★

You had to be dreaming, this wasn't real! But then you remembered — remembered the men who assaulted your body, the men who killed you. Maybe that’s why you were like this. Maybe that’s why you couldn't feel the sharp, stinging pain you felt in your thigh when you were alive.

Anger bubbled in you — pure hatred. The taste of bitterness and resentment lingered on your tongue.

As you got out of the water fully, you were wet and bloody, your legs came back, and the fin disappeared into your back. A few scales still on your body. All you were wearing was the plastic trash bag.

You stood there, staring at your reflection in the water, still in shock at the transformation you had just experienced. The moonlight seemed to dance on your scales, adding a mystical glow to your appearance.

…

It felt like you were walking through the dark, leafy green forest for hours. Finally, you felt a paved road under your feet. You had finally reached the highway.

You walk onto the road and suddenly — a car zooms through your body! You can feel your heart beating a million times faster in your chest; oh wait, you can't — you're dead. Then you spot a car, more so a truck, a white jeep parked next to the dense forest. And leaning on it were two guys.

You walked up to them. Right in front of them. You felt disgusted that they were here, nonchalantly smoking after they just killed you. You wanted to rip out their guts, peel their skin off, torture them just as they tortured you.

“You feel that? It's kinda cold,” one snickers, his gaze distant. “Oh! What if it's a ghost!” Gojo said, obviously high.

“How much did you smoke?” Getou laughed out, moving towards Gojo. Then he pinned Gojo against the side of the car. Slowly moving closer, then kissing him. Biting on the lighter-haired’s lips so he could get his tongue into Gojo’s mouth. Tongues swirling together in sync. Then finally pulled away to catch their breath.

Standing behind them, you seethed. Angered by the way they forgot about you like you were nothing, you punched the back of Getou's head. Hand going through his head — and Gojo — his face, hitting the glass window of the jeep.

The window shattered.

Gojo visibly jumped. “What the fuck!” Getou said, grabbing Gojo in a tender hold — a hand behind his head and the other at the back of the base of his neck, pulling him into his chest.

“Did any glass get on you?” Getou said, concerned.

“No, but what the fuck just happened?” the white-haired boy responded.

You were there, mouth gaped. ‘How did a fucking car go through me, and when I tried punching them, my hand went through them, but not the glass? It fucking shattered! This doesn’t make sense! What the fuck!?’ you think, angered.

Again, again, again — you tried and tried and tried to physically hurt them, but nothing.

“Let’s go, maybe it's that chick's ghost,” Gojo said, trying to lighten the mood.

The desperation to hurt them got to you. So you followed. You followed them back to the place where your murder took place.

Deep in the other side of town, there was a building covered in foliage and trash. The walls, which were covered in graffiti, looked like they would break at any moment. It used to be a cult building. After all the members of the cult died or were shoved into a confinement center, the building was abandoned. You trailed behind the two living monsters into the building. In one room, there was a bed, posters on the walls that covered the graffiti— or attempted to cover the graffiti — a chair with a pile of clothes, and a small, broken nightstand. You followed them down to the basement. This was where they did everything. The mattress was no longer on the bed frame, and the guy was still in the corner, no longer living.

“I forgot about him. What do u wanna do with him?” Gojo asked.

“We just got back. I don’t wanna give a shit about him until tomorrow,” Getou replied, leaving for another room.

Gojo let a soft hum out, acknowledging what Getou had said.

You wandered around in the basement, eyes drawn to the graffiti that twisted along the cracked cement walls. Your eyes were drawn to one unlike the others — it was carved in deep, looping scratches, almost burned into the surface. It wasn’t just a symbol or a message. It pulsed.

You couldn’t make out what it said, doubting if it even said anything. It was more like your eyes interpreted it, like the markings weren’t meant to be read, but felt. The longer you stared, the more your head hurt. Your heart raced. Something whispered at the edge of your mind.

‘What the fuck… how do you even pronounce that?’ you thought, as your mouth began to move on its own.

You tried to say it once. Failed.

Tried again. Your voice cracked, static in your ears.

The third time, your throat finally formed the sound. Something unholy. Not human. Something that echoed in the basement, that was never meant to be said.

And then,

Agony.

You felt this agonizing pain pulsing through you. It felt as if your bones were cracking inside you, your skin and muscle stretching and pulling, ripping itself apart and putting itself together again. You weren't a ghost. 

You were in a bathroom. Your new body felt muscular and tall, and you looked into the mirror to see Getou’s face. Frantically, you started reciting that stupid black magic spell or whatever the fuck it was.

Once. Then, twice. Then, thrice. Then the fourth, you cut yourself off, feeling like you were no longer in a being.

Your head was frantic, screaming, ‘What the fuck; What the fuck; What the fuck,’ over and over again.

You needed to figure this out.

…

A few weeks later, you figured out how to switch bodies at will.

The spell wasn’t perfect. It tore at your soul every time, like dragging barbed wire through your ribs or yanking each and every one of your bones out of your body one by one. But it worked. You just had to be near them, smell their cologne, hear their voice, see their face, and whisper the incantation, like a curse soaked in mold, a rotting stench they will never escape.

And then boom, you’d wake up in their skin.

You practiced. Started small. Switching into stray dogs that wandered too close to the abandoned building, crows, and even rats. Your control was shaky, but every time it got easier. Every time you felt less like yourself, more like something else, something inhuman, detached, cold.

You liked it.

And then, the opportunity came.

Gojo had wandered off alone again. ‘Idiot.’ You spat in your thoughts. He was half-drunk too, stumbling through the dark forest near the building. You were waiting.

Invisible.

Watching.

You whispered the spell through the trees, and in a blink, you were inside his skin. This time, you weren’t frantic. It was intentional. Controlled. You could feel his heart. You could feel his memories, little flickers of sick laughter, of your screams, of blood and plastic bags.

You didn’t scream this time.

You smiled.

Because now, you could end them… from the inside out.

You walked back to their little hideout, Gojo’s voice slithering off your tongue like venom. Getou grinned when he saw “him.” Walked right up to you as if nothing had ever happened. Like he hadn’t thrown your body in a fucking lake and lit a blunt after.

“Where’d you run off to?” he asked, dragging his thumb across your — no, his — jawline. “Left me bored, babe.”

You could have kissed him.

Instead, you smirked.

“Sorry. Got distracted.”

The two of you went inside. He flopped on the mattress like a dog, lit another cigarette, and talked shit about some gang near the west side. You sat beside him. You didn’t move. You just watched him talk.

You wondered if he’d scream when you killed him.

Later that night, when he passed out, you slipped the knife from under the bed. The one they used to hurt you. It still had a smear of dried blood on it. You pressed it to your — Gojo's — stomach. Let it sink just enough to feel pain. You needed to remind yourself this wasn’t your body. If you did this, you would feel the pain. This shouldn’t be your pain.

Then you turned it toward Getou.

You wanted to carve your initials into his bones.

But you hesitated. Because revenge? It had to be slow. Poetic.

You leaned down, breathing against his neck. Whispered just loud enough for him to stir.

“She’s still watching.” Then whispered the incantations.

He jolted awake. “The fuck?!” He looked at Gojo, who seemed to be horrified. “I don’t know what happened — I — what the fuck — that wasn’t me!” he yelled.

This was new. You couldn't talk to animals, so you didn’t know that they could see what was happening. The time in the bathroom was different; you didn’t do anything, just stared at the mirror. This was even better. You could make one destroy their own love by their own hands and then kill themselves.

You tried to say it once. Failed. Tried again. Your voice cracked, static in your ears. The third time, your throat finally formed the sound. Something unholy. Not human. Something that echoed in the basement, that was never meant to be said. And then, now this was poetic.

You were across the room. Smiling. The look on his face made you feel alive again.

You were going to destroy him.

Soon, they’d beg to join you in the grave.

“What is that?” The words spilled from Gojo’s lips. Getou had been staring at you this whole time, terrified to move or say something.

“You don’t remember me?” you spoke, smiling as your voice came out distorted. 

“I will destroy you.” As you said this, you spoke the incantation, and now you were Getou.

“Come here, Gojo! It’s me, Getou, your love!” you giggled out. The look on his face is priceless.

“N-No, you're not! Get out of him! Look, I—We are sorry! We—” He got cut off by you throwing the knife at him—not perfectly aimed, so it hit the wall behind him.

“You're sorry? Sorry? You can ask for all the forgiveness you want, but you will feel my pain, and yet I would never forgive you!” you screamed.

You grabbed an empty glass bottle and hit him in the head. A thud, and he fell to the floor. ‘Huh, this body is stronger than I realized. It’s gonna make it easier to kill him.’ The thought made you giggle. You bent down to grab hold of his leg, then started dragging him to a different room.

You stopped in front of one of the rooms in the basement—a bed frame in the middle, blood smeared on one of the corner walls… This was the room they- they did those things to you… The thought still makes you gag, angering you more.

You drag him into the room, let go of his foot, and move towards the bed. It was just rusted metal. You grabbed the bed and flipped it so it was standing tall on the footboard. You looked around. ‘Ropes, handcuffs, anything?’ You needed to tie him up.

In one of the corners of the room, you found a rope. ‘Bloody… it will work,’ you thought. Grabbing it, you dragged him to the bed, pulled his hands up to the headboard, and tied them there, then tied his feet to the footboard.

“Done!” you giggled, then left the room.

He was now dangling off the headboard with his legs tied, oh so helpless, just like you were. 

“Tied up, tied up now what…? Killing them is the end goal, but how…. oh…….” you giggled “perfect.”

You look around the room, ‘nothing… He better not get out, I'm sure I tied it tight enough’ I thought, then I left the room. ‘He's tied up; this should give me plenty of time to look around.’

First room, another ugly bedroom with graffiti on the walls, dirt, rocks, and grim on the floor. Second room… dining maybe, ‘they really turned this dump into somewhat of a house… If I'm being generous,’ busted table and two chairs with a knife lying on the table, a vase of flowers, and a small candle— and of course, the walls peeling.

