brainmush

Sunlight filtered through the cabin's thin curtains, painting golden streaks across the rumpled sheets. Bucky woke first, his body heavy with the deep sleep of contentment, Winter's warmth pressed against him like a living anchor.

She was still curled into his side, one leg draped over his thigh, her breath a soft puff against his chest. He shifted carefully, not wanting to disturb her, but his hand found its way to her hip anyway, thumb tracing lazy circles over the curve of her skin. The events of the night replayed in his mind—the lake, the shore, the shower, Steve's voice cutting through the haze. But here, with her, the outside world felt distant, a problem for another hour.

Winter stirred, her lashes fluttering as she blinked awake, those blue eyes locking onto his with a mix of vulnerability and quiet care. 'Dad?' she murmured, voice thick with sleep, her hand sliding up his abdomen to rest over his heart.

'Mornin', doll,' he replied, voice low and rough, leaning down to brush his lips against her forehead. He lingered there, inhaling the faint scent of her—clean soap and something uniquely hers—before trailing kisses down her temple, to the shell of her ear. 'Sleep okay?'

She nodded, nuzzling closer, her body arching instinctively toward him. 'With you...always.' Her fingers toyed with the edge of his boxers, dipping just inside, and he caught her wrist gently, though his cock twitched at the contact.

'Easy now,' he chuckled softly, though his free hand cupped her ass, squeezing the firm flesh. 'We got all day. No rush.' But words were one thing; his body betrayed him, hardening against her thigh as she pressed nearer.

He rolled them slightly, pinning her beneath him with his weight, careful not to crush her. His mouth finding hers in a slow, deep kiss, tongue exploring with unhurried thoroughness, tasting the remnants of last night's passion.

She moaned into his mouth, legs parting to cradle him between them, her pussy already slick as it brushed his length through the thin fabric. Bucky broke the kiss, trailing his lips down her neck, sucking lightly at the pulse point until she gasped.

'God–I can't get enough of you,' he rasped, nipping at her collarbone before moving lower. His metal arm braced beside her head, the other hand pushing the sheet aside to expose her breasts. He latched onto one nipple, sucking hard enough to draw a whimper from her, tongue swirling around the hardened peak while his fingers pinched the other.

Winter's hands fisted in his hair, hips bucking up. 'So don't,' Her plea was breathless, needy, and it sent a jolt straight to his groin.

He released her nipple with a pop, kissing the reddened skin before descending further, lips ghosting over her stomach. 'Not yet, sweetheart. Need'a taste you first.'

Hooking her legs over his shoulders, he settled between her thighs, inhaling her arousal before diving in. His tongue parted her folds, lapping at her entrance where she was still tender from the night before.

'Shit–hmm!' She cried out, back arching as he sucked her clit into his mouth, fingers sliding inside her to curl against that spot that made her tremble.

'Fuck, you taste like heaven,' he groaned against her, the vibrations making her clench around his digits. He worked her methodically—licking, sucking, thrusting—until her thighs quivered and she shattered, cum flooding his tongue as she sobbed his name. Only then did he rise, shedding his boxers and positioning his cock at her entrance. One smooth thrust buried him to the hilt, her walls gripping him like a vice.

They moved together in a rhythm born of instinct, his hips snapping forward while she met him thrust for thrust, nails raking down his back. 'Gonna fill you up again,' he grunted, burying his face in her neck, biting down as pleasure coiled tight. 'Make you mine, over and over.'

'Dad—mm–fuc-I'm—Buck!' She came again, tears lining up in her eyes and pulling him over the edge, his seed spilling deep inside her in hot pulses.

Panting, he collapsed beside her, pulling her into his arms as aftershocks rippled through them. They lay there, sweat-slicked and sated, until hunger—of the non-carnal sort—drove them from the bed.

Bucky whipped up a simple breakfast: eggs scrambled with whatever herbs he'd scavenged, toast from the loaf he had bought before coming. They ate at the small kitchen table, knees brushing under it, her foot occasionally hooking around his ankle in silent affection.

As plates cleared, Bucky's expression grew serious, the weight of the previous night's call settling in. He reached across, taking her hand in his flesh one, thumb stroking her knuckles. 'Winter...last night, after you fell asleep, I got a message from an old friend. Steve Rogers. He's part of my past, before all this.' He gestured vaguely, as if to mean Hydra, the Soldier, and everything else.

Her eyes widened slightly, curiosity mingling with wariness. 'What did he want?'

'Wants me to come back. To the city, the team. Says they can help protect you.' He watched her face, gauging her reaction. 'But I told him no. Not without thinkin' it through. Out there...it's complicated. People ask questions, watch too close. Here, it's just us.'

She squeezed his hand, leaning forward. 'I don't want to leave. This is home. With you. I've only ever felt safe with you.' Her voice was firm, though a flicker of fear lingered—memories of orders, of being a weapon.

Bucky smiled, warmth flooding him. 'Good. We're stayin' put for now. But if things change...we'll face it together.' He stood, drawing her up into a hug, his chin resting on her head. 'No one's takin' you from me.'

The day unfolded in quiet domesticity: Bucky teaching her to fish at the lake's edge, her laughter ringing out when she hooked a small trout. He showed her how to gut it, his hands guiding hers, patient as she grimaced at the mess.

Later, they hiked a trail through the woods, his arm around her waist when no one was near—though the isolation meant they could steal kisses against tree trunks, his hands wandering under her shirt to cup her breasts.

By afternoon, storm clouds gathered, thunder rumbling in the distance. They made it back just as rain began to patter on the roof, turning into a downpour that trapped them inside. Winter curled on the couch with a worn book she'd found in the cabin, while Bucky tinkered with a radio, trying to catch fragments of news without revealing their location.

As evening fell, the storm raged on, lightning flashing through the windows. Bucky built a fire in the hearth, the crackle a counterpoint to the wind's howl. He pulled Winter onto his lap, her back to his chest, arms wrapped around her middle. 'Scared of storms?' he asked, lips brushing her ear.

'A little,' she admitted, though her body relaxed against him. 'But not with you.'

He kissed her shoulder, hand slipping under her shirt to caress her stomach, fingers dipping lower to tease the frilly waistband of her shorts. 'I love you.'

'I love you too, silly.' She smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to the stuble on his cheek before she lowered her head to rest it on his shoulder.

Exhausted, the storm lulled them to sleep, curled up on the couch.

Bucky's mind raced even as his eyes closed, Steve's words echoing. Protection meant isolation, but how long could they hide? For now, with Winter's head on his chest, he pushed it aside, content in their stolen peace.

The dim lights of the bar cast a warm glow over the crowded space, laughter and clinking glasses filling the air as Clark Kent sat at the high-top table with their group of friends. It had been a year since he'd started dating Lila—sweet, flirty Lila with her cascading auburn hair and eyes that sparkled like she held a secret just for him.

She was across from him now, leaning into the conversation, her laughter bubbling up as she teased one of their mutual friends about his latest dating mishap.

Clark couldn't tear his eyes away. Every sway of her hips when she shifted in her seat, every playful toss of her head, it all hit him like a Kryptonian punch to the gut.

A year wasn't enough. He wanted forever.

He wanted her bound to him in every way possible.

When Lila excused herself to head to the bathroom, slipping through the throng of bodies with that effortless grace, Clark's heart hammered. He waited a beat, then murmured an excuse about grabbing another round and followed her.

The hallway to the restrooms was narrow, the bass from the music thumping through the walls. He caught sight of her just as she pushed open the women's room door—a single-stall setup, thank God for small mercies in this dive bar.

'Honey,' he called softly, slipping in behind her before the door could swing shut. She turned, surprise lighting her features, but before she could question it, he reached past her and twisted the lock with a decisive click. The space was cramped: a sink, a mirror smudged from too many careless hands, and the toilet in the corner.

Not exactly romantic, but desperation clawed at him and it was clean.

'Baby? What are you—' Her words cut off as he backed her against the cool tile wall, his hands framing her face. His mouth crashed down on hers, hungry and unyielding, tongue sweeping in to claim the sweet taste of her lip gloss and the beer she'd been sipping. She melted into it with a giggle, her fingers curling into his shirt, flirty as ever with a soft moan that vibrated against his lips.

He broke the kiss just long enough to groan, 'I can't wait anymore. You're mine, Lila. All mine.' His hands roamed down her sides, bunching up the hem of her short skirt, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs. She gasped as he hiked it higher, exposing the lace of her panties.

'Clark, we're in a bathroom,' she whispered, but her voice was breathy, her body arching toward him.

He didn't care. With a swift motion, he yanked her panties aside, his fingers finding her already wet folds. She was slick for him, pussy clenching around his probing digits as he thrust two inside her, curling them to hit that spot that made her knees buckle. 'Say yes,' he begged, free hand fumbling in his pocket. He pulled out the small velvet box he'd been carrying for weeks, snapping it open to reveal the intricate diamond ring glinting under the fluorescent light.

Her eyes widened, a mix of shock and disbelief. 'Is that—?'

'Yes. Please, marry me. Please, be my wife. Say yes, baby, because you're my forever.' He slid his fingers out of her, slick with her arousal, and used that hand to push the ring onto her finger, the metal cool against her heated skin.

Even the sight of it on her drove him mad but he needed to atleast see it once incase she rejected him, he needed to atleast imagine her saying yes, but when he looked up and saw the watery smile forming on her face, his chest warmed with hope.

She stared at it, then at him, a giggle escaping despite the heat pooling between her legs. 'Yes, you idiot. But seriously? In a bar bathroom? Our friends are right outside!'

Clark grinned, feral and triumphant, pressing messing kisses to her lips as he unzipped his jeans, freeing his throbbing cock. It sprang out, hard and veined, pre-cum beading at the tip. 'I'll propose to you a hundred times over, in a hundred places, just to see that smile. But right now, I need you. Need to fuck my fiancée.'

He lifted her effortlessly—perks of being Superman—her legs wrapping around his waist as he pinned her to the wall. The head of his cock nudged her entrance, and with one powerful thrust, he buried himself balls-deep inside her tight pussy.

'God–honey—S'good." She cried out, nails raking his shoulders, but he swallowed the sound with another bruising kiss.

They moved together desperately, his hips snapping forward in a relentless rhythm, cock stretching her, filling her completely. Her walls fluttered around him, squeezing as he pounded into her, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the tiles.

'Forget them out there,' he panted against her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin. 'Focus on me, your fiancé. On how I'm gonna make you come so hard you forget your own name.'

Lila's head fell back, her flirty sweetness giving way to raw need. 'Clark...oh God, harder. Fuck me like you mean it.' She rocked against him, grinding her clit on his pelvis with each thrust, her breaths coming in sharp gasps.

He obliged, driving deeper, faster, the ring on her finger catching the light as her hand clutched his hair. Sweat beaded on his brow, his control fraying as her pussy milked him, hot and insistent. The first orgasm hit her like a wave—she clenched around him, crying his name out as her body shuddered, juices coating his shaft.

But he wasn't done. Not by a long shot.

He'd been dreaming about marrying her since he first learned of the concept.

And she said yes. That alone made his mind a mush of need.

Clark pulled out just enough to spin her around, bending her over the sink. Her skirt was still hiked up, ass presented to him like a gift.

'Mm–gosh, you're—mm–perfect, perfect–mm perfect.' He blabbered as he slapped her cheek lightly, watching it jiggle, before thrusting back in from behind, groaning at the new angle that let him hit even deeper.

'You're so fucking tight,' he rasped, hands gripping her hips as he fucked her with abandon. Round two built quickly, her second climax ripping through her as she braced against the mirror, fogging it with her moans.

He followed soon after, unable to hold back, cock pulsing as he came inside her, flooding her pussy with hot spurts of cum. It leaked down her thighs, but he didn't stop—no, Clark kept thrusting through the sensitivity, chasing, needing more.

'Again, baby please, again,' he demanded, voice wrecked.

