Fic Recs From Yuta-Nakamots

You ignore them. Bucky ignores them.

“You were supposed to wait for my signal.” Bucky says, again, and you meet his words with an exaggerated groan.

“For the last time, I saw the shot and I took it. You would have done the same fucking thing if you-“

“If John hadn’t blocked you, you would have died.”

John’s voice cuts through the fight, and he sounds just as exhausted as Ava as he makes his own way to the couch. “If I hadn’t blocked her, the plane ride back would have at least been a whole lot quieter.”

“Shut up.” You and Bucky snap in unison, both fixing him with your own glares. He throws his hands up in mock surrender.

Bucky keeps going. “You never listen. That’s the problem, doll. You need to-“

“Don’t doll me right now. You’re not the only capable member of this team, Sarge. I can take care of myself if you would just-“

“You almost got shot! Again!”

“But I didn’t!”

“Oh great!” Bucky’s own hands fly up, rage still sparking in his eyes. “That makes all of it go away. Everything’s fine now.”

Yelena’s voice cuts through now. “How long have they been doing this?”

“Hours.” John and Ava respond, sounding more worn out from listening to the two of you than they do from the battle.

The fight continues. Right in the middle of the common room.

It’s one of those arguments that just doesn’t stop. Anger and adrenaline and the horror of nearly losing each other keep the fire fueled to the point that you lose the original point of why you’re fighting. You’re just matching each other’s energy now, both refusing to back down.

“They’ll never stop. We will never sleep again.” Yelena says at one point, though none of them have left the couch. In fact, they’ve all watched and commented to each other through the entire argument, all feigning annoyance but clearly too entertained to want to leave the room.

“And you’re always kicking the blankets off of the bed in your sleep!” He shouts at one point. You feel multiple pairs of eyes move to him, and then back to you when you respond like your little audience is watching a movie. There might be popcorn out by this point. You’re too angry to care.

“Because you run like a furnace and you’re always attached to me like a fucking octopus when we sleep!”

“Oh, so you want me to sleep on the other side of the bed now?”

“No! I love it! But it’s fucking hot and we don’t need ten pounds of comforter on top of us!”

“Maybe I want ten pounds of comforter on top of us!”

“Do you?!”

“No!”

The argument moves all around the room. In front of the couch. Near the hall. In the kitchen. The energy remains the same.

“And you know what? You go down on me too much!” You shout, poking your finger into his chest.

“What?!”

“No, you - don’t look at me like I’m crazy. You do! And you act like it’s for me but I think it’s really for you because you’re such a good person whose always trying to help people and-“

“So you want me to go down on you less?”

“Don’t twist this into me not wanting you to go down on me as much! That’s ridiculous. Of course I want you to go down on me that much.”

“I want to go down on you that much. Are you telling me to take it down a notch?”

“No! Of course not! I- okay, just forget this whole part of the argument. Keep doing that.”

“Fine!”

“Good!”

“This is starting to get gross.” John says, and you both turn to him again to shout at him to shut up in perfect unison before you continue.

Ten minutes later, you’re still going. No one has moved.

“And maybe if you woke up later than dawn every day, you would be less grumpy all the time!”

“Why are we fighting?!” He shouts back, and his words finally seem to crack through the spell.

You still refuse to back down. “Because you’re so annoyingly protective all the time. We’ve covered this. You’re just-“

“Because I love you.” He snaps, energy still furious despite his words. “And the idea of anything happening to you makes me lose my mind. Why can’t you see that? Why are you always arguing with me about it?!”

“Because I love you too! I took the shot because they were aiming at you, jackass!”

He surges forward, crashing his mouth to yours with so much force that it knocks you backwards into the wall. Your hands fly up to tangle in his hair. His fly down to the backs of your thighs, lifting your legs to wrap around his waist as he all but snarls into your mouth.

If you weren’t so distracted by Bucky, you might see money exchange hands on the other side of the room.

“You see this? Passion.” Alexei says, and everyone groans. “Is good thing. They fight with love. Like warriors.”

“They’re basically eating each other.” Ava says, tone laced with disgust.

Bucky’s mouth moves to your neck, biting down hard enough to make you groan, and the sound immediately draws his mouth back to yours.

“Okay, I’m done. I have a feeling they’re not going to make it to their room, and I definitely don’t need to see that.” John says, standing from his spot on the couch. The others stand, too, all grumbling with annoyance. The moment the couch is free, before they’ve even left the room, Bucky throws you down on it and crawls on top of you.

“Drive me fucking crazy.” He’s murmuring against your neck, calloused hands sliding up beneath your shirt as his hips press against yours. You make a noise that makes him grip you harder, his teeth scraping against your skin. “Gonna make you-“

His words are cut off by a cup of water splashing over the two of you, cold and shocking, and you both shout with surprise. You look up, only for another cup of water to splash on you.

“Take it to your room! It’s like two floors below us!”

You almost laugh, despite the heat still surging through you, and sputter as a third splash of water lands on you. Did they all get cups of water? Seriously?

“Okay, we get it! Stop with the-“ You start to say, only to squeak in surprise as Bucky stands and pulls you with him, wrapping your legs around his waist once more as he starts moving towards the elevator. He’s soaked, hair sticking to his face as he presses you up against the wall and slams his mouth back against yours, hand flying out to slam against one of the buttons - you don’t even know if it’s the right one - before it comes back up to start ripping at your tactical gear.

“Oh God, not in the elevator. It’s easier to disinfect the couch!”

You had chalked it up to a freak imbalance in your hormones. A cruel twist of biology you hoped would never happen again.

But tonight, it had.

The ache pulled you out of your sleep like a hook in your ribs. At first it was a whisper, a slow throb in your belly that pulse slowly. But then it sharpened, expanding outward, like a molten knot that radiated and passed through your hips, your thighs, into your core, and digging into the hollow of your spine. It was a hunger so fierce it bordered on painful, and it was an ache that made your muscles clench and tremble. You blinked into the dark, heat prickling along your skin, as your chest rose and fell in shallow bursts.

You were already soaked, you could feel it when you shifted slightly. The cotton of your panties clung to your swollen core, dragging over your clit with every tiny movement, sending shivers up your spine until you wanted to cry. Sweat slicked the inside of the t-shirt you had borrowed from The Void, damp patches spreading beneath your breasts, between your shoulder blades, and down your lower back. You felt like you wanted to tear the fabric off yourself bit by bit until they were mere shreds, because every brush of it against your scorching skin seemed to magnify the fever that was burning through you.

And you couldn’t seek relief, because you were cocooned.

The Void’s arm was cinched tight around your waist, his forearm pressing firm and unyielding across your stomach. His cool palm laid heavy and broad over your midsection, holding you flat to him, keeping your position perfectly secured. His bare chest was pressed into your back–an immovable wall–with his weight trapping you. And everywhere around your body was anchored, as the tendrils had slipped out and claimed you throughout the night.

Two curled gently around your wrists, holding them to your chest like they were clasped in prayer. Another banded across your ribs, a velvet strap that rose and fell with every shallow breath you fought to take. A thick coil stretched broad across your hips, its weight pressing you into the mattress. Two more wrapped snug around your thigh, silk-heavy restraints that made your pulse throb beneath their hold. One had slipped beneath the crook of your knees, canting your legs open just enough to expose the heat between them to the cool temperature that he radiated. Smaller coils spiraled down your calves, looping around your ankles like vines. And around your throat, softest of all, one laid in a loose collar–not tight, nor cruel, only brushing lightly over the frantic hammer of your pulse.

You were practically wrapped head to toe in darkness. Swaddled, and enveloped as if you were an extension of him.

Most nights, this was peace to you. He was your sanctuary, your safety, your claim and your calmness. But tonight, that security felt like pure torture.

Every tendril pressed too close. The one at your hips brushed the waistband of your panties absentmindedly, grazing just shy of where your body screamed for relief. The ones on your thighs denied you the chance to press together–not on purpose, it was just by chance. And they were all pulsing in sync with you, because you were the one thing that they tethered to. Layered over everything though was him.

HIs scent surrounded you, caressing you with every breath. Smoke and steel, ozone sharp enough to sting your tongue, threaded with the faint sweetness that could only belong to him. It filled your lungs, coated your mouth and slipped down your throat, and soaked into your pores until it drowned you. Each inhale you took dragged the hunger deeper, and each exhale made the ache sharper.

You tried to still yourself. You tried to breathe through it, to will it away. But the dampness continued to soak the fabric and it continued to catch on your clit with each twitch of your hips. It felt like your insides were burning, twisting cruelly within your womb, tightening no matter how you tried to fight it. You shifted slowly, moving back against The Void in search of relief, but it only made it worse. The cotton clung and pulled, sparking pleasure so instant and out of nowhere it stole your breath. The tendrils responded immediately, tightening around you–a gentle reflex that stole what little room you had to move.

Your body convulsed with frustrated need. Tears pricked at your lashes, and you bit your lips so hard until you tasted iron. You tried to hold it in, but your chest hitched with shallow, frantic gasps.

Then the sound broke free. A whimper, high and ragged, a desperate little sob.

It didn’t sound like want. It sounded like pain.

The bed shifted. And the arm around your waist drew taut, pulling you tighter for a moment before easing. The tendrils pulsed once, their nest around you rippling as if they too had heard the desperate little noise that escaped your throat. You could hear The Void’s breathing change. The steady rhythm of sleep fractured, deepening into long heavy pulls of air that dragged over the crown of your head. It wasn’t the breath of someone merely waking–it was searching and deliberate, like he was smelling you, and tasting the heat and anguish bleeding from your pores. His chest pressed more firmly into your back as he shifted even closer, his face burrowing into your hair. When he turned his head, you felt the faint graze of his lips–damp and cool–against the shell of your ear.

”Are you okay?” He asked, his voice rough with sleep, but weighing with a concern that only he could have for you. His hand moved as he spoke, dragging slowly over your stomach, pressing through the soaked cotton of his t-shirt that clung to your body. The coolness of his velvet skin made you shudder where it passed over the damp patches, soothing the fever just enough to give you a split second of relief before the ache ruptured through you again.

You shook your head quickly, the admission spilling from you before you even had a thought to keep it in. The motion made the tears that clouded your vision slip free–hot, helpless drops escaping from the corners of your eyes, sliding down across the bridge of your nose until they dripped onto the pillow beneath your head.

He stilled at the action, and the energy around him shifted, subtle but undeniable. He wasn’t just half awake anymore, and he wasn’t drifting on instinct–he was fully present now. You could feel it in the way his weight adjusted, and the way the tendrils that came from him stirred as if waiting for a command.

He moved with slow certainty, pushing himself upright behind you. The mattress dipped with his shift, and immediately the tendrils obeyed, unwinding from the cocoon they’d woven around your body. But they didn’t vanish. They reformed, flowing like liquid silk, lifting you with eerie gentleness, guiding you onto your back as if you were weightless. The shadows moved with a reverence that mirrored his own hands–placing you, not trapping you, until you were laid flat against the sheets, your chest heaving, your sweat-slick skin shining in the dim.

You blinked up through the darkness, dazed and fevered, until your eyes found him.

He loomed above you, his form a living silhouette of shadow. And yet his eyes–those pale, glowing pupils–cut through it all, steady and piercing, like twin moons hovering over you and casting their coolness over your skin. They swept over your face with agonizing slowness, meticulous in their reading. He saw everything, the sheen of sweat that made a few strands of hair stick to your temples, the wet shine of tears clinging to your lashes, and the frantic rise and fall of your chest that you couldn’t calm, no matter how hard you tried.

There was no judgement in his gaze, no distance, just love and concern.

His hand rose, sliding into your vision, until his palm cupped your cheek. The touch was steady and ground, cool against your scorching skin. His thumb brushed tenderly across your temple, catching the dampness of sweat, wiping it away as if it offended him to see you so uncomfortable.

The contrast made your throat ache, and you leaned into it without meaning to, your lips parting on a shudder as if the pressure of his hand would steady the whirlwind that ruptured and broke open inside your body, another whimper slipping out of your mouth. You could see the way his eyes narrowed at the noise.

”Y/N…” He started softly, threaded with concern so heavy it seemed to darken the air around you, “What’s wrong, my love?” Another fresh set of tears welled in your eyes at the sound of his voice, that gentle endearment wrapping around you like silk chains. It was too much–it unraveled you from the inside out. Your stomach knotted painfully, your throat tight, your lashes clinging with wetness as you tried to hold yourself together. You shook your head, the movement tiny, trembling, and finally the words scraped free in a broken croak.

“I–I woke up like this… Void, I’m in so much pain…” His fingers twitched faintly against your cheek, the smallest crack in his stillness betraying the surge of feeling beneath his skin. He leaned closer, his cool breath ghosting over your fever-hot flesh, his gaze chasing yours when you tried to turn away. His voice came low, coaxing, velvet smoothed with care.

“Show me where it hurts…” The instruction was soft but left no room for denial. With shaking hands, you reached up to the one still cupping your cheek, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. His skin was impossibly cool, a balm even in your desperation. Slowly, with shame and need tangling in your chest, you guided him downward–over the line of your sternum, past the damp cling of his t-shirt stretched tight across your body–down, down until his palm hovered at the soaked cotton of your panties. The moment his hand pressed there, your hips lifted desperately, chasing contact, unable to stop yourself. You writhed under his touch, tears spilling anew as a small, helpless whimper broke free.

“I feel like I’m dying, Void…I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know why it’s so bad tonight…” Your voice cracked under the weight of it, words dissolving into breathy sobs. The pained pleasure was so sharp it made your eyes burn, mortification searing in your chest even as need forced the confession from you.

“Shhh…” He hushed you immediately, the sound soft, a lullaby in the dark. The tendrils tightened around your body, not harsh but embracing, a cocoon pressing you closer to him as though his shadows themselves wanted to soothe. His lips hovered just above yours, his voice low and coaxing. “Hey, hey…It’s okay. Look at me…”

Your bottom lip quivered, and for a moment you thought you couldn’t. But the weight of his words tugged at you, anchored you, and you forced yourself to lift your gaze. His eyes pulsed faintly, the pale moons of his pupils expanding and contracting like a steady heartbeat.

“You’re just having a rough ovulation period,” he murmured, his voice so steady, so sure it almost made you believe it wasn’t monstrous at all. “All you need is a little bit of relief.” As he spoke, his fingers pressed firmer against the damp fabric, dragging slowly along the wet heat of your core. The motion was unhurried, deliberate, the kind of touch that said he had all the time in the world to take care of you.

“It’s nothing I can’t fix…”

A shaky sigh tore out of you at the contact, your hips rising helplessly into his palm. Your voice came small and shattered, begging before you could stop yourself.

“God, please Void…Please…Please help me.” The words hung between you, ragged and raw, and you could feel how they stirred him. His body shifted, his breath caught faintly in his throat. He had never heard you like this before–so desperate, so close to breaking, begging with tears streaking your cheeks. The sound of it struck through him like lightning, twisting want and worry together until his own stomach knotted with arousal. It was unbearable and intoxicating all at once.

He let out a small, steadying sigh, then leaned forward, his lips brushing your damp cheek. He kissed along the salt-streaked skin, tasting the tears you hadn’t been able to hold back. Each press of his mouth was soft, chasing away every trace of wetness until all that remained was the clean press of his affection. When he reached the corner of your mouth, he lingered, then tilted his head and claimed your lips fully.

His mouth was cool against your fevered heat, the contrast so sharp it made you moan into him immediately. He moved with aching slowness, savoring you, his tongue slipping past your parted lips to taste the salt and the sweetness of your mouth. His hand still pressed against your soaked panties, grounding you, steadying you, while his lips consumed every sound you tried to make. His tongue tangled with yours, deliberate strokes that coaxed rather than demanded, deepening the kiss until you felt your body melt into him despite the ache still tearing through you.

You moaned again, broken and breathless, and he caught the sound, swallowing it like he could keep it safe inside him. His mouth pressed harder against yours for a moment, a low hum vibrating in his chest, before he finally pulled back just enough to breathe you in.

His forehead nearly touched yours, his lips still grazing your mouth as he whispered, low and tender, the words vibrating through the space between you.

“I’ve got you, Y/N…You know I’ll always help you. You never have to beg me.” You almost sobbed at his reassurance, the vow sinking into you even as the ache in your body sharpened again. Your chest rose and fell erratically, the air burning in your lungs, but you let it out on a shudder when he bent his head and kissed slowly along your jaw. Each press of his mouth was gentle, his cool lips skating over your fevered skin, dragging at the edge of your composure.

Then you felt the shift. His weight moved, pressing lower, his body sliding between your parted thighs until he was above you fully. The mattress dipped beneath the cage of his form, his chest sealing against yours, cool velvet flesh smothering the sweat-slick cling of your shirt. The sudden temperature contrast made you gasp, the sound breaking into a moan as your nipples tightened instantly beneath the thin cotton. The friction was exquisite agony, every brush against his chest sending sparks through your nerves.

His lips found yours again, hungrier this time. The kiss was heated, open-mouthed, a clash of need and comfort as his tongue swept into your mouth and tangled with yours. You moaned into him, and his hand–still pressed firmly against the soaked fabric of your panties–moved in slow, deliberate circles. Slick gathered instantly, seeping through until his palm was wet with you, and every drag of his fingers made your hips jolt helplessly against him.

You ground into his touch, shameless and desperate, whimpering into his mouth as though you could climb inside him just to escape the ache. He swallowed each broken sound, and you felt the faint curve of his lips–he was smiling into the kiss, tasting your desperation like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever known.

When he pulled back, you almost cried at the loss. His pale eyes glowed down at you, feverishly steady, before he rasped, “Take off your shirt for me.”

You didn’t hesitate. Your hands flew to the hem of the sweat-damp cotton, tugging it upward so quickly you nearly tore the seams. You ripped it off in one motion, tossing it aside without care before launching yourself forward, arms wrapping around his shoulders. You dragged him down against you again, clinging to him, nails biting faint crescents into the velvet-dark flesh of his back as though you feared he might pull away.

“Please,” You breathed against his mouth, almost sobbing again. Your hands roved everywhere–his shoulders, his arms, the back of his neck–anywhere you could touch. The desperation made your movements clumsy, frantic, but he met every grasp with steady patience. His hand pressed harder against your drenched core, keeping you grounded while your body writhed beneath him.

His mouth pressed against your jaw, trailing downward with aching slowness. Cool lips and tongue dragged over flushed skin, and when he reached the swell of your breast, you gasped his name, arching up into him instinctively. He didn’t make you wait–his mouth closed over your nipple, tongue swirling, lips sucking gently before pulling harder, leaving a wet heat in his wake. The sharp cry that tore from your throat echoed in the darkness, broken and high, and he hummed against you as if savoring it. He dragged his teeth lightly over the peaked bud, then soothed it with his tongue, alternating kisses and sucks until you were clutching his silky hair between your fingers and pushing him closer.

His free hand slid to your other breast, kneading with care, thumb circling until both were hard and sensitive beneath his touch. His pale eyes flicked up to watch you, glowing with a mixture of reverence and hunger, his lips pulling free with a wet pop before latching again. He kissed, sucked, and marked until you felt your skin buzzing, little blooms of heat decorating your chest where his mouth had worshiped.

The noises pouring out of you were shameless–moans, whimpers, cries of his name. You could barely keep still, your hips grinding up into the hand still working you through your panties, chasing friction, tears still clinging to your lashes.

He let out a soft laugh, dark and low, pulling back from your breast just enough to whisper against your damp skin. “So noisy already…” His tongue flicked over your nipple before sucking hard again, making you sob. “Can’t wait to hear what kind of sounds you’ll make when I have my mouth on that desperate little pussy of yours…”

Your entire body jolted, the filth in his tone sinking into your bones.

He dragged his lips lower, down the curve of your breast, teeth nipping softly before sucking another mark along the tender flesh, moving even lower, “Can’t wait to have a taste…” His words rumbled against your skin, reverent and filthy all at once. “I know it’ll be different tonight.” His hand rubbed harder between your thighs, the fabric of your panties utterly soaked, clinging to his fingers with every drag. “I can smell the difference already–just from what’s on my hand.” The admission made you cry out, hips jerking up, your hands yanking on his hair.

“Void…Oh, fuck…Please, I can’t–” Your words dissolved into a sob, your body trembling, torn apart by the sensitivity. He smiled against the soft plane of your stomach as he kissed lower, his teeth scraping lightly over your fevered flesh.

“Yes, you can,” He soothed, nipping, then sucking at your hip. “You’ll give me every sound. Every taste. You’ll let me fix this for you, my love.” His hand left your drenched core, pulling away so suddenly that you gasped at the loss. But before you could whimper your protest, both of his hands slid up, fingers curling into the waistband of your panties. He didn’t need to ask you to lift–he never needed to ask. The tendrils did it for him, sliding low across your waist, curling around your hips and thighs before lifting you off the mattress like you were a feather. Your body hovered, weightless, as he peeled the soaked cotton down your legs.

The fabric dragged over your swollen clit and made you twitch, a shiver cracking down your spine. When he pulled them completely off, the sight made his glowing pupils flare. Your arousal had soaked straight through, staining the insides of your thighs with a glistening sheen that caught the faint light.

He lifted the panties in his hand and pressed the damp cotton to his lips. His tongue swept across the soaked gusset, savoring it, and his throat rumbled low when he sucked. A moan broke from him–low, guttural, reverent.

“Gods…” He rasped, his voice vibrating through you. His eyes flicked to yours, blazing white. “Your taste is so different. Riper. Sweeter. Fertile.” He licked the fabric again, slower this time, savoring the salt and sweetness. “It’s like drinking straight from the source of life itself. You’re made to be filled, made to be taken. Every drop is proof.” Your breath caught, a sobbing gasp tearing from you at the filth of his words, your thighs trembling against the tendrils still holding you aloft. The shadows answered again, uncoiling from your waist to slither lower. They wrapped around your thighs, tightening, spreading you wide with no effort. The stretch made you whimper, your core exposed and glistening under his gaze, puffy and dripping, clenching around nothing. His smile was sharp and soft all at once, both feral and full of fondness.

“Most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered, awe bleeding through the growl. He leaned forward, mouth grazing up your inner thigh. Cool lips dragged against hot skin, tongue flicking, teeth grazing. He marked you as he went–slow sucks, teasing nips–before settling his body fully down against the mattress, his shoulders wedged beneath your thighs. The tendrils tugged, pulling you down towards him, and you gasped as his face pressed close enough that his breath fanned across your swollen folds.

He teased mercilessly. His tongue traced the creases of your thighs, licked across the mound just above your clit, dipped low but never where you needed him most. The ache in your core sharpened into anguish, and you squirmed uselessly against the shadows.

“Void… Void, please,” You sobbed, your voice breaking, your hips straining for him. “Please lick me. Please stop teasing me, I feel like my heart is going to explode.” He hummed, low and dark, the sound vibrating against your overheated skin.

“I don’t mean to take joy in your suffering…” His voice was almost tender, his eyes gleaming.

And before you could beg even more, his tongue slid between your folds.

Your cry ripped free, raw and desperate, as his mouth sealed against you. His tongue swept up the length of your core, dragging through the flood of arousal that poured from you, collecting it greedily before circling your clit. His pupils glowed so brightly they seemed to light your body, and his gaze never left yours as he devoured you.

Your thighs twitched hard against the tendrils, but they only tightened, holding you wide open as he licked and sucked. He was feral, his mouth working you as though he needed you to live. His tongue alternated between broad strokes and sharp flicks, dragging through your wetness, plunging into you, then laving your clit until you writhed uncontrollably.

Your back arched, your hips jerking against his mouth, but another tendril slid across your stomach, draping heavily to hold you down. The pressure only heightened your helplessness, made you sob his name as his mouth tore you apart piece by piece.

Then–his fingers. Cool and long, slipped into you without warning. Two pressed deep, stretching your walls until your head snapped back and a scream ripped from your throat. He curled them immediately, finding that soft spot inside you, and the combination of his tongue on your clit and fingers stroking deep made stars burst behind your eyes.

He growled into you, the vibration traveling straight through your folds, filthy words spilling from him between licks. “So fucking wet…Clenching like you’re already trying to milk me…” His teeth grazed your clit before sucking, and you nearly sobbed.

“Yes, yes, Void–want it, want you–fuck, your tongue feels so good…Please don’t stop, please, I’m begging you–” Your hand shot up blindly, searching, and he caught it. His free hand tangled with yours, cool fingers interlocking tightly with your trembling ones. He squeezed back, grounding you as his mouth grew more relentless. His fingers pumped harder, faster, curling just right while his tongue flicked mercilessly.

Your orgasm slammed into you with no warning. You screamed his name, your back bowing so hard it hurt, your thighs quaking in the tendrils’ grip as waves of release tore through you. The tendril across your stomach pinned you down, forcing you to take every lick, every thrust of his fingers as he worked you through it. You shook violently, tears streaking your face as you came undone against him.

He didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, lapping at everything you gave him, swallowing it down like a starving man. His glowing eyes stayed locked on yours the entire time, pupils pulsing with each shudder of your body. Only when your writhing softened, your sobs quieting into broken gasps, did he slow.

With a final sweep of his tongue, he cleaned you thoroughly, licking every drop from your folds until you whimpered at the oversensitivity. He eased his fingers from you, the slick sound obscene in the quiet, and then you heard him suck them clean. A low groan spilled from him, guttural and reverent, like he was worshiping the taste itself.

He climbed up your body, shadows releasing you only to reform as a dark cradle around you both. His weight pressed you into the mattress as he leaned over you, his lips wet with your arousal, his glowing eyes fixed on your face like you were the only thing that existed.

And then–you felt it. His cock, hard and heavy, cool against the fever of your stomach. Thick and long, pre-cum dripping in a slick trail that smeared across your skin. The blunt weight of him was impossible to ignore, every pulse a promise.

His voice rasped low against your lips, filthy and tender all at once. “Feel what you’ve done to me, Y/N. You’re so fucking perfect…And I’m going to ruin you with it.” You let out a soft moan before his mouth crashed back to yours, soaked with your release. The moment they touched you tasted yourself on him. Sweetness bloomed across your tongue–heady, thick, almost like honey laced with salt and smoke. The taste was intoxicating, cloying in its intensity, and you whimpered into his mouth, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as though you could drink it down from him. The kiss deepened immediately, his tongue sweeping against yours, dragging the flavor deeper, making you taste every ounce of what he had pulled from you. He groaned low in his throat, a feral sound that vibrated straight into your chest, as if your taste itself was undoing him.

The tendrils stirred while he kissed you, their velvet length coiling down your thighs, curling beneath them, then rising. Slowly, gently, they lifted your legs higher, wrapping around your calves and spreading you, guiding you until they were hooked around his waist, perfectly angling you against him. The shift pressed your soaked, swollen core flush to the cool, rigid length of his cock, and you gasped against his lips at the sharp contrast–your fevered heat against his icy steel.

He pulled away just enough to breathe, his glowing pupils searing into yours as his hand slid down your body. His palm ghosted over the sweat-slick valley between your breasts, down your trembling stomach, until his fingers brushed over the coarse flesh of his own cock. You watched, totally dazed, as his hand wrapped around himself, stroking once, twice, slowly, dragging his palm down the shadowed length. Then he angled himself lower, dragging the blunt head against your folds.

The first pass smeared his pre-cum across your clit, and you nearly sobbed at the sensation. The slick coolness against the swollen bud sent a jolt straight through you, and your thighs quivered against the tendrils that held them high. He did it again, slower this time, letting the tip of his cock slide through your folds, coating you in his leaking arousal. Your body trembled, a shaky sigh spilling from you as your hand flew down to clutch at his thigh, nails biting crescent moons into the velvet-dark skin.

“Fuck,” You gasped, hips canting up instinctively, chasing the pressure. “God, Void…”

His lips curved into a smile, feral and reverent all at once, his glowing eyes hooding as he teased himself against you. Then, with a steadying groan, he pressed the thick head to your entrance. The pressure built instantly, and you could feel yourself stretching around him even before he pushed in fully.

Your walls gave way slowly, fluttering and clenching as inch after inch of him sank into you. The stretch was overwhelming, a burning fullness that stole the air from your lungs, and yet it was exactly what your body ached for. You cried out, tears springing fresh to your lashes as your body opened around him, taking him deeper, your warmth dragging him in like quicksand.

“Gods,” He rasped, his eyes slipping closed as he stilled once his hips met yours. His jaw clenched tight, his chest expanding on a ragged inhale. Then he let it out in a sigh, shuddering, his hands sliding up to clutch at your waist, his thumbs digging reverently into your damp skin. “You always…fuck, you always stretch around me so well. Like you’re molded for me alone.”

Your body pulsed around him, clenching greedily, milking his cock already as though begging for him to spill. His eyes opened again, glowing bright as moons, and he smiled down at you–sharp teeth flashing, but softened by the awe that cut through his hunger. His hands smoothed up and down your waist, tracing the lines of you, grounding himself in the feel of your body wrapped so perfectly around him.

“I can already feel it,” He murmured, his voice low, the words rasping against your lips as he leaned closer. “How much you need it…My cum. You’re pulsing around me like you want me to finish right now. Like your body already knows what it needs most.” His hips rolled slowly, the shift dragging him deeper into you, making your back arch as you cried out. “You need me to give it to you, don’t you? To fill you until you’re dripping with me.”A broken moan tore from your throat, your nails digging deeper into his thigh.

“Right now I just need you to fuck me,” You gasped, your words cracked but heavy with desperation. “Please…Fuck me, Void…” His lips crushed to yours again, his groan vibrating into your mouth. The kiss was filthy, all tongue and teeth and need, your breaths tangling until you thought you’d drown in it. When he pulled back, his mouth trailed down to your jaw, then your ear, his words spilling hot and low into your skin.

“This is prime time for me to breed you,” He whispered, and you whimpered at the thought of it, your body clenching tight around him. His hips rocked again, slow, deliberate, dragging the thick length of him against every sensitive spot inside you. “Your body’s begging for it. Ovulating. Fertile. You’re so fucking ready to take me–to take everything I give you.” His teeth scraped over the shell of your ear, his voice dropping into a growl. “I’ll fuck a baby into you tonight. I’ll fill you until there’s no doubt who you belong to.”

“Yes…Yes, fuck, I want it,” You gasped, your nails dragging red lines into his flesh. “Want you to fill me, Void. Want you to fuck me until you breed me, until I can’t think of anything but you inside me…Until I’m swollen with your child.” He groaned, a guttural, reverent sound, his forehead pressing to yours as his hips began to move in steady, deeper thrusts. His glowing eyes never wavered, drinking in every broken sound you gave him, every tremble of your body as it writhed under his.

Then his lips brushed your temple, his voice velvet and commanding all at once. “Turn over onto your stomach.”

The tendrils stirred at the words, sliding low, already preparing to move you. His gaze burned down into yours as he whispered, “Let me take you deeper. Let me ruin you the way you need.” His words–low and reverent, yet heavy with command—still rang through you as the tendrils obeyed, easing your trembling body into motion. They unwound from your thighs and waist, their silk-smooth coils slipping away just enough to roll you gently onto your stomach. The movement made him slide from you, his cock dragging free with a wet, obscene sound that made your hips jerk at the sudden emptiness. You whimpered at the loss, tears streaking fresh down your cheeks.

“Shhh,” He hushed, the sound cutting straight into your bones. “It’s okay…”

The mattress dipped as he moved, straddling your hips, his body blanketing yours from behind. His cock–thick, cool, glistening with your slick–pressed against the curve of your ass, sliding between your cheeks before he gripped himself and angled low. You felt the blunt head notch against your entrance, slick and swollen, and then–slowly, with devastating control–he pushed in again.

The angle was deeper. So much deeper.

Your jaw fell open, a gasping cry ripping from your throat as his cock split you wide, your walls stretching, fluttering helplessly around the thick intrusion. It felt like he was driving straight into your womb, the blunt head nudging somewhere so deep and sensitive it made you sob into the pillow.

“Fuck,” You cried, your hands clawing at the sheets. “Void–it’s so deep–I can feel you in my stomach–” He groaned above you, the sound guttural, feral, his chest pressing into your back as he buried himself to the hilt. His hips ground down against your ass, the base of his cock flush against your swollen folds, and you could feel him pulsing inside you, thick veins dragging against your walls.

“Exactly where I belong,” He rasped, his lips brushing along the curve of your shoulder. He kissed down your spine slowly, reverently, even as his hips rolled in steady thrusts. Each drive of his cock speared deeper, the sensation exquisite, your body clenching and fluttering helplessly around him. “You feel that? I’m right against your cervix. Right where I’ll spill into you.” His hand slid along your side, mapping the curve of your waist before catching yours. He laced your trembling fingers with his, pressing them into the sheets. His other hand swept up, dragging your sweat-damp hair from your neck, baring the flushed skin. His mouth followed, cool lips kissing a trail up until his teeth found the nape.

The bite came sharp, claiming, making your back arch and your walls seize around him. He growled against your skin, grinding his cock deep as he held you there, marked and filled.

“Gonna breed you, Y/N,” He snarled low, his voice breaking with hunger. “Gonna fuck you so full of me you won’t stop dripping for days. Your body is begging for me to fill it–and I’m going to give you everything I have…Including my kin…” Your sob was wrecked, filthy.

“Yes—yes, please, Void—fuck me, breed me, make me full–” You shoved your hips back against his thrusts, gasping at how he pressed so deep you swore you could feel him in your lungs. “I want it, I need it…I’ve always needed it.” The words made him lose what little restraint he had left. His thrusts turned hard, deep, grinding strokes that punched gasps out of you with every roll of his hips. His cock stretched you wide, the friction overwhelming, each drag of his shaft lighting sparks through your core. His bite tightened briefly, then softened into a soothing lick, his cool tongue trailing across the mark as he pounded into you.

Your climax tore through you with no warning. Your body convulsed, clenching around him in wild spasms, your cry muffled against the pillow as you shook beneath his weight. Your walls milked his cock, pulling, begging, every squeeze drawing him tighter to the edge.

“Fuck–yes–milk me, my love…Take it all from me–” His thrusts faltered into a feral rhythm, deep and deliberate, and then his growl broke low in his chest. He slammed deep one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his cock throbbed violently.

The first gush of cum spilled into you hot, shocking against his cool flesh. It flooded you instantly, heavy and thick, and your eyes rolled back at the sensation. More followed, pulse after pulse, filling you so full you swore you could feel it spilling past his cock, dripping down your thighs.

“Oh my god–” You sobbed, the sensation breaking you. He groaned into your neck, still grinding deep, thrusting slowly to push it further inside.

“Take it all. Every drop. You’ll keep it–your body won’t waste a thing.” His hips rutted shallowly, his cock pressing against your cervix as if to force the cum higher, deeper. Each thrust smeared the release against your walls, making the wet, lewd sound of it echo in the dark.

Finally, his bite eased. He released your neck, his lips pressing tender kisses over the mark he’d left. His forehead dropped to your back, resting heavy, his breath cooling the sweat that slicked your skin. His chest heaved against you, his body trembling faintly as he stayed buried inside, still thick and hard, still leaking into you and pulsing.

The tendrils coiled back around, draping over your hips and thighs, holding you close to him as though to seal everything in.

The air was thick with the sound of your mingled breaths. Both of you were panting, your lungs burning from the sheer ferocity of what you had just shared, but neither of you could bring yourself to pull away. His lips peppered tender kisses along the ridges of your spine, slow and unhurried, each press lingering like a vow. His mouth traced the beads of sweat still clinging to your skin, as though even the salt of your body was something he wanted to claim.

Your fingers still clutched his, trembling, and when you gave them a weak squeeze he immediately squeezed back–cool, grounding, steady.

“Are you still in pain?” He asked at last, voice low and gravel-edged, his breath ghosting against the back of your neck. You turned your face from the pillow with effort, your cheek dragging across the damp linen. The moment you shifted, he lifted himself up, white pupils glowing bright in the shadows so he could meet your eyes fully. His gaze searched you, scanning every detail of your bliss-drunk face.

“No…” Your voice was hoarse, broken into pieces by exhaustion and euphoria, but heavy with honesty. A slow smile curved your lips. “I’m…Fuck, that was so good.” The Void’s teeth gleamed against the darkness of his face, a feral flash softened by affection. He bent low and kissed you gently, a press of lips so different from the wild hunger of moments before–soft, steady, grounding.

“I’m glad.” For a long moment, you both stayed tangled, wrapped in the aftermath, the sweat cooling on your skin, the weight of his body pinning you into a security that no storm could shake.

Then, with a slow inhale, he murmured against your cheek, “I’m going to pull out…And go run a bath for the both of us, okay?” You nodded, your lashes heavy, your body pliant. He eased out of you slowly, carefully, his cock dragging free with a wet, obscene sound that made you twitch at the sudden emptiness. You gasped faintly at the loss, but the high of your orgasms and the languid satisfaction flooding your body dulled the ache of it. Before you could mourn the absence, he kissed you again, catching your lips with his in a soft seal.

“I’ll come get you once everything is ready,” He promised.

“Okay,” You breathed, the word falling quiet into the space between you.

You listened to the rustle of movement as he left the bed, the faint creak of the adjoining washroom door, then the shuffling of him preparing things. Soon, the sound of water running filled the silence, steady and comforting, a lullaby to your wrung-out body. You laid still, limbs heavy, as though your bones had melted into the mattress. Your muscles twitched and clenched with the aftershocks, tiny reminders of how hard he had wrung you out, how thoroughly he had filled you. The sheets clung damp to your skin, your body flushed and loose, yet every corner of you hummed with him.

Then you heard him again, his steps returning, deliberate and quiet.

The bed dipped as he leaned down, his arms sliding beneath you with effortless strength. He scooped you up slowly, your limp body collapsing against the firm wall of his chest. You tucked yourself instinctively into him, your arms looped weakly around his shoulders, your cheek resting against the cool press of his collarbone, as he moved.

The washroom lights were dim, golden and soft, flickering against the walls like candlelight. Steam curled into the air, carrying the scent of clean water and faint minerals. The Void lowered you into the tub first, his shadows steadying you as your body slipped beneath the hot surface. The water embraced you instantly, wrapping you in its warmth, soothing your overstimulated skin and the ache still blooming deep inside. You sighed, your head falling back, your lashes fluttering.

Only when you were settled did he step in behind you. The water shifted around his body, rippling softly as he eased down, his arms immediately circling you, guiding you back until you leaned against his chest. His cool skin pressed firm against your overheated back, a balm and a claim all at once.

You melted into him.

His lips found your neck again, softer this time, ghosting over the faint marks he had left there. He kissed each one reverently, as though apologizing for the sting even while cherishing the evidence of his claim. His hand found yours beneath the water, his long fingers weaving delicately between yours. He played with your hand, tracing the webs between your fingers, smoothing his thumb over your knuckles, interlocking until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.

The water lapped gently against the sides of the tub, the only sound between his featherlight kisses. Until, softly, you broke the silence.

“Is it bad that I actually hope it takes?” You whispered, your voice almost too quiet to disturb the still air. His fingers immediately squeezed yours, firm and sure, and you felt the hum of his chest against your back before his words came low, steady, and true.

“It’s not bad at all, Y/N…” He murmured into your damp skin. “We all want that with you. Always have.” Your throat tightened. You tilted your head back, shifting against him until your eyes caught his. His glowing pupils gleamed like twin moons through the haze of steam, their light soft but unyielding, filled with a truth that made your chest ache.

“I’m glad,” you whispered, your lips trembling with a fragile smile. He smiled in return–teeth flashing, but softened by the gentleness that bled through every word, every look. He leaned down and kissed you slowly, his mouth tasting of warmth and reverence rather than hunger. When he pulled back, his forehead brushed yours, his words spilling low and sacred.

“You’re our salvation. The only person we could see worthy of building a life with. You’re sacred to us, Y/N. And it would be an honor for all of us to say that we made another human together.” Your cheeks heated, your heart aching with the weight of it. Tears pricked at your eyes again, but softer this time, born of love rather than anguish.

“You always know how to make me feel special,” You whispered, your voice shaking.

His nose nudged against yours, a soft, intimate touch. “It’s because you are. And I love you so much.”

Your lips parted, trembling, before you pressed them to his in a soft, sure kiss. “I love you too, Void.”

1.

You were in the middle of tidying up your apartment when Joaquín walks through the door like he lives there. Though you do always tell him you’ll leave the door unlocked for him, so you can’t really blame him too much for that. Before he even has two feet in the door, he begins spouting off random facts about his day or how many times Sam said something nice to him or how cool the stuff he had gotten to do was. You stop mid-dust to turn on your heels, watching as he shrugs his jacket off and steps out of his shoes. A small smile toys on your lips after you discard the duster on the side table and make your way towards him.

“And then he sa—,” He freezes, eyes zeroing in on the flower vase placed in the center of your small dining room table, “What are you doing with those? Those are lilies.”

“Yes, they are,” You curtly nod, gnawing on the inside of your cheek as you resist the urge to rub your irritated eyes.

You watch as something flickers in Joaquín’s eyes, something you can’t quite place, before he squints at you in disbelief. He drops his jaw to say something, but cuts himself off with a shake of the head. You can tell that he’s censoring himself, that he’s fighting off the urge to say what he truly wants to say. It seems to be a recurring theme in recent days. 

“You’re allergic to lilies,” He deadpans as he crosses his arms against his chest, “And so is Steve.”

“Tyler bought them for me,” You weakly sigh, casting your eyes to the ground in slight embarrassment, “He said he forgot I was allergic. I can’t throw them away, I’ll feel bad.”

Joaquín’s quiet scoff makes your face heat up because you knew ‘forgetting’ wasn’t a real excuse, but it was all you had. You tell yourself that it’s an honest mistake, and you believe him when he tells you he will remember next time. You give him grace and hope for improvement despite the subtle comments from all of your friends telling you that he wasn’t worth it and how you deserved so much better. However, when it was Joaquín on the other side of the conversation, it felt different. It felt worse, and you couldn’t quite figure out why. 

“Right,” He purses his lips and kisses his teeth, “If you say so.”

Silence fills the space around you, sticking to you as you chew on your bottom lip and attempt to segway the conversation into something less strenuous. The sound of soft thuds bounding near you breaks your concentration, your cat rounding the corner before he‘s gearing back to jump on the table. You were about to call out and stop him, but you were stopped by a tickle in your nose and, before you knew it, you were thrown into a burst of sneezes. You fold your elbow around your nose to keep yourself from sneezing all over the place before the palm of your other hand is rubbing at your eyes for relief. 

“Okay,” Joaquín calls out over your sniffling, and you can hear him gently shoving Steve off the table, followed by the glass scraping against the wood, “That’s it. I’m throwing these away, and you can tell him it was me who did it. If he even notices it.” 

You were blinking away the stars dotting your vision while he yanks the flowers out of the vase, throws them into the trash bag, ties it up, and places it right outside your door for him to take when he leaves. The entire time, you can hear him incoherently mumbling under his breath, but you don’t ask him what he was saying. The bits and pieces you think you’re able to make out were enough to tell you that he was far from impressed with your new boyfriend, and the last thing you wanted to face was his blatant disapproval head on.

However, little did you know, there was a much more prominent thought running amok in his mind. One that would change everything if you found out.

2.

The cafe was calm. A gentle hum of conversation filtering through the air, soft light decorating the space, comely art scattered on the walls. It had always brought you a sense of serenity you couldn’t find anywhere else. Well, almost anywhere else. Joaquín had a knack for bringing out the same tranquil feeling whenever he was around, but you didn’t dare admit that out loud. Not to yourself, and most certainly not to him.

“So, what did he get you for the big six months,” He asks, adjusting in the seat across from you as his knee almost brushes the inside of your thigh. 

It was innocent. A fleeting rush of air against the skin, but it makes your breathing falter. It makes a wave of heat rush to your cheeks, and a cloud of fog roll over your thoughts, but you shake it off like it meant nothing. Like it wasn’t the exact feeling you’d been waiting for the aforementioned He to give you since you’d met. You distract yourself by grabbing at the cup in front of you, twisting it on the table as you nip at the skin of your bottom lip and force the words to come out of your mouth. 

“Concert tickets,” You mumble without meeting his stare.

