reblog! reblog! reblog!

Bucky Barnes had thought of himself as a weapon, a tool for destruction, for pain, for suffering. It had taken years of therapy, nightmares and hard discussions to reach where he was now.

With you.

Your shoulders braced against the wall, thick tactical gear around your ankles and your back slightly arched as you attempted to lean into him.

Even as you attempted to push forward, the metal of his hand held you in place, intent on his work. His other hand remained between your legs, his thumb gently massaging your clit as two of his fingers slowly rubbed against your walls.

“Bucky,” you whine slightly.

“Bit busy here, doll,” the blue of his eyes flicker up to meet yours. His thumb shifts away, his fingers begin to move faster, pushing forward to seek any sensitive spots.

You hear yourself curse as your eyes sting at the overwhelming tension building in your stomach.

“How are you—” your voice cuts off as you feel his fingers press deep, forcing a moan from your mouth.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing slightly. “I like to listen to what my girl needs.”

His fingers move again pulling out slightly before pushing forward again.

“So stop overthinking, and let me work,” his voice is low, a hint of something underlying there. He curled his fingers, rubbing the sensitive skin as you cried out.

“They’re going to hear—” you weakly protest, your mind torn between the man kneels before and the faint awareness that his own team were only one floor above, bickering over bad television and snacks.

He does not respond, instead his fingers moved faster, relentlessly, having now fought the soft spot that made your eyes roll.

All you could hear was your heavy breathing, mixed with choked moans, over his ministrations. Your head remained pressed against wall all the metal of his hand cupped your neck, gently, his thumb running over your jawline with surprising tenderness.

Then his fingers pushed in one more time, stretching you wide, jabbing just enough that you feel the tension in your stomach disintegrating

“Bucky,” a cry escaped your lips as you feel yourself shudder.

The world feels numb for a second, nothing seeming to matter before you blink out of your haze.

Below you, you can see his dark hIr, and feel his hands carefully pulling up your clothes back into place.

“Thank you,” your voice is a whisper

He gets to a feel, his eyes amused a smirk on his face, then leans close to give you a peck on the mouth.

“Anytime, doll,” he leans away then, crossing his arms across his chest, drawing attention to how the thin black shirt stretched over his form.

“That’s not fair,” you protest. “You can’t just flex after getting me off.”

He chuckles. “I’ve earnt it, don’t you think? Made you cum just with two of my fingers.”

“Smug bastard,” you mutter, a hint of fondness in your tone.

“You love it,” he responds playfully. “You love that I get you off so easily.”

You glare at him a moment before shaking your head, allowing your hand to reach up, lingering on the peppered stubble on his chin.

“Yeah, I do,” you admit.

The smirk fall from his face, turning into a gentle smile that crinkles the edges of his eyes.

To calm the buzzing in your chest, to hold you together, to make sure you reached that faraway place safely instead of getting lost in it.

And that someone was Joel. 

'Daddy' you called him sometimes, voice tiny and unsure, even though you weren't supposed to. Your glassy eyes always found him first. Your hands always fisted his shirt. Your thighs always around his waist while he rocked and rocked you to sleep. 

'Little babygirl' he'd answer, even though he wasn't supposed to. A stern face guiding you, big hands holding you and that strong frame of his making you feel safe as if it was his only mission in life. 

Tonight, Joel is deep asleep. Breathing slow, steady, calm. Exactly that quiet rhythm you know by heart.

And you're standing there in the doorway, small and overwhelmed, staring at the only place that had ever felt like shelter.

Little you is drifting. 

The edges of your vision are soft, your thoughts wrapped in that familiar, thick cotton of subspace. You don't want to think; you just want to be held.

Carefully, you peel back the heavy blanket and slide into the heat of his bed. You press your front against his back, your small frame curling into the curve of his body. You let out a tiny, broken whimper, the sound vibrating against his skin, and bury your face between his shoulder blades. 

Oh, how warm he is. 

And Joel stirs. 

A slow awakening—a gradual return to consciousness that starts with the feeling of something soft and trembling pressed against him. And even though he freezes just for a heartbeat, your daddy recognises you immediately. 

But he can't. He shouldn't turn around and wrap his arms around your little frame until all those bad thoughts drifted far away. He shouldn't. 

"No," he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep. He doesn't turn around yet, but his muscles tense. "No...we said we weren't doing this again. You can't just...you can't just slip in here, babygirl."

He tries to sound stern, tries to maintain the boundary you both agreed upon, but you only press closer. You cling to him, your fingers bunching the fabric of his shirt, a sob catching in your throat.

"You can't always just crawl into my bed," he says, voice firm. "I mean it."

He didn't mean it. 

He knows what this state of yours means.

He knows exactly where it's heading, knows exactly how it's gonna end. He knows so well.

"Go to your room," he says again, sharper this time. "You hear me? You can't be doin' this. We said we weren't…we weren't gonna let this happen again."

And oh how it stings your small, tender heart when Daddy's voice turns stern like that.

He exhales hard. "Sweetheart, don't make me say it again."

You can't help but let a hot tear escape, soaking into his shirt. The sound of your quiet weeping is the breaking point for him. 

Joel closes his eyes, a pained flicker crossing his face as his resolve finally cracks. He can't leave you drifting out there alone. Can't leave his little babygirl all by herself. 

With a heavy, quiet exhale, he shifts, rolling over and letting one steady arm find your waist, guiding you upwards and into the safe space of his lap—the place that's always only meant for you. 

He settles you there, your legs draped over his thighs, and begins to stroke your back in long, grounding sweeps. You immediately bury your face into the warmth of his neck. 

"You're slipping away, huh?" he asks softly, his voice losing its edge and turning into that nurturing, honeyed tone that always makes you feel safe. "All gone in the head? Just a little babygirl who can't handle the world today?"

You nod, nuzzling into his shirt, breathing him in, and a tiny whimper escapes you; a sound so small and pitiful it's barely a breath. Your hand fists in his shirt, and you mumble against his chest, your voice thick and slurry, like you're talking through a mouthful of cotton.

"Want your cock, Daddy."

He releases a breath, your words making his mind spin. His grip on your hip tightens, his fingers digging slightly into your soft flesh. You respond by grinding your aching center against his thigh, a soft, desperate moan escaping your lips.

"No, babygirl." His voice is soft, gentle but firm. "We've talked about this, didn't we?"

You feel the frown pull at your brow, and you lift your head, your eyes hazy and unfocused, struggling to find his face in the dim light. 

"But I need it," you whine, the sound dragging out. "Please, Daddy. Please. I need it so bad."

He cups your cheek, his thumb stroking over your cheekbone, his skin rough and warm. "Sweet girl. You're so far under I can see it in those pretty eyes. You ain't in a place to think straight right now."

"I can—" you start, but he shushes you with a soft click of his tongue.

"I know you think you can, honey. But I'm your Daddy, and it's my job to know what's best for you." 

Your mind drifts, foggy and unfocused, to all the times he told you he couldn't be your daddy—that you shouldn't call him by that name, that it wasn't right, that it wasn't allowed. But now…in this confused, hazy state, you don't question a single word he says. You just accept it, soft and small, because everything feels too far away to fight.

He adjusts you on his lap, and he feels it then: the wet heat of you against his thigh, the slick slide of your bare cunt leaving a glistening trail on his pants. 

You'd taken your panties off hours ago, wanting to feel the chill on your skin. And now his breath hitches, just a little, and his hand drifts down to rest on the curve of your hip.

You're leaking. 

You can feel it, a slow, steady drip that soaks into the fabric, and you squirm, rubbing yourself against him just a little, chasing that friction. 

He groans low in his throat. "None of that, babygirl."

"Just the tip, Daddy." The words tumble out in a rush, desperate and breathless. "Please. Just the tip. I'll be good. I promise I'll be so good."

He sighs, long and heavy, and you can see the war in his eyes—the stern, responsible daddy who wants to tuck you into bed and keep you safe, and the daddy who aches to give you exactly what you're begging for. 

"No, honey. We had just the tip last time, and you didn't behave." 

You remember. You remember the way you'd bucked against him, trying to take more, the way he'd had to pull out mid-thrust and hold you down until you calmed down. But this time it's different, you swear.This time you're so soft, so pliant, so utterly lost in the haze that you know you'd be good. 

You'd be so so good for him.

"I'll be good, Daddy. I swear on my heart. I'll be so still and quiet. I just need to feel you—just a little. Please, Daddy. Please, please, please." Your eyes find his, limpid and pleading, tears pricking at the corners. "I'm so empty. I feel so empty without you."

He stares at you for a long, long moment, his thumb still tracing lazy patterns on your hip. His gaze is tired, heavy, searching, and you hold your breath, your whole body trembling with the effort of staying still for him. 

"Alright," he murmurs, and the word is like a key turning in a lock. Your heart stutters. "Alright. But you gotta promise me, babygirl. You let Daddy control it. You let me take care of you."

"I promise, Daddy. I promise I'll be good. I'll be your good girl."

He shifts you off of his lap, laying you down gently on his bed, your head sinking into the blanket. 

The mattress then dips as he moves, positioning himself between your thighs, his weight settling over you. 

You look up at him, all hazy in adoration, and spread your legs wider in invitation.

"I ain't hard, baby. But it'll work." He mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you. "We can make it work. You're tight anyway...it'll fit right in. Just a little bit, honey. Just enough to make you feel better."

You watch as he takes his cock out of his pants. 

It's soft, just as he said it would be, but even like this it's thick enough to make your mouth water. His tip the size of a small lime, flushed in a reddish undertone, and wet at the slit. He wraps his fingers around himself, giving himself a few lazy strokes, and you squeeze your thighs together instinctively.

"Please, Daddy," you peep, voice small.

He chuckles again, warm and fond. "I know, honey. Just a little babygirl, huh? My sweet, sweet girl."

But then he shifts, reaching for the nightstand, and a tiny, needy whine crawls out of your throat before you can stop it, fingers curling into his shirt, tugging him back.

"Hey…hey…shh." His voice drops like warm honey, slow and soothing. "Daddy's here. Just needed my glasses to see your pussy better, hon. Nothin' happened. M'here."

You blink up at him, and he's sliding those wire-framed glasses onto his face, the moonlight catching the lenses for a moment. 

He looks down at you, and through the glass his eyes are even softer, even more focused on his babygirl. 

"Desperate baby," He hums almost to himself, as his fingers find your folds and part them gently. 

You gasps at the touch, the cool air on your slick skin, and he lets out a breathy chuckle.

"Oh, you've been real needy, hm?" He hums. "Pretty little pussy, all soft and swollen for Daddy. Yeah, honey?"

You nod frantically, a little moan escaping you. 

He strokes through your wetness then, gathering it on his fingertips, and brings his hand to his cock. 

With a gentle squeeze, he guides his cockhead to your entrance and presses slowly in.

Even that single inch is a stretch, a slow, burning fullness that makes your eyes roll back in your head. Your mouth falls open, a breathy "oh" escaping you, and you feel every ridge, every vein as he sinks just barely inside. He stops there, his hips flush against yours, and you can feel him pulsing, feel the slight give of his flesh inside you.

Your head falls back, whimpering, hips twitching, trying to take him in. But he pulls back, just a fraction. 

"What did we say, hon? Behave."

You pout, bottom lip jutting out, and a fresh tear slips down your cheek. But you still, your body trembling with the effort, wanting to be good for your daddy.

"That's my good girl." Joel rewards you with a slow, gentle press of his soft tip further into your hole. 

You cry out, a high, keening sound, and he hushes you, his voice a low purr.

"Ain't even need to be hard, honey. Look how pretty you take me. Just the tip, babygirl. Just a little taste. You feel that? You feel Daddy's cock in your sweet little pussy?"

"Mhm—" you nod, glassy eyes watching as he plays with your cunt.

While he looks down at your cunt, his reading glasses slip to the bridge of his nose, hanging there stubbornly. Your hand rises without thinking, pushing them back up with a small, clumsy touch.

"Thank you, honey," he says gently. "Barely here, and you're still takin' care of me." Joel shakes his head, fond and tired.

"Always daddy..."

He breathes out a soft laugh, and strokes your cheek with a slow, careful touch.

Oh, how Joel's heart ached. Even while you were far away, those tiny words slipping out of you like instinct. God, how he wished that he didn't care this much. 

"I don't wanna hurt my little girl. You're too far gone for your own little good. You tell me if it's too much, yea, honey?" He asks gently.

"Yes, yes daddy," you babble, your words running together.

Then he starts to move, the shallowest of thrusts, just the thick head of his cock pressing in and sliding out of you with a pop, each pass catching on your rim. It's a tease, a tantalizing brush with something more, and your hands fly up to grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his shirt. 

Joel watches intensely how his tip gets covered in your juices. Every slow thrust makes your cunt react: growing wetter and wetter, entrance clenching and gripping his head like it wants to suck him deeper. 

"Daddy..." The word is a whimper, stretched out into a plea.

"I know, babygirl. I know." His voice is ragged, strained. "Just let daddy feel you. You're so tight. So perfect. So warm and wet for me."

His eyes move from your face down to your arms, noticing the goosebumps racing across your skin.

He halts his movements, frown on his face, murmuring a small: "Cold, honey?" He doesn't wait for an answer before he pulls his thick blanket carefully over your legs and tummy, tucking the edges so the warmth traps against you.

The sudden cocoon of heat makes you melt under him. Your muscles loosen, your breath evens, and the fuzzy, floaty feeling you've been chasing settles deeper. Joel watches your face soften, watches your lashes flutter, and a small, fond smile tugs at his mouth.

Then he starts with his thrusts. 

He rocks, rocks and rocks into you, slow, agonising, sweet while staying true to his promise: just the tip. 

Each tiny thrust is measured, patient, meant only to keep you drifting. His free hand slips under the blanket to rest over your belly, thumb rubbing soothing circles while he keeps the rest of you covered and safe.

His hand then slides lower where your bodies meet. His thumb finds your clit, circling that swollen nub with firm, steady pressure that matches the pace of his shallow thrusts. The dual sensation makes your breath hitch, your hips twitching towards him.

"Oh, my sweet babygirl," he whispers. "You're so close, aren't you." 

And you were. So so close.

His thumb presses harder, rubbing tight circles while his cockhead continues its lazy, teasing slide. You hiccup, the praise hitting you like a spark, heat flooding through your core as your muscles clench around him. 

Your orgasm builds fast, faster than you can realise—cresting without any warning. Your thighs tremble on either side of his hips, your back arching off of the bed as pleasure crashes over you. Soft, whiney whimpers spill from your lips: "daddydaddydaddy," while your walls pulse and squeeze around the tip still nestled just inside you.

"That's it. There you go, honey," Joel murmurs, his voice steady and encouraging. His thumb doesn't stop its relentless rubbing, drawing out every wave. "Squeeze it...yes, juuust like that. You're milking me without even having me inside. Such a good, needy little girl."

Your body responds to every word, clenching tighter around his head as the aftershocks ripple through you.

Joel keeps the slow, shallow movements going, letting you ride it out while his thumb gentles on your oversensitive clit. The warmth of his body surrounds you, his free hand stroking your hip in soothing circles as your breathing slowly evens out.

But then his hips start to tremble too, you can see the muscles in his forearms cord as he holds himself back, his knuckles white where they grip the bed on either side of your head. 

Your sweet daddy was getting hard...and he was trying his oh so best to not fill you up in one, quick thrust. 

With his now hard tip pressed inside you, his thumb leaves your clit to hold into your hips. 

Joel groans low, his eyebrows furrowing together. 

The head of his cock feels hotter now, thicker, the veins along his shaft pulsing against your entrance as he gradually swells inside the tight ring of muscle.

You feel the change immediately—his tip stretching you wider, the pressure building deeper even though he still refuses to push past that first inch. 

A soft whimper slips out before you can stop it.

"Daddy...I'm gonna...again...I can't...please... please just fill me..."

Joel shakes his head gently, his free hand stroking your thigh in soothing circles.

"No, no. You stay right there," he murmurs, voice warm and steady. "Just feel it, babygirl. Feel how big Daddy's getting for you." 

His cock throbs harder inside your entrance, the flared head catching on every flutter of your walls as he rocks forwards again, teasing without giving you more.

Your impatience grows fast. 

Your legs kick lightly against the mattress, your hips rolling up to chase more of him, desperate to pull him deeper. 

Joel clicks his tongue softly and pulls out completely, his wet cock slapping against your mound. 

"Hey. Hey. Oh, honey. It's okay," he soothes, gathering you up into his arms before you can protest. "Didn't you promise me you'd behave tonight, hm?" 

He shifts back against the headboard and settles you into his lap, your thighs straddling his hips, your face pressed to his chest. 

"M'sorry, daddy...i'm tryin' but I need you..." you mumble into his chest, tears already falling from your eyes. 

"Shhh, easy now, it's okey." he whispers against your hair, one big hand rubbing slow circles on your back while the other reaches down to grip his cock again. 

He lines himself up beneath you and then—oh. 

He starts to lower you, inch by careful inch. 

The thick head parts your folds once more, but this time he sinks deeper, stretching your walls open around his full length. 

"There you go...easy." he whispers into your ear while he moves so so agonisingly slow that you feel every ridge, every pulse, every vein dragging along your sensitive insides until he's buried to the hilt inside you.

"Too much, daddy..." The words comes out muffled against his shirt as you bury your face further in his chest, overwhelmed by how completely he fills you. Your body trembles around him, adjusting to the deep stretch, your arms wrapping tight around his torso.

"I know, babygirl...I know. Big stretch." He murmurs into your hair. 

He holds you close, rocking his hips in tiny, shallow movements that keep him seated deep without thrusting hard. 

"Bet that feels real good now in your pussy, hm? All deep inside now." He murmurs. 

Your face comes up from his chest to look at him, cheeks flushed, mouth gaping open. A soft "mhm,"comes from your lips before your face goes into his chest again. 

With every gentle thrust your whimpers—those tiny, little broken sounds—grow louder and louder the longer he keeps that steady pace. 

Joel watches your face the whole time, eyes soft with that sweet mix of concern and affection. When another shaky whine slips out of you, he slows even more, one hand leaving your hip to brush your cheek.

"Open your mouth, babygirl," he murmurs. His fingers trace your lower lip, then nudge gently between your teeth. "Mhm. Open, there you go, that's it. Daddy knows what you need, honey." 

He slides two thick fingers past your lips, letting them rest on your tongue while his hips start to rock up into you in those same tender thrusts. 

The weight of his cock fills you completely with every slow push, and the fingers in your mouth give you something to suckle on, something to ground you while little you floats away. 

"That's my good girl," he whispers, eyes never leaving yours. "Just like that. Keep sucking on Daddy's fingers while he takes care of this pretty cunt." 

His thrusts stay soft and steady, the wet sound of your bodies meeting barely louder than your muffled whimpers around his fingers. 

Joel chuckles when he feels you biting down his fingers, kissing the top of your head. His hand strokes slow circles over your lower back, steadying you.

"So full of Daddy's cock. You want Daddy to cum in you, baby?" 

You nod hazily around his fingers, your walls fluttering around him. 

But Joel shakes his head with a soft, teasing pout. "We ain't using any protection, bug." His hand slides down to grip your hip, guiding your movements gently as he continues those slow, shallow rocks. 

Your mouth leaves his fingers and you pout too, all soft, all floaty, mumbling, "M'gonna cum, Daddy."

"Yeah, baby? You're gonna cum?" His voice stays gentle even as his hips pick up the pace just a little, small thrusts turning quicker.

Your whimpers grow louder, turning into broken little whines as pleasure coils tight in your belly. 

"C'mon then, show your Daddy how good you can cum, bun," Joel sweetly encourages, thrusting steadily until your walls clamp down around him again, creaming and pulsing along his length. 

Your soft moans and cries stay muffled against his chest, your body shaking in his arms as the pleasure rolls through you in long, sweet waves.

Each squeeze sending warmth around his cock, each clench sucking him deeper and milking him until Joel couldn't take it anymore. 

He pulls out quickly once you're spent, stroking himself fast until hot ropes and ropes of cum paint across your tummy and thighs. You look down hazily, still overstimulated from your orgasm, wrapped up in a blanket of clouds. 

He keeps you tucked against him, one hand stroking your hair while the other rubs slow circles on your back. You're already soft and heavy in his arms, eyes fluttering closed as sleep pulls at you. 

"You did so well, babygirl." Joel presses a kiss to the top of your head, holding you close. "All worn out now, aren't you, honey?"

The last thing you hear is his voice, low and sweet, humming a lullaby you don't recognize, and the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath your ear.

Tomorrow will come with its own heaviness.

You both know that. The guilt will settle in quietly, embarrassment will whisper untrue thoughts, and neither of you will quite know what to do with it. You'll avoid each other's eyes, speak in short, careful sentences, pretend the night didn't happen the way it did.

But that's tomorrow.

Right now, wrapped in his arms, the world feels small and warm and so so gentle. Right now, his heartbeat is steady under your cheek, and your breathing finally matches his.

For this one quiet moment, you let yourself rest.

And your daddy, with his old, tired ache in his chest, lets himself hold you just a little closer, wishing he could have this forever. 

Phewwwww. I don't really know if i like this or not my brain is such a mush bc of this heat and stress so excuse my lack of proofreading!

The Colosseum is a home for bloodbaths.

There is a symphony of cheers and screams that rings throughout the entire dome. Swords clash against swords, sweat and blood dance together, dirt kicks into the air, and alcohol and spit shoot out of patrons’ mouths.

It is meaningless—all of it just a cruel form of entertainment for the emperor and his family.

You are thankful that you hadn’t been born a male to be pushed into these silly games, but instead, you are a woman—and that might be worse. But for now, despite all the screaming happening outdoors, you find solitude and a somewhat sense of peace near the barracks, sweeping debris and scrubbing the blood and grime off the floors from the defeated champions who walked away, already on the verge of death.

“Look at them,” you breathe. You pause your sweeping, wiping a strand of sweaty hair out of your face as your eyes peer through the wide holes of the wooden gates. “Animals. The whole lot of them.”

Livia does not need to look up to know what them you are referring to. There is only one kind of ruthless animal in the world—and that is men.

“Do not stare,” she warns you quietly. “If they catch you looking, they’ll punish you.”

“Please,” you scoff. “Their heads are too far up their own egos to notice us.”

“Big egos, yes.” Livia’s golden eyes glance over her shoulder from where she kneels on the floor, scrubbing grime. “And bodies. They are also quite handsome.”

Your eyes snap to her in revulsion. “Handsome? How can you say such a thing!” You glance back at the two men battling in the center of the dome. “Look at them. They are monsters.”

In the center is a man that you recognize—Bucky Barnes, the reigning champion for years. The White Wolf, is what the Emperor likes to call him. He is fighting another man, not much bigger than him, and certainly a man you do not recognize, meaning a man who will soon be falling to his doom beneath Bucky’s swords.

You have to admit, however, the man was giving The White Wolf a run for his money.

Finally, the man kneels before Bucky in defeat. Bucky raises his sword and delivers the final blow that sends the man to his grave.

Cheers erupt inside the dome. People jump out of their seats to shout and stomp. More debris and dust fall from above, landing on your and Livia’s faces—making you both cough.

The gates of the dome rattle as the herald’s voice shouts over the roaring crowd.

“Victory belongs to the undefeated! Behold your champion—The White Wolf!”

Thousands of voices chant his name as the dome thumps in a cadence that shakes the stone foundations around you. Through the wooden slats of the gate, you watch Bucky raise his blood-slicked sword to the sky. Unlike the other victors, he doesn’t smile. He never smiles.

Livia wipes the dust off her brow. “Another one to his name. He truly is unstoppable.”

You pull your gaze away. “He is a butcher,” you mutter.

Livia pushes herself off the floor with a light groan. She lifts the empty wooden basin to her chest. “I am going to refill this,” she says. “We’re going to need a lot of water to wash the victor up. I will be back.”

The wooden gate in front of you begins to groan as it slowly lifts. You grip your broom tight, moving to the side to make space for the blood-soaked victor to return back inside.

When Bucky steps in, the cool shade of the barracks is pure bliss against his hot body. Behind him steps the herald, adjusting his fine robes and wiping a pristine handkerchief over his sweaty brow, while the champion in front of him bleeds everywhere.

Bucky drops onto a wooden bench, and it creaks beneath his large body. His chest heaves as he catches his breath. With eyes still fueled by the adrenaline of battle, he watches as you approach him with a damp cloth and drop to your knees, wiping the splattered blood from his shins and boots.

“A magnificent display, White Wolf,” the herald boasts, pacing the floor and waving a hand dismissively in your direction as if you were just another piece of furniture. “The Emperor was thoroughly pleased. The coin will be transferred to your keeper, of course, but the Emperor insists on a personal reward for his favorite fighter tonight. A token of appreciation. Wine? A feast? Or perhaps a woman from the upper courts?”

Bucky does not answer the herald.

You try to keep your eyes down, working on scrubbing the crimson off his leather armor, but you can feel his cold stare watching your every movement, tracing the line of your shoulders and the curve of your vulnerable and exposed neck.

“We have the finest women prepared,” the herald continues, oblivious. “You have earned the right to take whatever, or whomever, you please.”

A massive and calloused hand suddenly shoots out. His fingers lock around your fragile wrist, making you wince and drop the rag.

“This one.”

You meet the champion’s eyes, and the spirit behind them terrifies you.

Bucky looks at you, not the way he stares at his opponents, but with something far more lethal. He looks at you as if you are roasted meat served on a silver platter by the Emperor himself. It sends shivers down your spine, and you avert your gaze.

The herald stands confused beside him.

“Her?” the herald sputters, looking down at you in disbelief. “White Wolf, she is a mere servant. A floor scrubber. The Emperor offered you a lady of the court. Someone fit for a powerful champion, such as yourself!”

The way the herald utters the word lady sounds like an insult to you—as if insinuating you’re not woman enough for a man like Barnes.

Bucky’s grip on your wrist tightens again as he gives your arm a rough shake, forcing your attention back to him with a gasp.

“Want her,” Bucky grunts, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The herald blinks, his eyes flickering down to you where you kneel before the champion. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “You must be mistaken, champion. She is nothing but a dirty servant—”

Bucky’s leather gloves creak as he tightens his hand on the hilt of his sword, and the herald falls silent, taking that slight movement from the gladiator as a threat to shut up.

“Fine, fine,” the herald mutters with a defeated sigh. “If that is what pleases you, then she is at your disposal.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. You hadn’t expected the herald to give you up so easily. You had hoped he would insist Bucky find a better woman—someone of higher value, and nowhere near your station.

“Wait, sir—you can’t possibly—!”

“I will let the Emperor know of your decision.” The herald turns on his heel, continuing to talk as if you aren’t even present. “He will be very amused. Though… it does make my job easier, finding another prize… I shall consider this a win for the both of us!”

The herald scratches his beard and shrugs as he continues to walk away. You feel like your life is already flashing before your eyes. There are horror stories of men like Bucky—men who just take and take without remorse. You are no exception. You don’t even want to imagine the kind of things he would do to a woman like you once the herald leaves you two alone. Ignoring Bucky entirely, you try to pry your weak arm away from the fighter’s grip and get to your feet.

“Sir, wait! Don’t leave me here with him!”

But Bucky’s grip remains tight. He hauls you against his broad, bare chest as he stands up. You collide into him with a yelp as he pins you still.

“Mine now,” he rumbles deeply.

You try to pull back, your heels digging into the grime stained floor, but it’s like trying to move a stone pillar. “Let me go! I have to finish cleaning, I have to—”

Without a word, he crouches before you and wraps both strong arms over your legs, hauling you like nothing and propping you over his shoulder like a prize he rightfully deserves.

“Come,” Bucky barks without a single opportunity for defiance. “Take you home.”

Your voice is dry from all the shouting and begging for him to release you. Your fists are weak from pounding his back in an attempt to make him let you go. Now, as you sit at the edge of his worn bed in his small home—which feels like it’s being held up by nothing but sticks and tapestry—you realize all of it was futile.

Tears streak your dirty cheeks as you wipe at them pathetically. You couldn’t even say goodbye to your dear friend, Livia. She must be worrying herself sick about you.

Bucky stands large and imposing in the center of the already tiny home. He wastes no time as he strips himself of his clothes, eyes locked onto your trembling frame. This man in front of you has no sense of shame as he leaves himself completely bare, his cock already hard and springing to his muscular lower belly.

You glance up, your breath catching in your throat at his size.

He is huge, his tip already gorging into an angry red while pre-cum dribbles out from the slit. Your eyes follow the veins that decorate his shaft up until you reach the base of his cock, where dark curls sit unruly and trail thinner up to his belly button.

“Good,” he grunts in approval. “Look at me. Only me.”

Bucky’s strong legs stalk forward to meet you at the edge of the bed. All you can do is stare at him with wide eyes. The campfire flickering behind him casts a warm light, highlighting his muscles and the sharpness of his features.

As he gets closer, you scramble backward. His knees dip and creak the bed as he crawls after you. To him, this is a game of cat and mouse—and he doesn’t mind one bit. You’re terrified, but he sees this as foreplay. The two of you continue this until your back hits the stone wall, leaving you nowhere else to run.

“Please,” you whimper. “Don’t do this.”

