between walls of stone, i made my home.

rinnie *ੈ✩‧₊˚ — 26. — professor calamitous of writing.

[starsoverbrooklyn]

18+ only. for your own safety, please consume media responsibly and heed warnings tagged in reblogs/posts.

my heart yearns for writing, but my brain makes it a struggle. posts may reflect as such with 95% reblogs from reading/media and 5% writing of my own. but please accept my friendship as we spread our mutual love for fictional characters. ｡･:*˚:✧｡

frequent tags:

#fic rec *ੈ✩‧₊˚ — #thestarstalk ✧ — #askthestars ✧˖*

#sobhof ❥*˚:✧ — #to be read ˖*♡

coming soon…

[flowersforbucky]

mine

john walker x reader

the three times that john walker calls you his.

word count: 4.4k

warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni, smut, unprotected p in v, fingering, enemies to teammates to lovers, new avengers reader, ex widow reader, one random creepy dude, john being kinda possessive, some canon level violence, mention of alcohol, vague descriptions of injuries, no use of y/n, flashback in italics!

author’s note: saw someone on tiktok call walker “captain crashout” so i had to throw that in there. also, this is my first time writing smut for walker! will fix any mistakes later :)

The first time John Walker calls you his, it’s with a gun pressed to your temple.

He’s not even supposed to be here. None of these people are, except for you and the one you were sent to eliminate - the short blonde currently getting her ass handed to her by a bitch in some sort of fancy stormtrooper suit.

You had been so close, too. She’d be dead already if this giant oaf hadn’t messed up your shot. You’re only supposed to kill one person today, but if Dollar General Captain America doesn’t get out of your way, you’ll gladly make it two.

You roundhouse kick his gun out of his hand. It goes flying across the room, but he doesn’t even blink. By the time your foot is back on the ground, he’s already drawn another from his holster.

He growls, a noise of utter annoyance as he stalks toward you. You can’t deny that the sheer size of him is overwhelming. He’s a solid wall of muscle and fury, and each step he takes forces you back until your spine collides with the edge of a steel table. With you caged between his body and the table, he brings the barrel of the gun to the side of your head. Feral baby blues stare down at you.

“You’re not even my target!” You spit through gritted teeth.

“You’re mine.”

You tilt your head, lips curving into a sinister smile. He thinks he has you cornered, unaware that he’s exactly where you want him to be. A crackle of electricity bursts to life against his chest as you slam your hands upward, widow bites firing point-blank. His whole body jerks, muscles seizing and eyes wide in shock. He loses his grip on the gun, and it clatters against the floor just before he does.

You scoff, turning your attention back to your original target as he flails on the ground beside you.“Keep telling yourself that.”

That was six months ago to the day, and you still like to remind him just how goofy he looked flopping around on the floor like a fish out of water. You don’t feel the least bit bad about it, either.

Sure, Valentina had manipulated all of you. You had every intention of killing someone that day, too. You’re no better than him.

But he’s just so goddamn bossy and effortlessly irritating.

He shows up late to team meetings just to sit next to you on the already over-crowded couch in the briefing room because he knows it annoys you. He corrects your form in training exercises just because he likes the sound of his own voice. He rolls his eyes every time you call him Captain Crashout, but never once tells you to stop because he’s too arrogant to let you see that you’ve hit a nerve.

Every time the two of you start to make the slightest bit of progress towards tolerating each other, he does something that reminds you just how infuriating he is. He barely even has to try to get you riled up - and he knows it.

Just a few weeks ago, the team had been working a low stakes job outside of Denver when the two of you were tasked with keeping watch outside of the old warehouse that your teammates were scoping out.

Things had been going peachy until he leaned in, way too close, and flicked a finger against the strap of your vest.

“Loose,” he had muttered, ending the semi-comfortable silence between you.

You jerked back and yanked the strap tight yourself, glaring up at him. “I can manage my own gear.”

“Sure you can, sweetheart,” he said with that insufferable drawl, settling back against the wall with a satisfied smirk.

Sweetheart. It would be considered a term of endearment coming from some, but when he says it, it’s just condescending. You’re used to the smarmy pet name, though. The worst part is the smug little grin he wore afterwards. Like he knew damn well he’d gotten on your nerves, and enjoyed every second of it.

But as much as it irks you to admit, after months of living directly across the hall from each other, training together on every off day, and saving each other’s asses on missions more times than you can count over the last half year, you’ve acquired a certain level of trust for him.

Yet you still can’t bring yourself to consider him your friend. Yelena, Ava, Alexei, Bucky and Bob? They’re your friends. Mel, too. You make friends quite easily, actually.

Walker, though? The two of you are lucky to get through breakfast without throttling each other most days.

••••••

Valentina must really fucking hate you.

That goes without saying. She despises all of you - but she must really, really hate you in particular. There’s no other explanation for why Walker was selected to go on this mission with you.

Forget the fact that Bucky managed to keep his true identity a secret from the world for well over a half a century. Even Alexei has adequate experience in espionage. But for whatever reason, it has to be Walker, no matter his complete lack of experience with undercover ops.

Despite your protests, you’re both here - at a jam packed nightclub in the middle of downtown Atlanta.

The club is already vibrating by the time you and Walker slip inside, the bass from the music reverberating through the soles of your shoes as neon colored lights sweep over the bustling dance floor. Sweat, perfume, and cheap liquor hang in the air. It’s not exactly the kind of place you’d pick for a fun night out - but you aren’t here for fun.

You’re here for Marcus Santoro, the club’s owner, who is suspected of using his nightclubs across the southeastern United States as fronts for money laundering and illegal arms deals. Based on Valentina’s intel, Atlanta seems to be his home base.

“Can you at least try to look like you’re having a good time?” Walker practically shouts over the roar of the music. He leans down, right next to your ear so that you’re able to hear him. Even in the midst of dozens of people, you’re able to differentiate his cologne from anyone else’s. “Acting like you’re at a damn funeral instead of a nightclub.”

You shoot him a glare as you adjust the hem of your dress - a short, black sequined number that Valentina had insisted you wear. It happens to pair perfectly with the sleek yet casual suit that she’d picked for Walker. As weird as it is to see him in something other than tactical gear or workout clothes, you can’t deny that he looks stupidly handsome.

Not that you’d ever give him the satisfaction of knowing you think so. He couldn’t waterboard that information out of you.

“I’d rather be at a funeral,” you mumble, though you know he heard you with his heightened sense of hearing. “I wouldn’t be wearing this godawful dress.”

Walker’s mouth curves. It’s not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. It’s a familiar, cocky look that appears when he’s about to say something smug. His gaze drags down your dress and back up, just slow and deliberate enough to make your skin prickle, before they settle on your face again.

“Funny,” he says, close enough that his voice vibrates in your ear. “Godawful isn’t the word I’d used to describe you in that dress.”

Your jaw tightens, heat igniting in your chest. You tilt your head just enough to meet his gaze, your glare sharp enough to cut. You open your mouth to bite out a retort about not giving a damn what word he’d use, but he speaks again before you can get the words out.

“Santoro probably won’t show until closer to midnight,” he says as if he didn’t just make the back of your neck feel like it’s on fire with one provocative comment. “So unless you want to stand here scowling for the next few hours, I’m going to get us drinks.”

He doesn’t wait for your response. You track the back of his head and broad shoulders as he walks in the direction of the bar, irritation burning hot.

The bar is already swamped, forcing Walker to wedge himself between strangers as he leans an elbow on the counter. He glances back once, meeting your eyes across the distance, and for half a second you hear his comment about your dress replay in your head.

That was his goal, no doubt. You huff out a sharp breath, drag your gaze away, and fix it on the entrance to the club instead.

Focus on the job. Focus on Santoro. Not Walker. Not his stupid suit. Not how fucking good he smells. Not how pretty his blue eyes look in this lighting—

“Hey.”

The voice cuts through the thrum of bass, closer than you’d like. A tall man has sidled up to your table, his shirt half-unbuttoned and sweat gleaming on his skin under the neon lights. He leans an arm against the table, crowding your space with a cocky, half-drunk smile.

“You here alone?” He asks, his grin widening when you don’t answer right away. He shifts closer, the smell of liquor stout on his breath.

“No. Piss off.” You look past him, several yards away to where Walker stands at the bar. He’s facing away from you, oblivious to your current predicament as he speaks to the bartender.

“C’mon, don’t be like that.” His hand slides along the edge of the table, inching towards yours. “A girl like you shouldn’t be wasting her time standing here alone.”

Your grit your teeth and fight the urge to impale the fucker’s hand to the table. You have a knife located in the holster on your thigh - it would be too easy. He’s clearly inebriated and would never see it coming.

But starting a scene would tank the mission, and you’d never hear the end of it from Valentina.

The man leans in closer, his mouth uncomfortably close to your ear now. Bile rises in your throat at the unwanted heat of his breath. “I could take you upstairs,” he continues, his words half slurred. “Private booth. Less people. What do you say?”

Your patience fractures. You take a step sideways, putting a sliver of space between you, but he follows. His fingers brush your bare arm, light but possessive, and something inside you snaps taut.

“If you want to keep that hand,” you bite out, voice cold enough to slice through the blaring music, “I suggest getting far the fuck away from me.”

For the first time, he hesitates - then smirks, like he thinks you’re playing hard to get. “Feisty. I like that.” His hand starts to settle more firmly against your skin.

And that’s the exact moment a shadow looms at your side, broad and unmistakable. You don’t even have to look to know who it is; the shift in the man’s posture and the sudden unease in his eyes tells you enough.

“Maybe you didn’t hear her over the music,” Walker says, voice so calm that it’s unsettling. “She just told you to get your hand off of her.”

The man’s smirk falters. His hand withdraws instantly, though he tries to cover it with a nervous laugh. “Hey, man, no problem. Just talking—”

Walker steps in, close enough that the guy has to crane his neck to keep eye contact. He towers over the guy by nearly half a foot.

His tone doesn’t rise, but it tightens, his words clipped and certain. “She’s mine. Now you’ve got about two seconds to walk away before I stop being polite.”

The effect is immediate. He mutters something under his breath and disappears into the crowd before Walker can make good on his threat.

Walker just shakes his head and places the drinks on the table as if nothing had happened. “I walk away for two fucking minutes…”

“What the hell was that?” You demand.

Walker doesn’t flinch. He just takes a slow sip of his drink, watching you over the rim of the glass. When he finally lowers it, his mouth quirks into something dangerously close to a smirk.

“Relax. It was the easiest way to get rid of him without making a scene.” He shrugs, infuriatingly casual. “We’re undercover, remember?”

“Not necessarily as a couple.”

“What does it matter? It worked, didn’t it?” His eyes bore into yours, unreadable. “Would you have preferred it if I broke his nose? I can go find him and do that, if you think it’s a good idea.”

You roll your eyes, throwing back your own drink just to bite your tongue. You hate it, but he’s right. What does it matter? He handled the issue before it could escalate further. It’s not like he was literally staking some kind of claim over you.

Still, the words replay in your head for the rest of the night no matter how hard you try to focus on the task at hand.

She’s mine. You can’t help but picture the hard set of his jaw and his unflinching stare, but more than anything, it’s his tone that lingers. Ice cold and controlled, the words had come out of his mouth with alarmingly ease.

You remind yourself that it was purely tactical, but it gnaws at you long after the mission is complete and you’re hundreds of miles away from the nightclub. Even when you’re back at the Watchtower, and Walker is back to his typical, agitating self, the two words echo way louder than you care to admit.

••••••

“What the hell were you thinking back there?”

Walker’s voice booms from behind you as you turn the corner of the corridor. You knew it was coming, but you had hoped that he would at least wait until after you’ve had a chance to wash all of the blood and grime off of yourself before berating you.

You keep walking, ignoring the sting of your scraped palms where you caught yourself on broken concrete, ignoring the way your lungs burn from inhaling smoke and ash.

Ignore him. If you stop moving, if you look at him, you’ll have to deal with the fallout of what you just did.

But it plays on a loop in your head anyway.

The explosion. The chaos in the street. The terrified woman frozen in the middle of it, caught right in the crosshairs. The way her eyes locked with yours, wide and pleading, before instinct took over and you ran towards her.

You didn’t stop to consider the repercussions. You just grabbed her, shoved her behind cover, and risked taking the direct force of the blast yourself. If Walker hadn’t been there and slammed his shield between you and the second blast at the last possible second…

You grit your teeth and push the thought down. It doesn’t matter. She’s alive. Everyone’s okay. That’s what matters.

“Don’t walk away from me,” Walker snaps.

A large hand clamps around your arm, hard enough to stop you in your tracks. He drags you around to face him, all but shoving you up against the wall. “You came close to getting yourself killed.”

You attempt to wrench your arm away from him but his grip doesn’t budge. “I’m fine, Walker. What was I supposed to do? Stand there and let her die?”

“Yes!” He hisses, the resolution in his voice taking you by surprise. “That’s exactly what you were supposed to do. We had orders. You don’t get to just—” He stops himself, shaking his head. “You don’t get to risk your life like that.”

A bitter laugh escapes you. “That’s rich. I seem to remember you doing the exact same thing on more than one occasion.”

“That’s different.”

“Different?” You snap, shoving at his chest though he doesn’t move an inch. “Why? Because you’re a super soldier? Because you’re stronger? Faster? Because you think you’re better at this job than—”

“Because your life matters more to me than mine.”

The words hit you square in the chest. You blink up at him, breath caught in your throat. He continues to stare at you, loosening his hold on your arm.

“What are you talking about, John?” You whisper, because you can’t make sense of the raw sincerity on his face or the desperation in his voice. “Why do you suddenly care so much?”

“Suddenly,” he scoffs. It doesn’t sound like a question. “Are you really that blind?”

“John—”

Then he moves. One hand flies to the back of your neck, the other grips your hip as he crashes his lips against yours. Shocked, you gasp into his mouth, but you don’t attempt to push him away.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, torn between shoving him away and pulling him closer. The rough scratch of his beard against your skin sparks heat that coils low in your stomach, and without thinking, you begin moving your lips with his.

He kisses you harder, lips parting yours with a bruising insistence that turns your thoughts to static white noise. Your hands hover uselessly for a second longer before finally fisting the material of his vest and pulling him down to you.

His teeth catch your bottom lip, sharp enough to make you gasp again, and he swallows the sound with a low growl that vibrates against you. Instinctively, your nails rake lightly over his chest through the fabric, and you feel the shudder it rips out of him.

You finally push at his chest - not hard enough to break his hold, but enough to make him pause. His mouth hovers a mere inch from yours, his grip on you unrelenting. His eyes are wild, searching your face like he’s bracing for rejection.

“John,” you rasp, your voice cracking and your lips tingling from the kiss.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, every syllable tight with restraint. “Say the word and I’ll go.”

Your breath hitches. For half a second you consider it - consider ending this before it can spiral out of control. But the word never comes. Instead, you shake your head, slow but sure.

“No,” you breathe. You barely recognize your own voice. “Don’t stop. Don’t go.”

Something flashes in his eyes before his mouth is on yours again. It’s rougher this time, like he’s been holding himself back for months and finally lets the dam between you break. His hands slide down your thighs, squeezing once before he bends and hauls you up into his arms like you weigh nothing.

You gasp at the sudden motion, instinctively locking your legs around his waist as your arms wrap around his shoulders. The movement jostles a ragged laugh out of him - low and dangerous, vibrating against your chest as he carries you down the hallway without taking his lips off of yours.

You don’t realize where he’s taking you until you hear a door open and then click shut. Seconds later, he’s placing you against his mattress, your body sinking into the covers. He looms over you, braced on his hands and breathing hard, his chest heaves as if he’s fighting to keep some last shred of control.

For a moment, he just stares down at you, his hands planted on either side of your head, shoulders broad enough to block out everything else.

He’s all that you see. His lips are kiss-swollen and his hair mussed. His skin is tinted with a thin layer of soot from the aftermath of the explosion, and a faint reddish-purple bruise begins to form along his cheekbone. But his eyes - his sharp, wild, blue eyes - burn into you like he can’t believe you’re really here.

“This is a bad idea,” you whisper, though your voice lacks conviction.

His chest rises and falls, heavy and uneven, as he studies you. “Probably,” he mutters, his mouth curving just slightly. “But I don’t give a damn.”

You should push him off. You should tell him this is reckless, that it’ll only complicate things between the two of you even more. But when his calloused thumb brushes across your lower lip, every rational thought in your head disappears as your eyes flutter shut and you melt into his touch.

“You drive me crazy,” he says, voice strained. “Every day, you drive me insane. You don’t even have to try.” He leans in closer, the tip of his nose brushing against yours. “And yet every time I look at you, all I can think about is how badly I want you to be mine.”

His words hit you harder than any kiss or touch possibly could. You open your mouth to protest, but all that escapes you is a broken whine that he quickly swallows with another kiss.

His hands are suddenly everywhere all at once. They skim over your thighs and up the expanse of your stomach until his fingers light on the zipper at the top of your vest. He tugs it down your chest, the chilly air of his bedroom feeling like a balm when it hits your freshly exposed skin. He shoves the heavy fabric away from your shoulders and down your arms, not even trying to conceal his impatience as he makes quick work of shedding you of the rest of your gear. Boots, holsters, and weapons all hit the floor by his bed with a thud.

When you’re left in only your bra and panties, his hands are back on you. His palms skim the soft plane of your ribs before finding the band of your bra, unclasping it with one fluid motion. He rips the fabric away, taking one breast into his palm and the other into his mouth. The sound you make is half moan, half strangled laugh.

Your fingers weave through the short tufts of messy blond hair, tugging hard enough to earn a throaty growl from him. You arch into his touch, already drunk from the feeling of his lips and tongue working the sensitive peak of your breast.

“Fuck,” he breathes when he pulls his mouth off of your hardened nipple with a wet pop. “You’re too sweet.”

He rips at the hem of your panties as if the remaining piece of thin, satin fabric between you is too much. Then, he slips a hand beneath the waistband and leisurely feels the slick heat there. Your breath stutters as he eases two long, slender digits inside, knuckles curling once his fingers are buried in the tight warmth.

He watches you with an intensity that makes your whole body go limp against the bed. He then dips his head and kisses the skin of your shoulder, the side of your neck, and the curve of your jaw all while never losing rhythm. His thumb circles over your clit, hard and fast, and the room spins around you.

“John,” you plead - for what, you aren’t quite sure. “John, please—”

“Say it,” he grunts between thrusts of his fingers. “Gotta tell me what you want.”

Normally, you’d at least attempt to think of some kind of snarky retort, but right now, the only thing you can think of is the pressure building in your belly.

“God. You, John. I want you. Please—”

He pulls his hand free, leaving you trembling and babbling incoherently, then strips his own clothes with the same violent impatience before he’s positioning himself at your entrance, his head pressing against you, hot and heavy.

He pushes in all at once. The first thrust is deep and slow, filling you completely. Your hands splay on his shoulders as you adjust to stretch of him, and the sound that tears from your throat is raw and unfiltered.

“God,” he growls. The second thrust is harder, hips slamming with a force that makes both of you gasp. His fingernails dig into your thighs, leaving small, crescent shaped indents across your skin. There’s an edge of possessiveness to it that has you crooning his name.

He shifts, angling his hips to find that perfect spot, his head hitting your cervix. You clench around him, walls pulsing in tight spasms that draw a strangled sound from deep within his chest. Your fingers dig into the muscles of his back as he fucks you with a rhythm that leaves little room for thought. His mouth finds the hollow at your throat and he buries his face there, kissing and sucking the sensitive flesh.

You’re trembling, every nerve ending on fire as he drives into you, and the tight pressure builds in your belly until it snaps, washing over you in waves.

He’s not far behind. The way you cling to him, the way your walls clamp around him, it sends him over the edge right after you. With one last shivering thrust, he spills inside you with a groan of your name.

For a few moments, there’s nothing but the sound of your breaths before he collapses onto the bed beside you. You stare up at his ceiling as your brain reels with what just transpired.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs. His voice is rough, though there’s a hint of underlying admiration. He doesn’t elaborate on exactly what he means. “Always have been.”

You laugh, breathless, and turn your head to look at him. He’s already looking at you. “Careful, Walker. That almost sounds like a compliment.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighs. He smirks, his eyes twinkling. “Don’t let it go to your head. You still drive me crazy.”

You turn onto your side, propping your head in your hand to look down at him. “I drive you crazy but you still want me to be yours, right? Am I remembering that correctly?”

He exhales through his nose, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. You expect him to deflect, to try to retract his earlier admission, but he doesn’t. For the first time today, his blue eyes soften.

“I do” he admits, voice gruff but honest. “And I’m tired of pretending that I don’t.”

You purse your lips to keep from grinning. You place your hand on his chest, your fingers grazing the tufts of blond hair just over his heart. “You know,” you hum, “you could have just said that. It would’ve saved us months of almost killing each other.”

He snorts, pulling you down to his chest. “I could have, but where’s the fun in that?”

thank you so much for reading! comments & reblogs are very appreciated 🫶🏻 dividers by @/saradika-graphics!

[starsoverbrooklyn]

god fucking damnit, cait—

when i catch you, it’ll be over.

i can’t stress this the fuck enough. your writing brings me life. every little detail you add immerses me in a way that just scratches the right itch in my brain. from the setting to the little mannerisms that you can picture plain as day… GOD and the way you write Walker is so fucking spot on. Your characterization continues to amaze the hell out of me.

Walker's mouth curves. It's not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. It's a familiar, cocky look that appears when he's about to say something smug. His gaze drags down your dress and back up, just slow and deliberate enough to make your skin prickle, before they settle on your face again.

"Funny," he says, close enough that his voice vibrates in your ear. "Godawful isn't the word I'd used to describe you in that dress.""

jesus christ i needed a moment after this because the WAY this expression was EXACTLY him. and then i was like STFU BRO. SO ANNOYING BUT WAIT DON’T GO.

i should have been taking excerpts as i was reading but i was so engrossed b/c i know for a FACT i was giggling, screaming, GAGGED across this fic. literally so amazing, dude.

the sex was fucking elite. just the right amount of rough and rugged but also fucking WHIPPED. your scenes after sex are always so cute 😭 i love reading them bad.

you have, once again, solidified Walker’s place in my heart. (let’s be honest, he ain’t going anywhere) but seriously, love that he made us switch up b/c fics like this will allow me to have his annoying ass in a way that can feed my delusions 😌

thank you so much for sharing this masterpiece 💚

[gutsby]

License to Kill

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Marital bliss becomes a bloody massacre within hours of your wedding. Bucky has run the gamut of organized crime from gunrunning to public extortion, but an attempt on your life is a whole different ballgame. A honeymoon-turned-manhunt has Bucky out for blood.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Semi-public sex. Beefy, mob boss Bucky really wants to give you a baby. Praise kink. Size kink. Facefucking. Sex on a private jet. Attempted murder. Arms trafficking. Guerrilla warfare.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Dividers by the lovely @saradika 💞

Any postnuptial banquet was bound to be the talk of Santorini when a groom arrived beaten half to death.

At least that was what you’d told yourself, what had plagued your mind for hours before the start of brunch, and what Bucky presently refused to acknowledge with so much as a bat of his eye or a word spoken in between.

“You worry too much,” he said as he sheathed himself inside you for the third time that morning.

Bucky seized your throat in one hand and tilted your chin to make sure you were capable of eye contact while he fucked you in front of the mirror. It didn’t seem to bother him at all that the face in his own reflection was bruised, bloodied, and sewn up like a patchwork quilt behind you.

Hazards of the job, he’d said.

Three masked assailants breaking into your villa the first night of honeymooning? Customary. Being yanked out of bed and made to kneel as your husband took the beating of a lifetime just minutes after consummating your marriage? More common than you would think.

Bucky hadn’t even blinked when he got pistol whipped by a gold-plated Beretta. Didn’t flinch when he was held to a wall and pummeled like a freestanding punch bag.

Almost smiled when he took a hard right hook to the nose and felt a torrent of blood flood out of his nostrils.

If anyone were to be accused of behaving too calmly in a home invasion, it would be Bucky Barnes. It seemed as though he’d seen this all before and had no qualms about getting the shit kicked out of him every now and then. Why he hadn’t so much as lifted a finger to fight back was still beyond your comprehension, though.

At length, he tightened his grip on your neck and tried to smile, his upper lip slashed in two and bruised a grim, violet hue.

“Who’s my girl?” he murmured an inch from your ear.

You whined when he delivered a particularly hard thrust, both of your hands flying to the mirror to steady yourself as he pounded you from behind.

“I-I am,” you whimpered.

The stretch was still something you were getting used to, but now Bucky knew just how to spread you open without making it hurt. He’d glide a thick finger between your folds, slide it down to your clit, and leave it there as long as you’d let him, rubbing quick circles while you bucked and moaned under his touch. And, in spite of all his cuts and bruises, your husband made sure to kiss your shoulder every now and then to let you know he still loved you—even if he was fucking you like he didn’t.

Bucky trailed his lips behind your ear and watched you writhe in time with every stroke he gave. Pressed his face close to yours, watched a desperate, fucked-out expression take over your features, and smiled to himself knowing that no one but him got to see you like this.

“Who likes getting stuffed full of this cock?” he taunted.

“I do.”

“Who loves making daddy feel this good?”

“I do.”

He never thought the sound of your vows could be repeated out loud in such an obscene way—his sweet bride bent in half with a thick, throbbing cock wedged between her legs—but he loved it nonetheless.

Bucky was rutting his hips at a breakneck pace and holding your head to the mirror like he’d never let go. Your climax was quickly coming close into view, and you felt your toes curl in the hardwood floor beneath them.

Suddenly, the chirp of a ringtone diverted your attention.

Bucky brought his phone to his ear as he continued to pound you mercilessly.

“Yeah, Steve?”

The mob boss’s business never took a break, it seemed.

“So what?”

“Yeah, no, I heard you the first time.”

“Well, I’m plowing my wife right now, can it wait?”

Your cheeks warmed with embarrassment at Bucky’s blunt choice of words. You saw his brow pinch behind you, his thrusts getting faster and sloppier, and in spite of the distraction, you sensed he was getting close too.

You yourself were right on the brink. Your gaze met Bucky’s in the mirror with a soft, pleading look, and before you knew it, your husband was bidding an abrupt farewell to his friend and chucking his phone to the side.

“Ready to cum for me, honey?”

You whimpered and nodded.

“Alright then,” Bucky said with a near-expectant look, weaving the fingers of one hand into your hair and pulling it back, tight, “Cum all over daddy’s cock.”

With a shriek you feared might carry throughout the whole banquet hall, you finally reached your peak and released around Bucky’s length, tears springing to your eyes as you closed them tight and moaned his name.

And, ever the cheeky fuck, Bucky leaned right in and kissed the sides of your face to collect all the moisture he could—‘Shit, honey, you taste as good as you look’—while he smirked. Would’ve grinned even bigger if he wasn’t so overcome with pleasure; but, as it was, he couldn’t keep from blowing his load just seconds after the last spasms of your orgasm. Bucky leaned over your torso and squeezed your body tight to his, fucking his cum deep inside you as far as it could possibly go.

For a few, dizzying moments, the man’s mind wandered to more primal thoughts of making it stick, knocking you up, and Bucky had to clench his jaw hard to suppress the groans that were threatening to spill through his teeth. Every time he fucked you, it was like something just clicked; he couldn’t rid the thought of giving you a baby.

But no, for now, the two of you were still on wedding time; before you could jet off to your real honeymoon destination—someplace in the Caribbean, if Bucky remembered correctly—your mother had insisted that you host one post-wedding event that day: a brunch.

Naturally, that meant you were obliged to serve a four-course meal on the terrace of the Canaves Oia Hotel.

The mother of the bride had been one hell of a staunch advocate for keeping this wedding party going as long as possible, and who was Bucky to tell her no? He reasoned he would have plenty of time to get you pregnant after all the wedding festivities had ended, so he didn’t mind.

At present, you tugged your panties and your dress back into place with a wince.

“I think you displaced my cervix, James.”

Bucky couldn’t deny he felt the smallest twinge of pride seeing you walk a little funny to collect the rest of your belongings and attempt to freshen up. It also gave him the perfect excuse to scoop you back up in his arms and pretend to be apologetic about your present dilemma.

“Did I really?” he asked as you giggled and tried to swat him away, “I’m awfully sorry, Mrs. Barnes.”

“Like hell you are.”

With Bucky still draped over your body, proffering his apologies again and again as he assailed your face with tiny kisses, you’d barely made it two feet toward the door before you collapsed against a table and almost toppled a centerpiece. The pair of you would be expected outside any minute now, where the rest of your post-wedding party was likely trickling in and wondering where the hell the bride and groom had gone, but Bucky seemed adamant on keeping you to himself a little while longer.

That was until the back exit swung on its hinges and a familiar, frazzled groomsman stumbled in.

“Can you horndogs hurry the hell up?!”

So Sam had heard you after all.

You just might’ve blushed if you weren’t being pushed out the door a second later, the hurried, chiding tone of your husband’s friend ringing low in your ears.

“Your old man’s ready to hit the roof,” he mumbled to Bucky, “Won’t start drinking until you two show face.”

“Probably still thinks my bride escaped in the middle of the night,” Bucky mused, flitting a look to you.

The man behind rolled his eyes and continued to usher you both outside. Sam Wilson knew exactly what had happened last night; he’d been the one to bring in the cavalry to save you both from imminent death, after all.

As you had come to find out, Sam wasn’t just a friend of your husband’s but also a close associate of sorts—the kind that would wait in the wings and do whatever it took to keep Bucky safe. When the wait staff at the villa hadn’t been able to reach you for room service delivery last night, reporting some ‘strange sounds’ inside, Mr. Wilson had sprung into action. Called the rest of your husband’s entourage and was up to your room in minutes, where they’d dealt a swift, and final, blow to your attackers. You hadn’t asked many questions after—just thanked him. Profusely.

“You look like hell,” the man observed with a sidelong glance in his friend’s direction.

“Really? I feel great,” Bucky replied.

The three of you weaved through a crowd of partygoers—every single one of whom, without exception, stopped and stared at your husband’s mangled face as he passed—and you started to chew the inside of your cheek. People were gawking, talking amongst themselves as they wondered aloud what the hell could’ve happened to the groom overnight. You felt their stares turn to you in a mixture of pity and reproach, and you wanted to hide.

“Ja-ames!” a sing-song voice trilled across the way.

You, Bucky, and Sam all stopped in your tracks to regard the duo that was making their swift approach over.

Bucky’s mom and dad.

As the older couple drew near, you half-expected to see them take on the same wan, horror-stricken look worn by all those around you, but to your surprise, they didn’t.

In fact, they didn’t bat an eyelid. Seeing their son’s face all gnarled and bloody barely even registered.

“Good, you’re here! The photographers just arrived.” Bucky’s mother swept you into her arms for a brief embrace before shooting her son a frown. Your husband, in turn, offered her an apologetic peck on the cheek.

“Sorry, ma. We got caught up,” he said.

“Sure looks like it.”

That came from the elder Mr. Barnes, who had stopped to give his son a quick once-over. He looked amused.

“Get in a fight with a grizzly last night?” he quipped.

“Three, actually,” Sam answered for Bucky, who was already grinning from ear-to-ear—or as much as his facial lacerations would allow him.

You saw father and son exchange a brief, knowing look, before it was extinguished just as fast as it had come. Clearly, some sort of understanding had passed between them, and the old patriarch seemed pleased. Proud, even. You couldn’t begin to imagine why.

“The bruising shouldn’t be too hard to edit out of the wedding pictures,” Bucky’s mother turned to you as she started to lead the group away, speaking in a matter-of-fact tone, “It’s those damn lesions on his face that always give us trouble.”

She spoke so coolly about the trauma done to her son it damn near chilled you to the bone. You never thought the wife of a mobster would be oblivious to all the violence, but to talk as though this were just another day in the life as far as brutal beatings went was a little unnerving.

You strolled along and silently wondered what the fuck was wrong with this family. Then you realized, slowly, that this was your family now. Your stomach twisted.

When you got to the garden where the photographers were stationed, you saw your parents waiting, enrapt.

And, in a matter of seconds, you watched their expressions morph from exuberance to confusion to outright trepidation. Your father was quick to look away, but your mother clearly couldn’t be bothered to stop ogling Bucky’s gruesome appearance. She forced a tight-lipped smile at the very last second and stretched her arms out to you as the five of you approached.

“You’re glowing, my dear.”

She hugged you and, over your shoulder, tried to mask a discomfited look.

Your mother and father exchanged pleasantries with the rest of the group but seemed loath to linger on Bucky for more than a minute. Like they couldn’t quite tell whether the honeymoon beatdown was fair game for discussion.

“Places, people!”

The photographers were lined up like a flock of paparazzi. Each standing, crouching, squatting with their cameras in their hands, trying to get just the right angle.

The person in charge quickly busied herself with directing and adjusting every one of your positions before the pictures were taken. Telling Bucky’s father to straighten his tie, your mother to brighten her smile, the bride to tilt her shoulders just a little bit more, and Bucky, would you please stop groping your wife?

That last command had come from his mother, actually. Bucky had been palming your ass above your dress, and his mom couldn’t stand the thought of one camera capturing such crude behavior.

“My hand slipped,” Bucky retorted, much to the amusement of a few photographers.

You and his mother gave him identical admonitory looks, but it was you who was close enough to say something.

Just when you opened your mouth to speak, though, an odd sense stopped you on a dime.

There was a warmth. In your panties. Then a slow and silent oozing sensation. You squeezed your thighs tight together and, instinctively, lowered your hand to your stomach, as if that would have any chance of stopping it.

A smirk tugged at Bucky’s lips just as the lead photographer told you all to smile and hold it.

“My cum dripping out already?” he whispered, low as he’d ever spoken but still too loud for you to bear. His parents were literally standing right there.

“Shut. Up.” You replied through gritted, smiling teeth.

“Chin to me, Mrs. Barnes,” the lady in charge called out.

You did as you were told, and Bucky’s hand on your side pressed the flesh ever so slightly.

A series of shuttering sounds, then another directive.

“Think it’ll stay in your panties?” Bucky managed delicately under his breath.

You didn’t respond. At length, his seed was seeping out of your underwear. You bared an even brighter smile for the cameras and tried not to flinch when he squeezed you again.

“Feel it sliding down your thighs?”

“Eyes forward, Mr. Barnes. Head up, and—here, please.”

The man could barely peel his gaze, much less his hands, from your body. He stroked your hip with his thumb. Then, without warning, that same hand slid down to your rear and pushed into the fabric. You sucked in a breath.

“Bucky.”

“What?”

“Behave,” you hissed, and from the corner of your eye you could’ve sworn you saw your mother turn her head.

Unfortunately for you, your husband would do no such thing. He just moved his hand even lower down your back and brushed the space around that spot with the tips of his fingers. You felt a shiver pass over you, along with a whole legion of goosebumps spreading fast across the skin.

If you weren’t on camera and surrounded by family, you probably would’ve liked to smack him upside the head.

As the cameras continued to fire away, Bucky’s touch trailed down to the outline of your panties through your dress and started rubbing small circles over the area.

“Now just the bride and groom!”

The rest of your family members stepped to the side, and it was only you and Bucky before the cameras now. Still smiling like bright, shiny dolls and communicating like ventriloquists, your lips barely moved as you spoke.

“How ‘bout I push it back in?”

“Barnes, I will kill you.”

“Now kiss!”

At the direction of the lead photographer, you kissed your husband and felt a mixture of lust, hate, and love swell up inside of you. When you pulled apart, it was the latter of these three that was searing hot in your veins.

“I love you,” Bucky murmured with a grin.

“I love you, too.”

The rest of the morning passed away in much the same fashion—being pulled from place to place, person to person, while your filthy-minded husband kept whispering in your ear all the depraved things he was planning to do to you once he got you alone. It was romantic, in a way; just terrible for your poor panties.

You reluctantly mingled and laughed with some of the most boring people you thought you’d ever met in your life—though perhaps you were a touch too horny to make a fair appraisal—and gradually, family and friends pulled you and Bucky further and further apart until you were just being carted around like show dogs and forced to hold the same conversation over and over again.

“You look stunning.”

“Buck’s a lucky guy, I’ll tell you that.”

“Are you planning on having kids any time soon?”

You just smiled, nodded, and didn’t have the guts to tell them that Bucky’s baby batter was baking inside you right now. That would’ve been a fun one to watch the reactions from your uptight, intrusive relatives, though.

And speaking of Bucky, where the fuck had he gone?

Just twenty minutes ago he’d sworn he would have you bent over one of the hotel balconies overlooking the Aegean Sea, and now he was nowhere to be found.

Your parents were currently preoccupied with their second helpings of spanakopita, your in-laws draining mojitos like water, and Sam, like Bucky, completely MIA. No one else had seen hide nor hair of your husband in a little while, and frankly, your legs were growing tired of looking.

You let out a small sigh of relief when you saw Bucky sitting a ways away on the terrace with Sam and Steve huddled on either side of him. They looked to be deep in discussion.

Steve, Stevie, Rogers, or, simply, your husband’s second in command, seemed strangely out of sorts as he clenched a fist and said something close to Bucky’s face.

You decided to let the three of them hash it out and to take a rain check on that balcony rendezvous for now.

At any rate, a pack of Pall Malls was calling your name.

You would fully concede this was a filthy habit you never should have started—like most fun things in life—but the reprieve of a nicotine buzz was too tempting to refuse. You grabbed your clutch and took off toward the far end of the lawn, set for a small alcove apart from the party.

You slipped the lighter and cigarettes from your bag as you walked. The scent of pure salt and sea foam greeted your senses as soon as you drew close to the spot—less than a stone’s throw away from the ocean.

Your hands had jammed the cancer stick in your mouth before your mind could make a single word of protest. You brought the lighter to life in your right palm and raised the flame to your cigarette until the end was lit.

Then you inhaled. Exhaled. Hoped no one would see you. You fanned the smoke from your face every so often.

You’d taken up residence on a bench just shy of the beach, and finally, you could stretch your legs and rest.

Maybe indulge in some disgusting thoughts about your husband while you were at it.

If you’d told yourself just twenty-four hours ago that your mind and body would be on the fritz craving Bucky’s touch, you wouldn’t have believed it. If someone had said sex, and cumming around someone you loved, was a worthwhile experience, you probably would’ve told them they were full of shit. But here you were, splayed out on a bench by the shoreline thinking of nothing but the way your husband’s cock felt inside you. Feeling his seed dried on your thigh and aching for a fourth helping.

You felt pathetic. Maybe you were.

In any case, you didn’t really care.

You brought the near-spent cigarette up to your lips for the last couple puffs. When you’d plucked it back out, you heard someone clear their throat behind you.

