call. “Can you please back up?”

He’s frozen for a moment. You don’t dare to breathe, in case it breaks the spell. 

Then he vanishes. His hands near your head, his smell, his lips and the sticky, suffocating heat of his body. You pull your eyes open, and let out a shaking breath. 

He’s just standing. Face entirely void of himself. Nothing more than a puppet. 

You hug yourself tight, voice almost cracking as you speak again. “Walk away. And- Please don’t speak to me or look for me, until the morning.”

Jack nods slowly, and turns away. His eyes stare at the floor, and he almost glides down the hallway, away from your room.  

You swallow, and slip into your room without another word. It feels like there’s a thin layer of grime over your skin, but no matter how you rub at it in the shower, it doesn’t go away. You sink to the floor, pressing your face into your knees, and cry in the safety of the burning water. If the veil it offers, to mask the sound of your sobs, to hide you in the steam. 

You don’t know how long you just sit there. You know when you go to bed, you’re still sniffling. 

And when you fall asleep, it’s like the tide dragging you under. 

Impossibly pain in your chest. A feeling like you can’t breathe, as you fold yourself into the cushion. 

Then just black. And a long, heavy sleep. 

Bucky didn’t count himself a good man. 

It wasn’t just that he’d done bad things, and he’d done… A lot of bad things. The kind of bad things that people, apparently, made documentaries about. The kind of bad things he shouldn’t be forgiven for, no matter what Sam used to say about it not really being him who did it. 

It had been his hands. His body. 

His mind, that had caved to the programming. That hadn’t fought back against Hydra, and let them use him as a weapon. 

He might not have chosen to do the things, but he still did them. And it didn’t matter anyway. 

He still wasn’t a good man. 

It wasn’t about only his actions. It wasn’t about everything he did to repent, and how people now looked at him like he was a hero, when he knew the truth. That he was tricking them, and if they saw the ugly beast under the surface—the part of him that was barely better than an animal—they’d shoot him in the goddamn skull. 

Because he thought things. Craved things. Was hungry for things he had no right to desire. 

One thing. 

Really, it was just one thing, that drove him out of his mind every fucking night. That made him glare at himself in the bathroom mirror, trying to drill it into his stupid head that he was barely more than a mutt, and had no right to ask for something so priceless. 

Her. 

Bucky wanted Her.

He had to right to even want anything at all. Wanting Her felt like a crime. 

She was made of soft things he’d long lost to the bottom of the ocean, swept smooth and empty with the water of time. She had the kind of shine Bucky had only ever been able to dull, and the kind of gentleness that did go well with biting guard dogs. Bucky was a weapon. She was stained glass, casting the light soft and gentle through his life. He’d been gone the moment Valentina had showed them the picture of the new hire. 

Then She’d walked into the room, smiling and bright eyed, and Bucky had known. 

He wanted Her on his arm during events, smiling mostly at him instead of the cameras—Her real smile, not the well-polished, overdone one she gave the photographers—then hanging off his body as they drank and whispered in the corner. She’d sit next to him on missions, his hand on Her thigh and her foot bumping his under the table. They’d hold hands and… Do whatever modern couples did. Go for walks and eat food. Not dancing, because he’d seen where people danced now and it was pretty damn loud, but maybe just sitting in the living room together. His legs over Her’s, Her head on his chest, talking about nothing at all. 

And he’d have Her in his bed. Fantasies of Her lips on his, bodies pressed tight together and whispers soft and teasing, it was what he thought of in the shower. In his own big, lonelier bed as he groaned Her name to the dark. 

Bucky wanted Her like he wanted to touch the sky, when he was a boy. 

So much he dreamed about it. 

Impossibly, and desperately, and knowing fully well that if he ever did, he’d never want to go back down to Earth. 

Bucky was never going to want anything as bad. 

And under no fucking circumstances should he be allowed to have Her. 

He set distances. Made boundaries, less to keep Her away and more to keep himself at bay. Whenever he accidentally touched Her, she’d mold into him, and he’d have to rip his hand away like it was burning. If he didn’t, it might mold into Her, and he’d never let go. Or worse, She’d rip herself away, and he’d have to remember what it was like to touch Her, then lose Her. 

It was a fate he could tolerate, to watch from afar. But holding Her, having all that sweetness in his hands then letting it slip through his fingers, he’d never forgive himself. He saw how soft She got, how deeply she took everything, how much She glowed under praise. He wouldn’t be able to live with breaking Her heart, because she’d shatter. Hell, She pouted to herself when Yelena so much as told her she misinterpreted some intel. Her actually crying, and Bucky being the cause of it, that might destroy him. 

And he wasn’t being arrogant. He wasn’t blind. He saw how desperately she smiled at him, heard the extra light in Her voice when she spoke to him, basked in the extra attention she gave him, because it was a sliver of Heaven he got to steal, and keep all to himself.  But She didn’t know what she was doing. She was young, She’d develop feelings, and they’d pass once She found someone better. 

Then Bucky would just sit here. Alone in the dark, torturing himself with what could have been. 

At least they’d be friends. Bucky could live with friends. He tried to be nice to Her—even if he hadn’t been sure how to do that, in at least a decade—and made sure to give Her respectable friend distance and words. He bit down every inappropriate or slightly wanting comment on his tongue. 

It was most of them. 

Almost all his thoughts around Her had slowly become that he wanted and needed Her, that she was beautiful and kind and maybe the best person he’d ever met, and they were lucky to have Her on the team, powers or not. 

He didn’t want to send mixed signals. Didn’t want to get Her confused about what he could give Her, because it wasn’t much. 

One day, She’d find someone who could give her everything, and Bucky would just be Her friend. 

He’d been ready for that.  He hadn’t thought it would happen this fast. 

Jack’s eyes had glinted, when they’d stepped off the jet. Bucky had known that look. He saw it in the mirror, every damn morning. And She’d smiled at Jack. Stuck with him the whole fucking mission. Bucky had felt like he was going to drive himself out of his goddamn mind. 

She wasn’t his. He had no fucking claim to Her. It was his own damn fault, that She hadn’t been talking to him at the bar. The he hadn’t been the one touching Her, wasn’t the one who walked Her out. 

Knowing that hadn’t stopped the creeping rage and disgust with himself. The ice-like, almost painful hated of Jack, festering into a vileness that curled his fists. 

At one point, it had gotten so intolerable that he’d suggested they switch up the teams. He could put himself with Her. Steal just a little bit more of Her attention. 

She’d been drawing away from him a little big before the mission as well. Bucky wasn’t sure what he’d done, but She hadn’t even been looking at him. He’d wanted to ask, to fix it, to do anything that would make things go back to normal. He might’ve asked the night they landed, if it wasn’t for fucking Jack. 

And now they might be in Her room. 

Which Bucky was fine with. They were adults. She was smart, and could make Her own choices, and he didn’t deserve Her anyway. 

He still lingered outside Her room for hours, thinking about going in. Shouting his love to Her shocked face, then watching Her turn away from Jack and run into his arms. 

The last part was just in his head. There was no way She’d do anything but throw him out of his ass, after he waited so long to tell Her. 

If Jack was what She wanted, she deserved to be happy. 

Bucky still didn’t sleep that night, his mind racing with the idea of someone else touching Her. Having Her, how he wanted. 

Jack wouldn’t treat Her as well as Bucky would. He’d treat Her like a Queen. 

Then lose Her. That kind of closeness was always something he lost. 

He had to haul himself out of bed in the morning. He didn’t want to see Her and Jack standing next to each other. Didn’t to live in the world that was coming, where Her pretty eyes glazed right over him, like he was nothing more than a potted plant. 

It was only to desire to get the hell out of this job, that got him moving. 

But when he got to the group, She wasn’t there. 

Not just late. 

Missing. 

Jack was there. When asked, he just shrugged. Bucky narrowed his eyes—the man had been fawning over Her last night, he’d had Her on his arm, and she was pretty damn hard to lose sight of—but Yelena just sighed and stomped off to go grab Her. 

 They waited awkwardly, shifting on their feet. 

“Storm’s coming.” Walker muttered, and Bucky shot him a glare. “What? I’m just saying, we should be heading out-“ “No.” Bucky grunted. “Team first, John.” Walker sighed, and gave him a flat look. Somehow he was the only person who knew. About a month into Her being on the team, Walker had cornered him and asked what the hell his problem was with Her. He didn’t let up, until Bucky shouted that he might have some feelings for Her. 

He’d, shockingly, kept the secret. 

That didn’t stop the silent mocking and pointed looks. Bucky had learned to ignore them. 

“She does not feeling well.” Yelena announced, storming back into the room. “She wants to stay here.”

Bucky frowned. “She looked fine last night.” “You were across the bar, Bucky Barnes. You could not tell.” Yelena grabbed her baton, moving on before Bucky could protest. “We have to beat the storm. She will wait, but I left her gun. In case someone tries to mess with her, she can-“ Yelena made a mock gun sound, and Bucky’s frown only deepened. She never missed a mission. Once he’d been forced to bench Her, because she had a fever and was trying to join the field work. Even then, She’d talked him into surveillance and intel. 

It was probably a good thing Yelena had checked on Her. Bucky would’ve caved to damn near anything She told him, long as it didn’t put her in danger. 

But She’d volunteered to stay. 

It didn’t sit right. Bucky didn’t have a choice but to let it happen—the wind was picking up, the sky turning gray—but it kept turning, in his skull. 

He knew almost everything about Her, because he listened and watched and memorized Her like a song he wanted stuck in his head forever. He knew that She loved animals, and got cold fast, and enjoyed those romance movies but always liked books better. She didn’t like to feel useless, so he tried to remind Her of things she did after missions, and she liked learning so he’d throw in suggestions for how she could improve.

She never used Her powers, even if they could let Her take over the world in an afternoon. 

And She never just sat out a mission. Especially not one that would be really damn useful to have Her for. 

“Would be useful, for songbird to be here.” Alexei echoed Bucky’s thoughts, dragged the guard they’d knocked out over to the thumbprint pad. “Her song, soothe angriest man.”

Bucky grunted an agreement, but Jack- 

Jack scoffed. And rolled his eyes. 

Bucky wasn’t the only one who caught it. Yelena’s eyes narrowed as well. 

“What was that?” Jack waved her off. “What was what?” “That face. The one that you just made.” Yelena mimicked it. “What was this?”

“Oh. Nothing.” “No, it was something. Say what.” Yelena wasn’t suggesting. She was ordering. And it was hard, to be stupid enough to defy her. 

“It’s not a big deal. Just,” Jack said Her name, and Bucky’s jaw clenched. He didn’t like the tone, like She wasn’t something holy, gracing their tongues. 

“What about her?” His voice was lower than he wanted it to be. The fury felt like it was boiling over inside of him. 

“Nothing. She’s- I don’t know, why all make such a big deal about her, when she’s such a bitch.” Bucky saw red. Jack was still talking.  “I mean, she used her powers on me last night.” Jack looked around between them, lips curled in disgust. “Isn’t that fucked up?” He expected sympathy. Bucky could read that, all over his ugly, about to be flattened face. 

But Bucky knew Her. They all did. 

She didn’t use her powers on people. 

Not unless she was forced to. 

For a moment, Bucky wasn’t thinking. His body was reacting, without needing his mind to command it. His fist flew up, and collided with Jack’s jaw. There was a sickening crack sound, as the man fell to the ground, but no one lunged to help him. 

Bucky turned. The red behind his eyes was turning white, turning from wrath into worry. She was just alone, after what Jack had done. No one there to take care of Her, no one she trusted to talk to. 

He’d would be there. Damn the mission, the rest of the time could work it out themselves, then leave Jack to be buried in the fast-falling snow. 

Bucky was going to be there for Her. 

It had gotten so cold, so fast.  You’d been lying in bed, when Yelena came to check on you. You’d mumbled that you didn’t feel like doing much today, and she’d let it go. She knew you wouldn’t ask if you didn’t really feel horrible. You’d gotten an awkward pat on the head, a feel better, and she’d left you to wallow alone. 

You’d twisted. Turned. Stared at the ceiling, then been unable to keep your eyes open to see your own body and flipped over. Your tears stained the pillow, so you flipped that over too, and the blankets on your body were suffocating but still couldn’t be heavy enough to make you feel safe and warm. 

Slowly, as the day stretches on, everything gets darker. Not just in your head, spinning around the hallway last night—Jack, Bucky’s apathy and cold stares, everything that had been bending all week set to snap any fucking second—but literally. It was 9am, when you had to turn a lamp on to see. There wasn’t any sunlight leaking through the curtains, and when you forced yourself up to shuffle over and check the windows, the world was gray. 

It was snowing. Snowing so heavily, you couldn’t see anything but the flurry an inch outside the glass. There was a chill on your face, just from being near the glass, and your fingers shook as you closed the curtains again. 

The team had left hours ago. The bunker was only an hour away, and if they did their jobs well, they’d be fine. 

There might be fifty percent chance they’re already dead. 

You drag out your personal computer, and turn on the local news to keep an eye for avalanches. You even keep your phone face up as you huddle in your blankets, in case they need to message you. 

The tears are still falling randomly and heavily, freezing on your cheeks like snowflakes and coming from a hollow in your chest. 

A part of you had expected that, from Jack. You hadn’t wanted to, when he’d been so nice to you, but people fascinated by your powers rarely seemed to care for you. For the weight of it on your shoulders, never able to understand that you weren’t just making people to do something.

You were stripping them down to puppet. 

You watched the person fade from their eyes, and become just a doll for you to move around. You could never bare it. The first time it happened, completely on accident, you hadn’t spoken for a week out of fear you’d do it again.

So you hate him for it. Hate Jack, for forcing you to use it, and hate yourself for not being able to find another way out. You could’ve said please again, could’ve shoved him, could’ve screamed. There’s no promise it would have worked—it probably wouldn’t have—but at least you would’ve tried harder.

He wasn’t doing something good. 

There’s an itch and crawl over your bones, because you did something worse.

This is why Bucky doesn’t want you. What you are. Deep in your core below the smiles and lies, you’re just a something Bucky would never want to touch, and you’re going to turn into a forgotten, hollow shell trapped in the cold, frozen in your own body and alone. 

You gather the sheets closer, pulling them up to cover your face. The news is nothing but a muffled mumble in the background, and your fingers are still shaking. 

Your phone buzzes, but it’s not Yelena. It’s a notification from the motel, informing you that the power has gone out and the heater is broken. They’re lighting a fire in the lobby. You can’t bring your legs to pick up and carry you out of bed. 

The sun is gone behind the storm, and time passes like snow melting. Slow and fast all at once, building up and up and up until you’re unable to move or dig yourself out. The skin under your nails is the wrong shade, and when you flip your camera on, so are your lips. You’re shaking under the layers, but it’s nothing to warm you up, and when you dig your fingers into your own sides, they’re like icicles. Maybe you’re still crying. Maybe your eyes froze, and you’re never going to be able to cry again. It doesn’t really matter because you can’t feel anything but that hollowness. 

You don’t think you’ve ever been more alone in your life. 

And your eyes are hooded and fluttering, when there’s bang on your door. 

Bucky’s voice calls your name, and a whine leaves your throat that’s too small to be heard. Maybe he wouldn’t even hear it if you screamed. You’re sure your voice would crack like ice, and he doesn’t even like you anyway. You’re not sure what he’s doing here at all. 

He calls your name again. He sounds urgent. 

Maybe you’re just dreaming. You’ve certainly had dreams like this before, where he swoops in and declares that he secretly loved you the whole time, and you laugh and kiss on a giant, floating pink cloud.

It’s more likely a nightmare. He’s going to storm in and turn to a monster, snarling and sneering about how useless and cancerous and wrong you are. 

He’s shouting now, and any second his voice with turn to a growl. You burrow further under the covers, another weak whine leaving your throat. 

Bucky slams against the door, and you cower. You’re too cold to even brace yourself, but at least you know you can still cry. 

It breaks open, and you’ve never heard Bucky use that tone before. It’s broken and desperate, strange for a man who can’t bear to look at you. He may think you’re dead, and is just upset nature got to you first.

He says your name again, and you feel strong arms wrap around you. He could just be trying to choke you out anyway or going to dump you out in the snow to preserve your body, because there’s no other reason for him to be lifting you up- 

“You’re- Why the hell are you so cold-“ He swears under his breath, and you feel the mattress dip down. 

He’s sitting. 

That can’t be right. 

“Can you say something, doll? Anything so I know you’re hearin’ me, ‘cause-“ A warm hand brushes over your brown, then lingers near your mouth. “You’re breathing. Shit, you’re breathing, but- Say something. Please.”

He asks so nicely. You pull a deep, ragged groan from your chest, and you feel him tense around you.

“Alright, that’s- Good. Can work with that.” He seems to mostly be talking to himself. “Basic hypothermia, nothin’ that’ll kill you. Not if I’m here, and- Gonna kill that ass, I swear- There are some tall building that don’t have very good safety nets, and- ‘m sorry about this, sweetheart.”

You want to frown and ask what—what could possibly be making Bucky sound frantic—but you can’t feel your tongue enough to move it. There are shuffling noises, and he disappears from your side. You curl further into yourself, trying both to dredge up a plea for his return, and shove it down so you don’t make a fool of yourself. 

Then suddenly, you’re cold, so so cold, so cold you think it’s going to drag you under something you can’t get out of-

And you’re warm.

The warm comes slower. You can hear muttered apologies, and shocks of warmth on your skin. You feel bare, and even colder, then there’s nothing but heat. 

It’s pure heat wrapping around you, tangling between your legs and dragging over your arms and spine. 

“Arm’s got a heater in it.” Bucky mutters, his voice somewhere near your head. “Wakanda, huh?”

There’s a dry chuckle, and your brain is slow to understand what’s happening. It’s dragging through the draft of the wind, the cold pushing back against you, and sometimes you’ll almost connect something, then the strings will fly out of your hands. 

But you get warmer and warmer, and there’s a pleasant sound that’s deep and vibrates near your chest, and- 

Bucky. 

Bucky’s in your bed. Stripped down, and holding you. You’re stripped, to nothing but your underwear, and in Bucky’s arms. 

He’s heating you up.

And this is a different kind of heat. It’s uneasy, staining shame for him having to do this for you. Shame and twisting guilt, for how you like it. You really have dreamed about this, and you’ve held sheets at night to pretend they’re the shape of his body, but it’s nothing compared to the real this. To the dips and curves of his chest near your cheek, the strength of his thighs and rippling arms around you. 

There’s shame for how the heat is pooling, slowly but steadily, near your stomach. It feeds the shame, and something in you likes the embarrassment—at least it means you have Bucky’s attention—and that just makes you more shameful, and it feeds into itself like a raging wildfire. 

You can speak again. You’re afraid to. 

You might moan. 

At last, breaking the silence, you pull the soft words from the hollow in your chest. 

“You came back.”

Bucky stops humming, then sighs heavily. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Jack. Knew he made you use your powers. Wanted to check on you.”

You frown against his skin. That doesn’t make sense. “Check… On me?”

Bucky grunts. “Make sure he didn’t hurt you.”

“He couldn’t-“

He says your name sternly, and your words die fast. “We both know you don’t just use your powers. Whatever he did to make you-“ Bucky cuts himself off, his voice straining oddly. “Are you alright.”

“Yeah.” You breathe out, voice still hung with confusion. “I- I’m okay.”

Bucky makes a low sound, and it rolls through your whole body. Between your legs. 

You shift against him, trying to relieve some friction. He holds you tighter. He smells good, like pine trees and something warm that’s just Bucky, and it’s intoxicating. You manage to twist so that you’re facing away from him, because being this close to him and keeping yourself from moaning—whenever his hand dips too low on your back, or his thigh flexes too close to your core—is almost impossible. 

“I punched him.” Bucky breaks the long silence.

“Who?”

“Jack.”

You swallow on a lump in your throat. That wants that to mean something, when you know it doesn’t. “You didn’t have to do that-“

“I did.” He grunts, and your lips press in a tight line.

“And then you… came back?”

He sighs, breath warm near your ear. Nods.

“Why?”

“I told you.” Bucky sounds heavy. It’s nothing compared to the weight of him on your ribs, over your heart. 

“No, I-” Your voice wavers. “Why for me? You- You don’t even like me.”

Bucky stills completely. His hands splay against you, branding your skin, and you can hear him lick his lips near your ear.

“What are you talkin’ about?” His voice is oddly rough, and you frown at the air.

“You- You don’t like me. Which is- It’s fine, you don’t have to, but-“

“I like you.” 

You blink, at the harshness of his words. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes. I do, we’re-“ His voice is getting lower, like he’s trying to convince himself. “We’re friends.”

“No, we’re not?”

“Do you… Not like me?”

It’s so painful, the way the end of his sentence drops off. Hesitant. Unsure.

You really don’t understand what’s happening.

“I- I don’t-“ You’re stammering, heat flooding your cheeks. “That’s not- You don’t like me, so I-“

“Doll, I-“

“You don’t like me,” your voice is rising. It’s not helpful, to have his bare body so close to yours for him. “You don’t, you- You’re always glaring at me, and we don’t hang out-“

“We sit in the kitchen together-“

“Yeah, but- You never talk to me!”

Bucky’s fingers are digging into your sides. “Yes.” He grunts. “I do.”

“Only when you tell me how I fucked up a mission-“

“I’m givin’ you tips, and- Fuck-“ His voice caves a little again, until it’s only a rasp. “Do you really not think I like you?”

He sounds hurt. As if you did something wrong, you always do something wrong to him, and- 

You’re crying again. The tears stream silently down your cheeks, and you can’t stop yourself from turning your face into Bucky’s shoulder to hide it. Everything is still so cold, and there’s confusion and dread building in your stomach that you’ve twisted something all wrong, and he’s so warm and safe. 

His hand flies to the back of your head, and he rolls over you, shielding you from the worlds. A metal thumb comes to your cheek, wiping the tears then trying to angle your chin up. 

“This isn’t- Shit- Can you look at me?” Bucky says your name, and you try to twist away. “No, don’t- I don’t hate you. I don’t. I- Fuck, I’m not good at this, but- Look at me-“

Something hotter enters his voice, and your eyes snap up to his. Bucky looks at you with such open relief, you’re not sure you didn’t die. 

“Bucky…” You breathe out, grabbing his wrist. “I- I’m sorry, you-“

“Don’t.” He grunts. “Don’t, I’m not- You never gotta apologize. Not to me.”

You shake your head, because that doesn’t make any sense, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

“I like you, doll.” He murmurs, dropping his brow against yours. Like something impossible to hold is on his shoulders. “I like you. Always liked you, I- Fuck, I used to be good at this-“ 

He stares at you like you’re something priceless. You feel exposed, completely Bucky’s with nothing to show for it, and he’s looking at you like you’re priceless. His thumb brushes over your lower lip. His voice is so deep, you can almost feel it in your chest.

“I like you.” He mutters, thumb tracing the corner of your mouth. “I like you, please.”

Something in you snaps, at the pure, open vulnerability in his voice. At how fragile you feel, and how if his heat doesn’t melt you, it will mend you together. You surge up without thinking. 

Press your lips against his, harsh and fast. The timing is all wrong, and it’s nothing but a bumping of nose and smashing of lips. He doesn’t kiss you back, until the very last second, when you’re already pulling away. 

He dives down after you, then recoils. 

Glaring down at you, an expression identical to what you’ve seen so many times on his face. 

The only difference is his mouth hanging open. And his heartbeat, under your hand. 

Fast. 

He stares at you. You stare back, tears pricking back at your eyes, and- 

Bucky almost falls over you. And this kiss is just as sloppy as the first, but it’s anything but awkward. Bucky kisses you like he’s trying to tell you something, that nothing but his body can say. His hands wander, as his lips move relentlessly against yours. He angles his head, deepening the kiss, and all the built-up heat floods you like a wildfire. 

Your arms fly around his neck, as you kiss him back. Bucky groans, doubling his force, and you’re pinned between him and mattress. Your legs glide apart to accommodate his space, and you shiver as his metal hand finds the base of your spine, pushing you up into the muscle of his torso. 

“Bu- Bucky-“ You gasp, and he growls against your mouth. “Oh- Oh my-“

Your hips roll, because it’s too much to bear. How much you need him, how consuming he is, how happy you’d be to drown if it’s under him. Your legs drag wider, and Bucky starts a warpath down your throat, lips burning every bit of skin he can find. 

Your back arches into him, your fingers flying to his hair. It’s wet and messy, a painful pleasure when you try to chase him but find nothing. His teeth graze your neck, and it sends a shiver down your spine.  

“Please, fuck-“ You writhe below him, unable to keep still as he works you like an instrument. “More- I, I need you, so bad, Bucky, please-“

He crashes back up, kissing you until your toes curl and your head spins. 

“You are…” He pulls your head back, deepening the kiss. “Fuckin’ beautiful. You really didn’t know, did you doll. Just what you were doin’ to me, how much I wanted-“ He pulls your lip between his teeth, and you moan openly. “This.”

There’s a force, behind his kiss and his touch. It’s demanding, and you’re more than willing to give. 

Your legs are spread as wide as they can go, your hips humping up into Bucky’s body. His warmer hand slams down, right over your barely clothed core, pressing it back down into the bed. 

“Don’t do that. I’ve been tryin’ to keep it together, but if you-“ He groans, as he feels the damp spot on your panties. “Fuck, you- You’re-“

“Bucky,” you sound downright pathetic, lashes fluttering as you try to plea with him. “Need you-“

“No, you don’t-“

“Yes, I do.” Your voice breaks in a sob. He can’t just do this, then not give you more. He must really hate you, for him to torture you like that-

Bucky cuts your thoughts off with another, softer kiss. It’s impossibly sweet, making your heart flutter and a sigh escape your lips.

“Don’t cry, babydoll.” Bucky murmurs. “Nothin’ here to cry about.”

You disagree. “Please.” You whisper, holding his hooded gaze, and his tongue flicks over his lips. 

His hand presses harder, and a ruined moan escapes your lips. 

“James…”

You don’t know what makes you say it. But Bucky’s reaction is immediate. His breath catches, his eyes flashing, there’s almost a predatory focus on his face. He drags two fingers, slowly over the wet spot.

You shudder below him, moaning again, and his nostrils flare. 

“Say it again.” His words are firm, and you obey freely.

“James, please-“

Bucky kisses you again, cutting off your words into a moan. But this time, he builds up. His fingers apply a little more pressure, his palm rubbing back and forth against your clit. His tongue slides against yours, as he drags your underwear to the side, and teases his fingers over your pussy lips. 

You squirm below him, and he doesn’t break the kiss. 

“Be patient, pretty girl. Waited years.” He dips into your wetness, gathering it up before smearing it on your clit. “Gonna take my time.”

All you can do is scratch at his back and shoulders, trying to urge him on. Bucky just chuckles, rolling around your clit before moving back down, and notching his fingers right at your entrance. You aren’t strong enough, to move against him and pull him inside. Just blunt nails graze you, and your eyes roll back in your head. 

Then suddenly, he’s gone. 

It’s a split second, where your eyes fly open and you almost choke him, in an attempt to stop him from leaving. 

But he’s not even trying to. 

He’s just switching hands. 

The metal, now cool and biting against your skin, spanks your pussy lightly, and you go limp below him. 

“I’ve got you, doll.” He mutters against your lips, his eyes trained between your bodies. On where his hand is resting against your cunt. “So wet, for me. ’S for me?”

He glances up, and smirks when you nod. 

“I know.” He plants a mockingly sweet kiss on your lips. “Always knew, just thought you saw it. How much I dreamed about this, you and your pretty fuckin’ pussy-“

He slides a finger into you, and you clench tight around him, still managing to stare up at him and cling to his every word. He groans, as he pushes further in. Presses his cheek against yours, his breath hot on your ear. 

“Relax.”

You try to. You close your eyes, and let his body ease you down. Eventually you get it, and your body goes limp. You breathe heavy through your nose, as Bucky pushes his finger fully into you. Starts to pump it slowly, letting you feel him work open your walls, hitting that deep spot inside of you every time with ease. 

Bucky groans. “Knew you’d take me so good. Fuckin’- could smell when you got wet, smelled like candy, made me feel like a dog. I would’ve gotten on my knees for you, doll, but I like you like this, too.” He pushes up over you, finger picking up pace. Grins at your open, wanting expression, your arms wrapping around your stomach. “Wrecked on my fingers. Soakin’ the sheets,” he reaches up, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “So damn needy, and mine.”

You moan, and Bucky smirks. His fingers pick up pace, and it makes you feel like you’re going to burst into starlight.

“Say it,” he grunts, and the glare is back. 

Not a glare of hate, you realize in your lustful haze. 

A glare of hunger. Desire.

And something dangerously close to adoration. 

“I- Bucky, fuck-“

“Say you’re mine,” he lowers himself back down, his lips brushing yours. “Please.”

He asked so nicely again. “I- I’m yours-“ You whimper, his thumb flicking against your clit. “I’m yours, Bucky, I’m-“

You moan into his mouth, as he kisses you open and desperate.

“I can’t believe you think I could hate you.” He mutters against your lips, and you swallow. 

“James-“

“Who the hell could hate something so beautiful?”

That does it. 

Heat rushes through you, and your vision swims as you cum hard enough to light you on fire. When you float back down, Bucky is still over you. His metal hand is stroking your thigh, and it’s so quickly clear. 

That’s not enough. 

He must see it on your face, because his brows raise. There’s the glare again. 

And a tension in his body, like he’s trying to hold himself back. 

“You need more, babydoll?” He mutters, searching your face. “You want-“

“Yes.” You moan, and you’ve never seen Bucky move so fast in your life.

He sheds his underwear like they were burning him, and in the split second you see him, your mouth falls open. He’s beautiful, but thick, and you don’t know if you can take it. 

Bucky makes it easy. He mutters a quick check about birth control, tapping his head on your clit. You nod, and he kisses your forehead, breathing raggedly as he slides into your dripping cunt. 

“Fuck…” He moans, fingers finding your clit to stop you from fluttering around him. “’S…  So good-“

Whatever suave words he had before are gone. Bucky bottoms out, and sits inside of you, chest heaving as he gives you a second to adjust. 

And when he starts moving, it’s controlled. Careful, pulling far out of you before slamming back in, his eyes fixed on the way your body reacts. He rolls his hips, grabs your legs and hikes it up, hitting a sweet, deeper angle that makes you see stars. 

A broken James falls out of your lips. 

And he snaps. 

Bucky grabs your hands, from around your body, and pins them over your head. His hips start to drill into you, his cock slamming against every deep and sensitive part inside of you. You can only blink up at him, too cock-drunk to speak, sparks seeming to fly up your spine as he fucks you into a wrecked, blissed-out oblivion. 

He’s trying to talk to you, broken praise falling from his lips, but it all comes out in feral sounds. You’ve never seen him like this, his brow pinched and lips parted, body flushed and movements sharp and wild. Almost nothing he says makes much sense, and every single grunt seems to mean the same exact thing that’s lost in the friction of your bodies.

Then his mouth lands over yours, his thrusts turning short and desperate. You’re so close, seconds from tipping over the edge, and- 

“Love you,” he chokes out your name, taking a deep breath as he ruts into your g-spot. “Love you so much.”

You cum around him, arching off the bed from the full force of it. Bucky groans, swallowing your every cry of his name with his mouth, and pulls out with a groan. 

He fists himself, the head of him still tapping against your clit, and he moans your name as he paints your thighs and abdomen white. 

Bucky leans down, the kisses sweet again. Soft. 

Taking time. 

You’re too boneless to do much but return them, one hand moving up to cup his face. He grabs it, and kisses the inside of your wrist. Stands and grabs a towel from your bathroom, cleaning between your thighs in a comfortable silence. You feel like you’re floating, somewhere higher than heaven. Your head is empty, except for his touch. 

You only really know two things.

It’s so cold, while he’s gone. 

But warm again, when he slides into bed at your side. 

Safe, and warm, and loved. 

“I don’t,” he mutters in your ear, voice still rough. “Hate you.”

You smile at the air, rolling over to press your face into his chest. 

“Okay.” You hum, wrapping your arms around his chest. “I believe you.”

And as he kisses your hairline, lips soft and delicate, you really do. 

✦End note: What is fanfic for if not indulging delusion.✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦ ✦divider by @/kitsunecafe✦

[planetbucky-deactivated20260321]

HOPELESSLY DEVOTED TO YOU

18+ | MDNI

pairing: knight!bucky barnes x princess!reader

summary: a starving, homeless man who was once a knight saves you when you are attacked in the midst of a famine raging across the kingdom. james protects you instinctively, not knowing who you are, and moved by guilt, admiration and an immediate affection, you insist on helping him. still feeling unworthy of your touch and kindness, james’ devotion to you becomes absolute, shaped by gratitude, love and obsession.

warnings: she/her pronouns for reader; age gap (reader's in her 20s; bucky's in his late 30s); forbidden love/secret relationship; angst; mention of poverty & famine; terrible parents; brief attempted sexual assault; reader gets tipsy in one scene; wounds & blood; one brief panic attack; sword training; virgin!reader; reader wears dresses & has hair; bucky is called james; dark-ish!bucky; obsessed!bucky; protective!bucky; devoted!bucky (he’s pathetically whipped); size difference (yes he’s huge, yes he has a big dick); jealousy & possessiveness; yearning; feelings of guilt; mentions of religion; self-loathing; fluff; smut; masturbation (f & m); handjob; nipple play; oral (f & m); outdoor sexual activities; intercrural sex; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); multiple orgasms; creampie.

word count: 20.3k

a/n: big disclaimer → I wanted to set this in a time with no technology but with certain comforts, like running water 🥲 so don’t look too much into it pls. in general, I took as reference the middle ages in europe but I don't think there are many references/details about the reader's fashion and the general aesthetic of the story, so feel free to imagine whatever you want! also, the language is not accurate because I only speak present-day english. I tried to embellish it but I’m not sure, especially in the smutty parts. I’m also sorry if some parts feel a little rushed, but I was very tired.

hope you’ll enjoy!

The town is quieter than it should have been. The market stalls stand half-empty, their awnings flapping like broken wings in the wind. Smoke curls from chimneys, thin and bitter, carrying the smell of boiled roots and old grain. You walk slowly, your cloak drawn tight, counting the steps so you would not seem lost.

You needed to see it for yourself. The damage done by Father’s foolish delusions of grandeur. The heavy taxes levied to fund a recent failed campaign were destroying your kingdom. The court spoke of victory delayed, of honor salvaged from defeat, but the streets tell a different story. Grain sacks are gone. Meat is a memory. Even the dogs are thin.

The people bow to your image in the tapestries, yet curse your shadow in the streets, and never once saw your face. 

Your parents never let you be anything but a symbol. At the palace, hands guide your steps; voices decide when you sleep, what you eat, whom you might speak to. They dress you in silk and call it protection, as though walls and guards could keep the truth from you forever.

But a symbol does not ache when it sees a child with hollow eyes. A symbol does not feel shame.

You slow near an alley, your breath fogging the air. Once, this place was loud with haggling and laughter. Now, it is only acrid smells and hunger.

If you stayed inside, you could pretend this is necessary. You could pretend Father was right. That's why you are here. Not to be brave. Not to be reckless. But because if you did not look, if you did not know, then you would be complicit in the lie.

Your heart thuds painfully as you pass a man crouched beside a wall, hands wrapped in rags. He does not look up. 

The sound of footsteps behind you come too fast, too close. And for the first time since leaving the palace, you feel afraid. A shout breaks the stillness.

“Oi! You.”

You turn.

Three men stand near a shuttered stall. Their clothes are patched, boots worn to the sole. One holds a cudgel, another a knife more suited for bread than flesh.

“You lost?” One asks. “Or just brave?”

You swallow, trying to appear confident but not provoking. “I’m going home.” 

“Not with a cloak like that.” The one with the knife says, pointing at you with the utensil. “Not when my children haven’t eaten in three days.”

He dives for you. But he never reaches you.

The air moves.

Someone strikes him from the side, hard enough that he stumbles into the stall, sending rotten apples rolling across the stones. The second man swings blindly and misses as a hand seizes his wrist and twists until the cudgel clatters to the ground.

The third fleds immediately.

The man before you sways dangerously, breath coming in sharp bursts. He is so much taller than you, yet terribly thin. His coat is threadbare, his boots rimed with frost. Dried blood darkens his knuckles.

“You should not walk here.” The stranger utters, still giving you his back. “People are hungry. Angry. They don't see faces anymore.”

“You saved, you were watching.” You marvel, still shocked.

He shrugs faintly. “Someone should.” Then he takes a step forward, possibly to leave, and falters, but you catch his arm.

“Careful.”

He stiffens instantly, pulling away as though your touch hurt.

“Don’t,” he whispers. “Please.”

You notice then how badly he is shaking. “You’re freezing.”

“I’m used to it.”

You study him properly now: the way he carries himself despite his weakness, the scars on his hands, the instinctive way he had placed himself between you and danger. Your lips part to ask more, but within moments, you are flanked by several men in armor, men he immediately recognizes as royal knights. 

“Princess! Oh Gods! Please return to the castle. The King and Queen are worried sick.” Your Father’s trusted man throw a disgusted glance at the shivering man, who had carefully moved to the side when he saw them arrive. “It is not wise to interact with… Beings such as this one.”

You shoot the knight a look that quickly makes him cower in shame. “If I were to ignore a dying man when I am able to help, who am I to call myself a princess of the people?”

The man attempts to pull his head away, but is both too weak and too mesmerized by your beauty to do anything. He lets you feed and nurture him as he is taken back to the palace.

Over the next few days, James is taken care of thoroughly by the palace staff, his every need tended to. As he recovers, you visit him as much as your “duties” allow, chatting with him and making sure he is being treated well. He feels strange when he starts looking forward to your visits, even wanting to recover faster so he can stay by your side at all times.

And he is able to achieve that wish: his old rank is restored and eventually, you convince your Father to appoint James as your personal guard. It is not easy to get back in the field, although the training is deeply ingrained into his mind and muscles, James still has to get back in shape.

And almost six months later, he kneels before you as your personal knight. He pushes his limits and regains his strength… Only for you. 

Gaining your trust, well, that is not difficult at all. After all, you are a kind and fair princess. You do not judge him for being a dishonored knight. 

And now he is your knight, and you believe in his strength. 

James learns the palace the way a starving man learns the sound of bread breaking. Not by comfort, but by need.

He stands at the edges of rooms, where tapestries dull sound and shadows gather like confessionals, and he observes. Observing had once saved his life. Observing had saved yours. 

He tells himself his actions are righteous. He repeats it until it feels carved into his bones. Devotion is not desire, it is vigilance. It is the willingness to be unthanked and unseen. It is standing between cruelty and gentleness even when the cruelty wears lace and smiles.

You move through the halls like something unspoiled by them. Kindness clings to your form— not the rehearsed sort, but the quiet habit of it. You thank servants by name, you listen too long. You assume goodness where there is only spite and envy. It makes you radiant, yet vulnerable.

And it makes something inside him tighten until it hurts.

James hates that tightening. He names it sin. He names it presumption. He reminds himself nightly of the distance between what he is and what you represent. A dishonored knight with cracked hands and a body that still remembers cold; a man who has slept beside rotting food and rats. He does not deserve to look at you longer than duty required.

So he watches the others instead.

He sees how the maids soften their voices when you walk by, how admiration blooms briefly on their faces before souring into calculation once your back is turned. Compliments become comparisons. Gratitude twists into grievance. They speak of your gowns while scraping plates clean; of your gentleness as if it is ignorance. As if you are not the only reason some of them still eat.

He catalogues it all.

Names. Times. Corridors. Patterns of malice that hide behind familiarity. He notes which butlers linger near doors, which knights laugh too quickly when your name is mentioned; the younger, loud, good-for-nothing knights and squires following your curves with nothing more than lechery in their eyes. And then the servants who pass rumors like currency. 

He listens for repetition and invention.

At first, he convinces himself this is still duty. Then he begins waking already angry.

The palace guards trust him, he has bled with them after all. The servants fear him, though they could not understand why. James does not threaten, nor accuse without proof. He simply knows too much, and he remembers everything. Evidence gathers itself naturally around a man who knows how to move in the shadows.

Reports are made and dismissals follow. A maid vanishes from service. A butler is reassigned, then imprisoned when the lies unravel under scrutiny. A knight is stripped of rank for words spoken in what he believed was privacy.

And James feels no guilt.

Each removal feels like clearing rot from a wound, and each punishment is proportionate, necessary. Mercy toward wolves is cruelty toward lambs. He tells himself he is protecting the realm by protecting you.

However, it is not enough.

James watches you too closely— not out of distrust, but reverence. He memorizes your routines, the way you tire in the evenings after hours spent studying foreign languages and basic accounting. The moments when the weight of your crown bends your posture just slightly. He learns the cadence of your footsteps, notices how often you smile when you should have hardened.

Love creeps in not like fire, but like frost: silent, consuming, undeniable.

He loathes himself for it.

James has never been a religious man, yet he kneels in the chapel, though his prayers do not ask for forgiveness for desire. They ask for eradication of it. He begs to be made smaller. Less wanting. Less aware. But the gods are silent, too indifferent, and leave him with a heart that would gladly stop beating if it meant you never learned how ugly the world could be.

He does not imagine you loving him. That would have been blasphemy.

What he imagines, what terrifies him, is a future in which you are hurt by someone he has failed to notice in time.

That thought hollows him. So he tightens his watch, narrows the circle. Recommends replacements chosen for loyalty rather than charm. He shapes your household into something cleaner, quieter, safer. A controlled environment.

James refuses to acknowledge this is no longer just devotion. However, he does not stop. Because if love is a sin, then he would commit it fully— wordlessly, invisibly, with his hands forever stained so yours could remain clean.

For most of your life, safety has been a public thing. Guards at doors, walls thick with stone, rules spoken in your name but never to you. You have been protected like an untouched object preserved behind glass. Your parents love the idea of you. The symbol. The promise. They raised you to be admired from a distance, not known. Needs were anticipated only in the broadest sense; no one noticed the small ones. No one ever asked what frightened you when the halls went quiet at night.

James noticed.

He does not overwhelm you with affection. He does not flatter, nor treats you as something delicate that might shatter if handled honestly. His care is deliberate, almost severe, as if your well-being is a task that demands his full attention and exacting standards.

And somehow, this makes you breathe easier.

You feel it in the subtle shifts of the palace; the way certain voices are now a distant memory, the way the air around you grows less sharp. Malice retreats without spectacle, removed so quietly that you never have to confront it directly. You simply wake each morning feeling less braced for disappointment.

Of course, this did not happen by accident.

James stands closer now. Not intrusively, but constantly. His presence is like a held breath— steady, grounding. He watches your surroundings with an intensity that makes you feel chosen, worth the effort. Worth the vigilance.

And no one had ever guarded your mind before.

You realize one evening that you no longer replay conversations in your head, searching for hidden meanings or mockery. You no longer wonder who smiles at you out of obligation or resentment. The burden of discernment, of emotional defense, has been lifted from your shoulders and placed, willingly, on his. And you trust him with it.

Perhaps you should have questioned the depth of his seriousness, the way his attention never truly strays. But you have grown up invisible in rooms full of people. To be the center of someone’s unwavering focus feels less like danger and more like coming home.

The cost of his devotion is engraved in the lines of his restraint. In how little he asks for himself. James looks at you not as something to possess, but as something to preserve, even from the uglier truths of the world.

And you begin to love him for that. Quietly. Fiercely. With the kind of love born not from fantasy, but from relief.

With James, you do not have to perform kindness or strength. You are allowed to rest. To be uncertain, human. His protection extends beyond blades and walls— it wraps around your thoughts, your fears, your softest hesitations, and holds them without judgment.

If others might have called it excessive, you do not. Because for the first time in your life, someone decided that your peace was worth defending at any cost.

And you have never felt safer than you do in the care of a man who watches the world so closely, so that you do not have to.

What James did not anticipate, is how his quiet work would come back to hunt him in the sweetest of ways.

It is late at night when he first sees your bare back. You are bathing, him standing by the door, facing it to guard you, standing stiffly as his eyes squeeze shut at the sounds of fabric falling on the floor and water rippling as your body slowly lowers into the tub. 

Having been pampered your entire life, you do not exactly know how to properly bathe yourself. Now that all your maids have been removed, you do not know what to do with yourself. Your knight has yet to find new ones.

“James?” Your voice is soft, hesitant, carrying the faintest edge of embarrassment. “Could you… Help me, please?”

A sharp pang of panic runs through him. He had never imagined he would be entrusted with such an intimate task— not in all his years of service, not in any scenario he had ever faced. The thought of seeing you bare, of grazing the delicate flesh of your skin, makes his stomach twist and his heart race.

He swallows hard, forcing his voice steady. “Yes, Your Highness. I can help.” 

The tips of his ear turn red when he finally turns, seeing your naked back turned to him. It is enough to have his cock straining in his pants.

“I cannot wash my back by myself. The new arrangements… I don’t know how to manage without you.”

He nods once, stiffly, and approaches, careful to avert his eyes for a moment before lifting his gaze reluctantly to meet your body. Every motion is deliberate, measured, his mind screaming with the need to maintain propriety while the reality of the task presses on him.

Moving the washcloth against your soft flesh feels almost sinful. You are his Princess, and yet he is touching forbidden territory. Your skin is warm, and with his gloves meticulously removed to move freely, his rough pads end up accidentally brushing it. His pulse spikes violently. James clenches his jaw to keep from faltering, focusing only on the sponge. His hands are surprisingly steady, but every fiber of his body is aware, painfully aware, of the proximity, of the trust, of the vulnerability you display with him.

“I–I didn’t expect–” James starts, but stops himself. Words fail him. Did he create this? By clearing out the staff? He only wanted to protect you, and now… His chest tightens. The room seems unbearably small, every breath too loud, every heartbeat a reminder of the delicate balance between duty and desire.

You glance over your shoulder, expression collected, and entirely unaware of the storm inside him. “I’m glad you’re here.” The softness in your voice tears him apart, both from relief and a quiet shame flooding his veins.

James swallows again, simply nodding and forcing his composure. This is his responsibility, at least until he finds the perfect staff for you. He must remain a knight first, a protector. Nothing more. No misstep. No lapse.

But as he finishes lathering your skin in soap, your back straight but not tense, he realizes something unsettling: he had not planned for this— never imagined that by protecting you, he would also be drawn into this intimate, fragile space where obligation and lust intertwine.

And yet, he would not flinch. He would not let his internal struggle interfere with your well-being.

“Better?” He asks quietly, stepping back.

You smile faintly and serene, almost turning completely to face him. “Much better. Thank you, James. Truly.”

He nods, breath hitching and eyes inevitably falling on your arm, pressed against your soft breast, the supple flesh squished up for him to admire. 

His thoughts are a tumult of guilt and restrained longing as he quickly turns back to the door, ashamed of the painful pressure of his cock against the armor.

Days pass quietly, but with an undercurrent James cannot shake. The palace staff has been pruned, but their absence left gaps he had not anticipated. Small tasks, once invisible, now fall squarely on him: arranging your dresses, ensuring your meals are properly presented, checking that your chambers are warm and secure.

He moves through these duties with the precision of a knight, but each time you summon him closer, he feels that old, familiar ache— the impossible combination of desire and guilt. You never demand more than you need, never tease or provoke him, yet the intimacy of your blind trust weighs on him as heavily as any sword in battle.

“James.” His name falls softly from your lips, too familiar, and he curses the day he insisted you dropped the 'Sir'.

He appears instantly, seeing you standing by the window, struggling with a necklace clasp, and he approaches carefully, trying to quell the familiar heat in his belly.

“Allow me.” He simply answers, taking your hands gently. The slight tremble of your fingers makes him swallow hard. You offering him a space he should never enter digs a hole in his chest.

When the clasp clicks into place, he steps back for you to turn with a faint smile. “Thank you. I do not know what I would do without you.”

James’s jaw tightens. By removing those who were unkind, he made you rely on him in ways he never anticipated. And now, he must remain constant, always vigilant, always near.

The day continues, and small tasks repeat: adjusting your gowns, fetching books, preparing for audiences, making sure you have what you need. Each time he approaches, his mind wages war between propriety and the intimate closeness that both terrifies and captivates him.

At night, when he checks on your chambers before taking his own rest, he finds himself lingering, hesitant to leave your side. Sometimes you are already asleep; sometimes you are sitting quietly, reading by candlelight, and he would stand nearby, silently present, the steady beat of your life a tether to his own restraint.

He had sworn to protect you, and he would. But this proximity, the trust you place in him for even the smallest details, tests him in ways he had never expected. James cannot act on his longing; to do so would mean betray your trust and his honor. Yet every quiet glance, every small touch he offers in service, carries a weight he cannot escape.

The problem is, he does not wish for this closeness to end. He could not imagine a life where he is not your shield, your constant, your quiet presence.

James exhales softly, closing the door behind him, his hand lingering on the frame for a moment as if to reinforce the promise he has made to himself— and to you. He would serve you in all ways, endure the tension, and keep his heart restrained, no matter how excruciatingly close they become.

The afternoon sunlight gently spills through the glass as James kneels by a small stack of books, organizing them for you. You sit in the window alcove, your skirts pooled neatly around you, idly alternating between admiring the palace gardens and watching him.

“James.” A playful lilt to your voice. “You do take your duties quite seriously, don’t you?”

He glances up, austere as always. “A knight must be thorough. Carelessness invites danger.”

Your lips slightly curve up, eyes sparkling. “But must you hover so close even when I am perfectly capable?”

His chest tightens, and he swallows, aware of the weight of your gaze and the subtle challenge in your tone. “I… Cannot risk your well-being, Your Highness. It is my responsibility to remain near.”

You lean forward, resting your chin on your hands, teasing now. “You act as if I am made of glass.”

James’ lips press into a thin line, his jaw tight. Every word reminds him of your vulnerability, your trust in him, and the ache in his chest intensifies. “Glass can be shattered, after all.” He admits quietly.

You chuckle softly, and the sound is like the first rays of sun touching his face after a long, rigid winter. “Then I suppose I must rely on you to remain unbroken.”

He freezes, heart hammering against his ribs. You trust him and lean on him, and yet you tease, lightly, as if to test the boundaries he cannot cross.

For a long moment, you simply look at each other, the unspoken tension stretching taut between you. Then you smile faintly, the way you do when you feel safe enough to let your amusement peek out. 

The silence lingers until James clears his throat. “There is… Another matter we should discuss.” His voice is quiet, tinged with hesitation.

You raise an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Oh?”

“I cannot always be within reach.” His eyes set on your skirts. “And if you ever are in danger, you must have some means to defend yourself.”

Your eyes widen slightly, the mischievous curve of your lips dims a little. “Are you suggesting I— learn to fight?”

James nods. A knot in is throat forms at the sole thought of you facing danger alone, however theoretical. “I will talk with the King and the Queen and then teach you. It is prudent.”

Your eyes soften, warmth threading through your gaze. “James, you are quite serious, aren’t you?”

“I am always serious about your safety.” He frowns. But beneath the calm, his heart lurches at the mental image of him guiding your hands on a sword, of being close enough to correct your stance, to instruct you, and watch your strength grow.

You lean back against the window frame, a faint laugh escaping your lips. “Very well, then. I trust you, of course. But I suspect this will be more entertaining for you than it should be.”

Your trust is a tether, your teasing a challenge. And for the first time in days, he allows himself a small, private acknowledgment of the truth: he would do anything, risk anything, to see you safe, to see you grow strong, and to remain by your side.

You meet before dawn four days after that conversation.

The practice yard lays half-swallowed by mist, the stones damp beneath your feet. James has chosen the hour carefully after your parents’ affronted reaction to his proposal— no servants awake, no guards lingering. Even the birds seem reluctant to speak.

He places the sword in your hands with reverence that borders on fear.

“It’s heavier than it looks.” He warns, already adjusting your grip before you could answer. His fingers barely touch yours, as if even that contact might betray him.

“I’ve held heavier expectations.” The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself, then his expression sobers.

“This isn’t play. If you ever draw a blade, it will be because something has already gone wrong.”

You glance at him. “You are very cheerful this morning.”

James does not smile. He steps back, eyes scanning the empty yard out of habit before settling on you again. When he speaks, his voice is lower, rougher.

“There may come a moment when I am too far from you.”

The words lodge in his throat. He swallows once, hard, as if forcing down something bitter and choking.

“Too far.” He continues, slower now. “To place myself between you and someone who means you harm.”

His eyes change. They always do when he imagines it— darkened, unfocused, as though he is seeing something layered over the present. A corridor too long. A door too slow to open. Your voice cut off mid-breath.

His hand curls unconsciously at his side.

“You look as though you’re facing an execution.” You try to lighten the spirit.

Yet he drags his gaze back to you, haunted. “I am.”

You laugh then, a soft, unguarded sound that mists in the cold air. “James, if danger ever finds me, I’m certain you will find a way to reach it first.”

He stares at you. That, more than anything, terrifies him. Certainty is fragile. It breaks.

“I would rather you never need to rely on that.” He utters. “Not even once.”

You lower your chin, solemn. “You tried to convince my parents of this.”

“Yes.”

“And they said no.”

“They said,” he starts tightly. “That no daughter of theirs will learn to wield a weapon like a common soldier.”

You hum, lips pressed together. “As if harm recognizes breeding.”

“Exactly.”

He steps closer behind you, correcting your stance, positioning your shoulders. This time he does not flinch from the contact, his hands are steady. Controlled.

“Feet apart,” he instructs. “Balance is survival. Strength is secondary.”

You follow his guidance easily, too easily, as if you were always meant to stand this way.

The warmth of your body seeps through his armor. “Promise me something.” His eyes fix on the side of your face.

“That sounds ominous.”

“If I say run,” he quietly continues. “You run. Not toward guards. Not toward courtiers. Away. Distance is defense.”

“And if you say fight?”

His jaw tightened. “Then you fight like your life depends on it. Because it does.”

Having your back pressed against his front as his hands engulf yours on the hilt of the sword, watching as you get flustered as he inevitably breathes against your neck, makes something warm stir in his belly. 

“Again.” James exclaims, this time leaving your softness to face you, lifting his own blade. “From the guard position.”

Steel meets steel, and though he keeps repeating to himself this is preparation for a future he prays would never come, James could not stop the thought that haunts him most.

If the world ever reached for you, it would have to go through him— or leave you armed enough to survive without him.

Both possibilities terrify him equally.

James does not follow you back to the palace. He waits until your footsteps fade, until the mist thins and the yard feels abandoned again, before allowing his hands to tremble.