Then, without warning, his hand shoots out to grab the neckline of your dress. With a simple tug, his mere strength tears right through it.

“No!” you shriek, your hands coming up to cover your breasts before he even catches a glimpse. “Stop!”

Bucky furrows his brows. Your cries and actions only confuse him. His hands grab your arms, trying to pry them away from your chest. He is so much stronger than you; he could easily break you if he wanted to.

“No! Stop! I’m not ready!” you cry again, shaking your head as you gather all your strength to fight back. “I said, I’m not ready—!”

With your hand acting on a mind of its own, it reaches out and delivers a hard slap across the gladiator’s face.

Bucky’s head whips to the side, his dark, matted hair covering the features of his face—you can’t make out his expression at all.

Your eyes go wide, and your hand weakly retreats back to your chest. If you hadn’t thought Bucky was going to kill you before, you are certain he is going to skip the sexual act and kill you right now instead.

But, being as stubborn as you are, you hold onto the shovel that digs your very grave.

“I told you to stop,” your voice is shaky, but you try to find your footing. “I said no. Countless times. I did not give you my consent. Don’t you know what that word means?”

This is foolish, you think to yourself. Talking to a gladiator like Bucky is like talking to a brick wall. Your words will just go in one ear and out the other.

Bucky slowly turns his head back to you, his gaze locking onto yours with eyes so sharp you could swallow the blade. This is it. You’re certain this is where you die.

He makes an expression—not a pained one, but confused. His jaw is tight where your hand just struck him. He doesn’t move to strike back like you think he will, and he doesn’t wrap his hands around your throat to kill you.

He tilts his head, his face scrunched now in a way that makes him look almost like a kicked puppy.

“No?” he repeats, treating it like a question.

The syllable sounds clunky, foreign, and deeply awkward rolling off his tongue.

He looks down at your hands, still clamped tightly over your torn dress, and then back up to your glassy eyes.

“Consent?” he tries the next word, his brows furrowing from how unusual it sounds.

You nod, holding your breath. “Yes. Consent. I did not give it to you.”

Bucky blinks as the cogs work—or try to—in his head.

The reigning champion of the Colosseum, the brute of a man who knows exactly how to sever someone’s limb or take a prize by force, looks completely lost. For his entire life, the rules were simple: fight, win, take. No one had ever told him ‘no.’ No one had ever given him a choice, and he had never given anyone else one either.

“Consent,” he tastes the word again, as if trying to see if he likes it or not. Then, he shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Now, you are just as confused as he is.

You stare at the gladiator who kneels before you on the bed. He is probably the most feared man in the empire, yet he sits there naked and baffled by such a basic concept.

“You don’t know?” you whisper. “You don’t know what the word consent means?”

Bucky shakes his head, his broad shoulders slumping a fraction. He looks down at his own massive hands, then back at you, looking almost defeated and unsure of what to do from here.

You let out a trembling breath, slowly adjusting your grip on your torn dress to keep yourself covered as you try to find the words to explain it to a man raised only for slaughter.

“It means... permission,” you explain softly. “It means that my body belongs to me, just like yours belongs to you. To take a woman to bed, she has to want it too. She has to say yes.” You gesture weakly between the two of you. “If I say no, or if I say stop, you have to stop. Otherwise, you are just hurting me. You are just forcing me.”

Bucky listens intently, his dark eyes watching your lips as you speak.

“Don’t want to hurt you,” he answers, his voice rough and strained.

That catches you by surprise. You didn’t expect that kind of softness out of him. Then, he meets your eyes again and continues. “Not yet, at least.”

You pull the torn dress tighter against your chest with a slight frown, and Bucky notices. He shifts awkwardly on the back of his heels—his cock still hard but his mind just as confused.

“How do I get you to want it?” He rests his hand on your bare ankle, tugging you gently. “Like how I want you?”

You swallow hard as you stare at his large hand wrapped around your ankle. He could grab you and break you—mold you and bend you so easily to his will—but he doesn’t.

“You have to… court me,” you try to explain. “You have to make me feel safe, and you have to make me want it.”

Bucky tilts his head. Everything you have just said—even the word safe—feels alien to him.

Your teeth worry your bottom lip as you continue. “It means you don’t just take what you want. You touch softly. You talk to me, and you kiss me.” You point a trembling finger to your mouth, then to his. “With your lips. To show me that you care about how I feel, not just what you want.”

“Touch softly,” Bucky repeats, drilling the instruction into his mind.

You shudder as his hand, once wrapped around your ankle, turns into a gentle caress with his fingertips.

Up and down, his calloused fingertips trace your foot up to your bare calf. He leans over your body, forcing you to lie down beneath him as he hikes up the hem of your skirt. He flattens his palm so it rests heavy against your bare thigh.

“Kiss,” he murmurs, his blue eyes tracing the curve of your lip. “Make you safe.”

He lowers his head, his dark, unruly hair brushing against your cheeks as he brings his face inches from yours.

He hesitates for a second, his nostrils flaring like an animal as he breathes you in. Then, with an awkward, slow movement that he isn’t at all used to, Bucky presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is clumsy and far too hard at first, but as much as he wants to, he doesn’t force his way inside. He doesn’t push his tongue into your mouth, demanding dominance. He keeps his mouth pressed against yours, his lips slightly parted, mimicking the action as best as his instincts allow. It is gentle, surprisingly soft, and very wet—he might’ve even been drooling, aching to kiss you.

He pulls away just a fraction and searches your face for any sign of fear.

“Like this?” he murmurs, his breath hot against your mouth. “Safe?”

Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, except this time it has nothing to do with fear. You stare up at the man before you with wide eyes and wet lips. Bucky studies your face, trying to make out if what he did was right or wrong.

“Y—yes,” you breathe out. “That was good.”

Satisfied with your answer, he leans back down and kisses you again. One hand rises up—slowly, to avoid startling you—and cups your cheek gently. His thumb grazes over the curve of your cheek while his lips explore yours.

A soft, needy sound leaves your lips before you can stop it, and Bucky answers with a deep groan. While one hand cradles your cheek, his other hand slowly rises beneath your dress to grip your smooth hip.

You find yourself unexpectedly leaning into the kiss, matching him until his tongue pokes past your lips and swirls around yours. The two of you breathe heavily, moaning softly against each other as Bucky positions himself between your legs. His cock grows even harder, poking against your warm inner thigh.

He can’t take it anymore. Each moan that leaves your lips sounds like yes, yes, yes to his ears. His desperate hands find the waistband of your panties, threatening to tear them.

You suddenly pull away from the kiss with a gasp, catching your breath. Your hand presses against his bare chest, stopping him.

“No,” you pant as you stare up at him. “Stop. Not yet. You have to be patient.”

At the word stop, Bucky freezes. A snarl rips from the back of his throat, and his face twists in frustration. His jaw clenches so hard, his muscles twitch. You wince back into the pillows in fear, thinking you are in over your head and have pushed him too far.

You brace yourself, closing your eyes tightly.

“I’m trying,” he growls, the words tearing past his teeth. “What do I have to do? Tell me.”

You open your eyes and see him hovering over you. His large body acts as a blanket of warmth while one strong arm props him up, the muscles straining under his own weight and restraint.

“You have to touch me,” you explain gently, pulling his hand away from your underwear and bringing it up to your chest. “Like this.”

Bucky’s eyes follow your movement. Your smaller hand rests over his as you guide him to squeeze your breasts. His breathing grows heavier as his fingers tug and start to play with your budded nipple, relishing the way you moan and arch your back into his touch.

“Like that,” you moan softly. “Good—good boy.”

He groans loudly at your praise. His dark, unruly hair brushes your skin before his mouth closes over your budded nipple. He begins to lick and suck hungrily, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak while his teeth graze the edge.

“Mm…” Your eyes flutter shut at the pleasure, your head tossing back against the pillow while he makes love to your tits.

Encouraged by your sounds, he grinds his thick hard cock firmly against the smooth skin of your bare thigh, seeking any kind of friction to relieve the ache between his legs.

One hand leaves your breast to grip your hip, digging his fingers into your skin to hold you still while he ruts against you like an animal. He whimpers against your chest, drunk on your scent and the high of your soft moans.

“Please,” he begs, his stubble tickling your bare chest. “Say yes. Let me have you. Now.”

The way he pleads sends a warm rush through your lower belly, a feeling that leaves you craving him just as badly. The man who is used to taking whatever he wants without remorse is reduced to being entirely at your mercy between your legs. A sensation settles inside you that you never thought you would harbor.

Control.

Just one word—one breathless little “yes”—would send Bucky over the edge. His pleasure and his craving are both held in your hands.

“Okay,” you say, giving him a small nod, satisfied with how well he has done. “You can have me.”

A growl rips from his chest. Driven by instinct, his large hands grip the waistband of your panties once more, his knuckles pulling taut as he prepares to shred the flimsy fabric to pieces.

“No,” you interject quickly, slapping his hands away. “Don’t rip them! That’s rude!”

He scowls as he draws his hand back, a whine of frustration catching in his throat like a disappointed hound. It’s clear he is unhappy about facing another rule when he is so close to the edge, yet he listens.

“Pull them down slowly,” you instruct.

Using every ounce of restraint in his veins, he resists the urge to tear the cloth. He hooks his thick fingers into the sides and slowly pulls the fabric down past your hips and thighs until you are completely bare beneath him.

“There you go,” you sigh softly, pleased with his gentle movements. “Good boy.”

Bucky’s eyes drop to the slick heat waiting for him. He hovers over your body, his heavy breathing filling the space between you as he positions the thick head of his cock right at your entrance. He rubs himself up and down against you, soaking his length in your arousal and sucking in a breath at the heat of your touch.

He is too big—impossibly so—and you aren’t sure if he will fit.

“Need to fuck you,” he grits through clenched teeth. “Hard.”

Holding himself at the base, he works at your entrance. His tip slowly slides in, stretching the opening and pushing deep enough to make you arch your back off the bed with a painful hiss.

He pauses at the sound.

“No,” you whimper, blinking tears away as you peer down at him. “If you’re going to have sex with me, you have to be gentle.”

His face twists into a strained expression, but he reluctantly abides.

One hand steadies your hip while the other holds his heavy cock, sliding into your warm, tight walls. Your body is so tight, not used to accommodating such a size, but he relents and continues pushing in.

You cry out, eyes squeezing shut as your arms rest on his shoulders for support.

“Look at me,” Bucky commands in a rough, deep voice. When you don’t listen, he tilts his head down so he is in your line of sight and tries again. “I said look at me.”

You finally do, and his eyes search yours intently. The ring of blue demands that you look at him, and him only.

“Keep them open,” he instructs. “Look at me. It will feel better.”

So, you do.

You both stare into each other’s eyes while he slides himself even deeper. As his cock stretches you wide, his brows furrow and his face twists into a snarl, baring his teeth at the tightness of your body until he finally sheathes himself fully inside with a groan.

“Gentle,” he rasps brokenly. “Gentle. Gotta be gentle.” He repeats the words as if he’s trying to remind himself.

Your legs shake around him, your body trying to get used to his size.

He hasn’t moved yet, but you already feel impossibly full. Your walls embrace him, and you feel your body slowly opening up to let him in. As his cock settles deep inside you, pleasure slowly overwhelms your senses.

For Bucky, it feels like pure torture. Your body is snug and warm—like a wet, tight fist wrapped around his cock, so much better than what he’s used to with his own calloused hands.

“Need to move,” he curses. “Need to fuck. Say yes.”

His voice comes out rough and crude, but he refuses to move without your consent.

“Hold on,” you whimper, still adjusting to his size. You shift your hips slightly, trying to get comfortable, but the movement only makes him groan in pleasure.

“Fine,” he grunts, squeezing your hip.

After what feels like forever, you finally nod your head.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m ready.”

And just like that, you open the pearly white gates to heaven for him.

With a hungry growl, he draws his hips back until only half of him remains, and then he slides himself back in. Your lips part in a gasp as he fills you again—his cock sinking even deeper, kissing your cervix.

“Tight,” Bucky clicks his tongue, growing frustrated. “Too tight.”

He pulls out halfway before slamming into you again, and again, and again. Each thrust grows harder and more unrelenting, forcing your body to yield to his cock.

“A—ah! It’s… s’too much—”

“Want me to stop?” he groans out painfully and reluctantly, like he doesn’t want you to answer with a ‘yes’.

“No,” you manage to breathe out. “Don’t stop.”

Moans and gasps spill from your lips every time he fills you. His girth splits you open with every savage thrust, his strong thighs forcing your legs wider for him.

His eyes never tear away from yours. Every time you try to squeeze your eyes shut from the force of his thrusts, he grabs your chin roughly and shakes you, forcing you to look back at him.

“Eyes. On. Me,” he hisses angrily.

Squeezing your cheeks to force your lips apart, he drags his thumb down your lower lip to pry them wider. He leans down, his hot breath tickling your skin while his damp strands of dark hair dance over your face.

He spits into your mouth, the traces of it dripping from his lips down to his chin, slicking your open mouth. It’s wild and savage, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Without giving you the opportunity to pull away, his lips cover yours as he forces his saliva to swallow down your throat.

His tongue dances around yours again while he fucks you deeply, each move threatening to break both you and the bed.

Your eyes roll back so far in your skull while your legs dangle helplessly around his hips. Every thrust feels like a punishment for making him wait. Your nerves are crying out for release—and eventually, you give in. Your cunt spasms violently around Bucky’s length as bliss overwhelms every single sense.

“Oh my god,” you cry. “I’m gonna cum—!”

Your cries fill the small house as your back arches off the damp bed. Bucky insists on making eye contact with you, holding your jaw and forcing you to look at him while he fucks you through your climax.

You clench him tightly, your pussy pulsing in loving beats and squeezing him for every last drop.

“Fuck. Yes. Good, feels so good,” he rasps angrily, his thrusts becoming harder and more desperate.

His balls slap vulgarly against your wet pussy, traces of your slick clinging to him every time he bottoms out. His balls churn with pent-up seed, aching to fill you deep. Your cries grow louder, your hips shifting around to accommodate the overstimulation—but it’s no use.

Bucky’s close, so close. While his eyes bore into yours, his pupils dilate with desire. He just needs to get deeper, to fuck you at an impossible angle to pump you full…

“Wait,” you dig your nails deep into his back, making him gasp in pain. “Slow down—it’s too much…”

He snarls angrily, his hips slowing down just a fraction, but not entirely.

The sound that leaves your lips is a cocktail of pain and bliss. It’s a sultry sound that encourages him to continue, to take what he wants, but the words leaving your mouth say otherwise.

“No,” you shake your head. “Stop, please. It’s too much for me. You’re going to break me—”

His hands release your cheeks roughly as his head drops to press his sweaty forehead against yours. Another animalistic sound tears through him as he forces his hips to come to a stop. His cock stills inside you—pulsing for any form of friction. Just a few more thrusts, and he’ll cum. He’ll cum hard. But he stops, because you asked him to.

“Need to cum,” he pants against your face, taking in the way your eyes have gone teary. “So close.”

“I know,” you say with a soft sigh, your eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “I know. I just… just need a minute.”

You let your fingers trail up and down his back, and he shudders at the feeling.

The two of you lie there, tangled in each other’s limbs while you catch your breath. Bucky waits impatiently—his heart beating so fast in his chest as he uses every ounce of restraint in his blood to refrain from fucking you right through the bed.

Your pussy is already swollen and puffy from his size, and the longer he remains stuffed inside you, the tighter your body squeezes around him.

With his forehead pressed against yours, he shifts his knees and hips slightly to get comfortable, but even those tiny, forced movements are agonizing. Breathy moans and grunts escape both your lips, shared in the tight space between you. It’s sex without the vulgar movements, and it feels far too intimate for a ruthless man like Bucky.

Finally, you grant him permission.

Staring into his eyes, you give him a small nod to let him continue. And the moment you do, the last thread holding Bucky’s control snaps.

He grabs your legs and shoves them high over your shoulders, splitting you wide and pinning you down into a deep mating press. “Need to go deeper. Hold still.”

You had just gotten used to his size, and the sudden change in position makes your eyes fly open. Your mouth falls open in a gasp as he draws his hips back before bottoming out completely inside you.

His heavy, sweaty body crushes down on yours as he begins to fuck you hard and fast. Every draw of his hips fills you impossibly deep, your stretched cunt molding helplessly around his thick length. He works his hips in a wild, frantic rhythm, chasing his release at full speed before you can say another word to stop him.

“Mine,” he rasps through gritted teeth, his chest heaving as his sweat drips onto your skin. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine—”

The force of his hips slamming against yours knocks the breath right out of you, your moans coming out as breathless gasps while he pounds into you. His eyes bore into yours, waiting for you to finally give in.

“Tell me you’re mine. Say it.”

You blink through tears of bliss. “I—I’m yours—” you manage to stammer out.

His face twists in pleasure, baring his teeth as he pins your legs against your chest while the tip of his cock works deep against your cervix. “Good. A perfect sleeve for my cock. Look at me while I cum inside you.”

The sight of your face scrunched in pleasure and vulnerability sends a wave of heat coursing from his lower gut to the very tips of his toes. His cock pulses and throbs inside, slicking your walls with his pre-cum—a warning before giving you the real thing.

“Pump my cum,” his large palm settles over your lower belly. “All in here.”

The thought of you walking around the house barefoot and round with his children—growing up to be champions just like their father—makes his head spin and his balls grow heavy.

“Close. So close,” he curses and groans over and over, speaking more than he ever has. “Hold still. Take it all for me, wife.”

Bucky buries himself as deep as his length will go, pinning you down as his entire body locks tight. His cock pulses, pumping wave after thick wave of his hot seed deep inside your womb.

His head drops into the crook of your neck, his large, sweaty chest heaving against yours as he rides out his pleasure.

He releases your legs for a moment until both your rapid hearts finally slow to a steady beat. Slowly, agonizingly so, he draws his thick length back, pulling out of your slick, overstimulated cunt with a wet suction sound.

You let out a soft, breathless gasp at the sudden empty feeling. A ring of creamy white circles the base of his cock, and his seed dribbles between your folds—physical proof of what he just did to you.

Without a word, he grips both your ankles with one large hand, pinning your thighs together and pressing your legs straight up into the air to hold them suspended above you.

You blink at him—dazed, exhausted, and thoroughly used. His cock rests half-limp between his strong legs, so he clearly isn’t going for another round.

“What are you doing…?” you whisper softly, confused.

He holds your legs firmly in place as his dark eyes scan your bare, trembling body.

“Make sure it takes,” he grunts out, his voice rough from satisfaction. He uses his free hand to trace a warm, possessive line down to your lower belly, pressing down gently right over your womb. “Keep your belly round with my sons.”

You stare up at him in disbelief while your legs are held helplessly aloft by his massive hand. You’re too exhausted to argue, your brain still foggy from your orgasm. Still, you manage an incredulous laugh.

Does he seriously think propping your legs up like a pair of stilts is going to magically guarantee a pregnancy?

He looks so proud of himself that you don’t even have the heart to argue. He squeezes your ankles slightly, letting out a satisfied hum from his chest once he’s convinced his little trick did the job. The smile on his face is almost boyish in a way that does not belong to a rough man like him.

“Good wife,” he praises you. “Birth me healthy champions.”

You let out a soft sigh, fluttering your eyelids shut as fatigue finally crawls its way into your bones.

As you drift into slumber, you make a mental note to teach this brute a lesson on how gravity works. And right after that, you’ll teach him what aftercare is—especially if he plans on keeping you forever and making you his wife.

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

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You were on your knees, scooping a pile of earth over the seeds you’d just planted, quite literally elbows deep in work, when you got a whiff of him.

It stopped you right in your place, hands freezing mid-motion. Your gaze snapped up instantly, all senses suddenly on highest alert, body strung, your inner omega shuddering on an instinct as old as time.

An alpha.

Woods caressed by fresh wind after summer rain, leather and pine, dipped in a musky scent that had your breath catch.

An alpha.

An alpha at the edge of your property, nothing but you and him and your house and a lonely road and woods around for miles. The outline of him, a tall figure with shoulders insanely broad compared to his narrow waist, thighs visibly thick even from the distance, all that spoke of exactly how much chance anyone, let alone an omega, would stand against him.

He was brimming with explosive power and yet. Yet, it was not out of fear you straightened to your full height immediately; for you weren’t just any omega.

You were an omega with a good friend in a beta doctor in town who was not hesitant to hand out suppressants for an omega who could otherwise be in danger at her isolated property, should a stray alpha come knocking at her door.

You were an omega whose mother taught her how to handle a shotgun and a rifle before the age of ten, because the world wasn’t always the kindest to those of your designation.

And first and foremost, you were an omega who knew with every fibre of her being that seeing the shadow of this alpha among the trees, a familiar outline by now, never posed any threat to you. It did not, even as he would sometimes argue about it in a hushed voice, the reminder he meant so strikingly painful every time he left.

You were his omega. Even as you weren’t.

The first time he skimmed around the edge of your property, it had been two days since you had crossed paths at the hardware store in town. His scent had your body going haywire, plummeting you towards the closest thing to a real heat you had in years, all that on a single whiff and a wordless exchange with his startled blue gaze piercing your very soul.

Two days of questioning your body and mind as you could not think straight, deep rooted instincts guiding you to build a nest, barely moving outside of it, almost 48 hours of burning skin and scorching need nothing seemed to sate. Two days until you managed to eat at least a few bites and have a small walk in order to water the plants in your garden despite the tremble in your limbs and incessant ache between your legs and the echo of a deeper ache within your ribcage.

You realized who he was to you the second your inner omega had gone mad.

You realized who he was to the world the second you saw him standing in the shadows of the pine trees, the outline of a man who could only be real in a world where superheroes existed.

You made your decision at the former realisation and solidified it at the latter, sensing his hesitation to approach almost as strong as your pull towards him and his to your home, his feet moving as if of their own accord.

You left the door open that day, stepping in to make tea and coffee and to serve cookies of all things, blindly driven to take care of your alpha, to please him, to make a home; your breath caught, your trembling heart pounding the moment he actually walked in.

You never got to eat or drink, even as you tried to be polite, both of you, to think it through. To fight the natural designation breaking through your suppressants and scent masking with ease, because where modern medicine might be able to fool an omega’s body and alpha’s and beta’s sense of smell, it was useless in face of the precious phenomenon of fated mates.

He was yours. You were his.

There was no fighting it – not completely. Neither of you had the willpower to stay underwater when the air you needed to breathe was at your fingertips, your scent all over your house enticing him, his seeping into it in perfect harmony, like puzzle pieces falling into place.

Before you knew it you were standing inches apart, his nose trailing along your wrist with a groan, your mind hazy, body vibrating in anticipation, voice breathless even as you breathed quick and shallow in order to remain composed and at least a tad rational. Exchanging names was the least you could do and the most you managed before you could not hold back any longer.

You knew who he was; he knew you knew. You knew his situation, or enough of it, the star he had been carrying on his chest faded and torn away, his golden boy persona and looks long gone.

It didn’t make a goddamn difference.

If anything, the ragged bearded man who stood but two inches from you was the embodiment of an alpha and everything about him had your inmost carnal instincts and soul-deep longing scream mine.

My Steve. My alpha.

The kiss he pressed to your wrist was tender, the chirp escaping you nearing a whimper, knees wobbling under the overwhelming sensation rushing through your body. He caught you with arm firmly wrapped around you and a kiss that was all teeth and desperate need and laying a claim and you reciprocated with fervour, inhaling his intoxicating scent and the rest were days to remember spent in a haze and pleasure you had never known to exist before.

And pain. Sharp and dull at once, its echo resonating in your ribcage even now as you shed the gardening gloves and went to wash your hands, starting the kettle and laying out ingredients for a warm homecooked meal Steve – former Captain America turned fugitive from the law of several countries – deserved and got to eat scarcely.

Sometimes, you didn’t make it past a hello, his hands on you wishing to recreate the imprints they had left weeks if not months ago, exploring you anew, nose against your neck, teeth scraping over the most sensitive part of your throat to induce pleasure so intense you forgot how to make a sound or think.

Other times, you held each other first and inhaled softly, allowing yourselves to reacquaint with someone who was fated to belong with you, who was yours with every fibre of their being, the cracks in your ribcages mended at last, body, soul and home rebuilt.

Today, it seemed, was the case of the former.

You were ruminating through the cabinets, trying to figure out what to cook, when Steve’s arms circled you from behind and pulled you to his front, nose instantly at your collar, breathing in deeply with a satisfied rumble in his chest that had your omega shivering with delight. Heat rushed all over your skin as you inhaled deeply, hands covering his, body melting in his hold already as you felt familiar burn at the apex of your thighs respond to his presence like clockwork.

“Alpha…” you whispered, shuddering when he hummed behind you, arms squeezing tighter, mouth pressing to the side of your neck, lingering, a quick lap of tongue over your skin making him groan; and you clutch at his forearms, legs turning weaker as your blood rushed elsewhere.

It was torture; torture of the bittersweetest kind, a tease of a promise never delivered on and never as much as made. It twisted your stomach in knots, the ache of his absence, the agonizing absence of a bonding mark already flaring through you and chasing tears into your eyes, deep-bone agony you knew would come again, because you had been here before. Every single time.

Every single time he came, after weeks, months apart, gloomy and deprived, to forget the rough world he somehow still believed deserved saving even after they had called him a criminal for choosing his best friend, for choosing his own morals instead of being a good little soldier; days of utter bliss and intangible happiness that would slip through your fingers again and again, because it was not safe to stay. Not for him. Not for you.

Bonding would be worse. You heard enough horror stories to know them to be true; that mates, true mates in particular, could not spent more than weeks apart, slowly withering without each other and dying of grief. They said parting was like a piercing one’s heart with needles; and losing your mate to death then was like severing all limbs one by one and then reaching into your chest with an iron fist and ripping your heart straight out.

It was better this way. That was what you told yourself when screaming and weeping into your pillows wrapped in the shirt he would always leave behind, soaked in his scent to sooth your pain, like a band-aid over a gunshot wound still oozing blood.

You knew he felt the same. You knew that when he left when you were awake, he was a wreck no one would never recognize as the once nation’s most beloved hero.

But every time, every time he came back, you knew. You knew that the bliss, the happiness you could steal away for just a few moments, was worth it all. Because being with Steve did not just satisfy your inner omega, didn’t quench the fire that was already creeping through your veins when all your senses were drowned in him; it was the contentment that settled every fear and met every longing your heart ever felt, softness and delight threading through your very being.

The same overwhelming emotion that chased your tears away now, for when he was here, there was no space for mourning him leaving in a few hours or days.

Your sunk into his body, saying his name like a plea and a prayer, feeling his smile over the scrape of his beard, a devious little thing against your collarbone, one of his hands sliding lower, spreading over your thigh, hips rutting against you to make you feel exactly how much your runaway soldier had missed you too. His lips began to wander and so did his hands, stilling and squeezing hard when you tried to turn and face him to taste his mouth.

“’mega… smell so sweet…”

You whimpered, thighs clenching when he returned to the ministrations over the sensitive skin of your throat, your head falling back to his shoulder to give him space, hand sinking into his locks to keep him there, slick already gathering in your underwear and threatening to soak through your panties and sweats alike. His hand slipped under your shirt, sneaking past your bra until his fingers found your hardened nipple and pinched it lightly.

“Steve—oh my god-“

Your clutched at his hair when he nipped at your mating gland, still playing with your hardened nub, gush of arousal leaking down your thighs, your other hand gripping the counter as your legs threatened to give out completely. And yet, somehow your hips had a mind of their own, pressing against the hard bulge of his crotch.

“Sweet, sweet ‘mega… you have no idea what you scent does to me, I swear… wake up hard every fucking morning I’m not with you.”

“I dream of you-“ you echoed his desire softly, a confession so intimate it would be dangerous with any other.

But Steve… his breath hitched, a firm yet gentle grip of your jaw and throat appearing so fast your head spun, face angled so he could claim your mouth and trap you against the counter all the same, his groan swallowing your whimper, fingers digging into the muscle of his forearm, his gripping your hip, lips locked in a searing kiss that had your toes curl, all tongue and teeth – and shockingly slow and indulgent, licking the taste of longing from each other’s mouth.

Deprived of oxygen for too long, you had to part after what felt like an eternity passing in a blink of an eye, too fleeting.

For a moment you stilled, lips still laid over his, unwilling to separate further than a hair’s distance.

“I missed you so much, honey… so fucking much,” he rasped and the profound pain was like a drag of a rusty nail against your skin, chasing the burn of tears to the base of your nose; because yes.

Yes, Steve suffered too, every time he walked away, each time harder than the one before.

He feared, too, he had once admitted; in a post-orgasmic haze and tender pillow talk where you had both opened your hearts raw.

About how scared you were that one day, he wouldn’t come back; because he’d get killed trying to atone for the sins of having his own moral compass and falling out with the law; because he’d realize this wasn’t living, that the pain wasn’t worth it.

About how scared he was that one day, he’d find your door closed or shut to his face, because less than the half-relationship and the rivers of tears he caused you were a beast of a burden you did not want to bear anymore; that he did not deserve your love when all he did was to disturb your peace.

But neither of you had had a choice in this, in fate or natural laws or whichever having ruled over you, making you belong together.

