Love Me, Love Me, Love Me
Not as dark as some stuff I've written, but this was still an interesting angle to explore.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Word Count: 2,600
Rating: E (angst, implied violence, smut)
Chapter: 1/1
Summary: After Hydra, he was a ghost with a heartbeat, but after you? He’s a man with a purpose, clothed in shadows. He keeps you from danger, carries your name in the dark, and when you let another hand touch you he shows you the only language he knows: desperate, violent devotion.
He doesn’t remember his name most days.
The alphabet jumbles when he tries to spell it. James? Jamie? No—too soft.
“Bucky.” Maybe... That one clings like a bruise, familiar and wrong.
But you — he remembers you.
Even when faces blur and years collapse in on themselves, you remain untouched in his memory. A single point of light in the blood-slick dark. The smell of antiseptic. Your hand pressing gauze to a gash in his ribs. Your breath trembling when you stitched him up.
He remembers how warm your fingers were, even through the leather glove he forgot to take off.
You didn’t flinch when he grabbed your wrist. Didn’t scream when he whispered "Don’t call anyone."
You just nodded. Quiet. Steady. Kind.
He crawled away into the night after that.
But he never left.
Now he lives in the in-between spaces of your world.
The alley across from your building. The rooftop opposite your bedroom window. The corner booth in the diner where he can watch the door without being seen.
He doesn’t mean to be this close. Doesn’t mean to linger.
But you laugh sometimes when you're alone. Whisper to your plants. Dance in your apartment barefoot with no music playing. And it calms the war in his head.
Hydra's ghosts scream less when you're near — even if you don’t know he’s there.
You don’t know about the time your coworker followed you to your car. Or the man who tried to corner you after your shift.
You never saw the blood.
You never asked why your path home was suddenly so clear.
Sometimes he wonders if he’s wrong for doing this. For standing just outside your orbit like a hungry moon. You didn’t ask for this protection. You didn’t ask to be his…what? Savior? Obsession?
He doesn’t know the word for it.
He only knows that when he gets too close to slipping — when the old voice in his mind starts whispering Ready to comply — he sees your face, and it pulls him back.
Not the face of a handler. Not a command.
A memory. A mercy.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
You’re sitting on your fire escape tonight, cradling a mug of tea and watching the rain. Your fingers tap the railing like you're playing piano.
He watches from across the street, crouched on a rooftop, soaked and silent.
Then you speak — quietly, into the dark.
"Are you there again?"
His breath stops.
"Sometimes I feel you," you murmur. "I’m not scared. Just feel like…like I’m not alone."
Lightning flares, and for a second, your eyes seem to find his. But they don’t.
He’s too good at disappearing.
Still — something in you knows.
The next night, you find a package at your door. Inside it, a worn leather notebook.
No note. No name. But inside, the pages are filled with shaky handwriting.
Your name, dozens of times. You saw me. You didn’t run.
You press your hand to the page and whisper the name scrawled on the bottom of the page.
“Bucky.”
He’s watching from the roof again, heart pounding.
That’s the first time you’ve said his name.
Like you knew it. Like it belonged to him again. Like he belonged to someone.
To you.
That night, he doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t vanish.
Instead, for the first time since Hydra shattered his mind, he lets himself hope.
That maybe he’s not just a ghost in your life. Maybe one day, he won’t have to haunt you. Maybe you'll look into the shadows, and see him. And stay.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It starts with a smile.
Not yours. His.
The man sitting across from you — buttoned-up, clean-cut, unaware of the red dot painted across his forehead in Bucky’s mind — leans forward.
You laugh. You smile. You tilt your head and touch his arm.
And Bucky sees red.
He’s crouched on the rooftop across from the restaurant patio, the metal of his left arm pressed hard against the concrete, almost like he needs to feel something cold and real to stop himself from acting.
But it’s not working.
He watches the man pour you wine. Offer you compliments. Think he’s earned this moment.
Bucky’s mind fractures at the edges.
That’s not for him. That smile was mine. You gave that to me the night you kept me alive. That laugh belongs to the air I breathe now. He can’t have that. He doesn’t even know what he’s holding.
You lean back, fiddling with your necklace. It’s the one Bucky left in your mailbox two weeks ago—quietly, anonymously. A silver star, tiny and delicate. He thought you’d never wear it.
You do.
That’s the only reason the man across from you is still breathing.
The date eventually ends. You hug him. (Too long.) He leans in for a kiss. (Bucky’s vision goes white.)
You turn your head. He only grazes your cheek.
Bucky exhales slowly. Barely avoids snapping the edge of the building with his grip.
He doesn’t follow you home tonight. He follows him.