The sword lays where he has placed it, resting against the stone as if nothing sacred had just passed between them. He stares at it for a long time, breathing through his nose, counting each breath the way he once did in battle to keep himself from vomiting fear.

He has imagined you bleeding before.

The thought arrived unbidden, vivid as memory: your silky sleeves darkened, your breath catching in that small, shocked way bodies do when they realize they are wounded. The image makes his vision blur.

James bends sharply at the waist, palms braced on his knees.

This is what devotion does when it goes too far. It punishes imagination and weaponizes love.

He presses his thumb into the old scar on his left wrist, grounding himself in pain that was once real, not hypothetical. He reminds himself you had laughed, trusted him enough to point the blade meant to slay for you, at you. And you are confident in his ability to reach you no matter the distance.

That belief is heavier than armor.

“I will not fail you.” He whispers into the empty yard, the words torn from him before he could stop them.

The vow settles into his bones, ancient and irrevocable. He straightens slowly, forcing his breathing to steady. Control is the difference between protection and possession. He repeats that like doctrine, though he no longer knows where the line lies.

As he walks the perimeter of the yard, habit takes over. He checks sidelines, counts exits, measures distances between walls. How long would it take to cross them at a sprint? How much time would he lose if the ground were slick with rain? If the halls were crowded?

James sinks onto the cold stone bench near the wall and finally allows himself to sit with the truth he has been refusing to name.

He loves you.

Not as a knight loves a liege. Not as a man loves an idea. James loves you in the way starved things love warmth, with desperation and fear, and the knowledge that one day it might be taken away.

He abhors himself for it.

Love made him want to narrow your world until nothing could reach you. It made him want to decide for you, shield you from pain. Your laughter vibrates through the inside of his ribs, waking his numb, reluctant heart.

Although he would give his life to protect you, he hopes he never has to. Not for fear of dying– no death could be more honorable than the one in your name– but because every moment at your side is a blessing he is not worthy of, yet needs more than oxygen itself.

He stands at your door every day, longing for the moment when the sun rises and he is the first person you see when you open your pretty eyes. And then you smile at him, a lowly knight. And it feels as though the Gods have knelt before him.

And you have chosen him. Not with declarations or promises, but with trust. With your presence in a forbidden yard at dawn. With your willingness to place a blade in your hands because he asked you to.

That trust is sacred.

James bows his head, forearms resting on his thighs, and closes his eyes.

He prays then, for restraint. For the strength to guard without caging. To love without claiming. To be sharp enough to cut down threats and gentle enough not to become one.

If the Gods are listening, he does not know, but when he finally rises, the trembling has stopped.

The world remains dangerous, and the distance between him and you would never truly disappear. But he would bear it. He would bear everything. Because if his fear is the price of your safety, James would pay it every morning, in silence, long before the sun rises.

The city smells different now.

Bread, for one. Fresh, yeasted, unmistakable. Smoke comes from hearths instead of ruins. Laughters resound through the streets— still thin, cautious, but real. James walks beside you, who are hidden in a plain cloak with the hood thrown back despite his earlier insistence. Your head turns slowly as you walk, eyes bright taking everything in as if afraid it might vanish if you blink.

He hates crowds.

Not because of noise, but because of angles. Too many hands. Too many blind spots. Too many ways to lose you in the space of a single breath.

He stays close enough that his shoulder brushes yours when the street narrows. His hand hovers near the hilt beneath his cloak, fingers flexing, measuring distance with every step.

You notice, of course.

“Look.” You say, stopping suddenly. James nearly collides with you.

You gesture toward a baker’s stall where a line has formed— not orderly, or desperate, just waiting. A woman chuckles when flour dusts her nose. A child clutches a warm loaf like treasure.

“They are smiling.” You exhale, as if a boulder was removed from your chest. “They are not in despair.”

James scans the faces automatically. Hope does not erase resentment.

“They do not know who you are.” He answers under his breath.

“That’s the point.”

Then, it happens. A man brushes past you, jostled by the crowd. James’ hand snaps out before he can stop himself, fingers closing around the stranger’s wrist with bruising force.

The man yelps, and the street goes still.

James realizes what he has done a heartbeat too late.

The stranger stares at him, wide-eyed, more startled than angry, and the knight releases the man at once and steps back, forcing his hands to unclench.

“My apologies.” He utters stiffly.

The man nods quickly and hurries away, rubbing his wrist amongst the whispers rippling through the nearby crowd. Curious glances linger but the crowd resumes its organized chaos.

James feels it then, the familiar heat behind his eyes, the rush of imagined outcomes. A blade hidden in a sleeve. A knife meant for your ribs. Blood on stone. 

Always blood.

He shifts, placing himself between you and the others without thinking.

Your hand touches his arm. Light. Steady.

“James.” You call quietly. “I’m here.”

The words anchor him more firmly than any command.

He draws in a slow breath. Then another. The city does not erupt. No one rushes them. The moment passes like a storm that decided, at the last instant, not to break.

“I apologize, Your Highness.” His cheeks heat up, unable to look at you. “Crowds make me… Vigilant. I did not mean to frighten you.”

You study his face, the tight control, the faint tremor he could not quite banish.

“You did not frighten me. You frightened yourself.”

He says nothing, but his back tenses at your simple yet smart answer.

After that, you move on more slowly. You linger at stalls, speak with vendors, listen to stories of loss and cautious recovery. James stays close, but he forces his hands to remain still, his posture relaxed. At one point, you laugh— openly, brightly— at something a cloth merchant said. The sound turns heads and the urge to pull you back, to protect your smile from the world’s hunger is torturing.

Yet James swallows it down.

When you finally reach a quieter square, you stop and turn to face him.

“You do not need to carry all of this alone.” Your voice is gentle, like a man coaxing a scared, hungry mutt. “I know the world is dangerous. But it is healing.”

His gaze drops to the stones between you.

“I cannot unsee what it has done to you.” He confesses. “Or what it could still do.”

You step closer, lowering your voice. “And I cannot pretend I do not feel safer because you see it.”

Your eyes meet. Something passes between you, something unspoken and fragile, broken by James straightening, discipline reasserting itself like armor locking into place.

“Shall we continue?” He asks.

You smile at him, soft and certain. “Yes. Together.”

And as you walk on, James keeps his control, telling himself that this, too, is protection: allowing you to stand in the light, even while he remains watchful in the shadow.

The ballroom is blazing with light tonight. Gold and crystal catch the music and scatter it back across the polished floor. The banner of the Stark kingdom hangs side by side with yours, stitched together in forced harmony. Peace celebrated loudly, insistently.

James stands where he always does in these occasions: near enough to reach you in three strides, far enough to pretend that is all he wants.

You move from partner to partner with practiced grace. Hands offered. Bows exchanged. Smiles given.

Not the ones reserved for him. Never. 

These are the polite ones, when your mouth curves careful and symmetrical, but your eyes remain distant. The smiles you wear the way one wears gloves: necessary, correct, impersonal.

The real ones reach your eyes first, soften your shoulders. Steal a fraction of your breath, as if joy surprises you every time it arrives. 

Men try their luck anyway.

One laughs too loudly, leaning in too close. Another lets his hand linger at your waist longer than custom allowed. James feels each trespass like a blade dragged slowly across his ribs.

He catalogues them. Faces. Names. Countries. How their fingers press. How your shoulders tense by degrees so small no one else would notice.

No one else would know that your tension is the price of politeness.

James’ jaw aches halfway through the night. Thus, when the chance comes, he takes it without hesitation.

The knight steps forward during the brief chaos of a song’s end and inclines his head toward your current partner. “Your Highness,” he turns to you evenly. “There is a matter requiring your attention.”

Relief flickers across your face before you can mask it. “Of course.” You exclaim, already withdrawing your hand. “If you’ll excuse me.”

The man bows, disappointed but powerless.

James does not look back at him.

You move through the crowd and out into the night. The gardens greet you with cool air and darkness scented with flowers; the loud roar of chattering replaced by the crickets singing. 

And that’s when your shoulders drop at once.

“You saved me.” A touch of laughter in your voice. “I was beginning to think I’d danced with half the room.”

The corners of his mouth lift slightly but it is too late to hide it. You smile at him, not the careful one.

Your steps are unhurried as your heels carefully hit the pebbled path. Lanterns cast warm pools of light across hedges and marble statues. You speak of the foreign dignitaries, the strained conversations, the effort of celebrating peace with people who had once cheered for blood.

“They’re trying to ignore what happened.” You sigh. “Some of them, at least.”

“They are too busy trying to impress you.” James corrects.

You glance at him, lips thin to hide your amused grin. “You say that as if it is a crime.”

“It is when they forget themselves.”

Your lips curve in betrayal. “I knew you were watching.”

“I always watch.”

You reach a bench half-hidden by ivy, and you sit with a tired sigh, tipping your head back to look at the stars.

“I love it out here.” You hum. “No expectations. No hands I have to pretend not to notice.”

“You should not have to pretend.” He grits out. Your head twists toward him, your eyes bright— too bright. Wine, he realizes. Not enough to dull your mind, but enough to soften your edges.

You raise suddenly and hold out your hand.

“Dance with me.”

The words hit him like a physical blow.

“No.” 

You blink, taken aback. “That was very fast.”

“I won’t.” He corrects, suddenly recognizing how it came out. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” You tilt your head to the side and James wants to avert his eyes at the adorable action.

Because I want to tear apart every man who touched you.

Because if I hold you like that, I will forget who I am.

Because I will never want to let go.

“Because I am not meant to.” He opts to say instead.

But you do not give up, stepping closer, close enough that he could smell wine and flowers and something uniquely yours. Your fingers rest lightly against his breastplate.

“You are always protecting me.” You whisper. “Tonight, protect me from the memory of that ballroom, James.”

Your smile, gentle, coaxing, unbearably sure of him, undoes the last of his defenses.

He closes his eyes once, then takes your hand.

The music drifts faintly through the open doors, lutes and harps weaving a melody too light for the weight it carries. He leads you closer, aware of every point of contact: your palm warm in his, your other hand on his shoulder, his arm around your waist where no one could see.

James forgets to breathe.

Your gown catches the moonlight like something living, fancy silk and threads of gold shifting with every measured step. It is not extravagance that makes you radiant, but the way you hold yourself— chin lifted, shoulders straight, your movements deliberate and calm. They lend you a gravity no jewel could grant.

Noblemen came to you one by one, offering hands heavy with rings, and bows practiced to perfection. They touched your hands, turned you beneath raised arms. Drew too close, lingered too long. He told himself he had no right, no title, no place in this bright circle of silk and music. He is only a knight, standing guard as he has been taught, watching as others enjoy what duty denies him.

And yet you fit here best, in his arms.

To them, you are beauty and alliance, grace wrapped in soft gowns. To him, you are the woman who has looked at a freezing stranger with tenderness and who spoke his name as if it mattered.

For a moment, James forgets the armor, the crown. The distance that should have stood between you two. Your bodies move harmoniously at once, laughter ghosting across your lips as he spins you once, twice, your head tipped toward his chest.

“This,” You murmur. “is much better.”

His heart thunders.

James feels the echo of fury still coiled inside him, the memory of other hands where his now rest. It flares, and then dissolves, replaced by something dangerously tender.

He is not your guard now. He is just a man holding the woman he loves, under the stars, while the world pretends to be at peace.

And when the song ends, James knows— terrifyingly— that forgetting would be far harder than remembering.

Reality hits like cold water.

It rushes in the moment the music fades, the gardens fall quiet, and the distance between you, social, moral, irrevocable, reasserts itself with cruel clarity. He releases you at once, stepping back as if you burned him, bowing his head to hide the flush that creeps up his neck.

You do not look offended, too busy to unsuccessfully try to stifle a yawn. 

“Let me accompany you back to your chamber, Your Highness.” He jumps immediately, softer than intended.

The palace corridors are dimmer now, most guests still lingering in the ballroom, their laughter echoing faintly through marble. Your steps are slow as you walk, the tipsiness you had shrugged off in the garden making itself known.

You sway once and James catches you without thought, his hand firm at your elbow, his other steadying your waist. Your body leans into his for a fraction of a second, unguarded.

Every muscle in his body locks.

“I’ve got you.” He murmurs.

“I know.” You sigh content, and let him guide you the rest of the way.

He focuses on the path. On the cadence of your steps. On anything but the warmth of you through the thin silk of your gown, the way the fabric shifts beneath his fingers when you move. He keeps his hold precise, innocent, as though he were escorting you across ice.

Your chambers door open onto quiet and candlelight, the familiar scent of parchment and flowers settling around you. You slip from his grasp reluctantly, sinking onto the edge of the bed with a sigh that speaks of utter exhaustion.

“James.” You start, rubbing your eyes. “Would you help me?”

He freezes.

“With… ?” He asks carefully.

“My dress.” You whine softly, gesturing vaguely over your shoulder. “It’s late, and Natalia is already asleep. I do not want to bother her.”

His mind stutters, then reels.

“I— Your Highness—” He stops, recalibrates. “If you are certain.”

You smile at him, small and drowsy. “You already helped me before Natalia and Wanda's arrival. I trust you.”

That is the problem.

He approaches as one might approach a sacred thing: reverently, and acutely aware of the consequences of a misstep. His fingers find the laces at the back of your gown, knotted more tightly than he expected.

“Tell me if I pull too hard.” He warns with a voice steadier than he thought.

“I will.” You promise.

He works with painstaking care, eyes fixed on the task, not the person wearing it. Still, when the laces loosen, the fabric parts just enough to reveal a sliver of bare skin, warm and undeniably real.

His breath hitches.

The sight alone is enough to make his heartbeat quicken. He turns his head slightly, giving you what privacy he could while finishing the last tie by touch alone.

“There.” He replies hoarsely. “You should be able to manage the rest.”

You nod, already shrugging the gown from your shoulders with a tired clumsiness that makes his chest seize.

“I’ll wait outside.” He steps back quickly. “Just beyond the door. In case you—” He stops himself. “In case you need more help.”

You look at him over your shoulder then, something soft and grateful in your expression.

“Thank you.”

He bows once and steps out, closing the door gently behind him.

The corridor feels colder without you.

James rests his forehead briefly against the marble wall, breathing slowly, deliberately, until the world steadies. He told himself this is composure. That restraint is not weakness. That love, real love, is proven by what one refuses to take.

He straightens as footsteps echo inside the room, alert again, every sense attuned.

“I’m in bed.” You call softly.

Only then does he allows himself to exhale.

He remains there until he is certain your breathing has deepened into sleep, standing watch in silence, guarding not just your door, but that fragile line, held together by nothing more than his will.

And tonight, he holds it.

Barely.

James returns to his quarters, shutting the door behind him with deliberate care. For a long time, he simply stands there.

The image of you— drowsy, unguarded; the warmth of your back beneath his fingers. The silk sliding away. The way his name had sounded on your lips, softened by weariness and wine.

James closes his eyes.

That was the moment.

Not the dance. Not the jealousy. Not the fury at men who had touched you carelessly. Those things are familiar, almost manageable. He knows how to master violence, how to endure hunger and cold and rage.

But that— standing behind you in the quiet of your chamber, entrusted with your vulnerability— has nearly undone him.

He wanted to stay.

James crosses the room and kneels at the foot of his bed, not in comfort but in discipline, as he had once done when vows still felt unbreakable. He presses his palms flat against the floor and bows his head.

He does not pray for forgiveness. Never. Forgiveness implies he intends to repeat the transgression. Instead, he takes account.

He measures the distance between who he is and who he is supposed to be. He acknowledges the truth without embellishment or mercy: his love has crossed into longing; his devotion is no longer pure. The line he guarded so fiercely has thinned to a thread.

He would not touch you in ways you had not asked for. He would not take advantage of trust offered in exhaustion or wine. He would not mistake your need for safety as permission for closeness.

These are not the rules imposed by rank or law. They are the last pieces of himself he still respects.

James raises and paces the room, restless. He imagines futures he must refuse: a kiss stolen in weakness, a night allowed to blur into something irreparable, a moment where you wake and see not your protector, but a man who has taken what he wanted.

The thought makes him sick.

He presses his fist to his chest, grounding himself in the steady, unyielding beat of his heart. You deserve better than his hunger. And yet, James acknowledges this too: he would not stop loving you.

Love, unlike desire, does not ask permission. It does not retreat simply because it is inconvenient, or forbidden. It settles in and demands responsibility.

If this is his burden, he would carry it. Because devotion, if it is to mean anything at all, has to be proven not in what he takes—but in what he denies himself, again and again, for your sake.

James tosses in his bed, cursing himself for having such good senses. He woke up in the quietest hour of the night and with his headboard against the wall his quarters share with yours, the small, breathy noises from behind your room travel to his ears so easily.

It is evident what you are doing, and James stares at the ceiling, his jaw tight and his cock erect in his pants.

Logically, you are a grown woman with needs. No man would be allowed to satisfy you, James would not let that happen, yet it is the first time he witnesses you pleasuring yourself. A knight should have a better hold on himself in this kind of situation, there is no reason to care for it, for a proper knight's feelings would have been that of indifference beyond protecting and serving their Princess.

But James’ situation is entirely different since he holds more fondness for you than is perhaps wise. More fondness than what is reasonably allowed. 

He flexes his hand around the soft pillow. Your soft moans keep filtering through the wall and James finds himself slowly kneading it, trying to find distraction. It works momentarily, until the smooth, cool fabric turns into your thighs in his imagination.

The knight knows that even when you are lost in the throes of passion, you must look so elegant, for you possess endless grace. And your eyes– those gentle, sparkling eyes of yours, could pin a man to the floor better than any spear. They could heal a wound better than any herb and read a man’s soul like a book.

Realizing what he is doing with the pillow, James goes rigid. To show his greed so clearly, selfish and unfair as he indulges in your intimate moment, makes his stomach churn with uneasiness. You must be unaware of the volume of your the breathing, the noises, the soft creaking of the bed as you shift. As a matter of fact, the moans and whimpers grow. Unknowingly, James’ breath matches yours. Shakily in, shakily out. And then… 

His hand squeezes his throbbing dick over his pants.

James gasps loudly, withdrawing his palm as if it burned. He wants so badly to remove the thin layer of clothing that bounds him, limbs trembling with the need to connect his lips to yours. He yearns to hear his name on your lips, whether whispered or cried out.

His fingers hesitantly trace his lips, imagining it is your hand tenderly stroking his face. His eyes close as his palm runs down his chest, stopping just above the hem of his underwear. Maybe with a little bit of saliva on his finger he could pretend it is your tongue grazing him, making sure to outline the still covered head.

Perhaps, if James could release some of the pressure, he would be able to face you with much less strain. Or maybe it is just a "reasonable" explanation in order to feel less guilty about jerking off to his Princess’ own pleasure. Shame curls hot in his belly as he finally removes his pants with a single, strong motion. Painfully hard, his body buzzes with lust and the risk of being heard by you. Maybe the sound of his desperation would carry through the paper thin walls and you would hear how crazy you make him.

Oh, to even entertain the thought that you could desire an older man as rough, hairy, and battle scarred as him. 

His hand wraps around his leaking cock, hips thrusting up and mind conjuring the softness of your palm, instead of the rough callus on his. He shakes his head as if to condemn himself in real time. A part of him feels dirty, manifesting in the way his wrist stops for a moment, the temporary loss of contact almost bringing tears to his eyes. 

In this dark, cold room, James accepts what he has become: a slave to his own pleasure.

“James.” Your soft whines of his name almost make him come on the spot. He squeezes his eyes close, too desperate to analyze the situation. Did you really call for him while plunging your fingers into your sweet core, or was it just a figment of his pathetic imagination? What he wouldn’t give to be in that room with you. To get lost in the tangle of your sheets, sweat, and arousal. To sink deep into you and mark you as his, and feel your hands on his chest as his fingers abuse your clit. The idea of absorbing every sound you make into his mouth makes James shiver, drooling as his hand squeezes once his cock, pretending it is your pussy clenching around him as you come.

He can hear how wet you are, your quiet whimpers overshadowed by your palm slapping against your slick skin. James fights to stay quiet, jaw tight as his thumb swipes over his tip. His hand shoots over his mouth, moaning through his fingers as you finally reach your climax, again whimpering his name. He keeps thrusting into his hand, his thumb focused on the tip and his chest heaving, bucking desperately into his own fingers. Almost close, James momentarily uncovers his mouth to reach onto his side table and retrieve the object of one of his biggest sins. One of your expensive cloaks, the one you accidentally dropped during one of your aimless strolls around the capital. A kind woman had brought it to him, yet he could not find it in himself to give it back. James presses his face deeply into the fabric, just like he did that same night in the privacy of his own room, his cheeks red and his chest aching with shame.

Draping the cloak over his face, he lets his lips fall open, coating the fabric in his spit to let your scent bless his tongue. Saliva slides down his chin, yet he does not care about the mess, too hopeful to retrieve any trace of you. Taking a deep breath, your scent penetrates deep into his nostrils, touching his soul. 

With a cry of your name, his chest is splattered with cum. The heavy fabric of the cloak did nothing to muffle the sound of his own orgasm.

James has been waiting for you close to the throne room when the doors burst open with a sudden and loud noise. Your skirts tremble with every hurried step as you storm in the corridors. Tears glisten on your cheeks, yet you do not stop, sprinting with your shoulders hunched, as if trying to make yourself smaller.

“Your Highness!” He shouts, but you do not stop. You vanish around the corner and James follows after you, heart thundering against his ribs, until he reaches your chambers door.

It slams shut with finality.

The soft click of the lock reverberates like a hammer blow to his chest. He bangs on the door, voice breaking. “Your Highness! Please— open the door!”

Inside, he could hear your sobs— shattering, forlorn. His stomach knots. The world feels suddenly dark and hollow. Every instinct screams at him to break the door down, but he restrains himself, knowing you need your space, even if it tears him apart to hear you in such misery and being forced to stand powerless outside.

Natalia appears silently at his side, eyes wide with concern. “Sir James… I—I think I should tell you,” she murmurs, voice trembling. “They– the King and Queen… They—”

James’s heart drops to his stomach, anticipation tightening like a vise around his neck. He clenches his fists, nails biting into his palms. “What?”

Natalia swallows, then speaks. “They want the Princess to marry. They have arranged a ball, invitations are already being written for nobles of the neighboring kingdom. Lords, dukes…” Her gaze lowers. “Their Majesties believe it will strengthen the peace treaty.”

He faced famine, war, betrayal, and the harsh streets of the city, but nothing has ever made him feel so helpless. They’re trading your happiness, your freedom… For mere politics.

“They are already choosing gowns,” Natalia continues quietly. “The Queen wants her presented properly. Radiant. Approachable.” She hesitates. “Desirable.”

The words strike him like poisoned arrows.

James stares at the marble wall behind the maid, suddenly aware of how small the corridor feels, how thin the air is. He pictures you standing beneath chandeliers, surrounded by strangers who would smile at you and think they have a right to your body, and your future.

“How soon?” He exhales harshly.

“Very soon.” Natalia replies. “Within the fortnight.”

A fortnight.

Two weeks until men would touch your hands, guide you through dances, lean close enough that you would smell the wine on their tongues and their entitlement. Two weeks until you would be appraised, discussed, and measured like a prize horse.

“And she?” He asks, though he already fears the answer.

Natalia looks away. “She said nothing. She just… Went very still.”

James nods once, sharply. “Thank you for telling me.”

Worry etches into the maid’s face. “You’ll be there, right? With her?”

James’ answer is immediate. 

“Always.”

Once Natalia steps away to return to her duties, James sinks on one knee outside the door, hands pressed against the cool wood. He cannot allow this. And yet, you have chosen to lock yourself away from him.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of agonizing waiting. He stations himself outside your door, silent and resolute. Natalia tries to coax you to eat, her voice soft and patient, but you did not respond. Eventually, the maid placed a small plate near James’ side and slipped away quietly, leaving him as your silent, immovable guard.

Finally, when the castle is engulfed by the silence of the night and the torches flicker low, the door clicks.

James’ breath hitches. He surges forward, heart hammering, and pushes the door open gently.

You are there– hair loose, cheeks wet, eyes red and swollen from crying, your gown wrinkled and clinging awkwardly to your frame. Yet still so beautiful. Your hands tremble as you tear up again at the sight of him.

James moves swiftly, closing the door behind you and wrapping an arm around your frame, pressing you to him with gentle insistence. “It’s over.” He murmurs, voice low and steady, though his chest aches. “I’m here. Nothing will touch you now.”

You try to speak, to explain, but he silences you softly. “No words. Not now. Just rest.”

Guiding you carefully to your big bed, he lets you sit on the soft sheets, trembling, before your faint whisper causes his body to go rigid. “Please, remove the armor. Stay–stay with me.”

His instincts scream against it, he has always been the protector, always armored and vigilant. But he cannot refuse. Not now. Not after seeing you like this.

Slowly, he removes the straps and plates, letting the weight of his armor fall away piece by piece. When he finally sits on the edge of the bed beside you, you tug his hand gently, drawing him closer. Your arms wrap around him, desperate, and James finally allows himself to uncoil, to give in to the moment.

He hugs you tightly, letting every ounce of fear, fury, and relief flow into the embrace. Sobbing quietly against his chest, he holds you firmly, breathing in the flowery scent of your hair, the warmth of your body, the unmistakable, unshakable presence of you.

For the first time that day, James is simply there— nothing to protect, nothing to fight, nothing to plan. Just you and him. He would move Heaven and Earth to stand by you always, no matter the cost.

He does not know how long you stay like that, surrounded by the stillness of the room and the flickering candlelight casting gentle shadows across your face. You still tremble slightly, exhausted from the day’s grief, yet his hold is firm but gentle around you, letting you lean against him.

Your heartbeat is irregular and fast, and it mirrors the tension he has carried all day. You are safe now, here with him. And yet… He feels himself choke under the weight of everything he has tried to protect you from.

Finally, your voice comes, barely above the hush of the night. “James… I—” Your eyes close. “I–I don’t know what I would do without you. You always… Always know what to do, even when there seems to be no way out. You saved me more times than I can count, and… I–”

Your words falter. James’ heart throbs painfully in his chest. 

“I love you.” The words are soft, vulnerable, almost a whisper, as if saying them louder might shatter the fragile quiet surrounding you. To James… Well, they feel like a cannon ball falling directly on his chest.

For a moment, he cannot speak, nor move. He should retreat and let the door shut close behind his back, a physical wall that symbolizes his final desperate attempt to distance himself from you.

Now, faced with the impending threat of someone taking you away from him, James refuses to be the umpteenth reason for your suffering.

He leans closer, letting his forehead rest on yours. “I have for so long–” His voice breaks, hoarse. “I have for so long loved you from afar. You are everything I am not worthy of, and yet…”

Your fingers trace lightly along his jaw, and his blue eyes close gently, finally slackening against your touch like an abandoned dog looking for affection. “And yet?” You prompt softly, breathless.

“And yet,” he whispers. “I cannot imagine letting anyone or anything take you from me. I have sworn to protect you, but… I also swear to be here, with you, for you, in every way I can. If you’ll let me.”

Your smile is small through the tears, a mixture of exhaustion and relief, but James has never seen you so radiant before. “I will.” You exhale. “Of course I will. I trust you. Always.”

He hugs you tightly, not needing to speak, letting the shared confession linger in the silent space between you. No threats, no attacks– only the truth of your hearts, spoken softly, held carefully, and received fully.

Your noses brush against each other when your face emerges from the slope of his neck. Your chest heaves when you finally let out your confession. 

“I have never laid with anyone before.” James swallows, shaky fingers tracing the line of your jaw.

“I have done things by myself, but…”

“I know.” He confesses. “I heard you.”

“I know. I hoped you would.” Your smile is small when you timidly utter that, and James’ breath hitches.

“Your Highness—”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” Your lips purse in a small pout. 

He flinches, momentarily taken aback. “I am your knight–” 

“Not only my knight now.” You whisper, slowly lifting one of your legs. James waits with bated breath as your body positions itself on his lap, tentatively yet cunningly. 

“We cannot move any further.” His voice breaks, wheezing when your hands cradle his stubbled face. 

“I just want to hold you, James.” It is such a simple request, yet he feels like someone has just poured a bucket of icy water on his bare body. Because that’s how he feels, bare, not only emotionally but especially physically; his armor, the symbol of everything he should be, lies carelessly on your rug, because no princess should be forced to be pressed against hard, uncomfortable metal. 

His hands lie weak by his sides. Sitting like this, with a pretty woman such as yourself on his lap, James might get untoward ideas and touch you in places he is not allowed to reach. 

And now you are tugging down his pants, and James is sputtering to stop you, no real heat in his voice as his hard cock springs out. You swallow, watching it with parted lips.

“It’s… Big.” You mutter, hips unconsciously making a little thrusting movement.  

“Is it– alright?” James swallows, blushing.

“Yes.” You smile and he manages to reciprocate, a deep rosy blush sitting on the apples of his cheeks. 

You like him, you are accepting him.

Your sparkling eyes lift to look at his damp face, one of your hands placing itself on his pec. “Can I… ?” 

And James is only a man.

He nods eagerly, gasping when your soft finger ghosts over his tip. It glides down the veins as you lean in close to get a better look, curious.

“I have never seen one before.” You admit abashed, using two fingers to rub the vein on the underside. James moans, hips jumping into your soft caresses. When you hold his sac, soft and pliable, in your hand he gasps hotly, before finally wrapping your hand around his cock, stroking it to full erection while his head rolls back. His lips part when he sighs, feeling himself grow impossibly harder and thicker in your hand.

“How does it feel?” You ask and twist your wrist, pulling a long guttural moan from him.

“So good, my princess.” He bites his bottom lip, then dares to open his eyes, flitting them down between his legs. “You made me so hard.”

You press a kiss on the side of his neck that sends his eyes back into oblivion, quickening your strokes, twisting a little harder, smearing the dew drops of precum over the smooth head. 

“Gods!” James growls, thrusting his hips up into your hand, his breath caught in his lungs. You smirk at his reaction, nipping at his neck yet not enough to leave a lasting mark but one he would certainly feel tomorrow. Your tongue soothes it over while your free hand traces down the expanse of his hard chest to gently hold his balls. His whines are the sweetest of melodies to your ears. 

“Let go for me, darling?” You purr and James cries out, a sob echoes in the dim-lit room as a familiar shudder rolls over his body. The hair on his neck raises and his belly contracts when he finally growls out a curse that would make even the rudest of soldiers balk, coming all over your fingers.

James' body shakes as he lets himself fall back against the bed, taking you with him. You let out a elated sigh as you give him a softer squeeze before you regard your soiled hand with innocent interest, and under his stunned gaze, your tongue peeks out enough to taste his seed.

“Gods above, sweetheart.”

You do not answer right away.

The word lingers between you, unfamiliar and precious. Warmth spreads slowly throughout your body, traitorously.

“You—” you stop, smiling despite yourself. “You have never called me that before.”

He looks almost uncertain. “I won’t again, if you do not want me to.”

You swallow, tightening your hold on his shirt. “Say it again.”

James' real smile is not dazzling, but real. It softens his face, strips years from him, something boyish and unexpectedly gentle breaking through the severity he usually wears. It is not as bright as the sun, but it carries his happiness all the same. And when his lips close around another term of endearment, you know you would remember the sound of it for the rest of her life.

Your arms wrap around his torso in a warm hug, squeezing him once as your whisper presses against his chest, so timidly. “Will you… Stay until morning?”

James swallows hard. Every instinct screams at him that he should, that he must, that the world outside could wait. “Yes.” He does not hesitate, his voice barely audible. “I am not going anywhere, my heart.”

You squirm slightly, hugging him tighter. James exhales slowly, letting himself slacken on the comfortable mattress. No threats, no guards, no political maneuvering— just you and this quiet moment of pure, unadulterated love.

For once, James allows himself to simply be the man who loves you and would not let you go.

The ballroom shimmers with crystal and candlelight, but James barely notices. His eyes are fixed on you, tracking every turn, every step, every laugh that feels forced.

The King’s announcement had come before the music even began: you are to entertain suitors, men from the other kingdom, all chosen to cement the fragile peace.

James’ chest had tightened the moment the words left his mouth. He had protected you through enemies both known and hidden, and now your own parents are auctioning you like a prize.

He moves alongside the sidelines, keeping close, as you greet the nobles with careful courtesy. He can clearly see the subtle curl of your lips, polite but empty, and the tension in your shoulders. You hate this. He wants to tear the chandeliers down, strike every man who dares step too close. But James remains quiet. Restrained. Observing. Always observing.

At some point in the night, inevitably, the crowd shifts: laughter and music and drink colliding, and you are gone.

James has always prided himself on having a strategic mind, on being a reliable soldier that always knows what to do, how to act. Now, he darts through expensive gowns and glasses that cost more than his salary, asking anyone who would look at him.

“Have you seen the Princess?”

Finally, a round man says. “She went toward the balcony.” 

James sprints to the other end of the room, his boots hitting the marble in harsh, irregular beats. The balcony doors open to the cool night air. And there you are.

You, cowering against the stone wall as a man's hand presses firmly around your forearm. A duke, the knight immediately recognizes him. The sharp tang of alcohol reaches James before he even sees the cocky man’s face. It takes one glance at your wide, terrified eyes for the knight to launch himself at the slimy man, fury and steel all wrapped into one.

The duke yelps as James grabs him, relentless. Some knights had noticed the chaos, their faces turning from curiosity to alarm as they saw the ferocity in James’ eyes and his agitated movements. They followed, apprehending the nobleman and restraining him immediately. 

“You know not who you address! You know not who I am! How dare you turds—”

His useless words dispel in the crisp darkness as James kneels quickly beside your hunched form, lifting you gently but firmly into his arms. Your shivering body loses all its tension, falling into his, as your own arms go around his torso instinctively.

“Shh.” He murmurs. “It’s over. You are safe.”

Your forehead rests against his chest, letting the tremors pass slowly.

“I can’t believe— He—” Your voice breaks.

“I know.” James closes his eyes, voice raw with anger. “I know. But I came. I will never let anyone do this to you.”

Your arms tighten around him. “James.”

He lifts his head slightly, letting his eyes meet your. They are wide, glistening with tears, but gone is the fear.

“I—” His voice falters. “I cannot stand to lose you. Not to them, not to anyone.”

Your hand pressed to his chest grounds his racing thoughts. “You won’t. You won’t lose me.”

He shakes his head slightly, disbelief and relief mingling. 

“You are my protector, my strength… And my heart.”

He swallows hard, before delicately pressing his trembling lips on the top of your head— a kiss not of passion, but of surrender.

You sigh happily at the contact, trembling less now, yet refusing to ease your hold around him. 

“I love you.” You whisper.

James exhales harshly, his hold desperate around you. “And I love you. Always. Even when I hate myself for it.”

James’ boots thump on the marble with a rhythm that matches the pounding in his chest. He has been summoned to the King and Queen’s presence, and he already knows the reason— they want to reprimand him.

They do not understand. They never will, not fully. 

The King’s booming voice ripples the silence like a thunder the moment the knight enters. “You assaulted the Duke of Eastpier! Explain yourself!”

James keeps his posture straight, eyes unwavering. “I did not assault him. I restrained a man who was threatening the Princess. He had no right, no claim. He was putting her in danger. My duty is to her safety.”

The Queen’s sharp gaze slices across him. “Your violence was unseemly, sir James. Reckless. A knight is not above law or courtly protocol!”

James grits his teeth. Of course they would be more worried about appearances. The thought burns in his mind. Not that a man had cornered their daughter on a balcony, pressed his hand against her arm, intoxicated and convinced he could have his way with her? Not that she could have been hurt?

They are fretting over gossip, scandal. And James is expected to care more about their fragile reputation than the fact that their daughter had been assaulted.

The rage coils in his chest like a viper. He fought frost and famine for you. He made sure that whoever tried to speak ill of you was apprehended accordingly; he kept you safe. And now, the people who brought you into this world care only about what others think over your own well-being?

He forces himself to breathe evenly, to reply not out of disregard of their words, because that could lead them to strip him of this position and banish him from the palace, far from you.

“I am her knight. It is my duty to protect her. The court’s whispers mean nothing when her life is at stake.”

The King and Queen exchange glances, unease flickering behind their anger. “We… Appreciate your work, sir James.” The Queen admits, quieter though detached. “You have done a lot for our daughter. But you must temper your actions. Be more subtle, for the sake of the court.”

Subtle.

That word makes James’ blood boil. Subtle? After what you endured? After what that scumbag tried to do to you? Subtle will not save you from men like him. Subtle will not shield you from danger. And yet that is what they care about. Their daughter’s safety, apparently, is secondary to the court's opinion.

He holds himself rigid, forcing his jaw to relax, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the Queen. Behind his back, his fists clench until little crescent marks bloom onto his palms. “I will act with discretion. But let it be clear: my priority is the Princess. Always. Nothing else matters.”

The Queen’s expression softens just slightly, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. “We are relieved she has such a devoted knight by her side. But discretion, sir James. Please.”

Discretion. Their voices grate against his brain like steel. He leaves without another word, fury still simmering under his skin and heart hammering with indignation.

He finds you pacing in your chambers shortly after, a frown on your pretty features. Your eyes land on the door as he enters, relief flickering in your eyes as you see him.

“They were angry.” You claim softly, stopping mid-step. “I did not know what they’d do to you.”

James crosses the room quickly and holds out his hands for you to take. “Nothing will happen to me. I am your knight. I swore an oath to protect you, and I will never break it.”

You hesitate in his embrace, your shoulders lowering as a fraction of the tension leaves your muscles. “I was so afraid they would punish you. Or force you away. You did nothing wrong.”

“And yet I must be careful.” He admits bitterly. “For appearances. But that does not change the truth: no one, nothing, will harm you while I stand here.”

Exhaling slowly, your chin lifts up, wishing to behold his face. “I know.” Your voice quiet but certain. “I trust you. You have kept me safe all this time. I don’t want to imagine what would happen if you weren’t here.”

James’ gaze softens, allowing his hand to hesitantly cup your cheek. “You need not to imagine it. I am always here, by your side.”

The court could fume. Nobles could whisper. But the threat is gone, and for the first time since that unpleasant event, both of you can breathe.

The infirmary is still when you open its door: no hearth lit, no servants bustling through, only the faint smell of iron and dried herbs clinging to the stone. 

James sits on the edge of one of the narrow cots, his back straight despite the blood seeping through the torn linen of his shirt. He has not noticed you yet, his focus is inward, jaw clenched, one hand braced against the mattress as if holding himself in place.

You close the door softly behind you.

“James.”

At the sound of your voice, he stiffens. He turns too quickly, and pain flickers across his face before he can mask it.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He says at once, not wanting for you to see him like this, pathetic, in pain. 

“I know.” Your mouth curves a little, stepping closer. 

He stands, as if to put distance between you, and sways. You catch his arm without thinking. For a heartbeat, neither of you breathe. His skin is hot beneath your fingers, fevered from exertion and blood loss. His eyes drop to where you are touching him, and his shoulders go rigid.

“I’m fine,” he clears his throat, too quickly. “It’s nothing.”

“You are bleeding through your shirt.” You refuse to let it go. “Sit down.”

He searches your face, as if gauging how far he could push this before you yielded. You do not, on the contrary, you meet his gaze steadily, princess or not.

Finally, he exhales and lowers himself back onto the cot. After gathering what you need, you dip one of the edges of a white cloth in the bowl of water, before glancing at James and halting in your movements as if seeing him for the first time that afternoon.

“I believe you will have to take off your shirt.”

James’ lips press together as if to hide an amused grin at your sudden modesty. Despite that, he feels a slight pull at his nerves at the realization. You have never seen his upper body. He does not fear your judgement, not after what you had done that night. But perhaps he does feel a bit anxious to fulfill your expectations, considering the signs of battles he brings with himself like a sore reminder of his past.

The moment he slips his shirt off, gritting his teeth at the pull at his cut, you are left staring at him, suddenly mute, lips parted with a soft sigh that speaks of everything but disappointment.

James would have been a liar if he denied how your silent wonder stroked his ego. He worked for the muscles in his upper body his whole life, particularly after he decided to gain back his strength to become your protector, when his bones were too exhausted from the cold to collaborate, and his tongue could not remember the taste of bread. Now muscles adorn his torso again, alongside various scars, a souvenir of his reckless days as a Knight Banneret. 

“I would never use my strength to hurt you, my heart.” You swallow, the sides of your neck heating up as he finally lets his walls crumble. 

“I know.” You fret, before clearing your throat and composing yourself. “I was merely… Assessing the damage.” You wait, letting him indulge in smugness a little more. “Darling.”

James is certain his ears are on fire now.

“May I?” You whisper, already moving forward and reaching out your hand. 

Your knight gulps. By all means, he longs for you to touch him, trace every line with your fingers, with your lips, your tongue–

“Of course.” He rasps instead, frowning at himself.

Your dominant hand dutifully wipes around the wound first, tender but thorough. The cut is clean but deep, an angry red line across his torso where the blade had slipped past guard and armor alike during practice.

Your other hand rests on his shoulder for balance as you stand between his legs, crouched and a little twisted, your position slightly awkward and no doubt uncomfortable.

“You were careless.” You start quietly, more relief than scolding in your tone. “You could have been killed.”

A corner of his mouth twitches. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried.”

“That’s not what I meant.” You dampen the cloth again. “You do not get to throw yourself away anymore.”

His gaze flicks up to your face. “And why is that?”

Your hand pauses.

“Because I—” You swallow, your eyes landing on his lap before looking him straight in the eyes. “Because you are mine now.”

His expression shifts, something raw breaking through the discipline.

“And I am yours.” 

You let the words hang between you two as you go back to clean the cut. James hopes you cannot feel the way his heart is trying to crawl out of his rib cage from how quick it is beating. He decides to focus on something else, such as your beauty. It is rather unusual for him to see you from this angle, normally he towers several inches above you, having you have to tip your head back to simply look at him. 

“When did you learn to dress a wound, my sweetheart?”

The hand on his shoulder squeezes the flesh once, a way for you to free yourself of the dizziness taking over you each time he lets himself indulge in your love for each other, releasing himself from duty and etiquette. 

“I was a wild child.” You muse, a little smile brightening your features. “And there was a maid who would take care of me. She taught me a lot.” The fondness in your voice is evident as your eyes grow hazy, remembering a happiness long gone. “She was more of a mother than my own.” 

A frown clouds your soft features with disappointment, quickly dissipating as James’ hand moves gently on the curve of your waist in comfort. You give him a small smile, before using a bit of wine to disinfect the wound.

He really did not want to show you how the sting affected him, yet he finds out that letting you, out of all people, see him vulnerable is not the worst thing to happen. When a hiss falls from his lips at the burn, your eyes raise to his with an unspoken apology; and his pain is soothed by the softest of kisses. James proceeds to steal several more, squeezing your hips, toying with the hem of your bodice before he lets you continue, demanding such compensation every time you make his jaw clench; and with each kiss, his hunger grows.

The moment you need to take a fresh cloth to bandage his torso, a squeal escapes your throat as strong arms circle your waist, dragging your body to sit on his thighs. Leaning onto his shoulders to not to fall, your breath fans his face as you shift in an attempt to find a comfortable position, inevitably brushing his most sensitive part. 

Your knight claims your mouth, a hand reaching to cradle your face while his thumb gently strokes your cheek. Your body melts into his, pliant, and your lips succumb to his advances. His arm pulls you firmly chest to chest, your gasp of surprise swallowed by his mouth as your hands grab his arms. His pants are too tight all of sudden and he has no doubt it does not escape your attention.

“My dear heart…” He whispers, tasting the skin of your neck. How sweet you are, so effortlessly, unconsciously alluring to all his senses. The scent of your skin, the taste of your lips, the tender heat of your touch. Your eyes are blown with lust and wide as you feel his arousal, he cannot help himself with an angel like you resting on his lap. Your trembling hands settle on his shoulder for support, only to start grinding against him and Gods, he is so close to throw you on the cot and have his wicked way with you.

James had women in the tavern please him for money when he was younger and irresponsible, and his hand temporarily eased his lust thinking of how sweet your heat would be. Yet nothing could compare to your touch on his bare skin, and your palm around his cock.

Your lips part with a shaky exhale when his hands travel up your waist, teasing the underside of your breasts. He craves to taste them since the moment he helped you wash your back and your arm pressed against your sinful curves out of decency. 

“James–” You whimper as your thighs tremble when his hips thrust up. He can feel the pressure in him building, his hands burning to untie your bodice, ruck up your skirts and pull his pants down to remove all barriers between you. Just him, you and absolute bliss.

“My heart, my sweetheart, how you tempt me.” He pants into your skin. A small pitiful sound which almost breaks his resolve has his blood boiling when his mouth meets your neck, heavy breaths expanding his chest as much as they do yours, every inhale causing your breasts to brush against his naked chest. 

He dares to look up at your glistening face, instantly regretting it when his cock throbs at the sight of your own desire written all over your features. “This the most difficult and yet the sweetest trial I have ever faced. You are beautiful, so beautiful.”

James grabs your hips, forcing his own to cease the instinctive motions, preventing your own as well. 

The corners of your lips lift in a shy smile. “And you are so handsome, darling.” You admit. “It is hard to not give in to sin.” You timidly mumble, caressing the hair on his chest.

His beautiful, kind, bashful minx of a Princess. How could he not fall for you?

“I feel the same, sweetheart. I love you.” Your eyes shine with affection as you cup his face and plant a soft kiss on his forehead.

“I love you too, James.” You swallow, squirming. “Promise me you will be more careful.” Your eyes flit to the wound you had not finished cleaning, but James tips your chin up gently so you can look at him.

“I promise, my sweetness.”

You clear your throat, slowly standing up from his lap under his confused gaze.

“Perhaps,” your knees land on the wooden floorboards, the discomfort unmistakable and immediate, yet your soft skirts alleviate it a little. “You need a stronger… Encouragement.”

James towers over you, still and bewildered. His Princess, kneeling before him, a lowly knight. How blasphemous!

Your hands work nimbly on the opening of his pants, finally freeing his erection from its confines.

The world slips out of focus until all that’s left is James’ shaft, leaking and proud against his abdomen. Your mouth waters at the sight– his tip is flushed red, swollen; the length throbs under your misty eyes, undeniably starved for him. 

“Sweetheart–” 

“Let me do it, please.” You mumble, forcing yourself to look up at his parted lips. “Let me make you feel good.” You mewl, reveling in his gasp when your hand wraps around his shaft, the head nudging your mouth, smearing his precum across your lips, now shining with him and oh, your tongue finally peeks out to taste it, and Gods above… The sight alone could have him coming untouched.

His hips rut forward automatically, pushing his tip in and out of your mouth. “S–Sorry my love.” He rushes out, unable to stop himself from feeling your velvety warmth around him. His musky scent fills your nose, and your thighs clench against each other.

“Oh Gods.” He moans, finally working his way into your mouth. You relax your throat, just like Natalia told you to do. It was quite embarrassing to ask her for this kind of advice, but your trusted maid revealed herself to be very knowledgeable, and happy to help you. She has extensive knowledge on your special relationship with your knight. 

James’ head falls back, his hand involuntarily fisting your hair, before soothing your head with gentle apologies and soft caresses.

“No.” You wheeze, tightening his hold on your hair with your own hand. “Let me take care of you.” You lean forward, pressing a kiss on his hip bone. “I want you to use me, James. You deserve it.”

He stifles a groan at your eagerness as you engulf his cock as far in as you could, his balls nudging your chin. His blue eyes darken, now locked with yours as his jaw unclenches. He is utterly in love with you. Everyone else was completely ruined for him the moment you took a look at him when he was still homeless, and decided to nurse him back to health. Despite the fact that James spent the first months in denial, he knew he was truly, irreversibly gone for you.

His hand shakily smooths your hair back as your tongue licks a long stripe along the underside of his length, base to tip. Your palms slide up his thighs, feeling his taut muscles beneath your fingertips, then your right hand gently cups his balls.

“Oh princess.” His head falls forward, and you take him into your mouth again, rolling his sack in your hand, gently suckling at his tender head.

His soft whimpers blend with the warmth of your bodies.

“Sweetheart, your m–mouth–” His praise is cut off by a whine when his tip kisses the back of your throat deliciously; your hand continues to work on his balls, the other anchoring yourself to his thigh.

He forces his hips still, groaning brokenly as your cheeks hollow around him. “Where did you learn– oh Gods!” His jaw clenches, finally willing his eyes open to enjoy the show.

Small tears gather at the corners of your eyes as you gag around his cock, the sight alone makes his knees tremble, his breath stalling in his chest. He is so close, you can feel it. 

Seeing your devoted, hard-working knight reduced to a moaning mess makes your hole clench around nothing. What a mess you are making in your undergarments!

Saliva pools around his length, slicking down his balls. His teeth hurt by the way he is clenching his jaw, trying to keep his hips firmly on the cot, until your hand squeezes around his thigh. He looks down hurriedly, scared to have hurt you, yet he only sees your wide eyes, before you nod at him. That’s when his hips snap forward, both his hands flying on your hair to help you bob your throat up and down his cock. 

A wet gulp, a slap of his balls against your skin, your mouth slurping with every thrust.

Before you can realize what is happening, James bursts into your throat with a needy groan, hot ropes of cum painting your insides as your eyes close, forcing yourself to swallow around him to ensure not a single drop goes to waste.

Your skin is hot and sticky with sweat as the sound of heavy breathing fills the dimly lit room. Finally pulling out, James slowly loosens his grip on your hair, instantly going for your waist to help you up and on his laps. With eyes half-lidded, you regard him, quiet yet hopeful for some sign of approval.

“You are going to kill me one day, sweetheart.” His fingers brush your cheek with gentleness, searching your face for any sign of discomfort; his shoulders lower only when you giggle at his dejected voice. Then, your eyes widen.

“Oh Gods, your wound!”

This day feels like a gift. Sunlight spills freely across the gardens, warming the stone paths and waking the scent of flowers that have slept through the colder weeks. The air is gentle on your face, carrying the soft hum of insects and the distant splash of fountains scattered across the grass. For once, nothing presses at your chest. No expectations, no lessons, no whispered plans made without your consent.

You lead the way to the pond with a skip in your steps that makes James barely contain his satisfied smile. It lies tucked behind a curtain of willows, their branches trailing low enough to brush the crystalline water’s surface. The world seems to end there– the sounds are muffled, and the palace is reduced to something imagined rather than real. It has been your favorite spot since childhood, a place where you could pretend to belong only to yourself and nature.

James steps in front of you, instinctively scrutinising the surroundings before setting an old, big cloak on the trimmed grass for you to rest on. The tension eases from his shoulders when he sees no one else is near.

“There is no one around.” You smile, settling onto the makeshift cover at the water’s edge and kicking off your shoes. 

James immediately understands what you mean. That's what you say to imply your wish of having him closer, out of his duties. Sitting beside you, close enough that your arms brush against each other, James closes his eyes for a moment, simply listening— to the water, the wind, the fragile peace neither of you trust to last.

Yet, it is enough for now.

Then, you lean into him. He stiffens for half a heartbeat, habit more than hesitation, before his arm comes around your shoulders. His touch is still careful, always careful— at least when his blood stays away from his loins, for he fears the world might punish him for touching you too freely.

You tilt your head up, the tip of your nose grazing his jaw. “No one can see us.”

“I know.” He murmurs, his gaze flicking once more to the trees before landing on you. He observes you with anticipation as you rise onto your knees, only to wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him.

It is unhurried, freeing, nothing like the stolen, breathless moments you usually manage. His hand slides to your waist, tentative at first, then surer when you lean into him more. When you part, James rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

“I wish I could give you this every day.” He confesses like a prayer.

“You already do.” Your hands cradle his cheeks, thumbs caressing his stubble. Your head turns then, brushing your lips along his jaw, his cheek, smiling when he finally chuckles, a low, unguarded sound.

You lie back together, your head on his chest as his arm wrap around your shoulders, keeping you close to his muscled body while his fingers trace absent lines along your arm. You tell him about the lessons you skipped yesterday, about a ridiculous myth you had read in one of Father's books that morning, and then you comment the swans freely playing in the water, marveling at their graceful beauty.

And James listens, because your every word matters.

Your voice dwindles into silence eventually, and when your eyes raise, they find his already admiring you with a soft, rare smile on his lips. Before long, your little haven comes alive with heavy breathes, heated gazes and wandering hands.

James draws you to him, mouth still pressed on your delicious lips, barely holding back from sinking his teeth into the supple flesh. You respond with a small, pleased noise, soft and warm against his taut body, and your tongues much more daring than the previous times you indulged in such moments of forbidden closeness. 

With a grunt, James gently guides you back until you lay completely on the cloak, bracing himself with an arm above you. With growing confidence, your arms circle around James’ head, hands fisted into his hair and curiously roaming his body.

You open up like a flower under his fingers. Slowly, he kneads your chest, then your hips, your thighs, all to be rewarded with gasps and whimpers leaping from your mouth into his. You keep pulling him against you, as if you wish to melt into one. It is easy for your knight to explore what's hidden under your dress, for you chose a lighter, simpler gown today– were you hoping for something indecent to happen? Have you been luring him in all morning, only for his control to finally slip?

The skin of your inner thigh is soft when he presses his big palm to your core, causing you to buck into it clumsily.

“Gods.” James sighs, dipping his face into the inviting curve of your neck. “You are divine, sweetness.”

Your answer dissolves into sighs and whimpers as James kisses the skin of your neck and grounds his palm into you. The way you are coming apart underneath him, how your hands caress up his back, how your thighs keep trying to shut close around his arm, and most of all the soft, desperate sounds falling from your lips… It is driving James crazy. With a practiced hand, his fingers reach for the hem of your undergarments and pull down. Then, his hand finally touches the warm spot between your legs, wet and slick from pure desire. Your every breath and twitch are delightful as he slowly trails his fingers over and between your folds, lightly rubbing your hidden nub.

“James.” You whine against his lips. It is not enough. Thus James pulls the cups of your dress down, breath hitching at the sight of your beautiful breasts, and kneads the flesh with his other hand, kissing between your tits; your gasps are loud and your chest pushes insistently against his mouth as he finally tastes your turgid nipples. The hands in his hair tightens once the knight gathers some of your wetness to spread it on your sensitive peaks; sucking and moaning around them, his eyes roll back when your tangy nectar quenches his thirst for you. You whimper and arch into his touch, and James smiles satisfied with his face nestled on the soft cushion of your breasts. He is wholly and entirely endeared, you are so beautifully receptive to even the most minuscule of movements on your pussy. 