And you still chose each other.

You used the momentary weakness in his grip to turn in his hold, palms riding up his chest slow, over his sternum, heart vigorously beating under your palm, until you could cradle his face, gorgeous features distorted by ache and vulnerability he so rarely revealed. Deeply sad blues observed you like you were a goddess he had no right to pray to; gaze holding onto you like you were the last shred of sanity in the insane world.

And when you whispered you loved him, he gripped you tight and kissed you like you were the only home he’d ever known.

“Take me to bed, love,” you whispered against his mouth, hands sneaking under his hoodie and t-shirt to feel and roam the wide planes of muscle, the heat of his skin and the taste of his mouth, the press of the hard ridges of his body giving you a high you wouldn’t exchange for anything.

You rocked your hips against his when he didn’t make a single move towards the bed, a needy sound pushing past your lips when he rippled his mouth away and trailed lower, strong hands gripping the fabric of your shirt and ripping, buttons clinking all over the floor. Your bra went next, offending to the path his mouth took, sensitive skin all but tickled by his beard when he took your nipple to his mouth, teeth grazing, hands grabbing your hips bucking impatiently despite the onslaught of pleasure.

“Steve— Steve, please-“

He chuckled against your breasts, mumbling about impatient little omegas and you would have been offended had it not had your core clench, just how easily he torn the sweats down to your ankles, tearing your soaked panties away. Your fingers had tangled into his hair god knew when, holding on for dear life when he hoisted you up on the counter, sliding your sweats off of one of your ankles just so he could push your legs apart and make space for his wide shoulders.

“Alpha—aaah-!”

There was no warning. No teasing. He slanted his mouth over your opening without preamble, the burn of his beard on your tender flesh causing you to yelp, the sound bleeding into a pathetic whimper when his tongue pushed deep inside you, lapping at your core with vigour. Your head tipped backwards, knocking against the cupboard and you didn’t give a shit, your hips already pushing against him, the tension in your core skyrocketing at Steve’s appreciative growl.

You might have pulled at his hair too hard too. You weren’t sure. You didn’t care.

“That’s it, ‘mega, give it to me…”

You did. The weeks apart, endless days of longing and withholding had the fire licking at your insides exploded at once with a broken shout of ‘alpha!’, violent tremble shaking your body, your grip falling slack as he didn’t relent, a half-sob pushing past your lips when he sucked on your oversensitive clit and pushed you over the threshold for the second time, having you gush all over his face, thumb pressing against your thighs where you tried to close them.

Your wanted to tell him to stop, to say that it was too much, but you couldn’t remember how words worked, tongue heavy, head spinning from the pleasure pulsing through your every nerve ending. He chuckled against the apex of your thighs when he finally did relent, nipping on the slick skin of your inner thighs, gathering your juices on his tongue as if it was the most exquisite liquor.

Your jerked in his hold when he sucked what would be a spectacular bruise, only then letting you off the hook, mouth travelling back up over your overwrought body, giving you a taste of yourself when he kissed you and licked into your mouth the same way he did into your centre.

His jeans were straining when he gathered your trembling form in his arms, laying you on the bed with unfair tenderness, shedding his hoodie and t-shirt before sheeting your body with the length of his own, the warmth radiating off his skin and the scent of arousal, both you and his, oozing off of him, willing your shaking hands to make a quick if clumsy work of his belt and the button of his jeans.

You didn’t bother pushing his jeans and boxers beyond what you needed to hold him in your hand, the familiar weight spiking your arousal anew, his growl at your soft ministrations and thumb gathering the beads of precum all but music to your ears.

“Be good, ‘mega… don’t tease your--- alpha,” he said, not nearly as firmly as he’d wish, voice cracking at a little twist of your hand, having him grip your wrist in warning.

Your gaze snapped to his, so dark with desire there was but a circle of your beloved blue left, and you couldn’t but smile a little, flattered despite having countless prior proves of his desire for you.

“I’m always good for my alpha,” you whispered, accentuating your point by gently squeezing him, his hips buckling into your touch involuntarily, eyes fluttering shut.

“Yeah. Yes, you are.”

That was the last coherent words either of you uttered as he pushed your hand away and aligned himself with your entrance, coating himself in your slick before sliding in easily despite his more than impressive size, the resounding groan of satisfaction filling your cabin before the wet sounds of skin slapping skin replaced it, generous praise spilling from his lips when they weren’t too busy stealing air from your lungs or mouthing at your throat.

He took you slowly and he took you hard, making you feel every inch, tilting your hips to his liking and you let him, holding onto his shoulders, nose buried in his neck when his rhythm faltered and sped up only to slow down again, dragging his length all the way out only to push in again, fingers sneaking between your bodies to where you were connected, fingertips dipping in your slick before circling your clit, your hips buckling up as a shockwave of pleasure had your back arch.

When his mouth latched onto your throat, sucking at the thin skin over your mating gland, you were done for, crying out his name in ecstasy and anticipation that lit up your body with life and delight.

Instincts took over, blinding you for a moment.

But he was in control.

As impossible as you knew it was, only managing to do so very few times yourself, Steve had you, in the worst way possible, quick to offer his chest so your teeth sunk to the skin just above his collarbone, his groan as much pleasure as pain as his hips stuttered and his mouth latched onto your shoulder instead, teeth sinking in with bliss and emptiness at once.

You were still riding out your orgasm when the ache in your ribcage flared up anew, empty grief of a failed bonding ripping away the sweetest haze there could be, bliss bleeding into misery as your voice hoarse from shouting Steve’s name and designation torn up in a sob before you could stifle it for both of your sakes.

The sound Steve made at that, smothered by your skin, was nothing short of a whimper – and you hated yourself. God, you hated yourself because you knew all to well this wasn’t helping, not to you, certainly not to him and you swallowed the begging already pushing to your tongue for him to bond you, Alpha, please, please make me yours--

It was instinct ruling over reason, a pipe dream painted in the fog of peak pleasure you rationally knew was not possible, not now, if ever.

So instead of begging, you gripped Steve tighter, nails digging into his back and biceps, whispering an apology that got drowned in his ‘sorries’ and ‘I love you’s’. You were still catching your breath when you kissed his skin where you had left your mark, a patch of skin already littered by faded imprints of your teeth, not unlike the one you carried yourself.

They never fully healed.

Unlike the half-moons of your nails where you grabbed him too tight, unlike the bruises Steve sometimes left when losing control and needing you closer, unlike the first time he had sunk his teeth into his forearm to stop himself from bonding you, these bites never healed. They left scars. Brands, even. You supposed it was biology; nature’s way of saying that no matter whether a bonding mark or not, a true mate’s bite was a brand to carry with pride.

And proud you were, the little marks a cherished memory when Steve was too far for you to remember he loved you even if he hadn’t made you his or become truly yours.

You stayed in each other embrace for long minutes if not hours, to feel connected, to sooth the grief of the being robbed of the precious gift you had been given but couldn’t enjoy.

Steve cleaned you up with tenderness that ached in your bones and had you swallow the tears before they could come, soft words you managed to reciprocate even if your tongue left like made of lead. You munched on cookies he found in the pantry, the terrible store-bought ones, and drank the tea having long turned cold even as the weight on a full mug in your hands was too much. You fell asleep as soon as Steve wrapped you in his arms and pulled you to his front, nose in your hair, your hand gripping his to scent him in your sleep, and your last thought was that once you woke, you’d make him that homecooked meal you had set to prepare before you went and tore each other’s clothes off.

You weren’t sure what woke you up, mind groggy and every movement heavy, but the thin light of a crack of dawn teased your eyelids, the scent of sex – and Steve – tickling your nose and making you smile.

His fingers were lightly threading through your hair in periodic motions, fingertips caressing your temple and your cheek as your head was laid on his chest, he himself propped up with his back against the headboard.

Your smile at the simple affection quickly faded when you realized there was only one reason he could have woken you up.

He was leaving.

He sometimes sneaked away before you could be roused from your sleep, the parting easier and harder on both of you at once. Easier, because neither of you had to confront the emotion of the other or stifle your own; harder, because leaving you without a goodbye went against everything Steve wanted and stood for, leaving you vulnerable and like you were some dirty secret he’d fuck and abandon; harder, because waking up to his shirt instead of him and his warmth was like having your heart torn in two.

It was the anticipation of pain and grief combined with sleep-induced foolishness that had you plop your arm over his waist, nuzzling the warmth of his skin, lips barely moving yet speaking.

“Stay.”

You felt and heard his breath hitch above you, fingers stilling in their movement, before he was shifting under you and was pulling you up his lap to straddle him, mouth slanting over yours and having your heart skip a startled and more than pleased beat as you felt his hardness catch against your opening, still slick thanks to his presence alone.

Not leaving then. At least not yet.

Just-

“Need you, ‘mega… need to feel you need me,” he rasped, the words nothing new yet carrying a strange urgency that should have given you a pause but didn’t. Instead, it spurred you on.

Stealing a glance at him as you started to roll your hips, sliding over his length to coat him in your slick, his head fell back with lips parted and you wished you were more awake, wished you could capture the perfect image of him forever. Blissed out, mouth already red and kiss-swollen, eyelids shut, lashes casting shadows over his gorgeous face, sharp features softened by the beard, dark blond hair like a halo with the first sunrays peeking through the blinds.

He didn’t rush you, hands laid over your hips, caressing your soft flesh with indulgence, eyes fluttering open to watch you as you rose to your knees and slowly sunk down his length, a welcome intrusion despite the slight ache, a memento to just few hours prior.

His hand went to your nape then, pulling you in for a kiss, hesitant at first, until he felt you give in as easily as always, melting against him even as you never ceased the undulation of your hips, riding him slowly while he made love to your mouth, his other hand sprawled over your bare back.

“My beautiful omega… my fucking everything,” he husked, mouth trailing down your neck, pressing a desperately tender kiss over your mating gland, lingering, sighing and gently stilling your hips with both of his hands, forehead falling on your shoulder.

Emotion you could not quite put your finger on rolled off of him in waves, making you choke up, a heavy sensation settling in your stomach. You didn’t push, hand settling on his head, fingers gently massaging his scalp, fighting hard not to tremble as you remained connected, tethering on the brink of reaching for pleasure.

Haze lifted, your mind began racing, your omega shivering and shifting in discomfort as she could not read her alpha beyond him being distraught.

And suddenly, you were cold too. The temperature in the room wasn’t any lower, you were sure, but you shuddered, your free hand balling into a fist, a terrible fear rippling through.

No.

God, no, no no no.

Don’t let this be it, don’t let him to-

“I got a call… multiple calls, made a few myself,” he said, swallowing loudly and your fingers twitched as impossible tightness squeezed your ribcage, the icy fear growing in your chest, cursing at your exhaustion that had let you sleep through all that. “It was about Ross.”

Your jaw clenched on instinct.

You knew very little about Senator Thadeus Ross. You knew he was a political figure, he was a dick and he was the leading man in the hunt for the rogue Captain America and his band of misfits as he liked to paint it.

Getting a call about him could only mean a terrible thing.

And yet, when Steve sighed, hands gripping your hips, fingers digging into your flesh, head rising to meet your gaze, there was a spark in his eyes you had never seen before. It was a stark contrast to the apprehension written in his features and you could feel the anxiety in your gut ease minutely.

Biting your tongue, you observed Steve without blurting out the WHAT? that clawed at your throat.  

“He’s out of the picture, retired, possibly forced to retire… he’s been replaced, silently, they only now released a statement to the press,” Steve spoke slowly, carefully measuring every word. “Senator Wilkins, his replacement, he’s… he’s already managed to get things moving within the week of being in the office. And…”

Steve watched you draw in a deep breath, the smallest bloom of hope springing in your heart even when you tried your damnest not to let grow, but couldn’t quite manage, because-

“-he’s got the American government to grant us all a pardon.”

You choked on an incredulous laugh, hand flying to your mouth at the absurd sound and then you realized that you did not give a damn about whether your reaction was appropriate – if there even was an appropriate reaction when something seemed to explode in your chest and chased tears into your eyes, your heart hammering against your sternum three hundred times a minute, blood rushing past your temples, your head spinning, vision turning blurry with tears.

“Are you--- are you saying-“

Steve’s warm palms framed your face softly, forehead touching yours with gentleness incarnate that only had you crying harder, your gaze swimming but not blinding you to the fact that his eyes were glassy too.

“Yeah… I’m--- if you--- I’m yours,” he choked out, a broken chuckle tickling your lips before he brushed them with his own, voice falling into a whisper you were sure you had to dream up, because it couldn’t be true, it couldn’t— he couldn’t-- fuck, you needed to breathe, but he- “If you’ll have me, if you let me, if you still want me, if-“

You grabbed his face unceremoniously and stole whatever stupid sentence he was about to follow up with with your mouth, chest pressing to his so there wasn’t an inch left between you, claiming his mouth and swallowing his sound of surprise, stupid, stupid surprise-- as if you could ever say no to that, as if you hadn’t been yearning in pure agony for him to utter those words for over two years now.

Breaking the kiss for a breath, Steve did not waste a second and pressed his lips over sensitive skin of your throat, lapping at your neck, the sensation lighting your whole body with life and bliss, a promise never made and never delivered on, drawing a sound from your mouth that was a lovechild of a whimper and a laugh and a sob, his fingers digging into your flesh at it.

“Please, honey…. ‘mega,… be mine--- I’m yours, let me be yours…”

Voice breaking at the last word, you understood; you finally understood the apprehension you had seen. His heart-wrenching plea was dripping with hope, uncertainty and hopelessness. He was genuinely unsure you’d say yes.

For all the time he could not make promises, for Steve Rogers did not speak promises he wasn’t sure he could keep, he suddenly doubted if his promise was enough.

His tongue licked at the skin over your mating gland almost shyly, a reverent kiss, inhaling your scent deeply, the ministrations alone having your hips to begin to move again of their own accord, fuelled all the more with the carnal need to reassure your alpha that he was your fucking everything and you were never letting him go ever again.

“Yes, Steve—I’m yours too, I want you to be mine-“

A growl rippled from his throat, teeth grazing your gland and whitening out your vision for a moment with mind-shattering bliss, never breaking skin but so, so so so so close, drawing a frustrated whine from your mouth, your hips buckling at the tease of your peak – and of everything you ever wanted.

He tore his mouth from your neck, wild gaze meeting yours, the look in his eyes – utter adoration and desperate desire – your true undoing.

Balancing at the edge of a cliff, a half-step from falling into ecstasy, you were so high and dizzying you thought you must have imagined him saying it.

But you did not.

“Bond me, ‘mega— you first, please-“

Your breath caught in your throat, hazy mind coming to a screeching halt.

Bond me first, he said.

Take me. Love me. Wreck me. Was what he was truly saying.

It was a vow of its own, the most profound and binding one to exist.

Bond me first. Let me be the first one to be consumed by a bond so strong it would tear me apart if I ever left you again. Bond me first; even if it’s the only bond we seal tonight. Let it be me. Let me carry the weight. I long for it. I crave it.

And you didn’t hesitate. Not with climax on the tip of your fingers and tongue alike, already tasting the delicious thin skin sheathing his mating gland.

Not after years of pain and tears and yearning.

Your teeth broke the skin, Steve’s guttural groan of all-consuming pleasure and the stutter of his hips triggering your peak, wave of bliss washing over you as you sobbed into his throat, the scent of copper sweet where it blended into him; into the scent you so desperately wished to drown in for months and months to no end.

You felt him fill you the moment his teeth sank into your flesh in return, whiting out your vision with the slightest tinge of pain and blinding ecstasy, your shout stiffened in his neck as it felt as if someone reached deep inside you and set you aflame, core spasming with another peak that had you seize in Steve’s arms.

In your alpha’s arms.

Yours, yours, yours.

You shook against him as you both rode the waves of pleasure as carnal as tender, delighted laughter and relief shaking your ribcage even as no sound came out, tears streaming down your face and his alike.

You breathed against the fervorous beats of your heart and all you could sense was him.

His affection seeping thought every cell of your body, his longing, his guilt, his violent delight piercing his very bones. He trembled against you all the same, hot tears soaking the hair on your nape, his whispers of ‘thank you’ and ‘mega breaking your heart and making you sob and laugh at once.

His unsteady hands shifted, grasping your nape and jaw and pulling you away just so he could cradle your face and see you, his heavy-lidded eyes shining even as his pupils nearly swallowed the gorgeous blue you dreamed of every night. Your lower lip trembled with the undiluted adoration in his gaze as if you weren’t an utter mess soaking not only down your thighs and his, but in sweat from exertion and overwhelm too.

You had never felt more beautiful.

Never felt more cherished.

“My omega… my beautiful, perfect omega… mine,” he murmured, lips already chasing yours before you could respond, your husky whisper of ‘my alpha’ swallowed by his demanding mouth.

It was long, long moments before you both settled enough to clean up, only to cover each other in your scents again, caring little for rolling around in sheets that were nothing short of filthy with your love; marvelling in it instead.

And in the late hours of the morning, you fell asleep once more; Steve’s large body sheeting yours from behind, lips still attached to your freshly formed bond, pulsing with content, something within you moved and transformed forever.

You felt his serene heartbeat against your back, inside you, all over you, and clutched his hand to your chest even as you suspected he could feel and hear your heart anyway.

You held him like he held you, relaxed but firm, for you were never, ever again, letting go.

S.R. masterlist  // Complete masterlist 

Title and entire fic inspired by Sen by Lucie, lyrics loosely translated below.

Thank you so much for reading! I wanted to wait but I was so excited to have finished the story early and to have been in the flow after what felt like forever 🥹 If you enjoyed, I'd be delighted to hear your thoughts 💕

I hope July has been kind to you and so will August 🥺💕

And of course, many thanks to @stargazingfangirl18 for not only hosting this challenge, but also for being such a positive presence in the fandom 🥰 hope you'll have a blast on your birthday 😍

-lyrics follow for those who are interested-

The shadows of the days and dreams are turning over and towards the hands of a dark dream that are trying to cover your eyes. Your light reveals how I know that it will come back with the new day.

The clouds are rolling the wind breaking them in halves. The shadows on your soul disperse in the gloom – like waves they leave after hours and the moon scares new shadows away.

Kaleidoscopes of butterflies carry away fears stardust is falling on fluttering leaves flaring through fire and disappear far away. Soundless steps in the celestial rhythm swing and sing to us that soon in the morning the fears get swept away.

The shadows of the days will grow old and disappear. All celestial signs are lit up by our stars that know all, and from the distance they lead us on our paths and the moon scares new shadows away.

Kaleidoscopes of butterflies carry away fears stardust is falling on fluttering leaves flaring through fire and disappear far away. Soundless steps in the celestial rhythm swing and sing to us that soon in the morning the fears get swept away.

And anyway, there were other things to concern himself with, like your beautiful, naked form lying on top of the covers, a pillow under your neck, a paperback in your right hand, your left tangled in Bob’s messy golden-brown hair. He was in his boxer briefs, curled around your heart, one leg hooked over your thigh, his eyes closed blissfully with his lips sealed around your nipple.

“We’re trying a new thing,” you said, without prompting, hearing John’s heavy tread reach the end of the bed.

“Think that was invented a while ago,” he teased, shrugging out of his henley and tossing it effortlessly into the laundry basket a few feet away. His undershirt followed, then his belt and jeans.

Whatever this was, he wanted in. After a brutal afternoon of custody paperwork with his lawyer, he had promised himself a quiet, uneventful evening, but cozying up to your naked body would fix his mood expeditiously.

You shot him a wry look over the edge of your book. Bob looked comatose or maybe hypnotized, frozen, gone, latched onto you like he was using your nipple for air.

“It’s good for your brain,” you added. “Calming.”

“Again, this is new how?”

“Not in a sex way,” you sighed. Your eyes slid down and to the left, regarding Bob like you had forgotten he was even there. “He’s been like that for an hour.”

“An hour?”

“Honestly, he might be asleep,” you added lightly, going back to your book.

"You've ruled out dead, I assume..." John sat on the bed by your feet, pulling one onto his lap and massaging it absently. You purred, lashes fluttering from the strength of his fingers digging into your instep.

Against your side, Bob groaned, letting you both know he was not, in fact, asleep or dead.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but this might be the weirdest thing that’s happened in our bed,” John said, putting your foot back down on the mattress and turning to crawl up beside you. He knelt just on the other side of your book. His fingers traced yours along the book’s spine, tickling down your forearm and up your bicep. It was childish, but he wanted attention and he wanted it right away. You looked so good, and the stress knotting the base of his spine needed somewhere to go. He didn’t mean to be such a horn ball, but your naked body turned his brain into mud. “Although the collar was memorable…”

Still latched onto your breast, Bob moaned softly in agreement, squirming, rubbing himself against your thigh in a way that told John this was now very much becoming a sex thing. John wouldn’t say your bedroom had been sedate lately, but a series of missions had kept the three of you occupied, deployed in various combinations and for various lengths of time, which often meant catching a quickie before someone had to suit up and fly out. It was still a harrowing challenge keeping the whole thing concealed from the team, and there had been more than one close call.

John was pretty sure you were one more stolen kiss in the Watchtower away from Yelena figuring it all out. He felt like he was constantly giving himself away with how he looked at you during briefings, like he was counting down the seconds until he could get you back to the apartment.

Your hands combed through Bob’s hair again, and as John carefully closed your book, put the marker in place, and leaned across to shelve it behind the bed, you gave him a petulant little pout that John absolutely knew to his core was fake. He recognized the glimmer in your eyes, and the way your thighs were rubbing subtly together, trying to work up friction.

“John…” You whined, actually whined. Please. He wasn't born yesterday.

He took your now free hand, lavishing kisses along your knuckles, blue eyes searching your face, lingering on that desperately cute, unbearably manipulative pout. “What is it, baby?”

John was using your favorite voice, the one that was graveled but tender, like his need for you was starting to slowly choke him. But he was fighting it, just kissing your fingers, baby blues so electric in the soft afternoon light that your mouth watered.

“I don’t want him to stop,” you said, eyes sliding toward Bob’s blissed out face. Your nipple was practically vibrating, way beyond overstimulation, the sensation a constant, tingling burn that you were starting to get hooked on. You hadn’t seen Bob this calm in weeks. “It feels good and it’s relaxing for both of us,” you went on, pulling a thick piece of hair behind Bob’s ear, giving you a better view of his rosy cheeks and half-lidded eyes. He hadn’t even been hard for most of it, but now he was, grinding lazily against your thigh, a wet spot forming on his underwear and dragging against your skin.

Bob hollowed his cheeks, sucking more aggressively for a second, making you arch into him before he let go. There were bruises forming on your breast where he had focused his attention; your nipple was slick and puffy, swollen from being wedged against his tongue for an hour. Everyone was reverently silent as your breast came free of his mouth and resettled with a buttery jiggle against your ribcage.

“It’s crazy,” Bob murmured, nosing against the side of your tit. “My mind hasn’t been that quiet in like…years. I don’t know. Can’t explain it.”

John took this information in with his lips pressed together, eyes switching between the two of you like he wasn’t sure if this was for real or an elaborate, annoying joke. He held your hand loosely in both of his, weighing something. When his gaze fell on your sore, somewhat abused nipple, his dick visibly twitched on his leg.

Huh.

“She doesn’t want you to stop,” John said. “So, don’t stop.”

Their eyes met. Not for the first time, you lamented how swiftly they could set aside their many differences and unite against you. Bob nodded slowly, also deciding something. He shot John a sympathetic half-smile. “Rough day, man?”

“Very.”

Bob’s chin worked forward and then back, a sly golden glimmer in his eyes for just an instant before he lowered his head back to your breast. “I got you.”

“What the hell does that mean?” you asked, still pouting.

Bob grinned against your side, then circled your swollen peak with his nose. “Can we make John feel good, babe? He needs it.”

“Thank you, Bob,” John said, pointed, tilting his head to the side as he regarded you. He let go of your hand, outlining your jaw with one knuckle. “What about you?”

You gasped, plunged into a different head space as Bob humped against your leg again, lips closing around your nipple, sucking audibly, hungry and filthy and raw. Your answer to his question was given silently, though clearly, your fingers wrapping around John’s growing erection, pumping a few times to bring him to full arousal.

He sucked down a breath through his teeth, reeling slightly on his knees. He managed to keep his eyes open, studying Bob as he fell back into his hollow-cheeked bliss.

“Doesn’t seem fair, just one side getting all the attention,” John teased, running his knuckle down your chin, over your throat and your fluttering pulse, grazing your collarbone before he just barely thumbed your nipple. “Bobby’s been working on the other one all day, right?”

“Mmhm,” you could hardly answer, fingers tightening against Bob’s scalp as he bit gently, just enough to send electricity scattering down your stomach.

John pushed your hand away from his cock, sliding down to lay against your right side, mirroring Bob’s position. “He’s gonna come in his shorts if he doesn’t slow down,” John whispered, mouth tight to your ear, thumb passing teasingly across your tit again, your back arching to chase the touch a millisecond too late. “Shit, he's really into it.”

Bob whimpered, nodding, apologizing for what his teeth had done with rolling flicks of his tongue. The ache was insane. It felt like the welts there would last for weeks, the throb spreading through your chest and down to your abdomen. Your hips worked against nothing, a rich, wet gush between your legs making the emptiness that much worse.

Your head dodged toward John’s face as he bit down on the shell of your ear and tugged a few times, laughing when you whimpered as loudly and pitifully as Bob. “Think if he sucks hard enough, you’ll give him some milk?”

The sound that came out of Bob made you both freeze. Not Bob, though, Bob kept going, left hand smoothing across your stomach possessively.

“Please,” he hissed in a horny little whisper, brows meeting as he rubbed his entire face against your saliva-slick tit. “Please, please, I want it so bad.”

Your eyes slid to John’s as he craned his neck up. He looked…stunned. Stunned and then thoughtful, then an evil third thing as a new light bounced around in his eyes. John was a dog with a bone when someone let information like that slip out in bed. If you reacted strongly to any movement, any nickname, he seized on it, unabashedly, razor sharp military mind unspooling a hundred ways to use and reuse that knowledge, exploit the advantage.

He cleared his throat, warm and hard and steady against your side. “I think Bobby wants your milk.”

Again, that sound from Bob, the one that made you think he was either going to fragment into a million pieces or unload immediately in his shorts.

Not that you were faring any better.

“John.” You stared at him helplessly, wildly turned on and a little confused and a lot frustrated.

“I know, baby, I know you can’t,” he cooed, delivering a soothing kiss to your forehead. You could feel him studying every micro expression on your face, trying to read you. A worried dent formed between his brows. He kissed you again. “If it’s too much—”

“No, no it’s not too much—”

Your interest declared, John picked up right where he had left off to give you an out, his thumb and forefinger carefully closing over your nipple and giving a single, firm twist. “I know you can’t,” he said, and Bob whimpered in his throat, urging him on with frantic, climbing sounds. Whatever fantasy Bob was lost in was driving him into a frenzy, you weren’t far behind, chest pumping as your pulse kicked into a new gear, your eyes glued to John’s lips as you waited for him to go on, drive the bus off an even higher cliff.

“You can’t,” John whispered, swallowing thickly. “Not yet.”

He checked your reaction again, keen on the way you sucked your lip between your teeth.

“Not until we fill you up a few more times, right? Give you a baby…”

From the way his chest was drilling in and out, you got the sense this was a fantasy he had been waiting to test for a while. This wasn’t just building off of Bob’s reaction, this was John’s way of pushing into a new frontier. Bob’s hand spasmed over your stomach. You almost couldn’t feel the pressure of his sucking for a second as John’s words sank in. His eyes were hot, laser focused, yours stuttering shut as you let yourself unwind into the scenario. Oh. Oh, okay.

“Fuck,” you heard Bob moan as he flattened himself against your side. “Do it, give her one, do it right now.”

John dragged in his next breath with difficulty, jaw clenched. He was being outplayed at his own kinky game, and it seemed to be hitting him hard that neither of you were telling him to pump the breaks.

His hand slid down your stomach, leaving your breast behind, curling over the sopping mess between your legs. You both were a little rattled by how wet you were. Your entire body locked up for a second, then relaxed like your insides had been liquefied. John took it in silently for a second, running his fingertips through your slippery folds, then fingering you with all of that glorious slick, head dipping, tongue caught between his teeth as he tried to remember what he was meant to be doing—

“Bobby thinks I should knock you up right now,” he said, finding it.

You closed your eyes, reaching for him, tiptoeing up to delirium. This felt like a Pandora’s box that all three of you had bumped open like a bunch of idiots. But the box was fucking open now, and there was no shoving any of this back inside. And you didn’t want to; you wanted to see what other nasty goodies were hiding in John’s head.

“Is that what you want?” John asked, struggling with the words, grimacing when it came out too real and too tender and too excited.

You let go of Bob’s head, pushing both hands through John’s hair as he lifted your thigh up the coverlet and crawled between your legs.

“Want me to fuck you right now?” You could tell he was lost, that he had made the same calculation you had—everyone was raising, might as well go all in. “Want me to put a baby in you, sweetheart?”