“What concert,” He presses with a quirk of his brow, mentally going over the list of all the artists he knew would be visiting D.C. soon. He couldn’t think of any you were interested in.

You sheepishly tell him the name of the rapper Tyler liked, and you have to busy yourself with aimlessly searching through your bag to spare yourself from the look that had undoubtedly twisted on his face. You’d already heard a long enough speech from your best friend and neighbor about how selfish the gift was, and you were praying that Joaquín was kind enough to spare you from his own. You were sure you wouldn’t be able to handle it from him. A few beats of silence pass, and you know you wouldn’t be able to avoid his gaze for too long, so, with your tube of lip balm between your fingers, you straighten your back and find his eyes.

“But you don’t like that kind of music,” He finally speaks up, voice strained with something terse and wired.

“I know,” You shrug, dragging the chapstick across your lips, “But he does.”

Joaquín’s focus briefly shifts to your mouth, but he’s quick to bring them back to your eyes so you don’t notice, his own lips pressed into a thin line before a deep breath passes through them, “Don’t you think an anniversary gift should be something you like? Or something you both like?”

Your body tenses as his words settle in your chest. He’s right, and you know he’s right, but you had already convinced yourself that it didn’t matter. That part of being in a relationship came with the obligatory notion of doing something for your partner that you didn’t necessarily like. Even if you had yet to do something with him that was just for you. It would happen eventually, right?

“It’s not a big deal,” You brush him off with a forced chuckle, “I’m sure it’ll still be fun.”

Joaquín doesn’t say anything else on the matter, choosing to let it drop because your words were painfully unconvincing, even to yourself, but there was nothing he could do. He knew the lingering comments he had been leaving were starting to irritate you, and he didn’t want to overstep in fear that all it would do was drive you away, because that was the last thing he wanted to do. All he can do is hope that you’ll see it yourself one day.

3.

When Joaquín had texted you and asked if you were free to come over to his place so that he could give you your birthday present, you were more than happy to agree. Mostly because it’s been a few weeks since you had last seen him, and you missed being around him, but also because you were curious to see what he had gotten you. He had always been a phenomenal gift-giver, and the fact that he knew you better than you knew yourself at times left you clueless as to what it could even be. 

“Who are you,” Joaquín forces his face to fall flat when he pulls the door open, “You look like someone I used to know, but I haven’t seen her in a year.”

“Okay,” You draw out with a feigned eye roll, “Tone down the dramatics, Torres. It’s been less than a month, and that’s no way to treat the birthday girl.”

“Your birthday was two weeks ago,” He playfully shouts as you push past him and into his apartment. 

“Semantics,” You wave him off, eyes darting around the kitchen and living room to see if he’d

left the box or bag lying around.

“Calm down,” He chuckles, letting the door fall shut behind him before he strides to you, knocking his shoulder against yours,  “It’s in my room. I’ll go get it before you pop a blood vessel.”

He shouts at you to get comfortable while he retreats down the hall, and you do just that. You had already kicked your shoes off by the door, which made it easy to fall onto the couch and pull one of your feet under your thigh as you wait for him to come back. Your gaze flutters around, taking everything in as if you hadn’t seen it a hundred times before. Pictures of his family littered the walls along with pictures of the two of you, and you can’t help but smile at that. Some of them are your most cherished memories, and the fact that Joaquín values them enough to display them makes something inside your chest swell.

Your peek into his choice of home decor comes to a stop when his voice echoes from his bedroom, shouting about how you need to close your eyes before he comes out. You do as he says, but not without a little complaining first, and wait for him to find his way into the living room. You can hear his footsteps slow when he nears the end of the hall, and you know he’s peeking around the corner to make sure your eyes are actually closed.

“Don’t open your eyes yet,” His voice is closer now, only a few feet away.

You feel the dip of the cushion next to you, followed by the soft crinkle of paper as he sets the bag on the coffee table. His shaky breath was so quiet you almost miss it, but you don’t say anything about it. You were growing impatient, the curiosity of the gift gnawing at you, and you were ready to see what he had gotten you. The teasing could always come later.

“Okay, you can open your eyes.”

Your eyes fly open, immediately finding the light purple bag that was stuffed to the brim with white tissue paper. Joaquín lets out a light laugh as he gestures for you to open it before he goes on a spiel about how hard it was to find. As you grab the bag, you realize it’s got some weight to it, which surprises you a little, though you don’t dwell on it for too long. You’re making sure to place the excessive amount of stuffing to the side, but you freeze when you catch a glimpse of what was underneath it all. 

“Joaquín, what the fuck,” You gasp, fingers tracing the stitching of the bag, “How much was this?”

“We both know I’m not going to tell you that,” He flatly says, his hands grasping the edge of the cushion as he leans forward to drag his eyes across your face, “Do you like it?”

“Like it? I love it,” You murmur, pulling the bag out so you can look at it in its entirety, “I’ve been looking at this for months, but haven’t been able to find one anywhere.”

“I know,” His voice is gentle and hesitant, “I remember you talked about it a while ago, so I pulled a few strings and managed to find one.”

You toss the bag to the side, instantly throwing your arms around Joaquín and pulling him into your hold. Without missing a beat, he winds his arms around your waist and rests his chin on your shoulder. The warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest wasn’t uncommon when you found yourself in his embrace, but this time it felt like there was something more. Something that someone in a relationship shouldn’t be feeling with someone else, and it made your stomach twist with guilt.

You hastily pull away, giving him a sheepish smile before Joaquín’s gaze locks onto the chain around your neck, his eyes quickly narrowing into a glare. You already know what he’s looking at, so you don’t ask. You let him find the words he wants to say as you uncomfortably sink into your seat, waiting for the unavoidable to come. 

“That’s a gold necklace,” He states, finally dragging his eyes away from your chest, "You don’t wear gold.”

“No, but it’s cute,” You pipe up, though the squeak in your voice gives way to the cracks in your facade, “Tyler got it for my birthday.”

The silence that follows makes you want to vomit.

“Look, I’m sorry for what I’m about to say,” He straightens in his seat, his chest tightening when your face visibly twists in discomfort, “But the two of you have been dating for almost a year and he doesn’t know all your jewelry is silver? He still seems to “forget” you’re allergic to lilies and that you hate rap music? He cancels on you last minute to hang out with his friends, which is really shitty. He’s shitty and you deserve so much better than that.”

Someone like me, he wants to say. Someone who knows you inside and out. Someone who would get rid of all the lilies in the world if it meant you could walk around without sneezing. Someone who would shamelessly ask Sam to pull any strings necessary to find a purse that had been sold out for over a year. Someone who wouldn’t even look at gold jewelry when shopping for you. Someone who saw you. 

“I—,” You cut yourself off, jaw going slack and shoulders falling as his words settle in your chest.

Any words you were going to say die in your throat as you nervously wring your hands together and chew on the inside of your cheek. The tension that fills the room around you doesn’t bother you all that much because you know that he’s right, and there’s nothing left for you to say.

4.

When you woke up with a scratchy throat and a runny nose, you told yourself that it would go away. That if you took enough allergy medicine and drank enough tea, you would be able to drug yourself up enough to be fine, but you were wrong. Two o’clock came, and you felt considerably worse than you had when you woke up. Now, you’re toying with your phone as you try to find the right way to tell Tyler that you can’t make it to the concert. A few rehearsed conversations later, you’re clicking the call button under his name.

“Sup,” He mumbles into the receiver, making you outwardly cringe.

Who greets their girlfriend they haven’t talked to all day with ‘sup’? 

“Hey,” You harshly rasp, “I don’t think I’m going to make it tonight. I’ve been feeling pretty bad all day, and I don’t want to get anyone sick.”

“Damn, babe, that sucks,” He plainly groans, and you can practically see his head being thrown back, “I think Garrett wants to come, so I’ll ask him right now.”

Before you even get the chance to open your mouth, the line disconnects. Slowly blinking, you pull the phone away from your ear, stunned and in disbelief. 

What the fuck?

Sure, you were going to tell him to find someone to go in your place anyway, but he didn’t even ask if you were okay. If you needed anything. He just hung up like nothing else except his stupid concert mattered, but the worst part is, is that you’re not even upset about that. You’re mad.

Mad that you’ve been wasting so much time on him. Mad that you haven’t been paying attention to the dozens of red flags being waved in your face. Mad that you’ve been making excuses for a man who considered swimming in a pool a replacement for a shower. Everything you’ve been brushing off as ‘not a big deal’ came rushing to the surface at once, and it made your head throb.

You knew that you wanted to break up with him, which was something you should have done a long time ago, but you also knew couldn’t do it yet. You were civilized enough not to do it over a text, and had enough human decency not to do it before a concert he was excited for. Not that he would care either way, but unfortunately, you still had morals. Instead, you decided to call the one person you knew you could always count on, no matter what.

“What’s up stranger,” Joaquín brightly greets, a quiet buzz of people in the background.

“Whatcha doin’,” You cooly ask, clearing the obnoxious tickle in your throat.

“I’m not doing anything,” You can hear a familiar deep voice protest in the background, “Are you feeling okay? You sound sick.”

“It’s nothing bad,” You try and play it off despite knowing he would be able to see right through you, “Just a sore throat and a headache. Nothing I can’t handle. I’ll let you get back to your date with Sam.”

“No,” He rushes out, still ignoring Sam’s teasing comments beside him, “No, it’s okay. We were just finishing up. I actually have some sopita left in the fridge, so I’ll bring that to you, okay? I’ll see you soon.”

While you wait for Joaquín, you get comfortable on the couch and let your mind wander. You begin asking yourself the question you’ve been trying to ignore: Why stay with Tyler for so long? When you really thought about everything you looked for in a partner, he lacked almost every single one of those attributes. He wasn’t necessarily your type on paper, either. What he was, was close and low maintenance, and you thought if you were able to convince yourself that it was working, that maybe one day it would.

You couldn’t have been more wrong about something if you tried. 

By the time Joaquín was walking through the door, you had rolled yourself up in your blanket and dozed off into a short nap. You only roused when he was delicately shaking your shoulder, his small smile and soft eyes being the first things you see when you flutter your eyes open. He gently guides your body into a more upright position before turning to the coffee table, and as he pulls everything you’ve ever asked for when you were sick out of the bag, you realize that maybe everything you had been looking for had been in front of you the whole time.

+1.

A few months have passed since you broke up with Tyler, who took it a lot harder than you expected, and things in your life seemed to fall back into place afterwards Work seemed to be going smoother, you seemed to be in an overall better mood, the stubborn acne on your forehead, seemed to disappear, and you were back to spending all of your spare time with Joaquín. You felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be, yet there was one constant thought nagging at the back of your mind. 

Maybe you felt something more for Joaquín than you had ever let on. Scratch that, you know you do. 

The more time you spent with him, the harder your feelings got to ignore, which, in turn, meant that your loose lips and uncontrollable facial expressions got the best of you every once in a while. You would leave passing comments that made his brow quirk in curiosity, you would sit a little closer to him than necessary, which didn’t go unnoticed by anyone, you would uncomfortably grimace when girls made obvious passes at him right in front of you. Not that you had a right to feel any sort of way about that, which you knew, but it served as a consistent reminder that even though he was right in front of you, he was still out of reach. 

Well, you thought so, at least.

When Joaquín got back home from some sort of mission with Sam, the first thing he did when he landed was call you and ask if you wanted to go to the state fair that was in town for the week. The speed at which you had said yes was slightly embarrassing, but he didn’t seem to mind it one bit. In fact, he matched your eagerness with his own and began spouting off a list of plans he had for the evening. All of which made it sound like a date, but you didn’t dare point that out. 

The two of you have only been there for an hour, and Joaquín has already managed to beat six of the seven rigged games he wanted to try. After the last prize he asked you to pick out for him, you playfully ask him to slow it down a tiny bit because you weren’t going to be able to carry that many cheap stuffed animals all night. Through feigned reluctance, he agrees to give them a break and guides you through the crowd in search of something else to do that wasn’t the ferris wheel. He wants to wait until the sun sets to do that. 

“C’mon,” He gently urges, palm splayed against your lower back as he applies the slightest bit of pressure, “Let’s go to the photobooth.”

You wordlessly nod, letting him usher you towards the empty booth with a small sign that said ‘Picture this!’ above it and was tucked in a quieter part of the lot. He doesn’t move his hand away, and it was taking everything in you to concentrate on what was in front of you rather than the way his touch made your skin burn even through the material of your shirt. It was a simple touch, something he’s done a thousand times before, but this time it was making your head spin and your heart race. It was making it harder to focus, harder to act like you aren’t about to run headfirst into the wall of feelings you’d been trying to dodge. 

Joaquín pulls the curtain back, head slightly jerking towards the inside before he’s gently shoving you in before him. You place the bag he had conned one of the workers into giving you for the prizes between your feet and move over in an attempt to give him as much room as possible, but the space was small. Even with your body at an angle and a shoulder pressed against the wall, there was still virtually no space between you. You weren’t sure where you ended and he began. Without a second thought, he throws his arm over your shoulder and pulls you even closer to his side while he clicks through the various backdrops. 

“What are we thinking,” His fingers brush against your collarbone, making your breath catch in your throat and a shiver run down your spine. Thankfully, he doesn’t notice, or he’s just really good at hiding it. “Old school Captain America layout, some weird safari one, or…”

His voice trails off while he shifts his gaze to you, dark brown eyes finding your own as his brow twitches. The subtle tilt of the head lets you know that he can tell something is off, but he can’t quite figure out what it is. The way he’s looking at you, like he was peering into the deepest parts of your soul, was making you breathless. It was making you forget how to speak. How to think. You force yourself to look away, instead leaning forward to select the ‘random’ button in the corner of the screen. You can hear Joaquín’s amused chuckle behind you, but you ignore it as you settle back into the seat and watch the numbers count down from ten.

“Smiles first,” You firmly nod, adjusting under his arm and focusing on the screen in front of you.

With a nod of his head, Joaquín tightens his grip on your shoulder and his lips tug into a bright smile that outshines your own. After the first one, he suggests that the two of you take a less serious picture, so you poke your tongue out of the corner of your mouth and wait for the second shutter click to go off. However, just as the number two rolls across the screen, he reaches over his torso and begins prodding your side, bringing out a round of involuntary giggles and shouts of mangled protests.

“I hate you,” You breathlessly call out, lightly slapping his chest while you attempt to squirm away from him despite there being nowhere for you to go.

“No you don’t,” His voice lowly rumbles, making warmth spread from your chest to your stomach until your entire body is on fire. 

When your nervous, yet curious gaze begins to slide up to his, everything that follows seemingly happens in slow motion. You meet his piercing stare. Your eyes flicker all across his face. He’s mirroring your every movement, but he lingers on your lips for a beat longer than you did. You swallow hard. The flash of the camera goes off. He brings his hand to cradle your jaw and his thumb caresses the apex of your check. Slowly, agonizingly so, the space between you becomes nonexistent. His lips are on yours. 

It wasn’t rushed, desperate, or hungry. It was soft, tentative, and quietly needy in a way that made it feel like you were being kissed for the first time all over again. He’s kissing you like you were anchoring him to earth, keeping him grounded and tethered to something that was raw and real. He slides his other hand down your spine, goosebumps forming in the wake of its path, until he reaches your lower back, and he’s pulling you closer into him than you thought possible. The loud hum of fair goers fade into nothing as your lips mold against his like you were made for each other. Though if you ask Joaquín, he would say that the two of you were made for one another. 

Neither of you register the last flash of the camera, both too lost in the feeling of each other, and it wasn’t until you hear a faint knocking on the outside that you reluctantly pull away. Your lips are parted as you try to catch your breath, blood pounding in your ears and your mind hazy from the feeling of his lips. Joaquín’s palm remains cradling your cheek, the skin underneath tingling from the touch alone, and he’s peering down at you with a look you’d seen on his face far too many times to count, but this time you aren’t afraid to face what it truly meant. 

“Told you you didn’t hate me,” He cheekily mumbles, thumb ghosting over your lips. 

“I guess not,” You bashfully hum, averting your gaze away from him before you weren’t able to resist the aching desire to kiss him again, “We should probably get out before the people in line hate both of us.” 

With an amused shake of the head, Joaquín places a quick and delicate kiss to your lips before he reaches to grab the bag from the floor and pulls the curtain back. You ignore the knowing looks the small group of people outside are tossing your way, choosing to quickly grab the printed pictures and tug him away from the photobooth. You don’t bother to drop his hand when you feel you’re a safe distance from the crowd, not that he would’ve let you if you tried, and it makes a certain feeling blossom in your chest. A feeling you’d been wasting your time trying to replicate with others for so long when it had been right in front of you all along.

“Let me see the pictures,” Joaquín softly demands, pulling you to a quick stop at one of the benches. 

You hand him one of the strips while you keep the other, eyes scanning each picture like you wanted to commit them to memory. They were all in black and white with various shaped green hearts decorating the edges. The first one is simple and cute. Smiles on both your faces, gentle twinkle in your eyes. The second one makes you playfully roll your eyes. Joaquín was poking at your side and your hands were pushing at his forearm, faces scrunched up with laughter. 

The third one might be your favorite of the four. You're both looking at each other with the same look in your eyes, the look of two people who are totally and entirely entranced with one another. It was the kind of look you would see couples give each other when they thought no one was looking. The fourth one makes you blush. Joaquín’s hand was cradling your face and his lips were pressed against yours, your visible hand clinging to his shirt like you were afraid he might disappear. It was a kiss straight out of a movie.

“We look hot,” He speaks up, nudging you with his shoulder, “I like them all, but the second one is my favorite.”

“That’s the worst one of me,” You throw your head back with a groan, “I look crazy.”

“Hey, don’t talk about my girl like that,” He mockingly protests, hand clutching at his chest, “I happen to like that crazy look, and think it’s the most beautiful sight in the world.”

You falter for a moment, two of his words ringing in your ears as you try to compose yourself. “Your girl, huh,” You quirk one of your brows, fighting off the urge to smile.

Joaquín’s entire body freezes before he sputters, “I mean, only if you want to be. Obviously if you don’t that’s okay. It is totally fine if you’re not into that. Just pretend I didn’t say anything.” 

You’ve seen him get flustered before, but this was a whole different level. His eyes are cast to the ground, his entire face to his ears are flushing a deep crimson color, garbled words are  tumbling from his lips and he’s shifting his weight on his feet. You curl your fingers around his bicep, forcing his attention back to you and you can visibly see him relax once he notices the teasing glint in your eyes.

“Obviously I’m totally into that,” You lightheartedly retort, “But you’ve got to take me on a proper date.”

His entire face lights up at your admission before he’s surging forward and peppering your mouth, cheeks, forehead, and nose with small kisses. “I’m going,” Kiss, “To take you,” Kiss, “On all the dates,” Kiss, “I’ll never stop taking you on dates.”

He kissed you a little longer this last time, not bothered by the blur of people crossing by you or the random comments from people who think they might recognize him. When he pulls away, it was only just enough for your lips to not be touching. He places his forehead against yours and pulls you into his warm embrace by your hips, your arms winding around his torso as you try and stifle a nervous giggle from being so close to him.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this,” He mumbles, his breath fanning across your face, “How long I’ve wanted you.”

You let your head fall to the side as you pretend to think about it. “I’m guessing since you almost hit me with your oversized backpack three years ago.”

“Close,” He chuckles at the memory of your first meeting, his hands squeezing at your hips, “It was a few days before that, actually. I was leaving the sandwich shop and I saw you trying to shoo these pigeons off the sidewalk because a group of cyclists were coming. The second I saw you, I swear it was like everyone else disappeared except for you.”

His confession catches you a little off guard. You have a vague memory of that day, but you can’t recall seeing Joaquín anywhere near there. Although, you didn’t know him yet so you weren’t exactly looking for him then. Even then, you never would have assumed Joaquín saw you like that this whole time. 

your screen flashed: message sent.

then as if the universe wanted you dead. before you could even delete it. not even a second has passed — message seen.

you froze. stared. considered throwing your phone out the window, changing your name, moving to another country, and taking up a quiet life as a farmer in the mountains.

y/n: PRETEND YOU DIDN’T SEE THAT.

xiaojun: best birthday gift ever 😂😂

he was laughing. he was laughing. you felt your soul leave your body.

y/n: it was an accident!!!

xiaojun: sure 😉

xiaojun: and i accidentally opened it 3 more times

xiaojun: i also accidentally zoomed in

you gripped your pillow like it was a stress ball.

y/n: DELETE IT

xiaojun: okay 👍

xiaojun: but it’s burned into my eyes so idk how that would help

y/n: i’m blocking you. you’re never gonna see me again.

xiaojun: you can’t. we’re literally co-hosting tomorrow.

y/n: shut up

y/n: here’s your actual birthday message

you made sure to send the picture of the beagle this time. triple-checking. fingers a little shaky.

xiaojun: cute!! thank you, y/n ☺️

xiaojun: but i think i liked the first one better

y/n: go to sleep, pervert

xiaojun: sweet dreams 😇

you flung your phone onto the bed, laying face down, muffling your screams into your pillow, legs kicking like you were trying to physically expel the embarrassment from your body. you were going to have to go into work tomorrow and look him in the eye — the same eyes that had definitely looked at your nipples in 4k.

the next day

you walked into the broadcast venue with your head held high, armed with denial and strong coffee. you were a professional. this was just another day hosting the show. except…it wasn’t.

because xiaojun was already there, leaning against the dressing room, doorway, grinning like the devil himself.

“morning,” he teased, eyes flicking once, just once, down to your chest before meeting your gaze again.

you narrowed your eyes, “eyes up here, birthday boy.”

he smirked, “how can you expect me not to look?”

your cheeks burned but you refused to give him the satisfaction.

you breezed past him, muttering, “i’m never greeting you a happy birthday again.”

on stage, it got worse. while the cameras rolled and the lights blazed down, you were doing your job — announcing the groups, reading cue cards, smiling like you hadn’t flashed your co-host the night before. but you felt it. every time you turned your head, xiaojun was already looking. not subtly. not innocently. like he was remembering every single pixel of that photo.

during a break, you hissed under your breath, “stop staring at my chest.”

he leaned in, close enough for you to smell his cologne, “i’m just…appreaciating my birthday gift.”

you wanted to punch him. and maybe…just a little…you wanted to see how far you could push him.

by the next segment, you’d made your decision. if he wanted to play this game, you were going to play it on your terms.

the stage lights dimmed for the next performance, a longer comeback stage that means you had a few minutes off-camera. the crowd roared, the bass trumped through the floor, you grabbed xiaojun’s wrist. he barely had time to react before you yanked him off the wings, slipping into one of the small, empty rooms backstage.

the door clicked shut behind you, “you’ve been eye-fucking me all day,” you said evenly, stepping into his space, “so tell me, what do you want, birthday boy?”

for a second, he just stared at you, wide-eyed, mouth parted like he wasn’t sure if this was a dream or a setup.

“you have no idea what that photo did to me,” he blurted, his voice almost desperate, “i couldn’t sleep, every time i closed my eyes i just saw you there, laying down on your bed, perfect tits ready to be—,” he cut himself off with a cough, swallowing hard, “i’ve been dying all day.”

“you got five seconds to tell me exactly what you want,” you warned, already turning like you might leave, “or i’m walking out.”

his eyes went wide, panic flashing across his face, “let me suck on your tits,” he said quickly, almost pleading now.

you arched a brow, trying to hide your blush. fuck it. before both of you could overthink, you pushed him back onto the small leather seat. he let out a low groan as you swung a leg over to straddle him, knees bracketing his thighs, the hem of your skirt riding dangerously high.

then you reached up, tugging your shirt down. your bra followed, straps slipping off your shoulders until your breasts were completely bare – flushed from adrenaline, nipples already stiff under his gaze.

“holy fuck–,” xiaojun’s voice cracked, his hands immediately coming up to cup you, “they’re even better than the photo.”

his thumb brushed over your nipples, and you sucked in a breath — sharper than you meant to.

“sensitive?” he asked, eyes flicking up to your face.

you hesitated before admitting, “always.”

his lips curled into something wicked, “oh, im gonna love this.”

without wasting another second, he leaned forward, mouth closing over one nipple, tongue swirling around it before sucking hard. you gasped, your body jolting involuntary at the sensation. his other hand kneaded your other breast, rolling the other nipple between his finger with just enough pressure to make your thighs clench around him.

“you’re shaking,” he murmured, switching sides without giving you time to recover, “god, you’re so hot.” then he sucked harder, pulling until your back arched, your hips grinding into his lap.

the heat between your legs was sharp now, insistent, and you cursed under your breath, “f-fuck, xiaojun–i–”

“you’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” he said, sounding half in awe, half wrecked, “fuck, just from me sucking your nipples…” he moaned into your skin, flicking his tongue rapidly before sealing his lips around you again and sucking like he needed it to breathe.

he pulled back just long enough to look up at you, pupils blown wide, voice soft and shaky, “i thought about this all night. i couldn’t get the way they looked out of my head…the way your nipples looked so—,” he broke off to groan, dragging his tongue slowly over you again.

then he switched sides, giving your other nipple the same treatment — slow circles with his tongue before drawing it into his mouth and flicking the tip until you were clutching his head closer. every pull, every flick sent heat pooling low in your stomach, your breath coming faster as he alternated between them, leaving both buds flushed and aching.

outside, the bass pounded and the fans screamed. inside this room, it was getting harder to remember there was an entire live broadcast happening just meters away.

you could feel him getting harder beneath you, but he seemed completely fixated on you — licking, sucking, biting just enough to make you gasp then soothing it with his tongue. his hands slid down your sides, gripping your waist like he couldn’t bear to let you go. then, without warning, he flicked both thumbs over your nipples over and over and over again, at the same time — quick, precise strokes that had your hips rolling into his lap.

your vision blurred, pleasure shooting down your spine and pooling low in your stomach. every flick, every pull was sending you higher, until — “oh–fuck–,” you moaned right by his ear, your whole body tensed as the orgasm through you. your hips rocked helplessly against him, your nipples aching in his mouth as waves pulsed through you, leaving your thighs trembling around his.

xiaojun froze for half a second, then pulled back just enough to stare at you like you’d just handed him the key to an entire new universe, “you came….just from that?” his voice was low, reverent, like he couldn’t believe it only took him sucking on your tits to get you there.

still panting, you managed, “told you. sensitive.”

his grip on your waist tightened, his pupils blown wide, “god, that’s so hot,” he dipped his head again, dragging his tongue over the still-flushed peak, “i’m gonna do this to you every chance i get.”

the sound of the MC cue faintly filtered in from the outside. they were wrapping up the performance. you had seconds left.

“you’re gonna go out there with these sore and flushed,” he murmured against your skin, pausing only to kiss the soft curve beneath your breast, “and i’m gonna know exactly why.”

you swore under your breath, tugging his head back up, but he caught your nipple betwen his lips again and gave one last, slow pull before finally letting go with a soft, wet pop.

“fix your shirt,” he said, still looking like he’s just been given the best meal of his life.

you yanked your bra and top back into place, still breathless, your chest tingling in the worst (best) way. he stood, straightening his suit like he hadn’t just ruined you.

when you stepped back under the hot stage lights, you plastered on your perfect smile. but every movement made the fabric of your bra brush against your sore, oversensitive nipples and it was maddening.

xiaojun didn’t make it easier. he glanced down at your chest once, slow and deliberate, before looking back at the camera with the same charming grin he always wore.

to everyone watching, he looked like the perfect co-host. to you, he looked like the devil who’d just found your greatest weakness and planned to exploit it.

—

But yours?

He was absolutely hypnotized by them.

He had memorized the shape of your fingers before he’d ever touched them accidentally. The slight bend of your knuckles when you curled your hand around a mug of coffee in the mornings in the compound kitchen, while you tried to make casual conversation with him. The way you sometimes picked at your palms nervously when you were trying to ease your own anxieties. He even memorized the way you tapped your nails on anything and everything–tables, countertops, mugs, windows–but most importantly when you’d tap them up your thighs when you were bored during briefings. All these things you did, the little quirks you had, they were cauterized into his brain, and it took up a reserved spot specifically built for things you did that drove him crazy–such as touching him.

Because when you did–whether it was by accident or not–that contact was enough to ruin him for hours.

A pat on the back after a mission. A brush of your fingers against his when handing him notes or files or coffee. That one time you had smoothed a wayward piece of hair behind his ear, with your freshly filed nails grazing his cheekbone–where he had nearly stopped breathing and ceased to exist, making it one of his favourite memories, so much so that he purposely tousled his hair into chaos before seeing you sometimes, just to give you the opportunity to fix it again and recreate the same spark it gave him before.

Sometimes, he imagined your hands on his chest, palms flat, pressing warmth into the stretch of skin just below his collarbones. Or your fingertips gliding down his ribcage, leaving a trail of invisible fire in their wake, making him arch toward your touch so he can beg for more of it. But it was the thought of your nails–those glossy, always filed things–that plagued him the most. He could practically feel them scraping slow, aching lines down his back when he pictured you under him. Could imagine them wrapped tight around the base of his cock, the sharp edge of the nail of it swiping ever so gently over the head in a teasingly cruel manner.

He touched himself to those thoughts more times than he would admit. Stroking himself in the dead of night with your name falling out of his mouth in whispered gasps, hips twitching, his free hand gripping the sheets like they might somehow shield him from the raw need that curled in his gut. There were nights where he didn’t even need to try–his brain just went on autopilot and did all the work.

Then there were days where he was so out of control that a glance across the room at you doing something so mundane like typing on your laptop would make him stiffen in his sweatpants. Days when his bottoms felt too tight and his thoughts turned feral just from watching you. He’d make some excuse–bathroom, food, forgetting mission notes–and would escape quickly to handle the situation, praying no one noticed.

Because how the hell was he supposed to explain that your hands–specifically–drove him completely nuts. How was he supposed to explain that everything you did had him hanging on by a thread in anticipation? It was a double edged sword that he knew he didn’t want to hold or draw. He couldn’t out himself, and there was no chance he would, or at least he thought that…

Until…You came back to the compound on a lazy Tuesday afternoon, fresh from your day of gallivanting around the city. The elevator had pinged as the door slid open into the common room. Bob had been lounging on the couch, an old, torn up copy of 1984 in hand, half-reading, and half-daydreaming about you–which was the norm these days. His long legs were tucked under a deep green throw blanket, plucked from the foot of his bed, just so he had something comfortable pressing on him.

When you stepped out of the elevator, his eyes peeked up at you from over his book, attempting to have a semblance of a cover-up so you didn’t think he was staring. You were wearing a white fitted top, and a pair of high-waisted blue jeans that hugged every curve and dip you were blessed with. You were holding an iced coffee in one hand and had your shoulder bag perched on the other, and almost instantly, he noticed your nails.

They were at a medium length, curved like almonds almost, and they were painted a deep gold, accented with little silver specks that caught the natural light that spilled in through the tall windows of the open common space.

You stopped dead in your tracks when you saw him, quickly tapping your watch to pause whatever you had been listening to, before pulling out your earbud.

“Hey! Didn’t expect you to be home on your day off, I thought you said you were going out with the rest of the team?” You asked, stepping further into the space with an effortless kind of grace that made Bob’s heart stutter. You bent slightly to set your shoulder bag down on the floor beside the entryway bench, your shirt riding up just an inch to reveal the soft skin of your lower back–just enough to make his throat go completely dry.

You fished your earbud case out of the tight front pocket of your jeans, the fabric clinging to you like seconds skin, and he couldn’t help but take quick glances at the way your body shifted as you pulled out the white compartment. With a little pop, the earbud clicked into place, and the case joined your bag, your nails making that same crystalline tapping noise against the plastic that nearly electrocuted his nervous system. A shiver sneaking up his spine before he could brace for it.

“I…I thought it would be nice to just st-stay in for the day. Just to really relax and recoup, y’know?” He replied, eyes flickering down to your hand again as it curled around the clear cup of your iced coffee. He couldn’t look away from the way your golden nails glinted when you adjusted your grip–like you were sprinkling sunlight across the room with a flick of a wrist. He gulped, trying to provide a little relief for his throat.

A small smile pulled lazily at your lips, like you had caught him staring but you let him off the hook anyways. You stepped further into the common room, kicking off your shoes in the process, leaving them a few feet apart from each other, splayed across the polished wood, as you approached the couch.

”You wouldn’t mind if I joined you then, hmm?” You asked, lifting your brow, almost too casual for it to be innocent. You were standing over him a bit, the condensation of the iced coffee cup dripping onto your palm–he wanted to lick the droplets off so bad, but he refrained from even moving a muscle. With the semi-close proximity he could smell your perfume–sweet pineapple, with lemon, mint, and neroli–and he nearly forgot how to function. It felt like all his senses were at play and it was only going to end with him spontaneously combusting under the pressure, but he knew he had to keep his cool.

He cleared his throat, shaking his head maybe a little too quickly.

”No, no. Be my gu-guest,” He said, his voice cracking at the end as his throat tightened. He gestured to the far end of the couch, moving his feet to make room for her, praying his face didn’t look as red as it felt. But instead of moving straight there, you stepped closer–to his side–and gave him a teasing glance as you reached over him to grab one of the spare throw pillows, your arm brushing his shoulder.

“Thanks,” You murmured, and the sound of your nails brushing against the ribbed fabric–the sinful scrape–as you adjusted the pillow against the armrest sent another wave of heat down his spine. You settled in slowly, lounging back against the dark brown leather, legs curling under you as you brought the iced coffee to your lips, taking a sip, the straw clicking softly against your teeth. Bob’s jaw flexed, eyes flicking to the glimmer on your nails again, his stomach twisting before he looked away in shame.

“So…What’re you reading today?” You asked lightly, tipping your chin towards the book that was in his lap now. His hands–suddenly sweaty–tightened on the worn paperback, and he fumbled for something intelligent to say, but all he kept thinking of was your hands, and the water droplets that tricked down your palms, and the gold nail polish that curled even tighter around the plastic, as if they were simulating curling around him…

He licked his dry lips, adjusting the blanket over his legs to hide the growing tension in his lap, “Uh…Orwell. Just rereading.” He mumbled. You tilted your head, humming thoughtfully as you ran your index finger along the condensation on your cup. Bob’s eyes followed the motion like a dog watching their leash come off the hook, and you were watching with a smirk on your face.

”Hm…Definitely a heavy read for a day off,” You commented, voice lifting. Then you paused your movements, glancing at him from under your lashes, “But…It’s fitting.” You added, like you were making reference to something he couldn’t quite catch onto.

”Fitting?” He asked, confused. Trying to keep his voice neutral. You shrugged, and your smile turned devilish, or teasing in a way only Bob caught.

”It’s about repression, isn’t it?” You responded, almost like you knew it was going to get to him…And it did, because Bob nearly choked on his own tongue. Your brows lifted in innocent amusement as you took another sip, tapping your nails absently on the cup’s lid letting the acoustic sound echo lightly. His skin was on fire. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to look at your hands again, your mouth, the shape of your nails and the softness of your skin. His sweatpants were tightening dangerously under the blanket, and all you were doing was sitting there, being normal.

You shifted beside him with a little sigh, the movement slow, almost like a cat. The worn leather couch dipped with the change in weight, and Bob could feel the heat of you bleeding through the slight gap of cushion between your bodies.

And then you looked down at your nails, dragging your thumb over the smoothness of the polish like you weren’t unraveling every last thread of his self-control.

“Y’know,” You murmured, cocking your head slightly as you turned your palm toward yourself, admiring the sheen, “I’m still on the fence about this colour.” And before he could even process what was happening, you extended your hand out to him, fingers splayed ever so slightly, the sunlight catching the gold and silver flecks like you were holding stars in your palm. “What do you think?” You asked. Your voice was sweet, curious, innocent. And yet it hit Bob like a goddamn sucker punch to the gut, because he knew that you knew exactly what you were doing.

Up close, the gold looked familiar.

Not just because it shimmered like something precious, something sacred–but because it stirred something in Bob’s mind that had been sleeping, curled in a corner of his subconscious. He couldn’t quite place it at first, more because it felt like his brain was boiling, melting in the heat of your presence, your fingers still outstretched–glinting, hovering like a threat–right over where his paperback book now precariously covered the pulsing, growing tension beneath the blanket in his lap.

He was sweating. He could feel it at his temples, down the back of his neck, on the insides of his palms that now gripped the book like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this plane of existence.

You were still holding your hand there.

Still waiting.

Still looking at him.

And so, because it was expected, because you’d asked–because it was you–he swallowed down the panic and the arousal that clawed up the back of his throat and rasped, “I…I like the color. It’s really…Really pretty. And…Gold.” You tilted your head like you were studying him. And that smile curled slow and sly on your lips, the kind of smile that spoke fluent intentions.

“Hm. I thought you might say that,” You mused, like it wasn’t the most loaded thing you’d said all week, then you dropped the bombshell, “I actually used Sentry’s suit for a colour reference, so…That’s probably why you like it so much.”

Bob’s heart flatlined for a second.

His eyes went wide, lips parting slightly, and he just stared at you like he’d been shot. Like he’d just realized that not only were you very much aware of what you were doing–but you’d taken it one step further.

He let out a nervous, breathless little laugh–one that barely cleared his throat. It sounded strangled, broken at the edges.

”Wh-Why would you use Sentry’s suit for a colour reference?” He asked, already dreading the answer, knowing it was going to make him even more flustered. He wanted to melt into the couch and disappear into another timeline, just being in this position made him feel ill.

You shrugged with a soft, knowing little smirk on your lips, before lifting the straw back up to your lips and taking a slow sip. The tip of your tongue peeked out to catch a stray droplet at the corner of your mouth.

“Well,” You started, resting the cup back on your thigh, “Because I wanted to give you something pretty to look at, of course. Since you like staring at my hands so much.”

The air left his lungs in a single, panicked wheeze.

You knew…

His mouth parted, his breath caught, and for a full second all he could do was stare at you, every muscle in his body seizing like you’d turned a spotlight on his dirtiest secret.

“I–” He started, but the words wouldn’t come. Your lips curved into something even more wicked, and then you bit your lower one, slowly, deliberately, dragging it between your teeth like you were savoring every second of his unraveling.

“Do you really think I don’t notice you drooling all the time?” You asked, your voice dipping lower, softer–dangerously close to a whisper, “You think I don’t feel your eyes on me?” Bob was speechless, and he could feel a bead of sweat dripping down the back of his neck from the nerves and embarrassment he was feeling. It felt like his insides were boiling into a puddle of sludge, until he saw you reaching out.

Immediately he tensed up at your movements, watching as your well manicured hand pressed onto his stomach–slow, and gentle–resting it there, your fingers splayed over his t-shirt. The heat of your palm burned through the cotton like it was branding him, and his entire body stiffened beneath your touch.

And then–

The sound.

That soft, sinful, scraping sound of your glossy nails dragging lightly across the fabric of his shirt–barely there, but loud in his ears. Crkk–krrkk–krrk. Each little scrape made the hair on his arms stand up, a shiver crawling up his spine so fast it left goosebumps in its wake. It was the exact kind of noise he fantasized about in the dark: your nails against sheets, against skin, against him.

Bob’s eyes snapped shut, his jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth might crack, and a broken, shaky breath slipped past his lips like a prayer he hadn’t meant to say out loud.

“Y-Y/N…” He whispered, trembling beneath your touch, “Please don’t tease me like this…Don’t drag your nails down my st-stomach like that.” You tilted your head, expression shifting slightly–not cruel, but curious. Fascinated. Amused by how easy it was to ruin him.

“Why?” You murmured, shifting even closer now, your knees pressing against his, “You getting turned on by this?” Bob let out a soft, desperate sound–somewhere between a groan and a whimper–and you felt his stomach flutter beneath your hand as you ghosted your nails down to the hem of his shirt, pausing there, your fingertips toying with the edge. His breathing was shallow…Laboured like he was in pain.

You slipped your hand under the hem of his t-shirt, the cotton lifting just slightly as your fingers made contact with his bare skin, instantly feeling the heat of him. The tips of your nails glided over the tight ridges of his abdomen, slowly tracing between the lines, teasing each muscle like you were aping out the lines of his tension just to watch him crumble.

He twitched, his eyes closing tightly.

Like the sensation was too much and not enough all at once.

Goosebumps erupted beneath your touch, rippling down his sides as your hand drifted lower, tracing the very faint trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. Your fingertips paused there, right above where he was aching, and you could feel the way his breath hitched. He was holding himself together by a thread–shaking, twitching, whimpering–but still trying to be polite about it.

You let out a small sigh, and slipped your hand out from beneath his top. In one swift movement, you leaned forward, carefully placed your iced coffee down on the table beside the couch, your phone clattering after it. Then, without a word, you grabbed the book–the one he’d been pathetically clutching like a shield–and tossed it to the floor. Bob had made a little noise of protest like you had ripped off a piece of armor, his hands immediately adjusting the blanket over his lap, but before he could even react, you rose from your seat and climbed onto him, straddling his lap with slow, fluid control, placing your knees on either side of his waist. The blanket was between you, but not enough. Not enough to hide the fact that he was hard and straining against the fabric of both his sweatpants and the blanket, his hips jerking subtly up toward the pressure of you settling against him.

He let out a strangled, choked sound, and his face flushed a deep, almost cherry red, as he tilted his head back like he was in absolute agony. You adjusted yourself leisurely in his lap, grinding just a little–not enough to give him what he wanted, but just enough to make his breath stutter, and to make it known that you could feel him under you.

Slowly you reached out and rested your hands gently against his chest, feeling the rapid, terrified rhythm of his heart under your palms. With the way he was looking at you–his blue eyes wide, lips parted, with a deeper flush creeping up his throat rising like a tide–it made you want to ruin him slowly.

”You know…” You whispered, leaning closer, the words spilling across his lips like smoke, “I think it’s sweet that you like my hands so much.” He inhaled sharply, lashes fluttering low as his jaw clenched like he didn’t want to believe you. His voice cracked on the edges of desperation when he spoke.

”You don’t have to lie to me to ma-make me feel better…I know I’m a creep for having this…This stupid thing.” He replied, like you were teasing him out of pity more than anything else. You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.

”I’m not lying to you…And I don’t think you’re a creep Bob.” You breathed, your voice dropping to something low and intimate, like a secret passed between lovers, “I like that you stare and that you admire them from a far.”

And then–without warning–you brought one hand up to his hair, threading your fingers through the soft waves of his light brown locks. You tangled through them gently, letting your nails scrape just a little against his scalp, and then tugged. Firm enough to make his spine go rigid beneath you, firm enough to tilt his chin up so that his throat was exposed to you. His breath caught in his throat and then released in a trembling exhale, a soft moan following close behind.

You leaned in, letting your lips press softly against the thrum of his pulse just below his jaw. Once. Twice. Your breath fanned over the sensitive skin, and you felt him tremble beneath you, his hips shifting, bucking up ever so slightly as his cock pressed insistently against the fabric of your jeans through the blanket. He was hard–achingly so–and you could feel him pulse with every tiny movement of your hips.

“Y/N…” he gasped, broken, a plea falling from his lips like prayer.

You smiled against his neck, your lips brushing the heat of his skin as you whispered darkly, sweetly:

“Do you think about my hands when you’re alone at night?” He let out a shaky whimper, flinching at your words, “Do you imagine them wrapped around your cock? MY nails dragging along the shaft, my fingers squeezing the head just enough to make your thighs shake?” Your words vibrated against his throat, and the strangled moan he let out was nothing short of devastating. His hands clenched at the blanket on either side of you, his whole body visibly shaking beneath the weight of your voice, your heat, your hands.

“…Ye–Yes,” He choked, breathless and raw. “Fuck, yes…” The confession sounded like it had been ripped from his soul, shame-laced and trembling–but you didn’t give him time to retreat. You pulled on his hair again, a bit harder this time, and he moaned—open-mouthed and helpless–his body arching beneath you as you gripped him like he was yours, as you leaned in.

“That’s what I thought,” You whispered darkly against the shell of his ear, “I bet you come so fucking quick too, don’t you? Just from thinking about my hands wrapped around your cock…” He was whining now, almost crying, and god, you’d never seen anything so beautiful. His face was flushed, his eyes glassy, his lips trembling like he was already at the edge.