Bucky! Your lust-addled brain all but squealed.

You turned much quicker than you meant and nearly jumped in your skin to see who was standing there.

A grinning, bright-eyed blond.

In a panic, you flicked your cigarette over your shoulder and forced a smile.

“Hi.”

“Howdy.”

Okay, John Wayne, what the fuck? The man sounded, and looked, like something straight out of a western film.

“No need to stop on my account,” he tipped his chin toward the cigarette on the ground, “I won’t snitch.”

His smile took on a shade of condescension, but the face seemed friendly enough. Then, to your surprise, he reached into his back pocket and retrieved something small and silver from it. He held it out to you.

“Courtesy of your husband,” he said.

You frowned. A flask?

“It’s not even noon,” you answered.

“Bucky wanted me to relay the message that your mom invited a boatload more folks, and it don’t seem they’re fixin’ to leave anytime soon. Said you might need this.”

Gingerly, you accepted the gift and unscrewed the cap. You almost gagged when you got a whiff of pure vodka.

“Fuckin’ A,” you coughed, “What’s this, nail polish remover?”

“Stolichnaya. Can’t talk shit until you’ve tried it.”

Your eyes were still watering from the pungent stench of 80 proof spirits when you saw the man’s outstretched arm again—this time, to shake your hand.

“Joey, by the way.”

You shook his hand and introduced yourself as well, blinking back a few tears.

“You’re a friend of my husband’s?” you asked.

“From the service, yeah. We go way back.”

You couldn’t help but raise both brows in question.

“The service,” you repeated.

“Russian Armed Forces,” Joey smiled.

And when the hell did Bucky plan on telling you he was a former foreign operative? You stared at the man before you in a medley of confusion and disbelief. Surely the thick Southern drawl had to mean he was joking.

“Sorry—I thought you knew,” he said sheepishly.

Your husband’s old comrade seemed genuinely contrite, blushing a shade of pink as he turned his gaze from you. You quickly regained your composure and flashed him a smile, insisting it was fine, just surprising to you is all.

“Perks of arranged marriage,” you said, “We’re wed for life and I don’t even know the guy’s job title.”

That earned a laugh from the tall, gaunt figure in front of you. His features visibly relaxed, and he wasn’t smiling so smugly anymore. He motioned toward the bench.

“You mind?”

“Not at all.”

You fished for a cigarette as Joey sat down beside you. When he’d taken a seat, you offered it to him, and he politely accepted.

With time, the two of you got to smoking and joking around with a little more ease. You didn’t normally get to see that happen—rarely seizing the opportunity to make friends of near-strangers—but this weekend had already presented a bevy of firsts. What harm could a quick smoke break with Bucky’s old friend possibly do?

You found the man to be quick-witted and charming, if not marred by the slightest stain of conceit under the surface. He was objectively handsome: all cool, clean features with an unblemished demeanor and a set of brown eyes so light they almost appeared the color of honey in the sun. The only imperfection to be detected was a skewed, razor-thin scar on his chin. You weren’t ashamed to admit he might’ve been your type maybe four or five years, and several degrees of naïveté, earlier. But you had Bucky now; not even the most sublime, finely-chiseled Adonis could set your sights off of him.

You continued to smoke and shoot the shit.

“So you’re a Puritan, then?” Joey said at length.

“Huh?” You leaned back to stretch.

“You haven’t touched that flask.”

You glanced down at the silver canteen between you. You picked it up.

“Haven’t been into straight liquor since college,” you shrugged.

“But it’s your wedding weekend,” Joey smirked, “Think it says somewhere in the rule book you’ve gotta be hammered the whole time.”

“Does it? I must’ve missed that one,” you hummed.

Rather than answer you verbally, Bucky’s old friend opted to snag the flask from your fingers and unscrew the top himself. Made an unusually bold move and took your chin in his other hand.

“Open.”

“No!”

You bared a tight smile to be polite, but inside, you were more than a little put off by his behavior. Maybe this was some stupid rite of passage into their ‘brotherhood.’ You had to assume he was just being friendly.

“C’mon. Quit bitchin’ and open up,” he chuckled, pinching your face even tighter.

That left an even more sour taste in your mouth. You jerked your head to the left and were just about to inform the man it’d cost him nothing to fuck off and stay off, when a voice broke out through the foliage behind you.

“Honey? Hon, you there?”

Immediate relief at hearing your husband’s voice.

You craned your neck to look around.

“I’m here, Bucky!” You waved an arm to try and get his attention, wherever he was.

It took him a second, but shortly, he appeared on the other side of some trees. He had a stern, if not slightly sallow, look on his face as he made his way over.

You turned back to Joey but found that he’d vanished. Your eyes scanned the beach, the lawn, even the bushes behind you and couldn’t find a trace of him anywhere. All that was left was the flask.

“Bucky, I just—”

“We need to go,” your husband cut in.

His narrowed, steely gaze sent a jolt of apprehension through you.

“Go wh—”

“Now, baby, please. I’ll tell you in the car.”

Your face dropped.

“We’re leaving?”

Shortly, Steve trotted over. Bleak as you’d ever seen him with his hands balled in fists at his sides. And a deep-set scowl.

“Whole fuckin’ swarm of ‘em now,” he pronounced.

Bucky didn’t wait to hear another word. He just grabbed your hand and joined his friend sprinting back up the lawn. You could barely keep apace with their steps and, still clinging to Bucky, almost tripped and stumbled.

“Get the fuck up,” Steve spat.

You tensed. For a second, your feet scarcely moved of their own accord as you trailed behind Bucky and felt a stabbing feeling in your gut. Bucky’s best man had surely been a little rough around the edges before, but never this needlessly cruel. What did you do?

Your husband delivered an uncharacteristically gruff shove to the man’s shoulder and made sure he felt it.

“Don’t you start this shit again,” he said, “Lay off.”

Steve ignored him entirely and took the lead around the hotel’s perimeter. You glanced to the throngs of partygoers still scattered along the veranda and saw similar looks of disquiet and alarm all around.

Just when a dozen different questions of what was going on, where were they taking you, and why the fuck did everyone look so afraid bubbled to the tip of your tongue, a thunderous sound brought you to a standstill.

At the opposite end of the plaza, a cluster of tents, tables, and catering stations all splintered apart in a single, headlong explosion. A bright red column of fire shot up toward the sky, and following its ascent rose a wave of shrill and horrified screams alongside it. A barrage of gunfire rained over the crowd, and before you could even spare a look toward its source, Bucky yanked you flat on the ground. Your hands and knees were shredded across pavement, had less than a second to register the pain, and were shortly made to snake along concrete and glass toward the garden down below.

You crawled, then crouched, then bounded down the lawn following Bucky and Steve like a bat out of hell. Another explosion sounded nearby—this time much closer, sending a shower of flames sailing through the air and all over—and whole droves of people just dropped. Facedown in the grass and covered in glass. Bucky clamped your hand in his own with a force that could’ve snapped it in two, but you didn’t blink. All of your senses were kicked into overdrive and focalized, unflinching, on the sight of more carnage than you could comprehend.

“Here!” Steve called presently.

He caught sight of a jet black sedan at the edge of the lawn and held a hand up to Bucky. A set of keys were promptly pelted into his grasp, and the three of you closed in on the car, quick, without another word.

Bucky tore the back door open and practically flung you inside. He primed himself to climb in right after, when a set of footsteps and a shout held him locked in place.

“Hangar’s clear.”

Sam, by the sound of it.

He jumped in shotgun while Steve seized the wheel. Bucky hadn’t gotten the back door so much as halfway shut before the engine roared to life and the car lurched ahead. Not thinking, you grabbed hold of a seatbelt, but Bucky was quick to pull you in and jerk you down.

You weren’t sure what you’d been expecting then, but it certainly wasn’t your husband’s weight crushing you from above as he pinned you to the floor of the car.

This wasn’t the seamless, smart exit that the heroes of the action-packed stories always had. Bucky didn’t hold you tight in his arms or cradle your head to his chest. He just draped the weight of his whole body over yours and begged you strenuously not to move or make a sound. By the looks of it, too, the car was tearing up the turf of the lawn and anything else that happened to cross its path; there was no rhyme or reason to Steve’s driving, it seemed, just frantic desperation and a will not to die.

Minutes, seconds, sights, and sounds—or what little of the world you could grasp from your cowered position—all bled together in a haze. Your pulse leapt and throbbed between your ears, and little more could be heard above that sound apart from the thrum of Bucky’s own heart, the thunder of gunfire, and the wail of sirens, coming low and faint and far too late to make much difference now.

You pressed your nose to the floor and got a dizzying whiff of nylon and bleach. Would’ve like to retch but gritted your teeth instead, lying in silence and wondering without humor if the splinters, the soot, or the blood would be hardest to wash out of your white satin dress.

The price of admission to board Bucky’s Boeing 787 came surprisingly cheap: just sit back and be ‘pregnant.’

You’d been flanked by medics as soon as you arrived at the hangar—a place tucked away just a few short miles from the hotel, where Bucky kept his aircraft for speedy escapes, apparently—and had been carried onto a jet. You didn’t squirm or protest, just hung limply in their arms and let them tend to you however they needed.

After all, you looked like fucking Carrie White on prom night: coated in blood and stiff as a board. Sitting with a thousand-yard stare and a frozen, muted expression as you tried, and failed, to process what had just happened.

You watched Bucky kneel down in front of you and hardly saw him at all. You sensed him stroke your hair but felt it from a place somewhere far outside your body. Bizarre was an understatement. All you could do was blink.

“It’s not— not her blood, is it?” your husband stammered, gesturing toward your dress.

“Some of it,” one nurse answered quietly.

Aw, hell. Bucky squatted on the floor and slotted himself between your knees, trying to get as close as possible so he could make you say something, even just see him. One of the attendants raised a warning look and placed a hand on his shoulder, which he shrugged off in a second.

“She’s not looking at me,” Bucky’s lip visibly trembled as he drew you closer, “Honey, I’m here— I’m right h—”

“She’s in shock.” Another voice came flatly.

Sure, shock works. In truth, your mind was floating somewhere even higher than the 43,000 feet the plane had ascended, and your brain had gone as soft as a clump of cotton candy in the rain. You couldn’t speak, but you could think in bits and pieces. You blinked again.

“She looks like death warmed over.”

Thank you, Steve.

Off to the side in a plush, leather seat of his own, the man nursed a scotch on the rocks and frowned. Bucky didn’t have the strength to throw a punch or a pillow at his head and instead said only to shut the fuck up, man.

Your husband turned to the nurses again.

“She’s pregnant.”

I beg your finest pardon? You blinked a bit harder.

“No, she’s not, Buck,” Sam said from down the aisle.

“Well, she could be,” Bucky chided, “We’ve been going at it like rabbits since the—”

“Fuck’s sake,” Steve slapped a palm over his forehead. If you weren’t currently balls-deep in a state of mental disarray you probably would’ve done the same.

Bucky had made sure to tell all medical personnel aboard the plane that you were—or very well could be—carrying his child, so would you please take all precautionary measures possible? She’s my wife. You suspected if the doctors and nurses weren’t all on Bucky’s payroll they probably would’ve rolled their eyes and reminded him that all you needed were stitches, dressings, and extra fluids. And no, Mr. Barnes, your wife probably isn’t pregnant, even if you think your sperm is ‘built different’ than most.

“She’ll be fine either way,” the medic on your left said, stifling a chuckle. Wondering if the man had ever taken a sex ed class in his years of prudish, private education.

Bucky wasn’t convinced. Against all physicians’ wishes, he climbed up beside you in the seat and pulled you into his lap with both arms wrapped around your waist.

By turns, the world was coming back into focus for you. You met Bucky’s gaze for the first time, and the man looked overjoyed.

“See? See? She’s back.” Bucky squeezed your hip—and immediately released it when you winced.

“Mind the bandages, Mr. Barnes.”

Your caregivers pro tempore shot your husband a couple wry looks as they packed their supplies and started to leave, getting the sense that their boss wasn’t going to stop badgering them, or you, anytime soon. That worked just fine for Bucky, because then he would get to hold you any way that he liked, as long as you’d let him.

Steve, on the other hand, didn’t seem quite as thrilled.

Sam watched the medics’ departure with a wary look.

“She probably needs to rest, Bucky,” the latter said, careful with his words.

Bucky’s eyes never strayed from yours.

“She’s okay, Sam. She’s good.” Perhaps speaking more to himself than anyone else. Steve shifted in his seat.

In your periphery, Mr. Wilson was approaching with a glass in his hand. You turned your head, and Bucky accepted the cup of water for you.

“Feelin’ alright?” Sam asked.

You tried to nod, but your husband was already cradling your head like a baby, urging you to take your first sip.

A spate of water splashed down the front of your dress. You shot Bucky a look as he hastily tried to dry it.

“She’s not a child, Barnes,” Steve muttered.

“Should probably keep that elevated,” Sam cut in, nodding toward your swollen ankle, “We’ll get some ice.”

Sam tilted his head again, this time to motion to Steve. His friend pretended not to see him, and then Bucky was back on his feet, keen as ever,

“I’ll go.”

He kissed the top of your head and assured you he’d be right back. He’d just started off toward the door, when Sam hesitated. He flitted a quick look between you and Steve and looked like he wanted to say something, but Bucky was already ushering him out of the room.

When you turned to Steve, you understood why.

The man had you pinned with a stare that could’ve killed you ten times over, fisting his drink in a white-knuckled grip.

You watched him right back. Tried hard not to blink.

“Something wrong?”

You weren’t sure how you’d even mustered the strength to speak. Steve just brought it out of you, you figured.

“You tell me.” Tone dripping with disdain.

You raked your gaze over the man for a second, finding him dressed head-to-toe in his three piece suit—muddied with blood here and there, but still no worse for wear than you’d seen him an hour or two ago. It was that frown you couldn’t shake.

What had you done to piss him off so much? Shit in his cornflakes? Step on his toe? Had he seen you with Joey and jumped to the worst possible conclusion? You sincerely couldn’t make sense of the man’s indignation, so you wanted to ask him directly; before you could, though, Steve was interjecting, at length,

“We should’ve left you to die with the rest of your family.”

Your jaw slackened a bit.

“What?”

“You, your mother, your two-timing shitstain of a father. Every one of you should’ve stayed there to rot.”

Never mind the fact that he’d just wished you dead to your face—what did he mean about your parents?

“But they’re coming with us. Bucky said,” you managed.

“He did?” Steve grinned humorlessly, “He lied, doll. Your folks are probably bound and gagged at the bottom of the ocean right now.”

That sent the first real wave of fear pulsing through you. You slowly rose to your feet but, feeling yourself restrained by the makeshift IV line stuck in your skin, you stopped. You plucked the needle out of your arm.

“What are you talking about?”

You drew closer to Steve, who only sat back and sipped his scotch with amusement.

“What? That wasn’t part of the plan?” he quirked a brow, “Didn’t think anyone would dare lay a finger on your precious, self-righteous fucking family—”

You hardly even noticed you’d swatted Steve’s drink out of his hand until the glass went shattering on the floor. You blinked and raised a shaky, bruised finger about an inch from his face.

“The fuck did you just say to me?” Your jaw was clenched so tight you had to speak through your teeth.

Steve was beaming.

The door to the room flew open, and Bucky and Sam strolled in with their ice packs and pillows. They stopped when they saw the glass on the floor and your figure looming over Steve.

“You picked a real spitfire, Buck,” the blond called out, his hands raised in surrender as he smiled up at you.

Bucky seemed more surprised that you were able to stand, much less take that menacing stance over his friend, and he quickly tried to guide you back to your seat. You wouldn’t budge.

“What the fuck are you talking about?! Where are my parents?” You tried to shake your husband off as Steve’s grin grew even bigger.

“They’re fine, honey. Sit down, please,” Bucky mumbled.

“No! He said they were dead!” you shot back, eyes never leaving the smug, smirking face that seemed to be enthralled by the spectacle in front of him.

“Why don’t you tell her, Buck? Girl deserves to know.”

“Shut the fuck up, Rogers,” Sam uttered quietly.

“Tell me what?”

“It’s nothing, your parents are fine,” Bucky seemed pensive now, gaze scanning the ceiling for a second as he tried to collect his thoughts. You shoved his hands off.

“Don’t you fucking lie to me, James,” you said, diverting your attention to glare up at him, “What’s going on?”

“Either she’s a world-class actress or she really doesn’t have the first clue about this. Enlighten her.” Steve seemed a little more serene as he unscrewed a bottle of Talisker and reached for a second glass. You would’ve liked to knock back one or two—or ten—yourself.

You turned on your heels to face Bucky. At the moment, he seemed torn between imparting a death black stare on Steve and a placating, apologetic one to you. The tips of his ears were tinged pink.

“Baby—” He reached for you, but you pulled back.

“No.”

You wouldn’t ask him again. Your husband was wounded by the sight of your recoil—and perhaps by some painful truths he’d be compelled to share as well—and he wrung his hands. Started to chew the inside of his cheek.

Sam snagged the scotch and made a heavy pour.

“Why’d you marry him?” Steve said suddenly.

Bucky’s face dropped; you raised a brow in question. Before your husband could stop you, you answered,

“Because my dad was in debt.”

“For what?”

You paused.

“Real estate. Gambling. Fuck if I know.”

Steve nodded. Ignored Bucky’s sharp, reproachful gaze.

“And how much money did he owe?” he asked.

“Steve,” Sam warned.

“Four, five million—more than he could ever repay.”

This time, it was Steve to raise both brows as he mulled over your response. He almost looked surprised.

“You’re forced to marry a man just to settle a debt and you don’t even know the price that tight little body’s paying?” he scoffed.

His words hadn’t hung in the air for much longer than a second before Bucky decked him, shoving him square in the chest and sending him stumbling back a couple steps. A splash of whiskey was quick to join the bloodstains adorning Steve’s tux, and the pile of broken glass on the floor grew even bigger. The man hardly flinched when Bucky shoved his head to the end table.

“Say it again.” Your husband sounded dispassionate as ever. Like this was something he was used to doing.

“She should’ve known!” Steve snapped anyway.

You shared a brief look with Sam but found his expression inscrutable. He kicked a few shards of glass with the toe of his shoe.

“I wasn’t exactly in a place to negotiate,” you grumbled, “They were going to kill my father if we didn’t settle it, so I wasn’t all that interested in knowing how much money my A1 cunt was gonna cost Bucky. Personally.”

If he could go low, you would go lower. Fuck him.

You saw Steve grin through a freshly busted lip and straighten himself back into a seated position. He wiped the blood with the pad of his thumb while Bucky seemed to contemplate swinging again. The look in your eye cautioned him against it.

“Fair enough,” Steve conceded. He stopped to consider his words—ones that wouldn’t prompt Bucky to punch him directly in the throat—and looked to you, curious,

“Why would the mob kill him over a few million dollars?”

You shrugged.

“He’s a real estate broker. They probably knew he couldn’t fork over that kind of cash.”

Something akin to a stifled chuckle and a cough sounded from Sam, while Steve outright broke out laughing. Even Bucky’s expression softened a little as he rubbed his knuckles and paced closer to you.

“What?” you spat, “Did I say something funny?”

Sam shook his head slowly, starting, “I don’t think—”

“Your daddy’s a fucking gunrunner, sugar,” Steve wheezed, “Head of a multinational arms trafficking syndicate—motherfucker is not selling houses.”

Your insides churned with a mixture of disbelief and revulsion, but you couldn’t let them see that. When Bucky reached for your hand, you yanked it back again.

“And how the fuck would you know?” you said to Steve.

“We work with him. Used to work for him, at one point,” Sam answered.

“And the man is horseshit at business”—Steve paused to see if Bucky had shot him a warning look but found your husband far too concerned with capturing your attention—“He was $90 million in the hole when Bucky came to the rescue.”

“James?” You finally turned to him.

“And your daddy didn’t even owe the money to Bucky, he owed it to HYDRA,” Steve sneered.

“James,” you pressed again.

You couldn’t understand why your husband refused to speak—going as deadpan and radio silent as the night before. He stood there and watched you with a rigid, inflexible gaze.

“HYDRA as in— the Russian mob?” you asked him.

“No, the Girl Scouts,” Steve huffed, “Yes, the mob.”

“Schröder’s boys. Your dad’s been in business with them for years—owed them a lot of money,” Sam added.

“And your dad and Bucky’s dad have been friends even longer. So Bucky figured he’d do yours a favor and pay the debt himself.” Steve seemed eager to tell this story.

All the while, the hue of Bucky’s cheeks grew even deeper—like he didn’t want this coming to light. He sensed you wouldn’t stand down until you’d heard the whole ugly truth, though, so he held your gaze and watched you grow more repulsed by the second.

“Then why’d he need me? Just another bartering chip?” Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth, “A pawn?”

“A peace offering,” Bucky said quietly.

Steve and Sam finally clammed up long enough to let him speak, but your husband seemed taciturn as ever.

“Your father didn’t owe me anything. I would’ve paid his debt and left it at that, but he insisted I— that we marry. He wanted an alliance no subsequent financial incentive could disrupt. He would take the money I gave him, pay HYDRA, and bow out of any future dealings with them. Our marriage was supposed to guarantee that.”

Bucky spoke slow, like every word was a labored breath. Hardly the same could be said for his friends.

“That was until your dipshit weapons dealer daddy decided he’d have his cake and eat it too. Struck an even sweeter deal with HYDRA and played in our faces,” Steve said.

“At the direction of Mr. Schröder, your father tried to intercept a shipment bound for one of Bucky’s warehouses in Brooklyn,” Sam continued, “Only problem is he fucked up the execution and cost Schröder a dozen men and tens of millions of dollars in artillery and blow.”

“So Schröder paid him a visit today,” Bucky muttered.

Without realizing it, you found yourself sinking into the nearest seat and bringing a hand to lay flat on your stomach. You felt sick. More than woozy, truthfully. Your head was spinning and your stomach was twisting something terrible, as if you’d just ingested cyanide.

Fuck, did you need a drink.

You couldn’t look at Bucky or Steve or Sam any longer.

You reached for your clutch and pulled out Joey’s flask.

And, bloodlusting mobsters and outlaws be damned, the Russians knew how to make the hell out of some vodka. A single sniff of the stuff told you this was exactly what you would need to cope with your current situation.

“So you think I had something to do with the new HYDRA deal?” you asked, “You honestly th—FUCK!”

Bucky lunged for the flask in your hand before you could take a single pull. He snatched it away in the blink of an eye and shot you a look.

“Liquor? For our baby?” he barked.

You audibly groaned and were just about to tell him that his understanding of human reproduction was a crock of shit when you stopped. You saw his expression change.

“Where did you get this?” Bucky asked, suddenly pale.

“You, dumbass!”

“Me?”

Bucky was presently passing the flask around to his friends, who were eyeing a spot on the bottom of the container with shared looks of alarm.

“Your friend gave it to me earlier saying that you wanted me to have it,” you said.

All three men looked up at once.

“What friend?” Sam asked.

“Joey,” you answered, “Bucky’s friend from the army.”

If it were possible for your husband to get any paler his skin might’ve turned the color of cottage cheese. His eyes were wide with fear.

Then he was hurrying to your side. Taking your hand.

“What friend from the army? What’d he look like?”

You were still scanning Bucky’s face, trying to make sense of the apprehension etched into his features, when you managed,

“I-I dunno. Blond. Light brown eyes.”

“Tall fella?” Steve asked.

“Very.”

“Have a German accent?” Sam pressed.

“No, a real thick Southern accent,” you shook your head. It didn’t occur to you then that it could’ve been fake.

You were about to turn your attention back to Bucky, brow still knit in confusion, when a vague memory crossed your mind. You looked up at Sam and Steve.

“He had a—” You tapped your chin lightly, “—a little scar right here.”

You would’ve thought you’d just announced you had a bomb strapped to your ass the way the three men reacted. Each wore identical looks of disbelief and muted horror, exchanging looks between themselves as if they’d just discovered the Atlantic Ocean—and found the Loch Ness Monster lurking somewhere underneath.

Bucky looked the worst out of all of them. His face had drained of all expression and color as he stared at you.

“Joey?” he intoned feebly.

“Yes,” you answered—feeling ineffectual, even dense, for not catching on to what the rest of them had discovered.

Fortunately, Sam wouldn’t let you wallow in ignorance.

“Johann Schröder,” he supplied in a second, “The man you were talking to was Mr. Schröder, head of HYDRA.”

Steve held the flask in his grasp for you to see the bottom, where a skull with six tentacles was engraved. Then he tipped the canister into a glass he’d taken in his other hand and watched a frothy pink liquid spill out.

“Looks to be a serum of his,” Steve said, hollow as you’d ever heard him, “Kind of like…roofies.”

“You didn’t drink any of it, did you?” Sam asked.

“Nuh-uh. Bucky showed up right as he was trying to, uh— to pour it in my mouth.”

A beat of silence gripped the room.

Bucky looked like he might burst a blood vessel, or someone’s skull. Or both.

Still, he wouldn’t speak to you.

The inside of your head was throbbing.

You almost preferred the ruthless, irate glint in Steve’s eye when he’d suspected you of being a traitor the first time around; this cloyingly sympathetic gaze he was giving you now had to be the most maddening thing. He and Sam both looked on at you like you were a victim. Like you were something to be pitied, or coddled, or left to the capable hands of your husband—a motherfucker who couldn’t even speak so much as a syllable to you.

You felt a pressure build, then swell, then peak between your temples, and you wanted to wince but couldn’t stand the thought of looking weak in front of them.

Then your nose started to bleed.

That, at least, woke Bucky from his reverie as he fumbled around for a napkin and helped you to your feet. He looped an arm around your waist and led you off to the bathroom, his grip tightening on your frame with every step you took.

In two minutes flat, you were flooded with fifteen feet of toilet paper and tissues. Bucky cupped the back of your head in one of his broad, warm palms and kept it plastered there as he instructed you to hold it, honey, hang on, I can grab a few extra rolls right here and guided you toward a private area at the back of the plane.

You could scarcely see above the bunched up wads of Charmin Ultra Strong pressed close to your nose, but you trusted Bucky wouldn’t lead you astray. You felt the welcome touch of a bed underneath you, and then your husband was helping you settle in amongst the pillows and the blankets and the rose petals that had been scattered around before—not entirely appropriate now, but a nice touch nonetheless—and slipping your shoes off your feet. You felt his hand graze your ankle, and then he was saying he’d be right back with those ice packs.

You reached for his hand before he could leave.

“I don’t want it,” you said, your voice slightly muffled by the tissues, “Want you to talk to me, James.”

Bucky’s brow pinched inward. He kneeled down in front of you, where you were sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I am— I’m talking to you right now, honey, I—”

“You know what I mean.”

Bucky wiped his hand down his face and shook his head. Like he was trying to rid himself of a thought.

“I don’t want to talk about HYDRA. Or your father,” he said simply.

“Why not?”

“You’re not in the right place to hear it.”

You plucked the toilet paper away from your face long enough to give him a stern glare.

“We’re on a plane. Fleeing Greece. After you got curb-stomped in our honeymoon suite, our post-wedding brunch was bombed by the Russian mob, I was almost drugged by their leader, and my parents are probably as good as dead, if not being held for ransom, as we speak. Please tell me a better place to have this conversation.”

Bucky was left stumped for a second. Then he slowly rose back to his feet.

“Okay.”

Infuriating.

“Okay?” you snapped, “We could’ve died five times today and all you can say is okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

Fuck this guy. You wiped your nose and stood up too.

Bucky tried to nudge you back onto the bed, wary of the ever-growing number of bumps, bruises, and nosebleeds afflicting your body. He tensed when you nudged him right back.

“I need to see my family,” You stood firm, “As soon as we land wherever it is we’re going, I’m on the first flight back to New York—or wherever they are.”

You dabbed at your nose once more and looked up at him.

“No, you’re not,” Bucky returned.

“What? You’re gonna stop me?”

“Yes, I will.”

The worst part was he wasn’t even smug about it. Just calm and self-assured. You flung your tissues to the side and threw your hands up in exasperation, feeling the need to step away from him and start pacing the room. The man’s reticence was grating on your nerves.

“Why bother, Buck?” you snorted, “It’s not like I’m even your wife, really. I’m just a peace offering that you get to bend over and fuck every now and then, right?”

You turned to make your first circuit around the foot of the bed but were shortly met with the expanse of Bucky’s chest. You looked up to find him frowning.

“Don’t say that again,” he glowered down at you.

Unlike most times before, you didn’t flinch. When he reached for your wrists, you didn’t let him win.

“I’m not your wife,” you repeated, “We may be playing the most fucked up game of mob charades, but this is not a real marriage.”

You ignored Bucky’s evident desire to grab hold of something of yours and side-stepped easily, expanding the gap between you two as much as you could. It was almost amusing to see him not in control for once, and floundering to recover what semblance of it he could.

“You are my wife,” he insisted, frown growing deeper as you crept along the edge of the room, “Everything I do now is for you—it’s not a goddamn game to me.”

“You used me for some Machiavellian marriage ploy! That is the definition of a game, James!”

“I don’t even know what the fuck that means,” Bucky said, “But I love you.”

“You met me yesterday, motherfucker!”

You could feel another bloody nose rising in your bones. You turned around, swiped your lip with the back of your hand and were surprised to see nothing there. You waited for the bleeding to start back up again. When you turned, Bucky had closed the distance between you and was holding something in his hand.

Before you could protest, he was smoothing the thing over your face—apparently he’d grabbed a washcloth and dampened it—and laced his fingers through the hair at the back of your head. He held you firmly as he blotted the blood.

“Is it so hard to believe that I love you?” he asked quietly.

He was trying hard to placate you, but his actions were having just the opposite effect. You let him wipe the blood from your face but watched him begrudgingly.

“You want someone to control, Bucky,” you said, “Love is not a power play that you get to manipulate at will.”

Bucky blinked, trying to conjure up a response as he daubed the skin with a little more force. You weren’t finished.

“You look at me and see a victim. Someone you need to watch over— who can’t take care of themse—”

“That’s not true.”

“Really? That’s not what a ‘good little wife’ is to you?” you retorted.

At last, Bucky tossed the hand towel to the side and ran a hand through his hair. He stepped toward the dresser, shrugging off his suit jacket.

“That’s a— a bit I do when I’m horny. I don’t actually want you subservient to me,” he muttered as he looked around for a hanger. Finally, he just draped the coat over the back of a chair and sighed.

“So holding me hostage from my family is a bit, too?” you quizzed.

“To keep you safe from the people who tried to kill them. I’m sorry I don’t want to see you butchered because of me,” Bucky returned with just as much biting sarcasm.

“That’s rich coming from you.” You despised the indignation in your tone but couldn’t help it. These thoughts had been brewing inside your skull for hours. You watched Bucky struggle to undo his bow tie—just like the night before—and, again, your brain barely registered the action before you were reaching for the garment and tugging at the fabric to loosen it yourself.

“What are you talking about?” Bucky asked, brow furrowed.

“Last night,” you yanked harder than you meant to. The knot just got tighter, “And today. Tonight. You’re as still as the fucking grave and won’t say a word when something bad is happening. You just let it happen.”

You tried to pry your fingers through the tie but found it stiff as ever. You groaned inwardly.

“No, I don’t,” Bucky objected.

“You’re doing it right now! You wouldn’t tell me about HYDRA, or my father, or the guy who could’ve— hurt me. You didn’t say a word of that to me, and you expect me to believe we’re in this together? That you’re trying to keep me safe? You couldn’t even—” you paused to pull at that stupid tie your husband had tangled about four times over, finally feeling it give way a little—“couldn’t even pretend to give a fuck when those men broke in last night and almost killed us!”

Just as you freed the silk from its knot, Bucky seized your wrist. Shoved your hand off of his collar.

“I had to do that,” he snapped.

He threw his tie to the floor and started to unbutton the cuffs of his sleeves. The sight of his broad, veiny forearms were only visible to you for a second before he headed toward the closet, peeling off bits and pieces of his ensemble as he walked.

“You didn’t do anything, Bucky! You just sat there and got the shit beat out of you for no fucking reason! You didn’t even try to fight back.”

Bucky had just muscled his way out of the confines of his dress shirt, leaving him in a tight, plain white tee. He turned to you with what seemed like the most pointed look of disdain.

“You think I wanted to do that?!” he barked. Suddenly facing you head-on, skin flushed a shade just shy of crimson.

“You were too chickenshit. Didn’t wanna get your hands dirty, so you let Sam do it for you,” you seethed.

Your husband looked as though he wanted to put his fist through a wall and pummel it several times over. Seemed like he did, anyway. In truth, he didn’t move—just watched you with the most cruel, unflinching gaze as he clenched his jaw.

“I’m chickenshit?” he repeated.

“Yeah. Coward,” you spat.

“Too much of a coward to keep you safe?”

“Precisely.”

At long last, you saw Bucky smile. It was the tightest, most humorless grin that had ever crossed his lips, but it was a smile nonetheless. He raised a hand over your head and bracketed his arm against the wall so he was leaning over you. Not meant to intimidate per se, but the sight of that smirk was unnerving, to say the least.

“Did you hear what language they spoke?” he asked, voice unbearably low as he drew his face closer to yours.

“It sounded like—”

“Russian, that’s right,” Bucky cut in, “Do you know what they said to me when they pulled us to the floor?”

You swallowed and said nothing. Bucky’s breaths were fanning hot across your cheeks, sending waves of a strange sensation all throughout your body—you weren’t sure if you were meant to be aroused or scared shitless.

“They told me, ‘If you move, we’ll kill her,’” Bucky deadpanned as he began to trace the wallpaper beside your head with a single, bloodied finger, “‘If you fight, we’ll dismember her and set fire to every piece of her body in front of you.’ Or something to that effect.”

The repetition of their words seared your veins like a legion of flames. You could picture them saying it. Grabbing hold of Bucky’s head by the roots of his hair and beating him over and over and over, threatening your life if he made a single move to stop it.

“Bucky—” you started.

“I know they meant it, too. HYDRA operatives make good on their promises if they really set out to harm someone.”

Your husband’s grin had transformed into something more of a crooked, downcast grimace, just baring his teeth as he tried not to lose his composure. Guilt flooded his face.

“I know I should’ve told you then. And after. I should’ve told you about your father as soon as Steve’s informant told us. I just—” Bucky stopped to swallow; he couldn’t meet your gaze—“I didn’t want that hanging over your head. Not after everything that happened last night.”

It was like a blade had just twisted in your stomach. Your throat ached. You wanted to touch him but were almost too scared to ask. He looked so fragile.

“I am a coward. And controlling. Probably the most chickenshit, overbearing son of a bitch you could’ve been unfortunate enough to marry.” For a moment, Bucky’s gaze flickered to yours, and you saw a blooming red hue around the blues of his irises, “But that’s not how I’m supposed to love you—or going to love you.”

You weren’t sure how to reply; you tried raising a hand to his cheek, just to touch the skin, but decided against it.

“I’ve been a shit husband, fake or not. I’m sorry.”

Fake husband maybe, but the look on his face was intractably authentic. Palpable. He blinked as though trying to clear the warm and heady feelings from his expression—suddenly not wanting you to see the shades of his emotions painted there—and focused instead on a few stray strands of hair that had blown over your face. He got very invested in those, all of a sudden.

While your husband stroked the corners of your face and fixed his gaze away from yours, you felt the smallest prick of warmth spark within you. Bucky looked soft and serene and sincere in his apology, defenseless now as he grazed his knuckles over your cheek and said it again,

“I’m sorry, honey. I’m so sorry.”

He paired his apology with a rapid succession of little kisses pressed to your forehead, moving his hand to the nape of your neck to pull you closer to him.

You wanted to touch him, too. You almost felt as though you didn’t know how.

So you stood there and accepted his affections and tried to nod your head when he asked if you were alright, were you hurting any, baby? You leaned into the gentle pressure of his fingertips taking stock of every cut and bruise you’d sustained over the course of that day, watched Bucky’s brow furrow with each new discovery, and tried not to let his touch stray far down your body.

You wanted to be the one with your hands on him—now more than ever.

When Bucky’s hand trailed over your chin, you tilted your head just slightly to kiss it. Your husband didn’t think much of it, just smiling down as tender as he always did, when your lips really grazed over the skin. You pressed a kiss to his finger and wordlessly urged him to move it further. Now it was Bucky’s turn to be at a loss for what to do as you took the tip of his thumb between your lips and suckled it, gently.

“Honey,” he let out a sigh, half-encouragement and half-warning—what were you trying to do?

You glided your mouth down his finger so half of his thumb was enveloped inside. You sucked it again.

“You can’t…” Bucky maintained feebly, eyes briefly scouring all the cuts and bruises across your skin. He didn’t want to see you strain yourself any further.

But whatever pain this might cause was ancillary to you; you curled your tongue around the digit and moaned lightly.

The taste of one finger alone was enough to send you into a frenzy. That and the fact that he had been so open and honest and attentive to your needs made every bone in your body want to jump his. Something about a man taking accountability for his actions and communicating them in a way that didn’t intimidate or belittle you was refreshing. Sexy, almost. Admittedly, the bar for mob boss husbands was hovering somewhere deep in hell, but you admired Bucky’s efforts all the same.

You popped his thumb out of your mouth and smiled.

“You worry too much, Mr. Barnes.”

The echo of his words from earlier—the ones he’d said as he was railing you against a mirror—made Bucky’s cock twitch. His gaze trailed down to the sheen of saliva on your lip, and he almost folded on the spot. He swallowed.

“Don’t wanna hurt you, bunny,” he murmured as you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth and peered up at him.

“Hurt me how?”

You really hadn’t meant to sound like such a tease when you’d said it, but it was hard not to come across that way when you were watching him like that.

And sinking to your knees, with your eyes glued on his.

Bucky sucked in a breath as you kneeled between his feet and nudged the seam of his pants with your nose. He felt so big against your face, you almost couldn’t fathom how he’d fit inside of you the night before. You were amazed how quickly he’d gotten hard—as if the two of you weren’t just having a heart-to-heart a second ago—and you felt your own arousal pool in your panties.

“You know I don’t mind if it hurts. Love the way you stretch me out anyhow,” you continued, and tried not to smirk as you imagined a dozen filthy images from last night flash before Bucky’s mind.

You heard him stifle a groan when you ghosted your lips over the bulge in his pants and felt him swell even more. Your mouth watered at the sound, the sensation, the raw anticipation of what was to come and knowing that you got to dictate what happened. You undid the button and the zip of his pants and damn near drooled at the sight.

Even confined to his boxers, Bucky looked fucking huge.

