beefy!bucky who remembers it was easier and easier to remember things after the wiping machine because of you

beefy!bucky who remembers every time he heard you gasp into his ear when he pushed into you, it felt like he could drown out the screams in his head of all the things he did

beefy!bucky who remembers the exact way your eyes looked up at him in a cold dark cell one night, cold stone and metal against your back and the only warmth in the room being him deep inside of you between your thighs, and how you never stopped looking at him like that until now

beefy!bucky who remembers exactly how it hurt watching them put you on the wiping machine when hydra fell

beefy!bucky who clocks it immediately that you don't remember him, or anything about your combined hydra past, the second you laugh with a little too much ease about something silly

beefy!bucky who doesn't follow the old neighbor lady's advice and doesn't bring it up to you that you indeed knew him before, and that he knew you

beefy!bucky who knew you so well he could vividly describe what you sounded like on the brink of orgasm when your cunt squeezed around him trying to get you to pump you full of his cum

beefy!bucky who had endless dreams in Romania about keeping you naked, warm, and sticky in his bed for days

beefy!bucky who thinks you're happy with your life, not being plagued by the consistent thoughts and memories of psychological and physical torture in the name of the greater evil

beefy!bucky who keeps his distance even if it kills him inside

beefy!bucky who doesn't know you keep "dreaming" about metal on your back, around your neck, and between your thighs, waking up sweaty and breathless

beefy!bucky who doesn't know you tell your therapist every time you have these dreams, you wake up feeling like you're longing for something you never got to have

beefy!bucky who has no idea you don't know those are memories, not dreams

beefy!bucky who doesn't know you're sad every time you go check the mail and realize he's not there, or when you see his lights aren't on when you unlock your door

beefy!bucky who has no clue you want him just as much as he longs to have you back

beefy!bucky who doesn't know you speak in Russian in your sleep now, not being able to speak a lick of it while conscious

beefy!bucky who doesn't know you've started picturing him in all of these vivid dreams that make you wake up wet, not knowing yourself its just the memories coming back and not dreams after all

💌 permanent freaks taglist: @chateaubarnes @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @opheliabbarnes @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @its-in-the-woods @wildflowersandvibranium @unificsation @flockoff-featherface @sheriff-bodecker @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @winterdecember18 @juniebjonesin @barnesonly @bckyslover @buckyfmd @danysdaughter

Your chaotic personality and dry humor pulled him in like the ocean tide would pull a boat. Almost imperceptible, until you found yourself stranded in the middle of the ocean having sun poisoning-induced hallucinations.

It took him exactly 68 days of maladaptive daydreaming about ruining you in every humanly possible way, and some inhumanly ones, for his restrain to snap like a twig under the sheer strength of your gaze.

That night at the safe house after a particularly gnarly getaway, where you committed 3 traffic felonies and broke a few other trespassing laws, playing some stupid pop song on the radio like you were going to get your ears pierced at Claire's, not evading an actual gang.

When you closed the door behind you at the safe house, you were buzzing. Your pupils were dilated, you were shaking, and you bounced on your feet like Duracell contracted you to be their newest bunny.

"Did you see that, Buck?!" The faint light gleamed off of your eyes, smile so bright it made his chest hurt. "Oh my God, I feel high right now." The little giddiness in your voice made his cock join his heart in its aching for you. "They couldn't even—"

He didn't let you finish.

Well, he did. But not that sentence.

He grabbed your face and kissed you so hard you thought he'd leave fingertip shaped bruises on your cheeks. His tongue exploring the inside of your mouth and hands roaming over you, undressing in hurry and want, relishing in the taste of your moans spilling into his mouth like he'd never have the chance to again.

But he did. About 3 times that night.

You didn't mean for it to stay a secret. It started out that way because neither of you knew exactly what was gonna come out of it, at first it was all sneaking into each other's rooms late at night and leaving in the morning, teasing the hell out of him over the phone when he was away and paying for it when he got back, and defiling every surface of every safe house you stepped foot in.

But a few weeks into it, his heart ached to leave you every morning, and your chest felt hollowed out every time he was away on a mission without you.

“I know we said no labels or whatever, but… I like this.” He gestures between you, the table, this world you only step into once a week. “I like… bein’ here. With you. Not just the hotel. Not just—y’know.”

You know. Oh, you very much know.

“And I hate that I have to wait all goddamn week just to—” He stops, shakes his head. Starts again more carefully. “…Just to sit across from you and watch you steal my fries.”

Your lips part. You didn’t mean for it to hit this deep. You didn’t mean for your chest to ache with it.

“…Buck,” you say quietly.

His eyes flick up to yours, open, vulnerable, still a little scared.

“I just wanted you to know,” he finishes, voice low. “’Cause I think… Thursday’s startin’ to feel like the only time I can breathe.”

Then it stayed a secret because you didn't want prying eyes or nosy questions, you just wanted the weight of his body on top of yours to lull you to sleep every night.

Every Thursday when possible, though, you'd find yourselves in the same sort of situation: a reservation under an alias in an obscure little restaurant that didn't allow pictures, followed by a king-sized bedroom reserved at the nearest fancy hotel.

Your weekly getaway from the madness you liked to call the Avengers compound.

You slid into your usual booth at the back—a deep burgundy semicircle that practically swallows you both into privacy. Candlelight flickered faintly between you, reflecting in Bucky’s eyes as he leaned back, one arm stretched across the back of the booth, watching you like he’s checking in on his favorite sight.

You pretended you didn’t notice how his gaze softened the moment he saw you in something that wasn’t tactical gear. Deep, plunging neckline of your top is accompanied by no sleeves under your coat, a delicate leather belt with gold hardware holding the black miniskirt in place.

“You clean up nice, Sarge.” you murmured, unfolding your napkin over your lap.

He smirked slowly, eyes lingering over you just a second too long. “You say that every Thursday.”

“Yeah, well. I'm pleasantly surprised by the increasing levels of hot every week.”

His lips twitched—and for a moment it’s easy. Familiar. Thursday. It's like you don't have a super security compound to call home, or like aliens weren't the assignment four days ago.

The waiter comes and goes. You order something light. He orders steak, medium rare, because even off-duty he eats like a soldier who might deploy at any moment.

But there was something different that night. Because between bites, he keeps doing it.

Looking at you.

Not in the usual “I’m gonna wreck you the second we leave” way.

In a “I’m thinking about something dangerous” way. Dangerous could mean a lot of things, specially for superheroes. But the softness in his eyes told you that it was dangerous because it was fragile, precious, and way too normal.

You swore the restaurant’s lighting was designed specifically for him—warm and golden, catching on the scruff along his jaw and the silver of his dog tags tucked under an open henley collar. He didn’t even bother with a jacket tonight. Cocky bastard. He knows what he does to you.

Your knee bumped his under the table. Not an accident. Not even close.

The waiter appears just long enough for you to order another whiskey and a glass of red wine, then disappears into the shadows again.

Bucky settled back, one arm along the back of the booth, “New rule,” he said casually.

“Oh? We have rules now?”

“Just one. No teasing me when I’m away on missions unless you’re ready to deal with the consequences when I get back.”

You widen your eyes innocently. “Consequences? Sergeant Barnes, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You shifted and only slightly sat on your side facing him, one bare leg sliding over the other and crossing, your foot sliding the YSL hardware of your heels up and down his calf.

"I was merely being supportive and making sure a very highly estimated Avenger made it home safely."

He leans in, voice a sinful whisper, “You know what’s not supportive?”

“Mhm?” You bite your lower lip, gaze never straying away from his face.

“When you tell me on comms that you’re wearing those lace panties I like.”

“That was once.”

“Twice.”

“Tomato, tomahto.” You waved a hand in dismissal and grabbed your glass, sipping the wine.

He reaches for his whiskey, takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving you. “Let me guess. You’re wearin’ them now?”

You refuse to respond in words. Only humming in denial behind your glass before clicking your tongue behind your teeth. "None, actually."

He stills and the glass pauses halfway to the table. His gaze dropped—just for a split second—to where your legs met, even though your skirt left barely anything to imagination.

He swallows, thumb tapping once against the glass like he’s recalibrating. “Lemme get this straight,” he says slowly, quietly, eyes darkening, “you’ve been sittin’ across from me for—” he checks his watch, “—twenty-three minutes… with nothing on under that skirt?”

You take another sip, crossing your legs again—slowly, letting your knee brush deliberately higher up his thigh. “Technically it’s been longer. I didn’t wear any in the car either.”

“Jesus Christ…” He was leaning forward now, forearm braced on the table, staring at you like you’re the mission and he’s seconds from breaching.

His metal arm stays stretched along the booth behind you like it has been all night—casual, protective—but now his flesh hand slides under the tablecloth, rests on your knee.

“Thought you’d maintain professionalism, Sergeant,” you teased softly, eyes fluttering when his hand squeezes just slightly.

“Honey, I left professionalism back at the compound the second I smelled your perfume tonight.” His fingers drift higher. Inch by slow, agonizing inch.

You try to take another sip of wine, but your hand trembles just slightly. You hoped he wouldn’t notice.

But it's Bucky, he absolutely notices and hums to himself while you bite your lip with that horny look in your eyes that make your eyelids sit heavy like you could eat him alive. And he'd let you.

You feel his smirk against your ear before you hear it in his voice. “Nervous?”

“Hardly.” But it comes out breathier than intended.

He continues upward. Your pulse spikes. His fingertips stop just under the hem of your skirt, brushing the sensitive inside of your thigh. You grip the edge of the table with your free hand.

“You’re trembling,” he whispers, amused.

“There’s an air vent,” you lie. His fingers slip further beneath the hem, in the direction of where you wanted him the most.

“Oh yeah?” he hums. “Think this vent reaches between your thighs too?”

You nearly choke when his fingertips brush the bare, hot skin there. His breath hitches quietly—barely audible. If you didn’t know every sound he made, you might’ve missed it.

“You’re already so warm,” he notes, turning his head slightly so his lips ghost your cheek without touching. His fingers finally slide up and press gently—right there.

Your breath stops.

He smiles against your skin. “There she is.” Your nails dig into the table. “Think I can make you come before the waiter brings dessert?” he whispers silkily. You smile tightly at him through clenched teeth.

“I think you should try.”

He chuckled, low and almost mean, and pushed two fingers inside the wet slick he had been salivating after every time you were apart. James Buchanan Barnes is a loverboy at his core, and a menace who enjoys the process.

It's not like you could get caught and be arrested for public indecency at any second.

His fingers keep tracing delicate, lazy shapes just inside, making sure to keep his palm or any source of friction away from where you need him most until you’re squirming almost imperceptibly.

“Settle,” he murmurs in your ear, a quiet, firm command.

You freeze, thighs trembling slightly as you force yourself still. He rewards you with one slow, deliberate circle of his thumb right over your clit.

Your breath hitched audibly and he smirked. “Good girl.”

You tried not to whine. If you did, you know he’d make it worse. He’d stop. Or go even slower. You don’t know which was worse and you’re not sure which one you wanted more.

Minutes pass. Agonizing minutes.

Each pass of his fingers is maddeningly controlled—never too fast, never too direct. Each stroke tells you he knows your body better than anyone alive. He avoids giving you the rhythm you want, changing speed just before you can catch it.

You’re flushed now, half from the wine and mostly from him. Your thighs are tense, fighting the urge to grind subtly against his hand.

“Relax,” he murmurs, and his vibranium arm shifts behind your shoulders, holding you back into him protectively as if you’re not on the verge of shaking apart.

The waiter appears to bring your entrees and you hold back a whine when Bucky pulls his hand away from the heat between your legs.

You answer his polite “How are the first couple of bites?” with a steady, “Perfect, thank you.” and he walks away to attend to other tables.

Bucky, however, lets his fork rest steady on his plate, and barely lets you recover from the slick mess you're making on the back of your skirt before his fingers find you again. He chuckles into your hair, voice like hot honey. “You’re fuckin’ incredible.”

“You’re fucking evil,” you breathe, barely moving your lips.

“Maybe.” His pace increases—not by much, but enough that the twisting heat in your belly starts coiling faster.

“Buck—” you whisper, desperate.

“I know, baby.” He murmurs soothingly. “Almost there.”

But when your thighs start to tighten in anticipation—he stops. Completely. Your head snaps toward him in disbelief.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Keep your legs open.”

You do, because if you don’t, he’ll make you.

He clicks his tongue once in mock disappointment. “Oh, sweetheart,” he hums, withdrawing his hand completely and casually lifting it to his mouth. He sucks one glistening finger clean, eyes locked onto yours with sinful delight. “This is gonna be a long dinner for you.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears. Your body aches, throbbing with every second he refuses to touch you again.

“You’re shaking,” he says under his breath, amused.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

To say you didn't give a fuck about the chocolate lava cake was an understatement. You don’t remember how your back hit the hotel room door—only that Bucky barely got it shut before he had you pinned against it, one hand cupping your jaw and the other sliding under your skirt, shoving it up past your hips like he had something to prove to both of you.

But somewhere between your desperate gasps and his low moans, something shifts.

It happens quietly.

Accidentally.

You moved on top of him, breathless and messy, nails dragging down his chest. The rhythm was hot, frantic—but when he caught your hips and slowed you down, forcing you to roll instead of bounce, the tone shifted.

“Yeah,” he groans, guiding your hips, “ride me nice and slow—like we’ve got nowhere to be tomorrow.”

You blink—because that’s not how this usually goes.

He keeps going.

“Like we’re not being sent on calls at 3 a.m. to save the world,” he breathes, watching your face. “Like it’s a Saturday. Like we sleep in.”

You swallow hard. The thrusts get deeper. Less rushed. More… emotional.

“Maybe we don’t even live in New York,” you whisper, falling into it before you can stop yourself.

His grip tightens.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice softer, needier. “Where we livin’, baby?”

“Some small apartment in Chicago,” you gasp, leaning forward so your foreheads touch. “Or maybe a townhouse in Portland.”

He nodded slowly, grinding up into you. “Yeah. I like that. We don’t save the world. I work construction or some shit. Come home covered in sawdust.”

His hands on your hips tighten just a bit more tenderly, like he’s anchoring himself. Your fingers brush his chest and linger too long.

And then in the middle of your hips slapping down against his, his head falls back and he breathes, brokenly, “Fuck—I’d come home to you like this every night if I could.”

So you lean down, lips brushing his for a second before you bit his chin and let it go with a graze of your teeth, breath shaky. “Yeah? You’d come home dirty and throw me on the bed like this?”

He groaned—deep, guttural, hands squeezing your waist as you kept moving, feeling him get even harder inside of you if that was even possible.

His voice gets rougher. “Wouldn’t even make it to the bed. I’d fuck you on the kitchen counter while dinner burns on the stove.”

He thrusts up suddenly, hard. “Fuck—Bucky!”

He grips your jaw and makes you look at him. “You’d leave me little notes on the fridge before you go on early runs. Tellin’ me to eat breakfast. Like a fuckin’ wife.”

Your breath stutters, something sharp and warm in your chest. You whimper, hips stuttering for a second at the idea of wearing a ring that signifies his last name.

He doesn’t miss it.

“Oh, you like that?” he whispers darkly, sitting up so your chests press together, still inside you. “You wanna wear my ring, honey? Want the whole damn world to know you’re mine?”

You shudder, nails clawing his back. “Yes…”

He thrusts up hard. “Say it clearer.”

“I want it,” you breathe, trembling. “Want your ring.”

He kisses you like it hurts. Like he’s drowning and you're the only breath of oxygen his lungs would ever recognize while fully submerged.

Maybe that’s why he suddenly grips your waist and flips you onto your back with a rough, almost desperate exhale—like he needs to bury himself deeper in this illusion before it slips away.

He settles between your legs, pushing back in with a guttural groan, forehead pressed to yours.

“And maybe…” his voice drops further, wrecked and reverent, “…maybe one night I wouldn’t pull out.”

Your breath stutters—eyes fluttering open to meet his. The air crackles. He watches your reaction like a predator watching prey tremble.

“Maybe I’d just stay inside you,” he murmurs against your lips, thrusts deep enough to make the headboard creak softly. “Fill you up… right there in our shitty little apartment.”

A weak sound escapes you.

“You’d yell at me in the morning,” he murmurs, kissing you slow and deep, “say we weren’t trying. That we weren’t ready. But I’d look at you in one of my old shirts, barefoot in the kitchen makin’ pancakes… and I’d want it all over again.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him down as you arch into him.

He groans into your neck. “Wouldn’t let you outta bed that weekend. I’d keep fuckin’ you full of me… hopin’ it’d take. Hopin’ I get to walk by you in the mirror and see your belly round with my kid.”

You gasp his name like wishing on a star.

He thrusts deeper—slower—like he’s savoring the image burned into his mind.

“Imagine it,” he whispers, voice shaking with how bad he wants it—even if he pretends it’s still just talk. “You, pregnant with my baby. Nothin’ else in the world but us. No Hydra. No missions. Just… you carryin’ something I gave you. Somethin’ ours.”

You nearly sob at how intensely it hits you.

His forehead presses to yours as his voice falls to a wrecked whisper. “Tell me you’d want it.”

“I’d want it,” you breathe, almost crying. “Bucky, I want it so bad.”

He groans—filthy, tortured, adoring—as he thrusts harder now, chasing something that feels far bigger than pleasure. And that’s how you fall apart beneath him—his whispered fantasies of a quiet life, a warm bed, and a round belly turning into the dirtiest, most intimate thing anyone has ever given you.

Life, however, doesn’t care about what happened in that hotel bed.

It throws missions at both of you like grenades.

First, he gets deployed with Sam to Europe for weeks, chasing arms dealers who won’t stay in one place. You get stuck in Southeast Asia with Nat and Wanda for a hostage op that turns into a two-week storm of adrenaline and zero sleep.

Time differences ruined your ability to talk. Sometimes you'd send a three-word text. Sometimes he likes it six hours later. Sometimes he sends a picture of a shitty cup of coffee with a single: miss yours.

Back on base, you miss him in hallways by hours. He leaves briefing rooms five minutes before you enter them. If you're off, he's not, and vice versa.

A racy picture here, a breathless phone call there, and neither of you being left alone for the same 10 minutes to do anything about it.

Until it marks almost two months since the night at the hotel.

Your body was sore, all you wanted was to wash your hair, get a face mark on, and sleep in your fuzzy robe until about 11pm when he'd sneak into your room. But as you walked through the compound, your phone pinged.

From: Buck 📍 43.7126° N, 110.6751° W

Your stomach lurched in your tummy, and you felt a surge of warmth spread over you as you bit your lip, grinning at the screen. Your footsteps got quicker on the way to your room, an everything shower and barely any packing in your mind.

Seconds later, your phone buzzes again.

From: Buck I need you.

On the other side of the compound, Bucky tightens the straps on his duffel slung across his back. There is not a sleeping bag, tent, hiking boot, or single piece of wilderness survival gear in sight. He was wearing jeans and a henley he fucks in—not fishes in.

“Where you off to, Tin Man?” He didn't have to turn around to know it was Sam, accompanied by Steve, approaching his bike.

“Camping. Out of state. Off-grid a couple days.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you camp?”

Bucky smirks. “Since now.”

Steve blinked slowly, knowing there’s more to this but being too emotionally mature or exhausted to pry. “You got gear?”

Bucky slides on his helmet like the question doesn’t exist. “I’ve survived worse without a tent.”

He revs the engine and leaves before anyone can point out that two shirts and a half-empty Dopp kit don’t equal “camping.”

Your hair is styled. You’re moisturizing. Your bag is small enough to pass as a purse. Inside? A toothbrush, skincare, three pairs of lingerie, and zero hoodies, shirt, thermal leggings, hiking socks, or flannel.

You were walking down the hall to the elevator, an SUV with seat warmers waiting for you in the garage when you heard Nat's voice from behind you. "I'd ask you what's all that but its... not much."

"Heading out for the weekend.”

“Where?”

You keep your tone fluffy. “Camping. In Wyoming. With… college friends.”

Nat blinks. Once. Twice.

Her gaze slides from your perfectly blow-dried hair… to your freshly glossed lips… to the very much not outdoorsy clothes you’re wearing and the perfume that would definitely attract bears.

"Camping?"

“Yeah. Gonna… sit by a lake. Look at trees. Bond with nature. Be one with dirt.”

She’s silent for a full ten seconds. Then… she smiles. She lets you go with no fuss, immediately marching towards the kitchen like she's mid op.

“They’re going camping.”

Sam looks up. “Who is?” Nat folds her hands on the table. Smiles like the cat that ate the canary.

“Your favorite brooding senior citizen and our little chaos gremlin.”

“Barnes does not strike me as a s’mores guy unless s’mores is a sex position.” Joaquin piped up from a mouthful of Nerd Clusters.

Steve exhales. “They have been… weird lately.”

Sam leans back, dramatic gasp loading. “They’re sneakin’ off to a love shack.”

“In the woods. They will return pregnant or emotionally damaged.” Yelena seems more excited about the first one.

Joaquin chuckled. “Or both.”

Snow crunched under your tires as you pulled onto the secluded dirt road. Pines rise on either side like silent sentries. The sun is dipping low, staining the Wyoming sky a molten gold that glows against the frost. Your stomach tightens as the cabin comes into view—secluded, quiet, the lake beyond it frozen still as glass.

And then there’s him.

Bucky Barnes stands outside like he’s been waiting forever—leaning casually against his bike parked near the porch, breath fogging the air in slow, steady clouds. His henley stretches obscenely over his chest and arms, leather jacket hanging open like he’s daring the cold to challenge him. His jeans hug his thighs in a way that should be illegal.

He looks like 225 pounds of pure, coiled heat.

You step out of the car, shoes meeting the crunchy top layer of snow. The cold air bites your cheeks, makes your breath visible. He straightens from the bike, eyes fixed on you—calm, certain, but dark with something that’s been starving for weeks.

Every step toward one another is soaked in tension. You meet about halfway.

You drop your bag dramatically at his feet. It’s small. Embarrassingly small. More purse than luggage, really.

His gaze flicks to it, then to you—brow arching, equal parts question and disbelief. “That’s it?” he asks quietly, voice deep and scratchy with restrained amusement.

You meet his eyes head-on and smirk. “That’s all I packed.”

A slow grin curves along his mouth. He nods once—like he’s both amused and dangerously pleased.

Then, before you can blink, he grabs the bag with one hand and hooks the other behind your knees, hauling you clean over his shoulder in one effortless motion.

You squeal his name, half laughing, half breathless.

Your view was upside-down: him holding your bag in his metal hand, your ass supported easily by his other arm, boots swinging as he walks toward the cabin door with confidence that says he already knows exactly what’s about to happen once you’re inside.

The cold air bites at your thighs through the hem of your dress, but his grip is hot enough to make up for it.

Bucky walks into the cabin and your lungs fill with the scent of wood burning, wine, and that amber resin that only comes from blankets that have been stored for a while.

He sets you down with the utmost care in the world, and you take in the effort he put into this weekend already. The fireplace was lit, throw blankets on the fur rug like a love-nest, and next to it, a wooden coffee table with two wine glasses already resting on it.

You raise a brow slowly, smirking. “Wow. This some kind of plan, Bucky? Get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?”

Bucky just snorts, stepping forward with that lazy swagger that says he’s already got you right where he wants you.

“Take advantage of you?” he echoes, amused. “Sweetheart, you climb me like a tree when you’re sober. When you’re drunk, you’re like a damn jaguar in heat.”

You gape, offended and amused at the same time. 

He nods once, dead serious. “A horny jaguar that thinks humping me is a personality trait.”

“Excuse me?” you sputter, crossing your arms even as heat crawls up your neck.

His lips twitch. “You know how many times I’ve woken up on a mission night to you half-asleep grinding on my thigh like you were tryin’ to assert dominance?”

You refuse to confirm or deny, rolling your eyes as you mutter, “Maybe you shouldn’t sleep so close.”

He tilted his head in that same infuriating way whenever he was right. “Maybe you shouldn’t sleep so needy.”

“Maybe you should—”

You don’t finish the sentence, because he’s already ducking his head to pepper slow, teasing kisses along the side of your neck. He lingers at that spot just under your ear, humming with satisfaction when your breath hitches.

“C’mere,” he says, voice dropping an octave as he steps backward toward the rug by the fire and lowers himself down, back pressed against the couch. He tugs you gently forward until you’re standing between his legs.

He guides you onto his lap effortlessly, hands sliding to your hips as you straddle him, your knees sinking into the thick fur while your body settles against his chest like it remembers the place.

Bucky pushed a strand of hair behind your ear and held your face in both hands, looking into your eyes like he was deciphering the hieroglyphs needed to read your soul.

Like he hadn't unraveled every secret you had and kept them in a drawer in his room, tucked with changes of underwear and a pair of soft shorts, along with a shirt you definitely stole from him.

He kisses you like you’re a memory he’s been clinging to for eight goddamn weeks—urgent, deep, almost grateful. His hands grip your thighs, anchoring you, as your fingers tangle in his hair and tug.

You press into him instinctively, your hips rolling once out of sheer muscle memory.

He groans into your mouth. “There she is,” he mutters, breath rough, lips brushing yours. “My little jaguar.”

You gasp a breathless laugh, "Shut up." That turns into a quiet moan into his mouth as his hands press your hips forward again, encouraging the friction you didn’t even realize you were fully chasing until now.

The friction starts slow, guided by his grip and your desperation. You’re both still half-dressed, clothes scraping together, breaths getting messier as the pressure builds and the world narrows to heat, motion, and the soft crackle of the fire.

Your hands move slowly to the hem of his shirt, fingers tracing his skin first—softly—before pushing it up. His hands leave your body just long enough to let you pull the fabric over his head, exposing his torso. Warm and taut, all muscle and some scarring, the hair on his chest tickling under your fingertips.

When he pulls your sweater and dress over your head in one motion, he does it carefully— like he’s unwrapping something he missed holding.

You watch him watching you, that intensity making your stomach twist in ways entirely unrelated to the heat between your thighs. You don’t feel bared — you feel seen.

His eyes linger over your white lace lingerie — one of the three you packed just for him. “…You wore this for me?”

You smirk, though your hum comes out softer than planned. Nodding and biting your lip, already leaning in for another kiss. When his hands grip your ass, yours fumble with the button and zipper of his jeans, pushing your hand past the hem of his underwear and stroking his cock inside of his jeans.

“See?” he rasps, voice cracked with need. “Didn’t even take a full minute before you went straight for it.”

You grind down against him deliberately. “You complaining?”

You stroke him again, slow, teasing, just to hear that sound again. His eyes flutter half-lidded as he exhales like he’s been waiting two months just to feel your hand on him again.

“Fuck,” he mutters, jaw tight. “You have any idea how bad I’ve needed this?”

Your pulse kicks at that. “Oh yeah?”

He nods slowly, gaze fixed on your lips. “Been thinkin’ about you touchin’ me like this every damn night. Hands under my clothes, whisperin’ in my ear while you use me how you want.”

You swallow, heat flaring hot in your chest.

You’re stroking him just enough to make him need more, watching his jaw clench like he’s trying not to lose it too fast. His grip on your hips turns almost bruising.

“Fuck—” he mutters, eyes squeezing shut for one second as your thumb drags along his waistband, tempting. “You really think I’m just gonna let you sit here and torture me?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re handling it just fine.”

His eyes snap open—dark, glassy, amused.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice low and ruined, “I’ve been handling it for eight goddamn weeks.”

And before you can get another word out, he moves.

His hands lock under your thighs, and in one fast, fluid motion, he shifts up onto his knees and throws you back onto the thick fur rug beneath you with a soft thud and a breathless squeal from your lips.

You blink up at him, caught between laughing and panting.

He hovers over you now, hair falling slightly into his face, breathing heavy, jeans still half open, your dress gone, lace soft against the rug.

His metal hand braced beside your head. His flesh one sliding slowly up your bare thigh, deliberate. He’s looking at you like something he’s been hunting and cherishing in equal measure.

His lips ghost your jaw.

“I pictured your face,” he goes on, slow, steady, voice a hot whisper. “Right when you’re about to get loud. When you’re trying so hard to hold it in for me but you just… can’t.”

You clutch at his henley, pulling him closer.

“You think I didn’t go crazy picturing this lace?” he teases hungrily, gaze dropping to what you’re wearing. “Knew it’d look good stretched over you while you beg me to touch you.”

Your back arches involuntarily.

“I missed you talking like this,” you whisper quickly—too honest, too needy.

He grins against your skin, breathing hard now. You whimper quietly as his fingers trace closer—waiting, teasing.

“And I missed watching you fall apart,” he breathes. “I missed making your eyes roll back. I missed you diggin’ your nails into my shoulders. I missed fuckin’ you so good you forget your own name until all you remember is mine.”

His mouth drags heat along your collarbone, your chest, lower still, as his hands coax your thighs further apart with gentle but unyielding pressure.

He looks up once, taking in your face right before he drives you up the wall, and then he lowers himself fully between your thighs, settling there like he plans to stay until he pulls every remembered sound from your throat—slow, steady, incredibly focused. Lace long forgotten in a pile of clothing that wouldn’t touch your body for 48 hours at least.

Your back arches at the first real contact, breath hitching as your grip in his hair tightens when he licks a strip up your slit and circles your clit with his tongue.

"F-fuck, baby..."

He hummed in quiet satisfaction against you, like he was tasting something he’d been dying without, and nuzzled his face further into you, lapping your juices up and down while his nose bumped your clit.

He breathes out a quiet, low laugh — pleased, intimate. “There we go. Look at you… can’t stay still, can you?” His voice is low, not mocking — proud.

“Bucky—” your voice catches when his tongue finds rhythm again, slow and focused.

“Say my name again,” he murmurs, eyes darting up to catch your expression. His voice is steady, coaxing. “C’mon, doll. Let me hear how bad you missed me.”

And you do. Because there's no nosy super spies listening in the vents, and no training sessions, briefings, or meetings to pull this thirsty man away from the oasis between your legs.

“There you go…” he whispers, closing his eyes for a second like he feels it as deeply as you do. “God, I missed how pretty you sound.”

“Please don’t stop,” you gasp, chest rising and falling faster. “Don’t stop—I’ve needed you so bad.”

His tongue roughens against you, responding to your voice as much as your body.

