mitzy barnes ✪

・・・・・ Queens, New York; 2023

“This is what you fucking wanted from me, right?” Bucky grunted from behind you, but you can’t speak. 

You have a million things you want to say to him, but none of them are right. Bucky wouldn’t listen to you even if you tried to explain. 

You’re shoved into the pillow beneath you, only moans ripping from your throat— the only sound that you can produce in response to his question. 

The only other noise between the two of you is the sound of skin slapping against skin as he pounds you from behind. The grip he has on your hips is bruising, and not in the way you usually enjoy it. 

He’s mad, and it’s your fault. 

“I asked you a question. Answer.”

His hand comes down on your ass, smacking it so hard you can’t help but moan, knowing that he left a mark on your body that will last. Your body will always react to him, even when you know you’re in the wrong— when you know you should be apologizing. When you know the last thing the two of you should be doing right now is fucking. 

You can’t help it. Your body will always call for him, always yearn for him, sing when his fingers touch you. 

“No— No,” you finally managed to choke out, tears brimming in your eyes. 

You’re not crying because you don’t want him. Not because he’s hurting you. Not because it’s too rough. You’re crying at the realization. 

You know this is the last time. 

This will be the last time you’ll feel his cock so deep inside you— the delicious angle of it dragging up and down that sweet spot inside you that he always hits so perfectly. You know you won’t be able to feel his hands all over your body again. He won’t give you a second chance, not after this. Not after the conversation you just had. 

Despite it all, you can’t find it in you to tell him to stop. The pace he has on you is punishing, and you feel guilty for even finding some sort of pleasure in how he’s taking you. 

This will be the last time that you'll have him near you. This is the last time that he will stand your presence, to even look at you with the last remaining patience left in his body. This is the final time that you will be able to have him, in any sort of way. He'll walk away from you. You'll be alone after this, after he's done.

You know deep down he would stop if you told him to. He would never disrespect you like that. No matter how angry or hurt he is, he would never do anything to hurt you. You saw it in his eyes before he took your clothes off— the chance to back out. You were the one to remove the first article of fabric, to give him the outlet that he was craving for. 

“No?” he echoed, sarcasm dripping in his voice. “You’re a fucking liar.”

Your fingers curl around the pillow and sheets beneath you for purchase— something to hold onto. He’s fucking into you so deep, barely leaving the tip of his cock in before sinking all the way back in without any hesitation. There’s no break.

Bucky rarely had you on your stomach. It’s his least favorite position, he said. He despised the fact he couldn’t see your face. He wanted to see every single emotion of pleasure he brought to you. Bucky hated that you were easily able to hide every single moan and whimper when he took you from behind.

There’s no connection, he told you one night as you laid in his arms. He whispered it to you like it was a secret as he ran his hands through your hair. He liked holding you against him, enjoyed the fact he could have easy access to your lips, and lock eyes with you. 

Yet, he put you like this from the beginning. 

Bucky was radiating an intense amount of heat, but you had never felt so cold. You were freezing in this room, even though you were both panting and sweating against each other. 

Your heart was shattering with each thrust of his hips. You’re craving him. Some sort of intimacy. You want him to hold you, even though you know you messed up. Just something for you to hold onto for the night before he disappears forever.

You know he’s close to the edge. You know his tells like the back of your hand. His thrusts are getting messier. Less rhythmic. His breathing is growing shallower, moans are becoming lower. There’s a slight tremble in his body against yours every time he connects with you, and his fingers are digging into your flesh to keep you in place right where he wants you. 

You weakly try pushing yourself on your elbows, tears finally slipping down your face. Tears that you weren’t brave enough to let fall during your conversation earlier. Tears that you knew would take forever to dry up when he finally left you.

“Bucky,” you whimpered, your voice coming out broken and raw, “Bucky— Kiss, please—“

A vibranium hand is roughly tangled in your short hair, shoving your head back into the pillows underneath you.

“Shut the fuck up,” he moaned, hips stuttering. 

You feel the familiar warmth of his release coat your walls in thick spurts. Bucky’s body shudders behind you, but he doesn’t blanket you like he usually does after he cums. No— he forces himself to pull out of you, leaving you cold, empty, used. 

Your heart is still racing as you slowly push yourself up. You can feel the remnants of him leaking out of you as you listen to the rustling sound of Bucky beginning to dress himself. 

“You don’t get to cry now,” Bucky muttered.

You pull your bottom lip in between your teeth to stop yourself from making any noise. You turn your head to look at him, watching him pull his pants over his hips. His back is turned to you. You can see his face through the vanity. 

“Bucky,” you whispered, a breath escaping your lips. “Please. I’m sorry—“

“You’re sorry because you were caught,” he cut you off, looking at you through the mirror. “Not because you actually regret anything.”

“Buck, please. Just hear me out,” you pleaded. 

“You don’t get to call me that,” he hissed at you, roughly grabbing his jacket from where it was discarded on the edge of the bed. “I don’t ever want to see your fucking face again, do you hear me? You disgust me.”

Your lips parted, silent tears dripping down and staining the bed sheets beneath you. You can’t breathe. You can only watch him as he moves towards the door to your bedroom. 

“Do you mean that?” you manage to force out as his hand touches the door knob. Your voice cracked, thick with emotion.

Bucky hesitates, for just a moment. He still hadn’t turned to face you. You watched as his shoulders square off, his body becoming guarded against you. . 

“I meant what I said earlier. You’re no better than H.Y.D.R.A..”

You’re left on your bed, naked, alone, with silent tears streaming down your face. Your body is cold, even though he was just here with you moments ago. Your ears are still ringing with the echoing sound of the front door of the apartment slamming shut with his final exit. 

・・・・・ Wakanda; 2016–2018

The room is below freezing. As a breath escapes your lips, you can see a cloud form before your face. You shook your head in disapproval, rubbing your arms as you went to turn up the thermostat. 

“Bucky?” you called out, watching the numbers hit a comfortable 73 degrees in the room. “Did you eat all your food? Was it enough? Do you want more?”

As per usual, the soldier doesn’t answer you. You always try anyway– you hope that the day will come that he’ll talk to you. You let out a sigh as you move throughout the room. He’s not at the table, but neither is his plate. Your eyebrows furrowed.

Usually, you have to go towards him and badger him to try to eat a little bit more. You have to tell him that it’s okay to eat. He barely eats as it is, and you’re not sure if it’s because he doesn’t think it’s okay to eat or if he’s trying to hoard the food for another day.

Your eyes fall on him in the corner of the room. He’s purposely making himself look smaller as he picks at pieces of the food in front of him. Yet, you see he’s not even touching the walls with his body. Like he’s almost afraid to take space.

You take a few steps, experimental. His eyes flicker to you, and you stop in your place.

“You know you can eat at the table, right?” you asked, voice soft.

He gives you one single nod. 

“You don’t want to?” you guessed. 

There’s no gesture of a response this time, but you can assume his answer from his silence. You sighed once more, and moved again. You tried to ignore the way his body stiffened as you came closer to him– a stranger– and took a seat beside him, back pressed against the wall, but there was enough space between the two of you so he could still breathe.

You picked up the least appetizing food on the plate, the small loaf of bread, and broke it in half.

“By the time I finish eating my half, you better be finished eating your food otherwise I’m telling Steve and Sam to come back early from their mission in Osaka to yell at you,” you warned him, putting the other portion of the bread down on the plate. 

You keep your eyes off of him, giving him the privacy he may or may not need to eat his lunch. You take small nibbles on your bread, eating slowly on purpose. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him finally move. He takes bigger bites than you. 

“Why aren’t you in Osaka?” he spoke. 

You’re shocked, but you try not to let it show. You give Bucky a smile, then gesture towards your body.

“I’m still injured from Berlin. King T'Challa did a big number on me when I tried to stop him from getting to the Quinjet, remember? Stevie won’t let me be deployed right now. Besides, I don't think our gracious King would let me leave Wakanda until I was fully healed anyways.”

“You’ve worked with Steve for a while?” Bucky asked. He sounded hesitant. Almost afraid of you. It made sense. You were a stranger to him, yet Steve dropped you off to take care of him without any explanation.

"I rehabbed Steve," you shrugged. "When he came out of the ice, I brought him up to speed with the new world around him. I was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, not an Avenger, but S.H.I.E.L.D. went to shit so I just... did some odd jobs for a bit. Steve asked me for help when the Avengers went to shit… and since I’m on the run for helping him, and have nothing better to do, I figured I might as well rehab you, too."

“Why?”

You turned your head to look at him, finding that he’s already looking at you. You give him a smile, leaning your head back against the wall.

“I was given a second chance in life,” you tell him. “You deserve one, too. And a third. And a fourth. I’ll give you as many chances as you need, so don’t stress out too much, Buck. Life is good. When you’re well, I’ll take you to my favorite bakery in New York.”

Bucky’s looking at you with confusion in his eyes. There’s a mixture of disbelief and distrust as well, but you don’t blame him. Steve gave you the full rundown on Bucky’s entire past. There’s nothing that you don’t know about the man.

You know every detail. The nitty, gritty, gory details that you know Bucky wouldn't tell you himself. You read the files yourself. Steve gave you the option to back out, and he said there would be no judgement if you thought you wouldn't be able to handle the amount of trauma that Bucky had.

You gave Steve a smile, and said that Bucky would be in good hands, and Steve could do what he needed out in the world.

You stay by Bucky's side the entire time, giving him the space that he silently requests for. You don't push when he pulls away from you. You don't question where he stops answering. You simply give him the options that he never had before.

And it seems to confuse him all the more.

“Why do you try so hard for me?” Bucky asked again. A longer, fuller sentence this time, but he was still asking the same thing he did before. 

You were sitting in his room. It wasn’t a mealtime. You were here of your own volition, with your computer in your lap. You were doing some background work for Steve and Sam, feeding them information while they were on the field. 

Bucky was watching you from his place on the ground. He still wasn’t comfortable enough to use his bed— so you made him a cot on the floor. Just a simple spread of two blankets, and one pillow. He started using it after two weeks. 

You lowered your laptop screen, looking at him. 

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?” you asked, flipping the script on him.