“Get. the fuck. out of me!” I hear a screaming, agitated voice in my head as I stepped foot into their living room. “Shut the fuck up!” I shrieked, covering my- his ears. 

This is new, not once did an animal overpower you while you were in it, were it. But for some reason, he can?!

The screaming didn’t stop.

“Get out. Get out. Get out.”

It echoed inside your skull like nails dragged across bone. You staggered back, slamming your—Getou’s—shoulder into the peeling wall. The candle on the table flickered wildly, flame stretching sideways as if pulled by an unseen breath.

“Shut up,” you hissed, teeth clenched. “You don’t get to talk anymore.”

But he didn’t stop.

Memories forced themselves forward—his memories. Not the ones you wanted. Not the cruelty or the laughter or the blood. Softer things. The way Gojo laughed when he snored himself awake. The first time Getou hesitated, hand hovering over your body like maybe—maybe—he could still walk away.

You screamed, clutching your head.

“No. Don’t you dare show me that.”

Your reflection in the cracked mirror across the room twitched a second too late when you moved. Its smile lingered after yours fell.

Your chest burned. The spell wasn’t just tearing at your soul now—it was unraveling it.

“You think this hurts?” Getou’s voice snarled inside you. “You think this is punishment? You’re wearing me like a costume. You don’t even know what I am.”

You laughed, breath shaky. “I know enough. You're filthy, foul, disgusting. You did so much to me, and now I'm back. My soul can’t rest until you both are gone, until- until you have suffered as I did,” you screamed back at him.

But doubt crept in anyway.

You felt your fingers twitch without your command. The knife on the table rattled. The ropes in the other room creaked.

Rope creaked, the bed creaked. You walked back to the room, grabbing the knife with you, to where Gojo was hanging.

“Hi there, my love, finally awake?” You say pressing the knife to his throat.

“Don’t call him that! Let him go!” You hear from the back of your head, you wish you could silence his stupid little voice.

“Getou? W-what are you doing?” His voice trembling.

“Oh? Don’t worry, I'm just having some fun.”

“You're not my Getou… what the fuck are you!? Get away from me!” He says in a rather stable voice.

“You’re smarter than you look. You’re right im not your Getou. I’m not Getou at all. I hope you remember me...” As you say this, you get out of Getou, and he falls back. Showing yourself to the both of them. Your wet hair framing your face, your eye completely black, the red bloody hole in your thigh, your sharp teeth, and more blood.

“I-it’s you!” Gojo says, shocked and terrified.

“Fuck… just leave us alone!” Getou screamed from the floor where he fell.

“Leave you alone…? You. Took. Everything from me! My life even!” You say your voice trembling as you scream.

You get back into Getou, knife in hand, close to Gojo's neck.

“Don’t!” You hear the panicked voice in the back of your head. Ignoring him, you take your knife and drag it down Gojo’s neck down to his stomach, then press hard, not enough to break skin.

“Please stop!” Gojo says. 

“Shut the fuck up before I gag you.” All you can see is red; the revenge you get will be everything.

“I’m going to kill you, your precious Getou is going to kill you.”

“Stop, we’ll do anything!” they both said at the same time, as if they were the same person because of their love. Too bad they won’t be alive for much longer.

“There's nothing you can do….” With that, you pierced through his shirt and through his skin, not deep enough, just enough to hurt.

“Stop! Don’t make me do this!” Getou cried as he watched his hands hurt his lover; there was nothing he could do.

“You’re hurting him, Getou. Why don’t you stop? Don’t you love him?” you say back to him mockingly.

You drag the knife deeper spliting his skin, still not deep enough. A few more, his shoulder, arms, legs, and collar. Now he's all bloody, blood slowly dripping down his torso and legs, slowly to the floor.

“It hurts… why don’t you just kill me?” Gojo whimpers.

Silence, Gojos breathing, your–Getous breathing, and tinnitus ringing in your ear.

“Stop making him kill me,” Gojo pleaded.

“Did you just kill me? No. So why shall I grant the both of that mercy?” You say calmly, placing the knife down and leaving the room. You walk back into the other rooms, looking for a different tool, anything. You're back in the other bedroom and spot something in the corner, gasoline. That’ how they will end. You check Getou’s pockets, you know, they smoke or get high or whatever they were doing when you first saw them. A dark blue lighter in his right pocket. 

You walk back into the room, where Gojo is. You kick the knife out of the room and close the door; the door locks from the outside, you lock it, making sure they are trapped in here. 

“W-what are you doing…? Getou…” Gojo says in a breathy voice.

“No… No! Please its not me!” Getou screamed from the back of your head.

You douse Gojo in gasoline and liquid seeping into his wounds, and he cries in pain. You make a line of gasoline on the floor reaching him. 

Finally, this is your revenge.

You light the line of fire as Gojo squirms and Getou screams from inside you.

And you make him watch.

“You did this, Getou. You did this to the one person you love,” you say to getou as gojo screams, squirms, and burns.

“You’re a monster, Getou.”

“How could you, Getou?”

The flames engulf Gojo; the agony he feels is delicious. After a while, his screaming dies down, and he stops moving.

“He’s dead, and you killed him, Getou.”

As you saw this, you leave his body and move to the corner of the room, he falls to the ground as you do, and stares. Stares at his lover, burned skin blotchy, melted, and red. No movements, no breath, just a butned body.

“I killed you.” He says in shock.

He grabs the bottle of gasoline, pouring it all over himself. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. I… I deserve the same fate, I love you…” As Getou says this, he grabs the lighter and sets it alight; he doesn’t hesitate and sets himself alight.

Bright orange, red, and yellow engulf him, and he screams, pleads his apologies to his lover, and slowly they die down. The fire extinguishes itself in the concrete room.

“I would drag your bodies to the lake, but you both don't deserve to lie with my body…”

I had strings, but now I'm free~

୨♡୧ ｡ Henry does his best to stay subdued and composed when he hears you begging for it. He knows how you get when you see him, but he tries to talk you into calming down, especially if he has important things to deal with and cannot spare the time to give in and satisfy you.

"I know, sweetheart, I understand, but you have to wait a bit."

୨♡୧ ｡ Henry knows these instincts can become overwhelming for most ordinary people, and in some extreme cases, like yourself, they are nearly impossible to tame. But he tries. He knows it's best to focus on his plans first, but your incessant begging can sometimes disrupt him. When that happens, he tries to keep his manner as composed, but you can feel the lurking frustration in his tone as he insists you have to wait. If you do, you know Henry will reward you, but if you insist, Henry will raise his voice slightly.

୨♡୧ ｡ Sometimes that's what you want. Sometimes you want to see Henry's anger, because the neediness in you begs for a change. The sweet Henry satisfies you, but not enough. The idea of Henry disciplining you turned from a small idea to a desperate desire when you saw how attractive he could be when his dominant side took over.

୨♡୧ ｡ So you began to annoy him on purpose, driven by your lust.

୨♡୧ ｡ Henry was not stupid, and he figured it out quite quickly; if anything, it amused him. If only you'd know how dangerous this game you were playing really was, you'd probably be ashamed of yourself, but regardless, he pretended to play along for the first few times. Luckily for you, you had caught Henry in a good mood, doing it, so he was willing to entertain your fantasies, even if purely out of amusement. Which he didn't let you in on, because you thought yourself so clever that he almost felt bad ruining it.

୨♡୧ ｡ If things had stayed this way, Henry wouldn't have minded. You behaved like his plaything, and he could overlook your misbehaving at times, as well as handle your freakiness accordingly.

୨♡୧ ｡ If you got yourself a sample of 'nice' Henry, he would tend to use his hands because he prided himself on how easily it was for him to teach you a lesson with his fingers. Your incessant pleas for him to give you more while he hushed you and eased his fingers in the perfect spot, keeping you on his lap, with his other hand feeling under your shirt while guiding you to lean your head back against his shoulder, had you arching and squirming against him. If you tried to reach down, mindlessly overwhelmed by how well he was working on you, he would coo against your ear.

"No hands, sweetheart. If you want me to help you out, you need to play by my rules."

୨♡୧ ｡ And you would have to obey, otherwise Henry would stop. You tried once to see what would happen if you disobeyed, and he stopped, leaving you on the edge and ushering you off his lap for being a bad girl. But if you are good, and let him do his work, he would have you climaxing around his fingers, sometimes more than once if he felt you deserved it.

୨♡୧ ｡ His fingers were not the only reward you would get if you got on Henry's good side. His mouth was the one he liked to use on you, too, because he enjoyed how flustered you would become when he suggested it. He first warmed you up with his fingers, as he usually would, but then he would whisper.

"Come on, sweetheart, you are in for a treat today."

୨♡୧ ｡ Henry would have you sitting on the couch in his place, and he dropped down between your legs, keeping them spread wide enough to take in the sight of your desire leaking from you after he used his fingers. While eating you out, he made use of his fingers too, thrusting them inside you to aid his tongue's work. He allowed you to grab his hair, to squeeze your thighs around his head and squirm; however, if you ever dared to say it's too much, Henry would grab your hip roughly and hold you down, eating you out mercilessly until you came against his tongue, pretending not to hear you begging him to slow down.

୨♡୧ ｡ But sometimes, you got on Henry's angry side. The one time you saw him dishevelled and bloody in the cave, you had an epiphany. You couldn't believe your eyes. Henry was attractive as it was, but like this, you felt something feral in you. It was the worst timing for your desperation to kick in, facing a distraught and furious Henry, who could easily lose even the remaining drop of control and make you regret your boldness.

୨♡୧ ｡ You tried to cling to his tweed waistcoat, but he roughly grabbed your wrist and stared down at you, nearly livid. How could you be so inconsiderate in a moment like this? Your needy gasp as he eyed you down like prey made him shove you back, causing you to fall on the ground. He tilted his head, approaching you with confident, slow steps, then suddenly trapping you down and hooking his hands in your shirt.

"Sweetheart, are you out of your mind?"