It was an empty threat, all three of you knew that, you had been fastidious about your birth control for months. But even just the way he said it, fuck, like he had been circling the idea on his own, getting worked up about it, dreaming about it, like this was a script he had acted out with you a hundred times in his head… You nodded, tiny, stupid sounds dribbling out of you, because in this insane fantasy he had concocted, in this world that wasn’t the real one, you did want it.

“Please,” you whispered, holding him by his hair, risking direct eye contact as he eased his impossibly swollen dick into your body. He did it carefully, slow and aching, letting you feel every demanding inch. “Fuck. Please.”

“Have to hear you say it.”

Bob concurred in a frantic whimper. He had slowed down with grinding against your thigh for a while to stave off his orgasm, but he started up again, reaching down to push his underwear to his knees, the hot, velvety kiss of his dick against your bare thigh making your eyes cross. The hand on your stomach remained locked there until John was deep, deep inside.

“Fuck…fuck a baby into me,” you mumbled, a searing flush blasting across your cheeks. John dragged out, surged back in, cranking your thigh higher and to the side, finding the last space to claim and making it his, bottoming out, glancing against your cervix. “Oh fuck,” you whined, thrashing underneath him. “That…you’re so...can't...so deep.”

“Can’t think when I’m this deep?” John asked, rolling his hips, making you see stars. Bob sucked your nipple back into his mouth, his fingers dancing down from your navel to your pubic mound, sandwiched between your bodies while he rooted around for your clit. John’s abdomen pressed against Bob’s hand, both sensations melting into one molten pool. Even as your mouth fell open and your orgasm washed over you like a late summer storm, John wasn’t finished with you. “Can’t think when I’m about to give you a load, huh?” You shook your head, senseless, writhing. “Just know you want this baby inside you, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, yes, yes, please.”

“Your tits are going to get big and full,” John murmured, chest shining with sweat, muscles popping as he drove faster, fucking you in earnest. “Isn’t that right, Bobby? She’s going to be even more beautiful, isn’t she?”

Bob cried out around your breast; it slid free, his teeth scraping the side as he jerked against you, his cum arcing over the top of your thigh, painting sticky ropes across your lower stomach, your hip…

He trembled for a second with his eyes tightly shut, jaw slack, fingers still curling around your clit, slower now, less teasing and insistent. His lips worried across your shoulder as he got back in the fight, whispering into your ear while John lost the powers of speech, huge, harsh breaths forced out of him as he pumped and pumped—

“Gonna milk you every day, messy girl,” Bob murmured, forehead to your temple. “You’re gonna taste so sweet. Shit, I can’t wait. You ready for him, babe? Ready for him to come?”

Post-verbal, you tossed your head, whining, afraid of the sneaky aftershocks coalescing into another shivery ache deep, deep inside...

"That's it. She's ready, our sweet girl--"

"Mmhm."

"Want it bad?"

"Mmhm."

"You're just our greedy, messy cumhole--"

"Agh."

Fuck. You wailed, clenching around John, toppling him right over the edge.

“Jesus. Bobby’s gonna…after I…just gotta…oh fuck, oh fuck—” John leaned into you, jamming your thigh a little higher, one last pummeling shove of his hips keeping him fully sheathed while he gave you his heat. “There it is, there it is,” he whispered, eyes opening suddenly like he was remembering where he was and what was going on. Those eyes found you, a little nervous, a little melting, deep blue and honest as he filled you until the extra leaked out. “That’s it, baby,” he said, shivering. “That’s what you need.”

You could tell John was feeling the slightest bit sheepish about the whole thing by how fast he bolted from the room to clean himself up.

You practically saw the road runner lines hanging in the air as he raced to the bathroom, leaving you and Bob to stare at each other and float a thousand quiet questions just with your eyes.

Side by side on your backs, Bob’s seed cooling on your thigh and John’s trickling out of you slowly, you reached for Bob’s hand. He looked up at the ceiling like he was begging it to just come down and smother him, spare him the awkwardness of the very imminent conversation.

“So, that was something,” you said softly, thoughtfully. You weren't about to start hurling stones in a glass house you had helped build. His thumb traveled back and forth across your knuckles.

“I’m not…” Bob trailed off, rubbing his eye, scrunching up his face. “It would be hot and everything, but that’s…that’s just fantasy stuff, right?”

“Yeah,” you said, giving him a quick smile. “Yeah, of course.”

“Right now, I mean. Obviously. Yeah.”

You lifted a brow. He coughed into his fist.

Bob heard the bathroom door open and quite literally materialized across the room to escape the implications of that exchange. No sooner had John appeared than Bob took his place, disappearing behind the door.

Warm, damp towel in hand, John reported for duty, posture stiff, eyes above your head, jaw set.

You patted the empty space beside you on the bed. “Sit, soldier”

John lingered near your feet for a moment, gripping tight to every second of silence before the inevitable. He used the towel to wipe Bob’s spend off your leg, then folded it to a clean side and used it to dab between your legs. After folding the rag again, he tossed it onto the nightstand, then scratched his beard, sitting down on the bed hard enough to make the frame shriek.

“Can’t imagine what you want to talk about,” he muttered, studying his hands.

You scooted down the mattress until you could touch your toes to the sparse thatch of hair on his lower back. John flinched at the touch, bunching up.

“I wasn’t telling you to stop,” you said.

At that he gave a dry snort-laugh through his nose.

He drew in a breath that expanded along his entire, broad back. “When you get pregnant, especially where I’m from, everyone tells you it’s going to be the best time in your life. Beautiful, you know? Joyful. It wasn’t, guess we were just unlucky. It was hell for her, and we…we just couldn’t do a lot of things.” He made a helpless sound in his throat. “And it’s hard to let go of all the things you thought it would be. It can…stay. Get stuck, I guess. There were things I did want to do--try--but we couldn't.”

You pulled your foot back, swiveled, crawling onto your knees and joining him, pressing a firm hand between his shoulder blades. John sagged forward. “That makes it sound like I want a do over or some shit. Jesus.” He scratched both hands down his face, sighing. Finally, he hazarded a look at you over his shoulder, eyes full and sad. “I think about you that way and it…it makes me insane. Seeing you like that, tasting you..." He growled into his hands. "I don’t even know if I actually want it, or if you do, but I think about it. I think about it all the time. Especially the way we…”

“Fuck like rabbits?”

“Yeah.” He laughed again, gentler this time. You slid against his back, wrapping your arms around his waist, resting your cheek on his nape. “I’m sorry you both had to deal with that. And with us…look, it can stay a fantasy, John. We can just enjoy it. It's just a lot of words until we decide something changes.”

His hands closed over yours on his stomach.

“And we can table the real conversation for a time when this isn’t so new and we’re not putting our asses on the line at work every day and the world doesn't depend on Bob to keep spinning,” you said, spitting it all out in one nervous breath. “But if you ever want to do it again, what we did just now, maybe it would be good for you. Let…let some of that curiosity out.”

John squeezed your hands, groaning. “This is not how I saw this day ending.”

“That’s why you adore us,” you said, nuzzling into the back of his ear, making him fold in on that side. “We keep you on your toes.”

The bathroom door opened and Bob wandered out.

“Heeeey,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Everything extremely chill out here?”

John pinched the bridge of his nose, hiding his eyes under his hand. “You know what? Yeah. Not sure how.”

A big, relieved smile broke across Bob’s face. “Oh. Oh okay, good. ‘Cos I’m…I’m cool. I’m great, actually.”

You snorted into John’s shoulder, then collected the dirty rag from the nightstand, tossed it into the laundry, and went to use the bathroom. You washed yourself up a bit more and peed before the UTI fairy could visit. Bob had left quite an array of marks down your left side; thank God it was getting colder, you could almost justify a turtleneck.

Bob was parked in his usual spot when you returned to the main room, kicked back on the bed, the book you had been reading in both hands up above his head. John watched you very, very closely as you sauntered as smoothly as you could back to the safe harbor of their company. You took your spot in the middle, gazing up at John while he sat against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent.

“You have to stop worrying,” you murmured, leaning over to kiss his side. “I’m fine. We’re good. I’m not weirded out, I still want to jump your bones.”

He seemed to finally let go, nodding, cracking a relieved smile, lowering himself to lie next to you properly, crooking one arm behind his head, the other reaching for his phone, only for him to freeze up again, leaving his phone where it was. With a grunt, he twisted around, leveling an oblivious Bob with a narrow-eyed look, glaring across your chest. "Hang on. If we're debriefing, not sure how I feel about cumhole."

Bob shrugged. "She liked it."

John's gaze flicked downward as he ran that by you, jaw locked hard enough to break brick.

You hid your face against him. "I, um, yeah, I did."

He heaved a sigh. "Fine. That's all you, Bobby."

Bob smirked up at his book, giving a thumbs up.

It wasn’t even close to bed time, but you found yourself getting drowsy, head slumping against John’s shoulder, one ankle tossed lazily over Bob’s knee. Bob massaged that limb absently.

“You’re squirmy.” He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. “No one ever teach you to sit still?”

You stick your tongue out. “No one ever teach you to mind your own business?”

“Hard to mind my business when you’re movin’ all the cushions, doll-“

“Then go sit somewhere else, robot man.”

Bucky’s jaw twitches. “I’m not a robot.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m not-“

“You act like one.” You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like he’s fucking praying.

“I was here first.” He mutters. You don’t balk.

“Congratulations.”

You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-

Get a fucking grip.

“There’s a chair over there.” You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. “Go sit in it, if I’m so squirmy.”

Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab he’s got for you, you don’t want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movie—probably another one of Sam’s this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because there’s no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himself—and fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. You’re going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesn’t bother you.

You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.

It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Bucky’s fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like he’s thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.

“Everything okay?” You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.

That’s all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.

You’ll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, you’ll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. You’ll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesn’t get to know that.

As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. It’s all he spares you. And you’re not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didn’t notice you were there at all.

Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.

The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.

“You skipped the mission briefing.” Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.

Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.

You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.

“I was busy.”

“Too busy for your job?”

“It’s not my job-“

“Your name was on the roster.” Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.

“Have you been carrying that around all day?”

“That doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it really does-“

Bucky hisses your name. There’s a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“You need to be there, Steve was talkin’ about safety shit, and if you don’t know it you could get killed-“

“I know how mission briefing work, I’ve been here longer than you have-“

“Really? ‘Cause you don’t act like it-“

“I don’t act like it?” You snort. “Last I checked I’m ranked higher than you, Sargent.” You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. “Which is why I’m allowed to defer missions, and you’re not.”

Bucky blinks, recoiling slightly. “Defer? What, you-“

“I’m skipping.” You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. “And if I’m skipping, I don’t need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.

But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.

“Why’re you skipping.”

You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isn’t actually going to care about.

“I have a date.”

“A what.” It’s not a full reaction. He’s mostly staring at you like he didn’t understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.

“A date?” You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.

Bucky always brings everything out in you. It’s incredibly annoying.

“You know.” You push mockingly. “Where you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.”

“Robots flirt.” Bucky grunts, and you snort.

“Yeah, but they don’t have sex-“

The counter cracks. It’s loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like he’s just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.

“What’s-“

“Steve’s callin’ me.” He mutters, and you blink.

“No, he’s not-“

“Have fun.” Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. “On your human date.”

Then he’s gone.

And you’re left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where he’d vanished through the door. You don’t care about the date.

You just need to know what the fuck that was.

There’s a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. She’d picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Bucky—because you’ve never told her your secret, but you didn’t need to, she’s Natasha—but it wasn’t enough.

He didn’t have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didn’t spar. He didn’t push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all night—wrong smile, too—and then didn’t pay. Bucky would’ve paid.

You have no evidence of that. It’s just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when you’re at each other’s throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.

And there’s not a single point during the night, where you’re not thinking about him.

“We should do this again.” The Date—you’ve forgotten his name, and it’s certainly not a good time to ask—says at the end of the night.

You’re shivering. Bucky would’ve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks he’s getting a second date.

At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.

“Sure.” You smile, because even with superstrength, it’s easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. “Have a good night.”

He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.

The mission is over.

Two days early.

Your jaw tightens.

Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But you’ve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.

Something went wrong, and they have to come back.

You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. It’s mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. You’d skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasn’t anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe he’d thought they’d need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.

But they’re back early.

And if someone’s hurt, you could’ve stopped it. You could’ve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and that’s incredibly annoying. He’s going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and you’ll have earned it which isn’t going to help anything at all. 

You get back to the compound, and it’s not in lockdown. There aren’t med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that it’s already been cleared out. The jet isn’t being quarantined.

Maybe they really did just… Finish early.

You’re heading back to your room when you slam right into them.

Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.

“You need to go, Buck-“

“I’m fine-“

“No, you’re not. You can lie to the docs, don’t lie to me-“

“I ain’t lyin’, I’m fine-“

Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what they’re saying. You barrel straight into Bucky’s back.

He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.

His hand is hot.

Not sexy hot—although it’s also that—but literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.

He’s flushed. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out they’re almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.

“Hi.” You whisper.

His throat bobs. “You’re back.”

“I- I got the alert.” You glance over to Steve, who’s gone oddly pale. “Did the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasn’t there, right-“

“Yep!” Steve almost shouts, and you blink. “I mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?” Steve grabs Bucky’s shoulder. “We were all good.”

Bucky doesn’t look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.

“Let go.” Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.

He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.

“I was gonna.” He grumbles, and Steve sighs.

“I know, but-“ You get a weary look. Like Steve doesn’t want you to hear their conversation. “I think- You know what I think-“

“Steve-“ Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.

He still hasn’t looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.

“I’m fine.” He says, low and under his breath. You’re rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. “It’s- I’m fine.”

Steve’s lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like he’s dragging himself away.

“How was your date?” He grunts.

“Bucky-“

“I’m just askin’ a question.” He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.

The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and it’s making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.

You hope he’d catch you, then fuck you until your can’t even walk.

Get a fucking grip.

“Bad.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. “He sucked.”

And that’s the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.

But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.

“We have debriefing!” Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Bucky’s suit. “Bye!”

Before you can even register it, Steve’s dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.

Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.

Bucky’s only been acting stranger. You’d pretend it didn’t bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.

You walk through the compound, and he’s somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while you’re going through the mission files.

“What’re you doin’.” He grunts, and you sigh.

You’re not surprised he’s there. It’s the fifth time today that he’s snuck up on you.

“I’m going through the reports on the mission.” You drawl. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around?”

Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. It’s hard to pretend that you can’t feel his presence behind you. There’s heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent that’s filling the room. It’s making you a little dizzy. It’s all you can do, not to look back at him.

That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.

You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.

Mistake. Just like you’d thought, big mistake.

He looks even worse and better than you thought. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and they’re clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget you’re annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.

You somehow—just barely—fight it.

“Why can’t I access these files.”

Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. It’s hard to maintain your glare.

“Barnes-“

“You weren’t on the mission.” He mutters. “Not your files to see.”

You scowl. “I can access the files of every other mission I was on-“

“Steve should change that.”

God, you wish he wasn’t so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.

“I know something happened out there.” You hiss, sitting up a little taller. “You can’t hide it from me. I’ll figure it out.”

Bucky chuckles. It’s a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.

“Sure, doll. Have fun with that.”

You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think he’s going to pounce on you.

And then you blink, and he’s gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.

You wish that was the extent of it, but it’s barely the start. And it only gets worse.

Bucky doesn’t do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like he’s supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.

Instead, you find Bucky. 

He’s drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.

You sigh. You’re too tired to fight him.

“Can’t sleep?” You mumble.

He just nods.

You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.

“You want hot chocolate?”

A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.

And maybe it’s just that you’re really starting to worry, but you don’t bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.

His mouth falls open. He stares at you like he’s spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. He’s still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you don’t dare to push it.

Not when he’s looking at you like this. The way you’d always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.

“I’m watching Star Wars.” You mumble. “You wanna…”

You trail off, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.

But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. He’s breathing awfully shallow, but you’re a selfish coward that wants him close, so you don’t mention it.

You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesn’t even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. He’s not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasn’t said a word. You’re afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.

That he wants to be here.

Near you.

He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You don’t move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than you’ve ever seen. His fever isn’t breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.

Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.

It’s almost a moan.

You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You don’t know what’s going on with him, but this can’t be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. That’s not a part of him you get to have.

But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.

You feel almost sick.

It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When you’re free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You can’t really help it.

His fever is building again.

You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he can’t think you wouldn’t care enough to help.

When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.

You force yourself to go to bed. You’re not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.

If anything, you just pray he gets better. It’s hard to hide your undying care for him, when he’s in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that he’s hurting. ‘

But it is Bucky.

And he’s never going to make anything that easy.

You walk out of your room in the morning, and he’s right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like he’s trying to bite his own tongue off.

“Hi.” You say lamely.

He stumbles back like you punched him. “You- You’re-“

“Bucky, are you-“

“’M fine.” He says it mostly to himself again. There’s sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.

You’re not going to tell him, but you’re getting worried. This is the third morning in a row you’ve found him here. The first night you asked if he’d slept there, and he’d scowled and stomped away.

But from the look of him, you don’t think he’s been sleeping at all.

“Do you need something?” You ask. You sound soft, but you can’t help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. “I can call Steve-“

“Don’t get Steve.” He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. It’s the only way he’s been moving around you, lately. “I’m fine.”

You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like you’ve got a polarity field around you. Like he can’t even stand to breathe the same air.

And yet he’s here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.

“Bucky-“

“Don’t.” He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. “Just- Don’t.”

You swallow, and don’t give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks you’re going to catch him and drag him back. You won’t.

But you do go right to Steve.

“What happened on the mission.”

Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. You’re glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isn’t going to work on you here. That doesn’t seem to stop him from trying anyway.

“Hey, um- Do you want a cookie-“

“Steven.” You hiss, and he swallows. “What happened.”

Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”’

“What do you mean you’re not supposed to tell me-“

“I mean I- I can.” He mutters. “But then Bucky will kill me. And I don’t want Bucky to kill me.”

You scowl. “Tough shit, because guess who’s going to kill you if you don’t tell me?”

Steve sighs. “Is it you?”

“Yep.”

He stares at his sandwich, like it’s somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it won’t. You have plenty of time.

“I’m really not supposed to tell you-“

“I really don’t care.”

“Well- You will.” Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.

You don’t have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. He’s basically asking for it right now.

“Steven, I swear to fucking God-“

“I can’t tell you.” He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.

“No, you just won’t tell me-“

“That’s not- I can’t, okay? Please stop asking me to-“

“Why, because Bucky doesn’t want you to?” You leer. “Because last I checked, you’re the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates he’s in danger so they can help-“

“That’s the problem!” Steve shouts, and you blink. “You- Look, you’re going to want to help, and I can’t let you.”

“You can’t let me help?” You echo, and Steve winces.

“I know how it sounds-“

“Do you? Because what I’m fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you won’t let me fucking help-“

“Why do you even want to help?” Steve fixes you with a pointed look. “All you ever do is complain about Bucky and how he’s annoying you. I would’ve thought you didn’t care.”

You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what he’s doing. Smug fucking asshole. 

“That won’t work on me.” You grunt, and he shrugs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Steve-“

“But,” he says causally. “If I did, I’d say that’s why I can’t tell you. And you know that.”

You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like you’re just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.

“I- I don’t-“ You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. It’s annoying. “It’s not- I’m just- Please.”

Your voice cracks suddenly. You’ve been losing more sleep over this than you’re ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with it—like the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick up—but that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. It’s making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.

“Bucky.” You say slowly. “Is- He’s not okay. I know he’s not okay.” You force yourself to meet Steve’s gaze. “Just- Lie to me and say he’s fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I can’t just-“

You don’t even know how to finish the sentence. There’s a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. You’re so worried. Worried this is something that’s going to kill him, and you’re going to lose him forever.

And there’s pity, in Steve’s gaze. It’s enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.

“Alright.” He murmurs. “But- You can’t tell him I told you.”

You nod quickly. “I’ll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.”

Steve sighs. “Okay. Okay.” He shakes his head. “It was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasn’t being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think it’s the serum, or just… Bucky. But he’s been controlling it better.” Steve grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not still knocked up with stuff.”

You nod slowly. That’s not that bad.

But Steve didn’t want you to know for a reason.

“What are the symptoms?”

Steve won’t meet your gaze. “Fever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased… libido.”

Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “What.”

“Hydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We don’t know why they were developing it, but- There’s no other name.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “The agent- His cell is disgusting.”

“But- Bucky-“

“I told you, he says he’s got it under control.” Steve shrugs, but doesn’t really sound like he’s convinced himself. “The agent has been, ah… begging for anyone. Bucky doesn’t have the same liberty with what will help. He says it’s going to pass, and he’ll be fine.”

“And will it?” You breathe. “Pass?”

Steve shrugs. “It did for the agent.”

“Before or after the mating?”

Steve’s silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-“

“I know that!” Steve snaps. “I know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.” He shakes his head. “He won’t take anyone. He’ll only- Well- You know.”

“I know? I don’t fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-“

Steve says your name plainly. You blink.

“What-“

“Nothing. Just- Why do you think he’s been lingering around you?”

You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.

“Steve-“

“I didn’t say anything-“

“Yes, you did-“

“Nope.”

You press your lips in a tight line. He can’t mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. “Bucky- He doesn’t- That’s not how he feels about me.”

Please don’t say it is. It’s not fair if you’re lying.

“Funny.” Steve shrugs. “He says the same thing about you.”

This is a bad idea.

Bucky hasn’t left his room in a day. You’d spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didn’t mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What you’d always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.

But it didn’t matter how you turned or picked at Steve’s words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you can’t even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you could’ve been actually kissing him. If Steve’s right, you’re going to kill Bucky.

After you fix this for him.

If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.

Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, you’re going to have to quit your job and change your name and  move to Indonesia.

But if he doesn’t turn you down…

You steel yourself and knock on Bucky’s door. It’s worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.

“Fuck off, Stevie-“

“I’m not Steve!” You call, and for a second there’s no response. 

Then there’s a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.

He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.

His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. He’s breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.

You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a plea or a prayer.

“You shouldn’t be here-“

“Steve said you need me.”

You stare at each other. Bucky’s tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, you’ll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. You’ve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and you’re sure you’ll be able to fit right in over time, and if you don’t at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because it’s been almost two full minutes and he hasn’t said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-

“Steve shouldn’t have told you anything.” Bucky growls, and you swallow.

“I- I made him.”

He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. “Of course you did.”

“I was worried about you-“

“You don’t have to be, doll. I’m-“

“If you say I’m fine, I’m going to fucking punch you.”

Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.

“You’re sick.” You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.

“Maybe. But it’s not the kinda sick you can help with-“

“Steve says it’s the kind of sick only I can help with.”

He’s silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. It’s a warning. A plea.

“Don’t do this.” He mutters, fists balled at his side. “Not outta pity, not for me-“

“It’s not pity.” You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. “I want to help, Bucky. Let me help.”

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, you- You just- You don’t feel like that for me-“

“You don’t feel like that for me.” You breathe, and Bucky’s body locks up.

“Who says?”

“You’re an ass to me-“

“You’re an ass to me.”

“I don’t mean to be.” You whisper. “I- I don’t- I’m not good at… You know.”

Bucky’s throat bobs. He still doesn’t move.

“Me neither.”

You nod. “But…”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”

You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.

“Please ask me to help.” You don’t bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. “I- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-“

Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.

It’s not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. It’s rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.

Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way he’s almost eating your kisses. You’re standing nowhere near a wall, but he’s caged you all the same. There’s nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.

You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and it’s a little addictive. Even after you’re light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesn’t seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.

“You gotta be sure.” He murmurs against your skin. “Tell me you’re sure, doll, ‘cause- I don’t think I can go easy.”

And oh God, isn’t that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.

But he’s asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. He’s keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.

You didn’t know you could want him more.

“I- Oh-“ Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. “I’m sure, Bucky, I- I don’t want you to go easy.”

For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.

Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.

“You- You got no idea, do you?”

Your face falls to a pout. “I have a lot of ideas-“

“No, you don’t.” He drops his brow over yours. “You got no fuckin’ clue, what you do to me.”

And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. You’re already on unsteady legs. You never thought he’d catch you if you fell, but with the way Bucky’s looking at you right now, you think he’d dive off a cliff to be at your side.

“Bucky…” You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.

“You smell so good.” He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “Taste better than I imagined.”

“You-“ You almost whimper, when he pulls away. “You imagined?”

He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. You’re already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesn’t stop kissing you so softly.

“Didn’t you?”

You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“Bet I imagined more.”

And you doubt that, but Bucky’s kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that you’d never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug you’d never even taken.

You’re certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than you’d let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way he’s holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like he’s trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.

“Got no idea what I’m gonna do to, either.” He rasps against your lips. “If you let me, doll… You shouldn’t- But-“ He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. “Fuck, I want you to.”

You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. He’d be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that you’ve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But you’re not sure if he’s going to believe them.

“Tell me.” You whisper. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed about doing to me.”

Bucky pulls back, and you worry you’ve stepped on an invisible landmine. That you’re going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room you’ve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.

You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until you’re squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.

“I wanted you just like this.” He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and you’re not even kissing anymore. “Wanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetin’ and think about bending you over the table. You’d get under me on the training mats and I’d wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.”

He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and it’s almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.

“Would sit next to you on the plane and think about gettin’ on my knees.” He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. “Worshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makin’ you- Fuck- Call my name-“

Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You don’t think he can help it.

“Wanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.” He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. “You’d get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttin’ you over my knee or gettin’ you lying in my bed. I’d- I’d fuck you so nice, doll, I swear I’d be good, but- Fuuuck-“

He’s rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story he’s supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop him—never to stop him—but to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.

Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. He’s almost shaking. You think he’s trying not to fuck your hand.

You can’t have that.

“It’s okay.” You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. “I- I’ve thought about it too.”

Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.

“Wanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.”

You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Bucky’s thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers don’t even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.

“Wasn’t as big.” You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. “You’re so big, Bucky, I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”

He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. “Gonna- Fuck-“

You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. He’s almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.

“Gonna make it fit.” He hisses in your ear, and you hum.

“How?”

“Open you up.” He mutters, words slurred like he’s drunk. “Get you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-“

His dick is twitching, and you giggle. He’s working himself up.

“You think this is funny?” He rasps.

You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. “A little. You wanna make me cum but you won’t even touch me.”

He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.

“You- You’re a fuckin’ brat-“

“I’m helping you, Barnes.” You whisper in his ear.

He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. “Helpin’ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-“

Bucky’s whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.

There’s so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. You’ve never wanted anything more.

A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.

Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didn’t already wear him out.

“You okay?” You whisper, and he tenses.

Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.

Whatever he’d been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.

You can’t stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.

He’s bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and it’s barely been a minute, but he’s already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chest—all flushed skin and muscle—and realize he hasn’t stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.

“It won’t fit.” You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.

And Bucky’s smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. You’ve gotten exactly what you wanted.

“Gonna make it fit.” He growls.

You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You don’t even slam into his chest before he’s lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. It’s a distraction. You know that. You don’t really care, though, returning it in a second.

Bucky carries you like you’re a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second you’re fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.

“So soft.” He mutters. “All that bite, doll, but I knew you’d be so fuckin’ soft for me.”

You’d like to protest, and say that you’re not soft. But Bucky’s kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.

Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.

“You like that?” He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. “You like bein’ my sweet girl?”

You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You don’t know how he’s the one with a sound mind right now. You’re not under a sex drug.

You’re just under Bucky. Where it’s very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.

“Say it and I give you more.” He rasps. “Say you like it.”

And it’s a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But he’s poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.

So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.

Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.

“Look at you.” He mocks. “Beggin’ for me and then can’t even admit she likes it.”

You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.

“You like gettin’ tossed around, too?” He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. “I’ll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.”

He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.

“Already listen so well.” He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. “Just can admit you fuckin’ love it, do you? Can’t be a good girl and tell the truth.”

You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. It’s not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.

Permission to go further.

His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.

“Alright, babydoll.” He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Have it your way.”

In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like it’s paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before he’s grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.

A dazed part of your brain that doesn’t remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.

Then the first stroke of Bucky’s tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.

“Oh my-“ Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. “Oh my God-“

“Sensitive fuckin’ pussy.” Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. “Barely even touching it. Wonder if I-“

 His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You can’t see him. Can’t know if you’re doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.

Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.

“Look at you.” His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. “Bet I don’t even need to fuckin’ prep you. You’re so wet, you’d just…”

He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.

“Sweet.” Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. “So fuckin’ sweet.”

“Bu- Bucky-“

“Shhh.” He kisses right over your pussy. “Wanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckin’-“ He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. “Gotta taste-“

Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isn’t human.

He’s good at this. So good at this. It’s a little unfair. Your mouth can’t do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like he’s starved for it. Like he’s a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.

Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. It’s a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.

You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. You’re so wet it’s almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum he’d gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.

“That’s right.” He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. “That’s it, baby, you’re already lettin’ go, aren’t you.”

You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.

“Aren’t you?”

“Ye- Yes.” You mumble. “’S good, Bucky- So good-“

“I know.” He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. “Fuck, baby, I know.”

You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. He’s lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.

“I- I’m gonna- Fuck- Bucky-“ You scratch at the sheets. “I’m gonna- Oh God-“

He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.

And Bucky doesn’t stop. You’re making a mess all over his face, and he’s rising up, but it’s just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesn’t even come up for air.