You watched as his face contorted with surprise. Bucky’s lips parted, eyebrows furrowing. His mouth closed as he took in a deep breath, and swallowed thickly. 

“I’m not a good person,” he said, his voice thick. 

“Neither am I,” you replied, smiling at him. “I think the only good person amongst us is Steve. Sam, too. But that’s a bit of a debatable fact.”

Bucky’s lip twitched slightly in what almost became a smile, and you mentally celebrated the improvement. The flicker of new emotion, even if it was subtle and brief. 

“I’m sure I’ve done worse than you,” he said after a few moments, looking down at his hand. He clenched his fist opened and closed, and you were sure he was reliving some sort of memory or nightmare in the few seconds that passed between you two.

You shrugged. “It’s all relative. I’ve committed horrors that some people will never be able to forgive. That I won’t be able to forgive myself for. But that doesn’t mean others can’t forgive you.”

Bucky stayed silent for the rest of the day, and you’re sure he’s thinking about your words until late in the night.

The next morning, you exit your room to find him standing in your hall. He doesn’t say a word, but he follows you as you go on your early morning walk.

From there, the two of you spend more time together. Bucky started to seek you out on his own, looking for you when you don’t come to him first. 

In the beginning,  your time together is spent in silence. 

Your walks turn into full on hikes with the healing soldier. The only noise between you two is the nature of the native animals of Wakanda. You two sat together on cliffs, looking over the city as you would eat breakfast that you had stolen from the kitchen before you left on your walk. You both keep walking through the plains without any sort of plan or route— and you often get lost. 

When it’s time to head back to the palace, it’s Bucky that takes you by the hand and leads you towards the right path. 

Bucky started to eat meals with you at the table. Not just snacking, but full meals. The first time he asked you if there was more food in the kitchens, you jumped to your feet, and ran down the hall with tears in your eyes. 

You ate seconds with him, silent tears streaming down your face. Bucky let out the first laugh you’d ever heard from him during that meal. 

“Why are you crying?” he asked.

“Shut the fuck up and eat!” you sniffled, wiping away your tears quickly. 

Bucky would watch you train with the Dora Milaje once Shuri cleared you of your injury. He watched you get your ass handed to you multiple times over as you tried to get your footing against these warriors, raising an eyebrow at you when you returned to him with bruises and scrapes. 

“Don’t laugh,” you muttered as he handed you an ice pack. 

“Well, they’re not holding back on you, and the worst you’re getting is a bruise,” he said.

“Why do you sound impressed? Are you messing with me right now?” you accused, digging your fingers into a developing knot in your shoulder. 

“I am impressed,” he told you, making you stop and look at him with suspicion. “I didn’t really see you fight in Berlin. I understand why Steve asked you for help.”

Bucky would give you pointers with just the two of you alone. Even with just one arm, Bucky was a force to be reckoned with. He was itching to move, and he was more than happy to help you out. 

There weren't many places where you needed help, he said. You were simply out of practice from the injuries you sustained. You also had small tells that he noticed— things that you were shocked he caught onto. Bucky taught you how to fix those tells so no one would be able to use them against you again. Your sparring matches with the Dora Milaje got longer, harder— and you gained their respect almost overnight thanks to Bucky.

You still couldn’t believe Bucky’s sharp eyes when it came to your movements. The last person who noticed your weaknesses was your sister, who studied your moves like her life depended on it. 

Because it did. For her, at least. 

The first time you left on a mission, you didn’t tell Bucky. It slipped your mind. Steve came into your room in the middle of the night, waking you up. You didn’t even know he returned, but he and Sam needed you. You barely had a chance to brush your teeth before you were shoving your body into your gear, meeting them at the launchpads to leave. 

You received a high pitched static through your earpiece barely an hour on the field. You almost thought the mission was compromised, and all three of you were royally fucked. Well, you were compromised. You were just lucky it wasn’t anyone that wanted to harm you. 

“You didn’t tell me you were leaving,” he said, voice distorted slightly from wherever he had hijacked the frequency from. 

“Bucky?! What the hell—“

“Why didn’t you say you were leaving?” he cut you off. 

“Why are you on my channel right now?” you hissed, trying to keep your voice low and avoid raising attention to yourselves. 

“When will you be back?” 

You paused. Even through the distortion, you could hear it. The vulnerability thick in his voice. 

“Four days,” you answered. 

“I’ll wait three.”

The static finally cleared the comms, and Steve and Sam raised an eyebrow at you. They all heard it. You were in as much disbelief as they were. 

When you returned in two and a half days, you brought a digital calendar for his room. You started marking down your mission dates the second you heard you would be out, and would update it remotely if something ever changed. You didn’t want Bucky to panic on you again.

You watched as Wakanda healed Bucky in a way that you didn’t know was possible. Two years in this place brought peace to a man who knew seventy years of war. 

You were able to see as a smile would slowly grow on his face, as he began to talk more on his own. As the title of White Wolf was bestowed upon him by the Wakandans.

You enjoyed festivals with Bucky many times over. You dragged him down the streets of Wakanda, the two of you wide eyed and completely innocent to the culture around you. Both of you would dress in cultural garb, gifted to you by Shuri and T'Challa so you would blend in with the crowds around you. You would stay out late into the night, sometimes until the sun rose into the next day.

You would share different foods together. By this point, the locals all knew the two of you. They would give you discounts upon discounts for foods and different items of wares, or forego charging you all together. They would joke for you to tell the King about their shops in exchange for their services.

Bucky would watch as you would get your hair braided by the local girls in the village during these festivals, sitting beside you as flowers were woven into your hair. 

“It’s a shame,” he murmured, touching your hair as you walked away from the girls. 

“What is?” you asked, hands clasped behind your back.

“Your hair would be prettier like this if it was longer,” he told you, his hand dropping to his side. 

You paused, trying to push away the pounding feeling in your chest. You looked away from him— ignoring the look of contentment and peace on his features. He looked so happy at that moment. 

“I cut it for missions,” you murmured. 

“That’s why it’s a shame,” he said, nodding. “You’d look nice with longer hair.”

From that point, Bucky started picking flowers during your morning walks together. He would present them to you, and you would carry them with you. 

You don't remember when it happened, but Bucky stopped handing you flowers. He began to put them directly into your hair with a small smile on his face. If there was another flower that caught his eye during your hike, he would add it to your hair. If any of the flowers began to slip, he would stop you and adjust them before you both continued onwards. 

You had an entire drawer of dried flowers saved from your walks together. Preserved in time, each one carrying more emotion than the other. Each flower contained a different memory of him. 

A memory of not just someone you were helping out because Steve asked you to, but someone you considered as your friend. Someone that relied on you for guidance and support. Someone that you turned to for assistance when you couldn’t ask Ayo for help. Someone that you went to because you simply felt like it. Someone you wanted to spend time with because you enjoyed his presence. 

Someone that you felt guilty for falling in love with. 

Bucky was a man that was healing. 

Falling in love with him now— taking advantage of him at his most vulnerable would be fucking shameful of you. You wouldn’t let your emotions show, you wouldn’t let him know. You didn’t want to cloud his judgement as he was finally getting a grasp on who he was as a person, as he was finally gaining autonomy over himself. 

You hid your heart under your sleeve, continuing to spend your days with him with chains and locks tightly guarding the feelings that you desperately wanted to let free. You wouldn’t allow them to come out. 

Not when Bucky finally knew peace, not when he finally felt okay with himself. You wouldn’t throw a curveball in his direction, and betray him. You wanted him to view you as someone safe, someone he could trust. You didn’t want him to think you expected anything from him.

If the timing was right, if he had ever expressed interest on his own— maybe. Just maybe, you would allow yourself to melt into his embrace. Only if he made the move first, if he decided that he wanted it. Wanted you. 

You never got the chance to find out. 

The Outrider soldier you were fighting with had just vanished into nothing before you. Dread filled your stomach, and you turned to sprint across the battlefield. You needed to be sure. Terror was clawing at your every sense.

You ignored the deep gash in your torso, white, hot pain burning through your body. It didn’t matter right now. Bucky met your gaze. 

Bucky, who was disintegrating before your eyes. Bucky, who was staring at you with wide eyes. You could feel everything. You saw the panic on his face, the fear. 

Then, he was gone. 

Steve wrapped his arms around you before you could fall to your knees at Bucky’s ashes, his body shaking as if he was afraid that you would disappear next. 

You both sat there, trembling. Hearts racing, the two of you watched as dust began to float around you in the wind. 

・・・・・ Present, 2027

“Wake up!” Yelena hissed at you, hitting your leg with her foot. 

Your eyebrows furrowed as your face twisted with discomfort. Your head was pounding. Not just from the explosion, but from everything that came before that. The guards that filtered through the vault. Having to climb up an elevator shaft with strangers that you had attempted to kill moments prior. The sonic cannon that assaulted your ears. The impending doom of almost being incinerated. The strange battle between assassins and soldiers that had varying targets.

You forced your eyes open, momentarily discombobulated as you took in the scene around you. Your hands shoved into the cement beneath you before you took a sitting position. Your vision steadied after a few moments, and you froze. 

You looked down at yourself, then at the others. The rope that had been used to ‘tie’ you up was so loose that you could just slip out of it. The others were tied together tightly, wrists bound. Alexei was even secured with a metal pipe. 

“Bucky, do you really think putting a piece of string around her body was really enough?” John sarcastically asked.

Suddenly, you remembered what even put you in this position in the first place. 

He blew up your fucking get away car.

You don’t look at him, keeping your head down. You can feel his eyes on the side of your face, watching you. Waiting to see what you’ll do or say. You won’t do a single thing– not to him, at least. You owe him that much.

“They are both Avengers, that is why! He gives her the respect she is due!” Alexei boomed. 

Your eyes snap at the super soldier, and you give him a single warning look. You shake your head once. He doesn’t seem to understand.

“You fought together during what seemed to be the end of the world, yes? You, especially! With my little Natasha! I saw you on the news a few times.”

“I wasn’t– I’m not an Avenger. Never was,” you grunted.

“Can we talk about something else?” Yelena cut him off. “Like the fact that we need to find Bob?”

You let the others do the speaking, trying to calm down your thundering heart. You couldn’t hear their words. It was being filtered out, muffled by the sound of erratic beating between your ears as you kept your eyes trained on your feet. Even staring at the ground was difficult. Your vision was getting shaky.