୨♡୧ ｡ Henry's face betrayed the lack of control he was showing. Seeing you stare up at him with that meek gaze of combined fear and arousal made him lick his lips and put his hand on your throat, squeezing lightly. The slight fear in your eyes growing with an innocent flicker made Henry smile.

"What is it, sweetheart? I thought you wanted this."

୨♡୧ ｡ You could taste the bitter irony in his tone, your chest rising with frightened, quick breaths. Henry didn't care about how unfortunate the location was, how dirty either of you would get. If you wanted to play with fire, you had to get used to the idea you'd get burnt. Far too many times, he had let you off the hook easily. You had to suffer consequences.

"Don't tell me you're already regretting it."

୨♡୧ ｡ He mocked, his hand reaching down to his belt. Henry had made sure you would have an experience that lived up to your expectations. This time, you wouldn't have any warm-up, no kind words aided by his mouth or fingers. This time, you would be coming undone on his cock, fucked ruthlessly on the cave's sandy ground.

୨♡୧ ｡ Henry's mind was utterly shattered with flashbacks and instructions given to him by The Mind Flayer, claiming you were more of an instinctual drive which kicked in as he tried to regain control over his own mind. With you impaled on his cock, one of your legs hooked up around his hip and his face mere inches away from yours, hair falling on his forehead mixed with drops of blood and sweat as he shoved himself deep inside you, he could feel the grip of the monster slipping away, the flashbacks shut down somewhere at the back of his mind. Henry leaned down and licked a strip from across your cheek, his hips shoving against yours until he had you crying out his name and imploring him not to stop.

"You are never satiated, sweetheart. You never have enough."

୨♡୧ ｡ Henry scolded you. He licked his lips, catching his own dripping sweat and blood on his tongue, then forced a kiss on you, making you taste the mixture. His tongue worked in your mouth, only breaking away when he felt you needed the air, when your body would become weak from desire to breathe. Only then did Henry give in and let you breathe before capturing your lips.

୨♡୧ ｡ He claimed you repeatedly, until, for once, your desperation ceased, your mind empty of anything but his name. Until his body became too worn out to continue. Inside the cave, dark and engulfed with fragments of his fears, you were sprawled on the ground, dripping with his cum, panting and trying to catch a glimpse of him. Henry remained on his knees between your legs for a while, observing you as he grunted and wiped his face with his sleeve. Then, with his hand on your thigh, he pushed himself up slowly and staggered to the cave wall, leaning onto it as he fixed his trousers, glancing down at you.

୨♡୧ ｡ Henry closed his eyes, allowing his head to fall back for a moment. His mind had been empty for longer than he could remember, and slowly thoughts began to crawl back in their place. His eyes opened again, and he sighed, doing his best to help you stand and lean against him as he tried to help you out of the cave.

"For your own good, never do that again." "...I definitely will do that again."

୨♡୧ ｡ You teased, although you were chuckling, barely forming coherent thoughts. Henry sighed, giving you a half-compassionate, half-pitiful look.

"You will never learn, sweetheart, will you?"

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It’s almost too hard to speak past the ache. “I need a bucket.” 

“Oh. Oh, okay.” Sirius extracts his hand gently from yours. Then he’s slipping out from behind you, stumbling a bit on his way from the room. “Okay, one second.” You hear the hall closest open, and then a curse as a light comes on. 

You have your eyes screwed shut when he comes back, feeling the small depression the bucket makes in the comforter near your legs. The thought of moving half a centimeter seems like it could kill you. 

“Need help sitting up?” Sirius asks in a murmur. 

You make a hum of denial. 

“Okay.” The bucket leaves, and there’s a soft clunk on the floor. “I’m just gonna leave it right here by the bed, then, yeah?”

You do your best to nod. You think it mostly works. 

Sirius’ hand lands on your head, his thumb sweeping gently across your forehead. “What’s the matter?” he asks lightly. “Just couldn’t be arsed to get up and get it yourself?” 

“I know you’re joking,” you manage, “but I’m actually going to get upset with you.” 

“Tough crowd.” He drops the teasing. “Uterus troubles?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Sadistic fucker,” he mutters. “I’m sorry, pretty girl. Don’t suppose you’d feel like sitting up to drink some of your tea if I made a cup?” 

Your answering hum sounds a bit like a whimper. 

“What about just enough water to swallow a couple painkillers? You can even use your spit if you’re feeling brave.” 

“Yes, please.” 

Sirius’ lips press briefly above your eyebrow before he leaves. He’s gone longer than it would take to grab your painkillers from the bathroom. You crack your eyelids when he comes back, and his smile borders on sheepish, a hot water bottle tucked beneath his arm and a cup of tea in his hand. 

“You don’t have to drink it,” he says, setting the cup on your nightstand. “It’s only for if you change your mind. You do have to sit up to swallow the pills, though.” 

You look up at him pitifully. 

Sirius pouts without an ounce of mocking. “Okay,” he murmurs, arms working underneath you to help ease you upright. He slips in behind you as he does. “I’ve got you.” 

“Thank you,” you sigh, taking the painkillers from his hand. “Sorry for the…” 

“Don’t be. Do you want this?” He holds up the water bottle. 

“Yeah. Please.” 

Sirius wriggles down your pajama bottoms, situating the water bottle low over your abdomen. You sigh again. 

“You’re so warm,” he says, cheek resting on your shoulder, “I don’t know how you can stand it.” 

It’s true. You’re damp with sweat, hot and uncomfortable, but you think the only thing you’d bear more of it for is the relief of the heat on your middle. “It helps,” you say simply. 

Sirius hums. “Still feel like you’re going to be sick?” 

“I don’t know. Sorry I made you get up. I thought I was going to.” 

“Don’t be sorry for that, baby.” He kisses your shoulder. “You can’t help it. It’s not even your fault, it’s the evil fucker.” A pause. “You know, it’s very weird for me to resent something that’s inside of you. It’s confusing.” 

he has that look on his face when he joins you in the kitchen. drinking the water you had poured for him absentmindedly.

"wash the glass, will you" you mutter, sighing in exasperation. you knew this would only make things worse.

"what?" and his tone gets laced with irritation.

"i had a bad day, okay and i'm not in a good mood" you say to him. leaning back on the fridge.

"yeah? you think i'm not having a fucked up day too?" he spits back, crossing his arms, ready for battle.

"i never said that. stop being so bitchy"

"fix your attitude." minho warns. looking down at his feet before rolling his eyes at your behaviour.

"stop rolling your eyes at me" pointing a finger at him in annoyance.

"don't point a finger at me"

raising an eyebrow at you with a challenging look in his eyes.

"why don't you just go pick a fight with chan or seungmin"

you seethe out, not wanting to argue. if the two of you got more time to calm your nerves this wouldn't have happened.

"pick a fight? what the fuck"

he mutters under his breath. and it makes your eyes burn with tears. now he's mad at you.

"what fucking attitude do i have. i'm sick of dealing with people"

you raise your voice, exhaling heavily.

"and you think i'm not? i just had dance practice for nearly six hours and they told me i needed to do better"

minho says through gritted teeth. running his fingers through his messy hair.

"maybe you do need to do better" you snark back. wanting to get on his nerves just for the hell of it.

"watch what you say."

he warns for the second time and you take it as a challenge.

"or what? you're going to give me a lecture on how to..."

bringing your hands up to gesture quotation marks

"...fix my attitude?"

.

🐱

.

"not gonna fight back huh." your mouth opens to curse at him. and he uses it as the opportunity to pull you back.

ramming himself deeper into you.

"fucking brat"

minho grits out, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your sides. grip strong enough to have him holding you up singlehandedly if he wanted to.

"took it too far. i'm a bitch?" his voice shakes when your arms give in. falling face down into the sheets. back arched and ass up. the position makes things more sensitive.

"answer me."

you can't. teething at the pillow while you fisted at the soft bedsheets beside you. trying to ground yourself.

the feeling of his length pushing in and out of you with slow hard thrusts. torturing himself just to torture you.

"answer." eyes widening at the way he lays a sharp slap over your cunt. all while pulling out all the way.

"me."

sliding past your swollen walls with a filthy squelch. his force strong enough to have your whole body jerk forward. gasping in ecstasy.

you shake your head. or atleast try to, eyes rolling back at the strength he uses to meanly shove your thighs even further apart.

till you're practically presenting to him.

"open that smart ass mouth and use your fucking words." his tone dropping. theres a heartbeat of silence as he gives you a few seconds to answer him.

"ah- m-minnie"

moaning embarassingly loud when he slides his hand down the curve of your back. tugging a fistful of your hair, forcing you up on your arms. till you're on your fours.

"minnie? its sir to you. you don't deserve to even call me minho."

scalp burning with a mix of pain and pleasure.

your mind buzzing when he also gets on his fours. body pressing into yours from above.

"who's a bitch now"

minho says in your ear. brushing his lips against your earlobe. it sends a wave of heat straight to your cunt. throbbing uncontrollably around his dick.

the position has you thinking of how pathetic you are. cursing him out, only to be fucked like a dog from behind.

"are you my needy little bitch" hooking his chin on your shoulder. his arms on either side of yours.

thick thighs framing your smaller ones. you feel small under him. small and weak.

"y-yes sir" whispering softly. chest burning with humiliation. he clicks his tongue. not satisfied.

"speak up, mutt."

"yes sir...m'your needy bitch"

fucking the sentence out of you, in a way that has you breathless. arms trembling as you struggle to hold yourself up.

"taking it like you're in heat."

slowing his thrusts to roll his hips into yours. hitting that spongey spot that has you keening for him.

"next time you act like a fucking brat, don't expect me to be this kind"

he warns, subtly rubbing at the redness on your sides from how hard he was gripping your waist.

you nod vigorously. quietly mumbling apologies.

"is my needy puppy gonna take me all the way in her tight wet cunt hm"

.

.

.

"if i'm your bitch, you're my bitch" you whisper, lightly smacking him on the chest.

"i never said i wasn't a bitch" minho smirks, successfully teasing you.

"y'know i love you, right baby?" he mumbles, kissing your cheek lovingly.