He pulled her upright, turning her to face him, lifting one leg to hook over his arm. Sliding back in, he fucked her slow and deep now, savoring the way she whimpered, overstimulated but clinging to him. Her sweetness shone through in the way she kissed him tenderly between gasps, flirty even as she begged, 'Don't stop, Clark. I'm all yours.'

Round three shattered him. Her pussy convulsed around his cock, pulling him under with her as he came again, harder this time, practically collapsing against her as ropes of cum filled her once more. They were both trembling now, breaths ragged, the world outside the locked door forgotten.

When he finally, he eased out, cum dripping from her well-fucked pussy onto the floor. He held her close, forehead to forehead, the ring sparkling between them like a promise. 'I love you, Fiancée.'

She smiled, that flirty curve of her lips still shining through her cockdrunk expression, as she adjusted her skirt. 'I love you too, Fiancée. But next proposal? Just us in bed, with ice cream.'

Clark chuckled, not wanting to ever return to the people outside, so instead, he picked up Lila by her waist and neared the window so he could fly them home safely. 'Deal. A hundred times over. Why don't we go get that ice cream?'

SUPPPAAAAMANNNNN SAVVVVVE MEEEE SUPAAAAAAMANNNNNNNNNN

yadda yadda yadda, go screw yoself if you don't like it, just click off, idc

The evening air cooled around them as Bucky finally stirred from their tangled heap on the towel, the lake's gentle waves a soft underscore to Winter's slowing breaths. Cum still leaked from between her thighs, mixing with the remnants of lake water on her skin, but he couldn't bring himself to regret a second of it.

'C'mon, doll,' he murmured, voice husky with lingering satisfaction, as he scooped her into his arms. She nestled against his chest, her head lolling on his shoulder, trusting and spent. He carried her back to the cabin, the door clicking shut behind them, sealing their world away from the night.

In the bathroom, steam began to rise as he twisted the shower knob, the water heating to a soothing warmth. He stepped under the spray first, pulling her with him, her body molding to his as rivulets cascaded over them.

'Let Daddy clean you up,' he rasped softly, his flesh hand lathering soap across her shoulders, down her arms, thumbs tracing the faint scars that mapped her history.

She sighed, eyes half-closed, leaning into his touch. 'Mmm–kay.'

He knelt, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her collarbone, then lower, to the swell of her breasts, tongue flicking gently over each nipple until they pebbled under his attention. 'So good for me out there,' he whispered against her skin, lips trailing a path down her stomach, nipping at the soft flesh above her hip.

His metal arm steadied her as he washed between her legs, fingers parting her folds with care, rinsing away the evidence of their joining. He lingered there, thumb brushing her clit in slow circles that made her whimper, but he kept it light, more comfort than tease. Kisses followed—soft presses to her inner thighs, her mound, even the sensitive skin where cum had dried.

'You're perfect, Winter. Every inch of you.' Rising, he turned her to face the wall, soaping her back, his mouth following the suds down her spine, to the dimples above her ass. He squeezed the cheeks gently, a kiss to each, then guided the water to rinse her clean. She turned in his arms, and he captured her lips in a deep, tender kiss, tongues sliding lazily as the shower washed them both.

Dried and wrapped in a fluffy towel, he led her to the bedroom, the cabin's wooden floors creaking underfoot. The bed was simple, sheets fresh from earlier, and he pulled them back before helping her slip under. She looked up at him with those wide blue eyes, still hazy from pleasure and exhaustion. 'Dad...stay?' she asked, voice small.

He nodded, sitting on the edge without hesitation, his hand stroking her hair. 'Always, baby. But listen—we gotta be careful. Out there, in the world...we can't touch like this. No holdin' hands, no kisses where people might see. Only here, in private, where it's just us. Okay? It's to keep you safe.'

She bit her lip, nodding slowly, the weight of normalcy sinking in. 'But you'll still be with me, no matter what?'

'Promise I'll protect you, no matter what.' Leaning down, he tucked the covers around her, pressing a final kiss to her forehead. 'Sleep now. You've earned it.'

Winter hummed,, nodding softly as her eyes drifted off almost immediately, her breathing evening out into the soft rhythm of slumber. Bucky lingered, pulling on boxers before sliding in beside her, propping himself on an elbow to watch.

Moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting a silver glow on her face—peaceful, innocent in repose, a far cry from the haunted girl he'd rescued.

Awe swelled in his chest; this was his daughter, the piece of him Hydra had twisted into something dark, now healing under his care. He brushed his fingers over her cheek, then leaned in, lips ghosting soft kisses to her temple, her hair, the crown of her head. 'My girl,' he breathed, each press a vow. 'Never lettin' you go.'

Akmost allowing himself to drift off, the vibration of his phone on the nightstand shattered the quiet—a burner he'd rigged for emergencies, but this signal rerouted through layers of encryption, hacking into his secure line.

An unknown number flashed on the screen. Bucky frowned, glancing at Winter to ensure she stayed asleep, then swiped to answer, keeping his voice low.

'Buck? That you?' Steve's voice crackled through, laced with worry. 'I've been tryin' to reach you. You okay out there? It's been months. Come home, man. We can help.'

Bucky swallowed before his gaze softened on Winter's sleeping form, watching the way her lips parted slightly with each small snore. 'I'm home, Steve. Right where I need to be.'

A pause, confusion evident. 'What do you mean? The team's waitin'. Wakanda's got resources—'

He snapped a quick photo with the phone's camera, the flash muted: Winter curled up under the blankets, dark hair fanned on the pillow, looking small and vulnerable. He hit send. 'I've got to protect my daughter, Steve. She's all that matters now.'

Silence stretched, broken by Steve's stunned inhale. 'Your... daughter? Buck, what the hell—? Hydra? Is this some kinda—? Jesus. Look, whatever's goin' on, bring her back. We can figure it out together. The Avengers, SHIELD remnants...we'll keep her safe. Please, come home.'

Bucky's jaw tightened, the plea tugging at old loyalties, but the warmth of Winter's body beside him anchored him. He shifted closer, draping an arm over her waist, pulling her into his side as she murmured in her sleep, instinctively cuddling against him.

'Thinkin' on it,' he replied finally, voice firm but not unkind. 'But she's not leavin' this life behind. Not yet, she's barely gotten a chance to be normal yet.'

Then, he ended the call, tossing the phone aside, his mind churning with possibilities—safety in numbers, or the isolation that let him guard their secrets, their bond.

As thoughts swirled, exhaustion claimed him, his eyes closing while he held her tight, bodies entwined in the quiet cabin, the world outside fading to irrelevance.

The mansion loomed ahead, its grand facade lit up like a beacon under the night sky. Music pulsed from within, laughter and chatter spilling out into the manicured gardens. You and Pietro had infiltrated worse spots than this high-society bash, but tonight felt different.

The mission was straightforward: snag a flash drive from the host's private study and return to the safehouse to await check-in. Simple in theory, but with Pietro's silver hair catching the moonlight and his blue eyes locked on you like you were the real prize, focus was a challenge.

He'd been like this since the briefing—hands brushing your waist as you geared up, compliments slipping from his lips faster than he could run. 'You look incredible in that dress,' he'd murmured in the quinjet, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip. 'How am I supposed to concentrate when you're distracting me like this?'

Normally you two flirted without thought, but this—the way it looked like it pained him to look anywhere from you, made your chest warm. And, now, it was hard to think as you both slipped through the side entrance disguised as guests, his arm looped possessively around your lower back, thumb circling lazily against your skin.

'Piet, behave,' you whispered, though a smile tugged at your lips.

The party swirled around you—men in tuxes, women in glittering gowns, champagne flutes clinking. You wove through the crowd toward the upstairs study, Pietro's breath warm against your ear.

'Behave? With you? Impossible, dragă.' His accent thickened when he flirted, that Romanian lilt making your pulse quicken. 'Your eyes sparkle more than any diamond here. And that ass—god, it's criminal how it sways when you walk.' His hand dipped lower for a second, squeezing your cheek through the fabric before you swatted it away with a playful glare.

'Teasing me won't get the drive any faster,' you shot back, but heat bloomed in your cheeks. He grinned, all mischief and hunger, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before you reached the study door.

Inside, it was quick work. Pietro zipped around the room in a blur, rifling drawers while you kept watch. The flash drive was tucked in a safe behind a painting—child's play for pros like you.

You broke in, pocketed it, and just like that, mission accomplished.

No alarms, no drama. Until the exit.

You were descending the grand staircase, blending back into the party, when a burly guard rounded the corner, eyes narrowing on you both. Panic flickered—had he spotted something off?

But before you could even blink, Pietro's arm snaked around your waist, yanking you flush against him. 'Finally, been waiting for an excuse to taste you for months,' He groaned, crashing his mouth onto yours in a kiss that stole your breath and left your pulse dazed.

It wasn't gentle. His lips devoured yours, desperate and ravenous, tongue plunging deep to claim every inch. One hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head for better access, while the other gripped your hip, fingers digging in like he feared you'd vanish.

You melted into it instinctively, your body responding to the raw need in his touch—his cock already hardening against your thigh through his slacks despite the mission at hand. The world blurred; the party noise faded to a distant hum as he kissed you like a man starved, all pent-up longing from the night and months prior exploding in wet, heated kisses.

The guard paused, then rolled his eyes with a grunt.

'Get a room,' he muttered, waving you off as he continued his patrol, clearly uninterested in breaking up a lovers' spat.

Pietro didn't pull away until the footsteps echoed away. When he did, his chest heaved, silver-streaked hair disheveled, lips swollen and glistening. He stared at you, eyes wide with breathless awe, like you'd just rewritten his universe.

'Dragă,' he rasped, voice rough, 'I cannot go on living without kissing you again. Not ever.' His thumb brushed your bottom lip, tracing the dampness he'd left behind, obsession burning in his gaze.

You swallowed, heart pounding as you attempted to focus on anything else besides his blown out pupils. 'Pietro, we have to go.' You whispered, but his words lingered, igniting something undeniable within you.

He nodded reluctantly, leading you out to the waiting car, his hand never leaving yours. The drive back to the safehouse was torture—for him, at least.

Pietro gripped the wheel white-knuckled, his mind a whirlwind of that kiss.

How her lips parted for me, soft and yielding.

The taste of her—sweet, like forbidden fruit.

Her body arching into mine, tits pressing against my chest.

Fuck, I need more.

Need to bury myself inside her, feel her clench around my cock.

Need to see her pretty little face fucked out in pleasure.

Thoughts looped endlessly, his erection straining painfully against his zipper. He stole glances at you, memorizing the flush on your cheeks, the way your dress hugged your curves. Obsession clawed at him; you'd haunted his dreams for months, but now?

Now he was ruined.

The safehouse door barely clicked shut before he was on you. Pietro blurred forward, pinning you against the wall with his body, mouth finding yours in a frenzy. 'Finally,' he growled between kisses, hands roaming everywhere—sliding up your thighs, bunching your dress to expose your lace panties. 'You have no idea what you do to me. Teasing all night, looking like sin.'

You laughed breathlessly, nipping his lower lip. 'Me? You're the one who couldn't keep your hands off. What, afraid I'd forget how charming you are?' Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, teasing him with the grind of your hips against his bulge.

He groaned, eyes darkening with hunger. 'Charming? I'm obsessed, dragă. With your mouth, your body—every gasp you make.' His lips trailed down your neck, sucking hard enough to mark, while one hand shoved your dress higher, fingers hooking into your panties and yanking them aside. He dropped to his knees in a silver streak, hooking your leg over his shoulder. 'Let me worship you. Taste what I've craved.'

Before you could quip back, his mouth was on your pussy, tongue lapping hungrily at your folds. He devoured you like a man possessed, sucking your clit between his lips, flicking it with precise, desperate strokes. 'So wet for me already,' he murmured against your skin, voice vibrating through you as if he were lost in bliss.

'Knew it. Knew you'd drip like this.' His fingers joined in, two sliding deep into your heat, curling to hit that spot that made your knees buckle.