“You always know exactly how to—” Your breath breaks on a wavering sound when he thrusts his tongue in. “God, Bucky… you’re the only one who knows how to make it feel like this.”

His tongue works faster and his lips wrap around your clit, sucking the nerves and sending you into orbit. Your hips raised off the rug while your legs clamped around his head, big hands holding you down through your orgasm, working you through it.

You’re still shaking slightly, body flushed and oversensitized, yet aching in a new, overwhelming way that has nothing to do with just physical need.

So you reach for him.

You cup his face with both hands and pull him down into a kiss that’s not frantic — but full. Deep. His hand finds your hip, thumb stroking gently as if grounding himself in the reality of you.

When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his, breathing unevenly. “Bucky…” you whisper, voice soft but trembling with urgency.

He hums in response, thumb sweeping slowly along your cheekbone, waiting for whatever you need to say next.

“I need you,” you breathe — and the tone in your voice leaves nothing to interpretation. It comes out broken and wanting. “I need you inside me. Right now.”

Your hand gripped the length of him and lined him up with your pussy, neither of you breaking eye contact as he pushed the thick head in, not rushing but not giving you time to adjust either.

“Holy shit…” he mutters, eyes screwed shut for one second as he breathes through it. “I swear… you get tighter every time I’m away.”

Your lips part on a broken sound, heat flooding your chest. You roll your hips impatiently, needing more. “Bucky—”

“You feel that?” he murmurs against your cheek, voice thick and filthy. “That’s how tight you're choking me right now and I’m not even all the way in. You gonna let me all the way, baby? Gonna take all of me?”

“Y-yes,” you whisper, breath shaking. “Please.”

He laughs low — smug and a little breathless. “Begging already? Didn’t even give you the good part yet.”

“You’re such an ass—”

“Yeah, but you still want it,” he interrupts, kissing you hard — messy, teeth and tongue and desperation — before pulling back just enough to watch your face as he sinks in deeper, slow and deliberate. You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.

He groans loud, head tipping back as he mutters, “Fuck. That’s it. Take me… just like that. Wanted this so bad it hurt.”

Your fingers scramble at his back, trying to hold onto something solid as your rhythm falls apart under him. “Harder,” you whisper — it sounds more like a plea than a demand.

He exhales sharply through his nose, satisfied. “Fuck, I love when you beg.”

“I’m not—” you try, but the protest cuts off when he does exactly what you asked. Your head tilts back, lips parted as an uncontrolled sound tears free.

“Mhm,” he hums, smug. “Yeah, you are.” He leans in close again, breath hot against your jaw. “Look at me,” he murmurs, voice wrecked.

You force your eyes open — and the second your glazed eyes lock with his, something shifts. You see how undone he is too — chest heaving, jaw slack, pupils blown wide with hunger and love tangled up together.

You feel a tremor ripple through you, and he sees it instantly. “There it is,” he rasps, grin gone now, replaced by raw intensity. “Feel it hittin’ you? Feel how good I’m making you feel?”

You nod, whimpering, fingers clawing at his shoulders.

“That’s right,” he whispers, voice gravel. “Only me. Nobody else gets to pull those sounds out of you.”

“Bucky—” his name leaves you like a prayer and a warning and something close to worship.

He kissed you hard, swallowing your breath. “I got you. Let go.”

His hand finds yours, fingers interlacing against the rug as you move together, breathless, desperate, claimed.

He finds a rhythm that's nothing like before—harder, faster, wrecked—and suddenly you’re not thinking in words or even sounds, just reactions.

“Fuck—”

“Yeah?” he pants, voice nearly a growl now, hips moving rougher, chasing something even he can’t hide from anymore. “Say my name—say it—”

“Bucky—oh God—”

“Louder,” he breathes, losing all rhythm for a second as you clench around him. “Let me fucking hear you—”

“I can’t—I—I—”

“Yes, you can,” he insists, voice wrecked, raw. His hand slides to your jaw, holding your face toward him. His eyes are wild now. 

You meet his gaze—and the look on his face destroys you. His jaw is clenched, sweat dampening his temple, lips parted as he gives in to instinct. He looks desperate. Gone. Like if you asked him to die for you right now, he’d say yes.

“I’m close,” you admit in a broken whisper. “Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—” You choke on a sobbing moan. “Harder—please—”

That word unravels him.

“Fuck—oh my God—you’re killing me,” he curses, slamming his forehead against yours, movements turning almost frantic, chasing the edge with you. “Come on, baby—give it to me—give it—come with me—”

"Bucky— oh God, please, please, please cum in me."

He cums first—just a moment, a hitched breath, a curse hissed against your neck that sounds like your name torn in half—and the heat of him spilling inside of you is all it takes for your world to snap, heat flooding through you like freefall.

He stays inside you. He doesn’t move away. He just breathes there, face buried in your neck as you both try to remember how lungs are supposed to work.

You made it to bed after a couple glasses of wine, a grilled cheese, and teasing him some more, falling asleep on your stomach with him draped over you like the worlds warmest — and oldest — weighted blanket.

Whatever dream you were having, Bucky woke up to your ass rubbing against him like you were short on rent. He was still a little sensitive from the road you just had right before bed, and the clock on the nightstand on your side showed something along the lines of 2:43am.

He felt himself get hard and your body rubbed harder against him if that was even possible. He groaned quietly, and his hand went under the covers to find your bare pussy drooling, absolutely crying for him.

"Bucky..." The little breathless whimper you let out told him you were crying for him too.

He bit his lip and didn't have much ceremony. You were so wet anyway he'd probably slide right in. He pushed his boxers down, and up sprang his leaking cock.

He turned on his side, almost draped all the way over you, aligned himself, and pushed in.

The first thing you become aware of is the weight.

Heavy, solid, familiar — draped over your back like he promised he always would be. Bucky sleeps like a furnace, arm slung around your waist, leg hooked lazily over yours like he’s making sure you can’t vanish in the night.

You were dreaming something warm… fuzzy… something with his voice in your ear.

You breathed his name again, groggy and fluttering, barely louder than when you were fully asleep. “Bucky…?”

His breath catches like a snapped wire, hips momentarily freezing against you. For a second you think he’s going to stop. Then his forehead presses into your shoulder and he lets out a groan that sounds like a confession.

“Fuck—sorry—’m trying—trying to be good,” he mutters, voice thick, wrecked from sleep and need. “Woke up with you grinding against me—couldn’t stop thinking about…” His breath stutters as his hips twitch again helplessly. “...about how wet you get when I wake you like this.”

A memory echoes in your mind—your voice from weeks ago, breathless, whispering in the dark with saliva and cum dripping down your chin after he thoroughly bruised the back of your throat.

If you ever wake up like that again… you don’t have to wait for me to wake up.

“Bucky,” you murmur, fully awake now, voice softer but lower. You shift back into him, deliberately this time. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

There's a soft schlick schlick schlick of his body driving itself into you that drives you crazy. It's muffled by the comforter like its dirty, naughty, something you shouldn't be doing.

Something hushed and feral and needy that is required to happen, otherwise you feel like you're gonna explode.

“Don’t hold back,” you whisper, voice trembling with something hungry. “Please.”

A low sound escapes him — half relief, half feral praise. “Yeah?” he breathes, moving again, more certain now. “You want it this bad, huh? Needed me even in your sleep?”

You bite back a soft whimper as your body reacts, your thighs pressing together instinctively even though his hand is between them. Every roll of his hips sends heat curling up your spine.

He hears the broken sound you make when you try to steady your breathing.

And that’s it. His restraint snaps.

His mouth crashes against your shoulder, open, desperate, needy, teeth scraping lightly as he moans into your skin.

“That’s it… fuck, that’s it. Push back on me, c’mon,” he urges, tone filthy, forehead pressing to your neck as his rhythm builds. “Grind on me, baby, just like you were when you were out.”

You follow instinct, rocking your hips back into him, dizzy with how much you suddenly need this, need him. The friction is rough and perfect and not nearly enough — but his voice makes it feel like everything.

“That’s my girl,” he growls. “Rubbin’ that perfect little ass on me like you’re starving for it. You tryin’ to make me lose my mind first thing in the morning?”

You gasp into the pillow, fingers gripping the sheet. “I—God—I missed you,” you breathe, shaky. “Missed how you make me feel—needed this—”

“That’s right,” he whispers, voice thick, rhythm steady and possessive, every grind punctuated by a breathy curse.

You’re nearly sobbing now, hips moving helplessly in sync with his. “Bucky… I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he pants. “Do it for me—come on, pretty girl, let me feel it.”

You break.

The pleasure comes in waves that steal your breath, your sound, everything but his name. You’re trembling, clutching the sheets like they’re the only thing anchoring you. His arm wraps around you, holding you firmly against him as you shake, riding it out. He breathes through a deep groan into your shoulder, almost like your release drags him to the edge too, but he doesn’t let go—he just clings harder.

“Well damn,” he whispers after a few long, quiet seconds, still pressed tight against you. You're pliant and hazy, boneless against him. “That’s my good girl.”

Your breath is still uneven, but your eyes are heavy again. He kisses a slow, almost apologetic line along your shoulder blade.

“You okay?” he asks softly. You hum something that sounds like yes, still catching your breath.

He shifts just enough to pull the blanket up over both of you, but not an inch further. His hold doesn’t loosen, his arm tightens around your waist, like he’s anchoring himself there.

“Gonna stay here,” he mutters into your hair, voice thick and low. “Don’t want to leave you. Not even to move.”

You’re too tired to fully answer, but you thread your fingers through his where his hand rests on your stomach, lacing them together. He lets out a shaky, content exhale.

One last soft kiss to the back of your shoulder.

“Go back to sleep, baby. I’ll be right here.”

And he was.

Pressed close, breathing warm and steady against your neck, wrapped around you like a shield. You fell asleep again with a weak smile and his weight still holding you down in the safest way you’ve ever known.

A few hours later, you woke up sore. The sky was still a deep indigo outside, the sort of dark that doesn't feel terrifying, just comforting. Like the world was standing still just for a few moments, just for you.

You turned, whining at the loss of him, just to be met with the most beautiful sleeping face you've ever seen.

He always sleeps deeper after he’s completely spent. You know that. You also know he fades into that soft, vulnerable state only you get to see—jaw unclenched, lips parted, lashes dark against his cheeks, chest rising steady and warm under your ear.

And you love him so much in this quiet, unguarded moment… you almost want to cry.

Bucky's breaths came out in soft puffs out of his mouth, his conscience somewhere in a dream land far away. Your gaze dropped to his neck, a couple marks on there left by your teeth, but they'd fade before any questioning eyes back at the compound could ask any questions.

His chest was uncovered by the thick blanket, the quilt only covering up to his waist, and the unmistakable tent under it grabbing your attention immediately.

It would be so mean of you to not give him a hand... or a mouth.

Your fingers slide slowly down his stomach, barely brushing along defined muscle. He shifts slightly in his sleep, a soft breath escaping him. The kind that sounds like the beginning of a moan. So you slip under the blankets. Settle between his thighs. And lower your mouth to him.

He stiffens almost immediately, hips twitching subconsciously, a groan rumbling low in his chest as his hand spasms against the sheet. You keep going, slow and controlled, every motion soaked in a mix of reverence and filth.

“Jesus…” His voice is sleep-rough when it finally breaks out of him. His hips jerk once, a shocked gasp leaving him as his hand drops into your hair on instinct. “Oh my—baby—fuck, are you—”

You hummed around him in response, not stopping.

“Holy—shit—” His head falls back on the pillow, voice cracking, breath stuttering as consciousness snaps fully into place. “You—you waking me up like this?”

You squeeze his thigh gently in affirmation.

He lets out a helpless, needy groan, chest heaving as he pushes up on his elbows to watch you under the blanket.

“Look at you,” he pants, voice completely wrecked already. “So hungry you couldn’t even wait for me to wake up properly.”

You don’t stop. You can’t stop. The sounds he’s making are addicting—sharp intakes of air, shaky groans, words turning to curses. He drops one hand over his face like he can’t take it, then moves it to your hair again, fingers curling as his breathing gets frantic.

“Shit—slow down or I’m—I’m not gonna last,” he warns, but his hips are already moving, rolling unconsciously into your rhythm.

You grip his hip to steady him—not to stop him.

He gets the message. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice dropping dangerously low. “You wanna make me lose it in your mouth, huh?”

You hum again, hot and breathy.

He laughs once, broken and disbelieving. “God, I’m so fucked for you.”

His breathing turns ragged. His grip in your hair tightens. His voice goes soft and frantic. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—please, don’t stop—”

You don’t.

He swears louder, hips snapping once as he loses the battle for control entirely. “That’s it—oh God, baby—fuck—“

And then he comes apart with a groan so raw it shoots straight through you, his head tossing back, chest arching, thighs trembling as he curses your name like it breaks him.

You stay with him through it, easing him down gently with soft breath and steady hands until he collapses back onto the mattress, breathing like he ran miles.

“Holy shit,” he exhales shakily, dragging a hand over his face. He sounds totally, helplessly gone.

You crawl up his body, settling on laying completely on top of him with your hands under your chin and on his chest, still warm with aftershocks. He wraps his arms around you immediately, dragging you in and holding you there like you belong pressed against his heart.

When he catches your mouth in a kiss, he groans softly into it.

When you pull away, both of you were smiling like this was it. Like being tangled in a blanket in the middle of nowhere was what you were put on this earth to do.

You got up to make breakfast, or whatever you could call waffles and fruit and a snack here and there. And when Bucky found himself leaning on the doorway, looking at you humming the same tune from that first night he wondered if this was always where he was supposed to be.

If he was meant to fall from that train to do more than assassinations and intel, if he was meant to do more than keep Steve alive long enough to save the world a couple of times.

If he was meant to be tortured and picked apart for 70 years just to find himself wrapped in a sheet watching you steal chocolate chips from the brownie recipe you were making, moving around the kitchen enough that he saw when you winced the slightest bit when you leaned down.

He could accept that, if it meant he could have you.

“Okay, they look like bad cubism work, but i tried to make smiley faces with the chocolate chips and i think it could’ve been way worse.” Yeah, he was never letting you go.

The rest of the day unfolds like time has been loosened around the edges.

It starts with what was supposed to be breakfast dishes. You’re laughing while rinsing out a bowl when Bucky crowds you against the counter, kisses turning needy fast. One moment you’re teasing him for burning waffles, the next you’re bent over the counter with his breath hot against your ear and his hands firm around your hips, both of you too lost in each other to care about anything else.

A couple of hours later, you both manage to put on clothes long enough to walk into the nearby woods. The air is crisp, pine-scented, grounding. Your fingers stay laced with his the entire time. He doesn’t talk much — just keeps looking at you like the sunlight was invented specifically to bounce off your smile.

The shower afterward is meant to be recovery. It isn’t. He pins you lightly against the tiles, kissing the water from your lips and laughing when you nearly melt into the stream just from his hands on your waist.

After dinner, a very nice marry-me chicken recipe Bucky had to watch multiple TikToks of to master, you found yourself in the bedroom, with tear stained cheeks, sticky, marked thighs hanging spread off the bed, with a super soldier standing naked in between them.

The lights were all off aside from the gleaming firelight coming from the living room, barely making through the ajar door, moonlight catching on the wet tears on your cheek and the spit gleaming on your lips from having him in your mouth not too long ago.

Not many people would call Bucky a sap, but if they knew how his heart cracked open every time you looked at him like this, they might.

His hand came to cradle your face, and you nuzzled into it, looking at him with such sheer and unadulterated adoration in your eyes, it felt like you wanted him to pull you apart thread by thread just so he could be the one to stitch you back together.

A thumb traced the wetness on your lips and you engulfed it in between the plush flesh, earning a groan from deep inside of his chest. When you hummed around his digit, the vibration went straight to his cock, twitching in muscle memory.

“M’girl looks like she was made to be fucked open for me.” He moved his hand and grabbed your jaw, still sticky with saliva, a silent demand for you to open your mouth, which you gladly complied, sticking out your tongue.

The hot, wet feeling of his spit landing on your tastebuds came not long after, and you swallowed with a smirk.

Bucky pushed you down the bed with his body, tongue demanding against yours, while his hands gripped your thighs to scoot you up. He ground his hips against yours, coating him in more of your slick, before pushing in.

You gasped against his mouth, and he leaned down just slightly to get his arms under your legs and throw it over his shoulders, leaning in to press your knees out and as close to your chest as physically possible.

"Oh, God, Bucky..." Your eyes rolled back. "Fuck. You’re… you’re so big,” you breathe, voice shaky as your thighs tense reflexively, body already bracing around him even before anything more happens. “Always feels… like too much.”

He gives a quiet, devastatingly confident hum, like your overwhelmed confession is the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.

“Yeah?” His voice is low, warm, full of pride. “That right, baby?” His thumb strokes the inside of your leg in a slow, grounding sweep. “Thought you liked me being too much.”

Your breath catches when he presses his weight down just enough to make you feel it everywhere, the pressure firm and consuming. You whimper and nod, head tipping back against the pillow as your fingers curl around his arm.

“I do,” you whisper, nearly gasping, your voice cracking under the strain of how full his presence makes you feel. “Feels like you’re—stretching me out… every time.”

Your legs tremble in his grasp, but he holds them steady, firm but careful, folding you deeper into the bed, a breathy cry slips out when the pressure increases, not painful—just intense. Deep. Inescapable.

“Bucky—” it spills out in a shaken whisper, your chest rising in quick, unsteady pulls of air. “Feels like you’re… everywhere. I can’t—I can’t breathe when you’re this deep.”

His head dips, eyes locked on yours as his breathing grows heavier. “Yes, you can.” he says gently, firmly, "You love feeling this full. Admit it.”

You’re stuttering, already arching into him even as overwhelmed tears prick at your eyes. “I do,” you gasp. “God, I do—it’s so much—”

And he makes it be even more with a thumb on your clit as he drives into you like he wants the only thing inside of your veins to be him. He feels you clench so tight around him you swear your insides are embossed with the veins of his cock.

You come gasping his name with your bottom lip between his teeth, his cum leaking out of your thoroughly spent cunt.

"Mmm, I love you." It's said in a haze, with the room spinning around your lightheadedness, but he knows it doesn't make it any less true.

You woke up with his arm is still wrapped around your waist, hand spread low over your stomach like a claim he made in his sleep. His chest was pressed against your back, slow breaths brushing the nape of your neck. He didn’t move far — if he moved at all. It’s like even in dreams, he held on.

You shifted slightly and realized your body was sore in a way that felt like remembering. He was already hard against you, silent and steady, like his body woke up wanting before his mind did.

He made a quiet sound in his sleep when you curled back into him instinctively. When you rolled your hips just a little — not even on purpose — his breath stuttered.

“Don’t start somethin’ y'can’t finish,” he murmured, voice deep, rough with sleep.

“I’m not starting anything,” you whispered, but your voice gives you away.

His hand tightened on your waist. “Uh-huh.” Silence stretches — soft, warm, waiting.

“I don't wanna leave today,” you said eventually, voice quiet.

He exhaled slowly into your shoulder, like the thought physically ached. “I know. Let's not move. Not yet.”

He shifted behind you, pressing in closer, and you felt it — the way he wanted you, slow and unhurried, like he had all morning to remind you your body is his favorite place to be in.

When he moved inside of you, it was gentle at first — lazy, testing, his lips brushing your shoulder. You breathed out shakily, already melting, already arching back into him.

“Still sore?” he asked quietly against your skin, smug in a way that only an utterly in love James Barnes could be.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Still want you.”

He groaned low, like that undoes something in him. He kept you on your side, drawn tight against his chest, his hand guiding your thigh to hook over his. The movement was slow, intimate — more about closeness than urgency. His breathing deepened behind you; you could feel each exhale between your shoulder and your neck.

There wasn't rush, no frantic pace this time. Just heavy warmth, quiet praise, his lips brushing your ear while your fingers clutch at his forearm and soft sounds slip from your throat.

It’s a claiming that feels less like breaking and more like sealing something in place. By the time you both went still again, breath uneven, bodies pressed close under the covers, neither of you spoke. Not right away.

He stays inside the circle of your body like he belongs there — not rushing to pull away, not shifting to leave. Like maybe, just maybe, if he doesn’t move, morning won’t happen.

Eventually, in a low voice that sounded almost reluctant, he murmured, “We should start getting ready in a few.”

You hummed, not agreeing. He pressed one last kiss to your shoulder, lingering there before adding, “Five more minutes.”

You don’t tell him you’re giving him ten.

You don’t make it very far once you’re out of the bedroom.

He had you on the couch next — laughter dissolving into breathy moans as he pulls you onto all fours and sinks into a rhythm that leaves you pressed against worn cushions, his voice low and praising in your ear as the old cabin furniture creaks beneath you, feeling him etch his name in every corner of your soul so good that you had to bite down on the couch cushions to not be too loud, a feat you were much too accustomed to in the confined of both of your rooms.

The drive back was colder than the drive to. Maybe because the heat of anticipation wasn't there anymore, and you were getting back to sneaking around and your sacred Thursdays.

You took a longer route, to pretend you had to wait at the airport. By the time you reached the garage, you saw his bike parked right next to your spot.

The common room was occupied by Nat, Steve, Yelena, and the redhead's eyes traced an invisible string between you and Bucky.

"So.. How was camping?"

"Good." Neither of you meant to respond at the same time.

"Too cold?"

"Warm in the morning, cold at ni-" You glared at him like he was solely to blame for you two absolutely getting caught red handed and sore right then and there.

Natasha smirked. "Welcome back, not-so-stelthy super spies."

At first, no one wants to assume anything when the noise starts. It’s 3:24 A.M. Maybe someone’s just doing an aggressive nighttime workout. Pushing a dresser around. Wrestling a demon. Practicing taekwondo on the wall.

But then the bedframe starts slamming rhythmically against the wall like it’s trying to communicate in Morse code.

And someone gasps way too high-pitched and breathless for this to be cardio-related.

Sam wakes up and pads down to the kitchen to find that he's been the last one to be pulled from his REM sleep by a horny centenarian and his insatiable, inappropriately young girlfriend.

Steve has his head in his hands like he's trying to muffle his ears, forehead resting on the cool table.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

They could hear Bucky's low "Sweetheart, fuck— keep—" followed by a grunt. And what sounded like some hard object dropping to the floor.

Yelena looked at the ceiling in horror when they heard your muffled whines, "Bucky—oh God!" pleading him not to stop.

Sam climbed on a countertop and got his mouth close to the vents. “WE KNOW IT’S BUCKY, WE KNOW, PLEASE.”

And in the symphony of your moans and his grunts, Natasha just piped up from behind her coffee mug. "Does anyone miss when they were sneaking around?"

Every single person in that room raised their hands.

a/n: this was fun to write, can you tell I went home last night and cracked my husband like a woman possessed?

credit to @/hyuneskkami for the dividers. also credits to emmi (sheriff-bodecker) for the layout (i realized how similar it looks🤧)

it was all political ambition, really. it was the kind of event where you only went for free wine and the petty amusement of watching people preen. it was all a familiar zoo of scripts you’d been forced to visit throughout your childhood.

you were regrettably nursing a good cabernet against the pillar and mentally calculating how many more minutes of faux-socializing you could endure before you could leave without being rude, claiming a headache, when he approached you.

there was a hesitation in the way he moved, like a tell that he was out of his element. his suit looked expensive—frankly because it was—yet he wore it like a costume. the sleeves seemed too long for him, his shoulders were too broad for the cut. he looked like a man who should have been fixing the engine, or throwing punching bag across the room, than handling a room full of sycophants.

“hi,” he said, offering you a nervous and extremely hesitant smile that didn’t seem to reach his eyes, “i’m, uh, james barnes. but, most people call me bucky. i’m the, uh, congressman of brooklyn.”

and just like that, every ounce of your disdain for the entire political circus had found its victim for the night, and god did it look good tonight.

“oh, i know who you are,” you took a slow sip of your wine, letting the silence drag on as you watched him awkwardly shift his weight. “congressman barnes. the man who voted ‘yes’ on the enhanced individuals act. the one that lets you track enhanced individuals for existing while people's grocery bill has doubled and their rent were nearly a month late.”

his smile stumbled to come out across his lips, replaced by a look of genuine surprise. his eyebrows raised in surprise. he certainly hadn’t expected the policy debate, not from someone like you. maybe some vacuous compliment about his tie, or a simpering request for a photo. “oh. uh. well, it’s—uh, it’s a complicated—the… the security implications alone were—”

“it’s not complicated,” you cut in, standing your ground as you continued to lean against the pillar while talking to him. somehow, he felt as though you invaded his personal space, tugging on the bottom of his suit and adjusting himself as if that would save face for his costume of a title. “it’s a simple equation. worrying about who can lift a car, or worrying about who can’t afford one. you chose the car-lifter. seems pretty straight-forward to me, congressman barnes.”

you could tell by the red on his face that he was flustered. the blush crept up, contrasting the white of his shirt. his eyes darted from your eyes to your lips, giving his own a coat of his own saliva. he wasn’t used to this. he wasn’t used to someone looking at him not as a hero, not as a symbol of the american dream, the second chance, but as a man who made flawed, infuriating decisions.

“the provisions for economic relief were… they were a separate package,” he stammered through his own words. did he even read the packets? his words tripped over each other. “the registration act was about immediate security, it had bipartisan support, and i—i’m working on the cost of living thing separately, i have a bill i’m co-sponsoring with rep. jones—”

“you mean the one that’s been sitting on the shelf of the ways and means committee for eight months?” you fired back, barely even letting him finish. you had done your homework, and you did it well. you always did; it was a reflex born of a lifetime of listening to empty promises from men like him. “you used it for a press release, a nice photo op with the senior figures, then you let it die. that’s not working on it. that’s performance. political theatre. do you get off on that? on the performance? that little dance?”

the question was a direct, vulgar hit. his lips parted yet no words came out. his eyes locked on yours. he should’ve been angry. he should’ve been pissed. he should’ve been defensive, puff out his chest and give you the whole party-line spiel. but all he did was just.. stare, completely disarmed—though he kept his arm, of course.

“no, no, i don’t. i hate it.” the admission seemed to surprise even him as they left his lips. he ran a hand through his perfect hair, and messed it up. the gesture was filled with pure frustration, so human, that it threw you off for a second. politicians didn’t usually crack that easily. “i hate the… the talking points. the… the dancing around what people actually need. the posturing. it’s just… it’s…”

“it’s a game,” you supplied. you were still grilling him, but something had shifted impenetrably. it was no longer an argument but it was.. definitely something. “and you’re a bad player, congressman barnes. a terrible liar too.”

“god, yeah. i’m a terrible player.” he dared to take a step closer, you weren’t sure what possessed either of you but you didn’t recoil like you normally would have if it were any other politician. you could smell his cologne from this close—beau de hour, you recognized. “is that why you’re over here by yourself? too disgusted to play this game with the rest of ‘em?”

“i’m over here because the wine is expensive and the conversation is cheap,” you instigated, tilting your chin up to maintain the eye contact. there was some sort of a third presence in the conversation, but you couldn’t pinpoint it. “and yet, here you are, proving my point.”

“what point is that?” he asked. his voice had dropped a few octaves and you didn’t realize when it happened, but he was certainly closer now. you swore he could feel the goosebumps on your skin from the proximity. for a short second, his eyes dropped to the decolletage of your dress.

“that the most dangerous people in this room aren’t those loud ones with the microphones over there,” you held his gaze, murmuring as you spoke. you felt a thrill shoot up your body. “they’re the quiet ones who think a stammer and a pretty apology makes their bad votes okay. the ones who think intention matters more than impact.” you were toeing a line, pushing and wanting to see him break, to see the polished politician finally crack.

but bucky barnes didn’t break easily. at least not as easy as you thought. he just looked at you with those dark blue eyes in a way that had nothing to do with politics. he looked at you like he was starving and you were a feast. he looked at you like he wanted to be grilled by you, dissected by you.

“it’s not an apology,” he said, and his stutter was completely gone, devastatingly earnest for the first time all night. “it’s an explanation, and you’re right. about all of it. the act was a compromise i hated, made with people whose hands i would rather not shake.”

you hadn’t expected that reaction. normally, they would’ve turned red by now and would completely mans plain their bills as if you hadn’t already read nearly every page of their political agenda since the start.

yet he continued, “the economic bill is stalled because i couldn’t get the votes. maybe it’s because i’m all new to this, and i don’t know how to play the right cards yet. i’m failing. every single day, i get up and i feel like i’m failing the very people who believed i could do this.”

his honesty was a weapon you hadn’t anticipated. it disarmed you completely now, slicing through your own defenses. you just simply stared at him with your own arguments, your own prepared diatribes about legislative procedure and moral compromise, dying on your own tongue.

he leaned in even more, his breath smelling faintly of whiskey. “nobody else sees that though. they just see the suit, the title. they see the story, the winter soldier, the veteran turned politician, the symbol.” he shook his head and looked at you with unadulterated wonder on his face. “you looked right past it. you saw the failure in me that even i was scared to admit to, and you called it out. you didn’t even hesitate. god, it was the hottest thing i’ve ever seen.”

your heart was pounding so loudly now. you couldn’t tell if it was from the wine, his words, or simply how close he was. you wanted to argue more. you wanted to list every single one of his voting record sings, to throw his complicity straight back to his face. but all you could focus on was the look in his eyes, the way your mind was screaming to close that infinitesimal gap between your bodies.

“is that what you’re into, congressman?” you asked playfully but the way your voice came out had made it seem more flirty and sensual than you meant to. “being verbally eviscerated by strangers a quarter of your age?”

a smile that finally reached his eyes had emerged on his face. there’s crinkles in the corner of his eyes, showing his age and you suddenly remembered who you were talking to. james buchanan fucking barnes. it completely wiped out the nervous, out-of-place politician, and leaving just… bucky. the bucky you learned about in history class, the one steve rogers had spoken about numerous times while you sat on the floor, looking up at the tv. this was a man way over his head, older, and desperately attracted to the young woman who just saw right through him.