Suddenly, you began to understand how needy he had been the night before when he’d first wedged his face between your legs and gotten a taste of you. You hadn’t so much as sampled an inch of his cock, and you were already aching to swallow him whole.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” Bucky grunted as he planted a hand on the wall in front of him. You kissed the outline of his clothed erection and earned a full-throated groan.

Well, that makes two of us, you wanted to say but were too busy palming him through his boxers to utter a word. Soaking in the sight of him with every sweet, soft groan he made and wanting to be the reason for even more.

“Can I take you in my mouth, daddy?” you asked softly.

Bucky flattened his palm against the wall and nodded. Beyond words as you worked him out of his boxers.

For one, fleeting moment, you almost wanted to walk back your big talk when his cock sprung out of the fabric. You really hadn’t seen his length at all last night—too busy having it stuffed inside your cunt to get a good look—but holy shit was it an intimidating sight. You weren’t sure if it was just the nerves of this being your first time giving head or if Bucky truly was that massive, but you felt your courage start to crumble before your eyes.

My husband is hung like a fucking horse and I’ve never fit anything bigger than a couple fingers in my mouth. This should go well.

Bucky was evidently so turned on that he didn’t notice the apprehension in your expression. After all, you were moving your lips down his cock and seizing the base of him with what looked like excitement.

Should I…lick it first?

It seemed you would have to learn all of this on the job. You stuck your tongue out and ran it up the length of his shaft.

When Bucky groaned in response, you sensed that that was okay. You pressed a few kisses on the underside of his member and scrambled to think of what else to do.

“Fuck, baby,” your husband let out the most guttural sound as you squeezed his length in your hand. Then, to your surprise, he seized a fistful of your hair between his fingers and rutted his hips, pushing the head of himself against your lips, “Take me in your mouth.”

You heard the Kill Bill sirens blare between your ears but said nothing. You could do this—you’d be fine.

Your lips wrapped around the head of his cock, and Bucky gripped your hair even tighter. Let out a deep, satisfied moan like this was exactly what he needed. You liked that noise and wanted to take him even further.

What you didn’t expect was four more inches shoved inside your mouth before you could stop to take a breath.

The whole girth of his cock made a sharp intrusion, causing your cheeks to stretch and hollow out around him. The head of his member barely grazed the back of your throat, and still, you gagged. And not only gagged but choked, as though someone had just tried to scrub your tonsils with a fine-bristle toothbrush. Unfortunately for you, Bucky’s dick did not taste like spearmint.

He pulled his cock out as quickly as he’d pushed it in.

“Sorry. Shit, sorry.” Bucky blinked twice to get out of that blissed-out headspace and shot you a sheepish look.

The man had rarely been obliged to slow down or take five when his old, ever-changing flavors of the night sucked him off before—most blew him without trouble. But you, kneeling there batting your lashes through a few more tears than expected, seemed uncertain. Even half of his shaft made for a tight fit in your mouth, Bucky thought with some guilty feelings of arousal. He watched you wipe your chin with the back of your hand and frown.

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, baby,” Bucky said, stroking the top of your head.

Suddenly, the frown was turned in his direction.

You raised a brow.

“Why? That all you got, Barnes?”

Bucky couldn’t help but chuckle—and grunt, a little—when you grabbed the base of his cock and brought it down to your swollen pout. His hand instinctively moved back to the wall.

“Honey, are you s—”

He stopped the second you rubbed him up and down and pressed a kiss on the most sensitive skin.

“My mouth isn’t made of paper mâché. You can fuck it a little harder than that,” you said, running your touch down his length while holding his gaze. You looked eager.

Before Bucky could respond, you took the tip of his cock between your lips. Flattened your tongue and glided your mouth down as far as it could go before your cheeks started to hurt—then bobbed your head even further. One of your husband’s hands made a fist in your hair while the other scraped the wall, and you could tell it was taking some serious effort not to rut his hips out of habit.

Be gentle, be gentle, your dick barely fits in her mouth—

“—fucking hell you feel good,” he groaned.

Bucky took one look and could have cum on the spot.

It was one thing to feel you licking and sucking and stretching to accommodate his length, and another thing entirely to see you knelt in front of him with the world’s sweetest gaze, mouth stuffed full of his cock and eyes all but rolling back at the overwhelming sensation. You’d nearly made it all the way to the short tufts of hair on his lower abdomen—and looked so pretty doing it.

Bucky fucking loved it. And you. And fucking you, your face, any place he could fit himself, quite frankly. He stared down at you struggling to take his cock and felt a strange new wave of desire pulsing through his body.

“You like that, doll? Like when daddy fucks that slutty little mouth of yours?”

“Barely fits but you take it so well, bunny.”

“My good little wife and her pretty fucking mouth—likes sucking daddy’s cock however deep he needs it, huh?”

You liked it more than the air in your lungs, to be honest. Only problem was you couldn’t quite speak your mind with your mouth full of Bucky, so you had only to nod. Your husband groaned when you hummed along his length and bobbed your head to answer ‘yes.’ He saw you try not to gag and decided to thrust a little deeper.

He watched his cock drag back and forth along your tongue and took hold of your hair like a vice, fucking your face until your chin and cheeks were drenched with spit. Every now and then he’d pull his cock out just long enough to ask how bad you wanted him in your mouth, how desperate you were to taste him again, and every time you’d answer a little more sweetly and incoherently than before, eyes glazed with desire and mouth open for more.

You were amazed you’d lasted as long as you had—how quickly you’d devolved into this pliable, doe-eyed cocksleeve for Bucky and how keenly you desired to please him even more. It felt pornographic and lewd and somehow still loving as he plowed in and out of your mouth and sang your praises like no man had before.

Above you, Bucky was aching for release but adamant that he wouldn’t cum down your throat—not yet, at least.

His mind was alight with those pesky, primal thoughts again, and every time he watched you swallow him whole, he just wanted to fuck his cum someplace else.

Bucky wasn’t sure if he was smitten or simply dominated by carnal desire; all he knew was that he wanted to give you his babies.

Lots and lots of babies.

A hundred or more, if he had it his way.

Again, you barely had a chance to take a fresh breath before Bucky threw you onto the bed. You’d just tried to steady yourself in a semi-seated position when the man shoved you back in the pillows and slotted himself between your legs, pupils blown wide with hunger.

In a blink, you were flipped onto your stomach with your ass yanked high in the air. Back made to arch, toes about to curl, you closed your eyes and sank your teeth into the sheets, moments away from begging your husband to fuck you right then and there, but Bucky had other plans. He seized the hair at the crown of your head and jerked your head to face forward.

The first thing to greet you was your own reflection—in a floor-to-ceiling mirror at the foot of the bed—followed by Bucky’s broad form steadying behind you. You watched him wet his lips, furrow his brow, and use one careful hand to guide the head of his cock to your entrance. Completely piqued with arousal as you were, weeping beads of desire from that place between your legs, you almost wanted to buck your hips and fuck him yourself.

You refrained.

Bucky pressed the tip of himself to your clit and met your gaze in the mirror when you let out a whimper.

“You didn’t mean it, did you?” he asked, tone suddenly dropped to that of a stoic.

“Mean what?”

It took an unbelievable amount of willpower to fight the moan in your throat when Bucky dragged his cock down the seam of your cunt and rubbed every hot, throbbing inch of himself in the slickness between your folds. You were quick to take the sheets in your hands and squeeze as tight as you could—you wouldn’t let him win that easy.

“When you said you weren’t my wife. Did you mean it?” Bucky was coating himself now, rolling his hips back and forth while you seized the white linens for dear life.

“No. I didn’t,” you said through your teeth. Your eyelids fluttered with the feel of him circling your sensitive hole.

“Do you want to be my wife?” Bucky had to have known it was an asinine question, but he asked it all the same.

“Yes.”

“You do?”

“I do. I do. Now will you just fuck me already?”

In response, and as if to make a mockery of your request, Bucky just pressed the head of his cock inside you and watched you close in the mirror—daring your hips to move back another inch.

“What else do you want to be, doll?”

To say your mind was an empty slate bare of anything but the desire to be fucked was an understatement. You fumbled to find words.

“Your wife, your girl— that’s it, Bucky.”

Your husband nudged his cock a little deeper.

“A good girl?” he hummed.

“Yes, daddy,” you cried and clenched around him.

Bucky stayed where he was and stretched your wet, aching hole with just his tip, making the world’s most shallow thrusts as he flattened his hand on your back and made sure it stayed arched while he teased you.

At this point, you didn’t care what the man saw or heard. You fought with your hips and whined into the sheets.

“Bucky!”

“Wanna be my obedient little cockslut?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“My bunny?”

“Yes, James.” Your cheeks were enflamed, almost hot to the touch.

Bucky suddenly drove himself inside you all the way to the hilt. He squeezed your hip in one hand and with the other slipped a finger between your folds to rub vicious, tight circles against your clit as you bucked and moaned beneath his touch.

“How about a momma?” he pressed, almost too low to be heard, “Wanna be that, too?”

His hips fell into a quick and easy rhythm against your ass, stretching you wide and filling you up almost seamlessly. Your mind was too consumed with pleasure and him to think much else, but barely, you managed,

“W-what?”

Bucky delivered a thrust that knocked the breath from your chest, leaning down to rub your clit even harder.

“Do you want to be a mommy? Have me fill you up and put my baby inside you?”

Oh, fuck. Fucking—what the fuck? Your toes curled as a new jolt of pleasure shot through you, and your gaze locked with Bucky’s in the mirror. He knew exactly what he was doing.

“No— James, we’re not, shit—” you stopped to take a breath as he fucked you rough from behind, smirking the whole time, “We’re not ready for that.”

“Look pretty…ready to me,” Bucky stifled a groan when you squeezed around him and made obscene little noises sliding up and down his cock. He watched the way your pretty, wet pussy stretched and swallowed him down to the base and imagined it dripping with his cum. He snapped his hips against your ass even faster.

It wasn’t clear just who was more overcome with desire—both of you blissed out and fuckdrunk as you’d ever been—and then Bucky flipped you onto your back.

He wanted to see your face as he fucked you slow this time, lips hovering mere inches from your own as he dragged his cock gently in and out of you.

“James,” you breathed, digging your heels in his back with a wordless plea to speed up, baby, please.

In truth, you just knew what would happen if Bucky had the advantage of slow and soft sex with a mouth lowered close to your ear. How he’d shower you with kisses and bring you right to the edge, rolling his hips against your body with strings of sweet praises flowing fast off his tongue.

“Just one, honey,” he mumbled, lips grazing the edge of your jaw, “One baby and I promise we’ll be done.”

Yeah fucking right, you wanted to return with a roll of your eyes but felt your insides churn as he grazed that spot.

“Can you do that for me, doll?” he eased his dick back and forth and snaked a hand between your bodies until his palm was laying flat on your stomach, “Fit my baby in there?”

You couldn’t deny the feelings of pleasure were heightened to no end when he rubbed the heel of his palm into your tummy and continued to rut into you. That feeling of fullness, the delicate nudge against your most sensitive place, paired with the warmth of Bucky’s hand on your lower abdomen, was as close to euphoric as you’d ever felt before orgasm, and it wasn’t hard to tell from the way your body responded. Bucky worked his touch even deeper and watched you writhe beneath him.

“My sweet girl,” he cooed, rubbing that spot, “You’d look so pretty all swole up down here, don’t you think?”

Fucking hell, this guy was good. You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to shake your head.

“Someone…tried to kill us…twice in the last twenty four hours,” you managed between labored breaths. Trying not to whimper when the head of Bucky’s cock kissed your cervix and you felt him bottom out inside you.

Balls deep and enamored with the expression on your face, Bucky laid a kiss on your forehead and smiled.

“I’ll take Schröder’s life with my own two hands if it means keeping you—” he paused to press his palm even firmer on your stomach, “—and our child safe, honey.”

You wanted to believe him. You sincerely hoped your husband could make good on his promise—even if it meant delivering an agonizing, bloody death to a man you barely knew—but you sensed deep down that there were no guarantees in the world Bucky Barnes inhabited. From what little you’d seen in the last day and a half, it had become clear as ever that there were no certainties; no promise of tomorrow, much less a probability that things would pan out exactly as you planned. Add to that a living, breathing child between you two, and the prospects for a safe, secure, and peaceful future were small. Infinitesimally so, in the grand scheme of things.

“No, Bucky,” you finally opened your eyes to find his tender gaze watching over you. Still moving his hips gently, still blanketing your body with his own, “That’s entirely just— just irresponsible. You know it would be.”

“Making a child together?” Bucky seemed wounded saying the words.

And, in spite of the serious turn your conversation had taken, you could see and feel with the growing pace of your breaths that both of you were close. You wanted more than anything to repair that muted, injured look in his eyes, but then Bucky was blinking it away, to the best of his abilities, and lowering his head back down to yours to impart a soft barrage of kisses along your skin. He resumed before you could even think to speak again.

“Okay. No, you’re right. It’s your choice, my love,” he murmured against your cheek, getting back into the more deliberate rhythm of his thrusts before. He stayed there holding his body and his lips as close to yours as possible, and when you felt tempted to say something again, you found the sound drowned by a cresting wave of pleasure.

Your legs tightened around Bucky’s sides, and your head fell back on the bed. You felt Bucky’s drop right beside you, turned just slightly to graze his lips against your ear.

“Gonna cum for me, doll?”

You nodded.

“So close, Bucky,” you breathed, a tremor passing over your thighs as they squeezed him even tighter.

You felt your husband’s hand move from your belly to a place just below it—taking care to bring the pad of his thumb to that wet, aching bundle of nerves—and started drawing circles. Your back arched from the bed, into him, and the coil of pleasure in your lower half swelled.

“Good girl,” Bucky growled, “Good fuckin’ girl, taking me so well.”

The praises and gentle circuits of his thumb continued as he fucked you harder into the bed and panted against your skin. Increasing the speed of his thrusts before catching your mouth in a sloppy kiss, body sinking into yours.

“Gonna make a mess of this cock, huh? Show daddy just how much you love it?”

You whined in response, feeling your muscles start to ache from how hard your legs were wrapped around him. Bucky invaded your mouth with his tongue, kissing and licking and craving your taste as he fucked you stupid—and begged for your release.

“Cum for daddy, honey, I know you got it. Let daddy feel it, baby, please.”

A couple more snaps of his hips and you gave him just that: a hot, cascading ripple of bliss spreading all throughout your body, sending your mind in spirals and every muscle under your command a tense, throbbing mess. You swallowed a scream and took a bite of Bucky’s shoulder instead, causing the man above you to grin and fuck you harder.

“That’s my girl,” he mumbled with an audible hint of pride.

The smile only started to waver when his own release was coming close. Suddenly, his grip was moving to your hip and pinning you down to the bed, brows pinching in and breaths starting to hitch.

“Honey— honey,” he said, voice strained, “Baby, you— you gotta let go of your— ah, fuck.”

Still riding out the highs of your orgasm, you hardly even noticed how tight you were holding him with your legs, and shortly, this raised issues for Bucky, who was trying like hell to heed your wishes and not cum inside you.

“Baby, let go, I gotta—”

He probably could’ve fought to shake you off a little harder, been a bit more adamant about his efforts, but you looked so comfortable and lithe and sweet beneath his frame, so blissed out and happy to be taking his strokes, Bucky almost had to pinch himself to rouse his lust-addled brain to action and remind himself that this was how babies are made, man, get the fuck off of her.

Bucky let out a long, strangled groan as the ropes of cum left his body before he could think, or move, fast enough.

He hastily pushed your legs away and pulled out, but not before painting your walls with a good portion of his load. His hand fell to his cock and started jerking the rest of it out over your stomach, body washing with pleasure.

Vaguely, thoughts of babies and ballgames and neat white picket fences crossed his mind, but those views were fleeting; he remembered what you’d told him and forced himself back to earth, dropping a quick, apologetic kiss to the side of your face.

“I’m sorry. Should’ve pulled out quicker,” Bucky panted against your neck.

You stroked his bicep and shook your head.

“You’re fine. I kinda had you down like a boa constrictor for a second,” you breathed and shared a weary laugh.

Before you knew it, Bucky was sliding off the bed and shuffling toward the bathroom in search of a towel. You prodded the warm, gooey mess on your belly with your finger and raised an eyebrow. Curious, and only slightly worried.

Bucky had been hitting it raw for a day now—surely one more half-load of his wouldn’t get you pregnant, right?

Fortunately, you didn’t have much longer to ponder that thought because a trill of a ringtone sounded from the nightstand.

A phone call? At 45,000 feet?

“Just the intercom,” Bucky called out, “Probably Steve about to start complaining that we fuck too loud.”

Huh. You stared at the trimline-looking telephone on the table and let it ring. Then the sound stopped.

“You think they could hear us?” you asked.

Bucky had just wet a washcloth under the sink and was rifling through the cabinets for something else.

“Hope so,” he said with a shrug, “You know I’d never miss a chance to let ‘em know I took a trip to poundtown—”

“Please never say that again,” you groaned, closing your eyes in sudden fear of what Steve and Sam may or may not have just been made privy to outside of the room.

You were just about to speak up again—perhaps to tell your husband there would be an indefinite travel ban to poundtown if he didn’t hurry the fuck up with that towel—when the intercom’s jarring peal started up once more.

Fuck this. Ignoring the sticky-sweet puddle of love still painted on your stomach, you sat up and crawled over to the phone and ripped it off the hook.

“Barnes residence,” you announced without ceremony. Then, imagining how smug Steve was probably looking on the other end of that line, you decided to be crass and add, “Bucky Barnes is very busy laying pipe on his wife right now, but if you could leave your name and number, he’ll be sure to call you back as soon as possible!”

You heard the caller burst out laughing, and you smiled to yourself. Pleased to have made an otherwise moody and brooding Steve Rogers crack at one of your jokes, you were just about to hang up when the caller cut in.

Bucky was returning with your towel in hand, lips curled in the faintest of smirks at hearing your crude declaration, when he stopped at the foot of the bed.

He saw the smile fall from your face, and his did, too.

From the other end of the line, a soft and familiar Southern drawl crawled out of the phone’s receiver.

“Sure thing, doll. Tell him it’s Joey Schröder calling.”

Taglist: @vicmc624, @she-could-never, @mcira, @kentokaze, @identity2212, @unaxv, @buchi91, @ordelixx, @stinkerbelle007, @opibarnes, @wilsons-striped-ties, @desigirlxx, @pono-pura-vida, @geminiflanagansblog, @fandomsfeminismandme, @buggy14, @sky-full-0f-fl0wers, @buckysdoll1520, @armystay89, @minimarvelingmarvel, @kunakizen, @ghostiebby06, @blackhawkfanatic, @dameron-grant-spector, @sushiseoks, @deansapplepie, @mrsjoequinn, @lunaroserites, @first-edition, @kaybaby2494, @jaggedsi, @excusememrbarnes, @daisychainsoflove, @mostlymarvelgirl, @diannana, @shawnberry, @yujyujj, @urmomsalex, @mrs-bucky-barnes-73, @athenabarnes, @christinabae, @wintrsoldrluvr, @bethbunnyy, @i-heart-smut

(If I missed anyone or tagged improperly, please let me know! This is my first rodeo taglist)

[starsoverbrooklyn]

I can’t get enough of this—i’m literally so smitten by every aspect of your writing. It has me rolling around in bed and making commentary the whole way through. fucking loved this so much & i love your mind 😭 is it too early to use the word love? we just met yesterday… asking for a friend cause Bucky is a bit unreliable in that area.

thank you so much for creating the shit out of this 💚

[gutsby]

Wedded Bliss

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: The marriage was arranged, and the sex is deranged. Bucky is so obsessed with your pussy that he almost forgets he’s meant to be faking this whole thing—and hating it, like sworn enemies are supposed to do.

Warnings: 18+. Dubcon. Corruption kink. Virginity loss. Arranged marriage between enemies. Brat taming. Breeding kink. Beefy, mob boss Bucky devolving into a fall-to-his-knees-just-to-fuck-you kind of horny mess.

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Dividers by the lovely @saradika 💞

You kissed him and wished him dead in the same breath. You said ‘I do’ and meant ‘I don’t,’ exchanged your vows like your own last rites, and felt him slip the ring on your finger as if he’d just tightened a noose around your neck.

You didn’t want to be a bride, and you sure as hell didn’t want to be the bride to Mr. James Buchanan Barnes.

Frankly, you were mortified.

And terrified, too, now that you knew your groom might actually kill you in the kitchen of your honeymoon suite.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?!”

“I walked down the aisle, didn’t I?”

Another plate went crashing on the wall behind your husband’s head just as he managed to duck. He side-stepped a spray of porcelain and glass and probably crushed several hundred shards beneath his polished black oxfords when he walked—stalked—over to you.

You’d just reared back to hurl a serving plate at his face when you found your speed swiftly outmatched. Bucky had your elbow gripped between his forefinger and thumb in less than a second, and, pinching the bone like he might readily break it, he said, even as always,

“Put it down.”

You did as he told you and dropped the platter to the floor with a crash.

Rather than berate you for the broken china—or the four other pieces before it—your husband only smiled.

“Are we done?”

Hell, you wanted to be. Slide over a pen and a one-way plane ticket to someplace in BFE, and you’d be signing those divorce papers in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, your dear husband was just referring to the temper tantrum.

You weren’t totally sure if you were finished on that front, so you looked him up and down and shrugged.

“Now darling—” he started.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Light of my life—”

“I’ll kill you.”

Your cool, level-headed groom took each gibe like it was his sworn duty, and only when he yanked your wrists behind your back and shoved you toward the bedroom door did you sense that he might not be too pleased with your behavior.

Your knees struck the edge of the California King at the center of the room, and before you could will yourself not to fall face-first, Bucky nudged you hard again.

Still pinning your hands behind you, he followed your collapse on the bed and leaned over your prone body.

His breaths were hot on your ear; you could tell he was smiling as he started to hike your dress up your legs.

“It’s all part of the deal, doll.”

You wriggled under his hold and tried to angle yourself better to see him, hoping he’d see your scowl.

“The deal was to get married,” you reminded him.

“Mhmm,” Bucky hummed, just then starting to trail a finger up the uncovered skin of your calf with his other hand, “And what is it that married people do?”

You kicked your foot reflexively, paused, then said,

“Fight. Constantly. Probably resent each other for the better part of two decades before we finally decide that ‘making it work’ for the kids isn’t worth it at all, and I claim half of everything you own in a bitter divorce.”

That earned a chuckle from Bucky. He kept his roaming hand brushing up the back of your thigh and squeezed the flesh just below the swell of your rear.

“Don’t worry, my lawyer drafted a pretty good prenup.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but then he was tracing the contour of your ass with his palm, and you cut yourself short. Bucky carried on, careless as ever.

“But the kids you mentioned,” he said, “How are we supposed to get those?”

You pursed your lips and tried hard not to move when his fingers drifted inward—you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm. The bottom of your dress was bunched around your hips now, leaving you sorely exposed. Had your bridesmaids not thrust that stupid white lingerie set upon you hours before the wedding, you probably would’ve chosen something a little more modest than a thong. But here you were.

At least the sight seemed appealing to your husband, whose eyes hadn’t left you once while his hands grew even hungrier to feel your warmth.

“I’m hoping a sperm donor or one of your double-crossing mobster friends will knock me up, honestly,” you said, feigning enthusiasm at the thought.

A tart slap delivered to your ass told you that Bucky hadn’t found that funny. After, he started kneading the skin a bit harder.

“No shot,” he shook his head, suddenly gliding his fingers down closer to your core and waiting for you to say something in protest, “Only one that’s gonna be pumping this thing full of babies is me, I promise.”

It was like he wanted your retaliation, whether that be by a thinly veiled look of disgust or a reactionary jab of your own. You weren’t keen on fulfilling any wish of his, but at this point, you felt you had no other choice. When you sensed he was distracted by the newly-discovered heat between your legs and had loosened his grip on your wrists, you flipped yourself over on the bed. Shoved at his chest before he knew what to do with himself.

Of course, the push didn’t send him far, but it was enough to get his attention—and his hands off of you.

“I’m not having your babies, Barnes! I am never going to fuck you, no matter how long we stay fake married,” you spat.

At that, Bucky just raised his eyebrows and wet his lips. You were cramming your wedding dress back into place, glaring at him the whole time, and were scarcely more aware of the bright, teeming city outside the window than you were of your husband’s own growing erection.

Finally, you’d said it. His new wife wouldn’t fuck him. The sound of your resistance was almost a pleasure unto itself, and the longer you stared at Bucky with growing contempt and resolve not to do that thing, the more determined he became to make it happen.

Cat-and-mouse games had long been a staple in his life, and he was pleased to see them carry into his marriage as well. Surely if he’d triumphed in every pursuit for the last twenty years—facing the likes of some seriously execrable bandits and racketeers—he could take on a bratty woman less than half his size. You said you didn’t want his babies now, but just wait until he’d fucked you full of his cum once or twice. You’d be begging him for it in no time at all, and shortly thereafter, he’d have you barefoot and pregnant as many times as he liked. Always swollen with one of his children and whining for more.

The woman before him now had a murderous glint in her eyes, but he could fuck that away easy. In fact, he would live to do it. He traced the outline of your thigh over your dress and smiled when you tried not to recoil.

“Surely you didn’t think we’d be finger-painting and reading poetry to each other on our wedding night, hm?” he asked, almost delicately.

“Thought you might have one of your other women lined up,” you snorted. When you tried to move away, Bucky pinched your leg to make you stay. You winced.

“That’s not funny,” he said, a little more consternation in his tone. Like he actually cared whether you thought him a profligate Lothario or not, “Now that we’re married, it’s only you and me. No mistresses, nothing.”

Yeah, and he was just as likely arriving to your marital bed a blushing virgin. You rolled onto your side and pretended not to feel him tighten his grip as you did.

“Try the carnal part of our marriage yourself and I’m sure you’ll find I’m an exceptional fuck,” Bucky continued, speaking low as he stroked the chiffon of your dress.

You didn’t doubt the man was good—certainly the extent of his sexual escapades as a twenty-something seemed to demand it—but exceptional? No fucking way. You knew men like Bucky, with the world and every walking pair of tits at their fingertips, and almost all were incurably selfish. Cocky. The kind to jackhammer a woman for three consecutive minutes, roll over, and say, ‘Did you cum?’

No, there was not a snowball’s chance in hell your husband’s sexual prowess was even half as good as he claimed it was. Deciding to bite your tongue for the first time that night, though, you just stared at him blankly.

What you didn’t know was that your silence only stoked the flames of his ego, prompting him to press the matter further.

“What? You think I can’t fuck?” he said, “Any woman lucky enough to bed me has cum at least twice. Every time.”

Sure they did, Bucky, you wanted to say, but were suddenly drawn into his lap before you could speak.

“But let’s pretend I can’t,” he said, heedless of the face you made as soon as you were straddling his hips, “You wouldn’t let your husband prove himself tonight?”

“I don’t fuck strangers.”

Bucky smiled at that.

“Everyone’s a stranger until you get to blow them, honey,” he teased, squeezing your hips when you didn’t seem amused at all. Then you let out a cry, feeling yourself thrown back on the mattress like a rag doll while Bucky moved off.

Before you knew it, he was tugging your ankles down the length of the bed and widening his stance just a bit. He stopped pulling once your knees were grazing his black dress pants and your feet were dangling off of the bed.

“You like skylines?” he asked.

You frowned and raised a brow that he was quick to interpret as a ‘yes.’ He hauled you onto your feet.

“‘Course you do. All pretty girls like pretty skies,” he rattled on, strolling with you step-by-step to the set of French doors at the end of the room.

Bucky led you out to the balcony. The air was warm as it ever was, dull gusts of the evening wind curling up from the coastline below. Just as your husband had promised, the skyline of Santorini greeted you on either side, and you had to admit, it was more than just pretty. The views from your villa were absolutely breathtaking.

You stood with your back to Bucky, hands resting on the marble balustrade, and you felt him there, behind you. You didn’t bother to tilt your head when he drew even closer.

“What do you like most about it?” The question was simple enough, punctuated with a kiss on your shoulder. Your eyes scanned the horizon, the sea, even the quiet little streets down beneath, and you racked your brain trying to think of an answer that might satisfy him.

Before you could, though, you sucked in a breath when you felt your dress start to come undone at your back.

Bucky was unzipping your gown, gentle as ever, and probably grinning from ear to ear as he watched you shift uncomfortably in place and try to hold the material above your breasts where it had been fastened all day. Presently, you kicked your heel backward and hoped it would land somewhere near his balls. You missed.

“James,” you hissed.

Bucky groaned at the sheer intonation of his name on your lips.

“Yes, dear?”

“Why are you undressing me?”

Bucky had successfully dragged the zipper all the way down to your ass, and it seemed he was trying to shimmy the dress off your frame. You held on tight.

“I’d like to fuck my bride over the balcony railing, if that’s alright with you,” he answered truthfully.

The man was nothing if not blunt and crass. You turned around to give him a look, yanking your gown even closer to your chest.

“I’ll— I’ll tell my mother, Barnes.”

You felt stupid as soon as you’d said it—using your go-to threat whenever you were in distress. What were you, eleven?

“Your mother?” Bucky repeated, words steeped in derision, “Last I recall, mommy dearest was practically begging me to get you pregnant at the reception.”

Your jaw clenched, and you internally cursed your whole family. Your parents were supposed to be on your side throughout all of this—it was bad enough they’d pawned you off to a mob boss of unrivaled infamy all to settle a debt, but this? Your mother had assured you just the day before that Mr. Barnes was bound to tire of you within the year. No mention of sex or babies whatsoever.

The same mother who had beat you over the head with the notion of your own virginity since you were old enough to read, the one who had underscored just how important it was to wait for the right man to give yourself body, mind, and soul to, turning around and telling this filthy criminal to have you any way he liked. And knock you up? The fucking nerve of that woman.

You were so preoccupied with thoughts of your own backstabbing family that you hardly felt Bucky drag your dress the rest of the way down your body. It was only when you were completely bare before him, and your husband had just started to skim his lips over your tummy that you tensed with surprise.

“I don’t have to fuck you just yet, doll,” he murmured, having sunk to his knees and only moving lower. Then the corners of his lips twitched, “Least not with my dick.”

You tried to pry his head from between your legs before he could stretch his tongue so much as an inch.

“James!”

Again with that name.

“You know, I love when you call me that, Mrs. Barnes.”

Bucky was peering up at you now, soaking in the sight of your body in a white lace bra, panties, and stockings.

“Is my bride feeling shy?” he teased, gently nipping at your inner thighs.

You weren’t sure what you were feeling in that moment, to be honest. Revulsion, betrayal, arousal, you name it—each crowned with an all-encompassing hatred for the man currently occupying the space between your legs—while a still stronger desire almost hoped he would stay.

“You can hate your husband all you want and still let him tonguefuck you,” Bucky growled against your skin.

Like he’d read your mind.

In reality, your husband hardly needed the powers of telepathy to tell him just how turned on you were; the sopping wet spot in your panties said as much. From his vantage point, Bucky saw the disgust in your eyes slowly eclipsed by lust, and with a single flick of his tongue, he knew he would have you exactly where he wanted you.

“Just let it happen, honey.”

He felt your fingers thread tight through his hair and the first stir of your hips in tandem. One small, delectable whimper crossed your lips, and it took everything in Bucky not to tear your panties straight off with his teeth.

Instead, the man opted for a soft, gentle lick over your clothed slit. Testing the waters.

Your whimper was quick to meld to a moan, and then, just as fast:

“N-no, Bucky.”

To your dismay, his tongue didn’t retreat, only making firmer laps against your centre while his lips grazed the lace. He gripped your thighs and wedged himself deeper, and again, you cursed the paper thin fabric of your panties for letting you feel everything his mouth was doing. He hadn’t even made proper contact with your cunt, and your knees were already starting to shake.

He pressed a kiss above your clit through the flimsy material, and you almost tore a clump of hair from his head.

“No. Please.” You hardly made sense to yourself; it was clear you wanted his touch, but something inside you wasn’t quite ready to submit to the idea that this was all okay. That your husband’s tongue and lips might be meant for something like this, and you didn’t have to feel so guilty for wanting it either. Fucking purity culture.

“My pretty girl,” Bucky presently murmured above the fabric, words sending a dozen little shockwaves in their wake, “My beautiful fucking wife.”

The man inhaled your scent and could’ve sworn he was in ecstasy. Blinded by desire as he was, he really wasn’t bullshitting in the slightest when he gathered you to him and said you were the best; he’d genuinely grown transfixed by the feel of you, in spite of every fibre of his being telling him not to. The marriage was arranged, fake, and fueled by hatred—and somehow, Bucky couldn’t get enough.

Nor could he wait any longer. One light swipe of his finger tugged your panties aside, and then he was latching on, no cover this time, to take your clit between his lips. Sucking hard, going fast, needing it bad.

A moan rang loud in his ears, and your hand on his head was instantly joined by the other. You yanked his hair like you never had before, pulling so tight at the roots as though your pleasure depended on it. Bucky smiled around the soft pearl in his mouth and flicked it gently with the tip of his tongue.

“Feel good, baby?” he breathed.

His head tilted up to you, and he could see you were struggling just to breathe, face painted with a medley of emotions.

You didn’t know if you could, or should, be feeling this good from a man so evil. Bucky flattened his tongue and licked a long stripe up your pussy to ensure that you would. Then he posed the question again, smirking.

“You like my tongue on this wet, needy cunt?”

His words were so damn obscene, but you nodded anyway. Feeling small and powerless beneath those big, broad hands as they pinned you back on the marble and spread you even wider for the taking.

He loved how innocent and lewd you looked at once, wincing with pleasure and still trying to keep your composure like you thought a good girl should.

Bucky wanted to break that resolve. He brought one hand closer to your entrance.

And, just as your breaths were starting to hitch and grow more ragged in your chest, he pushed two fingers inside. The act surprised your husband almost as much as it did you—not quite, but almost—upon feeling how tight you were, how resistant to even two digits you seemed to be. He hardly knew whether to shove them deeper or pull them out, so fast did your muscles contract around him.

When you whined a loud, protracted, ‘FUCK!’ he figured he would stick with the former. He grinned, having never heard you speak, much less swear, out of pleasure like this.

Your head lolled back and your body made an arch when his fingers curled inside you. You were panting, moaning, coating his hand with your juices, and Bucky knew you were close.

He started pumping his fingers in and out while his tongue worked your clit, chin practically doused in your arousal by now. A swell of pride rose within him: he could finally bring you home to that sweet release, have you a shaking, soaking mess above his face like you were wholly his and no one else’s. He moved his tongue even faster and sank his fingers straight down to the knuckle.

Then, unexpectedly, both were robbed of your touch.

Seized with fear, you shoved Bucky off and stumbled away from his glistening face. You took off toward the doors and fled the balcony before you could think.

“What the f— honey? Honey?!” Bucky sputtered. He bounded after you.

You’d thrown yourself in the master bathroom and locked the door behind you in the blink of an eye. Outside, your husband had only to stare in pure bewilderment and awe, mind reeling at what had just happened.

Fucking hell, he knows. He knows! You collapsed against the door and slid down a couple inches. Your hand reflexively flew to your mouth to stifle the sounds when Bucky began pounding the wood behind you.

“Baby, what’s wrong? What’s—what’s goin’ on?”

In truth, you’d rather chug bleach than divulge the thought that had just scared the everliving fuck out of you back there. It was stupid and senseless and should’ve been frightening you for weeks before it ever came to this, but here you were, panicked in the bathroom of your honeymoon suite because you’d never done this before—and you’d never reached climax in your life without bursting into tears.

Fuck, you felt stupid. How could you think this would be any different—or that Bucky’s tongue wouldn’t eventually attempt to wrest an orgasm out of you?

It’d just felt so good, you thought maybe a new climax brought by someone else’s fingers might free you from the same unsavory demise you’d met a hundred times before, but then it hit you, shortly after Bucky had plunged his fingers inside, you were going to cry.

You winced when Bucky’s knocks grew louder, his voice gaining more ire by the second, it seemed.

“Open the fucking door!”

He’d rake you over the coals for this. Getting so close to what he wanted, only to have his silly little bride snatch it all away and run hiding in the en-suite bathroom? Your stomach turned at the thought of what men in the mob were liable to do with women like you—what Bucky might conceivably do now that you’d sparked his rage.

Your eyes darted to the window just as his fist shook the doorframe behind you. You ran over to the tub, tucked squarely beneath the windowsill, and climbed onto it just to get a hold of the fastenings around the glass.

One click synchronized with the furious cadence being hammered on the door, and just as you started to slide the pane up the way, a heavy thud sounded outside. The weight of your husband’s body being thrust against the door, most likely.

You bit your lip and lifted one leg over the windowsill, shuffling your body even closer to the outside world.

Three floors up! Have you lost your mind? You could hear your father’s words ringing in your skull already. There was a ledge, you reasoned, no more than ten feet below, if you could just grab hold of the frame right there and slide down the cool stone you might—

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned.

You watched your husband heave through the busted door of the bathroom, wide eyes and a ‘Here’s Johnny’ flourish raging hot on his face. Your heart leapt to your throat, and you started to lower yourself out of the window, hoping desperately for that ledge below to be sturdy. But before you could make it even half of the way there, strong arms were circling your frame and yanking you back inside, hurtling straight into the bathtub with Bucky tumbling over you.

“What are you doing?!” he roared.

You wriggled under his weight, petrified of the fiery look in his eyes as he lurched over your frame.

He straightened up just enough to shake you by the shoulders—like a parent reprimanding a child.

“What the fuck was that?! Huh? You think that’s fucking funny, jumping out windows?”

No, no, not funny, you wanted to bite back, but found your mouth dry and unable to speak. When Bucky shook you again, you had only to whimper a pathetic sound.

The man was enraged. Stubble still damp with your juices and looking undeniably frazzled and spent, he drew closer to your face and demanded you look at him. When he took hold of your cheeks in both hands, the command couldn’t have reached you any more clearly.

“What— what was that for?” his voice lowered as he tried to catch his breath. You still couldn’t move.

“I-I don’t—” you stopped and hardly knew how to say it:

Sorry to cut our tonguefucking session short, I was just afraid I might burst into a fit of uncontrollable tears while you licked and sucked me through the best orgasm of my life. I’d rather jump off, or out of, a building than tell my mob boss husband that I can’t cum without crying. By the way, I’m a virgin!

Instead, you just blinked and stared back at him.

“Can’t…do it,” you murmured.

Bucky’s expression only grew more puzzled by the words out of your mouth. He squeezed your face tighter and leaned in even closer.

“Do what? Sex? Fuck, I— I didn’t mean to be that aggressive, hell, I’m sorry.” He stopped to run a hand through his hair, and for the first time, you could’ve sworn you saw the first glint of compunction in his eyes.