You moaned, head falling back against the wall, teasing forgotten in the onslaught. 'Pietro—fuck, baby.' Your hands gripped his hair, guiding him as he ate you out with relentless fervor, his free hand kneading your ass, pulling you closer to his greedy mouth.

He pulled back just enough to look up, chin slick with your arousal, awe in his eyes again. 'Beautiful. So fucking perfect.' Then he was up, blurring out of his clothes in an instant—shirt gone, pants discarded, his cock springing free, thick and throbbing, pre-cum beading at the tip.

You reached for him, wrapping your hand around his length, stroking firmly. 'Obsessed, huh? Prove it.' Your thumb circled the head, drawing a hiss from him.

'Anything for you.' He moaned as he lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist, while he carried you to the couch, laying you down and settling between your thighs. His kisses turned frantic again, tongue tangling with yours in desperate hunger, tasting yourself on him. 'Need to fuck you. Been dreaming of how you would squeeze me.'

He aligned himself, the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance, then thrust in deep with one smooth motion. You cried out, nails raking his back as he filled you completely, stretching you around his girth. Pietro stilled for a beat, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. 'Shit–you're perfect, fuck-you're mine.'

'Fuck me like it then, Piet.'

He couldn't even think, all he could do was let out a choked whimper when he moved, hips snapping in a rhythm that built fast—hard, possessive strokes that had the couch creaking. His mouth never left yours, kissing you through every plunge, swallowing your moans.

'Tease me more,' he practically begged, one hand pinning your wrists above your head, the other gripping your thigh to angle deeper. 'I love it. Love how you fight back, but God—I wanna hear you fall apart on me.'

You bucked up to meet him, clenching around his cock without even meaning to, it simply felt that good. 'Harder, speedster. Or are you all talk?'

It spurred him on; he fucked you relentlessly, pace blurring at the edges from his powers, hitting every sensitive spot until stars burst behind your eyes.

'Fu—Piet, baby, s'good!'

Sweat slicked your bodies, his obsession pouring out in grunts and whispers—'Can't get enough. Mmh–I'll never ever get enough of you, princessa.' He shifted, thumb finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles as he drove deeper, pushing you toward the edge.

You shattered first, orgasm crashing over you in waves, pussy pulsing around him, milking his cock. Pietro followed with a guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he came, hot spurts flooding you deep inside. He collapsed onto you, kissing your shoulder, your neck, your lips—soft now, but no less reverent.

'Obsessed, I'm obsessed with you,' he murmured, nuzzling into you, still buried inside. 'Completely, utterly yours.'

You smiled, tracing his jaw, the teasing spark returning. 'Good. Because I'm not done with you yet.'

ah....soooooo..... :0

did i.....write a pietro smut......?

...............yes.

had to add a the husband bc GAWDDDDDDAYYYUM!! GRANNY FREE HIM!

ONE WEEK LATER

The sun dipped low over the lake, casting a golden shimmer across the water as Winter trudged back into the cabin after their afternoon session. Bucky had spent hours with her, patiently guiding her through the subtle dance of social cues—how to read a smile, when to nod instead of stare, the way everyday conversations flowed without the sharp edge of commands.

Her mind, still frayed from Hydra's chains, soaked it up like parched earth, but exhaustion etched lines into her young face. 'I'm tired, Dad,' she murmured, using the word that still felt foreign on her tongue.

Bucky nodded, his metal arm whirring softly as he brushed a strand of dark hair from her forehead. 'Go rest, doll. You've done good today.'

She smiled and slipped out the back door instead of heading to her room, drawn to the lake's edge like a moth to flame. The cool air kissed her skin as she kicked off her boots, the gravel crunching underfoot. Her shirt came next, peeled away to reveal the pale curves of her breasts, nipples hardening in the breeze.

Pants followed, sliding down her legs until she stood naked, her body marked by faint scars from a life she was only beginning to escape. Without hesitation, she waded into the water, the chill biting at her ankles, then calves, thighs, until it lapped at her waist. She dove under, emerging with a gasp, her hair slicked back as she floated, letting the lake wash away the day's weight.

Inside, Bucky stood at the kitchen window, a mug of coffee forgotten in his flesh hand. He'd meant to give her space, to let her breathe in this new freedom ever since her first night, he meant to refrain after his slip-up, hell he hoped maybe just fucking her once would stop these thoughts but his eyes couldn't leave her naked form through the glass.

The way her body moved, lithe and unashamed, stirred something primal in him—a hunger he'd buried deep since her first night here.

Memories flooded back unbidden: the orders that had forced him to claim her, to spill inside her under fluorescent lights and sterile commands.

But this...this was different. No orders. Just want. Again.

His cock twitched in his jeans, hardening as he watched her breasts bob with each stroke, water trailing down her skin. 'Fuck,' he muttered, setting the mug down with a clatter. He couldn't stop himself. Not anymore.

The door creaked open behind her as she swam lazy circles, oblivious until his boots splashed into the shallows. Winter turned, water streaming from her lashes, her blue eyes widening at the sight of him stripping off his shirt, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, scarred and muscled. 'Dad?' she said, voice soft with uncertainty, but no fear—Hydra had burned that out of her long ago.

Bucky waded deeper, his pants discarded on the bank, his thick cock standing rigid against his abdomen, veins pulsing with need. 'Couldn't let you swim alone, baby girl,' he rasped, his voice rough as he closed the distance.

The water reached his hips now, cool against his heated skin. He reached her in two strides, his metal arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her flush against him. Her wet breasts pressed to his chest, nipples scraping his skin, and she gasped as his cock nudged her thigh, hot and insistent.

'Dad...b-but you said t-this was wrong—' Her words cut off as his mouth crashed onto hers, devouring her lips with a hunger that bordered on desperation. His tongue plunged in, tasting the lake on her, claiming her like he had no right to but couldn't deny. She melted into it, her body responding on instinct, hands clutching his shoulders as he backed her against a smooth rock half-submerged in the water.

'M'sorry, doll, you're just so beautiful out here,' he murmured against her neck, nipping the skin there, his flesh hand sliding down to cup her ass, squeezing the firm flesh. 'My girl, all grown and perfect. Been helpin' you all day, watchin' you learn...and fuck, just seeing you makes me want to fill you up.'

Winter's breath hitched, her legs parting instinctively as his fingers delved between her thighs, finding her pussy already slick despite the water. He groaned, circling her clit with his thumb before pushing two fingers inside, stretching her tight heat. 'So wet for me already. That's it, baby. Let your dad take care of you, honey.'

She moaned, head falling back against the rock, her hips bucking as he pumped his fingers, curling them to hit that spot that made her tremble. The water sloshed around them, lapping at their joined bodies, but all he could focus on was her—his daughter, his Winter, blooming under his touch.

He withdrew his fingers, gripping her thighs to lift her, her legs wrapping around his waist as he positioned his cock at her entrance. 'Gonna fuck you right here,' he rasped, eyes locked on hers, dark with disbelief at his own actions. 'My perfect girl. Gonna ruin this pussy, fill you with my cum until it takes. You want that? Want Daddy's seed deep inside? Want me to ruin you for anyone eelse's?

Winter couldn't do anything but moan and nod frantically, her nails digging into his back, a whimper escaping as he thrust forward, burying his thick length inside her in one brutal stroke.

'O'shit- Dad!' She cried out, the stretch burning sweet, her walls clenching around him like a vice.

Bucky set a punishing rhythm, the water churning with each snap of his hips, his cock slamming deep into her core. 'Fuck, you're so tight,' he praised, voice breaking with awe. 'Takin' me s'good, just like you were made for it. My daughter, milkin' Daddy's cock...God I wanna knock you up, baby. Put a baby in you, make you mine forever.' His metal hand gripped her hip, holding her steady as he pounded into her, the slap of skin on skin echoing over the lake. Winter's moans grew louder, her pussy fluttering around him, chasing the pleasure he'd unlocked in her.

He felt her shatter first, her orgasm ripping through her with a keening wail, her juices mixing with the water as she clenched down, pulling him deeper. 'That's it, cum on Daddy's cock,' he urged, thrusting harder, chasing his own release. 'Gonna fill you, my pretty girl—take it all, every drop.'

'OH–FU‐MMH!' With a guttural roar, he came, his cock pulsing as he flooded her womb with hot spurts of cum, holding her impaled on him until he was spent, disbelief washing over him even as ecstasy did. 'Holy shit...look at you, takin' my load like my good little girl. So full of me already.'

But he wasn't done. Not even close.

Bucky carried her from the water, her body limp and sated in his arms, cum leaking from her pussy down her thighs. He laid a towel on the grassy shore, the fabric soft under the fading sun, and gently lowered her onto it, spreading her legs wide.

She looked up at him, eyes hazy with afterglow, her chest heaving. 'Dad...more?' she whispered, a shy smile tugging her lips.

'Yeah, baby girl. Always more,' he hummed, kneeling between her thighs, his cock still hard, glistening with their mixed fluids. He traced her folds with his tip, smearing the mess, before sliding back in slowly this time, savoring the way her pussy welcomed him, stretched and dripping. 'Can't believe you're this perfect. My own flesh and blood, spread out for me...fuck, you're a dream.' He leaned down, capturing a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard as he began to thrust again, deeper, grinding against her clit with each roll of his hips.

'Mmm!Dad–I-S'good! Ah!'

Winter arched beneath him, hands fisting the towel, her moans filling the air as he fucked her with deliberate strokes, building her up again. 'Gonna breed you proper now,' he murmured against her skin, switching to the other breast, teeth grazing the peak. 'Pump you full until your belly swells with our baby. Imagine it—you, round with my child, tits heavy and leakin'. That's what Daddy wants. To see you carryin' my seed.' His pace quickened, the wet sounds of his cock plunging into her cum-filled pussy obscene in the quiet evening as he imagined his own fantasy.

He hooked her legs over his shoulders, folding her in half, hitting her cervix with each brutal thrust. 'God, doll, s'tight, you feel good, huh?'

She came again, harder this time, her pussy spasming wildly around him, milking him as tears of pleasure streaked her cheeks. 'Dad! Yes, S'good!'

Bucky lost it then, slamming home one last time, his balls tightening as he unleashed another torrent of cum, flooding her depths, overflowing to pool on the towel beneath her ass. 'Shit, baby.' He collapsed over her, panting, pressing kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, murmuring praises in disbelief. 'You're incredible, baby. Takin' everything I give...let's go clean you up, pretty girl.'

SECRET COMFORTS—CHAPTER ³

TW!! 18+ PART 1 | PREV | NEXT

(Went ahead and gave the main character a name, it's just Winter but hey it fits. Will also stop using you and instead I'll use she/her, hope that's okay!!! Enjoy and take care of yourselves. If you get uncomfortable just click out!)

The worn leather of the backseat of the SUV still smelled faintly of dust, the dry, alpine grit clinging to the fibers, and something acutely metallic: the lingering coppery scent of fresh blood and expended ammunition—the residue of the chaos Bucky had just violently pulled her from.

Winter lay blessedly still across the backseat, her unconscious form a heavy, warm weight that both moored him to the present and tormented him with the past. Her face, smudged with the fine soot of the exploded filtration system and a faint, purpling bruise blossoming on her temple, was slack in sleep.

It was a rare, vulnerable sight, free for a moment from the vacant, mission-driven intensity, the terrifying emptiness, he’d grown to dread. When he paused halfway for gas, he moved her up to the seat beside him. Letting her sleep beside him as he drove, he ran a thumb over her cheekbone, the rough pad of his digit catching on dust, a tremor in his hand he couldn't quite suppress.

He’d saved her. Liberated her. Finally.

The word echoed in his mind, sharp and brittle, immediately tangled with a crushing guilt that was as old and persistent as his own fractured memories. He’d done it, he’d broken through the layers of Hydra guards, the relentless, decade-long pursuit finally culminating in her rescue, a swift, brutal extraction from the crash. But the victory felt hollow, a poisoned chalice he was forced to drink.