“no,” he responded, eyes dropping to your lips again. it made your knees nearly give up on you. “just by you.”

you left his words where they were in the gala with the clinking glasses, the hollow laughter, and the orchestrated political chatter.

you didn't even remember who moved first. all you knew was that his hand was on your elbow, and your feet were moving, following him as if he cut a path through the crowd. he nodded and offered tight, professional smiles to constituents and colleagues, yet his grip on you was somehow anything but.

he shouldered open a heavy door marked as private and pulled you into the marble-lined hallway. another door, a restroom. he locked it behind you with a click that echoed in the opulent space.

before you could even say a word, his mouth was on yours. it wasn't gentle by any means but filled with all the frustration, the intellectual fury and the unnerving attraction that exploded between the two of you.

his tongue fought its way into your mouth, tasting of whiskey and a desperate kind of honesty. you kissed him back with just as much passion, your hands fisted into his expensive suit, ruining the perfect lines you'd mocked him for.

"you," he growled against your lips, his hands everywhere all at once. "with your… your fucking mind and your fucking mouth. you think you can dissect me on the floor like that? in front of everyone?"

he spun you around to face the gilt-framed mirror over the sink. your eyes are dark with lust and met his in the reflection. his were wild, the politician completely erased.

"look," he commanded roughly as his hands pushed your expensive dress up your thighs, bunching it around your waist. "look at us. look at what you did. you reduced me to this. like—like an animal in a five-thousand-dollar suit."

his fingers hooked into the lace of your panties and tore them down with a rip that made you gasp. his body suddenly pressed against you from behind.

"you called me a failure," he breathed as his teeth grazed the shell of your head with one hand splayed across your stomach, holding you in place. the other hand, the vibranium one, traced a path down your spine and made you shiver. "you looked at me and saw right through the bullshit. nobody… nobody has ever looked at me like that."

you watched from the mirror as he fumbled with his belt, somehow, his eyes never left yours in the reflection. the clink of his belt, and the rasp of his zipper were obscenely loud.

then there it was, the thick, blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance. you were already soaked, betraying every principle you'd just thrown in his face.

bucky chuckled, rubbing his tip across the slick of your cunt. he was spreading it, getting you both ready for what was honestly inevitable. that argument in the gala was foreplay enough.

"still think i'm a terrible liar?" he grunted out, pushing the tip in just an inch and making you cry out. your head fell forward, making your hair fall like curtains.

"yes," you gasped.

"good," and he slammed into you with a single thrust that buried his cock to the hilt. a choked scream tore from your throat, squeezing your eyes shit at the feeling of being filled and stretched.

"no. look," he ordered as he began to move in a pounding rhythm that shook you. "open your eyes and watch. watch how the pretty, principled girl gets fucked stupid by some politician."

you forced your eyes open but it was blurry with pleasure. him, still mostly in his suit, with his hair a mess and masked with raw need. your dress was a ruin around your waist and your face was flushed and slack with pleasure. you watched his hips piston into you, the place where your bodies joined as one. all you could force out was, "a failing one, too."

a low moan escaped your lips right after so he hit a spot so deep inside that made you tremble. immediately, his vibranium hand came up from your hip, pressing his fingers against your lips.

"quiet, baby," he whispered a dark caress in your ear but his hips never stopped their relentless rhythm. "you gotta be quiet for me. the whole damn democratic national committee is on the other side of that door. you want them to hear? want them to to hear what a mess i'm making of you? how the great moral compass of the party is getting her guts rearranged in the bathroom?"

you shook your head, whimpering against his metal fingers. you could taste the clean vibranium on your tongue.

"that's my girl," he cooed as his thrusts grew deeper and more punctuated by the wet, slapping sound of your skin meeting his. "so good for me. taking me so deep, but you're not quiet enough, darling. i can still hear you. let's try again."

he covered your mouth completely with his palm, silencing any sound into a muffled hum. the sensation of being so filled, so completely silenced was too much. your moans vibrated against his hand, trapped.

"is this what you wanted?" he panted, hot on your neck. "when you were tearing me apart with that mouth of yours? was this your endgame? to get the congressman so hard he'd drag you into the first bathroom he could find and fuck you silent?"

you shook your head as your eyes watered from the pleasure. it was a frantic denial, but you pushed your hips back against him, meeting his thrusts. it was your body's way of begging for more, even if you mentally fought against it.

"liar," he accused, driving into you harder, faster, making the mirror rattle. "you're a liar, just like me. pretending to hate the game but you love this part, don't you? the power. you knew you could break me—you knew one look from you and i'd forget evert fucking vote i've ever casted."

his flesh hand tightened on your stomach and held you flush against him. "tell me you hate it. go on. tell me you hate my hand on you. tell me you hate my cock inside you. i'll let you speak. just say the words."

he slowly, very teasingly, removed his hand from your mouth. you dragged a breath and your body coiled tightly.

"i…" you started, but all that came out was a broken sob. "i hate… that you make me feel like this."

he chuckled again. it was as dark and mocking as before. he slammed his palm back over your lips as he continued to fuck you. "i know, baby. i know. it's a terrible thing, isn't it? to want the one thing you're supposed to despise."

you were close, so close. the pressure continiously built over how he fucked you. it was a tidal wave of your shame and pleasure. your nails scrabbled against the sink, but landed on bucky's metal forearm, wrapped around your throat as his hand stayed on your mouth. your eyes met his on the mirror.

"that's it," he grunted, nearly letting his control fray. his thrusts became about chasing that final chase. "gonna come. gonna come inside you, and fill you up. let you walk back out there with my cum dripping down your thighs like a little secret under your pretty dress. you're gonna remember this everytime you see me on tv. you're gonna remember how i felt inside you when you call me a liar."

the filthy and degrading words pushed you. your climax had shattered like glass, tightening around him and pulling his own release as he bit into the fabric of your dress at your shoulder. he pumped into you, again and again. his body shuddered, dropping his forehead against your shoulder.

as soon as he emptied himself into you, he slowly pulled out. you whimpered at the sudden, empty feeling. bucky slowly turned you to face him, lifting you up slightly onto the counter. his hands were now gentle on your hips with his eyes soft and haunted, full of wonder that felt more intimate than anything that had just happened.

he reached past your, grabbing a handful of thick paper towels and wetting them with the warm water. he knelt before you, and you giggled when you realized his pants were still on the cold floor.

with a tenderness that made your chest ache, he began to clean you up and wiped the evidence of your shared failure from your trembling thighs.

"still think i'm a bad player?" he asked. it was mostly a joke. mostly.

you looked down at him, at james buchanan barnes, the winter soldier, the congressman, on his knees for you. you carded your fingers through his disheveled hair.

"the worst," you whispered.

a genuine smile, the first you'd seen all night, broke across his face. "good."

the national endowment for the arts fundraiser was even worst than the last gallery event. it was filled with self-congratulatory crowd go people who thought writing a check was the same was having a soul.

you were trapped, nodding along to some lobbyist's monologue about the ‘monetization of creative expression,” when you felt a prickle on the back of your neck. that only meant one thing in this case.

you turned your head and there he was.

bucky barnes was across the room, looking just as uncomfortably majestic in another expensive, ill-fitted suit. he’s holding a tiny plate with cheese like it’s a foreign artifact.

his eyes met yours and recognition sweeps across both your faces at the same time. he looked just as surprised to see you, even as a smile touched his lips.

you excused yourself from the lobbyist, not even bothering with an excuse, and you began to push through the little crowd of people beside you. he watched you approach with the same look in his eyes as the last event.

you didn’t even say hello to him but stopped about a foot away. “congressman. i see you’re prioritizing the important subsidies. the brie must be particularly persuasive tonight.”

he looked down at the cheese as if he’d forgotten he was even holding it. he cleared his throat and managed to let out a few words, “didn’t expect to see you here. i thought you hated these things.” he set the plate down on a passing waiter’s tray without looking.

“i do,” you said simply, taking a sip of the champagne you snagged from the same waiter. “but sometimes the causes are worth the company. even if the company includes politicians who think a grant for a community mural is a frivolous expense.”

his brow furrowed in confusion. “the murals amendment. you saw that vote?”

“i see all your votes, barnes,” you responded, chuckling at his statement. “who do you think i am? of course, i do. you argued it was ‘fiscally irresponsible’ to allocate funds for public art when infrastructure was crumbling. another simple equation, right? concrete over colour. pipes over poetry.”

he let out a frustrated breath, but his eyes were dancing between yours and your mouth. “the bridge in red hook is held together by rust and prayers. you can’t paint over that.”

“no, but you can give people something beautiful to look at while they’re waiting for their elected officials to finally fix it.” you shot back, “you think people don’t need beauty? you think they don’t need something that reminds them their world isn’t just a bland, grey machine? or is that just another thing you’re willing to compromise on?”

“you have no idea,” he leaned in just a little closer, “what i’m willing to do.” the scent of him—that beau de jour—wrapped around you. “you talk about compromises like they’re easy. like they’re a choice made over coffee. they’re not, sweetheart. they’re a slow death by a thousand cuts. and i go to bed feeling every single one of ‘em.”

“why do it?” you questioned, but it came out as a low whisper, losing some of its venom. “why play the game if you hate the rules so much?”

he stayed silent for a bit, looking at your face for an answer written there. “because from the outside, all you see are the rules. from the inside… sometimes, just sometimes, you find a tiny crack in the wall. and you can slip something through it. something good. it’s not enough. it’s never enough, but it gives you something.”

“sounds like a pretty speech, congressman,” you said, teasing, through you fought to keep that tone. “you practice that in front of a mirror?”

a genuine laugh escaped him as he listened to your words. “every morning. right after i practice my ‘i’m deeply concerned about the deficit’ face.” he was so close now that his pinky brushed yours. you lifted your head, looking up at him as he loomed over you, “you’re ruthless, you know that? you see right through it all.”

“someone has to,” you replied, keeping your voice low. “since you’re so busy finding your cracks in the wall.”

“maybe i need a good drill sergeant,” he said, eyes looking down at your lips. “someone to point out where the wall’s the weakest.”

“you couldn’t handle a drill sergeant, congressman. not anymore at least,” you let your eyes rake over him. from his broad shoulders, to the suit. his jaw clenched, and you tried to remind yourself of who he was. “you blush too easily.”

“only around you,” the words tumbled out before he could stop them. he looked as shocked as you felt, but immediately cleared his throat to regain his footing. “i mean—because you’re, uh.. you’re—”

“because i’m the only one who doesn’t buy what you’re selling?” you desperately tried to build that wall back up between you.

he shook his head, eyes locking with yours as the rest of the pretentious gallery fell away. “because you’re the only one who matters,” he corrected. “the only one whose opinion…” he trailed off, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe the words coming out of his own mouth.

you should walk away. you really should. this was a horrible, terrible, dangerous, no good idea. but you had planted your roots down this soil. in front of this much older, powerful congressman.

“my opinion is that you talk all about a good game and cracks in the wall,” you whispered, “but i’ve yet to see you swing a sledgehammer into it.”

his pupils swallowed the blue in his eyes, licking his lips as he looked down. “maybe you just haven’t been watching closely enough.”

“maybe you haven’t given me a reason to watch, congressman.”

right in the moment, you see a flash of the man he might be without the suit. he glanced around, ensuring you were unobserved in your little corner—though you were standing in the middle of the room. then, with a movement so slow, he reached into his inner breast pocket. you assumed he’d pull out a business card or something, but to your surprise, it was a plain keycard. he held it pinched between two fingers towards you.

“you want a reason to watch?” he asked, leaning even closer. your hands touched where the card was, but you hadn’t taken it. “you want to see the man behind the votes? the one who hates the game?” he pressed the card into your palm, “suite 888. the carlyle. if you’re so interested in… murals. no cameras. all for you.”

your fingers closed around the card. this was fucking insanity. this was everything you had claimed to despise. “this is your next move, congressman?” you taunted, “should’ve known you were terrible at making choices,” which earned a chuckle from him, yet you continued, “a hotel room? a little cliché, isn’t it?”

bucky didn’t smile in response. you realized he was dead fucking serious. “it’s not a move, sweetheart. it’s an invitation. the only place i can guarantee we won’t be seen.” he leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “you accused me of a performace, so come see what’s behind the scenes.”

he pulled back, eyes holding yours for a moment longer. “the offer stands till midnight.”

he didn’t wait for you answer and instead, turns and melts back into the crowd of people, leaving you standing there with the ruins of that stupid keycard, and every single one of your convictions crumbling to dust around you.

the keycard had sat on your nightstand for the past weeks—three weeks to be exact. that little rectangle had been the heaviest weight you were carrying since it landed in your hands. you stared at it before you went to sleep, imagining it—him, out of that suit, in some luxurious hotel room, waiting.

you almost went. really, you did. you went as far as hailing a cab, but you’d told the driver to just keep going. it felt too much like losing, like walking right into the lion’s den, a lion who blushed and stammered, looking at you like you’d hung the moon just for him.

the next event was some black-tie anniversary gala for some historical society your father insisted you to attend. you were a ghost here again. in your black dress, drifting silently through the crowd with an empty smile on your face.

you were scanning the room for the easiest way out again when you felt that familiar, unwelcomed prickle on the back of your neck. you didn’t even need to turn—you just knew.

and as expected, he was right there. right in front of you, cutting your path to the balcony doors as if he knew you’d be headed there. he looked different this time though. the nervousness was still there, but it was banked by something else now. there was a flicker of.. hurt in his eyes.

“you stood me up,” he said. no hello. no greetings. just straight to the point. he wasn’t smiling either. there was no political polish there. he was just… bucky.

you forced your face to remain as a mask of indifference, yet you couldn’t help but arch a single brow. “stood you up? did we have a meeting on the calendar, congressman? i must’ve missed the memo between all the other pressing legislative alerts.”

“don’t,” he said. the ache in that single word shot you through the heart. fuck. “don’t do that. not with me. you looked me in the eye. you took the key. you held it in your hand.”

“and i changed my mind,” you said, lifting your chin. “is a woman not allowed to do that? or does your enhanced individuals registration act cover that too? tracking female decisiveness? monitoring fluctuations in opinion?”

the hurt present in his eyes was immediately smothered by the frustration. he clenched his jaw. “this isn’t about a damn act and you know it. you wanted the truth. you demanded it, grilled me for it right here in a room just like this one. i was willing to give it to you. all of it. and you didn’t even have the decency to show up and tell me to my face you weren’t coming. you left me there. waiting.”

“maybe i realized your ‘truth’ was just another performance,” you shot back. the words came out harsher than intended and this was your defense mechanism against men like him going into overdirve. “a private, command performance for one. suite 888. how very original. tell me, did you have a whole speech prepared? a powerpoint presentation on all your failures since being in the office?”

“you think this is a game to me?” he asked, leaning slightly down toward you. “you think i enjoy feeling like a fool? like some… some starstruck kid waiting by the phone for a girl who’s never gonna call? you looked at me and you saw right through every damn lie i’ve ever told, every compromise i’ve ever made, and it was the most terrifying and exhilirating thing that’s ever happened to me. so, no. no speech. no presentation. it's all just me. is that so impossible for you to believe? that someone might actually be genuine with you?”

his words nearly made you stumble back. it felt so overwhelming, suffocating. your heel caught on something behind you. his hand shot out instantly, his metal finds curling around your elbow to steady you from falling.

“let go of me,” the command lacked all the conviction you tried to bring to him, it came out as a nervous, shaky exhale.

“are you alright, ma’am?” a bodyguard has materialized at your side as if from the shadows. his eyes immediately focused on bucky’s hand on your arm. his presence felt like a cold splash of the reality.

bucky dropped his hand immediately like you just burned him. he took a quick, respectful step back, slamming his political mask back on as quickly as it faded away. “it’s fine, everything’s perfectly fine,” he said, shifting back into that diplomatic tone. “she just tripped on the rug. my apologies.”

the agent’s eyes never left bucky. bucky’s brows furrowed and he fixed his suit unconsciously, as if sizing him up. bucky was bigger.. for sure. your bodyguard turned to you and asked, “is everything alright here, miss?”

you saw the tension in bucky’s shoulders, extending towards his jaw. you also saw your bodyguard’s protective stance—as much as you valued him, he stood no chance against bucky—something in you, something reckless, and maybe a little protective of this out-of-place congressman, kicked in.

“yes, everything’s fine,” you said, offering him a gentle smile, one you’ve perfected for the cameras. “thank you for your concern, johnny. i just lost my balance for a second. this is…” you paused for a moment, looking at bucky’s bewildered face. whoops. “this is a friend of mine, congressman barnes. we were just catching up. he was ensuring i didn’t take a spill in front of everyone.”

your bodyguard, johnny murphy, gave you a professional nod before stepping back, though his eyes scanned the immediate area once more before fell into the periphery.

bucky was staring right at you, you could feel it. his head was tilted slightly with a furrowed brow. “friend?” he repeated. it sounded foreign. he glanced at the direction johnny had vanished into. “since when does a guest at a gala have their own bodyguard for tripping on a rug?”

you shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant about it. you reached for a flute of champagne from a passing tray. to be honest, you were just trying to look for something to distract your trembling hands with. “just a thing ‘round here, i guess.” you said, “standard protocol. considering the… crowd, you know?” you gestured with your glass to the room full of diplomats, dignitaries, and power brokers.

he was still staring at you with dawning suspicion. he was so close to piecing it together, the gears shifting visibly in his head. your easy access to every event. your extensive knowledge of the legislative progress. the easy confidence you held yourself with in a room full of the most powerful people in the country. the way security appeared for you, and only you, for a stumble.

he was right there, hovering on the brink of a revelation, when a voice interrupts the space between you two.

“sweetheart, there you are. i’ve been looking all over for you.”

you closed your eyes for a moment, not wanting to see bucky’s reaction, along with a sigh of resignation. then you turned with a polished smile gracing your features. “dad. hi. i was just talking to a friend.”

your father, the president of the united fucking states, slipped an arm around your shoulders, pressing a kiss into your hair. he was still giving his public smile, but his eyes were already on the man standing shell-shocked—and not from the war this time—in front of you.

“i see that,” he said genially. then he gave his focus fully on bucky, smile being more knowingly political. “congressman barnes. good to see you. i didn’t realize you were acquainted with my daughter.”

as if the world physically slowed down. suddenly, you were aware of nearly every sound, every person, every gust of wind. you watched the realization physically dawn on bucky’s face in an avalanche of understanding. the colour ran from his cheeks, and his lips parted. his gorgeously expressive eyes were wide in shock. he looked from your face, to the president’s—your dad’s—arm around you, back to your face.

he saw the resemblance then. the one he’d been too frustrated and consumed by to notice before.

your face, your hair, that specific fucking shade of your eyes.

he was looking at the first daughter.

bucky swallowed hard, and you saw the congressman in him vanish almost immediately. this left him flustered in a ridiculously handsome tuxedo, and you nearly cursed at yourself for it. “oh, uh, mr. president,” he managed, straightening his posture immediately. “sir, i, uh, no. i didn’t… we… we met recently. at an event.”

“at a previous event,” you supplied smoothly, saving bucky from his own floundering secret. you reveled in his disorientation. “at the nea fundraiser, or it could’ve been the one before that. congressman barnes is a surprising advocate for public arts funding. we had a fascinating debate about the role of murals in urban renewal. he’s passionate.”

your father’s eyes lit up in surprise. he knew you. he knew your debates, your particular way of eviscerating people you found intellectually lacking. “is that so? well, don’t let her bring you too far down, congressman. she’s been winning arguments with me since she was six years old and wanted a later bed time. it’s good to see you two getting along.” his tone was warm, welcoming, but his eyes were assessing and you knew those missed nothing.

bucky just nodded, incapable of forming a single coherent sentence, if he was able to form any sentence at all. he’d killed a president before, surely meeting the father of the girl he’s been trying to have sex with shouldn’t be a problem. “yes, sir. she’s.. very persuasive.”

“i’m just glad she’s making friends,” your father said, giving your shoulder a squeeze before letting go. “it was good to see you, congressman. sweetheart, come say hello to the governor of california. she’s been asking to meet you all evening.”

he began to guide you away with a hand on your lower back. you glanced over your shoulder at bucky, who remained absolutely rooted to the spot you left him on.

you offered him a sweet smile before turning away.

it took him a full minute to remember how to breathe. when he finally did, it felt different. it was filled with thoughts of you. with who you were.

the same words echoed in his mind.

dad.

mr. president.

my daughter.

he finally understood it all. the security. the defiance. the knowledge you carried of the system you claimed to hate. you weren’t just an outsider looking in, but the one that the machine, in many ways, was built around.

and you looked at him, a part of that machine, and had seen right through him. and he had given you his hotel key.

a laugh escaped him as he brought a hand up, running it down his face.

he was in so much trouble. so much fucking shit.

and he had never been terrifyingly, hopelessly attracted to anyone else in his life.

tbc taglist. @herejustforbuckybarnes @slutforsr @barnesandashes @metal-armed-muse @bckyslover @demiebarnes @amoremarveloustime @kqtholins

bwa taglist. @54nboo @superbassbuck @unificsation @firingstars @barnesonly @its-in-the-woods @winterdecember18 @houseofhyde @blowingbarnes @heldbybarnes @bckyslover

for a man gripped as tightly by the woes of insomnia as the soldier is, this can only mean trouble lurks in every unlit corner of the watchtower.

it’s too easy for bucky’s mind to wander when there’s no one there to interrupt, too easy for him to sink into the comfort of a two-seater couch and imagine you beside him, gifting pity laughter to whatever shitty straight-to-television movie is playing. too easy for him to overfill his mug with boiling water, caught in a daydream where he’s making tea for two. too easy for him to stand out on the balcony and picture you appearing, windswept and with sleep still falling from your lashes, barely giving him enough time to chastise you back to bed before you’re throwing yourself at him with the demand that he bend you over the railing and force you to stare down at the world bucky’s training you to protect while he stretches your cunt open around his cock-

the building groans and brings him back into reality: the movie has finished, his tea has gone cold, and the balcony is being soaked by rain.

bucky is all alone, trapped in an overwhelmingly empty room. and, while it’s bigger than the square confine that hydra used to house him within, it still feels like a prison; something meant to keep him contained and surveyed rather than warm and safe. the hour has at last arrived where he can make his way to bed and let the loneliness seep into his sheets instead.

it’s not his fault that your bedroom door happens to be on the way to his own. it’s not his fault that your have a habit of leaving it open. and it’s not his fault that his ears perk up at the sound of a mewl — call it the curse of the super soldier, senses enhanced beyond human capability.

the noise comes from you, bucky has no doubt about it.

he knows the noises you make: how you hiss under your breath each time you miss during target practice, how you fight off the post-mission exhaustion with a sigh as you all settle into the jet, how you laugh far too loudly at alexei’s unfunny jokes for it to be anything but genuine, and how breathy your moans get when you grind that soaking pussy against his abdomen-

no, he isn’t supposed to be thinking about that night. that night is archived and filed away under do not reminisce, under any circumstances! even if those circumstances are him struggling to finish to anything but the memory of you.

another cry splits the night, and bucky’s chest, open.

vibranium meets brass in a bashful kiss, his fingers curling around the handle of your door. he steadies himself in the action, brings balance back to his swaying legs as he reckons with the effects you have over him. barely two inches of solid wood between and, yet, he stands worlds away from you: your world is spring, full of blossoming youth and colourful expressions; while his is a desert of blank stares and decades of ice hardening around a heart, winter weaved into not only his history but the very etchings of his being.

if bucky were to touch you, your ruin would surely follow. yet the itch in his palm refuses to quell to any scratch other than the one of your skin.

the third whimper to leave you has him struck with a familiar fear, picturing you caught in the kind of hell-scape only a sleeping mind could conjure. in the months — or is it years, now? — since valentina placed you beneath bucky’s wings, you’ve been sparse with the details you share of your past. but he knows that whatever the anecdotes you keep close to your chest may be, they’re no doubt inflated with pain and misery.

a happy life has never lead anyone to becoming a hero.

the gap between your door and the frame grows a few inches, bucky unknowingly leaning forward like a magnet drawn in by the call of another cry. this time it’s more broken, cracked right down the middle by exhaustion; no, exertion. you’re fighting whatever haunts you, chasing it away.

or are you chasing after it?

sheets rustle and he can’t help but picture you: face smushed into a pillow, laying on your front, your legs kicking out in protest to whatever nightmare has you pinned beneath it’s talons. if it weren’t for the vibrant blue of his iris, his stare would likely turn green as he wrestles with thoughts of wishing he were the one pinning you.

against his better judgement, bucky deludes himself with the idea of entering, of breaching past the doorway into your own private safe-haven; the only room in the watchtower where you have no fear of dealing with his frowned judgement and nit-picking eyes.

two minutes.

he could give himself that, right? two minutes to drag his attention up the length of you, blanket you beneath his gaze, and calm the turbulent waters in his chest telling him you’re in pain, in fear, in a realm where he can’t protect you from the torment of the battlefield… but what if it’s not a nightmare? what if it’s a repeat of last time, your sleeping mind drifting into sin? and, instead of his own solid form laying there for you to grind against, you’re stuck rutting aimlessly into the too-soft foam of your mattress. what kind of a man would he be if he left you to wrestle with your lustful dreams all by yourself?

the hinge threatens to scream as he presses the door a few more inches open. he traps air in his lungs, scared of breathing so loud you waken and spot him peering through the gap in the doorway — only for the wind to be knocked out of him the moment his eyes land on the bed.

because there you lay, just how he imagined you, face down on the mattress.

but not dreaming, no.

not even sleeping.

instead, you are bare — bottom to top — with your legs bent at the knee and your ass in the air. one hand has slipped beneath a pillow and popped out the other side, knuckles pressing up against skin as you grip one of the metal bars of the bed’s headboard; while the other has twisted backwards, manoeuvred into an angle that can not be comfortable. instead of metal, it grasps at silicone, something pink and lustrous.

a motion of back and forth, a slow recede followed by a swift return that sends you lurching up the mattress, steel bars rattling under the pressure of your grip. it’s hypnotising to watch how your body contorts itself, splits itself apart just to welcome the phallic object into its warm embrace.

from what he can see, it’s hardly big. five inches — maybe six, if he were to be generous and assume you’re a little tougher than you look — and yet your grip is shaky, a sweat-slicked palm struggling to keep grip of a flared base. the length between his legs, a near double the size of what he's watching your cunt struggle to take, twitches at the thought of ruining you, of watching your eyes widen in sync with your walls.

fuck, he would have to prepare you, would need to gift you the blessing of his fingers pressing your buttons and the offering of his tongue tracing his name into your skin. or, would he skip all of that? toss you onto the nearest surface, tear off the offensive fabrics hiding your silky wet sins, and crack your shell open; the ideal punishment for daring to dream of him yet deny him the right to truly touch you?

“that’s it, kid,” his mouth is a vessel, guiding the fantasies playing out in his head into the real world with a whisper. his hand tightens around the door handle as your own readjusts its grip over the pink silicone. “stretch her open. want her gaping at me.”

you are divine sin, an emblem of lust placed directly in his line of sight and taunting him to reach for you, take you; the curse you are sure to mark on his soul be damned.

the dip of your back slopes deeper in sync with a particularly harsh thrust of the toy and both your sets of lips spread open with the most devilish of noises: one a squelch, the other a breathy explicit. bucky feels his fingers twitch, itching to snake their way beneath the loose cotton of his pyjama pants and embrace the warmth of his hardening cock.

stronger than any average man, bucky tells himself he can fight it. he can resist the carnal lust commanding his bloodstream southwards. he can ignore the temptation to stroke himself into the hands of ecstasy all the while he stands by your door, spying as you fuck yourself full of a plastic imposter where he should be instead. he can protest the downright despicable desire that urges him to defile you even further than he already had, eyes glued to the ceiling while your hips ground down on him, unconscious and unaware of how his throbbing dick sat mere inches from where you had wanted him most, from where you needed him.

“can’t take it… ‘s too much,” you whimper, and bucky just about paints the inside of his boxers white. this is pathetic. embarrassing. no grown man — much less one of his age and history — should be ready to fall apart for someone as young and delicate as- “bucky, you’re too big.”

the world seems to pause.

bucky stops breathing, your hand stops moving, the tower stops creaking. time grinds itself to a halt and turns a moment into an hour, carving out a space for him to deliberate what he just heard.

his name. on your tongue. in your mouth. clasped beneath the grip of your fingers and thrusting into your cunt. this is somehow both better and worse than the night that shall not be thought about. at least then you were asleep. at least then you were only rutting for friction. at least then you were unaware of what you were saying.

but this, now? you presenting yourself to nothing but the empty space behind you, naked, sweating, and panting into the sheets below as you stuff yourself full of pink silicone? there is nothing accidental nor unintended about the way you’re moaning his name.

bucky gives in.

“no,” careful of the volume, he croaks out a whisper as his fingers finally slip beneath the elastic waistband of his pants. “not too much, just right. know you can take me, kid.” because, even if you can’t, i’d make you take it.

back by the bed, you’ve taken to rolling your wrist in slow, fluid movements, contradicting the whimpered protests that pray for reprieve and cry please no. you are a vision of paradox, one half that seeks out pleasure while the other feigns some sort of pain. furrowed brows and teary eyes clash with soaked fingers and shaky thighs. the hand outstretched towards the headboard slips and cuts off bucky’s spiralling thoughts of you, both arms pinned above your head and tied together by a metal grip, grappling for the headboard of your bed, or a dumbbell in the training room, or the handrail in the elevator, all the while he takes you from behind and rewires not only your body but your soul.

his cock twitches in his palm, like it’s greeting the steady warmth of him wrapping around it. the nerve-wracking panic that you’ll notice him by the door floods his hand with sweat, enough to aid the steady stroke teases himself with, a grip that’s not quite tight enough for him to imagine it’s you.

“fuckin’ filthy girl,” the words barely make it out of bucky before his teeth clamp down on his bottom lip. he’s finally keeping pace with you, matching each kiss of his hand meeting his base with the flared end of the toy pressing against your folds. “‘s that what you really are, huh?”

in his mind, you’re chanting a chorus of yes, yes, yes. i’m a filthy girl, need you to lick me clean.

on the bed, you’re whining a pathetic iteration of his name, “please, please, please. hurts, stop, aah… don’t stop, ‘s so good. gonna break me in half.”

is this what you fantasise about, when the lights are low and you fool yourself into thinking you’re alone? are those airy laughs and shy looks all a mask to cover up something depraved lurking beneath your pretty surface. something that craves to be taken, broken, owned? and by him, of all people.

it shouldn’t excite him.

he put to rest inflicting pain on innocents years ago.

and, yet, for you he wants to pick up that mantle again, harm you in any way you plead him to.