“Shit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-“

The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure that’s just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.

Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.

He’s jerking off while he eats you out.  He’s fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.

Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. He’s eating you out the same way he’s kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor that’s almost animalistic. You’re boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.

Then, suddenly, he’s gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.

“Smells good.” He rasps. “Gonna- Fuck-“

Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. There’s always just more of it, until you’re so marked up with him you’re sure you’ll never be able to wash it off.

You don’t want to.

With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you don’t think he does either.

“Shit.” He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. “Gotta- Flip for me, c’mon-“

Bucky helps you roll over. His touches are gentle again, but the gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded. You blink at him, flat on your back with your legs spread. Bucky traces the lips of your cunt, then slowly pushes two fingers inside you. Fucking his cum back into your tight hole. You mewl, eyes fluttering. Your head tosses back, and Bucky smiles

“Good girl.” He coos.

You try not get all gooey and weak just from the praise. Bucky laughs, and you think you might’ve failed.

“Strangling my fingers, doll.” He teases, pulling them right out.

You whimper. You’re too wet and ready not to take something. It’s really not fair to make you wait.

“I know.” He kisses your brow, voice rough. “Trust me, I fuckin’ know. You just gotta tell me you like it, then-“ His cock drags between your folds, and you keen. “All yours.”

You blink at him, opening your mouth to comply.

But you’re at an advantage.

Bucky’s hard again. His body is wound so tight above you, and his every word is thick. Like it’s an effort to speak. He’s still trying to fight against the drug running through his veins.

You want him to give in.

So you close your mouth, and give him a defiant glare.

Bucky growls again, and there’s no more teasing.

His mouth pushes over yours, and it’s not a loving kiss. It’s rough and quick, stealing your breath in seconds and distracting you as Bucky grabs your knees and shoves them back. You try to chase his lips, when he pulls away, but he shoves you back down with a grunt.

“Wanna be a brat.” He grunts. “Gonna get fucked like a brat.”

You almost beam. Yes, please.

Bucky folds you under him, your knees pressed to your chest and your cum-stained pussy on full display. He doesn’t waste time, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before slamming right inside. You’re so soaked you take it with only a hitched breath, but that doesn’t mean your eyes don’t roll back.

He hits right against you pelvis, when he bottoms out. His heavy balls sit on your ass, and the stretch of him is just enough pain to heighten the pleasure. Bucky kisses all over your face as he lets you adjust, but your pussy is greedy. He’d prepared you too well. You’re more than ready within seconds.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You gaps out, and he growls against your neck. “Move.”

If he’d told you to wait, you wouldn’t have been surprised.

But the drug seems to have overtaken him again, and all you get is a noise like a snarl against your throat before Bucky draws almost all the way out, and slams back in.

The air is knocked clean from your lungs. This time, he hit right against your g-spot, and your whole body seizes up. Bucky makes a low, deep noise, and repeats the motion. Again, he drives right into that gooey spot deep inside of you. You clench around him, and he doubles over, rutting deep inside of you.

“The- There-“ You whimper, fingers scrambling in the sheets. “Fuck, baby, right there-“

Bucky grunts an agreement, and starts to fuck you into the mattress. The angle is so deep you’re worried he’s going to permanently rearrange your guts. Every slam of his cock into your makes you see heaven, and Bucky pants over your, his eyes locked onto yours as your face contorts with pleasure.

He’s not even fucking you like a brat. He’s fucking you like a doll. He grabs at your limbs and moves them below him like you’re just a sleeve for his dick, and he needs you into just the right spot. One hand fists in your hair, forcing your neck a little up so you can watching your arousal gleam on his cock every time he pulls out. He moans every time he pushes back in, and you watch your cunt swallow his dick whole. A wet, smacking sound filling the room as he drills into you. He bends you even further to kiss over your neck and breasts, his tongue dragging in rhythm with his dick.

You try to clench around him every time he bottoms out, but your head is sort of empty, and now you’re just a drooling pussy around his massive cock, moaning his name and happily milking every bit of pleasure.

“Oh- Oooooh-“ You mewl, smiling like a cockdrunk idiot at the air. “Buuuucky-“

His mouth presses back over yours, and the kiss is strangely soft. His fucking hasn’t slowed or relented, but there’s a care with how his lips move over yours that makes you feel worshipped.

That’s what he’d said he’d do. Worship you. And you can really feel it here.

Bucky draws back, and the hand that had been fisted in your hair moves to your jaw. He squeezes again. You open for him easily, and his lips twitch.

“Good girl.” He coos, even if the words are tighter than before.

He spits into your mouth. You swallow obediantly, and open again when he squeezes your cheeks. Bucky slams forward with a groan, looking like a man wrecked.

“You fuckin’ like it, don’t you-“

“Love it.” You gasp, unable to even think to deny him again. “Love you, Bucky- Oh- Oh my god-“

Bucky makes a ragged, choked sound, and cums almost without warning. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, as he pumps you full of his release. It feels like even more than before. Like you’re going to burst with how full you are, spurts of it still being forced out as Bucky fucks you through. You’ve never felt so totally claimed, with him all over every inch of your skin. He kisses you and you giggle, dazed and almost high on the feeling.

And he’s not even done.

The period of lucidity between orgasms gets shorter before it gets longer. Bucky’s ability to control himself almost vanishes all together. You get a kiss and broken mumble of your name before you’re being flipped back onto your stomach and fucked from behind. There will be handprints on your ass and thighs in the morning, and the sheets are stained with your drool from how Bucky railed you from behind.

You’re dragged into his lap right after, and he pushes his thumb into your mouth, then ruts up into your gaping cunt. You’re all moans and ditzy smiles by that point. When rolls you back onto your stomach and sits up on his knees, you just take it with moans and giggles and cries of delight.

He hasn’t just ruined you. He’s pulled you apart a million times over, until you’re just a puddle that sings his name.

You don’t even fully realize he’s done, when he kisses pulls out that last time. You whine, and clench around nothing, but expect to get filled right back up.

Then Bucky kisses you, and it’s slow. Savoring and sweet. Romantic. His voice is hoarse, but it’s lost the strained quality. He’s fully teasing again, smiling against your lips.

“So soft.” He coos, rubbing your thoroughly abused pussy with his warm hand.

You writhe, trying to get further and closer at the same time. Bucky chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Jesus, doll. You’d think you were the one that got sex drugged.”

You try to glare at him, but forget why the moment you see his pretty eyes, shining on yours.

They’re blue again.

“You’re back?” You breathe, and Bucky grins.

He ducks down, and presses another quick kiss over your lips.

“I’m back.”

 You’re ordered not to move, while he cleans up. You don’t think you could if you tried. Your body is jelly, everything is sore in the best way, and your head is spinning with too many thoughts of what the fuck happened.

You told Bucky you love him. You told Bucky you love him. You’d never even fully admitted it in your head and he just fucked it right out of you. You said it fast, too fast, he thought you hated him four hours ago and now he must think you’re some kind of freak for just saying you love him.

He makes you drink water and go to the bathroom. Draws you a bath and brings you a snack and changes the sheets. You manage to find the strength to stand out of the tub and dry yourself off, wrapping the towel around your body before shuffling out in the center of his room.

God, he’s so handsome. All tan muscles and scars you want to trace with your tongue. Too bad you fucking blew it, and now you’re never going to get to touch him again-

Bucky turns, and smiles when he sees you. You swallow, bracing for the worst as he crosses the room.

He takes your face between his hands and kisses you. Deep and gentle and maybe he just forgot-

“Love you too.” He says against your lips. “Just- Uh- While we’re saying it.”

Oh.

Or that. That’s nice.

You throw everything you have into kissing him back, but end up tackling him down onto the bed with the sudden surge of strength. Bucky chokes out a laugh in surprise, wrestling you over onto your back with kiss and wandering hands. You giggle, trying to push back, and he nips at the tip of your nose.

Then he pauses, and pulls up with a small, worried frown.

“You’re stayin’ the night, right?”

You almost snort. There’s no getting rid of you now. You’re going to stay forever, and as long as he’ll allow after that.

“Yeah. I’m staying.”

✦End note: this was longer than my college thesis btw. and i. put more effort into it.✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

The morning light filtered through the blinds, painting golden stripes across your living room floor. You were curled up on the couch, a half-empty mug of tea warming your hands as you scrolled idly through your phone.

The television hummed in the background, tuned to some local news station that had been buzzing about the Avengers’ latest mission.

You weren’t really paying attention until a familiar shield flashed across the screen.

Steve.

Your eyes lifted immediately, phone forgotten in your hand as the feed cut to shaky camera phone clips. The team was exiting a Quinjet, the sleek black aircraft looking out of place against the dull gray of the tarmac.

Natasha walked a few steps ahead, her posture unshakably confident, the sun glinting off the red in her hair. Beside her, Sharon Carter spoke into a comm, her jaw set with focus, her blonde ponytail swaying with every determined step.

And then Steve.

Even through the grainy video quality, he stood out. He moved with that easy strength, a steadying presence that drew every gaze to him without even trying.

Reporters surged forward, voices overlapping as they called his name. He paused, polite as ever, and answered a few quick questions with calm authority. Then he lifted a hand, subtle but commanding, to guide his team toward waiting transports.

Always leading. Always protecting. Always—Steve.

Your heart swelled, a smile tugging at your lips almost automatically. He looked good. He always did. But as your gaze drifted back to the women on either side of him, something inside you faltered.

Natasha’s confidence wasn’t just skill; it was elegance carved into every movement. Sharon’s efficiency made her seem untouchable, a woman who looked as if she’d stepped right out of a polished recruitment poster.

Even Wanda, glimpsed in the background, looked radiant, her scarlet jacket catching the sunlight like she belonged in a painting.

They all looked like they belonged there. Next to him. With him.

Your hand tightened around your mug, the tea long gone cold. For a second, you caught your reflection in the black surface of the television screen: messy hair falling out of a half-hearted bun, the faint trace of yesterday’s mascara smudged beneath one eye, and the oversized sweatshirt you’d thrown on without thinking.

And then the whisper came, uninvited but sharp: He deserves better than this.

Your throat closed. Without thinking, you grabbed the remote and flicked the TV off, the screen cutting to black. The sudden silence rang loud in the apartment.

You sank deeper into the couch cushions, pressing your lips together as if you could physically hold the thought inside and keep it from spilling out where he might see it.

-----

By the time the sound of a key in the lock reached your ears that evening, you’d convinced yourself you were fine.

You scrambled to your feet, setting the abandoned mug in the sink and smoothing your sweatshirt as if that might erase the memory of the morning.

The door swung open, and Steve stepped inside. He looked tired; lines of exhaustion softened his features, but when his eyes landed on you, his whole expression lit up.

That familiar, steady warmth spread across his face as he set down his shield and duffel by the door.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and rough from hours of debriefings.

Before you could respond, he was across the room. He bent down to press a lingering kiss to your forehead, his hand resting briefly against your cheek like he needed to ground himself in the fact that you were really there.

“I missed you,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your skin in a way that made your chest ache.

You swallowed, forcing a smile as you whispered back, “I missed you too.”

Steve exhaled softly, like he’d been carrying the weight of the world all day and could finally set it down in your living room. He toed off his boots, shrugged out of his jacket, and padded toward the kitchen.

You followed, watching him with quiet fondness as he tugged open the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water.

“You already eat?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Not yet. Was waiting for you,” you admitted.

That earned you a faint smile as he twisted the cap off and took a long drink. “Guess it’s a good thing I grabbed takeout on the way home.” He gestured toward the paper bag he’d set down by the door, the aroma of warm pasta already filling the air.

The two of you fell into the comfortable rhythm you always did: unpacking cartons, setting plates, and Steve sneaking a bite before you’d even sat down.

Dinner was filled with his stories and mission updates, peppered with dry humor that only came out when he was with you. On the surface, everything was normal. Perfect, even.

But under the table, your fingers worried at the hem of your sweatshirt, tugging threads loose, that whisper from the morning refusing to quiet.

When the plates were empty and Steve insisted on doing the dishes, you curled back onto the couch, pulling a blanket over your lap. He joined you minutes later, damp hair pushed back from his face, smelling faintly of soap.

He slid an arm around your shoulders, tugging you against his side. The warmth of him seeped through the blanket instantly, and your body responded before your mind could, relaxing, melting into the comfort you always found with him.

“This,” Steve said quietly, his lips brushing the crown of your head. “This is what I look forward to.”

Your chest tightened painfully. You pressed closer to him, burying your face against his shirt so he wouldn’t see the doubt in your eyes.

Because even if he meant it, even if he really did look forward to nothing more than sitting here with you—you couldn’t help wondering how long it would last before he realized he deserved someone stronger. Someone extraordinary. Someone like them.

-----

The days that followed slid into their usual rhythm, but something inside you had shifted.

You didn’t mean for it to. It wasn’t as if you wanted to start seeing yourself differently, smaller, dimmer, but once the thought had rooted itself, it was hard to shake. Every glimpse of the women Steve worked with only seemed to water it.

Natasha, her smirk sharp enough to cut glass. Sharon, crisp and capable, every word measured. Wanda, with her wild, untamed strength that looked almost effortless.

And then you.

The ordinary one. The one who couldn’t wield a weapon, who couldn’t strategize a mission, who couldn’t stand beside him on a battlefield without becoming a liability.

You didn’t tell him, of course. You never would. Steve carried enough on his shoulders; he didn’t need your insecurities piled on top.

So you buried them as best you could. Smiled when he came home, laughed at his stories, kissed him like nothing was wrong.

Still, he noticed things.

He always noticed.

The first crack appeared when he caught you hesitating in front of the mirror one morning. You’d been getting ready for a simple brunch date, nothing fancy, just you and him, pancakes and bad coffee at your favorite diner.

But as you adjusted your sweater, your reflection caught your eye. You froze.

Your gaze lingered on the soft curve of your stomach, the way your hair didn’t sit quite right, and the faint blemish on your cheek. A sigh escaped before you could stop it.

And then Steve’s reflection appeared behind you.

“You look beautiful,” he said simply, like it was fact.

You forced a smile and tugged at your sleeve. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.” He bent to press a kiss to your temple, but by the time his lips met your skin, you’d already pasted on a brighter grin, one you hoped reached your eyes.

The second crack came a few nights later. Steve was sprawled across the couch, sketchbook balanced on his knee, pencil moving in quick strokes.

You’d been curled beside him, scrolling your phone, until a notification popped up, another article about the Avengers. The thumbnail image showed Natasha in action, mid-spin, the caption praising her lethal grace.

Without meaning to, you lingered on it too long. Your breath caught, something heavy settling in your chest. You quickly locked your screen, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

But Steve always noticed.

“You okay?” he asked, eyes flicking up from his sketch.

“Yeah. Just tired,” you answered too quickly, shoving the phone between the couch cushions.

He didn’t push. He just studied you for a moment longer before nodding slowly and going back to his sketch. Still, you felt his gaze on you every so often, like he was cataloguing each shift in your expression, each time your shoulders drew tight.

By the third crack, you were starting to feel cornered.

It was movie night, your weekly ritual. He’d let you pick the film, and you’d chosen a rom-com, light, harmless, and nothing like the chaos of his missions.

But halfway through, your chest clenched as the female lead appeared on screen. She was radiant: perfect hair, a dazzling smile, and the kind of effortless beauty that seemed designed to be adored.

You laughed along with the movie and tried to hide the way your throat tightened, but Steve’s hand tightened just slightly where it rested on your knee.

Later, when the credits rolled, he turned to you. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

You shook your head quickly, forcing a yawn. “Just tired. Long day.”

Steve didn’t argue, but his eyes lingered on yours a moment longer than usual, searching.

And that was the part that scared you most.

Because Steve Rogers wasn’t oblivious. He’d spent years reading people, noticing details others missed. And now he was watching you with that same quiet intensity, piecing something together you weren’t ready for him to know.

So you tried harder.

Smiled bigger. Laughed louder. Kissed him first, before he could look at you too closely.

But deep down, you knew it was only a matter of time before the cracks gave way completely.

-----

Then it happened on a Thursday night.

You’d tried to busy yourself all day—laundry, dishes, halfhearted attempts at work on your laptop—but nothing had settled the ache in your chest.

By the time Steve came home, you were already curled up on the couch in that same oversized sweatshirt, blanket cocooned around you like armor.

The door opened. His familiar footsteps crossed the floor. He said your name softly, almost hesitantly.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You looked up and smiled. Too quickly. Too practiced. “Hey. Welcome home.”

He kissed your forehead like always, but when he pulled back, his eyes searched yours. “How was your day?”

“Fine,” you answered, the word slipping out before you could think of something more convincing.

Steve’s brow furrowed, the faint crease between his eyebrows deepening. He didn’t press immediately.

Instead, he set down his shield and bag and went through his usual motions, unlacing his boots, shrugging off his jacket, and grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

You thought maybe that was the end of it. Maybe he’d let it slide again.

But when he joined you on the couch, his arm draping automatically around your shoulders, he didn’t reach for the remote.

He didn’t ask what movie you wanted to watch. He just sat there, warm and steady, fingers drawing slow circles against your arm.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said after a long silence.

You shifted beneath the blanket, pulling it tighter. “I’ve just been tired. Long week.”

“That’s what you said last night.” His voice was gentle, not accusing, just patient. Too patient. “And the night before that.”

You felt your throat tighten. “Because it’s true.”

Steve tilted his head, studying you. He didn’t push. He never did. He just… waited. Like he always waited, giving you the space to come to him. And that was what made it harder.

Because part of you wanted to keep hiding. To paste on another smile, deflect with another excuse. But another part, the bigger part, the part that ached every time he looked at you like you were the center of his universe, wanted to break open and tell him everything.

The silence stretched. Your heartbeat roared in your ears.

Finally, you blurted, “I don’t… I don’t belong next to you.”

Steve blinked, startled by the sharpness of your words. His hand stilled on your arm. “What?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, shame burning hot in your chest. But the dam had already cracked, and the words tumbled out, shaky and uneven.

“I see the women you work with—Nat, Sharon, Wanda—and I look at myself and… I don’t measure up. They’re strong, they’re beautiful, they’re… everything you deserve. And I’m just—”

Your voice broke. You dug your nails into the blanket, gripping it like it might hold you together. “I’m just ordinary. I can’t fight beside you. I can’t keep up. I can’t be what they are.”

The room went quiet, too quiet.

You didn’t dare look at him. You couldn’t bear to see the pity in his eyes, or worse, agreement. So you stared at your hands instead, blinking rapidly against the tears threatening to fall.

When Steve finally spoke, his voice was low and steady but carrying a weight you couldn’t ignore.

“Sweetheart.”

Just that one word, filled with so much emotion, almost made you crack right there.

He shifted closer, his hand gently cupping your chin, coaxing your gaze to meet his. When your eyes finally lifted to his, you found no pity. No confusion. Only something deep, fierce, and unshakably tender.

“Is that what you’ve been thinking?” he asked softly.

You swallowed hard, guilt pooling in your chest. “I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want to make it your problem. You already have enough—”

Steve cut you off, his voice firm but gentle. “You are never a problem.”

The conviction in his tone nearly undid you.

Your lips parted, trembling around unspoken words, but Steve wasn’t finished. His thumb brushed along your jaw, his other hand finding yours beneath the blanket and squeezing firmly, grounding you.

“You think you don’t measure up?” He asked quietly, eyes never leaving yours. “You think I’d rather be anywhere else than right here with you?”

Tears blurred your vision. You tried to speak, but all you could manage was a shaky whisper: “I just… don’t understand why you chose me.”

For a moment, Steve just looked at you. Like he was memorizing every detail of your face. Then, with a tenderness that made your chest ache, he said, “Because you’re the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.”

And the way he said it, so steady, so certain, he left no room for doubt.

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and impossible to ignore.

Your breath hitched, but Steve didn’t falter. He shifted closer, wrapping one strong arm around your shoulders and pulling you gently against his chest.

His heartbeat thudded steady beneath your ear, like a drum keeping time.

“You think I don’t see you,” he murmured into your hair, his voice low and rough with emotion. “But I see you. Every day. I see the way you laugh at my dumb jokes, even when you’re tired. I see the way you take care of me when I come home half-dead on my feet. I see the way you make a place feel like home just by being in it.”

His hand smoothed down your back, slow and steady, as if trying to ease the tension right out of you.

“Nat, Sharon, Wanda… They’re incredible, yeah,” Steve continued. “But that doesn’t make you less. They’re my teammates. They’re my friends. But they’re not the person I come home to. They’re not the one I think about in the middle of a mission, reminding myself what I’ve got to fight to get back to. That’s you.”

Your tears spilled over then, hot against your cheeks. “But I’m not—”

Steve tipped your chin up again, his thumb brushing the tear away before it could fall. “Don’t say you’re not enough. You’re more than enough. You’re the reason I can keep doing what I do. Because I know, no matter how hard the fight gets, I’ve got you waiting for me. You keep me grounded. You keep me human. That’s not ordinary. That’s everything.”

His words hit like a wave, crashing into the walls you’d built around yourself. The conviction in his tone left no space for doubt. He wasn’t trying to convince you; he believed every word.

You let out a shaky laugh, half-sob, half-disbelief. “You always know exactly what to say, don’t you?”

Steve smiled softly, leaning down until his forehead rested against yours. “No. I just tell the truth.”

The simplicity of it unraveled you. You leaned into him fully then, burying yourself in his warmth, in the steadiness of his embrace.

He held you like you were fragile and unbreakable all at once, his arms cocooning you in the safest place you’d ever known.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. The quiet stretched, comfortable now, filled only with the sound of your breathing syncing with his.

Finally, Steve pressed a kiss to your hair and whispered, “You don’t ever have to compare yourself to anyone else, sweetheart. Not with me. You’re it. You’ve always been it.”

The sincerity in his voice and the softness of his words wrapped around your heart. For the first time in days, the ache in your chest eased.

You tilted your head back, eyes still glassy, and met his gaze. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

Steve’s lips curved into the smallest smile before he kissed you, slow, unhurried, filled with the quiet certainty of a promise. When he pulled back, he rested his hand over your heart.

“Maybe you don’t see it,” he said, “but I do. Every day. And I’ll keep reminding you, for as long as it takes.”

The tears came again, but this time they felt lighter. You laughed through them, tucking yourself back into his chest as his arms tightened around you.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of softness. Steve making you tea, fussing over you like you were made of glass, and then carrying you to bed despite your half-hearted protests.

He curled himself around you beneath the blankets, his chest pressed to your back, his arm draped securely across your waist.

“Sleep,” he murmured against your temple. “I’ve got you.”

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, you believed him.

You closed your eyes, letting the warmth of him chase away the shadows. Wrapped in his embrace, with his steady heartbeat lulling you to sleep, you knew one thing with absolute certainty:

You were his. And that was enough.

╭ ⋮ Join my тαgℓιѕт╰

As he chucks his duffel by the door, you shuffle closer to him on the bed and lean up to kiss him as he bends over slightly to connect his lips to yours.

“Sorry I woke you.” He mutters against your lips and you scoff, raising a soft hand to his freshly shaven cheek.

If you hadn’t know any better, with the way he pampered himself before every mission, you would’ve thought he was trying to impress another woman. But you did know better and you knew that it was all just part of his captaincy and professionalism.

“You’re supposed to wake me.” You tell him. You would never let him leave for a mission without saying goodbye first. Never.

He shakes his head, nodding out the window that only just saw a glimpse of the sun about to rise, “It’s too early, I was just gonna leave a note.”

“I don’t care.” You tell him sternly, but kiss his lips softly so that he knows you’re not mad at him or anything. Thinking back to his schedule and the rundown of his missions that you’d peaked at earlier this week, you remember this one to be the longer one of the bunch that he was given. “It’s a long one, huh?” You ask, even though you already knew. Instead of answering your question, Steve’s mind wanders and he smiles at you cheekily, making you slap his chest softly, “Pervert.”

“Only 3 days.” He finally answers, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. Tuh, only 3 days. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Suppressing your current emotions, you just smile up at him, caressing your thumb over his chin, “I’ll be here.”

By the time he gets back, you probably will be in bed still. They hardly came back at a reasonable time. Either early hours of the morning or almost reaching midnight- no in between.

Taking your hand in his own, he softly starts to tug on your arm, “Walk me out?” You don’t know why he even bothered asking, the answer was always going to be yes.

You quickly slipped on some slippers before interlocking your hands back with his and walking him to the quinjet.

It was a full team mission this one, so practically everyone was already up and about, ready to go. Except you, of course. No, you didn’t attend to missions as much as you would like… at all, actually.

All you did was clean up the compound, restock it and make sure everyone’s laundry was folded and in their respective locations. You weren’t the maid- you were actually Tony’s lab assistant… but no one really needed much of your assistance so you resorted to up keeping the compound.

You helped out Tony and Bruce every so often, but they rarely needed your help. And they liked you too much to let you go and you ended up dating Steve so you stuck around. You still get paid, for what, you’re not exactly sure… maybe stocking up the lab every week. But, hey, you’re really not complaining. Well, not yet at least.

Besides, you’re not always alone. It’s not all the time that everyone attends the same mission- they’re kind of rare. Sometimes Vision will stick around, Clint, Bruce, Tony. Unfortunately for you, Steve is almost always there. He is the captain after all.

Entering the quinjet with Steve, you appear extremely out of place. In nothing but your white nightie dress and your flower patterned slippers, whilst everyone else had leather and bulletproof suits on. You stuck out like a sore thumb.

You scan the jet as per usual, eyes bouncing off every surface. Steve loads his bag into the compartment above before turning to you with a heavy sigh.

You smile up at him then, smoothing out his hair and wiping the small spec of dust that had landed on the star of his suit, “Come back in one piece, will you?” You ask jokingly, a running saying between the two of you every time he leaves. Bucky rolls his eyes every time he hears it.

Smiling, he presses one final kiss to your awaiting lips, “I’ll try.”

-

“Big explosion! Boom. Boom. Cap runs in, bonk, bonk- that’s his shield. Shing!” Sam retells the events of the mission, clearly exaggerating from the way everyone at the table shakes their heads and rolls their eyes.

You wouldn’t know. You weren’t there. But you wish you had been. It seemed fun.

They had come back early this morning, all of them in chipper moods as they came off the jet. It wasn’t unusual for this to happen, with a time like that, things were bound to go well. But it was the inside jokes and whispers that piqued your curiosity every time it happened.

You would be lying if you said you didn’t feel left out sometimes. Sometimes you’d ask Steve what happened and he’d just say something like ‘Ehhh, it’s hard to explain. You’ll catch on.’ You never do.

Like now, as you sit by Steve at the dinner table, you feel like you’ve just begun reading a classic literature novel.

But the best you can do is smile when necessary and pick at your food. No one asks about your days alone or thanks you for their laundry or how you had organised the pantry by food group.

And so, as Steve gave you a piggy back to your room, you absentmindedly played with the strings of his hoodie while deep in thought.

What if I went on missions?

-

You were finally needed in the lab. Tony had found something on the mission from yesterday and he wanted you to have a look.

It was some strange substance he had collected from Steve’s shield- said it was the blood of some alien. What exactly Tony wanted to do with it, you had no idea, but it was interesting nevertheless.

It’s silent between the two of you now as he types into his computer and wheels around on his chair. Well, apart from Tony’s mindless humming.

You quickly fill out the sheet of what you need to restock the lab with before putting it aside and looking over at Tony.

“Hey, Tony?” You ask nervously.

“Hey, Y/N,” He mocks back, lifting his head up from his computer and smiling at you.

Smiling back, you pause a bit to consider the delivery of your question, “Is anyone allowed on missions? Anyone that’s trained enough… even if they don’t have a,” You look to his armour in the corner of the lab, “Fancy suit or…” Then to the framed picture of Bruce on one of the walls, “Enhancements.”

Sitting back in his seat now, he gives you a once over, a cheeky grin on his face like he knows something that you don’t.

“You wanna go on missions?” He asks you, having immediately caught on to what you were asking him.

You shrug, suddenly getting flustered, “I don’t know, they seem fun. And I know I’m supposed to ask Fury but… he scares me.”

Tony chuckles, “If Fury scares you, I don’t know how well you’ll do on missions.”

Your eyes widen at your slip up and you shake your head, at the edge of your seat now, “I can do it. Just- Fury is very intimidating.”

He waved his hand to reassure you he was just kidding, “I don’t blame you, even I’m scared of him.” He admits, probably just to make you feel better though. No one scares Tony… maybe Pepper. “If I let you out on the field, who’s gonna stock up the lab?”

“I will.” You say quietly, looking down at the sheet of paper you had easily filled out this morning, “It only takes me like 10 minutes.”

Tony just stares at you then- and you don’t know what he’s thinking. And that makes you nervous. God, to have Wanda’s powers- maybe then you’d be let out on the field too.

“You really wanna go on missions?” He asks and you nod your head eagerly- silently begging and he sighs- how can he say no to that face? “I’ll see if Natasha can train you up.” He says, standing up out of his chair before pointing, “I don’t know how your girlfriend is gonna take this though.”

His last sentence goes in one ear and out the other as you throw your arms around his neck in a tight and very unprofessional hug, “Thank you!”