”Please…”. He rasped desperately, “Please Y/N…Please touch me, I can’t–I need it–“ You shifted back just enough to find his mouth, then kissed him–slow and deliberate. His lips parted instantly beneath yours, a quiet moan escaping him in a desperate effort to express how he was feeling. He melted into the contact, chasing it even as you pulled away. His hands came up to cradle your face like it was instinct–his touch gentle, but desperate, like he didn’t know whether to worship you or fall apart under you.

Before he could kiss you again, you slid your fingers back into his hair and gave it another firm tug, guiding his head back and breaking the contact. His breath hitched. You leaned in close, eyes heavy with intent, and whispered against his mouth.

“Take your shirt off.”

He obeyed without hesitation, dragging the cotton fabric up over his head with shaking hands. You helped him halfway, your palms brushing his warm skin, lifting until the shirt was off and discarded somewhere behind the couch.

And now he was bare.

The sunlight from the tall windows bathed his skin in warmth, making every line of his body look more pronounced, giving him a golden haze on his normally pale skin. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, the shape of him stretched taut with tension–like every muscle had been wound up, just waiting for your touch. You took your time admiring the details.

His collarbones were sharp, framed by the mess of his light brown hair. His chest was smooth and pale, but peppered with tiny freckles and beauty marks of various shades. You leaned forward and brushed your fingertips across one, then another. Your nails dragged slow, featherlight paths over his skin, and the effect was immediate: his stomach tensed, a shaky breath leaving his lips.

You trailed lower. Across his ribs, over his stomach–watching each muscle shift and contract beneath your touch. He was trying to stay still, to hold it together, but you felt the way his hips jerked beneath you when your nails dipped along the lines of his abdomen, just soft enough to tickle, just sharp enough to tease.

He looked like he was on the verge of falling apart.

His throat bobbed with every swallow, and when you glanced up at him, his eyes were locked on yours–wide, glassy, pleading. His lips were parted, pink and swollen from your kiss, and his hands trembled where they held your waist like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to do more.

Then his hand shifted.

It released your side and reached up slowly, tentatively, toward yours. He took your wrist gently, holding your hand between both of his, and brought it up like it was something holy, something fragile. He didn’t even look away from your eyes as he whispered:

“Can I suck on your fingers?” Your breath caught for a moment, but immediately you nodded at him, mesmerized by the question. He didn’t wait for further permission.

He guided your hand closer, turning it palm-up, and then dipped his head to it, tongue warm and wet as it slid over your thumb. The contact was molten. He wrapped his lips around the digit, sucking gently, cheeks hollowing as he kept his eyes locked on yours. It was deliberate, drawn out–like he wanted you to feel every second of it, every swirl of his tongue against the pad of your thumb.

Then he moved on.

Index finger next. The wet glide of his lips, the soft pressure of his tongue, his lashes fluttering but never fully closing. He looked wrecked already. Adoring. Starving.

When he got to your middle finger, his lips went tight. He sucked it deeper, his cheeks coloring as he pulled it in further than the others–so far that your knuckle brushed the back of his tongue. The reaction was immediate.

His throat flexed around it.

He gagged softly. A delicate, broken sound that made more saliva spill past his lips and down your hand. His chin glistened with it. Drool sheen catching the light like something obscene. He pulled back with a wet gasp, your finger slipping from his mouth with a faint pop, spit connecting in thin strands between your hand and his lips.

“Fu–Fuck,” He panted, voice cracked and sticky, “They taste so good…”

You felt the breath leave your chest.

He took your palm in both hands like it was something to be worshipped and leaned in, licking a slow, messy stripe from the heel to the tips of your fingers–leaving your skin glistening, sticky with spit. Then he pressed a kiss to the center of your palm, slow and soft and somehow more obscene than anything else he’d done.

Your throat tightened with need.

You cupped that same palm against his flushed cheek, his skin hot beneath the slick, and leaned forward. He met you halfway this time.

The kiss was messier now. Wetter. Your chin smeared with the same spit that coated your hand. Bob moaned against your mouth like he couldn’t help it, lips parting wide, letting you taste the sweet, hot tang of him and your skin all at once.

And the moment you ground your hips against his again, harder this time, more deliberate, he gasped into your mouth–hands flying to your waist, bunching the fabric of your shirt in trembling fists. His cock throbbed beneath you through the blanket and sweatpants, and he was practically panting against your lips when he pulled back just far enough to speak.

“Can I ta–take your shirt off now?” He stammered, breathless, voice pitched high with need.

You smirked, dragging your thumb along his jaw. “Okay.”

He wasted no time. Bob sat up just enough to tug your shirt up, and you lifted your arms to help him, the fabric sliding over your body in a single fluid motion. When it was gone, he froze.

Your white lace bra was sheer, delicate, hugging your curves in a way that made his lips part and his fingers twitch where they rested on your sides.

You didn’t let him get lost in it.

You rolled your hips once more, just enough to make his breath stutter again, then leaned in close, mouth brushing the shell of his ear.

“I’m gonna take my jeans off,” You murmured. “While I’m doing that, you do the same with your sweatpants.”

His entire body tensed. You felt it. The tremble. The barely-there nod.

”Okay.” He whispered, voice wrecked. You slid off him slowly, every movement deliberate, letting your body drag over his lap just enough to make him shiver. Your fingers moved to the button of your jeans, flicking it open with ease, the soft click echoing like a starter’s pistol in the space between you.

Bob sat completely still, his lips parted, his breath shallow as you slowly began shimmying the denim down your hips. He watched–eyes wide, and hungry–while you slid the jeans past your thighs, and down your legs, as your nails brushed the outside of your skin, pushing them off completely.

The matching white lace of your underwear made his mouth go dry.

It clung to you delicately, barely there, sheer in the light, hugging every curve like it was made to be seen–made to ruin him. You hadn’t meant to match the bra and panties, but now, under his gaze, it felt like fate. His cock twitched visibly beneath the blanket at the sight, and his hands clenched into the couch cushions. He scrambled a little, tugging the waistband of his sweatpants down with shaky fingers, lifting his hips as he kicked them off the rest of the way, the fabric pooling awkwardly at the foot of the couch before he shoved it aside. He was left in just his boxer briefs, tented from how hard he was, and damp from the pre-cum that was dripping from the tip.

You returned to him like a wave rolling back over the shore, lifting the blanket just slightly, before slipping under it with the kind of practiced ease that made Bob suck in a sharp breath. You resumed your place straddling him, but this time it was different–hotter. More bare. The thin layers between you did nothing to hide the friction now. You sank back down into his lap, feeling the thick, pulsing weight of him pressing right up against your lace-covered core. The heat of it seared into you instantly, and you let your hips roll–just once, slowly–dragging forward across him, letting the stiff line of his cock drag right over your soaked panties.

He moaned into your mouth.

The kiss was immediate and eager, your lips crashing together with an urgency that left no space for hesitation. His moan vibrated against your tongue, deep and soft and desperate. He panted between kisses, adjusting himself underneath you, hips twitching toward the pressure, his hands gripping your waist like he was drowning in you.

And then you pulled back.

Just far enough to look him in the eyes. Your chest heaved slightly from the kiss, lips tingling, and your palm lifted slowly–hovering in front of his mouth.

“Lick it,” You whispered, voice thick with authority and something darker. You didn’t have to explain. He knew exactly what you meant.

Bob’s eyes locked on yours–dark with want, lips wet–and without hesitation, he leaned forward and flattened his tongue against your palm.

The heat of it, the glide.

He licked slowly, then went back again, wetter this time. Keeping his eyes on yours like it was the only thing that mattered to him in those moments. Like watching your face while his tongue coated your skin was the only thing that truly made him realize that what he was doing was real.

You pulled your hand away, leaving a wet sheen across your palm where Bob’s spit clung, then let your fingertips trail down the center of his chest. Your nails moved in slow, teasing paths, catching on the extremely fine hair along his sternum, watching every twitch of muscle beneath your touch. He was breathing hard already, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven waves, eyes flicking between your face and your hand as it slid lower and lower.

When you circled his nipple with the sharp tip of your nail, he gasped–his back arching, a shiver racing across his skin like lightning. His lips parted, but no words came out, just a breathy moan that cracked open in his throat.

You smiled at the reaction, giving him a gentle kiss on the cheek, before letting your hand drift further–slow, steady, and unstoppable–until you reached the waistband of his boxer briefs.

He tilted his head back, inhaling sharply, like even the anticipation of your touch was too much to bear. You let your fingers slip just under the elastic, teasing at the edge, feeling the heat of him pulsing beneath–but not quite touching him yet. You stayed just at the threshold. Cruel. Controlled. Making him wait.

His hips bucked up slightly, instinctive and helpless, chasing your hand. He whined, soft and broken.

“Please,” He rasped, voice barely holding together. “Y/N, please…Touch me…Fuck, I need it…” You arched an eyebrow, your lips curving.

“You can do better than that.” The flush on his chest deepened, and he looked up at you like you’d cracked him wide open. His hands trembled against your thighs, gripping them like he was afraid you might disappear if he didn’t anchor himself.

“Please,” He begged again, voice wrecked, more desperate now, hips wiggling under you. “Please, I want your hands on me…I want you to touch me, I need it so bad, I’ve been thinking about it for so fucking long. I–I’ll do anything, just…Please, Y/N, please–”

That was enough…You slipped your fingers into the waistband and tugged.

The fabric dragged slowly over his hips, down his thighs. You pushed it further, baring him completely, and then you paused–just for a moment–to take in the sight of him.

He was hard. So hard he twitched when the air hit him. His cock sprang free, flushed dark and angry-red at the tip, the shaft thick, veined, and glistening with a glossy bead of pre-cum that rolled slowly from the head. When it hit the flat of his stomach, it left a wet smear across his skin. His abs tightened beneath it.

God.

It was gorgeous.

You shifted back on your knees, eyes dragging down to his lap, then back up to his face. Your own lips parted slightly, breath catching in your throat. He was well-endowed, thick and long, but it wasn’t just size–it was everything…

Your thighs clenched, and then without breaking eye contact, you raised your spit-slicked hand and wrapped it around him. Bob let out a shattered, breathless moan, hips jerking up into your grip like he couldn’t stop himself. His head dropped back against the couch, lips parted, neck tight with strain.

You stroked slowly. Tight. Controlled. You let your fingers squeeze a little more firmly with each pass, the drag of your palm leaving wet trails of his own spit smeared down the length of him.

He whimpered.

You twisted your wrist slightly at the top and dragged your thumb through a fresh bead of pre-cum, smearing it slowly over the swollen tip in a lazy, circular motion.

“Fuck…Y/N.” His voice cracked, like it had splintered straight down the middle. “Oh my god–” You leaned in close again, your breath fanning against his flushed jaw, lips brushing the corner of his mouth.

“Prettiest cock I’ve ever seen,” You whispered, and then gave him another slow stroke, just to hear the way he moaned at the praise–like the words alone could make him come apart. You tightened your grip just slightly, the wet glide of your hand making a slick, obscene noise as you picked up the pace. Bob’s cock twitched in your palm with every stroke, the head flushed and leaking with steady drips of precum that added to the mess between your bodies.

“God, listen to you,” You purred, your breath hot against his lips. “So fucking loud for me.” Bob moaned–guttural, desperate–his head tipping back against the couch cushions. His thighs were shaking beneath you now, his body visibly trembling with the effort to keep himself from coming right then and there. But the sounds you were coaxing out of him? Absolutely divine. His breath came in quick, stuttering pants, every exhale a broken sound.

“Fuck…Can I…Can I t-touch you too? Please?” He begged, his voice cracking apart with need, his hand fluttering up toward your waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to make contact without permission. You smiled softly, leaning in to brush your mouth against the corner of his lips.

“If you want,” You replied quietly.

That was all it took.

Immediately, he shifted beneath you, sitting up a little straighter so that your torsos nearly pressed together. His hands were trembling as he brought them to your hips, slipping up beneath the blanket with reverent care. You were still stroking him–slower now, teasing, your thumb smearing the mess over the head of his cock just to make him whimper again–and when his fingers finally slid beneath the lace of your panties, you sucked in a soft gasp.

“Jesus Christ… Y/N,” He whimpered, breathless, his voice barely holding together. His middle and ring fingers slid through your soaked folds with a soft squelch that made both of you shiver. “You’re so wet. Fu-Fuck.”

Then he leaned in again, catching your lips in a kiss that was messier than before–hungrier. Spit-slicked and open-mouthed, your tongues brushed, tangled. Your moan vibrated into his mouth as he circled your clit with maddening gentleness, then slipped two fingers inside you with almost no resistance.

The stretch was perfect. Your hips jerked forward, pressing down into his touch as he curled his fingers slowly, his palm grinding against your clit with every forward motion. You were panting now, moaning softly between the kisses, your hand still pumping his cock in slick, tight strokes.

The air was hot between you. Sweaty. Tense. Each sound–your breathy whimpers, his choked moans, the rhythmic squelch of his fingers inside you and the slick, wet slap of your palm gliding over his cock–echoed through the living room like they were trying to shame you into slowing down. But neither of you cared–nobody was home, and you would clean up afterwards.

Bob was a wreck. His body was trembling beneath you, his brows drawn tight, lips parted around helpless little gasps as your strokes grew faster, sloppier.

“Y/N…Fuck. Your hand, your hand feels so good–gonna…Shit, I’m gonna–”

You leaned in, whispering into the curve of his neck, your voice low and thick. “Don’t you dare cum until I say.”

He whimpered again, hips twitching, and the sound he made when you rolled your hips forward into the heel of his palm–shuddering, needy–made your body seize up. He pushed his fingers deeper, curling them just right, rubbing that spongy spot with trembling precision while his palm never stopped grinding against your clit.

You cried out–sharp, gasping–your thighs squeezing around his wrist. “Fuck, Bob. Right there…Right fucking there–!”

Bob kissed you again, deeper, his hand steady now, his fingers fucking into you faster, rougher, while your own hand faltered–just slightly–around his cock. But you picked it back up immediately, giving him faster, firmer strokes, your slick fingers sliding along his shaft with filthy, wet sounds that only got louder as your body began to tense.

And then–it hit.

Your back arched. Your mouth fell open.

“Bob–!”

You gushed around his fingers, your panties soaked instantly as a hot rush of liquid poured out, flooding over his palm, dripping down his wrist, the wetness pressing into his lap.

“Oh my god,” He gasped, eyes wide, fingers slowing as he felt your body pulse around him. “Did you just–?”

“Yes…Fuck…Yes!” You panted, your entire body trembling against him, breath ragged. He looked down in awe, eyes darting between your soaked panties and the wet mess now streaked down his arm, and he moaned, deep and low.

That was it.

You tightened your grip again–faster now, harder–stroking him through his ragged breathing, through the mess of spit and precum already slicking his cock.

“I want you to cum for me, Bob,” You whispered hoarsely. “All over yourself. Right now.”

He didn’t last three more strokes.

With a strangled cry–loud and cracked–his body arched off the couch, his thighs trembling, his cock twitching hard in your grip as thick ropes of cum spilled up over his abs, dripping down his stomach in hot, messy streaks. His mouth hung open, jaw slack as he moaned through it, every pulse of pleasure ripping a sound from the depths of him like it was being torn free.

“Fu–Fuck, Y/N, oh my god–.” You kept stroking, easing him through it, feeling every throb and twitch beneath your fingers, watching the way his whole body trembled with overstimulation. His head lolled back, cheeks flushed red, chest heaving with each uneven breath.You smiled down at him, your own legs still trembling from your orgasm, your thighs wet and sticky.

And then–slowly–you brought your cum-slick fingers to your mouth and sucked one between your lips, moaning softly at the taste, and all Bob could do was whimper at the sight. Those well manicured nails stained with his release almost made him get hard again. You cleaned off your palm with your tongue keeping eye contact with him the entire time as his chest was rising and falling with ragged awe.

“I should get my nails done more often,” You murmured, voice wicked-sweet.

You were going to kill someone. 

You weren’t sure how you were going to do it, seeing as the people that you worked for were all highly trained assassins, soldiers, or flew around the sky in metal suits– but you were going to kill one of them. Or all of them. 

You gave them one task. Just one. Not even a task– a simple request. To put their dry cleaning out in the hallway every Tuesday morning so you could run it out to the cleaners. That way, if there was a party that Tony was throwing Friday night, there would be enough time for the cleaners to go through all of the clothes and have it ready for pick up by Friday morning. 

Now, you were going through all of their rooms. You had their permission, of course.Even if you didn’t, they didn’t particularly mind. You’d been working with them for a while now. 

In terms of keeping their lives together off the field, you were their saving grace. You kept them in the good graces of America and the rest of the world. You worked overtime to do any damage control online, combing through forums and squashing any potential harmful rumors that could possibly appear. At this point, you could be an agent yourself with the amount of computer and investigative work you were doing. 

You kept track of their meetings with government officials because they sure as hell didn’t want to meet with anyone. You took notes since they didn’t care to pay attention, then condensed them later and dropped it off at their rooms– personalized notes in a way that you knew they would actually pay attention. Then, you would be the one to form up some sort of reply to those same government officials to tell them to politely fuck off in a way that made Captain America smile at you gratefully.

You kept the pantries and the fridge stocked with all of their favorite goodies, even the more hard to find, out of season fruits. You once found the personal phone number of a company’s CEO and demanded they put you on a special delivery list because Sam was getting pissy that his favorite preworkout mix was always out of stock at the wholesale market down the street. Wanda was very particular to this strawberry farm in Japan. You learned an entire new language just to make sure you could communicate with the owner. 

It wasn’t totally thankless work. There were more than a few perks that you had when it came to working for the Avengers. 

For one, your salary was through the roof (thanks to Tony), and you didn’t even have to spend it on rent in New York. They gave you your own room with a bathroom, and you were free to use the common areas in the compound as if you were part of the team yourself. You could use their kitchen and gym, walk around the floor in your pajamas during and after work hours if you really wanted to, and no one would say a word to you.

It was assistant work, but you weren’t required to wear fancy pants suits or skirts to work. The last time you wore something nice to a full day of work was your first day, when you didn’t know how relaxed they were.

You didn’t know any other assistant that clocked into work wearing sweatpants and a tank top. When you were wearing your nicer clothes, the others would make a face at you and ask you who died. You would only roll your eyes at them before going into a conference room. After your meetings, you would simply go back to your room to change into something more casual. 

The added security they gave you was nice, too. They treated you like a friend, not just an employee. They invited you out for their team gatherings because to them, you were part of their team. You may not be fighting on the field with them, but you helped keep their lives in check. They made sure to let you know that they appreciated you.

Oftentimes, when they would come home from missions that were overseas, you would find different trinkets and souvenirs waiting for you. Bucky was the type to leave them in your room without ever saying a word to you. In the beginning, you had no idea that it was him. Steve and Natasha presented you their presents directly, handing them to you with smiles on their faces. The others would leave them on your desk with a note. At this point, you had an entire bookshelf in your room dedicated to the little things that they had brought back for you during their trips. 

It touched your heart every single time that they even thought about you while they were out there. That they saw something on the street in the middle of their mission, thought that you would like it, and paused their pursuit just to get it for you. 

One time, Bucky got you an obsidian rock with a gold shine on it. It looked like his arm. Steve later told you that he found it on the ground, and thought you’d like it. He was right. You polished that rock and put it on your nightstand. 

You had to remind yourself of those sweet gifts right now, as you were hauling laundry through the halls. Your blood pressure was rising with each step. 

No one was around. 

Steve and Bucky should be down in the gym around this time– it was their allotted training time. Everyone knew better than to try and get in the way of two super soldiers in training, though sometimes others would just watch them spar. It wasn’t a good idea to try and get in the middle of it though. 

Natasha and Clint were most likely in the firing range practicing some new tricks with the arrows that Clint had just designed in the lab. He’d been so excited to finally play around with them, to show off his new toys to Natasha. He’d been waiting for her all week to give him some time, and she finally followed him down there. 

Sam told you that he would be spending his free day in the lab, messing with Redwing. This morning, he grunted to you that he completely had to fix the poor machine. During their last mission, Bucky had ‘accidentally’ slammed into Redwing, squashing it into a wall. Something about the look in his eyes lets you know that Sam doesn’t believe that it was an accident. 

Tony was completely out of the compound for the next two days. He and Pepper were on a much needed couples trip. If you remembered correctly (and you did), it was their anniversary trip. You had tried convincing the scientist to take a longer trip– you even cleared out his schedules completely, and planned the trip for him months ago. He merely gave you a smile and let you know it was okay. You still didn’t expect to see him for another week. 

Wanda was in the kitchen, with Vision. It was her turn to cook lunch for the remaining members in the compound, and Vision insisted on assisting her. That means, her prep and cooking time would be increased by triple as she attempted to walk him through every single step patiently. 

Honestly, there was no party since Tony wasn’t around. There was no reason that you should be grabbing their laundry, but it was the routine. If you broke routine now, after doing this for so long, then you might as well throw away your entire schedule. That, and you were slightly afraid of the amount of clothes that would pile up in their rooms if you simply let it rot for another week. 

You should’ve let the fucking laundry fester.

“Fuck–” Steve groaned at the same time Bucky moaned his name.

You saw sin and felt regret fill your entire body. Then, they met your eyes. Both men, stopping in their actions of pure pleasure– wide eyed, breathless, flustered– staring at you with shock. They were both sweaty, tangled in each other, completely bare. You’d seen more of them than you ever thought you’d have the privilege of witnessing. 

You tore your eyes away as quickly as you could. You felt your heartbeat pounding in your neck as you searched for the laundry basket that you knew was to the right of Bucky’s door– and snatched it like it owed you some sort of debt. You didn’t say a word before you slammed the door shut, and ran down the hall, dragging everyone’s dirty clothes and secrets with you. 

From what you could tell– no one knew about the relationship between the two of them, and you sure as hell weren’t going to sell them out either. If this was something that they would keep private between themselves, then so be it. It was just a damn shame that they had to be all over each other when you were doing your job. 

You did what any logical person would do in this situation. 

You avoided them.

In hindsight, it shouldn’t have been too difficult. You knew their schedules like the back of your hand. You knew what time Steve woke up to go run outside because he preferred to breathe fresh air instead of using the treadmill. You knew what time that Bucky generally fell asleep after his insomniac brain calmed down for the night. You knew what time both of them sat down for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You controlled their meeting schedules, debriefs, and other things. You had full access to the security cameras in the compound from a few taps on your phone, and you could definitely look for them if you thought they were hiding somewhere. Avoiding them should not have been hard for you. 

Then again, you really did think you knew their schedules. But if you really did, you wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place. They were supposed to be in the gym, working up a sweat by avoiding each other’s fists, not working up a sweat by fisting each other’s cocks. 

You pushed the mental image out of your mind as you walked down the hall, squeezing your tablet to your chest a little tighter. You needed to focus. You had a meeting with some officials later that you couldn’t fuck up. You needed to complete a presentation on why they should leave the Avengers alone for the thousandth time that year. 

However, it was like both men decided overnight to make your life a living hell. 

Both Steve and Bucky were in the conference room that you were supposed to be in. Their hushed conversation died down when you entered. Your steps faltered, but you gave them a small, polite smile. There was a chair’s distance in between them, and your eyebrows furrowed briefly at it. Usually, they sat beside each other during the team meetings and debriefs. 

“Good morning,” you greeted. “You guys don’t have to be here for this meeting. It’s not on your agenda.”

“You’re defending us to assholes every other week. I think it’s fair we sit in, maybe intimidate them a little bit,” Bucky muttered, sitting back in his seat, relaxed and poised. His ankle is crossed over his knee as he stares at you, a tilt in his head. Every single one of your movements is being observed. He’s watching you like some sort of predator, and you’ve never felt smaller. 

You looked at Steve next, for help, but maybe you should’ve known better. Of course he would agree with his fucking boyfriend because he just gave you a pretty smile, and nodded. 

And the committee that came in didn’t know about your inner turmoil, and none of them wanted to sit in between either of the super soldiers. Once the chairs had filled up, once you finished shaking hands with everyone– you realized this was their plan from the start. You had to sit yourself right in between them, pretend that you weren’t screaming inside, and start the meeting.

It was a little easier once you got going. You could ignore both men. They didn’t say much, only nodded in agreement with your words or grunted in disapproval when the committee said something fucking stupid. 

Eventually, thanks to your pie charts and eloquent words, you managed to push back and gain some more freedom for your bosses-slash-friends after a two hour long argument. You watched as the committee left, giving them a pretty, satisfied smile as they muttered under their breath about getting you next time. 

“Is that how these meetings always go?” Steve asked you. 

“Just about,” you sighed, running your hand through your hair. “They just spew bullshit at me, and they think they’re right. Obviously, they’re not.”

“You hold your ground pretty well,” he murmured. “I’m sorry that we leave you to deal with this. With them.”

You could only shrug, though there was a little tingle of pride that began to blossom in your chest. Well, to be fair– this is why they hired you to begin with. To make their lives easier in every single aspect. Not just laundry and snacks. 

“You guys fight out there. It’s my job to make sure that you guys can keep fighting the important battles,” you told him, briefly meeting his eyes. 

Steve stares at you, for just a few moments. He’s studying your features, looking you up and down. Briefly, you recognize something in his eyes. There’s admiration. It makes you feel giddy. Noticed. A smile comes onto your face. 

It’s quiet in the conference room for a few moments as you finish organizing the notes and packets that you received from the useless officials that were just in the room moments ago. You grab your tablet next, and move to stand.

“About what happened earlier this week–” Bucky began to speak, and your body bristles.

No. You do not want to talk about this. Not now, not ever. You can go the rest of your life pretending that you never saw them, actually. 

“I have another meeting to get to,” you cut him off, shoving the rolling chair behind you so hard that it hits the wall. It’s a lie. You have no meeting. This was your only calendar item for the morning, and you’re free until after lunch.

Still, you’re all but running out the door seconds later. You don’t turn back even when Steve calls out your name to try and get you to stop. You’re disappearing down the hall, rushing to your private office as fast as you can, and locking the door behind you. 

Neither man gives up on attempting to corner you.

You’ve found solace in latching onto another team member every single chance that you get. 

You’ve stuck by Clint’s side in the hallways, chatting with him over updates on his kids when you know that Steve and Bucky are waiting for you around the corner to ambush you. You give him ideas on what gifts to give to his kids, and you even start an Amazon wishlist for him so that he can easily send some presents back home. 

When Tony returns from his anniversary trip with Pepper (that you accurately guessed he would take a week instead of two days), you started to spend your free time in the lab with him. You even started allowing him to spew random science terms at you that you normally would nod off to. Right now, it’s the best thing you could’ve ever asked for, especially when you can see Bucky’s shadow in the corner of your eye, stalking you. 

You wondered if this is what it was like to be hunted by the Winter Soldier. 

You avoid Sam, though you know it confuses him. Sam is a little too close for comfort with both super soldiers. He would invite them into a conversation, and then Sam could possibly be dragged away from that same conversation, and leave you alone to confront the same demons that you’ve been hiding from for over a week now. You’re still polite with him, but you try not to be caught with him alone. 

You don’t even try with Vision. 

Wanda and Natasha are definitely your safest bets. Out of everyone on the team, they were the ones that you got closest with first– that broke down the wall of boss and assistant. They were more than overjoyed when you were hired, and they were the only ones on the team that listened to you when you asked them to set their laundry out, and to update the digital list when they wanted more snacks or supplies.

So, you remained glued to one or both of their sides. You didn’t tell either of them what was going on, even though they both could tell you were on edge. 

You still remained professional throughout each debrief meeting and team gathering. You conducted each mission report with ease, ignoring the gaping hole that Steve and Bucky were burning into the sides of your head. You smiled politely, and quickly excused yourself out of the room each time. You didn’t want to be caught alone with them. 

If, on the off chance, you didn’t have anyone to grab onto, you locked yourself into your own room or office. You knew you couldn’t keep living like this. You just hoped that both of them would drop it, and the three of you could just forget about it. 

And it seemed that’s exactly what happened. 

After about another two weeks of avoiding them, they both stopped staring. Stopped waiting for you around corners, stopped sitting in during your personal meetings with the committees, and they continued as they were before. Steve would give you his polite smiles from across the room as he greeted you. Bucky would wish you a good morning in the hall as he walked by.

Your world finally went back to normal. You didn’t have to use a buddy system to go around your workplace. You didn’t have to leave the compound entirely, spending the night at your parent’s place because you didn’t feel like using the designated room you had in the apartments complex in the compound in fear that the men would somehow catch you off guard– and you definitely didn’t have to look over your shoulder trying to hide from soldiers that had much more experience than you did when it came to hunting. 

You could finally breathe again.  

You looked down at your tablet, running the stock of the weapons room before cursing to yourself. Very briefly, you wondered if someone on the team forgot to sign off on their casings– if they took more than they thought they did.

You looked through the lot numbers with a frown, shaking your head. You needed to get more, order more of the generic kinds of bullets that they had for their rifles and handguns. Then, you needed to go beg Tony to make some more of the special kinds of bullets and have to ask him to forgive you even though it wasn’t your fault for not noticing. He always would. 

Except you knew this would end in another impromptu team meeting where Tony would stress the importance of signing when you take shit from the collective team armory. You know a few of them, like Clint and Wanda, would tune out during the meeting. After all, they didn’t use guns. 

“You would think that F.R.I.D.A.Y. would be programmed to have this shit weighed like one of those hotel mini fridges that auto charges the room,” you muttered to yourself, tapping your screen. You sat down on the bench behind you, letting out a deep sigh. 

“Oh, shit. Are we going to be pulled into another meeting?”

You straightened at the voice, turning around. Bucky was at the entrance of the door, a frown on his face. He looked a little breathless, and he was wearing a compression shirt with the Avengers logo on his bicep, along with sweatpants. He must’ve gotten back from the gym– actually from the gym. 

You couldn’t help the smile that came onto your face at the slight despair in his voice. You turned back towards the shelves, shaking your head.

“It’s not a meeting. Think of it as a… get-together. Just a chat,” you replied.

“Right– because being yelled at by Stark is just a chat,” Bucky snorted as he walked into the armory, going towards his locker. He unlocked it, grabbing a towel to wipe at his forehead. 

“I mean, I don’t see your sign-outs on the log,” you hummed, pulling up the spreadsheet onto your screen. “And you sound pretty defensive. Seems like you’re guilty of something, Bucky.”

“Not sure what you’re talking about,” he responded. “I’m not the only one that doesn’t use the sign out sheet. I know Sam doesn’t.”

“Are you just ratting him out now to save your own ass?” you scoffed.

“I’m lessening my load of the blame.”

You rolled your eyes, your smile growing just a bit wider as your eyes scanned the shelves one last time, checking to make sure you did a proper count before you placed the order. 

“Is there anything you need me to get for you?” you asked him, scrolling through the cart on your tablet screen one more time. “Any spare parts or wiring for your arm that Tony doesn’t have? Do I need to contact Princess Shuri for anything?”

You could hear the gears in his arm whirring, and you looked up at him. You watched as Bucky flexed, and you felt your mouth go dry for a moment as you stared. His arm was pretty– but Bucky himself was just pretty. The compression shirt he wore also did little to hide every single line and contour of his muscles as he flexed. You followed the line of sweat that went down his neck, disappearing down the collar of his shirt. 

He was looking down at himself, thankfully, and not at you. He couldn’t see that you were blatantly ogling a taken man. You moved your eyes up towards his face right as he looked back at you, and you gave him a trained smile, waiting for his response. 

“Arm’s good. Thank you,” he answered, giving you a nod.

“Anytime. Just let me know, or send me a text if you need me to get you something,” you said, looking back down at your tablet.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him still turned towards you. Still watching you. Briefly, you felt a flash of PTSD wash through your body– like how you felt over a month ago when you were trying to avoid him and Steve entirely. 

You forced your body to relax because that war had already passed. You’ve had several conversations with both Steve and Bucky– just like this one that you’re having right now– and you’ve been completely fine. You busy yourself with the order, input Tony’s business card number that you know by heart, and choose the express delivery option. 

You let out a sigh of relief when you see that the delivery will come within two days. Enough time before their next mission. 

“Lucky for you, no team meeting needed,” you said, standing. “Only because I caught the low stock in time.”

“My savior,” he chuckled, shaking his head. 

You’re moving now, thoughts already occupied to your next task– which is the pantry– when Bucky’s hand clasps over your upper arm. His grip isn’t hard at all. You could easily slip out of his touch if you wanted to. No, this is just to stop you from leaving. Not to hurt or harm you.

“Did you think of something?” you asked, eyes dropping down to where he had his hand on you. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, and released you. 

Your arm feels cold without him there. Then, you feel something behind you– a presence. You look over your shoulder, and Steve is standing in the doorway, blocking your only exit route. You freeze, looking between them for a few seconds.

Dread is filling your stomach as you clutch your tablet in your hands. Bucky gently takes the device from you before you can break it, putting it into his locker so you can’t even create an excuse for needing to be somewhere else. You look at him damn near helplessly as he shuts his locker, and presses his back against it. 

“I thought we were over this,” you said slowly.

Steve shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe. “We just let you think that we were. I didn’t realize that the civilian we hired was actually an agent when she didn’t want to be caught.”

“Take a seat,” Bucky told you, gesturing back towards the bench.

You can’t do anything but listen. Once you’re seated, Steve enters the armory, closing the door behind him. He doesn’t linger too far away from the door. Maybe it’s to ensure that you can’t run. Even if you get close, you don’t have that much faith in yourself to outmaneuver them. They hold you with too much regard in their heads. 

“Why can’t we just… I don’t know– not talk about this?” you frowned at them as they stood in front of you. “I’m pretty sure I’m not the first person that’s walked in on their friends fucking each other like rabbits– we do not have to discuss the logistics of me seeing all three seconds of your possibly extensive intimate life.”

“You… have a very indecent mouth,” Steve said slowly, and Bucky snorted, rolling his eyes. 

“You haven’t told anyone?” Bucky asked, looking you up and down.

“Why would I?” you asked, exasperated. “That’s not my business to tell! Is that what this is about? I could care less if you were fuck buddies or married– literally, I do not care. Is this some leftover stigma that’s instilled in your bones from the forties? Guys, we’re in the 21st Century. Men being in a relationship is not uncommon these days. I grew up with gay uncles. This is not new for me or literally anyone on the street.”

“Is that what we are to you? Gay uncles?” Steve asked. There’s an amused look on his face that makes you want to laugh, but nothing about this scenario is funny to you. You want to leave. Run. Start looking over your shoulder, and jump at shadows again. 

“Grandpas, maybe, with the way you both hold a fucking grudge,” you muttered. 

The way Bucky raised his eyebrows at you makes you straighten up completely. You clear your throat, slightly intimidated, and you look everywhere but their face as you try to come up with your next words.

“Listen, okay, I’m sorry,” you said, swallowing thickly. And you really do mean it– you don’t want to walk in on any of your friends doing the deed. “I thought you both were in the gym. Like you were supposed to be, and it was laundry day. If you guys just put your fucking baskets out in the hall like I’ve told you several times, then I wouldn’t have seen you guys naked, and heard you guys moan each other’s names, but I promise I haven’t told anyone. I’ll take this to my grave.”

They’re both silent for a few moments, and you mustered up the courage to look at them. Steve and Bucky aren’t looking at you. They’re looking at each other, having some sort of silent conversation that you know only couples that have been together for years can have. 

You honestly have nothing else to lose. 

“By the way– who the fuck has sex on a Tuesday morning, and doesn’t lock their bedroom door?” you added, watching both of their heads snap back towards you. “Especially a couple that is trying to remain hidden?”

A laugh fell from Bucky’s lips as Steve chuckled beside him, shaking his head. Just like that, the tension you felt in your body was disappearing. 

“You got us there,” Steve nodded, hands on his hips.  

You let out a breath of relief, shoulders sagging just slightly. You rubbed your palms onto your thighs, and closed your eyes briefly as you let yourself relax for a second. “Can I go now? Are we done here?”

“Not quite.”

Your head snapped back up. “What? Is this not it?”

“I heard something interesting, a few months back from Nat,” Steve started, and your eyebrows furrowed at him. You had no idea where the conversation was going now. “You know, she’s always trying to set me up on dates, and I keep shooting her down.”

“Right,” you nodded slowly, then gestured between them. “And now I know why. Do you want me to try and get her off your case without alerting her?”

“No, no. That’s not it,” Steve shook his head, smiling at you. “She tried setting me up with you.”

Your lips parted, and you blinked at him. You could feel the color draining from your face as your heart worked overtime to keep all your bodily functions working properly. You were going to kill Natasha. Yeah– that’s who you were gonna murder in cold blood. 

“She told me that you confessed to her something about climbing me like a tree–”

“Stop fucking talking,” you cut Steve off, raising a hand up in the air. You couldn’t look at him, and your eyes were trained on the ground as your other hand came to cover your face. You tried focusing on your breathing. Slowly, you lowered your hands to your lap as you took in a breath. “Obviously, I didn’t fucking know you were a taken man. I wouldn’t have said that shit if I knew–”

“She also said that you stare at me a lot during training,” Bucky interjected. 

“You know… I used to think talks between girls were sacred, confidential… I’m gonna kill her,” you murmured, more to yourself than either of them. 

The armory was silent, save for the thumping of your heart wreaking havoc in your chest out of pure shame and embarrassment. Maybe you wouldn’t even have time to kill the assassin. You were certain that you were going to die here. Maybe from heart palpitations. 

Your leg started to bounce up and down as you pulled your lip in between your teeth. Your clothes were clinging onto your skin uncomfortably, and your blood was burning, heating and blossoming in color that you were certain that both men could see. You could feel the weight of their eyes on you, never pulling away, consistently watching you. 

You can’t even deny it. You can’t deny what Natasha said, try to say that she’s lying because that wouldn’t be right either. You did say that about Steve, and just moments ago you were looking at Bucky like you were going moments away from having a wet daydream. You were attracted to both men, and that was a clear and obvious fact. 

You took in another breath, and held it for a few moments.

You’re scared. They must be disgusted with you, you think. You’re not only their friend, but their assistant. You work with them, handle their private schedules, and you know everything about them. It’s not right for you to be having these kinds of thoughts about them, let alone voicing it out loud to anyone. Forget about losing your job– you’re afraid of losing their trust. 

“It was… inappropriate for me to talk about you, and look at you like that,” you decided to say, coming up with the best professional apology that you could muster. “I’ll be careful to make sure that it doesn’t happen again.”

“Sweetheart, what? No– we’re actually about to ask you if you wanted to join us in bed.”

The pounding in your chest stops abruptly as your head snaps up towards Bucky. You’re certain he could see the shock and confusion all over your face, and he gives you a smile– almost boyish. There’s no repulsion on his face. He almost looks a little giddy, relaxed.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love Steve, but he’s all fuckin’ muscle. There’s nothing soft about his body,” he continued, a deep sigh escaping his chest.

“You think there’s anything soft about you?” Steve demanded, raising an eyebrow at him. “You have a vibranium arm. Do you think that’s comfortable to sleep next to?”

“I have another arm, Rogers. I don’t know why you insist on taking the left side of the bed,” Bucky shot back. 

“It’s my preference,” Steve grunted. 

Bucky rolled his eyes at Steve, crossing his arms as he turned slightly to look at his boyfriend. They’re engaging in some light hearted banter, one that you don’t care enough to tune into. Not when you’re trying to make sense of what was just said to you.  

Time doesn’t exactly feel real, but you’re watching them argue in the way that you’ve watched your parents argue many times before. You’re certain that they’ll make up soon, give each other a light peck on the lips, and then walk out of the room holding hands and talk about what they’ll eat for dinner soon. But, the question still remains–

“You want me to sleep with you? Both of you?” you finally asked.

They both turned to you, not like they just suddenly remembered that you were there. No, they were fully aware of your presence the entire time. Steve gives you a smile, and nods. And Bucky hums.

“Only if you want to,” Steve said.

“Why me?” you asked. It’s the only logical question you can think of at the moment.

“Because you’re the only one who knows about the two of us,” Bucky shrugged, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “And you’ve shown obvious interest in us. It’s a win-win scenario for all of us, isn’t it?”

“In that case, then it doesn’t have to be… me right? I’m sure you could go find a third to join you somewhere else. Someone discreet that can keep secrets,” you quickly said, your mind reeling. “I don’t– I don’t want to be some last minute option to some fantasy–”

“Hang on,” Steve quickly cut you off, coming forth. He’s kneeling in front of you know, hands closing over yours. He’s eye level with you, stopping all of your self deprecating thoughts before it can start spilling out. “You’re not a last minute option. Truthfully, you’re the first option and the only option. Since we heard what Natasha said, we’ve actually been discussing it– discussing you. There’s just not an easy way to bring all of… this up. Also, it’s not just a fantasy, sweetheart. Bucky and I have been with girls before, you know that right?”

“I… have been made aware,” you nodded slowly.

Steve shrugged at you. “So it’s just us wanting to get back into it, just sharing someone with each other. And we like you. You’re reliable, smart, and very pretty. You’ve kept our secret for the past month, and we are very thankful for that. And like we said– no pressure. If this isn’t something that you want to do, then we don’t have to. You don’t have to. It’s just an offer.”

Man. You hate Captain America. 

The leader of the Avengers– fuckin’ great at speeches and good at talking people down from heightened emotions. He’s talking to you incredibly softly, gently. His hand is warm on top of yours, grounding you in place where you sit. He doesn’t stray away from eye contact, and the blue of his eyes are cozy– if that even makes sense. It does, to you. 

You look behind him, towards Bucky, and he offers you a nod of agreement. 

“You don’t have to decide right now, doll,” Bucky added. “Just let us know whenever you’re ready– oh. Steve rarely uses his room, by the way. So, if you make up your mind, you know where to find us.”

With that, Steve stands. He offers you one last smile, and they both leave you there in the armory to sit with your thoughts. Your dirty fucking thoughts. 

A week went by since that afternoon. They had gone on an overseas mission, came back with a few cuts and scrapes. You sat through a few government meetings with fake smiles plastered onto your face. You greeted both Steve and Bucky whenever you saw them over those seven days. You had regular, civil conversations with them. 

They came up to you when you did your regular tasks, asked you about things around the compound. You found a new gift on your bed from Bucky when they returned from the mission. Steve asked you about the debrief that was scheduled next week. Both of them asked you if it was really necessary for them to attend Tony’s party at the end of the month, and if they really needed to be fitted for a new suit.  When you said yes, they both groaned. You threatened to drag them to the tailor if they missed their appointments.

It was too normal. As if the conversation you had with them never happened, as if they didn’t offer to turn your world upside down. Well– they didn’t say that. You had just laid awake in your bed, imagining what they would do to you.

Those three seconds that you witnessed were all you had as a preview, but those three seconds felt like a lifetime. You could only imagine what would happen if you were involved in the mix between two super soldiers with insane amounts of stamina. They reserved the gym’s sparring area for two hour blocks because they could keep fighting for hours at a time. The only reason they didn’t go for longer was so they could go for the punching bags instead, and work on their forms. 

Would you even survive a single night with them?

The question echoed heavily throughout your mind as you stood in front of Bucky’s door. You knew better this time– you knocked. And you waited, but not for long. It opened, just a crack, and you saw the soldier peek through the sliver he created, then visibly relax when he saw it was just you. 

“Come on in,” Bucky told you, opening the door wider for you. 

You forced your feet to move, to step through the threshold of his door. Steve was already in bed, but moved to sit up against the headboard when he saw you. Both men were in pajamas– Steve in a t-shirt and shorts, Bucky wearing a white tank top and cotton pants. They were both watching you, curious.

“I’ve never done something like this before,” you told them, feeling a little exposed under their gaze. You laced your hands together nervously, just to give yourself something to do. “Have you guys?”

“Nope,” Bucky answered. “It’s new for all of us.”

That made you feel slightly better. You watched as Steve came off of the bed, and both men moved to stand in front of you– just a singular step away. You looked up at both of them, breath caught in your throat.

“Are you sure about this?” Steve asked, voice soft, reassuring. You nodded, and he let out a small laugh before he shook his head. “You gotta say it, pretty thing. We won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

You studied their faces for a moment. They were both being patient with you, waiting for you to give them permission. Steve’s gaze was gentle, soft, just like he was in the armory, but there was something darker swirling behind his eyes. Bucky was a little more blatant in his hunger. His jaw was clenched as he looked at you, storm grey eyes looking you up and down, before settling on your face as he waited for your answer. 