“stop?” for a moment, his eyes squeeze shut, a pause interrupting his hushed voice. he’s picturing you again, head tossing from side to side, bottom lip trembling between protests, while your nails draw blood from his skin and your cunt threatens to cut off the circulation in his dick. “don’t really want me to stop now, d’you? not when i’m finally giving you what you want. all that attention you’ve been cravin’, kid.”

sick and twisted, two words to perfectly encapsulate how he should be feeling, getting himself off in the doorway of the woman he was tasked to train. he should be warding you away from danger like him, not dreaming about ruining every inch of you and claiming you for himself.

another cry of his name becomes bucky’s undoing.

the door slams against the wall.

your grip falters in shock.

his hand meets the swell of your ass in a bruising smack.

“the hell are you doing,” he wastes no times on pleasantries, does not even give you the grace of fully glancing back at him before metal tangles in hair and you’re forced face down into a pile of clean linens and soft cotton, all the while he’s tugging himself free. “fucking yourself silly with a piece of plastic and pretending it’s me? i’m supposed to be your mentor, not the star of your fucked up little fantasies.”

“s-sorry, bucky, i swear i didn’t-”

“fuck,” the word is drawn out, as is the way his hand smooths over one of your ass-cheeks, pausing for a moment to admire the space it takes up in his grasp before he spreads it open enough to catch sight of the seam of your cunt. “she’s winking at me, baby. think it’s about time we gave her something that’ll actually stretch her open, not that tiny excuse of a toy you’ve been making all this fuss over.”

if you agree with his proposal, it’s lost in a sea of high-pitched moans and guttural grunts. the winter soldier took no prisoner and, so, neither does bucky. he does not even gift you a moment of reprieve after the initial burn of him thrusting into you, tip to base, in one quick snap of his hips.

you didn’t seem to want mercy when you were imagining him, why would you want it now that he’s balls deep and sending you further up the mattress with the exertion he puts behind each thrust.

any concern for volume gets put on the back-burner. let the whole tower wake up and stumble upon the sight of him defiling you, for all bucky cares. right now his only concern is to feel you gushing around him and soaking him in however many orgasms he can tear from you.

“buck-aah, please,” your voice is a silver lining of sweetness scratching across the lust filled cloud of skin slapping against skin and the headboard slamming into the wall. beneath him, you can barely hold yourself up, body melting into the mattress and leaving him to do all the heavy lifting, holding up your hips just to keep fucking you at the angle you clearly need. “i’m gonna cum.”

“yeah? ‘s my little protégé gonna cum?” bucky can feel himself nearly there too, heavy balls suddenly tightening in a warning. “c’mon, show me how obedient you can actually be when you’re getting fucked like a brainless whore. go on, wanna feel your tight pussy cum all over this cock-”

a hinge creaks, and suddenly bucky is no longer behind you.

he’s back by the door, hand still stuffed down his pants, while you… you’ve fully collapsed onto the bed, lips split with a ditsy smile. your feet kick out, thighs shaking with overstimulation as your hand continues to feed the pink dildo deeper into yourself, even while you whine in protest of the overwhelming pleasure.

sleep deprivation slaps him in the face as reality snaps him back into place — he had not slammed your door, he had not touched your skin, and he had not made you cum around his cock. instead, he has one foot too far into your bedroom, a door that is too far open to hide him anymore, and the overwhelming heat of your eyes that are far too focused on him to be staring at anything else.

“well,” you sigh, hips shimmying against your blanket as you slowly slip the toy out of yourself. smiling with that same innocence you shoot him across the table during meetings, you blink real slow as you lick a stripe up the length of the silicone and through your own wetness. “did you cum?”

your bedroom door slams, his footsteps echo through the hallway, and bucky ignores the uncomfortable stickiness of his cum staining his knuckles.

when he throw himself into the safety of his own room, all he can wonder is one thing.

how long had you known he was there?

+ extra hyde !

· if this was straight dookie, blame the burnout creeping over my horizon. i'm fighting her, y'all.

it’s not his fault that your bedroom door happens to be on the way to his own. it’s not his fault that your have a habit of leaving it open. and it’s not his fault that his ears perk up at the sound of a mewl — call it the curse of the super soldier, senses enhanced beyond human capability.

he's so pervy and dirty and i love the way you wrote his excuses like he’s not actively pausing to listen.

i’m not saying i’d leave the door open on purpose too but. i’d leave the door open on purpose too.

he knows the noises you make: how you hiss under your breath each time you miss during target practice...... and how breathy your moans get when you grind that soaking pussy against his abdomen- no, he isn’t supposed to be thinking about that night. that night is archived and filed away under do not reminisce, under any circumstances! even if those circumstances are him struggling to finish to anything but the memory of you.

not “archived and filed away” pls sir. this is not HR. this is a problem in your pants.

he’s so pathetic and so real for that. i love him.

what if it’s a repeat of last time, your sleeping mind drifting into sin? and, instead of his own solid form laying there for you to grind against, you’re stuck rutting aimlessly into the too-soft foam of your mattress. what kind of a man would he be if he left you to wrestle with your lustful dreams all by yourself? instead, you are bare — bottom to top — with your legs bent at the knee and your ass in the air. one hand has slipped beneath a pillow and popped out the other side, knuckles pressing up against skin as you grip one of the metal bars of the bed’s headboard; while the other has twisted backwards, manoeuvred into an angle that can not be comfortable. instead of metal, it grasps at silicone, something pink and lustrous.

“drifting into sin” girl so am I.

he’s mourning the idea of not being your dildo and meanwhile you’re already halfway to the gates of hell.

on a serious note what kind of man would he be if he left you? BABE A HARD ONE. A DESPERATE ONE. JAMES GET IN THERE.

“can’t take it… ‘s too much,” you whimper, and bucky just about paints the inside of his boxers white. this is pathetic. embarrassing. no grown man — much less one of his age and history — should be ready to fall apart for someone as young and delicate as- “bucky, you’re too big.” ... bucky gives in. “no,” careful of the volume, he croaks out a whisper as his fingers finally slip beneath the elastic waistband of his pants. “not too much, just right. know you can take me, kid.” because, even if you can’t, i’d make you take it.

“no grown man should be ready to fall apart for someone as young and delicate as—”

yeah well he is. and i love that for him. (and for me.)

he’s not jerking off. he’s praying.

you are the altar. the toy. the reason his soul is gonna be rejected at heaven’s gate.

and i’m clapping. clapping LOUD.

the door slams against the wall. your grip falters in shock. his hand meets the swell of your ass in a bruising smack. “the hell are you doing,” he wastes no times on pleasantries, does not even give you the grace of fully glancing back at him before metal tangles in hair and you’re forced face down into a pile of clean linens and soft cotton, all the while he’s tugging himself free. “fucking yourself silly with a piece of plastic and pretending it’s me? i’m supposed to be your mentor, not the star of your fucked up little fantasies

THE DOOR SLAMS— girl you didn’t even give me a CHANCE to breathe 😭

“i’m supposed to be your mentor” yeah and you’re also supposed to not be perving on her without her permission and we’re clearly not doing that either. this man is SICK. and i would let him use me like a cautionary tale.

“fuck,” the word is drawn out, as is the way his hand smooths over one of your ass-cheeks, pausing for a moment to admire the space it takes up in his grasp before he spreads it open enough to catch sight of the seam of your cunt. “she’s winking at me, baby. think it’s about time we gave her something that’ll actually stretch her open, not that tiny excuse of a toy you’ve been making all this fuss over.” if you agree with his proposal, it’s lost in a sea of high-pitched moans and guttural grunts. the winter soldier took no prisoner and, so, neither does bucky. he does not even gift you a moment of reprieve after the initial burn of him thrusting into you, tip to base, in one quick snap of his hips.

be so fucking serious right now.

“she’s winking at me, baby”?? i had to sit all the way back and just stare at my screen like i was being personally attacked. that line alone is gonna live rent free in my brain until the sun explodes.

he's not just here to fuck—he’s here to replace, erase, and own.

"the winter soldier took no prisoners and, so, neither does Bucky." like are you KIDDING me?? that is peak dom logic. that’s mission-mode pussy punishment. that’s you wanted a god and you got one.

“yeah? ‘s my little protégé gonna cum?” bucky can feel himself nearly there too, heavy balls suddenly tightening in a warning. “c’mon, show me how obedient you can actually be when you’re getting fucked like a brainless whore. go on, wanna feel your tight pussy cum all over this cock-” a hinge creaks, and suddenly bucky is no longer behind you. he’s back by the door, hand still stuffed down his pants, while you… you’ve fully collapsed onto the bed, lips split with a ditsy smile. your feet kick out, thighs shaking with overstimulation as your hand continues to feed the pink dildo deeper into yourself, even while you whine in protest of the overwhelming pleasure.

[in spongebobs voice] “they were fake???”

i thought i was in the trenches with him. thought i was getting called a brainless whore in real time. thought we were in the filthiest, dommiest trench together — and then you ripped the rug out from under me.

this fucker imagined all of that??? filthy voyeurism-by-delusion.

“well,” you sigh, hips shimmying against your blanket as you slowly slip the toy out of yourself. smiling with that same innocence you shoot him across the table during meetings, you blink real slow as you lick a stripe up the length of the silicone and through your own wetness. “did you cum?”

IM SORRY. this bitch knew???

this is pussy-driven psychological horror and i am so grateful.

this chick is playing 4D chess while bucky’s still trying to zip his pants.

i will never recover.

If you knew nothing else in this world, it would be that Bucky and Steve will always be there for you.

Not even a phone call at half past one in the morning would scare them off.

"Hey," Bucky picks up on the first ring, as if he were looking at the phone waiting for your call. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good." You mumble as you trace the rim of the wine glass in front of you.

"What happened?"

A huff of a laugh pushes from your nose, there's no hiding anything from Bucky, he's a dead set bloodhound when it comes to what's bothering you.

"Curtis and I broke up."

"Really? Shit girlie I'm sorry. When?"

You glance past the bottle in front of you and to the clock on the stove. "Like, an hour ago."

"What the fuck? You mean today?"

"Yup." You pop the 'p' as you finish off your glass, feeling the cold liquid settle into a warmth in your chest.

"Is he still there?"

"Never was."

The line went quiet and you could feel the anger radiating over the phone.

A quiet mutter was all you could catch before he came back to the call. "We're on the way."

Part of you wanted to protest, to tell them it's not worth their time and to just stay home, but the quiet and greedy side wanted nothing more than for Bucky and Steve to be your knights in shining armor to come save you from the depths of this breakup.

"Door's unlocked."

He grunts in response and the call is ended, leaving you to linger in the silence awaiting their arrival. You pour another glass, taking a heavy sip to ease the growing tension in your shoulders, Bucky and Steve have always been good friends to you but you could never deny the small voice in the back of your head that yearned for more.

It's no secret that they have crossed the bridge from friendship into something more themselves. It's not something that's often spoke about but you've seen it once or twice on the late nights out, the way Bucky's hand always rests in the small of Steve's back, the way Steve will lean over to grab something and whisper something against the shell of Bucky's ear.

At the time you felt ashamed to be looking, forcing your eyes to the ground as they exchanged silent words with eye contact that would make you buckle if it were directed to you. Yet as more time that passed you began to understand their relationship a bit more, to put it in simple terms you would describe them as friends with benefits but the friendship is the benefit.

You don't know if they've actually had sex with each other and you would never have it in you to ask such a thing, but you've seen the small moments they share when no one is looking, just thinking about it sends a heat to your face that not even the wine could replicate.

In divine timing as you will the thoughts of them out of your head there's a small knock on your door, you finish off your glass in one deep swig and make your way to the door but not before casting a small glance into the mirror above the fireplace to check your appearance. Any trace of tears are gone but there's still a slight red ring around your eyes and the corners of your nose, lips puffed and stained from the wine.

Not your best look but who's keeping track.

With the swing of the door you're greeted with two figures, similar in stance yet completely different in aura. Bucky's face is set in stone, the hard lines of his furrowed brow standing out against the soft edges of his steel blue eyes, his typical demeanor of appearing upset when concern is resting just below the surface.

Steve holds a similar soft look in his face, one of pure care and worry for a true friend with a gentle smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Hey." His voice is deep and smooth instantly putting you at ease, between him and Bucky they fill up the frame, their shoulders brushing each others as they both looked down at you.

"Hi." You breathe out, offering them both a small smile before stepping aside and holding the door open to let them in. A mix of their colognes wash over you as they walked by, Bucky's was a hearty mix of lavender, earthy oak moss and patchouli while Steve's cut through with the brightness of lemon and orange with a deep seeded cedar wood.

Both smells blended together so well, flooding your senses as you shut the door behind them, making you almost offer to take their jackets just to get another hit of their intoxicating scent. Alas they were both comfortable enough with you to set their jackets aside on their own, moving through the space of your apartment as if it were their own.

Steve made himself comfortable on the couch and you did the same while Bucky rummaged in your kitchen for something, sitting next to Steve gave you a moment to appreciate how his facial hair was coming in. The thick hair of his beard covered his jaw and chin alike, you still remember the day he said he was done shaving and was going to grow it out, earning a laugh from all around him who didn't believe him at first.

He looked devastatingly attractive. The beard suited him in ways you never thought possible, paired with the added length of his swept back hair it was almost impossible to look away as his green blue eyes bore into yours.

"How you doing?" He was quiet with his question, not in the sense that he held a secret but more of he was still wading through the waters of your feelings on the subject.

You shrug you shoulders faintly, giving him a half smile as your fingers pick at your nails instinctively. "Could be worse I guess."

"How so?"

"I could've actually cared about him."

He laughs gently with a small shake of his head, not missing the deflection of his question but letting it pass for now, eyes back onto yours making your heart race against your chest. "There is that I suppose."

"Did you get all of his stuff out?" Bucky's voice calls out from behind you, making you turn your head to see him walking out with a plate full of fruits, cheeses and chocolates you didn't even know you had.

"Uhm, no not yet." You watch him set the plate down in front of you and settle on the other side of you, his arm draped on the back of the couch lightly caging you in. "He didn't really have much of anything here anyways."

Bucky nods curtly, grabbing a strawberry off the plate and plucking the leaves off before handing it to you. "We'll help you get it out and make sure you let us know when he comes to get it so we can be here."

"You guys don't have to do all of that." Your eyes fall to the berry in your hand, your thumb brushing over the small seeds.

"We know," Steve's voice pulls your head to the other side, your eyes following his hand as he grabs yours and lifts the strawberry closer to your mouth, a silent reminder. "We want to."

With a faint nod your force your eyes forward as you take a small bite from the strawberry, the sweet acidity bursting across your tongue. Between the smell of Steve and Bucky in such proximity wafting over you and something about the taste of the berry mixing with the after hints of the wine made you dizzy.

Steve noticed it first, his hand finding your thigh and giving it a grounding squeeze. "You alright sweetheart?"

"Do you need some water?" Bucky was quick to add, the arm on the couch dropping down to your shoulders and brushing a small circle into the crook of your neck.

You shake your head, blinking yourself back to reality as you absentmindedly sink into both of their touches. "No, I'm okay just.. tired I guess."

"Here we'll help you clean up and then you can get to bed." Steve offered as he moved to get up from the cough, his hand leaving your thigh and letting the cold air of absence take its place.

"Wait," You reached out for his wrist, holding it in yours for just a beat too long before letting it go. "You.. you don't have to go if you don't want to."

Bucky's thumb pressed lightly into your shoulder, just enough pressure to catch your attention and make you turn back to him. "What do you want girlie?"

A small silence settles over the three of you as you contemplated what you truly wanted.

"Stay," You mumble just above a whisper, your eyes dragging from Bucky's to Steve's. "Please."

Steve nods without hesitation, settling back down onto the couch a bit closer than last time as his hand finds your leg again, this time running it up and down a with an achingly gentle touch. "Of course."

"Don't have to ask us twice," Bucky chimes in softly, leaning his body closer until your side was up against his chest.

You lean back into both of them, letting their warmth encapsulate you and tether you to the ground. Steve finds the TV remote and puts on some quiet music channel, the slow and soft beat of blues filling the background of the room.

Time becomes unperceivable when you're with them, all you know is the feeling of them next to you and the sound of their voices in your ears for what felt like hours.

"You want another glass Stevie?" You offer as you top yours off, the warmth in your chest now spread across your whole body, lining your lips with a smile as you look at the two boys seated on your couch. Bucky is all but sprawled out in the corner, legs spread with a whiskey glass in his hand as his eyes flicker between you and Steve, his leg is crossed over the other with one hand on the back of the couch.

Maybe it's the wine, or maybe it's the irresponsible urge for a self esteem boosting rebound but the look of the two of them on your couch was too tempting and if you didn't know any better, inviting.

"No I'm okay sweetheart." Steve's voice floats across the air and brushes the back of your neck, making the small hairs stand up, you nod and try to keep a straight face as you sit back on the couch.

Bucky, who is oddly quiet in his corner, hasn't taken his eyes off of you since the three of you finished off his snack plate, lips stained with the red fruit juice of strawberries and a hint of chocolate. Steve seems to pick up on this as he rests his chin on your shoulder to look over at him.

"You're quiet Buck, got something on your mind?"

He doesn't respond, not right away, he just gives Steve a look that apparently says it all as Steve lets out a small hum and smiles against your cheek.

Your eyes narrow a the interaction, trying to piece together what silent words were just exchanged between the two of them. "What?"

"Steve has a secret to tell you." Bucky says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. You turn just enough to see Steve out the corner of your eyes before he pulls away, making you fully turn to face him.

Reaching for you glass he takes a small sip before setting it down on the table, his eyes locked onto yours as he licks a small drip of wine from his bottom lip. You follow the movement and it makes your heart stutter in your chest.

"What's the secret?" You whisper in a breathy air, using every inch of your might to keep your eyes from drifting back to those pink lips tucked behind that fatally gorgeous beard.

He curls his index finger towards you and you have to immediately look away lest your mind starts conjuring up images of that motion being used on you for other purposes. Leaned forward he meets you halfway and you can feel the scruff of his beard brush the lobe of your ear as he whispers.

"Bucky wants me to kiss you."

The words still you to your bones, bringing your heart into your throat with its rapid unsteady beating. As your mind processes everything at lightning speed you see two choices presented to you in the blur of thoughts; A.) you shrink back and continue on with the friendship as it is, just that, friendship or B.) you play into it and just maybe you can get what you've been thinking about all night.

You much prefer the latter.

"Why doesn't he say so himself?" You murmur softly, eyes already dropping back down to his lips.

He gives a vague shrug, his hands finding yours and pressing small circles into the pressure point of your wrist, no doubt feeling the rabbited pace of your heartbeat. "Sometimes Bucky does a whole lot of talking, other times he just likes to sit back and listen."

"That a fact?" Your eyes part from Steve's to look over at Bucky, the beginnings of a smirk tug at the corner of his lips as he finishes off the last of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving you for a moment as he keeps his quiet facade going.

Steve lets out a breathy laugh before quieting down, his hand brushing the length of your jaw making you turn back towards him. His palm is rough and smooth all at once, the calloused pads of his fingers tracing the jut of your bottom lip.

"So, what d'you think sweetheart? Should we give Bucky what he wants?"

"What do you want?"

"I can't think of anything I'd want more than to kiss you," His voice is a hoarse whisper and somehow you've gotten close enough to where you can feel his breath against your cheek. "What about you?"

Words are lost on you as you look at Steve, the ocean tide of his blue green eyes pulling you in, a loose nod of your head is the only answer you can manage before his lips are on yours.

Forget fireworks or sparks flying, Steve's kiss was heavenly, tentative like a whisper and as warm as the summer sun. His hands immediately swept you up, pulling you into his lap and holding you close like he was passing a secret from his body to yours.

Eternal like moments passed before the kiss changed, your thighs squeezing his as your hips shifted on top of him making him groan into your lips. He moved his hands down to the dip of your waist and dug his fingers in, moving you again until you picked up the message and began to roll your hips on your own.

You don't know how much time had passed, Steve kissed you like he wanted to wear your mark for all eternity and it left you utterly breathless. When you did finally part for air, you looked back to see Bucky had moved from his original spot and is now next to you and Steve, a fresh glass of whiskey in his hand.

Steve looked unfairly handsome freshly kissed, his lips parted with soft breaths pushing through them as he squeezed your hips in his hands. Your heavy lidded eyes dragged back over to Bucky, a small tilt to his head when he caught your eyes lingering on his lips.

"Go on baby," Steve encouraged in a raspy hum, his hands still holding the curves of your hips, fingers just teasing under the hem line of your shirt. "Give him a taste."

You're leaning over before you realize and Bucky's already met you halfway, his lips taste like the burn and heat of whiskey as he swipes his tongue over your seam, wasting no time in exploring the inner depths of your mouth against his.

Bucky's kiss burned like a perfectly stoked fire, warm and consistent with each angle making the world around you fade into black. It wasn't until you felt Steve guiding your hips back and forth again did you feel yourself come back to the material world.

The mixed sensations of being pulled in by Bucky's lips, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip with a deep fervor as Steve's hand ever so gently ran up under your shirt and wandered across the exposed skin made your head spin.

"Wait," You breathe out as you force yourself to pull away from Bucky's lips, your mouth aching for more at the way his eyes fluttered open. "What.. what are we doing?"

You look between Steve and Bucky and watch as they share another one of their silent conversations, a huff of lust filled frustration pushing out of your nose.

"Stop doing that, just say it out loud."

There's one last look between them before they turn to you, eyes low and smirks growing.

"I think what Buck was trying to say—"

"—Was that we can do whatever you want."

The way the finish each others sentences with such ease nearly gives you whiplash, your eyes darting back and forth between the two of them.

"What do you mean?"

"He means," Bucky starts as he leans back in, pressing a line a kisses down your jaw and to the column of your throat. "If you want to take this farther we're all for it."

"But if you want to stop," Steve adds in, his hands smoothing over the skin of your lower back, thumbs dipping past the waistband of your pajama shorts. "Just say the word and hands are off, no hard feelings."

Your eyes flutter at the contrasting feelings. Bucky leaving wet open mouthed kisses across your neck and collarbone, stopping to bite and suck at the sweet spot below your ear, while Steve's hands held you like you were a diamond in his palms, beautiful and strong yet fragile to the touch as he roamed over your skin leaving a wake of heat in his touch.

"Up to you baby. We just want to take care of you, however you'll let us."

Words are few and far in between for you, your mind and body overrun with the dual sensations. Bucky's hand had started to squeeze and rub circles into your thigh while Steve brought your hand up to his lips, kissing the pad of each fingertip before licking a slow stripe up your middle two making you shudder under him.

"Yes, please yes."

That was all the sign they needed. Bucky pulled back and quickly cleaned up everything around you as Steve stood you up with him and led you to your bedroom, his wide palm steady in yours as you clung to him.

He sat you down onto your bed and began to move about the room as if it were his own, taking his shoes off and setting them in the closet, setting his watch on the dresser and even going as far as to add a fresh stick into your essential oil diffuser.

As he joined you on the bed it was only moments before Bucky was in the room, a small smirk on his lips as he went about his own ministrations, similar to Steve yet done in a different air. Steve moved around the room like it was his too, Bucky moved like it was his alone, his carpet to walk along and his mirror to look in.

The bed dipped even lower as Bucky settled behind you, his hand playing with the hem of your shirt as he leaned forward. "Tell me something pretty girl, did you at least get laid before that asshole broke up with you?"

Your breath hitched as you felt his hand slip under your shirt and up towards your bra, unclasping it to the last clip, before moving his hand around your stomach. Steve must've picked up on your stunned state as he reached out a cupped your jaw in his hand, gently stroking your cheek before leaning in for a kiss.

"Answer him baby."

"No." You whispered against Steve's lips, your hands digging into the fabric of shirt in need of more.

"Poor girl," Bucky mutters from behind you, hands brushing your hair over your shoulder as his lips find the nape of your neck and gently nipping at the skin. "Tell me the sex was at least good."

You shake your head and lean back into his touch, your body overwhelmed yet under stimulated and in desperate need.

Bucky pulled away and you had to stifle a whine as you looked back at him. "You're telling me that this entire time you were in that relationship, not only were you putting up with his bullshit, but the sex wasn't even worth it?"

"Bucky.." Your voice was nothing more than a soft whisper yet it held the magnitude of a thousand suns, the depths of desire lacing through your words.

He didn't grant you any relief, just a low scoff rumbling in the back of his throat as he looked over at Steve.

"I-I'm sorry, I should've known better, I know I should've left him a long time ago I just don't know why I couldn't—" You blurted out, unreasonable worry clawing at the back of your throat.

"Shh it's okay baby," Steve's voice tethers you back down, his hands cupping the sides of your face to lock your eyes onto his. "We're not mad it's okay."

You nod faintly and let out a small breath and he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. "I think Bucky is just a little jealous is all."

Confusion set over your face with furrowed brows and a slight pout. "Jealous of what? Curtis?"

"S'not fair. He got to have you in any way he wanted and he couldn't even have the decency to treat you right." Bucky's answer from behind you sends chills down your spine, your eyes still on Steve's as you felt a bold streak rise in you.

"You think you could do better?"

Silence grew and for a moment you thought you may have crossed a line, until you felt the palm of Bucky curve around your hip.

"I know I can."

A small smirk curled up on Steve's face as he looked down at you, a playful shake of his head egging you on as you pulled your bottom lip in between your teeth.

"Prove it soldier."

Nearly half a second went by before you were being turned around, Bucky stood at the edge of the bed and pulled you towards him as Steve settled to the side of you.

"You know you've got bratty mouth for someone who drove all the way here in the middle of the night just to make you feel better."

Blame it on the wine, or the heavy makeout sesh, or maybe the way Bucky was looking down at you like he couldn't care less about the next words that were about to come out of your mouth, all of it made you feel crazy and sane all at once and you wanted nothing more than to chase that feeling.

"I never asked you to come over, you just offered yourself up."

You watched Bucky's throat bob with a hitched breath, your words no doubt hitting the right nerve making you smirk until Steve's voice pulled you down from your high horse.

"Play nice sweet girl."

Bucky shook his head with an ever growing smirk, his hand reaching out to twirl a small strand of your hair as he looks down at you. "Yeah I bet you could, but you don't want to play nice, do you?"

You mirrored his head shake, yours slower and faint as yours eyes dropped down to his chest, then to his stomach, and finally to the belt around his jeans.

"I can play nice… for Steve."

Steve smiled and pressed a soft kiss to your lips, swallowing to the grunt he let out when you licked and nipped at his lower lip.

Bucky let out a dark chuckle behind you, his hands running down the expanse of your spine and lifting your shirt up to kiss down your shoulder. "Is that right? You think you can be good for Steve while I punish you for mouthing off?"

"I'll always be good for Steve."

"We'll see about that."

Bucky must've motioned to Steve behind you as they both started to move, stripping their shirts and unclasping their belts to pull off their pants.

You moved to take your own clothes off when two sturdy hands stopped you.

"Let me," Steve mutters and though his voice was soft there was no denying the command behind it. "Just want you to sit back and look pretty for me, think you can do that baby?"

A brief nod of your head curls a smile up on his face as his hands took over your goal, pulling your shirt up and over your head and finishing off the last clasp of your bra that Bucky had left for him.

Your shorts are gone without a second thought and the air in the room has changed around it. It clings to your skin like the thick humidity of summer as you feel the eyes of both Steve and Bucky bore into your skin.

"What now?" You ask out of curiosity but there's a small waver of insecurity in your voice pushing through.

"Hands and knees for us baby." Steve guides you as turn onto your palms, your knees pressing into the mattress, Bucky's hands find the divet of your hips and holds you steady.

"You know the traffic lights pretty girl?" Bucky asks from behind you, his hands begin kneading the flesh of your hips and down to your thighs, giving every square inch it's deserved attention as he moves up to your ass.

Steve's eyes on you as Bucky feels you up sends a shiver of heat down your spine, the dual attention overriding your senses turning your thoughts into nothing more than TV static. "Mhm."

"Use your words." Bucky's hands dig into your ass and the slight pinch of his nails makes your breath hitch, you go to turn your head to look back at him when Steve's hand steadies your jaw forward.

"Eyes on me baby."

"Yes," You mumble as you lock eyes with Steve, mouth parting as he traces your lips. "Red, yellow and green."

Bucky grunts in what you guess is approval as he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of your underwear. "What's your color pretty thing?"

"Green. So fucking green."

A dark breathy laugh leaves his lips as he pulls the fabric down, letting it pool around your knees as he steps back to admire with a deep breathe out.

"God Steve, you're gonna lose it when you see this perfect pussy."

Steve just smiles as he looks down at you, he'd been tracing your lips just barely pushing his thumb past the seam and onto the wet heat of your tongue before pulling it out to spread your saliva like lip gloss.

"I wonder how pretty this pussy will drip for me after I spank this ass for being so bratty."

Chills covered your entire body as your eyes fluttered, thighs aching and arms shaking without even a touch from either one of them. Steve, ever the gentleman, noticed your struggle and moved to the side and patted the length of his thigh. You didn't have to be told twice, your arms bending and tucked under you as you laid your head across his lap, your neck craning as you looked up as him brushing the hair from your face.

"I think eight will be a good reminder, don't you Steve?"

Steve kept stroking your hair back, his thumb just barely grazing your cheek "What do you think baby, you think you can be good for eight?"

You nodded your head against the skin of his thigh as a small yelp pushes past your lips, Bucky's hand leaving a startling stinging burn with a harsh smack on the swell of your ass.

"I thought I told you to use your words." Bucky's voice was flat and stern behind you, his fingers ghosting over the growing burn on your skin.

Your eyes fought to stay open as you looked up at Steve, his hand had moved from your hair down to your back, lightly stroking up and down your spine."Y-yes, I can be good for eight."

"Good."

Bucky wastes no time in doling it out, two more sharp smacks across your ass make you whimper into Steve's leg, the pain bleeding into pleasure and stirring up a searing heat in between your thighs.

"Think she's starting to like it, huh Buck?"