"you're my cute little puppygirl or WAIT MY KITTY CAT!!!"

.

.

..

.

.

You gestured lazily toward his drink. “You haven’t moved more than an inch since I started talking, Barnes. If I were really annoying you, you’d have stormed off by now.”

That got him, a short laugh, half-caught between surprise and surrender. He shook his head, muttering something under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch.

You leaned in just enough for your knee to brush his, that single point of contact sparking something neither of you could quite ignore. “Admit it,” you murmured, eyes bright with mischief. “You like the attention.”

He didn’t answer, but the silence that followed was telling, too still, too careful. It said everything he wouldn’t.

But the cocktails had burned away your filter hours ago, and the team’s laughter was gasoline. Yelena’s gleeful “Oh, she’s not done yet!” was all the permission you needed to tip right over the edge. You tilted your head, hair spilling over one shoulder like a curtain of light, and lowered your voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“So tell me, Barnes,” you said, tone mock-innocent as your eyes flicked toward the gleam of metal at his side. “You ever use that vibranium arm for… extracurricular activities?”

For a heartbeat, the world froze. Then the table erupted.

Alexei nearly choked on his drink, laughing so hard he slammed his hand against the table. John let out a wolfish whistle. “She did not just say that.” Yelena dissolved into cackles, clutching her stomach, while Ava, of all people, actually smiled, shaking her head in disbelief. Even Bob gave a quiet huff of laughter, though he looked like he was trying very hard to be anywhere else.

But Bucky? Bucky didn’t laugh. His glass hit the table with a sharp clink. He rose slowly, the scrape of the chair loud enough to cut through the chaos. The air shifted, heavier, charged. You caught a glimpse of his expression, and your pulse stuttered.

“Aw, c’mon, I was just—”

“Don’t,” he said, voice low enough to hush the table. Then his vibranium hand closed around your arm, not hard, not painful, just firm enough to make your breath catch.

“That’s it,” he muttered, irritation threaded through the gravel in his tone. “You’re done makin’ a spectacle outta yourself.”

Before you could respond, the world tipped. Literally.

You yelped as he hoisted you up onto his shoulder with effortless strength, your view of the neon bar replaced by the back of his jacket and the sound of your own startled laugh. The room spun upside down, your dress shifting until his flesh hand tugged it back into place with exasperating care. 

“Are you feeling me up, Barnes?” you teased, your voice muffled against his back, the scent of leather and cedar filling your senses as you dangled there, your hands brushing the taut muscles of his back. 

“I’m covering your ass,” he shot back, his tone gruff but laced with a hint of amusement, his hand still firmly holding your dress in place as he strode toward the exit. 

The team’s howls followed you out, Yelena’s voice sharp above the rest. “Taking her home, Barnes? Finally some initiative!”

The cool night air hit you as he pushed through the bar’s doors, the neon lights fading behind you. Your cheeks burned, but the laughter in your throat refused to die. “You know,” you said, trying to twist enough to look at him, “if you wanted to get me alone, you could’ve just asked.”

Bucky’s steps didn’t falter, his boots crunching against the gravel outside. “Didn’t need to ask. You always end up where I am anyway,” he spoke, his voice dripping with exasperation, though you caught the faintest smirk in his tone.

You pouted, kicking your legs weakly. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. I make everywhere better,” you mumbled, though the protest felt half-hearted, your body humming with the thrill of his closeness. You wiggled your hips again, trying to convince him to let you go. 

He chuckled, a low, rough sound that vibrated through his chest and into you. “You keep squirming like that, and we’re gonna have a different kind of problem.” he said, his voice carrying a dangerous edge that made your stomach flip.

The walk to the New Avengers compound was a blur of cool night air, the distant hum of city traffic, and the steady rhythm of Bucky’s strides. The compound loomed ahead, a sleek fortress of glass and steel, its lights casting long shadows across the lawn. Your head lolled against Bucky’s shoulder, the alcohol making your limbs heavy, but your heart raced with a mix of excitement and vulnerability. 

Even through the haze of alcohol, you felt the shift, the way his hold gentled, his vibranium hand firm but careful, steadying you with a quiet tenderness that didn’t match the scowl in his voice.

You tried for a teasing jab, something about his old-man attitude, but the words tangled together, slipping out softer than you meant. “You’re not so bad, Bucky,” you mumbled, your voice thick with warmth. “Even when you’re all… grumpy.”

He didn’t answer you, but you felt it, the subtle hitch in his step, the quiet catch in his breath that betrayed him more than words ever could.

The compound’s doors slid open with a soft hydraulic hiss, the sudden wash of cool, filtered air replacing the humid chaos of the bar. Fluorescent light spilled over gleaming floors, sterile and sharp, a world away from the neon pulse you’d just left behind. His footsteps echoed down the empty hallway, unhurried but purposeful, each one reverberating through you where his shoulder pressed into your stomach.

Bucky’s quarters weren’t far, and when he reached them, he shifted his grip just enough to free one hand. The door gave way to a low metallic click, swinging open as he nudged it with his boot.

The room beyond was exactly what you’d imagined and nothing like it at all: sparse, meticulous, every corner whispering discipline and solitude. The walls were a muted gray, broken only by a few scuffed patches where his metal hand had likely brushed too hard. A small table sat against one wall, lined with cleaning tools and weapon parts arranged with surgical precision. The bed was neatly made, the dark blanket folded at perfect angles, untouched but not unlived-in.

In the corner, a record player rested beside a small stack of vinyls, Coltrane, Dylan, something that looked older still, and the faintest hint of dust clung to them, as if he listened only when the nights stretched too long. On the nightstand, a single photo: Steve, mid-laugh, the edges worn from too many hands.

And the scent, leather, gun oil, faint detergent, and something distinctly him, something that felt like steadiness and steel and rain after fire.

When he set you down, it wasn’t abrupt or careless, he eased you onto the edge of his bed, his hands lingering at your waist a moment longer than they needed to, steadying you like he wasn’t entirely sure you’d stay upright on your own.

Your dress was rumpled, your hair a mess from being slung over his shoulder, but you still managed a crooked grin. 

“Gonna tuck me in, Barnes?” you teased, your tone softening at the edges, the playfulness laced with something you hadn’t meant to show.

Bucky exhaled slowly, running a hand through his dark hair as if trying to shake you out of his head. His eyes swept over you, frustrated, worried, unwilling to admit either. 

“You’re staying here,” he said, his voice low but firm, leaving no space for protest. “You don’t have a room in the compound yet, and I’m not about to let you stumble out into the city like this. You’ll end up in Walker’s room, or worse.”

That earned him a burst of laughter, bright and unfiltered. You flopped back against his perfectly made bed, the mattress groaning beneath you. 

“Protective, huh?” you murmured, your words slurred but sincere, your gaze finding him in the dim light. His silhouette was all sharp lines and shadowed patience. “Knew you cared.”

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he crossed to the small table in the corner. The faint clink of glass filled the quiet while he poured, the sound soft against the low hum of the compound’s air system. When he returned, his presence carried the scent of him. He set the glass in your hands, the gesture careful, deliberate. For a man made of precision and restraint, he was remarkably gentle.

You took a slow sip, the water cold and grounding, your fingers brushing his as you steadied the glass. The contact was brief, but it lit something sharp beneath the fog of alcohol, and for a moment, neither of you breathed. He turned away too quickly, but you caught it, the subtle pull at the corner of his mouth, a fleeting ghost of a smile before he smothered it.

The air between you shifted, heavy and fragile all at once. The hum of the ventilation faded to a whisper. Even in your haze, you could feel it, something unspoken stirring in the silence, something too dangerous to name.

Bucky lingered near the door, the dim lamp throwing his silhouette across the floor. His vibranium arm gleamed faintly, light catching along its plates like liquid silver, while his other hand raked through his hair, mussing it into a rare kind of disarray. The motion made him look less like the soldier everyone feared and more like a man trying to keep himself together.

His blue eyes found you, steady, unreadable, but softer than before. That look alone was enough to send your pulse stumbling. The buzz in your veins dulled into something warmer, more dangerous. For all the chaos and noise you’d left behind at the bar, here in his space, you felt safe. Safe enough to let your grin falter into something real.

“You’re a mess, sunshine,” Bucky muttered finally, the gravel in his voice softened by something close to fondness. He crossed to the same table, filling another glass out of habit, maybe just to keep his hands busy. The sound of water pouring felt impossibly loud in the stillness. “You’re gonna feel like hell tomorrow if you don’t drink more water.”

You propped yourself up on your elbows, hair falling over your shoulders like silk. Your grin came out a little lopsided, a little too sincere. “What’s this, Barnes? Playing nursemaid now?”

He huffed through his nose, the ghost of a chuckle dying in his throat. “If that’s what it takes to keep you from faceplanting on my floor, sure.”

You accepted the glass again, your fingers brushing his once more. It was impossible not to notice the difference, one hand warm and alive, the other cool, the faint hum of the vibranium arm filling the air like a heartbeat. You sipped, eyes still fixed on him.

“You always act like you don’t care, but you do,” you murmured, your voice a soft slur, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “You wouldn’t have brought me here if you didn’t.”

He didn’t look away this time. For a moment, his gaze held yours, steady, unreadable, but flickering with something quieter, something that made your breath catch. The light from the lamp softened the hard lines of his face, turned the sharp edges into something almost tender. You watched his throat work as he swallowed, the tension in his jaw easing, if only slightly.

“You act like you’re made of stone,” you whispered, your voice hazy but sincere. “But I see it. You still notice everything, still take care of everyone else.” You tilted your head, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “You ever let anyone take care of you, Barnes?” you asked, the words slipping out softer now, stripped of all the teasing. “Feels like you forget you’re allowed to.”

His jaw tightened then. He turned away, pulling a folded blanket from a chair in the corner. The fabric looked worn, well-used, the edges frayed but clean. When he draped it over your legs, the scent of him hit you again.

“You’re not the one who’s supposed to worry about me, sunshine,” he said quietly, his voice caught somewhere between warning and confession.