-

Natasha was more than happy to train you . Hesitant after first, giving Tony a knowing look but he just nodded at her. You don’t know what that translated to exactly but you didn’t care.

Your first session was literally the next day and you couldn’t have been more excited.

Your session started at 10 and so after you ate a healthy breakfast, you had made your way upstairs to get changed into your gym clothes.

They were practically a relic in your wardrobe since it had been so long since you’d worn them, but they still looked brand new.

Just as you finished getting ready, Steve had entered the bedroom- stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of your ass perfectly emphasised in your leggings.

“Woah,” He lets slip, stepping closer to you as you zip up your gym bag. His hands connect to your ass like a magnet, and he squeezes the flesh in his hands, whispering in your neck, “This is a nice set-“

“Steve!” You crane your neck, his breath tickling your skin and sending shivers all over your body. Spinning around in his grasp, you throw your gym bag over you shoulder and watch as Steve frowns at the lack of contact with your butt, “I can’t be late.” You say, a warning hand on his chest to distance him from yourself.

Eyes trained on your tits, he pulls you to him by your waist, totally overpowering you as you try and push him away, “Sure you can.”

Reaching your clawed hand down, you pinch his dick between your fingers and watch in amusement as he yelps in surprise and you manage to slip from his grip, “Goodbye, Steve.”

Doubled over with his hands over his crotch, he just offers a painful smile and a weak, “Have a good session.”

-

“Dead.”

You groan, throwing your head back against the mat.

“Dead.”

You wheeze, doubled over on all fours after the wind is knocked from your lungs.

“Dead.”

You roll your eyes, rolling down the wall as Natasha releases her grip on your neck.

“Come on,” She whines- like she’s the one that’s struggling here, “If your wife saw you, he’d be mortified.”

“Natasha, you’re kicking my ass.” You say breathlessly, swallowing a breath as you lean your head against the wall.

“The enemy will do more than just kick your ass.” She says threateningly and you shut your eyes defeatedly. Your chest continues to rise and fall, your neck red from her previous grip, bruises already starting to form all over your body and sweat beads adorning every part of your skin. It’s then that Natasha takes pity on you, clearly having gone a bit too far with this session, “Okay, we’ll wrap up. You did, okay, we’ll do better tomorrow.”

She helps you up off the wall and you limp towards your gym bag, weakly throwing it over your shoulder before heading straight to the recovery room and starting an ice bath.

-

Steve had missed you today. It was one of the first days where you weren’t readily available or around the compound. You didn’t bring him lunch when he lost track of time from overworking, you weren’t even at dinner because you were recovering from your day long training session.

“Mm Steve.” You groan as he kisses up your body. To him, it just sounded like your usual sound of pleasure, but you were far from pleased. Steve had pressed down on a bruise by your hip and it hurt.

And so, he continues, lifting up your shirt to press kisses up your stomach-

“Oh my God,” His lips on your skin are long forgotten as he peers down at the purple and blue blotches all up your side and rib. All you can do is look up at him as he furrows his brows down at your skin, further pulling your shirt up and searching for more, even more surprised that there are, “What the hell happened? Who did this to you?” He asks, immediately thinking you had been attacked rather than a result of your training session with Nat.

“Nat. From training.” You answered weakly, rubbing your eyes tiredly.

“She’s supposed to train you not beat you up!” From the strain of his voice, clearly concerned, you place your hand over his to calm him down- not that it works much, “Did you spar with her?” He asks and you see the cogs turning in his head, so you’re quick to jam them.

“I need to learn to defend myself somehow.” You shrug, caressing your thumb over the back of his hand. You didn’t just spar with her the whole day. You’d done many sets of workouts and stretches and jogs. But towards the latter of the session, you wanted to see how well you could defend yourself. Big mistake. “I’m fine. I wanted her to do it.” You lie again. But it doesn’t matter. Steve is convinced… and apparently aroused at the idea of Nat on top of you, “Pervert.” You nudge his side with your leg and he laughs, getting off of you and now you furrow your brows.

“Getting some ice.”

You nod gratefully as he exits the room before sighing to yourself. If that was how he reacted to a few bruises, you weren’t eager to find out how he would react to you being put on the field.

-

“Harder!” Nat yells and you kick her square in the stomach, “Yes! More!” She says weakly, falling to the ground now and bringing you with her. She rolls the both of you around so that you’re beneath her, but with all your mighty strength, you roll the both of you once more so that you’re back on top.

Your hand snakes it’s way to her neck, your legs pin down her own and your knee has her hands planted to the mat.

With her fingers, she taps out. You quickly get off of her, falling to the space beside her with a heavy breath of air as Natasha caresses her sore neck.

Turning her head, she swallows a much needed breath before nodding, “Good.”

-

With a nervous glance that goes unnoticed, Tony hands Steve the stack of papers fresh from the printer, “Rundown of the missions.”

Steve takes the pages mindlessly, holding them in his lap and reading for all of two seconds before he stops. He blinks his eyes- wondering if it was just way too early in the morning and he’s seeing things. But the words never change.

Looking back up at Tony, Steve can already sense his guilty demeanour. Why else would he be avoiding eye contact, fiddling with his pen and covering his mouth.

“What the hell is this?” Steve asks, holding the paper up.

It’s only then that Tony finally looks at him, switching his gaze from the paper to Steve, buying himself some more time to think of an answer.

“Looks like a rundown of the missions-“

“Why is Y/N’s name on it?” Steve cuts him off before he can finish his smartass reply.

Tony just sighs, deciding to cut the shit and be real with Steve. The less compliant and honest he is, the worse this would probably turn out for you because of the way he riled Steve up. And he didn’t want that.

“Because she’s joining us out on the field.” Tony states, interlocking his hands together on the desk, “She’s trained hard enough and she knows more than enough to help us out. She’s a great addition to the team-“

“Did she ask you for this?” Steve interrupts yet again. Cogs turning and unjamming all throughout his head as Tony speaks. Why is he vouching so hard for you? Unless you begged him with that face that no one could say no to. Only Steve… at times.

Tony states pensively at Steve once more, thinking through his words and how it’ll make Steve react and in turn, how that’ll help your case. Sighing again, Tony shifts in his seat, “I’m assuming she didn’t tell you… Probably because she knew you would react like this.”

Steve practically rolls his eyes, “She’s not going.” He shakes his head firmly, “She’s not ready. She needs at least a year’s worth of training. And not just self defence- she needs agility, speed, flexibility, weaponry, first aid-“

“Just let her go on this one mission, I’ll watch over her-“

“No, anything could happen.”

“Exactly, she could save the day!” Tony exclaims, smiling with his hands in the air. But it does little to lighten Steve’s mood.

“Or die trying.”

Tony drops his arms with a loud and purposeful thud, “Cap, you can’t let your relationship get in the way of how you treat her on the job.”

“This is me not letting my relationship affect work!” Steve defends loudly, “I wouldn’t take a rookie agent so I won’t take my rookie agent girlfriend.”

“But you’re still letting your feelings for her, your want to keep her safe, get in the way.”

“I have a duty to keep all of my team safe- and that includes Y/N.” Steve states, almost robotically as if it’s ingrained in his programming- it probably is, “And if she were to get hurt, I would be at fault. Same as if Bucky was hurt, or Sam or Nat or you.”

Tony finds himself at a loss for anymore points of argument. Steve did have a point- many points. And he was right in that you needed some more training. More than just self defence.

Taking the stray paper that Steve had previously chucked back on the desk, Tony crosses out your name and turns to his computer to also remove you from the mission profile, “Well, you’re telling her the news.”

-

You rub your forehead frustratedly as you click aimlessly around your computer, eyes bouncing from every corner of the screen as you scan your options and any way to fix your issue.

You’re so immersed in your computer and problem that you don’t even hear when your big, burly boyfriend enters the room. It’s only when he steps closer to you and you feel the vibrations of his feet against the floor that you realise you’re not alone in the room anymore.

“Oh, Steve, I-I need your help.” You plead when you finally see him, not even bothering with a greeting at the moment- there are more pressing matters at hand. “I can’t access this file anymore, but I could like 5 seconds ago and the link was sent to me.” You leave out the fact that it’s part of a mission that you’re finally assigned to.

Instead of helping you fix your problem, he just stands there, looking down at you as you balance your laptop between your chest and the edge of the table.

“You never told me you were training for missions.” He says flatly.

Your head whips up from the screen and you stare at him with slightly wide eyes. He knows.

“I-“ You start, quickly thinking of a lie, “Wanted it to be a surprise.” You fake a smile but it doesn’t meet your eyes. It didn’t matter if it did or not though. He knows.

Without even reacting to your reply, he simply says, “Tony took you off the mission,” Before turning towards his own desk, “That’s why you can’t see the file.”

Your heart falls out of your ass. You spin in your chair, turning to face his desk that’s opposite yours but facing the opposite way as you stare dumbly at his broad back.

You open and close your mouth several times, no words coming out as you feel your emotions start to creep in.

“What?” You finally find the words to say, “Why? Did he tell you?”

A pause.

“I asked him to.”

Another pause.

With his back still turned, he misses the way your face drops at the realisation. His back turned wasn’t meant in any disrespect to you. It was for his own sake. If he saw how hurt you looked, he wouldn’t have been able to confess like he just did.

“Why would you do that?” You ask, voice more softer now as your throat strains.

It’s not a loaded question. But Steve hates the way it sounds. He never thought he’d hear anything like that. That kind of question comes to someone who deeply hurts someone they love. And Steve loves you- he could never hurt you.

Shutting his eyes briefly, he sighs out before mustering up the courage to finally turn around. The second he lays eyes on your heartbroken face, he looks to the ground, “You’re not ready for missions yet, honey-“ He looks back up at you now, “You need at least a years worth of training- more than just self defence and strength- and you need to pass first aid and CPR tests-“

“I-I have passed all of those. I couldn’t work here unless I did.” You inform him. You have the certificates to prove it, “And I’ve been training more than just self defence for years, wh-“ You cut yourself off. 1. getting choked up and 2. realising okay, maybe you haven’t trained as intensely as they would like you to, but it won’t take you a year to get up to speed, “I can do it, Steve.”

“No, you can’t. You’re not ready.”

“Not ready for what? Collecting data from an old base?”

“Anything could happen on these missions! Even if it’s recon or data collection.” Steve shuts you down, and you cower slightly under his authority, “You don’t know how to use any form of weaponry, you’re not fast enough yet, you haven’t been trained to think like the team or on your feet in a way that will save you with the stuff that we encounter.” He lists and with every factor, you just feel your confidence diminish less and less, “Sure, if you get robbed on the street, you’ll be fine. But missions are a lot more than just humans and fists.” You’re silent. You’re not looking at him. Tears threaten to spill over your bottom lashes but you blink them away, “You’re not ready and you’re not risking the lives of others just to play around out there. As your Captain, I will not let you.” That stung, and only infuriated you more, “You’re already taken off the mission so there’s no point in arguing any further.” Icing on the cake. Invalidating your feelings? Telling you what you shouldn’t do?

You barely give him an ounce more of attention as you head for the door. You hear him softly call your name but you ignore it, slamming the door behind you as you head for your old room, tears finally making their way down your face.

-

Steve felt terrible. Sure, he did. He’d do anything to redo the situation and end it better. But he’s just glad you’re not on that mission anymore.

He doesn’t know where this will lead him. Or you. Or the both of you and your relationship.

He found out you’d resorted to your old room, the one you had lived in before you started dating Steve. You’d moved into Steve’s room about two months after dating. He had a much bigger room than yours so it was only natural for you to fill that space.

And so, now that you’re gone, Steve feels the coldness of the room much more.

The bed wasn’t warm, the diffuser you bought him hadn’t been turned on so it didn’t smell as great, his plants hadn’t been watered, there weren’t any candy wrappers in the bed side table from you snacking on them after dinner. It was only little things that had changed, little things that could easily be fixed. But they were what made the room yours as well as his.

All your belongings were left behind of course. So that was at least a good sign for now. You weren’t completely breaking up with him. You just needed space… right?

Steve had wondered past your old room a few times in the day. He never knew what he was looking for exactly… maybe an open door so that he could at least muster up the courage to talk to you. Because instead, a closed door met him every time, and that translated to Steve as ‘leave me the fuck alone’.

The next time he saw you that day was during dinner. Clint had cooked for the whole of the team, so you begrudgingly brought yourself down to eat with the team.

You ignored Steve the whole night. You didn’t sit next to him, rather across from him… and a few seats down. Luckily, you weren’t brought up in much conversation so you didn’t have a reason to talk or for Steve to look at you (though it didn’t stop him, you definitely felt his eyes on you all night). But Steve was often talking, but even then you didn’t look at him- just kept your head down and played with your food on the plate.

You doubt anyone really noticed the tension between you and Steve. Maybe only like Tony, Bucky and Nat… and probably Wanda. Which was good. Well, not great but you’re glad it wasn’t widely known that you and Steve obviously weren’t on the best of terms right now.

As soon as Bruce had excused himself from dinner, saying he had some work to do- you were quick to follow suit. You didn’t have work to do, or an early morning to catch some sleep, you just couldn’t stand Steve’s lingering stare any longer. And you weren’t up for dessert.

No one payed much mind to your departure, except Steve, of course. He looked as if he wanted to say something, like he was gonna stop you or ask if you were okay just to throw the team off or offer to walk you up to your room. But he opted to stay silent as you thanked Clint for the lovely dinner and bid goodnight to everyone.

It wasn’t long before Steve was excusing himself also. Maybe about a half hour after you had left. He found he was zoning out of the conversations the longer he stayed and thought about you. How you barely looked at him. From the outside looking in, you wouldn’t even think you two were dating from the way you ignored him tonight.

And he gets it. You’re arguing right now and you’re angry at him- rightfully so. But he’s kept you safe. He fulfilled his duty as both your captain and your boyfriend. He can’t regret any of his actions.

But that doesn’t mean he won’t. He at least regrets the way he said things. He could’ve been a lot more professional… and a lot softer. But he cared too much to just let this slide, if he wasn’t firm, you wouldn’t have taken him seriously.

Bucky offers Steve a reassuring pat on the back as he emerges from his seat and wishes everyone a goodnight just like you had.

With a heavy sigh, he makes his way up the stairs and into the quieter hallway of rooms.

Bruce’s door is shut, but Steve can see the light leaking underneath and hear faint music playing as he probably works on something for Tony.

As Steve walked further along, he slowed his steps as he saw your door… open.

The light was on, and he heard a few noises come from the room, so he figured you were in there too.

He quickly weighed up his decision. Every other time, your door was closed and Steve took that as his sign to give you the space you needed. And maybe he’s reading it all wrong and you had just forgotten to close your door, but he at least wanted to say goodnight to you.

You both had a rule in your relationship, created after a particularly heated argument on Steve and… Peggy. Never go to bed angry or without saying goodnight. You had both gone to bed mad, you back in your own room of course, leaving Steve alone in his. Just like now. That night, Steve was called for an emergency mission. He got hurt… badly… and at the early hours of 3 in the morning, you were sitting by his side in the hospital not knowing if he was even going to wake up. Not knowing if he knew you still loved him. He eventually woke and you’d never been so happy so early in the morning. And that’s how you made the rule.

Reminiscing back on the memory, Steve soon found himself at your door. You were seated at your desk, diary in front of you as you scribbled words onto the page. Your headphones connected to your laptop as you listened to music while you wrote.

And it was strange. You felt his presence and his eyes burning into your body.

Steve stared so hard because it was a sight he already missed. There were many times when you’d both been loaded with work. Steve often had more work than you, but you pretended like you did too. You’d sit with him in his own office or in the lab and just individually work while he did his thing.

When he finished, he would spin in his chair and be met with your back turned to him. Sometimes you fell asleep, but often times you were drawing or doing a crossword. Much like how you looked now.

You turned your head to face Steve at your door and you felt your heart rate quicken. Why were you so nervous? He stood there, just as nervous it seemed.

He pursed his lips, giving you a small nod with sad eyes that he couldn’t conceal, “Goodnight.”

Your face softened a little. He looked like he wanted to say much more. And you knew this was just part of your rule that you’d made.

As angry as you were at him, you weren’t going to let him go to bed questioning your love for him.

Fiddling with your pencil, you muster up the strength to speak for the first time in many hours, “Night, Steve.”

And though you had went straight back to your diary after that, barely sparing him another glance, Steve couldn’t ask for much else as he shut the door to your room and got ready for bed.

-

The next morning was hardly much different from last night.

Steve had actually left for a mission early in the morning. You weren’t awake, of course, but he’d left a note for you. It was only simple.

‘Gone on the mission. I should be back in one piece.

Steve.’ And a quick <3 in the corner.

You found yourself smiling at the note as you read it, even a little emotion that he left without saying a proper goodbye. If anything happened to him, you swear to God-

But it wasn’t long before you were upset again. That was the mission. The one you were supposed to be on. Instead of stuck here in the lonely compound.

It wasn’t too lonely though. You had Vision. But that was it. Still, you couldn’t complain.

He joined you in the lab as you tried to get your mind off of the whole mission thing and Steve. But it was impossible, every few seconds- now matter how much you thought about the task at hand or about Groot.

Vision kept to himself, mostly just keeping you company as the only two in the compound. He played his little games from the New York Times and minded his own while you struggled in silence.

“You’re upset.” You lift your eyes from the iPad in front of you, looking up to see Vision no longer immersed in his games, but looking straight at you. “Something is bothering you.” He elaborates, robotically.

You slouch in your seat and blink your eyes, feeling the ache of being so tense hit you all at once.

You don’t question Vis’ analytical skills of your body language, instead you just sigh and confess, “Just sucks having to stay here while everyone has all the fun.”

You’re certain he knows nothing of the situation about you and your mission drama. But you’re sure he still understands what you’re talking about in general.

“It’s not always fun.” He replies, “It’s dangerous and they could be killed in a matter of seconds without the right judgement.”

Looking away from his piecing blue eyes, you nod, “I know.” You fiddle absentmindedly with the locket around your neck, the one that Steve gave you as you look out the window.

“You’re upset about more than that.” Vision then adds, squinting his eyes at you a little.

“It just seems like Steve doesn’t even want me on missions with him. He made me feel clingy and annoying.” You blurt out. You catch yourself talking about the events of the argument that Vision probably had no idea about, but he doesn’t say anything. Just let’s you vent, “I just feel like he doesn’t think I’m good enough too. But he just says I’m not ready.” You mutter, eyes beginning to water, “I trained so hard with Nat- I was so excited.”

Vision places a hand on your back and rubs as a few tears fall. You wipe them immediately, trying to erase their existence but it’s no use. They keep falling and your cheeks are soaked.

Vision waits a moment before he speaks, allowing you to collect yourself. You never talked so openly about the confidence issues you developed in the past few hours from everything that happened. And talking about it to Vision only made you realise how serious it was.

With the tissue that you grabbed, you manage to dry your eyes a little, head cast down as you sit in silence with Vision.

“Maybe,” Vision starts up again, softer eyes now as you reconnect his gaze, “He’s scared to see you hurt.” He suggests and you furrow your brows a little, sniffling softly. “If anything happens to anyone on those missions, Steve blames himself- you know that more than anyone.” He elaborates, “And if anything were to happen to you…” He continues, “It’s hard to keep things professional around those you love.”

The way those last words left Vision’s mouth made you blink at him. It so sounded like something Steve would’ve said. Like Steve had said it to Vision and Vision had just replayed it back to you but in his own voice. That’s when it hits you that… he knows. Vision knows all about the argument you had with Steve. Because just like you are now, Steve vented to him too.

-

After your chat with Vision, you confirmed that he had in fact talked with Steve yesterday about the situation after finding him distressed, running laps on the compound field.

You thought about everything he’d said, everything Steve said and all the valid points that were made.

You guessed that deep inside, you knew Steve was just doing all of what he did to keep you safe. You couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to lose another person he loved- better yet blame himself for it as well.

Which is how you found yourself back in his room. Well, your previously shared room.

It had only been a day without you and you could already point out all the things that needed fixing. The bed was made too neatly it looked cold, the diffuser wasn’t turned on, his plants were at least watered but there was hardly any life to the room without some of your mess (candy wrappers on the bedside table).

You turned on the diffuser and de-made the bed. Fluffing the pillows and unravelling the throw blanket. You forgot how soft his bed was. Especially in comparison to your own. Not to mention all the cool gadgets he had attached to his: an overhead lamp, a charging port in the bed frame.

After your whole de-making of the room, you were actually exhausted. Maybe it wasn’t from the cleaning, maybe it was from the sleepless night, tossing and turning wondering why you couldn’t sleep. Not used to having such a small, cold bed with no arms wrapped around you. Not used to loud snores at your ear, that somehow still soothed you to sleep. As cliche as it was, the silence in your room was deafening.

So as you laid in bed, watching the TV across from you, your eyelids became uncontrollably heavy.

-

Steve frowned when you weren’t at the bottom of quinjet ramp to meet him after his mission. Not that he entirely expected you to, but still, he wasn’t used to it.

Disbanding from the rest of the group who remained downstairs to get themselves checked out first, Steve made a break for his room.

He wanted nothing more than a hot shower and to finish all his post-mission paperwork and then sleep.

As he passed by your room, the door was shut. He debated knocking but quickly decided against it. He wouldn’t even know what to say if he did, tell you all about the mission that he took you off of? How much of a success it was without you? He’d only get himself in more trouble.

So he trudged his way to his room, paying no mind to the closed door despite leaving it open before he left.

When he opened it, the smell of cinnamon hit him in the face. His body physically relaxed, almost muscle memory. Furrowing his brows, he first looked over at the diffuser machine which had been turned on- then to the moving bundle of blankets on his bed.

The sound of the door opening so abruptly woke you from your deep slumber, interrupting your not so safe for work dream of Steve. You rubbed your eyes due to the blinding light emerging from the door that was wide open, with Steve’s burly figure standing in the middle of it making you sit up.

“Sorry-” He quickly mutters, casting his gaze down and moving to shut the door. You had laid claim to his bed, and you were probably still mad at him, so he should leave you alone, right? That’s all his mind could think of.

But your soft voice stops him in his tracks, “You’re back.” You whisper, voice strained from your sleep.

Blinking at you, he nods, “Yeah,” He’s thoroughly confused. He didn’t hallucinate the whole argument, did he? Or are you pretending it didn’t happen? Not that he’s not happy you’re in his bed or anything, he’s just utterly confused. If Steve’s learned anything, you should still be locked away in your room, refusing to look at him.

Sliding out from the warm blanket, you near the edge of the bed, slipping in your wooly slippers before making your way towards Steve.

His breath hitched in his throat when you approached him, not only that but your nighttime clothes were amongst his favourite for you to wear… because they showed certain things and just looked cute.

You take the door from his hand and shut it behind him before slithering your hand in his and looking up at him, “I talked to Vis today.” You start, finger tracing all of the lines and ridges in his suit, “He told me what you told him.” You look up at him now, “I’m sorry, I should’ve known that was why.”

He immediately shakes his head, grasping onto both of your arms, “No, I’m sorry.” He says, “I shouldn’t have yelled. I should’ve talked to you about it first.”

You shake your head. It was hardly about the yelling, you could take a raised voice, “I just thought you thought I was being too clingy or that I wasn’t good enough.”

Steve’s eyes widen slightly when you confess the real reason you were so upset with him. Shaking his head, he pulls you closer, moving his hands from your arms to your waist, “Never.” He assures you and you look down, but he’s quick to nudge your chin back up, “You’re more than good enough, you just need more training and you’ll be ready… Even when you are ready, I’ll still worry.”

You nod, you know that now.

Bringing your hands up to his cheek, you rub the prickly skin before getting up on your tippy toes and pressing your lips to his. God, you missed that- even if it was only 24 hours. Your body relaxes under his grasp and you would’ve turned into putty had he not held you so tight. And you literally heard Steve grunt softly when your lips met his own.

You hated to break away from the kiss, but you had to- as an idea popped into your head, “Why don’t you train me, then?” You asked, hands rubbing softly at his chest, “Train my brain to think like yours… So when I do get out on the field, we’ll be okay.”

Steve looked down at you with a soft smile. But you couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

He could tell you really wanted to go on missions, because after everything, you were still begging to go.

“Okay.” He nods. Yeah, it could work. If he trains you, and you train together, then sure enough you’ll become one in a way. Maybe you could even develop and add to your own silent language, so that out on the field, a single glance could communicate all that needs to be said and done.

Yeah, that could work.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*･ﾟ☆

If Bucky's life would still be like it had been only a few weeks ago, today wouldn't have been special.

As a matter of fact, his life used to be filled with the same routine every day, making days blend together as Bucky went through the motions without actually realizing how much time had passed again.

Time got weird like that sometimes, especially when you never had anything to look forward to when every day looked exactly the same.

If he was still living in Brooklyn, he would have to go to therapy and sit in an office he had absolutely no interest in being in before he went back home and did nothing for the rest of the day, the noise in his mind weighing him down so heavily that doing anything but staying in his apartment seemed impossible.

It hadn't exactly been a healthy habit to isolate himself, but it had been familiar.

And for a long time, that was all Bucky really had the energy to manage.

But even when he got better, when the weight of his past had finally gotten light enough for him to breathe again, Bucky still had a hard time pulling himself out of habits that were all he used to have.

But now he had Sam, too. Wether that was a blessing or a curse, he wasn't really sure yet.

And Sam decided that Bucky had been miserable for way too long now, which was why he dragged him down to Louisiana, claiming that he needed the change in scenery if he didn’t want to be miserable forever.

And instead of staying a month, like he'd initially planned, Bucky just… didn't leave again.

Sure, he decided to stay because of Sam, Sarah and the kids and how Delacroix managed to silence his thoughts in a way New York never managed to, but there was more to it than just that.

You were here, too.

Sam had first introduced you two because you were a close friend of the Wilson family, but also because you used to live in Brooklyn before your family decided to move here when the life of the city became too much.

He figured that with how hard it was for Bucky to warm up to new people, that shared connection might make it a little easier.

And he had been right.

Bucky wasn't sure when exactly it happened, but you quickly turned into much more than just the woman his best friend grew up with.

You were kind, that much Bucky had known ever since he'd first talked to you that day down at the docks, when him and Sam had still been working on the boat and you'd walked over to them with that stupidly beautiful smile and a sundress so stunning, it had made him drop a wrench on his foot.

Sam had laughed about that all week, constantly talking about nonsense like love at first sight and how horribly Bucky was hiding his little crush.

Whilst Bucky really didn't believe in stuff like love at first sight, he couln't deny that he had taken a liking to you from the very first moment.

He would rather chew on glass than admit that in front of Sam, though.

Bucky wasn't the kind of person to trust others easily. He'd experienced too much in his life for that, so strangers were always a difficult challenge.

He knew that his skepticism could sometimes make him seem rude or unfriendly, especially if people didn't realize that there was a reason for his closed off behavior.

You never seemed to mind it too much, though.

You just tried to make conversation, never letting his noncomittal answers and unhealthy amount of staring get to you. You just kind of… stuck around. And even though Bucky didn't get it, he sure as hell wasn't complaining.

Over the last few months, thanks to your unrelenting patience and stubbornness, you'd managed to sneak your way into his heart and Bucky'd only realised when it was already far too late for him to do anything about it anymore.

His first instinct had been to pull away again, to put some much needed distance between the two of you so he could get away from those things only you ever managed to make him feel.

He couldn't quite bring himself to do that, though.

Sure, Bucky still had bad days and nights where he woke up screaming, but he didn't think that all he deserved for the rest of his life was punishment for what had been done to him.

Not anymore, at least.

He liked to believe that he was mostly over that, so he did his best to suppress the self destructive behaviours that were instinct more than a conscious decision by now and thought that maybe, this thing between the two of you was something he was allowed to have.

That maybe, the way you looked at him when you thought he wasn't paying attention and sat just a few inches closer to him than necessary meant that you were feeling this, too.

And that just maybe, he would finally get his chance at having something good. 

So Bucky didn't fight it when the two of you were spending more and more time together and he was suddenly staying at your place more than he slept at Sarah's anymore.

And neither did you.

The two of you were currently in this beautifully fragile phase between being friends and actually being something, your relationship too much for what the one thing stood for but still not enough to put a name on it yet.

Bucky didn't feel the need to rush it, though.

This was the first special thing he got to have in over seven decades of his life and he was more than content with relishing in every single second of it as much as he could.

You didn't seem to mind it too much, either.

You and Bucky were dancing around each other like two teenagers in love, sure, but it didn't feel like uncertainty or lack of commitment, which were usually the reasons why situationships never actually turned into more than just that.

It just felt like you were taking your time, simple as that.

So when Bucky started to sleep at your place more often than not, both of you just claimed that the Wilson household was busy enough as it was and you had more than enough space for a second person to live in your home.

You called it convenience, though everyone who saw the two of you together knew that this had nothing to do with convenience.

This were two people trying to navigate their feelings together- one of them learning how to trust again whilst the other was more than happy to provide the space and stability for them to do exactly that.

And because trust like that needed time, the two of you started to slip into a domestic routine without even actually noticing it.