"Mm you should see the way her pussy clenches," He punctuates his sentence with another heavy slap, switching to the other side adding more burn. "So empty and desperate."

Steve's hand moves from your back to your stomach, splaying his wide hand across the soft skin just barely brushing below your belly button. "That right baby? You feeling needy for some more?"

Another echoing smack. "Greedy girl."

"Please," You mumbled into Steve's thighs, drool slipping out the corners of your mouth with a cry as Bucky lands an especially hard spank to your skin. "Please Stevie I need more."

"How could I ever say no to that beautiful face?"

Another gasp leaves your lips as Steve's hand dip past your stomach, middle and ring fingers brushing your clit before tracing the slit of your cunt. "So wet already, bunny."

You whimper and push into his fingers, aching for any further touch. Bucky sees and holds you in place with one hand, landing a ear piercing slap with the other.

"You want more then you beg for it like the little slut you are."

"P-please!" You sputter out, hands going numb under you from the angle but you couldn't care less, Steve's fingers were still gently caressing the slick of your folds and it had your thighs trembling. "Please Steve, please I need more I'll be good I promise."

Steve lets out a soft hum, his other hand carding your hair out of your face. "Mm you beg so pretty babygirl, how could I say no to that?"

The slip of his fingers inside of you is a feeling you don't think you'll ever forget, his wide middle and ring digits filling that desperate ache inside of you so perfectly you could cum on the spot just thinking of it. Bucky kneads the curve of your ass in time with Steve's movements, and the dual feelings of pleasure make you shudder and melt.

"Oh she definitely likes that Stevie," Bucky mocks, his condescending tone mixed with the heady touch of his hands digging into your sensitive ass makes you hiss and moan with each wave and pleasure and pain. "If you like this just wait until you get Steve's cock inside of you, he'll turn you into his little cockwhore in no time."

Their words buzz across your ears but nothing sticks, Steve's fingers reducing you down to a mumbling mess, the sweet curve of his middle finger as it brushes the outer edges of you g-spot as he hum sweet nothings to you carts any cohesive thought away to another land.

"Feel good babygirl?" He coos as he pushes his fingers in deeper, each drag of his finger pads across your walls makes you twitch as you frantically nod your head.

Another sharp slap to your ass brightens your senses, a whine spilling from your lips as you clench around Steve's fingers.

"Fuck," Steve breathes out, his fingers somehow finding a way further inside you. "Do that again Buck."

And he does. One harsh smack makes your thighs quiver and you tighten around Steve's fingers once again, making Steve groan in time with your whimper.

"Christ baby, gonna kill me and I haven't even had a taste yet."

On that note Bucky shifts behind you, his heavy shadow no longer looming over you as he moves around onto the bed. Steve helps you sit up, holding you by your waist as he pulls you toward the center of the bed, fluffing your pillows under you before meeting your lips in a fierce kiss.

"You felt so good squeezing my fingers bunny," He mutters against your lips, nipping your bottom lip and licking it smooth before moving down your jaw and throat, his lips leaving a light mark at every chance he got. "Can't wait to feel you cum on my face."

He kept on with his mission south, dragging his tongue over any bit of untouched skin he could find as he settled between you thighs, the scruff of his bread scratching you making you shiver.

"Stevie," You whine, your hand finding it's place running through his bourbon brown hair. "Please I want more."

A wide grin curls up on his face as he leans in to press a kiss to your inner thigh, the trail growing closer and closer until a stroke of his breath brushed across the heat of your cunt, goosebumps running over your thighs.

"Pussy so pretty babygirl," He mumbles with a kiss to your clit, making you jump and your thighs squeezing around his head, his left hand wrapping around one thigh to hold it apart as he licked you open. "Lemme in, just let me."

Two broad fingers pushed into you and knocked the air out fo your chest, your body going lax with pleasure as he slowly worked you open, lips enclosing around your clit as with soft licks and suction just as the gentleman he is.

"Fuck Stevie," His name was nothing but a soft whimper on your lips, hips rolling into his touch for more when you felt the bed dip with weight next to you.

"Eyes up here," Bucky's voice cut through your whines as he lifted your jaw up, fingers digging into your cheeks as you looked him over, the toned planes of his chest unable to keep your eyes from drifting down to his clothed free cock. "Don't think you get off the hook that easy."

He shifts around and before you can process his knees are on either side of your chest, pushing your breasts together as his cock stood at full mast in front of you, your mouth watering at the sight of him above you.

"What? You need an invitation?"

You wanted to scoff, to snap back with the same caliber of attitude he was giving you, but between Steve slowly curling his fingers inside you at the perfect angle you were at a loss with how perfectly presented he was to you right now. You start to shake your head before you remember your reprimands from earlier.

"No."

"Good girl, now open wide for me, let Bucky see that pretty mouth that loves to talk back."

Steve hasn't let up for a second, his mouth only giving you a relief to kiss across your thighs and sink his teeth into them before going back in with his teasing kitten licks. You oblige Bucky's command and open your mouth as a small moan slips out watching Bucky stroke himself once, twice before tapping his flushed tip against the width of your tongue.

He doesn't give you a second to beg for more before he's sliding his thick length into your mouth, one hand gripping the headboard above you as the other rests just next your head.

"Goddamn baby, that's it, let me put this mouth to good use."

Another small moan slips past, the heavy warmth of him dragging along the inside of you cheeks as you hollow them out combined with Steve lowering his fingers to slide his tongue alongside into your wet cunt makes your body scorch with pleasure.

Bucky's hand moves to the back of your head, lifting it up just enough so he can rut his hips forward to the back of your throat, wet sounds from your lips and thighs fill the room with muffled moans and sighs of pleasure from the two men.

"Fuck baby, I knew this mouth was good for something other than back talk. Mmph you look so good like this, bet you love having your mouth stuffed full while Stevie makes that pussy feel so good." His hand behind your head digs into your hair, pulling at the roots as you look up at him through water lined eyes.

You can't answer, and even if you could you'd have no rebuttal, you do love it and you never want it to stop. Steve wraps both arms around your thighs, holding you open as he presses one palm down onto your stomach, the pressure mixed with the twisting curl of his fingers snaps something in you.

A muffled cry slips from your mouth and vibrates along Bucky's cock, making him groan and push in farther. Your hips have their own agenda as you buck and grind into Steve through your orgasm, the added layer of his beard scratching at your thighs making you twice as sensitive.

"That's it, grind that pussy against Steve's face, be a good little slut for him."

Bucky's breath hitches in his throat and you can see the way his biceps tighten up so you double down, swirling your tongue every time he pulls back to the tip and hollowing your cheeks out when he pushes back in.

"I feel you trying to make me cum," He groans as he slows his hips to long and deep thrusts, each push in hitting the back of your throat before he pulls out completely. "Only good girls get cum down their throat, and you've been nothing but bad."

A pouty whine slips past your lips as he gets off your chest, your hands trying to follow him away before they're caught in Steve's grip and held down to your sides as he slowly crawled up your body.

"What's wrong bunny? Why're you poutin'?"

"Bucky's mean to me."

Steve smiles as he nudges your thighs further apart with his knees. "Is that right? You want me to give him a stern talking to?"

You nod dramatically and scoot down to flush your thighs to his, your eyes trailing down on him for the first time tonight to see his equally impressive length. For a split second everything hits you all at once and worry crashes over you.

"That's not gonna fit Steve."

Steve just smiles as he gently repositions you, hooking one leg around his waist and bringing the other up to rest against his chest. "Shh, don't you worry about a thing sweet girl."

Bucky chimes in next to you, grabbing your jaw and tilting it towards him. "You're gonna take it all and you're gonna thank him for every inch."

You nod and for the first time tonight you don't get reprimanded for it, rather he leans down and presses his lips to yours, his tongue pushing past to tangle with yours as his hands squeezed at the flesh of your breasts and pinched the peak of your nipples.

"Color?" Steve asks with a gentle squeeze to your thigh, his cock twitching and lightly tapping your cunt.

"Don't stop." You moan with a roll of your hips.

Getting lost in the touch of Bucky you hardly register the feeling of Steve's cock brushing over your clit until it slips further between your folds, just teasing your entrance. Bucky shifts down to lay next to you, moving his lips down to pull a nipple into his mouth a with a sly wink up towards you.

"Buck-ah!" Your words die off with croak of a moan as Steve sinks into you, your thighs instinctively trying to close at the breach of pressure before he grabs the back of your knee and holds you open.

"Ah ah," Bucky chided as he pulled off your breast with a pop to nip and pull at the peak. "Say thank you."

"T-thank you." You hardly manage before another broken moan cuts you off, your head lulling back into the pillows as Steve pushes in further, each inch feeling impossible to bear.

Bucky moves back to kiss your neck as his hand slips down to your clit, just barely ghosting circles over it. "For what?"

"For your— fuck, for every inch of your cock."

"Mm you're welcome bunny," Steve adds with a feather light kiss to your forehead, his breath fanning across your face as he slides in to the hilt with a single thrust, making you both moan in time. "Shit, I should be thanking you pretty girl, you feel so fuckin' good."

Steve's voice, along with everything else in the world, fall away. Nothing registers past the feeling of his cock stretching you through and through, each small shift of his hips pulling pitiful whimpers from your lips as he ruts into you at devastatingly slow pace.

"Aw cmon Stevie," Bucky pouts playfully as he dips his fingers down to where you and Steve meld, the tips of his fingers brushing Steve's cock as his palm presses against your clit making you twitch at the contact. "I know you can fuck harder than that."

Steve doesn't reply, not verbally at least, a small grunt is all that slips out before he's leaning over you, bending your leg to your chest as he grips the headboard in his free hand he pulls out until just the curve of his head is resting inside you before thrusting back in.

A breathless gasp pushes from your lungs as your hands scramble for something solid, landing in the flesh of Steve's bicep as he fucks you blissfully senseless, every snap of his hips winding a tight coil within you.

"S-shit Steve, feels so good— god please don't stop baby."

As if he'd ever. Not with the way your cunt had squeezed around him, selfish and desperately begging for more right alongside you. Lulling your head to the side your eyes catch the small movement from your vanity, it was Bucky, leaning back in the chair with his fist closed around his cock with moving with short and slow strokes.

"You see Bucky sweetheart? See how hard we made him?"

You nod lazily, mind near empty as your eyes fixated on him, your hand extending across the mattress out to him. "Bucky.."

Bucky just smiles at your whine, but you don't miss the way his legs twitch, his chest rising and falling in quick fashion as he times his strokes to Steve's thrusts. Your eyes lock onto each others and it sends a fire over your whole body, any shy or shameful part of you withering away under Bucky's eyes and Steve's touch.

"Gonna be good for him just like you're good for me? Show him how pretty our girl looks when she cums?"

Another pathetic nod as you watch Bucky, your eyes darting from his lips to his cock. "Wanna cum so bad."

"Fuck," Bucky barely mutters, his hips just barely ticking upwards. "Make her cum Steve, lemme see."

With a grunt of agreement Steve leans back, grabbing a pillow from the side and holding your legs together to his chest as he lifted you up and slid it under you. It was a brief pause but it was enough to make you whimper craving more, your hips pushing up against Steve's thighs as he settled in the new position, making you wait even longer as he let his eyes linger over you.

"Please," You whine in a whisper, hands moving up to your chest kneading and pulling the pebbled bud of your nipples. Bucky hisses through his teeth, no doubt in restraint as he slows his strokes.

"Please what, bunny?"

Mouth open to respond he thrusts all the way back in, any words now turned to muddled gibberish as he leans back, allowing your hips to tilt up and perfectly nail each drag of his cock to that sweet spot deep inside of you that makes your toes curl.

"Oh f-fuck," Bucky's voice from the side of you, his lip caught between his teeth as he basically fucks his hand. "Cmon Steve, make her cum so hard she won't know what's you or her, pet that pretty little clit until she's creaming around you."

Bucky's words hit you and Steve at the same caliber as he reaches down to slip his thumb past your lips, gathering up the pooling saliva and centering it right against the aching bundle of nerves between your thighs, making you squirm under him.

"There you go, just like that." You don't know if the praise was for you or Steve but it made your skin tingle all the same. Steve takes kindly to it, his free hand digging into the soft skin of your thighs as he drives into you, the slick slip of his cock in and out of you filling the air.

Your bodies tune into each others, your thighs twitch and walls tighten as Steve's thrusts turn uneven and sloppy as you both chase a so desperately needed high.

"Come on babygirl, cum for me I know you want to, jus' give it to me."

The press of his thumb in one tight circle on your clit snaps that coil, your back arching with a piteous moan of his name, your cunt clenching like a vice around him as he pulls you through it with each thrust. He splits your legs on each shoulder as he hunches over you, your eyes rolled to the back of your head with a flutter as he ruts into you through his own orgasm, spilling every hot and slick drop deep inside of you as he fills you up with a delicious gravelly groan of your name.

You both go lax in the afterglow, your legs falling to the sides as Steve holds himself up above you, your body is buzzing with aftershocks, every inch of you sore but you conjure up enough strength to loop your arm around his neck and pull him flush to you completely.

He lets out a deep hum, hands slipping under you as he momentarily puts his full weight on you. The pressure mixed with the warmth of his cum slowly slipping out of you crashes another wave of fatigue over you, your eyes lulling shut.

Movement stirs your eyes open, Steve holds you firm as he rolls the two over you over, making you makeshift straddle him as he lays back on the headboard. You give him a soft puzzled look before you feel the bed dip behind you, a familiar set of hands running up your sides.

"You know you and Stevie look pretty good together," Bucky murmurs with a gentle tug to the lobe of your ear. "Making all those sweet noises for him."

You lean your weight back against him, head falling back on his shoulder as his licks and kisses his mark onto the column of your throat.

"Gonna make the same little whimpers and moans for me, huh?"

His hands switch between running up your chest between your breasts and down the crease of your inner thigh, just letting his touch wander aimlessly. You soon grow fidgety, hips shifting trying to touch him to brush his cock closer to where you want him most.

"So needy already? What, Steve didn't fuck you good enough?"

"Just want you, Buck please." You mumble with a pout, turning your head to meet him in a kiss. He obliges, humming into you as one of his hands leaves your body, the distinct warmth fading away. You want to pout, jut that lip out in hopes he'll bite it back in and go back to touching you, yet when you pull away and open your eyes your met with a mouth watering sight.

Bucky's hand, the one you almost whined over, was wrapped around Steve's cock. Slow, steady little strokes that twist at the top before going back down leave both you and Steve breathless.

"What'sa matter? Thought you told Steve you were gonna be good for me. Good girls don't whine."

You stifle the irony of another whine, your eyes glazed over as you sunk back to keep watching. Steve's brows with lightly furrowed and his lips hardly parted, just enough to let those breathy little sounds out, each soft whine sending a searing heat between your thighs.

"Bucky," His name is tumbling from your lips before you can help it, hands itching at your sides.

"Hm?"

"Can I touch myself?" He lets out a pleased hum, pressing himself up against you and you exhale in hopes of his allowment.

"No."

There's no holding back the pout this time, you're on the verge of complaining when the air around you shifts, Bucky's hand digging into your hip as he pulls you flush to him. "Sit up Steve."

He does and once he's where Bucky wants him he turns your head for another kiss, this one is bold and bare, all tongue with a graze of teeth before he pulls you away from him.

"Bucky please I need—"

"Need what?" He cuts you off with a knowing smirk. "Need me to touch you? Kiss you? Fuck you like the greedy girl you are?" His hand traces up your spine before gently pushing you down, you flow with gravity and land on your palms right between Steve's thighs.

"Show me you can take it then." The angle change sends chills across your back as you look up at Steve, his face is still flushed with knitted brows and a maddening hard on, you get the sense that he feels just on display as you do.

The slight wave of insecurity is broken by the feeling of Bucky's thumb brushing through the slit of your cunt, just barely pushing in as the rest of his fingers dig into the soft skin of your ass.

"Color."

Your answer comes in actions rather than words as you lean down to capture Steve's length in your mouth, humming at the heavy feel of him and the deep groan that rumbles in his chest. Bucky just scoffs to himself and you're more than sure that he and Steve are sharing another infamous silent conversation right now.

Any chance to reprimand them for it is out the window when Bucky sheathes himself inside you, every inch deliciously filling you to the brim in one deep swift motion that makes you gasp around Steve's cock.

"Shit," Bucky moans and it's pure music to your ears. "God you're right Steve, our girl feels so damn good."

Bucky fucks nothing like Steve. Steve held a pattern, a rhythmic sense to each push and pull of his hips, Bucky is relentlessly fierce, with the determined goal to unravel you from within. You've already made a mess of Steve's cock, face wet with drool and tears as Bucky splits you open, every thrust pushing you to take Steve in further.

"C-careful Buck," Steve stammered out, each hollow of your cheeks making his breath hitch. "Don't wanna break her."

Bucky hums out a laugh, his hands set on your hips pulling you back into him. "Think she wants to be broken Stevie, bet I don't even have to do anything."

To prove his point he stops mid thrust, a garbled whine sounding around Steve's cock. "You want it so badly, take it greedy girl."

You surface for air, spit strings connecting you and Steve as you look back at Bucky who's making no effort to keep moving. A small groan escapes as you start to roll your hips back, starting a slow and shaky pace that pulls moans from all three of you.

"That's it, go on and fuck yourself on this cock." He adds a spank to your ass for emphasis that only makes his knees weak as you clench around him. "Shit, feels so good keep going baby."

After a few moments of coordinating motions you finally find it, that dream pace, your hand steadily jerking Steve's cock as you push and grind into Bucky's, thighs trembling with each smack as the heat of pain blooms across your ass.

"Such a pretty little cockwhore we have Stevie, fucking herself so good." Bucky's voice has dissolved into something utterly irresistible, a low and scratchy tone that scatters chills over your body.

Steve lets out another gracious moan, his rich baritone voice humming through you as he grabs your jaw and lifts you up for a kiss, licking and loving the taste of himself from your mouth. "Even prettier from this side."

"P-please," You whimper into him with a broken moan, your hips burning with ache as you try keep up. "I can't— fuck, I can't anymore, please Buck, Stevie."

"You want Bucky to take over bunny, is that it?"

You nod fervently, your head heavy in his hand as he give you another quick kiss before guiding back down to his lap, letting your head rest in the crux of his thigh. Bucky shifts behind you, spreading your thighs even more as he ruts deep into you with an animalistic fervor.

"This what you wanted? Got tired of doing it yourself and wanted Bucky to use you like the good little fucktoy you are?"

Staggered breaths fell from your lips, eyes nearly in the back of your head, your body a live wire crackling in a storm, waiting for that one lightning bolt to strike.

"God this pussy's so good baby, never gonna let anyone take it from us again, gonna be our good girl from now on."

"Hear that baby?" Steve cooed as he stroked away the hair that stuck to the drool in the corner of your mouth, eyes soft as if he were looking at a masterpiece being made rather than inelegant unraveling of your very being. "Bucky and I are gonna take good care of you."

"B-bucky.. so close." You barely whimper before another smack is landed on your ass, your body tensing and relishing in the pain all at once.

"Take Stevie down your throat and I'll let you cum."

You don't hesitate, lifting your head up and wrapping your lips back around Steve, glancing up at him to watch his head fall back. With a deep breath through your nose you relax your throat, taking as much of him as you can while your fist makes up for the rest, head bobbing in time to Bucky's thrusts.

"Fuck, I feel you baby, squeezing me so tight. Gonna milk every last drop outta me, huh? Take it all like you took Stevie's, with a fucking smile on your face."

A sputter of a moan echoes out as your thighs tremble, bright heat soaring across every nerve in your body as your orgasm rips through you, tears pricking your waterline as Bucky follows you over, two more searing smacks on your ass punctuate his high. Steve's hand sweeps your hair to the back of your neck, fisting a handful as he graciously holds your head up as he ruts his hips into your mouth, lashes stuck together as you looked up at him with pleading eyes.

The salty drip of precum hits your tongue first as not soon after you feel each rope spurt hitting the back of you're throat as you swallowed around him, not letting a single drip out as he pulls you off and lets your head fall back down on his thigh.

Bright white circles spot across your vision as your eyes flicker open. Your brows furrow as you look around, you're laying on Steve's chest with a solid warmth behind you.

"There you are, hey pretty girl." Steve's voice fully brings you back as you sit up slightly, an arm around your waist holding you in place as you look back to see Bucky spooned up against you, eyes low lidded with a small smirk as you settled back into place.

"How you feeling?"

"Good."

"Just good?" Bucky teased from behind you, earning a flick from Steve and a small laugh from all.

"Definitely more than good."

"Good." Steve echoes out with a kiss to your forehead, pulling both you and Bucky closer in. A few moments of quiet pass by and as much as sleep is calling your name there's another, stronger presence nagging at the back of your mind.

"Guys?"

They both hum in response and you almost laugh, baffled by how similar they go back to being after such polar opposites.

"What.. happens now?"

Steve's arm tightens around you as he scoots impossibly closer. "Whatever you want. You want us gone in the morning just say the word."

"And if I don't?"

"Then we'll be right here when you wake up." Bucky answers as he switches off the table lamp, the soft glow in the room giving way to cool darkness that soothes your bones from within as both men hold you tight.

"And in the morning you'll be kissing me so sweet while begging to be Steve's little bunny again while he ruins you from the inside out."

Bucky knew not what had come over him. His heart, once so steady and so sure, was no shaken up like a trembling leaf astray in the wind. Each morning, he prayed for clarity. Each night, he begged for deliverance. Yet still, his thoughts returned to you.

He saw you everywhere. In the market. At the well.

Even when you were gone, he could not escape you. A glimpse of another woman’s hair that slightly reassembled yours made his breath catch in his throat—only for them to turn and his heart falls hollow when he realizes it was not you.

When you were near, it’s like the world around him fell quiet. His eyes would follow your hands, the way your smile softened and the wrinkles around your eyes curled up happily. He would listen, just to hear your voice, even if you spoke only a few plain words, “thank you,” or “good day.”

It was enough to completely undo him.

You didn’t speak to him often. Bucky was just another man in the town of Salem. He was quiet, hard working, and unremarkable.

You, on the other hand, seemed to belong just about everywhere. People smiled when you passed. You had plenty of friends who adored you. Just one little laugh of yours was enough to draw other people in.

Even his friend Steve had once mentioned how pleasant you were.

He tried not to think of you, but it was useless. You were in his head from the moment he woke to the moment he laid down at night. It made no sense. You both had hardly spoke, your paths rarely crossed, and yet you had a hold on him stronger than any prayer could possibly break.

So, how is that you—someone he barely knew—managed to capture his cold and concrete hard with such fragile and gentle hands?

It wasn’t natural. It just simply couldn’t be.

And that thought alone lingered in his chest like a damn sin.

Perhaps, you had bewitched him.

The thought was foolish, he knew. Just the ramblings of a man too long starved of warmth, mistaking kindness for spellwork. But still, with talk of necromancy spreading through Salem, was it so wrong for his suspicions to linger?

He sat alone that afternoon, on a bench near the meeting house. Reading, or trying to read, the worn pages of his Bible. The autumn wind nudged the corners of the paper gently, and the scent of woodsmoke drifted through town and to his nostrils.

It should’ve been a peaceful afternoon. It would’ve been, had it not been for the sound of your footsteps approaching.

Don’t look.

Don’t even breathe her way.

He felt your presence before you even spoke. The smoke and pine that had once filled his senses were now replaced by you. His fingers curled tight around the edge of the book, knuckles going white as his heart started to beat faster.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Barnes,” you greeted, voice soft as ever.

Don’t look. Don’t look up.

Bucky gave you a small nod, his eyes fixed on the page he hadn’t read a single word of. “Miss,” he muttered, hoping the clipped tone would send you on your way.

But you didn’t leave.

“May I have a seat?” you asked suddenly, your voice polite.

He finally looked up, and it ruined him. The sunlight caught your hair just so, shining like a halo, and for a moment, he forgot how to speak. This must be another one of your hidden spells—if you truly were a witch, that is.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself back into some sense.

“If you wish,” he said, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. He moved a little, not enough to be inviting, but enough to give you space.

It was as though every hint he tried to subtly give, every small attempt to keep you away, you ignored. Or worse, you had seen straight through him. It was as if you had slipped inside his mind for the truth—that he wanted you close.

You read his thoughts. Surely, you did.

And what kind of power could do that, if not witchcraft?

You folded your hands neatly in your lap, glancing towards the path. “It’s a fine day,” you brought up. “The chill hasn’t set in yet.”

He grunted. “Aye.”

You smiled faintly, unbothered by his shortness. “You always sit here, don’t you? Reading the same…” you glanced down at the Bible in his hands, “…book over and over again.”

Bucky forced his gaze to stay on the page. “There’s comfort in familiar things,” he muttered so low, as if he was speaking to himself.

“… and yet, you never seem comforted.”

As though pulled by some unseen force, his head lifted. Your eyes caught his briefly, and it took everything in him to not falter under your gaze. It felt as though you could see straight through him. His heart pounded so loud in his chest, and his fingers twitched, aching to reach for you. He hated the weakness of it. He hated the vulnerability that came with simply looking at you.

“I’m fine as I am.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “You don’t look it.”

He tightened his grip on the Bible, forcing himself to look away, as painful as it was. “You ought not concern yourself with me, miss.”

“I wasn’t concerned,” you said lightly, your voice warm. “Only curious.”

That nearly made him laugh, a bitter and choked sound that didn’t escape his chest. Curious—that was the word for it, wasn’t it? He had been curious once too, until that curiosity grew into something far worse. Until it grew into a fever that burned him from the inside out. A sickness that looked too much like desire—like obsession.

“Your friend is Mr. Rogers, isn’t he?” you asked suddenly, soft and curious.

Bucky froze. He didn’t answer. His eyes stayed glued to the page in front of him, though the words had long since lost their shape and meaning. The sound of Steve’s name rolling from your lips was like a sharp knife twisting deep in his chest.

He cleared his throat, trying to remain composed. “Aye. Steve Rogers.”

You smiled, the corners of your mouth softening. It made him sick.

“He’s kind. Always polite.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “He’s that.”

“He helped me with some firewood last week,” you continued, unaware—or perhaps pretending not to see—the way his knuckles whitened around the book. “He’s a good man.”

He let out a deep breath. “Aye, he is.”

You glanced at him then, eyes curious. “You don’t like to hear me speak of him?”

So, now you noticed his hints. It almost felt like you were taunting him.

“You speak freely of any man you wish,” he said, though his voice was rough and dark.

He told himself it was nothing—just his foolish imagination again. And yet, the thoughts took hold, crawling through his mind like poison ivy. What if you tried your spell on his dearest friend too?

Would Steve start to see you the way he did? Would his friend’s steady, good heart falter at your smile, the same way his own did? But then again—what if it wasn’t a spell at all? You had spoken to Steve more than you had ever spoken to him. Perhaps Steve was already fond of you, no magic involved.

Bucky didn’t know which thought tormented him more—that you bewitched his friend…

…or that you didn’t need to.

“Best mind yourself around Steve,” Bucky said at last. “Women seem to take kindly to him.”

You paused and blinked at him for a moment, then laughed softly. “Are you warning me, Mr. Barnes?”

He didn’t look at you, though the corners of his mouth betrayed a slight smile. “Just stating the truth.”

You tilted your head, and another soft laugh escaped your lips. His stomach churned. “You make it sound as though you speak from experience.”

“Steve’s been charming folks since we were boys,” he muttered, turning a page he didn’t even read. “It’s in his nature.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “And what about you, then?”

That caught him off guard. He looked up to meet your face. “Me?”

You nodded, still smiling. “Surely you’ve someone who’s caught your fancy? A sweetheart waiting for you after prayer?”

There was certainty in your voice, but Bucky was convinced you were toying with him — wickedly so.

“No,” he said, voice tight as he looked down again, pretending to focus on the words before him. “No one waits for me.”

“None at all?” you seemed amused. “A man like you?”

“A man like me doesn’t keep company easily.”

You laughed again. “I find that hard to believe.”

He chewed the inside of his cheek. The only reason he had no sweetheart was because you forced your way in and had taken the place of one in his heart. That every woman he met felt like a poor imitation of you.

“I didn’t mean to offense,” you said after a moment, voice going gentle. “I only meant… well, you seem a decent man, Mr. Barnes. Surely someone must’ve noticed.”

“You speak as though you know me,” he said, his voice rough and harsher than he intended.

Your face shifted slightly. At first, a flicker of surprise, then hurt. You blinked, your mouth parting slightly, yet no words came out. The sight of you like this twisted something unpleasant in his chest.

“I… I’m sorry,” you murmured quietly, your gaze dropping to your hands in your lap. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

Bucky’s heart clenched. He should’ve felt relief, should’ve been glad to see you retreat. Maybe then you’ll get up and leave him alone. But instead, he found himself staring at you, taking in the way your brows furrowed, the way your lips pressed together in shame.

There was something terrible in it—how part of him liked seeing you this way. Witches weren’t supposed to have hearts, so he took this as a sign of you being human.

“I spoke unkindly,” he said. “Forgive me.”

You looked at him then, your expression softening. A faint smile tugged at your lips, hesitant and forgiving.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Mr. Barnes,” you reassured softly. “We all speak in haste sometimes.”

Your voice was so warm and inviting, it struck him straight through the chest. You shouldn’t have sounded so kind, not after the way he had spoken to you. Not after the spiteful thoughts he harbored.

He wanted to look away, but he simply couldn’t. The sunlight caught in your eyes and your smile was breathtaking. He almost believed you truly were what everyone claimed—something otherworldly. Too bright and too good.

He swallowed hard, shutting the Bible in his lap. “I should be getting on,” he announced.

You nodded, rising from the bench, your skirt brushing lightly against his boot. “Of course. Good day to you, Mr. Barnes.”

When you disappeared around the corner, he let out a low exhale and ran a hand over his face. His pulse was still racing, his thoughts a tangled mess. To you, that conversation might’ve been unimportant—just a passing exchange on a quiet afternoon.

But to him, it was everything.

If you were a witch, you’d done your work well.

And if you weren’t… God help him.

That night, Bucky knelt beside his bed, the single candle burning low. The room was quiet, save for the faint creak of the old floorboards. He clasped his hands together and bowed his head.

“Lord,” he murmured, voice raspy, “forgive me my thoughts. Forgive me for the weakness in my heart.”