Because even as he’d fought to free her body, the abyss of their shared past, the monstrous perversion Hydra had orchestrated, clawed at the edges of his sanity.

They had used them both. Father and daughter. Not just weapons, but test subjects for a cruel, calculated experiment designed to break their minds, to shatter every fundamental human boundary. And Bucky, the reformed Winter Soldier, the man trying desperately to claw his way back to James Barnes, still wrestled with the horrifying, undeniable truth that beneath the revulsion, the self-loathing, the screaming protest of his soul, his body had responded.

He remembered the cold, slick floor of the conditioning room, the distant, rhythmic hum of the facility’s generators, his own daughter's high, desperate cries muffled against his shoulder, and the visceral, animalistic pleasure—a biological imperative twisted into dark duty—that had ripped through him.

It was a betrayal he could reconcile.

It had felt good, in the sterile, terrifying logic of the Asset.

And that knowledge was a festering wound in his own broken mind, impossible to cauterize.

He drove for hours, pushing the stolen engine hard toward the borders of France, the persistent hum of the motor a hypnotic drone against the backdrop of the rugged countryside unfurling outside the window.

Once home, he carried her inside, as gentle as he could manage, his movements slow and agonizingly deliberate, laying her on a makeshift bed near the crackling fire. He carefully cleaned the superficial wounds, brushed her tangled, dark hair back from her face, his touch hesitant, almost reverent, the fragile embodiment of a tenderness he hadn’t possessed for half a century.

Hours later, as the dawn light, thin and hesitant, filtered through the cabin's small window, Winter stirred. Her eyes, a startling, unnervingly lucid blue, fluttered open, unfocused at first, then sharpening with a sudden, alarming alertness.

She sat bolt upright, every muscle tensed, a coiled wire ready to strike. Her gaze darted around the unfamiliar room, searching for tactical weaknesses, assessing threats, evaluating. "Designation?" she rasped, her voice raw, hoarse from disuse and recent trauma. "Mission parameters? Report."

Bucky, who had collapsed into a worn chair opposite her, immediately knelt beside the bed, his voice soft, a low rumble designed to soothe, not provoke. "No missions, doll. There are no missions here. We are safe."

She blinked, her brow furrowing in confusion, the rapid change making her stutter. Her gaze finally settled back on him, a flicker of something unreadable—recognition warring with programmed caution—in their depths. "I don't understand the command. Define 'safe.'"

"S'okay," he murmured, his hands resting on his knees, deliberately keeping distance. He reached out a hand, then drew it back, unsure if she’d flinch. "You don't have to. I'm here to explain things. Everything. Slowly."

The sheer lack of imperative, the absence of an order, seemed to short-circuit something crucial in her operational matrix and seeing that, Buck couldn't help but frown, holding up a comforting hand, "C'mere, baby."

The rigid tension in her shoulders eased fractionally, and with a soft sigh, she shifted, crawling forward until she was curled against him on the floor, her cheek resting instinctively on his thigh. Her body was slight, almost imperceptible in its posture when stripped of the weaponized tension, and her small hands clutched instinctively at the rough fabric of his jeans.

She was trying to make sense of her fractured mind, her fragmented memories, her brow still furrowed in concentrated thought, the echoes of programming warring with the unfamiliar, intoxicating sensation of safety.

Bucky swallowed hard, his throat suddenly constricted. The warmth of her against him, the innocent, dependent weight of her small form, ignited that dangerous spark he desperately tried to extinguish. His body, traitorous and unbidden, began to stir, a slow, agonizing throb of desire that was instantly laced with self-hatred.

He clenched his jaw, battling the rising tide of shame and lust, focusing fiercely on the rhythmic sound of the fire and the fragile hope that this time, he could finally be her protector, not her tormentor, not the catalyst for her destruction.

"Why don't you...go ahead and shower?" he managed, the words a raw struggle against the knot tightening in his throat. A subtle tremor, barely perceptible, ran through his frame, a restless current beneath the rigid façade of calm he presented. "There's clean water, and soap. Take your time. Really, take all the time you need. I'll be right here. To take care of you."

The last phrase, meant to be comforting, resonated with an unintended double meaning for him, a promise and a forbidden fantasy intertwined.

She nodded abstractedly, her gaze still distant, lost in the turbulent currents of her own internal struggle. The remnants of fear and confusion clung to her like a shroud, even as a faint flicker of hope seemed to warm her eyes.

Slowly, she rose from the rough-hewn chair by the hearth, her movements hesitant, almost mechanical, as she turned and moved towards the small, enclosed washroom he’d indicated. The simple wooden door, worn smooth by countless hands, clicked shut with a soft finality, a sound that seemed disproportionately loud in the sudden quiet of the cabin.

Moments later, the soft, steady hiss of running water began to fill the small space, growing in volume, a sound Bucky immediately registered as profoundly unnatural, too loud, too insistent.

Bucky remained rooted to the spot, his knuckles bone-white as he gripped his knees, the thin fabric of his trousers pulled taut against the tension in his hands. His breath caught painfully in his chest, each inhalation shallow and ragged.

The relentless, shameful ache in his groin intensified, a sickening throb that was a physical manifestation of his internal agony, the raw, unhealed wound of his past deeds reacting with brutal force to her fragile vulnerability. He squeezed his eyes shut, the cabin's dim, flickering lamplight unable to penetrate the sudden darkness that enveloped him. His mind, already a battlefield, replayed the soft, dangerous sound of the running water, and it was a trigger, instantaneous and overwhelming, a swift, brutal descent into the abyss.

The water became the roaring torrent of the relentless sanitization protocols at Hydra. The soft, comforting glow of the cabin's fire dissolved, replaced by the harsh, flickering fluorescent lamps that pulsed with a cold, malevolent light, painting his inner vision in sickly greens and blues.

He was there again, in the cold, sterile cell, the air thick with the acrid tang of ozone and the palpable stench of fear. The Handler’s voice, flat and devoid of humanity, echoed in the stark space, a metallic drone that bypassed his ears and resonated directly in his skull, an inescapable command. "Soldat. Engage in submission protocols with Asset Winter. Break her. Ensure compliance."

He remembered the sterile scent of antiseptic that clung to everything, a futile attempt to mask the underlying metallic tang of fear and stale blood that permeated the facility.

He remembered the heavy, crushing weight of the programming that rendered him a puppet, his own will a distant, muffled scream against the monster he was forced to embody—a weaponized biological function, stripped of all humanity.

Winter, eighteen then, and so impossibly small, her delicate hands balled into tiny fists, eyes wide with a terror and confusion too profound for her years, as he, the hulking, expressionless Winter Soldier, approached her.

He remembered her stifled whimpers, like a wounded animal, her fragile body tensing, poised for an impact she couldn't comprehend.

He remembered her small, heartbroken cries of "Papa? Why?" before the primal fear truly set in and overrode her recognition, plunging her into pure, unadulterated terror.

He remembered the sick, perverse satisfaction that had ripped through him then, a horrifying fusion of duty and primal urge, a violation of his very core, even as his true self screamed, a silent, impotent scream of revulsion against the grotesque monster he was forced to be.

He remembered her tears, searingly warm and wet, a shocking, living contrast against the freezing, metallic skin of his arm, and the sickening, efficient way his broken body had answered the Handler’s brutal command, even as his soul shattered into a million unrecognizable pieces, drifting into the cold void.

He gasped, a guttural, choked sound torn from his throat, snapping violently back to the present. The cabin was silent save for the frantic thudding of his own heart.

The shower had stopped.

"Bucky?"

Her voice, soft and unsure, a gentle inquiry rather than a command, cut through the horrific haze of the flashback, pulling him from the depths of his personal damnation. He opened his eyes, breath stilling painfully in his chest, to see her standing in the doorway of the washroom.

She was wrapped loosely in a large, fluffy towel—the first civilian object she’d ever worn, a stark, profound symbol of her transition. Her damp, curled hair clung in soft tendrils to her temples and the curve of her neck, and her eyes, wide and innocent, were fixed on him, specifically, on the undeniable, physical evidence of his torture, his exposed, leaking cock, which had spilled from his trousers in his tortured haze, utterly beyond his control.

"Are you...hurt?" she asked, her voice tinged with genuine confusion, a complete lack of sexual understanding or social context in her tone. Her brow was furrowed again, not with the cold calculation of asset parameters this time, but with simple, unadulterated concern, a pure, unblemished empathy that pierced him deeper than any bullet. "Is something wrong with your directive?"

The guilt hit him like a physical blow, a concussive wave of self-loathing so profound it threatened to drown him right there in the small, wooden cabin. Here she was, clean, vulnerable, her mind a fragile slate awaiting its first inscription outside of Hydra's brutal control, and he was a mess of primal urges and repressed horrors, exposed and leaking like a ruptured wound.

He should recoil.

He should immediately explain the sickness that festered within him.

He should confess the monstrous things he was, the things he had been forced to do. But the words were choked off by a thick, suffocating wave of shame, a physical barrier that sealed his lips.

Instead, something colder, more dangerous, stirred within him, a residual flicker of the Asset’s calculating efficiency, a dark, familiar logic.

Her innocence, pristine and utterly untouched by the terrible context of the situation, was a fragile shield, one he realized with a horrifying clarity he could easily breach, or perhaps, use to shield himself.

He saw the path, twisting and dark, undeniably present before him, a tempting escape from the crushing weight of truth. He couldn't help but play into it, to let her confusion be a buffer against the unbearable reality—just a little longer.

He swallowed again, forcing down the lump in his throat and managed to pull his trousers back into place. "No, Winnie," he rasped, his voice still thick with unspoken agony and a forced gravel. "I don't hurt. Not really." He gave her a weak, almost imperceptible smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Just...complicated."

He stretched out a hand to her, a gesture that was both reassuring, offering her safety, and subtly inviting, pulling her closer to the edge. "C'mere. Please, just let me hold you, it'll help."

Winnie didn't hesitate. Conditioning still dictated compliance, but beneath her acceptance lay a budding curiosity—a concern that mirrored the genuine anxiety Bucky had just displayed. She moved towards him, and the shift in ambient temperature as she sat down on his lap, still damp and wrapped tightly in the large, absorbent towel, was immediate and grounding. Her innocent warmth clashed violently with the glacial dread of the flashback still clinging to him.

He buried his face in her wet hair, inhaling the faint, clean scent of the cheap cabin soap. The fragile, domestic scent an immediate antidote to the sterile horror of Hydra’s labs. In that moment, the calculating monster retreated, replaced by a desperate, drowning man grasping for an anchor. The guilt—that searing, crippling reminder of what he had been forced to do to her—did not disappear, but it was abruptly, violently, overwhelmed by the physical simplicity of his need.

He needed proof of the present. He needed her body to reaffirm the reality of the small wooden cabin, not the flickering fluorescent lights of the facility.

Bucky pulled her even closer in his grasp, shifting his weight slightly, pressing his hips urgently against her as he rocked gently, finding a rhythmic, desperate comfort in the contact.

The thick, soft loops of the towel offered minimal resistance, and the pressure against his abdomen—the ache hiding beneath his zipper—was a raw, insistent burn.

He couldn't stop the movement.

It wasn't about gratification; it was about grounding.

It was a rhythmic, frantic seeking of warmth, a primal need to rub away the phantom chill of the metal plate and the acidic sting of the Handler’s commands.

"Dad," she murmured, her voice muffled against his neck as she laid her head near his pulse point, "why are you moving like that? Is that...is that part of the protocol for assistance?"

His breath hitched. The guilt threatened to resurface, but he crushed it immediately, something about the pure innocence innocence in her tone made him shiver, a new unconscious need formed—he needed her.

"It’s necessary, Doll," he muttered into her shoulder, the words a low, guttural lie that felt frighteningly real as they left his lips. He pressed harder, a desperate, contained thrust of his hips against the firmness of her towel-wrapped backside. "It’s safe–just-listen to me. It brings us...closer."