He looked away a few seconds, as if collecting what fragmented thoughts he could, then brought his head back down to your level and took your hands in his.

“Honey?” he tried getting your attention, just barely above a whisper now, “I know the whole thing’s fucked, I know.”

That was the understatement of the century. To your surprise, Bucky’s gaze softened when he saw a scowl cross your face.

“We don’t…have to do anything. I was just pushing your buttons earlier. Being a dick.”

His tongue moved to wet his lips once more, this time without the seductive, smug demeanor he usually wore and simply exhibiting discomfort. He swallowed. The bow tie around his neck appeared to him to be fastened far too tight all of a sudden, and then, haphazardly, he started clawing at the garment to get it off.

You didn’t know why you felt compelled to help. It was like all ten fingers just lifted of their own accord to join Bucky’s hands in trying to undo his tie.

The silk fabric wasn’t tied, but knotted, crudely and inflexibly, beneath the little black bow. You frowned. Still unable to meet his gaze as you worked your fingers under the tangled material and tried to pretend like the two of you weren’t still sweating profusely from the events that had just transpired—both the tonguefucking and the window-jumping.

“Who tied this, a five-year-old?” you muttered.

“I’m thirty-eight, thanks,” Bucky returned just as quietly.

Both of you indulged in a smile that lasted no longer than a second, but you felt the tension ease a little.

This was not where you thought your dreaded wedding night was headed before. Curled up in a bathtub with your hands around your husband’s neck—and not actually trying to kill him—while Bucky blinked almost nervously the longer your hands lingered on his collar. It seemed he’d found something especially tantalizing on the wall behind your head, because his stare remained fixed on that spot the whole time you fiddled with his tie.

Maybe that, along with the last ebb of alcoholic influence from the reception still coursing through your veins, had emboldened you to come right out and say it while Bucky was looking away. You couldn’t be sure.

“I’ve never had sex before.”

At last, the tie loosened a little.

Bucky flicked his gaze back to yours in a second.

“What?”

You lifted a brow, wondering if he really needed an explanation as to what it meant to have never gotten laid before, but you decided against indulging him any further. Bucky seemed keen on doing that all by himself.

“You’re a virgin?”

You nodded.

“Didn’t my overbearing mother make sure you knew?”

“Yeah, I thought she was full of shit,” Bucky answered bluntly. Then, catching sight of the semi-offended look in your eye, mixed with a tad more amusement than indignation, he added, “I mean— I didn’t think you’d, uh, wanna wait…twenty-five years for some action.”

He winced when he realized that sounded just as bad. His throat cleared shortly to make way for a new attempt at comity, but you cut him off, shaking your head as you finally got the knot to untangle.

“No, I get it. I don’t know why I waited this long either,” you shrugged.

As soon as you’d freed him from his bow tie, you started to stand from the bath tub. Bucky, too, straightened to his full height and started to close the window while you walked back to the bedroom.

You eyed the rose petals strewn across the duvet and felt a little more relaxed this time around. The weight of the V-word had been lifted from your shoulders, and now you had only to share the crying-while-cumming stuff to Bucky later on. Much later on, you hoped.

You crawled onto the bed and stretched out on your belly, playing with the soft red petals and wondering if room service was still offered at this hour.

Bucky had just stepped out of the bathroom when he halted at the threshold. Saw your body sprawled out on the bed, back arched and ass pointed in the air as you reached over for the phone on the nightstand. He stared for a second too long and felt a familiar stir in his pants.

Sonovabitch, he started to think, before chiding himself silently, Shut up, man, she’s a virgin. Be cool. Be cool—don’t make her jump out a window again.

He ducked back in the bathroom and eased the door to just a crack while you discovered a voice on the line:

“Hi! Hey, I’d like to order room service to, uh…” your voice trailed off. Then, covering the mouthpiece, “James, what’s our room number?”

Inside the bathroom, Bucky squeezed his eyes shut at the sound of his name. Already palming his erection through his dress pants as he leaned against the wall.

“We rented the whole building, dear,” he called back.

“Oh.” He could just imagine the slight pout on your lips as you spoke. Then you asked if he wanted anything to eat, Bucky thought only of the sweet nectar between your legs, and he answered aloud, no, he was fine, really.

For the first time in his life, the man felt positively ashamed he was about to rub one out in a bathroom, alone. It wasn’t like this was the first it had ever been done, but now there was you, innocent and oblivious in the next room over, while Bucky undid his belt and quietly freed his cock from his dress pants. It felt kind of perverted, in a way, but he knew he needed this release to put his mind at ease and not feel so affected by you.

While you scanned your phone for a menu and chatted with the concierge downstairs about various food items, Bucky was spitting in his hand and fumbling for his shaft. You talked American Wagyu sirloin, lobster thermidor, and seared Faroe Island salmon while he thought achingly about the way your cunt had tasted and how badly he wanted to try it again.

How did he feel about an artisan cheese platter? Bucky hardly had the wits about himself to answer beyond a strangled, ‘Whatever you want, honey’ and a tightened fist around his cock, stroking hard to get the filthy thoughts out of his head before the food arrived.

Ever sweet, soft, supple, and savory—his mind reeled with fresh memories of that place between your thighs, and he almost lurched forward in pleasure.

Your brute of a mob boss husband was irreparably pussy-whipped and hadn’t even fucked you yet. He gripped the bathroom sink beside him and sincerely wished it wasn’t his hand doing the work right now. But of course, he had to be patient, had to be kind—couldn’t force himself on a woman who clearly wasn’t ready.

Again, he spit in his palm and jerked himself fast.

Any minute now, he thought with some relief.

Your feet padded softly into the living room as the pleasure inside him was starting to crest. Still pining for your warmth and the way your legs trembled around his head, Bucky was all but fucking his hand at this point. He’d snagged his bottom lip between his teeth in a lopsided smile and groaned, too low to be heard, and pumped himself even faster for his impending orgasm.

A thought crossed your mind as you stopped ahead of the sofa. You pivoted.

Suddenly, you were skipping back to the bathroom, wanting to know Bucky’s wine preferences before you placed another order.

You barged in and froze.

“Sorry!” you squeaked, darting out just as fast.

Five seconds slower and you probably would’ve seen Bucky blow his load all over the sink. As it was, the man was left sorely at a loss for any form of release and heaving fast, ragged breaths from the colossal scare you’d just given him.

Good fucking going, Buck—your wife wants to cuddle and eat cheese and you’re out here beating your meat.

Bucky shoved himself back in his pants and waited an excruciating minute for the sound of your second window exit of the night. A slammed door, a frantic phone call, a few sobs into your pillow as you realized how dirty and depraved your husband was, anything.

He was only met with silence.

Taking one more shaky breath, Bucky reached for the doorknob and started back out. Cautiously.

The man took his slow, silent leave of the bathroom with his gaze trained toward the doors—half-expecting to see his bride rappelling from the balcony—but then quickly shifted to the bed. Finding you kneeling at the edge.

“James?”

Your voice almost pained.

A word was all it took. Bucky was back on his knees.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted it to go away, honey. I’m sorry.”

Go away? You quirked a brow and couldn’t hold his gaze much longer; just trailed your vision down his torso to his pants, then his erection, still standing prominent as ever.

Bucky struggled to decide whether you were ticked off or intrigued, seeing your eyes make their painful appraisal of his length beneath his pants. Your brow was pinched, but your head was cocked. Almost curious.

“Are you mad at me?” you asked, gaze fixed on the spot.

Immediately, Bucky rose to his feet and crawled back on the bed, seizing your body with both of his hands.

“No! No, not mad at all,” he mumbled as he sidled up beside you. Pleased to see you hadn’t recoiled, “I was just, uh…missing you, ‘s’all.”

If his men could see him now, Bucky was sure he’d be the laughing stock of all the town. Doting and kind, eyes softened beyond recognition, he just watched you and wanted nothing more than to repair the smile that had ebbed from your face. Come ridicule, hell, or high water, the man was infatuated with his bride—all broken plates and attempted window escapes be damned.

Presently, you brought your hand down to his bulge.

Bucky stiffened but didn’t speak. He wanted you to do this on your own, of your own volition.

“You seem kinda mad to me.” You hardly knew what you were doing. Just rubbing his length and hoping it was something he’d like.

Where Bucky had wanted to see you smile, you just wanted to hear him grunt and whine—maybe grab your hips and beg you to do something, please. You’d never felt any such degree of control, and you suspected Bucky had never not felt it himself. You wanted him desperate.

You were playing a dangerous game, you knew it, but something inside those baby blues said he wanted to do it, too. Do anything for you, quite frankly.

You watched the rise and fall of Bucky’s broad chest and stroked his length even softer.

“James.”

“Uh-huh?” His mouth hung open with a gentle grunt, fighting every instinct to buck into your touch.

At last, you squeezed his shaft and prodded him on. Let your head drift closer to his so his lips would graze the apple of your cheek, and just when you sensed he wanted a taste, you tilted your face toward his own,

“We haven’t even kissed since the ceremony.”

Bucky stared blankly at you, enrapt with the pulse of your fingers. You could tell he was aching to move.

“Oh yeah?” he murmured.

You nodded a wordless affirmation and slid sharply back in bed as Bucky lunged after you. Your hands flew from his pants to the plush mattress behind you as you shifted—or, rather, scrambled—back in place and felt your husband climb over you hungrily.

“That what my wife wants?” he murmured, frame slotting tight between your legs.

You nodded again, and had only to suck in a breath before Bucky was devouring your lips. The kind of flushed, frantic, filthy kiss that would’ve doubtlessly wrought looks of horror on every face at your wedding had he grabbed you that way after the declarations of ‘I do’ had been spoken.

You loved him like this, impassioned and a bit unhinged.

His tongue worked his way past your lips and scoured every soft, fleshy inch between the insides of your cheeks before he took your face in his hands, kissing you roughly.

Something hard and throbbing nudged your sex, and suddenly you were whining in his mouth. Wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Ah, honey, don’t,” Bucky groaned, visibly straining to contain himself. When you dug your heels even deeper in his back, the groan that followed from him was hoarse and guttural.

“I thought— I…fuck,” your husband turned his head to curse as you grinded your hips up to his. You had to bite back a smile.

“I just wanna do what married people do,” you murmured coyly, pretending not to see when Bucky shot you the most red-hot, wanton look he’d imparted all evening.

“Yeah?” Like a kid in a candy shop the size of Sears.

Bucky took your face in his hands once more and made sure to scan your expression for any shred of doubt. On finding nothing there, he sat panting, half-disbelieving and half-contemplating all the wretched things he wanted to do to you. You squeezed his sides with your thighs and just hoped your husband knew what to do, because, in truth, you didn’t have the first fucking idea.

A few dry, clinical terms flashed before your mind’s eye, along with your mother’s bleak depiction of what treatment lay in store for a woman on her wedding night, and as Bucky started to work his belt and his pants off, you just hoped he wouldn’t be cruel.

He couldn’t be, right? He’d only mowed down a hundred men and dismembered dozens more, you were told, but surely a set of eyes this soft, caring, and kind couldn’t belong to a monster. You let him lift your hips and shimmy your panties, garter belt, and stockings down your legs, and when he returned, you tried your best not to betray the thoughts in your head.

Bucky hadn’t been with a virgin for as long as he could remember—maybe ever. His own ‘deflowering’ an ancient relic of his boyhood and the multitude of partners since then a mere flurry of nameless faces, he sincerely couldn’t recall a time when he’d asked, or cared, whether the woman beneath him had her cherry intact. He didn’t suppose it could be too different, as he peeled the last pieces of your lingerie set off your body and saw you seemed perfectly ready. He ran a finger between your folds and felt you shiver with what looked like excitement. Piece of cake, he thought, smiling.

No doubt he would take great joy in making you his own. His bride, his wife, an unblemished beacon of light in a life as sordid as his, looked perfect spread before him. You would adjust to his size. Bucky trailed the head of his cock up your slit and coated himself in your juices, and just when he’d bracketed his other arm around your head on the pillow, you let out a small sound.

“Are you sure it’ll fit?”

Bucky fisted his length and pressed the tip to your entrance.

“Uh…yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

He hadn’t yet met a woman who wasn’t able to fit him.

“Okay.”

Somehow, your voice sounded even smaller, head lodged between pillows and the crook of Bucky’s elbow. You felt small. Frankly, it didn’t seem like your husband was quite computing the worries that were pervading your brain, but you decided he knew best—your mother had assured you that husbands always did—and when Bucky first pressed the head of himself to the seam of your cunt, you hardly even whimpered.

You watched his brow furrow above you. He tried to go further.

Your folds were as soaked as he’d ever seen a woman’s, your hole practically pulsing with desire, and somehow, he couldn’t push in.

Bucky snagged his lip between his teeth and braced himself with the aid of the headboard, taking your hip in his other hand. A breath sounded on your lips the second he adjusted, and shortly thereafter, he felt your gaze on the same place he was watching: the spot where your bodies were trying to connect.

His features darkened at the prospect of failing, or even appearing incompetent to you in the slightest. He’d done this hundreds of times before, why wouldn’t it work?

When he felt your eyes trail back up his body and study his face—maybe wondering why her new groom hadn’t gotten around to thrusting into her yet, he thought—he felt a swell of panic and pushed.

Against his better judgment and the feel of your body, he muscled his way through and forced his cock inside. Bottoming out in a single, stabbing thrust.

You seized in pain but wanted to be a good wife for him.

Bucky, too, felt his hips stutter at the resistance your walls were giving him, but then remembered how he’d sworn to be a dutiful husband, and kept going.

Together, you stared anywhere but the other’s face and gritted your teeth for two entirely different reasons—you, in agony, and Bucky, in ecstasy, the latter hoping with everything in him that you liked this as much as him.

Bucky took a tender, if not slightly awkward, rhythm rutting against your body and stared steady at the headboard like he always did.

You were in pain and faced with nothing but his hulking chest, moving up and down, back and forth, over and over again like a goddamn seesaw from hell while it felt like your insides were presently being torn to shreds.

Who fucking enjoys this? you wanted to wail, but feigned a moan instead, raking your nails down Bucky’s back, Why isn’t he looking at me? Why isn’t he touching me?

Your walls involuntarily clenched around him, and he swallowed a moan.

Just think of baseball, beer, math, the Roman Empire, anything to keep from busting right now, Bucky told himself as he clenched his jaw and fought to maintain his pace. Your pussy just felt so. fucking. good.

Beneath him, you had tried and failed to fight back tears. The burn was just too much; the longer he thrusted, the more your walls contracted, and confusingly, stupidly, it seemed like he was using you. Your mother was right, most likely, that sex was just a means to an end for men like Bucky, and your husband didn’t care about your pleasure at all. You fought hard to keep the waterworks at bay, that one thing you hadn’t wanted Bucky to see, but eventually, the tears were flowing freely.

You stifled a sob that your husband mistook for a moan.

He fucked you even faster and felt a grin start to twitch at the corners of his lips when you made a sound that seemed consistent with pleasure.

“Feel so fucking tight,” Bucky grunted, about to lower his gaze to your face for the first time since he’d entered you, “So nice and tight and w—hey, hey, baby?”

He stilled inside as soon as he saw that you were crying. Took your face in his hands and almost couldn’t believe the sight of your tear-stained cheeks beneath him.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked, scanning your face for any signs of harm.

You just shook your head and tried to brush him off.

“Keep going, I’m good.”

Bucky seemed angered at the suggestion. He brought your face closer to his and stared almost reproachfully down at you. Then he paused a beat and swiped one of your cheeks with the pad of his thumb.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked.

“N—”

“Don’t lie.”

You squirmed a bit and winced. That was answer enough for Bucky, and he slowly pulled out of you.

“Aw hell.”

The two of you glanced down to see a blooming red spot on the comforter. Bucky rubbed the blood in disbelief.

He’d gone too far. Again. Hurt something inside of you that couldn’t be fixed with a kiss. While you struggled to sit up among the pillows, Bucky was running a hand through his hair and cursing himself up and down.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he scowled.

“I didn’t wanna interrup—”

“If I’m making you bleed, you stop me, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well you seemed to be having a pretty good time!”

Bucky didn’t need to tell you in words what was painted on his face; he was pissed off and probably bound to slip off the bed any second, when your tears started welling up again. Then he eased off, remembering he was more mad at himself than anyone else, and slid closer to you. He tried pulling you into his chest, but you didn’t budge.

“C’mon,” you said, grabbing his wrist, “Let’s keep going.”

Bucky eyed you incredulously.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Uh-huh,” you insisted. He shot you a glare but didn’t protest when you guided his hand between your legs.

You were spread back open for him in no time. Still stinging like hell and ready for another go. Bucky almost couldn’t believe it.

“My headstrong wife.” He managed a smile before kissing the crown of your head, and kept right on kissing that spot no matter how far his fingers were traveling.

“You owe me two orgasms, remember, Mr. Barnes?”

It seemed Bucky’s boastful claims of late were in fact the furthest thing from his mind as he crawled back over your body. He pried your knees apart and left just enough room for his frame, taking his fingers to your folds and rubbing in light, gentle circles.

The bleeding had stopped. What little remained was long forgotten, and duly, the pain from recent memory was slowly but surely purged with every flick of his thumb. Bucky planted an arm next to your head and kept touching you there until your face relaxed completely.

When he chanced a finger inside, he was careful not to rub so much as plunge in quick, shallow motions, and at the first signs of pleasure, press light and tender kisses on your skin.

“If it hurts at all, you tell me.”

He sounded stern as he inserted another finger, but really, the man was all putty in your hands, wanting to please you and tease you in any way that he could.

When you told him faster, he sped up; you gripped his hair and said slow down, he did the same. He curled his digits in time with every whimper and moan you made and took care not to be too harsh on your sweet spot.

The only time he paused was when you looked up and asked him point-blank: could he fuck you sweet and gentle now?

Bucky paused. Swallowed.

The man would’ve screwed you six ways to Sunday if you asked him; that wasn’t the problem. The only traces of hesitation remained where your eyes said something different. Even as he shuffled between your legs at your behest, aligned his cock with your entrance, and felt a wave of desire wash over him, he pressed his forehead to yours and searched your glossy gaze once more.

“You sure about this, bunny?” he murmured.

Your heart melted at the name. You couldn’t deny you were frightened, and perhaps a bit worse for the wear after your last attempt, but his words were a comfort, his hand on your cheek a welcome gesture. When his thumb grazed your lips, you kissed it and nodded.

“Alright sweet girl,” Bucky said, tone laced with affection.

This time, before pressing the head of himself inside, Bucky caught your lips and kissed you softly. Rubbed himself up and down your slit—paying extra attention to your clit—and coated himself completely before trying to penetrate you again.

Your cheeks flushed, and you kissed him harder.

“P-please, Bucky, fuck me,” you murmured against his mouth, eliciting a small grunt from him.

“Yeah? You want your husband’s cock inside you, doll?” He kept the pretense of teasing, but really, he was just trying to make sure you wanted this as badly as he did. By the blissed out look on your face and the soft, ceaseless squelching noises produced by your arousal, he got the message pretty quickly.

He breached your folds with just the tip at first. You both felt your muscles contract. Instead of blindly pushing ahead like he had before, Bucky trained his gaze on your face and watched for any signs of discomfort.

“Everything okay, bunny?” he hummed as he brushed a few strands of hair from your face.

You were half in awe of how attentive he was, and doubly impressed by the stretch that followed—like a pinch, but nothing like the pain you’d felt before. You peered up at your husband and squeezed his shoulders.

“It— it doesn’t hurt this time,” you said, breathless.

Bucky could’ve caved at the sweet, innocent expression alone—like you were pleasantly surprised this hadn’t caused excruciating pain—and his lips moved down to pepper your cheeks with kisses again.

“Doll, I’m so sorry.”

The sounds and sighs of your pleasure beneath him, along with the words telling him it was okay, really, he hadn’t meant to do it, all made him feel even guiltier for having hurt you in the first place. It took him some time assailing your face with tiny, apologetic kisses before he even thought to feed you another inch.

When he finally plunged himself deeper, it wasn’t without your express permission; even then, Bucky feared he might split you in two.

The whole time he eased himself inside, he was moving his gaze between your face and the place between your two bodies—watching you open for him and take him inch by inch. He rubbed his thumb over your clit when you whimpered.

“Doing so good for me.”

“Stretching so nice for this cock.”

“My beautiful, beautiful wife.”

Every syllable of his praises flooded your head like honey. Feeling him stretch you out, fill you up, and rock you softly with his first shallow thrusts, all while talking you through it, had your mind ablaze and near-euphoric.

Pleasure practically searing your veins, you didn’t even hear yourself, or really mean to say it, as soon as you did.

“This doesn’t feel dirty at all.”

An epiphany to you and a puzzle to Bucky.

“What’s’at, honey?” He was still rutting his hips and slowly picking up speed. Your husband groaned when you clenched around him and pulled him even deeper—before you realized what you’d said.

Your cheeks flushed.

“I— I was always told sex made you dirty. This feels—” you stopped to swallow a moan when Bucky grazed a particularly sensitive spot inside you, “pretty nice.”

‘Pretty nice.’ Your husband couldn’t help the smile twitching at the corners of his lips as he leaned down to kiss you. He wrapped his big, muscly arms around you and pulled you closer to his chest.

“Makes you dirty?” Bucky said, disbelief evident in his tone before his smile broke into a grin, “Baby, you’re the cleanest, sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He didn’t let you endeavor to protest, just buried his face in your neck and pressed teasing kisses all over the skin while he continued to pump in and out of you. He knew to keep hitting that spot, too.

You were drowning in whimpers and kisses when Bucky brought his lips to your ear.

“Doesn’t make you dirty at all,” he assured you, “Just makes you my wife.”

You clawed Bucky’s back when he sped up a little, and you felt the pleasure soar to even greater heights when he propped your legs above his shoulders—a brand new angle for him to bend you like a pretzel and fuck you good.

“You take this cock too nice to be dirty,” he gritted his teeth and continued to soothe you just how he knew you liked it, “Such a good little wife, sucking up every inch of me like you were made for it.”

Your lips parted in a soft ‘o,’ feeling him plunge the depths of your cunt like he never had before. Bucky slipped his thumb in your mouth while he held your face.

“That what you are, bunny? A good girl?”

You nodded your head and sucked his thumb, feeling yourself fucked dumb as you did. Bucky loved that blissed out look in your eyes.

“Good girl for daddy?” he cooed.

Your ankles trembled around his neck as soon as he said it. You nodded again, yes, you were, and felt a light coil start to form in your lower stomach as Bucky kept pounding you and pushing his thumb between your lips.

Then, with a pop, he plucked the digit from your mouth and brought it down to your clit. He started soft at first, but before long he was rubbing vicious circles on that little bundle of nerves, watching you come undone before his eyes and clench around him even tighter.

“B-Bucky,” you whined, fisting the sheets underneath you both as you squirmed.

“Mhmm?” Your husband pretended to be oblivious.

“I w— I’m gonna—” The words could scarcely leave your lips without finding themselves punctured with a whimper as soon as they were spoken. Bucky thrusted harder.

“Gonna what? Cum for daddy?” he grinned, “Make a mess all over this cock?”

Your moans of pleasure more than sufficed for an answer. You nodded and winced, felt your whole lower half seize with a warm and heady feeling, and before you knew it, Bucky’s thrusts were sending you spiraling over the edge, with a wave of bliss following shortly behind. Sounds of skin slapping skin hardly faltered, and Bucky kept rubbing and fucking you all throughout the waves of your high.

Tears sprung to your eyes, and you didn’t care. Your mind was alight with more bright, fervid feelings than you could count or comprehend, and your body washed over with pleasure.

You clung to Bucky and felt him keep fucking you, even as you shrieked against his skin.

“One more for me, honey.”

You didn’t think that was possible. You had just spilled all over him, squeezing his cock like a vice and screaming his name, and now he wanted it all over again? So soon?

Your fingernails sunk into his arms as he continued to rut into you, and you started to shake your head.

“C-Can’t Bucky, I can’t, I can’t,” you sobbed, tears still streaming down your cheeks.

“Sure you can.”

Your husband had his mouth at your ear again, panting as the pace of his thrusts grew faster. He tilted his body slightly forward so your legs were pushed even higher above you—damn near grazing either side of your head—and pounded you relentlessly.

His voice seemed so calm and assured as he spoke,

“Cum for daddy. Show me just how fucking good this cock makes you feel and cum again for me.”

With a command like that, how could you refuse?

You came a second time, hands seizing Bucky's forearms, and screams tearing through your chest as you rode your high impaled on his cock over and over again. The sights and sounds and repeated, pulsing spasms of your pussy on his shaft sent Bucky chasing his release not long after, and you felt a warmth spread inside you.

Your eyes were filled to the brim with tears, your cheeks practically drenched already. As you came down from your high, you started to blink.

But just as you lifted a hand to sop up the moisture, Bucky was leaning over you and into you with the brightest smile. Then he was kissing each wet, salty stain like it was the most natural thing in the world, sponging soft and gentle touches all over the spots your tears had overflown.

It seemed every nerve ending in your lower half was on the fritz, your body little more than mush underneath him, but somehow you managed to catch his mouth as he traversed the skin. You kissed him back, and Bucky drew you closer.

The two of you separated for a second, Bucky’s cock still resting comfortably inside you and his broad frame engulfing you in bed. He paused a beat. Seemed to consider something in his mind before speaking aloud.

“Honey,” he started, unsure of how he wanted to say this.

You peered up at him, curious. His seed had filled every contour and crevice of your aching walls and was just then starting to dribble out of you. Bucky seemed unfazed. He cupped both hands around your face.

“I love you.”

You blinked. No fucking way you were hearing those words.

“What?” You felt too awestruck to say anything else.

“I love you,” Bucky repeated. A smile was starting to tug at his lips, his thumb tracing your cheek while you stared at him in disbelief.

You would’ve liked to speak.

Would’ve loved to say those three little words right back.

In fact, you had just opened your mouth to tell him that, when a sound at the foot of the bed startled you both.

The warm glow of moonlight pouring in from the window panes was your only means to see it. But sight wasn’t worth much at all when a man appeared and pressed the barrel of a gun to Bucky’s temple, letting out a chuckle.

Another man, clad head-to-toe in polished black tactical gear approached from the far end of the room. Bucky gritted his teeth but remained motionless, hearing that man cock his firearm as well. You were surrounded on either side of the bed. Your blood ran cold.

“Sorry to interrupt the fun, Mr. Barnes,” the man on the left spoke so low and gruff he could scarcely be heard.

When Bucky started to stir, the man on the right raised his pistol as well. Curled his finger on the trigger.

“We haven’t even met your beautiful bride.” A set of cruel, glinting teeth turned in your direction. Suddenly, all eyes were trained on you—along with a third handgun, pointed at your head, as another man approached.

“Wedded bliss treating you well so far, Mrs. Barnes?”

[starsoverbrooklyn]

bucky being an exceptional fuck 🤝 gutsby being an exceptional write

seriously—this was so fucking unbelievably exceptional, i am gobsmacked. the internal monologuing here and the way with words… i fear i won’t get over this, oh my GOD someone sedate me.

thank you so much for sharing this with the world, i’m so excited to read the rest 😭💚 you’re incredible!

[daffsforstag]

I still cannot believe this is an actual, canon shot of Bucky Barnes. Are they insane? Were they trying to kill people?

[bluelamour]

bucky barnes x reader, smut warning, mdni.

tags: college age bucky, bitter friends with benefits bucky, voicemail, reminiscing, multiple detailed sexual fantasies including ones of cheating and cucking (?), mentions of past oral (male receiving), dirty talk, phone sex kind of, "mutual" masturbation, technically emotional cheating, nicknames (sweets, (1) pornstar, baby, darling), he's very jealous, unspoken feelings but also very spoken.., a lot of monologuing.

notes: this was out of my comfort zone in terms of the phone sex part ive never written anything like it so i hope it isnt toooo awkward.. anyway this was supposed to be a looot shorter than it turned out to be. but there will be a p2 yaaayy.

you're in bed for the night, 2:00 in the morning, can't sleep. nothing new, you scroll, and scroll, window shop for clothes, scroll pinterest— maybe that coffee you had late in the day is the cause of this. you stare at your phone screen, and push a sigh from your nose. something makes you think about checking your voicemails, see if there's anything new, maybe a stray telemarketer call trying to sell you a mattress.

your nails click and clack on the screen, and there is one voicemail. no name is attached to the number, but you recognize it, even if you really wish you didn't. you stare and think about it for a second, why in hell is he trying to call you?

james buchanan barnes, now ex-friends with benefits, is in your voicemail box. you hadn't spoken in— ball parking it around 6 months to the day, you assumed he had deleted your number by now. james— bucky, was a friend of a friend, it was in a packed hole-in-the-wall college town club you joined your friends in, where you had met. you thought it was kind of lame, leaning against the tile wall with a cocktail in your hand— and someone slid next to you. smooth, baritone voice that somehow punched its way through the loud music in the background, and everything seemed to quiet down and blur out of vision when he would look down at you. like there wasn't a sea of girls he could be flirting with, like only you existed in the mix of sweaty bodies, and laughs and spilled alcohol.

his smile was easy and lazy, canines peeking through the bottom of his lips every once in a while, and his half-lidded, gunmetal blue eyes were piercing. the consistent eye contact he would keep with yours— save for the occasional glance down to your chest, or up and down your body— as you complained about the music, or how bad the cocktails were at this bar, was a lot to take. even if you said the alcohol was terrible, you kept sipping it throughout your conversation, hoping it would give you the liquid courage you needed to keep going, and he noticed.

he would eye the way your fingers kept tapping a rhythm against the crystal in your hands, the occasional fidgeting with one of your necklaces, and the way your thighs pressed together once in a while when he got closer to your ear to repeat what he was saying because you couldn't hear over the blaring music. the heat of his breath against the shell of your ear, and the gruff rasp of his voice pressed against your ear made your heart want to beat out of your chest. the longer the night went on, the rounds of tequila shots your friends would push into your hands, the "liquid courage" running through your veins now making you feel warm and just a little too good— had you in his bed, fucked within a mile of your life.

and the pillow talk after was just as good, conversations with him flowed as easy as breathing. he was witty, charming, and the tenderness in his voice as he would tell you to go to sleep while stroking your hair, pressing kisses against the crown of your head, made your heart swell. the relationship stayed relatively the same throughout the months, you'd fuck, stay until morning, bucky would make you breakfast, then you'd leave.

your friendship was… unconventional, but it worked for both of you.

then your new boyfriend entered the picture six months ago. since then, bucky hadn't made an attempt at calling you, or texting you, anything. you assumed that he knew his place in your life, now that you had a boyfriend. stepping back just because of the nature of how the two of you became friends, but you didn't expect to be iced out completely.

so now, seeing his number staring back at your face through your screen, was bittersweet.

but curiosity killed the cat, so you pressed onto it.

the static on the other side of the phone fired up, then his voice came through.

"hey, it's—uh, it's bucky. been a minute, huh?" a dry laugh brushes against the microphone.

he still sounds the same, not that much would have changed in six months, or you expected something new. semantics, really.

"don't know if you'll listen to this, maybe you'll delete it, not sure. but— fuck. i know what we had was exactly what it was, just sex. no strings attached fun, but—" there was this… underlying bitterness you caught in his words when he spoke. gravely voice, with a bite at the end of it that felt like it was more towards himself than you, like he was kicking himself in the foot while speaking into the phone.

he kept going, talking about how one of your mutual friends had shown him a picture of you from your latest instagram post. bucky wasn't social media savvy, never had his own accounts and never planned to, so everything he knew was through word of mouth. so when he saw the photos, a media dump of your life recently: a couple posts of food and beach scenery, some of you holding your boyfriend's hand, then the last photo. one of you with your girlfriends, winking with the straw from your drink in your hand, in a tight skirt and a lacy top that cupped your tits just right— he just had to call you, he said.

"i still had your number memorized, you know i never forget anything. couldn't forget that last one either, can't believe you fuckin' posted that one." you could imagine the way his jaw tightened, taut muscle prominent against his cheek, and the faint sound of his nails scratching his stubble when he was upset— a habit he had since before he knew you.

"it— um," there's a thick swallow on the other end of the line, "it reminded me of a couple other photos of you, like that one in the stairway, with my cock in your mouth, before you left with that… guy." the last word spat out like poison.

that made you freeze for a second, a heavy heat sitting in your stomach. you remember what he was talking about, very clearly.

it was a friday night, you were slightly stumbling up the stairs to bucky's apartment, dizzy, and the alcohol, running heavy in your system— no matter how many noooo's and i swear, i'm not drunk's you told him. his arm braced against the small of your back under your shirt, helping you push up the stairs, and the cold press of his hand against your back made you feel warm all over, brain fuzzy at his mere touch.

"you were so eager that night. just wanted my cock down your throat, even if we were this close to my apartment. you probably liked the thrill of it, huh?" his breathing grows uneven, shuffling, and a deep groan lit up the line.

"probably wanted t'get caught— you practically ripped my pants off then. i'm not saying i wasn't into it, but— fuck, you just couldn't get enough of me." laugh brushing against the microphone, and the heat from your stomach washed through your body, half in embarrassment— half in… something else you didn't want to admit.

absentmindedly, your thighs pressed together tightly, trying to find some form of reprieve in all of this. a small part in the back of your brain knew what you were doing, listening to the voicemail of your ex-situationship-slash-friends-with-benefits, jerking off to the thought of you? you weren't stupid, you knew what it meant— if you continued to listen to the slick sounds of his cock heavy in his hand, and the short whines pressed against his phone. you should stop listening, click your phone off, toss and turn until the sun comes up— but you couldn't.

there was an invisible string that pulled you deeper into it, the slide of your hand down your stomach, smoothing over the sensitive spot of your thighs that bucky knew like the back of his hand— and under your panties. soft fingers pushing their way through slick folds, and into your hole. the sudden stretch around your fingers had you aching for more, and your breath catching in your throat.

"y'always took my cock so well, sweets— 'specially then. your throat was so fuckin' tight, the, the spit frothing and staining the stairs, you were like a pornstar— all messy, mascara running down your cheeks, and the makeup 'round your mouth rubbed off." the rumble deep in his throat when he said it, pornstar, had your cunt clenching around nothing. your heart was practically beating out of your chest, thumping against the bone, and your breath stuttering out.

the scene was burned into the back of your eyelids, and he was monologuing it all.

the thick weight of his cock against your tongue, the taste of salt and skin lighting your senses. his groans from above encouraged you more, even through his futile attempts at telling you to stop and wait until you're inside. too lost in the feeling of him filling your throat, and your manicured nails teasing your puffy lips and swollen clit through the cotton of your panties. you, eve, and bucky, adam— bit the apple, temptation and pleasure fraying your ends, and fell into the warm embraces of lust, losing your minds trying to swim back up to the surface.

the sounds of your gagging around his shaft, the squelching and bubbling of your spit at the base of his cock, all echoed through the staircase. you were shameless, and he, too far gone to care. bucky's right hand was holding your hair up, an attempt to get it out of your face, also served as his way of pushing you farther down his length.

at one point, he pushed you too far, not ready to take him basically down your esophagus— and choked coming off his cock. gasping for air and coughing loudly, while he groaned at the dissipating warmth around him. your hand lazily jerking him all the while was good enough though.

"c'mon, baby, come for me. fill my fuckin' mouth, buck'— pleaseee." you still hadn't fully recovered, voice thick and raspy, begging for his load in your mouth. a shiver ran up bucky's spine, your eyes were glassy with tears springing in the corners, cheeks rouged and burning, and lips swollen from it all; bucky would put you in the lourve if he could, replace the mona lisa as the most revered painting. fucked out smile and a daze in your eyes you couldn't get rid of, and your tongue on the spot right underneath his head, had him shooting ropes in your mouth.

his hips bucked and shuddered from overstimulation, your hand pumping tightly as you squeezed out all of him onto your pink tongue.

"fuck, darlin'. the way you looked up at me, all stupid and smiling at me, with my cum painting your pretty fuckin' face— i still think about it." bucky's voice is gravely, clearly close to spilling into his hand at the thought of you, and your fingers pressing circles onto your aching clit.

he huffed a laugh into the phone, "i— i hope your touchin' yourself, otherwise this makes me sound pathetic." you can hear him swallow, like he had cotton mouth and his tongue too big to sit comfortably. "i still remember how you like gettin' touched, all the buttons to make you cry on my hand while i finger you." the sound of his teeth biting down onto his bottom lip, muffling the groans escaping his throat as he tugs up and down his shaft, had you dizzy.

"like that time, where you were practically crying in my arms, saying your own fingers weren't good enough. begged so sweetly, 'said ya' needed my bigger ones to fill you." his words were slurring together, babbling to himself under his breath— the whispered curses, and the hushed i need you's he thought the microphone wouldn't pick up.

"wanted me ta' hit that spot you like— fuck— and have you cling onto my arm like you didn't know any better, it's all you could do when you felt that good, your nails digging into me while ya' cried."

even now, you missed his touch. the larger, rougher pads of his fingers ghosting over your skin, teasing over the pudge of your thighs that made you shiver and cling that much tighter to his shirt. his lips pressing chaste kisses against your collarbone as he laughed at your reaction, bucky always loved getting you riled up and embarrassed. your own fingers now, are struggling to get you there fast enough. too small, too soft, too used to bucky's to ever use anything else.

"i still remember the moment i met him, how disappointed i was. bright-eyed, and bushy tailed, looking at you with his stupid fuckin' tail practically wagging behind him. eyes all big and wide, looked like a fuckin' loser. you're probably the prettiest girl he'll ever get with." he spat out with all the venom he could muster in his state— cock leaking, and abdomen so tense from how sensitive he was.

"fuck, does he know how you like it? what you've done with me? he gets to reap the benefits of me— i hope that fucker knows what he's doing." there's that bite again, that overwhelming jealousy that unknowingly seeped into every enunciation of the syllables. if he was trying not to sound like he was upset, he was terrible at hiding it.

though, truthfully, no. he doesn't know you like bucky did. bucky knew how to undo you like unspooled yarn, with an ease that felt like he knew you better than you did yourself. how to say just the right things, grazing your thigh under tables with his fingers, eyeing you in ways that had you shivering in your seat— just for you to pounce on him in private like he would disappear right in your hands.

your boyfriend, well, he's trying.

he forgets how to touch you without it feeling like you were a dj's mixer set, rubbing you raw, and with you consoling him afterwards because he feels bad that he can't get it right. then when it comes to the actual sex part— if you looked at someone and thought "he looks like a minute man"— he would be the embodiment of it. barely a couple strokes in your heat, and he's spilling into the condom while you sit there, unsatisfied and bored, not even given the chance to fake a moan or two.