When was the last time you were in the same room as Bucky? When was the last time he was this close to you? It had been almost five years at this point, you think. Four years and ten months if you were to be precise. 

Bucky warned you– told you to stay out of his line of sight. Is that why he blew up the fucking limo with the people that you just gained a kinship with?

It was the only reason why you ended up working for Fontaine as one of her fucking agents, doing her dirty work– doing what you did best and getting paid for it. You were a machine for these past handful of years. The perfect soldier, just as you were raised to be. You were certain your parents were singing your praises from the seventh circle in hell. 

Best of all, you could stay out of the light. Just as Bucky told you to do. Out of the light, where he was. Where he was meant to be— just like you always told him he should be. 

This was supposed to be your last mission. You found some cabin in the woods in Oregon that you were going to move to. Remote, out of the way. Something that reminded you of Wakanda without the people and the culture. You had saved enough money, lived frugally enough to be able to live comfortably for the rest of your days. You worked out a plan with Val that if she needed you, you could be pulled back onto the field every once in a while for more expensive hit missions again.

You can only follow everyone else numbly when they start shifting towards the jet that Bucky had brought, and you distinctly hear that you’re heading back to New York. 

In the jet, everyone’s flittering about. 

Alexei’s messing with tech that he’s in awe about seeing, Yelena is whacking his hands away and telling him not to focus before going back to Bucky to help him navigate. 

Walker is going through the rations, muttering about being starving while Ava looks at him with disgust when he offers her some food. She settles for a med kit, deciding to take care of her scrapes and cuts instead. 

You weren’t even tied up, but the walls were closing in on you. Your skin didn’t feel like your own, and your gear was beginning to melt into your body in a way that you couldn’t claw off fast enough. Your heart was outside of your body, and your lungs were in a different continent. 

You clenched your fists, trying to ground yourself as your fingernails dug crescent shaped indents into your palm, but it was to no avail. Your hands weren’t your own. You weren’t seeing through your own eyes. Your body wasn’t yours, and you couldn’t stop the encroaching feeling of helplessness that you desperately tried to pretend wasn’t there.

“Hey.”

Your head snapped up, seeing Ava in front you.

“Are you coming or what?” she asked, eyebrows furrowed at you.

Vaguely, you noticed everyone was already moving outside– and you forced yourself to suck in a breath of air. You could only give her a small nod before moving your weight onto your feet, following her out the jet and towards the tarmac. You didn’t even realize the jet had touched the ground. 

You’re moving to board the back with Ava when Alexei rounds the corner, grinning at you.

“Avengers should catch up!” he said, a hand coming down to your shoulder, pushing you to the carriage. “It is nice to talk with an old buddy!”

“What?” you breathed. “No, Alexei, it’s fine. You’ll be more comfortable sitting up there–”

“Go, sit with your friend!” he exclaimed happily, shoving you to the front. “I will sit back here with my daughter and her friends!”

You barely had any time to protest before Ava closed the doors to the back of the truck, locked it, and phased into the back. You stood out there, the vehicle’s engine coming to life. 

You have no choice. There’s a mission that needs to be done, and one hour of discomfort isn’t a reasonable explanation to put lives in danger. 

You pull open the door, sliding into the seat beside him. Once you’re situated, Bucky finally takes off down the road towards New York. 

You keep your gaze trained out your window, elbow against the door as you cover your mouth and nose with your hand.  You’re trying not to breathe so loud, in fear that he’ll hear you. Hell, you’re not trying to breathe at all. There’s a high chance that he’ll throw you out of a moving vehicle. Blow this truck up, too, if you’re really unlucky. 

You force your body to sit still, even though all you want to do is bounce your leg up and down anxiously. Under your gear, your skin is prickled with goosebumps. You’re still trying to get your body back. It still doesn’t feel like yours. It’s probably left in the vault, incinerated with the rest of Val’s shit. 

Bucky smelled exactly the same as you remembered. Even with you trying not to breathe, even with your palm covering your nose, you can smell him. 

In this enclosed carriage, with the AC running, you were surrounded by the scent of Bucky. The familiar smell of cedarwood mixed with honeyed soap and a hint of coffee. There’s the extra layer of leather and metal that he always carries around with him that you adore, and the underlying nostalgic scent of his natural skin– the heady scent of musk and salty sweat after the theatrics he had pulled on the road hours ago.

Gunpowder clings onto him faintly, and you can feel heat softly radiating from his body– the vibranium arm attached to his left side is still cooling down. It takes longer on hotter days like this. You wonder when the last time he calibrated it, or if he even remembered to get that done. He would always forget. You used to do it for him.

There’s one smell that’s missing.

The scent of you on his skin.

You closed your eyes, pushing the revelation far away from your mind. Your eyes are beginning to sting with unshed tears that you thought had long been cried away. You didn’t think being close to him like this would have this kind of effect on you again.

“Your hair is longer.”

Your breath gets caught in your throat, your eyebrows furrowing. You slowly turn your head to look at him. To really look at him.

You’ve seen him on the news. On your phone, in articles. You would smile to yourself before moving on with your day, happy that he seemed to find his place in the world. But right now— he looked miserable.

The years had seemed to take a toll on him. There were lines on his face that weren’t there before. Slight bags under his eyes that indicated he hadn’t slept well in a while. His skin was duller, less life to them. 

You wonder briefly if it’s because of dealing with the government in the way he is. Politics aren’t an easy feat, but he’s Bucky. You don’t doubt that he’s doing well, that he can manage somehow. He was always the better one between the two of you. 

Bucky’s hair was a bit messy, but you would give him the benefit of the doubt, and say it was from the fact he just rode in on a motorcycle and took down several military vehicles by himself. The dark brown locks are longer, too. Not short, like the way you had cut them in your bathroom in Brooklyn after Steve left. 

How he trusted you with scissors close to his face and neck, and closed his eyes while you carefully took care of him. You even shaved down his beard, and he had stubble for a while. It had all grown out now. 

Yet, Bucky was more handsome than you could recall. 

The years of absence had only made your heart grow fonder for him. You wanted nothing more than to smooth the line between his eyebrows. You wanted to slap a face mask on his face, dose him with melatonin, and ask him why the hell he hadn’t been sleeping. You want to wrap him up with blankets and play with his hair, run your fingers against his scalp, and cradle his face in your hands as you hold him close. 

You don’t tell him that. You don’t have any right to. 

“That’s what happens when you don’t cut it,” is what you said instead.

A smile cracked onto his lips, and a small chuckle rumbled through his body. “You don’t say?”

You take in a breath so slow it doesn’t shake, and return your eyes back to your window. You don’t trust yourself to keep looking at him. Your tears might fall if you do. You swallowed the lump in your throat, and cleared your throat softly. 

“You look good,” Bucky said after a few more moments, breaking the silence once again.

“I was just in a car that got blown up, so I don’t really believe that,” you muttered, fighting the smile that threatened to creep up on your face. 

“I didn’t know you were in there,” he said, almost sounding defensive. 

“If you did, would you have used that disc grenade?” you murmured. 

“Of course not,” he replied immediately. 

You paused, confusion settling deep into your bones. Why not? This man was supposed to hate you. He made that clear when he walked away from you. The words were caught on your throat, a million scenarios racing through your mind as you tried to pick apart your last conversation. You couldn’t make sense of him. 

“I didn’t know you worked for Val,” he said, changing the topic. Then, a deep sigh escaped from his lips. “Well, I didn’t know where you went at all. No one did.”

“You told me to get lost,” you reminded him, your voice so soft you were certain a normal person wouldn’t have been able to hear you. But he wasn’t normal. He was your Bucky, and he was always able to pick up every single shift in your mood. 

“I didn’t—“ he cut himself off, swallowing thickly. “I was mad. I didn’t mean it.”

You’re numb. Your chest hurt. Your sternum was caving in on itself, you think. It had to be. Or your head was finally experiencing some sort of tumor pressing on your brain, and this was your last hallucination before you died.

Bucky wouldn’t say these words to you. There was no reality that you would exist in where he would even tolerate speaking to you again, let alone admit that he took back the words he spat in your face with pure malice. 

“That’s not what you said when you walked away,” you managed to force out. 

“I know what I said.” The grip Bucky had on the steering wheel tightened at the same time his jaw clenched. 

Heavy silence sits like a wall between the two of you. You don’t respond. You don’t know what to say. He continues to drive, not another word leaving his lips. The two of you listen to the muffle conversation from the group in the back, listening to them bond over the weapons they carry on their persons. 

You lean your head against the headrest, closing your eyes tight. You forced air to enter and exit your lungs. 

One more mission. Just one more, and you can leave. Maybe Oregon would be too local— Bucky’s reach would be able to grab you from there. You’ll leave the country as a whole. 

Bucky’s eyes fell on everyone in the attic, heart erratic in his chest. His eyebrows furrowed, taking a quick headcount. He barely whispered out your name, a bit breathless from having to fight his way out to even get to Bob’s room. 

“Where is she?” he asked, everyone turning to him. They’re all still trying to process their own horrors. 

“I— I haven’t seen her yet,” Walker stuttered, still disoriented.

“She’s here?” Bob asked, surprise all over his features. 

“Fuck,” Bucky cursed, turning back towards the mirror that he came from, ignoring the shouts from the group he left behind. “Just wait there!”

Bucky raced back through his rooms, trying to find an entrance towards yours. He ignored his horrors— he’d already made his peace and settled with himself. He knew you still struggled. 

Back in Wakanda, when he finally managed to find his voice, he’d asked you why you spent so much time helping him. You told him that there was no one there to help you. Over time, he learned. 

You opened up to him about your militaristic freak of a family back in Wakanda. You told him about how you were raised in a camp, not a home. 

You grew up with drills that your parents put you through from the second you could walk. You had a gun in your hand the moment your hands were strong enough to grip the metal. 

You were the middle child of three, and the three of you were raised to see each other as competition. You fought each other daily. You were tested and tortured. Whoever was deemed the winner of the day was spared the punishment of your parents. The two losers would be subjected to horrors that you couldn’t even repeat to Bucky. He never asked you to elaborate. 