He sank into the chair across the room, his long legs stretched out, the lamplight catching on the dark sheen of his arm as it rested against the chair’s edge. The quiet between you deepened, thick with the sound of your breathing and the faint mechanical whir every time he shifted. You could tell he was trying to build a wall between you, the soldier’s kind of distance, precise and practiced, but his eyes kept betraying him, flicking toward you when he thought you weren’t looking.

You sat up slowly, the blanket sliding down to your waist. The alcohol made you bold, but it was the way he looked at you, like he wanted to keep his distance and couldn’t, that made you reckless. You patted the empty space beside you, voice dipping into something soft and coaxing.

“Come on, Bucky,” you said, your lips curling into a small, tired smile. “I’ll sleep better if you’re close. Don’t make me beg.”

He froze, caught between instinct and impulse, his expression flickering through annoyance, disbelief, and something darker that lingered too long. “You’re pushin’ it, doll,” he warned, though the words came out rougher than he intended.

You only tilted your head, eyes half-lidded and hopeful. “Yeah,” you murmured. “But maybe you like it when I do.”

He sighed, a quiet, defeated sound, and scrubbed a hand over his face before standing. “Fine,” he muttered, resigned, his voice dipping low. “But don’t get used to this.”

He crossed the room in three strides, the floor creaking under his weight, and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, as far from you as he could manage. The mattress dipped, pulling you slightly toward him, and you bit back a smile at the way he held himself, stiff, like a soldier bracing for battle, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. 

The lamplight cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the faint stubble that darkened his cheeks, and the storm in his eyes that never quite settled. You rolled onto your side, propping your head on one hand, and studied him, the alcohol softening the edges of your restraint.

“You’re not as hard to read as you want people to think,” you mumbled, voice soft, your words tumbling out before you could stop them. “You pretend you’re all edge and silence, but I’ve seen it. The way you linger after missions to make sure no one’s limping. How you always take the seat that faces the door. You don’t talk much, but you never miss anything.”

Your eyes fluttered, heavy with exhaustion, but your voice stayed gentle, steady. “You act like you’re built from armor and ghosts,” you whispered, “but I see the way you soften when someone laughs. You think no one notices, but I do.”

Bucky didn’t respond, but something in his expression shifted,the tension in his shoulders easing, the storm in his eyes dimming to a restless calm. He looked away, his vibranium fingers flexing once, the faint whir of metal filling the quiet like a heartbeat he couldn’t silence. It wasn’t avoidance, not really. It was restraint. The kind that came from wanting more than he thought he deserved.

You blinked slow, sleep pulling at the edges of your vision, the world softening into amber and shadow. The warmth of the blanket seeped into your skin, but it wasn’t what made you relax: it was him. The sound of his breathing, steady and grounding. The faint scent of leather and soap and something unmistakably him curling through the air.

Without thinking, you shifted closer, your body moving on instinct. The blanket rustled softly as your shoulder brushed his, then your cheek found the edge of his chest. He went still, like a man caught between running and staying, but he didn’t move. You might’ve imagined the quiet sigh that followed, or the gentle way his flesh hand hovered near your hair, uncertain, almost reverent.

The compound around you blurred, its humming machinery fading into something distant and unreal. The world became smaller: just the two of you, the muted lamplight, the scent of cedar and warmth, the slow rhythm of his chest rising and falling.

Sleep found you like a tide rolling in, velvet and slow, wrapping around you until the edges of everything dissolved. The last thing you felt was the faint brush of his fingers against your cheek, cautious and fleeting, like a secret he wasn’t ready to keep but couldn’t stop himself from touching. And then the dark took you, soft, weightless, and full of him.

In this dream, you were tangled in a sea of dark sheets, the fabric clinging to your skin like a lover’s touch, warm and slightly rough. The air was thick with heat, electric with anticipation, and your body thrummed with a need that pulsed in time with your heartbeat. 

Hands, strong, calloused, one warm and human, the other cool and metallic, roamed your skin, leaving trails of fire and ice in their wake. The contrast sent shivers racing down your spine, each touch igniting a spark that bloomed into a blaze deep in your core. 

A voice, low and gravelly, whispered your name, the sound curling through you like smoke, intimate and possessive. It was Bucky’s voice, unmistakable, roughened by desire in a way you had never heard before, and it drew a soft moan from your lips as you arched into the phantom touch.

In the dream, his lips grazed the sensitive skin of your throat, a teasing brush that made your breath hitch. Metal fingers, sleek and unyielding, traced the curve of your thigh, their coolness a delicious shock against the heat pooling between your legs. Your hips rocked instinctively, seeking pressure, chasing the ache that built with every fleeting touch. 

The dream was a haze of sensation, sweat-slick skin, the scent of cedar and steel, the weight of his large body pressing you into the mattress. You murmured something, a slurred, desperate plea that shaped itself into a name, Bucky’s name, or something so close it might as well have been. The sound spilled from your lips, a soft, needy noise that echoed in the dream and bled into the waking world.

In Bucky’s quarters, the silence was a fragile thing, shattered by the quiet rustle of sheets as your body moved. Your hips shifted, a subtle roll that made the mattress creak faintly, and a breathy whimper escaped you, slicing through the stillness like a blade.

Your lips parted, another moan, louder this time, unmistakably erotic, filling the air. “Bucky…” you murmured, the name slurred but heavy with longing, your voice a siren’s call that made the room feel smaller, the air thicker. 

Your hands twitched, fingers curling into the sheets as your body chased the pleasure of the dream, oblivious to the man lying beside you, his presence a quiet storm in the dim light.

Bucky was awake still, his body rigid on the edge of the bed, his vibranium arm whirring faintly as he gripped the mattress, the metal plates shifting with the tension in his frame. His enhanced hearing, a curse and a gift, caught every sound: the soft hitch of your breath, the rustle of fabric against your skin, the way your voice shaped his name with an intimacy that sent heat surging through him. 

Each moan was a dagger, twisting in his gut, stoking a fire he’d spent months trying to smother. He was no stranger to desire, but this was different, raw, visceral, tied to the way your sunshine smile had wormed its way into the cracks of his guarded heart. 

Your sounds were a torment, each one a pull on the fraying threads of his control, and he could feel his resolve crumbling, his body taut with a need he hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge.

He sat frozen, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it could anchor him. But his mind betrayed him, conjuring images of what you could be dreaming: your body arching beneath him, your skin flushed and warm, your lips parted as you moaned his name. 

His vibranium hand twitched, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat coursing through him, and he fought the urge to reach out, to trail his fingers along the curve of your hip, to see if you’d wake with that same hunger in your eyes. The thought of touching you, of confirming the need he heard in your voice, was almost too much. 

He thought about waking you, his hand hovering a breath away from your shoulder, but hesitation held him still. The soldier in him knew control; the man in him feared what honesty might ruin. So he waited, breath caught in his chest, every muscle drawn tight as a bowstring while your movements softened, your breathing slipping into a steady rhythm that filled the silence between heartbeats.

Time blurred. The low hum of the ventilation, the faint tick of the lamp, everything faded until all he could hear was you. When your lashes finally fluttered open, the world had shifted. 

You blinked, slow and unfocused, the haze of sleep clinging to you like silk. Your cheeks were flushed, your lips parted on a breath that wasn’t quite steady. The dream still lingered, the heat of phantom hands, a voice too familiar, the weight of something safe and dangerous all at once. 

You could almost still feel it: his touch ghosting across your peaked nipples, his breath against your neck, the phantom weight of him, hot and heavy between your legs. The remnants of it throbbed in your chest like a secret.

The soft drag of sheets followed as you shifted, the fabric cool against your bare skin where the blanket had fallen away. It took a heartbeat too long for your mind to catch up to your body, to realize where you were. Bucky’s bed. His scent wrapped around you, pulling the dream closer to reality.

You turned your head, and there he was, still beside you, the line of his body curved protectively around yours. Sometime in the night, you must have drifted closer; your head rested against his chest, your hand curled near the seam of his shirt where fabric met skin. You could feel his heartbeat, steady and impossibly real beneath your cheek. The faint scent of leather and soap clung to him, threaded through with warmth, like something you could drown in.

The room was hushed, bathed in amber light from the lamp that still burned low. The glow caught in the plates of his vibranium arm where it rested behind you, scattering gold across the wall like the remnants of a dream. His flesh hand lay against your back, still, uncertain, like he hadn’t meant to leave it there but couldn’t bring himself to move it either.

His blue eyes were already fixed on you. They were softer than you’d ever seen them, sleep-heavy, raw, warring between instinct and restraint. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you thrummed, thick with warmth and the kind of quiet that hums louder than sound.

Your pulse stuttered, awareness creeping in slow and dizzy. Every inch of you was acutely aware of him, his heat, his scent, the steady rhythm of his heart under your ear. 

Bucky shifted slightly, his breath brushing your hair as he leaned just enough to look down at you. The bed dipped beneath his weight, and when he spoke, his voice came out rough, threaded with sleep and something gentler that he was trying hard to hide.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” he murmured, a faint, crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “You always make a habit of usin’ a guy as a pillow, or am I just the lucky one?” The tease was soft, but you could hear the truth beneath it, the low, careful wonder of a man who hadn’t been held in a long, long time.

You gazed half lidded up at him, your voice still rough with sleep. “Only when the pillow’s this warm,” you mumbled, the corner of your mouth curving as you shifted just slightly closer.

He huffed a quiet laugh, low in his chest, and you felt it vibrate against your cheek. “That so?”

“Mhm,” you murmured, eyes half-lidded, teasing but soft. “Don’t get too comfortable, though. I charge rent. Now stop talking so I can get back to sleep.”

“’Must have been dreaming something nice, if you’re in that much of a hurry to get back to it.”

Your eyes fluttered open a little wider, heat blooming across your cheeks. “Oh yeah?” you said, feigning innocence. “What makes you think that?”