“I’m sure,” you whispered, finally releasing the breath you were holding. 

They must’ve really talked about this in depth because their actions were coordinated. Careful. Almost like a dance. 

Bucky reached for you first, pulling you into him while Steve sidestepped you to stand behind you, effectively sandwiching you behind both men. In one quick second, Bucky’s lips were on yours, while Steve busied himself with gathering your hair to the side to attach his mouth to your neck and shoulders. 

“You smell good. Did you just shower?” Steve hummed against your neck.

Of course you showered before coming here. Why wouldn’t you? You scrubbed and shaved every part of your body until you were silky smooth. You lathered on your lotion to ensure that your skin was bouncy, then made sure to layer on your perfume and waited the perfume amount of time to ensure that it soaked into the crevices of your pores before you made the journey to Bucky’s room. You didn’t just do your regular date night ritual— you went above and beyond. 

“Yeah,” you murmured against Bucky’s lips— and he took it as an opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. You couldn’t help but let out a soft noise against his mouth, and he squeezed your waist in appreciation. 

Steve’s hands shifted at your hips, tugging at the hem of your shirt, tugging the material upwards. Bucky released your lips briefly to allow Steve to pull your shirt over your head, and watched as Steve cupped your breasts from behind. He kneaded the mounds slowly, your breath hitching as he experimentally massaged you, trying to see what you liked the most. 

“Mm… You’re right, Buck. It is nice to have someone soft,” Steve chuckled, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

“Ah, Steve—“ you gasped, pressing back into his chest as Steve took your nipples in his fingers, rolling the slowly hardening peaks between his fingertips. 

“You owe me money,” Steve said to Bucky, and you could hear a grin on his voice– almost bragging. “I made her say my name first.”

“There’s still more bets on the table,” he grunted, swatting Steve’s hands away from you. You were being torn away from the warmth of Steve, and pulled into the cool touch of Bucky. The temperature difference was alarming, but it wasn’t unwelcome. 

“Bets?” you whispered to Bucky as he hoisted you into his arms, your legs being wrapped around his waist. 

You’ve been in Bucky’s room before, but not for long periods of time. You’ve only been here to grab his laundry basket, hang up his dry cleaning and his suits in his closet, and drop off any new gear that had been developed in the lab onto his bed. But now, Bucky’s bringing you to his bed. 

“Don’t worry about it, doll,” he hummed, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before he laid you down onto the mattress. “Just relax.”

Then, you were being dragged away from under him, and up the bed. You were half laying, half sitting against Steve’s chest, who was resting back against the headboard, like he was when you first walked into the room.

“You’re hogging her all to yourself, Buck,” the blonde soldier clicked his tongue disapprovingly. His hand came up from behind you, cradling your jaw to turn you to face him, to kiss him. Unlike Bucky, who was trying to take it easy on you, it seemed like something had snapped within Steve. The kiss was hungry, deep, and he didn’t ask for entry. He demanded it– licking into your mouth and exploring like he owned the space. 

If Bucky cared that Steve was suddenly taking all of your attention, he didn’t show it. No, Bucky busied himself with other matters that were more important to him. Like taking your shorts off of you. 

Steve didn’t let you break the kiss from him. In fact, his hand tangled into your hair, holding you in place as Bucky dragged the last remaining fabric off and away from your body, then settled himself between your legs and Bucky kissed your other lips. 

You couldn’t keep kissing Steve back, not when Bucky’s tongue was doing pretty circles around your clit, and one of his fingers was poking at your entrance, but never fully pressing inside. Steve didn’t hold it against you thankfully. He kept one hand in your hair, keeping your head tilted to the side to give him some space to watch the show in front of him while his other hand paid attention to a hardened nipple.

“Jesus– fuck, Bucky,” you whimpered, your hips twitching up into Bucky’s face. 

Bucky chuckled against you, and his vibranium hand came to your stomach to gently keep you in place, warning you to stay put. You would say that it wouldn’t be too hard not to, with two super soldiers having their hands all over you, but you were having a difficult time staying still. 

Their touches were barely anything at all. They continued to ghost over your skin. The only real pressure you got was Bucky’s tongue, but even that wasn’t much. He was enjoying every single little sound you made, every little tremble of your legs around his head– and Steve was humming right beside your ear. Both of them were enjoying the sight in front of them.

They were trying to break you, and it was working. 

“Please,” you begged, so impossibly needy.

“Please what?” Steve asked you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “What do you want, sweet girl?”

Anything, at this point. But Bucky’s moved away from your core, and Steve’s also removed his hand from your chest. They’re both on the same fucking wavelength– they’re adamant on making your life harder. What did you expect though? These two grew up together, fought in the same war together, and went through hell and back for each other– of course they would have each other’s back like this. 

“Your pussy is soaked, doll,” Bucky said, cutting through your mental conflict. You looked back down at him, and nearly sob when he takes his fingers, and parts your folds, and tilts his head at the sight of you– fully on display for him. A smile comes to his face when he watches your aching hole squeeze around nothing at all. 

A moan rips through your throat as Bucky sinks two fingers inside of you without warning, all the way down to his knuckles. Steve adjusts his hold on you, locking his arm around your waist as he presses a comforting kiss onto your shoulder. 

Just as quickly as Bucky filled you, he’s leaving you– and the loss is immediate. You let out a whimper, but Steve moans when he sees the arousal left behind on Bucky’s fingers. 

“Shit– she really is wet,” Steve muttered, and Bucky grinned, shifting onto his knees between your legs. You can only watch with uneven breaths as Bucky brings his fingers to Steve’s mouth– and he licks all of your juices clean off of Bucky’s fingers.

“Our poor girl is so deprived, huh?” Bucky hummed, watching Steve for a few moments before looking back down at you. “All you do is work. Never heard you talk to the other girls about getting fucked good. Don’t worry, pretty girl. We’ll take care of you. Just gotta let us know what you want.”

“God– I want your cock,” you whimpered, breathless. You met his eyes as a grin came over his features, and he lowered himself on you, capturing your lips in an open mouthed kiss. You could feel the outline of him through his pajamas pressing against your leg, hard, thick, and waiting for you–

“Fuck,” Steve cursed behind you. It wasn’t one that sounded like he was enjoying what he saw. In fact, he sounded annoyed. You and Bucky broke the kiss, and looked at him. His eyebrow was creased, and his jaw was clenched. 

Confusion and worry washed over your features as you looked between both men, but Bucky quickly pressed another kiss to your lips, a silent reassurance that everything was okay before he sat back on his knees and pulled his tank top over his head. 

“Now you owe me money, Steve,” Bucky told him, relishing in his win as he undid the tie on his pants.

Oh. Another bet, you realized.  

“Shut the fuck up, and fuck her already,” Steve grunted, reaching forward to grab your legs, spreading you open for his boyfriend.

“Working on it. Be patient,” Bucky chuckled, and kicked his pants off– now just as naked as you were. Your eyes immediately traced down his body, watching as the length of him stood proud, slapping against his stomach as it came free from the confines of his pajamas.

Your mouth went dry at the sight of him. All of it went straight down to your core, producing extra arousal for him to allow him to just slip in easier because there was no way that he would fit otherwise. In fact, you could feel Steve’s dick against your back this entire time, hard and thick, and you didn’t even know if he would fit you either–

“You’re staring,” Steve murmured behind you, nipping at your neck.

“Am I not supposed to?” you whispered back, making him chuckle as his lips moved up to your jaw, trying to catch your lips again. He was distracting you, while Bucky got into position, dragging himself between your folds. It wasn’t working well.

You felt the head of Bucky’s cock slowly press in, and your mouth paused against Steve’s lips. Bucky cursed above you as Steve’s hands tightened behind your knees, keeping you just where you needed to be for Bucky as he slowly pressed in, bottoming out completely. 

“Holy shit,” Bucky groaned, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist. You leaned your head back against Steve’s shoulder as you nodded in agreement. You couldn’t say a word in response. “Steve– fuck– you’re gonna love her pussy.”

“Stretch her out good for me,” Steve said.

Bucky took those words like a challenge. 

You were already so tightly wound up from Bucky’s mouth on you, their hands all over you but not doing anything much, and now? Your first orgasm ripped through you without any warning– and you found out another bet was won by Bucky at that moment. Even so, Bucky continued fucking into you like this was the only thing task he had to complete, and he was doing it well. 

He pulled out all the way until only the tip of his cock was left behind, and then dove right back in– hard– meeting your hips with such vigor that made you see stars behind your eyes. You were reduced to a whimpering, moaning mess under Bucky– and he was eating it up. Your chin fell to your chest, and you could see it– you could watch where he entered and exited you with each thrust, and the sight made you tremble in Steve’s arms. 

“Are you gonna cry?” he cooed at you, almost mockingly, grabbing your face to force you to look at him. All the while, he never stopped fucking you. If it wasn’t for Steve’s assistance, you were certain that you would’ve tried wrapping your legs around his waist now, or pulling away from him out of pure overstimulation. “Sweet thing, you gonna cry on my cock?”

“Think you broke her, Buck,” Steve chuckled from behind you. 

“All stupid and cock drunk, aren’t you?” Bucky grunted, hips slamming into yours to force a noise out of you, and his fingers slipped into your mouth. “Gotta wake up, baby. You gotta fuck Stevie after me, remember? We can’t leave him hanging. He’s being so good for us, so patient.”

You could only give him a muffled reply with his fingers stuffed into your mouth, tears prickling into the corners of your eyes, and he hummed in response– satisfied with your answer.

Bucky’s fingers left your mouth, much to your despair, returning to your waist. His thrusts grew deeper, harder, less calculated. You heard Steve’s breath hitch behind you, felt him shift a little against your back. You could feel Bucky’s cock twitch inside you.

“Shit, doll— can I cum in you?” Bucky moaned, meeting your eyes. His voice was softer now, a little desperate. “Tell me where I can—“

“Inside me,” you choked out, your voice a little hoarse. “Please, it’s okay— I’m on the pill—“

His hand was wrapping around your throat a second later, his mouth on yours in a wet, messy kiss. Your own walls began to tremble around him as your legs began to shake. Moments later, you felt it. The warmth of his load spilling inside you, the tremble of his body against yours as he came, and he was moaning into your mouth, your name falling from his lips.

Slowly, Steve let go of your legs. You could feel your muscles scream with the release, finally happy to be resting in a more natural position as they came down. Bucky still continued to kiss you, murmuring soft praises about how good you are and how sweet you feel around his cock. 

He’s slipping out of you moments later, partially soft, and your body goes rigid as his fingers scoop up his cum and shove it back into your hole. 

“Can’t waste a drop, doll,” Bucky clicked his tongue at you, leaning back down to press another kiss to your lips. “Don’t let any of it spill before you get on Steve’s dick.”

Gently, he’s pulling you up. You have no feeling in your body— you’re sated and boneless, but he’s right. Steve’s been waiting, patiently, quietly, and you turn to him.

“Take this off, Steve,” Bucky grunted, tugging on his shirt as he dropped onto the bed beside the two of you. You’re also reaching for the hem of Steve’s shirt, pulling it off of Steve’s body, and tossing it off to the side somewhere. 

You rested your hands on Steve’s shoulders, looking down at him— his bare chest, as his hands rested on your hips. He was also checking you out, looking in between your legs where you definitely failed to keep Bucky’s release fully inside of you. 

He sucked in a breath at the sight, and looked back up at you. 

“Feel good, sweetheart?” he asked you. 

“Yeah,” you nodded, giving him a smile. “Wanna make you feel good, too.”

“Jesus,” he groaned, head leaning back and hitting the wall. You took the chance to trail your hands down his chest, and Steve’s lips parted, watching your every move as his hands on you tightened. Your hand dipped below the waistband of his shorts, going directly for his cock, feeling him out. 

Ah.

Bucky definitely stretched you out for Steve, but the fit would still be tight. Where Bucky was long, and filled you in all the way, Steve would be ripping you apart. 

You stroked him just a few times, spreading the precum that leaked over his length, and you watched Steve’s expression for a few moments before leaning forward, giving him a sweet kiss on the lips. 

Bucky wasn’t having it. 

“You’re stalling,” he tutted, pulling you and Steve away from the headboard. 

The sound of fabric tearing filled the room, and there was nothing left between you and Steve as he laid beneath you, your hands on his abdomen for stability. 

“Buck—“

“Shut up. She feels so good when she’s overstimulated. I’m doing you a favor, Stevie, and she’s trying to recover,” Bucky grunted. 

Bucky was behind you, kneeling, an arm wrapped around your waist as you straddled Steve’s hips. Between your legs, he’s holding Steve’s cock, lining him up with your entrance, and sinking you down in one fluid motion that makes both you and Steve gasp out in unison.

Steve’s hands reach for both of you— one hand on your thigh and one hand grabbing Bucky’s hand as he shifts to hold onto your waist.

“Bucky— Bucky fuck slow down—“ Steve cuts himself off with a moan.

You can only whimper in agreement, fingernails digging into Steve’s body as Bucky himself sets the pace. He’s controlling this— he’s fucking you directly onto Steve, hands on your waist, lifting you up and down with ease on Steve’s cock. 

“What? You don’t like it?” Bucky chuckled from behind you. “Isn’t she so warm, Stevie? You don’t like how your cock is soaked with both mine and her cum right now?”

You clamp down around Steve in response to Bucky’s words, and a loud curse falls from Steve’s lips as his eyes fall shut. 

“Jesus fucking— Buck— shut the fuck up, you saying all that shit is— just making her—“ 

Steve can’t even finish his own sentence, not when Bucky is grinding your hips against Steve’s, humming in approval at his own handiwork. He’s enjoying this, watching both of you fall to pieces in his hands. 

“You’ve been doing this all night. Since when do you talk back to me?” Bucky asked Steve, lifting you up off of Steve. You see the panic in the soldier’s eyes at the realization, and he pushes himself onto his elbows to meet Bucky’s gaze. 

And you are empty. You’re dripping all over Steve, soaking him beneath you, and a whimper falls from your lips. 

“Wait— wait— why am I being punished?” you forced out, grabbing onto Bucky’s hands quickly, looking over your shoulder to him. You sound damn near pathetic. “I didn’t— I didn’t do anything—“

“Look, Stevie. Look at what happens when you can’t be good,” Bucky shook his head before he leaned in closer to you, pressing a quick kiss to your lips to placate you— but it’s not enough. “Our girl gets punished, too.”

Your head whipped immediately to the other man. “Steve,” you begged softly, helplessly. 

“I’ll be good,” Steve muttered, sinking back down into the pillows. 

And Bucky’s feeling merciful because you don’t even think that’s a good enough apology, but he’s returning you to Steve’s cock within the next few moments— or maybe it’s a punishment with how hard he’s slamming you down onto him. 

Punishment for who? You’re not certain. 

Both you and Steve can’t keep up with the new, sudden pace. Steve’s hands are all over you, hands on your hips and thighs, but also reaching past you to touch Bucky. He never closes his eyes though. He’s watching every single movement, every single motion, and he’s vocal. It sends tingles down your spine that goes straight down to your core, and he feels every single twitch and spasm— and he lets you know he’s felt it. 

“Cum whenever you want, doll,” Bucky whispered into your ear, one of his hands slipping between your legs to rub your clit. “Only Steve can’t cum without my permission right now.”

You let out a shaky moan, nodding deliriously at the added stimulation. It didn’t take long, not with Steve continuously spearing you with Bucky’s help, and the tight circles rubbing into the overly sensitive nerves— you came for the third time that night. 

Bucky didn’t stop fucking you onto Steve’s cock the entire time. 

“You feel good?” Bucky continued. “Stevie making you feel good?”

“Y… Yeah,” you moaned, swallowing thickly. “Feels… Feels really good, Bucky.”

“Hear that, Stevie? You might deserve to cum tonight,” Bucky chuckled. 

“Let him cum in me,” you whined, grabbing onto Bucky’s wrist. “Want it.”

“God,” Steve groaned from under you, his fingers digging into your thighs. “You want my cum, too? Want me to mix with Bucky’s?”

“Please,” you nodded frantically. 

“Bucky,” Steve called out, his voice broken and hoarse— he was asking for permission. Begging for it. 

“You heard our girl,” Bucky hummed, releasing your hips, and relinquishing control to Steve. “Do what she wants.”

Steve’s hands replaced where Bucky’s was, and you were no longer being slid up and down Steve’s cock. He held you right in place above him, his hips pistoning up into yours. You barely caught yourself on his chest, grounding yourself as he uses your body to get exactly what he wants from you— doing exactly what you asked him to do. 

It doesn't take him long, not when he’s been watching Bucky fuck you for the past hour, and being deprived of his own release due to Bucky’s words. Soon enough, you’re not sure who’s release is whose, but you’re filled to the brim, warm, and sticky. 

You’re both panting, and you’ve collapsed onto his chest. His hands are on your back, holding you against him as his cock softens inside you, and slips out. 

You feel Bucky shift beside you, pressing kisses to your spine in appreciation, before he’s muttering your name for some attention. When you lift your head, he catches your lips, kissing you. 

“Be a good girl and clean up Steve’s cock,” he murmured against your lips.

A shiver runs down your body and you nod, lifting yourself up from Steve’s chest. You kneel between his legs again, and lower yourself down to his softened member. It’s kinda cute when you see it like this.

Steve flinches when your tongue meets his head, and you taste it— all three of you on Steve’s skin. He’s kinda squishy in your mouth in a way that makes you want to giggle. It’s slightly endearing, in a strange way. 

Both men are watching from above, eyes glued to every single one of your movements as you lick Steve clean of the remnants of your sin. When all that’s left is nothing but your saliva, you lift back up, and they both give you lazy, satisfied grins. 

Bucky beckons for you to come closer, pulling you to settle in the middle of them before he reaches between your legs. 

“What the fuck—?!” you gasped out, grabbing onto his arm to steady yourself as two fingers dipped inside of you and curled. You watch as he pulls away, taking the mixture of your releases, and brings it to Steve’s lips, just like how he did earlier. 

Except, Steve doesn’t fully swallow. It settles on his tongue, and Bucky meets his mouth, both men groaning at the taste. You can only watch as their tongues mingle, as their bodies press closer together, and a sense of heat begins to bloom in your stomach again.

And they don’t forget about you. Steve’s holding your hand, thumb rubbing along your knuckles while Bucky’s fingers are moving up and down the side of your thigh slowly. 

When they part, Steve’s tilting your head up to kiss you, and Bucky’s peppering kisses all over your neck and shoulder. Then, it switches. Bucky’s mouth is against yours, while Steve marks all over your collarbone and chest. 

“Wanna do this again?” Bucky murmured against your lips. 

Your eyes widen as you pull away from him. 

“Right now?” you demanded, slightly horrified. 

“I mean— I can. I don’t think you can,” he said. Steve chuckled from beside you. 

“We could make this a regular thing, if you’d like,” Steve offered. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“I— Huh? Like regular fuck buddies? A friends with benefits kind of situation?” you asked, frowning. 

Bucky made a face. “I don’t do fuck buddies, sweetheart. I don’t enjoy sharing.”

“You would be sharing me with Steve.”

“That’s different. Exclusive sharing with Steve is acceptable,” he dismissed.

“Again, you don’t have to make the decision right now,” Steve quickly told you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Take your time. Just rest for right now.”

You settled in bed with both of them, in the middle. Steve fell asleep relatively fast, his chest pressed to your back and his face in your hair. Bucky was to your front, face all up in your breasts. Both men had their arms draped around your waist, murmuring about how nice and how soft you were to hold. 

You couldn’t sleep.

Did they just ask you to join their relationship?

masterlist

Unbeknownst to many, you are the complete opposite of what you choose to present to the public. At the hands of your boyfriend, Johnny, all of the innocent pretense melts away, replaced by an untamed desire. The moment you get behind closed doors, your public persona is discarded on the welcome mat, and any lust you kept hidden away comes to light.

Your sex drive is concerning, to say the least. Your innocent persona is like a hypothetical chastity cage, locking away your dirty desires for a place more private, where nobody can see nor shame you for your thoughts. Outside, you avoid sexually charged situations like the plague, but inside, you’re the initiator, and you’re glad you have someone equally as dirty as you who can keep up with it. 

When he met you for the first time, Johnny saw right through your good girl persona. There was no way that someone as beautiful as you had never pursued something like that before, and so he spent his time with you chipping away at the walls you put up, trying to discover whether there was something about you that you were hiding.

And, lo and behold, he found exactly what he was looking for. 

For better lack of a word, you were a complete and total slut. The moment he gave you the go-ahead, you were all over him, kissing him, marking him and palming him through his trousers like your life depended on it. He saw the way lust clouded your pupils so quickly, and instead of being freaked out, he encouraged it, murmuring words of praise into your ear as you humped his erection desperately.

“Poor thing,” he whispered, large hands gripping your hips and pulling you harder against him. “Must be hard hiding all of this from your friends, right?” You nodded into his neck, tongue flicking against his skin as you prepped it for yet another hickey. “You don’t have to do that with me, princess. I can give you everything you need.” 

And so he did. That night, he figured that to keep you from going batshit insane with need, he would have to make you cum until you passed out, stuff you full to the brim until you insisted that you couldn’t take any more. And even when you did tell him that you couldn’t, you would still rub your tired clit against the tip of his cock, shallow breaths coming out stuttered as you would work yourself up to yet another orgasm. 

His girlfriend, his sweet, innocent girlfriend turned out to be a complete nymphomaniac, and he loved it. You took anything and everything he gave you, bathed in the afterglow of multiple orgasms time and time again, dug your nails into his back to the point where small crescents would form. And your need was sexy too; those innocent eyes that drew him in at first would be used against him at his behest, and you would look up at him, pupils dilated and lashes fluttering as he coddled you into your blissful state. 

It’s how you look up at him now, tits bouncing with each thrust and mouth wide open in an ‘o’ shape. You’re quite the sight, but it’s a sight he loves to see nonetheless.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers, hips flush against yours as his tip prods at your g-spot. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.” 

“W-want you,” you stutter, eyes focusing and refocusing as you feel the coil begin to wind in your tummy. “Want you to fill me up.” 

Johnny laughs breathily, sweat soaked strands of hair falling into his face. “But I’m already filling you up, sweet girl. Surely you don't need any more than that.” 

He just loves the way your face contorts when he teases you. You get so dumb like this, and when he uses that condescending voice he knows you love, your eyes gloss over as tears begin to form. “Don’t be mean.” 

“You like it when I’m mean.” He leans back, wrapping his hands around your waist and observing the way your tiny pussy swallows him whole. “You like it when I use your cunt like my own personal doll, don’t you sweetheart?” 

You hum in satisfaction, cheek pressing into the pillow, but you’re snapped back into the moment by a hand wrapping around your throat. “C’mon, answer me. You like it, don’t you?” 

“I do,” you moan out, your hoarse voice mingling with the sounds of wet skin slapping. “Love it so much, love you-” 

“I know you do, baby. Now…” He runs his thumb along your bottom lip before dragging it downwards, pulling your mouth open. You instinctively stick your tongue out and he smiles, gathering a glob of spit in his throat before dropping into your open lips. “Be a good girl and tell me what you want. What you need.” 

Your eyes squeeze shut, but the hand around your neck slaps your cheek, forcing them wide open again. He wants you to look at him, to look at how he so mercilessly destroys your poor pussy, all at your request. “Need your cum, Johnny. Need you to stuff me full of your cum.” 

“‘I need your cum’, what, princess? Remember your manners.”

You gulp before blinking up at him, trying so hard to fight off your impending orgasm. “Need your cum, please, daddy. Please.” 

Oh, you’re so pretty when you beg for him. You’re even prettier when you call him ‘daddy’; it’s one of the clear signs that you’re way too far gone, and that if he edges you any further, you might not even be able to speak. So, he grants you some reprieve.

When Johnny cums, he buries himself deep inside, skin pressed against yours as he pumps his load right against your cervix. Of course, you’ll take the morning after pill tomorrow, but the thought of him stuffing you to the point where you could carry his children turns him on immeasurably, and his cock throbs heavily inside you, walls clamping down as it surrounds itself with warmth. 

All the while, you’re a trembling mess beneath him. Sweat drenches your skin and sticks to the bedsheets, and your cunt throbs in the rhythm of your racing heartbeat, thighs shaking as your orgasm tears through your veins. All you can say is ‘thank you’, coupled with broken sobs and shaky moans.

Johnny holds you through all of it, whispering sweet nothings in your ear as he rides out his own climax against your cervix. “Such a pretty girl,” he whispers in your ear, lips pressing against its shell. “Such a pretty doll for me, aren’t you?” 

All the energy has been drained out of you, and you can only nod, humming sadly when you feel him pull out, the feeling of his release coating your thighs sending a shiver down your spine. All the while, he continues to kiss you, continues to call you his good girl as he caresses your shaking thighs. 

Johnny is happy that you can be your real self around him, even if that means milking him dry every other night. He loves being the one who can truly satisfy you, but when he thinks you’re finally done for the night, he flinches at the feeling of you wrapping your hand around his still-erect cock.

“One more,” you whisper, and his eyes shift from where you nudge his tip against your swollen clit to yours, and the blissful glossiness is gone, replaced by a crazed lust. 

He could never decline you – he knows better than not to – and so he just grins at you, pushing his hair back before slipping his tip into your cunt again. 

“Fucking slut,” he grunts as he continues to slide in, pushing out his own release. “Never satisfied, are you?” 

You grin at him wryly before shaking your head. “Nuh-uh. Always want you.” 

And have him, you will. 

He steps off the bed and into the resolute silence of the cabin. There was a hole by his bedroom door after a regrettable night of alcohol. Mead. Something that had his head spinning and bile stuck to the walls of his throat, and of which he doesn't even remember the name of the next morning.

It's all fleeting, anyway. Names, labels, lives.

He cooks himself breakfast on an old pan.  The room is bone-cold, and the floorboards creak when he drags the decades old chair from the dining room to the porch.

Paint peels under his feet, and his toe curls. A dull, faded orchestra of evergreens as far as he can see. He's had a target on his back since he was a kid, always under the gaze of something beyond his understanding. Always making sure he doesn't take a step out of line, or let too much life into his heart.

It's been a while since he's felt that. Like it had finally decided he learnt his lesson, that he wouldn't dare to take a new breath without considering if he deserved it. And so he doesn't wonder if there are irises staring back at him with the same lifelessness with which he watches them, day after day, hour after hour.

The outside cools his blood to a standstill, and he is almost entirely certain he is alone. The vast expanse of an empty sky, bearing no clouds, no birds. Some days, he almost thinks he can feel you when the winds move.

He thinks he's past the point of insane.

__________

His friends are kinder than he is. To a fault, almost. God knows he hasn't given them a reason to be.

After a couple of months of shifting to the middle of nowhere, there are fifteen fucking knocks to the door.

Bucky flings it open, ready to chew someone’s head off. Raging, still in the ratty old t-shirt and sweatpants and socks with holes in them that you swore you would burn. He is armed with a battalion of curses and threats, only for words to die a quick death at the tip of his tongue.

“Hey.”

Bucky's muscles tense to the point where they might crack, but he forces his arm to lower. 

“Been a while,” Sam says, arms crossed over his chest.

He doesn't know how he's hunted him down, given the nature of his disappearance, but Sam was nothing if not determined in his humanity.

With nowhere else to turn, Bucky silently pushes the door open.

________

“I like what you’ve done with the place.”

Bucky glances around the house. There are cobwebs hanging from each corner he sees. Bulbs coated with dust. Fine china starting to fade with unuse, and utensils slowly beginning to gather rust.

He doesn’t reply. He’s offered him water, but Sam declines.

“You get cell coverage out here?”

“Don’t make a lotta calls,” Bucky’s vocal chords sound like they’re lined with gravel.

“We noticed.” Sam leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Talked to Dr. Canmore?"

"Yep." Not since the psychiatrist was forced to clear him after Bucky showed no signs of violence, or returning back to him. To him, that concluded the purpose of their relationship.

"And?"

"There's nothing to say, Sam," he rebukes, gruff. "'M fine."

Sam looks like wants to raise an eyebrow, but the patience he's grown over the years from dealing with those worse than the mess setting in front of him disallows him. "Get enough food?"

Bucky flashes him a thumbs-up, and feels the onset of a migraine.

"Sunlight? Water?"

"'M not a fuckin' plan--" he begins harshly, but clears his throat. "You?"

"Doin' alright." Sam shrugs. "Been training a buncha new recruits, getting in touch with new ones. Superheroes are poppin' up all over the place. Got a girl saying she can control squirrels."

Bucky nods absent-mindedly, picking at the hem of his shirt. He thinks you would have found that amusing, considering that you thought Scott Lang's schtick was a bit on-the-nose too.

“Do you want to?”

Bucky sharply shifts back into focus. “What?”

“Help out,” Sam clarifies. “Recruit, train.”

Bucky’s jaw inadvertently tightens. “No,” he says sharply.

"Could be good for you."

""M done with that life." 

Sam's eyes reflect a reality that's different, but he still relents, "Okay. Whatever works for you."

Bucky can’t say he retired, exactly. He’d unceremoniously quit and had gone AWOL, but it had never been on paper. SHIELD was gracious enough to accept in whatever form they had, sending him funds every month as an unofficial pension.

“You should drop by sometime. Compound's all re-done."

Bucky shifts in his seat like the chair is too small for him. “‘M not exactly a joy to be around.”

“You’re actin’ like that’s somethin’ new,” he riffs, mouth curling into a smile. “Still.”

Sam's a good man who often lets his instincts lead the way, and if he's insisting on Bucky to return then something must be worth listening to. But his only company's been the thoughts in his head for a while now, and they're no good. What's impure about him surely wraps its tendrils around the world around him, poisoning them.

It's difficult, impossible, even to shake the suspicion growing on him, crawling up his back.

“Alright, well–” Sam pushes himself off the couch “-- just give us a call if there’s anything you need help with.”

Bucky may not have as many words as he used to, but he hasn’t forgotten his manners. He walks Sam to the front, where his truck lay parked, all polished from the last time he saw it.

"You got everything you need?” Sam asks again, and something inside him ignites a spark.

“Yes.”

Sam nods, hand on the hood of the truck, giving him a final look up and down. The few seconds of a leeway fans the spark into a red-hot anger, one that has Bucky's muscles painfully tight.

"Right. See you aro-"

"Why'd you come here?" Bucky interrupts. "To check if I'm losin’ it again? SHIELD couldn't get Dr. Canmore on the line so they send their next bet to tranquilise me?

Sam's eyebrows raise this time, and Bucky thinks he's finally managed to piss off the last person who cares if he's dead or alive, but everything in him is too hot, too scathing to bother.

He wants someone to get it, what it's like to claw at concrete walls with raw fingertips and broken nails. He wants someone to see what it's like, living like they've been injected over and over with needles.

"I know it’s hard, man," Sam replies, gentle like cool water on a burn.

Bucky's hands freeze, because he realises very quickly he wanted someone to hurt.

"Just thought you could use knowin' you had someone there," he continues. "Got flowers too, but I wasn't sure if you'd..."

Something in Bucky deflates, and he wants to cower into a ball. Bury himself so deep underground that he doesn't have to deal with how his ribs feel like they're cracking into splinters all over again.

Sam's already moved towards the passenger side door, and pulled from it a beautiful arrangement of evening primroses and jasmines. Of course Sam remembered.

You would have loved it.

"I don't have anywhere to keep it," Bucky croaks. He's turned the home he bought into a tomb, and he's closed the door to any remainder of life waiting to be lived.

Sam simply hands it to him, and Bucky takes it cautiously like it'll wither in a second. His touch is venomous and his want is a death-sentence, but the flowers stay alive.

"If you ever find a place," Sam says, squeezing his shoulder, "leave something there, too. Might help."

________

He'd add 'liar' to the list of words he's chosen to describe himself, if he said he didn't think about it every second since you died.

The idea initially comes to him like a snake, slithering and winding its way up his shoulder to hiss into his ear. He shudders the first time, jaws clenching, and dismisses it immediately.

But 'sinner' is a word he would use, and so on nights when he's awake too long and when your laugh sounds like a draft in his ear, he entertains the thought.

Indulges in it, grotesquely allows himself to think of an alternate ending, where his presence had not corrupted your fate, and you would have been alive and vibrant and trying out new flavours of gelato from the corner store. Stealing kisses from him, half awake, and dragging him to watch sunrises from the roof.

He thinks of things he'd do differently. Retire a lot faster. Took you to the National Parks like he said he would. Make sure your scent seared itself like a tattoo on all his clothes, because there's nothing on earth that replicated it and he's turned it inside out trying.

When the air is icy and the skin aches where his metal arm meets flesh, he thinks of how you always flicked his shoulder when he passed an off-hand comment under his breath, but muffled a laugh when his insults got more creative.

But soon, it will be closing in on two years since Bucky's last heard you groan at his stupid comments and the lake is just as pristine as the day he bought the cabin. The water glimmers like shards of diamond and there are days he thinks it's too still for even his liking.

"Have you ever been to Asgard?" you ask one night, legs splayed over his thighs.

He looks up from the book he's reading, pencil tucked into his ear. "I have not."

"Not even once?" you ask, distracted from whatever show you had gotten hooked on on TLC. Ever since you'd discovered the channel, you were convinced it was the best way to learn about "his culture". Sometimes he tuned in to learn about updates to "his culture" in the years he was gone.

"Strictly earthbound," he replies.

You nod, eyes drifting back to the TV. He watches you for a few seconds, hand gently squeezing the arm closest to his.

As it always was, your posture was pin-straight. Always ready. Like sitting still wasn't even an option. He used to think it was because you were never truly comfortable around him, until he realises that that was simply a part of you.

Bucky re-adjusts his glasses. He was getting old. His back pained and creaked like an old door hinge more each time.

He didn't think he'd get here. He's growing to love it. Mission reminders and target locations get replaced more and more with reminders that he still has to put the leftovers in the fridge from the date earlier that night, and that your shampoo needed a re-stock.

"Would you want to come with me one day?" you ask suddenly.

He puts the book down, and you turn away from the TV again. 

He can always tell when you're thinking. The world buzzes a bit. When you're older than a few galaxies, the universe and you become not so distinct.

"Might be a bit too grand for a fella like me."

"I think you'd like it," you counter, "and you're in a relationship with me. You'd fit in as well as anyone could."

He's still not sure how he's managed to accomplish the second part but you must have liked something about his ragtag sarcasm and social isolating tendencies.

Bucky's growing older each day. You're the closest thing he's seen to eternity. He doesn't think he would fit in, not with his thrift shop t-shirts and unbridled insecurities.

"Do you want me to?" he asks, hesitant.

He's met Thor, and he's heard mostly about Loki through childhood tales and news reports. Thor didn't seem to mind him, but then again, Thor saw the best in everyone.

"I'd like to show you the place I grew up," you reply, playing with his metal fingers. "You showed me yours."

"That's a couple'a streets from here, sweetheart," he reminds playfully. "Not exactly another realm."

The corners of your mouth lift slightly. "But you feel connected to it, don't you? That it is a part of you?"

Bucky intertwines your grins and keeps it there. He's always felt something towards Brooklyn. Something that kept him going when Siberian frost nipped at his skin. Tethered.

But when he'd shown you the place he grew up in, it wasn't the same. Brickwall had been overlaid with plaster and paint. Doors ripped off their hinges, wallpaper a ghastly white instead of the stained floral print his sister and he drew on. It was unease, trepidation.

It didn't feel like his anymore. Probably because Bucky didn't feel like him anymore.

"Yeah," he replies after some thought, even though it's not entirely right.

"I feel that way about Asgard," you continue the thought. "Being here is lovely, and I love learning of all the things your people do, but--"

"It's not the same," he interjects gently. "I get you."

You look at him and smile, and Bucky feels the same gnawing feeling that this is something that's too good, too pure for him.

God of the Night Sky and the Mortal of Blood Stained Hands.

It shouldn't work, but you've already got a drawer in his shelf for your belongings. You've talked about moving to a cabin by the woods if you ever wanted to settle down. You kissed him that morning, and once more on his shoulder, and the last time he's laughed this much in one dinner was the one he had the night before with you.

"Whichever day you're ready," you promise. "I've got a feeling you'll be convinced."

Bucky presses a kiss to your fingers, and you turn back to the TV with a smile.

He watches you for a while. Your fingers continue to play with his. Bucky thinks getting older may just be worth it.

You made a dozen or so trips back to Asgard since the conversation, and he pushed his involvement on each one with the unfailing and ultimately misplaced  certainty that he'd have time.

__________

You wouldn't approve of the way he'd kept the cabin. You wouldn't approve of the way he lived. He knows that, but he also knows if you were around then he'd have a reason to actually sow more than vegetables in the land he keeps digging up. He'd make sure of the table cloth that he found stashed away, leave the blinds open more to allow light to reach his room.

He looks at the bouquet of flowers by his feet and thinks that laying it by a boulder would be insignificant.

So for the first time in a long while, he prays the act of creation will bring him some respite and builds. 

A little hut, with sticks he finds around the place, and makes it big enough to house Sam's bouquet from the wind and sun. He carves out your name onto the boulder, painstakingly with his pocket knife until each letter was guaranteed to last a century. He adds the year of your birth, and can't find it in himself to add the year you died.

He steps back and exhales. It's a memorial. It's a start.

__________

Bucky spends most of the day digging up dirt, sitting out on the porch and looking for firewood. He’s learnt how to grow his own vegetables, and how to go into town unnoticed for other essentials.

And now he has something to tend to.

It starts with fickle sticks and grows into something sturdier. He brings the memorial stronger wood, and bands to hold it together. He looks for wildflowers and pretty leaves, bunches them together and leaves them under the protection of the small roof.

It's the most he's done in over a year.

Months go from crawling to a standstill when it nears October. Bucky leaves the house less often.Truth is, the sky has never entirely recovered since you were gone. It's never truly dark-- a faint navy blue or even azure in the days leading up to the anniversary.

He's seen people puzzle over it-- call it the newest effects of light pollution or climate change. There is no reasonable answer, but the one that exists is that you left and you took the constellations with you.

Still, evening always comes faster and he can't quite stand being out at that time, when there is a void where he used to feel you the most. Instead he stays asleep for as long as he can. He makes use of the brief time he has to fix himself some food, and bare minimum upkeep.

He gathers the last of the flowers he can see around, some leaves that hadn't entirely been lost and makes his way to the lake.

"Forgive me, sweetheart. Season's changin' and I don't got a lot of options," he says lowly and to the hut that's managed to stay up.

Bucky looks at the sparse flowers in his hands and thinks that he'll make the godforsaken trip into civilisation to get you better ones. Ones you really liked, colourful and dynamic.

For now, he tries tying them together with a blade of grass to make it look less pathetic. It breaks every single time-- he's never been very good at being delicate.

Something around his wrist catches his attention. Some days he forgets it isn't a part of him.

His hair whips rather majestically around his head. He’s used to the sting when it strikes his skin, only reflexively reaching up to tuck it behind his ear.

“Hair tie?”

His eyes snap to yours in surprise. You've never really talked to him before, just brief nods and smiles along the way. Bucky wasn't exactly the patron saint for socialising either. He's always thought something about you was otherworldly. He didn't consider himself significant enough to be going out of your way to talk to either.

“Would you like a hair tie?” you repeat. “It’s rather bad out there.”

“Uh, yeah,” he replies, though he’s never considered that as a solution. “Sure, if you’ve got one.”

“We’ve learnt to carry them around when you fight alongside the likes of Thor and Volstagg.” You smile, reaching into the compartment of your belt. “Long hair looks good. Doesn’t always work that way.”

Bucky gives you a tight smile, feeling slightly embarrassed but a voice in him compels him to accept the kindness you’re offering.

He quickly secures his hair into a lower bun, giving more show to cheeks dusted pink.

“I’ll give it back after the mission,” he promises.

“Don’t.” You pause, giving him a once-over. “It suits you.”

Most days he remembers it's one of the only things he's still got of you. Still, he ties the flowers together with your hair tie-- and they stay this time.

"See you next week," he says, and a wind blows past him. Pathetically, he dares to hope it's a sign from you.

___________

Two sharp knocks on the door, but his eyes are open before the second one. It wasn’t like he was getting much sleep anyway.

When his arm doesn’t keep him up, it’s the ache in the rest of his body to be near you. Trailing kisses up your arm and watching wildfire heat spread through his neck when fingers tip up his chin. Lips trying to catch each other until panting breaths matched.

He flips over to the other side. Both sides of the pillow are drenched with his sweat. Christ, if this was how it was going to be in the days leading up to the anniversary, he can't imagine what would happen the day of. 

Someone rapps intently at the door, only picking up pace when Bucky chooses to ignore it. By all means, he’s retired. That alone should entitle him to some fucking peace, but no. 

He curses as he drags himself out of bed and pulls on a shirt, shuffling to the door. When he pulls it open, his eyes are probably murderous, but there is no one to catch the daggers. There is a simple brown cardboard box, labelled with his name.

Bucky, with a narrowed gaze, takes a step away from the box and instead heads into the open air. But there is not a soul, even as he stalks around the cabin and really stops to listen.

He comes back to the threshold and eyes the box. Using his foot, he swiftly kicks the lid off it and braces for an impact that doesn’t come.

There are shirts. And a mug. He frowns, kneeling down to shuffle through the contents, only to find bits and pieces of things he just…left behind when he left the compound.

Pictures he never really got framed. Socks with torn toes. Sweatpants. Laptop.

And there’s a tiny box. His chest twists the second he lays eyes on it so much that he thinks he’s been injured.

There’s a ring in there. Not really even an engagement ring, since you were gone before he had a chance.

Just a ring. But it’s enough to make him suddenly feel the weight of the air around him and he’s forced to take a seat right there on the steps. There’s nothing else in there of you, just old mission reports that mention your active involvement. Maybe if the smell of cardboard hadn’t permeated through the fabric of his shirts, he’d have traces of your scent.

Fragmented parts of his life, like snapshots of his history, running through his mind like an old film. It makes him question, for a second, if death was finally catching up to him.

Well, it was late. He’d been kept waiting for years.

_____________

The day itself is grey and sullen. In crackles of electricity, he can almost feel Thor’s state of mind. He tries not to think that in a few years, you’d be gone for longer than he knew you.

He rounds up leaves as orange as mandarins and ties them together with the hairtie. He clears up the last bunch he’d left and takes a seat on the shore of the lake. Cloudless and barren. Chill.

He can sense the end of the battle is near– he sees Sam a lot less overhead, even his gun didn’t require as many re-stocks. His pace slows to match the few that are left around him, and he’s already wondering how he can finish this quicker to get to help with search and rescue.

But Bucky didn’t even have to be told. Mid-punch, something in the air shifts and a deep shiver runs up the curve of his spine.

Before he even straightens up the sky explodes from the early azure of dawn to a blinding white to a blood-curdling crimson. His body reacts faster than he does, because the speed at which his stomach drops is only rivalled by how fast he was sprinting to your last known location.

He yells names through open comms-- yours, Thor's, Sam's-- turning the corner and immediately feeling the full force of a blast shove him onto his back.

With a groan and the force of his left hand, he presses into his ears to stop the excruciating ringing. He feels someone pull him up– blue, red and white kevlar against bruised skin and he’s already pushing away.

“Sam, where–” he blinks furiously, trying to read what word’s Sam’s got on his mouth because his head is still spinning. “She–”

He hears something about Thor and building and searching and forces himself to look at the force of a multistory highrise that’s collapsed into rubble on the street.

Something about impaled and sacrificed and he feels like vomiting violently, shoving Sam aside to stumble through the dust and smoke, teeth clamping down on his heart in his mouth.

Thoughts of you waiting under rocks, choking while fly ash turned your lungs to rock, suffocating.  Every second of his incompetence is a second you spend wasting away where he couldn't find you.

It takes hours for Thor to give up searching through the rubble. It takes Bucky days.

It took a few seconds for the sky to turn red. It took weeks to turn from crimson to the ghost of blue it still remains.

God of the Night Sky and A Man Too Slow.