“W–What…?” Your neck cranes confused when you cannot feel his warmth against your bare chest anymore. With a soothing caress on your thigh, James grips it, guiding you until you spread your legs apart, as wide as your skirt allows. And then, you squeal.

His tongue darts out to lick at your core, sending thrilling jolts throughout your body.

You quickly hike up your dress, finally catching sight of him as his mouth attaches to you. You watch transfixed, exhilarated as James sucks on your clit, swirling his tongue around it circularly, dipping between your folds with every shudder of your thighs.

His eyes are closed in peaceful bliss, and his tongue shakes back and forth, nose nuzzling in closer to your core like you are seeping nectar instead of arousal. His voice escapes in little grunts and gasps as you preen and moan above him; your thighs attempt to close around his head, yet he welcomes the sudden pressure with a loud moan, before he forces them open again. 

“James!” You moan, head thrown back against the old cloak. “I feel— I think I’m–” 

Besides your voice and his, you have never heard a noise so crude as the result of him fucking you with his mouth. Your hole clenches around nothing, and James decides to close the remaining distance, pressing a finger inside. It is the perfect pace and pressure that makes you grip his hair, finally humping his face as your wanton sounds resound through the willow fronds, the most melodious song that James has ever heard. 

“James!” You come hard, ignoring his grin against your core as your insides tightened around his finger. He drinks your orgasm up with his cock straining in his pants, loving the way you clutch around his head like a vice, to the point where he stops thrusting his finger and instead focuses entirely on nursing on your clit until you are trembling and sobbing for him to stop.

When your mind does not feel so foggy anymore, the first thing you notice is a heavy weight on your chest: content, your knight rests on your warm breasts. You simply cradle his cheek, placing a thankful kiss on his forehead.

It is not difficult to convince him to let you help him with his own arousal. His cock slides back and forth but it passes over your clit each time. Your nails dig into the skin of his forearm as your back is pressed securely against his chest, one of his hands resting firmly on your hips to pull you back and forth in perfect rhythm with his thrusts.

“Sweetness, I know–” James gasps. “I know it feels good but you need to stay put or it will end inside you.”

You whimper, it is so wet and warm and the way your intimate parts sound together is so perverse, yet the fear of being caught faded once your swollen clit started rubbing against his thick cock, every single vein deliciously teasing your wet folds.

Lightly grabbing your jaw, James lifts it up enough so he can press a loving kiss on your lips, his free hand groping your still naked chest. “So soft and so lovely for me, my princess.”

He shakes and clutches your skin hard enough to toy with the line between pleasure and pain, grunting prayers for forgiveness in your ear until he tarnishes your pussy with his seed. Your name has never sounded so tender on someone's lips.

James is in the practice yard when he hears you running. Not the measured steps you usually take when you come to find him, nor the careful quiet of your secret meetings in his room. This is ragged, uneven— skirts hitched too high, breath breaking. He turns just as you burst through the archway, cheeks wet with fat tears and eyes shining red.

“James!” You scream, to hell with good manners. And the way his name fractures in your mouth makes his blood go cold.

He crosses the yard in three strides and catches you before you could say anything else. Not an embrace— he never dares that where stone and shadow could betray you— but his hands close around your forearms, steady. He forces his voice into the calm he uses on frightened horses and wounded men.

“What is it?” He frowns. “You are safe now. Slow your breathing.”

You shake your head, a sharp, helpless motion, and the tears spill at last. “They have decided.” You whisper, closing your eyes in pain. “My parents. They have chosen him.”

The world narrows to the irregular sound of your breathing and the dull thud of James’ own heart. Chosen. Him. The words echo, merciless.

For a moment, an image rises unbidden: a foreign lord’s hand closing over yours, a crown pressed down where his fingers brush your hair. A life sealed shut like a door slammed in his face. 

He loosenes his grip before you can feel his hands tremble.

“Who?” He swallows around a knot, though the name hardly matters. Any name that is not his would have the same weight.

Your eyes land on his chest, unable to face the storm inside his. “A duke from the western side. They say he is… Suitable.” Your voice breaks again, a cruel scoff of a laugh falling from your lips. “That this will secure the border for good.” 

Something fierce and ugly surges in him then— an instinct as old as hunger. Take you and run. Put steel between you and anyone who dares claim you. He has lived with less than nothing before; he could do it again if it meant you are free.

But he says none of it.

“James, I can’t– I don’t want him. I don’t want any of this. You have to do something please! I–” Your words tumble over one another, dissolving into a thin, frightened sound. A tremor runs through you, and your hand presses on your chest as though trying to hold your heart in place. Your fingers tighten in his shirt, and your gaze darts past him as if the world has started to spin at the speed of light.

James angles his body so he blocks you from any prying eyes. His voice remains low, firm. “Look at me.” His finger gently lifts your chin. “Do you trust me?” You desperately nod. “Then follow me, we cannot stay here.”

Your eyes flick to his, wide and unfocused. Somewhere beyond the archway, footsteps echo— distant, but real. Without hesitation, James reaches for his cloak, previously abandoned on a stone, and wraps it around your shoulders, drawing the hood up to shadow your face. His hands are steady even as his pulse thunders in his ears, you are more important.

“Head down.” He murmurs. “Stay close and do not speak.”

His hand on your back guides you forward, the other subtly steering you through the narrow passages he knows better than his own body. Every corner suddenly feels dangerous. Every servant, every guard a threat— not to him, but to your dignity and privacy. If they see you like this, tear-streaked, shaking, it would spread. Whispers would turn to speculation. Speculation to certainty.

James would not allow it.

You reach your chambers without incident, and James wastes no time. He locks the door behind you, and only then does he turn back to you. The moment the latch clicks, your strength weakens. You sag against the door, breath coming in short, broken gasps. James is there instantly, kneeling in front of you, his presence solid, unyielding.

“You are safe.” He utters quietly. “No one can see you now.”

Inside, fear claws at him, sharp and relentless. The walls meant to protect you are now a deadly trap, and this is only the beginning. The first crack in something that could shatter you both. But he keeps his face calm, his voice sure. Panic could take many things from him, but not you, not while he still stands between your peace and the world.

“Breathe with me, my heart.” He encourages softly, one of your hands led to his chest to match his breathing. “I am here now, nothing can hurt you.”

He knows how this world works, how little a princess’s wish could weigh against treaties and borders. His love feels suddenly small and useless, a candle guttering in a storm. He draws in a slow breath and waits until you match it, until the sobs ease into shaky inhales. All the while, dread coils tighter around his heart. He could face blades and hunger and exile, but the prospect of a future where he stands by and watches you marry a man that is not him, against your will… He would tear that future apart before he allowed it to come to pass.

Only when the blizzard inside you quiets, your legs give up under you. James promptly catches your waist, guiding you to sit on your bed with a softness that makes tears spring up in your eyes again.

“What am I supposed to do?” You whisper, hands fisted in his cloak as if it was the only solid thing left.

“You are not alone.” He chooses each word like a step across thin ice. “We’ll find a way forward.”

“I refuse to let anyone else touch me the way you should, James.” You swallow, tugging him closer by his shirt. “Let it be you, the man I love, before I am married off to someone undeserving of my touch, who only values gold and titles.”

“My love, what are you suggesting—”

“Take me.”

“Don’t—” He strangles out. “Some words are too dangerous to be spoken aloud.”

“Why?” You almost shriek. “I love you James, and you love me. Let it be you!”

“You must,” His jaw tightens. “You must think this through. If anyone was to hear… If this were spoken of, it would stain you. I won’t be the reason—”

“Please, James.” You are now sobbing, clinging to his shirt like the last thing tethering you to this world. The sight strikes him harder than any blow. “We have already indulged in each other's pleasure—”

James stares at you, disbelieving. “What you are asking is completely different. Don't say what cannot be taken back.”

Your voice shakes, but it does not falter. “I am to be given to a man who sees me as a treaty, as a chest of gold with a crown upon it. He does not know me. He does not love me.” You sniffle. “You do.”

“That is precisely why I can’t,” he replies, too quickly. “Because I love you.”

Your fingers reach up, stopping just short of touching his cheek, as if granting him the chance to pull away. “James,” you whisper. “Please. Let me choose something for myself before I am no longer allowed to.”

His ears ring. He craves to close the distance, to give you the comfort you ask for, the truth his body has known long before his mind allowed it. He needs to have you, and mark you. No one would be allowed to claim you.

“Are you certain?” He asks hoarsely. “Tell me you won’t regret this. Tell me you won’t wake tomorrow and wish I had been stronger than you were.”

You meet his gaze without flinching. “I will regret it if you don’t.”

For a long moment, James does nothing. He sits there, torn between devotion and damnation, between the man he has sworn to be and the man you are asking him to become. Then, with a care that borders on reverence, he lifts a hand to your cheek, as if even that was a transgression in this moment, and leans in.

The kiss is supposed to be brief, chaste. A promise rather than a claim. But after he pulls away, his breath unsteady, his forehead resting against yours as if he could not trust himself to look at you, his restraint snaps. 

With a moan, his hand moves against the back of your neck, pulling you until your lips collide with his. His other hand finds its way to your hip, rubbing the skin through the soft fabric of your gown in a soothing motion. 

“You are trembling,” he comments softly. “Are you scared of me, my heart?” You quickly shake your head, pulling him down into another breathless kiss. He groans, kissing you harder, hand finally sliding down to cup one of your breasts. Heat instantly floods your core, and he revels in your little gasps. “Gods, you don’t even know what you do to me.” Your cheeks are flaming at the veneration in his words, his compliment igniting something deep inside of you, a burning, aching need in your belly that has you wiggling your hips to relieve some of the tension.

“It's just me.” Your breath quivers as his forehead gently rests against yours. “Let me worship you, my love.”

You can only nod eagerly, and James kisses you again until you are dizzy. His hand slides back under your dress, his fingers softly caressing your skin until you tighten your hold on his shirt. He undresses you slowly, taking his time in admiring the sight of you beneath him as you slowly bare more and more of your gorgeous body to him, until you are fully exposed to his gaze, now lying on your bed.

You tentatively reach up and grasp at his shirt, helping him pull it over his head, and you moan at the sight of his broad chest. You have seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never when he was looking at you like an animal hunting its prey. Pressing your lips to his, you continue your mission of undressing him, clumsily toying with the hem of his pants and helping him to tug them down his legs, leaving you both naked and vulnerable.

Your gaze wanders downwards before you even realize it has, and you quietly gasp at the sight of his cock, already hard and aching for attention.

James notices the way your eyes fight the urge to glance back down at his cock, and a little grin brightens his features. You can sense in his warm gaze and the way he holds you closely to him, that he understood what you crave.

He moves to straddle you, pressing his forehead to yours so all you can see are his pretty blue eyes staring right back at you, blocking out the rest of the world and your own thoughts. “Speak to me, sweetness.”

You put your hand on his heart thumping in excitement as the other one traces the expanse of his torso, until it reaches his cock. When you wrap your fingers around his girth, you both let out a loud moan. He always feels so heavy in your hand, so thick and hard under your fingertips as a pang of arousal shoots through you when he moans out your name at the contact. Oh, you could barely wait to have him inside of you.

“My greedy princess.” He exhales slowly, precum dribbling from the tip and you cannot resist the urge to thumb over his sensitive tip to collect some of it. You barely contain your pleased grin when he moans loudly at the feeling, he could come on the spot if you do not abandon your teasing motions.

To know that he is the first man you have ever seen or touched sends a sensation through him that he cannot quite describe. Something primal that fills him with the pride of being the first to have you like this. To be the only man who will ever have you wholly like this.

“I don’t believe it's going to fit.” You breathe out, drooling like a hungry mutt as you keep jerking him off. 

“Then let's get you stretched until it does, princess.”

James worships you with his mouth and fingers. He makes sure to guide you so your hips roll against his eager tongue. You gain a rhythm, moving back and forth seeking out that delicious friction against your clit as you grasp his hair with both hands. Your breath comes out in short pants, and you feel the pressure deep within your pussy close to overtaking you. His fingers move with care, slipping between your thighs like he already knows your body’s secrets. The first touch makes you gasp— gentle, slow, utterly devoted. You rock down against his mouth a couple more times, two fingers deep abusing your sweet spot until you cry out, your first orgasm bursting and rippling over your body. James hums approvingly as he drinks your slick like fine wine. 

“I have given you the world, my love.” He kisses you again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, as his length teases your folds. “Let me show you the divine devotion of a true knight, loyal until the bitter end.” Slowly inching it inside you to revel in the feeling of your tight walls, you can only moan into his mouth in response. At first, he thrusts inside you slowly and deliberately to get you used to the feeling. The sensation is initially foreign to you, the stretch unlike anything you have ever known, pain and pleasure mixing together in the most delicious way as you whimper against his mouth.

“I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you.” He starts to rut into you more roughly, abandoning his rhythm once he has a taste of you. “Just like this.” His hips snap forward, and you cry out in response. 

“Oh James, Gods above!” Your back arches, legs tightening around his waist, silently begging for more. 

“I'm not going to last if you look at me like that.” You can only kiss him, his hips rocking against yours to the hilt in a rhythm that makes you clutch at his bicep with one hand and his neck with the other, nails exquisitely marking his skin.

“I can't let you marry him, I can't let you go.” He needs you ruined for any other man. His fingers trails between your thighs, stroking lazy, merciless circles until your hips jerk up. His mouth closes around the swell of your breast, tongue hot and insistent on your nipples, and you cry out, arching against him.

“James.” Your voice breaks as your body trembles on the edge.

“Forgive me, my princess. I cannot stop.” 

“You're not allowed to stop!” You whimper.

“You’re mine to cherish, mine to love.” James whispers, voice rough with possession. “I’ll worship you within an inch of your sanity, fuck you so tenderly and viciously that you will think of nothing but this moment.”

And when he kisses you again, filthy and slow, your body shatters for the second time, clinging to him as you come undone. Shame no longer exists; only the endless tide of your desperate touch, and your sweet moans as he tears you apart. He swears he has never seen anything more angelic than the sight of you overtaken by pure bliss.

A shiver runs down your spine when his gaze lifts to meet yours, dark and wild, and you swear he growls when his body presses you more firmly into the wrinkled sheets, his mouth at your throat, your legs disgracefully open for him and only him. James brutally thrusts into you, harder, deeper, the sound of your cries jumping on the marble walls, careless of any servant that might walk by and hear you. 

Every thrust, every scrape of his teeth along your skin, every hot kiss to your breast claims you wholly.

“I can’t— Gods!” He pants your name into your neck, kissing and sucking down the column of your throat, his hand digging into your thighs mercilessly. You are so close again you can barely breathe. The world narrows to the animalistic pace of his hips, his musky scent, the heat building in your core. When your climax hits you for the third and final time, it’s like a storm roaring inside you. James feels you clench around him impossibly tighter, indulging in the way you scream his name, shaking and moaning out of control. An angel made of sinful rapture, pliant for your knight to use as he pleases. Your delicious whimpers and the sounds of your wet pussy sucking his cock back in are utterly obscene, and he knows he is not going to last much longer.

“I need—” He groans, crashing his mouth against yours in an open-mouth kiss. His thrusts grow erratic, before spilling into you with a deep, shuddering moan muffled by your raw lips, filling you with his warmth.

Clinging to each other, both of you tremble, your body exhausted yet sated. James breathes heavily against the damp crook of your neck while you gently thread your fingers through his hair. His hold around you is urgent, terrified someone might break the door down and drag him away from you. Your arms tighten around his shoulders to keep this moment forever, because no matter what is going to happen, you belong to him.

James lies on his side, staring at the gradually slowing of your chest beside him, tracing the curve of your eyelashes in his mind, the gentle brush of your hair tickling his skin.

He has always known loyalty, but today it transformed into something more. Fierce, unyielding, all-consuming. Your laughter, your sighs, the way you look at him when you think no one is watching— they are all treasures he would guard with his life. He could fight armies, bear scars, face danger without hesitation, but nothing matters as much as your happiness.

Not even his armor.

He presses his hand to his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat sing the truth he has tried to ignore for so long. He has no crown to offer you, no kingdom to claim, no power to command armies. But he has his sword, his vow. And his heart, utterly, irreversibly yours.

When his forehead rests against yours, and your fingers intertwine, your focus is solely on him.

“I have a sword to protect you, but not a crown to have you. Marry me, my sweetness, and let us leave behind this world that wants to bind you. Let us write our own story, where we are free, and happiness is ours alone.”

Your breath hitches at those hushed words, outshouting every symphony, every reprimand, every demand that has shaped your life. Tears well in your eyes, shimmering like the morning light as your free hand cradles his already damp cheek.

“Oh my beloved knight. Yes James, I will be your wife! Take me with you and let's leave this place behind. Together.”

He holds you close, feeling the weight of every fear and every doubt melt away. In that embrace, surrounded by the warm light of the candles, you allow yourselves to believe in a future untouched by duty or sorrow— a future that is entirely and beautifully yours.

general bucky taglist: @jimmywoosimp @iambuckyswifey @metal-armed-muse @shotinthedcrk @picuappled @dugiioh @hiraethmae @siemprx @its-in-the-woods @bunnybuckys @squishyfruitloop @buckybarneswife08

if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist, just leave a comment or an inbox (my whole account is nsfw, so you need to be 18+ and have your age displayed. it is impossible for me to go through every account, therefore I trust you to be honest and respectful of my rules and boundaries, thank you).

[starling-in-the-sky]

Bookmarked

Roommate!Bucky X Reader

Summary: Take two roommates who drive each other up the wall, add one smutty book with a compelling premise, and watch them nearly kill each other. Or kiss. Or both, and then some.

Word Count: 7k

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MDNI) p in v, fingering, praise kink, use of a vibrator, softdom!bucky, a touch of perv!bucky because you know I can’t resist that man

A/N: Y’all, this was a bitch and a half to write, but the idea simply would not leave me alone. It took so many days that I wanted to be spending on other projects, but I rather like how this turned out. Proofread by only me and my human eyes. 

Your book is just starting to get good when Bucky walks into the apartment.

You let out a long-suffering sigh and lean forward, laying the book in your lap and doing your best to focus on the page. Not on the six-foot super soldier you share a wall with, who is currently wrapped like a present in one of those infuriatingly tight compression shirts, his hair still sweaty from his workout. 

“Morning, doll,” he greets you as he tosses his gym bag in the middle of the floor (where it certainly doesn’t belong) and moseys over to the kitchen.

“Morning. You lift those heavy things real good?” you ask, feigning disinterest as you turn a page. “Lift heavier things than the other guy?”

“Something like that,” he replies with a smirk before opening the fridge. “What’re you reading?”

You should have known he would ask. His favorite activity seemed to be bothering you with a million questions while you attempted to read in peace. But you’re sorely unprepared to field questions about this particular book. You already know he’ll give you endless shit if he gets wind of the… scandalous subject matter.

It certainly doesn’t help that you’ve been trying to picture anyone but your annoyingly hot roommate as you read it.

So you evade. “A critically acclaimed novel titled None of Your Business.”

Bucky snorts. “Let me guess. The protagonist is a real smartass.” His attention drifts back to the fridge, and he sighs in frustration. “Who forgot to buy more milk, again.”

You scold yourself internally and shoot him a remorseful look over the edge of the couch. “Oops?”

He rolls his eyes, sauntering into the living room to lean on the back of the couch. “Maybe if you didn’t have your head buried in a book all the time, you’d occasionally observe the things that need doing around our real-world apartment,” he chides.

Childishly, you roll your eyes right back. It keeps them from lingering on the way the veins stand out from his forearm, or how his biceps (flesh and metal) strain against the sleeves of his shirt, or how he’s looking down at you like you’re his favorite problem in the world.

And then he leans closer, peering over your shoulder to get a look at what you’re reading. 

Nope. You snap the book shut, tuck it under your arm, and head in the direction of your room. “I’ll leave the observing to the bionic staring machine, thank you very much.”

“Where you going?” he asks.

“To read in peace,” you say over your shoulder. “You talk too much.”

“Try not to miss me,” he calls after you as you shut the door. You can hear the smirk in it even if you don’t see it. Annoyance, followed by a heat that you don’t dare to examine, crawls under your skin, itchy and uncomfortable.

So much for peace, you think as you flop onto the bed and crack open your book again.

Bucky can tell when you’re hiding something from him. It’s really not hard - you’re a terrible liar, worse at keeping secrets. It's actually sort of adorable - almost as adorable as how mad you get when he finds you out.

And it would be a waste of his training in intelligence work if he didn’t try to figure out what you’re keeping from him.

The first step is to get your defenses down, so Bucky makes a stop on the way home from his briefing with Sam. 

When he unlocks the door and steps through the threshold, he finds you reclined on the couch, book in hand, the cover surreptitiously hidden behind your propped up knees. Bucky feigns innocence and places the bag from Din Soup on the counter with a flourish. “I got takeout.”

You groan in relief, pry yourself out of the you-shaped dent in the couch, and tuck your book under your arm. “Thank god, I'm starving.”

Bucky unpacks the order, and you both begin to fill your plates from the various containers. Unable to resist, he pokes you with a pair of chopsticks and asks, “Still reading your secret book?”

“It's not secret,” you reply, your tone suspiciously even. You have a terrible poker face.

“Oh yeah? What’s it about?” he prods, dropping a stray lo mein noodle into his mouth.

You shoot him a withering look. “It’s about the world’s most annoying roommate.”

“Sounds dumb,” he retorts with his mouth full. “Who’d write a book about you?”

“Hilarious. Pass the soup dumplings, idiot,” you demand, shoving his shoulder with all the strength of a malnourished chihuahua.

How can he not smile at that, when you call him ‘idiot’ like it’s a term of endearment? Still, he doesn’t allow it to distract him. “You didn’t answer my question,” he presses after handing you the requested container.

“Didn’t i?” Your eyes are on the takeout again, avoiding his.

“You don’t want me to know what you’re reading.” He says it less like an accusation and more like a statement of fact.

You let out that frustrated little huff he adores, the one you save for the special brand of exasperation only he can bring out in you. “God, you are just allergic to minding your own business, aren’t you?”

“Is it a romance?” he teases, looking for a reaction.

You roll your eyes. “Jesus.”

It’s not a denial, and you still won’t look at him, so Bucky suspects that he’s on the trail. “It is, isn’t it? That’s why you don’t wanna tell me.” 

He leans on the counter and gives you a devilish grin. “Let me guess, it’s some Pride and Prejudice-style romance with lots of yearning and accidental hand touching and quivering.”

You cock an eyebrow in response. “Quivering?”

“Lots.”

Again, you roll your eyes so hard, Bucky's surprised they don’t pop right out of your skull. “You know what? You got me. I'm a huge fan of the quiver genre.” 

You turn to carry your plate to the couch, and Bucky sees an opening. A metal hand flashes out and plucks the book from underneath your arm before you have time to react.

There’s a loud clatter as you drop your plate on the counter and whirl around to face him. “Hey!” you protest, reaching out to snatch it back, but it’s already too late. He jerks it away from you and examines the cover with curiosity.

And it’s not what he expected at all.

It’s better.

Emblazoned on the cover is an artist’s rendering of an attractive man with piercing blue eyes, his shirt unbuttoned scandalously low to reveal a muscular chest. The title is equally as interesting.

“Praise?” he reads off the cover, grinning like the cat who got the cream.

Your cheeks flush scarlet as you try again to grab the book out of his hands. “Bucky, give that back or I swear-“

Fortunately, Bucky is much faster and much taller than you, and he keeps the book out of your reach easily. “Oh my god, you’ve been reading smut. Right in the middle of our apartment.” 

The mere idea makes his cock twitch with interest - he’s only a man after all. And to think of all those times you sat in the same room as him while you read literary porn, trying to keep a straight face, maybe trying to keep from pressing your thighs together-

As compelling as that mental image is, the reality of you in front of him is even more entertaining. “Please stop,” you beg, covering your burning face with your hands.

But Bucky is having far too much fun to stop. 

“Is it any good?” he asks playfully, making a show of leafing through the pages.

“I- I haven’t formed an opinion yet,” you stammer, your blush turning impossibly deeper. You jump in an attempt to steal back the book. “Now give it back!”

Still he holds it out of your reach, then plants a palm on your head like a child to keep you away, laughing as you struggle uselessly against him. He squints to read the blurb on the back. The first line is so incriminating that he just has to read it aloud. 

“‘She's a good girl, but she’s falling for the wrong man’?” 

Vibrating with rage, you break free from his grip. “I will fucking kill you, I swear to god!” You lunge for the book, essentially climbing him like a furious monkey to get to it.

“Jesus, will you relax? I’m trying to read.” He plays nonchalant even as he tries to shake you off, enjoying himself immensely.

“James Buchanan Barnes, I will stab you with a pair of chopsticks!” You grab a pair off the counter, and you look so enraged that for a moment, Bucky believes you might actually try to use them.

“Okay, okay!” He holds up his hands in mock surrender. You make a move for the book, and he once again jerks it away. “Put down the utensils, take a breath, and I'll give it back.”

After a moment of consideration, you drop the chopsticks on the counter with a scowl. Bucky takes an exaggerated breath in, gesturing for you to follow. Even though the anger radiating off you is palpable, you take a deep breath anyway.

Bucky holds out the book in front of you, flashes his most disarming smile, and says, “Good girl.”

Your eyes widen, your face flushing all over again. You snatch the book, grab your plate from the counter, and hiss, “You are insufferable.” Then you turn on your heel and stomp off to your room, slamming the door like a teenager.

Bucky snickers under his breath.

You know that won’t be the end of it, before you even slam your door.

Bucky loves to torment you, and the bigger a reaction he gets, the more likely he is to continue. You shouldn’t have let yourself be so angry, so obviously embarrassed, but no one could get under your skin like him. In the months you’d been living together, he’d successfully located almost every single button you had and pressed them at will. Now that he’d found a new button, there was no way he’d leave it untouched.

By some stroke of luck, you manage to avoid him the following morning until you leave for work. Nothing to distract you like an absolutely punishing eight hour shift of work. When quitting time comes around, you feel dead on your feet, and probably look worse.

Your reward for a hard day’s work? Bucky, splayed out on the couch like an Epicurean figure in an Italian painting, eyes sparkling with mischief as soon as you walk in the door.

“The prodigal roommate returns.” 

“I’m not in the mood,” you deadpan as you drop your keys in the dish.

“In the mood for what?” he asks innocently. “I didn’t say anything.”

You suppress a sigh and open the fridge. “It’s only a matter of time.”

Bucky sits up, eyeing the grocery store bag in your hand. “You bought milk?”

“Yes, Bucky.” Unable to keep the snipe out of your voice, you all but toss the jug into the fridge and push the door shut. “I do remember to do the things you ask me to every once in a while.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Good girl.”

You’d been preparing for it mentally, but when the words fall from his lips, it’s like the first time he said it all over again. Your face superheats in record time, shame mixing with something else in your stomach. Something like arousal.

Because, despite your annoyance and embarrassment, you’d liked it.

“I - you -” Sputtering and angry and annoyingly turned on, you make an incoherent noise of frustration and stalk off to your room again.

You don’t slam the door this time. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction. But the image of his smirk as you close the door burns into your eyelids.

————————————

Bucky hasn’t had this much fun in a while.

This little discovery he’d made is the gift that keeps on giving. It’s just too easy. All it takes is a compliment, deliberately worded, and you whip around with a flush in your cheeks and a storm in your eyes. He gets the best reaction with those two little words that have become his favorite in the whole dictionary. Two little syllables that light you up like a match every single time.

The only drawback is that he can’t stop thinking about what you’d look like if he said those words to you in more… compromising positions. These brief, fleeting fantasies were becoming distracting, borderline problematic. He's had to stop wearing sweatpants around the apartment. Even still, he has no intention of letting this go.

Bucky's reverie is broken by the opening of your door. Whatever teasing jibe he’d been thinking up in the last five minutes while washing the dishes dissolves in his brain like soap in hot water. You’re wearing that little skirt he likes, the one with the slight flare that swishes when you walk and the hem that rides the line between appropriate and decidedly inappropriate.

“I’ll be back late,” you inform him casually as you attempt to keep your balance while slipping on your heels. “Don’t wait up.”

The motion causes the hem of your skirt to ride up. Bucky doesn’t even pretend not to stare. “Where you headed?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I have a date.” You pull out your phone to check your appearance, fiddling with an earring and adjusting your lipstick.

Bucky raises an eyebrow as he dries a plate. “A date, huh?”

“Easy with the tone of surprise, Barnes," you return playfully, though your expression betrays a hint of nerves as you try to get your hair to fall just so.

Though he’d never admit it, the idea of you going out on a date with some guy is doing complicated things to Bucky's head and heart. Both of you had gone on your fair share of failed dates since you moved in together. But that was before… well, before.

The way you frown at your reflection in the phone makes something twist in Bucky's chest. He dries his hands and faces you. “Stop fussing, doll. You look beautiful.”

That gets you to look up from your phone, surprised, then wary. “Are - are you making fun of me again?”

“No, I mean it,” he replies earnestly. “You always look beautiful.”

The words seem to break past your defenses. Your eyes widen, and you swallow nervously, but you put your phone into your purse and you stop touching your hair so much.

As you hunt for your wallet and keys, Bucky asks, because he has to. “So, who’s the guy?”

“Liam. From the corner store.”

And Bucky's good mood is officially ruined.

Liam. The corner store manager who flirts shamelessly with you every chance he gets, who has been sniffing after you for months now. The one who had made you blush last week when he complimented your smile, and had Bucky seeing red all the way from the drinks aisle.

“Yeah, I know who Liam is,” he mumbles, wadding up the dishtowel and tossing it on the counter childishly.

“Why are you making that face?” you ask, hooking your purse over your shoulder. "He's nice.”

Bucky starts putting away the dishes with a little more force than necessary. "He's nice to you, because he’s been trying to get in your pants since you moved in. He's a sleaze.”

You plant your hands on your hips stubbornly. “He is not. He’s single, he’s cute, he’s employed-”

“You have got to get higher standards than that,” he snipes. He hates how jealous he sounds, how pathetic.

“Okay, what’s got your panties in a twist?” you demand, voice sharpening.

That’s when Bucky snaps. Determined to get the upper hand, he steps in towards you and says in a deceptively calm voice, “I don't wear panties, but I'll bet five dollars that you’re wearing your date night panties right now.”

He knows he’s probably gone too far, but it works, because your jaw drops, and your cheeks turn an alarming shade of red. “Excuse me?”

Bucky smirks. “Y’know, the lacy blue ones you wear when you’re trying to get laid.” The little gasp that escapes your mouth tells him he’s right on the money, which only makes him grin wider. 

“You are such a pervert!” You grab the wadded up dishtowel off the counter and throw it at him. “You’ve been scoping out my underwear?”

“Can’t exactly help it when you parade around in those short little skirts while you’re getting ready,” he retorts.

Indignant, you tug down the hem of your skirt self-consciously and snarl, “You’re an asshole.” The sound of your heels pounding the hardwood echoes off the walls as you angrily stride to the front door.

Bucky can’t resist one more dig. “Don't worry, I'm sure Liam will love them. Maybe he’ll give you some of that praise you want so bad.”

You grab your coat and shoot one last fiery glance back at him. “Fuck. You.”

“You should let him borrow your book,” he calls after you, just to get the last word. “Have him take notes!”

But the door has already slammed, and he’s shouting at the coatrack. Bucky sighs and drags a frustrated hand over his face.

Pathetic.

You’re so angry you could spit.

Getting asked on a date was the one non-humiliating thing that happened to you all week, and Bucky managed to sour your mood before it even started. And now you are sitting across from a perfectly nice guy who is buying you dinner, and all you can think about is your goddamn roommate.

It's so completely unfair, because Liam is great. He's good-looking, and charming, and even occasionally funny. This might have been a really nice date, if you weren’t so hot under the collar and humiliatingly damp between your legs thinking about the argument you’d had with Bucky.

By the time you both finish your meals, it’s clear to the both of you that your mind is elsewhere and your heart isn’t in it. You apologize, twisting your napkin in your lap. Liam offers you a wan smile and pays the bill, and says something about next time.

You already know there won’t be a next time.

Fueled by two glasses of wine and the fury of a woman mocked too many times, you stomp down the hallway and throw open the apartment door, violently wrestling off your coat.

Predictably, Bucky is reclined on the couch, looking at his phone until your entrance startles him back to the present. “Thought you said you’d be back late.”

You huff angrily, freeing yourself from your coat and tossing it in the direction of the coatrack, and then turn on Bucky. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“Come again?” he asks, sitting up.

You kick off your heels and plant yourself firmly by the arm of the couch. “You know, what I read in the privacy of my own home is nobody’s business, especially not yours. It's perfectly healthy and it’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He opens his mouth to throw some asinine comment back at you, but you steamroll him. “And I don’t appreciate you trying to constantly humiliate me in my own fucking apartment!”

Silence hangs in the air a moment as he absorbs your words and you catch your breath. 

“Finished?” Bucky asks patiently, like he’s got all the time in the world.

You toss your hair out of your eyes and try to regain some composure. “For the moment.”

He sits forward, deeply amused. “Good for you, standing up for yourself. Wasn’t sure you had it in you. I'm proud of you, sweetheart.”

That turns you nuclear. You rip your purse off your shoulder and huck it towards him. “Stop fucking praising me!”

He flinches back from the flying projectile. “Jesus, what’s gotten into you?” Bucky gets to his feet and walks towards you, that maddening smirk reappearing on his face. “I guess nothing, since you came home before ten p.m. just to scream at me. Is that the problem? Are we a little… frustrated?”

You refuse to take the bait. “Why are you fucking with me like this?” you demand.

His smirk turns wicked. “Because you’re cute when you’re so wound up.”

You will your cheeks not to flush. “I'm being serious, Bucky.”

“So am I,” he insists, walking even closer. You step back to try and put some space between you, but Bucky pursues you. “You scrunch up your nose and your eyes get all fiery. And you get this little crease between your eyebrows.” 

He reaches up a hand and gently strokes it across the space between your brows. “Right here. Drives me crazy.”

Your brain fully bluescreens for a moment. It occurs to you that you’ve been holding your breath, that your back is suddenly pressed to the wall. When had he backed you into the wall?

You swallow nervously. “You… what are you doing?” 

His eyes pin you to the spot. Everywhere you look, Bucky is there. He's so close he fills your vision, so close you can breathe in his cologne. What is happening right now? your brain practically screams.

His thumb moves, tracing along the edge of your jaw. “And the best part is watching you pretend you don’t like it,” he murmurs. “That it doesn’t turn you on when I tell you how good you’re being for me.”

That sends a wave of heat through your whole body, resolving in a demanding throb between your thighs. Half of you is sure that he’s still making fun of you, and the other half needs to hear him say it again.

“Tell me why you came home early from your date.” It's not a request, and the low rasp of his voice makes you want to do anything he tells you to.

“I… I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” you admit, because it’s impossible to think of a lie when he’s standing so close, when he’s touching you like this.

He hums to himself, pleased, his thumb stroking thoughtfully across your lower lip now. “You think about me when you’re reading that filthy little book of yours?”

You try to look anywhere but his face. “I-”

Bucky takes hold of your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, angling you up to look at him. “Tell the truth, doll.”

“…Yes.” 

“Good girl.”

You’re embarrassingly wet now, thighs shifting against each other to try and ease the building need. And he knows - you can see in his eyes that he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and it’s not a game to him anymore.

Bucky’s hand wanders lower, down your arm, down the slope of your waist. It lingers there, tracing lazy circles through the material of your shirt. He leans dangerously close, his face inches from yours. “You picture me when you turn on that vibrator, thinkin’ I can't hear all those little noises you make?”

Your eyes go wide. white-hot humiliation and even hotter arousal races through your veins. “You- you can hear that?”

“Super soldier hearing, sweetheart,” he whispers in your ear. “I heard it every time. Surprised you couldn’t hear me fisting my cock on the other side of the wall just to the sound of you.” You can feel his lips against the shell of your ear, his breath against your neck as he purrs, “You sound so sweet when you come.”

Your knees might have given out if he didn’t have you pinned to the wall. “Oh my god,” you breathe, your head falling back against the wall.

You feel the ghost of his smile at your ear, even if you can’t see it. “It's not enough, is it? You need something real, don’t you?”

The slight shock of cold metal jolts you as his left hand brushes at the skin of your thigh, just below the hem of your skirt. Bucky pulls back just far enough to look you in the eye.

“Tell me what you want.”

You’re too far gone for denial or shame anymore. “Fuck, I- I want you,” you practically whimper. “Please.”

“Good girl,” he replies, and then his lips crash into yours.

It’s a claim, a promise, and a preview all rolled into one. His mouth is hot and commanding against yours, and his tongue easily parts your lips and slips between them like it was always meant to be there. Your hands fly to the back of his neck, to his hair, tugging at the nape without meaning to, just needing something to keep you upright. He doesn’t seem to mind - in fact, he groans into the kiss like he wants you to do it again.

His thigh slots between yours, easing your legs apart for him. You can feel him, rock hard and pressed against your hip. A gasp rips through your lungs, and you grind down onto his thigh on instinct. You cunt pulses gratefully, glad to finally have some semblance of contact. You rock against him again and again, the needy sounds you’re making swallowed by his mouth against yours.

Suddenly, Bucky breaks the kiss and his vibranium hand pins your hips to the wall. You whine, aching for more. You aren’t wanting for long, because his other hand slips beneath the hem of your skirt. When he strokes you through your damp underwear, he curses under his breath. You shudder and bite back a moan.

“Jesus, doll,” he mutters, forehead pressed against yours. “You've been like this since you walked in, haven’t you?”

“Since we fought,” you reply, breathless, trembling as he strokes you again.

Bucky lets out an almost pained groan and leans in, bypassing your lips to nip at your jaw. “You were on a date with another guy, soaked and thinking about me the whole time?” His fingers trace the edge of your panties.

“Yes,” you pant, your hips squirming uselessly against his grip. “Yes, please, Bucky, please just touch me.”

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs in your ear, then plants a kiss in the hollow just below it. “I’ll take care of you.”

He nudges the dampened fabric to the side and you feel a warm, calloused finger drag through your folds. Your hips try and fail to chase his hand, still pinned in place by metal and gentle force. 

The hand between your legs keeps moving, teasing, and Bucky pulls back to look at you again. “You gonna be good for me?”

“Yes, god, please, I’ll be good,” you whine desperately.

He smiles, cruel and beautiful and devastating. “I know you will.”

Then he pushes a finger inside of you, and your brain shuts down completely. Mercifully, the heel of his hand offers some friction against your clit as he pumps his finger in and out. You cling to his shoulders for stability, forehead falling forward against his collarbone.

“That’s it, baby,” he encourages you. “Hold onto me. Christ, you’re tight. Can you take another one?”

“Please,” you whisper.

Another finger slides in along the first, and you gasp against his chest, the stretch delicious and consuming. Bucky keeps the same unhurried pace, but there’s a ragged quality to his breathing that tells you he’s not completely unaffected. 

“You feel like heaven,” he mumbles. “Can’t wait to be inside you, feel you squeeze my cock just like this.”

You hadn’t even thought that far ahead, and the prospect sends a thrill racing through you. He makes a come hither motion with his fingers that makes you cry out sharply.

“Close already?” he teases, and he does it again, humming his approval as your whole body tenses around it. “My sweet girl. So sensitive. So needy.”

His words draw a pathetic whimper from your throat. Bucky increases his pace, releases your hip in favor of placing his left hand at your throat. The cool metal only presses hard enough to ease you back against the wall, giving him room to look at you properly.

“Wanna see you fall apart on my fingers,” he rasps. “Wanna see if you look as pretty as you sound through the wall.”

Your hips buck into his hand, rolling with each stroke of his fingers inside you. He moves his thumb directly over your clit, circling it in time, and your orgasm burns through you, sudden and scorching.

Bucky’s hand keeps moving between you as you ride it out, the intensity of his gaze on your face warm like a heat lamp. Your incoherent cries of his name taper off to whimpers, and he carefully withdraws his fingers from you.

His lips find your temple. “Perfect. That was perfect, sweetheart.” He steadies you, since you can barely stand on your own, and kisses you tenderly, a stark contrast to everything that came before.

As infuriating as he can be sometimes, this is also a part of who Bucky is. He's the guy who cooks you dinner, who always lets you pick what movie to watch, who calls you beautiful and perfect like he really means it.

You melt against him, arms draping lazily around his neck as he kisses you. You'd be perfectly content to kiss him just like this for hours, but you can still feel his neglected erection between you, straining against the fabric of his jeans, and it sparks interest and want all over again.

Trailing a hand down his chest and abdomen, you grasp the waistband of his jeans, your fingers curling inside and brushing against his skin. Bucky responds enthusiastically, nipping at your bottom lip before locking eyes with you. “Your bed or mine?” he asks breathlessly.

“Don’t care,” you reply, leaning forward to drag your lips across his throat. 

“Yours is closer.” He scoops you up, hitching your legs around his waist. Unable to resist, he takes advantage of the position to press you into the wall again, rutting himself against your ruined panties.

“Bucky, bed,” you remind him, even as the friction threatens to pull another moan out of you.

His throat works as he fights for composure. “Right. Bed.”

Bucky carries you to your room, nudges the door open with his foot, and makes his way to the bed. With the way he’s kissing you, you expect to be laid down like something fragile. Instead, he drops you unceremoniously onto the bed.

“Bucky!” you yelp, getting a few inches of air as you bounce on the mattress.

He grins boyishly and settles over you. Clothes are peeled away - first his shirt, followed by yours. He finds the zipper on the side of your skirt and lowers it slowly like he’s unwrapping a gift, then tugs the skirt down your legs and tosses it onto the floor. Bucky runs a finger along the inside of the waistband of your panties, the lacy blue ones, and playfully snaps the elastic. “I knew it.”

You huff in exasperation and reach for the button on his jeans. “Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

Bucky laughs out loud. “There she is.” He unzips his fly and shoves his jeans down and off. “First it’s ‘please touch me, Bucky, I’ll be good,’ and now it’s ‘shut up and fuck me’?”

He does shut up, finally, when you palm him through his boxers, a guttural groan falling from his lips.

“You talk too much,” you murmur, pulling him down to you.

Bucky makes short work of removing your bra, then runs his eyes over your chest in greedy appreciation. He palms both of your breasts, marveling at the way you arch up into his touch, the mewling sound that breaks out of your throat when he rolls a nipple between his fingers.

“Bucky, please hurry up,” you groan.

“So we’re back to ‘please’, then.” 

“I hate you.”

He presses his lips to the swell of your breast and begins to pull down your underwear. “No, you don’t.”

When your panties and his boxers are both removed, you finally get an eyeful of him. Truthfully (and irritatingly), it’s the prettiest dick you’ve ever seen. Fairly long, thick, with a well-groomed dusting of hair at the base. It’s flushed beautifully and beading with arousal. He catches you staring with your lower lip caught between your teeth and smirks. “See something you like?”

“Definitely.” You open your legs invitingly for him. “What about you?”

He stares, swallows, settles between your legs again and asks, “Condom?”

“Bedside table drawer,” you reply automatically, only realizing your error when he’s already pulling it open. “Wait-”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Bucky gasps as he pulls out the little pink vibrator that’s nestled between the box of condoms and your body lotion. He examines it with unbridled interest. “So this is what makes that buzzing sound, huh?”

You cover your face with your hands. “Please stop.”

“Absolutely not. This little guy and I are gonna get acquainted. Now, how do you -” He finds the button, and the machine hums to life in his hands. His eyes flash with mischief. “Huh.”

“Okay, you’ve had your fun. Put it back.” You reach for it, and he yanks it away.

“Doll, I've barely even started.” Bucky takes the vibrator and pushes it right against your clit.

It’s too much pleasure, too fast. You gasp like you’ve been electrocuted, your hand flying to his wrist. “Holy shit!” you cry, torn between pushing his hand away and keeping it there.

“Interesting,” he mutters as he watches your face with rapt attention. Your breath starts to come heavier, your hips start to shift and move under the little object in his hand. You see a lightbulb go off behind his eyes, and he takes your hand off his wrist and moves it to the vibrator. “Be a good girl and hold that there for me, huh?”

Your jaw practically drops, but god help you, you obey. Bucky takes his time reaching into the drawer for a condom, rolling it onto his cock, giving himself a few lazy strokes as he watches you squirm.

“Bucky,” you pant, “please.”

He moves close, replaces your hand with his own, but doesn’t remove the vibrator. You can feel the tip of him pressing at your entrance. “You ready for me, baby?”

“Yes, please, yes.”

Bucky begins to push in.

Once again, he takes his time, and some distant part of your brain wonders where all the seemingly endless patience and self-control comes from. But most of your brain whites out, consumed with the feeling of Bucky’s cock stretching you, compounded with the steady hum of the vibrator against your clit.

When he’s halfway inside and your nails start digging into his back, you feel his breath at your ear. “Easy, sweetheart. Almost there. You’re doing so good for me.”

You moan in reply, and like he’s spoken some kind of secret password, your body opens up for him, relaxes around him, and allows him to slide home. 

Bucky groans into your neck as you helplessly clench around him. “God, you’re fucking unreal.” 

When he starts to move, you are absolutely done for. He snaps his hips against yours like he has something to prove, and maybe he does. He doesn’t let up with the vibrator, either - he starts moving it in little circles against you.

You get close embarrassingly fast, yet again. Your hips rock up to meet his on every thrust, your body bowing against his. 

“You have no idea how much I've thought about this,” he whispers. “How many times I imagined you coming apart on my cock just like this.” You feel cold vibranium grasping behind your thigh, lifting your leg to open you even further for him. Your eyes roll back when the angle changes and his cock drags against that spot that had you unraveling against the wall earlier.

“Oh my god, Bucky,” you keen, your nails scratching lines up his shoulder blades.

“Come on, good girl, let me feel it,” he growls against your neck.

The buzz, the feeling of him slamming into you, those two little words in your ear - all of it breaks you. A loud moan claws its way out of you, and you lose control of your muscles, thighs shaking, walls clamping around him as pleasure surges through you. 

Above you, Bucky loses his grip on the vibrator and it falls somewhere in the rumpled sheets, still buzzing faintly. His hips stutter, then surge forward as he tries to get as deep as he can. “Oh, fuck, fuck-”

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, a groan bordering on a whimper in the shape of your name forcing itself from his lungs. He thrusts shallowly once, twice, and collapses against you, spent.

The two of you lay there for a moment, catching your breath, your bodies sweat-slick, Bucky softening inside you.

“Goddamn,” he mutters between breaths. “I didn't think I was gonna come that quick. I was planning to give you at least two more.”

You smile, giving him a condescending pat on the back. “Don't worry about it, champ. Happens to the best of us.”

“Says the girl who soaked my hand in the living room,” he retorts, scowling.

“Well, maybe next time, we’ll see if you can last longer, minuteman.”

Bucky picks his head up, eyes sparkling. “There’s gonna be a next time?”

Of course that’s the only part he heard. “Only if you’re very, very good.” You tap his nose affectionately, and he chuckles.

The denouement sets in as Bucky carefully pulls out of you and disposes of the condom, and you wobble to the bathroom to pee and throw on an oversized t-shirt. When you return, Bucky is sitting on the edge of your bed, looking a little pleased with himself, but mostly pleased with you.

“I think that’s my shirt,” he softly accuses you, his fingers toying with the hem.

“Super soldiers who don’t do their own laundry get their shirt rights revoked.” You stand between his knees and weave your fingers into his hair. “I'm sorry I threw my purse at you.”

“I’m sorry for teasing you,” he replies, hands brushing at the backs of your thighs.

“No, you’re not.”

Bucky grins. “No, I'm not. It got me into your bed, after all.”

You roll your eyes. “Speaking of my bed…” You flop down onto the mattress and stretch, a sleepy expression on your face. “I’m beat.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that my cue to go?”

“Doesn’t have to be.” You nudge his thigh with your foot. “Wanna have a sleepover?”

His grin widens, and he turns off the lamp before flopping down next to you. “Scoot over, doll, you’re hogging the whole mattress.”

It surprises you how easy, how playful things are between the two of you now. As he wraps his arms around you and draws you close, it occurs to you that you could have fucked him ages ago and saved the two of you a whole lot of arguing and frustration. The thought slips away from you as you drift off, bone-tired and satisfied and, for the first time all week, at peace.

Bucky feels the warmth of you next to him before he even opens his eyes, and he’s already smiling. Wrapped in sheets that smell of laundry soap and sex and you, he rolls over with a quiet groan and sees you in the morning light.

You’re reading your smutty little book, openly, without a care for the fact that he’s right beside you. You don’t look up at him yet, but the smallest of smiles tugs at the corner of your mouth, like you’ve been waiting for him to find you like this.

He shifts closer, snaking an arm around your waist and kissing your jaw. “Morning, good girl,” he rumbles.

You turn the page, pretending that it has no effect on you, but he watches your cheekbones tinge pink. “You gonna stop beating that dead horse any time soon?” 

“Only when it stops being funny,” he replies with a smirk. “Or when you stop liking it so much.”

“Stop talking. I'm reading.”

He sighs and lays his stubbled cheek against your shoulder, his eyes curiously scanning the page along with you. You decide to let him - there’s not exactly any harm in it now.

After about thirty seconds, he cringes. “Doll, this is awful.”

“I know. but it’s also really hot.” you elbow him playfully. “Kinda like you.”

Bucky hums thoughtfully, losing interest in the book and becoming much more interested in you. He begins to cover your neck in lazy, open-mouthed kisses, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your t-shirt to feel the warmth of your skin.

“Bucky,” you warn, “I said I'm reading.” The warning has no real conviction, and it’s even less believable when his hands begin to wander and your legs part on instinct,

He pulls back the covers and settles between your thighs. “So keep reading.” Bucky nudges up the hem of your t-shirt and kisses your navel, before trailing lower.

You chuckle breathlessly, but you don’t put the book down. Not yet,

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending

Author’s Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡

Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.

Then comes the keys.

The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.

Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.

Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.

At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.

But then comes the moaning.

High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.

Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.

But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.

And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.

And that finally makes the tears flow.

They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.

You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.

They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.

Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.

Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.

Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.

However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.

Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.

Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.

The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.

The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.

And it makes you know.

He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.

Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.

Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.

Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.

Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.

If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.

Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.

Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.

So what is the point?

You don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.

Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.

The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.

And then, him standing there and watching you.

Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.

That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.

Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.

You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.

His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.

But you are certain, he won’t.

Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.

He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.

You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.

Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.

You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.

The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.

Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.

The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.

The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.

The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.

You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.

The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.

No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.

You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.

You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.

But you keep walking.

Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.

You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.

The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.

You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.

You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

You don’t look back.

Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.

It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.

His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.

You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.

You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.

As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.

You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.

“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.

Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.

All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?

But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.

But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.

Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.

But you are not broken. You are just in love.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.

But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.

But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.

You could run.

You should.

You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.

But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay,” you say weakly.

Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.

You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.

And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.

So you stay.

With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.

Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.

And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.

The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.

Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.

His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.

His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.

Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.

And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.

He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.

But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.

You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.

So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

You try. You really try.

But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.

Because this time it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.

Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s not yours either.

She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.

But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.

Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.

Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.

You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.

You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.

His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.

And Bucky watches all of that.

His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.

But he won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.

And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.

His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.

Like your pain is his own.

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.

His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.

So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.

So you cry harder.

Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.

Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.

His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.

Because none of this makes it any easier.

Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.

But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.

He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.

Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.

He looks wrecked.

His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.

Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.

Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.

But Bucky just shrugs.

It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.

Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.

And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.

There is something uncertain in there.

And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.

Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.

His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.

You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin

[superbassbuck]

just don't look!

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, safe words, self-image issues, insecurity, angst if you squint, unprotected p in v, rough sex, dom bucky (he fucks mean), mating press supremacy, size difference, established relationships, hair-pulling, dacryphilia, overstimulation, love marks, dirty talking, degrading, aftercare, fluff, pet names: "baby" "sweetheart" "baby girl" "doll"

word count: 7.3k masterlist

a/n: remember friends, don't be afraid to use safewords! kinda proofread so we kinda die like men

synopsis: Bucky is a good boyfriend—clingy, loving, and perfectly respectful. There’s just one problem: after months of blissful dating, you still haven’t had sex. He’s been holding back, convinced that if he gives in, he won’t be able to control himself, and that you won’t be able to handle him. But you’re determined to put a crack in that “good boy” shell of his. Now, standing before him in the flimsy night slip he bought you, his only defense is simple. All he has to do is not look at you.

No one ever saw it coming, but Bucky Barnes was the picture of a perfect partner. Everyone around him knew better than to get between him and his girlfriend. To say he was in love with you was an understatement—no.

He was hopelessly devoted to you. Utterly and completely.

Despite the rough glares, the deep voice, the intimidating stature, and the whole ex-brainwashed-assassin thing, he was a total softie when it came to you. It was like taking a big, brooding Bucky Barnes, tossing him into a blender, and turning him into pure, warm mush you could drink right up.

He was clingy in the sweetest way possible. He was always close, always there for you when you needed him. He gave you the softest kisses known to mankind. He spoiled you endlessly, told you every day how beautiful you were, and made sure you never once forgot how special you were to him.

Bucky loved you. You knew that for a fact. He was good at showing it.

Except there was one problem.

Aside from all the kisses and cuddles, he never took things any further. You both had been together for a few good months now, and not once had the two of you had sex.

There were moments—more than a few—when his body gave him away with a hard-on. When you were tangled up in bed, or curled together on the couch, you felt the way his body reacted to you. When you would try to slip your hand lower, thinking maybe it’ll get somewhere, he would gently catch your wrist and say “No, sweetheart. Not yet.”

After that, you stopped making the first move. You let him set the pace for his comfort. But as the weeks stretched into months, the harder it became to ignore the feeling of insecurity creeping in.

It wasn’t like he never gave you signals. He had bought you lingerie and suggestive pajamas to wear to bed more than once. And every time you slipped them on, you told yourself, “this is it. Tonight’s the night!”

But then… it never was.

You respected his boundaries—of course you did. You loved Bucky, deeply. And you would never push him into something he wasn’t ready for. You told yourself over and over that love wasn’t measured by sex, and that what you had was still something beautiful and real.

But that didn’t make the selfish, insecure ache go away.

Because sometimes, when the lights were out and Bucky was sound asleep beside you, those stubborn thoughts crept in anyway. Ugly, unwelcomed whispers that made you wonder if maybe… you weren’t what he wanted in that way.

That perhaps, you weren’t enough to make him want you like that.