One day, without warning, your parents dropped you all in the middle of the forest. Another training exercise, you all thought. You were wrong. 

Only one would survive this test— this sick and twisted game. You never told Bucky the details of how you came out the winner, of how everything went down. He knew the aftermath. 

How you killed your own parents out of revenge, grief, anger— and how they both praised you for it. They told you you were perfect. You were the best soldier they raised— that this was the outcome they wanted. That their death was exactly what they planned for. You fell right into their trap without knowing it. 

Bucky finally reached the first room, eyes focused on the woods. He would get the backstory today, it seemed. His eyes fell on you.

You were younger. Your hair was longer than it was right now, braided back into two and reaching down to your hips. You were dressed in camo, face painted to blend in with the woods. You had a sniper rifle strapped to your shoulder, and a pistol in your hand. Your jaw was clenched tight, your breaths slow and even. 

Another dead body lay right beside you— your older brother’s body. He just tried killing your little sister by stabbing her to death with his brute strength. You shot him clean in the head. His eyes were still wide open, his blood soaking into the dirt of the forest beneath him.

You saved your little sister from him, but for what? You two were in a standoff. Both of you, guns drawn, pointed at each other. All for a fucking game. A hunt. All because your parents pit you together because you had the misfortune of being born into this kind of family.

Your little sister was the spitting image of you. Her cheeks were slightly fuller, eyes a bit rounder. She looked a little bit more innocent. 

Her hand was shaking. Her breaths were a bit more shallow than yours. There was a hesitant look in her eyes, and you saw it. You saw the way your sister lowered her gun, just slightly. 

“I can’t do it,” you whispered, a tear sliding down your face and ruining the camouflage paint. Quickly, you shifted your gun to point at your own temple.

Bucky watched as your sister’s eye’s filled with pure panic, fear— and her hand shifted slightly. She raised her gun once more. Her trajectory changed, and two gunshots filled the forest. 

One, to shoot your gun out of your hand. The second, to shoot herself. 

Grief immediately filled your features as a scream ripped through your throat. Birds were disrupted from their hiding places in the trees, rustling out of the leaves and taking to the sky. 

Her body dropped to the forest floor as you rushed to grab her, pressing your hand to her wound as you cried. You were trying to stop the bleeding, even though you knew nothing you did would work. You knew she was dying in your arms.

“No, no, no, no!” you kept repeating, taking the pack off your back to try and find something to help her. 

Your sister grabbed your hands with the last of her strength, stopping you. You both knew your attempts were useless. You both studied the anatomy of the body— she knew exactly where she shot was fatal.

“It’s okay,” she forced out, meeting your eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” you babbled to her, cradling her face. “I’m so sorry— I’m sorry—“

“I love you,” she croaked, giving you a smile. 

You only sobbed louder, watching the light die out of her eyes. You collapsed over her body, trembling, and holding her tight against you until her blood stained your bones and mixed into your own. 

And the scene replayed. 

Bucky moved into the next room. He paused— he recognized this room. This was Steve’s apartment. He went through Steve’s things after the last battle, after Steve made his choice. 

The sound of the door opening caught his attention, and he turned. 

“I’m just saying, doll,” Steve said, letting you in first before he followed in behind you, “the movie was good. You’re just not a hopeless romantic.”

“I am a hopeless romantic,” you fired back, taking your shoes off and putting them on the rack. “It just wasn’t realistic. She chose a broke man for what, Steve? Made no sense.”

“She chose the one she loved, baby,” Steve corrected. 

“And he’s broke,” you replied. 

Steve sighed, shaking his head. Still, he had a smile on his face as he watched you. There was pure love in his eyes for you.

You had a bouquet of flowers in your hand that Steve took from you as you shrugged your jacket off. You smiled at him, grateful. When you took the flowers back, you stepped up on your toes to press a kiss onto his lips.

Steve’s hand came around the small of your back, holding you tight against him. Your free hand came around to hold the side of his neck, stabilizing yourself against him. There were smiles on both of your faces. When you parted, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, and you hummed in happiness. 

Bucky tried to ignore the way his chest tightened at the sight. 

You moved towards the kitchen, looking for a vase as Steve turned on the lights of your shared apartment. A normal night for the two of you. You arranged the flowers beautifully, looking happy with yourself as you placed them at the center of the dining table.

Bucky was momentarily confused. It looked normal enough. What was so shameful about this night? The two of you looked happy. You both got ready for the night, changed into pajamas, and met back onto the couch.

You were cuddled up against his side as he watched TV, scrolling through your phone. His arm was around you, rubbing circles into your hip. 

“You really think you’re a hopeless romantic?” Steve suddenly asked you.

“Why are you bringing this up again?” you asked, a teasing lilt to your voice. You shifted your head to look up at him. 

“I mean… I just don’t see it,” he said softly. “I’m not saying you’re not romantic. I know you love me, but… I can’t help but feel—“

“Steve,” you cut him off, sitting up. His arm slid off of you and he turned to look you in the eyes. “Are we talking about this again? Seriously?”

“We never even really talked about it,” he argued, his voice a bit weak. He knew you were getting upset. “You always dodge the topic. You don’t want to talk about it.”

“Because there’s nothing to talk about!” you exclaimed, putting your phone down to give him your full attention. “I don’t want to argue about what if’s with my boyfriend on our third year anniversary!”

“You don’t even cut your hair anymore,” he said. “Natasha told me that you drunkenly confessed to her one time that you don’t want to cut your hair because he once told you he wanted to see your hair long—“

“Steve, didn’t you hear what I just said to you? I don’t want to argue with you on our anniversary!” you stressed, almost begging him. “Can you please drop it? On any other night, I will talk about this with you. Literally any other night. Just not tonight, please.”

“Tell me the truth,” he said, his voice hard as he ignored your pleas. “If Bucky were still here, would you still be with me? Or would you have chosen him instead?”

“Would you choose me or Peggy if you had the option?” you immediately demanded from him.

Steve’s eyes widened. Your apartment was silent for a few moments, save for the background noise of the television that was forgotten by the two of you. You both stared at each other. Steve in disbelief, you with stubbornness in your eyes. 

“That’s— that’s not fair,” he whispered, swallowing thickly. 

Your exterior cracked instantly. Stubbornness vanished, and your shoulders slumped. You let out a sigh, burying your face in your hands for a moment as you tried to calm yourself down. You were about to cry. 

“You’re right. It’s not,” you admitted, your voice cracking. You lowered your hands, looking him in the eyes once again. “Why don’t you understand me, Steve? I love you so much. I wouldn’t be with you if I didn’t love you. I do. I really do. And— and I know you love her. I have accepted that you will always love her the same way that I will always love him. I loved him in utter silence. From afar. I watched him heal and get better. I loved a broken man that never looked my way and I was okay with that. I made my peace with it. And he’s not coming back. He never fucking will, Steve. I’m trying to move on with my life. Can you stop rubbing it in my face?”

Steve’s staring at you, the weight of your words sinking into his soul. He looks horrible, regret all over his face for even opening up this conversation.

You let out a shaking breath, your chest rising and falling erratically as tears fall from your eyes. You angrily wipe them away, getting up from the couch. 

Steve whispers your name, reaching to grab your wrist, to stop you— to try to comfort you. It comes out pained, but you can’t even look at him. You snatch your hand back from him, making your way to the bedroom you share with Steve, to just get away from him for a moment as more tears continue to fall.

Bucky observes Steve for just a moment, watching his friend bury his face in his hands and let out slow, deep breaths. Then, Bucky moves to follow you.

You’re sitting in front of your vanity, rifling through your drawer. A pair of scissors are in your hands after a moment of searching. You hesitate, for just a moment. Then, you grab a piece of hair, chopping it off above your shoulders as your tears stain your cheeks. 

Bucky forces his feet to walk on, mind racing as he breaks a window into the next room. He knows this place. He instantly recognizes the faint smell of vanilla and flowers. 

His eyes fall onto the glass case of pressed Wakandan flowers that are on the wall, proudly on display. There’s mementos of the Avengers somewhere in your apartment. You have Steve’s art book on the coffee table. Natasha’s widow bites are on the mantle. One of Tony’s first Iron Man helmets are on the shelf. 

Your friends, people that you have loved and lost, all here with you, in your little apartment in Queens. 

And you’re there. Not just the remnants of the past. You.

You’re sitting on the couch of your old Queens apartment in your gear. Your lip is busted from the Sentry throwing you around in the Watchtower not too long ago. There’s a cut above your eyebrow from colliding with John too hard and hitting his gear the wrong way, and maybe a thousand other injuries that he can’t see under the thick material of your tactical gear. 

Your knees are pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around your legs. You look small right now, eyes trained on the movement before you. Unable to tear your gaze away, stuck in the shame and regret of your past. 

And he knows exactly what this night is. 

Bucky doesn’t make a sound as he goes to your side. The couch dips as he takes a seat beside you, eyes on the side of your face. You don’t acknowledge him, don’t even give him the time of day. His chest hurts, but he can’t blame you. 

The stage resets. 

Bucky’s opening your door with a key to your apartment that he’s had for a while now— you have one to his, too. It was for safety at first. Over time, it had turned into easy access to each other for your nightly escapades with each other. 

You jolted at the sudden appearance. You were at the dining table, watching videos on your phone as you ate takeout by yourself. A simple dinner for a quiet night alone. 

Bucky didn’t text you. He didn’t tell you that he was coming over. Normally, he would let you know that he was on his way. Even if the two of you didn’t end up doing anything, he would at least give you a heads up.

“Hey,” you said with a smile, turning to face him. “I thought you were hanging out with Sam tonight—“

“So you fuck me to get over my best friend? Is that it? Is that all I’m good for?”  he demanded, and your smile fell. “Answer me!”

“What?” you whispered, taken aback. “Buck, slow down—“

“You couldn’t even have the decency to tell me that you two were together?” he asked, running a hand through his hair. “I had to find out from fucking Sam?”

“How the hell did Sam know?” you asked, shocked. “Everyone who knew is—“

“Dead? Gone? Off the grid?” he cut you off, a hollow laugh escaping his lips. “Yeah. So you thought you could hide it.”

“Hang on. I wasn’t hiding anything,” you said, standing to face him fully.  