His grin deepened, the teasing glint in his eyes softened by something warmer. “You were smiling in your sleep. Moaning too,” he said, voice dropping low. “Figured whoever you were dreaming about was doin’ something right.”

You tried to play it off, but your throat went dry. “Maybe I was,” you said, tilting your chin up just a bit, your tone light but your heart pounding. “Guess we’ll never know, huh?”

“Who were you fucking in your sleep, sweetheart?” he murmured more firmly, the words dripping with a playful edge that didn’t quite hide the hunger beneath them. His breath was warm, tinged with the faint scent of whiskey, and it sent a shiver racing down your spine.

Mortification washed over you like a cold wave, your cheeks burning as you sat up, the blanket slipping to your waist. You shook your head, your voice hoarse with sleep and embarrassment. 

“I wasn’t having a wet dream or anything perv,” you protested, pulling the blanket higher as if it could shield you from the knowing glint in his eyes. Your heart pounded, the memory of the dream still vivid, the ache between your thighs a traitor that refused to fade.

Bucky’s lips twitched, a smirk breaking through his grumpy facade, and it was both infuriating and electrifying. 

“You were moaning these little noises…” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous drawl, each word deliberate, designed to make you squirm. He leaned closer, his breath fanning across your face, warm and intimate, the scent of him filling your senses. “Sounded pretty real to me, doll.”

You huffed, crossing your arms, your heart hammering as you tried to deflect. “You’re hearing things, Barnes,” you said, your voice sharp but trembling at the edges, betraying your fluster. “Must be your old age.” 

The lie felt thin, your body still humming with the aftershocks of the dream, and you knew he could see it, the way your thighs pressed together, the way your breath hitched when he looked at you like that.

He chuckled, a low, rough sound that vibrated through the room and settled deep in your core. 

“Right,” he said, the word low and edged with amusement as his smirk deepened. He shifted, bracing one arm beside your head, the mattress dipping under his weight. The other, his vibranium arm, slid across the sheets until it rested near your hip, the cool metal brushing your thigh through the thin blanket.

Your breath hitched. He was close enough now that you could see the flecks of silver in his stubble, the faint scar along his jaw, the way his chest rose and fell in steady, deliberate rhythm. The scent of him filled your lungs.

The light caught in his eyes, turning blue into something darker, molten. His voice dropped, a whisper skimming the edge of your mouth, rough and teasing but threaded with challenge. “You gonna tell me who had you moaning like that in your sleep, or do I gotta guess?”

“N-no one,” you stutter. “I wasn’t–,”

 “So, if I touched your pussy right now, would I find out that you’re lying to me?” Bucky cut you off, voice a hoarse whisper against your throat. 

The words hit you like a spark to kindling, igniting a fire that raced through your veins. Your breath caught, your mouth opening and closing as you scrambled for a response, but the intensity in his eyes, half-teasing, half-hungry, stole your words. 

Your thighs pressed together tighter, a desperate attempt to quell the ache that his words only deepened, and you saw the way his gaze flickered, tracking the movement with a predator’s focus. His knee shifted and suddenly it was pressed between your thighs, his reaching precariously close to where you ached most. 

He was struggling, too, his control fraying with every second, his vibranium hand flexing as if he were fighting the urge to act on his threat. The air between you was a live wire, crackling with unspoken desire, and you felt the pull of it, the need to push him, to see how far you could take this before he snapped.

You leaned forward, your face inches from his, your voice a shaky whisper. 

“You wouldn’t dare,” you said, but the words were more a dare than a denial, your body betraying you with a shiver that made his smirk falter, replaced by something darker, more primal. His breath hitched, and you felt the heat of it against your lips, the space between you shrinking to nothing. 

The dream had left you raw, exposed, and his closeness, his scent, his voice, the cool brush of his vibranium hand, was unraveling you further. You wanted to push him away, to retreat behind your facade of friendship, but the truth was undeniable: you wanted him, and the dream had only made it clearer.

Bucky’s eyes searched yours, the storm in them swirling with arousal and restraint. His vibranium hand shifted, the metal grazing your thigh again, deliberate this time, and you gasped, the sound soft but unmistakable. His eyes, dark and stormy, held yours with an intensity that made your breath catch, his pupils dilated with a hunger he could no longer hide. 

His lips parted, a low groan escaping him, and you knew he was as close to breaking as you were. Your gasp lingered in the space between you, a soft, trembling sound that seemed to echo in the dim glow of the lamp. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in, the air thick with the promise of what would come next, a promise that neither of you could ignore, a fire that was about to ignite.

“Knew you wouldn’t,” you pant, cheeks hot. 

Bucky’s breath hitched, a low, almost imperceptible sound that sent a shiver down your spine. His vibranium hand twitched, the metal brushing your thigh again, deliberate this time, and the contact was electric, a spark that made your lips part on a soft gasp. 

His eyes dropped to your mouth, lingering there, and you felt the air shift, the tension coiling tighter, ready to snap. 

“Careful, sunshine,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, each word dripping with a dangerous promise. “Keep pushin’ me, and you’re gonna find out just how much I dare.”

The challenge lingered between you, alive, electric, impossible to ignore. You felt it in the air, in the thrum beneath your skin, in the way his breath ghosted over your lips but never quite touched. Curiosity and want tangled in your chest until you couldn’t tell them apart.

Your hand moved before your mind caught up, fingers brushing along his jaw. The stubble there was coarse beneath your touch, grounding, real in a moment that felt like something from your fantasies. He inhaled sharply, his eyes flicking shut for half a second before finding yours again, darker now, the calm veneer giving way to something raw and unguarded. Hungry. The shift in him was subtle but seismic, and you knew, in that charged, breathless space between heartbeats, that the line you’d been toeing all night had finally disappeared.

The room seemed to shrink further around you, the low hum of the compound fading until all that remained was the rhythm of your breathing and the magnetic pull between you. The faint lamplight gilded the edges of his face, tracing the scar at his temple, the furrow of his brow, the tension written in every muscle of his body. He was close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, the faint, heavy weight of his stiffening cock against your thigh. 

You didn’t think. Couldn’t let yourself. If you did, you’d lose the confidence you felt bubbling in your stomach. 

You leaned up, closing the sliver of space that had been daring you both all along, and pressed your lips to his. The first touch was feather-light, almost clumsy with hesitation, but it burned all the same, a question asked and answered in the same breath.

For half a heartbeat, he froze. Then the dam broke.

Bucky’s hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, his fingers threading into your hair as he pulled you closer, his lips meeting yours with a hunger that made the world tilt. The kiss deepened fast, years of restraint unraveling in seconds. He tasted like whiskey and warmth and something heartbreakingly human, the kind of ache that had lived in both of you for far too long.

The sound of your breath mingled with his, the world outside forgotten. All that existed was this, his hand at your neck, the cold brush of his cock at your thigh, the rough scrape of his stubble against your skin, and the dizzying realization that once this started, neither of you could ever go back.

The kiss wasn’t gentle anymore. It was all teeth and tongue and desperation, Bucky’s mouth slanting over yours like he was claiming every inch he’d been denying himself for months. You whimpered into it, the sound swallowed by the low growl rumbling in his chest as he shifted, caging you beneath him without ever breaking contact. His vibranium hand stayed fisted in your hair, tilting your head exactly where he wanted it, while his flesh hand, warm, calloused, alive, slid down your body with ruthless intent.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate.

His fingers shoved past the waistband of your panties, diving straight between your thighs. The first brush of his skin against your slick heat made you jolt, a broken moan tearing from your throat as he groaned against your lips.

“Fuck,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to stare down at you, eyes blown black with lust. Two thick fingers dragged through your folds, parting you, spreading the wet evidence of your dream all over your clit before sinking inside with one slow, deliberate push. “Knew it was me.”

Your back arched, hips bucking into his hand as he curled his fingers, stroking that spot that made your vision blur. “H-how,” you panted, voice cracking, “It could’ve been John or, fuck, anyone.”

His grip tightened in your hair, yanking your head back so your throat was bared to him. He bit down on the pulse point, hard enough to bruise, then soothed it with his tongue and gentle kisses. “Don’t,” he snarled, pumping his fingers deeper, faster, the wet sound of it obscene in the quiet room. “Don’t you fucking say his name when I’ve got my fingers buried in this greedy little pussy.”

He added a third finger, stretching you, his thumb grinding merciless circles over your clit. “I knew it was me,” he growled against your skin, voice dark and possessive, “because no one else gets you this wet. No one else makes you shake like this. You’ve been dripping for me all night, sunshine. Since the bar.” He moaned softly as you clenched around his hands. “Yeah, knew it was my cock you were dreaming about. You weren’t asking Walker about his love life. No,” his voice turned a little condescending, “you wanted to know if I fuck and how I fuck so you could run back home rub this pretty little clit raw thinkin’ of me.”

You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders as your thighs trembled around his hand. He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Just fucked you with his fingers like he was proving a point, like he was branding the truth into your body.

“Say it,” he demanded, curling his fingers again, hitting that spot that made you see stars. “Tell me who you were moanin’ for in your sleep.”

“You,” you sobbed, clenching around him, so close it hurt. “Only you, Bucky, please.”

“That’s right,” he moaned, teeth grazing your earlobe, sending shivers down your spine. “Gonna take my time with you, doll.” 

“Oh… oh my gosh,” you whimper, chest heaving. 

“Wanna feel every fuckin’ thing you give me.” His words were a promise, a vow to unravel you completely, and you felt the truth of it in the way his vibranium fingers curled inside you, the cool metal stretching you, finding that spot that made your vision blur. 

Your hips bucked against his hand, chasing the pressure, and he groaned, the sound raw and primal, his own arousal evident in the hard line of him pressing up against your cunt.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark with a hunger that made your heart stutter. “Look at you,” he said, his voice thick with awe and possession, “so fuckin’ perfect, falling apart for me.” 

His thumb circled your clit again, the pressure just shy of enough, and you whimpered. From somewhere beyond the room, there was the sound of movement. It wasn’t close enough for you to be able to tell what it was. 