You tried to shove the feeling down, to remind yourself that the way he held you, looked at you, and loved you meant more than anything else. But it was hard to silence that insecure part of you that just wanted to feel desired—not just loved, but wanted.

Eventually, you realized you couldn’t keep pretending the feeling wasn’t there. The weight of the feeling was too damn heavy on your chest, only growing heavier each night he refuses to touch you.

You loved Bucky. God, you loved him more more than anything. And you trusted him enough to know this wasn’t something you could just bury and let fester. You’d done your research—most couples fall apart over financial strain or intimacy issues. For you, it wasn’t just about sex. It was about the self-esteem that came with it.

You didn’t understand. How could he be so loving, affectionate, and clingy, with clear physical signs of being aroused by you, yet still refuse to take things any further? There had to be something deeper he wasn’t telling you.

So, you made the rational choice to talk to him—because communication was vital in a relationship.

The two of you were curled up together on the couch, your legs draped over his, his arm lazily wrapped around your waist. His thumb drew soft circles against your skin, and for a second, you almost lost your nerve—because there it was.

That damn erection pressing subtly against your thigh, the one he always deliberately ignored.

“Bucky,” you said softly.

He hummed in response, turning his head slightly toward you. That gentle, half-asleep smile of his nearly made you want to drop the idea of confrontation all together.

But you persevered. “Can we talk about something?”

That got his attention.

He straightened slightly, blinking the sleepiness from his eyes. “Yeah. ‘Course. What’s goin’ on?”

Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, heart beating a little too fast. “I don’t want you to think I’m upset with you,” you began carefully. “I love you. And I respect your boundaries. Always.”

His brows furrowed together, just a little—as if he already knew where this was headed but didn’t like it.

“But,” you continued softly, “I need to be honest with you. It’s getting a little hard for me. Not because I want to pressure you—never that—but because…” you hesitated, teeth catching your bottom lip. “Because sometimes it makes me feel like I’m not wanted. At least not… in a sexual way.”

There was a quiet pause, and every second that ticked by felt like it was crushing your lungs. You didn’t even want to meet his eyes—too scared of what might come out of his mouth.

The silence drowned you. Would he finally admit that he just didn’t find you attractive enough?

“What? Baby, no,” Bucky said finally, shaking his head hard. “That’s not—”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard like he was trying to compose himself. “I don’t want you to ever think that. You’re everything to me.”

But his voice was shaky, his gaze flicking away from you for a second too long. All little things, but enough to make you anxious.

“Then why…” you trailed off, trying to steady your own voice. “Why does it feel like you don’t want me?”

His jaw clenched, and you could feel his hand squeeze slightly against your arms before softening again. “It’s not like that. I just—” he let out a small, forced awkward laugh that didn’t meet his eyes. “Can we not do this right now?”

Your heart squeezed a little. Not because he was being mean, but because you could see the way he was retreating—like a door slowly closing before you could get a foot in.

“Bucky,” you pushed. “I need you to be honest with me. I’m not trying to push you into anything. But I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t affect me. I… I just want to understand.”

He still wouldn’t look at you.

“Why don’t you want to have sex with me?” you asked bluntly—not as an accusation, but as a plea for the truth.

Bucky’s breath hitched. He finally looked up, lips parting like he wanted to speak, but no words came out.

“I…” he faltered, his hands flexing against your waist before falling away completely. “It’s not that I don’t want to.” He let out a shaky breath. “It’s the opposite, actually.”

You tilted your head slightly, confused.

He dragged a hand down his face, and you could practically see the gears turning in his head as he struggled to put his feelings into words. Finally, in a hoarse whisper, he admitted softly.

“I’m scared I won’t be able to control myself.”

His gaze dropped to the floor, shoulders tense and jaw tight. “You don’t get it,” he continued, voice so low it was like he was talking more to himself than to you. “When it comes to you, it’s… different. It’s not just wanting you—it’s needing you. I mean, just look at you—”

His eyes flicked up, skimming over your face, down your body, then back to your eyes with a raw honesty that made your breath catch. “You’re this soft, fragile little thing. If I make love to you, I wouldn’t want to hold back.”

Bucky looked into your eyes like he was pleading you to understand—and you did. You did understand. But under the weight of his confession, a spark stirred in your chest. A stubborn, competitive fire. Because you loved Bucky—all of him. Which meant you wanted to take… all of him, even the parts he thought you couldn’t handle.

You inhaled slowly, scooting a little closer to him. “Then… what if we set a boundary?”

He gave you a questioning look. “What?”

“A safe word,” you explained carefully. “Something that we can use if it gets too intense—if either of us wants to stop.”

You thought it was a good idea, and expected Bucky to be on the same page. But he sucked in a breath, his brows furrowing together in that familiar expression—one you knew meant he wasn’t fond of the suggestion.

“I’m serious,” you said, gently reaching for his hand. He didn’t pull away, but his fingers twitched against yours, still unsure. “I trust you, Bucky. More than anyone. And I want you to trust yourself, too. We can set the pace, we can stop whenever you want. If you feel like it’s too much—just say the word, and it’s over. No guilt. No pressure.”

He bit his bottom lip, his silence making you more anxious.

“You think it’s that easy?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t think it’s easy,” you shrugged, trailing your hand down to his, giving it a soft, reassuring squeeze. “I think it’s a start.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, the sound rough. He looked down at your joined hands with a small pout that made your chest ache. “I don’t know if I can follow that,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I don’t know if I can trust myself to stop once I start.”

You stared at him for a moment, processing his words, before finally asking, “But… is having sex with me something you want?”

Bucky’s gaze softened, a mix of frustration and longing. He didn’t need to think about it before answering, his voice rough but honest as he looked you square in the eye. “More than anything.”

Despite everything, you believed him. There was nothing more to say, so you let it go.

Since that night, though, you couldn't help but tease him. You knew it wasn’t exactly fair, but you needed to feel something—that spark, that connection, that heat between you. So, you started to frequently wear those slutty pajamas he bought you—lingerie so barely there you might as well have been naked. You would purposefully linger just a little too long when your hand brushed against his leg, letting your fingers trail down his thigh, knowing full well what it did to him.

You would snuggle closer on the couch, wiggling so your body pressed up against his, feeling his muscles tense as you did. And when you bent over—whether to pick something up or just move around—your hips would sway a little too much, your body just a little too close to his.

The little acts were almost unconscious—more instinct than strategy, really. But they were all worked without fail. You could feel that tension from him more than ever. His body would stiffen up, his usually bright puppy eyes would darken with slightly, and his jaw would clench in a sexually frustrated away.

As the days dragged on, you had noticed how much more on edge he seemed recently. Usually when you climbed into bed in your slutty pajamas, he'd welcome you and shower you in compliments. But tonight, his blanket was pulled up to his nose, his back turned squarely toward you.

“Are you calling it an early night?” you frowned, crawling onto the mattress beside him.

He mumbled something under the covers that you couldn’t quite make out. You lifted the blanket, slid underneath beside him, and felt him instantly tense up. With a soft, sleepy sigh, you wrapped your arms around his waist, settling your hands on his lower stomach as you spooned him from behind.

He immediately shuddered at your touch.

“Are you okay, baby?” you asked softly, nose pressed into his shirt, inhaling his scent.

“F-fine,” he grunted.

The contrast between your usually soft and puppy-eyed boyfriend and this pent-up, grumpy mess was amusing. Your hands subtly trailed lower, brushing the crotch of his sweatpants. He shuddered again, but didn’t pull away—he never did.

“Don’t you want to see what I’m wearing? I'm wearing one of the little night slips you bought me,” you asked softly and innocently from behind.

He sucked in a sharp breath. “Baby…”

Your hands trailed lower, your fingertips barely grazing the straining bulge beneath his sweatpants. God, he was rock hard, just the small graze of your fingertips made his hips buck and his cock twitch instinctively.

A low groan rumbled from his chest, and his eyes fluttered shut. “Sweetheart,” he whispered. “If we were to set a safe word, what should it be?”

You couldn't help the small smile that curved your lips as you gave his clothed cock a subtle squeeze that made him gasp. “Well, if we’re speaking in theoretics, it should be ‘Brooklyn.’”

Your hands hovered just above him, expecting him to use the word, but he remained silent.

Instead, he took in a deep, shaky inhale. “Okay.”

Your hands slowly dropped back onto his cock, and he immediately twitched and throbbed beneath your touch. Your thumb grazed the outline of his head, and as you moved your fingertips, you felt something cool and slick.

He was leaking.

You grinned, though he couldn’t see it. “How was your day, baby?” you asked innocently, the question sounding almost taunting.

“G-good,” he muttered, subtly rocking his hips into your hand. “So... good.”

“That’s good,” you murmured, keeping your palm heavy and still against his cock. “I missed you today. I just stayed home and cleaned. I was wearing this night slip you got me. It’s so comfortable, it feels like I’m wearing nothing.”

His breath hitched. He could already picture it—you bending over to clean and pick up items, looking domestic yet tempting in that skimpy little dress. He could picture it clearly because you had been doing exactly that these past few days—purposefully teasing, purposefully taunting. Now, with your palm still against him, you were testing the last of his patience. His hips began to rock more suddenly and deeply, his cock aching for friction. He told himself he wasn’t going to lose control. He tried to convince himself that this act alone was enough for him.

As long as he didn't turn around and look at you—wearing that flimsy dress with your perky chest visible, your ass exposed—then he was safe.

All he had to do was not look at you.

“Fuck,” he swallowed hard. “Did you now?” he questioned, clearly trying to distract himself from your touch.

His cock was growing heavy and hot beneath your touch, and with the aggressive way his hips were rocking into your palm, you couldn't help but increase the pressure. “Mhm,” you drawled. “I was being very good today.”

His jaw clenched as he tried to compose himself, his back shuddering as your hand worked him greedily. “Yeah?” he breathed, straining the word out. “You were being a good girl?”

You let out a soft little whine at the nickname, your legs clenching together to soothe the warmth creeping between your thighs. Then, you lifted your leg, draping it lazily over his, pressing yourself impossibly closer so that your breast pushed against his broad back.

You peeked over his shoulder, his hands were fisted in the sheets. You knew you were being selfish, taunting him like this—but you couldn't help it. You wanted to see him break, and the cracks were becoming more and more visible.

“Bucky,” you whined, your free hand coming up to caress the soft strands of his hair. “Why won’t you look at me?”

The stark contrast between your soft, gentle caress on his hair and your greedy hand working his erection made it impossible for him to think. His mind was spinning with one thing only: to take you.

But he wasn't going to look at you. He made sure of it.

“Don’t you want to see how I look?” you pouted, squeezing your legs more tightly against his.

He took in a deep, steady breath before responding. “I’m sure you look beautiful, baby.”

“How do you know if you haven’t even looked at me?”

“Baby,” Bucky warned, his voice rough and demanding. “Don’t test me right now. I’m trying so hard to be a good, respectful man, but I—oh, fuck!” He moaned as your palm worked faster on his cock, giving it a subtle squeeze as you pumped him through his sweatpants. “Shit, baby. You better fucking stop right now or I’ll—”

“Stop what?” you cooed innocently, your head resting on his shoulder as you stroked him from behind. “I’m not doing anything bad, am I?”

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “Don’t push it, honey. I mean it.” But despite his warnings, he had yet to say the established safe word. “Fuck—stop.”

You gasped softly, your teasing posture deflating a little with a dramatic sigh. “Oh, you mean it? Okay, okay. If my good, respectful boyfriend is feeling threatened by my hand, I definitely wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You deliberately pulled your hand away, leaving his heavy, throbbing erection alone in the confines of his sweatpants. You even slid your draped leg off his, and the absence of your warmth made his hips spasm once, sharp and frustrated.

You paused, waiting to see if he would finally give in. When his shoulders remained tense and his body stayed still, you let out a long, disappointed exhale. Without another word, you turned back around so that both your backs faced each other.

Even though he hadn’t said ‘Brooklyn,’ you still didn’t want to risk pushing him further. You had never reached this point in your relationship where he sounded genuinely frustrated and pent up. You couldn't tell if his reaction was solely sexual frustration, or if he was actually upset.

Either way, you didn't want to gamble with the possibility of upsetting him.

You had tried. You had been trying for days, and now, you were done. Suddenly, the skimpy night slip felt like an insult to your pride and self-esteem. You pulled the blanket over your body with a shuddering sigh—a sound Bucky definitely heard.

A long, tense silence stretched between you. Both of you were completely still and neither of you dared to move. You wanted to speak up, maybe ask if you had gone too far—but Bucky was so damn quiet, you convinced yourself he had already fallen asleep.

Then, he spoke up first.

“Are you okay?”

You snuggled deeper into the mattress, trying to hide yourself even though he wasn't looking at you. “I’m okay.”

There was another pause, and you thought that would be the end of it. Then, you heard shuffling behind you. Suddenly, strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you into soft fabric and a wall of muscle. Bucky’s warm arm curled tightly around your body and pulled you flush against him.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered into your ear. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Despite the sincerity and softness in his voice, you immediately felt his erection press against you underneath the blankets. You swallowed hard.

“You didn’t upset me, Bucky,” you explained softly, keeping your body still. “I just... I don’t want to push you or force you into something you’re not ready for. But I can’t lie and say it doesn't hurt, you know?”

You felt him stiffen behind you, his arms tightening around you just slightly. “It’s not that I’m not ready,” he explained gruffly, his voice deep and raspy. “I can take you right here, fuck. I want to take you right here—but I won’t, because I know you’re not ready.”

His hand rested heavily on your hip, his thumb circling slow patterns over the fabric of the gown as he spoke. You knitted your brows, glancing over your shoulder at him with a confused look. “What do you mean I’m not ready? I’ve been ready for a long time now.”

“I’m saying, if I pulled the blankets off you and saw you right now—wearing that slutty little dress—I’d flip that gown up and fuck you right through the mattress,” his grip on your hip tightened, his voice a low growl. “I want to, baby. I want you so badly, but I can’t. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Bucky,” you whispered, turning completely around to face him. He had to clench his jaw to compose himself. “I’ve told you this before. You can’t hurt me.”

“Jesus, baby. You’re not understanding me,” he grunted, his hungry eyes slowly wandering down your throat to your collarbone. “You’ll be a crying mess. You’ll be begging me to slow down, and I won’t be able to stop.”

His warnings should have scared you, but they only made you shamelessly wetter.

You bit your bottom lip, and you felt his cock twitch against your leg at the sight of your face. “Well… it’s a good thing we established a safe word, right?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I told you. Safe words are unreliable—”

But before he could finish his sentence, his words died in his throat as you slowly lifted the blanket, finally revealing yourself to him. The sight of the thin night slip clinging onto your curves, the strap falling down your bare shoulder, and the curve of your breasts poking through the fabric made his throat go completely dry.

“Fuck,” he grunted quietly—the word slipping out before he could stop it.

“Bucky, please. I can take it,” you reassured, holding his gaze. “I want to feel you make love to me. I want to feel every inch of you. I don’t want you to hold back. I can take it. Please.”

He let out a shaky exhale as his eyes fluttered shut, forcing himself to look away. You could tell it was taking everything in him to keep it together—but you also knew that just one more push could break him open completely.

So, you grabbed his hand and placed it back onto your hip, scooting even closer and batting your eyelashes up at him.

“I need you, Bucky,” you whined. “I need you so badly—it hurts. Please give yourself to me.”

His eyes fluttered open, and it was like something in him snapped. His eyes lost that usual soft, puppy-eyed glow and were replaced with something darker, hungrier. His gaze wandered down your body with a shaky breath, and as his eyes took in your whole form—vulnerable and inviting right in front of him—he couldn't hold back anymore.

He sat up abruptly, gripping the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers and yanking them down past his hips. His cock sprang free, heavy and hard, slapping against his stomach.

“I’ve been trying to be a good man—a good partner for you,” he snarled, his eyes burning with desire.

His free hand wrapped around his erection, pumping himself slowly and deeply. You watched, completely captivated, as his thumb rubbed the head of his cock, smearing the pre-cum.

“I’ve been doing so fucking good—holding out for months, trying to resist you. But fuck, you’re testing my patience, baby girl.”

“You asked for it,” he didn't ask or plead—he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly sound you barely recognized. His hand pushed the hem of your night slip up past your hip. “You told me not to hold back. Fine. I won’t.”

His lustful eyes wandered down your body, where your bare thighs lay exposed and the night slip was bunched messily around your waist. His gaze took you in completely—and you felt small and defenseless beneath his heavy presence. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, a low groan slipping from his throat as he admired you.

“Damn, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick. “I was right. You look fucking beautiful in this tiny dress.”

His fingertips caught the waistband of your panties, pulling them down in one swift tug past your legs and tossing them carelessly onto the floor. With rough hands, he gripped your legs and spread them wide—baring your wet slit to his ravenous eyes.

Despite being together for a few months, this was the first time you two saw each other completely bare, intimate, and vulnerable. All you could do was lay there mesmerized by the sheer size of him. He was big and hard in a way that should have scared you, and maybe he was right, maybe you wouldn't be able to handle him. But with your man hovering above you, practically panting at the sight of you—radiating an overwhelming need to claim you—you were determined to take every inch of him.

Bucky must have noticed your hesitation, because a smug grin tugged at his lips. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he taunted, fisting his cock in his hands. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”

His grip on your thigh tightened as he positioned his cock against your entrance, rubbing his tip up and down against your wet folds. You shuddered as he coated himself with your arousal, and you let out a shocked gasp as the tip of his cock probed and caught against your entrance before he pulled it back to rub against your slit again.

“Christ, baby…” he groaned, his cock purposefully catching on your entrance again before retreating. “You’re so damn wet. It would be so easy to just slip it in... to slam all the way in.”

Your legs instinctively tightened around his waist, gripping the bedsheets as if bracing yourself. “I-I’m ready, Bucky…”

A mocking and almost cruel laugh escaped his lips. He shook his head, probing his tip at your entrance again. “You’re not ready,” he rasped. “You’ll never be ready to take me—but it’s okay. I’m still a good man, a good boyfriend for you, aren’t I? I’m so good, I’ll even help you…” he slowly pushed the tip past your entrance, “… ease into it.”

A small whine escaped your lips as you felt his tip slip inside you. It was only the head of his cock, but it was enough to make your walls flutter tightly around him, subconsciously trying to invite him even deeper.

“Oh, fuck,” he moaned, eyes fluttering shut with all the restraint left in the world as he stilled his hips. “You’re so fucking tight, and that’s just the tip, baby…”

“Please…” you whined, “give me more.”

Bucky groaned—almost in frustration—as his hips slowly began to rock back and forth, fucking you with just the tip of his cock. You moaned beneath him, your back arching as you tried to subtly move your hips against his, attempting to push yourself deeper onto him.

“Oh, fuck, Bucky…!” you let out another moan as you pushed onto him, pulling more of his thick cock to stretch you out. It was more than just the tip, and not nearly halfway up his shaft, but it was enough to make your legs shake.

“Fuck… you greedy little slut,” he groaned, his hands finding your hips and tightening to keep you still. “You’re so fucking greedy, trying to take all of me already.”

His hips started to move as he held you still, fucking you with only what was already inside you and refusing to slam all the way in. The stretch burned, but it felt way too damn good. He was so big, stretching you full, and this wasn't even all of him.

Bucky gritted his teeth as he watched you whimper and whine beneath him. You were so tight your walls were clamping down on him, making it hard for him to move. He knew his size was hurting you, but how could he pull away when you were writhing beneath him so cutely?

Pleading for more when you could barely take what he had given you so far?

“What’s wrong, baby?” he cooed, leaning down to wipe a stray tear from your cheek. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”

“Y-yes…” you shuddered. “I wanted this… I can take it—oh, fuck!”

You squeezed your eyes shut as he began to push in deeper. Your wetness only made it easier for him to slide in. A low, raspy groan rumbled from his chest as he tossed his head back in pleasure, finally feeling your tight walls stretching around his cock.

He paused just before he hit the base. “Fuck, baby! God, you’re so fucking tight…” he breathed. “I need to put it all in, okay?”

Just as he was about to move his hips, he saw your eyes squeeze shut again as you braced yourself. “No,” he snarled, his voice dropping low as one hand cupped your face, shaking your head lightly. “Don’t you dare close your eyes, baby. You’re going to keep them open while I stuff the rest of my cock in your pussy. You wanted this, doll. So you’re going to get it.”

Your eyelids fluttered open, eyes glossy from tears. You looked up, and your once gentle, loving boyfriend was staring down at you like you were his prey. It was a dark, hungry gaze, as if the only thing he wanted to do was claim you, ruin you until your body was branded as his.

“I… I can take it,” you sniffled.

He smiled, a dark, wicked curve of his lips. He drew his hips back until only the tip remained inside you. He then lifted your thighs slightly, spreading you even wider for him, before he slammed forward until the base of his cock was buried deep inside you.

“Ohhh… fuck!” he groaned, letting himself be fully buried before immediately grounding his hips, rocking himself slowly against you.

Your back arched off the bed, eyes instinctively squeezing shut as he shoved the rest of his thick cock deep inside. As his hips rocked, you felt every pulsing ridge of him, and your walls clamped down on him, struggling to accommodate his large size. To say it didn't hurt was an understatement, but you were fiercely determined to take him. You wanted to prove to your boyfriend that you could be a good girl and take every last inch like you said you would.

“... Bucky!” you gasped. “T-too much… be slow, okay?”

He snarled as he leaned over you, the heavy weight of his body completely pressing down on yours. His flesh hand slid through the strands of your hair, giving it a rough tug. You winced, your eyes shooting open.

“That’s it. Look at me,” he demanded, grounding his hips against yours.

He moaned softly as he fucked himself into you. His vibranium fingers rested coolly on your hip, and you shivered at the touch despite the warmth of his body pressing down on yours. You let out a cry as he gave you one sharp, sudden thrust, your head tossing back before his grip on your hair went tighter, forcing your gaze to steady on his.

“I-I said to slow down…” you swallowed. “Y-you’re too—”

“Too big, am I?” he smiled, and it wasn’t the usual soft smile he’d give you. No. This smile was mocking, almost condescending. “I know I’m too big. But I warned you, baby. I told you you were this small little thing…” another sharp thrust that made you gasp, “... so small you can’t even take all of me.”

You tried wiggling around, attempting to make yourself comfortable—though it was futile. And the slight shifts and movements only made his cock throb harder inside you, each friction-filled rub making his shaft twitch with pleasure.

“Fuck… so… s-so small, so tiny and tight,” he grunted, his hips moving faster, the sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the room as he continued to belittle you. “Thinkin’ you can take all of me… but look at you—you’re a crying, whimpering little mess.”

Bucky had never spoken to you this way. He always showered you with praise and soft words, but the sheer condescension in his voice now only made you wetter, driving an undeniable craving for more.

“M-more,” you begged despite your weak voice and legs trembling around his waist. “More… please—”

“Yeah?” he laughed, the sound sharp and disbelieving. “You want more?”

Before you could reply, his grip on your hair and waist tightened. His body fully enveloped yours, and he began pounding into you, hard and fast. You cried out, your hands desperately clutching his back as you cursed and babbled his name—but he didn't slow down for a second.

“Fuck—so fucking good, baby girl,” he groaned. “You don’t know how bad I wanted to do this…” He tilted his head down, pressing soft kisses to your neck that starkly contrasted the brutal, relentless pounding of his hips. “To grab you from behind every time you’re cleaning…” another kiss, “...throw you down on the floor and fuck you until you cry, until your throat’s raw from screaming my name.”

You were doing exactly that.

Tears welled in your eyes as he fucked you hard and deep. “Bucky!”

“Yes,” he breathed heavily. “Scream my name.”

“B-Bucky, oh my god—it’s too—I…”

“Shit, what a babbling little mess you are.”

He nuzzled his face in your neck, eagerly sucking, leaving filthy, bruising marks along your sensitive column. He was fucking you so hard and deep, mumbling dirty words into your neck—sounds you could barely distinguish over the frantic slap of skin, your own desperate moans, and the creaking of the bed beneath his assault.

Your head spun with overwhelming desire, and the moment his hand released your hair and trailed down between your bodies, his fingers finding your sensitive clit, you knew it was over. Your eyes widened at the overwhelming sensation, and your walls clenched down on his cock, tighter than ever, as you felt yourself coming undone.

“B-baby!” you gasped, clinging to him desperately. “I’m gonna—”

“You’re gonna cum, baby? Already?” he taunted, though his fingers never faltered in their relentless, merciless movement.

“Bucky… please, fuck, I’m going to come—it feels too good. Oh my god!” you gasped.

He sat up, his arms sweeping under your thighs, lifting them and folding you nearly in half. Your legs trembled, suspended in the air, while he slammed into you—deeper than before—in that punishing position.

You cried out his name, “Bucky! Oh my god—please, I can’t—”

“You can,” he grunted, his voice commanding, “and you will.”

He fucked into you, harder and deeper, indecent noises and rough words spilling from his lips in a relentless litany of lust. You felt him throb and pulse deep inside. Even through the haze, you knew he was close, too, but he wouldn’t let himself go. Not until you did.

“Fuck—come for me, baby. Now,” he demanded, the words hard and mean. “What the hell are you waiting for, sweetheart? Trying to hold out for me?”

“N-no, I…” you blubbered, his cruel, deprecating words sending an agonizing jolt of lust through your entire body.

His words alone were the final push. Your legs trembled, your eyes still wet with tears of pleasure and pain as you screamed his name. You clamped down on him, hard enough to wrench a loud groan from his chest, and came all over his cock.

“Fuck! Jesus, baby…” he snarled.

Bucky’s hips tried to continue their relentless rhythm, but he was forced to still because your inner walls were so unbearably tight. You panted and sniffled beneath him, trying to close and relax your legs, but he held them rigidly in place.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“… tired,” you whimpered.

“Yeah?” he smiled again, and this time it was with a softer adoration—his grin almost boyish. “You’re sleepy?”

You nodded.

He tilted his head, that soft admiration gleaming in his eyes. “But I haven't come yet, baby.” His free hand gently trailed to your cheek, wiping the tears away. “You’re not going to leave your boyfriend high and dry now, are you?”

“B-but…” you panted, your legs shaking uncontrollably. “I don’t think I can—”

His fingers cupped your cheeks, squeezing them to silence you. “Baby,” he warned, “I told you I couldn’t hold myself back once I started.” He then pulled his cock out slowly, the loud, wet sound of your arousal filling your ears as your face instantly warmed with embarrassment.

Before you could protest, he grabbed your hips with strong hands, hauling and flipping your body until your stomach hit the mattress with a soft thud. You yelped as his hands gripped your waist, hiking your hips and presenting your backside bare for him.

“We’re not done,” he grunted from behind you, grabbing his cock and positioning the head at your entrance for round two. “Not until I come.”

“Bucky, I—” your words died in your throat as he drove into you again in one fluid motion, filling you completely.

The stretch burned even more than before, and your cunt, overwhelmingly sensitive, forced you to bury your face into the pillows. Your hands squeezed the fabric as you arched your back, taking every painful inch of him again.

“Oh my god! T-too much…”

“But it feels so good, doesn’t it?” he moaned, fucking you deep. “Tell me how good it feels, baby…”

You were a babbling, drooling mess, barely able to form words, staining the pillows with your tears.

Bucky let out a disapproving sound from behind. His hand slunk around your waist, his finger pressing against your clit and rubbing it in rough, merciless circles. Your whole body convulsed at the sensation, utterly overstimulated as you shook and trembled. Bucky’s vibranium arm circled around your body, the metallic coolness making you tense up as he pulled your hips back and forced you to hold still.

“Tell me, baby,” he demanded, his voice raspy.

You tried to answer, you truly did, but only a ragged gasp escaped. Your eyes were fluttering, and your body trembled violently in his hold. He held you tighter, leaning down to bite softly on your bare shoulder.

“Fuck... I’m gonna cum, baby,” he moaned, his movements growing sloppy and desperate, losing all rhythm. “Christ, it feels so good, doesn’t it? You can’t even say anything because you’re so—fuck, so drunk on my cock... can’t even think straight either, can you?”

Your inner walls clenched and pulsed around his cock at his taunts, and the sensation shattered what little control Bucky had left. He gave you one final, rough thrust, his cock burying deep inside you as he let himself come undone, making your whole body jerk. Even as he held you impossibly full, his fingers never stopped their merciless pacing.

You were so stuffed with him, unable to form a single coherent thought. You weren’t sure how much you could take. He began to rock his hips again, a slow, agonizing grind against your overstimulated flesh.

“Yes, yes—you’re taking me so well, baby girl. Fuck, my cum is buried so deep—”

“...B-brook…”

His hips stilled.

His hands paused.

He held his breath, his face still pressed against your shoulder.

“W-what was that?” he rasped, waiting.

“... Brooklyn.”

The word broke him instantly.

Bucky snatched his hand from your clit and yanked his throbbing cock out in one urgent motion. A small, vulnerable whimper escaped you at the sudden, aching loss. His vibranium arm was quick and soft, turning you over. In the next moment, he had pulled you flush against his chest, both large arms wrapping tightly around your trembling body.

“Fuck, baby. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice dry and thick with remorse.

He looked down to see your tear-streaked face and felt a sharp clench in his heart. His eyes drifted to your neck, the soft skin now riddled with dark, bruising marks left in his wake. He let out a shuddering breath, overwhelmed by the sight of you—utterly ruined by his intensity.

“Fuck,” he muttered, the curse directed only at himself. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I didn't mean to go that far. Are you okay? Shit…”

Your body shook, and your heart clenched at the sound of his distress.

You knew Bucky would never hurt you intentionally, but the overwhelming sensations left you physically weak. And truthfully, despite the intensity, it was the most mind-blowing sex you'd ever had.

“That was… good,” you managed quietly, your voice shaky and breathless.

He frowned down at you. “Good? Baby, how can you say that?” his voice wavered. “I… I hurt you…”

His thumb brushed the corner of your eye, wiping the wetness away. With a trembling arm, you lifted your hand, gently wrapping it around his wrist as you looked up at him.

“No… it was good,” you repeated with a breathless laugh, realizing how unconvincing you sounded. “It was good, Bucky, it was just… a lot for me, that’s all.”

His eyes softened, dropping to your hand wrapped around his wrist. He continued to soothe your cheek with his thumb. “I told you we shouldn’t have…” his voice broke, and he swallowed hard. “We shouldn’t have done this. I’m so sorry.”

“Bucky, stop apologizing,” you cooed gently, tilting your head up to press a messy, sluggish kiss to his lips. “It’s okay. You didn't hurt me.”

“Honey, look at you. You’re covered in…” he made a face, ashamed of himself. “… hickeys. And your hair’s a mess.” He raised his hand, trying to smooth the strands down.

“Bucky,” you said firmly, grabbing his hand and meeting his gaze. “Stop. I’m okay, baby.”

You gently moved his hands away from your hair and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles. He let out a ragged sigh at the feel of your lips. “It was good. Really good,” you continued, your voice shaky but sincere. “And I want to do it again, and again, and again. More times than I can count. I just needed a little break, okay?”

He pursed his lips, clearly wanting to argue, but he held back. He looked deep into your eyes before nodding quietly. “Okay,” he repeated, but the word was strained, as if he were trying to ground himself. “Okay. I understand.”

A long pause followed—a silent moment where you two simply stared into each other’s eyes. He occasionally leaned in to press a soft kiss to your cheek, his finger dragging over your face reassuringly and gently, as if you were the most fragile thing in the world, and he hadn’t completely ruined you just moments ago.

“I know you said it was okay,” he whispered. “But I still feel like shit for losing control.”

You gave him a tired smile, your hands rising to cup his cheek. “But you listened to the safe word,” you pointed out. “You stopped the minute I muttered it, and you were just over here telling me that safe words were ‘unreliable.’”

He exhaled, breath shaky. “I know. As good as it felt, I didn’t want to hurt you. God. That’s the last thing I want to do.”

You leaned in, pressing a soft, slightly wet kiss directly to his lips—a gesture that held none of the rough lovemaking and only pure, quiet affection. “I know that, Bucky. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

He looked down at the state of the night slip, now messily bunched around your waist with the strap falling loose from your shoulder. Your hair was disheveled, your neck was marked with bruises from his lips—and yet, to Bucky, you were the most beautiful and precious thing he had ever laid eyes on.

“This…” his fingertips fiddled lightly with the lace hem. “This dress is very dangerous.”

You smiled. “You were the one that bought it for me.”

Bucky huffed a laugh.

“I know. And all I had to do was not look at you.”

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

thank you for reading <3

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[blowingbarnes]

Ya gotov otvechat'

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

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

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

Efficient. Precise. Mechanical.

Surveillance. Intelligence. Elimination.

Like blinking. Like breathing.

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

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

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

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

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

He adjusted the scope. Slowly.

Curtains not quite closed.

There. You.

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

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

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

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

That was 94 days ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

68 days ago, he lingered too long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was cute, really.

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

Which Bucky would gladly give to you.

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

Somehow, his tactical pants got tighter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was the night he crossed a line.

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

But then you moved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He placed bugs in your apartment that night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Say you're mine."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then another.

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

Responsive little thing, weren’t you?

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

Just a feel.

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

Then he’d go.

He had to.

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

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

He should go.

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

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

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

The Soldat never complained, only complied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Needy little thing.

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

You blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

You rolled your eyes. “Jesus, Nat—”

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

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

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

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

“Nat—”

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

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

She tilted her head. “So… who, then?”

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

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

"Natasha!"

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

Everything should feel normal.

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

The voice starts — low, commanding, steady.

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

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

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

"You’re mine. Say it."

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

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

You get comfortable and press play.

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

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

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

Well, with Bucky.

He heard you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did that make him chuckle?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, don’t do this, please…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"See how good it is when you behave?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Schlick. Schlick. Schlick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please, what?"

A beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So— fuck, I'm so close, please."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gotovyy?" Ready?

"Ya gotov otvechat'" Ready to comply.

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

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

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

Next time?

Why did your pussy throb at that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

💌 permanent freaks taglist: @chateaubarnes @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @opheliabbarnes @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @its-in-the-woods @wildflowersandvibranium @unificsation @flockoff-featherface @sheriff-bodecker @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @winterdecember18 @juniebjonesin @barnesonly @bckyslover @buckyfmd

[54nboo]

okay so bucky still has some hydra triggers but this one doesn't make him violent. it makes him feral. reader says the trigger word accidentally in casual conversation, and suddenly Bucky’s pinning her down and wrecking her within an inch of her life. Later, when he’s back to himself, he’s like… low-key horrified, but reader is like ‘oh no babe, we’re doing that again.

hello hbb. yes. i can do that. thank you for requesting ahain. this is one hundred percent not as evil as you wanted but im tired okay

“the safe word.”

bucky barnes x reader, smut +18.

you're not even sure what you had been talking about. it was probably something dumb— about coffee or the weather, or perhaps it was about the movie you had watched last night.

the conversation had been lazy and half-assed, a simple greeting after he'd just awoken and walked into the kitchen. you'd been leaning against the counter, still in your pajamas, while bucky stood waiting for the coffee machine to churn out his fuel for the day.

it was domestic in the softest way, the kind of moment that you'd always dreamed off— a moment you wanted to tuck away and keep forever.

so you're not sure what could have possibly triggered him— what word had made his shoulders stiffen and his eyes darken, what word had him turn around— what word would have made him grab you and shove you against the wooden counter.

was it obey? cinder? velvet? the mention of coffee? what was the strange word that HYRDA had buried under his skin?

"bucky!" you yelp, but he doesn't reply.

his large hand wraps firmly around your throat, sitting snuggly around your windpipe, tilting your head back just enough so that he could see you— watch you— as you gasp for air.

it's not him anymore, and you can see it in the way his eyes narrow in on you like you're prey within a predator's maw, blown out and dark and unlike the man who'd just been waiting for his coffee moments ago.

and then he flips you around, shoving your back until you're bent over. the shift knocks the air out of your lungs and the wood digs into your stomach, his hands digging into the plush of your waist.

you're not sure what you'd expected— to be hurt, to die at the hands of someone you love— but you certainly didn't expect for his fingers to start tugging down the waistband of your shorts.

he’s not— you thought, startled, but he was.

almost in an instant, your pajama shorts drop to the floor around your ankles and your ass is on full display for bucky. your panties cling to your skin, your slick soaking through the thin fabric.

you should be scared— this isn't really him— but you can't bring yourself to be. yes, panic runs through your veins, but it tangles with his heat, with your want, and with the dizzying awareness of how easily he could hurt you if he really wanted to.

but he doesn't hurt you. instead, he rips your underwear off in one swift motion. the fabric burns as it rips into your skin, but you're more focused on the the blunt head of his cock already pressing against your entrance, intruding and persistent.

bucky pushes in— slow, and then sudden— filling you up in one swift and harsh motion. you gasp so loud that the noise echoes around the tiles of the kitchen, your fingers scrambling uselessly at the countertop just trying to stabilise yourself.

he pulls you flush against his chest, flesh arm tightening around your neck while the metal one digs into the flesh of your ass.

and then he starts moving. the drag of his cock against your walls burns for a moment before it bleeds into pleasure, his mouth falling open as he fucks into you.

"bucky..." you manage, his name cracking on your tongue.

but he doesn't reply. you're not sure if he can, but he speaks more with his actions than his words, like the feral need he feels overcomes all rational thought. he's groaning into your neck, focused more on his own pleasure than yours and it sends a shiver through you.

his thrusts are anything but merciful. they're harsh and relentless— primal— every snap of his hips digs his cock into you like he can't get enough of you, like he's trying to claim every inch of you from the inside and out.

the sound of him fills the kitchen. his grunts, the sound of his hips slapping against your ass, the frantic drag of breath between his teeth as he dives down to gnaw at the skin of your shoulder.

"oh god— buck, please—" you beg, half-plea and half-warning.

but he doesnt falter and he doesn't stop him. if anything, it fuels him. his flesh arm tightens around your neck as he ruts into you, the tip of his dick brushing against your cervix.

he tilts your head back just enough so that you can see him as he drives into you. it's not bucky— not really. it feels like him, but it isn't, and the way he's fucking you right now erases that fact.

it's too much— he’s too much— but your body betrays you, your hips rolls back onto his cock, matching his speed and begging him for more.

you whimper, "more— please, m—"

"shut up." he spits.

and you do, because god, he's fucking you like he needs this.

you love bucky. you really do. but he never fucks you like this— like the world is ending and you're the last thing he wants before it all burns away.

every thrust is a demand, a promise, a plea, his fingers biting into your skin and his teeth chewing at the soft skin of your shoulder. it doesn't feel like the soft considerate man you know. it feels like something primal thats been caged for too long, and your body just takes it.

you can feel bucky coming undone, and you know he can feel it as well. your cunt squeezes his cock and you feel his arm around your neck falter as he groans, completely consumed in the way you're sucking him in.

and then he cums, his hot seed painting your insides and filling you completely as his hips shudder against yours with one final thrust. your body shakes under him, and the arm that holds you against him lets you go. he pushes you down until your chest is pressed flat against the counter as he tries to fuck his seed back into your leaking hole.

you can feel the aftershocks of his release— his cock pulsing in your pussy, the way his fingers dig into the fabric of your shirt— and god, it feels good.

but then he’s recoiling, pulling out of you with a gasp and leaving you clenching around nothing. youre spent, but you glance over your shoulder and recognises the eyes that stare back at you.

“baby?” you call, pushing yourself up from the counter.

his hands hover over you like he doesn’t know what to do— doesn’t really know what he did. his usual touch and careful self is back, but he’s shaken, rattled by the sight of you.

you stand back up and take a shaky hand up his neck, trying to soothe him with a gentle kiss, “buck, what’s wrong?”

"i'm sorry, baby, i really— did i hurt you? are you okay?" his breath catches in his throat, “i don’t know what happened. dont know what would have caused that… are you hurt?”

“i’m fine, sweetheart.” you laugh, “that was really good.”

he opens his mouth to say something. maybe to protest about how he could have hurt you, how something could have gone wrong, but he sees how fucked-out you are and how close you’ve pressed yourself against him. heat crawls up his neck and his body still trembles with the aftershock of his orgasm, and it tells him all he needs to know.

he exhaled sharply, caught somewhere between guilt and anticipation, like that side of him is just waiting for that word.

“i’m so sorry, baby. it won’t— it won’t happen again.”

"oh no, babe—" you grin, "we're doing that again."

[artficlly]

show me again [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x mutant!reader

you were born a mutant, gifted with the power to manipulate bodily sensations. until now, you've only ever used it to cause pain. but now, stuck in a remote safehouse with bucky for the next few months, tension crackles between you. when you finally confess that your ability can also bring pleasure, he looks at you differently, more than a little curious to experience it first-hand. 

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, magical smut??, fingering, edging!!, praise kink, so much sexual tension, vague enemies to lovers, forced proximity, lowkey brat reader at times??, soft dom! bucky (at times), kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), protective!bucky, grumpy!bucky, bodyguard!bucky, mention of torture, wound description, injuries, mention of human trafficking, hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, reader has survivors guilt, reader is horny lol, use of the pet name sweetheart, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 17k (jesus fucking christ)

A/N: hi this is a fucking monster of a fic. i've been working on this for weeks now. if it flops i might cry and go die in a hole. pls like/reblog/comment etc <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

In the short time you had been acquainted with Bucky Barnes, you had quickly learnt three things. 

One, he didn’t talk much, if at all. Most of your conversations consisted of little more than grunts, terse glances, or unimpressed scowls. He didn’t ask questions, nor did he answer them. At one point, you suspected he might have had his tongue cut out. That changed when you began to hear him muttering under his breath as he stomped past, his heavy boots reverberating through the safehouse. ‘Securing the perimeter’. Always the same phrase, always delivered in the same grim tone.

Two, he was paranoid. He never turned his back on you. Always kept you in his line of sight. There was always a weapon within arm’s reach. He checked every door and window twice. His movements were systematic, almost compulsive. He prowled the safehouse like an animal on the hunt, slipping into view when you least expected him. More than once, he’d startled you so badly you’d dropped something. A shattered coffee mug still lay in the trash as proof. And each time you flinched, his eyes would narrow slightly, suspicious, as if trying to decide what exactly you were hiding, why someone like you could be so easily spooked. You didn’t know what his employers had told him, but obviously it was not the whole story.

And three, he didn’t want to be here.

He made no effort to hide that fact.

You bit your tongue more often than not, swallowing every snide remark that burned its way up your throat. Surprise, I don’t want to be here either, assshole. But you knew better than to lash out at the only person you'd be stuck with for the next few months. The only person standing between you and whatever might come crawling out of the woods. Protection wasn’t something you could afford to alienate.

The officials who dumped you here had been full of promises. They said you’d be safe, hidden, far from the reach of the Menagerie. They told you to wait. This storm would pass, and when it did, you could return to your everyday life.

But after two years under the Menagerie’s thumb, normal didn’t exist anymore.

What even was normal?

This safehouse felt like the eye of a hurricane, but you could sense the storm circling just beyond, the pressure building in the air, the wind pressing at the windows. It was only a matter of time before it rolled over and consumed you whole. And maybe that was the truth of it, that you were already in the belly of the beast, already chewed up and digested. There was no normality to return to.

There never would be again.

The safehouse sat on a stretch of farmland, tucked far enough from the world that it felt like the end of it. No internet, no cell service, not even a TV. Just enough power to keep the lights on and the water running. It was midsummer, and the air was thick and syrupy, heavy with the scent of clover and sun-warmed hay. At night, the frogs and cicadas sang in overlapping rhythms, insects tapping softly against the mesh of the window screens. Rolling meadows stretched in nearly every direction, grass tall and wispy, swaying lazily in the breeze, cattle grazing along the fence line. Beyond the weather-worn red barn, the woods waited. You could sometimes hear deer calling in the dusk, birds chattering high in the canopy.

You’d tiptoed downstairs about a week after your arrival, barefoot on the old wood planks, a floral sundress brushing your shins as you crept through the lounge. The sky outside was streaked with soft orange and watercolour pink, the quiet hush of dawn holding everything still. Bucky was asleep on the couch again, arms folded across his chest, his boots still on. He rarely slept, and when he did, it was always here, not in the bedroom just across the landing from yours.

You hadn’t asked why.

Maybe he was afraid he wouldn’t hear someone break in. Maybe he didn’t trust doors. You were half convinced he’d sleep on the porch if you hadn’t caught him doing it once and given him a look harsh enough to make him reconsider. Not that it mattered, he seemed to wake at the slightest shift in the air. Twice already, you'd startled him by just breathing too loudly on your way to make morning tea, trying to be as quiet as possible as you filled the kettle and set it to boil. 

This time, he didn’t stir. Or maybe pretended not to, just so that he could avoid your regular awkward morning exchange. You slipped past him, easing open the front door, wincing as the screen squeaked. The sun hit you square in the face, gold and blinding, warm even this early. You stepped out into the grass with a long breath and crouched, brushing your fingers through the delicate strands as the world slowly began to stir.

The farmhouse had a few animals, just enough to feel lived-in. A small coop of chickens, a handful of cattle, and a scraggly white barn cat who seemed to claim the place as her own. You called her Alpine, after the word etched into one of the barn beams above the old hayloft she slept in. Whoever carved it there had long since disappeared, but the name remained, half-claimed and half-given.

“It’s not safe out here alone.” The gruff voice shattered your moment of peace, and you jumped, heart lurching in your chest.

Bucky stood behind you, all shadows and hard edges.

He filled the doorway without trying to, broad shoulders bracketed by the frame, thick arms folded across a chest that strained the seams of his faded henley. He was massive in a way that made rooms feel smaller, as though the very architecture had to shift to accommodate him. 

Even when still, he gave the impression of movement barely restrained, like some great machine idling under the surface. His frame was built like something forged rather than born, towering over you with muscle carved deep into every inch of him, from his sculpted chest to the veined forearms visible beneath pushed-up sleeves. 

His stance was always solid, unmoving, as if the earth itself would sooner shift than he would. The glint of his vibranium arm caught in the low morning light, brushed in gold from the rising sun, each plate moving in smooth precision as he adjusted his stance.

His face sported an unimpressed scowl, his jaw shadowed by stubble, brows drawn low over stormy blue eyes that swept the fields behind you with disinterest. And though he said nothing, you could sense his irritation as clearly as the heat rising off the sun-touched grass. 

He had a particular hatred for you being outside alone. Most days, he’d trail after you reluctantly, watching with narrowed eyes as you wandered the fields for an hour or two. When his patience wore thin, he’d herd you back inside like a sheepdog. He preferred enclosed spaces. Contained. Controlled.

Places where he could see you—track you—where your every movement could be accounted for.

You were beginning to feel like you escaped one prison just to enter the next. 

“You gonna roll around in it next, sweetheart?” he called, voice stern with impatience.

Sweetheart. That damn condescending nickname. It wouldn’t have got under your skin so much if it didn’t make your stomach twist and flutter every time it rolled off his tongue.

You didn’t answer, but you could feel his gaze like a weight between your shoulder blades. Any second now, you wouldn’t put it past him to stomp into the grass and haul you inside himself, fingers fisted in the back of your dress like he was pulling a wayward stray by the scruff of its neck.

“Come on. Inside,” he barked again. “I haven’t checked the perimeter yet.”

Ah. Of course. The perimeter. God forbid a tree shifted in the wind without his knowing.

Suppressing an eye roll, you finally pushed to your feet, brushing bits of grass from your palms. The porch creaked under your steps as you ascended, pausing as he stepped aside with his usual stern silence.

You gave him a sugar-sweet smile as you gripped the handle of the screen door.

“Well, don’t let me stop you,” you said, voice light but laced with venom. “Go check your precious perimeter.”

The muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t answer, but the scowl that crept across his face said enough. He caught the bite in your tone, felt the edge beneath your pleasantry.

You didn’t wait for a response. The door snapped shut behind you, a little harder than necessary, rattling the frame.

—

The next time you saw Bucky was early afternoon. You’d been irritated enough to barricade yourself in your tiny room, thumbing through the stacks of old paperbacks until you finally landed on something vaguely interesting. It was some tacky romance novel that was amusing enough not to let your mind wander, but not quite good enough to engulf you completely. 

Though, eventually, it was hunger that won your imagined standoff, your stomach growling so loudly you were half-convinced it had gained sentience and was protesting its conditions.

Bucky was still on the couch, right where you’d left him hours ago. You couldn’t make out what he was doing from the doorway, his broad shoulders alone blocked most of your view, but he appeared to be fiddling with something in his hands. You didn’t ask. You weren’t in the mood for another grunt in place of conversation. Instead, you turned sharply into the kitchen without a word.

The safehouse was well-stocked, rows of canned goods crammed into the cupboards, their faded, illegible labels boasting things like beef stew, baked beans, and mystery meat in gloopy gravy. There were jars of peanut butter with oil slicking the top, stale crackers sealed in military-grade packaging, and boxes of instant mashed potatoes that looked more like powdered chalk than food. 

On better days, you had the garden out back, knobbly carrots, bitter greens, the occasional undergrown zucchini, and the chickens, who begrudgingly gifted you eggs when they felt generous. You found yourself wishing for a dairy cow, not that you had any idea how to milk one, just to be free of the powdered imposter you stirred into your coffee every morning. Whatever it was, it tasted like plaster. 

You could feel Bucky’s gaze flick toward you through the doorway. You didn’t look up, instead pretending to study the cans as if they held the answers to life’s greater mysteries, silently tossing up between which mystery soup you would try today. 

Before the Menagerie, you’d loved to cook, baking especially. Anything stuffed with chocolate chips or drowned in frosting had your full attention. But you dabbled in savoury dishes too, the kind your mother used to call ‘real people food’. The two of you would stand shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, elbows knocking as you bickered over seasoning or whether the onions were truly caramelised. Your father and brother would crowd around the TV, shouting and drinking cold beers while watching the big game.

You swallowed hard at the thought of it. You wondered where their headstones lay, if they had even been buried at all. Who would’ve organised their funeral? That thought soured quickly, festering as your eyes dropped to the stove. The idea of putting time and care into a meal now felt wrong. Hollow. Maybe two years ago, you would’ve tried, scavenged herbs from the garden, scrubbed the vegetables clean, dared to open one of the suspiciously labelled cans of meat. But today, it felt like a step too far.

Bucky didn’t cook for you. It was clear from the start that you were on your own in that regard. A true fend-for-yourself arrangement. Come to think of it, you hadn’t seen him eat a single bite since your arrival. You weren’t even sure the man had taste buds.

Mystery soup it was. 

Your curiosity got the better of you. You stole a glance over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes. He was still planted on the couch, and for the briefest second, his gaze met yours before flicking away again. He turned toward the empty fireplace, posture drawn tight like he was trying to fold himself out of sight, which, of course, failed rather comically since he was a beast of a man.

You sighed and pulled two cans from the shelf, the metal clinking dully as you set them on the counter. You’d heat the soup for both of you, maybe as a peace offering, maybe just an effort at civility. Either way, it felt a little ridiculous. But at least you could say you tried.

—

You dropped one of the bowls onto the coffee table with a soft clack, Bucky blinked, slightly startled, his eyes flicking from the bowl to you as you sank down cross-legged on the floor across from him, the wood grain sticky against your thighs.

“Food. For you,” you said simply.

He didn’t answer at first, still hunched over the thing in his hands, something metal and half-disassembled, probably a weapon. His shoulders shifted, just barely. Like the faintest show of surprise, or maybe gratitude he didn’t know how to express. 

“Bit hot for soup,” he muttered, glancing toward the window. He wasn’t wrong. The sun had been relentless all day, and the old farmhouse was holding the heat like a kiln. The single desk fan that you’d claimed did little more than hum uselessly upstairs. You were sure it was a fire hazard from the sheer amount of dust it had collected on its plastic blades.

You shot him a look.

“Fine. Suit yourself. Make your own damn food—” You’d barely started uncrossing your legs when his hand lifted, palm open in a wordless command.

“Sit down.”

You did, settling back into place with a muted huff. He set the metal part aside, definitely part of a gun, now that you were looking. He picked up the spoon beside the bowl, eyeing it like it might bite him, and you watched as he took a mouthful, wincing slightly at the heat.

“Bland.” He commented.

You rolled your eyes. So, he did have taste buds after all.

“It’s from a can, god knows we’ve got enough of those to last the next ten years, let alone a few months.” You replied dryly, and you could’ve sworn the ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

You both ate in silence for a while. The soup was as terrible as you had anticipated, watery broth, sad carrot chunks, and what might have once been chicken. It was bland, just as Bucky had stated, but you wouldn’t give him the pleasure of admitting it. 

It was only as you were halfway through your bowl, the sound of spoons scraping against the ceramic, the occasional creak of the old farmhouse settling while the cicadas droned outside, that you finally found the words to speak up. 

“Your employers,” you began, eyes still on your soup, “did they tell you much?”

Through your lashes, you saw Bucky’s head lift slightly.

“No.” He stated. Simple. Gruff. Then he hesitated, leaning back on the couch, eyeing you in that analytical, quiet way of his. You could practically hear the thoughts ticking behind his silence. You, small—in comparison to him, at least—unassuming, wrapped in a floral sundress, hardly looking like a threat. How dangerous could you be? How much danger could you truly be in to warrant exile in the middle of nowhere, locked away like a state secret? “Just said you were mixed up in that mess with the Menagerie raid. That someone might be looking to hurt you.” 

“Right…” You stuffed another spoonful of soup into your mouth to keep from saying something foolish, letting the heat sting your tongue.

Silence stretched. He’d already emptied his bowl, positively licked it clean—so much for being too hot and bland. Meanwhile, while you pushed a discoloured chunk of carrot in slow, grinding circles, the handle of your spoon tracing the rim of your bowl. His eyes hadn’t left you.

You inhaled deeply, then blurted it out before you could stop yourself. “Do you know how long I have to stay here?”

He hesitated, just long enough to tell you he didn’t know either. “As long as it takes to eliminate the threat.” 

You finally looked up, catching the shift in his gaze. Less neutral now, more calculated… Suspicious. You recognised that look, it said I’m piecing something together. Like the soup had been some sort of tactic. A quiet kindness with strings attached. That you were slowly manipulating him with every gentle smile and soft word. 

Like he was finally seeing you clearly, and not liking the picture.

“If you’re being this well hidden,” he said slowly, “you must’ve been real deep in it. What were you, a mole? Scared they’re gonna hunt you down for revenge, sweetheart? You don’t look like the usual type they send out for infiltration.”

You froze, soup curdling in your stomach, your appetite gone before he even got the last syllable out. You placed your half-eaten bowl on the coffee table before you, refusing to meet his eye.