Your body is never found, and Bucky never forgives himself. It takes a whole month to be able to look at the night. Some days he hides his face from the moon, afraid of wrath.

____________

When Bucky gets the call, he isn’t exactly sure how to respond. One, because he didn’t even know you had his number memorised and two, he’s not sure how you’ve allowed yourself to get arrested. But it’s 2am and he’s on his motorcycle, on the way to the police station, still entirely confused about what exactly was going on.

“That’s him.” You point, jumping up from behind the bars.

You look lovely– someone’s gotten you out of the battle armour he usually sees you in, and into something that passes as authentically Earth-like.

He makes a mental comment to tell you, but to still be discreet about it. He's not really sure where the both of you stand these days. You've got him agreeing to braids in his hair like a viking, and sitting next to him during team nights. He's got you reading the entirety of Lord of the Rings and going to museums with him to steal back his belongings. But he's not really sure.

Bucky’s eyebrow twitches at the fact that they’ve got you locked up, but you look entirely unfazed like it’s a new restaurant or escape room you’re checking out. Excited, even.

"Hey,” he says calmly to whoever wants to listen, “what the fuck?”

The grin you give him is sheepish and he already kinda wants to laugh, but he fights back a smile.

“Broke two tables at the bar two blocks down,” the officer replies. “Looks like she was going for a third.”

“I promise, I did not mean to,” you swear to him. “I did not realise your furniture would be so weak.”

Bucky looks at the officer wearily. “Had t’lock her up for that?”

Whatever the officer was expecting, it was not Bucky's lack of respect for the law or private property.

“Well– superpowers– we’re not really sure–” he stammers.

You watch the man curiously, while Bucky's eyes flicker over to you. He knows you could bend the bars of the jail cell and walk right out, so indulging them was clearly a choice.

“I’m an Avenger, I’ll take it from here,” he interrupts, making his way over to you.

“I’m gonna need to see some ID–”

“Google it,” he bites back, before turning to you. “Y’okay?” 

“I’m great,” you reply, full of life as if it wasn’t the middle of the fucking night. “It was a lot of fun.”

“How’d you know my number?” He mentions for the guard to unlock the gate, ignoring the swelling in his stupid chest.

“We are friends, are we not?” you ask, a bit confused.  

Bucky can't figure out if he's surprised or disappointed- a good mix of both, perhaps. He's glad you consider him a friend, but something in him aches dully. He positively despises it and how often it's been creeping up on him whenever he sees you around the compound. He was a 100 years old, not some lovesick fuckin' teenager.

“Yeah. We are,” he agrees, turning to glare at the officer who was holding up his phone, eyes darting between it and Bucky’s face. “Could y’move faster? It’s late.”

The guy hurriedly unlocks it and you step out, stretching your arms over your head before waving goodbye to the guy and sauntering off. He watches you go for a second before pressing back a small smile.

“The bar-”

“Tell them to get stronger tables,” Bucky calls from over his shoulder, not even waiting for a reaction. “Send the paperwork to the Avengers office, and put the bail on the tab.”

He finds you outside, arms crossed over your chest while you wait for him.

“Thank you.” You give him a smile. “I forgot that it would be late for you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he waves off. “Wild night, huh?”

He had heard that some of the agents who had shifted here recently were checking out the hubs around town, but he had no idea that you’d be with them. It made sense in hindsight. More often than not, you were seeking recommendations and guides on how to learn what it was like here.

“I’ve seen worse.” Your eyes shine, and for a second he thinks that they even glimmer like starlight. “I did not realise breaking tables would be such an issue.”

“Yeah, we tend to be possessive over stuff,” he scratches his neck, almost embarrassed for his kind. “Coulda kept the cops out of it, don’t know why they had to go through all this.”

“I will have them replaced. Ours will not break, they’re made for Asgardian parties after victories in battle.”

He nods slowly and wonders if a crane would be enough to lift the table into the joint. It was nearly 3am, and he was out here with you in front of a police station, and he can't stop his stomach from fluttering. He wants to punch himself.

“Are you hungry?” you ask suddenly.

Bucky’s head tilts. He definitely had dinner….maybe. Half a leftover burrito and an apple.

“I’m starving,” you add. “I saw this place along the way here–”

Not to rub it in, but Bucky Barnes, smooth player and charmer extraordinaire, blanks. He's about sixty years off his game, and sure, he thinks you’re real pretty and that maybe he’s always wanted to know what it’d be like to buy you dinner and maybe hold your hand? If you were good with that? Maybe even–

“Like a date?” he blurts out and immediately wrings his fingers.

You falter and he wishes he was never born. “A date?”

“Like– getting dinner together,” he tries to remedy. “Breakfast. What time is it?”

“Yes, that is what I asked.” Your head cocks to the side to match his in confusion.

“No, like– like different. Not just dinner– yeah, dinner, but more–” Christ alive, he wishes he could run into traffic, but the road was deserted.

You wait for him to explain a little better where he was trying to get at. He can feel his ears burning bright.

He just shuts up instead.

“Dinner-breakfast, but more,” you test slowly.

“...more romantic?” he tries finally, defeated. “A date. Romantic date– I’m tryin' to ask you out here.”

"Oh.”

The world is very still. He thinks he will hand in his resignation tomorrow and disappear.

He had done his part, embarrassed his mother and every internet poll that deemed him the most suave and mysterious Avenger, and could now die in peace.

“A date it is, then. Breakfast-dinner, but more,” you reply.

Oh. He thinks he’s probably going to combust but you lean over to press a small kiss to his cheek, and now he’s sure he’s going to combust.

“Humans think too much,” you say simply.

"Think I'm more of an exception than the norm,” he mumbles.

"Aren't I lucky," you tease, and tap on the helmet. “Don’t suppose you’ve got an extra?”

Bucky’s eyes fly open, and the blankets get kicked off in a frenzy. His chest heaves as he sits up, rubbing furiously at his eyes.

He knew it was going to be bad, but he didn’t think it would be this fucking insidious. 

He moves to wipe the sweat from his brow but comes back dry. The air is still cold even though he keeps the window shut, and he turns to it to see a thunderstorm taking place outside.

He watches the drops pelt against the window and trees shake violently for a moment, forcing himself to breathe as he rakes his hand through his hair.

Before it clicks, and his stomach drops.

“Fuck,” he hisses, not even bothering to throw on a jacket before bolting outside.

The path that he’s trodden a thousand times before looks entirely unknown, and had he not been reliant on his muscle memory he would have had no clue where he was heading. Inky blue trees, harsh and sharp, and he's sure he's gotten a few scratches on his face already as he sprints through the forest to the lake.

The boulder is there, the carving of your name remains but the hut of sticks and leaves-- it lays strewn across the land.

And the hair tie. The fucking hair tie.

He crawls miserably on his arms and knees, relying on the light from a clouded moon to guide him through every inch of grass. Eyes burning red, he continues to scour until morning breaks with twilight.

6 years he’s kept it with him. 6 years, and it’s gone with the rain.

He lets out a cry, fist driving into the earth, barely met with any resistance.

God of the Night, and Devil of Misery.

_______

The flowers had dried up and left him to rot with them. The lake was troubled on more days than not. He had a ring that was neither entirely yours, neither entirely his and no more than the traces of your skin in his memory.

So this time when the idea appears to him like a snake, crawling and inching up his back to tell him that he deserves it, you deserve it. It would solve everything.

He is no stronger than Eve. He had fallen from grace a long time ago. He shudders just as he did the first time, but now it felt like more reprieve.

_____________

“James,” it greets, hollow like a windchime.

His voice comes out more gruffer than he expects from months of unuse, “Got a minute?”

The light retreats further into the house, away from him. He watches it fade as it travels, unsure of what to do until it pauses, hovering in one spot.

It waits for him, he realises. He slips the beanie off his head and into his pocket, before hesitantly taking a step into the cabin. The floorboards creak under the weight of him the way his own used to months ago. Now they were well-worn and all the corners that made the most noise were identified and memorised. The house and its resident both stayed silent.

Bucky finds Wanda with her eyes closed, palms pressed into her knees as she sits midair, body levitating like she was held up by a marionette.

The room is lit dimly, the only light enough to see Wanda and he understands that the woman he met years ago and the one in front of him now were not the same. Even without his serum, he has a feeling the hair on his body would be standing up, adrenaline replacing desperation and fingers bound tightly into a fist. But even with his senses on high alert, Bucky finds it hard to find a reason to care.

“You found me.”

They gave him back his laptop. He knew the Avengers had eyes on her– but only because she was allowing them.

“What brings you here?” she asks, eyes still closed.

“I need a favour,” Bucky replies, voice unnaturally strong.

“Most do,” she hums, bones cracking when her head creaks to the side. “What is it that you want, James?”

“Got a feeling you already know,” he replies.

“Humour me.”

Bucky’s eyes burn the more he continues to stare. He feels sweat trickle down his back in a clean line. The room felt like it was closing in on him with every pulse of light, crawling into his skin and scraping up and down his bones until–

“I want to bring her back from the dead.”

Wanda’s eyes stay shut but a sick, twisted sort of smile works at the corner of her mouth. “Who?”

“You know who,” he swallows thickly.

Wanda straightens her head till she is sitting pin straight again, eerily firm as if her spine had been replaced with a rod.

“It has been months. Nature would not have been kind to her.”

“But it’s possible,” he says– asks, really.

“Anything is,” Wanda tuts. “But all that time would have eroded away at her.”

“We never found the body." He hates how his voice quivers for a second. “And she’s not from this Earth. That’s gotta count for something.”

“Depends.”

“Can you do it?”

“I can.”

Bucky feels relief flood into his system, an ecstatic sort of euphoria that has his heart lead–

“But I won't.”

And it goes back to how it was. Cold. Bitter. Was this some sick fucking joke?

“Why?” His voice drops an octave.

“Time will heal you. Getting in the way of that is only harmful to you.”

Real fuckin’ rich coming from you, he wants to scream.

“I tell you this because I know from experience.” It’s almost as if she reads his mind. Probably does. “Bringing someone back from the dead is not what you think it is.”

“I’ll handle it. Whatever it is.”

“Can you?”

Bucky wavers, brows furrowing. “Yes.”

Wanda hums, the same smile from before returning to her face. “Your spirit is admirable. But I’m afraid I can’t grant you this wish.”

Bucky feels white hot inside, and like his world crumbles into a dark heaving mess. “Wanda–”

“It’s for your own good, James.” If he wasn’t so full of rage he’d maybe hear the fondness that hid behind a few of her words.

“How would you know?” he snaps. “Vision wasn’t human–”

Wanda’s eyes snap open. Bucky is forcefully shoved a step back, arm jumping up in front of him in a second. For the first time he notices that the light wasn’t shining on Wanda– it was coming from her. Crimson red and pulsating as fast as the blood raced through her veins.

“You think Vision was the first time I’ve lost someone?” Her voice is cold. “You met him, James. You knew his name.”

Bucky’s grown to carry guilt on his back like Atlas. A little bit more is hardly a burden. “This– it’s going to be different,” he says. “She’s not a mutant, she’s a God, Wanda–”

“So you think you can match up to that by playing one?” Wanda’s voice raises. “You don’t get to pick who stays dead. You don’t get to choose. I didn’t. None of us did.”

“I wasn’t there when she died. If I was, then maybe–”

“That doesn’t mean anything. I cannot give you this favour.”

“Then consider it repayment. Of a debt,” he finally exclaims. “You said it. You owed me one. I’m cashin’ it in.”

Days of starvation just so that the kids could eat. If his handlers knew, they’d make him kill them with his bare hands. He gladly accepts fifteen more broken bones just so that the twins are kept together, and even when he goes back under, the sight of their big eyes, too big for their faces, staring at him haunts him in his nightmare.

“I just want another chance.” Bucky’s stare is strong, voice steady. “I’m tired of praying. I’m sick of it. I’ve been begging my whole life for a second chance at everything. You think I want to be here? That I get to be the one that’s still alive?”

The glow around Wanda looks like it should burn her. All consuming and vicious, like blood splattered on a wall.

“Please,” his voice reduces to the strength of a child. “Just try. That’s all I’m askin’.”

Bucky watches as the light slowly dims to a silhouette, leaving him blinking back the burn on his iris. He loosens his fist, knowing later that his fingernails probably broke through the skin of his palm.

Wanda’s chest rises and falls.

She closes her eyes. “Leave.”

He wordlessly turns on his heel. It was stupid of him to hope, he supposes.

______________

Autumn dies for December to grow, and he starts staying inside more than he already does. Snowfall covers the roof and the treetops. He swaps eggs for soup and makes batches large enough to last the whole day. The ground freezes over, and he looks for ways to keep his self-sustaining system going, but trips to town become more frequent.

Sam visits once more, and brings some more things with him this time. Books, a journal, some old box sets of shows. Bucky nods along to the conversation, asks after his family and when the time comes, rejects another offer to come to spend Christmas at the compound.

He accepts Sam’s flowers with more grace than the last time. The door closes, and he leaves it by the couch.

__________

He attempts to rebuild it. Pulls together some stronger branches and heavier stones. A new memorial lays together half-heartedly. Dejected. A little miserable looking.

He stares at it a little too long before one swoop of his arm cracks it in half and leaves it strewn across the grass.

Bucky doesn't try again.

__________

“Did you come up with the constellations?”

It's a stupid question, but he's always curious about you.  

“Hm,” you reply at first. “Not in the sense that you’d think.”

Bucky turns away from looking into the abyss and towards you. His flesh hand continues to trace shapes into your skin as your neck rests on his bicep.

“I didn’t place them in a way that was meant to be drawn,” you reply. “My mother used to tell me when I was a child that the spirits of those I cherished would live on through parts of our creations. For others, it would be through groves of orchards, or rain that corrode caves into mountains.”

Bucky watches the fingers of your free hand dance nimbly, while the other stays tucked between the both of you.

“I was young when I realised that certain lights were brighter when I felt too much for someone. Pain, joy, rage,” you continue, fingertips pointing upwards, “Those stars, satellites– whatever you wanted to call them– they were the ties I had to those I loved. So sometimes, I would move them with me so that every time I looked up, I would see that I had company.”

He tears his eyes away from you and towards where you were gesturing. It’s subtle at first, but then he sees– stars moving faster than they should, darting all around the canvas of the night like runaway splotches.

“Over time, those on earth noticed patterns and called them constellations. I’ve always seen it as my family,” you say, gently dragging a barely lit star from the corner of his eye towards the centre.

“That’s for Thor. Sif.” You take turns to point. “Loki. Fandrall. Hogun. My parents.”

Each seems to glow a little brighter as you call out their name. “There’s one for you, as well.” Your finger drops, finding its way back to comfort on his chest.

Bucky’s eyebrows raise.  

“You’ll have to see for yourself which one it is.” You leave a kiss on his jawline, and he instinctively tugs you a bit closer. “It won’t be any fun if I tell you.”

He doesn’t need to ask. There’s one slightly to your left, that’s glowing a little brighter tonight than the rest. His chest swells, and there's a profound sort of speechlessness that engulfs him. He never really knows what to say around you anyway.

“Really fuckin’ love you, you know that?” he mumbles into your the skin of your temples.

“I’ve got a clue or two.” You laugh and along with you, so does the sky.

___________

Bucky eyes fly open, fingers digging deep into the pillow. Not because of the way his brain was choosing to torture him again.

But the fact that the fucking person from before was back at his door, even though it was the middle of the fucking night.

He lets the first three knocks go unanswered but by the fifth one, he’s ready to unleash the force of the shitty month he’s had into whoever was here to drop off the next box of fucking whatever.

He doesn’t even bother pulling on shoes or straightening out his clothes. Hair wild and untamed and fury in his eyes, he marches down the steps of the cabin with a select choice of words for SHIELD and their stupid protocols.

With enough force to pull the door from its hinges, he yanks the door open, eyes ablaze and mouth set in a scowl.

And the earth stops spinning. 

The absolute wind gets knocked out of him and he’s scared to even blink because this has happened to him before. It’s happened, and his eyes have closed and it’s left and he can’t afford that again–

He freezes when a hand reaches out to touch his bicep. Because that has never happened before. He’s always woken up before this.

At the threshold of the cabin, he falls to his knees. His joints ache the same way they did in church all that time ago when his fury was masked with tears.

“Oh,” he whispers, kneeling before the essence of a God he thought abandoned him.

“Bucky?” you ask, confused and soft, hand reaching out to cup his cheek before lowering yourself to his height.

Bucky makes somewhere between a strangled noise and a strange laugh, head reeling.

“You’re back.” His hands fall at your waist lightly like he’s afraid to disrupt still water.

“What’s–” your sentence is interrupted when your eyes roll back into your head.

Moments later it goes limp, and his reflexes move faster than he can comprehend as he grabs you, body springing into action when his mind gives up on him.

He lets out a sigh of relief loud enough to be a sob, fervently holding up the dead weight and a rhythm returns to the stillness of the night, one he’d forgotten the sound of. If he was even the slightest bit aware, more than grateful, he would see the signs from then. His vibranium doesn’t warm when it meets the sliver of skin as he bunches up your shirt in his grip. It feels like he’s breathing in Antarctic air, not spring drafts.

“Thank you,” he whispers against your shoulder to whoever is listening. “Fuck– God, thank you.”

_______

"It's been a month."

"A week, and that's pushing it."

"You're pushing it," you mumble, tightening the straps of your armour, "I do not know how you live like this. Do you always just stare at the ceiling when you're bored?"

"Sometimes I like to switch it up. Look at the floor," Bucky adds gruffly, to a roll of your eyes. "Maybe the door on the days I'm feelin' real fancy."

"You will just let your TV lay that way? With half the screen missing?"

He shrugs half-heartedly. "Sports season's done. Got nothin' to watch."

"Hmm," you pause a second. "'No' to your offer then. You may take that as my formal reply."

"'No' to Thai takeout later?" Bucky squints out into the twilight through the window of the ammunition room. "Lebanese then?"

You raise your eyebrows, tightening the leather around your wrists. "Goodbye, Barnes."

"Bye," he replies, checking to see if his knives sat securely in his old tactical pants.

You send him a nod before you start striding towards the door.  The jet had landed a while ago, still onloading agents and recruits from the compound. 

Bucky's arm jets out to grab your elbow, pulling you back into him. He's well aware it's only because you let him.

"I'm kiddin'," Bucky laughs at the matching smile on your face. "I'll get it fixed. I'll fix it myself. Just marry me, please. I'm growin' old here, sweetheart. All this questioning's not good for my heart."

"You're already old. And we will talk about it when we get back," your fingers press gently into his chest, and he can feel your touch even through the bulletproof vest. "Your laws-"

"There's no law out there that says ex-enemies of the state and Gods can't marry. Even if there is, it'll be just another one I have to break."

Your eyes twinkle when you laugh. Bucky sees remnants of old cosmos in there, as he always has.

"We'll talk about it when we get back," you promise. "Be safe."

"Can't guarantee that."

"Try not to die, then."

"Always."

He can't remember a time when he wasn't the last one on the jet, owing to goodbyes like this. You never opted to join them, reaching the same way Thor does.

The night was uncharacteristically calm, especially since he knew that miles away you were about to step into another battle. But it's good. The night means you will be at your strongest, and that is what he hopes for.

Bucky allows a few seconds of silence to take you in, skin glowing even against harsh fluorescent lighting and a cool air of confidence around you. You raise an eyebrow at him, because this is far from the first time he has done this. He would never divulge why.

He takes a chance to press a quick kiss to your lips, humming. "I'll get the TV fixed when we're back."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Barnes." You smile, thumb swiping across the dent in his nose, an imperfection in a sea of many. "Thai for dinner?"

"Lemme check my calendar." Bucky takes a step back, feeling his heart constrict in a way that he's gotten used to craving. "I may have an opening."

"Please, don't try too hard."

"I'll have my secretary get back to you."

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. "I love you."

"So, that's a yes then?"

"Get on the plane, Bucky." You sigh. "You already know the answer."

"Love you more." He grins at you, bright and like he's never known sadness. "Catch you later."

____________

In the days that pass, he doesn’t know how to be.

His body leaves him no choice–  staying up all night, waiting for Wanda to show up at the door, fingers burning to take it all back. He keeps the doors locked and windows shut, as if ageing wood would provide any sort of a barrier when it came to her will.

Bucky walks around in a trance, eyes glossy and body stiff like he isn’t sure how much of what he’s seeing is real.

Your body, housed in his old clothes, looks three seconds away from death. He keeps a bucket by the bed from when you cough up dust, the last remainder of old organs. He massages leg spasms, and muscle cramps from your neck.

He keeps a towel close by for the nausea and anything in between as your body fights off the shock of a rebirth. Allopathy is useless when you're a God either way, so he resorts to herbs and roots to alleviate as much as he can.

Your lungs struggle for air at night. He’s already awake, propping you up to make sure you’re breathing better. He rubs at your back in circles the same way he used to do for Steve and finally takes a breath when the wheezing subsidies.

He fervently tells you he loves you every time you slip back under, and wipes at your forehead with a wet cloth to ease the warmth. He’s met with coughing fits and clenched eyes.

Exactly one week from your return, a trip downstairs to gather more firewood for the room and Bucky falters to a stop near the kitchen.

There's a note pinned to the dining table with no indication as to how it got there.

The debt is repaid. This was by your will. Whatever happens next will be by hers.

Every hour, he watches rotting flesh, dissolved muscles and clotted blood crawl out of your mouth. He forces himself to watch. It was his choice after all.

Bringing you back from the dead was never going to be easy.

_________

A week later, the remains of your old body stop exhuming itself. Perspiration beads line your forehead, and he thinks the salt of sweat is your first act of creation. 

Your breath steadies. Nights go smoother. He learns he can live off of two hours of sleep. 

He toys with the idea of telling someone. Sam. Thor, even.  But your lips are bluer than he’s ever seen, even more than when he’d introduced you to blueberry juice pops when the heat beat down on you both in July, and you’d kissed his red-stained ones. 

The longer he stares at you, he dismisses the idea. Something in him says that beyond being something they could accept, they could actively bring a stop to what he was doing right now. 

He couldn’t afford that. Not now, not ever; not when he’s let you down once before already. It’s a secret for now, then. For as long as it needs to be. 

__________

In the days later your nervous system seems to be rewiring itself. The first time he sees you with your eyes open, the plates he’s holding clatter to the floor. 

“Hey,” he whispers, fingers clutching the side of the bed, “Hey, honey. Can you hear me?”

But your eyes never meet his. He slowly follows your gaze to the closed window, eyes glassy and surrounded by strings of red. 

He sees you mouth something, and desperate as he is, he never truly understands what it is before you’re gone again.  

His exhale leaves staggering, head dipping to your arm as he clenches his eyes tight till he sees spots. 

_____________

Bucky starts leaving the windows open. The ones in your room, at least, and only when he's there to keep watch.

It becomes a mission then. The next time you opened your eyes couldn’t be to the desolation he lived in for months. He looks for flowers. Vines. Anything to make the place look less dreary and miserable. He cleans the blinds, and dusts the paintings in the room.

The cells in your body seem to be working overtime– every day there is a little bit less that reminds him of where you came from. Scabs fall away faster than they grow, leaving unbroken skin.

He notices it late. There is only one wound that remains-- a red, jagged scar along your stomach. It looks angry. Heals slower than the rest of them. It is the only place Bucky sees specks of gold instead of bronze when you exert yourself too much.

__________

It takes a good amount of time. He should have anticipated it— the next time you awake, and the next few times after that are only when the sun chases beyond the horizon. 

He drops to your side with questions of “can you hear me?” or “does something hurt?” but each time, something outside the widow holds your attention dear to its chest and unwilling to share.

The moon rays become an elixir more powerful than anything from this Earth. Light almost surrounds you like a cloak, sinking into your skin and drowning in your bones. 

He stays up at night, massaging your arms and your temples, but you are still so cold to the touch he isn’t sure the blood is circulating at all. So he gets more firewood. Makes sure the house is warm all the fucking time.  

Stagnant. Still. Some nights he thinks he can see you looking at him from the corner of your eye.

The second he turns, you lay unmoving as before.

________

He stands labouring over the stove. There's a batch of rich tomato soup, with bread toasting in a skillet nearby. He alternates between wiping down the bowl to serve you in, though you still haven’t eaten, and stirring the soup to stop it from sticking to the bottom of the pan. 

He makes note that he still has to get more gauze from the town, and proper tools to sand down the chairs before he can even think of--

But something interrupts his to-do list. It's so soft, he thinks for a second he's imagining it. But the ladle he's holding clangs against the pot, and he abandons the bowls with such hurry that he wouldn't be surprised if it's in shards.

He races up the stairs, three at a time, his heart is thumping louder than the floorboards creaking.

It’s silent. He can hear his own arm whirring quietly.

He lets out a breath when he sees you haven’t changed positions since he last saw you, and wordlessly turns to head back downstairs to an over-bubbling cauldron of soup. 

"Bucky?"

It’s almost like eternity whooshes past his ears when he realises that he wasn't imagining it.

“Hey.” He drops without a second thought to your bedside, knees scraping against the wood. “Hey. Hi sweetheart. What do you need?”

“Water,” your voice is hoarse and just above a whisper, but you’re looking at him.

You’re fucking looking at him, and your eyes are a share darker than he remembers them being.

He makes a grab for the jug by your bed and holds a full glass to your lips carefully, watching as water treacles in through chapped lips. 

"How are you feelin’?" He hates how shaky his voice sounds, as if he wasn't prepared. As if he hadn’t been waiting.

It takes a second for you to form the word. "Tired."

His fingers brush against your cheek. "What can I do for you?"

You don’t respond, and he watches your chest rise and fall heavily again. You were asleep again.

He bites into his lower lip so hard he can taste the rust of his blood. Moonlight filters in through your curtain and he runs his thumb over the corner of your eye, placing a kiss on your forehead.

It was a start.

___________

Bucky grew up with siblings he outlasted and an absolute wildfire of a friend. It was safe to say the man had more patience than most.

The same conversation repeats three more times over the next few days, and he answers each time with as much tender refrain as the first, begging to know where he can help and what he can do.

“Tired” turns to “I’m tired” turns to “I’m just tired”, and with each he is as proud and hopeful as he was when you talked the first time. 

You begin to eat finally, and he hopes his skills aren’t bad enough to send you to the other side again. Spoonfuls of soup. Bites of bread. A glass of water, and then two. 

“Buck,” you rasp.

And he’s as ready as he was the previous day, with a gentle, “Tell me, sweetheart.”

You’ve already gotten a slice of bread into you today, and you’ve slept through the night. He’s considering this one of the best days you’ve had so far, and that alone is triumph enough to ease the anxiety that pervades him. 

“I was dead.” But this was new. 

Bucky blinks, not sure if he heard you right. Your eyebrows knitted together tells him he did. 

“You were,” he confirms, not daring to breathe. 

“But now…” you trail off, as if you were expecting to wake up that minute. 

His Adam’s apple shifts up and down. “Things changed.”

“How?” you ask, eyebrows pulling together even tighter, and he worries it takes energy that could be used elsewhere.

The muscles in his jaw tighten anxiously. The floorboards press into his knees. 

"You did something?" your voice comes back quietly. 

His silence is enough of an answer.

"How long was I gone?"

"It’s been a while, honey," he replies, eyes never leaving yours. 

Your head turns to face the ceiling, a deep exhale working its way through you. Bucky's eyes drift to the scar on your stomach, hidden under the fabric. Thorny and broken.

"Who knows?"

His gaze shifts back to your face, but you aren't looking at him.

"Only me," he says, voice unwittingly dropping before adding, "and Wanda."

"Wanda," you repeat quietly. "It was magic."

Something familiar sets into Bucky's chest. Heavy, pressing down on his throat and making the bile rise.

"I'll get you more water," he says, pausing briefly to look at you, but you continue to stare at the roof. "I'll be right back."

You don’t have a response for him. As he makes his way to the door, it follows like a shadow. He pauses by the frame to look at you once again, but your eyes have closed.

Bucky watches for a second, swallowing thickly. It feels all too similar to guilt.

__________

Bucky dedicates himself even more vigorously to the house. He finally takes out the cutlery, cleans it up the best he can and wipes down the table every single day.  He spends the day collecting fruits for juices and vegetables for broth. Firewood. Making sure everything is sharp enough to use, and the traps he set up in his initial time here were still functional.

He checks to see if the trees can take the weight of the swing he’s hoping to fashion out of bark. How fast it would take to polish the porch chairs and flooring, and what exactly it would take to do that.

No matter how much he cleans, it isn’t enough to wipe the look on your face from where it was seared into his brain like hot iron.  

A week later he's in the garden, digging up the ground to plant seeds. It's January, and it's still fucking freezing, but he's gonna fucking try anyway.

He's got a hold of seeds of poppy, marigold, daisies and who knows what else, and plenty of fucking time.

"You garden now?"

He looks up in surprise. You lean against the backdoor, no winter coat on even though it's freezing. It flashes in his mind that you look paler than you used to, and he wonders if that will go in time. 

“I’ve always gardened,” Bucky defends weakly, and tries to keep his tone normal. “Just– not well.”

Arms crossed over your chest, you ask, “Has that changed?"

“Can’t say it has, sweetheart." He looks at the mess he's created on the ground. "'M tryin', though.”

The corner of your lip upturns into a faint smile. His stomach twists painfully.

"You're up," he says, a little too late. It came faster than he thought it would. Then again, you weren’t human. You didn’t always listen to the laws of nature. 

"Y'feeling cold?" he adds quickly. 

You shrug, pushing off from the door to slowly take a seat. Your legs dangle off the ledge of the porch, barefoot. Bucky waits for you to swing your legs like you always have but you stay still.

He dusts his hands on his jeans and stands, tugging his jacket off his shoulders and holding it out to you. "Can I?" 

"Go on," you allow, and he drapes it around your shoulders, making sure it isn't likely to slip off before stepping back.

A draft blows past you both without either of you saying a word. Discarding the little shovel on the ground, Bucky chooses to take a seat beside you instead.

"You will feel cold, won't you?" 

"I'll be fine, don't worry 'bout me," he reassures. 

"Seems like you have it covered already," you say, making a motion to imitate the shape of his beard. "Mighty fine mane you've got there, James. You could give Odin a run for his money."

He gives a short chuckle, threading his hands through his hair that reaches down to his shoulders.

He’s finding it hard to formulate words. He couldn’t even tell if his mind was racing or entirely blank.

"You've got grey in your beard now," you observe. It sounds wistful. Sad even, and all of a sudden he’s left realising that he doesn't know how long it has been for you.

"Been a while since I got a haircut." 

Christ, he was drier than a brick. His conversational skills and charm had deserted him along with the rest of his luck. 

You lift your eyes from his beard to his face, scanning from his hairline down to his chin. "You look as handsome as you always have," you say and his heart jumps. "Just a bit..."

Sadder. Tired. Mistrusting.

"Older," you settle on.

He'd grown more wrinkles than he could count, and his skin didn't bounce back as much as it used to.

Beyond that, he smiled a lot less. He spent more time thinking than verbalising.

“You need help?” He hears you ask faintly, head gesturing to the patch of dug-up mud.

“You need to get rest,” Bucky shakes himself out of it. “I’ll get you some–”

“I’ve rested long enough, Buck,” you say assertively. 

He wonders if you did. Bucky remembers what you told him of Asgardian funerals. How your body is set floating along a river, and your soul lifts towards the sky to rest. You never got to have that. He doesn’t even know if they sent an empty log along a cold river.

"Tomorrow?" he delays.  

You look at him briefly before nodding.The ground stays untouched and the sky still greys. Bucky sees you take a few deep breaths, shuddering when a draft of wind blows by. He silently shrugs off his scarf too, and wraps it around your neck loosely.

You simply let him. Minutes pass in silence, and neither of you make any motion to move. 

You bump your shoulder into his. "I see you haven't fixed the TV yet."

A swift exhale leaves him in the form of a laugh. He turns away so that you don't see how his eyes begin to burn.   

"Sorry, honey," he croaks out, "I've been distracted."

The smile you give him is melancholic, and that's enough to dissolve his red eyes from a warning into tears.

_________

Bucky buys every single streaming platform available, and every channel available on cable.

That night he takes apart every single component of the television, wipes it down and puts it back together better than before. He only rests when it's 2am and the sound of late night commercials softly flood the living room.

__________

Bucky takes the guest bedroom, initially, a floor away from you to give you the space you need. 

He then realises it's too far, it's too risky. Sheepishly, he shifts to the same room as you, but makes himself a place to sleep on the floor with blankets and a pillow.

You voice your protest, and even though he’s spent three years curled up beside your sleeping frame, he says his back could use the hard surface now. 

He gets you clothes from town. Sweaters and socks, scarves. Things he knew you used to like and things he always promised he'd get if he had another chance. You take them with a small smile and a thanks. He sees you wear them around the house, and while they're exactly the size they should be, and the colours he knows you love.

There's a nagging feeling in him that they don't sit right. They don't look right. Still, you wear them on the days you can leave the bed. He shows you around the house. The good parts, at least, and pretends like that’s how he’s always lived even though he can tell you see right through his facade. 

He’s there when you thrash around at night. Bucky's up before the minute is even over, at your side and gently calling your name till you jolt awake. He hands you glass after glass of chilled water, rubbing your back in circles till the wave passes. It’s entirely too reminiscent of what you used to do for him, and he hopes the familiarity would do you good. 

Sometimes you tell him what you saw. Darkness enveloping you for hours, holding you close and sliding its vines over you, binding your limbs like rope before you're shoved into blinding light.

“Last I remember was the fight," you say one night, as he wipes the sweat from your forehead. "I cannot tell how much of it was real, it's--"

And you pause and struggle, and he's at a loss for words because you never have been. You've always known what to say. You've always had a thought you wanted to share. 

"Thor told me a little bit," he offers quietly. "If you'd want, I'd tell ya."

You look at him, conflict raging behind drained irises. "I was fighting. I heard them say something about-- there was a building with civilians hiding."

"Yeah, there was," he confirms, voice tight.

"They wanted to-- do something to it." You close your eyes, brows furrowing in concentration. "I told Thor I would get them out before anything happens. We had done it so many times before."

"He said there was an explosion."

The sky explodes from the early azure of dawn to a blinding white to a blood-curdling crimson.

And Bucky was too slow to get you out.

"I don't remember that," you say and his eyebrows furrow. "I remember--"

Bucky watches you hesitate for a second before your hands nimbly move the fabric of your shirt slightly to reveal the outline of the scar, inhaling sharply. 

"I wasn't careful enough. There were civilians I was getting out and someone from behind--"

It dawns in a slow realisation the reason why the scar hadn’t healed yet. Why it stood out from the others that littered your skin. Bucky had thought for this long that you'd died in a blaze, trapped under bricks and mortar. That you had been left suffocating because he hadn't been fast enough, that he wasn't good enough.

"I knew I would not be awake for long. I just wanted to get rid of as many of them as I could."

"The building came down." He swallows the rock in his throat. "We spent days searching through it."

"I think I was gone before the explosion happened."

It makes sense-- the sky shifted all too quickly that day. You were gone before he even had the chance. Your fate had already been sealed. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I should have been there.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. It wasn’t a pretty sight.”

"That's not–" his words come out in a rush, stumbling over each other, insistent. "If I was there--"

"There is no point in punishing yourself," you interrupt his spiral. "It was a choice I made. I would do it again. It was what had to be done."

He swallows thickly when he knows the conversation ends there. 

__________

Some nights Bucky settles on pressing a kiss to your knuckles, and lingers there for a second longer than he should. 

You turn to face him from your place on the bed, looking at him like you've known him for centuries. Some nights it feels like you have.

_________

Bucky builds you a swing. It's a little ridiculous, and it takes a whole week to do it.

But your face breaks into the biggest smile he's seen since you got here, and he can taste the sun on his tongue. The strange feeling in his stomach is alleviated for a moment, and replaced with something closer to pride.

You spend hours on it while he works on parts of the house. He makes sure you've got a blanket with you at all times, even though you’ve never once told him you feel cold.

You ask him questions about everything. Him, the world; like you’re trying to relearn what you’ve lost.

"How long ago did you buy this place?" 

"Nearly two years ago," he replies, paintbrush in hand as he swipes up and down the deck. "Owners hadn't come here in a while and they wanted it off their hands quick, so I made an offer."

You hum, using the balls of your feet to swing yourself higher. "I have always wondered what it would be like to live in a place like this."

Bucky’s painting halts for a second as he fights a smile, but he doesn't respond. The squeaking of the swing stops. He looks over to you, only to find you already looking at him.

"Is this why you bought it?" you accuse.

Bucky returns to painting the wood, face turned away.

"You are far more of a hopeless romantic than I ever remember you being."

He scoffs out a laugh. "You'd'a run away."

"I wouldn’t have." You narrow your eyes. "I have had suitors in the past who've done far worse. You are far from the most embarrassing."

"You laughed when we kissed for the first time," he points out, amused.

Your jaw drops. "That was because I wasn't expecting it. You'd been courting me for months, I thought you were never going to move beyond that."

"I was tryin' t'be a gentleman," he defends. "I didn't know how they do it in Asgard."

"Well, for starters, they don't kiss someone after dropping tiramisu all over them."

He cringes, but it doesn't escape him that memories of the both of you feel like they're accompanied by a light this time, instead of dread. "Could you blame a fella for bein' nervous?"

"I do not know why, you had no reason to be."

He wants to ask if you've seen yourself before. He was damn near pissing himself whenever you got too close to him. The tiramisu was just collateral damage from when you chose to wipe cream smudged at the corner of his lip that night. 

When he lifts his head to look at you, you're back to swinging. Back to your own world. A new one you seem to have constructed for yourself since you came back. Back then he was privy to all your thoughts, no matter how mundane they were.

Right before he goes back to painting the deck, his brain makes a small connection. It's a small detail, but one that holds a lot more weight the more he begins to notice.

Your back curves in on itself ever so slightly. No longer pin-straight. His grip on the brush grows a little tighter.  

__________

February rolls around. Bucky's only managed to work up the courage to hold your hand occasionally when you go for walks.

Fingers laced in yours, he shows you parts of the woods he's discovered that stray from the main path. The shrubs that look like they're alight when the sunset catches them. The trees that have a hole right through the centre, like they've taken a bullet.

You keep him out longer and longer, and by now he’s run out of things to show you. He ends up repeating a lot, but you look glad each time, like you’re learning something new about him each day even though he’s dredged you through the same mud path at least thrice now.

He wants to think that it’s because you like having longer to hold his hand. 

You listen intently, asking questions whenever you could. You let him know what parts you like better, and parts you’re glad he’s left behind, even if it was recent. 

Bucky blushes from head to toe when you pick a flower and tuck it into his hair, and you smile it away with a swing of your hand. 

"You get visitors?" Your mouth moves in tandem with your fingers that weave together a crown from stray leaves and blades of grass. You tell him, even though he remembers, that it was something you learnt from Sif growing up. 

"Sam drops by every now 'n then."

"Do you visit them?" you ask, hands twisting deftly and with skill of someone who’s done this all too many times. "How has everyone been?"

Should he tell you he's been sequestered? That he dropped everything and disappeared overnight because the questions of 'are you fine?' and 'do you want to talk?' became as suffocating as a thick cloud of smoke.

"Last I heard, they were doin' alright." He hopes it's enough.

"I tried talking to Thor," you tell him casually, but it feels like a cold fist clamps down on his chest. 

“And?”

“I couldn’t hear him,” you tell him, just as normally and he’s disgusted that he feels even the tiniest bit of relief. “I couldn’t hear Heimdall either. I know he’d respond if he could hear me, so I can only assume he hasn’t.” 

“You’re sayin’ you’re not able to talk to them?” His voice sounds small.

“I believe I lost the ability to communicate with them,” you tell him, tying the last bit of grass together. “I don’t think there is precedence for when someone comes back from the dead.”

You hand him the crown, and Bucky doesn't dare to meet your eyes. It’s too small for him. It’s closer to the size for a child. 

"'M sorry, honey," he mumbles. It returns to his stomach. The sick, gnawing feeling that he’s tried to obtain salvation for.

"I still have you,” you tell him, “But you were here for this long without anyone. It must have been lonely.”

Truth be told, he never really noticed. It almost seems like he’s forgotten how it felt.

"Hasn't been for a while, now." He squeezes your hand.

"I don't like the idea of you staying here alone.” Your eyes scan his face. "You deserve to be around others."

Bucky doesn't know what it is about the way you say it-- like you're not entirely sure you're here either. Like you aren't real. 

He calls your name, unsure, scared even. You answer with a hum. 

"Are you okay with being here?" It’s too late to be asking this. 

Your face pulls together thoughtfully, but he can't decipher what you're thinking.

"I like spending time with you. Always." 

Your head leans on his shoulder, and you resume the tune you’re humming. Bucky tries not to think about the fact that you haven't quite answered his question.

_________

He wakes up on the ground again, not to your muffled groans or bed sheets being thrown to the ground.

You're not in bed. The window is open. There's scattering downstairs, and it's followed by a strange scent, and for a second he panics.

He scrambles down the stairs, mind already conjuring pictures and images so vile and ghastly--

But all he sees is you in his biggest shirt, one that you yourself once got him as a joke for a punchline he can’t really remember right now.

And you're surrounded by broken pans, bent forks and an entirely indiscernible charred mass on the bottom of a skillet.

"I tried to cook," you admit, "like on TLC."

"And you broke the pan?" he asks, a little stunned, a lot more in love. 

"I did not realise your cookware would be so weak." You try so desperately to hide a smile. "Tried to scrape it off using the fork."

He looks at the misshapen piece of cutlery.

"And what's that?" He slowly makes his way into the kitchen towards you.

"The remnants of a frittata." You hold it out to him.

Bucky takes the handleless skillet from you and looks at the ashes.

"What do you think?" you ask.

Bucky holds it back out to you. "Could use a few more minutes on the stove."

The smile you try to hold back breaks into laughter and his face lights up in surprise. It's the first time since you've gotten here, and the first time in years since he's been graced with the sound.

He bites his lip when you take it back from him, all while still giggling, like he doesn't quite believe his ears.

"I do believe I would fare better at toas-- oof."

Bucky pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you like a weighted blanket. The pan drops to the counter as his head falls to your shoulders.

"I missed you so fuckin' much," he utters desperately into your neck, clenching his eyes closed so tight it hurts.  

"I missed you too," you say softly, arms circling his waist, pulling him closer.

___________

The days start to get warmer. Your skin still stays cool to the touch. It's something he's getting used to. For years he was used to waking up at night to turn down the thermostat, just so that he could stay under the covers with you without burning up.

But while good days increase, there are the ones you spend too feverish to get out of bed. You sleep the whole day, only waking when he brings you food.

March fades the dark circles around your eyes as much as it can, but they never truly go. The scar on your stomach doesn't heal beyond a certain point, and is always ready to turn garish and violent on days you can't get your head to lift.

Bucky wonders if you’ll ever get better. 

Fevers break when the mornings do. You tell him you dream of the same thing over and over. Darkness, holding onto you with the same tenacity as a mother stops a child from running into a flame.

You walk with your shoulders drooped, and always some sleep in your smile. Sometimes he hears you call for your parents, who he knows haven't been around for a few hundred years. He hears Thor's name, and Loki's during nights that are more peaceful.

On days that are good, you spend time helping with the garden and for once, the flowers start growing. Tree bark he can't break into two, you manage with one hand. You watch shows together on the couch, and he massages your head when it's in his lap.

And finally, Bucky shows you the lake when it thaws over. Crystal clear waters let you peer at the little plants growing on the bottom, and the sunlight glows in the ripples.

You notice the engraving on the boulder before he has the chance to divert your attention. When you ask, he tells you about the little memorial and the rain and the loss of the hair tie. 

Your hand squeezes his a bit tighter. He thinks no memorial can hold a candle to that.

You look at your reflection in the water a lot. Bucky sits beside you, skipping stones to see how far it can go, like he did in the harbour as a kid. Steve always used to win, no matter how much Bucky tried. 

"There was a lake by my school when I was child," you tell him. "When I was mad, I used to skip class to go sit there for hours."

“What made you mad?” He chuckles.