"have you told him about what you would do between your dates with him? hm? coming back from a walk around the beach, then you're in my bed, getting fucked like you didn't know any better. what was it, six dates? every time coming back home to me, getting your pussy pounded by me at the end of the night, without fail." the rasp in his voice as he enunciated the end of each sentence, like you were a dog on a leash he would let run free for a second, before reeling you back in while you fought against the harness. the amusement burning the edges of his words made your ears burn scorching hot, the subtle guilt nestled deep within your belly. though, you couldn't deny the territorial bite to his words had you seeing stars as your fingers fucked into your hole, thinking about the way bucky could manhandle you the way your boyfriend couldn't.

"there was that time you had my cock deep in your cunt, sucking me in and wouldn't let me go— and your phone was blowing up. text after text— i checked— his name was there, like, 50 times. he was wondering where you were, how your day was, if you had eaten lunch— and there you were, with me getting your hole pounded, with him waiting at home for you like a fucking dog. knees basically touching your tits, taking me so deep you were screaming my name while you came." voice incredulous as he continued, "i almost took a video of you and sent it to the guy, let him know who you were so busy with you couldn't come to the phone."

it affected you more than it should have, the venom in his words-- and the confession. goosebumps crawled down your spine, salacious and slow, over every inch of skin-- and the gush of slick around your pretty little fingers had your cheeks burning hot. the pushed down the thought from the deepest parts of your brain, maybe he should have taken a video of him pummeling your hole.

"fuuuck— he's probably eaten my cum out of your pretty little pussy, right? not even remotely aware that you had just fucked some other guy before him, had your cunt swallowing my cock and molded to my shape, he can't even fill you the way i could." the shuffling of the sheets rhythmic as he jerks himself off, you can imagine his cock all weepy and red— so close to coming, but he needs you to come first, always, ever the gentleman even now.

there's a moment of silence, just the sound of wet skin on skin rubbing against one another, and the heavy groans ripping themselves out of bucky's throat. it felt so personal— the breathing, the sound of his hair scraping against his pillowcase, and the phone bumping against his sheets and peaking the microphone — in a way you hadn't been with him in a long time.

your fingers continue pumping in and out of your hole, the squelching and the whines you press against the pillow to muffle being the only sounds in your room. the image of bucky with his cock in his hand, aching, his tip a bright rouge from the constant chafing of his palm against it, eyes screwed tight from the pleasure, had you shaking. his hair was probably sticking to his forehead, and his plush bottom lip bitten with such force, he could probably draw blood.

"it's crazy you know, how— even at the end of the day— you get me so riled up that just the thought of you gets me going— i'm about to fuckin' come, and you aren't even here. i probably won't ever get to have you the way i did before, fucking you stupid." a whine rips through your throat, fingers hitting that spongy spot that has you twitching and drooling against your pillow. your chest heaving as you catch your breath, heart pounding in your ears so loudly you think you might be dying. bucky comes soon after, you assume, seeing as the line goes quiet for a second, groans forcing itself out of his chest as he finishes on his stomach.

you remember times when you'd come together, chests pressed together, sticky with sweat. as your breaths came in uneven and shallow— bucky would whisper how good you did, and how good you felt right against your jaw. kisses hot against your skin, peppered all over, until you were giggling and pushing his head away playfully. pillow talk with bucky, a few months into the relationship, was softer and tender. he'd pull you flush against him, breathing in the smell of your hair and smoothing over circles into your hip.

he'd get all handsy, legs tangled with one another underneath the covers, and his fingers intertwining with yours. his thumb would brush against the back of your hand as you fell asleep, and you had this habit of snoring so quietly, anyone would miss it if they weren't paying attention. but of course, he was. he would smile against the crown of your head, slowly falling asleep soon after.

"i— i know you can't reply right now— it's a fucking voicemail for god's sake. but if there's even a chance, that you want what we had back, shoot me a message. it's desperate and pathetic, i know, to, to want a girl that you know is in a happy relationship. but if it's for you, i'll be desperate and pathetic any day." there's that soft desperation in his voice that makes your heart beat— not the kind that drums within your ears, to the point you can't hear— but the type that warms your chest and makes you jittery.

you wish you could reply, cup his jaw in that way that had him leaning into the warmth of your palm, lashes fluttering closed, and his reading glasses knocked crooked on his nose. there was that deep seated pit in your chest that you've noticed since then, the feeling that you depended a lot more on him than you realized— and maybe you weren't the only one who felt that way.

bucky's voice is trembling, quiet in this soft way that only happened when he was coming off that high, "a part of me wants him to be good for you, make sure he's making you happy. again, i know we weren't anything more than friends who fucked— but, god— i know you were happy with me too."

his breathing is the only thing that comes through on the line for a second that you think maybe he ended the call, "then there's the part where i hope he doesn't. the selfish part of me that hopes you could only feel that good with me, and that he isn't enough for you.."

the line goes dead after a beat, and you're left sitting there-- heart beating like a war drum, and your fingers slicked with something that resembled regret and something more.

the quake in his voice— baring his soul to you in a way he hasn't before, has you reeling. mentally kicking yourself for not noticing signs sooner, that just maybe, if you had said something months ago— you'd be with him instead. the crushing weight in your stomach is so much more palpable now, the decision between your boyfriend, and bucky, wasn't hard. the fact that the question was now in your head— that you're questioning your fealty, was it worth it?

you felt the guilt curl against your ribs, growing and spreading like invasive weeds between your joints, and crushing around your heart. your boyfriend was innocent in all this— never did anything wrong. "bright-eyed, and bushy tailed" was the perfect was to describe him, all toothy smiles and clammy hands when he was with you. but deep down, you knew that he wasn't what you wanted, what you needed.

bucky was.

and maybe, just maybe, that's what pushed you to message him again.

hey.

[starsoverbrooklyn]

oh my god…. this was such a fucking beautiful read.

i was captivated the entire time—your writing is drenched in an incredibly rich voice. Everything about this felt visual and raw (lmao). I don’t know how to describe the experience of reading this but i loved every second of it.

incredible, loved it so bad 💚 thank you so much for sharing this with the world.

[flowersforbucky]

everglow

loki x reader

“I thought gods don’t plead?”

“for you, I would beg.”

word count: 1.8k

warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni, porn with a little plot, smut, oral, unprotected p in v, reader is afab, no use of y/n, reader is an enhanced mortal, loki is a menace in the best possible way, inspired by one of loki’s lines in loki s1, time period unspecified so imagine whatever you’d like

author’s note: i don’t even know what came over me while writing this. this was my first time ever writing for loki so please go easy on me, lol. it’s been a while since i’ve written a smutty drabble like this so… sorry not sorry :))

You feel him before you see him.

It’s a humming sensation beneath your skin that lets you know he’s back in your orbit. No matter the amount of time and space between you, your magic recognizes his magic.

The wards that you wove around your home begin to tremble. It’s only a matter of time before he breaks through. You hadn’t truly intended to keep him out. No, you’ve missed him too much for that. The wards are strong enough to be an inconvenience, nothing more.

When he left, he told you he’d be back in two weeks. That was a month ago. So, perhaps you’re being a little petty. You are still human, after all.

A human with abilities that set you apart from the rest of your kind, yes. But human nonetheless.

A ripple courses through the air and the candles lit throughout the room suddenly blow out all at once as your wards are rendered useless. You don’t have to look up from your book to know that he’s standing just a few feet behind you.

Every fiber of your being screams to run over to him. To run your fingers through his hair and feel his arms around you - but he’s kept you waiting for weeks. You can hold out for a few more minutes.

The floorboards creak as he takes a step forward.

“My heart,” he hums, amusement in his voice. “Was that truly necessary?”

You snort softly, shutting your book without turning to look at him. “You’re late. Two weeks late, in fact.” Another creak of the floorboards as he steps closer. Your breath hitches.

“Ah,” he muses, and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “So this is my punishment, then. Cold shoulders and flimsy wards.” You sense his presence looming directly behind you now.

You keep your eyes locked on the dwindling embers within your fireplace, fighting against the way the corners of your lips threaten to tug upwards. “You kept me waiting.”

“I did,” he concedes, voice velvet-smooth. “And what must I do to earn your forgiveness, hm? Shall I plead? Shall I grovel at your feet? Perhaps I should have come bearing gifts.”

Finally, you tilt your head upwards to look at him. He smirks down at you, mischief in his eyes. “I thought gods don’t plead.”

The chair beneath you whirls in an instant, spun with a flick of his magic, and suddenly he’s kneeling before you.

“For you,” he murmurs, his hand slipping into his coat, “I would beg.”

He withdraws a small velvet pouch and sets it delicately in your palm. The weight of it feels deceptively ordinary, until you loosen the drawstrings and dump the contents into the palm of your hand.

A slender ring, crowned with a soft pink stone that glows faintly the moment your fingers brush against it.

You look back and forth between him and the ring. Your mouth hangs open, at a loss for words. “Loki…”

“It’s enchanted,” he says simply. “It will glow whenever I think of you. Which means, I fear, it’ll never stop.”

With one hand, he takes the ring from you. With his other, he takes your hand in his. As gently as if he were touching fine china, he glides the band onto your finger.

It’s ethereal. Otherworldly. You aren’t sure where he got it, but it undoubtedly is not from Earth.

Your thumb brushes over the stone, still glowing faintly against your skin. “I suppose you are forgiven,” you murmur, bringing your palm to caress his jaw. “But just so you know, a month is a long time to us mortals.”

His lips twitch, amusement sparking in his eyes at your teasing tone. “Is it, now?”

“It is when you’re missing the person you most want to be with.”

You don’t mean for the words to sound so raw and honest, but they do. The petty little charade you’d been putting on crumbles as you finally speak what’s on your heart.

For a moment, Loki is quiet, studying you as though you’ve just given him something as priceless as the orchid colored stone that now adorns your finger. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and steady.

“I’ve been alive for over a millennium,” he says, his blue eyes fixed on yours, “but this past month without you… it felt longer than all of those centuries combined.”

Your chest tightens, and you can’t help but smile. “You’re as dramatic as me sometimes. You know that?”

He grins, but it doesn’t lessen the gravity of his words. “And that,” he hums, bringing your hand up to his lips, “is one of the many reasons that we go so well together, darling.”

His hand lingers on yours a moment longer before sliding upward, tracing along your wrist, then your arm, as though he can’t help himself. By the time his fingers reach your jaw, his touch is firm, possessive in a way that sends heat rushing through you.

You lean into his palm without thinking. The tension that’s been crackling between you - equal parts mischief and longing - sparks into something more dangerous.

When his lips first brush yours, it’s tentative. But the second you kiss him back, the restraint shatters. The kiss turns hungry. Desperate. The kind of kiss that tries to erase every ounce of the last month’s absence.

His hands roam, sliding down your sides until they settle on your thighs with enough force to make you gasp into his mouth. He spreads your legs apart and leans in closer, caging you against the back of your recliner. The moan that escapes you is swallowed by him as he kisses you harder, his tongue sweeping past your lips to dance with yours.

“Too many layers,” he growls. A shimmer of green flickers through the air, and suddenly your clothes are gone, leaving you bare beneath his palms. He drags them slowly up your torso, savoring every inch of exposed skin before cupping your breasts. The groan that rumbles from his chest feels involuntary, as though the sight of you is enough to break his composure entirely.

His mouth abandons yours, trailing lower and lower - along your jawline, down your throat, across your collarbones. Hot, wet kisses leave a trail down your sternum, until he reaches your belly button.

“I’ve dreamt of tasting you,” he murmurs against your skin, “of kneeling before you like this, until you beg me not to stop.”

Your breath stutters, the heat of his words pooling between your legs as he spreads them further apart.

“Beautiful,” he rasps, leaning in until his breath ghosts over your folds. He parts you with his thumbs, then licks a slow, deliberate stripe up the center, savoring the way your whole body jolts in the chair.

“Loki—” your voice cracks on his name, your hands fisting in his hair as he seals his mouth around your clit and sucks hard, tongue flicking with blinding precision.

The chair creaks under you as your hips jerk helplessly, but he pins you in place, relentless in his ministrations. The room fills with the slick sounds of his mouth working you, punctuated by your gasps and moans. He hums against you, savoring every sound he pulls from you.

It’s overwhelming - simultaneously too much and not enough. With a whimper, you seize his jaw in both hands, tugging him up for a kiss. His mouth is wet, his lips slick with you, and the taste of yourself on his tongue makes you moan even louder into the kiss.

You need more.

Your magic responds to your desire before you’re able to form a coherent thought. The room blurs, and in an instant you’re no longer in the chair. You and Loki tumble onto your bed in a tangle of limbs, mouths still fused together.

He pulls back with a smirk, clearly delighted. “Mm,” he hums. “My clever girl.”

Golden sparks of your magic fade, leaving you sprawled on the bed with him above you, lips swollen and slick from kissing you. He wastes no time sliding back down your body, spreading your thighs wide again with a hungry look that makes your whole body buzz with anticipation.

He begins dragging his tongue through your folds once more, lapping at you like he’s been starving for the last month. His fingers grip your thighs to hold you open, his mouth devouring you, tongue flicking and circling until you’re writhing on the sheets. He slips two fingers inside, curling them just right while his tongue works your clit, building the pressure until your body arches, teeters, and finally shatters.

You’re still trembling when he pulls away, licking his lips, eyes dark with desire. He crawls up the bed, kissing you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue before flipping you onto your side and pressing his chest to your back.

“Not done with you,” he growls against your ear, his hand sliding down your body to hook under your thigh. He lifts your leg, opening you for him, and you feel the thick heat of his cock pressing against your entrance.

You’re cocooned against him, his chest hot against your spine, his breath ragged in your ear and his hand keeping your leg high as he slowly pushes inside. Inch by inch he fills you, and the angle has you gasping, nails clawing at the sheets as he bottoms out with a groan.

“Gods…” he exhales, his teeth grazing your neck as he stills, letting you adjust to the stretch. “You’re perfect like this. Mine.”

When he begins to move, the strokes are deep, gliding, each one hitting a spot that has you keening. His grip tightens on your thigh, holding you open, driving into you with controlled precision. You cry out, clutching at his arm, your head falling back against his shoulder. He kisses your temple, your jaw, your throat. “Come apart for me again,” he whispers hoarsely into your ear, snapping his hips harder.

Your orgasm rips through you, body spasming around him, clenching so tight he groans and thrusts erratically, spilling into you with a shudder, his teeth biting down gently on your shoulder as he rides it out.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your ragged breaths, the weight of his body pressed flush to yours, and the vibrant glow of the ring on your finger that pulses like a heartbeat.

Then, he falls back against the mattress, pulling out of you. You turn around, and he tugs you against his chest, taking your hand in his and examining the ring.

“It’s stunning,” you whisper with a soft kiss to his chest. “Thank you.”

He sighs beneath you, his lips grazing your forehead. “It’s the least I could do after leaving you lonely for the last month.”

You exhale a laugh, sleep threatening to overtake you now that you’re back in his arms. “As much as I love it, I’d prefer having you over jewels, though. No matter how beautiful they are.”

You feel him smile into your hair. “How does both sound?”

“Both would be ideal.”

He cackles at that, and tightens his hold around you. “Duly noted, darling.”

thank you so much for reading. reblogs and comments are very appreciated 🫶🏻 dividers by @/strangergraphics

[starsoverbrooklyn]

holy FUCK, cait!

dude—I cannot express in words how much i absolutely fucking loved this. I couldn’t keep quiet while reading, every mannerisms was him and the fucking dynamic?? it ate down bad. the talent at writing someone that matches Loki so perfectly…. I cannot praise this enough. If I made up 10,000 reposts of this fic, it would still not be enough.

I love your writing so much. And although I always appreciate EVERY aspect of it in everything you write, I feel like this piece really solidifies how poetic you write. Every little detail you include always feels so intentional and it’s a talent I so genuinely admire in you!! I love how beautifully you write 🥰💚🫶🏻

thank you so fucking much for this. If the post you sent me did it for you, THIS is what did it for me. You woke something in me that I hadn’t felt in so long for Loki and how DARE you because I HAVE ENOUGH FICTIONAL MEN TO OBSESS OVER. But I get to do it with you so that makes it all worth it 😭💚

Love it down so fucking bad, just like i love you! thank you for this, bb 💖

[juniebjonesin]

waking you up in kind tw: slight somnophilia

bucky waking you up from a wet dream has me weak

there’s this sound you make in your sleep. not loud. just a breathy little whimper that slips past your lips like a secret.

but bucky knows it. deep in his bones he knows that sound. and when he hears it he always knows what he’s going to find under the sheets.

you only make that noise when you’re absolutely in it. those deep dark and dirty dreams that make you shift in your sleep, that make your hips twitch, that leaves your thighs sticky and your cunt soaked before the sun even comes up.

and you made it tonight.

that soft and needy sound that makes buckys cock harden instantly. makes him shift under the covers, biting down a groan as he watches your body move in a way that means you’re halfway to begging and don’t even know it yet.

so he tests a theory.

his hand sliding down under the blankets, over the smooth expanse of your thigh. the gritty contrast between your soft skin and his calloused hands practically wrecks him.

he’s still in shock that you choose him. after everything you still hold him close like he isn’t the hollow shell of a man he thinks he is.

he doesn’t think he was made to touch something this soft, but fuck him he does it anyways. slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the softness he’s got no business holding.

you don’t twitch or flinch. just softly breath out like your body feels his familiar touch, and welcomes it like it’s been waiting.

that’s when he pressed his fingers between your legs.

to that wet and soft heat.

you’re still in your panties but he can feel how your slick has seeped through the fabric, sticking it to your skin with unabashed fervor.

he leans closer and has to swallow the moan that threatens to escape. pulling the covers back he’s met with your barely dressed body.

panties clinging to you with a ditch effort, his shirt had ridden up those torso from your tossing and turning, hair splayed out across the pillow as your chest rises and falls with soft even breaths.

he doesn’t think he’s ever seen a woman more beautiful than you. and he can’t help himself.

slowly shifting on the bed he lowers himself between your legs to your pleading cunt.

his cock is throbbing and damn near growling at him to stop stalling and to bury himself deep inside you, claim you from within and hold you tight.

but he wants to savor this. savor you.

he drags his tongue over the hot and slick fabric, flat and slow from bottom to top.

you make another noise. louder this time. your legs spreading for him instinctively.

he willing accepts the invitation and dives in. lazy, open mouthed kisses through the measly cotton barrier, sucking and licking until your grinding back against his face like a slut too far gone to care whether she’s dreaming or not.

after enough torture he pushes your panties to the side, just enough to see the way your pussy clenches on nothing, desperate to filled with anything she could get.

all patience and manners are out the window. bucky eats you like you’re his last meal, ravenous and lust blown.

and when your eyes flutter, hand tucks into his hair, gripping and pulling him harder against you, moaning his name like you’re not even awake he smiles.

because this is all his. this version of you. all wet and whimpering. pretty and pathetic.

when you finally reach down and pull him away he’s already gripping your thighs and yanking you to the edge of the bed. cock already out and leaking down onto you, and he doesn’t say anything. he doesn’t need to.

he pushes in with one single stroke. straight to the hilt making you both shudder.

then he’s mean with it. fucking you soft and slowly, leaving you aching for more with each teasing roll of his hips.

he holds you open and watches your face twist and contort. the way you pout and beg makes him twitch inside of you. it isn’t until he sees the tears welling up that he breaks.

“god— please bucky.” your voice is thick with sleep. eyes low and lidded with lust and love.

he groans deep in his chest. how could he ever deny anything as sweet as you?

he grips your thighs and brings them to the side, turning your face against the sheet as he snaps into you. he’s brutal yet efficient, each thrust tipped upwards to hit your perfect little sweet spot, each smack to your ass making you whine and clench around him even tighter, each broken whimper of his name bringing him closer and closer.

“cmon baby, lemme have it. you were so desperate to give it to me earlier, cmon now.” lifting up one leg he rests it against his chest as the other wraps around his waist.

this is how he always imagines you. open and wide and willing for him, on the verge of coming undone. this is how he always wants you.

once his thumb finds your clit, dipping into your wanted and pressing tight small circles onto it you shatter and bucky thinks he goes to heaven.

there’s nothing compared to feeling your cunt squeeze and flutter around him as you cum. except maybe watching you as you do.

the way your eyes flutter, your breath hitches and you stutter over his name. hands gripping into his skin leaving crescent shaped marks behind as you tense up and writhe underneath him, beginning him to fill you up in pathetic haze of pleasure.

and of course he abides, pushing you down into the mattress as he ruts into you like and animal in heat. erratic, rhythmless and rough thrusts as he chases downs his own high, you reduced to a puddle of pleas and moans.

when his crescendo hits the world whites out as if a flashbang had been set off inside of him. ears ring and his hips come to a slow grind into you as he pumps each rope deep inside.

he pulls out with a gentleness that he hasn’t used since you woke up, and presses a kiss to your head.

then he gets up to make you some coffee. i mean he is a gentleman after all.

[starsoverbrooklyn]

holy fucking shit—

the absolute and sheer talent that got poured into this is so astounding 😭 the way you describe things has such a beautiful flow and voice. I’m SICK. I loved this so much! Thank you for sharing this 💚🥰

[vunblr]

Until it Takes

Pairing: Beefy! Bucky x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut. Breeding Kink. Mirror Sex.

Word Count: 300.

note: This piece is part of the Sexy September Scribbles challenge, hosted by @societyfolklore and @soelstress

Sep 2nd prompt: "Don't hide your face”

The headboard rattled behind them with every thrust, her hands slipping on the sheets as he drove her forward with the force of his hips. Across the room, the vanity mirror caught them fully: his thick arms caging her in, his hot chest pressed to her back as he fucked her from behind deep enough to leave no space for breath.

Her cheek pressed down on the mattress, squeezing her eyes shut as moans and whimpers escaped between her swollen lips.

“Don’t hide your face, sweetheart.” His voice rumbled against her ear, thick with hunger. His metal hand fisted her hair, forcing her gaze up toward the mirror. “Look at you. Look at us.”

Her reflection trembled back at her, bouncing tits, parted lips, the wreckage of what he was making of her. His hips snapped harder, sinking his cock impossibly deep, as his chest pressed heavily on her back. Her pussy clenched as pleasure ripped through her body, and his hand went over her lower belly, pressing there while he fucked her harder, faster.

“You see that, doll?” His breath possessively brushed her ear. “Gonna fuck you so full, keep you like this till you can’t think of anything else.”

Her nails dug into the mattress, sobs and cries spilling from her lips as he pinned her down and ground his pelvis against her rear.

“Eyes on me,” he commanded softly, his thrusts turning irregular. “Want you watching, sweetheart, when I put a baby in you.”

Her body shattered, and the mirror forced her to witness every second of her pleasure, his reflection all muscle and devotion as he spilled deep inside her.

“That's it. Fuck, m’ gonna make you a mommy. Gonna keep filling you ‘til it takes, sugar.” He promised.

And he always kept his promises.

Permanent taglist: @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan @sophiemass @alagalaska @identity2212 @dracosathenaeum @frog-fans-unite @wintrsoldrluvr

dividers by @/diviniyae

[starsoverbrooklyn]

i’m going to call out of work tomorrow just so i can process this. this was 300 words of perfection 😭💚 thank you for your service 🙏🏼

[flowersforbucky]

better days

bob reynolds x reader

word count: 4.9k

summary: after months of consistent good days, bob seems to be slipping into a depressive episode. you do what you can to remind him that even the bad days can be made better.

warnings/tags: talk of depression and mental illness, minor angst, not explicit but mdni please, no use of y/n, fluff, brief mentions of bob’s sobriety, not super proofread, i’ll fix mistakes later :)

my masterlist 🖤

You're worried that he's getting bad again.

His mental health had come a long way since you’d first met him. In terms of therapy, and finding a medication regimen that works well for him, and making sure to prioritize self-care and time with loved ones, Bob had made great strides over the months.

But for the last few weeks, he's been distant. At first, you didn’t think much of it. He's a natural introvert, so mental health aside, it's normal for introverts to desire time to themselves. More recently, however, he has exhibited more concerning behavior.

He's now ditched two consecutive team movie nights. Last night was his turn to pick a movie, but he had insisted on passing his turn off to Walker of all people, claiming that he had a headache and just wanted to go to bed early.

Normally, he’s waiting to greet everyone the second that you all return from a mission. But when you’d returned from Louisiana a few days ago, he was nowhere to be found. You went looking for him to find him asleep in his bedroom at eleven in the morning.

Maybe he’d just slept poorly the night before - that's what you had told yourself at the time, despite the anxious feeling in the pit of your stomach. But then he proceeded to stay in bed the entire day, only coming out of his room long enough to go to the bathroom or to get a glass of water on occasion.

You're not even confident that he’d eaten anything that day. You made dinner for everyone that night, and when you knocked on his door to let him know that the lasagna was almost ready, he thanked you and said he’d come eat soon. You made sure to make him a plate before Alexei had the chance to devour half of the casserole dish himself, but when you opened the fridge the next morning, the plate of food that you had set aside for him remained untouched.

As if all of that isn’t enough to have your thoughts spiraling towards worst case scenarios, today is Thursday. The day that Bob has a therapy session each week at ten in the morning.

It's already half past noon, and you've yet to see him leave his room today.

Yelena, Bucky, and yourself have already made multiple efforts to check on him throughout the last few weeks. Even Walker had attempted to get Bob to join him during his morning workouts, only to be politely turned down each time.

Still, the unsuccessful attempts to bring him out of his bedroom do not deter you from wanting to try again. All of your teammates are preoccupied with their own individual obligations today, but for once, you have found yourself with nothing to do. It’s a beautiful day, and the only thing you’d love more than getting out of this tower, is if Bob would agree to get out of this tower with you.

You raise a tentative hand to his door, already preparing yourself for the rejection that will undoubtedly ensue.

You give the wood a few soft taps. “Bob? Is it okay if I come in? I’d like to talk to you for a minute.”

At first, you’re met with silence and you worry that he’s fast asleep. Then, you hear the shuffling of his covers and the click of a lamp turning on.

“You can come in,” he calls softly a second later, his voice slightly scratchy from lack of use.

Taking a deep breath, you turn the knob and step inside. His curtains are drawn and the room is dark except for the bedside table lamp that he had just turned on. Your eyes dart around the room, noting the pile of (presumably dirty) laundry next to his bed and the growing collection of empty water bottles on his dresser.

At least he’s staying hydrated, you suppose.

Bob sits upright in his bed with his back against his pillows and his comforter draped across his lap. He greets you with a tired smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You take a seat on the edge of his bed, anxiously wringing your hands together.

“Is everything okay?” He asks hesitantly.

“I actually came to ask you the same thing,” you reply with a nervous laugh. He averts your gaze, choosing to look down at the embroidery on his blanket. “And please don’t say yes. I want to help you and I can’t do that if you’re not honest with me. Please. I’m worried about you, Bob. We all are.”

The words pour out of you before he can give you any of the excuses that he’s rotated like clockwork over the last few weeks: he’s fine, he didn’t sleep well last night and he’s just tired, he has a headache…

“I’m sorry,” he says in a small voice. “I didn’t mean to make everyone worry.”

“There’s no need to be sorry. None of us are angry with you. We care about you and just hate not knowing how to help you.” Only after you place one of your hands on top of his does he finally look up at you. The look in his eyes is enough to break your heart. Big, deep blue eyes glisten with tears that threaten to spill over.

“I wish I could tell you how to help me,” he says weakly. “But I barely know how to help myself. I was doing everything right - going to therapy, taking my medication, getting fresh air, exercising - but here I am.” He shrugs, looking around the room at the scattered clothing and empty bottles. “As hopeless as ever.”

After weeks of attempting to get more than a two word answer from him, you should feel relieved that he's opening up to you. And you do - but his response also makes your heart plummet to your stomach.

“You’re certainly not hopeless,” you assure him earnestly. “Recovery is very rarely linear. It’s okay if it ebbs and flows; has highs and lows…”

You pause, wishing you knew the magic words to make him feel okay again. “I know I can’t snap my fingers and fix everything. Believe me, I would if I could. But maybe I could help you take the first steps to getting out of this slump that you’re in?”

He sniffles, and then gives you a hesitant nod. You instantly perk up, honestly surprised that you were able to get him to agree without much difficulty. It might not seem like much, but it’s a step in the right direction.

“What did you have in mind?”

Your face drops at the question. You honestly hadn’t thought this far ahead.

Ideas flash through your mind a mile a minute. What would make you feel better, if the situation were reversed and someone was trying to help you shift into a healthier headspace?

“Uhm…” You look around the room, hoping for a sudden jolt of inspiration. Your eyes settle on the clutter both on and beside his dresser, and an inkling of an idea begins to form.

“A little self-care is always a good place to start,” you say. “Showers usually help me feel a bit better. Maybe start there while I brainstorm?”

Bob snorts, managing a weak smile. “I guess that isn’t a bad idea. I can’t possibly smell good right now.” He tilts his head downwards to sniff in the general vicinity of his armpit, a slight grimace appearing on his face.

“Whew,” he huffs. “Yeah, you’re right. A shower is a good idea.”

You laugh as he gets out of bed. He excuses himself, grabbing a fresh change of clothes from his closet before heading in the direction of the bathroom.

Right away, you start cleaning up the room for him. You grab the collection of empty water bottles and throw them into a garbage bag, and stuff the piles of dirty laundry into a clothes hamper before lugging it to the laundry room and starting a load.

It’s far from a deep clean, as you don’t want to intrude too heavily into his personal space, but you know from personal experience that even a quick, light tidying can help a room feel refreshed.

While you try to accomplish as much as you can before he gets out of the shower, you rack your brain in an attempt to think of what else could possibly cheer him up.

You’re confident that a change in scenery would benefit him greatly. He’s been staring at the same four walls for weeks now. What would make him happy? You know that he isn’t the biggest fan of super noisy or overcrowded places, which is unfortunate seeing as how you live in fucking New York City. You want to take him somewhere lowkey, somewhere fun but also chill.

Your eyes land on the controller to his gaming console and inspiration hits you.

A few months ago, Bob had told you and Yelena about a small pizzeria with arcade games just down the road from his childhood home in Florida. As a teenager, he’d ride his bike there when he needed to get away from his mother’s drinking or his father’s violent outbursts. He described the place as a safe haven, somewhere that he spent more time than his actual house.

There were times that he didn’t even have enough money to play a single game, but he’d bring his comics and spend the whole day there, anyway, just reading by himself in a corner booth. Anything was better than being at home. Oftentimes, the owner would take pity on him and give him a handful of game tokens and a slice of pizza free of charge.

He’d told you how depressed he was when the place unexpectedly shut down when he was seventeen. There wasn’t anywhere else nearby that was cool with a random teenager loitering around their property for hours every day, and with the brutal Florida heat hitting record highs that summer, he was left with no choice but to stay inside the house that he hated.

Though you doubt any of the arcades in the New York City area could hold the same sense of nostalgia and comfort that the one in Sarasota Springs did, you’re hopeful that you can at least find one that has a Pac-Man machine (his favorite when he was younger) and pizza that smells good enough that you’ll be able to convince him to share a slice with you.

When he reenters his bedroom, you’re sitting in his gaming chair, scrolling through the search results for small arcades near me on Google. You think you’ve found the one - it’s only a twenty minute drive from the Watchtower, is attached to a diner, and has all of the classic games in addition to a collection of vintage pinball machines.

You look up, noticing that he already looks more alive. His shaggy brunet hair is still damp and his cheeks are flushed pink from his shower. He wears baggy tan jogger style pants and a navy blue pullover that you can’t help but think matches his eyes every time he wears it.

You purse your lips to fight the smile that threatens to take over your face. It’s nice to see him in something other than pajama pants and old t-shirts for a change.

“Smelling any better?” You tease lightly.

He doesn’t seem to register your words. His eyes dart around the room as he fidgets with the cuffs of his shirt sleeves, immediately noticing the lack of clutter that previously occupied the floor and surfaces of his bedroom not even twenty minutes ago. A few different emotions flash across his face - surprise, confusion, and perhaps a hint of embarrassment.

Right away, you begin to worry that you’ve overstepped. Just when you’re about to start apologizing, the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. His eyes soften, flickering with something between gratitude and disbelief.

“You didn’t have to do all of that,” he says softly, looking at you and then down at the floor. “But…thank you.”

You shrug, ignoring the way your pulse quickens. “I know I didn’t. But I wanted to.”

And you mean it. Acts of service is one of your biggest love languages, and caring for the people close to you in this way comes naturally. You’d do the same for Yelena, Ava, Bucky…maybe even Walker, under the right circumstances. But with Bob, there’s something particularly effortless about it. Something you haven’t let yourself dwell on too much.

“So,” you clear your throat, smoothing your hands over your pants after a beat of silence. “I thought of something that might be fun, if you’re willing to get out of this tower with me for a little while today…” You trail off, hopeful.

He grins, giving you a slight nod. “Yeah. Yeah, that would probably be good for me.”

“Great!” You chirp excitedly, springing to your feet a bit too quickly. The movement makes your own cheeks warm, but if he notices, he doesn’t seem put off. In fact, his smile only deepens, and the flush in his face brightens, as if your excitement is contagious.

“So, do you want to know where we are going? Or do you trust me enough to let me surprise you?”

He cocks a brow, amusement on his face. “Depends,” he says, intrigued. “Is this a good kind of surprise, or the kind of surprise that ends with me regretting saying yes?”

You smirk, crossing your arms over your chest. “I guess that depends on what your definition of good surprise is.”

He narrows his eyes, but you can tell he’s holding back a laugh. “That’s…not very reassuring.”

You snort, brushing past him to walk towards his door. “You underestimate how fun I am.”

You glance over your shoulder to make sure that he’s following before continuing down the hallway towards the elevator.

“Maybe,” he admits when he catches up to you. “But I do trust you. So, surprise me.”

••••••

It’s rare that you find yourself alone with him.

There’s never a shortage of people at the Watchtower. It’s nice, usually. Being surrounded by so many people that you care about. Even if Walker and Alexei do get on your last nerve sometimes.

But it’s hardly ever just you and him. You expected there to be some degree of awkwardness - silences that you’d feel obligated to fill with small talk.

You’re pleased to learn that isn’t the case. Now, with you in the driver’s seat and Bob in the passenger seat as you drive towards a quieter part of the city with the windows rolled down, there’s a comfortable, peaceful kind of quiet that settles over you. It’s not the kind of quiet that demands to be filled with forced chatter, but rather the kind that feels companionable.

As soon as you exit the Manhattan city limits, Bob clears his throat and turns the dial to the radio down a notch.

“You know, it’s been so long since I’ve left the tower that I didn’t even know the leaves had already started to change color,” he says with a breathy laugh.

You hum, glancing around at the trees that had recently begun to turn shades of orange and red in the wake of autumn. “Is this your first fall up north?”

From the corner of your eye, you see him nod. “It is. Can’t say I ever saw anything quite like this in Florida. It’s just always…green. And sandy. And hot.”

You snort, laughing under your breath. “I take it you weren’t a fan?”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he watches the trees blur by. “Not really. I mean, I didn’t hate it. But Florida never really felt like home, either. New York, though…New York feels different.”

You glance at him, curious, but he doesn’t elaborate. He just continues to stare out the window, seemingly in awe of the colorful leaves. You smile to yourself, turning left down a smaller, less busy road. Soon, the neon sign of the arcade comes into view.

You feel his gaze on you as you pull into the parking lot. You dig your nails into the leather of the steering wheel, suddenly feeling nervous. What if this doesn’t help him? What if it brings up unpleasant memories? What if it makes things worse? He’ll go back to the tower, lock himself in his room, and refuse to ever do anything with you again—

“You remembered,” he hums, interrupting your trainwreck of thoughts. He doesn’t sound upset. You turn your head to look at him. He’s already looking at you with a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

You nod. “I did. I also vaguely remember you saying something about having an impressively high score on Pac-Man?”

“426,758,” he answers without missing a beat. Then, he shakes his head as if embarrassed. “I haven’t played in years though, so…I’m probably not that good at it anymore.”

“It’s okay,” you assure him, turning the car off. You pause before opening your door. “I’m not expecting you to beat any personal records today. Let’s just have fun, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nods with the most carefree smile that you’ve seen from him in weeks. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

The arcade bursts to life around you the moment you step through the doors. It isn’t massive, but it’s packed with every game you could imagine and then some. Rows of arcade cabinets hum and blink, their screens flashing. You can already see the familiar shapes of Pac-Man and Donkey Kong, mixed with racing games and claw machines filled with cheap prizes.

The back wall is a shrine to pinball. Machines of every theme imaginable - horror movies, classic video games, Star Wars, and even 80s and 90s rock bands gleam under the overhead lights. To your left, a fifties-themed diner juts out, neon red and turquoise lights flickering above a counter lined with stools. To the right, catching your eye, are huge neon green letters that spell LASER TAG, signaling what waits beyond the door.

The mix of lights, sounds, and smell of fried food hits your senses at once, and you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face. It must be your lucky day, because there’s hardly anyone here. Parents dine with two small children at the diner’s countertop, and a few teenagers are playing pinball machines, but other than that, you and Bob have the place mostly to yourselves.

“Wow,” Bob breathes from beside you. “I have to say…this puts the arcade that I used to go to in Sarasota Springs to shame.”

Your eyes zero in on an air hockey table towards the back right corner of the room. It’s been a few years since you’ve played air hockey, but you used to be pretty damn good at it. You glance back and forth between the air hockey table and the diner, a mischievous idea sparking in your mind.

“Let’s make this interesting,” you say, turning to face him as you take a few steps backwards towards the air hockey table. He cocks a brow at you in anticipation. “Air hockey. The loser has to buy the winner a milkshake of their choice.”

He hesitates for a moment before following after you with a smirk. “I hope you’re prepared to buy me a chocolate milkshake, then.”

After buying your game cards, you position yourself on the opposite end of the table from Bob. You drop the puck onto the surface and the first round begins as you send it flying in his direction. Bob lunges, narrowly deflecting your first shot.

“Not bad,” he mutters, glancing up at you, eyes glinting with amusement.

“I hope you’re prepared to buy me a strawberry milkshake.”

“Don’t get too cocky—”

With a quick flick, you send the puck flying past him, directly into the slot. He freezes, his mouth parting in surprise. He laughs, a smile that reaches his eyes spreading across his face.

“You were saying?” You quip. He just shakes his head and retrieves the puck from the slot.

“I was saying,” he says, placing the puck back onto the table, “that I was going easy on you.”

You snort. “Sure you were.”