“I wasn’t a mole.” You clarified, though your tone did not sound anywhere near convincing. 

It was like he could smell the guilt and shame you reeked of. His mouth curled slightly. Not a smile. Not quite.  

“An informant, then?” He pressed. There it was, the snide bite you were waiting for. He thought this was some glorified babysitting gig for a rat. “Too scared to put you in prison in case you are killed before a court date?”

“No, I—” The words jammed in your throat like splinters, and all you could do was stare down at the coffee table. Coffee rings. Cigarette burns. Ghosts of the past.

Bucky leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, voice lower now.

“So what was it that made you finally turn on the Menagerie, huh? A guilty conscience, fear?” He asked, a disgusted sneer joining his words. “Or did your morals only click after they started trafficking mutants, caging them and tagging them like inventory?”

Your throat closed up.

He thought you were part of it.

He thought you were one of them.

“Or was it just about self-preservation?” He continued.

You hadn’t said it aloud. Not properly. Not in a way that made it real. The interviews after the raid had scraped the words out of you, hour after hour, voice raw, eyes dry. Endless questions. Demands. ‘Be specific’, ‘Start from the beginning’, ‘What did they do next?’. They made you relive it again and again until your memories felt like ash in your mouth, so many retellings that they stopped sounding like your own.

Some mornings, you still woke to the phantom scent of damp stone and bleach. Still braced for cold concrete beneath your palms, for the echo of distant footsteps clattering through narrow halls. You could see it all too clearly in the dark, that stone labyrinth, windowless and humming with distant electricity

You’d think of the auctions. The buyers. Their laughter. The way the air thickened with rot and perfume. The casual smiles of men who knew they wouldn’t be stopped. The shouting. 

The cages.

The screaming—

Still, sometimes, you thought you could hear it, just beneath silence. Not memory, not quite. Like something still screamed through you.

“You don’t know shit about what I went through.” You spat out finally.

“No,” he admitted, coldly. “I don’t. But from where I’m sitting, you’re not exactly making yourself look innocent, sweetheart.”

You stared at him, stunned for a heartbeat.

Part of you wanted to cling to that flicker of delusion, that at least he cared. That the horrors of the Menagerie upset him, that he hadn’t brushed it off the way so many others might. There was something almost noble in his anger, in how deeply the injustice of it all seemed to affect him. 

But the moment cracked and fury surged up like bile, but it caught in your throat before it could be spoken. You opened your mouth, then closed it again, useless. The words wouldn’t come. They never did. Not the right ones.

Because how could you explain it? How could you possibly untangle the last two years into something coherent, something clean, when nothing about it was? You wanted to scream that it hadn’t been your fault. That they’d taken everything from you. That you’d been a victim.

But the voice in your head always whispered something else.

You’d done what you had to do. Survived the only way you could. But survival had never come without cost. Not in that place. And even if you knew that you hadn’t chosen any of it… there were still stains on your hands. Still moments when you looked in the mirror and didn’t see someone worth saving. 

You couldn’t find the words to defend yourself.

Because maybe, just maybe, you didn’t deserve to defend yourself.

“Fuck you.” You seethed.

You shot to your feet so fast your knee clipped the coffee table, rattling your half-eaten bowl. The room tilted slightly, breath caught between rage and something dangerously close to grief. Your legs carried you before you could think, before you could cry. You crossed the room in quick strides, soup abandoned, the sting of unshed tears heating your face.

—

A week of silence had followed your argument with Bucky.

You moved around each other like ghosts, haunting the same space but never touching, orbiting in sullen, silent patterns. You ate meals in silence on opposite ends of the house. Dishes piled beside your bed. Books stacked on the floor. You let yourself be swallowed by the mattress, the weight of silence slowly pulling you under.

When you did venture downstairs, it was only for chores. The division of labour had happened wordlessly. He’d take the barn, the treeline, his perimeter. You’d feed the chickens and cattle and refill the water troughs. Alpine was the only creature who seemed to move freely between you, accepting a can of tuna from Bucky one day, curling up against your legs the next when she wasn’t out prowling for field mice. 

You’d stopped asking him anything. Stopped trying to close the gap with awkward, tense conversation. And he seemed relieved, like silence was some kind of reward. At least now he didn’t have to pretend to care. His silent judgment was not something you were blind to. It followed him like a cloud of smoke, obscuring his vision as he regarded you as something malicious rather than wounded. So you started wearing your own bitterness like armour. Met every cold glance with a glare of your own. 

If he wanted to hate you, you could make it easy.

You already hated yourself enough.

The heat had been unbearable all afternoon, the worst it had been since you arrived. It was the type of heat that made the air feel thick and heavy, clinging to your skin no matter what you did to cool down. You opened every window in the house, splashed cool water on your face, tied back your hair, and even stood with the fridge door wide open, ignoring the quiet huff of disapproval from behind you. Still, it wasn’t enough to distract you from the fact that you were boiling alive in your own body with every passing hour. 

Bucky, of course, was perfectly composed. During your second attempt to fold yourself into the fridge, he sat at the kitchen table like a statue, sharpening a knife with slow, meditative strokes. Not a bead of sweat on his brow. Like the fact that you were both slowly roasting to death didn’t bother him at all.

You wanted to scream.

It wasn’t just the heat. It was him. His silence. His stillness. His looming, suffocating presence, like he was pressing the full weight of himself onto your chest without ever touching you.

You needed air. Space. Anything that didn’t feel like breathing your own recycled breath. You were going to lose your mind in this goddamn house. And if it came down to who’d walk out of here alive, it wasn’t going to be you. Not at this rate.

You had laced up your boots and stormed down the stairs before the thought had even fully formed, impulse overriding reason. Bucky didn’t look up at first. From his silence, you could guess he thought you were just being dramatic again, stomping around like a sulking child.

It wasn’t until your fingers curled around the doorknob that you heard the scrape of his chair against the kitchen tiles. “Where are you going?”

You didn’t look at him. You shoved the screen door open and muttered flatly, “The woods.”

He paused. You could feel it, the change in pressure, like the atmosphere thickened just from him standing up. The summer heat already clung to your skin like syrup, yet somehow it had become one step closer to suffocating.

“No.”

You turned, one foot already on the porch. Bucky was rounding the corner from the kitchen fast, eyes sharp, shoulders tense, like he was bracing to grab you by the arm if you took another step.

“I need air,” you snapped, backing away slightly. “It’s like five thousand degrees in here. It’ll be cooler under the trees.”

He didn’t flinch, just stared at you with that wolfish intensity, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. You could see the twitch of frustration behind them. Not anger exactly, but something more primal. Protective, maybe. Possessive. Something you didn’t have a name for.

His nostrils flared as he narrowed his eyes. 

“It’s not safe,” he said, stepping closer like a warning. A hunt was unfolding between the two of you. You took a step back. He mirrored it forward.

Your eyes flicked down. He wasn’t wearing shoes.

Interesting.

You glanced at the couch, his boots tossed haphazardly at the base, probably kicked off after his last perimeter sweep. A grin tugged at your lips, sharp and cunning. You released the screen door with deliberate calm.

“Don’t you dare—” he growled, voice already rising, warning.

The door slammed shut behind you as you took off, boots hammering down the steps, sundress flying around your legs as you sprinted into the field.

You could already hear him swearing behind you, scrambling for his boots, but you didn’t look back. The grass was tall and wild, slapping against your calves as you tore through it, laughing breathlessly as you darted toward the barn like a madwoman. The sun beat down mercilessly, warming your skin, but you didn’t stop. Not when you heard your name shouted, not even when the chickens exploded into squawking chaos as you shot past the coop.

The fence loomed just ahead, waist-height, made of metal wire and wood posts. You’d never gotten close enough to inspect it properly before now. The top was wrapped in barbed wire, coiled like a snake. Of course it was.

“Shit,” you hissed, skidding to a halt and eyeing the fence with frantic calculation.

Behind you, Bucky’s footsteps thundered across the clearing. You glanced back once, just once. Your breath caught.

He was a storm.

Boots only half on, shirt clinging to his chest with sweat, barreling toward you with terrifying speed. Determined. His eyes on you like a target.

This was your only shot.

“Fuck it,” you spat, grabbing the fence and hoisting yourself up. The metal rattled under your weight, one foot jammed between as you swung a leg over. You hissed as your dress caught, barbs slicing the fabric and catching the tender skin of your thigh. Pain spiked up your leg, but you didn’t stop. 

You heard him yell your name just as you dropped down the other side, hitting the dirt hard, knees skidding through dry grass. You shoved yourself upright, wiping your hands on your dress as Bucky skidded to a halt on the other side of the fence, face wild with disbelief.

“What the fuck are you—”

But you were already gone, vanishing into the trees.

The woods swallowed you whole. The world shifted the moment you passed beneath the canopy, sunlight shattered across the leaves, scattering gold and green over your skin as branches closed above you like cathedral arches. You ran until the burn in your thighs twisted into fire, until the pounding of your heart drowned out everything else. Behind you, his voice grew distant, swallowed by underbrush, bark and birdsong.

You didn’t know where you were going.

You just knew you needed to be gone before he caught up.

And for a fleeting moment, you thought you’d done it, lost him in the thick underbrush, outpaced him through the tangles of low-hanging branches and bramble. The heat had begun to slip from the air, replaced by the cool breath of the woods and the low, rhythmic drone of cicadas. A sea of green unfurled before you, layered in moss and leaf-shadow, still and quiet now that your footsteps had slowed—

The world tilted.

You hit the ground hard, air knocked from your lungs, before your mind even registered that he had caught up to you. A blur of limbs and gritted teeth, the two of you rolled through the dirt and fallen leaves, snapping twigs and kicking up soil as you struggled against each other in a mess of instinct and fury.

You twisted, tried to scramble away, but his body was too heavy. His arm caught your leg as you kicked, his weight pressing you down, pinning you like prey.

When the momentum stopped, he was already on top of you, straddling your hips, shoving you deep into the damp forest floor. His hands pinned your wrists above your head with effortless control. His face loomed close, his eyes dark and glittering, and his breath harsh from the chase.

“Are you done?” he growled, voice low and raw, every syllable biting.

You glared up at him, chest heaving. “Get off me—”

Your voice caught as he laughed, a low, humourless sound, breathless but amused. There was dirt smeared across his cheek, a leaf tangled in his hair, and his shirt clung to him with sweat and blood. He looked wild. Feral. Alive in a way that made your stomach twist.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he muttered.

And then he was moving, the sudden loss of his weight a brief mercy, but it didn’t last. Before you could twist away and draw in a proper breath, his arm was around your waist, and you were tugged up, slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Your stomach hit the edge of his metal shoulder blade with a thud that knocked the wind from you again.

“Hey, put me down, you asshole—!” you protested, breathless, your voice muffled slightly by the sway of his shirt against your cheek.

But he was already moving, circling back toward the house with slow, deliberate strides like he hadn’t just chased you through half a mile of forest. His arm was iron around your thighs, locking you in place against the solid plane of his shoulder. You bounced with every step, your ribs pressing painfully against the hard ridge of his collarbone and the metal edge of his arm.

“No,” he barked, tone clipped. “You’ll just bolt again.”

Your stomach was twisted sideways over his shoulder, blood rushing to your head until your vision pulsed at the edges. It was dizzying, the world tipping and tilting with his gait, trees, sky and earth passing upside down in a blur. His shirt clung damply to his back beneath your arms, soaked through with sweat and forest humidity. Every inhale brought the scent of dirt, pine, and something distinctly him into your lungs.

“I won’t! I swear, just—” you tried, squirming, but he adjusted his grip and hoisted you higher with a grunt, one hand sliding firmly up the back of your thigh to keep you from slipping.

“You lost any of my trust when you decided to hop that fence, sweetheart,” he said coldly.

His hand stayed there, splayed wide and strong, fingers flexing against the curve of your leg in a way that made something flutter low in your stomach. You writhed, trying to ignore the way your skin heated under his palm, how aware you suddenly were of every place his body touched yours, his forearm hooked tightly around your knees, his breath steady and close.

“Put me the fuck down!”

“Shut the fuck up, or I’ll find something to gag you with.” His voice turned harsh, and the end of his patience showed. “I’m sick of your whining. This is your own fault.”

“My fault?” you choked out, exasperated, pushing at the small of his back, which did absolutely nothing. “You’re the one keeping me locked up!”

“It’s for your safety, or did that little detail slip your mind?” he bit back, unbothered by your wriggling.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere!” you snapped. “Who the hell is going to find me out here if I go for a goddamn walk to cool down?”

“I’m not worried about people.” His grip on your thighs tightened again, just enough to send another shock of awareness through your core. “I’m worried about animals. Do you know how many bears, cougars, and other shit that can rip you in half live out here?”

You froze, the fire in your chest faltering. “…There are bears out here?!”

“Yes,” he snapped, voice rough. “Now would you shut the hell up? Every living creature within a hundred miles already knows where we are thanks to your squealing.”

You clamped your mouth shut, heat prickling at your ears, though whether it was from embarrassment, exertion, or the lingering burn of his hand against your thigh, you weren’t sure. Upside-down, half-breathless, and bruised with indignity, you told yourself it was just the blood rushing to your head that made your heart beat like that.

He reached the fence a few seconds later, barely slowing his pace before tossing you over it with an unceremonious grunt. You yelped as you hit the ground with a solid thump, your knees scraping against the packed dirt and scattered stones. Pain bloomed across your palms as you caught yourself, your breath stuttering.

You looked up at him just in time to see him plant his boot on the middle rung and vault the fence with practised ease. He landed beside you, his chest rising and falling with the exertion, his expression furious.

Your eyes caught on his shirt, the fabric torn open across the side of his ribs. Blood welled from a sharp gash beneath it, slow and dark, soaking into the material. He must’ve hit the barbed wire trying to chase you down.

The fence: two. You and Bucky: zero.

You shifted uncomfortably, your own thigh still stinging, a warm line of blood trickling down your leg. The barbs had bitten deep. It felt like the forest had left its mark on both of you.

Bucky stared down at you with a scowl.

“Now…” he said slowly, “do I need to carry you all the way to the house, or are you going to be a good girl and walk by yourself?”

You blinked up at him, heart hammering, pulse still roaring in your ears and gulped. “I’ll walk.”

—

Bucky didn’t seem to care that he was smeared in a mixture of dried blood and dirt as he slumped heavily onto the couch with a grunt, his broad shoulders sinking into the cushions. He kicked off his boots with a purposeful carelessness, one of the pair nearly smacking you in the shin as you shied out of its path. 

He’d practically herded you back into the house, his gaze never leaving you as you limped your way up the porch steps. His scowl never wavered, only deepened with irritation as he finally realised the state you were in, hair tangled and sticking to your damp forehead, your dress torn and stained with streaks of mud and blood.

You stopped in front of the empty fireplace across from him, arms crossing tightly over your chest, jaw clenched. You leaned slightly on your right leg, the pain flaring hot in your thigh. The cut burned like it had been licked by flame, no doubt packed with dirt and whatever else you'd rolled through during your messy scuffle. But your eyes drifted from your leg, caught instead by the quiet rustle of fabric. Bucky peeled off his shredded shirt with little fanfare, exposing the sheer, ridiculous expanse of muscle beneath. His torso looked sculpted from stone, every line and shadow painfully defined. And yet, infuriatingly, even in all his dishevelment, he looked good. Unfairly so. It was almost nauseating how perfect he looked. 

You bit the inside of your cheek and tapped your fingers against your arm, gaze snagged for a beat too long as he examined the fresh gash slashed across his abdomen. He winced slightly, dragging a finger through the blood and grime that caked the wound. It was a deep cut, raw and filthy, and the dirt clinging to it made you pause. You knew that kind of wound, the kind that festered fast if left unchecked.

“Where’s the first aid kit?” you asked, stepping forward despite yourself. “I’ll get it for you—”

“No.” His voice cut through the air, low as a growl, stopping you cold. “You’ve done enough. I’ll get it.”

You blinked, the words catching in your throat. “Hold on—”

But then he looked at you. Really looked at you. And whatever flicker of protest had been building inside you died right there.

“Sit. Down.”

You sank onto the couch without another word, the tension knotting in your shoulders as he disappeared up the stairs. You ran a hand through your tangled hair, wincing as your fingers snagged on leaves and twigs embedded in the strands. Somewhere above, you could hear him rummaging through the bathroom cabinet, drawers slamming and clattering as he searched.

Your attention dropped to your leg. You hesitated, then slowly hiked up your skirt, trying not to wince as you exposed the wound. The barbed wire had torn a lash up your inner thigh, the skin swollen and angry. Blood had dried in thick, flaking streaks down your leg. You hissed as you prodded the edges, trying to gauge the depth through the grit and grime. It stung like hell, sharp, hot, and pulsing, and the thought of cleaning it out made your stomach churn.

Bucky thundered down the stairs behind you, dumping the first aid kit on the coffee table. A few medical supplies spilt out from the jolt. He barely looked at you before muttering, “Stop fussing. You’ll make it worse.”

Your hands stilled instantly, retreating to your lap. You didn’t dare test his patience again, not when he was like this, all bruises and blood and stormclouds behind the eyes.

He sank to his knees in front of the couch, wedged between your legs and the coffee table, and reached for you without hesitation. His grip was firm as he caught your leg, fingers wrapping around your calf and sliding upward, tilting your thigh to get a better look at the damage.

Your breath hitched, chest tightening. The cut stung, but it wasn’t the pain that made you tense, it was him. The heat of his skin against yours, the way his rough palms guided your leg, thumb grazing perilously close to the seam of your underwear. Your dress had ridden high, bunched around your hips, leaving you far too exposed. And his face, god, it was right there, inches away from the softest, most private part of you—

You let out a small yelp, the sharp sting of antiseptic dragging you back to reality as he pressed a wipe over the wound with no warning, scrubbing away dried blood and filth like it was nothing. You squirmed on instinct, gasping.

He tutted with annoyance, locking your leg in place with his forearm like you were nothing more than a twitchy animal.

“Stop squirming.”

“It’s kind of hard when you’re manhandling me—”

“I’m not in the mood for babying you, sweetheart,” he shot back, glaring up at you briefly, his voice low and cool.

That shut you up.

You swallowed hard and stared past him, fixing your gaze on the constellation of scars across his chest and shoulders. Old wounds. Some shallow, others deep. Your heart thudded against your ribs, the silence between you prickling with static.

He dipped his fingers into a small tin of ointment and began slowly and deliberately, working it into the wound. His touch was firm, steady, maddening, his hand creeping higher with each pass, inching up your inner thigh until his knuckles grazed dangerously close to the pulsing heat between your legs. Your entire body shuddered lightly, a tingling up your spine, and for one wild moment, you were sure he was savouring this. You could feel his every breath against your thigh, every callused inch of his palm.

Your breath hitched audibly. Embarrassingly.

“There you go,” he murmured, almost to himself, patting your knee. “Good girl.”

A whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.

Then, he was gone. Peeling off some large sticky bandages and slapping them on hard enough to make you jolt in surprise. 

You jerked your leg back, retreating into yourself. Your fingertips hovered at the edge of the bandages, trailing the sticky outline. He didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he did and didn’t care—as he climbed up off the floor and took a seat beside you on the couch, the cushion dipping under his weight.

You sat there with your mouth slightly agape, still recovering, still too aware of how much of you had just been laid bare.

He stared at you.

“Are you even listening?” he barked.

You jumped. “Sorry—what?”

“I said,” he gestured toward the gash slicing across his torso, “I need you to help me clean this cut, repeat the steps I just did for your leg.”

You floundered uselessly like a fish for a second. 

“Did you hit your head?” he asked, voice laced with irritation. “Do I need to check you for a concussion—?”

“No!” you blurted, too fast. “No. I’m fine. I can do it.”

Without waiting for permission, you slid to the floor, knees brushing against his shins as you settled between his legs. Your fingers fumbled through the mess of gauze, scissors, and ointments strewn across the coffee table, deliberately avoiding his gaze. When you found the antiseptic wipes, you cleared your throat, peeled one open, and hesitantly pressed it to the wound carved deep into his side.

The muscles under your hand were corded tight, heat and tension rising from him like steam. You dabbed lightly at first, uncertain.

“You’re gonna need to press harder than that, sweetheart,” Bucky muttered, voice rough. “You’re not picking up all the—”

You shot him a look flared with annoyance and dug the wipe in harder than necessary.

He hissed, breath catching between gritted teeth, and his abdomen flinched beneath your hand. The skin twitched as you worked, dragging out a stubborn patch of grit and dried blood. You grimaced, wiping again, watching the red bloom spread.

The gash was far worse than yours. Red, angry, and deep. The kind of wound that would’ve sent someone else into shock. When you pulled the wipe back, it was streaked with fresh blood, revealing a glimpse of raw muscle beneath.

“This is going to need stitches, it’s too deep—”

“It’s fine.” He shook his head, his breath uneven as you reached for a fresh wipe. “It’ll heal faster than a normal person.”

You paused, cloth hovering just above the end of the slash curving around his ribs. “You’re a mutant?”

That stopped him cold.

His body stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it. His jaw ticked, and the muscle beneath your touch turned to granite.

“No, uh—” He began, and the words faltered. For the first time since you’d met him, his voice wavered. This voice was uncertain. Defensive. It didn’t match the sharp-edged man who barked orders and silenced you with just a glower. You looked up in time to catch the flicker of frustration in his expression, the way his brow furrowed, not in pain, but regret. Like he’d just given away something he wasn’t supposed to. 

“Super soldier,” he muttered finally, quieter like the words tasted bitter.  

You frowned, forcing yourself to keep your fingers moving as you continued to clean the lash. 

“Super solider… like serums?” You dared to mumble in question.

“...Yeah.”

You nodded. You were familiar with the rise of serums and super soldiers, they had been a hot commodity, just as coveted as mutants. Weapons given flesh. The perfect stock for the Menagerie to peddle. Easier to control, more predictable than the mutants among their inventory.

“There were a few of those at the Menage—” The words slipped out before you could catch them. As soon as they crossed your lips, your stomach dropped. “I—Nevermind.”

You didn’t need to look up to feel it, the shift in his posture, the way his presence recoiled. Not from pain. From you.

He was flinching from you.

Shame roared up your throat like bile. You didn’t have to ask what he was thinking. You could feel it. The disgust. The assumptions. You could almost hear his thoughts shaping you into a creature of cruelty. A collaborator. A willing participant.

Did he think revealing this information would illicit a perverse curiosity within you? That you’d start viewing him in the same way the Menagerie had viewed you?

And for once, there was a sadness that lingered. A sadness that you couldn’t tell him, couldn’t explain. You let him believe you were complicit, that you were broken in a way that was your own fault. Would it have been better to tell him? To offer up the whole, rotting truth and see what he did with it? Not one clouded by the lies and falseities you used to punish yourself?

When you had stumbled free of that place, you had sworn never to use your powers again. Never be a weapon again. Never let anyone twist your gift into something cruel and unrecognisable.

What if this was different?

What if you could use it for good this time? Not to tear someone apart from the inside out, not to entertain monsters, but to soothe. To help.

Would that balance the scales, even a little? Would that scrub the blood from your conscience, the memory from your skin? Would it make you more than what they turned you into?

Would it make you… better?

Your hands had stilled. The wound was only half-cleaned, blood still trickling sluggishly along his side. You looked up.

His expression was unreadable, like a wall had been placed between you.

Your voice came quiet and uncertain. “Can I… can I show you something?” you asked. “I think it’ll help.”

He tensed. His jaw was tight, the suspicion in his gaze sharp and waiting, as if he expected you to pull a knife, like your soft-spoken words were nothing but bait in a trap he hadn’t seen yet. But you didn’t wait for a reply. For once, you wait for a command. You balled up the bloodied wipe in your fist and tossed it aside, the fabric landing with a wet slap on the cluttered table behind you. Then, without ceremony, you raised your hand above the wound stretching across his ribs.

His mouth parted, breath catching, ready to protest, but you were already committed, brows drawn in concentration as your palm began to glow. The light bloomed, like dawn bleeding through morning mist. A ball of pale, gold light that cast long beams between your fingers, casting his skin in a haze.

You didn’t dare look up at him. 

Instead, you pressed your focus into the magic pooling in your hand, letting it spill like silk across the jagged tear in his flesh. As you touched your fingers to him, you hovered a moment longer than necessary, and a soft, invisible pulse of heat radiated from your palm to his abdomen. 

He didn’t flinch.

That was the point.

The knot in his abdomen uncoiled. His muscles slackened, his body loosening inch by cautious inch beneath your touch. Your fingertips hovered over the torn skin, skimming the edges. When you finally dared to glance up, his face had slackened in sudden, jarring relief. 

He stared at you like you weren’t real. Disgust turned to horror and then to shock.

You didn’t stop. Your palm pressed lightly to the curve of his ribs, the glow now flickering as your focus thinned and the pain siphoned away. The magic never hurt, not directly, but it drained you all the same. You could feel it in the weight of your limbs, in the tremble behind your knees. Your breath had turned shallow. Sweat prickled along your hairline.

“You’re a—”

“A mutant,” you interrupted quietly, light fading as you squeezed your hand into a fist. “I know.”

The silence was thick as you reached behind you, grabbing a clean antiseptic wipe from the dwindling supplies. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink as you swept it gently through the remaining dirt and grit, revealing clean, ragged flesh beneath. Crimson welled at the edges like dew.

“I took the pain away,” you clarified as you blindly searched the table for the small tin he’d used earlier. You couldn’t meet his eye, couldn’t deal with any guilt he was likely feeling. “My powers… I can change how the body perceives sensations. I can nullify nerves or amplify them. Make you feel things that aren’t there, or take away feeling entirely.”

You found the tin at last, fingers fumbling slightly as you pried it open with a soft metallic click. A faint herbal scent rose as you scooped a generous, pearlescent smear of ointment onto your fingertip. It clung thickly, catching the light like a melted pearl.

“You were a victim,” Bucky said, voice breathless and stunned, like he’d received a punch right to the gut. “Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me you were a victim?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you pressed your fingers to his skin, spreading the salve along the length of the wound in slow, deliberate strokes. The half-translucent mixture turned pink as it blended with the fresh blood that beaded the surface.

“It’s complicated,” you muttered, eyes fixed on your hands instead of his. 

But he didn’t let it go.

Of course, he didn’t.

Bucky Barnes, ever the soldier, ever the protector of the broken and bruised. That part of him, the part that saw pain and didn’t look away, that part that burned with justice, that was maybe the only thing you’d truly admired from the start.

Not the cold commands, not the steel-blue stares, not the way he could make your breath hitch with just a word.

It was that he cared.

Beneath the hard edges and combat scars, he gave a damn. About the ones who couldn’t fight for themselves yet. About the ones others would write off. When he looked at something shattered, his instinct wasn’t to discard it—it was to fix it.

“You’re a victim. When they pulled you out of there, why didn’t they send you back home? Back to your family?”

You swallowed hard. “Like I said... It’s complicated.”

When you dared to look up, he was looking down at you like he was expecting an answer. You sighed.

“My powers, it’s a gift and a curse. They can be used for good, like this.” You nodded toward his side, where the blood had begun to clot under the thin sheen of ointment. Withdrawing your hands from him, you tucked them into your lap, fingers curled inwards, guilt weighing heavily in your chest. “Or it can be used… used to create pain.”

His brow creased. “Pain?”

“You think the Menagerie were above torture?” you asked, sharper than you meant to. Then your face twisted apologetically, and you looked away quickly. “Sorry. I just—” 

You drew in a breath, steadying yourself. 

“When they captured enemies, or anyone who defied them, they interrogated them. Asked their questions. And if they didn’t get what they wanted…” You paused, voice tight. “They brought me in.”

His face changed, eyes sharpening, expression folding inward.

“They made me hurt people,” you explained. “Amplify their pain, make them feel things that weren’t even real. The body doesn’t know the difference. It responds anyway.” 

You rubbed your wrist with your other hand, as if scrubbing the memory away. “Sometimes… sometimes they made me do it for fun. For their entertainment. Just because they knew how much it broke me—” Your voice broke on the last word, the sound caught between a sob and a gasp.

Turning away, you reached for the coffee table with trembling hands, shoving through the disordered supplies until you found the large, sticky bandages. Only as you felt confident that your voice wouldn’t tremble, you spoke up again.

“I was their prisoner, their weapon for two years. Decided I was to be kept, too valuable to be sold like the rest of the product,” You mumbled, the plastic crinkling as you tore one free, fingers fumbling with the edges.

“That’s why you’re here,” Bucky said at last.

His voice was quiet, like he was speaking more to himself than to you. You watched the gears turn behind his eyes, watched the truth slot into place piece by piece. 

“You know too much,” he murmured, breath catching in his throat. “The Menagerie... they’re not hunting you because you ran.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“They want you dead because you know. You know too much.”

His gaze snapped up to meet yours, the initial shock gone. Something had shifted. The realisation landed like a crack of thunder as anger reared its head, hot and bitter.

“And the officials…” He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “They don’t care what it costs you. They just want you on that stand. They want a witness.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides, a tremor running through his arm. 

“God,” he muttered. “They used you. All of them. They’re still using you. They’re all just passing you around like you're fucking evidence.”

You nodded, blinking hard as you peeled back the adhesive strip. “Not a rat, you see?” you said with a brittle sort of humour, trying to cover the tremor in your voice.

He looked down at you sharply, eyes dark, nostrils flared, coiled tightly enough you were half-convinced he was going to march out there and tear them apart himself. “I’m sorry.”

That startled you more than it should have. 

“Shit, sweetheart. I was wrong about you, very wrong,” he added. “From the start. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you murmured. “I should’ve… I should’ve just told you. I just—”

Your fingers splayed out as you smoothed the bandage carefully across his ribs, palms gentle as you coaxed it into place. “It’s hard. To defend my actions. To relive it over and over again, to think of what I could have done differently, what I could’ve done to stop it. And I’m sick of people telling me it wasn’t my fault, sick of the nightmares and the memories I—”

The warmth of his skin still lingered under your touch. You were about to pull away when he caught your wrist. You jolted, breath stuttering. His grip wasn’t tight, just enough to hold you there. His thumb circled slowly over the inside of your wrist, right over the soft thrum of your pulse.

“No, I… I get it.” 

Your lungs stalled, breath coming out in a sharp wheeze as you looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“It’s hard sometimes,” he said, gaze haunted, “to justify defending yourself when you feel like a monster. Even when you weren’t the one who chose the violence.”

He glanced away, then back, not with judgment, but understanding. Maybe even shame.

“But you’re not that,” he affirmed. “You never really were.”

You got the sense he wasn’t just saying it for your sake. Not entirely. That maybe he was saying it for himself, too.

—

Bucky had been truthful. Within a few short days, his wound had knit itself into a pink, raised scar, the kind that would fade in time.

Yours, however, wasn’t healing nearly as well.

It wasn’t an infection, you knew that much. Bucky’s borderline militant efforts to clean and dress your wound had paid off. No, the problem was its intimate placement. Too high on your inner thigh, too close to where the skin was soft and constantly moving. Every step rubbed it raw. Every shift of your legs, every twitch or stretch, irritated it further. The adhesive bandages clung stubbornly, chafing the tender flesh surrounding.

And the weather wasn’t helping.

The dry heat had broken sometime during the night, replaced by a soupy humidity that clung to everything. It made your clothes stick to your back, your sheets damp, your skin slick with a sheen of sweat you couldn’t seem to shake. That morning, as you fed the cows, Bucky had tilted his face to the sky, eyes narrowed.

“Storm’s coming,” he muttered, gaze fixed on the horizon where dark clouds had begun to crawl over the hills like an advancing army.

You’d followed his eyes and silently agreed.

It was the third day since your reckless dash through the woods, and you could feel every inch of it. Your body ached with dull protest, knees bruised, but it was the wound that made you grit your teeth every time you moved. Bucky had noticed, of course, he noticed everything. He’d watched you hobble halfway down the stairs that morning, frowning in that deeply displeased way of his, jaw set like he was at war with the world.

Ever since your reluctant confession, something in him had shifted. The hostility had bled out of him, replaced by an overwhelming guilt. You felt sorry for your dejected bodyguard. You both knew it wasn’t his fault, that he had acted true to his nature with the information given, yet he still reeked of regret. 

His protectiveness had turned soft at the edges. Where once he’d shadowed you out of suspicion, now he hovered like a sheepdog with a wounded charge, not willing to leave your side for a moment.

He gave up his place on the couch without a word, fetched things before you asked, and adjusted pillows behind your back with silent focus. When you’d had enough of being babied and escaped upstairs to your room, he’d only watched you go with those impossibly blue eyes, gaze desperate and stricken.

But today… Today, he took it further, determined to take his coddling the extra mile. 

You only made it to the corner of the stairs before you saw him coming up with purpose written in every line of his body.

“Wait—Bucky, I can walk—!”

Your protest was cut short by a startled gasp as he swept you effortlessly into his arms, cradling you against his chest like you weighed nothing at all.

Your breath caught, not just from the motion, but from the sudden, intimate closeness. His body radiated heat, even through his shirt. You could feel the curve of his shoulder beneath your cheek, the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

“I can walk myself down the stairs,” you tried again, more weakly.

“You keep aggravating it,” he said simply, descending with slow, sure steps. 

With uncharacteristic gentleness, he placed you down on the couch. He crouched in front of you, one knee pressed into the floor, his eyes scanning your face with quiet intensity before dropping to your thighs.

You opened your mouth to argue—too late.

The hem of your dress was already lifted.

“Hey—!” You flinched, hands moving to cover yourself, but he was faster. His fingers curled gently around your knee, not forceful, but firm enough to stop you from snapping your legs shut.

“It’s irritated. Look.” His voice was low, focused, the pad of his thumb brushing dangerously close to tender skin as he inspected the wound.

You inhaled sharply, trying to ignore the heat that jolted through you at the contact, the way your body betrayed you with the pulse that bloomed low in your belly. His breath ghosted across your inner thigh as he leaned closer, and it was all you could do to hold still.

He pointed, fingertips skimming just above the angry, raw skin. “See that? It's from friction. The humidity is not helping. The bandage is rubbing it raw.”

You tried to speak, but he was already speaking over you.

“I’ll change it over,” he said, already rising to grab the supplies. “Stay here.”

“It’s fine, really—” you began, trying to wave off the concern in your voice, but Bucky hit you with a look so sharp it cut your words clean in half.

His brow dipped, jaw tight. “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” you shot back with a whine, already shifting upright from where you’d been slumped between the couch cushions. The movement made your thigh throb.

Before you could get far, his hand shot out—broad, calloused, and unbothered—pressing gently but firmly against your middle. The ease with which he pinned you back made you blink.

“I said stay,” he said, with exasperated authority. “What is it with you and always making things difficult?”

Your mouth hung open in disbelief. “I don’t want to be babied.”

“I’m not babying you.”

“I feel like dead weight.”

His brows shot up, incredulous. “If I were to describe you as anything, it would not be dead weight, sweetheart.”

“Oh?” you challenged, folding your arms, eyes narrowing. “Then what would you describe me as?”

That made him pause.

His hand fell away slowly, drifting up to rub along his jaw. He turned his gaze downward and away, suddenly studying the floorboards like they held some grand revelation. You could see the calculation flickering behind his eyes, like he was deciding if his true answer was worth whatever calamity he was anticipating or not. 

Your heart kicked in your chest.

You held your breath, shamefully hopeful. Like some stupid, soft part of you, some battered, longing part, was enamoured with him. Even when he’d been cruel, cold, dismissive... you'd wanted him to see you. Wanted him to like you. And now, beneath all the banter, you were hanging on the edge of a confession you weren’t even sure you wanted to hear.

He finally looked up. His eyes, storm-dark and unreadable, met yours.

“If this is some ploy to distract me,” he said, voice rough, “it’s not working.”

You deflated, oddly disappointed and sank back into the cushions with a huff. “Fine. I’ll play along. Just get one of the books from my room, would you? If I’m stuck on this damn couch, I’d rather not die of boredom.”

His expression broke into a crooked, lazy grin. “Sure thing.”

And before you could blink, he was halfway up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

You let out a breath through your nose, dragging a hand down your face. The house was suffocating you. The stillness, the isolation, the tension that bloomed every time he entered the room. Maybe it was the ridiculous number of romance novels you’d burned through. Maybe it was the heat. Or maybe it was just him—Bucky, with his quiet protectiveness, so noble with his brooding silences, and the way his hands had felt against your bare skin in the forest.

You bit your lip, cursing yourself.

His rough palms. The way his body had pinned you down, heavy and solid, the way his breath had ghosted across your cheek, your thigh. It was a memory you couldn’t scrub out, no matter how hard you tried.

And now, you were wondering… wondering how it would feel if he pinned you to this couch—

You jolted upright as Bucky returned, slapping the first aid kit and one of your smuttiest romance novels onto the coffee table like a dealer laying down a hand of cards.

He didn’t say a word, but his lips twitched at the corners. His poker face was cracking.

Your face burned.

You reached for the book, praying he wouldn’t comment on the shirtless man with windswept hair on the cover, but of course, he didn’t have to. That stupid, knowing smirk was already doing the talking.

So much for subtle.

You swallowed thickly as he settled between your legs again, his weight pressing into the couch, his broad shoulders framed by the curve of your thighs. There was something maddeningly composed about him, like none of this fazed him in the slightest. If anything, he almost seemed amused by your discomfort, eyes flicking upward just enough to catch the squirm in your hips, the shallow hitch in your breath. 

He looked far too comfortable for someone in such a compromising position, like he knew the effect he had on you, and maybe even enjoyed drawing it out.

He gave your knee a light pat, a silent signal to open up. You obeyed hesitantly, and he brushed back the hem of your skirt. Your underwear, thin and barely holding modesty, was now fully on display. You bit down a wince as he took hold of a loose corner of the bandage. He tugged gently, slowly peeling the adhesive away from the inflamed skin. Pain flared sharp and immediate, white-hot beneath the stretch of gauze.

A soft, involuntary whimper escaped your throat before you could muffle it. Your hand shot out, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you gripped his shoulder for stability, or maybe just to anchor yourself against the sudden wave of discomfort.

Still, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. His voice came low and steady, a rumbling murmur as his free hand drew calming circles into the uninjured thigh. “Nearly there, sweetheart. You’re doing great.”

Your nails dug into him as your head lolled back, breath ragged. Every muscle was taut, braced against the conflicting signals. Pain prickled your nerves, comfort stirring from his voice and touch. You weren’t sure whether to pull away or lean in.

“You’re doing so well,” he continued. “Just hang in there for me, won’t you?”

The bandage continued its slow ascent, dragging higher and higher up your thigh, until his knuckles were brushing the very edge of your underwear. The skin there was more sensitive, flushed, overheated, and the gentle pull of the adhesive felt too much, too raw, too close. You hissed through your teeth, muttering a broken string of half-coherent words.

“Shit—ah—”

A particularly harsh sting made your hips buck. Your legs tried to snap closed on instinct, but Bucky was faster. He caught your knee with his forearm and pressed it down, holding you open, firm and immovable.

“Easy,” he murmured, steady as a rock. “Don’t tense up. You’ll just make it worse.”

You squirmed beneath his touch, back arching slightly, breath caught between agony and embarrassment. Finally, he peeled the last sticky corner away, and your skin gave a soft snap as it sprang free from the bandage’s grip. The rush of fresh air was immediate, and with it came a strange kind of relief, tinged with something dangerously close to arousal.

“See?” His voice dipped into something almost indulgent. “Good girl. It’s all done now.”

You nearly passed out on the spot. Your head swam, vision dancing at the edges. A ragged exhale wheezed out of you. “God... Sorry. You probably think I’m being dramatic—”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said, smoothing a hand briefly down your thigh. “That’s a nasty spot. Fence got you good.”

You finally dared to look down at him, cheeks flushed, heart a mess in your chest. You were almost certain there was a wet patch on your underwear now. You prayed to whatever higher being was listening that he hadn’t noticed, but when you chanced a look at him, down between your legs, a wave of heat coursed through you. You could see it now. The slight flare in his nostrils. The way his jaw tightened. He knew. And he wasn’t saying a damn thing.

His attention drifted only briefly from your wound as he balled up the used bandage and tossed it somewhere behind him with little care.

“Why don’t you ever use your powers?” he asked, casually. “To stop your own pain?”

You exhaled, long and slow. 

“Doesn’t work that way,” you muttered. “I can use it on others, sure. But not myself. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a mental block or something... I just... can’t read my own body the same way I can read others. Or maybe the universe just hates me.”

He didn’t reply immediately, just nodded slightly in understanding as he cleaned the area with another antiseptic wipe. You winced, hissing through clenched teeth as the sting bit into your already flayed nerves.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “One more second.”

You braced yourself again as he smoothed a fresh bandage over the wound. You could feel the ghost of his fingers lingering there, just for a moment longer than necessary, just enough to make you question it.

—

Outside, the sky had deepened from moody grey to near-black, the clouds rolling like smoke across the heavens. The wind picked up, rattling the windows. Somewhere far off, the first crack of thunder rumbled.

You had expected Bucky to drift off somewhere once he had finished tending your wound, the kitchen maybe, or the porch to watch the storm roll in, or even just to sit on the floor nearby. Anywhere that wasn’t with you. You’d stretched yourself out across the length of the couch, limbs heavy and warm, your upper body propped up by a mess of pillows and the armrest as you lost yourself in the pages of your book. It was a position meant for solitude.

So when Bucky returned from putting the first aid kit away, he didn’t hesitate. With casual ease, he lifted your outstretched legs and sat down, settling your feet squarely in his lap, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But the moment his hands touched you, your entire system short-circuited.

He did it so easily, like it was a habit. Like it was his right.

Your breath caught mid-page.

You didn’t dare move. Didn’t speak. Your fingers hovered over the paper, your eyes glazed across the lines, but your brain refused to register a single word. Your heart pounded in your chest like it was trying to break free. It took twenty agonising minutes, maybe more, before you could even pretend to read again.

And what didn’t help, what made the entire ordeal a million times worse, was that your book had finally reached the scene, the one everyone waited for. The part where the tension cracked wide open, and the protagonist was getting thoroughly ravished against a wall in some expensive villa by the kind of dark, brooding man that only existed in fiction... or maybe sat next to you.

You swallowed dryly, heart lurching again as the male lead slid his hand up the heroine’s thigh, just like Bucky’s had earlier when he’d peeled off your bandage. Only… you’d imagined it going further. Higher. 

Maybe you were delusional, but every time he’d touched you, even under the guise of first aid, you’d felt it—the maddening restraint.

You bit your tongue hard, forcing yourself not to let your thoughts spiral, even as arousal simmered low in your belly and pooled with heat between your thighs. You were already flushed and aching and halfway to combusting, and now he had the audacity to sit there, thigh under yours, body close enough to feel his warmth, like he wasn’t slowly unravelling you.

You were seconds away from imploding, from throwing your shitty romance novel across the room and throwing yourself at the goddamn furniture—

“Did you know,” Bucky drawled suddenly, voice low and casual and way too close, “that super soldiers have enhanced senses?”

You practically jumped out of your skin. “What?”

“I can hear your heartbeat,” he continued, that smug glint in his voice unmistakable. “It’s pretty fast. Erratic.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Your cheeks went up in flames.

He added, far too pleased with himself, “That’s actually how I found you in the forest. I followed your footsteps and your pulse.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you hissed, snapping your book shut with a hard thwack, trying—and failing—to sit up with any grace.

Outside, rain hit the house in a violent curtain, a sudden hisssssh as the skies split open and water poured down in thick, slanted sheets. It rattled on the roof like pebbles hurled from the sky. Wind clawed at the windows, moaning through the seams.

He chuckled, one hand sliding over your shin, fingers curling around your ankle as he held you in place. “Couch rest,” he reminded you, voice dipped in that annoyingly firm tone.

You struggled half-heartedly, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he tugged gently until you sank back into the cushions, his hand still wrapped securely around your leg.

“No,” he scolded, like he was denying more than just your movement.

Your blush deepened, spreading to your chest. You let out a breath, half-frustrated, half-flustered, and melted into the cushions like you wished they’d just absorb you whole.

His thumb brushed a soft, slow arc along your calf—

Then, with a sharp pop, the power snapped off.

The lamps blinked out. The steady hum of the fridge died mid-breath. Silence swallowed the room for a single heartbeat before a thunderclap shattered it, a crackling whip of lightning illuminating the windows in a brief, unnatural white.

You jolted in fright. 

Bucky didn’t move right away. He remained seated, your legs still draped across his lap. You squinted into the darkness, instincts already urging you to move, to rush and shut the open windows before the rain crept in.

Bucky’s grip on your shin tightened, silently reminding you to stay put. 

“I’ll get them,” he said quietly, voice calm as thunder rumbled loudly overhead once more. “The windows. And some candles.”

You nodded, throat dry, unsure if he could even see the gesture. He moved slowly, easing your legs off his lap and lowering them onto a pillow with tenderness. Then he vanished into the gloom.

You tracked him by sound, the soft thud of his feet on the floorboards, the swift click of windows shutting, one after the other. Each flash of lightning lit the farmhouse like a shuttered camera flash, brief glimpses of movement, shadow, and form. You caught sight of him once, silhouetted in the doorway, jaw set.

When he returned, he carried a bundle of stubby candles and a matchbox. He set them on the table in front of you, crouching low as he arranged them.

He struck a match, the flare hissing into life, and held it up to one of the candles.

You watched, horrified, as he held it aloft for too long. Far too long. The flame crept toward his fingers, the wood blackening, curling with heat. It licked the vibranium tips, skimming the grooves like the metal had been soaked in fuel.

“Bucky—!” you gasped, lurching forward. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

He blinked up at you, brow furrowed in quiet confusion.

“The vibranium?” he asked, glancing at his hand like it was some borrowed object. “It doesn’t feel pain. The tech…there are no nerves.”

You stared at the charred ends of the matchsticks and the still-glowing candlelight flickering against his dark silhouette. The flames cast golden halos along his jaw, his cheekbone, glinting off the grooves of his metal fingers.

“You looked terrified, sweetheart,” he murmured, amusement warming the edge of his voice. “You okay?”

“I just—you let it burn you.”

He smiled, slow and crooked. “It’s not me. It’s metal.”

But you didn’t agree. Not really. Because it was him. That arm, the weight of it, the precision and restraint in it. It was as much a part of him as the careful way he spoke, or the way he touched your leg like it might bruise.

You swallowed again, watching as he struck the final match. It flared to life with a dry rasp, briefly lighting his face in warm gold before he tipped it to the last candle. The wick caught with a soft sputter, the flame settling into a steady flicker. He sat back on his heels, eyes lifting to meet yours. Smoke curled faintly in the air, mingling with the subtle sweetness of melting wax.

Your voice was small. “It is you. All of it.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you, something in his gaze softened. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached out again, resting one calloused palm on your shin. His thumb moved in an easy rhythm

“Explain it to me,” you breathed. “How it works.”

Bucky seemed to turn that over in his mind. A low rumble of thunder murmured outside as he eased himself up, returning to the couch beside you. His hand lingered on your leg, tracing up the curve of your shin in thought, pausing lightly over your knee.

“The technology…it simulates nerves, mimics what touch feels like,” he said quietly. “I can touch an object and understand I’m holding it. Feel its weight. Its texture. But I can’t feel temperature… not heat, not cold. I can’t feel pain. I could sink my hand into a fire or take a bullet straight through the palm and feel nothing.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, you reached out, your touch featherlight as your fingertips skimmed the metal of his wrist. There was precision in the construction, elegant, engineered, but it was still him. You traced along the inside of his forearm, up to the sharp line of his palm, feeling the grooves, the seams, the impossibly subtle notches between each plate. Then you curled your fingers gently around his, lifting his hand.

You turned it upward. Candlelight caught along the joints of his fingers, gleaming in liquid amber.

And then, deliberately, intimately, you ran your hand down the back of his vibranium hand. Knuckles to wrist.

“Can you feel that?” you breathed.

He inhaled quietly, eyes locked on yours. “Yes.”

You traced your thumb across a seam in his palm, a soft circular motion like brushing the edge of a scar. “Not temperature. But touch?”

“Yeah,” he said. His voice was rougher now. “I can feel the pressure. The motion. Just not... the heat of your skin.”

You didn’t speak. Just guided his hand upward, toward your face, your breath catching as the cool pads of his vibranium fingers grazed your cheekbone and rested there. You could’ve sworn he shuddered. A thrill passed through you at the sensation, not for you, but for him, a quiet hope that maybe this gesture still meant something, even if he couldn’t feel the warmth.

“And now?” you asked, voice barely audible over the rain.

His gaze dipped to your lips, then back up. The flickering darkness had devoured the familiar stormy blue of his eyes, leaving only a hungry void in its place.

“I feel your skin,” he said, low. “It’s soft. Smooth.” 

His fingers flexed gently, tracing the line of your jaw in a slow descent. “But I can’t feel the warmth. Just… the shape.”

A small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips, bittersweet. A silent war was waged behind his expression, trapped between desire and duty. Between what he wanted and what he was allowed to reach for.

“I used to have another arm,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter now, like the admission cost him something. “A silver one. I couldn’t feel anything with it. Not even this.”

Your brows furrowed.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” he murmured. “Feeling everything… or feeling nothing at all.”

You leaned into his touch, your cheek pressing fully against the metal. Even if it didn’t give him warmth, maybe it gave him presence.

“I think,” you mumbled, “that feeling is the most natural thing of all. It’s the experience of living. Of life.”

His hand stilled against your face.

“People who try to push aside feeling,” you said, softer now, “to cut it off and pretend it doesn’t exist… they’re the ones who are suffering the most. Not the ones who feel everything.”

His breath left him in a slow exhale. A subtle release, like he hadn’t even realised he was holding onto something tight in his chest until now. The candlelight caught the faintest tremble in his throat as he swallowed, as though your words had struck a nerve.

“I feel everything now,” he said at last, voice barely above a breath, like a truth he hadn’t meant to say aloud, like it had just dawned on him. His fingers twitched, then slowly withdrew, curling into a loose fist in his lap.

Silence settled between you, and you watched as the plates in his metal arm shifted with a subtle hiss, the faint whir of unseen mechanics clicking into place as he flexed his fist open, then closed again. The movement was restless, almost unconscious, like his body was speaking the turmoil he wouldn’t voice. You could feel the heat where his hand had just been, the ghost of his touch clinging to your skin.

For a second, you worried he was retreating inward again, lost to whatever troubles consumed him, but then his voice, low and quiet, cut through the static. 

“Come here.” 

You blinked, unsure you’d heard him right. “What?”

“Just... closer.”

You moved without thinking. Slowly, cautiously, you slid forward on the couch, knees grazing his, breath shallow in your throat. The space between you disappeared. You could feel his warmth, his stillness, the quiet restraint in the way he held himself.

When he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you didn’t flinch. His fingers lingered against your cheek, almost like he was afraid you might vanish if he wasn’t gentle.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he murmured, his voice barely audible beneath the rain. “You’re killin’ me here.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I thought you didn’t notice.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice rough and honest. “I notice everything about you.”

Your breath caught, lips parting on instinct, but no sound came.

God, was this really happening? You could feel it, his gaze, the pull of something simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for a spark. But was this wise? You were holed up here, alone together for who knew how long. If you were wrong and misread this current thread between you, it would ruin everything. There’d be no slipping away, no easy out, just long days and longer nights of awkward silence and sidestepped glances.

You didn’t know if you were ready to be seen like that. To be touched like that. To fall headfirst into something that might not let you come back the same. You swallowed hard, unsure if you wanted to lean in or away. 

And then you took the plunge.

“Let me… let me show you something.”

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t pull away. “Yeah?”

You focused, just a small pulse of energy through your fingertips, a delicate twist of sensation sent skimming through his nerves like a shiver. It bloomed slowly at first, a gentle, spiralling warmth that coiled from where you touched and then unfolded, spreading like ripples in water.

He inhaled sharply. Eyes fluttering closed. A tremor ran through him, his spine arching ever so slightly as the feeling expanded, not sharp or overwhelming, but deep. A full-body shudder, unforced and unguarded.

You squeezed your fist shut just as his eyes opened in shock. “What was that?”

“Pleasure.” You muttered, almost sheepishly, as heat crawled up your neck. “It’s just another way I can manipulate the senses. Pain, pleasure, hot, cold—”

“Show me again.”

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard right. Momentarily stunned as your nervous ramble melted to nothing on your tongue. “What?”

His eyes met yours. There was no teasing in them, no bravado. Just raw honesty. Curiosity. Need.

“The feeling,” he said. “The pleasure.”

You hesitantly pressed your fingertips gently to the curve of his throat this time, just under his jaw. A warmer spot, closer to where his pulse thrummed, let the sensation unfurl more slowly this time. Syrupy and coaxing, a velvet ribbon of warmth that traced along his neck, over his chest, down his sides. 

He exhaled sharply through his nose, body caught somewhere between a shudder and a squirm.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

You bit your lip, focusing, and let it continue, sliding up through his arms, his back, the curve of his stomach. A steady rise and fall of sweetness and shimmer, like goosebumps made of sunlight.

“Tell me,” you said. “What’s it like? How does it feel?”

His voice was strained, breath catching. “It’s—fuck—it’s like… some is pouring honey down my spine. Like every nerve’s waking up. I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s… good. So good.”

You swallowed hard, your own fingers trembling slightly now. The intimacy of it, watching him react, watching the pleasure ripple through him, watching him feel, it was dizzying. You hadn’t expected this. You hadn’t expected how much it would undo you.

You hadn’t meant for it to turn you on. But there was something so dangerously intoxicating about the control, not over him, but over what he felt. To give something gentle. Something sweet. To offer pleasure instead of pain.

And God, he took it like he’d been starving for it.

“Do you want me to stop?” you asked, barely recognising your own voice—breathy, tight, trembling with restraint.

“No,” he said immediately. “Please. Don’t.”

Your fingers drifted lower, brushing the soft fabric just above his chest. His eyes locked with yours, dark and dilated, his pupils swallowing the colour. Every inch of him was taut, vibrating beneath your touch. His thighs twitched from the phantom of sensation, his breath ragged. You held still, the thrum of your own pulse deafening. Your underwear clung uncomfortably to your skin, soaked through with want. You shifted instinctively, a slow grind against nothing, desperate for friction.

A wicked thought slid through you. Before you could talk yourself out of it, the magic spilt from your fingers, liquid light snaking down his torso, following the line of muscle, dipping lower, lower….straight into the heat of his groin.