“Do you think you can just use me?” Bucky demanded, shocking you. 

Your eyes widened at the raw emotion. Your lips parted, and you reached a hand out to him. To touch his hand. To try to comfort him, to do something— anything. He smacked it away instantly, shocking you.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he growled at you, and you recoiled instantly, taking a step back.

“Bucky,” you muttered, your voice shaking. “Let’s talk. Please. There’s a misunderstanding here. I wasn’t hiding— There’s nothing to hide.”

“I was at my fucking lowest when Steve left. I thought— I thought it was the same for you. That your friend left you, too. That you were also trying to cope with the grief of losing everyone— everything.” Bucky was shaking, anger coursing through his veins. “That you got no fucking answers— but no. You were fucking me because you were mad that your boyfriend chose a woman he kissed once in the forties over you. And you know what? I don’t blame him.”

You stared at him, mouth agape. Hurt and pain were all over your features. You were trembling, too. But not from anger. You were in shock. 

“Am I disposable to you?” he whispered, your eyes widening.

“No! Of course not—“

“Worthless, then?” he cut you off, voice rising. 

“Bucky, never—“

“Because I feel pretty fucking worthless right now,” he told you, meeting your eyes. His voice was trembling, eyes glistening with unshed tears. 

You can’t speak a single word to him. Your eyes are searching all over his face, and you’re silently pleading with him to try to understand you. To remind him that he knows you. That he knows who you are and that you would never—

“You used me,” he said, swallowing thickly. 

“No,” you denied, your voice small.

“You’re no fucking better than H.Y.D.R.A.. Using my body for what you want, just to throw me away later.”

“No,” you said again, begging. “Bucky, no—“

“I’ll show you what it’s like to be used.”

Bucky grabbed you by the arm, dragging you into your bedroom. The door slammed shut a moment later, and it started all over again. 

On the couch, Bucky takes a moment to look at you. You have your chin on your knees. You’re exhausted. 

“How many times have you watched this?” Bucky finally asked you, leaning back against the couch cushions. 

“I don’t know,” you whispered, and Bucky feels his heart shattering in his chest. 

He drags a hand down his face, taking a deep breath before he forces himself to his feet. He stepped in front of you, blocking your view from himself as the memory of a younger, stupider him started to blame you for shit that he couldn’t work out on his own. 

Bucky kneels down, going eye level with you. You still were looking past him, watching the last fight between the two of you.

“Let’s go,” he said, his voice soft. 

“Where?”

“To save the world. Where else?” he tried joking with you.

“I’m not interested in saving the world, Bucky,” you whispered back, shaking your head. “I’m so tired.”

Bucky let out a sigh, closing his eyes for just a moment. He looks down at the floor, racking his brain for something. Anything. 

“How about the bakery we used to go to every Sunday morning?” he offered, then saw your eyes flicker towards his direction. “They have a new mocha cake flavor. I haven’t tried it yet. Have you?”

“I haven’t been there in years,” you revealed. Your fingers absentmindedly picked at your thigh holsters, just to busy yourself a little bit. One of your anxious habits. 

Bucky moved to rest his hand over yours, forcing your eyes to meet his once more. Forcing you to look at him again. 

“Really? I go there all the time,” he told you. “I sit there and drink an iced coffee and order that loaded croissant you first got me when we went together. You know— the one with the jalapeños and bacon bits.”

“… Why?” you asked, eyebrows furrowing. 

“Because I miss you,” he answered, the confession leaving his lips without any hesitation. “You… You left so fast. I came back here two days later. Your apartment was already up for lease. Your number was disconnected. Your cards were turned off. It’s like you never existed.”

“I don’t get why you would care so much,” you muttered, looking away from him as you pulled your hand away.

Bucky caught it once again, intertwining his fingers with yours. Your name fell from his lips, your eyes meeting his in surprise. He said it so tenderly. So gently. With affection that he had kept guarded in a box locked up and tucked away.

“Can I get another chance, please?” he whispered, and your eyes widened slightly. Bucky wet his lips, letting out a shaking breath. “You told me that you would give me as many chances as I needed. And I fucked up badly on this night.”

“It was my fault for not telling you,” you whispered back. “You felt betrayed. I— I didn’t tell you.”

“I didn’t hear you out,” he said, shaking his head. “I should’ve.”

You stared at him. Bucky watched as you searched his face for answers that you needed years ago, answers that he should have provided you with when he had the chance, when he had you in his arms but was too afraid to tell you how he felt. 

“I will repent for the rest of my life for what I said and did to you,” he promised, squeezing your hand. “This will be the last battle, I swear. If you want me to leave you alone after this, I will. But we have to go. I can’t leave you in here to watch this shit show over and over again.”

Relief surged through his body as you shifted, your feet moving to touch the ground. You stood, and Bucky led you out of your last shame room, and back towards everyone else. 

“Let me do it,” Bucky sighed, taking the antiseptic from your shaking hands. “Sit down on the bench.”

You didn’t fight him. You had no more fight left in your body. From pulling Bob out of the void, to the press monstrosity outside— you were completely spent. 

The Watchtower was a mess. Glass was everywhere, furniture was broken, but at least there was a well functioning medical bay. The entire group of you were in here, all of you licking your wounds as you all tried to make sense of the last twenty-four hours of your life. 

The stinging pain of alcohol pulled you out of your thoughts as Bucky pressed the cleaning agent into your wounds, and your eyebrow furrowed in pain.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“It’s fine. Are… are you okay?” you asked, mustering the courage to look up at his face. 

Truth be told, his injuries had mostly cleared up by now. Just as they always had. But you’re not asking about that, and he knows you’re not.

“I’ll probably enroll into therapy again, if you want me to set you up with someone, too,” he joked. 

“I didn't even tell you everything,” you said, frowning at him. “What makes you think I’ll tell a stranger?”

“Well, I didn’t even tell my therapist everything. I was thinking of dumping everything on Sam, actually. Make it his problem,” Bucky shrugged. 

You paused, thinking it over. “Sounds like a good idea, actually. I haven’t talked to him in a while… Might be good for me to reach out.”

“You should. He asks about you, every once in a while. Asked if I’ve heard from you— even if it’s a whisper or a rumor,” Bucky said, his voice soft. “He misses you, too.”

“I didn’t exactly trust Sam to keep my location a secret after he blurted out to you that I was in a relationship with Steve,” you muttered, a scoff escaping your lips. “He knew that we were sleeping together, too. He knew that you and I were doing it because we needed an outlet after everything we lost.”

Bucky’s hands stopped, and he pulled back to look you in the eyes. Shock is all over his face. 

“He knew?” he asked, in disbelief. 

“Bucky— I knew Sam longer than I’ve known you. Of course I told him,” you frowned at him. “And then the asshole went around telling shit that wasn’t his to tell. I still don't know how he knew me and Steve were together, if I'm being honest."

“Would you have told me?” Bucky asked you, and it’s your turn to pause. 

You weigh his words carefully, taking in the look on his face. He’s not mad. Not upset with you. He’s not looking at you the same way Steve did on your anniversary. It’s not accusatory. Bucky’s curious. 

“I would’ve,” you whispered honestly, nodding. “But I didn’t think we would ever progress past just the… sleeping together. So I didn’t think it was worth mentioning. I didn’t want to ruin the little of you that I managed to have. I didn’t realize that I would lose all of you in the process.”

Bucky let out a breath, dragging a hand down his face. Momentarily, you believe you’ve pissed him off with your response. That you’ll get a repeat of that night in your apartment. 

You watched him carefully, your lungs stopping in your chest as you waited for his response. You wait for the explosion, for the yelling, the accusations— then, he looked at you. His eyes meet yours.

Bucky’s still not upset with you. In fact, there’s affection in his eyes that you can’t believe you’re seeing again. He looks the same way he always did when he hovered above you, murmuring praises about how good you were to him. It was the same way he looked when he held you afterwards, making sure that he didn’t hurt you during the time you spent together. 

This was the same way his eyes would light up when you came over to his apartment with food from his favorite restaurant after a particularly bad therapy session. How he sighed in delight and told you that you were the best, and how you always read his mind. 

And, without you knowing, the same way he looked at you in Wakanda as you walked ahead of him with your hair full of flowers that he picked. Flowers that he deemed were good enough to decorate your head, but still not more beautiful than you.

“Can we start over?” Bucky whispered to you, hands moving to cover yours. 

“Start over and do what?” you whispered back, trying to will your voice to stay even. 

“I think that we have a good chance to do this right. You and me,” he said, releasing a breath. “Without grief or trauma defining… us. Defining our relationship— what we are to each other.”

“If there’s no trauma or grief, then what is there?”

“Love, sweetheart. You don’t believe in love? You were pretty adamant when you told Steve you were a hopeless romantic, you know,” he said, a soft teasing tone in his voice as he squeezed your hands. 

You could only let out a laugh in response, shaking your head. You cringed, unable to stop your body from the visceral reaction. You hated that memory- hated that night. You and Steve didn't talk for two days after that fight.

“You saw that? Did you— You saw the whole thing?”

“I saw the entire thing,” he confirmed, nodding. “And I’m sorry. I… I told you that you were using me, and I didn’t even know that you loved me from the start.”

“I hid it from you,” you murmured. “That isn’t your fault.”

“Then let’s call it an oversight on both our ends,” he said, giving you a small smile. 

“Do you really think this could work?” you asked, sighing deeply. “Us?” 

“Hypothetically speaking, yes. Realistically speaking? A thousand percent. But only if you want it. Only if you want me. Only if you’ll allow me to love you in the way that I definitely do not deserve to have you.”

Just like that. 

Bucky isn’t pleading with you. There is no pressure. He had simply opened the door to his heart, and he’s standing on the other side for you to join him. 

The answer is on the tip of your tongue as you feel your eyes sting with emotion. You’ve cried so much in the past day, you’re surprised you haven’t passed out from dehydration. 

Your vision is beginning to blur from your tears as you look at him— look at his face. 

He’s patient. Watching your every move with bated breath. His gaze is gentle, as if he is anticipating and ready to forgive you for rejecting him. 

Your throat is locked up as a tear finally slips down your cheek. Bucky’s eyes never leave yours, but his hand moves to cradle your face. His thumb brushes away the wetness, clearing your face. 