The second round begins when he slides the puck back across the table with newfound determination. There’s a competitive edge to him that hadn’t been present a moment ago. His brows furrow and his teeth dig into his bottom lip in his efforts of concentration. It’s a side of him that you’ve never seen before, and you can’t help but think how utterly adorable he is like this - carefree, unguarded, playful.

So adorable, in fact, that it distracts you enough that he’s able to score a point.

Bob smirks, smugness practically radiating off of him. “See? Told you I was going easy on you.”

“Uh-huh.” You set the puck back on the table. “Don’t be so sure of yourself, Reynolds. That was a pity point.”

His laugh is genuine, rich in a way you haven’t heard in a while. The sound warms something deep in your chest, and you know you’d do anything to keep making him laugh like that.

The rest of the game unfolds in a blur of quick reflexes, playful trash talk, and laughter. He fights hard, but you’re sharper. In the end, it’s your puck that seals the victory with a final, satisfying clink.

Bob groans dramatically, raking a hand through his already tousled hair. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to go best two out of three, could I?”

You shake your head. “Rules are rules,” you say with a grin. “Time to pay up.”

At the small arcade diner, the two of you take your seats at the countertop. The waitress, dressed in classic 1950’s diner attire, walks over to take your order.

“We’ll have one strawberry milkshake, please,” Bob orders politely.

“Make that a chocolate shake, actually,” you tell her, remembering that he had wanted a chocolate milkshake. “Two straws.”

His head snaps toward you, surprise flashing across his face before his features soften into a bashful expression.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he murmurs, a faint pink creeping into his cheeks. “You won fair and square.” His fingers drum lightly against the counter, as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands. There’s a shyness to his smile that makes it clear how much the small gesture means to him, even if it doesn’t blatantly say it.

You shrug. “I like chocolate just as much as strawberry.”

Moments later, when the waitress brings the shockingly huge milkshake to you, Bob slides it closer to you. “You did win, after all,” he sighs. “At least take the first sip.”

“I suppose that is fair,” you laugh, bringing your straw to your lips. The flavor of chocolate and whipped cream hits your tongue, and you hum in appreciation before passing it to him.

You sit beside each other, passing the glass back and forth in an easy silence. The arcade hums around you with flashing lights and the metallic clatter of tokens, but it feels like the two of you are in your own little bubble.

Every so often, his shoulder will brush against yours. It’s accidental, but each time it happens, there’s a soft fluttering of butterflies in your stomach and you feel light-headed. You blame it on the fact that you’re drinking the cold milkshake too quickly - stupid brain freeze.

A wet slurping noise echoes through the quiet of the diner when he sucks up the last bit of milkshake through the straw. Then, without missing a beat, he leans back to reach into his pants pocket, pulling out his game card. His gaze settles on something beyond you, and you glance over your shoulder to see what he’s staring at.

“I might not be the best at air hockey,” he sighs, “but I bet I can win something out of that claw machine on the first try.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s what everyone says right before wasting ten dollars.”

He smirks, seemingly taking your words as a challenge. He jumps down, tugging you off of your stool and towards the claw machine with him. Inside, there’s dozens of small stuffed animals. He scans them with an intensity that would be comical if it weren’t so sincere and so…him. You purse your lips to refrain from laughing.

“Panda,” he declares, eyes locking on the small black and white plush near the center. “That’s the one.”

You fold your arms across your chest, watching in anticipation. Bob focuses, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. The claw descends, wobbles, and to your complete surprise, manages to grasp the panda. The machine whirs, successfully lifting the stuffed animal before transporting it to the corner of the machine and dropping it down the chute.

“No way!” You exclaim, clapping in genuine excitement. You don’t think you’ve ever seen someone actually succeed on the first try with these machines. They’re practically rigged for failure. “How’d you do that?”

Bob tucks the panda under his arm like it’s a trophy worth more than gold, grinning ear to ear. It’s boyish, almost - his expression. It’s like catching a glimpse of his younger self in an arcade in Sarasota Springs, Florida.

He shrugs. “Just…had a feeling that it’s my lucky day, I guess.”

Warmth spreads through you at his answer. It feels like it’s been so long since you’ve seen him even a fraction as light as he is right now. For weeks, you’ve missed his shy smiles and longed to hear his laughter. And now, surrounded by the neon lights and the clamor of the arcade machines, he looks like the version of himself that he’d been working so hard to become before the darkness threatened to pull him back under.

You try to commit all of the details to memory. So that even if the heaviness reappears, you’ll remember the teasing banter between you during air hockey, the warmth of his shoulder against yours when you shared the chocolate milkshake, and the way his whole face lit up when he won the small, stuffed panda from the claw machine.

Because it’s proof that he can feel like this again. Even if it’s just for a few hours, it means that there’s hope that he’ll find his way back for good.

Maybe all he needs is someone that won’t let him go through the bad days alone.

••••••

Only after several more rounds of air hockey, a solid hour of pinball, an intense battle of laser tag, and an almost record-breaking game of Pac-Man do you and Bob finally go back to the Watchtower.

When you’re taking a shower later that evening, you think about how your time spent at the arcade was likely as beneficial for you as it was for him. Living in the Watchtower, working with the New Avengers… it doesn’t leave very much time for fun.

Your days are normally spent working out, training, preparing for missions, doing re-con, and traveling all over the United States. Some days, you’re so busy that you barely remember to eat. Basic self-care often takes a backseat, forget spending an entire afternoon somewhere like an arcade.

It was refreshing - a much needed reminder that there’s more to life than just super-hero business. Some days, it’s nice to just eat greasy diner food and play Donkey Kong.

You only hope that it was as enjoyable for Bob as it was for you.

Just when you’re about to crawl into bed for the night, there’s a soft knock at your door

You open it to find Bob standing there, shifting his weight like he’s debating whether to stay or bolt. The panda plush is tucked under one arm, looking comically small against his tall frame.

“Uh - hey,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just…thought you should have this.”

You blink, surprised, looking between him and the stuffed animal that he now holds out to you. “But you won it.”

“Yeah, well…” His mouth twists into a nervous half-smile and he shrugs. “Just wanted to give it to you. To say thanks…for today.”

You hesitate for a second before taking the plush from him. A laugh slips out of you, quiet and fond. “Bob, you don’t have to—”

“I know,” he interrupts gently. “But today was…good. Better than I thought it would be. I didn’t realize how much I needed it until I was there.” He lets out a faint, sheepish laugh. “I definitely don’t remember the last time I had that much fun sober. I wasn’t even sure if I could have that much fun sober, so…thank you. Really.”

The honesty in his voice tugs at something deep in your chest. You hug the panda closer, the small plush oddly heavy in your arms.

“I’m glad you came with me, Bob,” you say, your voice gentler now. “You deserve more days like this. We’ll go back soon, if you want to,” you promise, hoping with all your heart that he’ll say yes. For his own good, but also for yours.

Because you long to spend more time with him. Because you didn’t know you could still have that much fun, either. Because you want today’s shared milkshake to be the first of many shared milkshakes.

He takes the smallest step forward, a slight smirk forming on his lips. For a second, you wonder if he’s suddenly miraculously tapped into his powers and can read your mind.

“I would like that,” he nods, blushing lightly. “Even if you did kind of kick my ass in air hockey.”

thank you so much for reading! comments and reblogs are always appreciated 🫶🏻 dividers by @/enchanthings!

[starsoverbrooklyn]

I didn’t realize just how much I needed to read this. Let alone just how much it would affect me… like, I knew… Because you are a brilliant writer, but everything about this piece is so soft in the same way a warm blanket is when you need it the most.

“I’m sorry,” he says in a small voice. “I didn’t mean to make everyone worry.”

…“I wish I could tell you how to help me,” he says weakly. “But I barely know how to help myself. I was doing everything right -…”

Broke my heart right in sync with reader’s. The worst feeling in the world is feeling like you’re letting everyone else down when you, yourself, are already down despite doing everything in your power to be “okay”. It’s horrible when you feel like it’s all been in vain.

Oftentimes, the owner would take pity on him and give him a handful of game tokens and a slice of pizza free of charge.

The baby 😭 Please. I just need to give him a hug 24/7. I loved this line the first time you showed it to me. It’s also just, like, a reminder of the good things that may spur people along during periods of trauma.

“Great!” You chirp excitedly, springing to your feet a bit too quickly. The movement makes your own cheeks warm, but if he notices, he doesn’t seem put off. In fact, his smile only deepens, and the flush in his face brightens, as if your excitement is contagious.

This is SO fucking cute. I love it with my whole heart. Just two friends in love limbo~

“Not really. I mean, I didn’t hate it. But Florida never really felt like home, either. New York, though…New York feels different.”

I wonder why……

“I hope you’re prepared to buy me a strawberry milkshake.”

LITERALLY MY FAVORITE ICE CREAM (like…just a smidge over chocolate). Whenever you put details that happen to match me irl I’m like 🤪 YES FEED MY DELULU

AND THE WAY SHE SWITCHES IT TO CHOCOLATE 💥💥💥 UGH. I love it so bad!!!

“I might not be the best at air hockey,” he sighs, “but I bet I can win something out of that claw machine on the first try.”

UGH. SHOW ME, BABY.

“Uh - hey,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just…thought you should have this.”

🥹🥹🥹 i am SO fucking in love. Beyond. This was so sweet & the fact that he waited on it til after makes it so cute because I can picture him trying to convince himself to ‘just take it over to her’. IDK lmao.

—————

I…. Really loved this. Completely not a surprise, but I will always appreciate just how much your writing makes me feel! Every little detail you put into it always adds beautiful color to the bigger picture. This fic screamed what it was supposed to and allowed us to subtly love Bob through a period he needs it. Amazing job at the shifts in tone once he eased into her company, it was so seamless. Thank you so much, bb, for sharing a piece of your beautiful mind (whilst also diving into Bob’s)! 💚

[navybrat817]

Inspirational

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: You and Bucky are inspirational.

Word Count: 300

Warnings: Unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), dirty talk, surprise guest, voyeurism, exhibitionism, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Happy September! Day 1 of the Sexy September Scribbles Challenge. Prompt: Slower. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You and Bucky having an extended weekend meant taking advantage of the extra time together. What began with tenderness and care shifted to a frenzied kind of fucking. The brutal sound of skin on skin echoed in the room along with your cries. Every inch of his thick cock stretched and filled you, and you knew you’d feel him for days to come. 

“So fucking pretty when you take my cock,” Bucky grunted, lifting your hips so he could drive in deeper. “Gonna make you scream my name. Let everyone know who owns you.”

The obscene squelch from your pussy told him how much you loved that idea. “Bucky!”

“Slower.”

You both paused and snapped your heads toward Steve, his sketchbook in his hand. He looked completely composed as he sat in the chair, the tent in his pants being the only giveaway that he liked what he saw. Neither of you minded when he watched since he thought you two were inspirational. 

“Giving me orders, punk?” Bucky rasped. 

The blonde smirked. “Just think she’ll make more of a mess on your cock if you slow down, jerk. That’s all,” he replied, resuming his sketching. “And I want to make sure I get her breasts right.”

You gasped when Bucky began to thrust again, his movements languid and torturously slow. “He has a point. You do gush when I draw it out,” he said, gripping your jaw when you whined impatiently and tried to buck beneath him. “Be good, or I’ll tie you up.”

“Don't threaten me with a good-”

“And I’ll edge you all night,” he threatened, your eyes wide. 

“Ouch,” Steve muttered sympathetically. 

“Fine,” you sighed, brushing your thumb over his lips. “But I’m riding your face next.”

Bucky and Steve would enjoy it. 

And you’d go slow. 

Yes, this may have been inspired by this. Might have to do a small series. I don't know if I'll be able to do the entire month, but this was fun! Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[starsoverbrooklyn]

i’ll be thinking about this for a millennium—

[westviewsoldest]

Sucking him off in the kitchen (i.e. Bucky & his needy gf)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (Pre-established)

Warnings: 18+ (mdni), smut, oral (m! receiving), reader has hair

Summary:

Bucky should know by know that wrapping his arms around his needy girlfriend will result in someone cumming.

Masterlist

Thinking about Bucky with a needy girlfriend. 

It was his own fault, he knows the rules, he knows the game like the back of his hand. He also knows all it takes to get you going is wrapping his arms around you from behind, and pressing into you. 

It takes all but five seconds before you’re pushing back into him. The small intake of breath that escapes him? Cheers you on. Your head falls back against his shoulder, your ass wiggling against his half-hard length, and small, breathy pleas tumble from your lips. 

“Please, Bucky.”

“I’m not bending you over the counter,” he insists, already knowing what you'll ask for next, though he moves your hair to one side so he can press kisses down the side of your neck. You swear you feel him roll his hips into you. “Anyone could walk in.” 

That’s what you were supposed to be doing–cooking dinner in the common room. Not late enough to avoid the others, but enough that the compound’s hallways are devoid of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. The vegetables you have simmering in the pan start browning. 

You don’t care. You’re hungry for something else. 

“Won’t take long, we’ll be careful,” you grip onto the counter allowing you to push into him more deliberately. You let out a small whine, the one you know usually gets you what you want. 

He has one hand pushing up the oversized shirt you’re wearing (his), the other drawing light circles over your shorts–only a few centimeters away from where you need him. “Tonight,” he mumbles into that space where your neck and shoulder meet. 

He’s draped over you enough to see the small smirk on the corner of your lips. He knows that smirk, how it says: tonight… AND now. Because of course, once is never enough with you. You turn the heat down to the lowest setting, rotate in his arms until his mouth hovers over yours, and just when you have him where you want, you sink to your knees. 

His head falls forward with a hearty groan, your name slipping out in a warning. 

“You said you wouldn’t bend me over the counter, didn’t say anything about this,” you say between the trail of kisses you leave from his stomach to the waistband of his sweatpants. You don’t waste time in pulling them down enough for his heavy cock to spring free, tongue lapping at his head before taking him to the back of your throat with practiced ease. 

He curses, hands gripping the edge of the counter for some semblance of composure. He should put an end to this, tell his needy girl that you should wait until you're both in the private space of your room. But instead his gaze drops to yours, dark eyes glassy as your mouth bobs up and down his thick length. You know what it does to him when you keep eye-contact. Know what it does when you dribble and moan all over his cock. His hand grabs a fistful of your hair. You moan again. 

Dirty words tumble from his mouth as he thrusts into your mouth: 

“Look at you. Always look so good with my cock stuffed down your throat.”

“So desperate for it that you couldn’t even wait. Fuck, that’s it baby. Like that–”

“Taking care of me so good.” 

And when you feel him pulse–feel the hot white spurts of cum make their way down your throat–he pulls his sweatpants up, giving you a few seconds to get your bearings as he swipes at the small tears that had escaped your eyes. He pulls you up by the elbows, kisses your forehead, cheeks, nose before his mouth finds yours. And when a few minutes pass, he squeezes you tight once more before letting you both turn your attention to salvaging the darkened food, his mind already filling with ways he’s going to return the favour tonight. 

He’ll be lucky if you’re not begging him to fuck you against the door when you finish up with dinner. 

Unofficial part 2 here

[starsoverbrooklyn]

oh to buy a house and have him come with the kitchen 🥲

[5ummit]

The Emperor's New Groove (2000) || Thunderbolts* (2025)

[starsoverbrooklyn]

immediately latched onto this parallel & it made me love him even more, my little bird 😭💚

[navybrat817]

Back It Up

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Thunderbolts!Female Reader

Summary: Bucky is hot and fucks like a God.

Word Count: Over 1.2k

Warnings: Unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), oral sex (m. and f. receiving), dirty talk, flirting, slight feels, possessive behavior, BDE, aftercare mention, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Based on an anon ask. Happy Moanday. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky who is hot and fucks like a God. 

Bucky who is confident again, similar to the swagger he had in the 40’s, but a bit more rough around the edges to add to his appeal.

Bucky who knew you were his the second he laid eyes on you and swears the world is a little brighter when you’re nearby, so he gives you a smile instead of his trademark grumpy stare.

Bucky who also gets hard when you’re close to him and has palmed himself under the table because he so desperately wants to be inside you. 

Bucky who wants you and only you, wants you on your knees for him, wants to get on his knees for you, wants to split you open on his cock and make you scream his name, but wants to tease you first.

Bucky who will run his fingers through his hair or toussle it when you’re in his line of sight because you once said he looked like a fucking prince. “Every prince needs a princess, right? You wanna be my princess?”

Bucky who, whether he’s in his tactical gear or uniform, sees the way you shamelessly check him out and hides his smirk when he “catches” you looking. “Isn’t polite to stare, sweetheart, but you can look all you want.”

Bucky who will purposely walk around in only a pair of low hanging gray sweatpants when he knows it’s just the two of you, unashamed of his body or scars, especially when your pupils dilate with lust. “You know, I almost went with black, but…” he trailed off, arching his back and thrusting his hips forward so you could see the very clear outline of his cock before he left the room.

Bucky who will keep his eyes on you when he eats, letting you see every drag of his tongue and lick of his lips as he savors the taste of his meal. “Bet your pussy tastes like heaven,” he says so low you swear you imagined it.

Bucky who wrapped a hand around your throat once during sparring to see how you’d respond, and he was pleasantly surprised when he heard you whimper and smelled your arousal. “I have something you can really choke on,” he whispered, letting you go and leaving you hot and bothered on the mat.

Bucky who didn’t think taking a jacket off could be sexy until he heard you whisper, “Fuck me”, to which he responded in a low voice full of promise, “Soon.” 

Bucky who likes to think he can dish it as much as he takes it, but nearly busts down your door when he hears you moaning his name and fucking yourself with your fingers. “My dirty girl,” he says fondly, proudly.

Bucky who can’t take it anymore when you’re bent over in front of him, stretching and looking back at him with a smile while his eyes greedily roam your body. “Think you help me stretch, Barnes, or are you all talk?”

Bucky who snapped, tore through your legging and underwear like paper, and put you on all fours. “Oh, I’ll help you stretch,” he promised, breaching your wet heat with a finger and smirking when you tightened around him. “With my tongue and fingers first before you get my cock.”

Bucky who ate you out from behind, his fingers digging into your flesh as you pushed back against his face to feel more of the delicious burn from his salt and pepper scruff. “You really do taste like heaven, sweetheart, but be patient,” he warned, slapping your pussy for good measure. “You’ll get yours and I’ll get mine.”

Bucky who nearly came in his pants when you made a mess all over his face, crying out his name as he kept fucking you with his tongue and fingers and only stopped so he could put you on your back and see your dazed expression. “Good girl screaming my name,” he praised, hearing you whine when he shoved his pants and underwear down. “Do it again when you come on my cock.”

Bucky who let you taste yourself on his tongue before he pushed inside you, both of you moaning at the feeling of being one and him having to stay still for a second at the way you clamp around him like a vice. “Greedy cunt doesn’t want to let me go,” he rasped, and he understood since he didn’t want to leave your body.

Bucky who set a hard, deep pace and alternated between pinning you down and letting you pull his hair and grip his back. “Letting me fuck you bare because you know you’re mine,” he groaned, and he couldn’t wait to paint your walls with his release and really make you his.

Bucky who lightly bit your neck and breasts and touched every inch of you that he could, wanting to leave marks on you, before putting your legs on his shoulders and fucking you like his life depended on it. “Look at me. Keep those pretty eyes on me,” he ordered, wanting to see your face twist in pleasure as you took his cock over and over again.

Bucky who teased your clit and smiled when you keen. “I told you you’ll get yours,” he reminded you when you clenched around him and soaked his cock more. “So scream my name when you come for me.”

Bucky who said your name through his teeth when you screamed his name like a mantra and gushed around him. “Good. Fucking. Girl.” he gritted as he fucked you through it, taking your hand to keep you grounded when he saw the fog in your eyes.

Bucky who couldn’t resist when you begged through your gaze, “Come in me, Bucky.” and roared like an animal with his release, flooding your insides and keeping his hips flush against yours so he didn’t waste a drop. 

Bucky who collapsed on top of you to kiss you again and stayed deep inside you as he thought about how he was going to fuck you all over again. 

Bucky who knew he had his equal when you smiled against his lips and asked, “Think you can make me choke before you fuck me again?” and was torn between pulling out of you and staying nice and deep where he belonged.

Bucky who grudgingly pulled out because he had to see what you looked like with your lips wrapped around him. “That’s it, sweetheart. Choke on me,” he urged when you cleaned off your mixed release with a happy moan and kept your pretty eyes on him.

Bucky who put you on all fours again because he had to finish inside of your dripping cunt. “We’re just getting started,” he promised.

Bucky who didn’t stop until you were a whimpering, boneless mess and carried you to your bathroom after so he could take care of you. “So beautiful. So good for me,” he whispered, praising you because he’s a gentleman at heart and he will give you the aftercare you deserve.

Bucky who held you like something precious and kissed your forehead. “I’ve got you,” he whispered and smiled when you whispered back, “And I’ve got you.”

Bucky who is insatiable, able to sleep easier because you’re in his arms, and happy.

So... yeah. Happy Moanday. Love and thanks for reading!❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[starsoverbrooklyn]

i am not okay. the progression was EVERYTHING. thank you, thank you, thank you for the combo of your brilliant mind & Bucky 😩

[lucy-harker]

LEWIS PULLMAN Behind the Scenes of Thunderbolts* (2025)

[flowersforbucky]

all we know of heaven, all we need of hell

winter soldier x reader / thunderbolts!bucky x reader

word count: 18.7k

you fell in love with the man who trained you in the red room. he helped you escape - and made you promise to never look back. years later, when an old friend asks for your help, you find yourself working with a group of anti-heroes. including him.

warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni, smut, ex widow reader, angst, heartbreak, thunderbolts timeline, pre-winter soldier movie timeline, mentions of blood, canon level violence, probably poorly translated russian, no use of y/n, reader is afab, oral, unprotected p in v, reader is implied to be shorter than bucky, reader's age isn't specified but she is an adult throughout the whole story, slow burn as fuck but happy ending i promise

thank you so much to @starsoverbrooklyn and @whereiweep for letting me yap about this for over a month and for reading over it for me. ily and appreciate you both so much.

i made a little playlist for this fic. you definitely don’t have to listen to it, but here it is if you want to give it a listen for the vibes ✨🖤

Circa 2013

“Согните локти. Я не хочу повторять это снова.”

You grit your teeth at his words. He only speaks to you in Russian when he means business - it's a force of habit for him, more than anything, but you can't help but feel the stinging pinch of disappointment anytime he speaks to you in the language.

His voice is always a tad colder. More mechanical. Like he's talking to one of the handlers. Like he's a little less himself.

Whoever that may be.

Bend your elbows. I don’t want to have to tell you again.

“My elbows are bent,” you say flatly. It’s a bold face lie - you know damn well you tend to hyper-extend your arms when they start to get tired during target practice. He reminds you of it often.

“Come and get a closer look and see for yourself,” you taunt him.

He says nothing. After a second of loaded silence, the sound of his combat boots against the floor echoes through the room as he takes deliberately slow steps toward you. He probably thinks he's intimidating you - and judging by the way your breath catches in your throat as he closes in on you, it’s a safe assumption.

You maintain your position when he comes to a stop just inches behind you. Your index finger hovers above the trigger as you try to ignore the way your heart races as he looms over you from behind.

It isn't a reaction born from fear. It’s excitement. So often you try to draw him in closer, though it’s rare that he actually indulges in your scheming.

He stands close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck. You blink rapidly, as if it will somehow make the goosebumps that have suddenly appeared on your skin dissipate.

He raises his metal hand to your arm from his position behind you, placing his fingers against the bend of your elbow and applying just enough pressure so that you relax the position of your arm. Then, using his flesh hand, repeats the action on your opposite arm.

“Now,” he breathes in perfectly clear English, “if you’re finished trying to get my attention, shoot the target.”

You blink. Once, then twice, and then squeeze the trigger. Only after a perfect succession of hits, do you remember to breathe.

“See,” he muses, his voice softening the slightest bit. “You've got great aim, when you aren’t being childish.”

You whip around, turning to face him. Your chest brushes against his, but he doesn’t move an inch. Steel blue eyes bore into yours, unblinking. His jaw is set in a hard line, but you don’t miss the way his Adam’s apple bobs at the sudden close proximity.

It's moments like this that you’d do anything to know his name. You’ve wondered what it could be a thousand times. Henry? William? Daniel?

None of those names seem to suit him. But you know better than to ask. Every time you do, you’re met with a blank expression and loaded silence.

“Am I being childish?” You challenge. “Or do I just find all of these extra lessons a little…unnecessary? I don’t see anyone else getting this level of one-on-one attention. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you might be growing fond of me, Soldat.”

His expression remains stoic. Your eyes begin to sting, but you refuse to be the first to blink.

“If these extra lessons help to keep you alive, then they are not unnecessary to me.”

He suddenly steps back, distancing himself from you a mere second before the double doors on the other side of the room come flying open and two Hydra agents barge inside. They bark commands at him in thick Russian accents, effectively breaking any tension that had been brewing between you. Still, his gaze remains on you.

“Любить — недостаточно сильное слово.”

With his back turned to the guards, he says the words low enough so that only you hear them. He then turns and follows the agents out of the room, leaving you alone to wonder if you’d heard him correctly.

Fond is not a strong enough word.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

A fortnight passes before you see him again.

Each night, you fall asleep replaying the last words he said to you on an endless loop. With every day that passes, you’re more and more convinced that you had hallucinated his confession.

It's rare that you go this long without seeing him. Your sessions together had become something of a routine, and you find yourself wandering aimlessly in your limited amount of free time each day, just hoping to run into him around the bleak and depressing facility that you're forced to call home.

You just need a few minutes with him - just long enough to confirm that you aren’t going crazy. That he really did say those words to you before seemingly vanishing like smoke.

You find yourself longing to get him alone. Really alone. Not in the way that you’re alone when he’s making you fight him in hand to hand combat or shoot at the same target for the twentieth time and someone could walk in at any moment. Completely and utterly alone - away from here, away from Hydra, away from the Red Room.

Maybe then he’d open up and at least tell you his name.

But it’s just a fantasy. Merely something for you to maladaptive daydream about in order to get through the day when he's nowhere to be found. The likelihood of ever seeing him outside of these walls is slim to none, but that doesn’t stop you from fantasizing about it far more often than you care to admit.

It's three in the morning and you’re staring up at your ceiling in the pitch black when you hear a sudden commotion of slamming doors and loud, angry voices. You sit up, holding your breath as you listen. There’s only so much that you can make out from down the hallway, behind the closed door of your room, but it’s enough to make your heart thud in your chest.

The soldier. The asset. Soldat. All spat in the same tone of disgust.

You get out of bed, tip-toeing across the room to press an ear against your door in hopes of hearing his voice. You just want confirmation that he’s okay - that he’s alive.

All that you’re able to hear is the voice of the guards, one indistinguishable from the next. Within a minute, the voices dissipate and the night is silent once more.

Your thoughts begin to spiral and your stomach churns with nausea. There’s no use in even trying to sleep now. There’s no way your brain will allow you to relax enough to fall asleep until you know that he’s alright.

You’ve lived in this facility for years. You know it like the back of your hand - even sections that are supposed to be off limits. You’ve never been to his quarters, but you know your way around well enough to get there. You don’t have any intention of actually approaching him; the last thing you want is to do anything that could cause the guards to refer to him with so much venom in their voices again.

Just to hear the shuffling of his covers or low snores from behind his door would be enough to ease your worrying until you see him again.

The compound is eerily silent at night. You don’t bother putting on shoes, as you’re able to walk more quietly without the shuffling of your slippers. The metal flooring of the hallway feels like ice against your feet, making you wish you had at least thrown a hoodie or cardigan over your camisole.

Without any windows or lights on, navigating your way through the endless maze of hallways is borderline impossible. You have to rely on touch more than sight, keeping your hands extended in front of you to feel for anything you might run into. Eventually, you make your way to the basement, where you’re relieved to see that the long hallway is illuminated by dimly lit sconces, each placed a few yards apart.

From the opposite end of the hallway, you hear what you believe to be running water - a faucet or shower. You follow the sound until you come to a closed door with faint yellow light spilling from the crack at the floor. You freeze, waiting to hear some kind of movement or see some kind of shadow appear on the sliver of light.

“I know you’re out there. You aren’t nearly as quiet as you think you are.”

You exhale through your nose at the sound of his voice, releasing the breath you didn't realize you’d been holding in. His voice is as serious as ever, and there’s an unusually strained edge to it, but he’s alive, so you can’t help but feel relieved.

“How’d you know it’s me?” You murmur back.

He’s silent for a few moments. You start to worry that you’re bothering him when the door opens up, startling you - for more reasons than one.

“I can smell you. I recognized your scent.”

Your eyes go wide as your mouth hangs open in shock and horror. He pulls you into the bathroom and closes the door before the first question can leave your lips.

The left side of his face is marred by a reddish-purple bruise that covers his eye and extends down to his cheekbone. His bottom lip is just as swollen, with a split down the middle. There’s dried blood concentrated around his nose, indicating injury there as well.

Only after taking in the jarring discoloration across his face do you realize that he isn't wearing a shirt. Your gaze trails to the raised, jagged scar tissue where the flesh of his shoulder meets the metal that is his left arm. You aren't sure how he lost the limb - you’ve never asked - but the scarring tells you it was brutal and violent.

“Who did this to you?” You whisper, not trusting your voice. The same feeling of nausea that came over you when you’d overheard the guards talking about him washes over you once more.

He swallows thickly, his jaw tensing as he grits his teeth. He doesn’t answer before he turns away from you to look at himself in the bathroom mirror. Deep down, you already know the answer.

“Part of my latest assignment didn’t go as intended. It’s my own fault.”

You can tell by his tone of voice that not only does he blame himself, but that he thinks he’s deserving of the punishment. You don’t care what the assignment was, or how it went wrong - you refuse to believe that he could deserve such cruelty.

You don’t know his story. For all you know, maybe he chose this life. But if he’s anything like you - and every fiber of your being is screaming that he is - then you know that he had as little choice as you did when you were thrust into this world of malevolence.

No matter his history and how he found himself to be in the position that he’s in, it hurts you to see him in this state. If you could, you’d take it all away - the scars, the pain, the weight of all of his responsibilities.

You slowly walk towards him, coming to a stop when you’re standing directly behind him. With one hand, you grab the damp washcloth that he’d been using to clean himself up with off of the vanity.

“Turn around,” you instruct him softly. You aren’t sure why you’re surprised when he obeys without hesitation - his entire life is taking orders from others. It stings a little; just how quickly he turns to face you, because you know it isn’t purely out of trust. It’s out of habit of doing what he’s told.

You keep your eyes locked on him as you tentatively raise the cloth to his face. You gauge his reaction to make sure he isn’t going to move away or tell you to stop. When he doesn't flinch, or even blink, you delicately sweep the wet rag along his bottom lip, letting the dried blood melt away.

“You’ve been sending me mixed signals, you know,” you hum, breaking the heavy silence looming over you. “A confession like that followed by two weeks of silence really fucks with a girl’s head.”

He waits until you finish cleaning his lip to speak. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

His answer stings. You don’t know which would hurt worse - your brain playing a cruel joke on you and making up the entire scenario, or it really happening and him regretting it.

“Did you mean it?”

“Yes.” He pauses. You wait with bated breath. “I did mean it. But I still shouldn’t have said it.”

The goosebumps on your skin, originally caused by the chilly night air, are now from his words. His stare. His close proximity to you. You can’t help but wonder when the last time that someone, anyone, stood so close to him without the intention of inflicting pain was.

You’ve been this close to him before. Closer, even. But always for the intents of training. Never quite like this. Never in a way that you can study every individual freckle, wrinkle, and scar on his skin.

Even as bloodied and bruised as he is, you've never seen anyone even a fraction as beautiful as him. You believe there’s a real possibility that he’s an angel; outcast from heaven and damned to hell. Here.

They’re likely the same place. The only possible difference between the two is that here has him.

When you finally finish ridding his skin of all of the dried blood, you reluctantly start to drop your hand from his face, but he stops you. He grabs your hand in his flesh one, keeping it near his cheek. With his metal hand, he takes the bloodied rag from you and tosses it somewhere behind you.

His skin feels like fire against your own and blood pounds in your ears as he slowly brings your hand to his mouth. He presses his lips to the top of your knuckles, all the while never taking his eyes off of yours.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs as he lowers your hand away from his lips. The words snap you back to harsh reality. You pull your hand out of his grasp, stepping back to put a few inches of space between the two of you.

“Right,” you whisper, not trusting your voice to speak at a normal volume. You clear your throat and reach for the doorknob. “I’m sorry. I’ll go—"

“That’s not what I mean,” he interrupts, stepping forward. You freeze. “I’m not referring to this bathroom. You shouldn’t be in the Red Room. You should be far away from here.”

Without thinking, you close what little distance is left between you. Your hands settle on either side of his waist, his muscles taut under your palms. He tilts his head down, resting his forehead against yours.

“I could say the same about you,” you hum. His fingers trail up the sides of your arms; the warmth of his skin on one and the chill of metal on the other. When he reaches the top of your shoulders, he cups the sides of your face in his hands. “Something tells me you shouldn’t be here, either.”

He shakes his head, his eyes cinched shut. His swollen, pink lips form something akin to a grimace. “No,” he whispers. “No. The things I’ve done… this is where I should be.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Before he can try to convince you otherwise, you lift yourself by the tips of your toes to press your lips to his.

You can count on one hand the number of times that your lips have touched someone else’s. This kind of life doesn’t allow much time for simple pleasures - bubble baths, watching a morning sunrise while drinking coffee, long drives with your favorite music blaring.

Kissing.

Despite your inexperience, you’ve been kissed enough to know how it feels. At least, you thought you did. Now, you’re not so sure. Because this - this feels entirely different. The way he kisses you as if you're the air he needs to breathe and holds you like a fragile lifeline is brand new to you.

Even though you had wiped the blood off of him, he still tastes faintly of iron from the cut on his bottom lip. He’s hesitant at first - like he knows he shouldn’t be doing this yet physically can’t hold himself back. But your tongue sweeps along the swell of his bottom lip and he loses all restraint.

His hands - hands that you have seen snap bones like twigs and pull countless triggers - now tremble as they caress your face. His flesh hand trails down to the side of your neck and he tilts your head back, deepening the kiss and slipping his tongue past your lips. His movements are slow and intentional, like he’s trying to memorize your mouth before the moment can shatter around you.

You release an involuntary whimper into his mouth and something within him snaps. He drops his hands to the curve of your ass and hoists you up around his midsection. The sudden movement startles you and you gasp, but the noise is swallowed by him. He spins around, plopping you against the cold marble countertop.

You secure your legs around him, keeping him flush against you. Your fingers dart to the long locks of his brunet hair when the sudden, loud pounding of a fist against the bathroom door rings like a gunshot through the night.

“Soldat,” a deep, monotone voice calls from the other side. You recognize it from when you’d heard the commotion in the hallway not long ago. “You are needed upstairs for a mission report.”

You both go completely still, too terrified to even breathe. You hadn’t locked the door. If the guard so much as cracks the door open, the two of you would be exposed. He holds a singular metal digit up to his lips, indicating for you to stay silent.

“I’m almost finished cleaning up,” he barks back, his voice robotic and void of emotion. “I will be there soon.”

“Hurry up,” the guard snaps. “Or you’ll have even more to clean up.”

By some miracle, his footsteps begin to retreat down the hallway. You exhale in relief, your heart beating wildly in your chest.

“I should have heard him,” he mutters lowly, shaking his head. He steps back, leaving you sitting on the edge of the counter. You fight against the automatic urge to pull him back to you. “I was distracted.”

“We both were,” you breathe. “I didn’t hear him either. We just…have to be careful.”

He looks down at the floor with a furrowed brow.

“I can’t be careful enough when it comes to you. This can’t happen again. Not here.”

He steps forward, grabbing your face in his hands. You think - hope - he might kiss you again, but he doesn’t. He just looks down at you, a storm of different emotions in his blue eyes. He ghosts his flesh thumb across your cheekbone as if you’re made of glass.

“I’m going to get you out of this place. Even if they kill me for it.”

He drops his hold on you and backs away. You shake your head, opening your mouth to tell him to stop being ridiculous, but he turns the doorknob and slips through the opening before you can get a word out. It clicks shut by the time you hop down from the countertop. You stand in stunned silence, your brain reeling as you try to make sense of everything that happened in the last five minutes.

You try to calm down before risking the journey back to your sleeping quarters but with each deep breath in, you think of how his lips felt on yours and with every long exhale, his words echo through your mind.

Fond is not a strong enough word.

I did mean it. But I still shouldn’t have said it. You shouldn’t be here. I can’t be careful enough when it comes to you.

I’m going to get you out of this place. Even if they kill me for it.

You lose track of how long you stay in the bathroom. Though it’s small, it feels infinitely bigger, and colder, without him in it.

When you finally sneak back to your room, the digital alarm clock on your nightstand reads 4:28 am. There’s no use in trying to go back to sleep now, as you and the other widows are expected to be awake and ready to begin your morning routines in only an hour. Still, you lay down, not quite ready to face the day.

When your head hits the pillow, you hear a faint crinkling noise close to your ear. You reach beside you, turning on your lamp. You lift the pillow, revealing a white piece of paper folded into a perfect square.

Before you unfold it, you have a gut feeling who it is from. Or maybe it's just irrational hope.

You don’t recognize the handwriting. The first few words are messy - childlike. Nearly illegible. The last words, however, are a little bit easier to read. As if whoever wrote the message hadn’t written anything in a while and had to remember how to hold a pen.

Friday night. 2100 hours. South watchtower. Keep your distance until then. Tell no one. Destroy this after reading.

Friday night - that’s a whole five days away.

He’s plotting something. And you can only hope that it involves both of you getting out of here alive.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

The following days feel like a slow dissent into madness.

You don’t see or hear a word from him. Each day, upon returning to your room after nonstop training, you check under your pillow in hopes of finding another note, only to be met with disappointment. You long for more information - what exactly is going to happen on Friday night? How long will it take the handlers to realize that you’re missing? The tracking device located just under the skin of your left thigh will surely alert them of your desertion. What is his plan? Has he thought of everything that could go disastrously wrong?

And the question that lingers in the forefront of your mind - what you desire an answer to more than anything else - wherever you’re going, will he be going with you?

The mere possibility of the answer being no is enough to make you sick to your stomach.

You’ve barely eaten in days. You have no appetite - not that the food served in the mess hall is ever truly appetizing, but you feel the desire to eat even less than usual. On top of that, you’ve been so distracted that you’re covered in tender bruises from having your ass handed to you during sparring sessions. You haven’t been able to focus on anything the entire week, and others are starting to notice your mental absence.