His hips jerked up in response, a shocked, broken moan ripping from his throat.

Both of you froze, eyes locked, stunned. The golden glow in your palm flickered, fading, the magic receding like a tide.

And then something snapped.

Your lips crashed into his, sudden and sure. He kissed you back instantly, almost desperately, his hands coming up to cradle your face. You barely registered the storm outside anymore, the flicker of lightning on the windows, the hush of rain. He shifted, and suddenly he was between your thighs, pressing you back into the couch cushions. His weight blanketed you, but it only made your need ache sharper.

One hand cradled your jaw, thumb swiping across your cheek as his lips moved against yours, needy and desperate. You fumbled at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward and over, your palms dragging over heated skin and hard muscle. His stomach flexed beneath your touch, and you traced along his ribs, up the carved lines of his back, just to feel how he moved.

He groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that went straight to your core. His hips ground down against you, bandage and gash completely forgotten, lost beneath the press of flesh and want.

Your wrap dress loosened under his hands, fingers slipping beneath the knot and unravelling the fabric with an urgency that made your breath stutter. The fabric parted, cool air brushing your skin as he exposed your chest.

Your head tipped back as his mouth left yours, trailing lower in a feverish line, across your jaw, down your throat, over the arch of your collarbone. His head dipped beneath your chin, kissing his way down your sternum like he was worshipping every inch of you.

Then you sent another slow pulse of magic through your fingers and into him, this time directly into his skull.

His kisses faltered, breath catching. Teeth scraped gently across your skin as he let out a sound that was half growl, half groan.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart,” he rasped against your chest, breath hot and trembling. Goosebumps rippled over your skin in waves, the warmth of his voice sinking straight into your bones.

You only laughed, breathless. “Good.”

You sent another wave of pleasure, molten and slow, slithering down his spine.

He stiffened, body arching slightly as he rode the feeling. You used the moment to shift, rolling him carefully onto his back. He let you, too lost in sensation to resist. You knelt beside him, half draped off the couch, hair hanging wild around your face as you gazed down at him.

He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Lost. His eyes unfocused, lips parted, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. You watched the way his muscles jumped and twitched under his skin, the way his mouth struggled to form words.

When he blinked back into awareness, the first thing he did was reach down, hands fumbling at his belt with shaking fingers. You helped him, breath caught in your throat, both of you working together to strip him down.

And when his pants came off—

You stopped, just for a second.

Your breath hitched.

He was huge, hard and flushed, resting against his belly. Your mouth went dry.

“You have to tell me how it feels,” you murmured.

Your hand flattened against his stomach, fingers splayed wide. A deep, pulsing bloom of heat channelled through your palm, arcing downward into the thick, aching weight of him.

His reaction was immediate.

A sharp cry tore from his chest as his hips bucked up off the couch, hands flying to your thighs, fingers digging in as if he needed something to anchor him.

The pleasure took him like a tide.

And you could only watch, trembling, as he unravelled beneath your hands.

“I—I… fuck, sweetheart.” He stuttered, breathless, mouth slack as your magic surged through him, pushed to its limits. The strain already throbbed in your arms and back, a dull, familiar ache blooming beneath your skin, but you didn’t let up. Not yet.

He was beautiful like this, utterly undone. His cock flushed at the tip, slick with precum that beaded from the slit, catching the golden shimmer of your magic. His chest heaved, muscles tensing and quivering as pleasure rolled over him. His eyes were clenched shut, brows knit tight as he rode every pulse of sensation.

Then, just as he trembled on the edge, you withdrew, your magic vanishing abruptly.

He choked out a curse, hips jerking uselessly toward the absence, left hard and aching.

“Holy fuck—” he muttered hoarsely, blinking up at you with dazed eyes. “You’ve been holding that back, sweetheart?”

You giggled, warm and wicked, delight blooming in your chest as his vibranium hand slid up your belly and cupped your breast through your bra. His grip was firm, thumb brushing slow circles that had your spine arching.

“I didn’t think you wanted me,” you whispered, almost shy despite the heat between you.

He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky wasn’t real.

“Didn’t want you?” He looked stricken. “Shit, I thought you didn’t want me. If I had known… if I’d known you didn’t hate me, after everything, I would’ve had you pinned to this damn couch days ago.”

Your head spun. The words lodged in your throat. You couldn’t speak, not when your body was buzzing, not when your heart was hammering like the thunder overhead.

So you showed him.

Your palm lit once more, gold heat pulsing from your fingers like molten thread, weaving into the core of him. His face crumpled beautifully, a groan tearing loose as he squeezed your breast harder, his body lurching with the force of it. Precum spilt onto his stomach in a slippery trail, his hips trembling with the need to move, to finish.

You watched as his right hand dropped, trailing down his stomach in desperation, fingers clumsy, desperate for friction.

You caught his wrist before he could touch himself, eyes narrowing as your breath came in sharp pants. His gaze shot up to meet yours, pupils blown wide.

“I… you fucking minx—”

His voice caught, and then his eyes rolled back. His chest rose and fell rapidly, wrist twitching in your grip as he fought for release. His hips rocked into the air, helpless, caught between your magic and your mercy.

He was close. You could feel it in the way his muscles trembled, in the sounds he made. You wanted to see him fall apart. To come undone under your power, not in pain, not in fear, but in ecstasy.

For once, you wanted someone to reap the rewards of your magic—

But just as your focus began to flicker, just as your grip faltered, Bucky struck.

With a growl, he surged upward. His weight hit you like a wave, knocking the air from your lungs as he flipped you beneath him. Your magic sputtered out, lost in the sudden jolt. You gasped, blinking in surprise as he pinned you with his body, his hips snug between your thighs.

He grinned down at you, smug and breathless, as he locked your legs around his waist.

“You wanna say it?” he murmured, voice rough with lust and teasing threat as he rolled his hips with one testing thrust. “Or do you want me to make you?”

You arched up into him instinctively, a cry caught in your throat, the space between your thighs pulsing with need. Every nerve ending felt electrified, begging for contact, for friction, for him.

“Touch me, please,” you whispered, voice raw and aching.

That was all it took to break him.

“Good girl.” He purred, and then he surged forward, crashing into you with a kiss that was all teeth, tongue, and hunger. Your gasp was swallowed by him, your hands fisting in his hair as he kissed you like he was trying to devour you, like he'd starve without you. His hand slid beneath your skirt in one bold motion, cupping the heat of your soaked underwear.

“Fuck,” he growled, voice cracking with disbelief and lust. He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to watch his fingers press into you through the fabric. “You’re dripping for me.”

You whimpered, head falling back against the cushions as his thumb found your clit, rubbing maddeningly slow circles through the damp cotton. Every movement sent a jolt up your spine. You couldn’t help the way your hips bucked, chasing after every scrap of friction he offered.

“God, Bucky—”

He latched onto the underside of your jaw, kissing and nipping, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm. 

“Should’ve known,” he muttered against your throat. “Sitting here all sweet and pretty, thighs clenching, practically vibrating with it. You wanted this, didn’t you?”

Your only answer was a breathless moan as he hooked his fingers under your underwear and tugged them down your legs. The fabric clung to your slick folds before peeling away, leaving you bare and glistening, trembling beneath him.

Cool air hit your wetness, and you jerked, but he held you in place, palm braced firmly against your thigh.

“You’ve been so fucking patient,” he murmured like a promise, and then, finally, his vibranium fingers found you again, brushing through your folds, gathering your wetness before teasing at your entrance. “Such a good girl. Let me take care of you.”

Then he pushed inside, one thick finger curling into you with devastating control. You cried out, hips lifting from the couch as your walls fluttered around him, greedy and clenching. Then another finger followed, stretching you, filling you, and the stretch burned just right.

“Christ,” he groaned, voice ragged, his lips dragging over your collarbone. “You’re so tight… gonna squeeze the life outta me, sweetheart.”

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you could find purchase as he fucked you slow and deep with his fingers. His thumb circled your clit in time, the rhythm perfectly matched.

But it wasn’t enough. You needed more. 

Without thinking, your magic stirred, wild and hot and instinctual. It bloomed at your fingertips, golden light flickering like flame across your skin. You pressed your palm to his back, right between his shoulder blades, and poured it into him.

Bucky gasped, his body convulsing above you as the magic hit him, raw pleasure cascading down his spine. His fingers faltered inside you, but you grabbed his wrist and pushed him deeper.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Let me…let me feel you feel it.”

His mouth dropped open, a strangled moan escaping him as the heat of your power flowed down his nerves, threading through his blood like lightning. His arm flexed beside your head, trying to hold himself up as your magic made him quake.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he rasped, voice nearly unrecognisable, jaw slack as he rocked his fingers harder into you, magic fueling his every movement. “You—fuck, sweetheart—”

“I know,” you cooed, hips stuttering. 

You pressed another surge into him, palm glowing like molten gold. His body shuddered against yours, and this time, he groaned your name. And God, with his fingers driving into you, his mouth on your skin, and your magic wrapped around his soul like silk, you were close. So close.

“Fuck—what are you doing to me?” he groaned, voice cracking as your magic threaded through his chest like silk. “Feels like—feels like I’m burning—”

“You are,” you gasped, your back arching, thighs shaking. “Burning for me.”

Your walls clenched around his fingers, drawing him in as if your body was desperate to keep him there, to never let him go. Every drag of his fingers, every stroke of his thumb over your clit, sent a new wave crashing through you, building like a storm on the horizon.

“Bucky, I—” Your voice broke on a moan as pleasure threatened to spill over. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, pressing his forehead to yours, sweat beading at his temple. “You’re gonna be a good girl and fall apart for me. Right here.”

Your magic surged in answer to his voice, responding to the ragged way he spoke, to the desperation in his touch. You reached for him again, palm pressed flat to his chest this time, and pushed, magic pouring from your body into his, sparks dancing where your skin met his. It hit him like a shockwave.

His breath caught, a strangled gasp punching out of his lungs. “Oh fuck—”

His entire body shuddered. His hips jerked forward reflexively, grinding against your thigh as his body buckled under the pleasure, his orgasm taking him by force, torn from him by the sheer intensity of your power. A guttural, broken sound ripped from his throat, and you felt the warmth of him spill across your stomach, hot and thick as his cock twitched against you.

That was all it took.

Your climax slammed into you with brutal force, your body seizing around his fingers as the pleasure snapped through you. Your legs trembled, your hips rolled uncontrollably, and you cried out. Your back arched off the couch as your magic exploded outward in golden waves. You clung to him, trembling, your body pulsing around his hand as the orgasm rippled through you, again and again.

Bucky felt it all, every tremor, every pulse, every wave. He grunted, his eyes fluttering closed, mouth open in pure awe as you came around his fingers, your walls fluttering and spasming, slick dripping down his wrist.

Bucky groaned against your throat, his lips open and gasping against your skin, voice gone to gravel. “Jesus Christ.”

He collapsed half on top of you, arm catching his weight as his vibranium hand slowly slipped free, fingers drenched in your juices. You were both breathless, wrecked, his cum smeared across your stomach. You crumpled beneath him, limbs shaking, still tingling from the aftershocks. 

“You okay?” he whispered, brushing your damp hair from your face with trembling fingers.

You managed a breathless laugh. “Are you?”

He chuckled, dropping a kiss to your collarbone. “You just hijacked every nerve in my body and made me see God. So yeah. I’m fucking great.”

You winced sheepishly, heart fluttering. “Sorry. Lost control a little there.”

“Don’t apologise,” he insisted, voice low and reverent. “If that’s you losing control... I want it. Again. And again…”

He kissed your temple, then pulled back slightly to look at you, eyes half-lidded and hungry even in the aftermath. “But next time, sweetheart… I get to make you lose it first.”

You grinned, your pulse still fluttering. “Deal.”

---

hi, if you made it to the end, holy shit congrats. if you enjoyed please let me know! drop a comment below, reblog or send me something through my inbox! thank you for reading my work :) if you want to stay up to date with any series updates or new one-shots being posted, follow my sideblog @artficlly-updates and turn on notifications.

[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking [part five]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader

You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fingering, kissing, making out, kitchen sex/foreplay???, reader guiding bucky, praise, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, stake-out mission, wow! they're actually doing their jobs this chapter!!, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey not doing good, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, gif does not represent reader's appearance, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 13.9k

A/N: it's finally here! this was... a fucking beast to write. only took a month of agony. this got so, so long, i ended up cutting an entire scene near the start so hopefully it doesn't jump around too much. let me know if you enjoy! on a more personal note, just wanted to give you all an update. i had put a few posts mentioning how i've been very unwell mentally and physically. it's made it really hard for me to write while also studying full time. but um yeah basically i was diagnosed with a?? kinda scary?? chronic disease lol?? which explains why i've spent the last 6 years of my life exhausted and feeling awful, and turns out my depression/anxiety is likely a result of this. but yeah, after all these years of dismissal and misdiagnosis, i know what's wrong so i'm getting medicated for it. i'm hoping it gives me a big energy boost to juggle uni and my hobbies (like writing) more efficiently. anyway, this authors note is so long, if you have any questions or thoughts on this chapter, reblog or send me an ask! thank you all so much. as always, sorry for any typos!

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Bucky didn’t respond at first.

His jaw ticked, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. From the way he shifted, feet planting wider, shoulders drawing back just enough that you almost suspected he was bracing. Not for a conversation, but for a hit. As if he expected you to launch across the balcony, heels and all, and pummel your fist directly into his face. 

As absurd as it was, it almost didn’t surprise you. You’d become strangely used to his defensive reactions, the expectation of raised voices and violence, the way he always prepared his body for pain, like he expected even you to punish him.

And maybe the worst part was that deep down, he thought he deserved it.

Maybe you could’ve hit him. Pounded against his chest or disarmed him with words, if nothing else. You could’ve demanded, snarled questions as to why you were some secret mistake he didn’t dare let anyone see. Why are you ashamed to be around me? Why are you embarrassed?

Do you even care about me?

Do you care about me in the same way I care about you?

The ache in your chest flared thinking about it. Deep down, you knew the answer. 

So, you held yourself back. Quiet, still, observing. Not because you weren’t angry, not because you weren’t hurting, but because you had become disturbingly good at packing that raw pain into tidy boxes and sealing them away. 

Bucky adjusted the wrist of his leather glove, tugging it tight like it gave his hands something to do other than shake. You lifted your chin.

“Alright.” He spoke finally, voice a little hoarse, and for a split second, you wondered if he had been crying. “Talking… that’s usually where the trouble starts, isn’t it?”

His attempt to be light-hearted, to gauge your reaction, was short-lived. You met him with silence, exhaling slowly from your nose as you looked him up and down. He immediately folded, metaphorical throat bared as he met your gaze with his signature puppy-dog eyes.

For all your guilt, for the sadness and longing you had felt these past weeks, you still had enough self-respect to keep it together. You’d spent too many years of your life making excuses, compromises for those around you. For once, you would stick up for yourself, for once, you’d let someone other than yourself know you were hurting. You weren’t sure if that was a strength or a weakness. You were sick of being the one who met insults with sarcasm, tired of being the one who shouldered every blow and sting for the sake of others' comfort.

For once in your life, you would take the teeth you were born with and learn how to bite.

“You hurt me.” 

Bucky’s fidgeting stilled instantly, face taut, his eyes searching yours already wide with creeping dread. “I—”

“Let me finish.” You cut over him, and his mouth clamped shut.

“I know this…whatever it is between us is complicated. There isn’t exactly a rulebook for this stuff. I know it’s messy, I know we never defined anything, and maybe we should’ve talked more…” Your body shuddered as you sighed, hesitant as you decided on your slow wording. “But what I understood, what I thought we both understood, was that there was trust. If there wasn’t anything, there was always trust… and what you said, that broke it.”

You paused, trying to steady your voice. Bucky had gone deathly still across from you. You watched his expression crumble. Guilt bled into every crease on his face, each of your words weighing down on him.

“I know that I lied to you about Nat, and I’m sorry. I know I should’ve said something, but I was scared that you’d react badly. That you’d react in the way that you did. I’ve never pretended to be easy to be close with. I know that I can be guarded, cold, or distant but…” You hesitated, sucking in a sharp breath. 

The words burned behind your teeth.

“I always cared. I do care.” Your voice softened momentarily, despite the bile rising in your throat. “I gave you my time, my trust, I took you seriously, Bucky, I told you things I haven’t even really told anyone, not even myself, I—”

You crossed your arms over your chest, fingers digging into your sides. You could feel that stone in your gut, tears pressing just behind your eyes. You wouldn’t cry, not here, not now. You’d say your peace, lay it all out before him and see what he did with it.

“I get that you’re scared. I get that you feel shame, shame that you don’t quite understand. I understand that you have an instinct to protect yourself, to control how others see you because you’re afraid to push it too far, afraid to upset anyone…” The words tasted bitter, but they kept coming like a flood, hot and vile even as Bucky looked across at you like he was seconds away from crumpling to the floor. “But what you said was cruel. It hurt me. I just need you to understand that. I need you to understand that whatever it is we’ve been doing, friendship, lessons, whatever… It was never a joke to me.”

As you met his gaze directly, he flinched, jaw clenching so tightly that a muscle in his cheek twitched.

“You acted like I was beneath you, like you needed to downplay all that has happened for the sake of saving face. I understand you want to keep things private, I respect that, but a desire for privacy is very different to belittling me in front of Steve.”

Bucky’s shoulders slouched, his entire body shrinking in on itself. You half expected him to drop to his knees then and there from the way his eyes locked onto the balcony, too ashamed to meet your eye.

“I can be your secret, I can help you, but we are equals,” you muttered, quieter now. “I won’t chase after you, begging for scraps of decency. I’m not going to accept you pretending I’m invisible, that you’re disgusted by me the second someone important walks in the room.”

You looked away, breathing deeply through your nose as you willed the weight pressing on your chest to leave. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, god knows I am anything but that. I just need you to understand that I’m… I’m sick of making myself smaller just so other people can feel comfortable. I’m sick of the constant judgment, the way people don’t think I realise. I’m sick of all of it.”

When you finally looked up again, he looked like he had been punched in the gut. Not physically, but in that hollow, breathless way that left someone stunned and struggling to stand upright. Like every word you’d laid out between the two of you had knocked the air clean out of him.

His mouth parted, but no sound came. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring past you without actually seeing. You could see it written across his face, the guilt, the lingering panic, the way his whole body trembled. It was the slight hitch with each inhale, the way his shoulders rolled tight beneath the strain of his suit jacket like he wanted to crawl out of it, crawl out of his own skin.

He was close. Too close, seconds away from spiralling into the kind of anxiety that devoured everything in its path.

So, you gave him space. Silent and steady, let him work his own way through it. 

The breeze stirred around you, catching a few strands of loose hair. They tickled against the nape of your neck. Below you could hear the hustle and bustle of the city nightlife, the chatter, the cars. The muffled sound of the party music just beyond the glass windows separating the balcony from the rest of the tower. 

Bucky’s chest rose, then held, then he released it slowly. You watched him, silent, as his eyes flicked around. One smell, two things he could feel, three things in his line of sight. Good. He was grounding himself.

You watched without interfering, letting him work and find his own rhythm. You could practically read his mind now, how the cogs turned, each minuscule mannerism telling you which step he was at. You’d coaxed him through enough of these moments to know the signs. And maybe there was something bittersweet about it, the fact that he was steady enough to guide himself, no longer dependent on the comfort of your voice to guide him through.

“You’re right,” Bucky said at last, the words rasping out like they had been lodged in his throat for hours. “You’re right, I hurt you. And I hate myself for it.”

His hands flexed at his sides, fists curling and releasing as if unsure of what to do with them. A flicker of movement crossed his face, a wince, maybe, and then he lifted his eyes.

“I was a coward.” He continued, voice hoarse. “I’ve been replaying it in my head every day since. Over and over and… thinking about you. About how I made you feel.”

He took a half-step forward, caught in the pull of wanting to close the gap. His foot faltered mid-air, stopping him. He planted it back on the ground, shoulders locked, as if he was worried you’d dash if he closed the distance between you.

“I should’ve apologised that day, the second it left my mouth,” he muttered, words almost lost to the breeze. “I should’ve followed you instead of hiding and hoping it would fix itself.”

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “And I know it’s not an excuse… I was just so afraid.. Afraid that I had fucked up so badly that I would lose you. Guess it didn’t matter in the end because I lost you anyway—”

“You didn’t lose me,” you cut in, firm but soft. “I’m right here.”

He blinked hard at that, as if he couldn’t believe what you were saying. His chest trembled as he dragged in a sharp inhale.

“I’m sorry.”

There. That was it, the moment you’d been waiting for, the thing you’d needed from the very beginning. Not grovelling, not guilt, not the sight of him unravelling, just understanding. You hadn’t wanted to watch him spiral or flinch beneath the weight of his own remorse. That was never the point. You only wanted to be seen. For him to see you, the ache you’d swallowed, the silence you’d worn like armour.

You weren’t the kind of person who held pain like a weapon, who dangled forgiveness just out of reach. But you were tired, bone-deep tired, of being stepped over, of shrinking yourself to keep the peace. Tired of wearing humour like a mask, sharp and dry, to cover the bruises he couldn’t see. All you’d wanted was for him to get it. And now… now he did.

All you ever wanted was for someone to listen to you. Truly listen. 

“Yeah?” Your voice cracked slightly despite yourself. 

“Fuck,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry. I’m not embarrassed by you, if anything, I’m embarrassed about how I acted—”

“Bucky…”

“And don’t you dare say it’s okay,” he interrupted quickly, almost desperate. “Because it isn’t. I should never have said that, never have even thought that. After all you’ve done, after all the kindness and patience you’ve shown me, and I repay you by shaming you—”

“Repayment…” You cut over him, rolling the word slowly over your tongue, head shaking. “You don’t owe me anything, remember? That’s how it works with us, yeah?”

He exhaled hard. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Handle all this so gracefully…Have such a pure heart despite everything.”

“If I were to describe my heart,” you said with a dry little huff, “it would not be pure—”

“You’re killin’ me here—” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and for the first time in days, the edge of your mouth twitched into a smile. Sly, wicked, and entirely involuntary.

His gaze caught it instantly, and his breath stilled.

You took the initiative, closing the distance between you in a handful of steps, until his breath hitched slightly, his eyes locking onto your face.

“I am sorry.” He murmured, voice less desperate now. “Seriously. I don’t expect forgiveness, hell, I don’t want forgiveness unless you really mean it, and you’re not just saying it to spare my feelings—”

“Bucky—”

“No, don’t say it—!”

“Bucky.” You breathed his name. Your hands found the front of his tie, fingers curling around the black silk. You wondered if it was the same tie you had blindfolded him with, if he had subconsciously chosen it to feel closer to you. You nearly smirked at the thought, a warmth in your belly despite the surprised expression flooding his features. You tugged gently, and he didn’t resist. He leaned into the pull, breath catching again as you drew him in close, close enough for your foreheads to nearly touch, for your breath to ghost across his lips. “I forgive you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, like the words had struck him physically. “I don’t know if I deserve you—”

“Bucky.” You hummed, almost scolding. “If I’m honest, I forgave you weeks ago.”

His eyes opened, a spark of confusion flickering.

“I was just… sabotaging myself,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “Because that’s what I do when things get complicated. I cut people off, I burn bridges, I destroy my own life. I convinced myself that you hated me, because I lied to you about Nat.”

He quickly shook his head. “I could never hate you.”

And there it was.

You exhaled, something soft breaking inside you, not the kind that shattered and left shards punctured into your heart and lungs, but the type of crack that let the light in. Your hand slid from his tie to his chest, resting lightly over his heart. Beneath your palm, it thudded unevenly and wildly. 

“Stop looking at me like I’m not real,” you muttered.

“I’m not—”

You shook your head with a snicker, fingers tracing across his shirt to the lapels of his suit jacket. You tugged at it, and he stiffened in surprise, but didn’t stop you as you twisted around him, easing the jacket from his shoulders. He shrugged it off wordlessly, leaning into your guidance, and you knew he was secretly relieved to be rid of the thing. 

“I know you hate these things,” you murmured, voice teasing. “Can’t move properly, too tight around your shoulder ‘cause Tony never gets them tailored right.”

Bucky blinked at you, lips parting slightly, some of the tension still lingering in his brows.

“You remembered that?”

“Of course,” you smiled faintly, smoothing the sleeve as you folded it over your arm. “You know, at this point I think I remember more about you than I do about myself.”

His lips curved at that. “Tell me something then?”

“Like what?”

“Something I don’t know about you. Something you’ve never told anyone.”

You blinked, caught off guard. For a long moment, you just stared at him, stunned into stillness. No one had ever asked you that before. Not really. Not with that quiet, open curiosity. Not like they actually wanted to hear the answer. People were always eager to talk, to fill the silence with their own stories and needs. But here he was, waiting, willing to listen.

It left you a little breathless.

There were still entire corners of your life shrouded in fog, moments you hadn’t unpacked, parts of yourself you hadn’t dared to explore. You’d spent so long watching others, peeling back their layers, learning what made them tick. It was instinctual how you kept yourself safe. Quietly observant, always listening, always careful. You didn’t mean to be secretive. It wasn’t some deliberate act of mystery. It just… never came up. No one had ever made space for you like that. No one had ever lingered long enough to want something beyond the surface.

Until now.

“I don’t know.” You mumbled, gaze dropping. “I guess… I guess pick at my nails when I’m nervous?”

He let out a soft, almost fond huff of laughter. “Yeah, I picked up on that one months ago.”

“Shit. That obvious?” You glanced down at your hand, suddenly extra aware of the damage. The nailbeds were raw and uneven, the skin around them puffy and inflamed from restless fussing.

Then Bucky did something unexpected. He reached out, slow and careful, the soft creak of his leather gloves barely audible. His gloved fingers brushed against yours first, the cool and smooth material almost foreign in feeling. You watched, breath caught in your throat, as he gently threaded his fingers between yours.

“Maybe a little,” he murmured with a quiet snort, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Without a word, he began to tug a glove off, leather resisting slightly before giving way. You swallowed and helped him, pinching the fingers and easing them free, and then repeated with the other side. 

His bare fingers closed gently around yours again, his palm warm and calloused. Your jaw snapped shut as he traced his thumb over the jagged cuticles in a comforting, rhythmic motion.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you breathed in, sharp and shallow, and shrugged in a small, embarrassed motion. “Well… I don’t know, then, I’m probably an insomniac who relies too heavily on coffee to get by.”

That earned a proper laugh from him, and warmth pooled in your belly like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

“You and me both,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

You hesitated then, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as your faint smile faltered. Your mind turned inward, digging past the surface, searching through the fog for something true, something buried a little deeper. Your brow furrowed as your gaze dropped again, fingers twitching faintly in Bucky’s grasp like they wanted to pull away but didn’t quite make it.

“I’m claustrophobic,” you admitted at last, so quietly you didn’t think he had heard you.

His laughter cut off mid-breath, a soft sound dying on his tongue. The stillness that followed was immediate. His hand stopped mid-motion, thumb frozen against your knuckles

You forced yourself to keep going. “I don’t like small spaces. Feeling… trapped. It’s why I never take the elevator. It’s why I… freaked out on you at training the other week.”

“I’m sorry—” he began, voice already thick with regret.

“It’s okay.” You shook your head quickly, eyes flicking away. “You didn’t know. It just… it just reminds me… reminds me of things I’ve tried to bury.”

His free hand rose then. You didn’t flinch as his fingers brushed your chin, tilting it upward with such deliberate tenderness that it made your breath catch. His touch was featherlight, and when your eyes met his, the air sucked out of your lungs.

“I understand.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry that I freaked out on you. I should’ve—”

“No.” His tone deepened, firm but gentle. “It’s okay. You don’t apologise to me for that. Ever.”

His voice was low now, so low it vibrated in his chest, a soft rumble that thrummed through the narrow space between your bodies. “You never have to apologise for setting boundaries.”

The words hit you square in the chest, like the impact of something you didn’t see coming. Your knees weakened, just slightly, and you gripped his wrist to steady yourself, though whether it was to anchor you or to keep from moving closer, you weren’t sure.

For a moment, everything else faded, the hum of the distant city life, the soft swish of the breeze, even the bass from the party. All that remained was him, warm, close and achingly sincere.

A part of you wanted to kiss him. Badly. The urge bloomed like heat in your chest, climbed up your throat, burned behind your lips. But then your gaze flicked, just briefly, to the giant pane of glass windows behind him, floor to ceiling, offering a clear view into the party beyond. You were almost certain Steve and Nat were watching from somewhere, probably with popcorn.

So instead, you smiled, small and almost rueful, and didn’t move. Didn’t lean in.

But he did.

His hand, still cupping your chin, shifted just slightly, tilting your face upward with a touch so gentle it barely registered as pressure at all. His eyes searched yours for a heartbeat longer, as though committing you to memory, as though asking are you sure? without even speaking a word.

And then his lips met yours.

Every nerve in your body buzzed, and his lips were warm and plush against yours. You could feel the way he held himself back, like he was afraid of falling too deep into hunger. 

His hand hovered at your waist, fingers brushing your side, hesitant to pull you closer unless you gave him a sign. The other remained at your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge of it in a gentle rhythm, anchoring you. His breath mingled with yours, sweet with the faintest trace of spearmint, his chest rising and falling unevenly against the few inches that still lingered between you.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes blinked open as though waking from something half-dreamed. A breath of laughter broke from your lips, soft and stunned, and you shook your head slightly. Still, you didn’t move far, fingers tangled loosely in his tie. “People could be watching, you know—”

You were beginning to think that none of it mattered anyway, not when he looked at you like that.

“Let them.”

You didn’t even flinch as he pressed in again, slow and exploratory, the faintest drag of his lower lip over yours, testing the shape of your mouth with a tenderness that sent a ripple down your spine.

But something in him had shifted, restraint thinned, weeks of built-up tension bleeding into a desperate need. 

His mouth moved with more certainty, lips parting yours just slightly, enough to deepen the kiss without taking too much. He coaxed rather than claimed, a subtle tilt of his head aligning you closer, a soft press of his tongue just barely tasting the seam of your mouth. 

Your fingers curled tighter back into the front of his tie, tugging him closer as that familiar rush of heat flooded your chest and belly. You responded, parting for him, letting him in, and the reward was a low, pleased hum from deep in his throat, vibrating through his chest and into yours.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, the slick warmth of his mouth lingering, his gaze was heavy-lidded, pupils dark, lips parted just slightly. A faint smear of your lipstick sat crookedly above his upper lip—evidence, as obvious as a lovebite

You blinked at him, lightheaded, dizzy in the best way, like the floor had dropped out from under you and all that held you upright was him. And then, to your own surprise, you giggled. Actually giggled, breathy and unguarded, a sound you hadn't heard from yourself in far too long.

“They’re going to be insufferable now, you know that?” you said, grinning against the glow that refused to leave your cheeks.

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “Who?”

You gave him a pointed look. “Steve and Nat.”

“Because their little scheme worked?” He snorted. “Shit, you’re probably right.”

“I’m already bracing myself,” you muttered, mock-exasperated. “Nat gets this tone in her voice when she’s feeling particularly smug. It’s the worst, she doesn’t even try to hide it. Drives me crazy, I swear—”

“Sam knows too,” Bucky said, a little too casually, but his voice dipped just enough to betray him, quiet like he almost hoped you wouldn’t catch it.

Your smile faltered. “Oh?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking briefly away. “Yeah… after the little, uh… slip-up in training, he knows everything now.”

“Everything?”

Bucky winced, shoulders hunching slightly. “Yeah. I may have told him and Steve the whole story.”

You gaped at him a moment, speechless, before you found the sense to speak up. “The full story… as in, lessons and everything?”

“Maybe…” He gave you a look so sheepish it bordered on boyish. “Do you wanna know what Sam said when he found out?”

You groaned, almost too afraid to ask. “What?”

“‘That sounds like an HR nightmare.’”

You broke into laughter, a real, bubbling laugh that rose out of you before you could stop it. “Shit. We’re in deep now.” 

He watched you, fondness etched into every line of his face. His expression had softened again, that rare, open version of him shining through. You pulled back enough to look up at him properly. His eyes were gentle, amused, but earnest—so goddamn earnest it made your chest ache. 

“I feel… good about this,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice struck you deep. It rasped low, his tone threaded with a sort of rough certainty that made your stomach flutter.  “For the first time in… I don’t know. I feel good.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide and a little dazed. Warmth bloomed steadily in your chest, curling beneath your ribs and climbing up your throat. It spread like honey through your limbs, soft and molten, loosening something inside you that had been wound tight for far too long.

“Careful, Bucky.”

“I’m tellin’ the truth, doll.” His hand brushed your arm, knuckles grazing like static, his eyes trailing down your body as if you were committing you to memory, curve by curve, inch by inch.

“Keep talking like that,” you murmured, “and I might kiss you again.”

His smile curled slowly, crooked and dangerous. “Oh yeah? Just kissing?”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze drop to his mouth. “Maybe more… if you’re lucky.”

He laughed, a low, husky sound that vibrated through you. Then he took a single step closer. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, once, then again, just to see the way his expression shifted. Bucky let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan, one hand snaking around your waist as he pulled you in again for just one more kiss.

—

After the disaster that had been the training session—where you and Bucky had gone so hard it probably qualified as attempted murder in at least three jurisdictions—Steve, Natasha, and Sam had clearly smashed their heads together and prayed they could cook up a plan to get you two talking again. The infamous balcony had been plan B, and to their endless delight (and your mutual dismay), it had actually worked. But that small victory left them scrambling, because now they had to try to cancel the other contingency plans they’d set in motion, like overexcited matchmakers who’d gone past their pay grade. 

God only knew how many schemes they’d cooked up. From your current predicament, it seemed they’d well and truly scraped the bottom of the barrel. Because here you were, wedged into the backseat of a car far too small for three muscled idiots, on what was technically a stakeout, but what felt more like slow torture. You were hours into waiting for some crypto-genuis kid, Karpin’s pet money launderer, to finally come home. And the whole reason you and Bucky were here at all? Steve and Sam had begged Fury to approve your presence on this op, convinced this was plan C, the masterstroke that would fix things between you two if the balcony gambit failed. 

But the balcony hadn’t failed. The balcony had worked spectacularly, and now Steve and Sam were left trying to undo their apparent meddling, scrambling to pull you off the mission. Too late, Fury had signed off, likely with one of his signature scowls and a clever quip. Everything was greenlit. No take-backs. 

You’d managed to pry this information out of Steve within the first three hours, much to the absolute dismay of Sam. Now both of them were currently avoiding your gaze like their lives depended on it, and you were simmering, imagining at least five creative ways to end them before the kid even showed up. 

“So this was your brilliant plan C, huh?” you hissed, exasperation curling through every word as you craned your neck forward, arms braced on the back of Steve’s seat, peering between him and Sam in the front. The centre console dug uncomfortably into your ribs, but you hardly noticed over the heat pricking across your skin. “Cram us into this metal coffin and hope the awkward tension does the trick?”

Steve still kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the street ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel like he might snap it in two if he had to endure one more minute. The muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing. Sam, slouched in the passenger seat, had perfected the art of looking like he wasn’t there at all, staring out the window, face blank, like maybe if he wished hard enough, he could astral project somewhere far away from this cramped nightmare. 

Beside you, Bucky had sunk so low in his seat you half expected him to disappear into the upholstery. His arms were crossed tightly, his long legs awkwardly angled to avoid pressing too much against yours. Though your thigh and shoulder still touched, the contact was warm and sticky. Secretly, you didn’t mind it that much. 

“Are you gonna bring it up and whine about it every 5 minutes or—” Sam finally drawled, and you leant over to smack the back of his seat in warning. You could’ve sworn the jolt made his eyes roll harder. 

“It wasn’t my first choice—” Steve spoke at last, voice strained, and you scoffed, flopping back into your seat. You shot a glare up at the rear-view mirror, where Steve steadfastly refused to meet your eye. You resisted the urge to kick the back of his seat. Sam’s lip twitched, and you weren’t sure if he was fighting a smirk or a grimace. 

“Yeah, yours was the training session, wasn’t it?” you muttered, shifting in your cramped seat, your thigh brushing Bucky’s. “The one where we nearly killed each other?”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Steve protested.

“You paired us against each other—!”

“I thought it would help work out the tension—!”

“Oh, genius move, Cap. Almost as subtle as the balcony stunt. Remind me…” You said, glancing between the two of them with an exaggerated patience. “How much money did you lose to Nat over us making out within twenty minutes?”

Bucky choked on air beside you. 

“Nope,” Sam cut back, smirking, eyes on the windshield but clearly enjoying himself. “She made me promise not to spill what she put down.”

“She cleaned up, didn’t she?” you said, grinning despite yourself.

“Let’s just say I owe her a drink…or five,” Sam muttered.

“And you two just went along with it. And when that actually worked,” you went on, voice rising as you gestured vaguely at the cramped space around you, “you didn’t think to, I don’t know, maybe… cancel this mission?”

Steve gave a long-suffering sigh, “I already said we tried—” 

You blinked, turning to Bucky, who was doing his best impression of a statue. His ears were pink. God help him, he was blushing. “Are you hearing this?”

“Loud and clear,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw, eyes fixed on the upholstery like it was the most fascinating thing in the car. “I’m starting to think we’re the mission, not the kid.” 

Sam barked a quiet laugh at that, then immediately tried to hide it behind a cough. 

You smirked, leaning back just enough to make your knee knock into Bucky’s. “At least someone finds this funny.” 

“Oh, I do,” Sam didn’t even try to hide his grin now, eyes glinting in the rearview mirror. “You know, Buck folded like a lawn chair after that training room mess. Didn’t even need to interrogate him, he just started confessing.”

You blinked, glancing sideways at Bucky, and sure enough, his shoulders tensed, jaw tight, face flushed red. Yeah. You’d heard about that. After you and Bucky had practically torn each other apart during that disaster of a sparring session, it hadn’t taken long before Bucky caved. All it took was one pointed look from Steve, and he’d apparently spilt everything. The lessons. The gala mission. The whole messy, complicated truth. He hadn’t wanted to hide it anymore, and they hadn’t judged him. If anything, they’d been supportive, but god, had it given Sam and Steve endless material to work with.

“I didn’t fold,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face, trying to hide the red creeping up his neck.

Sam’s grin widened. “Oh no, you practically snapped in half. ‘It’s not what it looked like! I swear!’”

Steve, who had been studiously pretending to focus on the rows of beach houses, finally let out a quiet snort.

Sam continued his onslaught. “He was trying so hard to be chill. Said something about ‘It’s not like she was giving me sex lessons or anything!’ Swear to god, I thought you were about to write us both a formal apology letter.”

Your brow shot up, heat blooming warm and easy in your chest. Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Jesus, can we not—”

“So…” Sam began, tone too casual to be innocent. He swivelled half around in his seat, arm slung over the headrest. “What exactly do these lessons involve?”

Bucky shot him a glare that could have melted steel. “Not talking to you about this.”

“Right. Right, of course.” Sam nodded solemnly, lips twitching. “Just curious. Is there, like… a syllabus? A final exam?”

Sam looked over to you, and you rewarded him with a blank, unbothered expression. All of his attempts to get under your skin so far had fallen flat. 

“I swear to God, Sam—” Bucky huffed. 

“Okay, okay!” Sam laughed, hands raised in surrender. “Damn, Barnes. Touchy!”

Bucky grumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to physically wipe away the heat creeping across. He exhaled through his nose, visibly trying to collect himself, jaw working like he was biting back another groan.

The moment stretched, the car settling into a beat of silence.

Then Bucky leaned back, voice dry as bone, as if he was looking for punishment, “I still haven’t forgiven you for not packing snacks, by the way.”

It earned a sharp bark of laughter from you before Sam twisted around, indignation written all over his face. “You were supposed to pack snacks!”

“You’re the reason we’re here in the first place!” Bucky shot back, arching a brow, the edge of a smirk threatening his mouth.

Sam groaned, tipping his head against the headrest like a man resigned to his fate. “God, please. Can you just shut up—?”

“You’re the one who has been talking this entire time—”

“Eyes up.” Steve’s voice cut through the bickering, sharp enough to snap the tension like a taut wire. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as his gaze fixed out the windshield.

You straightened instinctively, pulse kicking up, the lingering humour of the quarrel evaporating as your attention followed his line of sight.

A sleek, silver car, a little too flashy for the neighbourhood, rolled up the driveway of the house you’d been watching for hours. The low purr of its engine smothered the quiet hum of distant gulls in the air. The driver door swung open, and out stepped a kid who looked like he belonged more at some overpriced frat party than tangled up in Karpin’s operation. Early twenties, hair artfully messy, sunglasses pushed back onto his head like he thought he was some kind of tech mogul already. His clothes screamed new money, designer labels, logo-heavy, just subtle enough to look casual if you weren’t paying attention.

From the back of the car, the trunk popped, and a scruffy golden retriever leapt out with a thump, tail wagging like mad as it bounded up to the kid, nearly bowling him over. The kid laughed, ruffling the dog’s ears, before slinging a backpack over one shoulder and heading toward the front door.

“Target’s home,” Steve muttered, already shifting into command mode. His voice went flat, but with that edge of anticipation that always crept in when the waiting was over.

Sam sat up straighter, his earlier grin gone, eyes sharp. “Finally.”

Bucky leaned forward, his knee brushing yours, the tension humming back into his frame like a coiled spring. “What’s the play?”

Steve didn’t take his eyes off the house. “We move in quietly. Sam, you cover the back in case he spooks. Buck, I’ll need you two with me at the door. No heroics. We’re here to talk, not smash up his house.”

You gave a tight nod, hand already sliding to the door handle. “Copy that.”

“Let’s move,” Steve said, and the car doors clicked open almost in unison, the stale warmth of the vehicle giving way to the salty breeze as you slipped out into the early afternoon air.

— The dog’s tongue lolled out of its mouth as it bounded after the tennis ball you lobbed down the yard for what had to be the fiftieth time. The poor thing was all enthusiasm and no aim, skidding through flowerbeds and trampling what was clearly someone’s expensive landscaping project. You didn’t have the heart to stop him. The quiet thunk of the ball hitting the fence made you sigh, shading your eyes with one hand as the retriever scrabbled to chase it down.

The house loomed behind you, modern, sleek, soulless, and through the open patio doors, you could hear muffled voices. Mostly Steve’s, low and steady. Occasionally, Sam’s sharper edge cut through, exasperation bleeding into his tone. You couldn’t make out the words, but you didn’t need to. This was dragging. Of course, it was dragging.

You glanced at the sky. How long had it been? Too long. Definitely too long. 

The dog trotted back, panting, ball slimy with slobber, and you took it with a grimace, wiping your palm on your thigh before tossing it again.

The screen door creaked, and you turned just in time to see Bucky step out, rubbing the back of his neck. His jacket was off, henley sleeves rolled to his elbows, expression carved from tired frustration.

“Well?” you asked, arching a brow, catching the ball one-handed as the dog dropped it at your feet.

Bucky exhaled, dropping onto the steps beside you. “It’s not going well. Kid’s a wreck. Just keeps freaking out, throwing out half-baked lies, hoping we’ll get bored and leave him alone.”

You smirked, tossing the ball lazily. “He doesn’t know those two very well then, does he?”

Bucky’s lips quirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’re trying for a good cop, bad cop thing… don’t think it’s going too well.”

You dusted off your hands, straightening. If this dragged on any longer, it would be nightfall, you were entirely sure there was a better and faster way to get the kid to spill. “It’s my turn to play cop, don’t you think?”

Bucky looked up at you, wary. “You sure? He’s on the verge of passing out.”

“All the more reason to cut the bullshit.” 

The living room was too clean, not lived-in, just staged, like everything else in this house. The kid sat on the edge of the pristine white couch, hunched over, elbows on his knees, wringing his hands so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His chest hitched, breathing fast and shallow. Steve was standing nearby, voice soft, like he was talking him down from a bridge. Sam loomed near the window, arms crossed, scowl in place.

You didn’t bother asking. You just dragged a chair across the floor, the legs screeching deliberately against the polished hardwood as you flipped it around and straddled it, resting your arms along the back. The kid’s red-rimmed eyes snapped up at the sound, wide with panic, sweat beading at his temple.

“Okay, everyone, let’s take a breath.”

Steve shot you a sceptical look, brows knitting together like he wasn’t sure if you were serious. Sam, arms still folded tight across his chest, arched a brow, glancing at you like, really? The kid—Brandon, that was his name, you remembered now—just looked outright bewildered, as if the suggestion was the most alien thing he’d heard all afternoon.

“One deep breath. All of you.” You spoke pointedly, daring a glare over at good cop and bad cop respectively. You dragged in a slow inhale through your nose, filling your chest until your ribs ached, then let it out in a long, audible exhale. You exaggerated it, not for theatrics, but to show there was nothing complicated about it. Just air. Just calm.

Steve, bless him, always the good soldier, mirrored you next, drawing in a slow breath like he was trying to set an example. Sam followed reluctantly, like he hated admitting that maybe you had a point. His chest rose and fell, but he kept side-eyeing Brandon the whole time.

Brandon hesitated, his gaze flickering between you all like he was waiting for someone to yell gotcha! His knee bounced erratically, fingers twitching. You half expected the kid to bolt—not that he’d make it far, you were sure either of the three men would take absolute delight in tackling him to his shiny, expensive floors.

“C’mon, Brandon,” you coaxed, leaning forward just slightly, head tilting. “You’ll feel a whole lot better. Just one breath. Try it.”

For a beat, you thought he might refuse, too locked in his panic to even try. But then his shoulders sagged a fraction, and he sucked in a shaky breath, a wet, uneven sound that hitched halfway through. He let it out in a rush, but it was something. 

“There we go,” you murmured. “Better, huh?”

Shit, maybe you were good cop. 

He stared at you, wide-eyed, chest still shuddering from the uneven breath he’d managed. Like he couldn’t quite believe the panic hadn’t immediately swallowed him whole. 

You didn’t rush him. Instead, you took another slow, deliberate breath, and with just the faintest glance to the side, you caught Steve doing the same. Bucky too, silent and steady at the doorway, setting the rhythm without a word. Even Sam, though he tried to look like he wasn’t following your lead, let his shoulders loosen as he exhaled through his nose.

“Good,” you murmured after another long beat. “Let’s just stay right here for a second. Was getting far too tense in here, wasn’t it?”

Brandon sucked in another breath, still ragged, but at least it wasn’t the frantic gasping from before. His hands were still trembling on his knees, but they weren’t clenched into fists anymore.

“Okay. Let’s rationalise this, yeah? One step at a time.” Your voice dropped low and warm, the kind of tone you’d use with a skittish animal. The type of tone you used with Bucky when he was spiralling. 

“Do you know who he is?” You tilted your head toward Steve.

Brandon hesitated, but his eyes flicked to Steve, and he gave the smallest nod.

“Say it out loud for me,” you urged gently, fingers drumming softly on the back of the chair.

“H-he’s Captain America,” Brandon whispered, voice weak, almost like he wasn’t sure if saying it would make it more real.

“That’s right,” you said, offering a small smile. “Good. That’s good, Brandon. You’re thinking straight.” You pointed with a lazy flick of your finger at Steve. “And do you really think Captain America of all people is going to hurt you?”

“No.”

“Good. But those other two—” you jerked your thumb toward Sam and Bucky, your voice dipping into dry humour, “—those ones you wanna watch out for. Absolute wildcards.”

It earned you a quiet snort from Sam, and Bucky’s mouth twitched, but Brandon let out a breath that was almost a laugh. His face was pale, but some of the sheer panic had started to ease at the edges.

But the hyperventilating wasn’t gone. His chest was rising too fast again, his eyes darting around the room like he couldn’t help it.

“Hey, hey. Just breathe.” Your voice stayed patient, casual but focused, like you had all the time in the world. “I just need to ask you a few questions. Can you handle that?”

Brandon’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His wide eyes glistened beneath the overhead light, flicking between you and the silent figures of Steve, Sam, and Bucky like a cornered animal. Though, it wasn’t the wild panic of a man about to bolt. It was something else. Defeat, maybe. The heavy, sinking weight of realising he was out of moves.

His mouth opened, shaky. Closed. Opened again. He wet his lips, voice barely a whisper.

“They’re gonna kill me if I snitch—”

“Who’s gonna kill you?” Steve’s voice cut in, instinctively taking a step forward.

You lifted a hand, a silent hold up, and Steve froze mid-stride, eyeing you warily but ultimately submitted to your lead.

You exhaled slowly, studying Brandon, the trembling hands on his knees, the sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his leg bounced like he might still have been weighing the odds of making a run for it. Your head tilted, voice dropping just a hair softer.

“How about this,” you hummed thoughtfully. “I tell you what we know… and you help me fill in the gaps, hm?”

Brandon blinked, uncertain, but you saw the subtle slump of his shoulders. “O-okay…” he croaked.

“You’re from a middle-class family. Did well in school. Kept your head down. Got all A’s in college, IT, tech stuff, right?”

His eyes widened. He glanced at Sam like maybe he’d confessed those details without realising. Sam just arched a brow, impressed despite himself.

“You got into cryptocurrency to make a little money on the side…” You continued, your tone easy, conversational. “And that’s when Karpin found you. Asked you to help him move his money until it was basically untrackable. Paid you more than you’d ever seen in your life to keep quiet and work with his buyers.”

Brandon’s mouth parted, but nothing came out. 

“You probably don’t even know what he’s really selling,” you added, shrugging lightly. “Just that it’s illegal. Because you’re smart, you could see it a mile off. But you didn’t ask. Why would you? You’re making more money than you ever dreamed of.” Your gaze swept the room, the expensive furniture, the sleek floors, and the view of the ocean just beyond the windows. “Beachfront property? At your age? You’re making more than most people see in a lifetime.”

Brandon gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod.

“But now you don’t want to talk. Not to us. Not to anyone. Because Karpin’s dangerous, right?” You softened the words further. “Because he told you as much, because you know you’re in deep…Because he threatened you. Maybe even people you care about, said if you ever ratted him out, it wouldn’t end with just you?”

That hadn’t been in the brief, but you’d spent enough time in Karpin’s club, in his VIP rooms, hanging off his arm like his latest pet to know his game.

You didn’t even need to hear the confirmation from Brandon, just one look in his glassy eyes told you the truth. You were right. Your eyes flickered over to Sam and Steve, watching as they exchanged a look.

Bucky hadn’t moved, leaned quietly against the doorway, face carefully neutral. But his eyes—oh, his eyes tracked every word, every shift of your body. And though his mouth was set in a firm line, there was something under it. A shameless flicker of pride. That soft, secret warmth, like he was quietly glad to see you work your magic.

Brandon’s breath rattled, his fingers fisting the fabric of his shorts. His wide eyes darted from you to Steve, then to Sam, as if one of them might swoop in and end this interrogation—or maybe mercifully his life. His voice cracked as the words tumbled out in a rush.

“I didn’t know, I swear! I mean, I knew—I knew it had to be something illegal, but not this illegal! I thought it was just drugs or something!” His chest heaved, breath coming fast again, panic starting to claw its way back up his throat.

“Hey.” Your voice cut through the rising spiral of his fear, leaving no room for argument. “We’re not here to decide if you’re guilty or not. That’s not why we’re here. We want to talk to you about one of the buyers, the one Karpin does the majority of his sales to. Do you know who I’m talking about? The Russian?”

Brandon hesitated, throat working as he swallowed. “Yes…”

“Good.” You hummed, slow and encouraging. “I need you to tell me anything you know about him. A name, a bank number, an address. Anything you can give us.”

Brandon’s shoulders hunched, his head shaking, wild-eyed. “I can’t—”

“Why?” you pressed.

“Because… because they’ll kill me!” He burst out, breath hitching again. “If it’s this bad, if it’s really this bad, I know they’ll hunt me down if I say anything—”

“They’re not going to be able to reach you, Brandon.”

His head snapped up, desperation shining in his eyes. “How can you guarantee that?!”

You sat a little straighter, drawing in a slow breath yourself. You knew the feeling currently roaring through Brandon’s veins, you recognised it like an old enemy. The panic, the sick weight of fear coiled tight beneath your ribs. The terror of the unknown. It was like wading blind through pitch-dark water, searching for a foothold, for anything solid to cling to, with no promise of light ahead. You’d felt it too many times before, felt it in your bones, felt it define you. And like every time before, your mind scrambled to make sense of it, to wrestle the chaos into something you could control. But how could you, when you didn’t even know the shape of the fight you were facing? How could you rationalise the storm without knowing where it might end, or if it ever would?

If only, you thought bitterly, if only you’d had the foresight back then. The knowledge. The map that would’ve let you navigate those shadows instead of stumbling through them, bruised and broken.

You knew exactly what the kid needed to hear.

“Do you want me to explain what’s going to happen to you after this conversation?”

Brandon nodded wordlessly.

“The police are going to come.” You reassured, recognising the instant dread in the kid’s wide eyes. “They’re going to arrest you, not hurt you. They’re going to keep you in custody while Karpin and his buyers are investigated, tracked down, and arrested. You’ll be safe. No one can get to you inside.”

“You’ll hire a lawyer,” you continued, voice even, matter-of-fact. “And that lawyer is going to tell you to take a plea deal. That means you’ll testify against Karpin. The deal might mean you walk free under witness protection, or maybe you serve a few years, but nowhere near as much trouble as if you stonewall us now.”

You smiled softly, leaning forward, lowering your voice to a comforting hum. “Brandon, all you need to do is cooperate with us.”

He blinked hard, tears threatening now, though he fought them, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I’ll be protected? Will my family be protected? You’re sure?”

“If you help us?” You shrugged, glancing at Steve and Sam. “You’ll be protected. So will your family. By the people we work for. There’s no shame in having made a mistake, Brandon. You think we’re innocent?” 

Your grin tilted, dry and a little wry as you thumbed toward the guys. “These three destroy half of New York every other week, and you think people are just fine with it?”

Sam gave a short huff of laughter, shaking his head. Steve smirked faintly, arms crossed over his chest, watching the way you worked with no small amount of admiration.

“We can do what we do because we have the right friends in the right places,” you went on, gaze locked steady on Brandon’s. “If you tell us what we need to know, we’ll make sure you and your loved ones are protected. That’s a promise.”

Brandon let out a shaky breath, the tension bleeding from his frame, if only slightly. He swiped the back of his hand across his damp face, voice rough as he finally nodded.

“O-okay. Okay. I’ll help.”