And you nod. Small, subtle, but you know he sees it. He always sees it. He always sees your every move. 

Bucky’s shoulders drop, relaxed as he reaches for you, arms wrapping around you. He’s holding you to his chest, and you can hear it— the inconsistent sound of his heart beating in his chest. You can feel the anxiety in his bones as he keeps you firm in his grasp, head tucked under his chin. 

A moment later, you bring your own arms around his torso, fingers clutching onto his shirt tight. Bucky shifts, pressing a series of kisses to the top of your head. 

You close your eyes, allowing yourself to finally melt into his arms. Years of yearning and silent love has brought you here, with him. The pain is still present, but is beginning to chip away with each of his words as you listen to him whisper to you—

“I’m so sorry.”

“I’ll make you happy this time.”

“Thank you. I don't deserve you- but thank you.”

“I love you.”

masterlist

husband!bucky who refuses to let you lift a single pretty finger. making lunch? he’s already in the kitchen. groceries? he’s carrying every bag like they weigh nothing. even when you try to do simple things, like start a shower, he’s right behind you, insisting he can take care of it. ‘just let me spoil my girl, doll,’ he says every time.

husband!bucky who is normally the most private, composed man, but suddenly turns into a proud, shameless show-off whenever sam starts bragging. sam mentions something his girlfriend did and bucky doesn’t even hesitate; ‘yeah? well, my wife can do that and like… ten times better.’ 

husband!bucky who practically worships the ground you walk on. he can't help it; he loves you loudly and constantly. he’s always touching you in some way: a hand at your waist, fingers laced with yours, absentmindedly twirling your hair while you talk. he’s obsessed and doesn’t care who knows.

husband!bucky who worships your pussy. day and night. sometimes, you'll wake up to the feeling of his warm tongue licking through your folds, suckling at your clit. you'd peek under covers to see him already looking up at you, ‘go back to sleep, honey. lemme finish up’.

husband!bucky who looks like he'd be such a gentleman, but knows how much you like it rough. he knows what you need on a bad day. face shoved into the pillow, hair tangled in his metal grip as he pounds into your tight pussy, spanking your ass till it's a pretty shade of red.

husband!bucky who absolutely loves putting you in a mating press, pushing your legs as far as they can be against your chest, brutally thrusting into you. all with his hand squeezing your throat. ‘i know, baby. i know.. but you can take it, hm? you always do, such a good little whore, aren't you, hmm? feels so amazing, squeezing my cock’.

husband!bucky who loves filling your pussy to the absolute brim. he loves watching his mess dribble down onto the bed. and knowing that it might lead to seeing you full of his baby? yeah.

husband!bucky who gives the softest, sweetest aftercare on the planet. he wraps you in the fluffiest towel after your bath, carries you to bed, and brings you warm soup or tea to help your throat after your loud cries of pleasure that went on for hours and hours.

The kind of stuff that made your chest feel annoyingly light.

You rolled onto your back, kicked the sheets down to your ankles, and stared at the ceiling. 

You were bored and restless.

Horny, if you were being entirely honest. The good kind of horny that started low in your belly and spread.

Your thumbs hovered over the screen.

babydoll: Entertain me.

James: thought that was my full-time job now

babydoll: It is. You’re slacking.

James: rude. what does madam require?

babydoll: Hmm. Surprise me.

Already knowing exactly how this was going to go, you tugged the hem of your t-shirt up just enough, angled the phone so the shot cut off right beneath your eyes—habit—and snapped a picture. 

Soft curve of your waist, the dip where your hip met thigh, the edge of pale-pink cotton clinging to the swell of your ass. 

Nothing crazy. Just enough to make him swallow his tongue.

You sent it.

Three dots appeared instantly, then vanished, only to reappear and vanish again within a span of five seconds.

James: jesus christ. are you trying to kill me?

babydoll: You’re welcome

James: that’s not fair and you know it.

babydoll: Life isn’t fair James. 

James: you definitely are not.

babydoll: Let’s make it fair then. Send one back.

James: send what?

babydoll: You know what.

James: no i don’t baby

babydoll: Don’t play dumb with me.

You were already grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. You could picture him— wherever he was —muttering curses under his breath, cock probably straining against his jeans like it had a personal vendetta.

Pushing yourself on your elbows, you tugged the t-shit clean off and let it drop to the floor. The air was cool against your bare skin, nipples tightening almost instantly. 

You cupped your breasts, squeezed just enough to make yourself shiver, and angled the camera again. 

The shot was darker this time. There were shadows pooling in the hollow between your tits, the soft weight of them spilling over your forearms, nipples barely hidden by your thumbs. 

And then, because you were bored and because you were also a little shit, you added a caption.

babydoll: Your turn. Show me what’s hard because of me.

Whoosh. Sent.

You flopped back against the pillows, waiting for his response.

The reply was a voice note. His voice came through wrecked, like he’d been holding his breath for the last five minutes.

“Fuck—baby—you can’t just—christ.” There was a loaded pause, and then there was the sound of him shifting in his place? “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me one of these days, I swear.”

Your giggle was disrupted by a buzz. A photo.

Excitement ran through your veins, the first time seeing something of him.  

He’d clearly taken it in a hurry. It was just the obvious tent in dark sweatpants, the outline of him so heavy it looked almost painful. 

The angle was shit, lighting was worse, but god, the size. Your mouth went dry.

babydoll: Cute. But did I send you a picture with my clothes on??

James: can i ever satisfy you?

If his size and words were proof, he can very well satisfy you.

babydoll: Take them off James

babydoll: Also take a proper photo this time. Good lighting. Good angle. Make me wet.

“You want a proper picture, sweetheart? Fine. But you asked for it.” His voice was pure gravel when you played the voice note.

A minute later the photo loaded and you actually whimpered.

For starters, he’d moved. And there was better light. One big hand wrapped around the base of his cock, holding it up for the camera like a goddamn offering. 

It was a sight. Thick, flushed dark, a bead of precum glistening at the slit. Veins standing out along the length. His fingers looked like it barely met around it. 

The angle was perfect. It was low enough to show the heavy weight of his balls, high enough to catch the cut line of his hipbones disappearing under the waistband he’d shoved down just enough.

Your cunt clenched so hard you felt it in your throat.

babydoll: Fuck James

James: happy now?

babydoll: Hell no. Touch it. Stroke it slowly and think about my mouth

You were already sliding your own hand down your stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, only to find yourself soaked. Well, no surprise there. 

Staring at his cocklike it was the only thing in the world, you circled your clit, hips rolling into your palm with each motion.  

Another buzz, and it was a video this time. It was the same angle, and his fist was moving. Slow drag up, thumb swiping over the head, smearing precum down the shaft. You could see the flex of his forearm, the tension in his thighs.

Fuck. 

babydoll: Again

When did you become this dirty, asking for dick pics? 

He sent three more in quick succession. Each stroke was slower with his grip tightening until the head looked angry and slick. 

Pushing two fingers inside yourself, you curled them just right while watching him jerk off for you. His was the prettiest you’ve ever seen. 

Your phone buzzed with a final voice note, his voice cracked and breathless.

“Tell me you’re touching yourself, baby. Tell me you’re wet for me.”

You came with his name on your tongue and your fingers buried deep, vision whiting out.

The call had been easy, just like they were lately. The lazy and half-awake voices tangled in the dark, talking about nothing and everything at once.

He’d been listening to you vent about vending machine coffee that tasted like ash.

“—so i’m standing there, praying the machine doesn’t eat my last dollar, and this guy walks by and goes, ‘That thing’s been broken since the Clinton administration.’ Like, thanks, man. Real helpful.”

Bucky snorted. “should’ve flashed the stethoscope. instant respect.”

“Yeah, because nothing says authority like a twenty-something-year-old in scrubs two sizes too big and a ponytail that gave up halfway through shift.”

An easy laugh bubbled out of him, that was more smile than laugh, if we’re being honest.

Lately, he’d been smiling without meaning to, just because you were easy to listen to. Easy to picture in his mind, pacing some small room, hair messy from the day, hands moving as you talked because you never just spoke; you animated every word.

“James?” your voice had gone softer, if that was even possible.

“Hmm?”

“I kinda… I wanna see you.”

The words hit him like a punch behind the ribs.

Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

His heartbeat went from lazy to sprint in half a second.

You wanted to see him. The metal arm. The scars. The face you’d smiled at in a hospital hallway while he pretended he didn’t already know exactly how you sounded when you came.

He swallowed. “You already see plenty of me, sweetheart.”

“No,” you laughed, but it was breathy or nervous or excited; he couldn’t pin one emotion. “I mean your face, dummy. I wanna know what you look like when you’re trying not to laugh at my dumb stories. Or when you’re half-asleep and your voice goes all gravelly. I’ve got this whole picture in my head and it’s probably wrong and I still wanna know.”

Panic tasted metallic on his tongue. He scrambled for a detour, any detour.

“You’d be disappointed,” he aimed for teasing. “I’ve got a face made for radio, remember? You’ll take one look and go ‘Oh. That explains the voice.’”

You snorted. “Bullshit. You’ve got the kind of voice that ruins people for real life, and I’m betting the face will match. If not, I’m willing to risk the disappointment. C’mon, James. We’ve heard each other come. We’ve fallen asleep on the phone like teenagers. Don’t tell me you’re shy now.”

Change the damn topic, Barnes. His brain was screaming at him.

“So that coffee,” he started, “did it at least wake you up or—”

“James.” Your voice cut through, gentle but firm. “Don’t dodge. I can hear you doing that thing where you rub your jaw when you’re stalling.”

Shit. You just knew him too well.

Through clenched teeth, “it’s not that easy, baby.”

“Why?” He could hear the pout beginning to form on your face.

Because I’ve been lying to you since the first time you wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around my arm and I got hard like a teenager.

Because I know what your pulse feels like under my thumb and you don’t even know my real name in your mouth yet.

Because if you see me you’ll know everything and I’ll lose you before I ever really had you.

He said none of that.

Instead he went with the safest lie he could find. “I’m just camera shy. Like… pathologically. I look like a serial killer in photos. You’ll regret it.”