He paused, swallowing hard. He could still hear your voice in his mind, the soft way you spoke his name.

“I know not what manner of spell she’s cast,” he continued under his breath, “but I ask You, break it. Deliver me from it.”

But when he closed his eyes, it wasn’t deliverance that came. It was you.

He saw you as you’d looked on the bench, sunlight in your hair, the soft smile tugging at your plump lips. He remembered how your eyes, how they lit up when you spoke to him, and he couldn’t help but picture how’d they look if they were to roll back in pure, unadulterated bliss.

He lay down at last, turning onto his side, the sheets rough against his skin. Sleep should have come easily, but every time he shut his eyes, he saw you again.

Your laughter. Your voice. It was all like a haunting song, sweet and merciless.

He turned over again, exhaling through his nose as frustration began to boil. He pressed the palm of his hand to his chest, willing his heartbeat to slow. It was useless. The harder he tried not to think of you, the clearer your face became.

“Stop,” he whispered to the empty and dark room. “Enough.”

But his thoughts didn’t listen, and his body didn’t either.

Bucky palmed himself through the blanket, grasping himself through thin fabric. His dick was already hard and full—he tried to convince himself it was due to the coolness of the autumn breeze that whispered through the cracks of his home, but even he knew better.

He shuddered as he felt his hard length throb against his palm. He was already leaking, staining his blanket with sin.

“Please… forgive me,” he muttered quietly as he started to stroke himself slowly.

His mind couldn’t help but conjure up a picture of you, your hands—soft and warm despite him never holding them—wrapped around him. He imagined your delicate fingers exploring his length with curiosity. He pictured you biting your lip once you discovered how big he was, how hard.

As he lost himself in the fantasy, his strokes became faster, more urgent. He squeezed himself through the blanket harder until he had enough. He needed to touch himself bare. His hand crept underneath the blanket and he allowed his thumb to swirl around the leaking tip.

He was so lost in the image that he hadn’t realized he started to mutter your name under his breath, a litany of desperate pleas and fervent prayers.

“This is a sin,” he rasped as his hips started to thrust up into his own hand as he chased for release. “This is… is so vulgar…”

Even as his conscience screamed that this was utterly wrong, he couldn’t bring himself to stop. His hands kept moving, stroking, squeezing as if possessed by a will of its own—as if he was cursed under a spell.

Each thrust of his hips, each clench of his fist around his sensitive flesh, was accompanied by a surge of self-loathing.

“I’m disgusting, touching myself like this…” his breathing grew ragged as his hand turned into a blur of motion. “It’s not enough—it’s never enough, is it? I can’t… can’t stop thinking about her, wanting her…” each word was a confession, a condemnation, a desperate cry that tore straight from his throat.

His whole body tensed, his muscles tightening as his cock throbbed and pulsed in his hand. He was so close. It was wrong, so wrong, but God—he needed it. He needed to cum. He needed to paint himself in the warm slick of his own release, and he needed to do it to the thought of you.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, and despite his words, his body was not remorseful in the slightest. “I’m so sorry, Lord. But I can’t… I need…” his words dissolved into a strangled moan as he finally, blessedly, found his release.

He dipped his head back against the pillow, his mouth dropping open as he let out a choked cry in pleasure. He felt the hot, sticky proof of his sin coating his fingers. With a shaky breath, he looked down—coming face to face with the mess he’d made. He watched the way his seed had splattered across his abdomen, and he felt a wave of shame wash over him.

But even as he recoiled from the physical evidence of his weakness, his mind was already drifting back to you.

Bucky’s hand—still painted with his own release—drifted up to his face. His eyes fluttered shut as he inhaled the musky scent of his own cum. It was wrong. God help him, it was so wrong. And yet, that wrongness only seemed to pull him deeper. He wanted to believe it was your presence that haunted him. He imagined marking himself with your scent, to imagine that it was your essence he carried on his skin, in his hair, in his lungs.

He laid back, the candle burned to nothing as the room swallowed in shadow. His heartbeat finally slowed, but the ache inside him did not.

The guilt sat heavy in his chest. He had sinned, that much he knew. It was all your fault.

And yet, he wanted to see you again.

The next morning came gray and slow. Bucky rose before the sun had fully climbed, though he had hardly slept.

He went about his morning ritual—washing his face with cold water, buttoning his shirt, muttering a quiet prayer that slowly started to lose its meaning. When he stepped outside, the world seemed painfully bright. The market was already stirring—townsfolk trading bread, firewood, and gossip.

Then, his eyes landed on you.

You stood by the well, the morning light touching your hair, the same beautiful smile gracing your lips. But you weren’t alone.

Steve was beside you—his oldest friend, his steadfast companion since boyhood—and he was laughing at something you had just said.

Bucky felt like he was going to throw up.

Steve’s hand brushed lightly against your arm as he passed you a small basket, and though it was an innocent gesture, Bucky’s stomach churned all the same.

He tore his gaze away and forced his boots to move. He wove through the market, pretending to study the stalls, the apples piled in a wooden crate, the neat stacks of folded linen. He nodded to a few familiar faces, though their words slipped past him.

His body was moving, but his mind refused to stay still.

Every few breaths, his eyes wandered back to where you stood beside Steve. Yesterday afternoon, he believed that the conversation you had with him was special—but as he stood there, watching how you two spoke so easily, he felt like he was crumbling.

He tried to focus on anything else. The smell of bread, the chatter of merchants, the scraping sounds of wagon wheels on dirt. But no matter how hard he tried, there you were—like a flame drawing him near even as he knew it would burn him.

And Steve…

Good, honest Steve.

Was it just him, or had his friend looked at anyone else that way? That boyish smile, the tilt of his head when you spoke. It was as if something unseen had already taken hold of him.

Bucky’s throat went dry as the thought came to him.

Had you cast your spell on him, too?

It made sense. Of course it did. Witches didn’t strike just once—they tempted, they lured, they spread their evil wickedness like smoke. He had been foolish to think himself the only victim.

He gripped the edge of the stall so tightly that the wood creaked beneath his hand. The merchant gave him a weary glance, but Bucky didn’t see it. All he could see was Steve leaning closer to you. All he could hear was your laughter, soft and bright like a bell.

She’s ensnared him, just as she’s ensnared me.

His feet began to move before he could stop himself. It wasn’t reason that guided him. One step, then another until he approached the both of you, his pulse thundering in his ears.

You turned your head, noticing him first.

“Good morning, Mr. Barnes,” you greeted brightly, the corners of your lips curving into a smile that should’ve warmed him, but only made the blood in his veins run hotter.

He stopped before you, dipping his head in a curt nod. “Miss.”

Then, he turned to Steve. “Rogers. A word?”

Steve raised a brow, caught off guard by the tone. “Now?”

Bucky only gave him a short and stiff nod. “Now.”

You looked between them, your face confused and concerned. “Is everything alright?”

Bucky’s jaw worked as if he might answer, but he didn’t trust his tongue. He only briefly glanced your way before turning on his heel.

Steve hesitated. “I’ll be right back,” he promised to you softly before following Bucky towards the edge of the square.

Bucky didn’t speak until they were out of your hearing range. They stood behind the meeting house where the noise of the market lowered to a hum. Steve barely had time to catch his breath before Bucky turned on him.

“Are you feeling alright?”

Steve frowned. “I—what?”

“You’ve not been feeling strange, have you? Lightheaded? Restless?” Bucky’s question came out fast. “You’ve been sleeping well? Eating proper?”

Steve blinked, a bewildered smile forming at his lips. “Buck, what are you on about?”

Bucky stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Just answer me.”

“I’m fine,” Steve said slowly, his brows furrowing. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Bucky’s eyes darted back towards the square, towards you where you stood by the apples—God forbid you curse them too—then back to Steve.

“You’ve been spending time with her,” he said quietly. “You ought to be careful.”

Steve’s confusion only deepened. “Careful?” he huffed a soft laugh. “Buck, she’s hardly dangerous. She was only telling me about the sermon this Sunday—”

"And you believe that?”

Steve’s eyes narrowed a little as he leaned closer. “What’s gotten into you?”

Bucky didn’t answer. His hands fisted at his sides, nails biting into his palms. How could he tell Steve the truth? That he thought you were the cause of every restless night, every unholy thought that had taken its root in his mind and body.

“Just… watch yourself, Steve” he said at last.

Steve let out a sigh, resting a heavy palm on his shoulder. “You’re worrying over nothing,” he said gently. “You should get some rest.”

The sun had long begun its descent.

Bucky walked along the worn dirt path that curved through the field, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets as the chill dusk brushed against his skin. He told himself the walk was for peace—a way to clear his mind and the ache from his chest. But no length of solitude could quiet the thoughts that plagued him.

They all came back to you.

How could you do this? A spell cast in secret—on him, on Steve, perhaps the whole town if no one was careful. Because the alternative, that it was simply his own heart betraying him, was too unbearable to name.

He walked for a while longer. And there you were.

You stood by the wooden fence that lined the greenery, a basket in your arms, gathering the last of the wildflowers that grew by the path. Alone, your shawl drawn close against the air.

He could turn back now, vanish before you noticed. But something stronger pulled him forward.

“Miss,” he greeted roughly.

You turned at the sound, surprise shifting into a soft smile. “Mr. Barnes,” you greeted with a gentle tone. “You walk often this time of evening?”

He nodded. “Clears the mind.” But his mind was not clear at all.

You tilted your head slightly, that curious look in your eyes. “And has it worked?”

He hesitated, then let out a dry breath. “Not yet.”

You brought a hand to your mouth and laughed quietly, the same way you had with Steve. The sound was small, but bright against the gathering dark.

Bucky looked away, jaw clenching. “You ought not to be out here alone,” he murmured. “The woods grow dark quick. folk talk of strange things, these nights.”

Your smile wavered, and although he wasn’t looking anymore, you still stared at his face. “Do you believe in such talk?”

“I believe something’s amiss. Something that makes good men lose their senses.”

“Good men…” your eyes softened, one hand rising to your chin in thought. “Such as you and Mr. Rogers?”

He inhaled slowly through his nose, not trusting his tongue. “I think…” he started quietly. “I think I must be going.”

You took a step closer before he could turn away. “Wait,” you protested softly. “Please. I’d like to talk.”

He should have walked off. He should’ve muttered a polite farewell and gone home to pray for forgiveness. But something in your tone, the way you pleaded for him, it hollowed out all his resolve.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw.

“You shouldn’t walk alone in this hour,” he pointed out gruffly. “I suppose I’ll see you home.”

You smiled then, gentle and genuine. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Barnes.”

He gave you a small nod, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “It’s no trouble,” though his voice betrayed him—it was all the trouble.

You both began walking. The path stretched before you, narrow and worn from passing feet. The lantern light from nearby homes flickered dimly through the trees. Every few steps, your shoulder brushed against his arm, and each time it happened, his breath caught like he had been struck.

You were the first one to break the silence.

“You don’t seem the sort to keep to yourself, Mr. Barnes,” you started. “And yet I see you often alone.”

He gave a faint and humorless smile. “Perhaps I’m the sort that’s easier to keep away from than toward.”

You glanced at him, a slight pout on your lips. “I don’t find that to be true.”

He huffed out a quiet and dry chuckle. “Then you’d be the only one.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you say with a soft chuckle.

Bucky looked at you, his eyes watching your shawl slip just slightly from one shoulder.

He cleared his throat, forcing his gaze away. “Folk talk too much in this town,” continued. “It’s easier to keep one’s name clean by keeping one’s distance.”

“Then they must talk a great deal of me!” you joked, but your smile didn’t quite each your eyes.

“Do they?” he frowned.

You shrugged. “A woman who keeps company with no husband, who laughs too loudly, who reads more than she sews—they’ll make their stories. It doesn’t matter what’s true.”

Bucky stopped mid-step, and you continued on before pausing as well, looking over your shoulder at him with a confused tilt of your head.

Guilt crept through his veins like cold water. He had thought wicked things of you. He had called you a witch—an enchantress. But hearing you now, so calm and painfully human, that belief began to crack.

Maybe you weren’t wicked.

Maybe all along you were just a woman—kind, bright, and far too good for his suspicion.

But still. What if this was part of your spell? What if your words were meant to draw pity from him, to pull him closer until he could no longer tell right from wrong?

His heart and mind warred, leaving his tongue caught somewhere in the middle.

“I’ve heard what they say,” he admitted quietly. “But… I don’t believe it.”

Bucky wasn’t sure if it was the truth or a lie.

You looked at him then, surprised. “You don’t?”

He didn’t say anything. His eyes were completely locked on yours. All he did was shook his head.

Then, you smiled. Honest and genuine.

“That makes me happy, Mr. Barnes.” you stepped ahead again, nodding your head towards the road. “Come,” you urged gently. “We’re nearly to my door.”

The two of you walked in silence after that, save for the rhythm of your steps and the soft creak of the basket you carried.

When you reached your cottage, you stopped at the gate, pushing it open with a small creak.

“Thank you for walking with me,” you smiled. “It was kind of you.”

Bucky nodded. “Of course,” but he didn’t move to leave. His hand rested on the post beside him. He wanted to bid you goodnight, but in all honesty, he did not want to go.

A faint crease formed between your brows. “Mr. Barnes?” you asked gently. “Is something the matter?”

He swallowed, forcing himself to shake his head. “No,” he said. “Only—” he stopped, uncertain what truth he could give that wouldn’t damn him.

You hesitated, turning your head to your house for just a second before looking back at him. “Would you like to come in?” you asked at last. Your voice was careful and hesitant, but still carried warmth as it always did.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat. He stared at you, at the hand you rested on the latch, at the door just beyond. He knew he shouldn’t. A woman alone, the town full of watchful eyes…

It would be all it took to seal both your fates in gossip and ruin.

But just the thought of stepping away from you, of leaving you here, all alone and helpless. It felt painful.

“I shouldn’t,” he said finally, though it sounded less like refusal and more like a confession.

You smiled faintly. “Then I won’t press you.”

He bowed his head, his jaw clenched and his body stiff. “Good evening, Miss.”

“Good evening, Mr. Barnes.”

And as you turned, his eyes followed you. The faint lamplight from inside your cottage spilled out across the porch. Each step you took away from him was like a knife driving deeper in his chest—a torture method performed by you. Denying you felt like he was punishing himself.

“Wait.”

You paused, glancing over your shoulder. The door remained half open, warm light curling around you like an angel being welcomed into heaven. “Yes?”

He hadn’t meant to stop you, hadn’t meant to do anything at all, but the idea of you disappearing behind that door without another word ruined him.

“I—” he stopped, letting out a slow breath in an attempt to steady his heart. “Forgive me. It’s only… been some time since I’ve spoken so freely with anyone.”

“Then I’m glad you did,” you smiled. You turned, preparing to enter your home, but Bucky’s voice stopped you.

“May I come in?”

You turned back to him, face caught in surprise.

He stepped forward, praying he didn’t look like a desperate man aching for attention—but it was far too late for that. He stepped all the way up to the foot of your porch like a man torn between sin and salvation, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes.

“Only for a moment,” he reassured, the lie slipping easy from his lips.

And when you finally nodded, stepping aside to grant him passage, it felt as though the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders.

“If you wish,” you murmured.

He stepped inside, his boots clicking softly against the wooden floor. The scent of floral greeted him. The whole space was comforting, in a way that nearly unsettled him.

You moved quickly, fussing with the few things on the small table near the hearth. You straightened a stack of books, adjusting a candle that didn’t need adjusting. It was pleasing to watch you scramble.

“Forgive the mess,” you said with a nervous little laugh, brushing your hands down the front of your dress. “I suppose I should’ve tidied up before inviting you in.”

Bucky nodded, setting his hat carefully on the edge of the table before lowering himself into a chair, watching you fuss about the room.

“You’re cute when you fret,” he said before he could think—before he could stop himself.

The words slipped out so naturally, that for a moment even he didn’t realize he had spoken them out loud. When you turned towards him, your eyes were wide, and his face and chest burned hot beneath the collar of his shirt.

“I—” he shifted in his heat. “I only meant… there’s no need to fuss, is all.”

But the damage was already done. You were smiling now, and his pulse jumped.

“Cute, am I?” you teased gently, folding your hands in front of you.

He dropped his gaze to his lap, fiddling with his hands. “It's just a word,” he mumbled.

He thought it’d grow uncomfortable from there, but what began as simple pleasantries—weather, town gossip, the harvest—turned into something comfortable, easier.

Every now and then you laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, and it did something terrible to Bucky’s chest. He found himself answering more freely than he’d meant to, forgetting the sin that had brought him here at all.

After a while, the candles burned low, the wax pooling near the base. You glanced toward the small basin tucked behind a curtain and let out a reluctant sigh.

“It grows late,” you announced, getting up with a groan. “I should bathe and call it a night.”

Bucky blinked, snapping himself out of whatever thought he was lost in. “Of course,” he agreed quickly, rising to his feet. “I’ll take my leave—”

“Wait,” you interrupted, stepping towards him before he could reach for his hat. “You needn’t rush off.”

He froze.

You hesitated, suddenly aware of your own boldness. “It’s only… I’ve enjoyed our talk,” you admitted sheepishly. “If you don’t mind the wait, I’d like to continue once I’m done. Just a few minutes.”

Bucky’s throat felt dry, his pulse loud in his ears. Every reasonable thought told him to go—that it was improper, that the whispers would be endless if anyone saw him leave your home after dark.

And still, he sat back down, his hat untouched.

“If you wish,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

When you disappeared behind the curtain, the tension in the air seemed to close around him. The faint splash of water reached his ears, a sound that made the room feel too small and too warm.

Bucky sat rigid in his chair, hands clasped in his lap as if in prayer. His leg bounced restlessly, a nervous motion he couldn’t still. Every part of him screamed to leave, to do the decent, proper thing and walk out the door before his thoughts betrayed him again.

He should’ve done that from the start, and even then, he still didn’t move.

You were dangerous.

He pressed a hand to his knee, forcing it to still. “Fool,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re a fool.”

His eyes drifted towards the curtain again, to where your shadow moved softly beyond the light. He knew you were completely bare under there. Just one shift, one accidental slip, would expose you to him, vulnerable and raw.

“Goodness,” he muttered as his mind raced with images, each one more provocative than the last. He pictured your skin, glistening and wet from the bath. Your damp hair framing your face like a portrait of a water nymph.

He’s a coiled spring, wounding tighter and tighter with each passing second, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

Bucky started to feel a growing tightness in his trousers. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to ignore the insistent throbbing that had begun to distract him. But it was no use. His body, once again, was betraying him with his deepest, darkest desires.

And he was powerless to stop it.

He watched the curtain carefully, making sure you were still occupied with your bath. He allowed his hand to drift down to his lap as he cupped his heavy balls through the thick fabric of his pants.

He bit back a groan, eyes fluttering closed as he gave himself a slow, teasing squeeze. It was not enough—but it was a start. A small release of the pressure that’s building inside him.

A low groan escaped his lips as he pictured you emerging from the bath, your skin flushed and rosy as water dripped down the valley between your breasts, over the curve of your stomach, disappearing between your thighs.

He imagined you crawling to him, a look of pure, unadulterated lust on your face as you straddled his lap, as you take him into your own hand and…

This was bad. He was hard now, painfully so. He palmed himself through the fabric, strokes growing bolder and more insistent as his desire for you consumed him whole.

“I—I should go…” he grunted, hips bucking up into his hand to meet that delicious friction. “I… I shouldn’t—shouldn’t be here, Miss…”

“I’m almost finished, Mr. Barnes,” you called.

From behind the curtain came the faint sounds of movement—the soft shuffle of fabric, the creak of a floorboard. Then you appeared again, composed and calm, your hair damp at the ends and your robe drawn neatly at your throat.

Bucky swallowed hard. You were the sight of temptation.

He pulled his hand away from his lap and rose at once, adjusting his stance and now unsure of what to do with his hands.

“I thought to take my leave, but—”

“I’m glad you stayed,” you interrupted, pleased.

His eyes couldn’t help but linger to your frame, the way the flimsy robe hugged your body in a way that was borderline inappropriate. He tried to force himself to look away, to meet your eyes at least, but he couldn’t.

“I shouldn’t impose,” he managed to say.

“You’re not,” you said. “It’s only talk, Mr. Barnes.”

“Talk,” he echoed.

You tilted your head, studying him from across the small room. The fire popped, breaking the silence, and before he could stop himself, Bucky took a slow, shy step forward.

You didn’t move away.

He told himself it was the candlelight playing tricks, that the warmth in your eyes wasn’t real, that it was some enchantment meant to draw him closer. But his body no longer listened to his reason. His heart beat hard in his chest, and when he spoke, his voice was rough-edged.

“You’re…” he stopped, swallowing hard as his throat tightened. “You’re beautiful.”

You froze, caught off guard by the gentleness in his tone. “You’re kind to say so,” you said with a small, uncertain smile. “And you, Mr. Barnes, you’re quite handsome yourself.”

“You… you think I’m handsome?” he asked in disbelief. “That… makes me so happy.”

He lifted a hand up before he could stop himself, his movement hesitant. His fingers hovered near your cheek, and you shuddered under his gentle touch.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, though he didn’t draw back. “I don’t know what comes over me when I look at you.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” you reassured as you had before.

You rest your palm against his hand, holding it steady against your cheek. His skin was rough and calloused, a testament to the hard life he’s lived. But it’s warm and strong, feeling a sense of safety and security in just a simple touch.

Bucky leaned in closer, his face mere inches away from your own. His head was spinning with your scent—the sweet aroma of your bath mingling with the unique fragrance of your skin. He’d never wanted anything as much as he wanted you in this very moment.

As if consumed by a powerful spirit, he closed the remaining distance between you. His lips met yours in a soft, gentle kiss that quickly ignited into something desperate. You sighed against his mouth, fingers curling around his wrist as you leaned into him.

You kissed him back like you knew that he was lost, utterly and completely.

His free hand came up to cup the back of your fragile neck, fingers tangling in the damp strands of your hair as he deepened the kiss. He angled his head, lips moving over yours with a hunger that’s both gentle and urgent.

At this point, he no longer cared if it was a spell. His yearning for you burned too deep, too consuming to be reasoned with. Every shred of longing, every forbidden desire he had buried within himself seemed to rise to the surface, spilling into this single, perfect moment.

Consequences be damned. Prayers be damned.

And he knew he was done for the minute your body shifted against his, the damp fabric of your robe riding up your thigh as you pressed your leg against him. Whether it was intentional or not, it ruined him.

“Miss…” Bucky groaned into your mouth, the sensation of your bare skin against his throbbing, clothed erection made him shudder. “I… we shouldn’t—”

“Mr. Barnes,” you gasped, his cock throbbing helplessly against your leg. “Do you find this… pleasurable?”

“No,” he grumbled—though it sounded more like a helpless plea. “Not pleasurable—not in the slightest… this—this is torture.”

His voice cracked as his hand wandered down from your cheek, to the curve of your waist hidden by the thin robe. His breath was trembling as though it hurt to speak.

“You’ve taken hold of me, Miss. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I walk through town and see nothing but you. I hear your voice in the wind, in the creak of every door… it’s as though God Himself has sent you in my mind to test me.”

He sucked in a shallow breath, his hand encircling your wrist and guiding it down to his throbbing erection. It pulsed in your hands. “I want to understand it. I want to see you and not lose myself. But I can’t. I can’t, and it’s driving me mad…”

“I… I don’t know what to say, Mr. Barnes,” you spoke softly, swallowing hard yet your hand didn’t move. “I apologize—”

“No apologies,” Bucky interrupted, letting out a ragged breath. “Just—touch me, please. I beg you.”

You were silent for a moment, and he was frightened that he might’ve scared you. But then, slowly, your hand started to move. Your fingers rubbed and stroked, tracing the large shape of him through the fabric.

He let out a sharp and ragged gasp, his hips twitching involuntarily into your touch—begging for more.

“That feels…” he groaned, his head falling into the crook of your neck as his body surrendered to your touch. “That feels so good. Please, please don’t stop…”

Bucky’s body trembled with need, his hips rocking urgently into your palm as you continued to stroke and tease him through his straining pants. The rough fabric of his trousers rubbed deliciously against his sensitive flesh.

“I need… I need more. Please, I can’t…” his words dissolved into a strangled moan as a shameful spurt of pre-cum leaks from the tip of his cock, dampening the cloth.

You felt the wet spot spreading beneath your fingertips, the evidence of disgraceful arousal. You looked up at him, your eyes wide and curious—yet dark with desire.

“Mr. Barnes,” you murmured, your fingers still stroking, “you seem to be in quite a state. Perhaps you need help getting out of these trousers?”

“I—”

Without waiting for him to finish, you deftly unbuttoned his pants, fingers brushing against his skin as you tugged the fabric down over his hips. As his pants and undergarments peeled away, your eyes widened at the sight of the massive, throbbing erection springing free.

“Oh,” you breathed, wrapping your fingers around his warm flesh. “Mr. Barnes… you’re—well, you’re big.”

“Squeeze it, my dear,” he breathed, body going stiff. “Please. Do not leave me too long, lest I—oh…!”

Bucky’s words died in his throat as you squeezed him gently. You marveled at the way his flesh pulsed in your grip—hot, hard, and heavy. You sunk to your knees before he could order you to, your breath ghosting over his sensitive skin, and placed a soft kiss on the leaking tip.

He inhaled sharply, his fingers coming down to tangle in your hair as you lavish his aching cock with tender kisses. “Oh, mercy,” he moaned. “Y-you… you undo me.”

You let out a soft and amused hum, the sound vibrating against his dick. Your mouth parted as you took him in, your lips stretched taut around his thickness as you began to suck, tongue swirling around the swollen head of his cock.

“Your mouth…!” he panted as the warmth of your mouth enveloped him.

“It’s… it’s incredible. Please don’t stop, please…” He groaned as his head fell back into pleasure. “Fuck—Lord, for-forgive… me…”

The words left him before he could catch them, shameful on his tongue. Bucky froze, breath ragged, a tremor running through him as the echo of his own voice filled the room.

Blasphemy.

He’d uttered blasphemy in a moment of weakness—of desire.

His throat tightened, his chest burning with guilt. He pressed a hand to his lips as if to seal them shut, to take the word back, but it was too late. How easily sin had found its way into him. How quick he was to forget the Lord’s name in favor of your warm mouth.

Bucky’s hips started to move on their own, rocking gently into the perfect suction of your lips. He was lost in a fog of lust, eyes hazy with desire and sin. He was drowning in the feel of your mouth around him, the way your tongue swirled and danced around his aching flesh.

He knew he should’ve felt guilty, that taking the Lord’s name in vain was a sin, but the pleasure was too delectable to stop.

His moans grew louder as your mouth worked his tender flesh. He could feel the pressure building, the coil of tension in his gut as his release approached. Just as he was ready to explode into your eager mouth, he suddenly pulled back, his hands gripping your shoulders tightly.

“Wait, Miss… stop—” he gritted through clenched teeth, his face a rictus of strain and effort. “We should… we should stop. This is… too much, too fast. This is wrong.” But despite his words, his hips involuntarily continued to twitch and jerk, seeking more of your warm and silky mouth.

You pulled back, your lips glistening with saliva and the first drops of his pre-cum. You looked up at him, eyes hazy with lust and confusion. “I.. I apologize, Mr. Barnes,” you murmured, starting to rise to your feet. “I didn’t mean to… to push you too far.”

And as you move to stand, your robe slipped down, exposing your bare shoulder and the slight curve of your breast. The sight of your skin—exposed and bare—was Bucky’s undoing. With a strained groan and without a clear mind, his hands came up to grasp your shoulders, pulling you in and letting his lips connect to the soft skin of your neck.

You gasped. “M-Mr. Barnes!”

“Your skin… it’s perfect. Forgive me, Lord, for am I weak…” his hands slipped down your back, the damp fabric of your robe bunching under his touch as he tugged at it impatiently.

Even as he whispered prayers for forgiveness, his body refused to listen—driven by want, by need, by something he could not control.

His hand found the sash of your robe, tugging at it roughly and loosening the knot. The robe slipped down further, sleeves falling off your shoulders, your waist, until the garment pooled around your ankles.

He leveled to his knees, his lips trailing over the curve of your breasts, teeth grazing against the sensitive skin gently as his hands roamed all over your bare body greedily. Every movement felt like worship, each brush of his fingers a confession of how deeply you had crushed him.

Your hands tangled in his hair. “M-Mr. Barnes,” you breathed, voice trembling. “I… I thought you wished to… end this?”

But Bucky was beyond the point of no return. He looked up at you—his eyes once vulnerable and confused—now dark and intense, the blue irises nearly swallowed by the black of his pupils.

“I need you,” he growled. “I can’t stop. Not when I’ve seen the beauty of your naked skin, the feel of your soft flesh. I must have you—all of you, or I’ll die.”

Your breath caught, heart beating wildly in your chest as you looked down at him. There was something dangerous in his eyes—an intensity that both frightened and drew you in. You could see the strain in him, the battle between restraint and surrender, and somehow, you wanted to be the one to unbind him from it.

“Yes,” you said at last, voice barely above a whisper, “yes, Mr. Barnes. Take me. Have me. I am yours.”

And just like that, something wild flashed in Bucky’s eyes—a feral, unrestrained joy.

In one desperate motion, he rose from the floor and gathered you into his arms, holding you close as though he had been starving for the feel of you. His steps carried a strange certainty, as if he already knew the way through your home, as if a stronger force was guiding him—his mind no longer his own.

When he reached the bed, he did not slow. He allowed you to fall back onto the mattress, crawling over you before you can even catch your breath. Your eyes widened as you stared up at him—body trembling with a mix of fear and hunger.

As Bucky settled between your thighs, you felt the hard and insistent press of his arousal against your bare pussy.

“Mr. Barnes,” you hesitated, swallowing hard. “Tell me… have you ever been with anyone before?” Your voice was soft, unsure. You could feel the raw, untempered heat of him, the way his cock throbbed and pulsed in a way that bordered on madness.

“I—no,” he managed, the word breaking rough in his throat. “I am pure. I’ve never…” He faltered, voice low with shame, as though admitting it were a sin in itself.

Your expression softened, fingers brushing a lock of hair from his brow.