Bucky made it a habit to walk to your favorite bakery every morning to get the pastries you liked so much for breakfast whilst you were still asleep, mostly because waking up early in the morning was a habit he still couldn't shake, but also because the smile that lit up your face when you came out of the bedroom and saw freshly brewed coffee and the warm baked goods sitting on the table was worth more than sleeping in could ever be.

He liked the peacfulness of it, too. That early in the morning, the fishermen were already busy down at the docks, knowing him well enough by now to greet him by his name when he walked past.

It reminded him of his childhood in Brooklyn a little, when everyone in his neighborhood used to look out for each other, no matter what.

Even though it wasn't exactly the same and Bucky wasn't a kid anymore, the familiarity of it always made his heart a little lighter.

After breakfast, when the heat was still light enough to be managable, the two of you often sat down in the backyard together, just like you did right now.

The parasol was offering some shade, giving you a chance to comfortably read your book whilst Bucky was lying on his back, trying very desperately not to fall asleep, watching you read way more captivating than sleep could ever be.

Bucky was pulled out of his dreamy daze when you put your book away and got up, your sundress flowing beautifully in the soft breeze of the early morning.

"I think I'll quickly head to the store. We ran out of a few things, might be good to get them before it gets too warm."

The plan made sense, especially because the summer heat of Louisiana was too extreme to actually do anything during the day except stay inside, were the AC at least made it a little bearable.

Still, it took Bucky a moment to register what you were saying with how much the sleepiness was clouding his brain, but when he realized what your plans were he got up from his spot as fast as he could, scrambling to his feet so quickly you could assume that he couldn't stand the idea of staying at home whilst you left to get groceries. "I'll go with you."

He knew damn well that getting a few things usually meant that you'd come back with at least two bags full of stuff and Bucky would be damned if he let you take care of that on your own.

He knew that you could carry the bags on your own, but that wasn't the point.

He didn't want you to. With how nice and welcoming you'd been towards him for the last few months, the least he could do was make sure that he offered his help as much as he could.

You only laughed, though, letting your eyes drift over him like you were trying to prove a point. "Like that? You'd put on a show for the old ladies, that's for sure."

Bucky's cheeks heated up with embarrassment as he noticed that he was indeed just wearing a pair of shorts, his upper body very much exposed and muscles visibly standing out with the thin layer of sweat glistening on his skin.

Being shirtless, especially in front of others, was also something he would've avoided only a few weeks ago.

The prosthetic and scars were not exactly something he wanted other peolpe to see, but he didn't really mind it that much with you.

The first time you'd seen him shirtless had been when he'd gotten out of the shower one evening, wearing nothing but a towel around his hips as he made his way back to the guest room when the two of you had nearly collided in the hallway.

For a long moment, you'd just… stared at each other.

Bucky's eyes had been fixed on your face, so scared of how you might react, something that turned out to be very unjustified when he'd noticed how you were looking at him.

It was safe to say that the expression on your face had been very far away from the disgust he'd expected.

You'd opened your mouth before you closed it again, words not really coming to you as your eyes travelled over his muscular chest, down to his abs and up to his face again.

"You're staring."

"I am," you had agreed. "I wasn't really aware that I was living with a greek god. Holy shit, Barnes."

It had been a very unique way of complementing his physique, but Bucky couldn't deny that he'd been smiling more than he usually did when he'd gotten ready for bed that day.

Because a compliment from you? That might as well be the best thing that ever happened to him.

"I'll quickly grab a shirt and then we can go-"

"No, Buck. I'm going." Your tone was a little stern, though the smile on your face suggested that you only said it like that because you knew how stubborn Bucky could be. "You're staying here. You were literally on the brink of falling asleep a minute ago and I'd be damned if I was the reason that you can't catch up on some much needed sleep."

Bucky wanted to argue, he really did… but it wasn't like you were wrong.

He could still feel the tiredness weighing down his limps, so staying here was a pretty tempting idea. "Are you sure?"

"Positve." You were already walking towards the house, trying to leave as quickly as possible before he’d change his mind again. "Just try to stay in the shade, yeah? The sun is going to get a little strong over the next few hours."

He only chuckled, your concern very sweet but completely unnecessary.

He was a super soldier, after all. He could handle a little UV radiation. "Don't worry about me, sweetheart. I'll be fine."

Famous last words, but Bucky didn't know that yet.

Honestly, you'd been gone for way longer than you'd first thought you'd be. In a small town like Delacroix, you couldn't leave the house without at least three people pulling you into a conversation- especially now that a very handsome man was living with you, if you were to quote them.

Convincing the people in this town that you and Bucky weren't more than friends was even harder than you'd expected, but honestly, you couldn't even blame them for not believing you.

You didn't even believe it yourself, so why would the people that had seen you grow up and could tell when you were lying from a mile away?

They were being sweet about it though, you had to give them that. Even the knitting club of town, which was full of elderly and very judgemental ladies, had given you their approval when it came to Bucky, which was rare. Usually, it took them a lot longer to warm up to knew people, especially ones from the city.

On the other hand, Bucky had been nothing but a gentleman towards them, so you could't really blame them for taking a liking to him so quickly.

He had that affect on you too, after all. And he did have the kind of manners that were pretty rare these days, especially in the modern dating culture.

That was also the reason why you were a little surprised when you walked through the front door with three bags of groceries in your arms and Bucky didn't immediately appear in front of you, more than ready to take them from you because he never really wanted you to carry the heavy stuff when he was around- not because you were incapable, you had made it very clear that you were.

It just seemed like one of those things he'd learned growing up and couldn't really shake. You'd told him multiple times already that Bucky didnt have to do so much, that he was your guest and it wasn't his responsibility to help you out so much, but Bucky wasn't having it.

He just claimed that it was the least he could do, especially with how much he was staying at your place.

And if you were being honest to yourself, both of you knew that Bucky was way more than just a guest.

This was his home as much as it was yours, at least it felt like that lately.

Whether it was fixing the leaky sink in the kitchen or cooking with you, Bucky didn't shy away from anything.

No matter what, he always insisted on doing whatever he could, claiming that his ma would turn in her grave if he just accepted your hospitality without giving anything back.

Just how used you already were to his presence showed in this moment, because you kept expecting him to join you in the kitchen with that stupid grin and even stupider muscles, which you were seeing more of now that he was occasionally walking around shirtless.

You were happy that he was comfortabe enough to do that around you, but how much it was messing with your head was really becoming a serious problem.

You figured that he was probably still sleeping in the backyard, though that would be more than just unusual. It's been three hours since you've first left the house and Bucky wasn't really one for long naps.

As a matter of fact, he didn't really sleep a lot at all. He'd once told you that he was lucky if he got three hours of sleep at night at all, so this was more than just a little weird.

Deciding that the groceries could wait a moment longer, you abandoned them were they were lying on the kitchen counter and made your way to the backyard, just to see that Bucky was still lying in the very same spot he'd been in when you'd left.

Just that now, th sun had moved so much that the parasol wasn't actually providing any shade anymore.

Instead, Bucky was completely exposed to the sun, his skin already a very concerning shade of red.

And even though the heat had to be unbearable if you considered how long he'd been lying there already, the man who'd usually wake up from the tiniest bit of noise or disturbance was still out cold.

You immediately made your way over to him and placed your hand on Bucky's shoulder, his skin hot and clammy with sweat. "Hey, Buck." You kept your voice low as you gently squeezed his shoulder, not wanting to startle him. "C'mon, hun, wake up."

It took a moment longer until Bucky lifted his head, looking at you with such a dazed expression, it looked like the heat must've gotten to his head just as much as it did to his skin.

"Hey there." Crouching down next to the sun lounger so you'd be on eye level with him, you brushed some of the strands away that were plastered to his forehead, a touch he immediately leaned into.

"How long was I out for?" His words were slurred and thick with sleep, his accent a lot more prominent than it usually was.

"About three hours." Bucky seemed to be as surprised as you had been, though you had other concerns than his unexpectedly long nap right now.

Bucky naturally ran hot due to the serum, but he was exceptionally warm. Searing, even, which really wasn't a good sign. "You feeling alright?"

"A little dizzy, to be honest," he admitted as he moved to sit up, frowning in very obvious discomfort as he lifted one of his hands to hold his head. "Shit."

Even though that didn't really calm your worries, you were glad that he was still sweating, so it at least wasn't a heat stroke.

His symptoms did look an awful lot like heat exhaustion though, which meant that you had to get him out of the sun as soon as possible. "Let's get you inside, huh? I think that was enough sun exposure for a day."

Usually, Bucky was one of the most composed people you've ever seen. He had the most impressive body control and moved his body with a kind of ease that- especially if you considered the prosthetic-he definitely shouldn't have, and it amazed you.

Right now, he just looked… not well. His movements were sluggish, his skin heavily sunburnt and his face way too pale for your liking.

You rested your hand on his lower back as you guided him inside, just in case he stumbled, though you were pretty sure that there wasn't really anything you could do to support the man who was built like a wall and probably weighed more than 200 pounds.

Bucky didn't say a word as he sat down on the couch, letting himself sag into the cushions as his head fell back against the headrest and he closed his eyes, chest rising and falling shallowly.

"You good?" You probably sounded like a broken record, but you couldn't help yourself. With how much Bucky usually tried to hide his weaknesses, seeing him like this made you worry way more than you should.

"Yeah," he murmured, but it wasn't really convincing. "Just a little nauseous, 's all."

Dizziness, nausea, overheating and paleness.

That wasn't exactly great, so you quickly got a few things that would hopefully help him before you made your way back to the living room.

Bucky peeked one eye open as he heard you walk through the kitchen, the sound of your feet hitting the hardwood floor enough to distract him a little.

He was glad that you weren't gone too long and joined him in the living room a moment later again. He was feeling like shit, but your presence helped more than he wanted to admit.

"Small sips, alright? Take it easy." Bucky did as he was told, because how could he not when you were looking at him like that? Taking the unscrewed bottle from you, he lifted it to his lips and let the water run down his throat, the coolness of it a welcome relief.

In the meantime, you drenched the soft cloth in a bowl of water and carefully wiped it over his chest, barely even grazing his skin, but Bucky hissed anyway, making you wince in sympathy. "Sorry. Does it hurt?" It was an unnecessary question, especially if you considered his reaction, but you asked anyway.

"A little," he admitted, voice still a little too hoarse for your liking, despite the water you'd just given him. "Not as much as you hovering, though."

That made you stop in your motions for a moment. "I'm not hovering."

"You are, too." A lazy grin spread across his face, affectionate more than it was teasing. "But it's cute, so we're all good."

"Glad that I get your approval, Barnes." You tried to focus on cooling him down and wiping the sweat off of his body, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your cheeks that- at least in your case- had nothing to do with a sunburn.

You tried to keep your focus on the task at hand, but it was hard to concentrate with how intensely Bucky was looking at you. "Quit staring."

A soft huff of laughter slipped past his lips. "Ain't staring, sweetheart. Just appreciatin' the view."

"Well, then quit appreciating it."

"Don't think I can do that. You're too pretty."

Even though Bucky hadn't been subtle with his flirting for the last few weeks, this was a little direct-even for his charming personality.

"I think the sun did some damage to your brain, Buck. Don't say things you're gonna regret when the heat exhaustion's over."

The lazy smirk on Bucky's face was in place again as he looked at you through hooded eyes. "Only 'cause I don't usually say this kind of stuff doesn't mean it ain't true. I'm just too much of a coward to tell you certain things sometimes, sweetheart. Don't wanna mess this up."

"You're not messing anything up, Buck, don't worry. Now stop talking and drink your water."

"Yes, ma'am." He gave you a mock salute and you couldn't help but wonder how he could still be so silly whilst feeling this shitty, but maybe that was just how he functioned.

When you were finished the cloth, you reached for the lotion instead that would hopefully manage to calm the sunburn a little bit and put some on your hand, giving Bucky a warning look. "This could be a little cold."

He did tense a little when you started to rub the lotion into his chest and stomach, the intimate touch making you blush once again.

You had to realise that you did that a lot around him lately, but this time, Bucky didn't comment on it.

As a matter of fact, he looked almost confused, like he didn't quite understand why you were doing this for him.

"You don't have to take care of me like this, you know that right?

"I know," you agreed, hands rubbing the moisturizer into his shoulders now. "I want to, though." 

Again, that seemed to catch him off guard.

Bucky often had moments like that, when he would realize that the lack of kindness and care he'd grown so used to weren't actually how things would always be.

That it would never be like that with you.

"You keep surprising me, you know that?"

Now, that made you laugh a little. "I try my best, that's for sure."

You just kept tending to his sunburn for the next few minutes, making sure that it was taken care of properly before you put the lotion away and sat down next to Bucky, searching for any possible signs of discomfort. "You okay?"

This time, Bucky took a few seconds to think about the question before he nodded. "Better now thanks to you."

"Well, I'm glad that I could help."

After you said that, the two of you just… looked at each other for a moment, Bucky's eyes so much more expressive than he ever managed to be with his words.

Obviously, the sunburn and heat exhaustion weren't something he should've had to experience, but it had led to a moment far more intimate than there had ever been between the two of you.

It felt different now, when his eyes dropped to your lips every few seconds.

He didn't act on it, not yet. 

But he seemed to understand now that you weren't only around for the predictable things, but that your care about him didn't come with a catch.

You were there for him and he didn't have to do anything to earn that care, at least not in the way he'd grown so used to.

He just got to be Bucky. The man that was comfortable enough to take naps around you, tried his best to help you around the house as much as he could and liked reading more than he would ever admit to anyone but you.

He didn't quite know how to navigate just being that yet without the weight of fighting and missions sitting heavy on his shoulders, but for you?

He was more than willing to try.

Bucky was going to have words with Sam. 

He’d already had them with you, somewhere just south of Richmond in bumper-to-bumper traffic. 

“Was this really necessary?” Bucky groaned, gripping the steering wheel with one hand and using his other- the disgustingly attractive metal one- to lean his head on. “If we’d flown, we would be there by now.”

“If we’d flown, you would’ve had to pay an obscene amount of money in bag fees, had to go through extra security for that arm, and you wouldn’t have been able to bring that death trap you call a bike.” Your voice is smug, like a 17 hour road trip in the dead of summer is fun, not Bucky’s idea of fresh hell. “Besdies, you know it’ll be fun to have everyone together in Louisiana again.”

You look out the front windshield, propping your feet up on his dash as the truck inches forward a few feet. Bucky hums in agreement, but purses his lips at your position. 

“Hey, feet down.”

You dart your gaze to him, meeting his eyes through his sunglasses and flipping your own translucent coral shades atop your head into a makeshift headband. “My shoes aren’t that dirty.”

Bucky puts his metal hand back on the wheel, using his right hand to brush carefully across your bare thighs in a shooing motion. “‘S not about your shoes, princess. Not worth the orthopedics bill if someone decides to rear-end us.”

Your responding scowl is mocking, punctuated by an eyeroll as you lower your feet down again. The ghost of his touch lingers across your skin. “Shouldn’t you be worried about your own bones, centenarian?”

Bucky fixes his eyes on the road again, gently letting his foot off of the brake to roll forward again. “Super-soldier serum,” he says simply, like that explains everything. 

“So this is your way of saying you care about me? Are you flirting with me, Barnes?” You hum, sugar sweet as you turn your knees to face him. 

"Flirting? Me? I wouldn't call it that." 

Your heart sinks, legs shifting away from him and facing out the passenger side window. “Right,” you mumble nearly imperceptibly, heart sinking. He doesn’t say anything, but the tick of his jaw signals that he heard you and has nothing to add. 

The traffic in Richmond has delayed your journey nearly two-and-a-half hours. It’s half-past eleven, you’re somewhere in rural South Carolina, and the sun has long set. The headlights are the only thing illuminating the road in front of you, an odd car passing in the opposite direction every few miles. Bucky starts yawning, and soon they’re coming in near-perfect three minute increments. 

“I can drive, you know,” you offer, stretching your legs out as much as your seat afford you. 

Bucky doesn’t even spare you a look. “Not happening.”

“I’m a good driver!”

Bucky rolls his eyes, stifling another yawn. “It’s fine. I can make it to Atlanta.”

Atlanta, where the promise of a hot shower and soft bed awaits. Atlanta, which is another three hours away, according to the GPS. 

“You’re exhausted, Buck. Come on. Let me finish it out.”

Bucky shakes you off again. Road trips weren’t the most common thing in the 1940s, but he’s pretty sure it’s not chivalrous to let a woman take over driving because the man was too tired. The twenty-first century it may be, but Bucky clings to his 1940s standards of romancing, if you could call what the two of you have a romance.

“If you don’t let me take over, we have to talk about it.” Your voice cuts across the cab like steel, finally getting his full attention as a slower Springsteen song croons from the radio. 

It being the late-night kiss in his apartment after picking you up in the pouring rain. The kiss that he’d broken off. You had stuttered out a quick thank you for the ride and vanished through his door, hair still dripping droplets onto his leather jacket still tucked over your shoulders. 

The text he sent you the following morning went unanswered. Your phone call went to his voicemail. A silent agreement that clearly, the prior night was an accident. A mistake. A lapse in judgement. 

You didn’t speak for a month, when Sam had texted the two of you, asking you to visit Louisiana for a week, for Bucky to bring down some of his stuff and saying that Sarah wanted to see you. Thus, the road trip. 17 hours with a man who you can’t help but adore, despite his obvious distaste for you after that awful night. 

The truck is silent. Bucky can feel your gaze boring into his side, suddenly wide awake. His throat bobs around a swallow. “There’s a motel at the next exit, two miles ahead,” He grunts, “we can crash there tonight.”

You deflate, heart dropping into your fluttering stomach. The ache of rejection flows through your veins just as it did when he pulled away the first time.

“Sounds good.”

“One room… with one queen bed?” Your voice sounds foreign to your own ears, disbelieving and pitchy.

The tired front desk worker stares at you with little interest, “that a problem? Would’ve thought a couple of lovebirds like you would be all over that.”

Hot mortification floods through your chest, “we- we’re not together.” You look up at Bucky for backup, but he stands stoic as a statue next to you, holding your pale blue duffel bag in one hand and his backpack slung over one shoulder. 

“We really would prefer two rooms. Even two beds. We aren’t together.” The even tone of his voice makes you want to cry and strangle him at the same time. 

The man behind the counter doesn’t react beyond a half shrug. “Makes no difference to me. One room left. You want it, it's yours. If not- move your car outta my lot before sleeping in it.” 

You grit your teeth, prepared to argue, to turn on your heel and find another hotel. Insist Bucky let you drive, go anywhere but here and be further trapped with the man who clearly hates your guts. A placating hand sets itself on your mid-back, hovering with enough authority to prevent you from another outburst, but not familiar enough to be anything other than friendly. 

Bucky hands the man a few bills and a bronze colored key is slid over the counter. “Room 112. Check out by 10.” He disappears behind the curtain separating the back room before you can say anything else. 

“I’ll sleep in the truck,” Bucky offers lowly as you walk along the motel doors to your room. Chirping crickets break through the silent of the night and moths flutter around the flickering lights above you. With every step towards the surely dingy room that awaits you, your skin crawls even more. 

“No, you won’t.” You snap, jamming the key into the lock. After a few wiggles, the lock finally clicks open, the door unsticking to reveal a tiny room with a loud air conditioner, a rickety desk, and as promised, one queen bed with a very outdated comforter. “We can share. We’re adults.”

Bucky steps inside, letting the door slam loudly behind him, but doesn’t move from the doorframe as you examine the mattress. “It’s not a big deal. You should take the room.”

“Jesus!” You exclaim, finally snapping as a bead of sweat trickles down the back of your neck. This air conditioning unit really isn’t doing anything. “We can share a fucking room, okay? This doesn’t have to be a thing-” Your voice catches, eyes welling up angrily. “You don’t hate me that much, do you?”

Bucky is paralyzed. Frozen in your gaze, fists balled at your sides as you stare at him with anger, hurt, and worst of all disappointment. Swallowing hard, he sets his backpack down and takes a careful step towards you, like you’re a stray cat that could startle at a sudden movement. “I don’t-” He inhales, letting his eyes stay on you despite the way you’re furiously wiping at your cheeks. “Christ, I don’t hate you.”

Neither of you speak, maintaining your distance. Your eyelashes flutter, blinking away whatever tears you can as the walls close in around you. At your side, your fists clench and unclench. “Then you fooled me,” the air conditioner unit shuts off, leaving an uncomfortable tension in the air. “I’m going to shower. Sleep in the bed with me. Or on the floor. Or out in the truck. I don’t care.”

Bucky doesn’t budge, even when you brush by him and turn the shower on. It isn’t until he hears you pull the curtain aside and step under the stream that he allows himself to move. He acts methodically, pulling his folded sleepwear from his backpack, hesitating on the shirt he brought to sleep in, despite knowing he always ends up yanking it off due to claustrophobia. He leaves it off, knowing you’d roll your eyes at the formality and clear attempt at protecting your modesty. He untucks the thin comforter, settling underneath it on his back and staring at the ceiling. Waiting. 

His therapist said to make mental lists when he found himself stressed. Of anything. “Just make sure it’s factual,” she’d hummed, jotting something down in her notebook. “Leave no room for speculation.”

Bucky knows you like tea. A small collection lives in your cabinet above the stove, with teas from around the world. Earl greys, floral teas imported from Hawaii, a white blend from the Mom and Pop shop you frequent. The tea he brought you from that mission he did with Sam in France. He knows you use a tuberose and honey body wash- he smells it on your skin constantly. The same scent that wafts from the thin bathroom door now. Bucky knows you tasted like vanilla and cherry lip gloss when he kissed you- that the lip gloss is the one you wear all the time. Even in the car, he watched you reapply it in the mirror and found himself remembering the feel of it on his own lips.

He knows he should’ve chased after you that night. Stopped you before you could make it out the door. Assure you that it wasn’t you- it could never be something you did. That for the first time in 70 years, he felt something warm, bigger than himself. Something he couldn’t control that was truly good- and how it scared him. 

What a fool he is, to have let you think he feels anything but love for you.

The bathroom door opens, and you emerge, hair piled atop your head and eyes puffy, like you’ve been crying. 

“Good shower?” He asks tentatively. 

You nod, crossing your arms over your middle. Sleep shorts cover your lower half, an oversized blue t-shirt on your upper half. “Yeah. Thanks.” Blinking, you take in his position- shirtless, opposite the side of the bed you like. 

“You’re right,” he says by way of answering. “We can share the bed.”

Nodding again, you pad over to the bed and lift the coverlet, sliding in next to him. Once settled, you lay on your side, facing away from him. “Can I turn out the light?”

“Go for it.” 

Neither of you speak for a long while, listening to each other’s breathing. Bucky can feel you on the bed, tense and as far away from him as possible. “Are you asleep?” He murmurs after a while, turning on his side to face your back.

A harsh exhale comes from your side, “Yes.”

Despite your annoyance, a smile tugs at his lips. “I’m sorry.”

In the dark, he can see you peak over your shoulder. “For?”

“I don’t hate you. I could never hate you,” he pauses, focusing on the slope of your neck, your waist that he desperately wants to grab and pull you into him. “When we kissed- it felt like- for the first time, I didn’t just have to look out for myself anymore. Like I was living to feel, not just to be alive. If that makes sense, I-”

“It does,” the sheets rustle as you turn to face him, finally giving him your all. 

“It scared me,” Bucky admits, placing his hand between the two of you. “I didn’t know what to think and I pulled away and-”

“I left.” You finish quietly, hand reaching for his. Your pinkies brush. “I didn’t give you the chance.”

“I texted.” The excuse is feeble to his own ears. Still, he sees the ghost of a smile cross your face in the dark. 

“I tried calling,” you return with no malice in your voice. Still it hits him like a freight train.

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you pick up?”

 There’s a long pause, so still that you think he won’t respond, but he exhales and says, “I didn’t know what to say.” It’s unclear who moves but your hands are working together, intertwining inseparably. A sharp tug has you sliding over the sheets and against him, so that your faces are inches apart and breaths are shared. 

“And now?” You manage, eyes darting over his face as you search for answers. Bucky’s cerulean gaze is dark, pupils blown from the dark and your proximity. He leans closer, brushing his nose against yours. 

“I’m still finding the words,” his lips graze yours with every syllable. “Is that okay?”

Eyes fluttering closed, you inhale a shaky breath. “More than,” you whisper before closing the gap. 

This kiss is slower than the first one, filled with passion and tenderness. He rolls half-atop you, the hard ridges of his abdominals pressing against your soft shirt. Legs tangle together as you grasp at his hair with your free hand, tangling in the dark locks but not quite tugging. Bucky’s metal hand comes up to cradle your jaw, like you're something delicate as he angles you for a deeper kiss. His dog tags press against your hand that is still intertwined with his, trapped between your heaving chests and sure to leave a mark. 

Lungs aching, you finally surface for air, regrettably, like dying would be worth it so long as Bucky’s plush lips were pressed to yours. Your eyes are still closed as Bucky rubs his nose over yours. “I need to take you on a proper date,” he muses, punctuating the sentence with a series of kisses over your face. Brow, cheek, corner of your lip.

“I don’t need proper,” you hum, pressing your lips to his quickly, “I just want you.”

The Rogers' backyard was, for all intents and purposes, the hottest wedding venue in town. 

At least if anyone asked nine-year-old you and 11-year-old Bucky, as much was true. 

The cracked sidewalk leading to the clothesline was the aisle, peony and dandelion flower beds were the decorations. The old apple tree was the altar at which Steve stood taller on an upside down wooden crate, one of your father's old dress shirts over his shoulders to pretend he was a preist, or a pope, or some sort of higher entity able to witness this whole thing. 

Bucky had one of your dad's suit jackets on, the navy fabric completely swallowing his frame, overlapping at the front and masking the Yankees jersey he had on, and all the dirt and grass stains on it. 

You had a pillowcase that definitely needed to be in the hamper for laundry day pinned to your hair with your favorite hair clips, of a little crystal blue butterfly. 

"Everybody be quiet," Steve announced, nose high up in the air like he was presenting a case to the Supreme Court. "This is serious business."

"It is serious business," you agreed immediately, failing to bite back a grin, missing your top right canine tooth.

One that Bucky held your hand the whole time so you'd let Steve run away with the string and pull it out. 

"We are gathered here today because Bucky and my sister wanted to play wedding instead of baseball."

"You said you'd play too!" you accused. 

Steve ignored and just kept going. "Now, Bucky Barnes." He cleared his throat, trying to make his voice lower. "Do you promise to be nice to her forever, always save her a seat to watch fireworks on my birthday, and never eat the last s'more?"

Bucky rolled his eyes, his dimple coming out as he smiled wth the side of his mouth. "Yeah," he said simply. "I promise."

You raised your brow, mock-scolding him. "You're supposed to say I do."

"Okay, yes," Your heart did an odd flip. "I do."

Steve then turned to you next. "And do you promise to be nice to Bucky forever, not tell Mrs. Barnes when he sneaks cookies before dinner, and always let him have the red Popsicle if there's only one left?"

"But they're the best ones!" You whined. 

Steve sighed, ever the dramatic, looking at Bucky with fake sorrow. "Okay, then I guess you don't love him as much as—"

That set panic in your little heart. "I do! I do!" His face changed immediately, and Bucky smiled at you. 

The kind of smile that always made you feel like maybe the sun shined a little brighter on your side of the street than everybody else's.

Steve smiled, as if everything was back on track. "Now, for the rings."

Bucky dug into his pocket and produced two dandelions he'd twisted into little circles. Your eyes widened. "You made those?"

He nodded, brown hair bouncing up and down his head with the gesture. "Took me forever, but they're your favorites."

He held one carefully between his fingers before sliding it onto yours with all the concentration in the world.

"You made me a flower ring." Your grin stretched so wide your cheeks hurt.

Bucky shrugged. "Yeah."

Steve interrupted your thoughts, "Okay, okay. By the power in this vest… or in me, whatever they say in movies, you are now married." He pointed at Bucky. "No cooties." Then at you. "And don't make him play tea party every day."

Your stomach did that weird fluttery thing it always did around Bucky Barnes. It did the same thing when you rode rollercoasters, felt like it was gonna fly away and take you with it. 

"You may now high-five the bride." Steve announced, stepping down from the crate. 

Bucky extended his pinky towards you, "We'll be best friends forever."

"No take-backs." You smiled, wrapping your pinky around his.

TEN YEARS LATER

As time passed, you grew up. You got new interests, all of you got new friends, and the found family you had just seemed to get bigger. Of course, you weren't as close with Bucky anymore, no college sophomore wants to hang out constantly with his best friend's kid sister.

It's kind of uncool.

The house was loud in that familiar, comfortable way—the kind of loud that doesn’t feel chaotic so much as lived-in. Every sound has a place. Every voice belongs. Bucky, as much as he isn't family by blood, grew up running up and down these stairs the same you and Steve did, as Steve did in his house. 

Both of your moms were best friends since diapers, and it was only fate that Bucky and Steve were too. 

The kitchen doorway had his height and age and name scratched on it just the same as it did yours, he knew that house in the dark just as much as Steve, trying to sneak around to get snacks during late nights playing video games. 

Controller clicks. Steve muttering under his breath. Bucky’s low laugh every time he wins—because of course he’s winning.