“A lot of things. I had too much energy to just sit there, and that was ‘unbecoming of a future leader of Asgard’.” Your face pulls into one of distaste. “I always thought there was more to learn about the world than what their books contained.”

Bucky collects a few pebbles from around him. "Did the lake make you feel better?"

"Always." You take a stone from him to skip across the surface. "Sometimes my friends used to join. Our elders said the water had the ability to remember. Loki used to make faces, and it would always linger for a few seconds before it disappeared. Even after we thought he was gone, I'd see his face there."

Bucky stays quiet, nodding at points to let you know he was listening.

"I used to see younger versions of myself sometimes," you continue, voice distant. "It always surprised me. I thought I used to know what I looked like. It was different each time."

You inch towards the shoreline, leaning forward on your knees. The clear water looks like an open sky underneath you. "I look different now, too," you say. "But I can't remember what I used to look like."

Bucky discards his stones to come join you, leaning down to where you were. The face staring back at him pulls a sick, twisted feeling in his gut. Deep in him, he knows what you're talking about extends beyond immediate impressions. Centuries of being intertwined with the universe had always given you lines and traces that transcended your physical appearance. 

You have always felt like the God of the Night.

Now you have been to the other side and returned, seen things others haven't and still kept intact. While he doesn't have the courage to admit it, he knows in his blood what you feel like. 

He's scheduled an appointment with him many times, but always just missed it.

Now, you feel closer to the God of Death.

"You've always been beautiful. Still are." It's a band aid on a gaping, festering wound.

Even still, you look at him with a smile. "So are you."

Bucky makes the mistake of looking at his visage in the water, and immediately recoils.

"Christ," he grunts at the difference between the both of you. "What a fuckin' mess."

"Oh, it isn't that bad," you laugh, watching him contort his face.

"Easy for you to say, you look stunning." He points to your reflection. "I look like I was raised by wolves."

"You just need a shave," you hum.

"I need a new face."

You leave aside his last comment to propose something entirely new instead, "I could do that for you."

"What? Give me a new face?" he asks and you give him a pointed look. "Oh. Shave my beard?"

"Same thing, no?"

He supposes so. "Alright," he agrees, with a certainty reserved for no one else. 

A small smile appears on your face, even though you aren't really looking at him.

Bucky watches you lean forward. Your fingers dip into the water, disturbing the reflection.

_____

Late evening finds you settled on the counter, armed and ready. "Lot of trust you're putting in me."

"I'd trust you with anything," he says, looking in the mirror to check once again that foam covers every inch of hair on his jaw. "You know this."

"Still," you note, watching him tilt his chin up. "I could do this with a dagger, if you'd like."

"This works fine, thanks."

You let out a laugh, and he finally steps in front of you, satisfied with his part. You swish the razor into water once again just in case, before leaning forward.

The first swipe goes agonisingly slow. Bucky watches your face screw up in concentration as you scrape down his left cheek.

You pull back and make a face. He raises his eyebrow in question.

"You are too far away," you declare, wrapping an arm around his bicep and tugging him closer.

Your legs wrap around his waist to keep him in place, locking behind his back. His breath hitches in his throat the proximity but you appear entirely unfazed, washing the razor again.

"Are you okay?" you ask, keeping one hand on his neck for balance as you get a much better go at his face.

"Yep," he thinks he says. It may just have been a sound.

You could have spent hours there for all he cares. He's too focused on the pressure of your legs on the small of his back and the way he's basically melted into your hand.

"Your eyes have always been my favourite feature," you tell him, blade carefully running down the curve of his jaw. "When you smile hard, there are these lines in the corner. It's like you can't handle being that happy."

He can't tear his sight from you, and from the fact that this is the closest you’ve been in years. You may as well have been telling him utter nonsense, and he'd still find it hard to control his breathing.

"But I have a soft spot for this." You lightly tap the bridge of his nose. He knows immediately what you're talking about. "I will never forget how stupid you were. Throwing yourself in front of danger like that."

"Couldn't let that guy touch you," his voice comes out an octave lower than what it was. "I'd gladly take a few more punches."

"That's why they stopped pairing us up on missions." The corner of your lip upturns, and you swish the razor around in water again. "You were being reckless."

"I'd do it again."

"One scar is enough." You tilt his jaw to see if you'd gotten everything. "I don't enjoy you getting hurt on my account."

Bucky exhales deeply when you get started on the other side. His hands itch to hold your waist, pull you closer like it’s been carved into the strands of his being, but they stay by his side. 

"I tried for so long after you were gone," he tells you instead, to gain a sense of control. "I went to the therapist. I tried talkin' about it. No one got it. It was the same thing over, and over."

How do you explain that it wasn't simply a person. He thought that that was where it ended-- everything in his life had finally culminated. And that was taken too.

"Went back to the roof a month after everything happened," he continues, studying your reaction. "It was s'ppsed to be a clear night. There was nothing in the sky. I couldn't see the constellations. I couldn't see your family-- I couldn't see you."

You listen intently, but never stop working at him. The longer you spent there, the more of his old face revealed itself to you. Worn, and aged a thousand years in a few months, but it was still the still face you swore to love and cherish for aeons. 

"They took all your stuff. Said it belonged to Asgard, they couldn't keep it here. Thor went off grid. All I had was pictures of us and the hair tie you gave me."

You clean the razor off in water, eyebrows furrowing at the information.

"It felt like you were never here. Like I'd just made you up all those years." You can hear the faint trembling in his voice. "But I had memories of you in all these places-- and I couldn't stay. It was easier to move here and start again."

Looking back at him, you realise you've already finished. There was nothing left on his face to clear.

"Was it hard?" you ask finally, letting go of the razor in the water. 

He looks at you, and you know he's struggling to form the right words. He looked like he wanted to scream, rip the hair out of his scalp, punch a hole through the mirror. 

"More than anything.” His voice comes out raw and peeling. 

Bucky watches you look at him for a long moment, and he wonders if he’s said too much too soon.

But instead you kiss him.

His arms find its way back home around your waist, and he feels you sigh against his mouth before your body relaxes, tilting your head to deepen it.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there,” you breathe, forehead leaning against his. 

"Don't," he begs.

You search his eyes for any kind of a message.

He kisses you harder, pulling you flush against him.

__________

Bucky moves into your bed after you threaten him well and good, and he knows you intend to keep your promises.

For the first time since he can remember, he keeps the windows open throughout the night and throughout the day.

It’s foolish, to think he was invincible. That what you had had finally cemented itself as final.  

You both stay in as long as you want. There is no hurry, nothing to get to. You talk a lot more. You begin to tell him sometimes at night that you see glimpses of what seemed like beyond the end.

Gold. Blood of ichor. Warriors fallen in battle go to Valhalla. Trees that kissed the skies, and valleys so green it hurt. Sometimes, in the corner of your eyes, you could see those you'd lost over the years waiting for you, hand outstretched.

No matter how hard he tries, Bucky doesn’t seem to get it. Every time he thought he was dead, there was only jet black silence and crushing pain. Then again, he never truly died.

But he isn’t ignorant. Fevers and fatigue that initially lasted a day, now knock you out for a week. There are times you throw up more than you've eaten, and the dark circles look like abysses.

He worries to the point of his stomach churning. You look like you don't have the energy to be here, even though you kiss him like you do. 

Bucky runs his hands over your scalp and tells you stories of his childhood. What he felt when you moved in with him, how anxiety made space for comfort. He reads you tales from other mythologies and marks the similarities in the stories you've told him over the years.

Each time you come around your smile gets more tired. Your shoulders grow heavier and your skin loses colour.

You still cook breakfast together. You still watch TLC together to figure out the culture on earth because even after all this while, you still maintain that's the best way to do it.

Things could still be good. But more often than not, Bucky wonders if he’s unknowingly surrendered you to a life you do not wish to live. 

_______

"Sweetheart?"

You continue to drag your finger through the water, oblivious to what he's saying. 

He calls your name, and there's still no response. April sees this happening more often, and Bucky's learnt that no matter what he does, it only seems to worsen.

He touches your shoulder lightly and you almost jump.

"It's getting late. Wanna head back?" he asks, because you’ve skipped out on lunch to stay by the shore the whole day. It seems like it’s the only place you want to be. 

"Yeah." You give him a small smile, wiping your hands on your pants.

"Want a hand?" he asks, holding out his.

You grab it, and pull yourself up, giving him a small peck on the lips along the way.

It feels comically normal. He wants to pretend that it is.

"Pasta tonight?" you ask breezily, slipping your hand into his.

Your fingers are ice cold to the touch. He forces back a shudder.

"Anything you want," he promises.

__________

He catches you humming as you water the plants, when you walk with him, while you read from the end of the bed. 

It's the song of my people, you tell him. They used to sing it when everyone was together.

He listens to the tune and tries to commit it to memory, but it changes far too often.

May catches you staring a lot more often. At walls. The trees. The lake is the worst.

On what would have been the fifth anniversary of the both of you being together, he brings you a cake. The both of you share it over a glass of wine, even though it clashes terribly and leaves an aftertaste.

You laugh harder than you have in the last few weeks and he gets to feel triumphant for an evening. 

You chase the frosting on his lips with a searing kiss, and that's that.

“What do you suppose it means?” you ask later that night, arm wrapped around his middle.

“What?” he mumbles, drowsy from a full stomach and good time.

“That I got a second chance and others didn’t?” your voice sounds distant.

Bucky is suddenly very awake.

“It couldn’t be that they weren’t as loved," you continue. "So then what made me different?"

He doesn’t have an answer.

He rolls over to look at you. But you are staring at the ceiling once again.

_________

His unwavering faith that he can learn to live with it feels like it’s eroding. 

Death changes everyone. He knows that before Steve left a few years ago, he wasn't the same Brooklyn-born spitfire. Steve's died a dozen or so times. He was reborn into a different soul each time.

Spring bounds towards you with warmth and life. The grass is greener, and Bucky's learnt there's more to life than just casseroles and toast.

You bring him more flowers to tuck into his hair. He wears them dutifully, and then learns to press them in between pages of books you both buy from old bookshops.

You give him wider smiles. You talk a lot less. 

Bucky learns that silence doesn't have to be filled. He's loved you in the winter, and he loves you in spring.

But there is always a tension simmering under the surface, just out of reach, like the sky reflecting in the lake. 

Sometimes you say things that he can't quite make sense of. Sometimes it's a lot more obvious, and the same feeling of guilt returns to his chest and flowers under his ribs.

So he asks you one day. You're on the couch, head in his lap while he reads a book you've annotated the week before. The only disturbances are when he stops occasionally to ask you why you liked a line, or why you drew a heart next to another.

You're humming the tune he can’t catch. 

There's nothing really wrong, but he knows. He can feel it in his marrow.

“Sweetheart," he calls gently. 

You look up at him. 

"Are you– are you happy?” And he leaves his heart, raw and unprotected on the line.  

You don’t look surprised. Not entirely knowing either.

A beat passes before you open your mouth to speak. 

“I like being here with you. I love you, I always have, and I will always love being here with you,” you choose your words carefully. “But I don’t know if I can feel that anymore. Happiness, I mean. Or sadness.”

Bucky keeps the book down. You don't lift your head from his lap.

“I feel like there’s a void where my body should be,” you continue in a chance to explain, “I feel like I'm made of air.”

“Are you feeling under the weather?” Bucky tries to find a rationalisation. Anything, that he can fix. That he can control.

You slight him a smile. “Not since the last bout.”

He doesn't know. He doesn't want to get it. He’s always felt that he was selfish, that that was ultimately what led to his punishments. This was a whole new level.

“I was born on Asgard. I have always felt like I was a part of the mud and the riverbed. They were a part of me as much as I was, them. I don’t know if that’s still…”

You pause, and Bucky feels time come to a standstill around him. 

“I’ve been reborn here,” you continue. “I don’t feel like anything is mine. I don’t feel like… I am a part of something. Even the night.”

He knew. Though he knows in his dreams he can still feel traces of Brooklyn carved into his bones, it had jaded over time, been eroded by years of waking up in places he couldn't place.

You sit up to look at him. Your eyes have an intensity to it that even the universe couldn't mask. 

“Do you really like who I am now?” you ask finally.

“I love all of you. Every one.” Ever changing, transient.

“How?” you ask softly. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

He swallows thickly and wills himself to ignore the chill creeping into his body. In truth there is so much he wants to say. He doesn't think that as a war-fractured man from the thirties who grew up in bloodshed will really have the sufficient words.

“I just do. Can’t help it.”

Even if you aren’t satisfied with his answer, he will never know it. He has known for a while now that he's been letting you down since the day he walked into Wanda's cabin.

You give him a slight smile. Lay your head back down on his lap. His book remains unread.

It felt like the beginning of the end.

It's a simple decision then. It would have been, for anyone who wasn’t born with a soul as corrupt as his.

One more week that is hard for you to get up from bed, turns into two. One more week that your face morphs into something he can’t quite recognise. He's never wanted to harm someone he loves, but he seems to do a fine job at it.

It's a simple decision, really. But simple didn't mean easy-- God knows he is anything but a saint.

When you see it finally, the fruits of a labour that took far too less time to manifest than justified the time he spent putting it off, the smile that appears on your face is blinding, he wonders how the sun even has the gall to shine.

“Thor,” you breathe out, only seconds before being engulfed in the most bone-crushing hug you’ve ever received.

Bucky watches from the sidelines, fingers wringing and entirely ready to be smithed to ashes.

“I came as soon as I heard,” he breathes into your shoulder. "I cannot believe this."

You pull back, and standing next to Thor gives Bucky a new frame of reference. One that isn't dependent on how you looked the week prior. He doesn't know how it slipped past him, how he hadn't noticed that you looked so different.

“You look wonderful." You grin at the behemoth of a man. "Your hair has grown out once more."

"They can try cutting it off my dead body," he replies defiantly, arms clasping at your shoulders to keep enough distance to study you from head to toe. "You'll have to give me a second. I didn't think this would be true, when Heimdall gave me James' message."

You look over at Bucky whose lips pull together in a tight line. 

He looks embarrassed. Unsure. Afraid. Guilty, and prepared to be berated for how long it took him. 

"It's true," you reply instead, giving him a smile. "Here, in the flesh."

Thor squeezes your shoulder once more, and laughs the same laugh he's always had around you. Loud, boisterous and entirely free. 

"The others will be thrilled. Sif, Hogun-- you have no idea how the past two years have been. There is so much to catch you up on."

Bucky knows. The fact that you're standing there today is living proof that he knows so well.

“I cannot wait to meet them." The corner of your lips upturn wider at his enthusiasm. "I've missed them terribly."

"We did not get to give you a proper farewell. Your welcome back will be a thousand times better," Thor says brightly. "We can return as soon as you say the word."

You look to Bucky, not for permission, but as a question he's known has been awaiting him a long time.

"Ready?" you ask softly.

He knows you didn't have to ask. That if you'd left him there and never returned, he'd deserve it and worse.

But you're you-- patient and kind. And he thinks that he can try to start redeeming himself.

__________

Turns out he wasn't wrong. Asgard really is too grand for a fella like him.

It is opulence-- gold and towering heights that bleed the love of its citizens and a history richer than words can contain.

Thor is smart. Aside from Heimdall, who greets you with the hug a father gives a child who's been away for too long, no one knows of your appearance until you are ready.

You get a few days in the tower to yourself, to breathe in the air that grew your lungs and touch the marble you've split your head open against in the past. The help are sworn to secrecy, and no one knows who Bucky is anyway except as the man who has been specifically allotted to the same room as you upon your request.

It doesn't take long for your face to pick up. Your skin comes alive with a vibrancy he didn't think he'd see again. You sleep sounder at night, and you eat more than you've had the appetite for in the last few months.

He trails behind you and Thor initially, not wanting to eavesdrop into conversations he has no place being a part of.

But you grab his hand, lace your fingers in his and tug him along as if to say that this is his home too.

He sees what you mean when you say that you are connected to the land. Clothes on Earth have never fit you right. Silks from Asgard decorate you like you are one in the same, like it flows from you.

_________

Reunions are a tearful affair. Lots of hugs are exchanged, punches to the shoulder, and kisses to various parts of your face.

“You have been alive for months, and we are just now learning of it,” Sif holds your hands in hers. 

“It took me a while to recover.” You give her a small smile. 

“We would have come as soon as you called,” she continues. “You did not have to heal alone.”

“I wasn’t alone.”

Eyes turn over to Bucky, and he’s suddenly very aware that the clothes he’s been given are too rich for him, too grand. He feels small, like they drown him out.

Despite what he’s saying, he feels as though he has deprived you. He knows that he has, and he has no one else to blame but himself. 

“Thank you,” Sif says instead, taking him by surprise. “We will remember this.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replies weakly.  

__________

It takes days to meet the closest of your friends, until they decide they had their fill. Bucky is slowly introduced to all of them. Boisterous and loud, most greet him with a wide appreciation. Others are less quick to warm, and he gives himself no room to blame them either. 

Upon insistence, he joins you for your welcome back dinner, and gets a seat right beside you. 

Your hand holds his the entire night, squeezing tighter when something makes you laugh, or when someone is particularly embarrassing.

When there is a lull in the conversation after hours, sly grins are exchanged.

"So, this is the one you raved on and on about." 

His eyebrows quirk in amusement.

"I did not rave," you huff. "I simply informed you--"

"For hours. Days even,” they drag on. “A great warrior from earth with eyes that could rival storms--"

Bucky chokes on his wine. You award your friends with several curses and glares.

"Long hair past his shoulders. Oh, and arms to die for--"

You take in the way his face has gone red, all the way up to his ears. You laugh and grip his hand tightly with an unabashed shrug.

"I am only glad that that's all you remember," you joke.

He thinks he should be buried in the garden for his sanity.

_________

Walks around the castle become increasingly common at night. You are mostly left undisturbed, and you take the opportunity to show him everything you've ached to.

Where you've learnt, where you first scraped your knee. The first arrow you shot. Where your parents met. The first and last time you cried over a friend gone astray.

He can't fathom why he ever thought he wouldn't be ready to know this. As if knowing more about you would cement the fact that he was lesser than.

“You look ethereal,” Bucky tells you one night, honest and true.

You look at him, a bit taken aback. There was nothing particularly different about you this evening. In fact, you’d chosen to stay away from festivities today to lie around the gardens with him, citing a headache.

“I should have said yes earlier,” he continues. “You belong here. It shows.”

A laugh leaves you as an exhale. “It feels different.” You run your fingers through his hair. “I don’t know if it would be the same if I brought you here years ago.”

“Different how?” Bucky closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of your touch.

“I don’t know,” you tell him. “I am not sure it is what I remember it to be.”

You don’t say anymore. Bucky doesn’t ask. 

He lays with you under a clear night sky, and your fingers deftly move the faint lights in the sky to mimic shapes of fishes and hunters. 

He notices the sky here, too, has taken the same fate as it has on earth. Not as full as it could be, always just a little less bright.

He assumed it would change when you came back. He assumed it would change when you came to Asgard.

The sinking feeling in his stomach reminds him of what he already knows is going to come.

_____________

There are nights you are dragged off by your friends for things that don't include him.

You shoot him a sorry smile and he tells you to just go with steady reassurance.

Bucky takes to exploring. He's been given robes to blend in. They always fit in a way that's too soft.

He looks at statues erected, memorials in place for those who've given up their lives for a bigger cause. He spots your name in there as well, as if they've not yet entirely sure that you're back. He spends hours at the library, reading up on things he couldn't find on Earth. Where heroes slain in battle actually go, what it's like over there. Stories of when they are brought back. None of them end well.

Thor finds him, and introduces Bucky to Asgardian mead that he swears got Steve tipsy. Bucky’s had a rough couple of years. He’s in no place to turn down a drink. 

He remembers what it's like to be 21 and drunk again and like nothing bad can ever happen.  When you choose to join in with them, Bucky finds he’s a lot braver and a lot smoother with liquor flowing through his veins. 

Stumbling through tower hallways, giggling and stealing open-mouthed kisses in the shadows like a bunch of teenagers until he has your back pressed up against the bedroom door. 

“Eager?” you breathe out when he nips at your neck, hands scouring every inch of you he can find. 

“What gave it away?” he mutters, pulling away to look you. 

Wild eyes and equally untamed hair, and there is a light in his eyes that outshines supernovae. 

“I love you,” you tell him, and it’s a startling moment of clarity in the middle of a juvenile hour. “I hope that always remains with you.”

Before he can respond, you thread your hands behind his neck and steer him towards the bed, mouth never once leaving his. 

________

Another solitary night, and it's by pure accident that he ends up retracing his steps to the first place he was introduced to in Asgard. He wonders how much of it was intentional, his conscience forcing him to a reckoning long awaiting him. 

Heimdall is there as always, standing tall with a grace that is still threatening. Bucky is not a fool-- he knows he can sense his presence.

Still, he looks only for a moment before making leave. 

"I hear it was magic that brought her back," Heimdall voices.

Bucky pauses in his tracks.

"Yes," he says, like he’s forced to respond.

"Are you aware of what it takes to bring a body back from the dead?" Heimdall asks, tone still. "Cells are broken and reattached if they do not malfunction. The brain is attacked with sensation after being dormant for months. The heart pumps degraded blood through vessels that have collapsed."

Bucky feels bile rise to his mouth at a memory that seems so far away. Enough has happened since.

Heimdall looks at him, steel cut eyes boring into his. “Our ancestors have tried this for centuries,” he says slowly. “It has always ended the same way.”

Bucky keeps silent. Wonders if the God can hear him swallow the lump in his throat– probably can.

“Tempering with fate has never fared well.”

“I’m not trying to play with fate,” Bucky finds himself moving on its own accord. “If this wasn’t supposed to happen, it wouldn’t have. I am not a God.”

Heimdall stares into his soul and Bucky feels suffocatingly exposed. “The separation between divinity and mortals is thinner than you may imagine.”

“I have no interest in crossing it.”

“Haven’t you?” Heimdall’s eyes flicker over to the direction you were last going in. “When your will supersedes reality– what else do you call it?”

“Luck.” His voice comes back stonily.

Heimdall gives him a wry smile. “No such thing.”

Bucky’s palms feel clammy, his stomach twisting into knots.

“Your grief is natural. But do not let it overpower your love,” Heimdall adds. “I am sorry you had to go through this. I'm afraid sooner or later you will have to see that you cannot disrupt the natural order of things.”

"Why?" His voice cracks and he curses himself.

Heimdall's eyes soften. "There comes a point where your love for someone becomes indistinguishable from hurting them. Your intentions are noble, but you already know where you stand."

Bucky quietly turns on his heel and leaves, but the conversation remains heavy on his mind for days to come.

_________

The first time you fall sick, really sick, like you used to be on Earth, Bucky watches from the sidelines as various people tend to you. Those with divinity at their fingertips, those with herbs and concoctions he’d never heard of, others with tools and prayers and everything. 

They try everything. It takes you a full week to recover.

Bucky sits, emotionless by your bedside, and feeds you from a spoon, food that your friends swore you grew up loving. 

Asgard was supposed to work. Being here was supposed to work. No one knows what to do, except to wait it out. As your fever quells and Bucky watches you open your eyes for the first time in a few days, everyone breathes a sigh of relief.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says quietly from your bedside. “How can I help?”

The smile you give him is tired. He gives you a small one in return, and leaves a kiss on your forehead. 

It feels all too familiar. 

God of the Night and the Devil of Cursed Fates.

_________

Thor teaches him the song, the one he caught you humming for months. It sounds different to what he remembers you singing.

He watches you thumb through titles in the Asgardian library, looking for a book of wildlife to show him. It only takes a few seconds for you to hum under your breath again, but Bucky is quick to ask this time. 

“Oh.” You blink. “I may have remembered it wrong.”

He tilts his head at you, but you go back to browsing through library books.

___________

Nights in bed, he spends tracing up and down your arm. He's full from a feast, and he's watched you dance around a courtyard with spirit and joy, and for the first time in years he feels like he can breathe.

You drag him along with you, and while he may have been quick on his feet in the thirties, Bucky was significantly older. You don't seem to care. You laugh like nothing has ever worried you before, and he finds it infectious.  

"D'you s'ppose we'd have been married by now?" he asks, breaking the quiet.

"I remember turning down your offer," you say, the corners of your mouth pulling upwards. "So, who's to say?"

Bucky's face breaks into a smile, one that looks particularly incredible in the moonlight. "You said I knew what the answer was already. Looks like that leaves the ball in my court."

You look at him, a little endearingly, and as he's come to expect, a little sad.

"I think we would have," you hum. "But you wouldn't have survived wedding festivities here."

He scoffs, rolling onto his back and feels his stomach ache dully. "Barely holdin' on now as it is."

You pull closer to him, fingers dancing across his chest. "Why didn't you try to find someone else?"

He exhales, sharper than he intends. "Didn't wan'to," he mumbles.

"I'd hate to think you didn't try to find others who loved you," you tell him, brows pulled together, "You have so much of it to give. It'd be a shame."

"Didn't see the point." Bucky hopes he doesn't sound as sharp as he does in his head.

"If something were to happen tomorrow, and I am no longer here," you begin and he wants to beg you to stop talking about this, "It would break my heart if you didn't go on with life as you were meant to live it."

"This is how I'm meant to live." He sounds pathetic-- obsessed, and entirely dependent but he isn't sure you know. "This is it. This is the best it's ever gonna get for me."

You look at him, eyebrows knitted. Your thumb caresses his jaw, running across the sharp curve.

"You deserve more," you say gently. "You do. Life has been unkind, but you will always deserve more."

You’re doing it again. Preparing him. For the inevitable he knows is looming on the horizon. The one he saw in Heimdall's eyes.

Still, you notice that it is too much for him, and you break the tension with a smile.

Outside the window, the sounds of a party continue on. You would be out there too, if he hadn't noticed the slow in your movements and the dip in your energy. He instead gave his lack of stamania as a reason and asked if you would join him in the room, for which you shot him a grateful look.

"You never gave me a ring," you remind instead, voice teasing.

Bucky looks at you wearily before silently getting up from the bed. 

You sit up in confusion, watching him trail across to the wardrobe and pull out the clothes he was wearing on his first day here.

He shuffles back into bed and turns to you, holding out his hand in a request.

It takes a second but you give him yours, and he silently slides a ring onto your finger. Even in the darkness it glitters like it’s made of light.

"I've had it for ages," he tells you. "Woulda given it to you quicker if you'd just said yes the first time."

You laugh loudly, and hold his face in yours before kissing him hard to the sounds of a fading party.

__________

The effect wears off gradually. It goes the same as it does in the cabin. 

You begin to space out visits. Stay in for a day or two, which increases as time passes. Though the castle help are ever gracious and at your beck and call, you send them away in exchange for quiet nights in.

Bucky wipes your forehead with cool cloth. Feeds you nectar by hand and tells you of everything he's learnt since the time you've arrived there.

You begin to look sick again, and miserably, he does not know what to do. You've been attended to by the best of medicine that the nine realms have to offer. You've spent nights with your friends, drinking in joy and embodying love.

But you are dying. You have been since you came back, and he can no longer choose to look past it in hopes for a remedy.

He looks at you like you've given the world the light it bathes in, and wipes your perspiration with his thumb.

You smile back at him in your sleep, and he lets that slow the march towards the end.

_________

One of the good days, you lead him to the lake. The one where water remembers. You point out faces. He discerns them to be some of your friends a couple of hundred years ago.

He follows as you walk along the banks, letting you show him yourself through the years. Some streaked with tears, others with joy so infectious it has his stomach doing flips.

"That is the last time I came here," you point at the last one. "Two months before it happened."

He remembers the trip. He thought he remembered how you were back then, that he'd etched into the crevices of your mind.

When he looks down, he sees a different person. Your face is light. The weight of circumstance does not weigh you down.

You were right when you said you did not recognise the person you were.

That night in bed, he holds onto you tighter than he has, no longer afraid of causing more damage. He has already done the worst, and you've taken it without a word.

“Bucky,” you call.

He doesn’t trust his voice to answer, so he just makes a noise.

Your eyes meet his intently and he knows. You do not have to say a single word to him. 

You’ve made a decision. It was your will, as Wanda had told him all those months ago.

“I'm sorry,” his voice cracks. “I'm so sorry. It was so selfish.”

“It's okay,” you press a palm against his cheek and shudders from the cold.

“I love you.” His eyes burn, but he forces himself to take more of you in. “I love you so much, I'm sorry. I just wanted a second chance.”

“I know.” You smile but your voice is sad. “I know. I understand.”

“I don't know how you aren’t angry at me." I don’t know why you stayed.

You look him in his eye, giving him no space to run. "I would have done the same. If I could, I would have done the very same thing."

He chooses to believe that, despite what Heimdall has told him. If he tries, he can find heat in the frigid veins.

"But we are simply delaying the inevitable, my love." You press a kiss to his forehead. "I no longer belong here. I am not who I was. I doubt I will ever be."

He loves every version of you. He already loved, and he will always learn to love whoever you change to be.

"I know it is hard, but I have to go," you tell him softly.

His eyes burn and his head stings.

"I grew up with friends I loved, and a family that loved me. My life was good," you tell him. "I didn't realise how much I wanted to give that forward until you happened. I will always love you for that."

Bucky kisses you till you can't breathe and his tears mix with yours.

Till the morning breaks and you have to tell everyone of your decision, he tells you over and over again a tale you already know. Everything he's ever felt. Everything that’s happened in the last few months– his revolving door of therapists and all the movies he’s watched and all the bakery foods he thought you'd like.

You listen, and you tell him stories he memorises to heart. You are still dying. 

But this time he is there, and in that lies his true second chance. 

________

A month later, and not a day before that.

You pass away quietly, surrounded by people instead of rubble. He holds your hand throughout, and for long after even once your chest stops rising.

The Asgardians let him stay for as long as he wants, still and quiet. No one says a word as he presses a kiss to the crown, leaning his forehead against yours for as long as the universe permits.

The funeral goes by in a haze. Everyone gathers, even after such short notice. No matter how much time he had to prepare, the air was thick, and he swallows down his discomfort.

A gentle breeze whispers through the columns of the great hall, carrying with it the soft, mournful melodies of Asgardian lyres and flutes.

In the center of the pyre, you lay, ethereal even in repose. Around you, night-blooming flowers bloom alongside, as if the sky itself was paying its respects.

Thor recites the ancient eulogies. With reverent hands, they guide the vessel into the river that flows through Asgard.

As the vessel drifts away, a hush falls over the assembly. Just before reaching the edge of the waterfall, arrows shoot fire onto the wood, letting the flames consume the casket. Bucky holds back a cry. 

Thor hits the staff, and the casket continues onward instead of falling off the edge. Within a flash Bucky sees an orb rise above you and shoot off towards the sky.

Thousands of lights are let loose into the sky. He closes his eyes, says a few words no one will know except you, and lets go of the soul orb given to him.

And that was it.

________

Bucky looks at the last of his belongings, tied tightly together. 

There were a few things he was allowed to take with him, things that belonged to you while you lived here. He's grateful more than anything, that he's not relegated to photos.

He was made to stay a few more days in Asgard while everything was completed. Though the people were lovely, and he's more than glad he came, he knows that this was where this ended.

He exhales, looking back at the place where he spent the better part of three months.

"You will be alright?" Thor asks, walking with him to the courtyard.

He shrugs. It was still fresh, but the utter despair he had felt the last time had been replaced with a quietness.

"You?" he asks in return.

Thor smiles, and claps his back and Bucky is forced to take a step forward.

"It will be an honour to remember her," he says, and for a moment, Bucky feels a sense of peace at his words. "You are always welcome here."

A small laugh leaves Bucky in the form of an exhale. "Don't be a stranger, Thor."

The God summons the Bifrost and the force is enough to make Bucky hold his hands up to his face.

"I'll see you around. Thanks for everything." His lips pull together in a tight smile.

Thor takes a second, but then says, “You will be alright, James.”

It’s reassuring, he thinks. Bucky nods and turns, taking a step towards the bridge.

"Wait," Thor calls loudly, "I almost forgot."

He turns to him in confusion, and a list of possibilities running through his head.

"She told me to give you this," he says, "She used to carry them around for us."

From around his wrist, he pulls off a hair tie and holds it out to him.

Bucky takes it, a little stunned.

________

Two months pass.

Bucky stands on the threshold of a door that is foreign to him.

His head falls, but his arms raise either way. Two swift knocks and he takes a step back. He looks around nervously, hands stuffing into his pocket. His car lays at the end of the long driveway, ready to leave at any given moment.

For a second, he thinks about making a run for it. But the door swings open and Bucky's eyes quickly dart up.

"Hey," he says, voice coarse. "You got space for one more?"

Sam looks at him in initial surprise, but it fades to softness when he notices the shape the man is in.

“C’mon, Buck,” Sam says softly. “We’ve got you.”

Bucky lets out a staggered breath, and leans over to pick up his backpack that Sam's already beaten him to.

He takes one good look at the sky. Dark, clear and finally returned to the way it had been for centuries.

You glanced up, narrowing your eyes at him, not finding any solace in his self-deprecating humour today. “No, you’re not, James.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he gave you that lopsided, charming smile, the one that always made your heart flutter— even when you were mad at him.

“Alright, my love,” you closed the tap. “Bath’s ready.”

Bucky stood slowly, groaning as he stretched. Before you could move away, he pulled you back toward him. 

“Come take a dip with me,” he murmured. 

You looked up at him. “I drew this bath for you—”

“Please,” he interrupted.

You hesitated, only a moment, before nodding. “Alright,” you said. “But don’t think this means I’m letting you off the hook for almost dying.”

He gave you a faint smile as you undressed.

The water enveloped you in warmth as you both sank into the tub. Bucky settled behind you, his legs bracketing yours, arms wrapping around your waist. You leaned back against his chest, your head resting beneath his chin.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Your fingers absentmindedly traced his metal arm, feeling the ridges of the plating.

You closed your eyes, but the memory of his bloodied face lingered in your mind. The fear you felt when he walked through the door earlier that day—bruised and battered but alive—still held onto you.

Bucky’s lips pressed softly to the back of your head, pulling you from your thoughts. “You’re quiet today,” he murmured, his voice soothing your worries

You swallowed hard, finger frozen on his arm. “You just really scared me tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, arms wrapping tighter around you.

“Just… be more careful, please?” you said quietly. “There’ve been too many close calls lately. If something happened to you…” Your voice cracked as you drew in a shaky breath. “If I lost you, I don’t think I’d know how to put myself back together.”

“Don’t say that,” he said, grip strengthening on you. “Don’t even think about it.”

You tilted your head back, resting on his collarbone. “I mean it, James,” you whispered. “You’re everything to me.”

“You’ll never lose me,” he said, his conviction absolute. “I’ll always come back to you, no matter what.”

“You’d fucking better,” tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you managed a small smile. “Or I’ll find a way to drag you back myself.”

Bucky chuckled softly. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”

“Good,” you said, snuggling closer to him. “Maybe that’ll keep you in line.”

He kissed the back of your head again. The water lapped gently around you, the warmth easing the knots in your muscles, soothing the subtle throb in your heart.

After everything you’ve both been through, you were just happy he was here— alive.

•

Somewhere in a distant reality…

In this universe, Bucky Barnes didn’t cry at your funeral.

The rain came down in unrelenting sheets, soaking through the black suit he wore, but Bucky didn’t shiver. He didn’t flinch when the first heavy shovelful of dirt struck your casket, the dull thud echoing in his ears like a death knell. He stood apart from the others, an immovable statue at the edge of the grave, his hands limp at his sides, trembling ever so slightly— His face might as well have been carved from stone.

The sound of weeping surrounded him—your friends, your teammates, people you had saved. Each sob seemed to pierce his skin, sharp as broken glass, but still, Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He didn’t cry.

Bucky didn’t cry when the ground swallowed you whole.

He didn’t cry when Pepper, eyes red-rimmed and brimming with tears, rested a firm hand on his shoulder. He didn’t cry when Sam placed a folded flag in his hands, whispering, “She was a hero.” He didn’t cry when Clint, voice hoarse, muttered, “She saved so many lives.”

He didn’t cry when Tony, uncharacteristically subdued, raised a glass to your memory that night, his hand trembling just enough to make the liquid ripple, Bucky stayed silent. He stared at the drink in his hand until it blurred into nothing.

But when he sat in the shadows of his apartment later, something deep inside him twisted.

He couldn’t stop replaying your death in his mind. Your final words, whispered through cracked lips and choked breaths, were for him. “You’re going to be okay, James.”

You had died saving them— saving the world. You had grabbed the infinity stones away from Tony, you had snapped so he didn’t have to. You did it because you couldn’t let anyone else make the sacrifice— you did it because Morgan needed a father.

But Bucky needed you.

And you were gone.

He had no more tears to give. He had shed them in the days leading up to your funeral, in suffocating quiet of the aftermath. He had cried until there was nothing left inside, until grief turned into a cold, sharp knife that carved your initials into his chest and refused to let him rest.

So he didn’t cry anymore.

But when the world fell away—when the comforting murmurs of others faded and he was left alone in the silence of the apartment you had shared—something inside him broke.

Bucky didn’t cry anymore, but that didn’t stop him grieving.

Bucky grieved like a soldier.

It was disciplined, bordering on mechanical. He scrubbed your presence from the apartment with clinical detachment, packing your things with military precision. Your clothes disappeared into boxes he refused to label. Your toiletries vanished from the bathroom like they had never been there.

He didn’t touch the photos, though. He left them right where you’d placed them. He didn’t move the jacket you always left draped over the back of the chair, didn’t even bring himself to wash the cup you’d left on the counter.

At night, when the apartment grew unbearably still, he would sit in the dark and trace his fingers over the curve of your handwriting in the little notes you’d leave him—Don’t forget milk! He would fiddle with the frayed fabric of the worn shirt that still smelled faintly of your vanilla perfume. He held it in his hands for hours, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Every mission after that was a blur of adrenaline and violence. As soon as he got pardoned, he threw himself into the fight with reckless abandon, his mind a haze of desperation and anger, his body moving like a machine, like no part of him remained human.

He fought like a man trying to outrun himself.

He didn’t care if he made it back, didn’t care if he took a bullet—or fifty. Every blow he took was nothing compared to his own pain. 

But nothing— none of the wounds, none of the cuts he sustained— brought him closer to you.

And when the fighting was done, in between missions when the world didn’t need him, he disappeared, abandoning your shared apartment because it made him think too much of you. He retreated to a remote cabin deep in the woods, a place so far removed from humanity where no one could find him.

No one, except for Stephen Strange.  

—

It had been nearly six months since your death when Strange appeared on Bucky’s porch, his portal crackling in the fresh mountain air.

“Go away,” Bucky growled, not bothering to glance up from the knife he was sharpening. He had gone hunting again, determined not to rely on anyone else for his survival.

Strange ignored the warning, stepping through the glowing portal and onto the weathered wooden planks. His expression was grim, his tone desperate. “James Buchanan Barnes.”

“What do you want?” Bucky’s voice was rough, his patience worn thin.

“It’s not about what I want,” Strange replied. “It’s what the multiverse needs.”

Bucky finally looked up, his blue eyes still sharp but exhausted. He’d been running on empty for months now. You weren’t there to steady him, to breathe life into the fragile space beneath his ribs when the nightmares were too much to bear. You weren’t there to wake up next to him. You weren’t there to pepper him with kisses when he thought he wasn’t good enough. You were gone.

“The multiverse can save itself,” he muttered, turning back to his blade.

Strange’s expression softened, but only slightly. “If it could, I wouldn’t be here.”

Bucky let out a scoff, his hands gripping the sharpening stone. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

“I wish I had,” Strange said quietly, his words landing like stones thrown into water.

The desperation in his voice made Bucky pause. He set the knife down with care, leaning back in his chair to glare at the sorcerer. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Strange wasn’t the type to hold back words, but even he seemed to hesitate. And then he said it—the name. Your name. The one Bucky hadn’t heard in weeks.

“Don’t,” Bucky snapped, feeling like an arrow had struck his chest.

Strange pressed on, undeterred. “A version of her exists in another universe. But she’s… no longer her.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

With a flick of his hand, Strange conjured an image: glowing strands of the multiverse weaving together, spinning until a vision appeared. 

It was you—but… not you. Not his version of you. 

Your face was twisted, your body cocooned in violent energy. Behind you, planets crumbled, swallowed by the raw power radiating from you.

Bucky reached out, his hand floating near the image that magic had willed into life.

He couldn’t fully grasp it—this alternate reality where you were alive, suffering, destroying. It didn’t make sense, how this could exist. 

You were gone. You died in his arms. 

The heart that beat for him— he felt it stop beneath his fingertips. 

How could he possibly wrap his mind around this? That a fragment of your soul—some version of you—was out there, breathing, enduring. 

Alive. 

His throat tightened as he tried to speak, to force out even a single word, but he choked on his own tongue.

The multiverse. Or whatever Strange had called it. A few years ago, he’d have laughed it off as some nonsense, he wouldn’t’ve believed it. But after being snapped out of existence and then willed back into it by a handful of glowing galactic stones, Bucky Barnes, man out of time, knew better. 

Now, he’d believe in absolutely anything. Especially if it meant he was believing in a world where you still existed.

“She’s become the Catalyst,” Strange said, his voice laced with dread. “A being of grief, capable of destroying entire worlds. If she’s not stopped, she’ll collapse the multiverse.”

Bucky stared at the image, his chest tightening. Was this really you, destroyer of worlds, of universes? 

You couldn’t be capable of this. 

You were kind, you were incapable of harming an innocent soul. He remembered the day a poisonous spider had wandered into the room. You refused to kill it, carefully guiding it out to the garage.

But now, as the memories came flooding back, doubt began to settle. 

He had seen glimpses of another side of you, when you were alive. The fiery rage that consumed you after losing an old friend. The anger you brought into battle, wielded like an iron fist. It had been terrifying—a force of nature that no one could stand against. It was how you wielded the infinity stones long enough to do what needed to be done.

Now, looking at this image Strange had conjured, he wondered if that force had finally consumed you.

“You want me to go after her,” Bucky said flatly. He was certain of it. 

“I want you to stop her.” Strange nodded. “Talk to her. You’re the only one she might listen to.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

Strange’s gaze was unyielding. “Then you’re the only one who stands a chance at killing her.”

The words hit Bucky like a hammer to the chest. He turned away, gripping the porch railing until his knuckles went white. “I can’t lose her again.”

Strange stepped closer, his voice soft but resolute. “She would want you to do it.”

Bucky’s voice rose, his eyes filled with tears he would not let Strange see. “You don’t know her like I do.”

“No,” Strange admitted. “But I’ve seen what happens if no one stops her. Entire universes will fall. Countless souls will die. If you won’t do it for her, then do it for them.”

—

Bucky didn’t sleep that night. He sat on the edge of his bed, the room blanketed in suffocating silence, broken only by the occasional creak of his wooden single bedframe as he shifted nervously. 

In his hands, his gun seemed to glow under the moonlight filtering through the window. 

He turned it over and over, fingers brushing the worn grip, the faint scratch on the barrel— one he remembered you making during a standard recon mission. You had scratched it, accidentally catching it with your knife. 

You apologised profusely, and he said it was no big deal. 

He then teased you for being too attached to your weapons— how your knives had little personal inscriptions, how you had cared for it like it had a soul. He, on the other hand, said that he felt indifferent to his weapons— said he didn’t want to get too sentimental. 

You laughed, saying he was too dramatic. "It's just a tool, James. You’re the one who decides what it’s for."  

Now, he wasn’t so sure what he wanted to use it for. 

Strange’s words looped in his mind like a broken record: You’re the only one who stands a chance at killing her.

The thought of pointing a gun at you made his heart drop. 

He once promised to protect you, to be your safe haven. And now, a sorcerer had tasked him with destroying you in another universe. How could he ever make peace with that? 

How could he pull the trigger on you?

But then another thought struck him: Strange was right. You would want him to. 

You would forgive him if he had to kill you.

You always forgave him, no matter how many times he swore he didn’t deserve it, because you would understand that this needed to be done. If the situation were reversed, you’d do what needed to be done— because that’s who you were.  

You were good— everything he aspired to be. 

If you were alive, if you knew you had turned destructive— you would kill the Catalyst yourself.