“Where have you been the last few days?” A feminine, Russian accent startles you in the hallway as you walk back to your quarters on Thursday evening. You turn to see a fellow widow - a short, pretty blonde named Yelena whose room borders yours - looking at you with arched brows. “Your body is here but your mind has been miles away.”

You look away, scared that if you stare into her hazel eyes for a second too long, she’ll see right through you.

“I’m here,” you shrug. “I just haven’t felt the best this week. It’s uh - migraines.” The lie comes naturally to you, though you don’t know if she believes it.

“If you say so,” she snorts. “Must be pretty bad if you’re letting Sasha beat you in hand to hand.”

Luckily, she doesn’t press the subject any further.

Behind the closed door of your room, you retrieve the handwritten note from where you had tucked it between your bed frame and your mattress. He had instructed you to destroy it after reading it, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do so.

Maybe you’re sentimental - or perhaps just pathetic - but it’s the only thing you have of him. A singular piece of paper with his messy handwriting. Physical evidence that you aren’t going entirely crazy. You’ve reread the words more times than you care to admit over the last few days, as if they could possibly say something different than the first fifty something times you looked at the paper.

But they don’t change. The words remain the same, in the same black ink that has started to smudge from tracing the letters with the tip of your finger as if they are written in Braille.

Friday night. 2100 hours. South watchtower.

And finally, after the longest five days of your entire life, Friday arrives.

The day drags on and the nervous pit in your stomach cannot be quelled. You go through the motions as if it’s any other day - archery, aerobics, weight lifting, a five mile run - your typical Friday routine, all while trying to keep your composure at the thought of tonight.

An internal battle wages inside you as nine o’clock draws near. There’s fear, of course. Anxiety and uncertainty and apprehension. But beneath all of that, there’s anticipation. Eagerness. Excitement, even. Simply at the prospect of seeing him again.

There’s a small part of you that almost changes your mind. Not because you wish to stay here, but out of fear for what may happen to him if you’re caught. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if he were punished because he tried to help you.

It would be smart to rip the piece of paper into a thousand tiny shreds and flush them down a toilet and then go the fuck to sleep.

But then, you picture him waiting for you at the base of the watchtower, and the choice becomes clear.

To say that you packed lightly would be an understatement. The last thing you want is for someone to notice you carrying a duffel bag and a backpack out of the facility and ask where you're going, so to avoid drawing attention to yourself, you bring only what you can fit on your person. Your widow bites, a few knives, and two small pistols all concealed by a thick, dark purple bathrobe. It’s both windy and rainy tonight, with temperatures falling into the low forties, so you need something to keep you warm, but a large parka would surely raise suspicion if you were caught.

A bathrobe, however, is perfect for your escape plan. You can’t exactly walk out the front door unless you want a guard to demand information about where you’re going, and this place has practically no windows. A facility like this is designed to keep things in, not let them out - so the ventilation system it is.

And the communal bathroom on your level just so happens to have a nice, spacious vent just waiting for you to crawl into.

Widows are required to be in their private quarters no later than half past eight o’clock, so it times out perfectly with when you need to leave to make it to the south watchtower by nine o’clock. You have exactly thirty minutes to disappear. If you’re careful, you’ll be long gone by the time someone inevitably notices that you’re missing the next morning.

Right off the bat, you get lucky. The hallway outside of your bedroom is deserted, with no guard on patrol. If there had been, you would’ve just made some excuse about needing to use the bathroom, but you’re relieved that you don’t run into anyone on your way there.

With all of the other widows already in their beds, you find that the bathroom is empty, too. With the help of a shower chair that one of the girls has been using due to a leg injury, you’re able to reach just high enough to unscrew the vent cover from the wall.

You’re still standing on the chair when you pause for a brief moment before crawling inside the vent. You lean down, double checking that the note he’d left under your pillow is, in fact, tucked inside your sock.

You couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away. You couldn’t bring yourself to leave it behind. A voice in the back of your head kept nagging you to keep it. Once you’ve reassured yourself that the small piece of paper is safely tucked away, you spring into action.

You know you’re leaving behind a scene that paints a very clear picture of precisely what you’ve done - a chair directly beneath the open vent could mean only one thing. The first person who walks into the bathroom will know exactly what happened here.

Once you’ve hoisted yourself through the opening, you can’t bring yourself to care. All you can think about is slithering through the vents as quietly and quickly as you possibly can.

There’s one advantage to having lived in this facility for over a decade - you know the ins and outs of this place like the back of your hand. All you have to do is stay quiet, not have a claustrophobia induced panic attack, and follow the tunnels to freedom - to the man waiting for you in the woods.

Or whatever else might await you at the end.

The air inside the shaft is stagnant yet cold. It smells of metallic rust, almost blood-like. Even the smallest of movements produces a faint echo through the tunnels and all you can do is hope that anyone who hears will chalk the noises up to ghosts.

You freeze every time the metal groans beneath the weight of your body. You breathe in, then out. Count to three, and then cautiously start to move again when you feel confident enough that no one heard you.

The tunnels seemingly get tighter and tighter the farther you crawl. Right, then left, then right, and left again through the never ending maze of metal.

When your muscles start to burn and the shaft starts to feel suffocatingly hot, you picture his face and it gives you the motivation you need to keep going.

There’s no going back now. Not even if you wanted to.

After what feels like hours, when your bones are screaming at you to rest and your skin is covered in a thick layer of sweat beneath your bathrobe and clothing, you breathe a sigh of relief when the slope of a downward facing duct comes into view.

If your calculations are correct, you'll be out of this building in a matter of seconds.

You propel your body forward, mentally and physically bracing yourself for gravity to take hold as you slip down a chute. The smooth fabric of your bathrobe helps you to slide down the incline with ease before you come tumbling out of the vent entirely, plopping onto the cold, wet earth.

You give yourself all of five seconds to both recover from the drop and assess your surroundings, making sure that no one else happens to be lurking around this remote part of the facility at this hour before you begin sprinting in the direction of the woods behind the building.

You glance down at your watch when you cross the threshold of the forest - 8:54 pm.

The south watchtower is roughly half a mile into the woods. Under different circumstances, you'd be able to run half a mile in a few minutes with ease.

But right now? With only the illumination of a waning gibbous moon to guide you through the dense woods while a steady mist of freezing rain gradually soaks through the layers of your clothing? You’ll be lucky to find your way to the watchtower at all.

Still, you force one foot in front of the other, refusing to slow down. You don't want to be even a minute late for fear that he'll think you changed your mind or that something happened on your way there.

For the first minute or so of your trek, the rain and wind feel like a balm to your skin after being trapped in the oven-like vents - but it doesn’t take long for your clothing to become drenched, causing your body to shiver and teeth to chatter despite the fact that you’re running as fast as you can.

You’re thankful he chose the south watchtower. You’re more familiar with it than the other towers that surround the facility, and you know the route well enough. Still, that doesn’t change the fact that you don’t have night vision, and you stumble over a large tree root, twisting your right ankle. You curse under your breath but force yourself to keep going, knowing that you’re so close to reaching him.

The tower comes into view, and your heart drops when you don’t see him right away. You slow from a sprint to a jog, looking around the clearing that surrounds the tower when you hear the crackling of twigs and leaves from behind you.

Before you can even lay eyes on him, your wet, shivering frame is enveloped by strong arms from behind you. A metal hand covers your mouth, but you don’t scream. Instead, you relax for the first time in days, practically melting against him.

He breathes your name close to your ear. You turn in his grasp, nuzzling your face against his chest. You inhale his scent - a scent you’d recognize anywhere. It isn’t that of a fancy cologne or strongly scented soap. It’s natural - masculine and musky and uniquely him.

“You came,” he whispers. It isn’t a question, though there is a lilt of surprise in his voice. He grabs you by the shoulders and delicately pushes you back enough to run his eyes up and down your frame. “Are you okay?”

You nod. “I twisted my ankle, but I’m okay.”

His hands move from your shoulders to cup the sides of your face. Even in the limited amount of moonlight, you can see the tension in his jawline seem to melt away. His expression softens for a brief moment before he’s back to business.

“Did anyone see you leave?”

“No.” You shake your head. “No, I don’t think so. I crawled through an air duct in the bathroom and escaped through an exit in the back of the building.”

“Smart girl,” he praises, your face still clutched in his hands. “We still need to hurry. I don't know how much time we have.”

“What’s the plan?” You ask. Not that it really matters - you think you’d do just about anything he asks of you right now. You’d follow him anywhere, as long as it is far the fuck away from here.

He jerks his head in the direction of the watchtower a few yards away. He guides you to the entrance at the base of the structure, keeping his metal hand on your lower back. Once you’re inside, he closes and locks the door behind you. The only source of light in the room is produced by an antique oil lamp. On a concrete bench, there’s a first aid kit that’s already been opened beside an array of medical supplies.

He doesn’t need to say anything for you to piece together what is about to happen. The small, discreet tracking device located in the flesh of your thigh seemingly pulses at the realization. He notices you staring at the equipment and pauses.

“I have to remove your tracker before we can go any farther. We're still on Hydra grounds, so it likely hasn’t set off an alert yet. But as soon as we go any farther south…”

“I understand,” you murmur. “I trust you. Take it out.”

He nods, motioning for you to take your place on the bench. First, you shed the drenched bathrobe. Then, you shimmy your pants down to your knees, giving him access to the location of the tracker placed mid-thigh.

You shiver when the skin of the back of your thighs comes in contact with the cold concrete bench. He lowers himself to the ground in front of you, looking up at you in the dim, flickering light of the lamp. The sight makes your breath catch in your throat. The way he looks at you - like you aren’t an assassin, a soldier, a killer, but rather someone worth saving - it makes your heart nearly combust in your chest.

“I’ll try to be quick,” he murmurs. He places his flesh hand just above your knee as if to ground you. His skin is warm and soft, and you find comfort in it. With his other hand, he reaches for an isopropyl alcohol pad to sterilize where he will make the incision. You hiss when he swipes the cold alcohol across your bare skin.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, a grimace forming on his face. “It’ll be over soon.” You know he doesn’t want to cause you any discomfort, but it has to be done. He retrieves a small scalpel and looks at you for your consent.

“On the count of three?”

You nod, biting down on the inside of your cheek.

“One. Two…”

He doesn’t say three.

Your eyes snap shut and your teeth dig into the meat of your cheek so hard that you taste blood. Somehow, you manage to stay silent. You keep your eyes closed until you feel the tracker ease through the opening he had cut. You glance down, seeing vibrant red leak down the side of your thigh. He places the tracker on the bench beside you - visual confirmation of your newfound freedom.

The small device might weigh less than an ounce, but you suddenly feel a hundred pounds lighter.

He grabs a large gauze pad and presses it to the wound, applying pressure to help slow the bleeding. “Are you okay?” He asks, voice tense.

“Never been better.” You force a small smile to give him reassurance. Despite the circumstances, there’s a level of truth to your words. “What about you?”

“I’ll be better once I get you away from here.”

You watch in heavy silence as he works to bandage the incision on your thigh. He’s gentle - more gentle than anyone has ever been with you, you think.

Widows are usually stuck tending to their own injuries, but in more severe cases, you'd be sent to the pitiful excuse of an infirmary within the Hydra facility. Doctors - who most likely weren’t even legitimate doctors - would do the bare minimum to keep you from dying without caring if they’re too rough or lack bedside manner.

But not him. No, he touches you like the last thing he wants is to cause you the slightest discomfort. He touches you like you’re precious to him.

Maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t had a decent night of sleep in nearly a week, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re experiencing an adrenaline crash and aren’t thinking clearly, but you can’t help the way your eyes keep flickering to his lips. It’s not the time, and definitely not the place to be having such thoughts, but you think them, anyway - he’s inhumanly beautiful.

“I can rebandage it when we get somewhere safer,” he says when the dressing is secure against your skin. “We need to go. How’s your ankle? Can you walk?”

He stands, pulling you up from the bench in the process. You instantly yank your pajama pants back up around your hips.

Truthfully, you had forgotten all about twisting your ankle while running through the woods. But now, with the sudden pressure of your weight on it again, the pain returns in a dull but persistent throb.

“It hurts a little, but I’ll be okay—”

Before you can finish your sentence, he’s scooping you into his arms. You squeal in surprise as his metal arm swipes your legs out from beneath you. He lifts you with ease, metal arm hooked beneath your knees and flesh arm supporting your back.

You’re sure you could walk. Maybe even run, if you really needed to. But you aren’t about to order him to put you down. Not when the warmth from his arms and chest feels like heaven against the cold night air. Your soaking wet bathrobe still lays discarded on the bench, so you can use all of the warmth you can possibly get.

“This works, too,” you snort. Without thinking, you brush a lock of his hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear for him. He looks down at you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips for a brief moment before he lifts you up just high enough to press his mouth against your forehead. Your eyes flutter shut, savoring the sensation of his lips against your skin. You’ve craved to feel this again ever since you first kissed him in the bathroom five days ago.

“Let’s get you out of here,” he murmurs.

You nod, pursing your lips. Your heart sinks a bit at his choice of words.

I’ll be better once I get you away from here. Let’s get you out of here.

You. Not us. You.

He says it like a promise, but you can’t help but feel like it’s going to lead to a goodbye.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

You end up being thankful that he took it upon himself to carry you for the duration of the trek through the woods - a half hour walk through thick, dense trees that would have taken twice as long had you attempted to make the journey on your bum ankle.

The rain had come to a stop, but clouds then covered the moon, making it near pitch black. Somehow, his steps never faltered. Despite the darkness, and all of the tree roots and low hanging branches that he had to constantly dodge, he somehow got the two of you out of the woods and to the safety of a getaway car in an impressive amount of time. Both his vision and sense of direction are so impeccable that you suspect he has supernatural senses.

He drives for hours - always going a steady twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. At some point during the night, you fall asleep in the passenger seat. You don’t mean to, but after days of constant anxiety and subsequently very little sleep, plus the adrenaline crash after your escape from the facility, your eyes close of their own accord.

The first thing that you hear when you wake up is the sound of tires crunching over gravel. You open your eyes, noting that it’s still dark outside. The digital clock on the dashboard of the old Buick reads 2:52 am. You have no idea where you’re at, but a small house comes into the view of the headlights.

“What is this place?” You ask, voice raspy from sleep and dehydration.

“It’s an old safe house,” he grunts. He pulls into the driveway and parks the car. “It’s been inactive for years. We’ll be okay here for the night,” he assures you.

Inactive is putting it lightly. The place looks like it is on the verge of caving in on itself. From the creaky wooden boards of the front porch steps to the cobwebs that decorate the bannisters and windows, it’s obvious that you’re the first people here in a very long time. Still, despite the place being run down, you much prefer it to the place you’re running from.

At first glance, the inside looks surprisingly tidy compared to what you could see of the exterior. Then, you notice a large pack of disposable water bottles and some non-perishable goods on the kitchen countertop - canned soup, instant oatmeal, ramen.

He catches the look on your face. “I dropped all of that off a few days ago,” he says. “There’s some toiletries and dry clothes for you in the bedroom, too.” He jerks his head in the direction of the hallway, an indication for you to follow him.

Prior to a few hours ago, you had no idea what to expect tonight. But the careful consideration and thoughtfulness of it all surpasses your every expectation. In addition to a pile of neatly folded clothing - sweatpants, t-shirts, a hoodie, etc - there’s a toothbrush and toothpaste, a bar of soap, shampoo, and even a bottle of lotion.

You don’t know how he did it. You don’t know when he found the time, or the means. But for you, he did.

You sniffle, fighting against the sudden, undeniable burning sensation in your eyes. You do not want to cry. “You did all of this for me?” Your voice is barely a whisper.

He shifts uncomfortably, looking down at the floor. “I tried to be as thorough as I could on such short notice.” His gaze flickers back to you. “There’s one more thing.”

He turns, walking in the direction of the bedroom’s small closet. He opens the door, revealing the closet to be empty except for a pile of extra blankets on the floor. He shifts them around, reaching for something that is blocked by his frame. When he turns back around, you see that he is holding a backpack. He must have placed it in the closet when he dropped the non-perishable goods and clothes off earlier this week. Before you can question what the bag holds, he unzips the main compartment and reaches inside.

“This should be everything you need to start a new life.” You recognize the first item as soon as he hands it to you - a dark blue rectangle with the word PASSPORT engraved across the top. You open it, revealing a brand new passport and ID. There’s a picture of your face and a name you don’t recognize. Your new name.

Your hands tremble around the items. He opens the bag further, revealing the majority of the compartment to be filled with cash.

“Holy shit,” you breathe. He really thought of…everything. “Where did you get this? All of this?” You ask, gesturing between the cash in the bag and the documents in your hand.

He smirks, taking the passport back from you and tucking into an interior pocket of the backpack. “That’s not for you to worry about. I have my ways.”

“Clearly,” you mumble. It’s a lot to take in, and you feel overwhelmed by it all, but there’s one thing that has become abundantly clear - you won’t be leaving this safe house together.

One passport. One ID. One getaway bag. This is all for you.

A heavy silence falls over the room. You could hear a pin drop.

“You’re going back. Aren’t you?” You murmur.

His lips are set in a harsh line. His face gives nothing away, but after a thick beat of silence, he nods in confirmation. “Yes. I’m going back.”

You could pry. Part of you wants to. You want to beg him to tell you why - why he stays with them when he’s obviously so different from them. But if his mind is made up, then this could very well be your one and only night together. You aren’t about to tarnish it.

How are you supposed to ask someone for more when they’ve already risked everything for you?

You step towards him, stopping when your chest is no less than an inch away from his. You look up at the most beautiful pair of blue eyes you’ve ever seen. “Will you at least tell me your name so I can properly thank you?”

He grimaces, shaking his head. “I don’t know my name,” he admits, voice low. “I only know what they call me. Soldier. Asset. If I have any other name, I don’t remember what it is. But I promise, if I did know my name…I would have told you long ago.”

You part your mouth to speak, but no words come out. For some reason, you hadn’t considered the possibility that he may not know his name. Let alone the possibility that he may not have one.

“I’ll leave you to shower. You need to rest,” he says gently as he starts to move past you, towards the bedroom door. You grab his flesh hand in yours and he freezes. You know what you’re about to say is a risk, but considering that he’ll likely be gone come daylight either way, you decide to take it.

“Would you join me?”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes. Surprise, lust - maybe a hint of restraint. “Are you sure you want that?”

“Yes,” you hum, squeezing his hand. “I’m sure.”

That’s all he needs to hear. He nods, almost imperceptibly, and begins guiding you towards the bathroom.

The water pressure is abysmal at best, and the temperature’s barely lukewarm, but none of that matters as soon as he steps into the tub after you. At first, he stands an awkward distance away from you, his hands flexing at his sides like he isn’t quite sure what to do with them. He stands closest to the rusted shower head, the uneven stream spraying the back of his neck.

“You can touch me,” you say softly.

He gulps. He steps closer to you, backing you against the cool shower tiles. His flesh hand rises, brushing against the side of your cheek as his metal hand settles on your hip.

He’s barely touched you yet, and you already can’t stand the thought of never getting to experience it again when the night is over. But you can’t bring yourself to stop. Not when he’s standing bare before you, looking at you like he’s trying to memorize every minute detail.

When he kisses you, he’s hesitant at first. Slow and cautious, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. But you place your hands on his hips, pulling him flush against you, and that restraint slips away. The metal hand resting on your hip trails upwards, ghosting the skin of your stomach until he reaches your breast. He kneads it with a low groan into your mouth.

You lose track of time beneath the stream of water. He kisses you until you’re breathless, only pulling away to move his lips to the pulse point of your throat. He nips at the skin before trailing hot kisses down your neck, past your collarbones and to the peaks of your breasts.

Your own hands begin to wander. You snake one between your bodies, pausing just before you reach the prominent erection that juts against your belly.

“Is this okay?” You ask, the tips of your fingers trailing along his length as you wait for consent to go a step further.

“Yes,” he grunts next to your ear. “Yes, please.”

You wrap a firm hand around him. You’re both fully drenched from the shower by this point, the water acting as a gentle lubricant as you stroke him in your grasp. You start slow, and he exhales a sharp breath as his forehead drops to your shoulder.

It’s clear to you that it’s been a long time since he’s been touched like this. You can tell by the way he shudders against you; almost trembling. Like it’s all brand new to him.

Fingers from your free hand thread through the damp locks of his hair. You guide his mouth back to yours, kissing him deeply as you increase the pace at which you massage him in your hand. He whimpers into your mouth, and a second later you feel him twitch against your palm. He finishes with a deep groan as warm ropes paint the skin of your belly.

His forehead rests against yours for a moment as he comes down from his climax. He takes a few uneven breaths, and then sinks to his knees on the shower floor. You glance down to find him looking up at you as he gently spreads your thighs apart. You nod your head - maybe a bit too enthusiastically - giving him permission to continue.

He starts by kissing the skin of your inner thighs - alternating between each leg until he reaches the apex of your thighs. He’s careful at first, testing what makes you gasp, what makes you dig your nails into the meat of his shoulders. But it doesn’t take long before he finds a rhythm. It’s slow and deliberate, but unrelenting.

Your legs quickly turn to jelly. He reads you like an open book, supporting you from his position beneath you. You think to yourself that you’d do anything to know his name right now, just so you could moan it. Instead, you settle for oh, god - fuck - god, yes while you tug on locks of his hair.

At the sound of your praises, he grows more confident in his ministrations. His lips suck the swollen bud at the apex of your folds and your eyes snap shut as you throw your head back. He eases a singular, metal digit between your legs, teasing your entrance with the tip to coat it in your slick. When he slips it between your walls - slowly to allow you to adjust to the stretch - you feel a hot coil begin to tighten in your lower belly. The sensation isn’t completely new to you, though it’s the first time you’ve experienced it at the hands of another person.

The pressure of his thick, metal finger inside you and his lips around your clit is enough to send you tumbling over the edge. Your thighs squeeze his head and he moans against you as you ride his face through the high of your orgasm. When you go still, he slowly rises from the floor and you all but collapse against him. You stand there for a few long moments, in the now cold stream of water that trickles down from the showerhead. Your head rests against his chest and his arms wrap around your midsection, cradling you against him.

He reaches for the towel hanging over the shower’s curtain rod and then wraps it around you before shutting the water off and seamlessly lifting you into his arms. Neither of you say a word as he steps out of the shower and carries you back to the bedroom.

He pulls the comforter back and then places you on the bed before crawling in beside you. You’re both still damp, but you’re far too exhausted to care. Your escape through the Hydra facility’s ventilation system and subsequent run through the woods feels like a lifetime ago, and every part of your body is screaming for you to go to sleep. The only thing stopping you from closing your eyes is that you know when you open them again, he won’t be beside you anymore.

So you force your eyes to stay open for a little longer. Just so you can try to memorize the way his heartbeat sounds when your cheek rests against his chest.

“I need you to promise me something,” he whispers into the dark. He grabs one of your hands in his and brings it to his lips, where he places a soft kiss against your knuckles.

Your breath catches. Before the words can leave his lips, you already know what he is going to say. Words that you’ve been dreading all night.

“You can’t look for me,” he continues when you don’t say anything. His voice is strained, like the words hurt him to say as much as they do for you to hear. “Not ever. You can do whatever you want with your life after tonight, but you can’t look for me.”

You’re silent. You don’t trust your voice to speak. You knew it was coming, but it still stings to hear. You pull your hand out of his grasp and place it on his chin. You look up at him, though you can only see a faint outline of his profile in the darkness.

“I know,” you whisper. You tilt your head enough to press your lips to his one more time. It’s brief, but you hope it conveys so much of what you can’t find the words to say. “Thank you,” you add when you pull away. “For saving my life. For everything.”

He doesn’t say anything - just kisses your forehead, and pulls the comforter tighter around the two of you. The heavenly combination of his body heat and the feeling of his fingers dancing along your ribcage begins to lull you to sleep despite your best efforts to stay awake and hold onto this moment for as long as possible.

“I’ll find you one day. One day, when it’s safe, I’ll find you.”

When morning comes, you don’t know if you dreamed his promise, or if he really had said those words while you drifted to sleep.

All you know is that the space beside you is cold.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

3 years later. Circa 2016.

“I’m missing a small green piece. Did you steal a small green piece, Maple?”

You glance at the brown cat lying on the windowsill. She seemingly side-eyes you as if to say you’re interrupting my nap, human.

You’re not convinced that she’s innocent, though. The cat, who had shown up on your doorstep almost a year ago and made herself right at home, has a knack for knocking over your Lego sets. It wouldn’t surprise you at all if she was responsible for the missing piece.

She can’t be blamed, you suppose. It’s your own fault for leaving the partially assembled Minecraft village in hundreds of pieces across your coffee table. You should have finished it weeks ago, but you’ve done very little other than work and sleep lately.

Work, sleep, work. Drink too much coffee, pick up extra shifts just so you don’t have to be home alone with your thoughts and are so exhausted when you do get home that you have no issue falling asleep quickly, and then repeat it all.

Maple meows, though it sounds more like an annoyed huff.

“You’re right,” you sigh. “I do need to get a life.”

Your ringtone begins blaring, startling you. You glance down at where your cell phone sits on the coffee table in front of you. One of your coworkers, Hannah, is calling you. You debate on letting it go to voicemail - Hannah likes to yap and you aren’t really in the mood for a phone call right now - but part of you hopes she’s calling to ask if you want to pick up her evening shift at the coffee shop the two of you work at, so you answer.

It’s not like you have any other plans tonight.

“Hey,” you greet her. “What’s—”

“Oh my god,” she exclaims before you can get the rest of the sentence out. “Remember a few months ago when I said that a super hot guy was watching you at work but then he just disappeared before you could see him?”

There’s an instant pit in your stomach. You open your mouth to reply, but no words come out. Instead, the memory from a few months ago replays in your mind.

“There’s an insanely hot guy that keeps checking you out by the door,” Hannah giggles as she walks up behind you. You’re in the middle of making an iced macchiato, so you don’t bother to glance at whatever mystery hot guy she’s talking about.

“I highly doubt he’s looking at me,” you snort.

“Oh, he definitely is,” she insists. “If he wasn’t so good looking it would almost be creepy, actually.”

Curiosity gets the best of you. You put the lid on the drink and casually glance over your shoulder, towards the coffee shop’s entrance. You see a small group of teenage girls at a table near the door, and a few college students scattered about the lounge on their laptops. There’s no lone, attractive man to be found.

Hannah follows your gaze. “Huh,” she shrugs. “Guess he left. What a shame.”

You shake your head at her. “What did he look like, anyway?”

“Shoulder length, dark hair. Vibrant blue eyes. Six feet tall, maybe. Give or take an inch. He had on a leather jacket, even though it’s like a million degrees outside today. And he was wearing one glove? Kind of odd, but in a hot way—”

You lose your grip on the freshly made drink and it falls to the floor, coffee and ice both going everywhere - all over yours and Hannah’s shoes.

It feels as if the room is spinning around you. It’s been three years. It can’t be him.

“Shit,” you whisper, eyes darting around the room as if he’s going to magically reappear. “Shit. I’m sorry, Hannah. I’ll clean this up, just give me a moment—”

You practically run towards the direction of the front door, completely ignoring Hannah’s startled stare. You throw the coffee shop door open, exiting the building. You’re downtown, and it’s rush hour. You see dozens of cars and even more people hurrying to get where they need to be, but your eyes search for one person in particular.

You swear that you can hear blood pumping in your ears. You’ve only been outside for a few seconds and you’re already sweating - and you don’t think it has anything to do with today’s high temperature.

He’s nowhere to be seen. You’d recognize him in an instant. No matter how much time has passed since the last time you saw him - he’d stand out in any crowd.

You should have known better than to look. If he wanted you to see him, you would have - but he didn’t. And now he’s a ghost once more.

You have no doubt it was him. Vibrant blue eyes and shoulder length, dark hair. One singular glove. You don’t know why he decided to show up today, after three years of radio silence, but it had to be him —

Hannah’s voice pulls you out of the memory and back to reality.

“Hello? Are you there? Earth to—”

“Uh,” you interject, trying to remember how to string words together. “Uh - yeah. I remember.”

“I swear to God, he’s on the news right now.”

“What?” Your voice rises several octaves, startling Maple from her sleep. You put Hannah on speakerphone. “Are you - are you sure it’s him?”

“Positive. Turn on your TV right now.”

You glance around your small living room, searching for the TV remote and thanking your lucky stars that you didn’t cancel your cable package like you had thought about doing.

“What channel?” You ask when you retrieve the remote from in between two couch cushions.

“Uhm - 3. 5. 9. Literally any of them, probably.”

Your jaw drops the second that you get to a major news station. For the first time in three years, you see his face.

The footage is grainy - obviously from a security camera. But it’s him - unmistakable. His hair is a bit longer and his chest and shoulders are a bit bulkier than the last time you saw him, but you recognize him in an instant. Even with the piss poor video quality, you can see the shining silver of his left hand.

The headline across the bottom of the screen reads: JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES, HYDRA’S WINTER SOLDIER, WANTED FOR TIES TO VIENNA BOMBING.

You’re vaguely aware that Hannah’s voice is coming from the speaker next to your ear, but you aren’t paying attention to a word she’s saying. There’s a high-pitched, intense ringing in your ears that makes it impossible for you to focus on what the news reporter is saying. You only manage to get bits and pieces as you attempt to control your breathing.

“James “Bucky” Barnes, former United States Army Sergeant and childhood friend of Captain America, has been identified as the prime suspect in the bombing that took the life of King T’Chaka and twelve others…”

“… conducting a manhunt all over southeastern Europe…”

“Barnes, also known as the Winter Soldier, has known ties to Hydra that span over half a century…”

You press the end call button on your phone’s screen without even thinking about it, cutting Hannah off in the middle of a sentence. Maple, seemingly noticing the change in your mood, jumps down from her position on the windowsill and trots over to where you sit on the couch.

James. James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky, the reporter had called him. Bucky Barnes. After all this time, you know his name. You thought that finally knowing his name would feel a lot different. You expected to feel relief - maybe even a sense of satisfaction. But right now, all you feel is fear and bewilderment.

Key words echo in your mind: childhood friend of Captain America. Army Sergeant. Hydra. Over half a century. Winter Soldier.

There’s still so much that’s unknown - so many questions that you don’t know if you’ll ever have answers to. But you do know this much - James Bucky Barnes, childhood best friend of Steve Rogers, wouldn’t work for Hydra of his own volition. You don’t know exactly how he found himself to be their pawn, but there’s no doubt in your mind that there’s more to this story than meets the eye.

The man who saved you - James or Bucky - wouldn’t do what they are accusing him of. Not if he had a choice.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

2 years later. May 2018.

You wish you could say that you kept your promise.

For three years, you did exactly what he’d asked of you. You took the fake passport and ID, the ten thousand dollars in cash, and started a new life. You got your own apartment, a normal job that you didn’t completely hate - even a cat. You kept yourself off of Hydra’s radar. You laid low and didn’t search for him. You were doing good, all things considered.

Then you saw him on the fucking news.

All it took was learning his name for you to pack a few bags into the old Buick that he’d left for you. The next morning, you dropped Maple off at Hannah’s - your friend and former coworker who just so happens to love cats and was more than willing to look after Maple on a temporary or permanent basis - and got on a plane to Romania.

Of course, by the time you got to Romania, he was long gone.

From there, you flew to Germany, where news reports showed him fighting beside Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Wanda Maximoff, Clint Barton, and someone named Scott Lang against Tony Stark, James Rhodes, Natasha Romanoff, the soon to be king of Wakanda, a robot, and some guy in a spider costume at the Berlin airport.

At the time, you had very little information to go off of, but from what you were able to gather, Bucky had been framed for the bombing in Vienna. Team Cap, as the news reports had referred to the group, had aided in his and Steve’s successful escape from the airport.

After that? Your guess was as good as all of the government officials looking for them. They have been fugitives ever since - Bucky, Steve, Sam, and even Natasha, who had apparently played both sides.

That was two years ago. Since then, you’ve been chasing dead ends all over the world. You don’t even know if he’s alive, but you have to believe that he is.

Currently, you’re in the breathtaking town of Interlaken, Switzerland. The lead you’d been following had turned out to be a bust - no surprise - but Switzerland is otherworldly and peaceful, so you decided to stay for a few days. At least until you catch wind of another supposed Winter Soldier sighting.

You’re finishing up brunch at a small cafe that overlooks the Interlaken countryside. Soft sunlight, a stone patio, and the smell of fresh bread that wafts from the kitchen. You could get used to this. Maybe one day, you’ll come back. When you’ve found him, or he’s found you.

You’re about to signal to a server that you’d like a refill on your coffee when an ear-splitting scream sounds from inside the restaurant. You and all of the other guests on the patio freeze, looking around.

Then, another scream. This time, a young child sitting at a table a few feet behind you.

“Mommy? Mommy, where did you go?”

The child’s mother is nowhere to be seen. Where she sat only a few moments prior is a thick dusting of what appears to be… Soot? Ash?

A tray falls to the ground and glass shatters, tearing your attention away from the panicked child. You glance at a server just in time to see him seemingly turn to dust in front of your very eyes.

Chaos breaks out. Guests are shouting in terror as several others vanish into thin air. You stand up, unsure of what to do. You begin to walk towards the crying little girl a few feet away from you, when you’re overcome with intense dizziness. Your vision goes fuzzy, and your skin feels like pins and needles.

You look down at your hands. The screaming in the background seems to fade.

Not yet, you think. Please, not yet. I need more time. I haven’t found him yet.

Your fingertips crumble before you - carried away by the light spring breeze. The tingling sensation spreads up your arms and you can do nothing but watch yourself disappear.

It’s true what they say. When you’re dying, your life flashes before your eyes.

You think of how he looked in the glow of the oil-lamp in the watchtower. You think of his promises - to get you out of the Hydra facility, and to one day find you. One that he fulfilled, and one that he’ll now never have the chance to. You think of his lips on yours and how safe you felt in his arms the one night you shared together.

Your last thought is that you hope wherever you go when you leave here, it’s the same place as him.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Post blip. Circa 2024.

Ever since you and the other fifty percent of the population that had turned to dust were brought back to life, you’ve been thinking a lot about the butterfly effect.

The idea that if someone misses their train on the way to work, they could avoid a horrible accident. Or that something as small as holding a door open for someone could cause them to pay it forward, then leading to a cascade of simple acts of kindness that could change the course of history.

If your babysitter hadn’t taken you to the community pool that hot July day, you may have never been kidnapped by Red Room operatives.

If you hadn’t been kidnapped by Red Room operatives, you never would have been forced to live in the facility where you eventually met him.

And if you hadn’t met him, your eyes wouldn’t still be scanning every crowd, over a decade later, in hopes of randomly seeing him.

You stopped your search for him. When you were brought back, you had no reason to continue scouring the earth.

Why would you? You no longer have to wonder where he is and if he’s okay. For months following the sudden return of millions of people, you could simply turn on the news or open any social media app. Answers that you’d spent years searching for were suddenly right in front of your eyes.

No, he did not have a choice when it came to working for Hydra. Yes, like Steve Rogers, he was injected with super soldier serum, but unlike Steve, it was against his will. And, fun fact: he is old enough to be your great grandfather.

You also learn that he underwent intensive deprogramming in Wakanda to remove trigger words Hydra had implanted in his mind. No wonder your two-year search for him had gone nowhere.

And yes, he’d received a full pardon for everything he did while under their control. He’s officially a free man. Free from Hydra, and free to do whatever he pleases with his life.

Still, he does not come for you. For several months following the announcement of his pardon, you hold out hope that he’ll show up when you least expect it. But after a while, that hope begins to fade.

You aren’t angry with him. How could you be? He’s the entire reason that you’re free. It’s unfair to hold him to a promise he made over a decade ago, when he was under mind control. The news articles tend to throw around words like brainwashed and memory loss when talking about him - for all you know, he doesn’t even remember who you are.

So, you go through the motions of moving on. Like so many other people, you rebuild your life from the ground up. You relocate to New York and get a small apartment just outside of the city, start going to therapy once a week, explore some new hobbies, and make a few friends. You even run into an old friend - for lack of a better word.

By run into you mean she shows up unannounced at your job on a random Thursday.

It’s a slow, rainy morning at the small bookstore that you work at. You’re in the back, sorting through a new shipment of books, when you hear the front door chime.

“Welcome!” You yell out from the back office. It’s a small store, so you’re sure they’re able to hear you. “I’ll be out in just a moment.”

“Take your time,” a feminine voice calls back. You freeze. You recognize that voice - a distinct Russian accent that you’re able to put a face to right away, even after all these years. “I’ll just entertain myself with this…dark romance smut novel until you come out.”

You almost don’t believe your ears. What could she be doing here, after all this time? How did she find you? You don’t even have the same name as the last time you saw her, thanks to Bucky giving you a new identity.

If your training in the Red Room taught you anything, it’s to question everything and trust no one. You don’t think she’d hurt you. The two of you always got along, and you liked her more than a lot of the other widows. But until you know exactly why she’s here, you aren’t taking any chances. Your bag is just a few feet away from you, and inside it, a small pistol. Quickly and quietly, you tuck it into the waistband of your pants, at the small of your back.

When you exit the back room, she’s turned away from you. Still, you recognize the short stature and blonde hair right away.

“What brings you here, Yelena?”

She snorts, placing the book back on the table before turning around. “I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”

You stand there, eyes narrowed, trying to gauge what version of her you’re about to get. You know just how ruthless she can be, but you also know that underneath the person that the Red Room turned her into, there’s good.

She studies you with a faint smirk. But it doesn’t reach her eyes. She looks…tired. Not just physically, though the dark circles under her hazel eyes do indicate that she needs a good night’s sleep.

“You look good,” she chirps. “Different. Domestic.” She waves a hand in a slow circle, gesturing at your outfit. “What are you now? A librarian?”

“Bookstore manager,” you correct softly. “It’s peaceful.”

She hums, amused. “Must be nice.”

You tilt your head, still trying to get a read on her. “Is there something I can help you with, Yelena?”

The pause is brief but loaded. Her expression flattens. “I was sent,” she says finally. “My boss wants to talk to you. She’s looking for more people with…backgrounds similar to ours.”

You already know where this is going. “Valentina.”

Yelena raises a brow, unable to hide her surprise. “You’ve heard of her?”

You nod. “People talk. They don’t say anything nice, but they talk.”

“She has resources. Protection. Mission stability.”

Yelena recites the benefits as if she’s reading a script. But there’s a quiet sort of resentment in her voice. Like she doesn’t fully buy it herself. “And I’m sure it pays better than…this.” She gestures vaguely towards the bookshelves around you.

“Why me?”