—

The mission had wrapped up without much fuss once Brandon finally cracked. A little breathing room, a few well-placed reassurances and the kid had spilt more than you’d hoped for. And after a long morning of waiting and watching, the team had been cleared to stand down. The beach house, a backup in case the op had dragged on, was yours for the night. No one had expected things to go so smoothly, but no one was about to complain either. 

Now, with the sun bleeding gold over the horizon and the promise of an early flight hanging over your heads, you were determined to steal a few hours of peace. 

You lay stretched out on a sunbleached towel at the base of the porch, toes buried in the warm sand. The last of the afternoon rays bathed the world in honey light, glinting off the waves as they lapped the shore. The ocean breeze lifted your hair and carried with it the brine of the sea, the faint tang of salt settling on your skin where the sweat had dried in the heat. You tilted your face up now and then, soaking in what little warmth was left, letting your eyes fall half-shut.

The beach house itself was small and sweet, worn blue paint with white trim, seashells lining the windowsills, wind chimes and catchers swaying and singing softly in the breeze. The kind of place that felt like it belonged to the sea as much as to the people.

On the porch steps, Bucky sat like a man trying to blend into the scenery. His arms rested heavily on his thighs, his boots planted solidly on the wood. There was tension in him, subtle but sure. He watched the waves, mostly. Sometimes he watched you. His gaze would flicker your way when he thought you weren’t looking, then back out to the horizon like it could give him answers. He’d tried the sand once, made it a few steps before muttering something about not wanting it grinding into the plates of his arms. The steps were his compromise, close enough to be near you, far enough to avoid what unsettled him. 

Steve and Sam had gone into town, promising a dinner worth eating—something fresh, not from a takeaway joint or gas station, which was the usual menu for missions, especially stakeouts—before you all shipped out at dawn. The house, the beach, the world itself felt hushed in their absence. Just the occasional cry of gulls, the gentle crash of waves, and the music of chimes above. 

It was Bucky who broke the quiet first. His voice was almost tentative, as if he’d been sitting with the thought some time before letting it out.

“You were good with that kid today.”

You cracked one eye open, shading it with your hand from the sun. The breeze caught his hair, tugged at the soft cotton of his shirt, ruffled the hem where his sleeves strained over the gold and black glint of vibranium. 

“You’re good at talking to people,” he went on, not looking at you now, but at some fixed point beyond the waves. “Understanding them.”

A soft, tired huff escaped you. You let your eyes fall closed again, the sun warm on your cheeks. “What I understand about people is that everyone wants kindness. That’s all. They want to be seen, heard, given a little grace.”

You let your head loll to the side, gaze following the slow roll of the sea. His eyes were on you again, you could feel it, watching, like he was trying to piece you together, to see past the practised ease of your words. 

“How did you know all that?” he asked after a beat, quieter now. “About lawyers, plea deals, witness protection?”

Your lips curved, a wry, sad little smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I lied.”

You felt him shift. His boots creaked against the steps, his spine straightening. “You lied?”

You rolled onto your back, brushing the sand from your skin, fingers playing idly at the tie of your bikini. “I told him what I knew he wanted to hear. That’s all. A kid like that, scared, cornered…He responded well to knowledge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t know what they’re gonna offer him, maybe they will offer him a plea deal, but at least he won’t feel like he’s in the dark.”

The breeze tugged at the chimes again, the gentle clatter filling the quiet that followed. Bucky didn’t speak, just watched you, thoughtful, a crease between his brows. His gaze was steady now, no longer flickering away like he was seeing something in you that you didn’t want him to.

“I just…” His voice was gentler now, but insistent. “I just think that version of you, the one who talked that kid down, the version I know... sometimes I think it’s the real you.”

You turned to him properly then, one hand propping you up, the other shading your eyes against the glare. “The real me—Jesus. Are we doing this right now?”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. 

“I think they’re still in your head,” he said simply. “The same way… the same way H.Y.D.R.A is still in my head. You just wear the mask better. Pretend better. It took me too long to see it, but now I do, and I can’t unsee it.”

The air left your lungs like you’d been tackled from behind, a cold rush tearing through your veins, leaving you sick and hollow at the centre. H.Y.D.R.A. Bucky almost never said it aloud. That name lived in the shadows. But now he had given voice to it, like he was fucking invoking it.

You stared at him, heart tight, the sincerity in his voice cutting deeper than you expected. He was right. Of course, he was right. There had been far too many occasions where he had seen through you, seen through the walls, the humour, the deflection—and for what? For you to be afraid, to continue to pretend, to deny him entry to the truth you both knew he had already discovered?  

“What are you trying to say, Bucky?”

He hesitated, just for a breath, as if he was weighing his following words before he went all in. “Why are you still in this job?”

Your pulse spiked.

“Because it’s what I’m good at?” you snapped back, a little too fast, a little too brittle. 

“Bullshit.”

You sat up fully now, towel forgotten beneath you, heat rising to your cheeks. Whether it was anger or shame, you weren’t too sure anymore. 

“What do you want me to say?” Your hands lifted, fingers splayed in frustration. “This is all I know, this is what I was trained for. There is no other alternative, and you of all people should understand that.”

There was a pause. A longer one than you expected. 

“Do you know what Sam said to me after today?” His eyes met yours, sharp, intent, almost fierce in their focus. It pinned you where you sat. “He said, ‘I think I finally get what the hell those lessons were about’. He saw it. He saw you. The way you connect, the way you see people. I think you’re far more than what you limit yourself to.”

You let out a breath that tasted of defeat, bitter at the back of your throat. Or maybe it was a laugh. You couldn’t tell anymore. “I do this job because I want to make a difference, Bucky. Maybe I want to make a difference because no one ever tried to help me, or Nat or Yelena. We had to help ourselves.”

“And you think the only way to do that is by tearing yourself apart in the process?”

You snorted, shaking your head, though the motion felt heavy. “Tough words coming from you.”

He huffed his own small laugh, but there was no humour in it. 

“I just…” His voice was lower now, the edge of frustration softening into something that sounded almost like pleading. “You really plan on doing those missions forever? The ones where you use your body to get information? I see how it weighs on you. How it tears you down piece by piece.”

You dug your fingers into the towel beneath you, staring at a seashell half-buried in the sand—anything to avoid the look in his eyes. 

“What am I supposed to do instead, huh?” Your voice was tight, controlled, though you could feel the cracks forming, the storm just below the surface. “I’m good at what I do. That’s why I do it. I know how to get what the team needs. I know how to play the part, no one expects me to be anything else. So I stay in that box, because it works. End of story.”

Bucky was shaking his head before you had even finished your stubborn spiel. 

“I think you have more potential. I think you get people. Really get them, in ways none of us do. You always say the right thing, know how to calm a room, and make people feel seen. I think you’re wasting that, wasting you, because you’re too afraid to ask for more.”

You forced a laugh. “Bucky, just because I’m nice to you doesn’t mean I’m good with people—”

“Steve told me what you said that day,” Bucky cut over you, quiet but unyielding. “What you said when he walked in on us. He told me how genuine you were. How much you cared. Said he never expected it, not from you.”

For a moment, your throat closed up tight as your mind skidded, fishtailing toward anything that might sound coherent.

“This all just sounds like you’re the one who’s got a problem with my line of work,” you said finally, trying for lightness, humour, anything to take the weight out of his words. “What, you jealous or something?”

But the joke fell flat between you. Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. His voice carried an assured edge like he was giving up hiding behind anything. “No. I think you have a problem with it.”

Your breath snagged, ribs pressing in tight like you’d sucker punched.

“I think you’re destroying yourself,” Bucky went on, tone stripped bare, nothing left but truth. “I think, deep down, you’re punishing yourself. And I don’t know why. Or what for, but I know the signs, doll. Because I do the same damn thing.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. The wind stirred between you, the gulls cawing above and the hush of the surf. The world felt too still, too intimate, like the air itself was holding its breath.

“Where is this coming from?” you managed, voice smaller than you intended.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe because watching you today, watching you work, impressed me. I know it impressed Steve and Sam. Maybe it just got me thinking about how things could be. How things should be.”

“I don’t want things to change,” you said, too fast, too sharp. “I like it how it is now.”

“Oh yeah?” His gaze still unflinching. “And what about all this makes you so happy?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Swallowed hard. 

“You,” you said quietly, bitter as the ocean air. “You make me happy. I like helping you and talking things out with you. I like lessons, or when we just hang out.”

Your voice softened, as if that could make it truer. “I’m comfortable. I’m happy.” But even as the words left your lips, they curdled. They felt wrong. Hollow, like smoke in your mouth, like ash on your tongue. And you knew—God, you knew—he could see it. He could see right through it, through you.

Deflect. Deny. Subvert. The old playbook. Your armour, your sanctuary. The instinct that came too easily, a reflex honed by years of keeping the world at bay. You reached for it like a lifeline, tried to wrap it around yourself before he could press further, before he could dig up what you’d buried so deep even you barely dared look at it. Anything was easier than letting him see the soft, frightened parts. Anything was easier than letting him reach them.

You sat still for a heartbeat longer, the weight of his gaze heavy as a hand at the base of your throat. And then you moved. You pushed up from your towel, brushing sand from your palms as you crossed the short distance to where Bucky sat, stiff and watchful on the porch steps, his eyes lifted to yours, wide and unsure, as if he wasn’t sure if you’d strike him down or pull him in. 

You lowered yourself, just enough to meet him, just enough to cage his face between your sand-dusted hands. You knew the grit would drive him a little mad, would catch in his stubble, smudge across his cheekbones, probably lodge itself somewhere in the joints of his vibranium arm. But you did it anyway. You did it because it was the only way you knew how to say what wouldn’t form on your tongue.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” you murmured, voice low, breath hitching in your chest. The wind tugged at your hair, lifting it from the damp heat of your neck. Your thumbs traced his cheekbones, light as the breeze. “Is that okay?”

His lips parted, maybe in a silent plea. “Yes.”

It wasn’t neat or gentle. It was messy, hungry, your mouth slanting over his, tongue sliding past his lips as he groaned low in his throat. His hands came up, tentative at first, like he didn’t know where to touch you. Then the dam broke, and his fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you closer, his other hand bracing your hip. The taste of him was salt and heat, the faint bitterness of coffee from earlier lingering on his tongue. Your breath mingled, quick and uneven, as you poured everything into it, the frustration, the fear, the need.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. The windchimes clattered softly, like they’d been eavesdropping on the whole thing.

You gave him a look—part promise, part challenge—and turned, heading inside. You knew it was wrong. Christ, maybe he knew it too. Knew that this was what you did when the truth got too close, when his gaze stripped you bare and the panic rose sharp beneath your skin. You’d reach for what you knew worked. The kiss, the heat, the distraction. Anything but the raw honesty of what was unfolding between you. 

Your bare feet padded across the worn wooden floors, the little beach house warm with the last of the sun’s heat. You shook out your towel by the door, brushed sand from your legs and arms as best you could, then made for the tiny kitchen, rinsing your gritty hands under the tap. 

You were just reaching for a towel to dry your hands when you felt him behind you, the silent, solid press of his body, the familiar weight of his hands wrapping around your waist. His fingers splayed across your bare skin, like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to be but couldn’t stay away. His breath was warm against your ear, his nose brushing along the curve of your neck as he nuzzled there, the stubble of his jaw rough but welcome.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” Bucky murmured, voice low and earnest, the words vibrating against your skin. “I’m not trying to argue. I just care about you.”

“I know.” The words barely made it past your lips as you turned in his arms.

His hands framed your face, his mouth on yours. His thumb brushed your cheek, his other hand slipping down to your waist like he knew the shape of you by heart. The scent of salt air clung to him, to you. The kitchen felt impossibly small, the world shrinking down to just this. Just him, just now.

When he finally pulled back, breath warm against your lips, his forehead rested lightly against yours. “You make me happy too, you know,” he murmured, an honest confession. “More than I think you even realise.”

Your heart gave a traitorous lurch, and you swallowed hard, your hands still resting at his sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t say things like that,” you whispered, but there was no bite to it, no real protest.

“Why not?” His mouth quirked into a soft, crooked smile. “’Cause you might believe me?”

You let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh, leaning into him. “Hmph…”

His mouth found yours again, slow and searching. His thumb kept stroking your cheek, tenderly, while his other hand slipped lower, fingers curling around the curve of your hips as if to steady himself as much as you.

The worn floorboards creaked softly beneath you both as you shifted, as he nudged closer, fitting his body to yours like a puzzle piece. The scent of him—spearmint, sea salt, the faint leather tang of his jacket still clinging to him—filled your senses, dizzying in its familiarity.

Your hands slid up his chest, fingers splaying over the hard lines of muscle beneath the soft cotton. His heartbeat thudded steadily and sure beneath your palm.

Without thinking, without planning, you found your back hitting the edge of the counter. His hands followed the movement instinctively, guiding, steadying, as you hitched yourself up onto the worn wood.

Bucky stepped in, between your parted legs, his hands finding your thighs, thumbs tracing slow, absent circles over your skin. His lips sought yours again, deeper now, as if he couldn’t get close enough. And you let him, you gave yourself over to it, to him. Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, greedy for his touch, his taste.

The kiss deepened, your breath mingling, your pulse thundering in your ears. Your hand skimmed lower, a slow, teasing path along his stomach, until your fingers brushed under the edge of his waistband, intent on taking control the way you always did, the way that felt safe and predictable. A soft sound escaped you, half a plea, half a groan.

He stopped you, catching your wrist gently just as your palm began to slip beneath the fabric. When you looked up, his blue eyes met yours, dark with heat, yes, but steady. Sure. 

“No,” Bucky said, voice low, roughened by want, thumb brushing your wrist. “I want to make you feel good.”

You stilled.

Pure, unfiltered, raw panic slammed through your gut like a punch you didn’t see coming. It rose fast, too fast, thick and all-consuming, choking the breath in your throat. The edges of the kitchen blurred, vision tunnelling to just him. The closeness of his body, the heat of him, the solid press of the cabinet at your back—

You dragged in a breath, but it scraped through your chest ragged and raw. Metallic fear coated your tongue, your pulse roaring too loudly in your ears to even think.

Your free hand twitched, half-formed in the start of that signal—the three taps. You could feel the ghost of it against his arm already, your fingertips itching to retreat into that small mercy, that lifeline you’d always given each other without question.

But you didn’t. God, you didn’t.

Because if you did, this would change. He would see. He would know. And then the questions would come, the soft ones, the careful ones, the ones that peeled you open in ways that scared you more than anything. And what then? What would become of you?

No. No, you couldn’t let that happen. The thought made your heart pound harder, made your throat burn. You needed to do this. Needed to show him, show yourself, that you were fine. That you weren’t broken. This was different. He was different. That you could be the person he saw when he looked at you, brave, whole, unflinching.

Even if inside you felt like you were unravelling at the seams.

Your breath shuddered as you forced it deeper, trying to steady the wild beat of your heart. You blinked hard, trying to clear the haze creeping at the edges of your vision, trying to quiet the voice in your head screaming. And you clung to him, to Bucky—

Your Bucky.

He could never hurt you. 

You swallowed hard, trying to drown the panic, trying to push it down where he couldn’t see. You could do this. You would do this. You trusted him. More than anyone.

“Can I make you feel good, doll?” His voice was soft, low, threaded with something that almost sounded like hope. His palm glided slowly up your forearm, warm and steady, the rasp of his calloused skin grounding. He didn’t see the storm behind your eyes, didn’t feel the stone lodged deep in your gut.

“Is that what you want?” You whispered, your voice hoarse.

“Yes.” The word came out on a breath, “more than anything.”

And for a moment—just a moment—fear loosened its grip.

Your mind spun back, unbidden, to all the nights you’d lain awake wanting this, wanting him. The ache of it. The sleepless hours where your hand found your own skin, your own heat, and you pretended, just for a heartbeat, that it was his touch. You thought of the months you and Bucky hadn’t spoken, how that want had burned hotter because of it, how his absence had left you hollow and restless.

And now here he was. His body so close, his hands gentle where they held you. And you remembered every time he had touched you. His hesitance, his tenderness, his devotion hidden in the brush of knuckles, the graze of fingertips.

It stirred a molten heat in your gut, one more welcome than panic. 

“Yes.” The word tore from you roughly, your forehead tipping to his, your eyes fluttering shut as frustration and need coiled tight inside you. 

You felt his breath hitch, felt the tremor, the hesitation in his hands even as they touched you, almost shy as they smoothed along your exposed thighs. His breath was warm against your cheek, his lips hovering just near your jaw, like he wasn’t sure he had permission to go further, like he didn’t trust himself to do this right.

“Bucky…” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair, coaxing him to look at you. His gaze flicked up, blue eyes wide, the vulnerability in them making your heart squeeze. His palms were broad and heated where they held you, but they trembled ever so slightly, like the weight of wanting was almost too much to bear. “Are you sure?”

“I—” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his thumb tracing slow circles just above your waistband. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”

The honesty in his voice, the way it cracked around the edges, nearly undid you. You cupped his face, feeling the prickle of stubble under your palms and the tension coiled in his jaw.

“You won’t,” you murmured, stroking softly beneath his eyes. “You can’t. Just… touch me. However you want. I’m right here.”

Something within him eased, you felt it against your mouth as you leaned in, trying to pour every bit of reassurance into the slide of your lips. His hands roamed more boldly, exploring the dip of your waist, the curve of your thigh. It felt like worship the way he took his time, mapping your skin, committing it to memory.

The heat built between you, slow and consuming, and the edge of panic drowned out. You arched into him as his mouth followed, kisses pressing into the sensitive hollow beneath your ear, down the line of your neck. The small kitchen disappeared, the world narrowing again until it was just him, just this. His hands moved as if guided by instinct now, though there was still that delicious edge of hesitance that made every touch precious. His hand skimmed lower, calloused pads slipping beneath the thin band of your swimsuit bottom. You gasped, fingers fisting in his shirt. 

And for the first time in far too long, maybe in your entire life, fear didn’t spike. You didn’t choke, you melted—

His breath stuttered, and he froze just over your mound. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his voice uncertain. “Tell me what to do, doll. I want to—I just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You smiled, the kind of soft, private smile only he ever got to see. Your fingers found his wrist gently, guiding his hand down, slipping it fully beneath the fabric, where you were already warm and wet for him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. You’re perfect. Just… slow. Start slow.”

You saw his lips part, saw his pupils blow wide, felt the tremor in his fingers as they touched you where you wanted him most. His gaze flicked to yours, awed, wrecked.

“That’s good,” you breathed, the words tumbling out on a shaky exhale as your heart thundered against your ribs. Your hips moved instinctively, chasing his touch, tilting into him, desperate for more. “That’s so good, Bucky…”

His fingers trembled, tentative but eager as he explored. He traced the slick heat of you, learning every reaction, every way your body responded to his touch. Your hand slid over his, guiding him gently.

“Here,” you whispered, voice thick with want. His breath stuttered as his fingertips grazed your clit. “Feel that? That’s where I want you.”

A shaky breath left him, and he followed, so careful it made your heart ache. Your own nervousness forgotten, you arched a little, legs falling open wider, encouraging him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. I promise. I want this. I want you.”

That seemed to steady him. His fingers slid through your slick heat, finding your clit again. You shivered. But still, he hesitated, waiting, watching your face.

“Circle it,” you murmured, voice low and pleading, your hand tangling in his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gently urged him on. “Gently. Like this…” You rocked your hips, showing him the rhythm, slow and steady, letting him feel how you moved beneath him. And God, he followed, so tentative at first, testing, learning, then growing surer as he felt your breath hitch, your body tense, your pulse race beneath his hands.

“That’s it,” you gasped, pleasure building, slow and deep, coiling low in your belly. “Good. Fuck, that’s good Bucky.”

The praise tumbled from your lips, and it only seemed to fuel him. His fingers moved with more purpose now, every breath, every sigh from you making him more confident. His thumb found a rhythm, steady and sure, as two fingers slid inside you, filling you, and the low groan that broke from him when he felt you clench around him made the heat bloom hotter, deeper.

He buried his face against your neck, nose brushing your skin, breath warm and ragged in your ear. You kept guiding him, your voice cracking as a pleasured sob bubbled in your chest. “That’s good—Please just…You’re doing so well, Bucky. So well.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself just feel. Let him take control, knowing he would never misuse it.

Every time you gasped or sighed his name, you felt him react, his body pressed closer, his kisses growing hungrier, his fingers more confident. His vibranium hand anchored at your waist, holding you steady as he worked you. His mouth brushed your ear.

“You’re… so beautiful like this,” he managed, voice rough, as if the sight of you unravelled him.

Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut, the world outside the two of you blurring to nothing. The kitchen, the sea breeze, the clatter of seashell chimes, all of it faded, lost beneath the crash of pleasure building inside you. His thumb kept that perfect rhythm, his fingers filling you, stroking you. Your hips rolled, chasing him as you found yourself already trembling on edge.

You tried to keep guiding him, tried to tell him how perfect it was, how right, but the words blurred as the pleasure built, as he guided you through every tremble, every sharp breath, every subtle roll of your hips. 

“You feel so good,” he muttered, voice wrecked, lips brushing your jaw, your ear. “So fuckin’ good like this…”

And then you couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but hold on as he pushed you over the edge, his name falling from your lips in a broken moan, toes curling, back arching, body trembling apart under his hand. Your breathing was ragged as Bucky’s fingers kept moving, slow and sure, guided by every gasp, every shiver he coaxed from you. His forehead pressed to yours, fingers gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. His focus was absolute, blue eyes darkened, intent, watching you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing. And you were. To him, you always had been.

“I think I get it now,” he murmured, voice rough-edged, low like a secret.

Your lashes fluttered, your mind hazy with the pleasure he so patiently built inside you. “Hm?” you managed, head tipping forward. You opened your eyes to find him watching you, like you were the most incredible thing he’d ever seen.

Then, softly, with that mix of wonder and affection that always, always undid you, he spoke.

“Why you like watching me finish.” His voice was a rasp, reverent and wrecked all at once. And before you could reply—before you could even think—you watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth, slow and purposeful, tasting you, sucking his fingers clean with a soft, satisfied hum.

It was obscene. 

Your body nearly gave out. You gripped the edge of the counter for support, chest rising and falling, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of the sea and the chimes.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, dragging a shaky hand through your salt-tangled hair, trying to catch your breath. The strands clung to your damp skin. Your bikini bottoms were twisted at your hips, darkened with wetness, your thighs still trembling from the slow burn of his touch. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

---

hello! thank you for reading, let me know your thoughts! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications! <3

[superbassbuck]

p*rnstar — [camstar!bucky x virgin!reader]

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, porn, masturbation, fleshlight, sex toys mentioned, p in v sex, innocence kink, sex recording, coercion, blowjobs, dirty talk, degrading, praising fingering, virginity loss, stalking, size difference kink, very cringe usernames. word count: 9.7k a/n: first post for bwa's buckyverse collab! so happy to have created this lil group of bucky writers to come together and make a series of bucky fics for you guys. credit to @barnesonly for reader's and bucky's username. if you find them cringe, blame her. /j

synopsis: You’ve never had sex before, still untouched and completely inexperienced. But when you stumble across Bucky’s porn channel—you quickly become his number one fan. You’re always in his comments, always in his chats, and never expecting it to go anywhere beyond the screen. Luckily for Bucky, your social media is linked to your account, making it easy for him to find you.

You were completely mesmerized by the video playing on the screen. The image of a large and strong muscular figure rutted his hips up into the silicone, slick with his precum and lube—the poor toy looking like it was on the verge of tearing apart in his large hands. 

After stumbling across the account Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917, you were immediately hooked. 

He never showed his face, but you didn’t need to know what he looked like to be entranced. His grunts and moans were engraved in your mind like a song you knew by heart. You were enthralled by the sight of his broad, sweat-slicked back, every movement etched into your memory. The sheer length and size of him held you captive, hypnotized. You had memorized the rhythm of his patterns right before he came, you knew it like the back of your hand. 

His moans would rise slightly higher in pitch. His breathing would get heavier. He’d curse and grunt out, “fuck, fuck.” or “shit, fuck.” 

And then it happens. 

With one final thrust, he filled his toys to the brim with his cum, always thick and a creamy pearlescent white. 

You had one hand tucked in your panties, rubbing at your clit as you came just in time with him. You tossed your head back against the pillow, panting and sweating from the aftermath of your self-lovemaking. 

You withdrew your hand, catching your breath as the aftershocks of your orgasm faded. Moving lazily, you wiped your fingers clean before reaching for your phone. Just as always, you began typing out a comment—first in line the moment his new video drops. 

Pleasure_Ring: Great video as always! It made me feel really really good! I can’t wait to see the next!! 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Thanks, baby. I’m glad you enjoyed it. That one was for you.

A minute passed by and another notification popped up on the bottom right of your screen, but this time, it was a direct message.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: I just read your comment. You’re always so supportive. I wish you were here. I’d be fucking you instead of this flimsy toy. 

Your face flushed after reading his message. He was always so quick to respond, and although he was pretty responsive to other commenters too, you couldn’t help but feel like his replies to you were always a bit more personal than the rest. 

Pleasure_Ring: I really wish I was there too! But I admit, I’m a little scared just thinking about it haha. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing… 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Scared? How come? 

Pleasure_Ring: I’m a virgin. I’ve never had sex before. 

Most people would find it pathetic to be flirting through a porn site. Even more would say it’s worse to be tangled in a para-social attachment to one of the biggest stars online.

And sure, maybe they're right. You were hooked on the mysterious man with the ridiculous username. But this was your ritual, your private indulgence, the part of yourself you never let anyone else see. Besides, you knew it would never be more than flirtatious comments flashing across a screen. 

Men like him always had plenty of women waiting in their inbox.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: A virgin, huh? That’s cute. What’s a sweet little thing like you doing watching videos like mine?

Pleasure_Ring: Because yours are the only ones that actually satisfy me. Any woman would be lucky to spend even one night with you.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Oh, sweetheart… I don’t think you could handle a night with me.

Your heart thumps faster in your chest at his response. As much as you wished you could stay up and keep chatting, reality always kicked in. You had responsibilities, so conversations with him were usually cut off after midnight. 

Pleasure_Ring: I don’t think I could either… but I’d still like to try for you.

Pleasure_Ring: It’s getting late, and I’ve got a shift in a few hours. Have a great night, Bucky. And thank you for another wonderful video. <3

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: So soon, doll? I was just starting to enjoy our little chat.

You stared at the screen, tempted to type something back to keep the conversation going. Glancing at the clock, you let out a reluctant sigh. 

You logged off before you could second-guess yourself, because you knew that if you responded, you’d be up for hours. 

And when Bucky refreshed the page, impatiently waiting for a response, your username was already gray and your status was offline. 

Bucky laid back in his chair, finishing the last line of the description before hitting upload. He has never been great with captions—or usernames, for that matter… but lately, his descriptions weren’t just filler text to satisfy his fans. They were subtle messages, written only for you.

Need my pleasure ring to come help me out instead. Getting tired of using my hands and toys. Enjoy.

Once everything looked right, he clicked post. Same ritual, same time. Every three days.

The moment his upload went live, he sat up straight in his chair. The glow of the monitor lit his dark room, his eyes glued to the screen. Eleven minutes—that’s how long the video ran. By his calculations, you should already be online and commenting in twelve. 

Two minutes in, he refreshed. Another two more minutes, he refreshed again. Over and over, because he knew. He knew you’d be the first one there in his comment section without fail. 

You always were.

At this point, it’s been well past eleven minutes with zero notifications. In Bucky’s eyes, this was more than enough time for you to receive the notification, watch the video, and send a comment or a message like you usually do. 

So why the hell weren’t you doing it? 

He dedicated this video to you, goddammit. Actually—he dedicated all of his videos to you. But this one especially was planned, recorded, performed with you in mind. And yet, your account still showed offline.

He pumped himself for the first half of the video—his face nuzzled into the softness of his pillow. His groans and grunts were muffled as he fisted himself, his leaking tip grazing against the smooth fabric of his bed sheet, leaving a wet stain every time he grounded and bucked his hips. 

Then about halfway through, he reached for the clear silicone toy. He positioned the camera against the headboard, sitting up straight as he started fucking himself with the toy—the clear silicone squelching and spreading wider as he rutted into it like an animal. 

“Fuck, yes baby,” he groaned in the video. “S’fucking good, taking all this cock in your tight little virgin pussy.” He said. 

And God was that line especially meant for you. 

It was a damn good video—he was so fucking proud of himself. Which only made it harder for Bucky to understand why your account still showed offline.

With an annoyed sigh, he propped his elbow on the desk, chin resting in his palm, and refreshed one more time for good measure. When nothing changed, he clicked on your profile and began to lurk.

For all the attention you gave him, your account was practically a ghost. No videos. No profile picture. No caption. No name. You were only following one account—his. And you had one follower, too… also him.

Bucky never followed anyone else. 

He scrolled down a bit, and his eyes widened at what he saw on the screen. 

Your account was linked to your social media profiles—your Instagram and TikTok.

In order to create an account, you had to attach a phone number or email address. During sign-up, there was also the option to link your social media—tied to that same phone number or email—a small popup buried among the usual flood of terms, agreements, and permission requests that appeared in sequence.

So either you let it slip past you, your finger tapping carelessly just to get it out of the way.

Or… you wanted him to find you.

The cursor hovered over the link. Bucky sucked in a breath, clicking on your Instagram. When the screen finally loaded, his eyes immediately widened and his heart skipped a beat. Your profile was public. Your name was right at the top, and there you were in your profile picture—smiling, front and center.

Aside from his secret porn account, Bucky didn’t do social media. He couldn’t be bothered figuring out how it works, but he knew enough to recognize that Instagram was all about pictures and videos. And that was exactly what he needed.

Finally, he could see you.

His number one fan. His pleasure ring. 

He scrolled down, coming across a mix of photos. Selfies, your eyes bright and innocent with a sheepish smile. Food. Didn’t care. Landmarks. Didn't care. Pictures of family and friends—he only looked for you. 

There were beach shots, carefree and playful, your body posted in a skimpy bikini glowing in the sunlight. 

His breath caught in his throat. His pants grew tighter. He shifted in his seat, trying to adjust the growing pressure between his legs. He leaned closer as he looked through every picture, careful not to accidentally leave a like in his wake. 

“Damn, baby,” he muttered, staring at your pictures, unable to tear his eyes away. 

He scrolled down, saving every single image that displayed your face and your body—each one feeling like a treasure.

All the pictures of you were seemingly innocent. Even in your bikini shots, you weren’t trying to show off. You didn’t jut your hips out or pose provocatively. Your pictures weren’t screaming for attention. 

It was cute. 

But it just made him want more. Need more. He would’ve loved to see you bend over just a little bit. Maybe even press your arms together to accentuate your cleavage.

God. He would’ve loved to see that. 

His dick throbbed in his pants as he scrolled further down your Instagram. More selfies of you just meant more photos in his special folder. With one hand rubbing himself steadily and the other on the mouse, he hovered over your TikTok link next. 

Once your page loaded, he felt his heart drop in his stomach. 

There were only two videos, both of them being with your friends. It was some stupid trend you were doing—Bucky never understood the whole appeal of trends—but you were dancing to them, and his heart skipped a beat in his chest as he watched, captivated. 

Your dancing was… pretty bad to say the least. Actually, it was awful. 

But Bucky couldn’t tear his eyes away because he got a full view of your body. Every movement of your body, even the clumsy dance steps, had him entranced. The rhythm was completely off, but it didn’t matter. It was the way you moved, the curve of your body in each frame. 

His cock was completely hard, poking and straining against the fabric of his sweatpants. He was palming himself for so long, his warm hand rubbing up and down against his throbbing clothed shaft—he didn’t even realize the precum leaking through his pants until his fingers grazed against it. 

“Shit,” he grunted. 

There was something about watching you—his once mysterious, loyal viewer and commenter—right here, in his monitor. Dancing. Your body on display, completely unaware, yet captivating in every move.

He grabbed the hem of his sweatpants and brought it down to his thighs, freeing his cock from the suffocating fabric. His hand encircled around his shaft, his grip tightening just slightly as he began pumping himself. He dragged his thumb over the wetness of his tip, smearing it over the head. 

Bucky let out a low groan, his breathing growing heavy as he fucked his hand to the sight of you. With the other hand, he kept switching through your photos, moving faster as his cock throbbed helplessly in his grip. 

He grunted and groaned, staring at his monitor with half-lidded eyes as he stroked himself. He stopped at another picture of you, a top down selfie with a low cut blouse. Your eyes—wide and innocent, batting up at the camera, the curve of your breast straining against the shirt. 

A low moan rumbled from his chest at the sight. His hands moved faster and eagerly against his cock, precum leaking down from the tip to his shaft as he pumped and worked his throbbing dick. 

“Fuck, baby. I want to cum all over that pretty face,” he breathed. “Gonna paint your face and tits with my seed—shit.” 

Everything was overwhelming his senses right now. Your pure and clueless eyes, the way your lips—soft and plump—curved up into a smile. 

Everything about you screamed ‘innocent.’ 

And the best part of it all, was that you were a fucking virgin. A helpless, clueless, little virgin. Perfectly ripe for the picking.

His cock throbbed hot and heavy in his hand, each pulse bringing him closer. He could hardly believe it—your social media, left wide open, public and linked straight to your account. Like an invitation. 

Like you wanted him to see.

His fist worked faster, the slick sounds of his own hand echoing in the dark room. He was right there, teetering at the edge, when another one of your videos caught his eye. A casual clip, nothing special—just you laughing with your friends, the camera panning across a storefront in the background.

His heart lurched in his chest. He knew that place.

He blinked hard, his other hand flying to the mouse as he replayed the clip, pausing on the sign. His pulse roared in his ears. That store was only a few streets away. Which meant…

You were here. In his town.

“Fuck—” 

The word ripped out of him as his body jerked. His cock erupted in his fist, hot streams spilling over his knuckles and thigh as he shook, riding the wave of release harder than he had in years. Harder than he had in any of his videos. The excitement, the discovery, the sudden nearness of you—it all came crashing into him, tearing his orgasm from the very pit of his stomach.

He slumped back against his chair, chest heaving, eyes still glued to the frozen frame of your smiling face. 

You weren’t just his number one fan anymore. Fuck, you were real. You were so close, and now, he knew exactly where to find you. 

He was still catching his breath when he switched tabs, his cock softening in his hand as he scrolled deeper through your pictures. Every shot held him captive. Was this how you felt when you watched his videos—entranced, unable to look away?

A few minutes had gone by when he heard a ping! sound from his other tab. He switched over, and there you were. Your account, blank as ever, no profile picture, no name, but now a message glowing at the bottom of the screen.

Pleasure_Ring: Loved your new video! It was amazing as always. I can’t believe your toy isn’t broken yet!

He felt his heart stutter in his chest. A needy grin curled at the corner of his lips. You were late to his video, but that’s okay. He had your videos and pictures to keep him at bay for now. His fingers darted across the keyboard, replying almost too quickly. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Glad you liked it, doll. Took you longer than usual to show up tonight.

His fingers hovered over the keys, debating if he wanted to send this next message or not.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Had me wondering if you forgot about me. 

You took longer than usual to respond, and even though he was coming down from his post-release haze, his heart was still pounding anxiously in his chest.

Pleasure_Ring is typing… 

Pleasure_Ring: I know! I’m sorry. I got distracted cooking dinner. 

Pleasure_Ring: But I could never forget about you, Bucky. 

His grip on the mouse tightened, and he felt his cock twitching again. God, he loved when you said—typed—his name. But the longer he stared at your words, the more restless he felt. He needed more. 

He needed you.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Dinner, huh? You had me worried there for a second. You’re usually the first one here. Couldn’t stand the thought of you forgetting me.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You know… I don’t even know your name. What should I call you, sweetheart?

He already knew it, of course. 

He could say it out loud, taste it on his tongue right now if he wanted. But he wanted you to give it to him. To hand it over willingly. 

He saw you typing, then stopping. Typing again, then stopping. The little dots taunted him, making his jaw clench. He hated this. He hated playing the waiting game—especially now that he knew you were just a few minutes away, living in the same town as him.

Pleasure_Ring: Do I really need to tell you my name? I kinda like being your little secret. <3

Pleasure_Ring: Besides… I think you like calling me doll, don’t you?

Bucky’s brow twitched in mild frustration, his cock throbbing in his lap again as his eyes traced your text over and over. You were a teasing little minx—taunting him, torturing him. He knew you were obsessed with him just as much as he was with you, so why the hell were you playing so damn hard to get?

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Come on, baby. Don’t be like that. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You touch yourself to my videos every night, and yet you can’t even share your name? Don’t make me beg for it. 

He dragged in a sharp breath as he waited for your reply, his hand lazily stroking his half-hard cock while he leaned back in his chair, tension swimming through every vein.

Pleasure_Ring: You’re so silly, Bucky. 

Pleasure_Ring: Why ruin the mystery? I kind of like it this way… just you and me, no names needed. <3 

His cock was rock-hard again, straining for a second round. He wrapped his fist around it as he split his screen in two—one tab open to a photo of you smiling sweetly, the other to your chat box on the site. His strokes were slow, shudders slipping past his lips as he teased the sensitive flesh. Every pulse in his palm matched the flick of his gaze between your face and your words.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You won’t give me your name, but I bet you’d spread your legs wide and let me fuck you like the needy little slut you really are.

He was playing a dangerous game with that message. It was too direct, maybe even a little mean. He might even risk scaring you away. 

But with your picture staring back at him, soft and innocent, how the hell was he supposed to hold back? 

Pleasure_Ring is typing… 

Pleasure_Ring: I would do anything you’d want me to if you were here. 

His heart stopped. His cock throbbed violently as the words sank in, repeating it in his mind like a prayer. A sweet little virgin like you, so naive, so unknowing, willing to let a man like him do anything to you?

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Oh, sweetheart. You shouldn’t have said that. 

He couldn’t hold back anymore. He stroked himself faster, pressure coiling hot at the base as he pumped his length with desperate need. Groans tore from his chest, hips jerking up into his fist as pleasure overtook him.

In his mind, it wasn’t just his hand—it was you. You on his bed, camera capturing every angle as you wrapped those innocent lips around his cock. You moaning, trembling, surrendering that precious virginity to a filthy porn star like him.

Pleasure_Ring: Maybe. But I really would do anything you’d ask me to.

And fuck, you lived in the same town as him. You actually lived in the same town as him. 

It would be so easy to find you. To claim you. To stuff your tight, untouched little holes full of him until you were stretched and dripping, used just like one of his toys.

The thought alone was enough to make him come a second time. With his head tilted back, a low growl-like moan escaped his throat. His hips stuttered wildly as his release tore through him in sharp waves of pleasure, hot seed spilling over his fist until his hand was a sticky, soiled mess.

He slumped back in his chair, breath ragged as he wiped himself clean with hurried, clumsy hands. His fingertips grazed the keyboard, already halfway through typing his next message. 

He couldn’t let the moment die, he didn’t want to lose you just yet. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing… 

But then your text bubble popped up first.

Pleasure_Ring: It’s late, so I’ll be going to sleep now. I’m sorry our conversation got cut short. But thank you again for your video! I’m already looking forward to the next one! <3 Nighty night, Bucky!

And just like that, your status flickered gray. Offline. Gone.

His hand froze over the keys.

What? 

That’s it? 

You showed up online extremely late, give him a few teasing words that leave him aching, and just… log off? 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Come on, baby. You can’t leave like that. Aren’t you having fun? 

He knew you were offline, yet he sent the message anyway—clinging to the hope that maybe your status would flicker green and you’d answer him right away, being his number one fan and all. 

A minute passed. Then another. And another.

He sat there, staring at the empty chat box, his foot tapping impatiently against the wooden floor. When it finally sank in that you weren’t coming back, he closed the porn tab with a long and disappointing sigh. Dozens of comments waited for him on his latest video, begging for his attention—but he didn’t care. He couldn’t be bothered.

All he wanted was you. 

Your picture still glowed on his other monitor, your smile taunting him. He pulled his pants back on, leaning forward as his mind spun. You were so close—he could feel it. And with your account still open, still public, still inviting, he knew he wouldn’t stop.

He would find you.

And once he did, you would be his.

It had been three days since you last commented on his videos. Three days without your little messages, without your sweet words that fueled him through the long and lonely nights. 

Bucky was restless. 

He kept checking your account, refreshing the page, waiting for that familiar username that was dedicated to him to pop up in his notifications list again. But instead, you were busy elsewhere. 

Your Instagram was suddenly so active. Story after story, pictures of food, photos of crowded streets, little story clips of you laughing with friends. They were all innocent things, but to him, they were breadcrumbs. 

He looked closely at the background in your stories, taking screenshots and zooming in on shop signs and store logos. Most of these were ones he recognized. He compared timestamps, piecing together your routine slowly.

Each update you shared felt like you were inviting him in, pulling him closer without even realizing. 

And no—he wouldn’t call himself a stalker. Sure, he scrolled through all your socials, jerked off to your pictures, learned your full name, the area you lived in, who you spent time with. 

But that wasn’t stalking.

That was devotion. 

He was your number one fan. Just like you were his.

Your cart wobbled against the tiled floor as you turned into the produce aisle. Today was your weekly grocery restock. The store was busy, noisy, and packed with people trying to weave in and out of each other’s way. You grabbed your phone out of your pocket and snapped a quick picture of the cotton candy grapes piled high in their cartons. 

They were your favorite, and this was the only grocery store near your area that carried them. 

Try these! They taste just like cotton candy! 

You added the caption and posted it to your story, sliding your phone back into your bag before moving on. A few minutes later, as you rounded the corner towards checkout, someone brushed past your shoulder.

You glanced up, and a man stood there, tall and broad-shouldered. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, his voice low, achingly familiar. “Didn’t see you there.” 

You smiled politely, brushing it off. “No worries.” 

You went back to your cart, but for some reason, your gaze lingered on him for just a second longer. There was something… familiar about the way he carried himself, about the way his words came out and how he looked.

You shook the thought off and pushed the cart forward, but you didn’t get very far when he stepped behind you, resting a gentle yet heavy hand on your shoulder. 

You glanced over and paused. The same man was staring at you, his eyes locked on yours with a look like that feels unsettling. You cleared your throat, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze. 

“Uh… can I help you?”

His jaw tightened, his grip on your shoulder pressing just a little harder.

“...Pleasure ring?” 

Those words rang back in your ears like a loud bell. Your eyes went wide and you felt like your heart dropped in your stomach. Your gaze darted quickly around the aisle, checking to make sure no one else was close enough to hear. 

“I—I’m sorry? What did you just say?”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” 

The longer you stare at this man, the realization hits you all at once. The thickness of his neck. The breadth of his shoulders. The sheer size of him, impossible to mistake. You’ve seen this frame before—night after night, on a glowing screen.

You leaned in slightly, whisper-yelling, “You’re Lord of The Rings nineteen-seventeen? You’re Bucky?” 

The ridiculous username felt even more absurd now that it left your lips.

He didn’t even look around or even seemed to care about his alter ego being mentioned outloud. All he cared about right now was having you, right in front of him. 

“...You haven’t been watching my videos,” Bucky said instead. His thumb brushed once across your shoulder, subtle but possessive. “Are you okay?”

The words should have sounded caring, but instead they struck you like an accusation. Your pulse quickened, panic rising up your throat. 

He was watching you that closely? 

He noticed? 

How did he even find you here? 

“I—uh—yeah, I’ve just been… busy,” you muttered. 

You knew you should step back and pull away from his touch. This man was stalking you. Yet, your body betrayed you. The deep rasp of his voice sent a warm sensation trickling down your spine, curling in the pit of your stomach. 

Creeped out or not, your body remembered him. It remembered his moans, his growls, the way he spoke dirty to the camera like he was speaking only to you. 

“I’ve missed you in my comments,” he continued, his hand moving from your shoulder to the ends of your hair, twirling it with his fingers. “I’ve missed our cute little chats… haven’t you?” 

You sucked in a breath. 

The loud chatter of customers and grocery carts dimmed into the background noise. You should pull away, God you should pull away—but your body swayed just slightly towards him instead. 

“Y-yeah,” your voice was soft and shaky. “I… I do too.” 

The moment the words left your mouth, your stomach curled with dread. Yet, your body didn’t match your fear. Your chest was rising and falling faster, your thighs pressing together instinctively. You hated the way a tiny spark of excitement flickered inside you when he stepped closer. 

Bucky’s mouth curled into a faint smirk, like he knows your own body is betraying you. He gave your strand of hair a gentle, teasing tug before letting it fall. 

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, his eyes tracing every curve on your face, studying you, taking you in. 

You pressed your lips together, you stared back at him, captivated. He never showed his face in his videos—only his body, hands, and voice. You had always wondered what the man behind the camera looked like, and now here he was, inches away. He was unbelievably handsome. His gaze was intense. His voice was magnetic. You couldn’t look away, even if you tried.

“Are you nervous?” 

You blinked at him. “What?” 

A small chuckle escaped his lips, his hand lifted up to your cheek, cupping it softly and making your skin tingle. 

“You teased me in your texts,” he reminded you, his voice deep. “Told me you’d let me do anything to you if I was with you.” His thumb brushed your cheek softly, almost soothing. 

“How true does that still ring?” 

Your eyes darted nervously around the aisle. A few people passed by with carts, sparing you both brief, casual glances. To them, it probably looked like nothing more than a man grocery shopping with his girlfriend, caressing her cheek tenderly.

But you knew better.

“I…” your lip trembled nervously. “I-It’s still true…” 

His mouth curved into a slow, smug smile, as if he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on you—how easily your knees wanted to give beneath you. 

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “My number one fan.”

You felt your stomach tighten. Every inch of your skin felt hot under his gaze. This was dangerous—you knew it. You were untouched, inexperienced, but the way he looked at you, the way his voice reached your ears, only made the ache between your legs grow heavier.

“How ‘bout we go back to your place,” he leaned in slightly, voice getting lower and dangerous, “and you do your grocery shopping later?” 

Your heart felt like it could burst out of your chest. You glanced down at your cart, the cotton candy grapes you’d been so excited to buy, and then back up at him. The way he held you, the way his eyes burned into yours, the very offer you’ve been secretly dreaming of despite your nerves…

It made the idea of staying here feel like hell. 

“Okay,” you breathed out. “Yeah, let’s… let’s go back to my place.” 

A small, approved hum escaped his lips. He pulled his hand away from your cheek and trailed his hand down to your bare arm, down to your hands—interlocking his fingers with yours. 

“Lead the way, princess.” 

This was wrong. So dangerously, undeniably wrong. But you had spent countless nights dreaming about this man, the pornstar with the ridiculous username, and now he was right here, holding your hand.

He led you out of the store with a smile on his face, already looking proud to have you by his side even though you guys just met. 

“I can’t wait to see your place, princess,” he murmured smoothly, stopping just outside the sliding doors. His gaze dropped down to you, quiet and expectant, waiting for you to take the lead.

“There are so many things I want to do to you.”

By the time you reached your front door, your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might break free from your chest. 

Your hands trembled so badly you could barely fit the key into the lock. Bucky stood behind you, his presence comforting yet demanding as he waited for you to open the door. 

The door finally opened, and you felt an insane wave of embarrassment as soon as he stepped inside. Your apartment wasn’t exactly ready for company. You had shoes littered near the door, laundry draped over the arm of the couch, your desk drowning in clutter.

He looked around and let out a low and amused hum. 

This was a terrible idea, inviting a stranger into your home. You’ve never done this before. But he’s not technically that much of a stranger if you two have been talking online for months now… right? 

“Show me your bedroom, sweetheart,” he said, his tone gentle but leaving no room for disobedience.

When he sensed your hesitation, his chin tilted subtly toward the hallway, like he already knew exactly where your bedroom was. That smug smile never left his lips.

“Go on.” 

You swallowed hard and turned toward the hallway, each step feeling heavy and anxious. You were nervous, extremely nervous. But the excitement of having a man in your home, this man you’d been secretly attracted to for months, sent a shiver of arousal down your spine.

You led him down the hallway, his footsteps heavy behind you. Pausing at your door, you glanced back over your shoulder. His smile widened, eyes glinting.

“You gettin’ shy, doll?” 

Your cheeks burned, and with a shaky exhale you pushed the door open.

Embarrassment hit instantly. The bed was undone, white sheets tangled in a mess, with clothes scattered lazily across the mattress. He stood in the doorway, his silence madly deafening while you stood there nervously with your hands clasped behind your back, waiting for him to say something.

Finally, he stepped forward, the corner of his mouth curving upward.

“I like your room, princess,” he said smoothly. He stepped up to the edge of your bed, his fingers dragging lightly across the wrinkles in your blanket.

“Is there where you watch my videos?” he asked. “Do you touch yourself right here, in this bed?” 

“I—I… do sometimes,” you confessed. You pointed your finger toward the desktop in the corner of the room. “Sometimes I watch… on my laptop.” 

His head turned to follow your finger, a smile tugging at his lips. He strode toward the desk, fingers grazing over the surface.

“Yeah? This is where you chat with me?” his fingertips trailed slowly across the top, pausing over the chair. “You sit here, spread those pretty legs on this chair, and put your fingers in that tiny little pussy of yours?”

You fiddled with your fingers, too flustered to meet his gaze. “Y-yes…”

He came back to you, steps steady and eyes locked on your face. When he reached you, he took one of your hands, gently prying it from the other, holding it in his much larger one. His palm stroked against yours, tender in contrast to his words. Then he lifted your hand slowly, pressing  a soft kiss to your knuckles, his eyes half-lidded and dark.

“How did you find me?” you asked softly. 

He exhaled, rubbing soft circles against your skin. “You stopped commenting on my videos. You stopped chatting with me. And I know it was only a few days…” his voice went softer, “…but doll, I missed you.”

Your heart fluttered wildly in your chest, your face hot and warm. The ache between your thighs pulsed with every word he spoke.

“I missed you so damn much. Couldn’t stop thinking about you…” he continued, pressing another kiss to your hand, then brushing your knuckles along the slight stubble of his jaw. “I couldn’t help it. I started looking through your account.”

You sucked in a breath, looking up at him as he continued.

“Your account was blank. No name. No picture. Nothing.” His voice dropped lower. “But your social media was linked, all public and left wide open.” His smile deepened, almost smug as he leaned in closer, his nose brushing yours. 

“You wanted me to see them, didn’t you?”

His voice was so raspy and so hungry, it made your whole body shiver. You couldn’t trust your voice, especially not when you were so afraid it would crack and betray how timid, how inexperienced you really were. 

“I-I… didn’t know—”

“Oh, but you did,” he cut you off, one hand still intertwined with yours, the other cupping your cheek. “You wanted me to find you. I bet you hoped I’d click, hoped I’d follow the trail…” 

He spoke so confidently and so sure of himself—but the truth was something else entirely. You didn’t realize that your social media was tied to your account and you didn’t bother to check. You had only made that account to interact with Bucky’s videos only. 

You should have been afraid. The way he tracked you down, the way he admitted to stalking your socials—it should have terrified you.

But it didn’t.

It only made your body burn with excitement, your core clenching with a hunger that only he can satisfy. 

“You teasing little slut,” he murmured, his voice growing rough. “But you’re not a slut, are you? You’re a virgin—isn’t that right?” 

You nodded. “I-I am…” 

“And you’d still do anything for me? Anything at all?”

You paused for a moment. You knew exactly what he meant. He hadn’t followed you home for small talk. 

Your body screamed yes, aching for him, but your mind shook with hesitation. You've seen his videos. You knew how rough he could be. How brutal his thrusts looked, how the silicone toys bent and threatened to snap beneath his strength. The way his grip tightened until his muscles flexed and strained—it was terrifying, yet intoxicating. 

Could you really take him? You weren’t sure. 

But God, you wanted to try.

So you nodded.

An approved and low growl escaped his lips. He leaned closer, pausing right before your lips. 

“There are so many fucking things I want to do to you, princess,” he rasped. “First, I’m going to kiss you—then I’ll teach you how to really please a man. And after that…” his mouth curved into a wicked smile, “I’ll show you how a man properly pleases his woman. You understand?”

“O-okay.” 

His lips pressed against yours. 

It started off soft, patient, exploratory—until his hunger took over. The kiss deepened, his mouth grew reckless, his tongue desperate. His hands roamed greedily, gripping your waist, pulling you closer. He broke away only to tug at your clothes, then immediately slammed his lips back against yours like he couldn’t resist you. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned into your mouth. “You taste exactly like I imagined—maybe even better. Shit.” 

Bucky was getting harder by the second, but truthfully, he’d been aching since the moment he laid eyes on you in the store. But now, with you trembling in his arms, he finally had you. 

He caught your hand in his, guiding it down until your palm pressed against the thick bulge straining against his jeans, you shuddered at the contact. Your fingers started moving without you thinking, rubbing against him in small, and timid strokes.

He let out a low chuckle. “Look at you, baby. You want it so bad, don’t you?” 

Your breath hitched, and you could only nod, meek and shy. 

He moved your hand along his clothed length, forcing you to feel every ridge of him. His lip caught between his teeth as he let out a hiss of pleasure. He was so hard for you—so desperate—that he started to feel himself leaking just from the friction of your trembling palm.

“Fuck, baby,” he grunted, ripping your hand away from his crotch. 

You blinked up at him, startled and confused.

He reached in the back of his jean pocket, pulling out a small camcorder. His breathing was heavy, and his eyes were dark. 

“Baby,” he rasped, voice needy. “I want to record this. I want to see you undress for me… capture every second of it.” His fingers trembled as he flipped the device open, eyes half-lidded, fixated on you like a starving man.

“Bucky…”

“What do you say, baby?” he pressed, taking a slow step forward.

You bit your bottom lip, nerves tying your stomach in knots. You weren’t ready for this—not at all. But the thought of being behind Bucky’s lens, of being admired and captured the same way you had admired him through his videos, made your skin warm with anticipation. 

He grabbed your hand gently. “I won’t upload it,” he promised. “This one’s just for me—to keep, to look back on. Think you can give me that, doll?”

His words were soft yet strained with a lust and desire that he was desperately trying to hold back. The ache between your legs pulsed harder with every word, and deep down, you already knew you couldn’t say no.

“…Okay,” you whispered. “I want to be put on display for you, Bucky. I want to be yours.”

A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips. “That’s my girl.”

He nodded toward the bed. “Stay there, at the edge. Watch me.”

You stood frozen, captivated, as he began to strip down. Shirt, jeans, everything—gone in moments, until his bare and large body stretched against your sheets and rested against the headboard. With one hand, he steadied the camcorder, and with the other, he reached for himself slowly.