As she started to furrow her brow, a flicker of confusion unsettled her recently curious expression, Bucky knew he had to divert her attention. Her questions were dangerous; they required explanations that would lead directly back to the horrors he was trying to outrun. Silence her. Anchor her to sensation, and words.

Under Hydra, sexual contact had been rigorously defined and restricted. It was transactional, a tool for submission or compliance, never for mutual pleasure or exploration. The Asset had been explicitly forbidden from touching her in ways that provided purely personal pleasure, especially the soft, sensitive tissue hidden beneath the towel—the very place that promised the quickest route to overwhelming, mindless sensation.

His hand, the living one, slipped carefully beneath the damp edge of the towel where it rested against her thigh. And, before she could react, his thumb found her, a hesitant, then firmer pressure applied to the delicate, unexposed tissue of her clit.

"O'–ah-ah-mmh!"

A soft, startled sound, high and completely involuntary, escaped her lips. It was a moan that held no language, only reaction—a pure, unadulterated sensation that instantly overwhelmed the analytical part of her mind.

Her body arched slightly on his lap, a reflexive tightening of her muscles that slammed her firmly against the urgent pressure of his hips, the clothed flesh of her firm ass locking around his runny cock like a vice.

"Gah—WIN! GOD!!"

He moaned, watching her eyes flutter closed, the confusion chased away by the sudden, intense rush of feeling. "That's it, doll, don't question, just feel."

Buck smiled as her fingers twisted into the material of his soiled shirt. He allowed a deeper, more demanding pressure to build, before he moved his thumb in slow, deliberate circles, mapping the sensitive terrain he'd been structurally forbidden from touching for years.

The resulting sound—sharp, breathy, and utterly consuming—was the most beautiful, most dangerous thing Bucky had ever heard.

"Oh, baby, I know–I know."

His mind, previously fractured by the flashback, suddenly became whole, focused entirely on the immediate, tangible reality of her pleasure. It was a chaotic, dizzying surge of sensation that had nothing to do with duty or compliance; it was raw, selfish, and desperate.

Every trace of the monstrous guilt that had defined the last hour evaporated, replaced by a consuming fire of physical focus. He wasn't the Asset, he wasn't Bucky the broken veteran; he was just a body driven by the immediate, overwhelming need to lose himself in the warmth, the pressure, and the exquisite sound of her pleasure.

He needed this—this control, this immediate intimacy, more than he needed clarity, and in that moment, as she gasped and moaned, unable to form a coherent question, he allowed himself to melt into the lie: This is safe. This is necessary.

"Yeah doll, just forget everything–shit—just lose yourself," He hummed as he continued to move, his thumb and his hips working in desperate synchronicity, losing himself completely in the process of anchoring them both to a reality where nothing existed but the heat of her skin under the towel and the sound of her breath catching in her throat.

Pressing down a little firmer to spell his own name on her sensitive leaking nerves, Bucky couldn't help the moan that slipped out his throat when Winter arched, subtly shifting to ride his cock up and down from where it remained, clenched between the width of her cheeks. It was a sensation so warm–so messy, he shook as he gasped for air.

"Yes, Winnie. That's it," he breathed, dropping his head to rest against her collarbone. His metal arm came up, not to touch, but to brace her lower back, holding her immobile against the rhythmic friction he provided. "Don't fight it. This is–so-fa–good. It's helping me–mmh."

He intensified the pressure, leaning down to nuzzle her ear, his breath hot against her cool, damp skin. "You feel that, don't you? That warm, perfect feeling." Buck's human hand smoothed up her torso, carefully avoiding the restrictive limits of the towel until his fingers buried themselves in the wet silk of her hair again, tilting her head back slightly so her face was fully exposed to him.

"Look at me, Asset," he commanded, the voice shifting, deepening—no longer Bucky the panicked veteran, but a rough approximation of the commanding presence he used to channel. Her eyes struggled to open, clouded with dawning pleasure. He wanted to see her face contort with the feeling now that he could, he wouldn't dare let her turn away. "You're perfect right now. So unfocused. That's what I needed."

He let his thumb slip, pressing exactly where the sensation was sharpest, waiting for the inevitable, uncontrolled response. "Solda–I-mmh–ah!" She gasped, a low, guttural sound tearing itself free from her throat.

"I need you to vocalize it, Winnie," he directed, his tone low and demanding, closer to the Handler's instructions than his earlier affection. "Tell me who is holding you. Tell me who is making you feel this."

She shook her head slightly, unable to form words, only a thick, choked sob of pure, physical need. "I—"

"Say. My. Name," he insisted, his hips pressing into the towel-wrapped curve of her, driving the movement forward between her towel covered cheeks. "Say Daddy's name. Scream it. It’s a command, Asset. Follow the order."

The word "Daddy" felt like a heavy, charged weight in the air, a twisted formality of the control he desperately needed to impose to keep his own mind intact. It was intimacy and innocence weaponized completely.

And it all undid her as she came with a brutal cry.

Her eyes clamped shut again, tears threatening to spill from the corners, not from pain, but from the unbearable intensity of the new, forbidden feeling washing over her. "D-Daddy," she whimpered, the word muffled and weak, a desperate whisper of compliance.

"Good girl, S'okay," he praised, and the sincerity in the raw, guttural confirmation, terrifying. He lowered his mouth to hers, not kissing her deeply, but just catching the sound she made—a sharp, ragged inhale—and holding the pressure until her hips strained upward, searching for the source of relief. "You are such a good girl. You’re so soft. You’re anchoring me–FUCK–Keep making that sound, Winnie. This is exactly what we need to get better."

"Mmm–ah!"

He needed this pleasure, this control, this immediate intimacy, more than he needed clarity, and in this moment, as she gasped and moaned, unable to form a coherent question, he allowed himself to melt into the lie: This is safe. This is necessary.

He continued to move, his thumb and his hips working in desperate synchronicity, losing himself completely in the process of anchoring them both to a reality where nothing existed but the heat of her skin under the towel and the sound of her breath catching in her throat, punctuated by broken whispers of her assigned title.

"Oh–mmahh-DADDY–ah!"

"Shh, doll, S’okay," Bucky whispered against her ear, his voice a soothing rumble as he continued to stroke her bundle of nerves with his thumb, coaxing more of those breathy, wanton sounds from her. "Just let go. I'm here, I've got you, baby. You can make as much noise as you want."

He could feel her muscles tensing with each passing second, could sense the mounting pressure building inside her all over again. It was intoxicating, this raw, unchecked desire.

"Dad-da—! I—Mhh, feels s'good!"

Bucky's own need was escalating, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as his hips moved in a steady, insistent rhythm. The towel, once a barrier, now felt like a flimsy obstacle between them, a reminder of the propriety and control he was shedding, piece by piece.

"Remember what I told you, baby girl?" he panted, his lips grazing her earlobe. "You're safe with me. Nothing bad will happen. You can even call out my name if you want."

The words hung in the air, a dark, tantalizing promise that Bucky knew he shouldn't make, but couldn't bring himself to retract. The sound of hearing her scream "Daddy" as he brought her to climax was a heady, almost overwhelming fantasy come to life as sick as it was.

Encouraged by his pace and the hitching sounds of her pleasure, Bucky's hand crept higher, fingers brushing against the damp edge of the towel just above her knee. "Do you want that, Winn? To say—shit—my name when you come?"

"Mmh—mmah–!"

She responded with a muffled, keening whimper, head on his shoulder in bliss as he smiled against her skin, a wicked, knowing curl of his lips. "That's it, sweetheart. Let me hear you."

With his free hand, Bucky reached up to tangle his fingers in her hair, tilting her face to the side and exposing the vulnerable line of her throat to his hungry gaze. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to her pulse point, savoring the rapid, frantic beat beneath his lips, before he licked one long, messy stripe of spit from her jaw to cheek.

"I'm so close, baby," he groaned, his hips bucking harder, driven by a desperate need for release. "We're both so close. Just a little more, and then I'm going to make you feel so good."

As if on cue, Winnie's back arched, a loud, piercing cry tearing from her throat as her body convulsed around Bucky's stroking thumb, coming a third time from just his overwhelming touch. The sound was music to his ears, a symphony of pleasure and surrender that sent a shockwave of arousal straight to his still humping cock.

With a guttural gasp, Bucky tore the towel away, not caring about the wet, clinging fabric that fell to the floor or the consequences that could follow. He needed to be inside her, needed to feel her slick, pulsing heat envelope him.

"Mmm–M'sorry baby—fuck–I just–I need you. "

Reaching down, he gripped his aching length and positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock nudging against her sensitive folds with a shiver.

"Daddy, wait—"

But he couldn't. He was past the point of reason, lost in a swirling vortex of need and desire. With a desperate, animalistic grunt, he plunged into her, burying himself to the hilt as her shocked, muffled scream echoed in his ears.

"Holy—gosh, baby, you're perfect–you're–you—FUCK!"

For a moment, they just lay there, Bucky's forehead pressed to Winnie's as he fought to catch his breath, his body trembling with the effort of holding back his own release. But as her inner walls began to flutter around him, milking his shaft in a rhythmic, teasing pace, he knew he wouldn't last long.

"Look at me, Winnie," he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly growl, desperate to see the sight of her own fucked out features, flushed out in pleasure given to her by her own father. "Meet my eyes. Tell me you're mine, baby."

"I—Mmh-feel so full–" She babbled panting in dazed compliance as the feeling of him deep inside her coupled with the continuous torturous circles of his fingers on her clit buzzed her broken brain, resulting in her screaming a mewling, "DADDY!"

"That's it baby, that's right, you're daddies girl—GOD–Daddy's little good girl," Buck chuckled, with a heaving chest, a desperate gleam in his gaze. Beginning to move, Buck withdrew from her almost all the way before slamming back in with a primal ferocity that stole her breath away. He set a punishing, relentless pace, each thrust more forceful than the last as he drove into her with a single-minded purpose.

"You're made for me, baby," he rasped, his hips pistoning harder, faster. "This is where you belong—wrapped around my cock, screaming my name as I fill you up."

Each word was punctuated by a sharp, animalistic grunt, his breaths coming in short, ragged bursts as he chased his orgasm with single-minded determination. He could feel it building, the coiling tension in his gut, the desperate need for release, not only from him, but her.

Proven only seconds later when she cried, "AH! DAD–DADDY! S'too much!"

"OH, FUCK DOLL! GOD–BABY!," with a hoarse shout that seemed to rip from his very soul, Bucky let go, his cock throbbing as he flooded her with his seed, his body shuddering with the force of his climax.

Both of them let go and utterly lost it when Buck captured his daughters mouth in a messy, spit filled kiss, their moans dissolving in owning breaths, before Buck collapsed against her, spent and panting. Heart still racing from the intensity of his release as he curled her up in his arms to press a few dazed kisses to her throat and head, cock still wrapped deep inside her now sobbing cunt.

As they lay there, tangled in a sweaty, sated heap, Bucky knew that this moment, this perfect, forbidden mess of pleasure and connection, was a dangerous illusion. He was still the same broken, haunted man he'd always been, with the same dark past and the same uncertain future.

But in this instant, with Winnie's body still clenching around him and her breath warm against his neck, Bucky allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to heal, to move forward, with her by his side.

And as he drifted into a fitful, exhausted sleep, his arms still wrapped protectively around her, he clung to that fragile hope like a lifeline, letting out a quiet "I love you," before drifting off.

Hey, so blah-de-blah, I need some interaction, let me know what you guys wanna see! I'll leave a poll up. Oh, and don't complain or kink shame bc frankly I don't care, I'll just block you. Love those of you who do enjoy my writing without shame, bc yes, there's nothing wrong with you, it's fictional, so enjoy it, it's what it's here for.

Take care, <3

| PREVIOUS PART | NEXT |

The discovery of the base currently holding his daughter in Belgium hadn't been an insurmountable obstacle for Bucky Barnes; the real, paralyzing issue was the looming logistical nightmare of ensuring both their extractions were survivable.