“She says you have skills. And a brain. She’s impressed that you were able to escape the Red Room without getting yourself killed.”

You snort. “Too bad I’m retired.”

“No one ever really retires,” she says, shrugging. “We both know that.”

“Speak for yourself.”

You pause, watching her more closely. There’s something off in the way she shifts her weight, the slight shake in her hands. It’s subtle, but not invisible. And when she turns slightly, you catch a faint whiff of something sharp and metallic beneath her perfume. Vodka, maybe.

“Are you okay?” you ask gently.

She gives a soft laugh, one that sounds more bitter than amused. “You’re asking me that?”

You don’t push. Instead, you fold your arms and say, “Tell Valentina thanks, but no thanks.”

Yelena blinks. “Just like that?”

“I was given a second chance. Someone risked a lot to help me get it, and I don’t think they would appreciate me throwing it away by working for someone like Valentina.”

Yelena’s eyes flicker. She studies you for a long moment, something softening around the edges of her mouth. “So it’s true, then.”

You raise a brow. “What’s true?”

She tilts her head. “The Winter Soldier. Bucky Barnes. Was it really him who helped you escape?”

Your breath catches slightly. You’ve never admitted it out loud to anyone, but you suppose there’s no point in denying it now that both Hydra and the Red Room have been taken down.

“He did,” you say softly. “He got me out.”

Yelena doesn’t speak for a while. When she finally does, it’s almost a whisper.

“Good.”

You both stand there for a long, awkward moment. You can’t help but see a small part of yourself when you look at her. It could have so easily been you in her shoes - working for someone like Valentina, contract kills and shadow operations - if it hadn’t been for him.

You turn to the register beside you and grab a pen and a piece of receipt paper. You scribble your phone number and then hold it out to her in offering.

“If you ever want to get coffee,” you shrug. “Or if you ever need anything…reach out.”

Yelena takes it, eyes flicking down to the number. She folds the piece of paper without comment and slips it into her pocket. Then she gives you one last look - something unreadable in her expression - and heads toward the door.

The bell above the entrance jingles as she exits, and the sound echoes in the silence she leaves behind.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Present Day.

Funny enough, it’s one of the rare days that he hasn’t even crossed your mind when your phone rings and an unknown number pops up on the screen.

You can’t describe it, but there’s a sinking feeling in your stomach before you even answer. Call it a sixth sense that you somehow knew it wasn’t just another spam call. Normally, you wouldn’t even bother answering a number that isn’t already saved to your contacts, but you hesitate when you start to press decline.

Instead, you swipe to answer. “Hello?”

The first thing you hear is a shaky exhale, followed by your name. Then, background noise. A lot of it. Multiple voices - male and female. You manage to catch a few key words here and there.

New York. Valentina. Bob..?

“Yelena?” You ask in disbelief. It’s been three years since you gave her your phone number and this is the first you’ve heard from her. “What’s going on?”

You’re in your apartment, catching up on some chores that you’ve been procrastinating all week. You’re in the middle of unloading your dishwasher, but you pause as soon as you realize it’s her.

“Are you still in New York?” She asks, forgoing all pleasantries.

“Uh - yes,” you answer, growing more confused and concerned by the second.

“We need help,” she says. “I don’t have time to explain everything, so you’re just going to have to trust me. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

“Who is we? And what kind of help, exactly?”

She has to give you a little more information than that. How are you supposed to know what to bring? Do you need firearms? Combat knives? Batons? Smoke bombs? Lockpick? All things that you haven’t had use for in years yet still keep on hand, just in case.

Your thoughts spiral as you wait for her to respond. Someone begins speaking in the background.

“Who are you talking to?” You hear a masculine voice yell. Your heart lurches - you recognize that voice.

As if you could ever truly forget it. As if you don’t hear it in your dreams still to this day.

“Yelena, whose voice is that?” You ask, already knowing the answer. You just want her to say it - to give you confirmation that you aren’t imagining things. That you aren’t crazy.

Yelena doesn’t answer your question or his. You can’t help but wonder if he heard your voice, too. He always had exceptional hearing.

“Meet us at the old Avenger’s Tower,” she says instead. “Get there as quickly as you can.”

“Yelena—”

“Please. Just hurry.”

The call ends, and your heart feels as if it is going to beat right out of your chest. You stare at the phone, debating on calling her back and demanding to know exactly what the hell is going on before you potentially uproot the peaceful life that you’ve worked so hard to create.

But you don’t. Instead, you run to your bedroom and start throwing whatever you can find into a duffel bag. A few handguns and ammo, knives and gas pellets. From your closet, you retrieve a tactical suit that you haven’t worn in years and pray that it still fits.

The truth is, you don’t need to call her back. Though you’re freaked out by the panic in her voice and would love a heads up for what you’re walking into, it doesn’t really make a difference.

No matter what it is, you’re going. If there’s something big enough for Yelena to call you and beg for help, you’re going to do whatever you can.

Especially if he’s there.

The thought of seeing him again, after so many years, terrifies you far more than whatever it is they could need help with. But not nearly as much as letting the chance of seeing him again slip through your fingers.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Your apartment is only a forty-five minute drive from Midtown Manhattan. An hour, if there’s heavy traffic.

Today, you make it there in thirty minutes. The now twenty-five year old Buick that Bucky had left you in the driveway of the safe house over a decade ago may have over 300,000 miles on it, but you can count on her to get you where you need to go.

You could have bought a new car a long time ago. You have decent credit, job stability, and enough money in savings for a downpayment. You’re just oddly attached to the old thing.

It’s been with you since the very first day of your new life, and it’s one of the only tangible reminders you have of him. That, and the handwritten note he left under your pillow the week you escaped.

You tell yourself that you’re just sentimental, but if the car had come into your possession any other way, you would have junked it years ago.

When the old Avenger’s Tower comes into view, the questions in your head begin to multiply.

“What the fuck have you gotten me into, Yelena?”

Someone has driven a van directly through the building. Where there was once a front entrance, there is now a jagged, gaping hole. From the street, you can still see the van inside.

You park in the first available spot you can find and run one final check: widow bites, two small pistols, a collapsible baton, and several combat knives tucked into your thigh holsters. Despite the fact that it’s been over a decade since you’ve carried more than a single handgun, this doesn’t feel as strange as you expected it to - not yet, anyway. You may feel differently if you end up having to put the weapons to use.

You walk straight into the building through the cratered wall. You look around, not seeing Yelena or Bucky or anyone else that you think would be with them. There’s random men cleaning up debris from whatever the fuck must have happened before you arrived, but none of them pay any attention to you.

Your phone vibrates from your back pocket. The number Yelena called you from earlier is displayed across the screen with a message that simply says: Top floor.

Inside the elevator, you press the button to take you to the very top of the building and then lean back against the wall. Your heart pounds at the possibility of what awaits you at the top floor. Sure, you’re nervous at the prospect of walking into a hostile situation.

But more than that, it’s him. Bucky.

You don’t know what you’ll say to him - or if you’ll even say anything at all. Will he even acknowledge you? What if he doesn’t recognize you? Or worse: what if he does recognize you, and doesn’t care that you’re there?

The elevator ride feels eternal.

You take a few, steady breaths as the elevator passes the last few floors before coming to a stop. The last thing you want is to appear as if you’re on the verge of a panic attack the second that he sees you.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open.

He’s the first person that you see. Standing on the other side of the room, directly across from you, is the man you fell in love with without so much as knowing his name.

His hair is a little shorter, and his frame a bit stockier, but he has the blue eyes and serious expression that you fell in love with so long ago.

His jaw tightens, and he swallows thickly. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s recognition in his eyes. He doesn’t appear surprised - he must have pieced together that it was you on the phone with Yelena.

You wonder if he’s putting as much effort into keeping his composure as you are.

All eyes are on you as you step out of the elevator. You force yourself to look away from him. On one side of the room is the woman you recognize to be Valentina - standing next to her is a man you’ve never seen. He wears an ostentatious, gold costume that matches his hair. He fidgets with his hands and quickly looks down when your gaze flickers to him - obviously uncomfortable.

Standing directly across from Valentina and the blond man is Yelena and several others. The only one you recognize is John Walker. You’ve never met him, but you vividly remember his brief, failed stint as Captain America several years ago. In addition to Yelena and John, there’s a paunchy, bearded man in a red costume and a tall, dark-haired woman in some kind of high-tech tactical suit.

They all look like shit. Like they’ve already had their asses handed to them on a silver platter.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to show up,” Valentina drawls in a voice laced with fake cheer. “Everyone else managed to get here on time.” She gestures towards the group of people standing across from her - each of who are glaring at her.

Except for Bucky. He’s looking at you. Though his expression is stoic, you catch the way his throat bobs and his fingers subtly flex at his sides - like he’s holding himself back from saying or doing something.

“Sorry,” you deadpan as you come to stand beside Yelena. “I had to parallel park.”

“And she has a sense of humor,” Valentina retorts. “You know, you’re one of the only people to ever say no to me. Why was it you turned me down, again?” She puts a finger on her chin in mock contemplation and takes a step towards you. From the corner of your eye, you see Bucky inch forward as well, his flesh hand hovering over the gun on his hip.

“Something about someone helping you get a second chance?” She asks rhetorically. “I wonder who that could’ve been.”

You know she’s just trying to get a reaction from you, so you purse your lips, hold eye contact, and don’t respond.

“That’s enough, Valentina,” Bucky speaks up for the first time. Your heart skips a beat at the sound of his voice. You don’t let yourself look at him. “Leave her alone. It’s not her fault that she has been dragged into this.”

Valentina doesn’t take her eyes off of you. “He’s still protective. Isn’t that cute?”

“Can someone tell me why I’m here?” You can’t help the way your voice shoots up several octaves. “I wasn’t exactly given the run down.” You shoot a glare at Yelena, who looks at you apologetically.

“Lucky for you, you got here just in time,” Valentina quips as she turns away from you, back to the fidgety blond man standing beside her. “I was just telling your friends here - it is my great honor to introduce to you, The Sentry.”

“Hey, guys,” the man in the gold says. His voice is timid, though it sounds as if he’s greeting old friends.

“You see, the press is on their way here now,” Valentina continues. “And they’re going to witness the awesome power of Sentry as he takes down this ruthless group of rogue agents—”

Rogue agents? Ruthless?

“Sentry, your first mission is to take out these criminals.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you guys. Why don’t you just…turn yourselves in?”

Your brows furrow together. You find it hard to believe that he could hurt anyone with how soft-spoken and hesitant he seems.

Walker steps forward, speaking up for the first time since you entered the room. “You don’t wanna do this, Bobby.”

Bobby? Something clicks in your head at the sound of the name. Bob - you remember hearing someone in the background of your and Yelena’s phone call mention the name. We have to help Bob, they’d said.

As you’re piecing together that this Sentry guy is the Bob they are trying to help, there’s a sudden change in his demeanor. His eyes seemingly darken as his once meek expression turns serious.

“You can call me The Sentry,” he asserts, looking Walker dead in the eye.

“Please, don’t do this. You do not need to listen to her,” Yelena pleads with him.

“Robert, they don’t think you’re good enough,” Valentina interrupts.

“That’s not true. Remember? You can trust me. I know you.”

Bob - Bobby - Robert - Sentry - whatever the guy’s name is - shakes his head. “I don’t think that you do.”

“ENOUGH TALKING,” the tall, hairy man in the bright red suit suddenly booms, capturing everyone’s attention. “No one messes with the West Chesapeake Valley Thunderbolts!”

At this moment, you’re every bit as confused as Valentina appears to be.

“Thunderbolts?” You echo.

The room erupts before you can process what’s about to happen.

The man in the red suit charges first, letting out a guttural war cry as he hurls himself at Sentry. With one fluid motion, Sentry lifts a single hand and sends him flying across the room with a force that cracks the wall on impact.

Walker charges next, shield raised. The tall, dark-haired woman, whose name you quickly learn is Ava due to Yelena yelling it after her, disappears in a blur of glitching pixels before reappearing behind Sentry in an attempt to destabilize him from the inside.

Yelena flanks to the right, pistols in each hand. She fires, but Sentry easily sends the bullets flying in the opposite direction - straight towards you. Bucky sprints towards you at the same time as Walker, who raises his shield to deflect the bullets.

You reach for your baton, but as you do, Bucky grabs your wrist in his flesh hand.

“Stay close to me,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. You nod, not trusting your voice to speak. Even with all of the violence and chaos happening right in front of you, all you can think about in that moment is the feeling of his hand holding yours.

Yelena’s scream as Sentry sends her flying across the room brings you back to reality.

The two of you fall back into rhythm like it’s muscle memory. Your bodies move in tandem as you cover each other. It’s almost too easy to pretend this isn’t the first time you’ve fought together in over a decade. Your movements are a little rusty from so many years of doing your best to avoid scenarios like this, but he easily picks up your slack.

From the corner of your eye, you see Ava cry out as she’s forcibly de-phased, slamming into the ground. Walker hits a column and groans. Yelena lands in a crouch, panting.

“Get down!” Bucky yells, a mere second before throwing himself in front of you.

A blast of Sentry’s energy hits him square in the chest, and he flies backward, taking you with him. Your back slams against the floor, head spinning. When you push yourself up, Bucky is already struggling to his feet.

Sentry closes in on the both of you.

He grabs Bucky’s metal arm mid-swing, and everything slows.

“Don’t—” you start, pushing yourself up, stumbling toward them.

But you’re far too powerless to stop him. With terrifying ease, Sentry rips Bucky’s vibranium arm clean off. Sentry winds the metal appendage back as if it weighs nothing and then swings it forward, slapping Bucky across the face.

“No!” You yell as you fall to your knees beside him. Your scream is swallowed by the sound of the others regrouping, but you barely hear them. All you can see is him.

Your hands cradle his face. He’s out cold.

Around you, the others seem to accept that there’s no way any of you can beat him. The only way out is to run.

Yelena shouts for everyone to move, to get to the elevator. Ava is suddenly beside you, picking up Bucky’s arm before running in the direction of the elevator.

“Walker! Alexei!” Yelena shouts. “Get Bucky!”

The two men appear beside you, hauling an unconscious Bucky into their arms. All of you run after Yelena and Ava, who are already in the elevator. You enter the cramped space a mere second before the doors shut.

Behind the closed doors of the elevator, Bucky is still held up by Walker and Alexei. Everyone around you pants, trying to recover from the absolute disaster of a fight, but your only focus is the man in front of you.

“Hey, hey,” you coo, gently tapping him on the face in an attempt to wake him up. You don’t care that your hands are shaking. You just need him to open his eyes. “Come on, Bucky. Look at me…”

There’s a visible bruise forming across his cheekbone from the impact of the heavy vibranium. His eyes flutter open and shut repeatedly, like he’s hanging onto the sound of your voice in an attempt to find his way back to reality.

There’s a beat of uncertain silence, and then he lets out a groan. His eyelids twitch, and then slowly open. Dazed blue eyes find yours.

“Am I concussed,” he grunts, “or are you actually here right now?”

You’re unable to stop the laugh that slips out of you. It’s half relief, half disbelief. “I’m actually here. Though I wouldn’t completely rule a concussion out yet.”

Ava clears her throat from behind you. You glance over your shoulder to see her holding Bucky’s metal arm out to him. “I take it you two know each other, then?”

You step back as he accepts the appendage, popping it back into place on the left side of his body. You nod, not meeting her stare. “Yeah. Something like that.”

You feel his gaze on you, but he says nothing. An awkward silence settles over the elevator.

When the elevator doors slide open, no time is wasted in getting out of the building. You’re vaguely aware that Yelena, Ava, Alexei and Walker immediately start arguing with each other about what steps to take next, but you aren’t paying attention to a word they say.

The relief you’d felt when you realized that he’s okay just moments before is quickly replaced with uncertainty.

You’re here, he’s here, and you’re both okay. But what now? Where do you go from here? You spent so long wondering if you’d ever see him again, but didn’t even consider what you’d say to him if that day ever came.

Now that it’s finally here, you’re at a loss for words. Factor in the adrenaline crash that you can feel coming on…

Your lungs feel too tight. The sounds around you blur into static. Raised voices, car horns, the distant wail of sirens - none of it registers. Your vision narrows, and suddenly the space feels way too small and loud. It’s all too much.

You turn and walk. You don’t know where you’re going, just that you need to get away. Just until you can breathe again.

You duck around the corner of the building, stepping into the cool shadow of an alleyway. You lean back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut as you try to steady your breathing.

Your pulse is racing. Your palms are damp. You press a shaking hand to your chest and attempt to count down from ten.

“Hey.”

You open your eyes at the sound of his soft voice. He’s standing at the mouth of the alley, a few feet away.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” you trail off, unable to finish the sentence. “I just need a minute.”

“I know.”

He takes a few steps towards you, tentative and slow, like he doesn’t want to scare you off. You cross your arms over your chest. Not because you’re cold, but because you’re trying to hold yourself together.

Every part of you wants to close the remaining distance between you and throw yourself into his arms. To forget everything going on around you and melt into him in the middle of this stinky alleyway. But you fear that if you do, you’ll crumble - and there’s still so much on the line right now that’s bigger than just you and him.

Still, it’s hard to hold your tongue when the chance to say all of the words that you’ve waited years to say to him is right in front of you.

“You never came back for me. Why?”

Your voice breaks on the last word. He flinches, his gaze dropping for the first time since stepping into the alley.

“I wanted to,” he says. “I wanted to every day.”

You wait for him to continue.

“When I came back, after I was pardoned, I did come for you. But I saw how…stable and peaceful your life is. I couldn’t bring myself to disrupt that. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”

There’s a lump in your throat that you force yourself to swallow down.

“All I wanted for me was you.”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes - guilt, maybe regret - at your confession. Hearing the words come from your mouth seems to snap something inside him. He steps forward, closing the remaining distance between you. His hands cup your cheeks, tilting your head to look up at him. The lump in your throat suddenly feels suffocating, and your eyes begin to burn with the threat of unshed tears.

“I thought of you every day,” he whispers. The look in his eyes lets you know that he’s telling the truth. “Every single day. Staying away from you is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. But I did it because I love you enough to want more for you than…this.”

He doesn’t elaborate on exactly what he means by this. Maybe he means the potential danger that looms over you right at this moment. Maybe he just means him. You’re not sure - you can’t think clearly because he just said that he fucking loves you.

The moment comes to an abrupt end when panicked screams echo from around the block. You recognize Walker’s voice barking a command at someone. You both look towards the commotion, and then back to each other.

“I should’ve come back,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “And when this is all over - whatever the hell this is - I will.”

You blink, stunned by the certainty in his voice. “Are you sure?”

He nods, grazing his flesh thumb along your cheekbone.

“If you’ll still let me.”

Without thinking, you press your lips to his.

It feels like being transported back in time. You’re no longer standing in a Manhattan alleyway in the midst of impending doom. With your eyes closed, and his lips against yours, you’re kissing him for the first time in a Hydra facility bathroom. You’re kissing him in the bathroom of a safe house. You’re kissing every version of him - soldier, ghost, Bucky - more sure than ever that you want all of him.

It ends all too soon. When you pull away, he rests his forehead against yours.

“When this is over, I’ll be waiting.”

☆☆☆☆☆☆

If someone had told you just forty-eight hours ago that you’d get a call from Yelena asking for help, that you’d be reunited with Bucky, that all of New York would be turned to shadows and everyone would be forced to relive their greatest traumas in interconnected shame rooms, and that you’d be announced as a member of the New Avengers on live television, you would have wondered if you had accidentally consumed a really potent edible.

Everything happened so quickly. Your whole life changed in what felt like the blink of an eye.

You had all been offered rooms at the old Avenger’s Tower - or the Watchtower, as Valentina has apparently renamed it. But you have a place of your own - with a lease that isn’t up until the end of the year. And a job that you actually really like. And plants that have to be watered.

Therefore, you’re back at your apartment outside of the city. At least for the time being.

Yelena didn’t look surprised when she found out that you weren’t staying.

The dust had barely settled from the aftermath of The Void. You were still in your tactical suit, attempting to wrap your head around the fact that Valentina had announced to the entire world that you’re all Avengers now. You were on your way out of the Watchtower when Yelena caught up to you in the hallway.

“Leaving already?” She’d asked. There was no judgment in her voice, only genuine curiosity.

You shrugged. “This whole…superhero thing wasn’t exactly on my vision board. I just need some time to process it all.”

Her expression softened. “What about Bucky?”

You smirked, exhaling a laugh through your nose. “Bucky knows where to find me.”

You hadn’t meant it to sound harsh. You leaving - it isn’t about pushing him away. It isn’t about making him work for it.

It’s simply about believing that he’d meant what he said. That he really would come for you.

But until then - you have books to read. Laundry to do. Shows to watch. A pothos plant that desperately needs to be repotted. A calm life full of little things that you wouldn’t have if it weren’t for him.

And for the first time in a really long time, you have hope.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Three hours.

That’s how long it takes for you to hear the revving of a motorcycle’s engine outside of your first floor apartment after you get back to your place.

You’ve barely had time to scarf down two day old leftovers and wash all of the sweat, blood, and grime off of your skin when you hear it.

None of your neighbors ride motorcycles. And the headlights are shining directly into your living room through the cracks of the window’s blinds.

It could be anyone. But you know that it isn’t just anyone.

You’re opening the door before he even has a chance to knock.

His hair is still damp from a shower. He smiles at you in a way that you’ve never seen him smile before. It reaches his eyes and brings out the laugh lines around them.

“That was quick,” you hum.

“No.” He shakes his head in disagreement, but his smile doesn’t falter. “It wasn’t. That took me entirely too long. I should’ve been here years ago.”

Without another word, he steps inside and closes the door behind him.

The warm glow of a lamp in your living room is the only source of light, but it’s enough to see the dilation of his pupils as he takes in your appearance. Freshly showered, bare faced, and nothing but a loose t-shirt draped over your frame.

“Well,” you breathe. “You’re here now. What are you gonna do?”

He stares at you for a moment. Like he’s scared you might vanish if he blinks. Then, his hands are on your waist and yours are in his hair. You pull his mouth down to yours and he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist.

Without so much as breaking the kiss, he carries you through your apartment as if he’s done so a hundred times before. He places you on the edge of your kitchen counter, his hands splaying across your thighs as if to anchor himself.

“You look exactly the same,” he murmurs against the skin of your throat, in between planting kisses by the shell of your ear and your jaw. “Still as beautiful as ever.”

You grin. “Well, I was blipped for five years, so that helped a little bit. You look pretty good, too, you know. Not a day over seventy-five.”

He laughs, pulling back to look at you. His expression turns more serious as he brushes a slow circle on your inner thigh with the cool vibranium of his thumb.

“We don’t have to rush this,” he says in a low voice. “We have time now. All the time.”

Your hands slide beneath his shirt, fingertips ghosting over taut muscles and warm skin.

“I know,” you whisper. “But we aren’t rushing. I’ve wanted this for over a decade. Wanted you for over a decade.”

His mouth is back on yours in an instant. It’s hungry, but still careful. He presses closer and you can feel him - hard against your core, even through the thick material of his jeans. You roll your hips against his and he groans into your mouth at the friction.

“You have no idea,” he groans when he pulls his mouth away from yours, “how many times I’ve thought about this since I last saw you.”

“Oh, yeah?” You smile against his mouth. “What took you so long?”

“Don’t,” he warns softly, dragging his metal hand up your spine. “Don’t start with me. I’ll take you right here.”

Your breath catches, arousal blooming low in your stomach. His tone is teasing but there’s promise in his words.

“I wouldn’t stop you.”

He chuckles lowly. “Tempting. But I’m doing this right.”

Then he’s lifting you again, carrying you in the direction of your bedroom.

Clothes are lost piece by piece, hands continuously touching and roaming. When his eyes drag over your bare body, he breathes your name. Your real name - not the name on the fake passport and ID he’d given you so long ago that most people know you by these days.

Your name. And goddamn, does it feel good to hear him say it.

Then his mouth is on you - slow at first, savoring you, tongue moving with agonizing precision. You gasp, your hands flying to grip the back of his head.

“God, baby,” he mutters in between strokes of his tongue. “You are so fucking sweet.”

“Bucky,” you groan, loving that you know what to call him this time around. By the way he moans into you, you think that he seems to like it, too. “Fuck, Bucky.” Your hips twitch and he splays both hands across your belly, pinning you in place.

“Easy,” he murmurs against you. “I’ve got you.”

You cry out when he slides one thick finger inside, curling it just right, then adding a second without warning. The combination of his mouth and fingers is almost too much. You clutch at his hair, grounding yourself in the sound of his low groans and the warmth of his tongue.

He keeps going, steady and sure, working you until your thighs are shaking and his name is tumbling from your lips again and again. You come with a shudder, gripping him hard and gasping through the wave that crashes over you.

He stays there for a moment, letting you ride it out, before finally pulling away, his mouth shiny and blue eyes full of desire.

“Come here,” you say breathlessly, taking no time to recover before pulling him up to you. You pull his face down to yours, crushing your lips against his once more, reveling in the flavor of yourself on his tongue. He snakes a hand between your bodies, stroking his length in his flesh hand before teasing your entrance with the tip.

“Bucky,” you whine at this teasing. “Please. Waited long enough.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he coos as he eases inside you. You gasp at the stretch, sinking yourself onto his length. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

And he does. It’s not rough or rushed - it’s full of reverence. Like he’s making up for all of the years that he couldn’t have you. Hands roam your body as if trying to memorize every individual dip and curve and every kiss says I missed you, I missed you so much, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

“So perfect,” he grunts beside your ear. “I love you. Loved you for as long as I can remember—”

His confession is enough to cause the hot coil in the pit of your stomach to snap. You come with a cry of his name, your nails digging into the flesh of his back as he continues to rock into you. He follows shortly after with a low, broken moan into the crook of your neck.

For a while, neither of you move. You lie together in the afterglow, sweat slicked bodies still pressed together as you both come back down to earth.

“Bucky?” You murmur after a moment, still breathless. He pulls back far enough to look down at you.

“I love you, too. For as long as I’ve known you. I never stopped loving you.”

He smiles at your words, his expression open and unguarded in a way that’s brand new to you. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips.

You curl into him as he pulls the blanket over you both. His arm wraps around your waist like he never wants to let go of you again.

The city outside is still recovering. You don’t know what tomorrow will bring. You haven’t decided if you’ll take Valentina’s offer seriously, if the New Avengers are actually a thing, or what any of it means going forward.

Only one thing matters to you right now, and he’s laying beside you, holding you close.

You’re both home.

if you read all 18.7k words of this, thank you. as always, comments and reblogs are very appreciated 🫶🏻💖

[starsoverbrooklyn]

if there is one thing you read this weekend, next in your list, or ever again… let this be it. you will not regret it. so fucking beautiful written, y’all. cait poured her heart & soul into this and it shows. i needed to reblog before i re-read just to express that. thank you, beautiful! 💚🫶🏻

[neptunecaptains]

Homecoming

Pairing: Commander!Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: Steve's back home after a mission.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), oral (f receiving), face-sitting, mild dirty talk, repressed feelings (slight angst), established relationship.

A/N: I haven't written fic in a long time and it probably reads like it. I haven't seen anything MCU since Dr. Strange 2/Spidey until Thunderbolts yesterday so not caught up on the lore. This popped up in my brain after a nap on Wednesday. Let me know what you think!

♡♡♡♡

It’s quiet when he comes in.

Sometime between your drifting off and the quiet snick of the bedroom door shutting, you’re aware of the time. The numbers on your bedside read 3:07AM.

A late arrival, then.

A firm, broad chest pressed up against your back, heavy arm slung low over your waist. The smell of cinnamon and vanilla and the slow sigh of relief once he’s pulled you back into him just a little.

“Hi,” Steve says.

You hum, one hand patting his own over your belly. “Hi.”

Slow, measured breaths tickle your skin, the quiet of the room only disrupted by a soft kiss to your shoulder, the nape of your neck. It’s a little while before either of you speak again.

You know Steve needs it, the comedown after a big mission.

It always starts off predictable enough— get to the Avengers compound, debrief, chew someone out if they were being stupid and reckless on the job or gently bring them back down if there were any losses, shower, return his suit and weapons, a brief psych evaluation and physical check for injuries, then get on the road back to the city.

Once he’s walking through your front door, though, it’s not until you get a good look at him that you can know how things went. Still, it’s always Steve.

“You’re back,” you murmur, voice barely there.

Steve’s arm around your waist tightens, warmth of his skin seeping into your own over the fabric of your sleep shirt. It’s one of his, an old, worn thing he bought in Jersey back when he’d first woken up. There’s a couple of loose threads coming from the left sleeve and an old stain at the hem that you swear is blood — Steve refuses to confirm or deny it — but it’s and it’s yours and you wear it to bed more times than not. 

“I am,” Steve’s mouth brushes your skin where the shirt’s slipped a little, goosebumps following their trace. His beard’s gotten a little longer, a testament to how much time he’s been away from the comforts of home and his electric trimmer. “Debrief ended about an hour ago, but I stayed for a bit to plan my agenda for tomorrow.”

Huffing a quiet laugh, you turn in his embrace. “You have an assistant for that, Commander.”

Steve chuckles, a soft, sleepy sound settling warm in your heart. He turns on his back, bringing you up into his chest, willing you closer, sighing into your hair.

His breathing’s slowed enough that you briefly wonder if he’s fallen asleep, though after almost a year of sharing a bed means you’ve caught to his tells that he has yet to drift off— the tension in his arms, the quiet, intermittent sniffles he gets before he knocks out, the fact that he’s barely really said a word about the mission at all.

“Good trip?” you murmur.

You feel him shrug, sheets rustling beneath him and that just—

Pushing off his chest, you sit up to turn on the bedside lamp. Soft, warm light fills the room, dim enough to not make your eyes hurt.

Something else does, though.

“Steve…”

A cut over his eyebrow and a bruise already turning yellow on his left temple. Red-rimmed eyes and a swollen lip. Somewhere beneath the collar of his shirt, a thin, red line extends up the side of his neck, already healing. You watch him wince when you lie a hand on his stomach, feeling the taut muscles there contract.

Your words fail, throat closing up. One of his hands wraps around your wrist, big and warm and comforting, even though you should be the one comforting him right now.

“Looks worse than it is,” Steve shrugs again. This time, you catch the way his lips thin out just a little, the slight twitch in his eye at the movement. “Y’know I’ll be fine in the morning.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m used to it.”

At that, Steve’s fingers squeeze your wrist. He knows it’s hard for you, keeping up with what he does for a living. Technically, he could’ve retired years ago, but there’s something to be said about his insatiable need to do something to feel useful.

You know he’s talked about it with his therapist, and even Bucky and Natasha had tried to talk some sense into him about taking things easy, slowing down, moving into a less-exposed role once he’d handed the shield to Sam. But Steve Rogers is nothing if not stubborn, so he’d been made Commander and only deploys to missions that really need him. But he still deploys.

Steve’s thumb brushes over your skin, eyes on yours in the dim light, a quiet apology for now. You can’t help but let it go, leaning in to finally kiss him.

It’s a soft, sweet thing, the kiss. Mouths slotted perfectly over each other, Steve’s tongue only slightly running over your bottom lip until you open up for him, let yourself slide back down on the bed with him.

“I missed you,” you murmur, lips brushing his own. “A lot.”

“Missed you too, honey,” Steve sighs into the kiss. “A lot.”

He guides you to sit on his lap, the cradle of his hips warm and strong beneath your thighs. You can feel him through the thin fabric of your underwear and his sweatpants, can’t help but settle fully onto him as you stretch over his torso.

Steve tastes like mint and iron, undoubtedly from the injury to his lip, but you’ll have him like this and any other way you can get him as long as he gets to come back home. He sighs into the kiss, reaching a hand to cup your neck and angle your head the way he wants, the other slowly making its way down your back to rest above your ass. He swallows your resulting sound, making one of his own when you break the kiss.

You pull back, eyeing him suspiciously. “Steve.”

His hand doesn’t move, fingertips slipping under the waistband of your underwear. They rest there while he looks at you, a question in his eyes. The bruise on his temple will be gone in the morning, same as the cut on his brow, but you can’t help but wonder how he got them, who he had to fight this time around.

He can tell you’re distracted, hand on your nape squeezing briefly as if to bring you back to him.

“Honey,” he says and you sigh.

Steve lets you sit up again, hands slipping from your body to rest on your thigh as you sit cross-legged next to him. His half-lidded gaze meets yours, thumb brushing slowly over the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He watches you for a minute, assessing, waiting for you to answer.

In the end, it’s only right to try to be the sensible one in this situation. “You’re still in pain, Steve.”

He shakes his head, squeezing your thigh softly. “Not that much. Just— I need to think about something else right now. Can’t sleep yet.”

This has happened before, a few times.

It didn’t when you’d first started dating. Being one of Steve’s only relationships since he came out of the ice meant he’d had time to work through some stuff on his own before he tried to be with someone else, so when he’d had difficult missions at the beginning of your courtship, he’d always been upfront about needing some time before he could talk to you about them.

Lately, though, something’s been happening. Every other mission seems to be more taxing than the last.

You’re sure you’re wholly unclassified to know any of the information Steve eventually divulges, even if unspecific, but it’s specific enough to worry you. He never tells you exactly what happens, but the mornings and days after he’s managed to work through whatever he needs by working you, he makes it clear that whatever they’re fighting isn’t just the universe’s bad guy of the month.

You’re not totally complaining, but you are concerned that your boyfriend needs to blow off steam in such a way before he even considers facing his feelings.

Steve’s hands on your skin bring you back to reality once more. He’s still there, in your bed, gaze questioning, wondering where you went.

You’re sure he has an idea, but it’s not something he’s willing to address tonight.

“Please, honey,” he says. “C’n sit on my face, I won’t have to put in much effort that way.”

Steve adds the last bit as if it’s nothing, but the thought of it alone sends a flash of heat down your spine.

“You always put in effort,” you concede a little, laying a hand on his stomach where his shirt’s ridden up, thumb brushing beneath his navel.

Steve smiles at that, slowly reaching for your hand and helping you rest back on his lap. He holds your hand on his stomach, the other resting on your hip once more.

“‘S that a yes? Gonna let me taste you, baby?” He asks and your resolve is slipping by the second.

You try one last time, though. Need to make it clear where you’ve gone the past few times in as many minutes. “Promise to talk to me in the morning?”

“Promise.” Steve’s answer is emphatic, the hand laced with yours squeezing sure and strong. “Just need to focus on something else right now.”

And so you nod, leaning back a little when Steve sits up to capture your lips once again. He winces as he does so, but smooths a hand down your side while he shushes you, tries to ease your worries.

His hands reach beneath your shirt, cupping your breasts, pressing you into him, roaming over your ass and your thighs as he takes your breath away. Breaking the kiss after a while, he takes a good look at you, lips a little red and swollen beneath his beard.

“Gorgeous,” Steve murmurs, lying back down. He looks so broad like this, laid out only for you. “Love seeing you in my clothes.”

Heat blooms low in your belly at the praise, flashes even hotter when you feel the faint line of Steve’s cock pressing into you.

“Yeah?” you ask, brow raised and a teasing grin upon your lips. “Gonna be you for Halloween this year, wear your stealth suit.”

Given Steve’s resulting blush, he didn’t expect that as an answer. He goes silent for a minute, gaze heavy on you, thumbs slipping beneath your waistband once more, stroking over your hip bones.

Laughing, you let yourself fall forward onto his chest, careful not to rest too heavily on him. “Oh my god.”

“It’s not my fault you look good in everything,” Steve says, sheepish. He helps you sit back up on his lap, big hands back on your thighs. “Maybe the techs can make a version just for you. We could use it.”

“For what purposes, sir?” You snort, shaking your head when Steve gives you a slow onceover. “You’re incorrigible.”

He shrugs, smirking and pretty, brief embarrassment gone. “I’m a paragon of duty and righteousness, I’ll have you know.”

You shake your head at him again, unable to help the smile that comes on.

“Up, baby.”

He helps you get your underwear off, first through one leg then the other, then helps you scoot up his torso and towards his face. Fingers laced with yours next to your legs, he helps you settle above him, the prickly brush of his beard on your inner thighs as he brushes kisses there making you shiver.

“Already, honey?” Steve murmurs into your skin, heavy-lidded gaze locked on yours. “Barely even touched you yet.”

You feel yourself flush, only made worse by Steve softly blowing on your cunt before he gives you one long, teasing lick. Then a second, and a third. He pulls you fully down on his tongue, holding tight onto your hips so you have nowhere to go.

“Steve,” you gasp, tugging on his hair.

Steve growls low in his chest at the feeling, beginning to lap at you in short strokes, sucking at your folds, making it so wet and messy you’re sure it’s dripping down his chin.

“Want you to come on my tongue,” Steve murmurs.

He places a loud kiss to your folds, gaze locking on yours just to make sure you heard him, only going back to task once he gets a shaky nod from you.

Grinding on his tongue, sounds wet and loud in the otherwise quiet room. Steve’s hands settle on your ass, helping you move on him as he fully flattens his tongue. He switches up his rhythm, slow broad licks all over your cunt making you shiver.

“You’re so good at this, fuck.”

You feel rather than hear him chuckle at that, teeth nipping at your inner thigh. He dives right back in, eyelashes fluttering closed, mouth closing softly around your clit. You shiver, tugging on his hair again as your thighs close around his head.

“Fuck, Steve,” you moan, the coil low in your belly dissolving into warm static spreading through your limbs.

It’s a minute before you fully come to, shaking a little through Steve cleaning you up with his tongue and soft kisses to your thighs. He lies you back onto the bed, gathering you up in his arms again all while murmuring soft and sweet. Pressing chaste kisses to your lips, he answers your quiet noises with his own, nosing at you as your eyes open once more.

“Back with me?” he says, face brightening at your soft sound. “There she is.”

You hum, burying your face in his neck. “My ears are ringing.”

Steve lets out an actual belly laugh at that, his entire body shaking with it, your own heart glowing from it. “That good, huh?”

“Shut up,” you groan, weakly pushing at his chest. Placing a soft kiss on his jaw at his half-hearted ow, you let yourself fully sink into him, sighing softly when you feel him do the same. Finally ready to sleep now, then. “I’m really glad you’re home.”

Steve brushes a kiss along your forehead. “Me too, honey,” he says, words coming slow and sleepy now. “Me too.”

[starsoverbrooklyn]

i have been on a steve kick recently & am so glad this is the first piece i stumbled across to introduce me to reading him. it was so domestic and tender and him. love me some smut with some beautifully-established emotional connection & repressed feelings. it feeds into the headcanon that he’s prone to neglecting himself when he needs it the most & that contributed to the bittersweetness of it all. so well done 😭🫶🏻💚