As the hours dragged on, Bucky tried to think of another way, to fantasise a different ending for the sick story he existed in. What if there was a chance— however slim—to reach that version of you without violence? To pull you back from the brink and remind you who you were? 

He knew he had to try, but he also knew what failure meant: countless lives lost, entire universes wiped from existence.

If he failed, this universe would be gone, along with all the memories of you. Along with your legacy.

Your sacrifice would be in vain.

He couldn’t let that happen.

The gun in his hands felt heavier now, the future hanging like a noose around his neck. The sun was just beginning to rise when he finally stood.

He had made his decision. 

He didn’t bother to pack much—just his knife, the gun, and the dog tags he always carried, the ones you had once traced with your fingers when you thought he was asleep. 

He knew he needed to do this mission.

Not for the world, not for the universe.

The multiverse could burn, for all he cared. He’s doing this because he knew you would want him to. 

—

When Strange arrived at the cabin, the swirling portal casted an eerie light over his mostly empty living room.

Bucky’s face went grim. He didn’t say goodbye to the cabin, didn’t look back at the life he had built in solitude. 

He never liked this cabin. Never liked this new life— he only went here because it was what you always wanted. You wanted to be away from the city, one with nature. You always wanted to build the rest of your life here. Back then, Bucky had agreed— but now it was just a reminder that he was living a hollow existence without you.

He stepped through the portal. 

The overwhelming surge of energy as he entered the alternate universe was nothing compared to the pain his heart endured.

The world he had stepped into felt like the aftermath of a nightmare.  

The sky was a sickly yellow, streaked with ash and smoke. The sun, barely visible through the haze, poured a dying light over the desolation below. 

Buildings lay in ruins, their remains clawing at the sky. The ground was a wasteland of debris, littered with the wreckage of battles fought long before he arrived.

Ultron's remains were everywhere. His drones twisted, mangled, scattered across the landscape, half-buried in dirt or wedged into crumbling walls, some buried under concrete slab. Their empty eyes stared at nothing— stared at Bucky with emptiness.

Bucky adjusted his grip on his rifle and took a cautious step forward. The air was thick, stinging with the stench of burning metal and organic decay. He moved carefully, scanning his surroundings.

This wasn’t his world, but it was familiar enough for him to navigate through. 

“Strange,” Bucky muttered under his breath, though the sorcerer had closed the portal. He pushed through, putting his Winter Soldier mask on “What the hell did you send me into?”  

—

It didn’t take long for him to piece together what had happened. In this universe, Ultron had won, but not by slamming Sokovia into the Earth like an asteroid. Instead, his drone army had swept across the world, decimating everything in its path. 

He found more evidence in a hollowed-out bunker near the remnants of what would have been Central Park. His name was scrawled across a rusted memorial wall alongside hundreds of others. His dog tags—this world’s version of them—hung from a nail driven into the cracked concrete.  

Bucky stared at the tags for a long time. He could imagine the moment you had hung them there, your fingers shaking, your heart breaking.  

This was the universe’s cruel twist: in this world, he had died in the battle against Ultron. 

He had been the one ripped away from you.  

The rest of the story came from whispers, fragments of information he gathered from the few survivors he encountered. Most were too broken, too terrified, to speak more than a few sentences, but they all spoke of one thing: the Catalyst.  

“She wasn’t always like this,” one man had said, his voice trembling as he huddled in the corner of a makeshift shelter from scrap metal. “She used to be a hero. Fought against Ultron with everything she had. But when he killed Barnes—”  

His breath hitched, knowing the mask obscured him from this civillian’s view.

“—She lost it. Hunted Ultron down, tore him apart with her bare hands. But then she… she took his parts. Built something with it.”  

“Built what?” Bucky pressed, his stomach twisting.  

“Armour. Weapons. Something stronger than anything the Avengers had. But it did something to her—got in her head, twisted her. She’s not human anymore. Not really. Just anger and grief and—and…”  

“And power,” Bucky finished grimly.  

The man nodded. “She destroyed Ultron. Destroyed his whole army. But she didn’t stop. She just kept tearing down everything in her path. Now she’s… she’s…. If you see her, you run. You don’t fight. You don’t talk. You run.”  

—

That night, Bucky sat alone in the ruins of what would’ve been the Avengers tower. He stared at the fire he’d managed to build. 

The image of you—this you, the Catalyst—was burned into his mind. He’d seen a glimpse of it through Strange’s portal, but now the reality of it was just starting to sink in.

You had always been so full of life, so determined to make the world a better place. How could you be the very thing tearing it apart in this universe? How could you let grief do this to you?  

He clenched his fists. He should’ve gotten here earlier. 

This version of him had failed you. He should’ve fought harder, been faster, or something. Maybe if he had been, you wouldn’t have had to face Ultron alone. Maybe you wouldn’t have—  

“Stop it,” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not your fault.”  

He knew he could not control what this universe’s version of him did. But the guilt ate him up anyway.

—

The next day, he found the first sign of you.  

In the centre of the ruins stood a towering monument of burned metal, forged from the remains of Ultron’s drones. It was a grotesque structure, its sharp edges gleaming like shark teeth in the dim light.  

He looked around, realising this would’ve been the Rockefeller Center— where he had taken you on a date, ice skating in the cold winter with Christmas lights surrounding you. 

Bucky approached cautiously, his eyes narrowing as he studied the details. The surface of the monument was etched with symbols—some binary, some human words. 

This wasn’t just a monument. It was a warning.  

She’s close, he thought, gripping his rifle tighter.

The ground trembled beneath his feet. Suddenly, a low hum rose in the air. He turned sharply, his heart pounding as the shadows moved around him.  

And then he saw you.  

You descended from the sky like a vengeful god, clad in sleek, silver armour forged from Ultron’s technology. It clung to you like a second skin, pulsing with an unnatural light. Your eyes glowed with the same energy, and the air around you crackled with raw power.  

For a moment, Bucky couldn’t breathe. It was you— but at the same time, it wasn’t. It was the face he loved, the lips that once kissed him goodnight, the eyes that soothed him after he woke up from one of his nightmares. Yet something was wrong. This wasn’t entirely the person that had been his world. This version of you was twisted— destruction incarnate. 

But he could not stop the leap of joy his heart made. At least you were alive.

“You’ve come to stop me,” you said, not even lifting your eyes. Your voice echoed unnaturally. It was layered, as if a hundred versions of you were speaking at once.  

Bucky stood his ground, heart pounding as you, —no, the Catalyst— stood still. The pieces of Ultron’s remnants shimmered with an almost ethereal glow, stitched together into a terrible masterpiece that trapped you like a tomb. Your face—once warm and full of life—burned with an inhuman intensity, flickering like a dying sun.  

“I’ve come to bring you back,” Bucky replied, his voice steady despite the hammering of his heart. Slowly, he took off his mask.

Your expression flickered, just for a moment. As if he was a crack in the armour.  

You recognised the voice. 

“You’re— ,” you whispered, your voice layered and fractured, distorted by grief and the technology that had consumed you. Your eyes snapped up to meet his. “You came back to me.”  

The words hit Bucky like a blow to the chest. I did, doll. He wanted to say. I will always come back. 

But he knew this version of you wasn’t his, so he swallowed hard, keeping his rifle lowered.

You froze, your head tilting slightly as you studied him. You weren’t satisfied without an answer. “James?”

Bucky’s heart twisted. For a moment, he saw a glimmer of the person you had been, the love you had shared. 

Kill me now, he thought, before I have to kill you. 

But he knew the cost of that. He knew failing would mean he had failed you. 

“I’m here to help,” he said softly. 

You stepped closer, unsure whether to reach for him— a fragment of your old soul begging you to stop this madness — or strike him down— an instinct the Catalyst had developed. Your glowing eyes traced every inch of him, lingering on the scars lining his face, the haunted look in his eyes. 

Your fingers twitched, and for a moment, you looked lost.  

“You’re different,” you muttered to yourself. “The scars… the way you stand”  

Realisation dawned, and with it, the fragile hope in your expression shattered. You took a step back, the electric storm around you surging to life again. “You’re not my James,” you hissed, your voice bitter.  

Bucky didn’t flinch. “I’m not,” he admitted. “But I know what he meant to you. What you meant to him.”  

“Why would someone else’s James come to me?” you demanded, your voice rising, the ground beneath you cracking with the force of your grief. 

“Because I couldn’t save you in my world,” he said, his voice breaking. “But maybe I can save you here.”  

For a moment, the storm faltered, the energy around you dimming. But then your eyebrows furrowed, hands curling into fist, your grief boiling over into fury.  

“You think you can save me?” you snarled, your armour shifting as weapons emerged from its surface—cannons, blades, and glowing surges of energy. “You think you can take my pain away, make it disappear? You have no idea what I’ve done. What I’ve become.”  

The first blast came without warning. Bucky barely had time to dive behind the concrete of a collapsed building as a searing beam of energy scorched the ground where he had stood.  

“Don’t make me do this!” he shouted, rising from cover and firing a warning shot. The bullet ricocheted harmlessly off your armour.

“You came here to kill me,” you spat, advancing the attack with terrifying precision. “Just like everyone else!”  

“No!” Bucky’s voice cracked as he dodged another strike, rolling into a crouch and raising his hands. “I came here to stop this. To stop you.”

“And how do you think that ends?” you snapped, the storm of energy around you growing more volatile. “I know what I am. I’ve seen what I’ve done. There’s no stopping it.”  

You lunged at him, your speed too quick for him to process. Bucky barely managed to block your strike, your armoured fist colliding with his vibranium arm in a deafening clash of metal. The force sent him skidding backward, but he held his ground.  

“I know you’re still in there!” he shouted, his voice desperate. “I know you don’t want this!”  

“I didn’t want any of this!” you screamed, unleashing a wave of energy that knocked him off his feet. “But he left me! He—he died, and I—” Your voice cracked, and for a brief moment, the storm flickered, your grief breaking through the madness.  

Bucky scrambled to his feet, his chest heaving. “He wouldn’t want this,” he said, his voice softer now. “I don’t want this.”

Tears streamed down your face, glowing faintly as they fell. “I can’t stop,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “It’s too much. It’s too—”  

The storm surged again, and Bucky knew he was losing you.  

“I’m sorry,” he said, gripping his rifle tightly. “I’m so sorry.”  

You raised your hands, energy crackling between your fingers, but instead of attacking, you froze. A look of clarity crossed your face—a moment of realisation.  

Bucky lowered his rifle once again.

“You can’t let this happen again,” you said quietly.  

Before Bucky could respond, you turned your gaze to the glowing core embedded in your armour—the source of your power.  

“No,” Bucky said, stepping forward. “Don’t—”  

“It has to end,” you interrupted, tears spilling down your cheeks. “Promise me, James. Promise me you won’t let another version of me become this.”  

“I can’t—”  

“Promise me!”  

His throat tightened, and he nodded. “I promise.”  

A faint smile touched your lips, and then you placed your hand over the core. The energy around you flared brightly, pulsing like a heartbeat.

“Thank you,” you whispered.  

And then, a blinding light flashed before his eyes. You cried a violent shriek as you cast yourself into nothingness.

When the light faded, Bucky stood alone in the ruins, the air eerily still. Your body was nothing but ash, armour scattered across the ruins. The glowing core was shattered, its energy dissipating into nothing.  

Bucky dropped to his knees, his hands shaking as he stared at the spot where you had stood. He had lost you all over again. 

He had failed you all over again. 

—

Bucky stumbled through the portal Strange had opened for him, his body worn, his breaths shallow.

“It’s done,” Bucky said, his voice hoarse. He dropped a silver shoulder piece, a part of your armour—a fractured piece of the nightmare you had become—onto the floor of the Sanctum Sanctorum, in the space between them. “She’s gone.”  

Strange nodded, but said nothing.  

Bucky glared at him, his grief rapidly turning into anger. “You knew, didn’t you?” he growled, “You knew she went mad because she lost me. Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Strange met his eyes, “Because it wouldn’t have changed anything.”  

“That’s it?” Bucky demanded, his voice rising. “I’ve lost her twice now, Strange. Twice. And I—” His voice broke, and he turned away, rubbing a hand across his eyes.  

No crying today. He’s grieved over you. He’s done. 

No crying, Barnes, he insisted again.

“I wish it ended here,” Strange said quietly. 

Bucky’s head snapped back sharply, his heart sinking deeper in the abyss it was already stuck in.

Strange hesitated, his hands clasped behind his back. “This wasn’t an anomaly,” he said finally. “In every universe I’ve observed, when you die, she becomes the Catalyst.”  

He stumbled back a step, shaking his head. “That… that can’t be true.”  

Strange’s gaze softened, but there was no comfort in his expression. “It is,” he said. “Her love for you is not only her greatest strength, but also her greatest weakness. Without you, her grief consumes her. It changes her.”

“So what?” Bucky spat bitterly. “You’re saying she’s doomed to destroy the multiverse?”  

“No,” Strange said, his voice firm. “Not if you intervene.”  

“You want me to… to do this again?” Bucky froze, his blood running cold. “To watch her die again?”  

Strange’s silence was answer enough.  

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered, raking his fingers through his hair, wanting to pull them out so badly. “How many times, Strange?”  

“As many as it takes,” Strange replied solemnly. “If we don’t act, the Catalyst will dismantle the multiverse, piece by piece. She doesn’t stop at her own world. Her grief is a hunger—a need to destroy everything, to erase the pain.”  

Bucky sank onto a nearby chair, burying his head in his hands. The thought of facing yet another version of you—of seeing your face twisted by grief again, of failing to save you again—was unbearable. 

But what choice did he have?  

“Are you ready for this, Sergeant Barnes?” Strange asked.  

“No,” Bucky admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He lifted his head, his eyes red. “But I’ll do it anyway.”  

— 

Every time Bucky stepped through another portal, he braced himself for the inevitable. Some universes were barely recognizable—worlds where humanity had advanced far beyond what he’d known, some were distant worlds ruled by psychopathic overlords.  

But in every one, you were the same. You met him. You fell in love with him— some evil villain decimated Earth, and this world’s version of Bucky perished in the fight.

When he was gone, your grief forged you into the Catalyst— destroyer of whatever force had destroyed earth, salvaging your victims’ weapons to make you more powerful.  

Sometimes your armour was made from Ultron, like before. Other times, it was pieces of Thanos’ gauntlet, or the living metal of Ego the Living Planet. In one universe, you wielded the shattered fragments of Mjölnir. 

You weren’t even close to worthy, but your grief was so powerful that you had bent enchanted Asgardian steel into submission. 

Each encounter started the same way.  

You mistook him for your James. There was always that flicker of hope in your eyes, that fragile moment where you thought he had come back to you.  

But then you noticed the differences—the scars, the way he moved, the subtle sadness in his eyes. 

And the hope turned to rage.  

“Who are you?” you would demand, furious. “Why do you look like him?”  

Bucky tried reasoning with you every time, pleading for you to stop, to let go of the grief that consumed you. But it never worked. The madness always took hold, and the fight always began.  

In the end, you always destroyed yourself. It’s as if he was doomed to watch— doomed to be a captive audience to your death— over and over and over again.

—

The first time Bucky killed the Catalyst, it nearly broke him.

He had spent weeks, maybe months, tracking you in this icy universe. In this universe, Frost Giants took over. Bucky had been killed somewhere along the lines, and you took Loki’s staff and matters into your own hands. 

When he saw you there, standing in a cloak of fur and leather, you radiated power.

And yet, behind the glowing eyes, he could still see you. The way you tilted your head when you studied him, the smallest flicker of hesitation before you struck.

He had prepared for this. Every movement, every breath, every strike was calculated, the result of months of relentless study. He’d learned how to predict the devastating surges of energy you unleashed, how to exploit the brief seconds when your guard faltered. You were stronger, faster, almost unstoppable—but almost wasn’t enough.

When he finally got to you, he only hesitated for a second before stabbing you.

No. What have I done?

A desperate wail tore from his throat as tears burned his eyes, spilling over like a shattered dam. He cried— for the first time in months— as he watched the light in your eyes fade. 

Bucky knelt beside your dying body, whispering useless apologies as he cradled you in his arms. You looked up at him. You didn’t look at him with grief. Not anger. Not hatred. Maybe relief. Maybe love. 

And then, as life drained from your eyes, the multiverse seemed to hold its breath.

You were gone.

Again.

He had finally convinced himself that he had to kill you. He could no longer endure your suffering. Every moment of your self-destruction had been nightmare fuel—your anguished cries, your desperate screams— It was unbearable. He loved you too deeply to continue watching you suffer.

Now, he was certain— ending your life, giving you a swift death,was the only way he could stomach this mission.

—

The Catalyst was powerful in every universe, but Bucky learned how to fight you better. Most times now, he was able to kill you, to put you out of your misery because he outmanoeuvred you, predicting your attacks like a ghost of every battle you’d ever had. Other times, he got there too late, and you destroyed yourself, unleashing a final burst of power so immense it annihilated your very existence. 

Those times were harder. 

Watching you choose to end it. Watching you fall apart in his arms, whispering words he couldn’t always hear.

Still, everytime, he took a piece of you.

He didn’t know why he reached out to gather the shattered remains of your armour. Sometimes it was a gauntlet, still glowing faintly with residual energy. A shard of the crystalline crown that marked your reign as the Catalyst. Sometimes it was Loki’s scepter. 

Maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was guilt. He tucked the fragments into his pack and walked away, feeling like he had salvaged a part of you.

At first, he thought it was a way to remember you. The woman you had been, not the Catalyst you had become. But over time, the collection grew into a monument to his failure. Each weapon, each ruined piece of armour was a reminder of what it cost to keep going. To try and save you. To survive you. To kill you.

And still, he couldn’t stop.

The multiverse demanded it. The Catalyst always returned, more powerful, and Bucky would be there, each time, with the weight of a hundred battles on his shoulders and memories of the woman he loved. He’d fight. He’d win. 

He’d lose you again.

And he’d carry another piece of you, knowing it would never be enough to make him whole.

So, over time, missions chipped away at him, piece by piece.  

He didn’t smile anymore. He barely spoke, even when Strange tried to comfort him. His humanity felt like a distant memory, buried beneath the endless cycle of loss.  

Once, in a rare moment of quiet, Strange tried to reason with him.  

“You don’t have to do this alone, Barnes,” he said. “I’ve talked to Clint, Bruce, and Sam. They said they’d help.”  

Bucky shook his head, his expression hollow. “It has to be me. I’m the only one she listens to. Even if it’s just for a second.”  

Strange didn’t argue.  

—

This time, he was so devastatingly close to saving you— it was the only time you had let him reason with you. The only time you had let him talk longer than a few seconds.

In this universe, you had taken the remains of Ronan the Accuser’s hammer, merging it with Kree technology to create an unstoppable weapon. You were a force of nature, cutting down armies and leaving entire planets in ruin.  

Bucky fought you for hours, trying to get through because he saw a chance. His body was battered and broken by the end. But as he stood over you, your armour cracked and your face visible beneath your helmet, you looked up at him with tears in your eyes.  

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice faint.  

Bucky dropped to his knees beside you, his hands trembling as he reached for you. “Don’t do this,” he pleaded. “There’s still a chance—”  

“You’re still my James, aren’t you?” you interrupted, your hand brushing his cheek. “You love me in every universe, the way I love you.”  

“Don’t leave,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Please, don’t leave me again.”  

Your smile was soft, bittersweet. “I never really left, James. I’m always going to be a part of you.”  

And then you were gone again, an agonising cry as you self-destructed.

He was alone again.

—

As long as there were universes to save, as long as there was a chance to save you, he would keep fighting—no matter the cost.  

Today shouldn’t’ve been any different.

He stepped through the portal with his usual grim frown, expecting to face another version of you consumed by grief, transformed into the Catalyst.  

But what he found instead… was peace.

The world was whole. The sky wasn’t scorched, cities still stood tall and bustling, and the air hummed with life. It felt… normal. 

And then he saw you.  

You were sitting at a small café on a sunlit street, your hair loose, a soft smile playing on your lips. There was no armour, no glowing energy, no storm of grief around you. You looked like the person he remembered—the person he had loved.  

He died in this universe, too— he knew as much. You had his dog tags around your neck, carrying a piece of him everywhere. 

It took time for him to piece together what had happened, but he eventually got it.

In this universe, Bucky had been the one who took the gauntlet from Tony. He had been the one who snapped the stones.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. 

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt something other than pain. He watched you laugh, the sound a beautiful melody he thought he’d forgotten. 

In this universe… you were happy.  

For days, Bucky stayed hidden in the shadows, watching you from a distance. It was wrong, he knew, but he couldn’t help himself. He followed you through your routines—your morning coffee, your walks through the park, the way you waved at the children playing by the water fountain. 

You hadn’t become the Catalyst.  

Strange was wrong, Bucky thought, a flicker of hope sparking in his chest. Not every version of you succumbed to grief. In this universe, you had found a way to move forward, to live.  

And maybe… maybe he could, too.  

The thought crept into his mind slowly. What if he stayed? What if he stepped into this world and introduced himself to you? Would you recognize something in him, a fragment of the love you had shared in another life? Could you fall for him again?  

Could he be happy?

Could the two of you put the pieces back together again?

For the first time in years, Bucky allowed himself to dream of a life beyond grief and guilt. A life with you, as he once had.

He imagined walking up to you at that café, asking if he could join you. You’d be confused, maybe a little wary at first, but he’d win you over. He’d tell you about the man he used to be, the battles he’d fought, the people he’d lost. He’d tell you how much he loved you still. And you’d tell him about your James, how similar he was to him. 

Maybe, in time, you’d fall in love with him again.  

But then he saw Steve coming home from a mission.

It was a perfect day— the sun was warm, the breeze gentle, the streets alive with chatter. Bucky stood at a distance, watching you in the park, his heart full of hope, something he thought he’d never feel again.

And then Steve Rogers appeared.  

He walked up to you with that shy confidence Bucky had known since they were kids. You stood when you saw him, your face lit up in a way that made Bucky’s stomach twist.  

Steve pulled you into his arms, and you went willingly, laughing as he spun you around.  

Bucky felt the air leave his lungs.  

He watched as Steve kissed you, his hands cradling your face like you were the most precious thing in the world. And you kissed him back.  

It wasn’t fair.  

Bucky's knees nearly buckled, as he turned away. His chest caved in, feeling like his heart had been ripped out and crushed into a million little pieces. The fragile hope he'd clung to for the last couple of days was torn from him as quickly as it appeared. 

Your laughter echoed faintly in his ears, a cruel reminder that chased him as he stumbled toward the portal Strange had opened. His head hung low, his shoulders slumped. 

He was no soldier, no saviour—just a broken man, haunted by dreams that would never be his.

—

When Bucky returned, Strange's eyes lingered on him for too long.

Bucky wasn’t covered in bruises or cuts like he usually was, but somehow he looked…. worse. The exhaustion ran deeper this time, as if the scars were invisible. “You stayed longer than usual in this one,” Strange observed.

Bucky ignored his statement. “You were wrong,” he muttered instead. His eyes stayed fixed on the ground, unable to meet Strange’s. “She wasn’t The Catalyst in this one.”

Strange froze. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Bucky’s breath hitched, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s happy here, after my death. W-with Steve.” He finally looked up, the emptiness in his eyes enough to make even Strange flinch. “She moved on, and she’s... she’s still… her.

Strange’s eyebrows softened. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his tone measured, regretful. “But this is the exception, the rule. The Catalyst is still out there.”

Bucky let out a bitter laugh, but it held no humour. Only defeat. 

He ran a hand over his face before dragging his fingers through his hair. His shoulders slumped under the weight of this endless mission.“I…” he started, his voice strained. “I’m never... I’m never gonna be happy. Am I?”

Strange had no answer for him. 

—

Bucky sat on the edge of his bed in Kamar Taj, staring at the collection of armour pieces he had gathered from the other universes. Each shard was a reminder of the battles he’d fought, the versions of you he had lost.  

And now, he had been cursed with the knowledge that not every version of you that lost him succumbed to grief.

The knowledge that you were happy in that world. That you had found love again, and it wasn’t with him. That no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many universes he visited, it seemed there was no version of him that could have you.  

It was cruel.  

You had once told him he was the strongest person you knew, but in that moment, he felt like anything but. He had fought armies of aliens, faced death over and over again, but this… this was too much.  

Bucky clenched his fists, his metal hand creaking under the pressure. He wanted to scream, to punch something, to let out the unbearable weight crushing his chest. 

Instead, he picked up one of the shards of your armour—a jagged, glowing piece from an Ultron world. He held it in his hand, his reflection distorted in its surface.  

“I’m happy for you,” he whispered, his voice cracking, insincere. “Even if it’s not with me.”  

Bucky placed the shard on his shoulder, the first piece of the armour. 

It felt right— like the power of a thousand suns starting to surge towards him.

He didn’t cry. 

He never did anymore.  

Because no matter how many universes he visited, how many battles he fought, how many versions of you he saved or lost, he knew one thing would never change:  

You would never be his again. 

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you kissing Steve, your laughter echoing in his skull.

Why should they have happiness, when he was condemned to grieve for eternity?  

Why should any universe be allowed to thrive, when his own existence was empty, meaningless?  

He began by rearranging the pieces of your armour he had collected from the other universes. Each fragment gleamed with a faint, residual energy— remnants of the immense power you had wielded as the Catalyst. He spent weeks forging his own armour.

What started as just your shoulder pieces extended to more. 

He reforged the chest piece a version of you got from the Kree, then a gauntlet you ripped off of Thanos when the Infinity Stones had been destroyed. It grew and grew until every piece of him was covered in fragments of you.

When the work was done, he stood before a mirror, clad in the armour of his own making. It was a haunting reflection of yours, humming with fragment stolen power. He didn’t recognize the man staring back at him.  

“That’s the point,” he muttered to himself, almost annoyed.  

When the destruction started, the first universe fell quickly.  

Bucky tore through its defences like a force of nature, his new armour amplifying his strength and speed. He dismantled its protectors—heroes and villains alike—efficiently. He left the cities in ruins, their skies dark with smoke, their people screaming in terror.  

No one deserved peace when he couldn’t have it.  

—

Stephen Strange felt the disturbance immediately. The multiverse’s fragile threads started to unravel as Bucky’s rampage spread across realities. 

At first, Strange couldn’t believe it.  

Bucky Barnes, the man who had fought so hard to save the multiverse, was now its greatest threat.  

Strange had hoped that by guiding Bucky, he could break the cycle of grief and destruction. Instead, reversed it. 

James Buchanan Barnes was now The Catalyst.

— 

Strange arrived in a quiet, dimly lit apartment in yet another universe. The air was filled with the scent of coffee and rain, and the sound of your muffled sobs echoed through the space.  

Yet another version of you sat on the floor, clutching a photograph of Bucky—your James—to your chest. In this universe, he was gone, just as Strange had calculated. 

“Get out, Strange.” you demanded, your voice hoarse when Strange stepped through the portal into your living room. Your eyes were red and puffy, so utterly defeated.

Strange ignored the warning, stepping through the portal and onto the ceramic tiles of the apartment. His face was grim, his tone measured. He called your name to draw you out from the grief, even if only momentarily

“What do you want?” Your voice was raw, your patience long gone.  

“It’s not about what I want. It’s what the multiverse needs.”  

You finally looked up, your eyes sharp with exhaustion. You had been running on empty for months. You didn’t have Bucky here to hold you. To kiss you when you needed him to. To ground you in this existence. “The multiverse can save itself.”  

Strange’s expression softened, but only slightly. “If it could, I wouldn’t be here.”  

You scoffed, turning back to the photo of Bucky you cradled in your arms. “You’ve got the wrong person.”  

“I wish I had,” Strange said quietly.

The desperation in his tone made you pause. You set the photo down and leaned back, staring at the sorcerer with narrowed eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”  

Strange hesitated for a moment before speaking. 

Then he said it: the beautiful name you haven’t heard in weeks— “it’s about Bucky.”

“Don’t,” you snapped, your voice a low growl.  

Strange pressed on, unflinching. “A version of him exists in another universe. But he’s not who you remember.”  

“What does that mean?”  

Strange conjured an image with a flick of his hand, the glowing strands of the multiverse twisting together to form a vision. It was him—but not your James. His face was twisted in anguish, his body surrounded by a swirling storm of energy. Planets crumbled in the distance, consumed by the raw power emanating from him.  

“He’s become the Catalyst,” Strange said, his voice heavy. “A being driven by grief, powerful enough to destroy entire worlds. If he’s not stopped, he’ll collapse the multiverse.”  

You stared at the image, his chest tightening. It wasn’t possible. Bucky was gone. He was dead.  

“You want me to go after him,” you said, your voice flat.  

Strange shook his head. “I want you to stop him. Talk to him. You’re the only one he might listen to.”  

“And if he doesn’t?”  

Strange’s gaze was unrelenting. “Then you’re the only one who stands a chance at killing him.”  

—

In the vast expanse of the multiverse, the roles have reversed but the tragedy remained unchanged. 

Somewhere, in a distant reality, Strange watched the threads of the timelines twist and tangle. He knew the truth, the one neither of you could see:  

That as long as one of you lost the other, the cycle would never break.

•

Back in Earth-616…

After some playful back and forth splashing, you both decided it was time to get out of the bath.

You stepped out first, shivering from the cool tile beneath your feet, grabbing a towel. Bucky followed, water dripping from his hair onto his chest.

He took the towel from your hands and draped it around your shoulders. He wrapped the fabric tightly around you, as if he was protecting you from whatever evil may want to reach you. 

Without warning, he pulled you into a hug. His lips brushed against your damp hair as you closed your eyes, sinking into the safety of his embrace.

After a while, you shifted in his arms, your hands finding another towel that hung from the wall behind him. 

The corners of your lips tugged up in a playful smile as you began patting him dry, earning a soft chuckle from your supersoldier boyfriend. He didn’t stop you— he never could when you insisted on taking care of him. 

So instead, he just watched you with that lovesick expression that made your heart do cartwheels. 

Neither of you spoke; you didn’t need to. His hand stroked lazily up and down your back, and your fingers traced patterns along the scars that marked his skin. 

As much as you hated seeing him hurt, you knew that he was safe. And that’s all that mattered. 

Because, in this universe, you were so blissfully unaware of the fragility of this peace, the fragility of your emotions. You remained unaware that in countless other universes, losing each other had broken you both. Unaware that in most other realities, there was no escape from the sadness that came with the death of one and not the other.

But in this one, none of that mattered. Because here, in this small bubble of love, you would keep each other grounded.

So as long as you both lived, you would stay blissfully unaware of the horrors your variants had to endure.

When he died— poisoned, most likely— you didn’t cry.  

You just sat before your father’s grand mahogany desk. 

For years, your father’s enemies called you Bloody Mary– a reference to the ghost, but more likely, the queen who came before. They thought of you as your father’s most loyal asset. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Your family, your father’s men, gathered after the funeral, waiting to see what you would do. Some expected you to crumble under the slightest bit of pressure. Others expected you to follow in your father’s footsteps, continuing the cycle of violence without hesitation.  

But they underestimated you.  

You took your father’s empire and turned it on its head.  

The rich still paid their dues. You still ran the protection racket. The fine art front still laundered money. On the surface, it looked like business as usual.  

But behind the scenes, you didn’t hoard wealth anymore, you gave it off into schools, clinics, food banks— places that actually mattered. You paid your men well so they never felt the need to betray you, and you never kept more than you needed to keep up appearances.

You had done something your father had never thought to do: You built your men’s loyalty based on something stronger than fear.  

You built respect. 

You gave them purpose beyond mindless violence and greed.

Still, you were brutal… sometimes. You made examples out of those who crossed the line, but you never ruled through unnecessary cruelty. 

You spent so many years watching your father’s empire rotting Manhattan to the core. 

But under your rule, you would reshape the city.

—

Bucky had been watching you for weeks.  

Daredevil had passed the tip that the Bloody Mary had taken over her father’s empire, and Bucky, still getting used to his new role as a congressman, had decided to investigate you himself. He expected the usual— a power-hungry heir stepping into their father’s shoes, making sure the cycle of violence and corruption stayed alive. 

Your family’s protection racket, laundered through the illusion of fine art sales, had made your family filthy rich. You could have kept it going, could have doubled your wealth and expanded your influence. But that was not what you did.

The more he watched you from the shadows, the less it made sense to him.  

He observed you handling money, moving millions through shell companies and offshore accounts. 

Dirty money. That much was clear.  

But then he saw you funnel that same money into anonymous donations. He tracked the transactions, saw the new school supplies, the renovations, the overworked but relieved doctors who suddenly had the medicine they needed to save lives. 

At first, Bucky thought it was just an act, a way to buy public goodwill while you conducted business as usual. But he soon realised it could not possibly be the case.

Your donations were always anonymous. 

You were doing this because you wanted to.

And your men— oh did they adore you.

Not out of fear. Out of loyalty. And that, Bucky knew, was more dangerous than any brute force.

Still, he wasn’t convinced. 

But then, he saw you meet with an old woman in a tiny flower shop tucked between two high-rises.  

—

Mrs. Abram had been running the shop for decades, selling fresh-cut flowers in a small stall. She has had this business since you were just a little girl, giving you day-old daisies when you walked home from school. 

She had no idea who you really were—just that you were a loyal customer, always stopping by to buy a bouquet when you had the time.  

Today, she looked worried.  

“Are you okay, Mrs. Abram?” you asked as you paid for the bouquet of white lilies that you wanted to use to decorate your mahogany table.

“Oh, my dear, I hate to burden you,” she said, frowning only a little.

“I’m all ears,” you smiled. 

“My landlord raised the rent again,” she sighed, “I don’t know how much longer I can keep the shop open.”  

You tilted your head, gears clicking together in your head. “Did he now?”  

Mrs. Abram nodded. “You know how it is, flowers aren’t exactly high-profit.” She gave you a sad smile. “Maybe it’s time for me to retire.”  

“Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Abram,” you said, leaving a good tip on the cash register, “Things have a way of working themselves out.”  

That night, Bucky followed as you and your men hunted down her landlord— a corrupt official, one who owned more than a few buildings and had a habit of extorting his tenants.  

Bucky watched from the rooftops as you dragged the man into a dark alleyway, as you told him to lower the rent or never see the light of day again.

He nodded, terrified.

And just to make sure he understood the gravity of the situation, you had your men break two of his fingers before sending him on his way.  

Then, as if that wasn’t enough, you had one of your people anonymously pay for Mrs. Abram’s rent for the next twelve months.  

The next morning, Bucky was watching from across the street as you passed by the flower stall.

Mrs. Abram beamed at you. “Oh, my dear, you will never believe it!” she called out, “My landlord had a change of heart! He lowered my rent back down. Said he had a revelation last night. And that a kind stranger paid for a year of rent upfront!”  

You gasped, faking wide-eyed innocence. “That’s wonderful, Mrs. Abram.”

Bucky exhaled as his super-soldier hearing picked up the entire conversation.

“Oh.”  

This was not what he expected at all.

Now, he wasn’t sure what to do about you.  

So he kept watching.  

Until one night, you forced his hand.  

— 

It was almost midnight when you stepped into your penthouse. Bucky was already there, sneaking in hours earlier to find a document, more evidence, anything– anything at all– to justify him watching you for weeks.

He hid behind a pillar when you walked in, lurking in the shadows.

You took off your coat and dropped your keys onto the marble counter.

Okay, Bucky thought to himself. Once she’s out of the living room, I’ll get out of the house.

"It’s rude to follow a lady into her home, congressman."

Bucky froze. 

Fuck.

Then he stepped out of the shadows.

"You knew?" He asked, but there was an undertone of curiosity in his voice. 

You turned, finally meeting his stare. There was no fear in your expression, only maddening confidence. A sweet smile curled at the edge of your lips.  

"Did you really think you were being subtle?" you confirmed.

Bucky shifted his weight. "Why didn't you say anything?"  

You shrugged and began walking toward the hallway. He hesitated for half a second before following you.

"I want you to figure it out yourself," you said as you pushed open the bathroom door but didn’t bother to close it. “I know the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen thinks I am an extension of my father, but he believes that because I want him to believe it. And now you know I’m not the bad guy.”

Bucky leaned against the doorframe. "So what exactly are you?"  

You didn’t answer. Instead, you reached behind you and pulled the zipper of your dress down, the silky fabric sliding off your shoulders. You let it pool at your feet before stepping out of it.  

Bucky quickly turned his head away, heat rising to his cheeks.

You laughed quietly. "You can look if you want." You stepped into the glass-walled shower, unhooking your bra and slipping out of your remaining underwear. "You’re not getting shy now, are you?"  

Bucky kept his eyes on the ceiling. "Jesus Christ," he muttered.  

"You’ve been watching me for weeks," you teased, turning on the shower and washing dried blood off your hands. “Surely you already know what I look like by now."  

Bucky forced himself to look at you— not fully, but enough. You were standing under the stream of water, eyes half-lidded, as you shampooed your hair. 

You were… completely at ease in your own skin.  

Bucky had been prepared for a cold-blooded crime boss. He had been prepared for easy to hate.  

He hadn’t been prepared for you.  

Charming. Smart. Good, in your own twisted way.  

And he definitely hadn’t been prepared to find you so fucking attractive.  

"Why didn’t you say anything?" he asked again as you cleaned your body with milky soap. 

You wiped water from your face. "Because I need you."  

Bucky frowned. "For what?"  

You stayed quiet for a second, washing the bubbles away. 

Then, you turned off the shower, stepping out.

“Grab me a towel, will you?”

Bucky didn't know why, but he complied.

You took it and resumed the conversation. "Because funding schools and shelters isn’t enough," you said simply. "I am still enabling people to ruin my community."  

You wrapped the towel around yourself, walking past him like he wasn’t even there. He followed you into the bedroom.  

"I can give you the names of the people arming the streets," you said, opening a drawer and pulling out a fresh set of comfy lounging lingerie. "The people pumping drugs into the city. The corrupt cops." You turned to face him. "But they can’t know it’s me."  

Bucky crossed his arms, realising what you truly wanted. "You want me to be your middleman."  

You sat down in your bed after putting at least something on, but still showing too much skin for Bucky to think straight. "I want you to do something about it, congressman. Because I can’t."  

The filthy rich still thought they were untouchable. But now, you wanted to double-cross them. Funding communities wasn’t enough for you anymore. 

Bucky exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. He should walk away. This wasn’t the kind of alliance he was supposed to make.  

But you had information.  

And God help him, you were just so fucking persuasive.  

"Fine," he said finally. "But I’m not covering for you if this goes south."  

—

Over the next few months, your alliance grew stronger.

You and your men fed Bucky intel. He took it to the right people. Major players and corrupt government officials began dropping like flies—arrested, exiled, convicted. No one suspected you.  

Through it all, you and Bucky kept meeting. Sometimes in your penthouse, sometimes in the back room of an upscale restaurant, sometimes in a dimly lit alleyway where no one would hear you whispering names in his ear.  

At first, he called you by the name, too. Bloody Mary—like you were just another villain in the long line of Manhattan’s criminals. You did not like that. It was a name your enemies had given you. You never called yourself that. Neither did your men.

To them, you were just you.

Somewhere along the way, Bloody Mary stopped making sense.

Somewhere along the way, you stopped being just a crime boss to him.

So when he started referring to you by your name—your real name— you just smiled.

Because you knew.

You had him.

—

Bucky didn’t know why he agreed to meet you like this.  

A casual coffee walk, in broad daylight, as if you weren’t a crime boss feeding a congressman classified intel over overpriced lattes. As if you weren’t two people on opposite sides of a game neither of you should be playing together.  

And yet, here he was.  

The late afternoon sun blanketed the city in gold as the two of you strolled down the sidewalk, your coat draped over your shoulders. 

“Four big investigations in a week,” you quipped, sipping your coffee. “Busy week for the feds.”

Bucky laughed in sarcasm. “It’s almost as if someone’s feeding them information.”  

You shot him a knowing smile over the rim of your paper cup, knowing full well what you did. “Weird.”  

Bucky shook his head. He should’ve been used to this by now— the way you played with fire so arrogantly, never once thinking you might get burned.  

You walked another block, your voice just loud enough for him to hear. “The Blackwoods are smuggling firearms in waves. I’ve got two underboss names for you. Lou White and Carter Yeun. They’ll be at the warehouse on 34th Street in six days, moving a shipment.”  

You were close enough that Bucky caught the faintest scent of your amber and spice perfume. It messed with his focus more than he cared to admit.  

He nodded. “I’ll get someone on it.”  

You smiled like you’d already known he would. 

As you neared the familiar little flower stall tucked between two high-rises, you slowed down. “Oh, look," you said, nodding toward the stall. "Mrs. Abram is working today."  

Bucky followed, watching as the old woman meticulously arranged a bundle of fresh daisies, her weathered hands moving with care.  

You slowed your pace, and without thinking, Bucky matched yours.  

Mrs. Abram looked up and smiled. "Oh, my dear! I was just thinking about you. I just got fresh batches today.”

Bucky watched as you ran your fingers over the different kinds of delicate petals. Your eyes seem linger at the colourful tulips. “These are gorgeous.”

Mrs. Abram nodded. “A beautiful girl like you deserves beautiful things."  

Bucky didn’t even think before he spoke. "She does."  

You paused, glancing at him. Bucky could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, but he refused to look away.  

Mrs. Abram, bless her, was oblivious to the tension shifting. "What a gentleman! Would you like to buy her a bouquet, dear?"  

Bucky knew he should say no. He should let you pay for your own damn flowers and keep things professional between you. But instead—  

"I’ll take the tulips," he said.  

He wasn’t sure why he did it—maybe it was the way you looked so… normal with civilians, or maybe it was the way he was starting to want things he shouldn’t.

After he paid for the flowers (and told Mrs. Abram to keep the change), the two of you walked away. 

You arched a brow. "James Barnes, buying me flowers?"  

Bucky exhaled, hastily handing you the bouquet you were going to get anyways. "Don’t make it weird."  

“Are you trying to bribe me?" you considered, accepting them with a wicked sparkle in your eye.

Bucky scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You already gave me the intel."  

"So it is just a gift, then?"  

Bucky didn’t answer. 

As you twirled one of the blooms between your fingers, Bucky swore he caught the faintest flicker of satisfaction on your face— like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

Bucky didn’t know what the hell this was, this game you played with him, but he knew one thing for certain: He was losing.

—

One night, after Yeun’s and White’s successful takedown, you stood close to him in your office, swirling a glass of whiskey in one hand.  

"You like this," you observed, looking up at him through your lashes. 

Bucky scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I like locking bad rich people away."  

"You like me, too." you corrected.  

He grinded his teeth. 

"You can admit it, Barnes,” you chuckled, handing him his own glass of whiskey as you sat on your mahogany table. A bouquet of pink daisies that Bucky had picked up for you from Mrs. Abram’s stall yesterday sat pretty next to you. “I won’t bite."  

He smiled, taking a sip. "I think you would."  

You tilted your head. "Would that be such a bad thing?"  

Bucky swallowed hard.  

You set down your glass and gesture at him to come closer. He moved between your legs, almost nervously.

You reached up, fingers grazing his vibranium arm. "You’re wrapped around my little finger," you murmured, tilting your chin up toward him. "Aren’t you?"  

Bucky exhaled through his nose. His hands twitched at his sides.  

Then—finally—he grabbed you by the waist and you smiled.

Bucky’s lips were barely an inch from yours when—  

Knock knock.

“Boss?” A voice muffled by the heavy door said.

You sighed, but there was a hint of amusement in your eyes as you pulled back. Bucky let out a ragged breath, his grip on your waist tightening for just a second before he let go.  

“Not a great time, Ollie,” you called out, smoothing your clothes like you hadn’t just been in very close proximity to the former Winter Soldier.  

Oliver, your underboss, sounded apologetic. “Yeah, sorry, but you said to tell you when the files came in.”  

Your lips twitched. You glanced at Bucky, who looked half-ready to strangle Ollie once you opened the door.

You turned your back toward the door. “Give me five minutes.”  

Bucky ran a hand down his face as soon as Ollie’s footsteps retreated. “Fuck’s sake.”  

You just smirked. “What?”  

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You planned that.” he said, but the accusation was half-hearted. 