He was haunted by the image of her—a ghost he hadn't seen in years—a now twenty-year-old woman who had known nothing but the sterile, crushing weight of Hydra’s control since the moment of her conception in two clinical test tubes. She was a weapon forged in his own horrifying shadow, denied the simple dignity of a real childhood, having only ever known commands and suffering within the organization he himself had once unknowingly served.

The crushing weight of his culpability fueled the feverish search, a desperate attempt to compensate for years of her purgatorial existence while he had stumbled through America, trying to piece together the fractured fragments of the Winter Soldier’s past. He knew the D.C. incident had changed everything; his defection meant she was no longer merely an asset but the primary asset, forcing Hydra to relocate her from the familiar, icy confines of Siberia to a presumably fortified European location.

This dual realization—her intensified danger and his direct responsibility for it—hit him with a wave of visceral, sickening guilt that threatened to choke him in its intensity. He crushed it down, using the rage as locomotive fuel, focusing instead on ruthlessly pruning the list of known Hydra remnants.

Three weeks slipped into an endless blur of dead ends, decryption attempts, and tactical paranoia until a fragile thread of intelligence led him to the Ardennes region of Belgium. The urgency was immediate, compelling him to not just plan the assault, but to establish a genuine, functioning safe harbor.

Before he could retrieve her, he had to build a nest.

His immediate solution was a logistical masterstroke disguised as domesticity. He targeted off-map properties deep within the French countryside, finally pinpointing a rustic, yet robust, log cabin nestled beside a secluded lake. Its isolation was its greatest asset. Utilizing a burner phone and untraceable cash funds siphoned via a high-level digital heist—a necessity that reminded him sharply he was still a fugitive—he closed the deal the following day.

Hitting the road in a black, nondescript pickup truck, Bucky made a crucial pit stop halfway, meticulously planning his supply run. He pulled his leather jacket high and dipped his head low under a baseball cap, adopting the gray anonymity of a ghost as he entered the first large suburban big-box store. His purpose was simple: acquisition of basic human necessities, filtered through the memory of a fleeting, late-night mission conversation years ago where he had described the small, insignificant comforts of the world outside.

The shopping list started clinically: military-grade antiseptic, trauma kits, basic linens, and a comprehensive selection of neutral, soft clothing—pajamas, underwear, socks—designed to feel nothing like the scratchy synthetics of a uniform. Then his focus shifted, driven by a deep, nurturing instinct he hadn't allowed himself to feel in decades. He gathered comfort items: an overwhelming quantity of fluffy, high-thread-count blankets, the kind he normally wouldn't spare a second glance for, yet now felt essential to swaddle her in security. He purchased ergonomic pillows, thick sheets, and even managed to wrestle a standard queen-sized mattress into the back of the pickup.

Losing himself entirely to the notion of providing a denied childhood, he bought anything that spoke of personal agency and sensory freedom: inexpensive noise-canceling headphones, a stack of vintage CDs (mostly classic rock he vaguely remembered from pre-war radio), a leather-bound journal for thoughts that wouldn't be monitored, and even a small electric kettle for late-night tea.

Food and bottled water reserves were piled high before he moved on to the next phase: rescue logistics.

He hit a sports and outdoors store for the hard necessities: bulk ammunition for various arms, durable fishing rods and tackle (a sustainable food source far from civilization), and heavy-duty tarps to camouflage the truck. Finally, the truck laden with both war gear and domestic bliss, Bucky allowed himself a shaky sigh of relief.

Unpacking and setting up the cabin was a strange, almost therapeutic act of preparation. It was less about fortifying a position and more about building a sanctuary. A nervous thrill mingled with genuine excitement—he was preparing for a reunion unmarred by orders or guards, a time where speech, touch, and holding wouldn't be dictated by the enemy. He should have felt the awkward sting of his past transgressions more acutely, but the profound happiness of impending companionship overshadowed the immediate guilt.

The cabin itself was small, charmingly rustic, and easily overlooked—perfect.

Off the back right hall, the single bedroom became the singular focus of his endeavor. Though Bucky himself rarely slept in a proper bed, preferring the floor or the hard edge of a cot, he found himself spending hours transforming this room. He suspected his habits might change now, driven by the desire for shared security.

He scavenged a large antique dresser and an old bookshelf from the backyard shed. The shelf was positioned in a quiet corner, the dresser facing the bed. Upon the polished wood of the dresser, he placed a humble vase filled with freshly cut wildflowers plucked from the roadside—a deliberate, grounding act intended to evoke a sense of normalcy.

Normalcy. He barely understood the word anymore after decades of conditioning and wiping. Yet, a distant, 1940s boyish part of him remembered the comfort of his Ma’s house in Brooklyn, the vibrant colors of the peonies blooming during the Depression, sometimes the only light in their cramped apartment.

That thought brought a fresh wave of agony: his Ma would have been horrified by what he'd become, by the repeated harm he’d inflicted upon his own daughter. He was selfishly, sickeningly grateful she wasn’t alive to witness his desperation.

Standing back, Bucky allowed a faint, brief smile to touch his lips.

The room was clean, finished. The queen-sized bed was now a generous, welcoming cloud, heaped with a mountain of soft, pristine blue sheets that felt ridiculously luxurious. The interior walls of the room, unlike the rough logs of the rest of the cabin, had been deliberately painted a faint, soothing charcoal gray—a soft backdrop for the new life he hoped to start.

It was theirs. The dresser was already stocked with both his sparse clothes and your new, ample wardrobe, while the attached on-suite bathroom housed an excessive bounty of products—everything he believed a young woman might want, purchased using the seemingly bottomless credit balance he'd lifted from a certain oblivious tech billionaire's private account on the drive up.

With a truck fully loaded with gear, a safe haven meticulously prepared in the unmapped French wilderness, and a heart dangerously full of hope, Bucky prepared to embark toward Belgium. He didn't care if she remembered the good parts of him or the bad—he just prayed she remembered him at all.

That was all that mattered: getting his doll home.

The journey to the Hydra base in Belgium had been far less of a struggle than Bucky had anticipated, a quiet irony given that the most daunting part of his mission was yet to unfold. He’d navigated the labyrinthine network of Belgian dirt backroads, the very obscurity of them proving to be his first ally.

Pulling his truck off the beaten path into a dense thicket of trees, he’d meticulously covered it with an olive-drab tarp, ensuring it vanished from casual view. The real challenge, he knew, wasn't breaching the physical perimeter; he had the base's schematics memorized, a chilling testament to his former life.

The true hurdle was confirming your continued presence within its walls, the gnawing fear that Hydra might have already moved their prize, you, to a more secure, unknown location.

He’d scaled a towering oak at the edge of the base’s sprawling grounds, its thick branches offering a natural vantage point. Crouched on a sturdy limb, Bucky surveyed the monolithic structure below. It appeared deceptively vast, an unending expanse of concrete and barbed wire. Yet, his intimate knowledge of Hydra’s modus operandi told him the true incarceration centers were subterranean. To catch even a fleeting glimpse of you, he’d have to wait, so he settled in, drawing his binoculars from their pouch, and began his vigil.

The guards patrolling the perimeter moved with a practiced, almost bored lethargy. Their shifts clearly weighed on them, marked by their constant shifting of weight and hushed conversations.

Leaning closer, straining his enhanced hearing, Bucky tuned into a snippet of their weary exchange. "You know z'hey plan to send zee Frenzy out again," one, a stout man with a perpetually flushed face, grumbled.

His thinner companion snorted, a wheezing sound. "Maybe zhe'll be viped after, vee could have some fun, no?"

Bucky’s jaw tightened so fiercely he felt the muscles in his skull ache. He swallowed down the primal surge of his rage, forcing himself to compartmentalize, to focus on the critical intelligence being inadvertently revealed.

They intended to send you out soon.

That meant a memory wipe, a reset, a preparation for whatever mission Hydra had devised for you. And crucially, it meant a transport. A transport he could intercept.

He shifted his weight, settling back on his heels, his breaths measured, each one a quiet testament to his internal struggle. The apprehension wasn't born of the base's defenses, but of a far more personal fear: the terror that you wouldn’t remember him.

He knew, with your empathic abilities, that a simple touch would likely break through any artificial barrier Hydra erected, allowing you to feel his genuine intent. Yet, the thought of even getting close enough to initiate that touch without triggering your programming, without setting off a cascade of panicked reactions, gnawed at him.

"I heard z'hey leave around twelve, ve'll have her vhen she gets back," the skinnier guard’s voice cut through his reverie, jolting Bucky back to the present. His jaw clenched again as he leaned forward in the tree, his gaze sharpening through the binoculars.

If you were being sent out around midnight, he had roughly two hours to formulate a plan. Two hours to either devise a foolproof method for hijacking that transport and spiriting you away, or to risk a direct assault, an entry into the heart of the base, with the near certainty of discovering your location but also alerting its entire garrison.

A quiet sigh escaped his lips. Decision made. He began his descent from the tree, each movement fluid and silent. He dropped the final few feet, his vibranium arm absorbing the impact with a muted thud.

Straightening, he moved with purpose, circling around a dense cluster of shrubbery that bordered the base, his objective clearly defined: the covered vehicle lot where the guards parked their duty vehicles. A quick dash to the right, weaving through the sparse trees, and he found it, cleverly concealed by its natural surroundings.

His eyes scanned the area, noting four vehicles, all currently unoccupied. "Thank god," he breathed, the words barely audible.

Using the shadows as his cloak, he moved from car to car, a quick check of each. His interest piqued with the third vehicle, a large, taupe SUV. Peering through the tinted windows, he spotted it—a portable radio left carelessly on the backseat.

"Convenient," he muttered, a flicker of grim amusement touching his lips.

Clearing the area, ensuring no one was observing him, Bucky effortlessly gained entry to the SUV, a well-placed, discarded stick jamming the lock mechanism with surprising efficacy. He retrieved the radio, his fingers deftly navigating the frequencies. He listened, filtering through static, the mundane chatter of other patrols, and then, the crisp, Russian commands.

They were detailed, instructing your handler on the procedures for an imminent mission, after the wipe. He endured the guards' crude jokes, overheard snippets of tactical orders, and fragmented mission reports, his focus unwavering until a brief, almost throwaway mention of your destination surfaced.

A senator's vacation home, two hours away.

It was almost…perfect.

In less dire circumstances, he might have even chuckled at the relative simplicity of the plan it afforded him. But now, the only thought was your safety.

He began to map out the optimal interception point, his gaze flicking over the map of the area he'd downloaded earlier. Relief washed over him as he identified a single, predictable route Hydra would likely employ. The terrain along this route offered a perfect ambush site, approximately twenty miles from the base.

He could ram the transport directly.

Taking possession of the guards' SUV, Bucky quickly located and disabled any built-in tracking devices before accelerating towards his chosen interception point, a knot of anxiety tightening in his chest.

He knew you could withstand the impact of the van collision, but the thought of the trauma you might endure, the potential for injury, still weighed heavily on him. Yet, he recognized the stark reality: this was his only viable option.

So, with a resigned sigh, he veered off the main road, pulling into a concealed position, and settled in to wait.

The old SUV, idled with a low, resonant hum amidst the encroaching emerald embrace of the dense foliage. While he waited, a silent sentinel, he meticulously verified the integrity of the connections to the array of motion-sensing cameras he'd strategically deployed along the serpentine path of the winding road. Their sole purpose: to sound the alarm the instant the van transporting you materialized from the shadows.

His vigil was not a protracted one. Each tick of his chronometer felt like an agonizingly drawn-out epoch, the oppressive silence amplifying the frantic percussion of his own heart against his ribs. Then, a solitary blip flickered on his makeshift monitor, swiftly followed by the satisfying cascade of confirmations as the van breached the perimeter of each camera's watchful gaze.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of gnawing anticipation, the van—a dark, ominous harbinger of everything he loathed—lumbered into view on his screen, a tangible manifestation of his target.