“Are you certain, Mr. Barnes?” you asked quietly. “Certain you’d risk so much… with someone like me?”

“I would risk far worse,” he confessed, voice shaky. “If it meant feeling this… if it meant having you.”

You smiled as you leaned up, your lips meeting his in a soft and tender kiss. As your lips met, you whispered softly against his mouth.

“Give it to me, Mr. Barnes. Give me everything you have. I want to feel you, all of you, inside me, around me. Consume me until there’s nothing left but the two of us and this moment.”

Bucky's eyes widened with hunger the minute your words reached his ears. With a hoarse groan, he moved forward, capturing your lips in a desperate kiss that stole the very breath from your lungs.

As he kissed you, he began to tear at his own clothing with urgency, buttons flying in his haste to divest himself of the barriers between them. He wrenched his shirt over his head, the fabric straining and then ripping as he tugged it off. His belt hit the floor with a clatter, followed by the sound of his pants being shoved down his thighs.

“Need you,” he muttered. “I need to be inside you. I need to feel your heat around me… to know you’re real and not some vision come to haunt me.”

“I’m not a vision, Mr. Barnes,” you whispered, your hands clutching at his back. “I’m real.”

“That are you are,” he agreed huskily, grabbing his bare cock in his hands and pressing it up against your warm folds.

"Forgive me, Lord," he panted, his body shuddering as dick throbbed against your slit. "Forgive me for what I am about to do. But I cannot resist this temptation any longer. I must have her, must lose myself in her, or surely perish."

The words were a desperate, strangled prayer, a final appeal to divine mercy before he surrendered completely to the devil of his desire.

After his unholy prayer, he nudged the tip of his cock against your entrance. He let out a groan at the feel of your wet heat. You arched your back, a soft gasp escaping your lips as his swollen head caught.

“Have mercy, Mr. Barnes…” you whimpered, “please, be gentle—”

“I’ll try with all that’s left of me,” he grunted, already pushing past your entrance with a slow roll of his hips. “God help me, but I can’t swear to it.”

And after his unholy promises, he rolled his hips forward, pushing more of his thick length inside you, stretching you around him inch by excruciating inch. He tossed his head back in a moan as your tight, slick walls enveloped him.

“You’re… you’re so big!” you gasped, fingers scrabbling at his back, nails digging into his skin. “I can’t… I don’t know if I can take it all… oh! Mercy, please—”

“You can do it,” Bucky encouraged, his voice almost hypnotic. “Every inch of me is going to fit inside you. I’ll make sure of it.”

His words were a sinful promise, a filthy incitement that only spurred him on.

“Breathe through it, my little dove. Breathe through the stretch, the burn, the pleasure. Take me inside you, all of me, every last bit of my aching, throbbing length. Let it reshape you, mold you… fuck, ruin you… for any other man.”

Bucky grabbed the back of your thighs, lifting them up slightly so he can drive his thick shaft deeper into your tight heat. He moved like a man possessed, moved like he no longer was in control of his own body.

“I can’t…” you whimpered helplessly. “Please, slow down! It’s too much… too fast!”

Your hips bucked and writhed beneath him, trying to accommodate the relentless invasion even as your body struggled to adjust to his considerable size.

But Bucky was a man lost in desire and lust that overwhelmed his last vestiges of control. He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he growled.

“You say that, little dove…” he grunted, “yet your greedy little cunt is trying to swallow me whole. I can feel every bit of it—as if you’re begging for a good, honest man like me to fill you up.”

You sniffled under his crude words, yet it was something about his voice—raw and hungry—that made your body tremble with pleasure, walls fluttering around him.

“Ohhh, that’s it,” he groaned at the feeling.

He tightened his grip on your thighs, pushing them up and back as he leaned over you, his body nearly folding you in half.

He positioned your smooth legs over his shoulders, the back of your knees resting against his chest. In this new position, a sloppy mating press, he’s able to plunge into you even deeper.

“God…” his hips piston relentlessly, the slap of skin against skin filling the room as he took you in such a dirty position. “I want to fuck you and burn for it.”

You could only moan helplessly beneath him. Your hands clutched at his biceps, feeling his muscles as he moved over you—claiming you, owning you. You’ve never felt so utterly filled and defiled—nonetheless on a man’s cock.

It’s terrifying.

It’s exhilarating.

And yet, you want more.

“I want…” he growled, hands tightening around your waist as he fucked deeper into you. “I want to give you my child, little angel. I want to flood your womb with my seed. I want to fill you with new life. I want… God, I want to make you mine.”

Each word was a dark and filthy promise. It was as if he had no control over his own mouth as he declared his deepest and most base desires. With each thrust, he ground deep inside you, his cock pulsing and throbbing.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he panted, his breathing hard. “To be mated with you like this, to feel your tight little cunt gripping my cock, begging to be bred. It’s been my longest dream, little angel.”

His eyes—wild and blazing with lust—bored into yours as he loomed over you, hips driving into you faster and deeper.

“I’ve fallen asleep each night, only to wake with the phantom feel of your legs wrapped around me…” he tried to speak between moans and ragged breaths, every word coming out like a desperate whine.

“I imagined your nails raking down my back as I fucked you into oblivion… and now, here we are—fuck, lost in the… the throes of passion—on the brink of creation itself…”

His voice pitched higher as he babbled on, his cock pulsing and throbbing inside of you uncontrollably. The sensation was growing unbearable.

“I-I am yours…” you moaned, barely getting the words out. “I am yours, if… if you will have me so.”

Bucky’s body tensed above you. “Yes—that’s it, little dove…” his hips started to jerk and stutter, losing their rhythm as the overwhelming sensation of his release consumed him.

“Fuck, I can’t…. I’m going to…” he panted, voice rising higher and frantic as his cock pulsed inside you.

The sensation was overpowering as a delicious, torturous pressure started to build at the base of your spine with each erratic thrust. You clung to him tighter, nails digging into his back, your body arching to meet his as he lost himself completely.

“Yes, Mr. Barnes, yes!” you cried, your voice breaking into a moan as your cunt spasmed around him, releasing your own pleasure. “Give it to me, give me everything you have. I want to feel you coming inside me, filling me, claiming me…”

Bucky threw his head back and let out a strangled moan, the poor bed creaking and crying as his hips moved relentlessly—pounding into you deeper, harder. Then finally, his hips slammed forward one last time, burying his cock deep inside your spasming cunt as his orgasm came—blissful and hot.

You gasped as you felt his cock pulse inside you, releasing thick ropes of his pent-up seed. It felt like an endless flood, like he was saving himself just for you.

For a long moment, you remain locked together, Bucky's hips pressed tight against yours as you both trembled and shuddered. He felt his heart hammering against his ribs, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. Your body was still fluttering and clenching around his half-hard cock, as if reluctant to let him go.

“You’re warm,” he murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. His voice was soft, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. “I could hold you like this forever and not tire.”

You hummed against his chest, nuzzling closer. “I… like this,” you whispered, your fingers tracing small patterns along his arm. “Just being near you, Mr. Barnes—”

“Please,” he interrupted firmly. “No need for pleasantries, especially after how I’ve undone you.”

A brief silence fell, tense and uneasy, making your heart flutter despite the closeness you had just shared.

You lifted your eyes to his, voice small so small and cautious, as if you were testing him.

“I… I love you, James,” you whispered.

“You… love me?” he breathed, his voice rough with disbelief and awe.

“Yes,” you said, pressing closer against him. “I cannot hide it any longer. My heart is yours, whether you wish it or not.”

A low, choked sound escaped him—part sigh and part laugh. “By God… you’ve undone me,” he murmured, his lips brushing the top of your head.

“And… what of my friend, Steve Rogers?” he asked quietly, hesitant. “Do you… feel anything for him? Or is this… only for me?”

You blinked, taken aback by the question.

“James,” you started softly, lifting your hand to rest against his cheek, “you have nothing to fear. My heart has been yours for some time. No one else…” your words faltered, but your eyes were steady and full of truth. “…no one else holds it.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his fingers digging lightly into your arm.

“I see,” he grunted. A shadow passed over his eyes. “There will be… rumors, you know. Whispers in the streets, questions in every corner of Salem.”

You tilted your head, a faint and defiant smile tugging at your lips.

“Let them speak,” you said softly, brushing a hand along his. “They do not know us. They cannot know what is here, between you and me.”

He frowned. “You’re not afraid?”

“I am not afraid,” you whispered, leaning closer until your forehead rest against his bare chest.

“Not while I am with you.”

The morning light slanted through the cracks of the shutters.

Bucky lay awake, staring at the ceiling, his mind a tangle mess of shame and obsession. Every thought from the night before clawed back into his chest. Each memory like a needle pricking at his conscience.

He felt… tainted.

A sinner.

Unworthy.

The warmth of your body against his, the softness of your hands, the tight feel of you—it was all lodged in his mind, a sin he could not wash away.

Bucky twisted the blanket around his fists, muttering under his breath.

It is wrong. All wrong. She is a witch, I am certain. No woman could draw a man to her heart so completely without dark craft.

The thought made him shiver. He shivered in fear, in desperate denial. You told him you loved him. You opened your heart to him. And here he was, lying in bed and hating himself.

It cannot be love.

It cannot be me who desires her so.

It must be your doing.

He rose stiffly from the bed, pacing the small room as though movement could dislodge the images from his mind. His hands trembled as he buried his face in them, muttering prayers that could no longer help him. “God, forgive me. God, forgive me…”

He hated himself for the longing that still burned in his chest. Every glance he remembered, every confession from the night prior, it fed both the fuels of desire and disgust. He tried to tell himself he had been fooled, that it was all enchantment, yet a small, trembling part of him knew the truth.

He had given his heart willingly, though he would never admit it aloud.

Bucky’s boots crunched against the dirt road. The town had begun to stir—vendors laying out their goods, housewives exchanging greetings—but to him, it all blurred. His hands were still shaking, his breath uneven.

Steve stood near the well, speaking with a few men. He looked as he always did—steady, good, and unwavering. A man untouched by sin.

A man who hadn’t been ruined by a single night’s weakness.

He should know. Steve would understand. Steve would see the danger. He had to.

“Steve,” Bucky called out.

Steve turned, brows furrowing slightly at the sight of his friend. “Bucky. You look as though you’ve not slept a wink. What’s the matter?”

“I need to speak with you,” he said sharply. “Alone.”

“This again?” Steve frowned.

With a reluctant sigh, he nodded and stepped away from the others, following him to the side of the road beneath the shade of an old elm.

“What is it?” Steve asked, almost impatient. “You’re pale as a ghost.”

Bucky dragged a trembling hand through his hair, exhaling a shaky breath. “I’ve sinned,” he muttered. “God help me, I’ve sinned, Steve.”

Steve’s brows drew together, but he said nothing, letting Bucky continue.

“It’s her,” Bucky spat out suddenly, voice shaking. “She’s bewitched me. She must have. There’s no other way—no other way a man like me could…” he stopped himself, choking on the words—on the memory of your touch and the way his heart had broken open for you.

Steve’s face hardened—not in anger, but in warning. He lowered his voice, glancing toward the square where others milled about.

“Bucky,” he said slowly, carefully, “you need to watch your tongue.”

Bucky looked at him, confused.

“Witchcraft talk is dangerous,” Steve continued. “You know what this town does to women accused of it. Even a whisper—just one—can turn a neighbor into a mob. If word got out, she’d have no hope of mercy.”

“But Steve, you don’t understand. It feels like—”

“I do understand,” Steve cut in firmly. “I’ve seen what happens when men let their feelings twist into something ugly. Whether or not you believe she’s bewitched you, keep it to yourself. For her sake. For yours.”

Steve stepped back with a tired sigh. “I should get going. There’s work to be done,” he added, turning to leave.

“Steve,” Bucky said hoarsely, the name stuck in his throat like a plea.

Steve stopped, looking over his shoulder.

Bucky’s chest heaved as if the very words were clawing their way out of him. “It wasn’t me,” he rasped, hands clenching at his sides. “I swear to you, Steve, it wasn’t of my own will. She… she used her spellwork—she must’ve. She drew me in like some poor creature to the flame.”

“What—”

“She looked at me,” Bucky continued painfully. “Just looked, and I followed. As though I’d no mind of my own. She bid me come inside… and I went. Like a fool, I went.”

The memory of your voice, soft and warm, wrapped around him again like smoke. His throat tightened and his heart started to hurt—as if his own words were torture.

“She whispered to me,” he went on, trembling now, “and it was as though every prayer I’d ever known fled from my mind. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. I was hers before I even crossed her threshold.”

“Bucky…”

“She touched me,” Bucky pressed, voice going louder. “She took me in, bewitched me so I couldn’t turn away. And before I knew it…” He let out a sharp, broken breath, his gaze unfocused as the night before bled into the present. “I was in her arms. I was one withher.”

The words were barely free of his tongue before regret crashed through him.

Steve’s face changed—subtle, but enough to knock the air from Bucky’s lungs. The furrow of his brow deepened, his mouth parted ever so slightly, a look of horror flickering in his eyes.

Bucky’s stomach twisted at the sight.

He hadn’t meant to say it like that.

God, not like that.

Those words—they weren’t the truth. He’d painted you as some siren, some witch who’d snared him in your web… when the truth was always there, lingering beneath the surface.

Bucky wanted you.

Every step he had taken towards your door, every shuddering breath, every kiss—it had been his choice. His own hunger. His heart. And yet, here he stood, spitting out lies to his oldest friend because the truth was too frightening to hold.

Because admitting it would mean facing the sin he could no longer call witchcraft.

You fool, he thought bitterly.

You’ve damned her with your cowardice.

And worse—he’d damned himself for loving you.

Steve’s voice was quiet when it finally came. “Bucky…”

Panic prickled up Bucky’s spine. “Steve—wait,” he stammered, his hands lifting slightly, as if he could grab the words back out of the air. “I didn’t mean—what I said—it wasn’t…” His mouth worked, but nothing coherent followed.

Steve’s expression hardened, the faint horror melting into something grim.

“Bucky,” he began, “if what you’re saying is true, then this isn’t something we can keep between us. You know what must be done. We’ve got to tell the townsfolk. The minister. Someone.”

“No!” the word tore from Bucky’s throat. “No, Steve, wait. I—”

“You just said she bewitched you,” Steve cut in. “That she took you into her home and… ” he faltered a little, uncomfortable, “… bound you to her will. That’s not something we can ignore. It’s witchcraft, Bucky.”

Bucky’s heart slammed against his ribs. His palms were slick. “I spoke out of turn,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that. I was confused, that’s all. I—”

Steve shook his head. “You were frightened. I heard it in your voice. The whole town’s been on edge since the last trial. If what you say is true, they’ll want to act before more harm comes to anyone else.”

Bucky felt the world cave in beneath him, the morning air suddenly too thin, too sharp, too difficult to breathe in. The noose of his own making was tightening—no, not a noose. He could see it too clearly in his mind.

It was flame.

It was rope bound at your wrists.

It was a wooden stake planted in the dirt of the square, kindling stacked high and dry at your feet.

The townsfolk didn’t forgive witches. They burned them. They’d burn you.

Bucky swallowed hard, grabbing his friend’s arm in a tight grip. “Steve, no, you don’t understand—”

Steve froze at the desperation in his voice, but it wasn’t the words that made his blood run cold. It was the look in best friend’s eyes.

Wide. Wild. Half-mad.

Bucky’s pupils were blown wide, breath sharp and uneven—looking exactly like a man possessed. He looked less like the boy Steve had grown up with and more like someone under a wicked spell.

“Bucky,” Steve whispered, almost frightened.

Bucky shook his head, his grip tightening. “She didn’t—she didn’t do anything wrong. You can’t tell them, Steve. Promise me.” His voice cracked, raw and frantic.

But to Steve, it only confirmed the worst. The town had seen it before—men caught under spells, their minds turned to ash. His friend’s eyes were full of fever. Bewitched. It had to be.

“Bucky,” Steve said slowly, prying his arm free. “I’ll help you. I’ll make sure they undo whatever she’s done. I swear it.”

Bucky’s face went pale. “Steve, don’t.”

But Steve was already stumbling back, fear bleeding through his voice. “I’ll get help,” he reassured. “They’ll know what to do. They’ll save you.”

And before Bucky could stop him, Steve turned and ran—feet pounding against the dirt road, heading straight for the square where a single whisper could set the whole town aflame.

Bucky stood frozen for a breath. The morning air stung like ice in his lungs.

He had lost control of the story.

And now, the town would come for you.

The night air was sharp, the smell of dirt and woodsmoke filling his nostrils.

Bucky walked the narrow path behind the square, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, boots crunching against the gravel. His thoughts were a storm—loud and relentless. His walks were meant to steady his mind, but it was impossible.

“James!”

He froze.

Your voice, breathless and shaken.

He did not want to turn, but his body betrayed him once again. You came stumbling towards him through the shadows, skirt gathered in your hands, hair disheveled from the hurried walk. There was a look on your face that nearly undid him—a look of fear, confusion, and blinded trust that made his chest ache.

“James,” you gasped again, clutching at his sleeve as soon as you reached him. “The town is cruel. People are talking about me!”

Your words tumbled out, scared and shaky.

“Whispers at the market… mothers pulling their children away. They’re saying I—” your breath hitched, “… that I’ve bewitched someone. That I’ve done something wicked.”

Bucky’s stomach twisted into knots. He couldn’t even meet your eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

You took a step closer, gripping his arm tighter. “James, you know me. You know me. I would never—”

“I know,” he cut you off gently, still looking down. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”

You stared up at him, and although he wasn’t looking at you, you searched his eyes for the warmth that had once made you feel safe. But all you found was a storm.

“We could go,” you whispered suddenly. “We could run away—tonight. Just you and me. No more whispers. No more cruel eyes. Just… us.”

Bucky’s expression softened at your words. A fragile, aching longing broke through the panic—like he wanted to say yes. Like he wanted to take your hand and never look back.

But then, his jaw tensed, and the light in his eyes dimmed. “I… can’t.”

Those two simple words made your heart drop in your stomach. “Can’t?”

“I’ve a name here. A life,” he whispered, eyes darting away as if he couldn’t bear to see your heartbreak. “If I leave, they’ll follow us. It’ll… only make it worse for the both of us.”

Tears burned in your eyes, your grip on his sleeve faltering just slightly. “James, they’ll destroy me.”

But he didn’t look at you. He couldn’t look at you. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes stuck somewhere over your shoulder, looking at anything but you. The evening wind tugged at his coat, cold and cruel, and still he stood there—silent.

“James,” you choked out, your voice breaking around his name. “After all we shared… last night, the walks, the bench by the church—was it all nothing?”

God help him, he almost wished you truly were a witch—so you could cast a spell on his tongue, force the words out of him, make him say something instead of standing there like a coward.

“I thought—” your voice cracked again, “I thought what we had meant something to you.”

His hands trembled at his sides, nails digging into his palms. “I’m sorry,” he managed, the words so quiet they almost broke apart in the air, almost as if he didn’t say them at all.

You took a shaky step closer, desperate. “Did you love me, James? Even for a moment?”

Finally, finally, he looked at you. His lips parted, the confession falling like a death knell.

“Yes.”

A pathetic sound escaped you—a choked sob, broken and small. The sound struck him right in the heart. He wanted nothing more than to reach you, to hold you, to run away with you.

But then, you let get of his sleeve.

And before he could reach for you, before he could even think to make it right, you turned and ran—your figure swallowed by the night as your sobs trailed behind you like a wound he had carved himself.

Bucky was a hollow man by the time he made his way back towards his small home. He wanted nothing more than to shut the door, drown in silence, and pretend none of it—none of you, ever happened.

“Bucky!”

The familiar voice cut through the dark. He turned to find Steve jogging towards him, lantern swinging in his hand, face grave and pale beneath its flickering light.

“They’ve found her,” Steve said breathlessly when he finally reached him.

Bucky’s blood went cold. “What… what do you mean, they’ve found her?”

“They’ve taken her to the square,” Steve replied, catching his breath. “Said they caught her trying to run. The magistrate’s called for a trial, burning her at dawn. They’ll do the… the preparations tonight. You shouldn’t miss it.”

Bucky shook his head almost violently, stepping back. “No,” he rasped. “No, Steve, I can’t—”

Steve’s brow furrowed. “You have to.”

“I can’t,” Bucky bit out, his voice hoarse. “Don’t make me—”

“It’s for your own good,” Steve snapped, firmer this time. “You were the one she bewitched, Buck. You said so yourself. Everyone is expecting you. You can’t just hide away now.”

Bucky’s throat closed up. His own words were being thrown back at him like chains, binding him to something he could no longer control.

Steve reached out, fingers curling around his arm, unyielding. “Come on,” he urged, tugging him forward. “You have to be there. It’s your duty to the town.”

The square was awash in torchlight, a cruel glow that seemed to swallow the night whole. Shadows danced across the cobblestones, cast long by the gathered townsfolk—faces tight with fear, with hunger for someone to blame.

Bucky’s stomach lurched when he saw you.

Your wrists were bound behind your back, rope biting into your skin. Your dress was torn, your hair tangled and loose, haloed in the torchlight. Horror was crawling up his throat like bile. You looked so small against the wood, your face filled with dread. Even from this distance, he could see the tremor in your shoulders, the way your chin lifted just slightly, as if refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing you break.

But once your eyes met his, you broke down immediately.

Tears began to streak down your cheeks, catching in the firelight, and your voice was hoarse and raw—likely from screaming beforehand.

“James!”

Everyone turned to him at the sound of your voice.

You struggled against the ropes, shoulders straining, eyes wide and desperate as they locked onto his. “James, please—please, tell them! Tell them I’ve done nothing!”

Bucky froze where he stood, breath punched from his chest. His heart screamed for him to move, to tear you down from that post and hold you. But his legs—his coward’s legs—refused.

The magistrate stepped forward, robes sweeping against the ground, his voice deep.

“Do not heed her words, boy,” he intoned. “Do not let the devil’s tongue sway you. It is all part of her deceit. A witch’s plea is honeyed venom.”

The townsfolk murmured their agreement, and it made Bucky sick.

“James!” you sobbed again, your voice hoarse, trembling. “Look at me—look at me! You know me!”

Your voice split through the square like a bell tolling for the damned.

“Don’t,” Steve hissed, stepping close to him. “Buck, don’t listen.”

Bucky’s wide eyes snapped to his friend. “Steve—”

“Don’t let her words get in your head,” Steve pressed, voice low but firm. His grip on Bucky’s shoulder was iron. “That’s what they do. They twist your heart, make you doubt yourself. You said it yourself, she bewitched you. You can’t fall again.”

Bucky opened his mouth to speak, but just as he was about to…

“Tonight,” the magistrate interrupted, lifting his hand as if presenting you to the crowd, “we bear witness to the corruption festering in our midst. A woman consorting with darkness. A woman who ensnared a man of this town in her devil’s grasp.”

The crowd shifted uneasily, whispers growing louder.

The magistrate turned to Bucky. “James Barnes,” he declared, “you are the one who bore witness. Step forward.”

You finally stilled.

The wailing that had been pouring out of you—your pleading, your begging—died on your tongue. Slowly, your head lifted, tear-streaked face glistening in the torchlight as your gaze found him again.

No.

You couldn’t believe it.

“Witness…?” you breathed.

Bucky’s boots felt like they weighed a hundred pounds as he took that first step forward. His pulse was beating loud in his ears, his chest burning as though the pyre beneath your feet was already alight.

He couldn’t look at you—but he could feel your pain.

Your tear-stained cheeks went still. Your shoulders stopped shaking. The frantic, wild panic in your eyes bled away, leaving only something worse.

“James,” you whispered, his name breaking on your tongue.

It wasn’t a plea anymore.

It was disbelief.

It was betrayal.

He dared to glance at you then—and the look on your face carved straight into his chest.

The magistrate continued. “This woman, accused of witchcraft, shall face the Lord’s judgment by flame. Let the fire cleanse her wickedness—”

But your voice tore through his words, desperate, as if it could save you.

“I’m with child!”

The square fell silent.

For a moment, not even the wind dared to move. The flames waiting at the base of the pyre crackled softly, the only sound between you. You weren’t shouting at the magistrate. You weren’t appealing to the crowd.

You were looking straight at him.

At Bucky.

“Yours,” you choked out, your voice trembling. “James… it’s yours.”

Gasps rippled through the gathered crowd like a fever. The magistrate stiffened, his hand tightening on the torch. A woman near the front pressed a hand to her mouth. Someone whispered “witch’s spawn” like a curse, and soon the words spread in terrified murmurs through the mass of faces.

The magistrate’s face blanched.

“Witch… seed,” he hissed. “This cannot be allowed to live. An unholy union—taint upon the town…”

“Lord preserve us,” someone muttered.

“She and her child will doom us all!

Bucky’s stomach twisted into a knot so tight it nearly brought him to his knees. His lungs burned. He couldn’t look away from you—your tear-streaked face, the trembling in your jaw, the desperation in your eyes.

This wasn’t a spell. This wasn’t a witch.

This was you. Carrying a piece of him.

But the magistrate’s voice cut through the cold air. “Light it.”

The torch was lowered. The dry wood caught, flames licking upward, crackling hungry and bright.

“No!” Bucky roared, running forward. Steve grabbed him by the arms before he could reach the stake, dragging him back as he thrashed like a man possessed.

“No, don’t—stop!”

The fire climbed higher and higher, smoke curling thick into the air, swallowing your figure in its angry orange and gray glow. Your scream split the square, silencing the murmurs of the crowd. Bucky fought harder, his boots scraping against the dirt as he tried to free of Steve’s grip.

You gasped for breath through the smoke, your skin bathed in firelight. And then your eyes found his.

For a moment, for one agonizing moment, you smiled.

Your lips parted, trembling, your soot-streaked face softened at the sight of him.

Bucky believed, in the back of his mind, that you were going to forgive him despite everything. At least, with your forgiveness, he might’ve been able to rest.

“She’s not burning…” the magistrate muttered, voice tight with fear.

“It is true,” you finally confessed. “I am a witch. But I never cast a spell on anyone. Not on you, James. My love for you…” you coughed, the smoke choking your lungs, “it was real. It always was.”

The crowd stirred, panic sweeping through them as the flames climbed but left your body untouched.

You did not burn. You did not turn to ash.

No. You remained.

Your voice grew louder, cutting through the crackle of the fire.

“You betrayed me, James. You took my heart straight from my bare chest and crushed it beneath your clean boots.”

Your smile twisted now—no longer gentle.

“I shall return. And I will seek my reprisal through this town—starting with you.”

Your eyes locked onto Bucky’s, and a sob tore through his chest. He clenched his teeth, his whole body shaking as he stared at what he had done.

“I will start with your body—just as you took mine,” you vowed, your promise ringing through the smoke.

“I will take your hands, your left arm, the one that touched me so tenderly. Then I will take your mind—until it’s nothing but a shattered thing. Until you cannot remember your own name… or who you ever were.”

You glanced at Steve. “Until you cannot remember your own dear friend.”

Bucky’s knees trembled, and the heat of the fire did nothing to warm the icy dread in his chest. He stumbled forward, reaching towards the smoke, toward the golden glow of your eyes—but there was nothing.

“Please, forgive me,” he pleaded. “I—I loved you! It is true! I didn’t mean for this to happen!”

The flames hissed and crackled, but the figure they had enveloped no longer stood there.

You were gone.

“She’s vanished!” someone cried.

“Witch! Sorcery!” another shouted, pointing at the empty stake.

Bucky’s legs felt like lead. He could only stand frozen, chest heaving, eyes wide and unblinking. The fire that had licked at your body minutes before now crackled harmlessly against the empty wood.

All around him, chaos erupted—people shouting, running, collapsing in fear—but Bucky barely noticed. His gaze was fixed on the stake.

The place where you had stood, screaming, pleading, burning… was now nothing but scorched wood and lingering smoke.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t stop seeing you, the golden glow of your eyes, the firelight dancing over the face he once pressed kisses to.

Bucky stood rooted, the embers at his feet and the ghost of smoke in his lungs, unable to tear his eyes from the scorched stake.

He had spoken the words that sent you there.

He had watched you burn.

And underneath the grief, a colder thing took hold—dread.

He had hurt you, the woman he loved, and in the silence that followed your vanishing, he felt your promise pierce through the night like a living thing.

The town scattered into the dark in panic, and Bucky was left alone on the square, palms slack at his sides, heart pounding with the terrible certainty that what he had done would not be forgiven—and that soon, he would know just how you meant to make him pay.

holy hell this was so long. thank you so much for sticking through the end <3 thank you @houseofhyde for this meme because this was literally bucky i fear.

“I can’t believe you got them to make Mom’s tiramisu! Did you have to ask Dad for the recipe?”

Bucky smiles at your back, watches the tumble of your hair from that updo like he didn’t spend the whole night staring at you. Here in your shared home, he’s free to monopolize. No secret audience in the public eye, just twin flames on the top floor of one of the many buildings he owns.

“Your dad wouldn’t write it down. Said they’d steal it,” he taking off his suit jacket to drape it on an armchair, then drops metal cufflinks on a terrazzo tray. “The people at the Chateau were nice enough to follow his instructions through the phone.”

You giggle, mostly at the image—his father-in-law speaking into a brick phone with glasses all the way down his nose—but also a little bit from the wine.

It was vintage. Older than your husband, but certainly not smoother than he is. He was charming all throughout dinner. Got you blushing from compliments even before they poured you the burgundy Bordelaise.

You catch him rolling his sleeves up in your periphery.

And the Chateau was an excellent place. Great service, equally amazing food. The restaurant was efficient without sacrificing intimacy: tables spaced out and sleek, lights dimmed, carpeted floors dampening the sound of delicate cutlery. Bucky didn’t have to say much to get what he wanted, only needed to spare a glance for the maître d’s full attention.

But maybe that’s more because of who he is, though you don’t doubt the restaurant’s hospitality.

No business in their right mind would leave the king of New York wanting.

What you don’t know is that mob boss James Buchanan Barnes spent a good couple of hours worrying about where to take his wife to dinner.

But he made the right choice, like he always did. It charmed you inside and out: lush interiors, a decadent five-course meal with garnishes as pretty as garlands, powder rooms bigger than some people’s apartments. You passed each second marveling like you yourself weren’t accustomed to a life of luxury. Like you weren’t born in it.