“Take your clothes off,” he ordered, the red recording light blinking as the camera pointed straight at you. “I want every second of this. Give me a show, baby.”

Heat climbed your chest and neck as you began lifting your shirt, pulling it over your head. You glanced at him—and your knees nearly buckled. He was already stroking himself, precum glistening at the flushed tip, his chest heaving with each desperate pump.

“Good girl.” 

You pushed your pants down, stepping out of them until you stood in nothing but your bra and panties. Your hands fidgeted nervously at your sides—not knowing what to do with them next.

“D-do you… want me to keep going?”

A dark chuckle slipped from his lips, almost mocking. “Oh, baby. You’re fucking adorable, you know that?” his hand pumped slow and hard, his cock twitching under his touch. “Yes. Keep going. Take it all off, nice and slow for me…”

Your fingers trembled as they hooked around the strap of your bra, sliding it off your shoulders before unclasping it. The straps fell loose, and you let it slip from your hands. The cool air rushed against your bare chest, making your nipples pebble instantly. 

“Panties, baby,” he murmured, voice rough. “Get rid of ‘em.”

Slowly, you eased them down your legs, stepping out of them until you stood completely bare before him. Your arms instinctively folded in front of you, trying to hide yourself.

Bucky’s mouth curved into a smug grin. “Don’t you dare hide from me. You’re too pretty to cover up.”

Your arms dropped hesitantly at your sides, and his grin only widened.

“Good girl,” he rasped. He shifted against the headboard, spreading his legs wider, the thick length of his cock pulsing as his fist pumped it. “Now crawl to me, princess.”

“C-crawl..?” 

His eyes darkened, his hand tightening around himself. “That’s right. On your hands and knees. Crawl over here like the sweet little virgin you are.”

Your breath caught, and for a second you thought you wouldn’t be able to move at all. But his hungry stare made your body obey before your mind could catch up. You climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping slightly, and lowered yourself onto your hands and knees. 

Slowly, you crawled toward him, the soft sheets brushing against your bare skin, your heart beating fast in your chest. 

Bucky let out a low and approving growl, the camcorder following your every move. 

“That’s it, baby… fuck—” he groaned. “You look so perfect like this. Like you were made to kneel for me.” 

You swallowed hard as you approached him, staring at his cock—thick and hard, flushed at the tip. Your lips parted as you let out a soft gasp—the sheer size of him made your throat go dry. 

“Have you ever had a dick in your mouth, baby?” he asked. 

You can only shake your head no. 

He let go of himself, his free hand sliding into your hair, guiding you closer to his lap. “Open that pretty mouth for me, doll,” he coaxed. “I want to be the first man you taste.” 

How could something that big possibly fit in your mouth? His grip kept you steady, urging you forward. 

“There you go,” he smirked, watching your nervous little breaths. “God, you’re trembling. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll teach you exactly how to do it. All you gotta do is listen to me.”

“Stick out that tongue—yeah, just like that. Such a good girl.” His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth before pressing down on your lower lip, opening you wider. “Mm, look at you. Never done this before, huh?”

You shook your head, embarrassed, but he only chuckled.

“Of course not. My innocent little fan, saving herself for me,” he guided you closer until the blunt tip of his cock brushed your tongue, smearing precum across it. The taste was strange, salty and thick, and you whimpered softly at the unfamiliar sensation.

His laugh was low and condescending, but not cruel. “That’s it, baby. Don’t pout so cutely like that… only makes it harder for me to hold back.”

He stroked your hair, petting you like you were some pet while his hips gave a subtle roll forward, testing you. 

“Just wrap those lips around me nice and slow. I want to see that sweet virgin mouth stuffed full of cock for the first time.”

Your lips closed timidly around him, sealing over the tip as your tongue flicked against it, tasting more of that salty, musky flavor. Your jaw ached instantly, but the way he groaned, deep and guttural, made you shiver with pride.

“There you go,” he praised, fingers tightening in your hair. “God, look at you. My perfect little virgin, already learning how to please me.”

You tried to sink further, taking more of him in, but the sheer thickness made your throat tighten. You gagged softly, tears threatening to well in your eyes, and pulled back with a desperate little gasp.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, thumb brushing your damp cheek. “That was good, baby. So fucking good. Just relax your jaw, take it slow. You’ve got such a tiny mouth—I didn’t expect you to take all of me your first try.”

His hand guided you down again, inch by inch, your lips stretching around him as drool began to slick your chin. He hissed through his teeth, head falling back against the headboard.

“That’s it… fuck, that’s it. God, you don’t even know how sweet you look right now, doll. Choking on my cock like you were made for it.”

You felt his cock pulse on your tongue, thick veins throbbing against the roof of your mouth. 

“Fuck—baby—” he growled, his breathing ragged as his cock twitched violently. “Gonna—shit—gonna cum down your throat—”

Suddenly, his hand yanked you back, pulling your mouth off him with a wet pop. You gasped, spit stringing between your lips and his swollen tip, confused and dazed.

“W-what…?”

“Not yet,” he panted, his hand flying to his cock and holding it still, trying to calm himself down. 

His chest heaved, his eyes glazed and hungry as he stared at your flushed, ruined face. “Not wasting my first load on your mouth, princess. I’ve been waiting too long for you.”

“Bucky…” 

He leaned forward, thumb smearing your spit across your swollen lips. “No… I’m gonna be the first man to cum inside this virgin cunt.”

He adjusted the camera in his hands, sitting up straighter. “Lay down,” he ordered, nodding toward the mattress. “Face down, ass up.”

His words were so filthy and vulgar—it made your face burn—but still, you obeyed. Lowering yourself onto shaky arms, you crawled forward and eased your chest against the mattress. Your cheek pressed into the sheets as you raised your ass for him, baring yourself under his gaze.

The arch felt awkward, your back straining from holding the position. But the low, hungry sound that escaped from his chest sent a shiver of pride racing through you. You pushed yourself even higher, desperate to please him.

“Look at you. My shy little virgin, already posing like a whore for me,” the sound of the camcorder’s little beep made your body tense—he was recording this, capturing you in such a vulnerable position.

The mattress dipped as he shuffled closer, his large palm running over the curve of your ass. You gasped, burying your face into the sheets in embarrassment.

“You’re trembling,” he noted, squeezing the soft flesh in his hand. “You nervous, baby?”

You nodded weakly, voice muffled against the pillow. “Y-Yeah…”

“Mmm, but you’re already being so sweet for me,” he rasped, his thumb gently pressing against your wet, slit folds. “Your pretty little cunt is weeping just for me, sweetheart.” 

You let out a soft gasp, the camcorder beeped again as he adjusted it to get a better view. His grin widened with hunger. 

“Don’t worry, doll. I’ll take care of you. Gonna stretch this virgin pussy nice and slow… and make you put on the sweetest show for my camera.”

He teased your pussy, thumb rubbing over your entrance and his finger rubbing against your clit. You were already so wet—embarrassingly so.

“God, baby… you’re dripping,” he groaned, the camcorder beeping softly as he angled it lower. “All this for me?”

You whimpered into the sheets, trembling as he shifted his hand and pressed a finger, testing your tightness before slowly sinking inside. 

You gasped louder, your whole body jolting forward against the mattress even though it was just his finger. “B-Bucky!” 

“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmured, leaning close. “Just my finger. Gotta test this tight little pussy before I give you more.”

He moved slowly, letting you adjust to his finger as you writhed against the sheets, your walls already fluttering helplessly around him. He slowly eased another finger inside, drawing out a desperate moan from you. 

“So tight,” he groaned so low, almost like he was talking to himself. “So fucking tight—baby. Can’t wait to put my cock inside you…” 

When he finally slipped his finger free, you sagged against the bed in relief—but then you felt him shifting behind you. The camcorder beeped again, and the feel of his heavy, thick cock pressed against your entrance—hot and throbbing.

You suddenly remembered how his toys would stretch helplessly around his thickness—literally on the verge of tearing. Your eyes widened. You weren’t sure if you could take him fully. 

“B-Bucky…” your stomach started twisting with nerves. “You’re too big… I don’t think I can—” 

“You can, baby,” he interrupted softly, steadying himself with a hand at your hip. He leaned close, his lips brushing your ear. “I’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you.”

He pushed forward before you could say anything. The thick tip pushed past your virgin walls. You cried out at the burn, your hands gripping the sheets.

“I know, I know,” he soothed, though his voice shook with restraint. “I’m sorry, doll. I’m so big, I know—but you’re doing so fucking good for me.” 

The stretch hurt, but it also made a strange heat bloom low in your belly.

He kissed the back of your shoulder, keeping himself still while you trembled beneath him. “Breathe for me, princess. Let me in nice and slow… I promise—it’s gonna feel so good.”

Your fingers clawed at the sheets as you let out a high, broken moan.

“Shhh, that’s it, baby,” Bucky rasped, his voice thick with both lust and control. “My sweet little virgin… finally getting split open by a real cock.”

You shook your head against the mattress, gasping. “B-Bucky—it’s too big, I can’t—I can’t take it—”

He hushed you softly, his hand sliding from your hip to rub comforting circles against your trembling waist. 

“Yes you can, doll. You’re made for this—you’ve been watching my videos every night. Studying me. Practicing with your pretty little fingers and wishing it was me, isn’t that right?” His cock inched deeper, slow but relentless, his breath hitching at the unbearable tightness of you.

“That’s my girl,” he encouraged, pressing kisses along your bare shoulder. “Doing so good for me. Ruinin’ this sweet little virgin pussy nice and slow…” 

A sharp moan escaped you as he sank another inch inside, your body trembling around him.

“God… you’re squeezing me so fucking tight,” he groaned, teeth grazing your shoulder as he adjusted the camera with one hand, angling it to capture the stretch of his cock sliding in and out of you. The red light blinked, recording every second of your first time.

“Such a sweet little thing,” he moaned, condescending but tender. “Crying on my cock like you don’t love it—but listen to yourself, baby. You’re moaning like a slut already!”

Another desperate cry left your lips, and he groaned low in his throat. You adjusted your hips slightly, moving your back a bit to try and get comfortable. The slight movement made his hard cock pulse and throb inside you uncontrollably—the sensation unbearable. 

“Oh, fuck—” he cursed, his breath catching. “Fuck. If you keep moving like that, doll… shit, I’m not gonna last.”

You shuffled your hips back, desperate for more, for him, even though the stretch burned.

“B-Bucky…” you gasped, your voice breaking into a moan. “You’re so big… too big… f-feels so good…”

That praise alone made him groan, his head dropping to your shoulder as his cock twitched inside your tight heat. His hand squeezed your waist, trying to stay in control, trying to savor it, but every little shuffle of your hips threatened to undo him completely.

“Fuck, doll,” he grunted. “You keep saying that—calling me big while you wiggle on my cock so cutely… I’m gonna lose it.”

You moaned again, arching your back to push into him, the words tumbling out between gasps. “Want you, Bucky… wanna take you all… please, you’re so big, fill me up, please…”

That was it.

A sharp growl ripped from his chest as he tossed the camcorder aside, the device landing forgotten on the sheets somewhere. Both his hands clamped down hard on your hips, holding you in place.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he gritted out, voice laced with hunger. “You asked for it.”

With one rough, needy thrust, he drove himself all the way inside, stuffing you full until his hips were flush against your ass. The sudden fullness made you cry out, your walls clamping down on him so tight it pulled another curse from his lips.

“Jesus Christ—this tight little virgin pussy’s gonna kill me,” he gasped, his fingers digging into your hips possessively. “You feel that, doll? That’s me—every fucking inch of me—buried inside you.”

Your cry broke into a helpless moan as he bottomed out, the stretch almost unbearable, but your body clung to him desperately. The way your cunt spasmed around his cock made Bucky curse low and vicious.

“Fuck—look at you,” he growled against your ear, pulling back only to slam in again, harder. “Taking me so deep, squeezing the life outta me. My sweet little virgin, getting ruined on my cock.”

“Bucky—ah—s’too much—” you whimpered, though your hips still rocked back to meet him.

His laugh was dark, breathless. “Too much, huh? Then why’s this greedy little pussy dripping all over me? You’re lovin’ it, doll. You’re lovin’ how I’m stretchin’ you out.” 

Your moans grew louder, more desperate, every inch of you unraveling under his relentless pace. He held your hips so hard you knew he’d leave bruises, pounding into you like he wanted to brand himself inside your body.

“Good girl—fuck, you’re my good girl,” his hips moving rougher and sloppier. “Fuck. So much better than the videos, huh?” 

“Oh my god,” you cursed, your face pushed up against the pillow. “I… can’t—gonna… gonna cum—” your walls fluttered and clenched down on him so tightly as you let your release take over you. 

“Jesus—fuck, sweetheart—” he snarled, hips snapping erratically as he buried himself to the hilt. “Fuck, fuck! Shit… fuck.” His cock pulsed deep inside you, and with a final shuddering thrust he spilled into you, filling you full with hot, warm and thick seed. 

The room was filled with the sound of your ragged moans and his guttural curses, both of you trembling through the aftershocks.

Bucky slumped forward, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his lips brushing the side of your damp and sweaty neck. “That’s it… that’s my girl. Took me so good.”

You were still trembling, your body sensitive and aching, when Bucky finally eased himself out of you with a slow, careful pull. You whined softly at the loss, burying your face into the sheets.

“Easy, doll,” he hushed, his voice husky but gentle. His big hands smoothed over your hips, down your thighs, rubbing away the tension he’d left behind. “You did so good for me. I’m so proud of you.”

You turned your head slightly, catching his smug little grin as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your damp temple.

“Messy bed, messy girl,” he teased lowly, though his tone held nothing but warmth. He brushed your hair back from your flushed face and tucked it gently behind your ear. “Knew you were my number one fan for a reason.”

Despite your exhaustion, a shy laugh escaped you, your chest fluttering at his words. 

“You’re… so full of yourself,” you mumbled weakly. “H-how did I do…?” 

“You did so fucking good, sweetheart. Shit, I remember when I was a virgin too, baby,” he chuckled, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “I was a whimpering, sensitive mess. But fuck, I had so much fun ruining you.” 

Your face flushed hot, nuzzling your nose in his chest out of embarrassment. 

He laughed softly, holding you tighter. “Get some rest, princess. We’ll go back for your groceries later.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh again, small and breathless, before your eyes fluttered shut, comforted by his large hands on your waist and the warmth of his body wrapped around yours.

Days passed, and Bucky kept his promise. The video never showed up online. 

He went back to posting his weekly content, but this time, there was something different. In one of his recent uploads, a faint audio clip played in the background as he stroked himself for the camera.

Your moans.

His grunts.

He never showed the footage on screen, but the audio was enough. Enough for you to recognize yourself, enough to leave you trembling in your chair, your fingers buried between your thighs. The thought of him getting off to your body, your sounds, over and over—it made you fall apart embarrassingly fast.

You slumped back in your chair now, thighs trembling, breath uneven as you dragged your hand away from your thighs. For a moment you just sat there, dazed, staring at the frozen video frame on your laptop.

Then a notification blinked in the corner of the screen. 

You clicked it.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Hey, doll. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing…

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Can’t stop watching that little video we made. But I dropped the camera right before I got to stuff your pussy full of my cum.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: How about we try filming another one? 

[superbassbuck]

one hundred sleepless nights [mini series—masterlist]

Warnings: 18+, noncon, smut with a sprinkle of plot, p in v, stockholm syndrome, kidnapping, brainwashed bucky, confinement, dacryphilia, angsty, dirty talk, coercion, manipulation, guilt-tripping. please tread carefully.

You were nothing more than Hydra’s gift to the Winter Soldier, a prize he claimed after every mission, a toy to use as he pleases. But when the base collapses in chaos, you brace for him to finally cast you aside. Instead, he makes a choice so unexpected it shatters everything you thought you knew.

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i. "the chain" (tws) ii. "keeps us together" (cw)

[superbassbuck]

one hundred sleepless nights

ii. "keeps us together" || part one || masterlist

civil war!dark!bucky x f!reader

Warnings: 18+, noncon, smut with a sprinkle of plot, p in v, stalking, brainwashed bucky, guilt, hurt/no comfort, coercion, dirty talk, manipulation, panic attack, hyperventilation. please tread carefully.

Summary: After three months of hiding since Hydra fell, he thought he had finally rid himself of you. But when he runs into you at a market in Bucharest, the Winter Soldier programming in his mind kicks in instinctively, urging him to claim you as his once again.

Word Count: 3.8k

Your mind was now fractured and broken. Since your escape—or rather, since the soldier let you go—you’ve been on a painful journey, gathering your shattered pieces and trying to put yourself back together one by one.

Three months into your freedom, the headlines exploded. Captain America had gone against the Winter Soldier, and in the process brought down Hydra—and S.H.I.E.L.D along with it.

The man you once knew as the Winter Soldier was revealed to be James Buchanan Barnes, a soldier who had fought alongside Steve Rogers before Hydra captured and twisted him into their deadliest weapon.

When his familiar face appeared on the screen—the same face that haunted you both in dreams and in waking life—your body froze with fear. Since then, you’ve only seen him through television reports and newspaper clippings. 

Every article said the same thing. 

The Winter Soldier vanished after the battle, a deadly ghost still running free.

Now the thought that stalks you day and night, is what would you do if you saw him again? Would you turn and flee? Would you regret not pulling the trigger when you had the chance, when he handed you his own gun?

Or would you stay rooted to the ground, unable to see the monster that abused you, and instead see the broken boy Hydra had stolen—tortured and used, just as you had been?

When Hydra fell, so did their files. Among the wreckage were documents proving you had been forced into serving the Winter Soldier for his “pleasure.” The release of those records left you feeling reeled and… utterly alone.

You half-expected sympathy—maybe even pity. And in truth, you craved it. You wanted people to comfort you—someone, anyone to tell you that you’ll be okay. But the world is cruel. Instead, some people saw your face and branded you nothing more than a killer’s whore.

Bucharest was meant to be a fresh start. A city large enough to disappear in, yet quiet enough to keep to yourself. You rented a small apartment above a cluster of grocers, where no one asked questions or even looked your way. But despite that, the silence was a gift. It was better than the judgemental stares, the whispers, or the endless questions about Hydra that you had no answers for. 

You found work cleaning rooms in a dingy hotel—a job that kept your hands busy and your mind mercifully blank. You didn’t need to speak the language, and no one cared about who you had been before. But with each small step forward, that dreadful shadow of your past trailed with you—looming over you from behind. 

You were only able to sleep with the lights on, and even then you woke up in a cold sweat, clutching at yourself and checking if your clothes were still on. You looked around the bed frantically, trying to silently reassure yourself that the soldier wasn’t there, laying beside you. 

Getting through the nights was the hardest, but at least your days were busy enough to distract you. It was a Saturday when you found yourself at the market, crowded as always. You liked it that way, losing yourself in the chatter of voices, the shuffle of footsteps, the comfort of being hidden.

You stood at a vegetable stall, weighing potatoes in your palm, when someone brushed past your shoulder. The contact made you flinch. You turned, but the man kept his head down. 

Dark jacket. Baseball cap pulled low. Backpack strapped across his chest. 

You shrugged and kept to yourself, but what you didn’t realize was that the man who lingered just a few steps away, kept stealing glances from beneath the brim of his cap.

Bucky swallowed hard, his gaze tracing the familiar slope of your arms—arms he had once bruised with his grip and lovemarks. His eyes followed the line of your neck, remembering the way his fingers wrapped around it, the way his mouth had marked it. Then his focus dropped to your lips.

Your lips. The same ones that once moaned for him, cried for him, begged him to stop. Now, they were asking casual questions about produce, and it made his chest tighten, his cock twitch, his pulse quicken.

The man at the stall he was hovering by was trying to get Bucky’s attention, but his eyes were still stuck on you. When you adjusted your bag and turned to leave, he followed. He took quiet steps, trailing you through the streets, past corners and alleys, until you reached your small apartment.

He stayed far enough behind to remain unnoticed. Years of training had made him a ghost when he wanted to be. You didn’t hear him when you unlocked your door. You didn’t hear him break in seconds after, slipping in silently the moment the shower faucet turned on.

Now, he stood in your living room, still as stone. 

Waiting. Watching.

He didn’t know what he’d say to you when you stepped out. Would guilt make him apologize?

But guilt wasn’t the only thing in his chest. His body naturally ached for something else. The soldier inside him didn’t crave forgiveness or closure. He wanted your body again. 

He wanted you. 

After your shower, your bare feet padded into the hallway, tugging the towel tighter around your body. Drops of water clung to your skin, your hair still damp as you hummed softly to yourself. You stepped into the living room, then froze.

He was there.

The man from the market. The soldier.

He stood in your living room, those familiar broad shoulders shadowed by the dim light, his eyes stared down at you, completely unreadable. 

For one fragile and tortuous second, you couldn’t move. You thought you were free. You thought that you finally left the nightmare behind. No more being his. No more being the Winter Soldier’s whore. 

But freedom had been an illusion. And here he was, tearing it apart.

“Wh—what are you doing here?” the question slipped out, thin and broken, your voice betraying the fear you fought hard to swallow.

His head lifted towards you, those sharp blue and scary eyes catching the light. He stepped forward, then paused, raising his flesh hand slowly, palm up steady as if he was trying to soothe you. Your gaze naturally darted to the other hand—gloved, concealed, yet you could still feel and taste the metal that’s hiding beneath it. 

“Don’t,” he rasped out, his voice low. “Don’t be scared. I’m not here to hurt you.”

He claims he’s not here to hurt you, yet all you knew being around him was hurt. 

You clutched the towel tighter against your chest, silently cursing yourself for being caught in such a vulnerable state—even though none of this was your fault. With a pounding heart, you took a cautious step back.

“I… I had to see you,” he said, taking a step closer as you took another one back. “I don’t even know if I should’ve come. But I couldn’t stay away.”

Couldn’t stay away.

You knew what that meant. You knew what it implied.

Back in your cell, the walls echoed with your screams as he came to you only to take, to break, to claim your body until your mind shattered piece by piece. That’s what it means to not be able to stay away.

And now, in this quiet town you’d hidden yourself in, he had found you again.

Your devil.

“Please,” you whispered, voice trembling. “You don’t have to do this anymore. H–Hydra’s gone… you’re free now.”

The words spilled out desperate and pleading. You searched his face, hoping—begging—for him to hear you. The way he spoke now was different than before, different from when he’d been Hydra’s weapon. There was a hitch in him, a hesitation.

He paused. His expression shifted, a slight frown and his eyebrows furrowing—the same expression you’d seen once before, in the moment he let you go.

“I’m not free,” he mumbled so quietly, it was like he was speaking to himself. 

Your chest tightened. But that was something. A crack in the soldier’s shell. Something you could work with. After all, you knew what it meant to be a prisoner. You two were different sides of the same coin—kidnapped, broken down, used by monsters.

You swallowed hard and forced yourself to take a small, careful step forward.

“W–we’re the same, you know? You… you don’t have to do this. I don’t even know why you’re here, or what you plan to do to me, but you don’t have to use me anymore. You can just…” your throat tightened, the words trembling out of you, “…leave. I’ll pretend you were never here. You can just turn around and walk away.”

Your voice cracked, timid and thin, and you hated yourself for how small you sounded as you tried to talk your way out of this. 

“Just leave, okay, James? Th–that’s your name, isn’t it? I… I saw it on the news.”

His shoulders stiffened at the sound of his name. Slowly, he stood up straighter, eyes locking onto yours. Just the look of his cold eyes alone was enough to knock the wind out of your lungs. Every instinct screamed at you to run, towel be damned, but your body refused. You stayed. Because you knew what he was capable of. 

Even here, under your own roof, he held the power.

Three months of hiding without your body to use did a number on him, hollowing him out. 

He knew it was wrong—God, it was so fucking wrong—but the wanting never stopped, and he didn’t know why. At night, he dreamed of you, his body betraying him, craving you. 

And now that you were in front of him again, his whole body burned—stiff with restraint, hot with need. A part of him wanted to hold you, to whisper how sorry he was for everything. But the stronger part ached to pull you in, rip that towel away, and take back what he’d lost the night he let you escape.

It was wrong. So utterly wrong. But it felt carved into him—like the Winter Soldier had been programmed to claim you.

“I couldn’t help it,” he rasped, voice fraying. “I saw you and… it’s like something in my head tells me to come to you.”

He stepped forward. You took one step back. 

“I want to apologize,” he continued, his voice unsteady. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what you’ve been through. For what I’ve done to you.”

He took another step closer. This time, you didn’t move.

“I don’t think I could just let you go without saying it. I know I don’t deserve forgiveness, but…” his voice dropped even lower and rougher, as though the words themselves dragged against him.

You said nothing. You didn’t even know what to say. Ironic, really—how you used to beg for him to speak to you back in your cell, and now that he stood here apologizing, your voice failed you.

“Can… can I hold you?” he asked, the words trembling and heavy. “Just once more. One last time. After that, I’ll go. I’ll leave you alone. Forever. You won’t have to see me again. You’ll never even know I was here.”

You didn’t know if you could believe him. God, you wanted to—you were desperate for him to be out of your life forever. But hadn’t he let you go once before? And still, here he was. If he could hand you freedom once and take it back, what was to stop him from doing it again?

But still. You wanted to believe him. Just one embrace. That was all he claimed to need to finally release you. 

One hug… and then you’ll truly be free. 

Your feet started moving before you could think. Slow, cautious steps carried you forward until you were standing right in front of him, towel clutched tight against your body. He raised his arms stiffly, like he was silently asking if you were sure this was okay. 

When he pulled you in, it was hesitant—awkward, almost human. His chin dropped, breath brushing the crown of your damp hair. For a long second, it felt like the kind of embrace he might have given if life had been different. 

If neither of you had been broken.

But the longer he held you, the less it felt like an apology.

His grip tightened around your waist, practically crushing you against his strong chest. He inhaled you, his chest rising and falling against you—harder and rougher like he was struggling to keep control. 

“God,” he murmured against your hair. “I can’t get enough of you.” 

You shuddered in his arms, the towel slipping against your damp skin. You pressed lightly at his chest.

“O-okay, that’s enough—”

“Just a little longer, baby,” he cut you off, his grip tightening. “Your soldier needs this.”

Your eyes widened as his hands began to roam, rough against the thin fabric, the towel rustling under his touch. His breathing grew heavier, chest rising hard against yours, until you felt the unmistakable press of his arousal straining through his pants.

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Please. Let go of me.” 

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” his head shook slowly, his nose brushing through your damp hair. “My body craves you. It always has. I let you go once, that was mercy. This…” his voice dropped, almost reverent, “…this is my reward. The soldier always gets his reward.”

A cold chill ran through you as his hands left your hips, sliding up until both circled your throat. Pressure built around the fragile column of your neck.

You pushed your hands harder against him, gasping. “No, stop! You don’t have to do this anymore!”

“Don’t scream too loud, baby,” he murmured. “I could snap this pretty neck of yours in an instant. You remember that, don’t you?”

Your throat bobbed against his palm as you swallowed hard, eyes squeezing shut to keep the tears from spilling.

“Please. Don’t do this. Don’t do this…” you cried. “You said you would go.” 

The words trembled out of your mouth like a prayer with no hope of being answered.

He gazed down at you, thumb stroking your jawline—what was supposed to be a soothing gesture felt like a cruel mockery. 

“I know, angel. I know. But I just need you one last time,” his voice softened to a whisper, coaxing, poisonous. “Then I’ll set you free. I promise.”

The false promise rang in your ears. You didn’t dare meet his eyes—those blue eyes that had been dragged through hell and back, through Hydra’s torture. Eyes that had once spared you.

You hated this. Hated yourself for standing frozen instead of screaming, for trembling instead of fighting. But if he let you live before… maybe he would again. Maybe if you endured, if you gave him what he wanted, he would finally leave you alone.

So you told yourself you’d survive this, just once. 

And then you’ll finally get your freedom. 

“You… you promise?” 

“With everything I have, angel.” 

But you knew how hollow those words were. He was a man running, a man who barely recognized his own name, a man without a home. In truth, he had nothing. Nothing to sacrifice.

“And you’ll leave me alone? Forever?”

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice low and rough. One hand moved gently under your chin, tipping your head upward. “Open your eyes.”

You remembered the last time he barked those same words in your cell, but this wasn’t the same. His tone was softer, coaxing, as if he were luring you into a trap.

Slowly, reluctantly, you blinked your eyes open, one hand clinging to your towel, the last scrap of modesty you had left.

His eyes drifted down to your towel. “Take it off,” he ordered. 

You shook your head, breath shaking. “I… I don’t want to—”

His grip on your throat tightened, just enough to make you gasp again. His face hovered close, voice sharp as a blade.

“I said take it off. Now.”

Your hand trembled as you loosened your grip and let the towel slip down. It fell to the floor, pooling at your feet. You kept your gaze on him, fighting every instinct to turn away. Because if you did, you knew you’d be in trouble. 

His face remained unreadable as his eyes moved down slowly. Then his hand moved, rough fingertips brushing along your fragile neck before gliding even lower. He traced the hollow of your collarbone, pausing at the soft curve of your breast, and you shivered under his touch.

“You’ve got goosebumps,” he murmured, tracing slowly over your hardened nipple. “I know you’re nervous… but we’ve done this plenty of times before, haven’t we?”

Your breath hitched in your throat. You didn’t trust yourself to speak. And it didn’t seem like he was waiting for a response anyway.

A low and amused hum escaped his lips as his fingers circled and teased, tugging lightly with unexpected care. The softness unsettled you. He was never gentle like this with you in the cell.

“You always begged me to be gentle,” he said, his breathing getting heavier. “So I’ll give it to you gently this time. Just like you wanted.”

Hearing him speak this much was strange.

Back in your prison, his words had been rough, sharp, and commanding. Now they were quiet and… almost soft. And it was worse, because it sounded like a twisted imitation of kindness. Whatever part of him that wasn’t The Winter Soldier anymore was still broken and fractured.

“Just… please make it quick,” you pleaded. 

He glanced at you, his brow twitching slightly in annoyance. “I can’t do that, sweetheart.”

His hands slid lower, gripping your waist and pulling you snug against him. “I haven’t seen you in months. I need to take my time… savor you… before I leave you for good.”

Before you could say anything, his mouth crashed onto yours, his tongue forcing its way past your lips. He said he would take his time, yet he kissed you like there was no more time left in the world—tasting, consuming, devouring—until his hunger overtook every emotion. 

His hands tightened on your waist, forcing you to stay still. You stayed rigid, unresponsive, until he arms shifted and lifted you easily by your hips. His gloved left hand—the one you remembered was metal—steadied you effortlessly against his chest, while his flesh hand hooked beneath your thigh, spreading your leg to wrap around his waist.

You clung to his shoulders instinctively as your body was being carried helplessly down the hall toward your bedroom. He lowered you onto the mattress slowly, his lips never leaving yours, claiming you with every breath.

When he finally pulled back, he stood at the edge of the bed, staring down at you with ravenous eyes.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” he ordered, peeling off his jacket. 

Then his henley. Boots. Belt. Pants. 

Until at last, he was completely bare before you.

For the first time, you saw him stripped of his gear, stripped of the leather and belts that had always shielded him. Scars marred the place where flesh met metal. His chest was broad and scarred, his arms large, and his legs sturdy.

And his cock—hard, leaking, and eager—ready to take you once again. 

He stepped closer to you, his eyes lingering on your body.

“You’ve taken good care of yourself,” he muttered. “I’m… happy for you.”

His knees sank into the mattress as he crawled towards you, eyes burning with unsatisfied hunger. His hand slid along your side, pausing at your waist.

“You’ve been eating right. Better than whatever they fed you back in your cell. I can see it in your curves… like here,” his fingers squished down on the soft flesh of your hip, “...and here.” He squeezed at your bare leg.  

You whimpered at the contact—a small, helpless sound that made his cock twitch against your thigh.

He groaned low in his chest, grabbing his cock and giving a few rough pumps before dragging his tip along your reluctantly slick folds. The faintest brush of your warmth against him had his breath stuttering, his whole body shaking like he might lose control right there. This—this heat, this softness—was what exactly he’s been starving for.

“When I fuck you,” he rasped, voice heavy with hunger, “I don’t want to hear ‘soldier’ anymore. Not even James,” his gaze locked on yours. “You’ll call me by my real name. Bucky. Understand?”

You nodded weakly, but his eyes narrowed.

“Say it.”

“I… I understand, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

A satisfied sigh escaped him as he pushed forward, slowly forcing himself past your entrance. The stretch made him grunt, his cock throbbing hard inside your tight and warm walls.

“Fuck,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “After all the times I had you in that cold cell, you’re still so goddamn tight. Like this little pussy was made to take my cock and mine only.”

You whimpered beneath him, your body trembling against the mattress as the bedframe creaked under each thrust. One of his hands pinned firmly to your hip, steadying you, while the other roamed your body—grabbing, groping, desperate to feel every inch of you.

At first, he moved slowly, his hips rocking against yours. But you can tell with the way his jaw clenched and his arms flexed that he was holding himself back. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your temple softly. 

“Gentle… just like I promised,” he murmured softly, yet there is a strain in his voice. 

The longer he stayed buried inside you, the more his restraint unraveled. His thrusts grew heavier, his breath harsher against your ear. The poor bed groaned louder, as though it might give out at any moment.

“I’m sorry, angel,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours. His words shook with guilt, but his body betrayed him, driving faster, harder. “I’m… trying. I swear, I’m trying—but I can’t. I can’t stop.”

You gasped when his hand gripped your thigh, hauling it upward and angling your hips. His cock slid deeper, impossibly so, forcing you to take every thick inch. Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, clinging to him as his pace pushed you further into the mattress.

Every movement was filled with borderline desperation. 

“Fuck,” he grunted, hips snapping hard against yours. “Too rough—I know. I know. But I need you… I need you too much.”

His words slurred together as he continued rutting inside you, his hips moving with a litany of guilt and desire. You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your lips together to keep yourself from spilling out any noise. 

“Look at me,” he ordered when he noticed your eyes were shut. “Eyes. On. Me.” 

You opened your eyes reluctantly—dazed and trembling. He let out a wicked grin at the sight, his chest heaving and his pupils blown wide. He rolled his hips, making you whimper again. 

“Good girl,” he breathed. “You remember how to take me.”

“Y-you said you’d be gentle…” you whimpered, tears spilling down your cheeks as he slammed into you. 

His face twisted into a snarl. “I know, angel,” he groaned, his thrusts growing rougher and deeper. “I know I promised. I’m sorry—I can’t stop. I can’t.”

Your body shook beneath him, every punishing drive making the bedframe rattle even more. His flesh hand clamped down hard on your thigh, forcing your legs wider, forcing you to take him to the hilt.

“I shouldn’t be doing this to you,” he rasped, voice breaking even though his pace turned merciless. “But I need you. God, I need you. It’s like my body remembers you… programmed to claim you… no matter how much I fight it.”

You gasped as he rutted harder, his cock digging deep inside against your tight walls. His metal hand pinned your wrist above your head. His chest heaved, his eyes dark and wild, but also wet with guilt.

“Fuck,” he groaned, shaking his head, his thrusts savage despite the apologies spilling from his lips. “I’m hurting you, I know I am. I’m sorry, angel—so fucking sorry—but I can’t slow down. I can’t stop needing you.”

His mouth crashed against yours in a desperate, devouring kiss, like as if kissing you would make you forgive him. 

His thrusts turned frantic, every snap of his hips were hard and rough, like he was punishing himself as much as he was using you. 

“C-can’t stop… I can’t stop wanting you,” he gasped. “It’s been too damn long, baby. Too fucking long—” 

“Angel…” his voice cracked as he rutted deeper, his metal hand forcing your hips still against the mattress. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—but I need to finish inside you. I need to claim you one more time.”

Your body arched beneath him, his cock stretching you, filling you until all you could do was whine and groan beneath the weight of him. “P-please… just hurry up!” 

His thrusts started getting sloppy and messy, his pace completely losing rhythm as his dark mind took control. His jaw clenched, his eyes squeezing shut as his hips slammed into you one last time—bottoming out completely. 

A loud and broken groan escaped his lips, his cock twitching and pulsing deep inside you as his release flooded into your tight walls. The warmth spread through your core, and you felt utterly full and disgusted.

His body slumped against yours, his hold on you softening just slightly.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice raw with guilt. “Forgive me—I couldn’t let you go without leaving a part of me inside you.”

You couldn’t breathe. Your chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven pants. Your trembling hands pressed against his strong bare chest, weakly trying to push him away even though he was still buried deep inside you. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but his words were lost in the ringing in your ears. You shook your head, sobs tearing free as your body shook violently beneath him.

Then his arms gathered you close, pulling you tight against him. He tried to rock you gently, but your body remained stiff, broken. He murmured against your ear, words you couldn’t catch—or tried to tune out. You didn’t know. 

You felt wet kisses trace your hair, your temple, your cheeks. But your body reeled at the contact. 

Little by little, exhaustion took over. Your eyelids grew heavy, your sobs softened, and your trembling eased. Your breathing slowed. His arms never loosened. He cradled you, rocking you gently until sleep finally claimed you.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, even though you were long gone in unconsciousness. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

When you finally woke up, the room was silent and cold. His warmth was gone, his presence erased.

Only the faint imprint of his body remained in the sheets, the lingering scent of sex in the air a haunting reminder. Your body still bare, still trembling from the night, proof that he had been here.

And then, just like a deadly ghost, he was gone.

[superbassbuck]

one hundred sleepless nights

i. "the chain" || part two || masterlist

winter soldier!dark!bucky x f!reader

Warnings: 18+, noncon, smut with a sprinkle of plot, p in v, stockholm syndrome, kidnapping, brainwashed bucky, confinement, dacryphilia, angsty, degradation, dirty talk. please tread carefully.

Summary: Your only purpose is to serve as a reward for the Winter Soldier. Each time he completes a successful mission, Hydra delivers him to you, and he uses you however he pleases. But when the other super soldiers wreak havoc and the base falls apart, you expect the cold and heartless Winter Soldier to finally dispose of you. Instead, you’re left reeling. Because you never anticipated what he would do next.

Word Count: 3.3k

You had been confined in a Hydra base for what felt like a hundred nights. But in truth, you lost count after day sixty-three.

Every night since your capture, they locked you in a freezing cell—nothing but a toilet in one corner, a thin mattress and a chain in the other. They fed you, they cleaned you, they kept you alive—though only in the way captors keep their prisoners alive.

You still remembered the first night they brought you in. Hours of crying and screaming had left your throat raw before you finally slumped in exhausted defeat. You thought those moments would be your last—until the heavy metal door creaked open.

A tall figure stepped inside, the glint of a metal arm catching in the dim light. You shot to your feet, begging and pleading for your life. The guard spoke to him in Russian, words you didn’t understand. But the soldier’s eyes never left yours. When the guard left, shutting the door with a cold metallic clang, the air in the cell grew heavier and scarier. 

“Please,” you pleaded to the soldier as he approached you slowly, but it seemed to fall on deaf ears. 

Maybe he couldn’t understand you. 

“Please don’t do this. Just let me go. I won’t tell a soul—”

But before you could finish your words, he was already pouncing on you. He ripped through your clothes like it was paper. You tried to cover your body with your arms but he’d only grab them roughly and pried them away. He grabbed the chains and used them against you. He ignored your cries when he threw you on the mattress, forcing your legs apart and sinking deeper and deeper inside your unwilling cunt.

And from that day onward, The Winter Soldier came to you every night after every mission—ready to claim his reward.

Sometimes his presence was terrifying, but sometimes… they were confusing. 

There were nights where he said nothing at all. Nights where he would simply remove his clothes, sit beside you, and hold you in silence until he fell asleep. But by morning, he would always be gone.

It wasn’t until three months into your captivity that you realized he spoke and understood English. One night, after you had begged for him to be gentle, you heard his voice for the first time—low, quiet, and unexpectedly human.

“Please,” you whimpered. “I can’t, soldier. I-it’s too big!”

Some nights you would beg for mercy, some nights you would just be silent and take what you were given. But your body was so sore and aching from the brutal pounding the night before—you felt like you couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Soldier, I can’t—” you cried out, clinging onto him tighter. “Please!”

You knew it was meaningless. You’ve cried, kicked, and begged before, and every single time he didn’t pull away. At this point, all the yelling and fighting was just a coping mechanism for you—a pity way to mask the reluctant moans that threatened to escape your lips every time he took you.

Then his voice came in. It was the first time he spoke, and at first, you thought you were imagining it. 

“I know,” he murmured, brushing a hand against your hair in a gesture at odds with the tight grip he had on your thighs. “Just a little longer, okay? I need this.”

You froze, staring up at him—unsure of what unsettled you more. The fact that he understood every word you’d ever said and ignored you… or that he’d chosen this very moment to answer.

“You… understand me?” 

He looked you in the eyes, and for a second, you think he might actually pull away. But instead, his grip on your thigh tightened and his other hand twisted deeper into your hair. His body enveloped yours entirely as he leaned over, his breath hot against your neck as he pressed sloppy and wet kisses. Suckling. Biting. Surely leaving marks and claiming you as his. 

“Wait!” you shoved weakly at his shoulders, a desperate attempt to put space between you. But instead, he grabbed your thigh and hiked it over his shoulder, giving him the angle to plunge into you even deeper. “Ah!” 

He let out a low groan at the tight and warm feel of you—your pussy squelching helplessly around him as you’re forced to take every thick inch of him. 

“Hold still,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. “Can’t—can’t fuck you properly if you don’t hold still.” 

His breathing is heavy and labored against your neck, his heavy balls were slapping against your bare ass, his hold on your leg was tight—all of it combined were overwhelming your senses. Your bodies were hot and sweaty, yet your blood ran cold in fear.

“Please,” you squirmed beneath him, desperation in your voice. “You’re hurting me—”

His hand came up from your thigh to your neck, fingers pushing up against the smooth column roughly as he held you down against the mattress. With one hand still in your hair, the other around your neck, and his entire body swallowing yours—it was a losing battle you were never destined to win. 

The least you could hope for was for him to listen to you. 

“Soldier! I can’t—slow down… it hurts—” 

“Shut up,” he growled. “You’ve taken my cock plenty of times before. You can do it again.” 

One thing about the Winter Soldier was that he didn’t like being ordered around while he was claiming his prize. In this cell, in this very moment, he was the one in charge. There were no orders for him to follow for once—and he sure as hell wasn’t going to listen to you. Not especially since you belonged to him. 

You whimpered and cried beneath him, tears rolling down your cheeks and onto the mattress as he rutted into you like a beast in heat. 

“P-please,” you begged, your voice wheezing out pathetically.

“Keep begging,” he grunted. His cock throbbed and twitched in pleasure after every whimper and whine. “Fuck. I love it when you beg… makes my dick s’fucking hard.” 

He angled his hips slightly, hitting that sweet and sensitive spot deep inside you with his weeping tip. Your walls instinctively clenched down on him as you pressed your lips together and squeezed your eyes shut—trying to drown the moans that threatened to slip out. 

“Fuck!” he barked out. “Your pussy is taking me in so sweetly, baby. I can’t get enough.” 

You couldn’t help the broken whimper and pathetic sobs that came out after being pet-called. Before this, he never spoke. He only grunted, moaned, and snarled. You never expected to hear the word ‘baby’ ever escape his lips.

His hand came down from the locks of your hair to your face, rubbing the tears and smearing them all over your cheek. “That’s it,” he growled, thrusting into you even harder. “Cry for me, baby. Cry for your soldier.” 

He leaned down, pressing kisses all over your face. You tried to pry yourself away from him, but his hand cupped your cheeks—squishing them roughly and forcing you to look at him. 

“Stop looking away. Look at me, baby. I want to see your pretty eyes wet with tears,” he grunted, his patience wearing thin as you continued to defy him. “Dammit. I said stop—fuck.” 

“Let me go! Please—!” 

His grip on your cheeks tightened. “Look at me, goddammit!” he screamed in your face. 

You flinched hard, shrinking deeper into the mattress with fear. You rarely hear him talk, much less raise his voice. His hips stilled inside you, and his grip on your cheeks softened just barely. He let out a sigh—and you couldn’t tell if it was a sigh of sympathy or annoyance.

“I could easily snap this pretty neck of yours,” he warned dangerously, “but I won’t—because I need your body nice and warm for me. So if you want to make this easier for yourself, you’re going to do as I say. Got it?” 

His other hand lingered around your neck, pressing his fingertips deeper into your skin—a warning. You whimpered, and his cock twitched inside you.

“Tell me you’re sorry.” 

You swallowed hard and looked up at him in fear. “I’m sorry.” 

He hummed in approval, but you could tell that he wasn’t satisfied. 

“Tell me you’re sorry for being such a disobedient slut,” he growled, his face getting closer and his grip on your throat getting tighter.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped, your small hand encircling his wrist, trying to pry it away. “I’m sorry for being such a disobedient slut—I’m so sorry!” 

A deep, threatening chuckle escaped his lips as he slowly ground his hips against yours, his cock twitching at the friction from your silky and tight walls.

“That’s right, baby. You should be sorry. You should be sorry for having such a tight fucking body. You should be sorry for being so damn irresistible,” he moved his hips faster, fucking you with newfound vigor. 

“Every time I’m sent on those damn missions, the only thing I can think about is getting back to your cell…” he grunted as your walls tightened down on him, “and fucking you senseless, over and over again until your body’s had enough.” 

He let out a hiss as your sobbing cunt pulsed and ripped around him—tightening against his thick shaft as he rutted into you. He brought his hand down between your sweat-slicked bodies, his rough fingertips finding your clit and rubbing it in quick circles. 

“I—I can’t… soldier–!” you whined as you held onto his shoulders for support, feeling yourself come undone around his cock. 

“Oh fuck, there you go…” he moaned, grinning as you sobbed harder and struggled beneath him. “Take it, baby. Take every fucking inch of me. Fuck… gonna cum—your soldier’s gonna cum!” 

A hard sob choked out of you the minute he slammed into you with one final, brutal thrust. His hips jerked and spasmed as he filled you up completely—hot, thick, ropes of his seed trickled down your puffy, swollen lips and seeped onto the mattress. His heavy body slumped against yours with a tired sigh, his face burying into the crook of your neck. 

By now, he would zip himself up and leave without a second glance. But this time, he remained still on top of you, his cold metal fingers brushing along your jaw in a way that you think is supposed to be comforting, but it doesn’t feel like it at all. 

“Good girl,” he breathed into your neck.

He wasn’t one to give you aftercare when he finishes. The most he’ll do is hold you close against him and fall asleep, but most times he’d leave. You’re not sure if you like this or not. You sniffled as you tried to calm your breathing, and he tilted his head to press a kiss to your wet cheeks. 

“That’s it, let it all out, baby,” he cooed. “Such a perfect little prize for me.”

Since then, he’d been more vocal with you during his reward times—and you’d been trying, cautiously, to reach him with words. Every night when he came, you’d attempt some small exchange.

The metal door creaked open, then slammed shut. Heavy footsteps crossed the concrete toward your mattress. You looked up. His hair was matted with sweat and blood, his eyes dark and unreadable.

“Soldier…” you swallowed hard, your fists tightening around your nightgown. “H-how was your mission?”

He advanced on you as he always did, stopping right in front of you. You looked up at him—eyes soft and vulnerable while you waited for an answer. Instead, a low growl rumbled from his chest. His hands clamped around your face, pulling you in so abruptly your breath caught. His mouth crashed against yours in a rough, unyielding kiss. You muffled, trying to turn your head, but his arm slid around your waist, lifting you effortlessly before pinning you to the mattress.

He pulled away from you to lift the hem of your nightgown, baring your glistening wet folds to him. 

“Soldier… I’m just—trying to talk to you,” you said, voice trembling.

“No talking,” he groaned, pushing your legs apart and settling himself between them. He pulled back just slightly to unzip his pants. His cock sprang out—already hard, leaking, and heavy just for you. “Just need your body.” 

You tried to squeeze your legs together, but he grabbed your thighs roughly and forced them apart. 

“No, please—” 

“Just be good,” he hissed, stroking his shaft as he pressed his spongy tip against your tight little hole.

You gasped as he pushed past your entrance without warning. He shuddered as he felt your tight silky walls accommodating and stretching around him. “That’s it,” he encouraged, sinking deeper inside you. “Fuck, you feel so good.” 

“No, stop,” you choked out a sob. “Soldier, please. I beg of you. Just listen to me—” 

“Shut the hell up,” he interrupted by shoving his metal fingers into your mouth, muffling your cries. “Don’t say a single word.” He warned. “Suck on them.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as you began reluctantly sucking on his fingers—cold and metallic on your tongue. You don’t even want to know where they’ve been or what they’ve done. All you need to worry about now is what they’d do to you next if you don’t comply.

“Thats it,” he grunted as he brutally thrust into your dripping and clenching cunt. “That’s it. Suck on my fingers while I fill this greedy cunt with my seed.”

You choked and whimpered around his metal digits, and the sounds only inflamed his dark urges to claim you. He didn’t stop—couldn’t stop no matter how hard you begged or struggled. 

“So fucking good,” he moaned as he fucked you like a wild animal. “Shit, baby. Gonna cum… gonna… pump you full!”

He angled his hips and slammed his cock directly into your sweet spot. The sensitive bundle of nerves sent a jolt of electrifying pleasure all over your body. You arched your back and came undone reluctantly around his thick length, spilling all over him.

“Ah!” you choked around his fingers. “Mmmph!”

He let out a loud roar of pleasure as his cock pulsed and throbbed—he shuddered as scalding ropes of his thick cum painted your walls white deep inside your cunt. He removed his fingers from your mouth and slumped beside you, but didn’t pull out. He wrapped his strong arms around your waist and pulled you close against him.

You two laid like that for a quiet moment. You were expecting him to leave, but he didn’t. 

“Soldier…?” you tried, but there was no response.

“How was your mission?” you tried again. 

Silence.

“Did… did you kill people? I smell blood on you—”

“What did I say about not talking?” he interrupted you coldly. But despite his words, it seemed like he made no effort to actually stick through with his threats. 

You shifted beside him, trying to get comfortable. “What do you do on your missions?”

He didn’t answer.

You frowned. “Do you have a name, soldier?” 

You felt his arms tighten around your waist, and he held his breath for a second. You blink up at him and he has a dark and dangerous look in his eyes—but there was something beneath them that seemed sad… and kind of lonely. He pressed his lips together as he wrenched his arms away from your body, pulling his softening cock out of your swollen pussy with a wet squelch. 

“Soldier?” you whispered, your brows furrowing in confusion as he rose abruptly, zipping himself back up and pulling on his boots.

He gave you no answer, no acknowledgement. You laid there—sore, shaken—watching him prepare to leave in cold and sharp movements. When you asked for his name again, he didn’t even give you a second glance. 

The door pulled open, and a moment later, the slam of the metal echoed through the cell, leaving you alone in silence once again. 

Two, maybe three days passed. For the first time since your capture, the Soldier hadn’t come. The metal door stayed shut—opening only for food. Your nightgown remained untouched, unwrinkled, whole—for the first time in ages.

For the first time since your capture, you were left alone with your thoughts—and that, somehow, felt worse. You found yourself waiting for him despite yourself, every shift in the shadows making your chest tighten.

While you were sleeping on the cold and stiff mattress, the ground shuddered beneath you. Dust fell from the ceiling, and you snapped awake in a coughing fit. Distant shouts rang from down the corridor, harsh Russian, followed by the rapid cracks of what seemed like gunfire. 

An alarm blared, red light flooding the concrete walls of your cell. You scrambled to your feet, heart pounding in fear. The sounds outside grew louder—metal crashing, men screaming.

You tucked yourself into the corner, terror swallowing you whole. What the hell was going on out there? Did something go wrong? From the noise—crashing, gunfire, endless screaming—it sounded like the entire base was falling apart.

The door slammed open. Blinding light spilled into the cell, and you squinted against it, certain it was a guard come to finish you off.

“Please,” you begged, voice trembling. “Don’t kill me—”

Heavy boots pounded closer. A hand clamped around your wrist and yanked you forward. Wide-eyed, you looked up into the face you knew too well—the same long dark hair. The same haunted blue eyes. The soldier who came to you every night.

“Stay close,” he ordered, his voice like steel. “Keep your head down. Be quiet. And keep up.”

“What are you doing?” you gasped, stumbling against him. “Please—don’t hurt me—”

His grip only tightened. With his metal arm, he hauled you close to his chest like a shield and dragged you into the blinding chaos of the corridor.

You kept your head low as he instructed, but your gaze darted to the floor. Boots pounding. Bodies clashing. Guns firing. Guards collapsing one after another. Screams echoed down the corridor, words in Russian you couldn’t understand—likely calling for him. He ignored them all, pulling you along without hesitation.

“I’m scared,” you whispered against him, hoping he could hear you. “Where are you taking me?”

“Stop. Talking.” 

He didn’t slow until you reached an empty room. He shoved you inside, slammed the door, and locked it. Crossing to the far wall, he forced open a narrow window.

“W-what are you doing?” you stammered, hovering timidly.

Your breath caught when you glanced outside. For the first time in months, you caught a glimpse of the world beyond these walls.

Without warning, he scooped you up in his arms. In an instant, you were lifted through the window. When your bare feet touched the ground, you shuddered at the feel of grass—real grass—beneath your toes.

“Go,” he said coldly, nodding past you. “Run. Run as far as you can. Don’t turn back.”

You just stood there. His words processing in your mind.

Go? Go where? 

Where would you even run to? 

You clutched your nightgown. Your legs felt useless, your bottom lip trembling. “Are you… are you coming with me?”

The door behind him rattled under heavy blows, Russian voices barking commands.

“I said go!” he snapped, drawing a pistol from his belt and thrusting it into your shaking hands.

You grabbed it with clammy and hesitant hands. 

“Go,” he repeated again. “Go, or stay here forever and die. Your choice.” 

You hesitated, the weapon shaking. You could point it at him, end it all, avenge everything he had done to you. He knew you could do  it—yet he didn’t move.

“What’s your name?” you asked him suddenly. 

For the first time, his expression faltered—just slightly—before his face twisted into a snarl. Without answering, he slammed the window shut, retreating into the chaos behind him.

You were left with only your reflection in the glass, drowned by the sound of shouting and gunfire. With the pistol clutched tight in your hands, you turned on your bare heel and ran—ran until your lungs burned, ran until your weak legs gave out. Ran until the base was outside of view.

And still, you didn’t know the soldier’s name.