He watched with a carefully suppressed, simmering rage as the feed displayed the sterile, utilitarian interior of the vehicle from afar. One guard, a faceless automaton indistinguishable from countless others, manned the driver's seat, his gaze fixed impassively on the road ahead. Two more hulking figures occupied the rear, flanking you, their imposing presences forming a suffocating, tangible cage around your vulnerable form.

Your face was turned away, but even that slight angle couldn't mask the profound slump of your shoulders, the dejected curve of your lips. The palpable aura of sadness emanating from you sliced through Buck's carefully constructed defenses like a shard of ice, a brutal, visceral reminder of everything you had lost, everything they had systematically stolen. He swallowed hard, a painful lump constricting his throat, and turned the ignition key. The truck's engine responded with a guttural growl, a sound that eerily mirrored the tempest of emotions churning within him.

Two miles. You were a mere two miles down the road, each passing second pulling you closer. Buck squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to take a deliberate, measured breath, counting the seconds, striving to reclaim a fragile semblance of control.

Then, the dam of his restraint crumbled.

Remorse, reason, every ounce of self-control—all shattered like fragile glass.

He slammed his foot down on the accelerator, the truck's engine roaring to life, vibrating with an unleashed, untamed power. Without a single flicker of hesitation, he jammed the gearshift into drive, his boot burying the pedal to the floor.

The truck erupted forward, a metal beast set loose from its cage. It tore through the meticulously arranged shrubbery, snapping branches like twigs and scattering leaves in its wake, a testament to the reckless abandon that now consumed him.

Within seconds, he was on the road, his vision narrowing to a laser-like focus, his entire being directed toward a singular objective. And then, the impossible happened. Impact. A deafening, cataclysmic crunch of metal, a sickening shriek of tearing steel. The truck slammed into something substantial, something unyielding, something that offered no concession.

That something was the van.

The collision was nothing short of apocalyptic. The van crumpled like a discarded tin can, its once imposing structure collapsing inward upon itself. The sheer force of the impact sent it careening violently off the road, a twisted, mangled parody of its former self, before it slammed, in a final, desperate act of defiance, into the unyielding trunk of a thick, ancient tree.

The van's front end caved in entirely, a grotesque, mangled mess of metal and shattered glass pinned against the rough, unyielding bark. And then, the inevitable, terrifying conclusion. A searing flash of incandescent orange, a deafening roar, and the van's front erupted in a conflagration, the inferno licking hungrily at the surrounding, twisted metal. The rear carriage, the space where you were trapped, was now directly in the path of imminent destruction, thick, acrid smoke beginning to seep insidiously through the buckled seams.

Bucky didn't hesitate. Every nanosecond was a precious commodity.

Kicking out the violently crumpled door of his own car, ignoring the sharp, searing sting of jagged metal tearing at his skin—a few superficial scrapes a negligible price—he leveled his weapon with a practiced, almost instinctive ease.

The first guard stumbled from the wreckage of the van, his movements dazed, his senses clearly disoriented. He didn't even have the luxury of fully standing, of registering the immediate threat, before a single, lethal shot sliced through the air, finding its mark with chilling, surgical precision. The guard crumpled to the ground, devoid of life before his body even made contact with the dirt.

Bucky marched toward the smoldering wreckage, his movements fluid and purposeful, each stride propelled by a single, unwavering objective: reaching you. He wasted no breath, no glance, no fraction of a moment on the carnage that now surrounded him.

Arriving at the mangled rear of the van, he didn't pause before wrenching at the crushed wall, tearing the thick metal as if it were mere paper. A second guard, reacting slower, his caution a futile attempt to compensate for his delayed response, emerged from the smoke-choked interior, his hand instinctively reaching for his sidearm.

He never stood a chance.

Bucky's foot shot out, connecting with the man's head with a sickening, bone-jarring thud. The guard dropped like a marionette whose strings had been abruptly severed, another obstacle efficiently neutralized.

And then, he saw you.

Bucky froze, his entire world momentarily contracting to a single point.

The surrounding chaos seemed to recede, the roar of the crackling fire fading into a distant, irrelevant hum. There was blood, a thick, alarming stream, pouring from a ghastly gash on the side of your brow, a sickening, crimson tide. But it wasn't the blood, not the visceral evidence of the carnage, that truly arrested him.

It was....you.

You were beautiful. Tragically, hauntingly beautiful. The intervening years, the arduous trials you had undoubtedly endured, had only served to refine your features, to sharpen your inherent edges, to render you even more captivating. By the gods, he would move heaven and earth before he ever let you go again.

He crouched down, a lump forming in his throat, so thick it felt as though it would suffocate him. He lifted a trembling hand, his fingers shaking with an almost unbearable intensity as he reached for you, carefully, tenderly, moving the bloodstained strands of hair away from your delicate face. His eyes, moments before blazing with fierce resolve, now softened, a lifetime of unspoken longing reflected in their depths.

"S'okay, doll, you're okay," he murmured, his voice a rough, raw whisper, barely audible above the hungry roar of the flames.

He crouched lower still, his arms gently sliding beneath your form, his movements excruciatingly careful to avoid exacerbating your injuries. You were still clad in the familiar catsuit, the fabric torn and smeared with grime and blood, a stark, agonizing testament to your recent captivity. As he lifted you against him, holding you tightly, you stirred, a faint, almost imperceptible movement.

The world was a screaming vortex of shattered concrete and ringing silence. Your head lolled heavily against the unforgiving firmness of his chest, the faint, metallic scent of his arm against your cheek mixing with the sharper tang of ozone and spent ammunition.

Your vision, freshly scrubbed by Hydra’s relentless reprogramming and now further rattled by the crash, struggled to pull itself out of a thick, dazed haze. The wreckage of the van dissolved into streaks of grey and black, forcing the focus solely onto the man carrying you away, your blurry eyes straining desperately to anchor themselves on his shape as you fought the heavy drag of unconsciousness.

A surge of primal confusion hit you. Squeezing your eyes shut a second time, you frowned, a crease of pain pulling across your forehead; his form was familiar, terrifyingly and intimately familiar.

You strained against the fog surrounding your freshly wiped and reprogrammed brain, squinting to grasp a definitive memory, but the slate was too clean.

Then, one of Buck’s gloved hands came up, not to strike or command, but to gently cradle the back of your head as he walked. The systematic, almost circular motion of his fingers, running lightly through the strands of your damp hair, instantly bypassed the confusion, snapping the essential recognition back into place like a dislocated joint.

“‘Dad-dy? Wha—why?” The words were thick and slurring, a question divorced from the current reality of shattered missions and failure.

Looking down at your foggy, slightly slumped form, Buck let out a brief, strained smile that didn't quite reach the haunted depths of his eyes. He saw the struggle in your bright blue gaze—searching for recognition, searching for reassurance.

With a low, reassuring coo, the sound vibrating through his ribs and into your ear, he held you tighter, his steps relentless and purposeful as he veered toward the camouflaged, hidden transport truck. “S'alright baby, forget the mission, forget Hydra,” he muttered, his voice a low rumble of gravel and steel. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Fighting the oppressive, dark fog trying to claim your eyes and shunt you back into oblivion, you furrowed your brows in profound confusion. Your broken mind couldn't compute a life without orders, without missions, without the constant, predictable threat of punishment and pain.

“‘Safe?’” You mumbled the word, testing the shape of it on your tongue. It was utterly foreign, almost meaningless in the context of your existence.

“Safe,” Buck echoed, watching your eyes flutter, noting the dangerous slide toward unconsciousness. His heart twisted with a brutal mixture of relief that you were breathing and sorrow over the psychological ruin he was carrying. He held you closer, a human shield guarding you from the horrors around them, until he reached the truck bed. He swiftly ripped off the heavy tarp and laid you gently on the bed before scrambling to grab the first aid kit and a large, spare t-shirt of his own.

Turning back to you with the open medical kit, Buck couldn’t help but pause.

He watched your still, unconscious form with a terrible blend of disbelief and an unfortunate, gut-wrenching lust. You were nearly twenty now; the soft edges of girlhood had hardened into lethal precision. Your cheekbones were sharper, your lips fuller, and your body, defined by years of brutal conditioning, possessed a coiled, adult power. Even your hips had widened, giving your curves a devastating definition that the black, skin-tight Hydra-issued catsuit ruthlessly accentuated.

It should have been the last thing on his mind—the stench of blood and burning synthetics still thick in the air—but God, he couldn't help but suck in a sharp, disbelieving breath at the sight of you.

“S’okay doll, Daddy’s got you,” he murmured, kneeling beside you.

He gently maneuvered your body to lean against the truck’s sidewall before setting to work cleaning the deepest cut near your hairline. Using hands that were efficient but unnervingly gentle, he swabbed and cleaned every scrape and glass fragment.

When your unconscious form winced upon contact with the antiseptic pad near your brow, he paused, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss directly onto the newly applied bandaid. “Shh, you’re okay baby.”

Closing the medical kit with a soft, final snap, Buck swallowed hard, the sharp taste of guilt settling like acid in his stomach. He turned back to you, the spare shirt clutched in his hand, while his pulse fluttered looking between your defined form and the fabric he needed to put on you.

“Goddammit—” he cursed, shutting his eyes in a wave of shame and disbelief. He had to force himself to shatter the moment, to snap out of the dangerous, predatory admiration.

It was monstrous to think of you—his daughter, his responsibility—this way.

Yet, being able to touch you, to feel the soft, warm curve of your skin without the prompting of guards or the threat of handlers, made his pulse skyrocket. His bottom lip instinctively clamped between his teeth in self-punishment.

Shaking out the nerves and the forbidden memories within him, Bucky focused on the task. He lifted his trembling hand, ever so slowly and carefully, using it to drag the zipper down the front of the heavy synthetic jumpsuit. The fabric around your chest strained slightly with every excruciatingly slow pull of the teeth until—

“Everything’s fineEverything’s fineEverything’s fi—Oh, Fuck!” Bucky swore under his breath, his pupils instantly dilating.

The thick, unforgiving fabric of your catsuit bunched slightly as he peeled the sides away just far enough, forcing your breasts outward. The sudden release of pressure caused them to swell and bounce with a resounding softness that felt disproportionately loud against the silence of the night.

His dick immediately twitched, a painful, humiliating reaction.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” Buck groaned, wetting his lips with a dart of his tongue, disbelief coloring his vision.

It was wrong—so profoundly wrong on every conceivable level—yet he couldn't stop himself from admiring the exquisite way you had matured over the years of their forced separation.

“S’sorry baby—God fuck—so sorry doll,” he whispered, the apology as much for himself as for you. He couldn't help the instinctual need; his rough, metal fingers reached forward to gently cup and play with both of your raised, pink peaks in awe.

It was wrong. He knew it. Spinning his fingers delicately around the crowns of your breasts, treating them like forbidden treasure, he recognized the sickness in his soul. He was finally free, yet he couldn't control this twisted compulsion.

Before, in the endless cold of Hydra, they had used sex between you both as a weapon—a sick, demoralizing punishment meant to further break his mind if he ever gained true consciousness. But the terrifying truth was that he had never once felt touching you was punishment; even when ordered to be cold, hard, and brutal, he could never get enough. And now, being able to initiate that contact? Without guards, without handlers dictating speed or duration? That was a terrifying new pleasure he never thought possible.

Clamping his eyes shut with a groan, Bucky pulled his hand away reluctantly, forcing himself to palm the rapidly growing bulge within his pants for desperate, temporary relief. No. He wouldn’t take you here. Not yet. Not while you were unconscious, and God, not without her consent ever again. He just prayed, with a sinking shame, that you would eventually let him as sick as it was.

Swallowing the last of his shame, he pulled his massive shirt over your upper body, the soft cotton falling past your thighs. He made quick work of discarding the rest of your jumpsuit, leaving soft, almost worshipful kisses behind on the skin of your stomach as he peeled the fabric off the lower half of your body, leaving you clad only in his shirt and your own tactical underwear.

The sight alone nearly undid him, but he swallowed, forcing himself to instead lift you gently.