You’ll read about it on the news tomorrow: A local man found unconscious in a stairwell. Mugged, possibly attacked. No major injuries. No suspects.
But he’ll never call you again. He’ll delete your number. You won’t even know why.
A block away, in the dark, Bucky closes his eyes. The storm settles.
You’re safe again. You’re his again. You just don’t know it yet.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Bucky watches you from the rooftop. Just like always.
Only tonight, you let the man kiss you.
It’s not long. Not deep. A chaste, polite kind of goodnight. The kind that belongs to people who don’t have shadows sleeping beneath their beds.
But Bucky’s entire world stops.
Your hand rests on the stranger’s chest. Your eyes flutter shut. Your lips — his lips — meet his for three seconds.
Three seconds.
Three.
And something inside Bucky snaps.
He doesn't remember jumping down. Doesn’t remember the way his boots hit the pavement or the wind slicing across his neck.
All he knows is the fire. The roar in his ribs. The buzzing static of no no no no — the words Hydra trained out of him, returning like thunder.
He follows the man.
Not stealthily. Not carefully. Like a wolf tracking a wounded animal, he wants to be heard. Wants the man to feel fear crawling up his spine.
The man doesn’t get far. They’re in a narrow alley when he turns around. Confused. Slightly annoyed.
“You lost, buddy?”
Bucky steps into the flickering lamplight. Leather jacket soaked in rain. Dog tags glinting from beneath the collar. Eyes like a storm he hasn’t tried to hide in weeks.
“You kissed her.” The words are soft. Ragged. Wrong.
The man takes a step back. “Look, I don’t know what—”
“She saved my life.” Bucky takes another step forward. “And you think you can just…touch her?”
By the time the man tries to run, Bucky’s already behind him.
He doesn’t kill him. That would make it too easy. He hurts him. Leaves enough bruises to keep him looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. Leaves him crawling out of the alley with a shattered wrist and a warning he doesn’t dare speak.
You hear about it the next day. The man cancels your second date via a stuttering voicemail.
“I—I don’t know what happened. I think I got mugged or something. I just—I think we shouldn’t, uh—It’s not safe. For you.”
You frown. There’s something in your chest that twists with recognition.
And that night, when you step out onto your fire escape and whisper into the dark, “Are you still there?”
You hear a breath.
Close. Too close.
And this time, instead of hiding…
“Yes.”
And then silence.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
You don’t hear the window. You don’t hear the lock click.
You don’t hear him.
The apartment is still. Quiet. Safe.
You’re padding toward the kitchen in an oversized shirt, thinking only of cold strawberries and leftover takeout. Half-asleep, blinking blearily at the fridge light—
Until you feel it. That pull. That weight in the air like gravity’s shifted. Like something just behind you is watching.
Your hand stills on the fridge door. You turn.
He’s there.
Standing in your kitchen like a phantom made flesh. Like he’s always been part of the place and your brain just refused to see it.
Long hair shadowing his face. Clothes dark. Boots wet from the rain.
Eyes—God. Eyes full of pain. Possession. Worship. Ruin.
“Don’t scream,” he says softly. A plea, not a command.
You don’t.
You should. You should run. You should grab the knife on the counter.
But you just stare.
He takes a slow breath, chest rising under the soaked black jacket.
“I didn’t mean to come in. I just—” A pause. His jaw flexes. His voice breaks. “I missed you.”
Your lips part, soundless. Your fingers curl around the edge of the fridge for balance.
“Bucky,” you whisper.
His eyes flicker. Almost a flinch.
“You saved me. You touched me when I was bleeding and broken and not even human anymore.” His voice is a gravel scrape, rising, trembling. “You smiled at me. And that smile—it kept me alive through the screaming and the blood and the fucking programming in my skull.”
He takes one step forward. You don’t back away.
“I watched you,” he breathes. “I know. I know what I am. I wasn’t going to touch you. I just needed to see you. Every day. To remind myself that good still exists.”
His metal hand twitches at his side.
“I didn’t mean to come in,” he says again, quieter. “But he kissed you.”
“You watched me,” you murmur. “You followed me.”
He nods.
“Are you going to hurt me?” Your voice is soft. Barely there.
His eyes meet yours, wide and blue and shattered.
“Never. But I’ll hurt anyone who tries to.”
Your breath catches. You step forward.
One pace.
Two.
He stiffens — terrified you’ll scream, run, reject him. Disappear. Take the only part of him that ever felt real.
But you don’t.
You reach out.
Fingers ghost over the cool metal of his wrist.
That’s all it takes.
A single touch. Warm fingers over cool metal.