You hummed, like you were thinking, like you were finding the next thing to block him. “You’ve seen me naked and screaming your name. I think I can handle your serial-killer face.” Then, like you were bargaining, “i’ll do anything.”

His cock twitched so hard it hurt.

Anything.

The word rolled around his skull like a live grenade. Anything. Jesus Christ.

He shifted on the bed, sweatpants doing fuck-all to hide the sudden rush of blood south. “Anything’s a big word, baby.”

“I mean it.” Your voice dropped; he couldn’t tell if you’d thought this through or not. “Whatever you want. Name it, James.”

Whatever I want.

His mind short-circuited. Images slammed into him one after another: you on your knees in that black set he loved, mouth open and eyes watering; you bent over your bed while he buried himself so deep you forgot your own name; you riding his face until your thighs shook and you soaked his chin.

He was fully hard now, cock straining against his sweats like it had nowhere left to go.

“Like… like what?” he hated how wrecked he already sounded. “You can’t just drop ‘anything’ on a guy and expect him to think straight.”

A low laugh slipped out of you. “Whatever you want,” you repeated, a tad slower. “A private show… or my tits in your inbox whenever you ask. Or me saying your name while I fuck myself with the toy you pick. Okay, me calling you daddy if that’s your thing. I—I don’t even care anymore. Anything, James.”

Private show. Fuck. He knew you didn’t do those. You’d said it a hundred times in streams: no privates, and absolutely no exceptions. Now you were handing it to him like it weighed nothing.

His throat was almost dry. “What’s… what’s a private show, exactly?” he asked, even though he very well knew.

Another laugh bubbled out of you, this one more fond than anything else. “God, you’re cute when you pretend to be innocent. It’ll be just us. No chat or audience or tips. Only you telling me what to do and me doing it. We can have camera on both sides if you let me. I’ll even wear a mask if you want. Or not. It’s your call.”

Both sides.

He closed his eyes. The grenade in his head ticked louder.

“And if I asked…” he started, then stopped. Fuck it. “If I asked to see your face?”

There was a silence for a beat; he could almost hear you thinking.

Then came your voice, clear as day, “yes.”

Just that. Yes.

His heart slammed against his ribs so hard he was half-sure you heard it through the phone.

“You sure?” he asked, voice rough with want and uncertainty. “That’s… that’s a big deal for you, baby.”

“I trust you,” you said simply. “I’ve trusted you with a lot already. And I want you to see me when I say your name. I want you to know it’s real.”

Real. You wanted him to know it was real. What would you do if you finally realised who he was?

He stared at the ceiling, cock aching, guilt and want braided so tight he couldn’t tell which was choking him.

“Soon,” he finally managed. “I promise. Just… give me a little time.”

You let out a shaky little breath that sounded like relief and nerves and promise all at once.

“Soon,” you echoed. “I’ll wait. But not forever, James. I’m impatient when I want something.”

A breathless laugh escaped his lips. “Yeah, I’ve noticed, sweetheart.”

He could hear the smile in your voice. “Then you know I always get what I want.”

He closed his eyes, pressing the phone tighter to his ear like he could keep you there forever.

God, I hope not.

Bucky set the laptop on the coffee table and pushed the couch back until only the faintest spill of lamplight touched his knees.

He’d been waiting in the same spot for two solid hours, adjusting the angle, the light, the distance, until everything was exactly right.

Eight o’clock hit and the call connected with a soft chime that felt louder than a gunshot.

Your feed opened. And there you were.

Crimson satin mask tied tight, black lace bra and panties he’d pictured on you a hundred times—the ones that cut high on your hips and dipped so low in front he could already see the shadow between your thighs.

You were on your knees in the middle of the bed, ring light painting you gold, but tonight the usual confidence was turned way down. Shoulders a little rounded, fingers twisting in your lap, bottom lip caught between your teeth like you were the nervous one waiting for instructions.

Jesus Christ. Weren’t you a sight?

You looked exactly like the first time he saw you in the hospital, except then you’d been drowning in an oversized white coat and now you were drowning in almost nothing at all.

Everything else was the same. Same nervous bite of your lip. Same way your hair fell forward when you ducked your head.

“Hi, James,” your voice came out smaller than he’d ever heard it on stream, almost shy. The mask hid half your face but he caught the way your breath hitched, the tiny swallow in your throat.

“Hey, sweetheart.” His own voice scraped out rougher than he meant, thick with everything he was swallowing down. “You look nervous.”

You laughed—the exact soft laugh you’d given him in the ER when he’d called you doll and pretended it was casual. “Yeah… I mean, I kinda am. This feels way more real than the streams, you know? This is… different.”

Different. Yeah. Different was you finally letting him see the parts you kept from ten thousand strangers.

“Mask looks good on you.”

Your fingers fluttered to the ribbon at the back of your head. “I figured you’d wanna keep a little mystery going for a bit. Or… is that dumb?”

“I want whatever makes you comfortable, baby.” Lie. He wanted the mask gone yesterday. He wanted your eyes wide and unguarded when you realized the man wrecking you from a dark room was the same one you’d smiled at in a hospital hallway.

“Your camera’s still off, though. Come on, that’s not fair.”

“After,” he said, forcing his voice neutral.

“Nooo, now,” you countered, soft and stubborn at the same time, and fuck if that didn’t twist something low in his gut. “I showed up in lingerie, the least you can do is let me see that smile I’ve been imagining for weeks.”

He exhaled dramatically, but reached forward anyway. He flipped his camera on—just enough. The feed caught him from the bridge of his nose down, shadows swallowing the rest. Metal arm safely out of frame, light never touching it.

You leaned closer, breasts nearly spilling into his view, and squinted. “Oh my god, you absolute cheater,” you accused, but you were laughing. The exact same laugh from the hospital hallway when he’d called you doll and pretended it was harmless. “I can barely see you! That’s like… half a face. Rude.”

His chest ached.

He’d only seen you twice in person, but those two times were branded into him: the way you’d tucked hair behind your ear, the way you’d flushed when he’d said “good girl” without meaning to. Now here you were, flushed for him again, and it was killing him.

“C’mere, sweetheart. Take your mask off. Let me see you.”

Your fingers hesitated at the knot. “You’re sure? I don’t wanna ruin the vibe if I look all… I don’t know, normal without it.”

“You won’t. Come on, baby. I’ve been dying to see your face when you’re like this.”

The satin slipped free when you tugged the ribbon, and there was your face. Bared to him.

Just you—flushed, wide-eyed, biting your lip so hard he worried you’d draw blood. The girl who’d taken his vitals and pretended not to notice his pulse racing. The same girl now sitting in lingerie he’d give his other arm to peel off you.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re even prettier than I remembered.”

Your cheeks went scarlet. “You say that like you’ve seen me before… wait, have we met or something? You’re freaking me out a little.” You laughed, but it was nervous.

He almost choked. He’d slipped.

Images of how he’d seen you before slammed into him. He’d memorized every detail. Twice. Once when you’d wrapped the cuff around his arm and your fingers had brushed his wrist. Once when you’d smiled at him in the hallway and asked about your cut finger. He couldn’t slip again.

“Stand up for me, baby,” he managed.

You rose off the bed. The lace bra cupped you perfectly, nipples already hard against the fabric. He watched your stomach flutter with every breath.

“Turn around.”

You obeyed, giving him the line of your spine, the dimples above your ass, the way the panties disappeared between your cheeks.

“Goddamn, sweetheart. You’re killing me.”

You glanced back, shyness creeping in again. “Good killing or bad killing?”

“The kind where I forget how to speak English.”

A sly smile curved your lips. “Okay, good. Bra next? Or are you gonna make me suffer?”

“Yeah. Take it off, honey. Let me see those gorgeous tits.”

Your hands went behind your back and the clasp popped. You let the straps slide down your arms, then held the cups in place a second longer than necessary, teasing.

“Let go.”

The lace fell.

Your breasts spilled free, nipples tight from nerves and want. You cupped them instinctively, then dropped your hands when he growled low.

“Please, don’t hide from me. Pinch them, baby. Show me how sensitive you are tonight.”

You rolled both nipples between your fingers, gasping softly. Your head fell back a little, exposing your throat.

His cock throbbed inside his pants, probably leaking already.

That tilt. He’d seen it when you were checking his chart, when you’d asked “left arm or right?” and he’d almost groaned at the thought of your hands on vibranium. Now you were doing it while you played with your nipples for him.

“Panties,” he said, like he’d just remembered you weren’t completely bare. “Bend over when you take them off.”

You hooked your thumbs in the waistband, turned your back to the camera again, and bent. 

The lace peeled down your thighs, catching for a second on the slick between your legs before you stepped out.

You were dripping. He could see it from here.

“Fuck, baby. Look at you. Already soaked.”

Straightening, you turned, arms half-crossing your chest like you weren’t sure where to put them.

“Hands down,” he ordered gently. “Let me look.”

You obeyed, even though you were trembling.

He let the silence stretch until your thighs pressed together.

Your breathing was the same as when you’d taken his blood pressure—quick little inhales like you were trying to stay calm. Except now you were naked and wet and waiting for him.

He let the quiet linger just long enough for you to squirm before his voice dropped back in, softer, almost fond.

“Come here, baby. Come closer to the camera. I wanna see you properly.”

You came forward, breasts swaying as you walked. Your hands hovered, then settled on your thighs.

“God, look at you,” he murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “All sweet and shy. You have any idea what that does to me?”

You ducked your head, hair falling across your face, then peeked up through it. “I feel… ridiculous. Like I’m on display.”

“You are on display,” he said gently. “My display. And you’re perfect.”

You bit your lip—the same nervous little bite he remembered from the hospital hallway—and his heart clenched hard enough to hurt.

“James?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Tell me what to do. I… I need you to tell me.”

The plea in your voice almost undid him. He leaned forward. “Alright. Go get your favorite toy. The one you use when you’re thinking about my voice in your ear. Walk slowly—I wanna watch.”

The camera caught every sway of your hips as you padded to the nightstand, the curve of your ass, the way your thighs brushed. You pulled the drawer open, rummaged, then turned back with the thick purple silicone cock in your hand.

He exhaled through his teeth. “Jesus. That the best you’ve got?”

Your voice came mock-offended. “Hey, don’t insult him. He’s been very loyal.”