“I didn’t, but it’s not my fault you think too much, Barnes.” You tidied up your desk a little, bending over just enough to drive him utterly insane. “Could’ve had me already.”  

You liked this game. This will-they-won’t-they tension. You liked watching him struggle, watching him want.  

Bucky was a disciplined man, trained to endure pain and resist temptation.  

But you were testing the limits of his restraint.  

And you knew it.  

Bucky stepped closer. “You think this is funny, don’t you?”   

“I think,” you said, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look in your eyes, “that you like this game as much as I do.”  

Bucky’s neck muscles flexed. His eyes flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes. He wanted to wipe that smug look right off your face.  

Maybe with his mouth.  

“Now, come on, Congressman,” You patted his chest lightly as you stepped past him. “We’ve got business to handle.”  

Bucky closed his eyes and clenched his fists.  

You were going to drive him insane.

—

But that was months ago. 

Tonight, the red wine in your glass swirled lazily as you leaned back in your chair. You were sitting on the table on the balcony of your penthouse. Up here, the world felt quiet. 

On the table sat a small vase of peonies— Bucky had bought them for you this week. It had become a tradition. He insisted that it was just a nice thing to do, that he bought you flowers because he wanted to keep a good professional relationship, though you knew it was bullshit. 

But now, the beautiful blooms seemed out of place considering the company you hosted tonight.

Across from you, Eddie Blackwood reclined with the arrogance of a man who had never faced real consequences. The overprivileged, overconfident son of one of New York’s most ruthless crime lords— Liam Blackwood.

The same Blackwood whose weapon shipment had been taking over the city like wildfire. Sure, Bucky had stopped a couple, but more kept coming. 

You needed to know more, so you invited Eddie here under the pretense of diplomacy.

Predictably, he had gotten the wrong idea.

"You know," Eddie murmured, swirling his wine. "I was surprised you invited me over."

You arched a brow, feigning amusement. "Hm?”

He leaned in, the scent of his cologne sickening. It was suffocating. "My father thinks you’d benefit from an alliance marriage, Bloody Mary,” he said even as you winced at the nickname. “I didn’t peg you as the type, but then… I got your call. I’m glad we’re discussing it tonight."

From the earpiece nestled discreetly in your ear, Bucky’s voice came through. He was unimpressed and already done with this conversation.

"You gotta be fucking kidding me."

You hid your smirk behind a sip of wine.

Eddie couldn’t hear him. But Bucky could hear everything. And it was killing him.

You had asked him for a favour tonight. You had stationed him on the rooftop across the street, watching through the scope of a sniper, his finger resting near the trigger. He was there as a precaution, in case things went south.

"You’re mistaken," you said smoothly, setting your glass down.

“No?” Eddie grinned, mistaking your resistance for playing hard-to-get. “Then why did you invite me here?"

For information.

His father was too smart to talk. But Eddie? Eddie was an idiot. And you knew men like him would spill anything, given the right… distraction.

So you played along.

For now.

His fingers traced the rim of his glass before sliding onto your knee.

"He’s getting handsy." Bucky snarled in your earpiece. "I’ll fucking shoot him," 

You shook your head subtly, just enough to get your point across to the super soldier. Not yet.

Eddie, blissfully unaware of the expert marksman lining up a shot on him, let his hand drift higher, resting it on your waist.

"You're tense," he said, kneading your hip. "I can fix that."

Bucky thought, Enough.

Then a single shot rang through the night.

Eddie screamed, his body jerking backward as his wine glass shattered when he dropped it. 

Across the street, Bucky’s voice came through the earpiece, utterly unapologetic.

"Oops."

You exhaled, dabbing at the corner of your lips with your napkin before standing.

"Fuck," Eddie gasped, clutching his shoulder as blood seeped between his fingers and into his very expensive ivory suit. "You— you had a sniper on me the whole time?"

You stepped around the table. He trembled  as he realized just how precarious his situation was.

You crouched beside him, gripping his bloodied shoulder hard enough to make him whimper.

"You’re going to tell me," you demanded, "where your father’s next shipment is coming from."

Eddie’s breath hitched, "I—I can’t—"

Your nails dug in his wound. "I wasn’t asking."

His eyes darted in panic, allowing a beat of silence.

"The docks," he finally choked out, his voice shaking. "Pier 7. Two weeks from now at midnight."

“See?” You smiled, patting his cheek mockingly before standing. "That wasn’t so hard."

Eddie slumped against the chair, panting. Blood dripped onto the tablecloth, staining it red.

You leaned in one last time, "If I hear you running your mouth," you said, "the next bullet will be between your eyes."

Eddie nodded frantically. 

You tilted your head toward the door. "Get out."

The moment the words left your lips, Ollie and the rest of your men moved in, hauling him to his feet. He groaned in pain as they dragged him away.

Only when the door slammed shut behind them did you let out a breath, rolling your shoulders.

"You okay?" Bucky’s voice crackled in your ear, gentler now.

You smiled, knowing he was watching.

"Nice shot, Congressman," you said, turning toward the doors. "Get down here. I have whiskey."

"On my way."

—

Your penthouse was beautiful. 

The city lights glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. But Bucky wasn’t looking at the view.

He was watching you.

You poured two glasses of whiskey and slid one toward him. You were still in your dinner dress with a slit that rode high up your thigh.

Eddie Blackwood had touched you there.

Bucky hated it.

He took the glass. "You didn’t have to let him touch you," he said.

You leaned on the bar lazily. "Jealous, Barnes?"

Yes.

Yes, he was.

And he fucking hated himself for it.

This—whatever this was between you—wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a business arrangement. But every time another man so much as looked at you, a sense of possession coiled in his chest.

You stepped closer, tilting your head, studying him like you could read his thoughts. 

Bucky knocked back his whiskey in one go. It burned, but not as much as the fire curling in his stomach.

"You had me watching through a damn scope while he put his hands on you," he muttered, setting the empty glass down with a clink. "You think that was fun for me?"

"Relax," you teased, running a slow finger along the rim of your glass as you took another sip. "I knew you’d take the shot when I needed you to."

That only pissed him off more.

Because you had trusted him. Enough to put yourself in harm’s way, to let another man touch you, knowing that Bucky would be jealous enough to end it before things went too far.

Your underbosses still lingered at the entrance of the penthouse, waiting for your next order. 

"Ollie, Jack," you said, turning towards them. "Do you boys want a drink?"

They both shook their heads no, murmuring their refusals.

"You should go home, then,” you continued empathetically. "Be with your families."

They hesitated, their eyes flicking toward Bucky, who stood rigid by the bar. 

You reassured them, "The Congressman will keep me safe. Right, darling?"

Bucky’s grip tightened around the edge of the bar.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Your men exchanged a glance but didn’t argue. With brief goodbyes, they left.

As soon as you were alone, you turned back to Bucky as he considered his next move. 

He should leave.

He should walk out of here before this thing between you got even more complicated than it already was.

But then you took a step closer.

And Bucky didn’t move.

Didn’t want to move.

You set your glass down, and leaned in, your voice dipping into a sultry whisper against the lobe of his ear.

"You know, you have no right to be jealous, James," you mentioned, your lips just barely brushing his jaw. "You don’t even have me."

Bucky gulped.

Fuck.

"But I know you want me," you continued, your voice like velvet. "But you’re just such a gentleman. You haven’t even kissed me yet."

“I know,” he confirmed, almost with regret.

“And why is that?” You asked.

He didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

His fingers twitched with the urge to take. 

You made him reckless.

You pulled him from the bar and pushed him onto the couch, standing tall and imposing over him, the slit in your dress parting just enough to remind him of where Blackwood had touched.

Bucky’s hands found your hips before he could stop himself, gripping tight— possessive. The same hips Blackwood had squeezed before Bucky had put a bullet in his shoulder.

"Because…" he trailed off, unraveling under you.

His grip tightened.

His chest rose and fell in ragged breaths.

Then, finally, the words slipped out.

"Because I want you to claim me."

That undid you.

You had been toying with him for months, teasing, pushing and pulling until neither of you could not see where the game ended and reality began. But now there was no mistaking it.

Bucky Barnes—Congressman, soldier, sniper—wanted you.

And he wanted you to take him.

So you kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was raw, all heat and desperation. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling, owning. He groaned into your mouth, his fingers digging into your hips like he was daring you to ruin him.

And you would.

Bucky pulled you down onto his lap, his hands roaming, marking you just as much as you were marking him. Your dress had ridden up high, his calloused fingers skimming your bare skin. You rocked against him, swallowing the way he gasped against your lips.

He was usually so controlled— but now he was unraveling like loose thread and you loved it.

But when you pulled back with your fingers tracing his pulse, you saw something tender in his eyes. It was more than just lust, more than just the frustration of a months-long push-and-pull finally breaking the surface.

Bucky swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling.

“You gonna run your mouth again, Congressman?” you teased, fingers still fisted in his hair.

His hands tightened on your thighs. “Depends,” he whispered, the words coming out rough. “You gonna keep pretending this doesn’t mean something to you?”

Now that was a line you hadn’t expected him to cross.

You could handle flirting. You could handle games. You could handle sexual politics. But this was dangerous.

So you could only lean in, your lips just barely grazing his again, but instead of kissing him, you whispered, “What do you want this to mean?”

Bucky’s metal fingers flexed on your skin. 

Then—

“You already know,” he rasped.

Fuck.

For all your power, for all your control— for weren’t sure if you wanted to admit it. Yet. 

Bucky was still beneath you, breath ragged, pupils blown wide. You hadn’t kissed him again. You liked watching him unravel first.

His human fingers dug into your hips and bunched the fabric of your dress. His restraint was slipping— you could see it in the way his throat worked around a swallow, in the way his hands tightened on you like he was afraid you’d disappear into thin air.

You dragged a hand down his chest. There was no more space left between you. Not physically. Not in any way that mattered.

"You’re tense, Congressman," you teased with amusement. "I can fix that."

A deep growl rumbled from his chest. "Don’t you fucking use his words on me."

He was wild. Dangerous. You liked him like this.

And when you leaned in, dragging your lips over his pulse, you felt the exact moment he shattered.

Then you lead him off of the couch and to the balcony.

—

In the morning, Bucky was still here.

You had expected him to leave. To slip out before dawn, pretending nothing happened. That’s what powerful men often did.

But instead, he was still in your bed, arm slung lazily over his eyes, chest rising and falling beautifully.

You stretched, the ache in your muscles serving as a reminder of exactly how the night had unfolded.

Bucky shifted, humming from low in his throat. Then—

"You fucked me on a balcony table." His voice was still rough with sleep, still in disbelief.

Your brow arched. "I know."

He exhaled, shaking his head as he finally turned to look at you. His hair was a mess, but he was still beautiful.

Bucky huffed, dragging a hand through his hair. "Blackwood’s blood was still on the table."

Your smile was wicked. “I know,” you repeated.

His eyes darkened.

He liked that, didn’t he?

You hummed, propping yourself on one elbow. The sheet slipped slightly, revealing the bare skin of your shoulder, the faintest trace of where Bucky had gripped you too hard and left bruises on accident— or maybe not.

Bucky flopped back against the pillows, shaking his head. “I’m gonna need to go back to therapy,” he joked. You could tell he really didn’t mean it.

You laughed, pressing your lips to his bare shoulder. "Poor thing," you teased, nipping lightly at his skin. "Invoice me. I’ll pay for the sessions.”

—

You hadn’t meant for it to become a pattern, hadn’t planned for Bucky to become a fixture in your bed, but that’s exactly what happened.   

The first night happened almost two weeks ago, now, he was coming over every other day. You’d call him over under the guise of business, giving him another scrap of intel about the Blackwood arms deal, another excuse to keep him coming. Then, when business concluded, you let him stay.   

You liked it that way.   

Your men knew the drill. You’d tell them to leave, to go home, that The Congressman would keep you company tonight. That he would keep you satisfied. 

And god, did he keep you satisfied.  

See, now, when Bucky came over, he left his title at the door. He stopped being Congressman Barnes the moment you had your hands on him. In the privacy of your home, away from the prying eyes of the world, he was your James. Just yours.   

And fuck, he was such a mess for you. 

You had him surrendering completely to your touch in less than a week, and he took to it beautifully. You liked him this way— on his knees as he tried to earn your approval. He never rushed, never took more than you gave him, and fuck if that wasn’t the hottest thing in the world. 

Because Bucky was powerful. He was respected. But here, he surrendered to you so easily, like he had been waiting for you to take the reins. Like he was enjoying being ruined.

But neither of you wanted to define it.  

Out loud, this was just business. It was just intel swapping. If you didn’t put a name to it, then maybe it wouldn’t matter that you supposedly ran a criminal empire and he had a seat in Congress. 

You convinced yourself it was better this way. 

But it was getting harder to ignore how much you wanted him… in ways that was more than just physical. You craved more, and it was starting to eat at you.   

And Bucky… he had his own ways of making things worse, even when his heart was in the right place.

He still bought you flowers every week. Always from Mrs. Abrams’ stall, always something different. This time, it was red roses.

“She’s going to like these,” Mrs. Abrams said as she wrapped them in brown paper. She had known you since you were young, back when you used to visit the stall with your mother. When you grew older, you always left a generous tip, and sometimes, she wondered what exactly you did for work. But you’d never tell her, and she never pried.

Bucky handed her the money and added a hefty tip of his own. 

“She has always been so independent,” she tucked the bills away. “It’s nice to see someone care for her like this.”  

“She doesn’t need taking care of,” Bucky shrugged. “She just likes flowers.”

“Still,” she handed him the bouquet, “it’s nice to see someone finally love her.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “You think I love her?”  

Mrs. Abrams looked at him like he was stupid. “Of course. I’ve seen the way you look at her.”  

That rattled him. He took the roses and left without responding, without letting himself think too hard about it.

But that was easier said than done. The entire walk to your building, he thought about it.  

By the time he reached your office, you weren’t there. Too busy with the Blackwood arms deal that was happening tomorrow.  

So instead, he left the bouquet on your desk, tucking a note into the wrapping.   

For the not-so-bloody Mary.

He didn’t know why he wrote it. Maybe he just wanted to remind you that you weren’t that to him. You weren’t a queen of the criminal underworld to him. 

You were just… you. 

And you were a good person, no matter what your enemies thought of you. 

—

The next night, Bucky stared out to the Hudson.

Daredevil stood beside him, arms crossed, listening intently to the distant sirens as they closed in.  

Thanks to the airtight intel you’ve collected for months, the two of them successfully took down the Blackwood arms deal, and there was a little less filth in the streets of New York.

In the warehouse, they left people tied in thick rope, mouths taped shut, waiting for law enforcement to collect them. 

Thanks to you, it had been a clean operation. No one died.   

“So. Bloody Mary,” Matt Murdock mentioned. “Still can’t believe she’s one of the good ones.”  

Bucky’s jaw clicked as he thought about you.  

The way you had looked at him, head tilted in pleasure.

So Bucky only let out a nervous chuckle, shaking his head as he turned away from the dock.

Because if Matt Murdock ever found out—if anyone did—it would ruin this little arrangement that you had.

—

He found you in your penthouse later that night.

You were perched at your mahogany desk, the red roses in vase next to you.

You barely acknowledged him at first, too focused on the numbers on the screen.  You were moving money around, no doubt— perhaps another private donation to a rehab clinic. 

Then, after you’ve wrapped everything up, you dismissed your men with a flick of your wrist.  

The second the door shut, you smiled at him. 

“Good boy,” you praised him. “Took them down, just like I told you to.”  

Bucky swallowed hard as heat grew in his stomach.

He wasn’t sure if it was the praise or the way you looked at him when you said it.

“What’s your plan now?” he asked, pouring you and himself a glass of whiskey before going out of your study and into the living room, plopping down on the couch. 

You could only follow, sitting next to him and sipping from the glass he poured for you. You considered his question for a while. 

“I’ll do it all over again,” you said. “Until I atone for my father’s sins.” You paused, letting out a short, humourless laugh. “Which is never.”

His chest tightened.  

You rarely talked about your father at all, at least not in any way that mattered. But Bucky had done his research. He knew of the trail of blood your father had carved through this city. And he had known you long enough to know that you were trying to be something different.  

“You’re a good person,” Bucky said, like it was the only truth in the world.  

And yet, you struggled to believe it.

A bitter, unrestrained laugh slipped past your lips. “Think again.”  

Good? What on Earth was he on about?

There was blood on your hands, enough to stain a lifetime. You had taken lives, burned bridges, walked through fire to build something better from the ashes. You were beginning to understand why your enemies called you Bloody Mary.

But Bucky still looked at you like you were sacred. He saw past the destruction, past the sins and the wreckage, straight where your heart was— in the right place.

It drove him mad that you didn’t see yourself the way he did.  

Then, Mrs. Abram’s words echoed in his head. Of course. I’ve seen the way you look at her.

She was right. He had spent months pretending this was just intel, just politics. But he wasn’t a good liar when it came to you. He couldn’t keep it inside any longer.  

“You know,” he carefully considered his words, “maybe the Blackwood kid was onto something. Mafia marriages are supposed to symbolise alliances, right?”  

You groaned, tipping your head back. Where on earth could he possibly be going with this? you thought. “You are joking,” you said, “No family in New York could possibly strengthen me.”  

“But I’m just saying…” he gulped nervously, leaning closer. Close enough for you to smell his expensive cologne. Close enough so that his heartbeat rang in your ears, too.

“Maybe it doesn’t have to be another mob boss,” he murmured. His lips ghosted over your jaw, not quite touching yet just a whisper away. “Maybe… it could be a congressman.”  

Your breath hitched. What?

His next words were a confession. It was a vow.

“If you wanted a king, my queen,” he said, voice soft and steady, “all you had to do was say so.”  

Oh?

You tilted your head. “What are you trying to say, Barnes?” You asked carefully, setting down your drink. “That you love me?”  

His smile faltered. Just for a second.  

Then in a voice that held no hesitation, he said:  

“Yes.”  

Your fingers curled against the armrest so tightly you might have permanently warped the cushion. 

Holy shit.

“Oh.”  

It wasn't a surprise —not really. Deep down, you’d known. You’d known it from the way he looked at you, the way his touch lingered too long, the way the lines on his forehead softened when he was around you. 

But knowing it— hearing it— was different.  

Your heart slammed against your ribs, and you even wondered if it would ever settle down again.

Bucky had never been the kind of man to say things lightly. So when he said it—yes, he meant it.

Your fingers finally reached for him. Cupping his jaw, tilting his face toward yours, forcing him to look at you the way you knew he wanted to.  

“So loyal,” you admired his beautiful features. Your thumb brushed over his stubble, tracing the shape of his lips. “So pretty.”

Bucky swallowed hard, his lips parting, pupils dilated. His breath was rattling in his chest. Little did you know, he was fighting the urge to drop to his knees before you.  

Then, you kissed him.  

For the first time, it was sweet. It was soft.  

His reaction was instant—he’d been waiting for this. His hands found your waist, fingers digging in, dragging you closer with a desperation that made heat pool low in your stomach. 

He was solid, real. You could even feel the way his muscles twitch as if to keep himself from devouring you completely.  

But you didn’t want him restrained.

You rewarded him by sinking your teeth into his bottom lip, as if to say take what you want, James.

And fuck. He did.  

He kissed you harder. His grip on you tightened, fingers splaying over your spine, pressing into your skin as if he could pull you beneath it.  

And when you finally pulled back, Bucky was wrecked.

His chest heaved, lips were red and swollen. His hands were still locked around you, and letting go wasn’t an option.

You studied him, thumb dragging over his bottom lip, feeling the way it parted under your touch.  

God.

He was lovely. He was perfect. 

It was almost laughable— how you had been so caught up in the Blackwood arms deal, that somehow, you had missed the way he completed you.  

“Maybe not a king,” you entertained his thoughts. “Maybe… prince consort.”

Bucky blinked, his brain clearly short-circuiting. 

Before he could process, your lips brushed against his ear, your voice dipping into something sinful.  

“What do you say?” Your fingers tugging his hair slightly, earning a soft pant. “Be my prince?”

And Bucky—  The former Winter Soldier— fucking melted.

“Yes,” he whimpered. He pleaded.

You smiled wickedly, fingers threading through his hair before cradling and squishing his cheeks.

“I’ll buy you the nicest ring, sweetie,” you cooed, your voice dripping with affection as you brushed a stray lock of hair from his face.  

It wasn’t a joke. You weren’t teasing. 

No, you needed him to understand that this was not just a union of alliances.  

That this was you choosing him.

And then, you said, “Because I love you too.”  

Bucky let out a shaky breath, hands tightening around your waist. He needed to anchor himself. He couldn’t even believe this was real.

Because love?

He had forgotten what that felt like.  

Affection, yes. Lust, of course. But love was something he only observed from the outside.

Love was distant. Foreign. Love was something people like him weren’t supposed to have. He had lived more than one lifetimes and never once belonged to anything.  

Until now. Until you. 

His queen.  

And fuck—he was devoted.

To your power. To your ambition. To every wicked and holy piece of you.  

He was so utterly devoted that he would place his knife in your hand and bare his throat and trust that you would not destroy him.  

And you?  

You were going to spoil him rotten.

The finest suits. The best weapons. A fucking allowance because between the mob and a literal superhero, you were the most powerful couple this city had ever seen, and you wanted him to have everything.

You wanted to know that he was yours.  

That he was precious. 

That he was loved.  

Because Bucky Barnes was yours now.

And you had every intention of keeping it that way. 

You dragged your nails down the back of his neck, unravelling his resolve. “Look at you,” you pouted adorably, “all mine.”  

Bucky swallowed hard, but he didn’t argue. 

Your lips brushed against his, teasing, just barely touching.  

“You know what, baby?” your fingers sliding into his hair, “You would look good on your knees right about now.”

He groaned, needy. 

“Say it again,” he rasped, voice wrecked.  

“Say what?”  

His hands tightened on your waist, as he dropped from the couch and sunk on the floor, peppering kisses on your thighs.

“That you love me,” he said. It was nearly a plea, nearly a demand.

“I love you, James.”  

Fuck—

“I love you, too.” 

He kissed you hard, pushing you back against back of the couch, hands grabbing, desperate, needing—

He was going to worship you tonight.  

And by morning, the entire city would know exactly who he belonged to.

-End.

If I make another one shot connected to this one where Congressman!Bucky takes mob boss!reader to a state gala for the first time, would you read it? Also, if you like this one, please send me more Bucky x Mob boss! reader. I loved writing this so much!

General Bucky Taglist :

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

@winchestert101 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni@iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

-

You’ve seen him in less.

Last Thursday, he walked into your room mid-change without knocking—again—and stopped dead in the doorway while you stood there in just a bra, one leg halfway into a pair of jeans. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

His eyes dragged over you, slow and deliberate, pausing just long enough to make you feel it.

“You always walk in unannounced?” you asked, adjusting your waistband with a casual flick.

“You always leave your door wide open?” he fired back, smirking.

It was the same look he gave you in the laundry room last month when you slipped in, towel-clad and still damp, only to find him already there—naked except for his own low-slung towel and an open bottle of detergent in hand. The towel slipped just a little when he turned to greet you.

You had looked.

He smirked. “You need somethin’, doll?”

You stared, deadpan. “Yeah. The dryer. And maybe a little less cock in my eye this morning.”

He grinned like it was the best compliment he’d ever received.

-

You should’ve stopped being surprised by now.

Especially after the shower incident.

One steamy Tuesday night, post-mission, you dragged yourself down the hall, sore and sweat-sticky, already halfway undressed. You pushed open the bathroom door with your shoulder, yanked your shirt over your head—and froze.

Because Bucky was already in the shower.

And not just in it. Enjoying it. Eyes closed. Head tipped back. Water pouring down the cut lines of his chest like a damn cologne ad.

You locked eyes through the steam.

He blinked. Lifted a brow. Said nothing for a beat too long.

“You joining me or just here to supervise?”

You rolled your eyes, grabbed your old towel from the hook, grumbled about waiting your turn, and walked out before your knees could give out.

But not before you heard the laugh that followed you down the hallway.

-

It’s not weird.

At least, that’s the lie you keep repeating.

What is weird is how natural it feels when he presses a kiss to your forehead before you head out the door. How he sometimes kisses your cheek when he passes behind you in the kitchen. How he always—always—grabs your hand in safe houses and grounds you with one kiss to your knuckles when he feels you start to spiral.

The weirdest part?

You’ve kissed on the mouth, too.

Not drunk. Not as a joke. Not even during a mission.

-

The first time it happened was after one of Stark's parties. The rooftop glittered with string lights and empty champagne flutes, Tony’s voice booming in the background as you leaned against the railing, heels dangling from one hand, hair stuck to your neck with sweat and summer heat.

You’d been watching Bucky all night.

He looked out of place in his black button-down—rolled to the elbows, top few undone—and you couldn’t stop looking. Neither could anyone else. You’d caught women glancing more than once. Caught him brushing them off with his usual grunt, his polite smile. But his eyes kept landing on you.

By the time the party started to thin out, you were tipsy on exhaustion more than alcohol. Your tight midnight-blue dress clung to your skin. The zipper was digging into your spine. You wanted to go home. He found you near the elevator, cheeks flushed, forehead damp, feet bare now, shoes swinging lazily from two fingers.

“Tired?” he asked, voice low, eyes sweeping over you like it was his first time seeing you in that dress.

You nodded. “And hot.”

His mouth curved. “Yeah, you are.”

You rolled your eyes—but your stomach flipped. You were too tired to pretend it didn’t affect you.

The elevator took its sweet time.

You were alone in the hallway when the doors finally opened. He stepped in first, holding the door with his metal arm. You brushed past him—and stopped short when the doors closed.

He was too close.

He smelled like whiskey and cologne and sun-warmed leather. His jaw was clenched. His hands were at his sides, balled into fists. And he was looking at you like he’d already decided.

The air shifted.

Then his hand was on your cheek—warm, calloused, sure. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt before you even realized it.

The kiss was slow.

Too slow.

Mouths brushing first. Breath mingling. One tentative tilt, and then—

Then it deepened.

Hot and hungry and overdue. His nose nudged yours. Your lips parted. He groaned into your mouth, soft and surprised, like he hadn’t expected it to feel this good.

You were still kissing when the elevator stopped.

You didn’t speak the whole way back to the apartment.

And when he pressed a chaste kiss to your temple at the front door—like the previous kiss hadn’t happened—you let him.

-

The second time was after a solo mission. Jakarta had gone wrong.

You were covered in blood that wasn’t yours. You were shaking—bone-deep, teeth-clacking, gut-twisting shaking—and your knees almost gave out when you walked through the front door.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t even try.

Bucky was there in an instant. Shirtless, barefoot, his eyes dark and soft all at once as he crossed the kitchen in three strides and caught your face in his hands.

“C’mere,” he murmured, voice like velvet and gravel.

You didn’t argue.

He lifted you onto the counter like you weighed nothing, settling between your thighs, arms curled around you like a cage. You sagged into him. Pressed your forehead to his shoulder. Clutched the fabric of his tank top like it was the only thing anchoring you to the planet.

No questions. No lecture. No what happened?

Just warmth.

Just him.

You weren’t planning to kiss him.

But then his hand drifted up your spine, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades, grounding you. His mouth brushed your temple again.

And you turned your face.

Your lips met.

It was messy—open-mouthed and desperate, salt and sweat and something wet on your cheek, you didn’t know if it was blood or tears. But you needed it. You needed him. Needed to feel something that wasn’t fear or adrenaline or the low, gnawing ache of guilt.

His tongue slid against yours. His grip tightened.

And the noise he made—that rough, hungry fuck, sweetheart sound—unraveled you.

You stayed there for a long time. Your thighs around his waist. His hand in your hair. Neither of you speaking. Just breathing each other in like oxygen.

Eventually, he pulled away, pressed his forehead to yours, and whispered, “You’re safe now.”

You almost cried all over again.

-

The third time, you remember, it was cold.

You’d both stripped off your combat gear hours ago and crawled under the scratchy safe house blanket in soft cotton and flannel, still riding the high of a mission half-failed. Your side was bruised. His knuckles were bloodied. The only light came from the dull orange glow of the old gas heater buzzing across the room.

He’d pulled you close before you even asked.

Your cheek pressed to his chest. His fingers tracing slow circles on your spine. The kind of quiet you only earned after surviving something hard. You felt it—the way his breathing calmed once you settled against him. The way he always relaxed once he knew you were near.

It started with a hand in your hair. Then his palm on your jaw.

Your eyes met in the dark.

No smile. No joke. Just breathless stillness. Like something fragile was about to break.

His thumb dragged along your bottom lip.

Then he kissed you.

You didn’t remember who moved first. Didn’t care. Your bodies twisted together, mouths slow and aching, lips sliding and parting with barely a sound. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t urgent. It was needed.

You gripped his T-shirt like it could tether you.

He sighed into your mouth like a man who’d been waiting for permission.

And when you pressed your knee between his thighs, he groaned so softly you thought you’d imagined it.

But he didn’t stop you.

Didn’t pull away.

You stayed there for hours, limbs tangled, hearts pounding, kissing in fits and starts until sleep finally dragged you under.

In the morning, he didn’t bring it up.

And neither did you.

Because if you said it out loud, it would mean something.

And you were both still pretending it didn’t.

-

You always end up on him.

Doesn’t matter how the movie starts—one of you stretched out, the other curled in the opposite corner—it never lasts. By the thirty-minute mark, you’ve migrated. Your legs are slung over his lap. Your head’s dropped onto his shoulder. Or you’ve tucked yourself into the space between his chest and his arm like it was made for you.

And Bucky lets you. Every time.

He plays with your hair absentmindedly, like it calms him more than it does you. His metal fingers trace patterns on your knee, up your thigh, across your bare arm. His touch never leaves your skin for long. Even when the room is quiet. Even when he doesn’t say a word.

Sometimes, if he’s tired, he’ll tilt his head until it rests against yours. And when he thinks you’re asleep, he’ll kiss your hair.

You never tell him you’re still awake when he does it.

-

He always walks out of the bathroom shirtless, towel slung low, steam trailing behind him like fog. And you’re always brushing your teeth, half-naked yourself, leaning on the counter in a tank top and underwear like it’s nothing.

“You leavin’ any hot water for me?” you ask, eyeing the mirror with toothpaste foam in your mouth.

He smirks. “You’re up early.”

You shrug, swish your mouth, spit. “Didn’t sleep.”

Bucky slides behind you, impossibly close. His hand comes up—slow, careful—tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear, brushing along your jaw with the backs of his fingers. His voice lowers.

“You should’ve come in.”

You blink at his reflection. “Into the shower?”

He shrugs, gaze dark but teasing. “Would’ve shared.”

You roll your eyes—but the throb in your stomach says you thought about it for a beat too long.

-

He always touches you when he passes.

Hand on your hip when he moves around you in the kitchen. A palm on the small of your back when he leans past you for the salt. Fingers brushing your wrist when you hand him a mug. You’ve stopped flinching. Stopped pretending to flinch. It’s normal now. Expected.

But some mornings, it’s more.

You’re frying eggs in one of his T-shirts when he comes up behind you—fresh out of bed, hair wild, groggy as hell—and wraps his arms around your waist like it’s instinct. He presses his face into your neck, breath warm on your skin.

“Smell good,” he mutters, half-asleep. “What is that?”

“Shampoo,” you whisper, biting your lip as his nose drags along your jaw.

He doesn’t move away. Just kisses your shoulder and mumbles something about breakfast before reaching around you to grab a fork from the drawer.

You try not to melt into a puddle.

-

When you’re bruised, he always notices first.

“Sit,” he says, already walking to the freezer. “Left knee again?”

You nod. It’s an unspoken ritual now. You perch on the arm of the couch, stretching your leg out. He kneels between your feet, a wrapped ice pack in one hand, the other on your thigh.

His touch is clinical at first.

But not really.

Not when his palm lingers. Not when his thumb draws slow, soothing lines over your skin. Not when he looks up at you with those steady blue eyes like you are what’s fragile—not the swelling.

“Does it hurt?” he asks softly, pressing the cold pack gently to the bruise.

“A little,” you whisper.

His lips graze your kneecap.

“Brave girl,” he says.

You can’t breathe for the next ten seconds.

-

Tonight it starts like it always does.

One of your legs draped across his thighs. Your wine glass loose in one hand. His hoodie swallowed you earlier in the night—warm and oversized, frayed around the sleeves—and your bare thighs peek out as you shift in his lap.

Bucky’s got a lazy hand on your thigh, thumb moving in slow, idle strokes. The other’s wrapped around your waist, his palm splayed over the curve of your hip like he’s grounding you there.

There’s no movie tonight. No mission aftermath. Just music—low and slow—buzzing from his phone, paired with the faint pop of rain on the window.

You’re not even pretending to care where your body ends and his begins anymore.

Your cheek is against his shoulder. His heartbeat is steady beneath your palm.

It should feel normal.

It usually does.

But tonight?

Tonight it feels different.

You don’t know when it shifts.

Maybe it’s the way his fingertips are tracing higher now—up the hem of your shorts, brushing closer to the crease where thigh meets hip. Maybe it’s the silence stretching between you like a held breath. Maybe it’s how your wine glass stays untouched on the side table while your other hand curls into his shirt.

Or maybe it’s the way you shift in his lap, just enough for your core to drag across the swell of his thigh—and he inhales.

Sharply. Quietly. But you feel it.

So you do it again.

Slower this time.

Your hips roll forward in a soft circle, lazy and experimental, like you’re testing the shape of something you already know fits.

His hand freezes.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice tight.

You glance up at him, heart hammering. “Yeah?”

His jaw is tense. His eyes are darker now, locked on your mouth like it’s the center of the universe.

“You sure you wanna play like that?”

You pause.

Then, steady as you can, you tilt your head and murmur, “What if I’m not playing?”

Bucky’s hand flexes on your waist.

And then he kisses you.

It’s not soft. Not like the other times. Not a forehead press or a temple graze or a wine-warmed goodnight.

This is full-mouth. Deep. Open.

Need.

His tongue slides against yours and his hand cups the back of your head like he’s starving for it. He groans—deep and guttural—when you rock your hips again, grinding into the hard line of his thigh, needing more friction, more anything.

“You feel that?” he pants against your lips. “That’s what you do to me, baby.”

You moan, pushing closer, moving your hips in slow, aching circles now, your clothed cunt grinding into his thigh like it’s instinct. Like you’ve been doing this. Like you’ve needed to for months.

“Jesus,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours, “look at you.”

His hands roam—up your back, under the hoodie, over bare skin he’s touched a hundred times before but never like this.

“You always this needy for me?” he whispers, dragging his mouth down your jaw, over the shell of your ear. “You ever rub off like this before? Thinking about me?”

Your breath stutters. “Bucky—”

“I have,” he growls. “Fucked my hand to the thought of you sitting in my lap like this. Those little sleep shorts, that soft fuckin’ voice.”

You whimper.

He grips your ass, pulling you tighter into him.

“Go on, pretty girl,” he says, lips brushing your neck, “get off on me. Take what you need.”

Your forehead drops to his shoulder as you move—slow and aching and just on the edge of frantic now. You chase it in small, desperate circles. Your body is burning. Every swipe of your clit against his thigh feels so good and still not enough.

“I—fuck, I think I’m gonna—”

“You better,” he rasps. “Wanna feel it. Wanna hear you.”

He kisses you again when you come—deep and filthy, swallowing your moans, hand cradling the back of your head like he’s trying to keep you from floating away.

You’re still shaking in his arms when you pull back, panting.

He holds you.

Doesn’t speak at first.

Just breathes with you.

Then, voice low and rough in your ear, “Next time, you’re riding something a hell of a lot harder than my thigh.”

-

You try to ignore it.

Really, you do.

You keep your headphones in when he walks around shirtless. You busy yourself with laundry. You clean things that don’t need cleaning. You scroll aimlessly on your phone until your brain goes numb.

But it doesn’t help.

Your body’s aching.

Your skin’s too warm. Your core feels swollen—tight and full and desperately aware of how empty you are. Your nipples brush your shirt wrong and suddenly your thighs are clenching together because your body remembers.

It remembers the sound he made when you rocked against him. Remembers the grind of your clit on his thigh. Remembers the way his hands grabbed at you like he couldn’t help it.

It remembers how close you were to more.

And now you’re ovulating.

You know it. Feel it. That heavy, throbbing need coiling in your belly. You can practically smell him when he walks by. Your whole body reaches for him like a magnet.

He’s in the living room now.

Reading something. Sprawled on the couch in a black t-shirt and those same gray sweatpants—the ones you know hug his cock when he’s half-hard, the ones you stared at for months before grinding your soaking cunt against his thigh like you were made for it.

You hover in the hallway, heartbeat in your throat.

You tell yourself to walk away.

But your body has other plans.

“Hey,” you say softly.

He looks up. His eyes go from your face to your legs and back again. “Hey, sweetheart.”

Your feet carry you forward. Slow. Controlled. Until you’re standing right in front of him, heart in your throat, trying not to squirm in your thin shorts and oversized t-shirt.

His gaze lingers. His fingers tighten around the spine of the book.

“You good?” he asks.

You nod. You lie.

“Can I sit with you?”

His brows twitch. He nods once. “Course you can.”

You don’t sit beside him.

You climb into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world—because it is, isn’t it? You’ve done it a dozen times before. Straddling him. Curling up. Seeking comfort.

But this time you’re not looking for comfort.

You’re looking for relief.

Your thighs settle around his. Your arms loop around his neck. His book is forgotten on the floor.

You can feel him under you. Warm. Solid. The thick weight of his cock softening your spine with anticipation. Your body clenches at the memory of it—what it felt like to grind down until you were shaking, how he held you through it, kissed you like you belonged to him.

“You alright, baby?” he murmurs, hands settling lightly on your waist. “You feel tense.”

“I—I can’t stop thinking about the other night,” you whisper. “On the couch.”

Bucky goes still.

You feel his cock twitch under you.

“I’ve been thinking about it too,” he admits, voice low. “Every damn night since.”

You swallow hard. “I’m ovulating.”

That gets a reaction.

His jaw tightens. His hands slide down your back, splaying low over your hips. “Is that right?”

You nod, cheeks hot. “Feels like my body’s trying to make me crawl into your lap and stay there until I’m pregnant.”

He groans.

Actually groans.

“Jesus fuck, baby.”

He lifts you slightly, adjusting the angle, pulling your hips down flush against the bulge in his sweatpants. His head drops to your shoulder as he breathes deep.

“You’re so wet for me already,” he mutters, voice gone rough. “So needy.”

You whimper when he rocks you forward.

“Don’t tease,” you breathe.

“I’m not,” he growls. “I’m about to let you fuck yourself on me again if that’s what you need.”

It is. It so is.

You start to move—slow, needy circles with your hips, dragging your clothed pussy along the hard shape of him. His hands grip your ass, guiding you. Encouraging it.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Take what you need.”

Your breath hitches. Your clit throbs through the fabric. Every pass feels hotter, wetter. Your pussy is soaked and your shorts are thin and he’s right there.

“I wanna come like this,” you whisper. “Need it.”

“Then ride me, baby. Rub that pretty pussy on my cock. Make yourself feel good.”

You don’t know who reaches for the hem first.

All you know is your shirt is suddenly too hot. Too much. You claw it over your head without grace, leaving your chest bare, your nipples already tight and aching for his touch.

Bucky’s eyes go dark. He exhales like he’s been sucker-punched. And then he’s tugging his own shirt over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside without ever looking away from you.

You straddle him again—knees sinking into the couch on either side of his hips—and your palms are on his chest now. Solid heat and muscle. The scars. The softness of his skin. The way his stomach jumps when your fingertips drag low.

You can’t stop. You don’t want to.

His hands move to your waistband, slow and reverent.

“This okay?” he murmurs, already curling the tips of his fingers under the band of your shorts.

You nod. “Off. Please.”

He peels them down with your underwear, knuckles brushing your thighs, your hips, the slick between your legs. His breath hitches when he sees you—soaked—and your skin burns as he drinks it in.

“Jesus,” he mutters, half in awe. “You’re drenched.”

You want to be embarrassed. You would be—if you weren’t already reaching for his waistband.

“Off,” you whisper again, tugging. “Need all of you.”

He lifts his hips and helps you, groaning as his cock springs free—thick, flushed, and aching.

Now there’s nothing between you.

No shirts. No shorts. No excuses.

You both sit still for a moment, bare and breathless, staring at each other like it’s the first time you’ve ever seen.

Then your hands are on his shoulders, your chest pressed flush to his. His cock is hot and heavy between your bodies, sliding through the slick heat between your thighs as you lower yourself onto him—not into, just onto—nestling him against your swollen, aching pussy.

You rock your hips once.

It’s obscene. Wet and thick and so close.

He throws his head back with a strangled groan, fingers biting into your hips. “Fuck—”

You keep grinding. Slow and deep, dragging your soaked folds over his cock, rubbing your clit along the shaft, coating him in slick, chasing every ounce of friction your body craves.

You whisper his name.

Again. And again.

“Bucky, Bucky, fuck, Bucky—”

He’s panting now, mouth open, eyes locked on where you’re working yourself against him.

“I should’ve taken you that night,” he groans. “Should’ve pulled your shorts aside and filled you up.”

You cry out, trembling.

“Yeah?” he pants. “You want that? You want me to fill you while you’re like this—needy and wet and beggin’ for it?”

You nod frantically, grinding harder, chasing it.

“You close?”

“So close,” you gasp. “Please, Bucky—please—”

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he whispers, pulling you tight against him. “Rub that needy little cunt on me and fucking come.”

You do.

Right then—shaking, gasping, pleasure spiking so fast your vision goes white at the edges—your thighs seize around his hips. Your core clenches violently, and your body jerks forward in a sharp, helpless grind.

And that’s when it happens.

Your soaked, swollen cunt catches the thick head of his cock just right—and takes him in.

You both freeze.

For half a second, there’s only sensation—the blunt stretch, the searing, perfect fullness of him sliding all the way in. No hands to guide him. No careful alignment. Just one slick, hungry roll of your hips—and suddenly he’s buried to the base, deep inside you, bare and hot and massive.

You gasp like you’ve been punched. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry.

Bucky barks out a strangled sound—something between a curse and a sob—and grabs your hips with both hands like he needs to anchor himself to reality.

“Fuck—” he chokes, voice breaking, head snapping back as his body bucks under yours. “Baby—baby, holy shit—”

Your whole body trembles.

You hadn’t meant to.

But you don’t stop.

You can’t.

Your pussy flutters around him, muscles clenching again and again, spasming through the tail end of your orgasm with his cock lodged deep in your slick, pulsing heat. Your body goes boneless, but your hips keep moving—small, needy circles, working every inch of him like your body knows what it’s doing.

“Bucky—” you whimper, nails digging into his shoulders, your voice already wrecked.

He’s huge inside you. You’re still throbbing from coming, and he fills you—stretching you wide, twitching against your walls. You feel every ridge, every pulse of him. You feel the drag of his veins, the heaviness of his tip grinding right where your clit swells against his pelvis.

Your walls clench again. And again.

You moan like you’re possessed.

His eyes are wide. Lips parted. His chest rising and falling like he’s sprinted a mile. His hands grip your ass, then your hips, then your waist—frantic and searching—like he doesn’t know where to touch you first.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, burying his face in your neck for a second before dragging his mouth along your collarbone. “You just pulled me in, baby—you were so wet, I couldn’t stop it—fuck—”

You don’t answer.

You just keep moving.

You ride him—slow, tight rolls of your hips, not lifting off, just circling, grinding, dragging your soaked cunt along every inch of him inside you. It’s raw and primal. Your thighs are trembling, slick dripping down to his balls, and you still can’t stop.

“I—I needed it,” you gasp, hips grinding harder now, searching for that sweet pressure again. “Needed you inside. Needed to feel you fill me up—”

Bucky groans—low and filthy—and thrusts up into you, just once. Just enough.

“Yeah?” he pants, eyes blazing. “You want that? Want me to fill you while you’re this wet and needy? While your pussy’s fuckin’ beggin’ for it?”

“Yes—yes, Bucky—please—”

He snaps his hips again, sharp and deep, and that’s all it takes.