“S’okay baby, just keep on sleeping. Daddy’s got you,” he murmured, pressing a quick, lingering kiss into your hair before rounding the truck. He opened the passenger door, laying you carefully down onto the makeshift bunk of blankets and pillows he’d prepared for you beforehand.

Wrapping you tightly in a woolen blanket with careful, tender hands, Buck smiled, fond of the soft way your brows scrunched up as you squirmed slightly in your sleep, instinctively seeking warmth.

“Daddy’s got you,” he repeated one last time, the assurance sounding more for his own benefit than yours, before closing the door and rounding the car, ready to bring his baby doll home.

CHAPTER ONE ¹

(YES I KNOW IM GOING TO HELL!!)

SECRET COMFORTS — Bucky x Daughter

____TW_____!____!____!___!___ PART TWO

Bucky didn't mean to fixate on it...not at first anyway.

The fragmented images and phantom sensations were just another torment in the labyrinth of his shattered mind, unwelcome ghosts in the fleeting moments of semi-consciousness.

No, still dazed and broken from Hydra's programming, a raw nerve exposed to a world he barely recognized, Bucky—no longer the Winter Soldier but a mere echo of a man—was a void of who he once was. His hands, one metal and one flesh, still trembled from the effort of saving Captain America from the abyss, a hero from his past, a past that remained stubbornly out of reach.

Scrambling for a sense of normalcy in this alien world, a world now blessedly free of Hydra's iron grip on his every step, all he could do was breathe. He drifted, a phantom in the back alleys and anonymous highways, blowing through town after town, a constant fugitive from the shadows of those who once controlled him. He lived on instinct, fueled by paranoia and the gnawing hunger for something, anything, resembling peace.

That was, at least, until some memories, like shards of ice breaking free from a frozen river, began to surface. Most were buried under decades of blood and ice, a relentless montage of old missions, brutal kills, and soul-crushing beatings, each one more violent than the last, forced upon him to break his spirit until...

Well, until you popped up out of nowhere.

He wasn't sure when the first memory flickered through the murky depths of his amnesia, but when it did, he couldn't help but freeze, a sudden, involuntary paralysis gripping him from where he sat in the middle of the dark, rocking ocean aboard a tiny, smelly shipping vessel.

The boat, a desperate gamble for quiet passage to Europe, was meant to get him to safety, untracked, unseen. But now, safety felt miles away as this memory, unlike the usual torrent of violence, washed over him.

It was a nice memory, startlingly different from all the rest of his time in Hydra's cold embrace. No, this one was soft, full of a strange, unfamiliar light, an almost ethereal glow, just like every memory that would soon follow.

It started off with Bucky being woken from his cryogenic chamber. The familiar hiss of hydraulic air, the biting cold that seeped into his bones, the jarring disorientation.

Normally, immediately upon being unthawed, he'd flip out, a beast caged, just as he had on instinct every other time the guards at Hydra had dared to get too close after waking him. His metal arm would be ready to strike, his eyes wide with programmed fury. But this time…this time, when he lifted his head, readied to snarl, a guttural sound forming in his throat—

He paused.

Not because of the array of guns trained on him, or the stiff-backed soldiers posted nearby, their faces blank. No, he froze due to the tiny, swaddled bundle held within his main handler's calloused grasp.

In the memory, Bucky couldn't make out the exact words the doctor or soldiers said; their voices were a muffled cacophony against the ringing in his ears. He heard their low laughs, their cruel jests, their smug satisfaction, but he couldn't focus on them. Not when, as the second the noise in the sterile room heightened, the little baby flinched, looking up like a startled, fragile deer caught in a hunter's beam.

Two icy blue eyes, startlingly bright and innocent, met his own dulled, haunted gaze. And it was like all the rage, all the black anger he had been programmed to feel, vanished, replaced by a strange, impossible gentleness he thought he'd eradicated decades ago.

When he noticed the soft tufts of brown curls spilling from the girl's small head, a primal urge he couldn't comprehend, let alone control, surged through him. He couldn't help but reach out a hesitant, metal-gloved hand to touch one, the action alone earning a surprised, almost delighted preen from his handler.

The man’s lips curled into a brutalized triumph of a smirk, "Ah, look at that. The soldier breaks conditioning already, just upon seeing her."

It was then his handler finally faced him fully, holding up the tiny, frowning child as if she were a mere object to be won, a prize in a twisted game. "This is your daughter, Winter," the handler hissed, the words chillingly clear now, "and we shall not only break you, but her as well."

And just like that, the memory was gone, snatched away, just as you were. He didn't see you for years, a cycle of missions and brainwipes erasing your existence from his conscious mind, even forgetting you until now, when the rocking of the boat seemed to echo the sway of a jet, triggering the next horrific flash.

Years had passed, no doubt.

In this new memory, you were older, stiffer, barely seventeen, yet Hydra had already wiped the humanity out of you before you could even speak your first coherent words.

He remembered now that he had been paired with you on a mission, not as your leader, for you were a force of nature in your own right, but as his backup, a testament to just how well you had succeeded on missions over the years for Hydra's heinous cause.

He remembered being confused, a strange glitch in his programming, despite being engineered to stay calm when the guards informed him of the pairing.

On the way to get ready and endure the pre-mission "wipe," he’d heard the guards speak in hushed, almost fearful whispers about you. He didn't know you were his, not yet, but from what he overheard, he knew you were enhanced, possessing terrifying empathic and healing powers. They even called you "Frenzy."

Yet, when he was forced into a jet and strapped in beside you, his metal arm almost brushing yours, he didn't see someone scary. He only saw a mirror, a younger, smaller reflection; a girl just as broken as him, her eyes as vacant, her posture as rigid.

He remembered neither of you speaking throughout the mission. There was an unnerving, telepathic understanding, a silent choreography of death. He remembered how many lives you both took together, a sickening tally that stretched into the thousands, all done while efficiently burning down a town that held half of Hydra's old bases.

He remembered being so focused on his programming to complete the objective that he hadn't even realized he'd been shot. Not until the ride back—not until you, calm as ever, your face a mask of practiced indifference, reached over.

And, as if it were second nature, you held up a hand that glowed with a soft, ethereal light to his stomach, not only healing his main, gaping wound but all the tiny ones layering around him, deeper than skin-deep.

Hell, he even felt a strange, unprecedented relief in the space where his metal arm connected to his shoulder, a soothing balm to phantom aches he hadn't known he carried. He'd never felt anything like that before, but God, he could remember it all: the tingling sensation, the rush of comforting warmth, and then the massive, overwhelming relief that spread through every fiber of his being, a taste of peace in a life devoid of it.

He remembered pausing for a moment, just staring at your focused expression, at the magic in your hands, until you tried to move away. It was then, an instinct overriding programming, that he clamped a hand around yours and forced you still—his fractured mind not recognizing the familial connection yet, but an aching, primal part of him screaming not to let go of this unexpected comfort.

Upon their return to the sterile hell of the base, the action didn't go unnoticed. Neither did the way that he suddenly, instinctively protected you from the guards, placing himself between you and them even when both your handlers came in for the mission report.

He remembered yelling, fierce orders to have him brought back to his cell, while you were coldly ordered to let the guards have their way with you, a reward for their "service."

Normally, Bucky would never break conditioning. His programming was absolute. But something—something about the way those guards' hungry, predatory gazes defiled you without shame, without care, made something deep within him snap.

Without thinking of what would follow, he stepped between you and them and fought. He fought so hard, so brutally, a whirlwind of metal and muscle, that even he forgot why for a moment, before he heard his handler's sick, nagging tone, a voice that crawled under his skin.

His next orders, followed by the soldiers' chilling trigger words, rendered him unable to even protest as his handler's smirk widened into a grotesque leer, "Oh, the soldier doesn't want anyone else to have her? You want your sweet daughter all to yourself? You want to claim her? Well, have her."

He remembered fighting against the words, a silent, desperate war in his mind, yet when they finished and his conscious will was gone, all he could do was comply.

His body, now a puppet, turned towards you as you shook your head, a tear tracking a path down your face, utter devastation etched into your expression, watching the humanity drain from his eyes with every slow, deliberate step closer he took. He hated it, hated the feeling of losing himself, but he remembered pouncing on you without remorse, without care, a programmed beast.

He remembered pinning you, the hard floor cold against your back, while he ripped your tactical gear off as you squirmed underneath him, a desperate plea for help in every agonizing shake of your hips.

But each struggle, each desperate movement, merely sent him deeper into dazed compliance when he began leaving sloppy kisses down your neck, not even registering your muffled yells as he tore off your leggings and sank his mouth onto you like you were his last meal, and God, he remembers feeling like it was.

It was wrong, he thought, a fleeting, corrupted instinct. How soft you felt against him, how intoxicatingly good you tasted, it all made him dizzy, overwhelmed.

Missions and killing he could handle with cold precision, but God, he remembers not even being able to last a minute before he ripped off his own pants, giving his lower length two frantic strokes, a desperate attempt at control, before he lined up with your entrance and bottomed out in one foul, brutal thrust.

He remembered the sound—not just of your tight, unbroken pussy clenching around him, a sensation of perverse pleasure, but of the utterly wrecked, raw moan that left him.

He felt you shake with sobs and silent cries, your tiny body wracked with pain and humiliation on his enlarged cock, as it continously rammed inside you. The pleasure, the utter, sickening bliss, he remembered it all, even as his memory darkened further with his handlers' cruel, echoing laugh, "Ah, the soldier seems quite keen," one snickered, no doubt still watching in sick, depraved amusement as Bucky, the Winter Soldier, lost himself within his own daughter's violated body.

Snapping out of his memory, gasping for breath, Bucky could only pant in utter, horrifying disgust as he recoiled away from his own wretched self, stumbling backwards, rushing off to hide within the fishing boat's small, claustrophobic bathroom for any semblance of reprieve.

But the moment he did, more memories followed, a relentless, terrifying deluge, each one worse...or darkly, terrifyingly better than the last. In some flashes, he saw himself training you with weapons, both of you growing older, barely looming a few years apart despite the decades that separated your actual birth.

He remembered flashes of you comforting him after a particularly bad mission debriefing where Pierce, with chilling efficiency, wiped him clean again. He remembered the inexplicable gentleness of your touch, a brief, fragile connection in the darkness. But God, he also remembered your sounds—your moans, your desperate begs, your cries of pleasure, even in your pain.

And he knew, with a fresh wave of self-loathing, that he was no better, allowing himself, without thought, to get lost in the one good thing Hydra, in its twisted cruelty, did give him—you.

He should've known, should have put the pieces together.

But then again, a sick, fractured part of him, a part he doesn't even want to admit existed, knew that you were his daughter. And while he both felt deeply repulsed and utterly horrified by that revelation, a gut-wrenching nausea churning in his stomach, he also felt a profound, suffocating guilt over leaving you there—sick of the pain, the torture, and the endless wiping you went through, a suffering he was not only aware of but an active, unwilling participant in.

Splashing his face with a blast of stinging cold water from the sink, hoping to wash away the psychological filth, Bucky swallowed hard, adjusting his rain-dampened hair back under his hat with another difficult swallow.

The reality of his present, and the monstrous horror of his past, crashed down on him. He didn't know how he'd ever be around you again, given what he'd done to you over the years, the unspeakable acts forced upon him. But he did know, with crystal clarity and a surge of furious resolve, that he wouldn't dare let you spend another damn day inside Hydra's suffocating hold.

So, with a breath meant to steady his own guilty, pounding pulse, Bucky swallowed the fractures back, pushing the horror into a corner of his mind where he could deal with it later. Instead, he forced himself to change his plan.

His aimless flight was over.

Now, his focus narrowed, sharpened to a lethal point: how to get you out of that base and back to him.

Back to your daddy.

Whether you knew it or not, whether you even wanted it, he'd never let you go again. Whether it was the crushing weight of his guilt, or a secretly repressed, primal need that now clawed at his soul, he wouldn't waste another moment.

He'd get his doll back.