And something breaks in him.
He moves.
Slow at first — like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Then faster. Closer. Needier.
His hands are on your face before you can speak — fingers trembling against your jaw. His body presses in, soaking your shirt, crowding your space like he wants to crawl inside your skin and stay there.
He doesn’t kiss you right away.
He just looks.
Eyes wide. Bruised with guilt and longing. Pupils blown.
“I’ve watched you laugh,” he whispers. “Cry. Dance in your kitchen when you thought no one saw. I’ve memorized every piece of you. I’ve done everything for you. But I never let myself have you.”
His voice shatters at the edges. He closes his eyes. Forehead resting against yours.
“Until now.”
Then he kisses you. And it’s not gentle.
It’s months of silence, hunger, pain and need poured into one bruising, desperate press of lips. His hands are everywhere — cradling your face, gripping your hips, fingers digging in like he's afraid you'll slip through him.
Like he’s trying to carve the shape of you into his body.
You gasp into his mouth and he groans, low and guttural, like the sound surprises even him.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, broken, between kisses. “I don’t know what this is supposed to feel like. I just—I need to—I can’t stop.”
His metal hand finds your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck as his lips trail down your throat.
“I think this is love,” he breathes. “Is this love?”
You don’t know if you nod or just fall into him. All you know is the heat of him against you, the way his body trembles like a man starving finally allowed to eat.
He lifts you like you weigh nothing. Sets you on the counter. Stands between your legs like he belongs there.
“Tell me to stop.” He’s panting now, chest heaving. “Tell me, and I’ll vanish again. I swear.”
He means it.
He would disappear. Back into the alleys. Back into the cold. He’d spend another lifetime watching you through windows, if that’s what you needed.
“Don’t stop,” you whisper.
Two words. That’s all it takes.
The last thread of restraint inside him snaps.
He growls — a guttural, animal sound in the back of his throat — and his mouth crashes against yours like a wave that’s been waiting lifetimes to break.
There’s no patience. No finesse. Just need.
His hands are everywhere — metal and flesh gripping your thighs, sliding up your shirt, yanking it over your head with a sharp rip of fabric.
“So soft,” he mutters, like he can’t believe you’re real. “So fucking soft.”
He spreads your legs on the counter like he owns them, like he’s been dreaming about this exact position for months.
He mouths at your throat, your collarbone, your chest — teeth grazing skin like he’s marking you, branding you.
And his voice? Wrecked.
“You don’t know what you’ve done to me. I watch you sleep. I count your breaths. I know the sound your floor makes when you dance. I’ve killed men who looked at you too long. And now you’re letting me—Fuck, you’re letting me touch you—”
He grinds against you, groaning when he feels how wet you are through your thin sleep shorts.
“This is mine,” he growls, slipping fingers beneath the waistband. “You hear me?”
Your breath stutters.
He pulls the fabric down with one sharp jerk. Drops to his knees. Buries his face between your thighs like it’s worship. Like he’s starving.
He devours you. Moaning into your skin. Gripping your hips so hard you’ll bruise. His metal hand wraps around your thigh to hold you open — like he’s afraid you’ll close up and disappear.
“You taste like something holy,” he groans, slick and spit glistening on his lips. “Like you were made to break me.”
You’re whimpering now, shaking — hands in his hair, legs trying to close around his head and failing.
He growls again.
“No. You stay open for me.”
When he stands again, mouth wet, eyes dark, he doesn’t even ask. Just yanks his belt open, pants undone in seconds.
He lines himself up between your legs and you pull him in.
He groans like you broke him. Like every fantasy, every lonely night spent in the dark, every bloody fight and whispered prayer has led to this.
And then he slams into you. Not slow. Not sweet. Desperate. Raw. Possessive.
You cry out — your name falls from his lips like a psalm and a curse.
“Mine. You’re mine. I watched you. I bled for you. You don’t get to walk away now.”
His thrusts are punishing, his metal hand gripping the back of your neck as his flesh one presses against your lower belly — feeling himself inside you.
“Mine.” he snarls again, panting.
You don’t know where you end and he begins.
He’s everywhere. Inside you. Around you. Against you.
You’re dizzy from the pace, from the need, from the way he looks at you, like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he blinks.
He stills. Holds your face in shaking hands.
And whispers, like a vow.
“No one else gets this. No one else touches you. I’ll fucking tear the world apart if they try.”
When it’s over, you're both trembling.
He leans his forehead to yours. Eyes wet. Voice broken.
“Tell me this is real. Tell me I’m not dreaming you.”
You reach up. Touch his cheek.
“You’re real, Bucky.”
And that ruins him.