“Dude, you’re cheating,” Steve groans, tossing his controller down for a second.

“I’m just better than you,” Bucky shoots back easily, stretched out on the couch like he owns the place, long legs kicked up, completely at home.

He always is.

Him and Steve drove back home from their Sophomore college parties for your graduation weekend, still half-running on energy drinks and bad decisions from the night before, which just happened to fall in the same one as your prom, only separated by three days. 

They could hear your speaker booming in your bathroom while you got ready with your two best friends, Yelena and Kate, and Natasha, Steve's girlfriend, helped you with your makeup. 

It was a mix of Megan Thee Stallion playing and giggles coming from the three of you, your two best friends gushing over their dates.

Makeup scattered across the counter. Curling iron plugged in and dangerously close to knocking something over. Dresses half-hanging, half-draped over the shower rod.

And Natasha’s laugh, warmer, older, threaded through all of it as she tried to keep things somewhat under control.

Kate is perched on the edge of the tub, kicking her heels against the porcelain. Yelena is leaning into the mirror, fixing her lip gloss with unnecessary intensity.

And you—

You’re standing between them, half-finished, dress still unzipped, hair clipped up, trying to decide if you feel as good as you’re supposed to.

“Okay, no—seriously,” Kate says, pointing at you like she’s making a case in court. “John is going to lose his mind.”

Yelena hums in agreement. “He already looks at you like he has no thoughts.”

You laugh, a little breathy. “That’s not even true.”

“It is completely true,” Kate insists.

“You’re just saying that.”

“We are not just saying that,” Yelena shoots back.

Natasha, standing behind you, gently brushes powder along your cheek, more focused than the rest of them—but she’s listening. And she notices there's a sparkle in your eye that's missing when John's the subject. 

He's nice, he's good looking, he's captain of your football team, maybe he has some anger issues with other guys, but all in all he's a solid boyfriend. He's just not—

“Alright,” Natasha says finally, pulling you from your thoughts, lightening her tone again. “Turn around. Let me see the full thing.”

You do as she asks, and she takes in her work of art, your hopeful eyes, and the soft blownout curls of your hair framing your face. 

"Perfect!"

Careful with your steps as she reaches for the zipper, pulling it up your back slowly, sealing you into the dress, into the night, into everything that’s supposed to happen.

A knock sounds on the bathroom door. "You girls alive in there?" Steve calls. "Or did the hairspray fumes get you?"

"We're decent!" Natasha calls back.

Steve pokes his head in for a second. "Oh."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

His expression shifts immediately into something resembling offense. "What happened to my little sister?"

"Oh my God." You snorted. 

Steve's broad frame now came into full view in the tiny bathroom as he stood on the dorway. "Who is this grown woman and where did she put the gremlin that used to steal my fries?"

You rolled you eyes. "I'll still steal your fries."

He shakes his head. "You look beautiful, Bug."

Your expression softens. "Thanks, Stevie."

As Pietro and Bob scrolled their phones impatiently at the bottom of the stairs, making small talk with Steve and Bucky, you were almost wearing a path into the carpeted floor of your bedroom.

Seconds after he was supposed to arrive with the other two, he texted you some shitty excuse as to why he was taking Olivia, his ex, to prom instead. 

“I was gonna explain,” John says finally, like that makes it better.

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Explain what? That you’re ditching me the night of prom?”

“I’m not ditching you,” he says quickly, defensive already. “It’s just—Olivia asked me to go with her and it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” you repeat, your grip tightening around your phone. “John, it’s prom. We’ve had this planned for weeks.”

“I know, I know,” he says, exhaling like you’re the one making this difficult. “But she’s going through stuff right now and I don’t wanna make things worse.”

Your chest tightens. “So you thought canceling on me last minute wouldn’t make things worse?”

“That’s not what I said.”

You huffed. “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

He goes quiet again for a second, and you can practically hear him thinking—calculating—trying to figure out how to spin it in a way that makes him look less like the bad guy.

“Look,” he says finally, voice shifting into something more controlled, “you’re gonna have fun no matter what. You’ve got your friends, it’s not like you’ll be alone.”

The words hit harder than anything else he’s said.

Because they’re so easy for him. So dismissive.

“So that’s it?” you ask, quieter now, but it wavers anyway. “You just—drop me and go with her, and I’m supposed to be fine with that?”

“I’m not dropping you,” he insists again, frustration creeping in. “It’s one night.”

“It’s prom,” you snap, the word catching in your throat. “It’s not just some random thing, John.”

“Why are you making this such a big deal?” he shoots back.

That’s what does it.

Your eyes sting, tears blurring your vision as you shake your head even though he can’t see it. “I’m making it a big deal?” you echo. “You’re the one who decided, what, an hour before we’re supposed to leave, that I don’t matter as much as your ex?”

“It’s not like that,” he says, sharper now. “You’re twisting it.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” you say, your voice breaking despite your best effort to keep it steady. “You just told me exactly where I stand.”

He exhales, long and annoyed, like he’s already over the conversation. “You’re being dramatic. The words land like a slap. And for a second, you can’t even respond.

“Okay,” you say finally, and your voice is quieter now, but steadier in a way that feels final. “Okay. Go with her.”

“—See? That’s all I’m saying, it’s not that—”

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head again, even though he still can’t see you. “I get it now.”

There’s a shift on his end, like he didn’t expect that. “Wait—”

“Have fun at prom, John.”

And before he can say anything else, you hang up.

The silence that follows is immediate and heavy, pressing in around you as you stare at your reflection, your chest rising and falling too fast, your phone still clutched in your hand.

For a second, you just stand there. And then your face crumples, and the tears come before you can stop them. 

Great. You think. An hour of Natasha's hard work gone in two seconds. 

You ripped a couple squares of toiled paper off of the roll, trying to dab away the tears when a knock interrupted you. You didn't even have time to tell whoever it was to leave you alone, the door opened anyway. 

And of course it was Bucky. 

"Hey, Walker finally—" Then he saw your face. The red rimmed eyes, the puffy nose and lips, he'd recognize your crying face if he was in a dark room blindfolded and you were three states away. "What happened?"

His voice wasn't panicked our loud, just immediate. 

"Apparently my boyfriend had a better offer." You said with a humorless laugh, fiddling with the corner of the tissue. 

His expression then changed to confusion, then disbelief, then anger. "He did what?"

Your eyes stayed on the paper, humiliated. "He took his ex to prom instead." It sounds ridiculous out loud. Embarrassing. "I know it's stupid—"

He shook his head. "It's not stupid."

You shrugged one shoulder anyway. "It kind of is."

"It kind of isn't." Bucky insisted. 

Your laugh broke apart into another shaky breath. "He said I was being dramatic." Your voice was small, like a small part of you almost believed John. 

"No the fuck he didn't." Bucky's voice, on the contrary, sounded like he was about to make sure John was in three zipcodes at the same time.

You wiped at your face furiously. "Can we not do the whole protective older brother routine thing right now? Steve's probably already planning a felony downstairs."

Bucky nodded, as if agreeing that yes, Steve should be planning felonies. "Good."

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you. "Bucky."

"I'm serious." He took the couple steps needed to lean back against the sink, back to the mirror, while you faced it. The familiar weight of him beside you settled something in your chest. "You know what I think?" he asks.

You sniffled. "What?"

"I think he's an idiot."

You snort. "Very eloquent."

"You spent weeks excited about tonight." You shrug. "You talked about your dress for months." A smaller shrug, your head shaking like you agreed with him three weeks was a little excessive. "And some guy decides at the last second that he doesn't feel like showing up?"

His eyes looked for yours, and he continued once you met his gaze. "That's his loss." 

Downstairs someone was shouting something about finding the car keys. "I just feel stupid."

His brows furrowed immediatelly. "Why?"

"Because I was excited." The words came out smaller than you meant them to. "I really thought tonight was gonna be special."

Bucky's expression softens. "It still can be."

You laughed weakly. "My date literally dumped me an hour before prom."

"Okay." He says, like the solutions is obvious. Like a dragon staring you in the face. 

You were confused. "Okay?"

"Okay." He stands up straight. "Counterpoint." You raise an eyebrow. "I've seen enough terrible teen movies to know where this goes." Despite yourself, curiosity wins.

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yeah." He nodded, and started counting on his fingers. "Option one: you go with your friends and have an incredible time."

"Mm." An amused smile played on your lips. 

He continued. "Option two: Steve commits a crime."

You smiled widened. "Likely."

"Or a secret, better option three—"

You quirked a brow. "There are three options?"

Bucky rolled his eyes playfully. "There are always three options." You gestured for him to continue and he grinned. "Option three: some devastatingly handsome college sophomore heroically steps in and saves prom."

You stared at him in disbelief. "Bucky Barnes."

"What?" 

"You are not asking me to prom."

"Why not?"

"Because that's ridiculous." You stammered. "You're a college guy and it's gonna be a bunch of drunk high school seniors and—"

"Seems pretty straightforward to me."

You crossed your arms over your chest, the action making your breasts stand out more, and Bucky had to hold back from looking briefly. "You drove eight hours home from college."

"Correct."

"You haven't slept." Another excuse.

"Also correct."

Truth is… You didn't trust yourself not to ruin your friendship, and Steve's, with Bucky as your date. Yes it was a childhood crush, yes it was stupid, yes he only saw you as a little sister, but for some reason every time you smelled sandalwood and listened to divorced dad rock, your stomach did the same fucking thing it always did.

It flipped. 

"I'm serious." The grin on his face faded into something gentler. "You shouldn't miss your prom because some idiot couldn't see what was standing right in front of him."

Your throat tightens. "I don't want a pity Bucky Barnes date."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Bucky shook his head. "I want to go to a high school prom sleep deprived, listen to bad music, and drink shitty punch."

You pretended to think about it. "I want milkshake and fries from Juniper's after."

Bucky got down on his knees dramatically, clutching his hands together, play-begging. "Please, let me spend my hard earned student loans on a malted brownie shake for you, m'lady."

You signed, as if you weren't blushing seven shades of red at the moment, all hidden by Natasha's foundation. "I suppose."

After Nat talked Steve down from whatever Law Abiding Citizen crap he was gonna pull, Bucky borrowed one of your dad's suits while you touched up your makeup, and off into his jeep you went. 

Bucky lingered back as he watched you walk to the old car excitedly, Natasha stopping right beside him as your friends walked to their cars, watching you get twirled by Kate. 

Bucky noticed Natasha staring at him and raised a brow in question. "What?"

She gave a noncommittal noise. "Nothing."

"Romanoff." Bucky scoffed.

She put her hands up in surrender. "I didn't say anything."

"You've got the face."

Now it was her turn to raise a brow, trying to bite back a grin. "What face?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "The face where you've figured something out before everyone else."

Nat shrugged her shoulders. "I always figure something out before everyone, Bucky." Tapping him on the shoulder and turning arounfd to go inside. 

The prom commitee worked very hard to make sure the night looked exactly like every movie promised it would.

String lights draped from the ceiling of the gymnasium like stars somebody had caught and hung overhead. Balloons clustered in the corners. A photo booth occupied one wall. The basketball hoops had been disguised beneath enough tulle and fairy lights to fool almost everyone.

Turns out, getting ditched by John Walker was the best thing that ever happened to your prom night. You didn't even notice when Olivia was cryingin the bathroom because she caught him making out with someone else. 

No. 

You were too busy slow dancing with Bucky Barnes.

When the first chorus of the song came on, he held out his hand. "May I have this dance?"

You rolled your eyes. "You're such a dork."

"Tick tock, Rogers." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.

You took his hand as if it didn't make your fingers go numb with excitement, and Bucky quickly nestled a hand on your low back, your forehead to the side of his jaw. 

"You know," Bucky said after a minute, "this is definitely better than my prom when I was your age."

"Okay, grandpa." You laughed softly. "What happened at your senior prom?"

"My date spent forty-five minutes crying in the bathroom because her friend wore the same shoes she did."

You clicked your tongue. "That's tragic."

"It was devastating." Bucky agreed, nodding his head, laughing softly. 

You nudged his jaw. "I'll try to hold it together."

"I appreciate that."

A moment passed, then another, and you spoke up. "Thank you for doing this for me."

"Anytime." He let out a soft breath, leaning back the slightest bit so he could look at you. "You do look beautiful, I mean it."

Thank fuck for Natasha's foundation, powder, and concealer for hiding your flush. "Thank you, Bucky." Oh how you wished you hadn't looked into his pretty eyes, reflecting the lights off of the mirrorball back onto the dancefloor. 

The ten seconds seemed to stretch an entire decade. Somehow Bucky's face getting closer and closer to yours, eyes switching from your lips back to your eyes and to your lips again. 

Oh my God, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, he's gonna—

"Hey." The word cut through the moment like broken glass. Fucking John Walker. King of never in the history of the world reading anything. Specialy the fucking room. "Can we talk?"

Bucky's hand tightened around your waist, "What do you want, John? Olivia is probably looking for you."

"C'mon, baby, you're not gonna throw our relationship away over one bad call, are you?" He was seriously trying to play this off. "I made a mistake." His hand reached for you but you stepped away. 

"I'm not your baby."

He scoffed. "Aw, c'mon." And tried again. 

This time, Bucky got between you two. "She's done, Walker. Walk away."

Now John got… Defensive. "This isn't any of your business."

Bucky clicked his tongue. "She kind of is." The words slipped out before he could stop them.

The air stood still for a minute before the football bros came to get John, leaving you and Bucky with the weight of unsaid words and unspoken looks. 

Juniper's was closed by the time you finally left prom.

Not closed enough to stop Bucky from leaning halfway out of the driver's side window and convincing one of the employees locking up to sell him two milkshakes and an order of fries out of pure pity.

It wasn't until you were stargazing in his jeep with soft music from his Spotify mixing with the crickets hiding in the grass that your heart settled again. 

You were in the passenger seat, your burger already eaten, just finishing your delicious fries and your milkshake with Bucky in the same predicament in the driver's seat. 

Now the two of you sat on the hood of his Jeep in the empty parking lot overlooking the river, the New York spring air cool enough that your bare shoulders prickled every time the wind picked up.

Without a word, Bucky shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders. You blushed. "Thanks."

He shrugged. "'M not using it."

"You literally had it on 30 seconds ago." You rolled your eyes. Bucky just muttered details between a mouthful of fries. 

"You know," you said eventually, "this wasn't exactly how I pictured prom going."

Bucky laughed quietly. "No?"

"I don't know. There was significantly less public humiliation in the original draft." You laughed softly. "But I like this version better."

Bucky nodded. "I had fun."

You looked over. "Yeah?" Hopeful little edge in your voice giving you away to anyone that knew you remotely well. 

"Yeah." His expression softened. "Got to dance with a pretty girl."

Heat climbed into your cheeks immediately. "You flirt with everybody." You rolled your eyes. 

Bucky made an offended expression, clutching his chest. "I absolutely do not."

"You absolutely do." You lolled you head to the side, raising a brow to make your point. He laughed.

God, you loved his laugh. Always had. The thought came and went so quickly you almost didn't notice it.

Your eyes drifted back toward the sky. "You know what this reminds me of?"

"Hm?" He lifted his eyes from the milkshake cup he was trying to get every last bit out of. 

"The meteor shower."

Bucky smiled immediately. "Oh man."

You grinned. "You remember?"

"Remember?" Bucky chuckled. "I had baseball tryouts the next day and I was up all night to make sure you didn't miss it."

It stopped you dead in your tracks. He did what? "No, you didn't. Your mom came and woke us up."

Bucky nodded. "Yeah, because I woke her up. I was outside waiting for it while you and Steve snoozed it off. Played like shit the next morning." He continued. "You had the date circled on the calendar."

Your brow furrowed. "I did?"

He nodded. "You drew stars around it."

"Oh my God."

Bucky chuckled, his own head lolling to the side on the head rest to look at you. "You made Steve and I promise we wouldn't stay up late the night before because we had to be rested."

You buried your face in your hands. "That sounds insufferable."

"It was kinda cute." He smiled at you like he always did, and your heart promptly forgot how to function. Bucky, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware of the devastation he'd just caused.

Trying so desperately to change the subject to something that wouldn't make you tear up or your heart jump, you fiddled with your milkshake, taking a sip and making a face. "You know, I think this thing is eighty percent whipped cream."

Bucky grinned. "I can see that, it's all over your face." His left thumb came up to wipe down the leftover shake on the corner of your mouth, and it lingered just a second too long. 

For a second, or three years, the world felt like it stilled. A moment frozen in a snow globe to be forever replayed. 

Neither of you moved, not entirely sure how to. Suddenly Bucky was very close, close enough to see the tiny scar in his eyebrow from falling off his bike when he was fourteen, to count the freckles dusting across his nose, enough that you could feel your heartbeat somewhere in your throat.

His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up, and your heart and lungs stumbled over themselves. 

His hand lowered slowly, resting on your thigh. The night around you seemed quieter somehow. Smaller, as if the entire world had narrowed down to the space between you.

"Buck..." His name came out softer than you intended.

His expression shifted into something you'd never seen directed at you before. "If you don't want—"

And then your body moved forward on instinct, your brain a mess of fuzzy TV static, and when you came back to your body, your lips were on his.

Not because you were brave or even confident, just mostly because if you let him finish that sentence you thought your heart might actually explode.

For one terrifying second you were convinced you'd made the biggest mistake of your life. Then you felt the warmth of his hand on your cheek, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss as his tongue slipped past your lips.

The kind of kiss that felt less like fireworks and more like coming home after a very long trip.

One of your hands quickly found the nape of his neck, gently scratching your manicured nails against his scalp. He whined against your lips, hand drifting to your waist, and just as much as he pulled you onto his lap, you climbed over the console to him, food wrappers forgotten on the floor. 

You shrugged the suit jacket off, accidentally honking the horn with your butt in the process, and Bucky's hands rubbed up and down your thighs as you rocked your hips against him, feeling the heat of him against the suit pants. 

Your hands dropped from his shoulders down to his arms, then forearms, directing him to paw at the zipper on the back of your dress.

That made him pull away, looking for your eyes. "Are you—"

You could not have nodded more feverishly if you were a damn bobblehead.

Bucky needed no further incentive, he made quick work of the zipper, excitement bubbling in your stomach like freshly popped champagne while he peppered kisses along your jawline and neck. 

The now bothersome fabric of the dress fell to your waist as you worked on the buttons of his shirt, hands moving to his belt and pants after.

He kissed you again, deeper as his hand snuck under the hem of your dress to find the wet spot on your panties. 

You moaned against his mouth, your own hand finding its way inside of his boxers. You broke the kiss, gasping for air.

"Is this— I mean— okay?" It was hushed and murured against his lips as you stroked his length. "I've never— oh!"

You got rudely interrupted by Bucky's index and middle fingers rubbing your sensitive clit over the blue cotton of your panties.

He nodded against you, "Y-yeah, you're— fuck— you're doing so good."

His hips bucked up against you, and the second he slipped out of his pants with your movements his hand left your core and now were both squeezing your ass.

Bucky brought you flush against him, the angry red tip of him begging for friction found it when you started to dry hump him through your underwear, gasping into his mouth every time it nudged your clit.

"Bucky, please…" He couldn't not give you what you wanted, right? "I can't take it." Not when you begged this pretty.

He nodded against you, "I know, baby." And his right hand went under your dress, behind you, and pulled your panties to the side. "I know."

The second his bare cock made contact with your wet slit, he hissed, and a lightbulb went off in his head.

Condom.

He did not trust himself to pull out. Not of you. "Condom." His voice was almost distant to you, like it hadn't crossed your mind to use protection. Not with Bucky, anyway. He'd never hurt you, he was your—

"I—" You were dazed, lost and drunk in the scent and thought and feel of him. "My purse."

His hands let you go and you leaned over the seat to grab your purse from the backseat, your ass right beside Bucky's head. 

Of course he took advantage of that fully pull your panties down, now that you had the leg space. 

You sat back down on top of him with a little huff, trembling hands fumbling with the wrapper.

Bucky hissed as you rolled it down on him, and one of his hands lined himself up with your entrance.

As you sank down on him, you thought maybe you should've thought twice about it. I mean, you knew he was packing, you walked in on him changing one time a couple years ago, there was no way you could—

"Hey," Bucky's voice brought you back from your spiral. "Look at me." Beautiful cerulean eyes stared up at you like the moonlight was made to bounce off them specifically. "Breathe."

His other hand brushed your hair away from your face, just as the hand that was holding his shaft traveled up, thumb finding your clit rubbing soothing circles on it.

"Just take it slow." Your eyes fluttered closed. 

"How do you not get knocked over hauling this thing around?" That brought a chuckle out of him, landing straight onto the skin of your neck. "Oh, God..."

You rocked yourself back and forth, until he was fully inside of you, your lips touching the light hair at the base. 

Bucky kissed all over your face, his thumb never stopping its work. "You're doing so good, baby."

"Feels full." He laughed softly. squeezing your waist and helping guide you into a rhythm. "Feels good."

"Yeah?" Hushed and right by your ear, you felt like drowning and the happiest person alive at the same time. "You're so tight," He continued. "So warm."

You whined against his lips, the vibration going all the way down to his core.

He moved you up and down his cock, listening to the obscene wet squelch each time you sat up and sank back down on him, and each time it dawned on him what was actually happening, he got louder.

Bolder.

He bounced you on his length, hissing each time, you squeezed around him. "Feel good, Buck. Hah!"

It surprisingly didn't take long for Bucky to have you right at the edge, not as long as people online led you to believe losing your virginity would feel like. "Can feel you fluttering." His thumb worked faster.

"Wanna come, Bucky." You whined, kissing him, and pulling away with his bottom lip between your teeth, "Can I?"

He hissed, the question making it hard for him to not blow his load right then and there. "F'course you can, pretty girl, c'mon."

Your release felt like a million meteors hitting you at once. Like Earth came apart and got put together all in the same breath. 

It felt entirely different, better, than when you tried to do it on your own. And your orgasm triggered Bucky's, waves of pleasure milking rope after rope of cum from him into the unworthy latex of the condom. 

For what it felt like forever for the milionth time that night, neither of you spoke. Your breaths and the crickets were the only sounds. 

It was quiet after. 

Just… quiet.

The kind that only existed when two people had known each other so long that silence wasn't something to fill. Starts lit up the sky that was now your ceiling, and Bucky had taken the condom off and tied it, throwing it inside of the trash with the fry bag and the milkshake cups.

For once in his life, James Buchanan Barnes appeared to be completely out of words.

Which was concerning.

You smiled a little, back in the passenger seat with the suit jacket around your chilly shoulders. "What?"

He glanced over. "Hm?"

"You're thinking too loud." That got a laugh out of him. A quiet one, but still a laugh. "Sorry."

A beat of silence, then another. "I don't want this to ruin anything."

Your smile faltered slightly.

Of course, you thought. Of course he doesn't feel that way about you, why would he—

"Oh, Buck." You faked a smile as his eyes met yours. "We'll be okay."

A sheepish, hopeful look hit his face. "Yeah?"

"Of course." You nodded and reached over and laced your pinky with his. "We're us."

His expression softened when he looked down at your joined fingers. "We're us," he echoed.

You smiled. "We survived Steve's bowl cut phase." You listed off. "The great Thanksgiving mashed potato incident."

"Traumatic." He chuckled.

"The time I accidentally backed your Jeep into Mrs. Russo's mailbox." You continued. 

He scolded you playfully. "You still owe me for emotional damages."

You laughed softly. "We'll be best friends forever."

The words came so naturally, so easily. The same words you'd said years before ona hot day beneath a tree. A pinky promise.

Forever.

Beside you, Bucky went quiet. Of course she wouldn't want anything to do with you, you're her brother's best friend. That shit only works in mov— "Right." His eyes dropped for a moment. "Friends."

Your stomach twisted at the word for the first time in your life. Because why did that sound disappointing?

Why did it sound like something had slipped through your fingers without you realizing you were holding it?

a little bit of fran in your life: okay did we like it??????? it was meant to read like a first chapter but also a standalone in case you wanted to just be done with it. yippieeeeeeee [i reserve all the rights to this fic EXCEPT THE CHARACTERS bc this fic is my baby do nawt make it into a movie without asking me to direct it]

⤷ masterlist

💌 permanent freaks taglist: @chateaubarnes @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @its-in-the-woods @wildflowersandvibranium @unificsation @flockoff-featherface @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @winterdecember18 @juniebjonesin @barnesonly @bckyslover @buckyfmd @starfire-irl @tw1sters @pinksplace @artficlly @daddysbitchybaby @globetrotter28 @epiphanyrogers @famoushoshi @avgdestitute @blobfishlol @buckysdecaflove @buckybsdoll @allthingswickedpodcast

Your fingers twist in the hem of your sleeve as you sit on the couch, angled just slightly toward him. Bucky’s sprawled beside you, long legs stretched out, one arm hooked over the back of the couch like he owns the space without even trying. There’s a quiet movie playing on the TV, something neither of you are really paying attention to. His attention keeps drifting back to you anyway—little glances, soft and curious.

You notice every single one of them.

You always do.

Your knee bumps his accidentally and your heart jumps like you’ve done something wrong. He doesn’t pull away, though. If anything, his leg shifts just a little closer, pressing more firmly against yours.

God.

You swallow.

“Buck?” you try, and immediately want to hide.

His head turns toward you instantly. “Yeah, doll?” His voice is soft, warm in that way that always makes your chest feel too tight.

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Because suddenly the words feel embarrassing. Too needy. Too much. What if he doesn’t want to? What if he’s comfortable like this and you mess it up? What if—

You shake your head quickly. “Nothing. Sorry.”

You turn your attention back to the TV like you didn’t just implode right next to him.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, quieter, closer—“Hey.”

His hand finds your wrist. Not grabbing, not forcing. Just there. Thumb brushing gently over your pulse like he’s checking in.

“You sure?” he asks.

You nod too fast. “Mhm.”

Another pause.

His thumb keeps moving.

“Because,” he says slowly, like he’s choosing his words with care, “you’ve been fidgeting for the last ten minutes. And you keep lookin’ at me like you’ve got somethin’ to say.”

Your face burns.

“I—no, I haven’t.”

Bucky huffs out a quiet, amused breath; eyes twinkling in fondness.

“Doll.”

And that’s it. That one word, all warm and coaxing, and you crumble.

“I just—” you start, and your voice immediately gets smaller. “I was just wondering if, um—if you maybe wanted to—like, if you’re not busy or anything—”

His brows pull together, not in frustration, just confusion. “Not busy,” he repeats gently.

“Right, yeah, I know, I just mean—if you didn’t want to, that’s totally fine, I just—”

“Hey.” His hand slides up from your wrist to your arm, grounding. “Slow down. What’re you askin’ me, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

You might actually pass away.

You take a breath, staring determinedly at a spot on the couch instead of at him.

“Can we… cuddle?” you mumble, so quiet it barely counts as sound. “Just for a little bit. If that’s okay.”

Silence.

Oh God.

You knew it. You knew you shouldn’t have asked. You start to pull back, already preparing to laugh it off, to say you didn’t mean it, to pretend—

“Oh.”

It’s soft. Almost breathless.

You risk a glance up.

Bucky looks like you just handed him something precious.

His expression has completely melted. There’s no other word for it. The sharp lines of his face have gone soft, eyes wide and warm and a little bit awed, like he can’t believe you just asked him that.

“Yeah,” he says immediately. Then, a little stronger, like he needs to make sure you hear him properly, “Yeah, of course we can.”

Your shoulders loosen just a fraction. “Really?”

“Really?” he echoes, almost incredulous. “Doll, you never gotta ask like it’s a big favor.”

“I just didn’t wanna bother you,” you admit, voice small again.

That does something to him.

You see it, the way his jaw tightens just slightly.

“You could never bother me,” he says, quiet but firm.

Before you can overthink it again, he’s already moving.

His arm drops from the back of the couch, sliding around your shoulders, guiding you gently into him. Like he’s giving you every chance to change your mind, even though you never would.

You go easily, curling into his side.

And the second you settle against him, it’s like something in him gives.

He exhales, long and slow, like he’s been holding that breath all day. His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer until you’re practically draped over him. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you into his chest.

“There we go,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything.

You can hear his heartbeat. Feel it under your cheek—steady, strong.

Safe.

Your hand curls against his shirt, bunching the fabric lightly as you relax into him. The earlier nerves start to fade, replaced by something warm and soft that spreads through your chest.

“You okay?” he asks after a moment, voice low.

“Mhm,” you hum. “Sorry I made it weird.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through you.

“You didn’t make it weird,” he says. “You made my day.”

You tilt your head just enough to look up at him. “I did?”

“Yeah.” His thumb starts tracing slow, absent circles against your arm. “You askin’ for this? Means you want me close.” A small pause. “I like that.”

Your face heats again, but it’s softer this time. Less panic, more… something shy and happy.

“I always want you close,” you admit.

That completely ruins him.

You feel it in the way his hold on you tightens, not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you there. Like he’s not letting go anytime soon.

“Then c’mere whenever you want,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Don’t make yourself nervous over it, alright?”

You nod against his chest.

“Okay.”

His fingers drift through your hair, slow and careful, and the movie continues playing in the background, forgotten.

You stay tucked against him, warm and quiet, listening to his heartbeat.