“Loyal’s cute. He’s still smaller than what you’ll be taking when it’s me.”

Your mouth fell open, a startled laugh bubbling out. “Someone’s sure of himself.”

“Someone knows what he’s working with,” he shot back, grinning despite the ache in his chest. “Bring it here, baby. Show me how you get it ready for that pretty pussy.”

You crawled back onto the bed, giving him a deliberate view of your ass before settling on your knees facing him. The toy looked obscene in your small hand.

“Mouth first,” his voice had gone softer now. “Get it nice and wet for me. Pretend it’s me you’re tasting.”

You brought it to your lips, tongue peeking out, tracing the underside. Your eyes flicked up to the camera— first a little shy, then bolder—and you took the head in, cheeks hollowing. A soft hum vibrated around the silicone.

His breath caught. “That’s it… deeper, sweetheart. I wanna hear you choke on it a little.”

You pushed further, eyes watering instantly, a tiny gag that went straight to his cock. Spit glistened on your chin when you pulled off gasping.

“Good girl,” the praise rough with pride and want. “Again. Make it messy, baby. I like you messy.”

You did it again, and again, until drool slipped down your wrist and the toy shone under the ring light. Your lips were swollen and lipstick smeared.

“Perfect,” he whispered. “Now lay back for me. Knees up, legs open, baby. Show me where you want it.”

You fell back against the pillows, thighs trembling as they parted. The camera caught everything: the slick shine on your inner thighs, the way your pussy clenched around nothing.

“Fuck, baby. You’re dripping. All that just from sucking silicone?”

You whimpered. “From you telling me what to do.”

“Tease yourself first. Just the tip. Up and down that pretty slit. Don’t put it in yet.”

You guided the head along your folds, gasping every time it nudged your clit. Your hips rolled, chasing friction.

“James—please—”

“Not yet, sweetie. I wanna watch you suffer a little. You look so fucking gorgeous when you’re needy.”

You whined, but obeyed, sliding the toy through your wetness until your thighs shook and your back bowed off the bed.

“Now slide it in slowly. Let me hear every inch.”

The sound that left you when you pushed inside was pure filth— both desperate and relieved. Your head fell back with another moan.

“That’s my girl,” he rasped. “Fuck yourself nice and deep. Pretend it’s me filling you up.”

You started moving, hips rolling, the toy disappearing over and over. Your free hand flew to your breast, squeezing hard.

“Add your fingers on your clit, baby. Slow circles. I wanna see you fall apart piece by piece.”

You cried out the second your fingers touched, hips bucking hard enough the headboard tapped the wall.

“Tell me who you belong to,” he demanded, voice cracking with how close he was to losing it himself.

“You,” you sobbed. “Only you—James—fuck, please—”

“Come for me, sweetheart. Soak the sheets. Let me watch you break.”

You shattered.

Your whole body locked, pussy clenching visibly around the toy, a rush of wetness spilling out as you screamed his name.

Tears slipped down your temples into your hair. You rode it out shaking, gasping, thighs trembling so hard the mattress squeaked.

He gave you maybe twenty seconds of mercy, watching you come down, skin glowing with sweat.

“Again, baby. Don’t pull it out. Fuck yourself through it. I’m not done with you.”

You sobbed, oversensitive, but your hips rolled anyway because he asked. “I can’t—it’s too much—”

“You can. You will. Be my good girl one more time.”

Your second orgasm hit like a freight train. You screamed, the toy buried to the hilt as your walls pulsed. When you collapsed, the sheets beneath you were drenched, dark and ruined.

You were trembling everywhere, hair stuck to your forehead, lips parted on ragged breaths.

With what little strength you had left, you pushed up on your elbows, looked straight into the camera, voice small and wrecked.

“James… please, baby. Show me your face. I just… I need to see the man who does this to me. Please.”

His finger hovered.

Every cell in his body screamed to flip the light, to let you see it was him—the same man whose pulse you’d taken, whose wrist you’d touched, who’d watched you blush in a hallway and pretended he wasn’t already ruined.

But the second you saw the arm, the scars, the face you’d smiled at twice, you’d know every lie.

You’d hate him.

Your lip trembled. Fresh tears welled. “Please… I’m begging you.”

His throat closed so tight he couldn’t swallow. He pressed end call.

The screen snapped to black.

The silence that followed was deafening.

He sat frozen, cock throbbing painfully against his sweats, untouched, leaking a steady drip onto his skin. His hands shook. 

He waited for the call back, the furious text, the “what the fuck, James?”

Nothing.

Minutes bled into twenty, thirty, an hour.

He didn’t move. Didn’t touch himself. Didn’t deserve the relief.

He just sat there in the dark, shirt sticking to his back with sweat, heart hammering so hard it hurt, every inch of him aching with the sound of your broken please echoing over and over.

He pictured you on the other side of the city, curled up in those ruined sheets, mascara streaked, feeling used and discarded.

He hated himself with a clarity that burned.

He wanted to drive to your apartment, fall on his knees outside your door, beg through the wood until you let him in.

He wanted to vanish off the face of the earth so you’d never have to know it was him.

He did neither.

He stayed on the couch, hard and hurting and hollow, staring at the blank screen until the sky outside turned gray, your final please looping in his head like a broken record he’d never deserve to turn off.

He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there. Could have been ten minutes. Could have been two hours. The apartment was dead quiet except for the wet thud of his own pulse in his ears.

His cock finally softened, but the ache was still there, a dull, punishing throb that matched the one behind his ribs.

He groaned and dragged both hands down his face. Metal fingers scraped over stubble. Flesh ones came away damp.

The phone was on the coffee table. He stared at it like it was a loaded gun.

Pick it up, Barnes. Fix this.

He reached for it. The thing felt heavier than it had any right to. His thumb hovered over your contact—babydoll, with the little red heart emoji you’d made him add one night when you’d been tipsy on lack of sleep and too much honesty.

He started typing before his brain caught up.

James: baby i’m so sorry   James: the call dropped and i panicked like a fucking idiot  James: please answer me  James: i didn’t mean to leave you like that  James: you were perfect, you’re always perfect  James: sweetheart please 

He hit send on the last one and watched the little blue bubbles float up.

Delivered.

No read receipt.

He waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.

The bubbles stayed gray. No typing indicator.

His stomach dropped so fast he felt it in his knees.

He typed again, faster than he knew it was possible.

James: i know i fucked up  James: just tell me you’re okay  James: yell at me, curse me, anything  James: just don’t disappear on me  James: please baby

Sent.

Still nothing.

He refreshed the chat. The messages sat there, then—undelivered. The little “delivered” tag vanished.

He swiped up to your profile picture. Gone. Just the default gray silhouette.

The chat header changed in real time: This user has blocked you.

The phone slipped from his fingers and hit the rug with a dull thud.

He stared at the ceiling, chest caving in on itself. His eyes burned, but nothing fell. He didn’t cry. He didn’t get the release.

He thought about the way you’d looked at the camera—shaking, wrecked, mascara streaked, whispering please like he was the only person in the world who could fix you.

He thought about how you’d trusted him with your face, your body, your rawest parts.

He thought about the first time you smiled at him in the hospital hallway, and how he’d lied with every breath since.

He thought about the sound you made when you came the second time—his name cracked right down the middle.

His metal hand curled into a fist. He pressed it to his sternum like he could crush the ache out.

Well done, Barnes.

You finally got the girl to trust you.

And then you broke her.

You stared at the black screen for what felt like forever, the little “call ended” banner still glowing in the corner like it was mocking you.

Your chest rose and fell in ragged little hitches, the room too quiet now without his voice filling it.

You waited, stupidly, desperately, for the ringtone to kick back in, for him to pop up with some sheepish “sorry, baby, my connection’s trash” or “got nervous, give me a sec.”

Anything. Even a lame excuse would have been better than this silence.

But nothing came.

The seconds stretched into minutes, and the warmth that had been pooling low in your belly curdled into something cold and sour.

You felt suddenly, horribly small on the big bed, sheets twisted and soaked beneath you, skin still tacky with sweat and slick.

The toy lay discarded near your knee like evidence. Your thighs trembled from the aftershocks, but the pleasure was already gone, replaced by this ugly, hollow ache that sat right behind your ribs.

Used.

That was the word that kept circling. You had stripped yourself bare, literally and emotionally, for the first time ever, and he’d just… vanished. Like you were a stream he could close out of when he was done. Like the second you asked for something real, you weren’t worth the effort anymore.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You blinked them back hard, angry at yourself for crying over a guy whose face you’d never even seen.

But they came anyway, slipping sideways into your hair.

You rolled off the bed on shaky legs and went to the bathroom. The shower came on scalding. You stepped under it, gasping as the heat hit oversensitive skin.

You scrubbed hard until your shoulders and breasts and thighs were stinging, trying to wash off the smell of sex, the feel of his voice still clinging to your skin, the memory of how you’d begged.

You stayed in there until the water ran cold and your fingers pruned, until the steam fogged the mirror so thick you couldn’t see your own red-rimmed eyes.

Wrapped in a towel, you padded back to the bedroom. The ring light was still on, glaring like an accusation. You killed it with one angry flick.

The room plunged into darkness, lit only by the city glow leaking through the blinds.

You stripped the used sheets, balled them up, and shoved them into the hamper like they’d personally betrayed you. Fresh ones went on crooked because your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Then you curled on your side, knees to chest, arms wrapped tight around yourself like you could hold the pieces together.

It had been a little more than an hour since the call started. It felt like a lifetime.

Your phone sat face-down on the pillow beside you. You told yourself you weren’t going to look. You lasted maybe ten minutes.

When you flipped it over, the screen lit up with notifications from him.

More kept coming, one after another, frantic little blue bubbles that made your throat close up.

You read them. Every single one.

Then your thumb hovered over the block button.

He’d seen you come undone. He’d heard you beg. And the second you asked for him in return, he’d vanished.

You pressed block.

The messages turned gray. His name disappeared. The little heart emoji you’d added next to “James” vanished along with everything else.

You set the phone face-down again and pulled the blanket over your head.

The tears came freely now, quiet and hot into the pillow until there was nothing left but the ache that sat heavy where his voice used to be.

next part (coming soon)

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