Bucky’s eyes flashed at the distant creak, a reminder that the compound’s walls weren’t soundproof and super-soldier ears were always listening. Your whine turned into a desperate little gasp when his fingers slipped free, leaving you clenching around nothing.

“Shh,” he murmured, wicked amusement curling his mouth. “Gotta be careful, sunshine. Don’t want them hearin’ how good I’m makin’ you feel.”

Before you could protest, his flesh hand hooked into the lace at your hips. One sharp tug and the fabric gave with a satisfying riiiip, the ruined panties dangling from his fingers like a trophy. He didn’t break eye contact as he brought them to his mouth, dragging his tongue along the soaked crotch, tasting you with a low, filthy groan that vibrated straight to your core.

“Fuckin’ sweet,” he rasped, voice gravel-rough. Then he balled the damp lace and pressed it between your lips, stuffing your own taste into your mouth until you were gagged on the evidence of how badly you wanted him. “Keep those pretty noises down, doll. Or I stop.”

Your muffled moan vibrated against the fabric, hips jerking as he shoved your dress higher, baring you completely. Cool air kissed your soaked folds a second before his vibranium hand returned, three fingers plunging back in with a wet, obscene sound that made you sob around the gag.

“That’s it,” he growled, pumping slow and deep, curling metal against that spot until your thighs shook. “Taste how wet you got for me. Not Walker. Not anyone. Just me.”

His thumb found your clit again, merciless circles that had you arching, tears pricking your eyes. Every thrust of his fingers was punctuated by the slick drag of your arousal, the muffled whimpers you couldn’t hold back, the distant thud of a door somewhere down the hall that made his rhythm falter for half a heartbeat before he doubled down.

“Quiet,” he warned, voice a low rasp against your ear, teeth grazing the lobe with possessive heat. “Or I’ll flip you over and fuck you silent with my cock. Your choice, sunshine.”

You shook your head, the soaked lace muffling your words into a needy hum. “Not yet,” you managed, the plea soft but unmistakable. You weren’t ready to lose this: his fingers, the slow burn, the way he was unraveling you inch by inch. The danger of being overheard only sharpened the edge, but you wanted the climb, wanted to feel every second of it.

Bucky’s eyes softened, just a flicker, the storm in them gentling into something almost reverent. He exhaled, slow and shaky, like the fight to rush had just drained out of him. 

“Okay,” he whispered, the single word a vow. “We’ve got time, doll. Gonna make you feel everything.”

He sank to his knees between your spread thighs, vibranium hand still buried deep, curling slow and deliberate, coaxing rather than demanding. His flesh hand slid up your leg, thumb tracing the crease where thigh met hip, grounding you. When he looked up, the hunger was still there, but it was tempered with awe, like he couldn’t believe he was the one touching you.

“Never come with anyone else, have you?” he murmured, voice velvet-rough. You nodded, cheeks burning, and he made a low, pleased sound in his throat. “Then I’m takin’ my time. Want you shakin’ when you fall apart for me.”

His mouth replaced his thumb on your clit, soft at first, a teasing flick of tongue that made you jerk against the gag. Then he settled in, licking slow, thorough stripes, lips sealing around the swollen bundle of nerves while his fingers kept that perfect, maddening rhythm inside you. Every stroke, every curl, every gentle suck was worshipful, like he was memorizing the way you tasted, the way you trembled.

The coil in your belly wound tighter, impossibly tight, your thighs quivering around his shoulders. You’d never been this close with someone else, never trusted anyone to see you this open, this desperate. Bucky sensed it, your breath hitching, your hips stuttering, and he hummed against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine.

“Let go, sunshine,” he breathed, lips brushing your clit. “I’ve got you. Just feel it.”

Your first orgasm hit like a lightning strike: sudden, blinding, ripping a strangled scream from your throat that the lace only half-swallowed. Your walls clamped down on his fingers, pulsing in frantic waves, and Bucky groaned against you, the vibration dragging the pleasure out until your thighs shook uncontrollably. He didn’t let up, tongue lapping slow, greedy strokes through your release, drinking every drop like it was his lifeline.

“I’m the first man that’s ever gotten you there,” he said, his voice rough with possession, a vow etched in every word, “and no matter who you take to bed after me, you’ll never forget your first.” His lips closed over your clit, his tongue flicking with devastating precision, and you cried out, the sound muffled by the gag but sharp enough to make him pause, listening again for any sign of footsteps outside. 

The silence held, and he continued, his mouth working you with a skill that was both tender and ruthless, his vibranium fingers still moving inside you, the cool metal a delicious contrast to the heat of his tongue. The sensation was overwhelming, a tidal wave of pleasure that built and built, your hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer as your hips rocked against his mouth.

The second orgasm built faster, fiercer, a white-hot wave that crashed through you, leaving you trembling and undone. Your knees buckled, but Bucky’s vibranium arm held you steady, his strength an anchor as you shattered, your muffled cries filling the room despite the gag. Your body arched, your head tipping back against the wall, and you were vulnerable, exposed, completely at his mercy. 

Bucky reveled in it, his eyes never leaving your face, drinking in every reaction: every shudder, every gasp, every flutter of your eyelids as you came apart under his touch. He didn’t stop, his tongue and fingers working you through the aftershocks, drawing out every last tremor until you were a trembling mess, your body hypersensitive and aching for more.

He rose, lips glistening with you, and kissed you, the gag still in place, letting you taste yourself as he pressed his body against yours. The kiss was fierce, possessive, his tongue claiming you even through the fabric, and you moaned, the sound muffled but desperate. He pulled the gag free, tossing it aside, and kissed you again, deeper, his hands working quickly to rid you of your underwear, leaving you bare before him. 

“You’re mine, sunshine,” he growled, his voice thick with emotion, his hands roaming your body, mapping every curve. “Every sound you make is for me.” The words were a brand, a claim that sent a fresh wave of heat through you, and you nodded, your hands reaching for him, needing to feel him, to ground yourself in the storm of him.

Bucky rose slowly, the heat of his body chasing yours as he climbed back up. His mouth left a trail of open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh, the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, each one deliberate, savoring. You were still trembling from the aftershocks when he reached your mouth again, kissing you deep and filthy, letting you taste the salt-sweet proof of your release on his tongue.

His hands never stopped moving. Flesh fingers hooked into the waistband of his tactical pants, shoving them down just enough to free himself. The heavy drag of fabric over skin, the soft thud of his belt hitting the floor, the low hiss of his zipper; every sound felt magnified in the hush of the room. He didn’t bother with the rest. Didn’t need to. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, the tip already slick with precome, and the sight of it made your breath catch.

He pressed himself between your thighs, the blunt head nudging your soaked entrance, sliding through your folds in one slow, teasing glide. You both groaned at the contact, the sound raw and involuntary. Bucky’s forehead dropped to yours, his breath ragged, eyes locked on where you were nearly joined.

“Gonna take you slow,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Want you feelin’ every inch, sunshine. Want you to remember who finally got you here.”

He shifted his hips, lining up, the thick crown pressing just inside, stretching you open with a burn that made your nails dig into his shoulders. He paused there, trembling with restraint, vibranium hand braced beside your head, flesh one gripping your thigh to keep you spread wide.

“Look at me,” he ordered, voice low and commanding. Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his, dark, reverent, hungry. “That’s it. Keep those pretty eyes on me when I fill you up.”

He held your gaze, the storm in his eyes softening to something molten, reverent. The head of his cock pressed just inside you, stretching, promising, and he waited until you nodded, small, desperate, please, before he moved.

Bucky slid in slow, inch by inch, a low, broken groan rumbling from his chest as your heat swallowed him. The gag muffled your whimper into a soft, wet sound, but he heard it; his eyes fluttered, lashes dark against his cheekbones, and he exhaled your name like a prayer.

“God, sunshine… feel that?” His voice was velvet-rough, each word dragged over gravel. “That’s me, all of me, finally where I’ve wanted to be for months.”

He bottomed out with a shudder, hips flush to yours, and stilled. His vibranium hand cradled the back of your neck, thumb stroking the hinge of your jaw like you were something fragile and priceless. His flesh hand slid down to lace with yours, pinning it gently beside your head.

“Never gonna forget this,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to watch your face as he pushed in again, slow, deliberate, every ridge of him dragging against you. “The way you open up for me… so fuckin’ perfect, takin’ me like you were made for it.”

Your muffled moan vibrated around the soaked lace, and he smiled, soft, filthy, awed. “That’s it, doll. Let me hear you through that pretty gag. Every sound’s mine.”

He set a rhythm, unhurried, deep rolls of his hips that lit you up from the inside. Each thrust was a confession, I’ve wanted this, I’ve needed you, you’re safe, you’re mine. His forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling, the world narrowing to the slick slide of him inside you, the wet sounds of your bodies, the creak of the bed under his careful weight.

“Feel how deep I am?” he rasped, voice cracking with restraint. “Right there, sunshine… that spot that makes your eyes roll back? Gonna live there. Gonna ruin you for anyone else, gentle and slow, till you’re moaning my name in your sleep for the rest of your life.”

He kissed the corner of your mouth, the gag, the tears gathering at your lashes. “Love the way you clench when I say that. Love you, period. Been lovin’ you since the first time you smiled at me like I wasn’t broken.”

Another slow, grinding thrust, and your back arched, toes curling. He swallowed your muffled cry with a kiss to the lace, then to your cheek, your temple, murmuring filth and devotion in the same breath.

“Come for me again, sweetheart. Wanna feel you milk me slow, wanna watch you fall apart knowin’ it’s me inside you. Only ever me.”

He kept the rhythm steady, deep, worshipful, every roll of his hips a slow drag that lit every nerve inside you. The gag turned your cries into soft, wet pleas, but Bucky drank them like wine, his mouth brushing the lace, your cheek, the corner of your eye where a tear slipped free.

“Close, doll?” he rasped, voice fraying at the edges. “I feel it, feel you flutterin’ around me like you can’t decide whether to hold on or let go. Let go, sunshine. I’ve got you.”

His flesh hand slipped between you, thumb finding your clit with devastating tenderness, circling in time with his thrusts. The pressure coiled tighter, impossibly tight, until your whole body trembled on the brink.

“That’s it,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked. “Right there with me. Wanna feel you come apart while I’m buried deep, wanna fill you up so full you’ll still taste me tomorrow.”

Your walls clamped down, the first pulse of your climax ripping through you like warm honey. A muffled sob tore from your throat, hips jerking against his as wave after wave crashed over you, slow, endless, perfect. Bucky groaned, low and wrecked, the sound vibrating through your joined bodies.

“Fuck, there you go, sunshine… squeezin’ me so good…” His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as your release dragged him under. “Gonna come with you, gonna, Christ.”

One last, deep thrust and he stilled, buried to the hilt, cock pulsing hot inside you. His vibranium arm locked around your waist, holding you flush to him as he spilled, thick, endless, marking you from the inside out. His breath hitched against your temple, a broken litany of your name and mine and love you spilling between clenched teeth.

You clung to each other, trembling through the aftershocks, the room filled with the soft hitch of breath and the wet warmth where you were still joined. Slowly, gently, he eased the gag from your mouth, thumb brushing your swollen lips.

“Stay,” he whispered, voice raw, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your nose, your mouth, soft and reverent. “Stay right here, sunshine. Let me hold you while we come down.”

He didn’t move to leave you. Not yet. Bucky stayed buried deep, hips flush to yours, as if pulling away might break the fragile spell still humming between you. His vibranium arm stayed locked around your waist, but the grip had gentled, no longer anchoring you to the bed, just cradling you against him like you were something breakable and priceless. His flesh hand, warm and trembling, slid up your spine, fingers threading into your hair to cradle the back of your head. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closed, breathing you in.

“Sunshine,” he whispered, the word cracked open and soft, like he was tasting it for the first time. “You okay? Talk to me.”

Your throat was raw from the gag, your body still fluttering with aftershocks. You managed a shaky nod, then a small, hoarse, “I’m good. So good.” The words came out thick with tears you hadn’t realized were there.

He kissed them away, one, two, three, slow, deliberate presses of his lips to the damp tracks on your cheeks. Then he eased out of you carefully, both of you hissing at the loss, and immediately pulled you into his chest. The sheets were a tangle around your legs, but he didn’t care. He tugged the blanket up over you both, cocooning you in warmth and the scent of sex and cedar and him.

“Hold on,” he murmured, shifting just enough to grab the water glass from the nightstand. He brought it to your lips, steadying it while you drank, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth when a drop escaped. “Slow. There you go.”

When you’d had enough, he set it aside and pulled you back down, arranging you half on top of him, your head on his chest, his heartbeat thudding steady under your ear, your leg hooked over his thigh so he could keep tracing idle patterns on your skin with his flesh hand. The vibranium one rested lightly on your lower back, cool metal a soothing contrast to the heat still simmering under your skin.

“You’re shakin’,” he said quietly, not teasing, just observing, voice laced with concern. “C’mere.”

He tucked your hair behind your ear, then cupped your face, tilting it up so he could study you in the low lamplight. His thumb swept over your bottom lip, swollen and red from the gag. “Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head, leaning into his touch. “No. Just… a lot. In the best way.”

A small, relieved smile tugged at his mouth. He kissed your forehead, lingering there, breathing you in like he was memorizing the scent of your skin post-climax. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not done takin’ care of you.”

He reached down, found the discarded panties, still damp, and used them to gently clean between your thighs, the touch clinical and tender all at once. You whimpered at the oversensitivity, and he shushed you softly, pressing a kiss to your knee. “I know, doll. Almost done.”

When he was satisfied, he tossed the ruined lace aside and pulled you back into his arms, rolling you both so you were tucked against his side, your head on his shoulder, his chin resting atop your hair. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the compound and the slowing rhythm of your breathing syncing with his.

“Hey,” he murmured after a long silence, voice barely above a whisper. “Look at me.”

You tilted your chin. His eyes were soft, unguarded, blue like a winter sky at dawn. He brushed a knuckle along your cheekbone.

“I meant it,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “Every word. You’re not just a warm body or a good time. You’re… home. Been waitin’ decades to feel this again. Didn’t think I’d ever get it.”

Your eyes stung. You pressed your face into his neck, breathing him in, gun oil and soap and something uniquely Bucky. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered against his skin.

He exhaled, shaky, and held you tighter. “Good. ‘Cause I’m keepin’ you.”

Minutes stretched. He traced lazy circles on your back, occasionally pressing kisses to your hair, your temple, the shell of your ear. When your shivering finally eased, he pulled the blanket higher, tucking it around your shoulders.

“Sleep, sunshine,” he murmured, voice a low rumble under your cheek. “I’ve got watch. Always will.”

And as the lamp flickered low, casting gold across the worn photo of Steve on the nightstand, Bucky held you like you were the only real thing left in his world, and for the first time in decades, he let himself believe it.

You were half-dozing on his chest, heartbeat steady beneath your ear, when his voice drifted in, so low it felt like a secret meant only for the dark.

“I used to think I’d never get this again,” he whispered, lips brushing your hair. “Quiet. Someone warm. Someone real.”

His vibranium fingers traced the curve of your spine, feather-light, like he was afraid the moment might bruise. “Back in the war, I’d lie awake in foxholes and dream about a girl I hadn’t met yet. Thought maybe she’d have soft hands and a laugh that didn’t flinch when I told her what I’d done.”

He swallowed, the sound thick. “Turns out she’s got a mouth that won’t quit and a heart big enough to forgive a monster.”

You started to protest you’re not, but he pressed a kiss to your temple, silencing you.

“Shh. Let me say it.” His voice cracked on the next words. “I love you. Not the idea of you. Not the way you light up a room. You. The way you tease me ‘til I forget how to scowl. The way you looked at me tonight like I was still worth wanting.”

His flesh hand found yours, threading your fingers together, thumb rubbing slow circles over your knuckles. “I’ve carried ghosts for seventy years. You make ‘em quiet. When you’re in my arms, I don’t hear the screams anymore. Just your breathing. Just you.”

A long silence, filled only by the soft whir of his arm as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I’m terrified,” he admitted, so soft you almost missed it. “Terrified I’ll wake up and this’ll be another dream. That I’ll blink and you’ll be gone and I’ll be back in that chair with wires in my head.” His grip tightened, just enough to anchor himself. “But even if it’s just tonight… thank you. For seeing the man under the metal. For letting me be Bucky again.”

He pressed his lips to your forehead, lingering, breathing you in like oxygen after drowning. “Stay,” he whispered, the plea raw. “Stay ‘til morning. Stay ‘til I’m brave enough to believe I deserve you.”

You answered by curling closer, nose brushing the hollow of his throat, and felt the tremor that ran through him when you murmured, “I’m not going anywhere, James.”

His breath hitched. Then, softer than snowfall, “Then I’m the luckiest bastard alive.”

٠࣪⭑ the fights don’t just sting—they ache. bc dating an older man felt thrilling until you realized when he pulls away, it feels like the end of the world.

٠࣪⭑ joel goes cold after being sharp—crosses his arms, rubs his temples, mutters under his breath, “should’ve known better…” and it makes your chest cave in.

٠࣪⭑ you try not to cry in front of him, but tears slip anyway, and that’s when his anger usually breaks. he sees you trembling and it shatters him. but he doesn’t know how to apologize cleanly. he’ll sigh, tug his hand through his hair, and mutter, “didn’t mean that, baby. you know i didn’t.”

٠࣪⭑ he shows up in the kitchen later, leaning against the counter, voice soft and rough: “i don’t want nobody else. just you. i just get tired. that’s on me.”

٠࣪⭑ his make-up love language is touch: pulling you into his lap, resting his forehead against yours, thumb stroking your cheek. if you’re still raw, he’ll try humor—teasing you gently, voice warm, “clingy little thing, ain’t ya? can’t say I don’t like it.”

٠࣪⭑ joel’s sharp words haunt him. he hates himself for snapping, so when you crawl into his lap later, his first instinct is contrition. his apologies are mumbled into your skin—against your neck, your chest, your thighs. “’m sorry, baby… should never talk to you that way… my sweet little girl, always so good to me.”

٠࣪⭑ he gets slow and indulgent—stroking your hair back, kissing your jaw, murmuring: “pretty little thing, look at you… can’t stay mad when you look so fuckin’ sexy sittin’ on me.”

٠࣪⭑ joel loves when you ride him after a fight—it makes him feel like you’re choosing him again. he’ll grip your hips tight and groan, “that’s it, baby girl. let it out. ride me like you hate me.” and he praises every whimper—soft chuckles between apologies: “so needy… so good for me. my baby girl.”

٠࣪⭑ if it was a bad fight—the kind where you cried, maybe even stormed out—the make-up sex is feral. joel doesn’t wait for slow touches. he pins you, growls into your ear, “you drive me goddamn insane, y’know that? gonna fuck that attitude right outta you.”

٠࣪⭑ he’s mean with his hands—slapping your ass harder than usual, leaving red handprints, fingers digging in where he knows it’ll sting. he loves when you slap him back across the face during sex—sharp little sting that makes him groan. it’s his favorite foreplay, a secret thrill. “yeah, there’s my girl. hit me harder. you’re so fuckin’ hot when you fight me.”

٠࣪⭑ & yes, he loves choking: his palm on your throat, squeezing harder than he normally would. he loves seeing your eyes roll when he does it. grows, “you like when i’m rough, huh? don’t lie.” the release is messy, sweaty, teeth and nails—both of you panting like you can’t decide if you’re still angry or crazy in love again

٠࣪⭑ but even if it was rough, joel never skips the aftermath. he pulls you tight against him, whispers into your hair: “i love you. don’t wanna fight no more, baby girl. just want you.”

٠࣪⭑ he presses kisses to every red mark he left, soothing with murmured “sorry, sorry, i’m stupid, i want all of you, every little goddamn annoying, sexy thing about you, don’t ever wanna lose you.”