And then there was your soft moan when you bit into the food. He didn’t know if he should be jealous or proud, but he can’t complain.

Not when you’re celebrating your first anniversary as a married couple.

“Can’t believe it’s been a year,” you sigh as limbs drag themselves towards the suede settee. He watches as silk ebbs and flows on your skin, soft dangerous ripples lit by hazy highlights from the floor lamp. The dress is one he hasn’t seen before. He’s a stupid man for not taking you out more often.

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” he sits next to you. You press a smile against his cheek, the peck chaste, thumb brushing against his ringed knuckles.

How you break him with the easiest of touches is beyond him.

The orange dim of the room reflects a look in your eyes that he hasn’t seen in a while. A trace of mischief. Or is it amusement? Either way, it reminds him of bygone eras spent with you: trampolines, tree-houses, and twenty questions. Back when you were young and stupid and free, a foxy daughter and the bloodhound of an old family.

“Bucky?”

“Yes, princess?”

“Close your eyes for me?” you smile. “I got you a gift.”

He shakes his head with an acquiescing chuckle. He’s never said no to you.

Blue eyes close.

“You’re beating me to it.”

“To what?”

“The presents.”

“Ladies first, as you like to say,” your reply is playful, and he hears movement. Shuffles all paper-like. “Anyway, I thought dinner was your gift.”

“Dinner’s not enough, doll.”

Then the couch sinks next to him and his skin holds your warmth even without touch. Something light falls on his lap.

“Open.”

Blue eyes land on an ivory folder sitting innocently across his thighs. Embossed at the front is an ornate B—his family insignia. The one you made yours, too.

His blank face meets a smile that can only mean excitement. You tilt your head to the piece of stationery, a small ‘go ahead’ that nudges his curiosity past the precipice. He flips the cover open.

Inside is a neat stack of papers. The black ink at the very top of the first page screams at him, all capital letters and antipathy:

REQUEST FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE

Eyes snap to yours. You bite back a pleased grin.

“Happy anniversary, Bucky.”

The first time you left him so dumbfounded was on his fifteenth birthday.

Yes, Bucky Barnes was once fifteen. Not as tall or muscular. Lighter in both the color of his hair and the weight on his shoulders, compared to the man he is now.

But even a conqueror like him had a childhood: days when his biggest woes were bad weather or Becca’s unending boy problems that he somehow had to hear about.

On his fifteenth birthday, his biggest woe was you not attending the party.

It was a rather big thing. They prepared favors. Balloons, too—despite his insistence on not having them. Indulgent food for the children and an open bar for the chaperoning adults.

All of his family was there and so were his friends, but sweet little you somehow became the best of them despite having nearly nothing in common with him other than interest in each other’s company.

He was older, you were younger. He was a Yankees fan, you thought the baseball diamond was the prize for winning a game. He laughed when he told you that was what they called the field, and then you were laughing too.

It was the most delightful sound he’d ever heard.

Something clicked then, except ‘click’ was too inconsequential a word. Shifted, more like. Fatal like tectonic plates, fated like a story.

At that fifteenth birthday party, Matthew got too into catechism for Bucky to have a conversation with. It was also the year relations with the Starks got slightly tense due to suspected swipes at each other’s assets, which meant he and Tony barely met, let alone spoke. The Romanoffs and their eldest daughter Natasha were away for overseas business.

Sure, Bucky always had Steven Grant Rogers by his side. But you and Steve were the best in his books for entirely different reasons.

Even with Steve there, it hurt when you weren’t.

But it wasn’t your fault. You’d been sick all week, down with a nasty bug he wished were a real one instead of a mere turn of phrase—that way he could actually crush it for you.

That way he wouldn’t be sad because the girl he liked couldn’t make it to his special day.

When his mother asked what cake he wanted for the party, he said your favorite flavor instead of his.

What was the point of that if you weren’t here at all?

Then, just before he was supposed to blow the candles out, you showed up. Pretty dress, pretty hair, even prettier face. For a split second, he thought his wish was granted before he even got to make it. Year-on-year myth made material.

“I got all better for you,” you grinned. A little tired, sure, but happy to see him.

He hugged you as tight as the twinge in his chest. You giggled into his shoulder. The adults melted with a chorus of awwws—only made worse when you parted to kiss his cheek.

Just like that, his birthday was made.

You gave him a gift. The one in the wrapped box was great—but your presence is the better present.

Because that was everything he ever wanted: you next to him.

When he started carving order out of underground chaos with his own two hands, you made him understand why the work was necessary. He wanted to protect you. To keep you safe, even before he was old enough to receive his first Glock.

Before he became king.

He blew on your skinned knee when you fell off your bike. Pulled stray twigs out of your hair. Let you steal the heart of his family dog—then his in the process. The two of you grew taller, and still he took care of you: hid you from the guards while he snuck you out to play, then took the brunt of the scolding when you got found out.

For all his easy smiles, you’d always look at him like it was your fault. Doe-eyed. Guilty.

He’d pull you in, pat your head, say it’s okay. Keep the little thank you, Bucky you murmur into his chest like it was buried treasure.

And then college called.

The Barnes’ had history with Princeton, so that was where he went. But the distance from New York to Jersey had nothing against where your parents decided you’d go.

Europe. You told him about it while he was interning.

He said he was excited for you. He lied.

The night before your flight, you cried in his arms. Not the kind of cry that wrenched guts in its wails—the kind that was hushed. Compliant. You cried like he wouldn’t fly across the ocean every weekend just to see you. Like you were in the final stage of grief. Acceptance.

He held you through it. Stroked your hair. Said it’s okay. Promised to call.

What he didn’t do was tell the truth. Declare feelings. How he realized he’d only ever thought of you when he sat across a revolving door of women that fought to be near him. How he replaced the sound of their laugh with yours, only to be disappointed when the self-afflicted spell broke.

How he’d be so much happier be if you were the one he held at night.

Those thoughts festered over the years. Then they’re locked for at least a few more, because tomorrow, it’d take a seven-hour flight to touch your fingertips. Tomorrow, you’d be a name on his phone, a voice on the line, a specter in the corner of every room.

He wasn’t sure he’d keep the secret if he visited. So he didn’t.

Better for you to be a continent away loving him as a friend than shunning him as a foe.

Better for you to shun him as a foe than forget about him entirely.

Time passed. He changed. His feelings didn’t.

Then a few years later, you returned: smarter and stronger and more beautiful, standing just a little taller. Like you’d come into yourself while he wasn’t watching. But even then, you were still you. The girl with twigs in her hair, who now understands ‘three strikes and you’re out’ and batting orders, just with a degree and acquired confidence. Still laughed that same laugh when he picked you up at the airport.

Neither of you wanted to part from that first hug in years, just hands on each other’s backs. You buried your face in his wool. He memorized the smell of your hair.

Your families must’ve put two and two together after seeing that reunion. Or maybe they’ve noticed for a while, bode their time like the good criminals they are.

The arranged marriage didn’t feel like the punishment many of his cohort purported it to be. But then again, he had it good.

For one, he knew who he was marrying. Didn’t have to go through polished profiles and fake first dates. The Barnes family was prestigious enough to attract posers on the regular—they didn’t need any more. Your folk had things greater than reputation: connections, controlled resources, and you.

For two, he loves you.

He never said so out loud.

And he didn’t dare ask you how you feel, but you never said no to the deal, either, even when the two of you agreed how egocentrically strategic it was. Both your parents wanted a power consolidation. They used affection to get it. Yours.

He lingered with you by the balcony of his summer home where the decision was announced, sipping the night air. Come morning, it wouldn’t taste the same.

“Why didn’t you fight it?” he asked.

“Because it was you,” you answered.

He didn’t push. Not when it could capsize him into saying something he might regret.

“Not like I’d know what to do without you, anyway,” you smiled wryly, voice quiet above the breeze and cricketsong.

“I promise I’ll take care of you,” he murmured back. Eyes looked into yours.

You looked back, then rested your head on his shoulder.

“I know. You always do.”

That was how it happened. Like an avalanche: the late afternoon fittings, lilies, and diamond rings. He didn’t know there were so many types of papers he had to consider for the embossed invitations.

But amidst the flurry, it still didn’t feel like punishment. Never like punishment, but a reward. As if being born in blood and brutality didn’t stop some force of benevolence from acknowledging his patience and deciding he deserved mercy.

That mercy was you in a white dress. An angel before the altar. A kiss followed by church bells.

Matthew Murdock blessed the marriage—Father Matthew Murdock, pardon him. Bastard went from boxing prodigy to priest.

Bucky was ready then, that first night. Ready to spill his guts on the honeymoon suite floor, heart close to bursting with held-back hurt. All the things he felt throughout the years. Things you made him feel, dream, do in the dark. A matrimonial confession that would lead to either crushed ribs or open arms.

Hell or heaven. Nothing in between.

But then he saw you sit in bed with your pajamas—the one with tiny daisies on it—and you beckoned him, patting a spot on the king-sized bed.

Every sentence he scripted was lost in an exhale. What remained was a conviction so cold, it kept him quiet for a year.

He couldn’t lose you.

That night, you ended up cuddling like you were children again. Traded stories about what transpired during the grand reception.

“Your kiss was very convincing,” you smiled conspiratorially.

He didn’t tell you he meant it. The kiss. The vow. The till death do us part.

It’s been a year of that—wedded bliss that you treated like a sleepover.

Touches remained innocent. Gazes remained guileless. You told him his kiss was convincing, but he didn’t know yours would be, too. The soft brushes of lips against his in public dinners. The way your fingers tangled with his.

It was so easy to believe that you married not by circumstance, but for love.

But behind closed doors, it was like the two of you never grew up—or at least you acted that way. Talked about your long day and his dirty work. Fell asleep in innocuous hugs that settled his soul. Took turns being big spoon and little spoon on a whim.

He prefers being little spoon. That way, he feels your breath on his back, and you’re left oblivious to the malady in his sweatpants. Easier for him to escape to the ensuite and touch himself at the thought of you.

Specifically, the thought of you looking at him like a man and not your childhood best friend.

It was a barren purgatory, and he went through like it was all milk and honey.

But now you’ve gone and done it.

He stares at the printed text, slowly crawling back to the present. Your name under petitioner, his name under respondent. He swore to never say no to your wishes, but he never thought you’d wish for this.

Divorce.

The question slips out of him, reeling barely restrained.

“What the fuck is this?”

You tense.

His baritone dips the way it does on his worst days, only now it pulls you under with it. It’s enough to drain the smile on your face until you’re left with a blank look. A canvas for confusion. For turbulence.

Then horror floods the thrum of your veins, making blood run cold.

It reminds you of fear that follows a grave mistake: like the time you accidentally broke an heirloom vase, except the weight in your stomach is a hundred-fold now, and so is the mess on the floor.

You’re glued to your seat by the sensation, instinct to move replaced by ice.

“What do you mean?” you ask, hiding a tremble.

Blue eyes snap to yours. There’s no joking twinkle. No affectionate narrow of them—not when his jaw is as locked as a steel vault. Though you can’t read his expression, it definitely isn’t one you expected him to wear.

He should be happy. This should be what he wanted. But instead he stares at the folder like he’s wondering if this is a dream.

You might be watching a nightmare unfold.

Then he throws it across the room, sending papers and your heartbeat scattering.

“That was my question, princess,” he murmurs, a flash of a storm in his eyes. “Explain.”

Shadow looms over you while he rises to his feet. The movement tears the truth out of you, nervous eyes darting everywhere except his face.

“Well, since the merger’s stabilized, I thought…” you breathe, “I thought that we don’t have to keep this up anymore.”

“Keep what up?” He chases like a dagger: quick, incisive.

“The marriage,” your eyes finally meet his, hoping you’ll witness him see sense. Hoping for awareness to wash over him, that he’ll melt into a kind smile and say: right, I get it now, thank you for absolving us of this thing our parents put onto our shoulders.

That balm doesn’t arrive, and anxiety continues to burn. You stammer.

“Bucky, I’m saying you don’t have to sacrifice your happiness anymore—”

But he scoffs instead, grin devoid of humor. A hand runs through his hair.

“That’s what this marriage is to you then? A burden?”

The turnabout scathes more than his previous silence. Maybe because you never expected this outcome. It is also deeply unjust: why he’s pinning this on you is beyond any logic, especially knowing what he did.

Your eyebrows knot as you stand, a reflection of rising temper more than conscious choice.

“How could you ask me that when you’ve made it clear how much of a burden this is to you?”

“What the hell are you talking about? We just had a great time at dinner!”

You let out a laugh. It’s funny how he thinks you don’t know.

“I’m talking about you smelling like ten different perfumes every night for the past month, Bucky.”

He must think you’re sound asleep each time he slips under the sheets, but the truth you don’t want to admit is that your body stirs at his presence. Even half-conscious, you feel time tick by: one in the morning becomes two, and then three, which is when he comes home most nights.

There in the dark, you breathe him in, wanting comfort, only to find a bouquet of betrayal.

Jasmines and the sea. Camellias, cocoa, and citrus.

They spin like a carousel, switching, erasing his forest green scent only to replace it with the shade of jealousy—one you struggle to school into submission.

You have no right to that feeling. He was never yours to begin with.

And now you watch as his face falls. It fuels your step and the fire beneath your voice.

“I’m not stupid. I noticed. You don’t talk to me about your day anymore, we barely eat together, you come home smelling like women. A great time at dinner doesn’t exactly erase that.”

There’s a pang in your heart. You will it to pass.

“This marriage might have been arranged, and we might not really be husband and wife, but you sleeping around behind my back is still disgraceful. Not just for me. For the both of us.”

Bucky stares back. You speak before he can—he’ll ruin you otherwise, with or without words.

“You could’ve told me, Buck,” you soften. “You know I won’t blame you. You deserve company.”

Company. The kind he won’t look for in you because he’s your good friend—your very best, even.

Expecting him to want to sleep with you is wishful thinking. Expecting him to stay celibate is like muzzling a dog you don’t even own.

“Let’s not pretend this is what we wanted. What you wanted.” There’s nothing interesting about the rug, but you stare at it anyway.

Maybe its modern pattern will rewrite the ancient ones woven in your head. A tangle of old afflictions—expectations, comparisons, the value you brought to the table dictating the love you begged to receive.

A quiet voice prickles in the back of your mind. It tells you it’s not that he doesn’t want an arranged marriage; he just doesn’t want you.

Scheming parents made you a coincidental casualty that landed on his lap, and now you’ve become a problem he’d be better off without. So much that he’d rather distance himself from you than talk about it like you used to.

Even though you’d let him fuck other women if it meant he’d stay.

A greater woman would have cut ties and run. Next to her, you feel like a little girl with a broken sense of self-esteem.

Maybe this divorce is your attempt to prove something. Anything.

Your gaze is blank at the scattered papers on the floor. The only thing you’ve proven so far is your lack of conviction—running away at every shadow of something real.

How did it come to this?

“I just want us to be friends again,” you whisper.

Something crackles against your skin. The air turns into an emotional minefield. An invisible string tugs your gaze, pulling it back to his with the force of nature. The way he looks at you crushes your faith.

It looks like he’s falling apart, too.

You can tell through the clench of his jaws and fists. Through the flicker in his eyes. In the breath you barely remember to take above a tyrannical tension. Tightrope over bear traps.

“Yeah?” he rasps. “Well, I don’t want that.”

Pain and embarrassment punch you with monosyllabic words. He might as well change that last one to ‘you’.

I don’t want you.

But then he steps forward. You look up at him, trying to hold your ground. It doesn’t work. His steadiness knocks you back, feet moving away from him like repelling magnets.

“We can’t be friends anymore,” he says. Your back hits the wall.

“I don’t understand—”

His smile is mirthless.

“‘Course you don’t.”

Bucky stands tall in front of you, silhouette casting a shadow with no escape routes. The hand on your face is the final nail to an uncovered coffin—it holds the hinge of your jaw, the last rites of a relationship. Blue blade-like eyes cut your defenses and drive you into a corner.

His face hovers over yours.

At this distance, he’ll see the sadness past your irises, so you look away. His hand tilts you back to face him.

Then he speaks, soft, and whatever troubling thought you have shatters into a million shards—the second time tonight.

“You don’t know what it’s like to share a bed with the woman you love and not touch her.”

A thumb smooths over your cheekbone, as if to placate the shock. His gaze drops to your lips, then back up.

“And I’ve loved her since she practiced cursive with my name.”

Your missing breath fuels memories, your mind plays a reel. It shows what he’s talking about: a movie, with scenes that slipped between cracks of life lived and fractured.

You’re wearing your favorite skirt. The weather is so nice outside. There’s clumsy handwriting on ruled paper. He smiles when you show its loops and curls:

James Buchanan Barnes is my best friend

The words ‘best friend’ are now overshadowed by a single one with four letters.

Time stands still. Gravity swallows your feet into the ground.

He tips your chin up. A taunt.

You can’t run, the gesture says, now that I’ve said it.

And you can’t because he’s pressing up against you, trapping your body between cold wall and warm chest. As if mocking your speechlessness, his finger swipes at your bottom lip, parting them more.

“Sweet girl doesn’t understand what she does to me,” he hums, tracing the perfect edges of your lipstick, “doesn’t even know she gets me hard just by kissing me good morning and good night on my damn cheek. Why d’you think I wake up first and go to bed last, hm?”

Hot breath fans your ear. Hands move to his torso in a bid to steady yourself.

“I tried to be good, honey, I really did.”

Mouth brushes your jaw. Your head lolls to one side in response: are you running, or are you giving him room to take more of you?

“Tried to take my greed out elsewhere, except it didn’t work. They don’t have your body. Your voice. Your face,” he growls.

“They’re not you.”

He’s nipping at your ear, licking the shell as he murmurs.

“Couldn’t even fucking touch them.”

The confession sinks in the way ink does in water: slow, pulsating, before it grows and takes over.

He loves you.

“I thought you hated me,” you whisper.

He scoffs. “Hated you?”

The look on his face clogs your throat. Eyes dark, lips parted—no sign of focus brought by contempt, though you certainly are the object of his perturbation.

He’s lost. The crack in his voice brings the point home.

“How can I hate you when you’re all I ever wanted?”

“Buck—”

Whatever you wanted to say is cut off by a stern shove of your shoulder against ivory wall. The syllables melt into a single whimper.

“I’m your husband, sweetheart,” he breathes across your mouth. “And if you can’t understand that, I’ll drill it into your pretty little head.”

The first kiss he ever gives you is a devouring.

Lips slot. You gasp. For a second you think the Bucky you know is gone: the man who kneels to fix the strap of your high heels, the boy who held you through thunderstorms. There’s nothing gentle in the way he moves. He takes as if you’re his right, voracious like the jowls of a beast. Tongue and teeth further condemns you to his cause—to collapse your walls.

You crumble headfirst.

But he’s still James Buchanan Barnes, the only constant you’ve ever had in your life, so you hold on to him.

A ragged groan slips past when he feels your fingers in his hair. The touch lights up his nerve endings in a bright, loud yes, God, finally—satiated but already screaming for more. His hand slides to the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist: both of them strong like shackles in a cage.

“Fuck, I went beyond insane over you,” he mouths, “came so close to just taking you in our goddamn bed.”

The thought sends a chill down your spine. It’s not fear, it’s desire and thrill. You moan.

“You wouldn’t,” you pant, “you’d never.”

“Don’t be so sure,” exhales grow heavy as he paws at your flesh, saliva-slicked lips sucking at your neck. “I’m not a good man, honey. You’ve seen my ledger—our ledger.”

You have. It’s red, just like the lipstick he’s smudging right now as he crashes into you with another violent kiss. You clutch the front of his white shirt, crumpling it. He pulls away to survey the wreck he made.

He smiles at the sight.

“I know the first anniversary’s supposed to be paper, but divorce papers?” he hums. “You’re one hell of a gifter.”

“Bucky, I—”

“Sssh,” lips meet yours again. This time the kiss is languid, almost lazy. In his leisure you find vexation.

“Your turn for your present.”

After leading you to the bedroom, the first thing he gives you comes in an unwrapped box. Its contents are designed to wrap you instead. And they do wrap you: beautiful and bridal, deadly and dangerous in one set. White lace, ribbons, garters that lead to sheer tights—a thing like this should make bridesmaids giggle and say ‘he won’t be able to let go of you if you put this on!’

They’d be right.

Because Bucky is already ruining you.

“Bought this for our wedding last year,” he tugs the balconette bra down, letting your tits spill free like he didn’t make you wear it. “Never got the chance to see you in it.”

The warmth of his mouth captures a nipple. You whine when he delivers a mean suck, spine arching off the bed, a tentative coolness of air before you melt into the sheets again. They’re damp with sweat the moment he crowded you onto your shared bed.

“But we’re celebrating our anniversary tonight. The perfect occasion, yeah?”

Fingers hook at the gusset of your pretty underwear, pulling it aside to reveal slick folds. He touches you there and you stir at the coordinated pleasure that catches you unaware. He hums around your chest. The vibrations send sparks in your veins.

Squirming only sets off clinks of metal.

Bracelets of all kinds knock into each other: some charmed, some bangled. Long necklaces tangle with crystal body chains that flow down your skin like sparkling rivers. The weight of diamond drop earrings sink against the pillow.

The lingerie you’re wearing might be from last year, but these? The glimmering riches he took his time to put on you, save for the princess-cut rock on your ring finger? These are all new, their branded boxes forgotten on the floor.

His gift for a year of marriage.

A marriage you’re only consummating now.

“Look at you,” he moans, “so fucking pretty, you should be illegal.”

He lets go of your chest with a loud pop. Your breath shakes.

“Tell me,” he looks down at your pleasure-twisted face, “who helped you get those papers, baby?”

A finger prods at your slick hole, teasing. You surrender with a sob, except you don’t fight him at all.

“J-John.”

Your voice around another man’s name tips him over to villainy.

He adds another finger at your entrance, circling before pushing both of them deep into you.

You let out a cry, walls clenching around him—wet, tight, a vice he’s already devoted the rest of his life to. Love before first touch.

Manicured nails claw at his shoulders, but they soon relax as he waits. You pulse around his fingers while your lungs relearn how to breathe.

God, you’re soaked. Pliant. Warm.

“Yeah? ‘Cause Steve wouldn’t?”

That gets your attention. You blink up, eyes hazy.

“How’d you know…?”

He kisses your forehead, pulls his fingers out, and thrusts them back in.

“A-ah—”

“He asked if we were doing okay,” Bucky pants, watching your lashes flutter at the languid pace his hand sets. “Thought he was talking about me going out to the supper club again.”

His other hand pushes the hair out of your face while you pant, chasing each pump, crystals clinking above the wet sounds.

“Didn’t think he meant this.”

His thumb flicks your clit, punishment and reward in one touch. Tricks of an unfair trade. Your head thrashes.

“Bucky—!”

Your body rocks with his fingers, a byproduct of drawn-out desperation. It’s an awakening, a cryptic hunger yawning at the bottom of your gut. Now that he’s feeding that emptiness, it demands more.

“Walker must be so goddamn ecstatic his queen came to him for help.”

The crystals chains on your skin jingle alongside rolling hips. Bucky traces the sight with drunken abandon, dead set on destroying you first.

Call it payback for the many times he fisted himself at the thought of this, and call it occupational hazard how he’s already planning methodologies: fingers first, mouth second, cock third.

Then again, and again, and again… until you’re too spent to tell him to stop.

“You made him feel important, honey. Made him think we were gonna split,” he chides condescendingly. Fingers hit a spot in you that form stars at the edge of your vision. He watches you squirm. Transcribes every whimper in his brain.

“Gotta pay for that—c’mon, cum for me.”

Your lips part in a silent scream.

If it weren’t for his hand on your face, your cheek would be pressed against the pillow, but one broad grip has you looking straight at him as he pushes you over the edge.

The last thrust squelches as it sinks, lewd sound crystal clear in the empty room. He watches as you spasm like a live wire. Thighs twitch, eyes screw shut. Then his name on your mouth.

“There we go. Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

He doesn’t partake in the family’s merchandise, but this has to be what a drug high feels like.

Because he’s already addicted while your breath reconstructs itself. Already begging for another taste of you when he takes his fingers into his mouth, licking them clean.

“You know I see the way he looks at you?” Bucky murmurs, caressing your face with the same hand that broke you. “Swear he wants me dead just so he can have a chance with you.”

Two seconds pass before your ecstasy-addled brain catches up to the fact that your husband is still talking about John Walker. But any further thought is halted by the heat huffed on your neck.

“Let’s show him who you really belong to, yeah?”

It starts off slow with kisses on the column of your throat, almost kind compared to the rapture of release. His nose traces the slope that leads to your shoulder and he breathes, cataloging your scent: sweat and something floral that you wore to dinner. It pools in his stomach, makes him feral.

You’re prey on a pedestal.

He bares his tongue for the feast. Then teeth.

You sigh, feeling them drag oh so gently across skin. There’s no rush, but when he sinks down, it’s with intent. Purpose. Authority.

Muscles ripple over your lipstick and lace as he latches onto the side of your neck—you hold onto his arms even though there’s nowhere to fall with the mattress against your back. His warmth clings to you in return.

“Oh,” the airy sound slips out when he lets go. Flesh stings with stimulation. That spot will darken tomorrow.

Blue eyes map a path of ruin where he’ll bite next. A plan of attack to spell his name on your neck. The wedding ring isn’t enough of a claim, he reasons to himself.

Minutes later, you’re shaking beneath him wearing a new necklace of his making.

Pinks and reds dot collar to chest in what looks like a botched J-A-M-E-S. In a few hours, they’ll turn into a sunset purple. He marvels at the work of his mouth, stares down at you.

“Walker will learn his lesson. But now it’s time for yours.”

Wide eyes stare up at him.

“You see how the divorce is so uncalled for, honey? You don’t really want me to leave you, do you?”

You shake your head. It hurts, the thought of him leaving, even if it’s for his own good.

Hips pin yours. You feel the hard ridge under his slacks press against damp lace. Blood rushes south, makes you throb.

“Tell me you’re sorry,” he says, but he slips a thumb in your mouth. It presses on your tongue and forces your heartbeat into a stutter.

You say it anyway, stifled, vowels warped.

“I’m sorry.”

“Tell me you’re sorry for making me think of fucking other women instead of you.”

Tears blur your vision. You’re not sure why—maybe from the thought of wasted time, or from the image of him almot rutting into a warm body just to run away from yours. He said he didn’t—couldn’t—but your brain is an errant thing. The space between your ribs tighten.

He’s here to make it right. Are you that transparent? Because the finger in your mouth is still mean, but his other hand strokes your cheek in a manner so opposite you think it might have a mind on his own.

Bucky kisses your temple. Then cheek. Then ear, where his voice rumbles deep.

“C’mon, honey. Say it.”

“I’m sorry for—” drool escapes from the side of your open mouth, “for making you think of f-fucking other women…”

“Instead of?”

“…instead of me.”

“Good girl.”

He grinds down against you harder, the friction catching your clit just right. You keen.

The thumb dislodges, drawing a spit-slick line down your chin, then collarbone, then sternum. He toys with your nipple. The wet touch makes you jolt. Beneath shimmers and gem-studded strings, your skin is smeared with pigment from smudged lipstick.

“Tell me you’re sorry for not giving yourself to me sooner.”

A tear slides down your cheek. He kisses it away.

“I’m sorry for not giving myself to you sooner,” you hiccup.

He leans down to mouth at your nipple again. Spine curling like a big cat above you, hips rolling against yours.

“Now tell me you’ll let me do what I want to you,” he murmurs against you.

The new commandment shepherds silence—not in fear, also not quite submission. You linger at an open doorway while everything about him beckons you to enter, where all the pleasure he’s given you may multiply.

But once you go there, you can’t go back.

He sucks at your chest in a manner so selfish it breaks your reverie. Blue eyes snap to your face when he lets go.

Then he says those words: the exact same ones he said to you the night your fates were sealed.

“I promise I’ll take care of you.”

He rises, face above yours, breathing your air. “I know I was stupid. Stubborn. A damn coward.”

Then, after an inhale:

“I just didn’t want to lose you.”

It’s enough to make you lean up to kiss him, the antithesis of how he started.

Soft, almost solemn. He kisses back like he’s kissed you a thousand times before—and maybe he has in his dreams. It tastes like sticky succumbence, as sweet and as cloying as honey. The more it drips in your mouth, the more you hunger. Your fingers grip his arms, still clothed in that damn white shirt.

The way the both of you are dressed, you can almost pretend this is your wedding night.

He parts first.

“Give me words, sweet girl.”

With instructions so clear, how could you not?

“I’ll let you,” you whisper.

He watches. Waits. It takes every bit of you in your dizziness, but you finally continue.

“...do what you want to me.”

The breath that escapes him is ragged, wanting—like an animal desperate for nourishment. He wastes no time in diving between your legs. Spreads thighs with strong hands, pulling your panties over to one side. You gasp at his breath caressing the apex of your thighs.

“Good,” he rumbles, “gonna make you cum on my tongue.”

Your body becomes his to control. Greedy hands use garters as handles, tugging them to haul your legs over his shoulders as he eats. One of them moves to torment your chest, the other your clit.

He really is a rotten liar, because he makes you cum on his tongue twice. It’s motivated by self-justification: this is what he wanted for so long, surely he’s allowed to take more? He’s been so good, holding back all this time…

The first orgasm rips a loud moan out of you, thighs bracketing his head. He doesn’t stop after that. Eats you like it’s his pleasure. Your stomach twists with the beginnings of overstimulation until the curl of his tongue in your cunt pushes you past that precipice again.

The second time you crest is devastating. You sob under your breath while a strong arm presses both your legs to meet your chest, opening your core up for him like you’re a right and a privilege in one reality.

Seeing you folded in half like that—slick, clenching around nothing—is enough to sever him from sanity.

Or maybe he’s never sane to start with. Not when it comes to you.

“She looks so empty, sweetheart. Let’s fix that.”

A hand takes both of yours overhead, pinning them into pliancy. You’re too weak to even writhe.

Then he feeds his inches into your hole and you cry.

“Bucky—!”

The stretch of his cock is far from comprehensible. It’s excruciating, but each vein inspires addiction. Then there’s the heat, the intoxicating way he pulses inside of you as he pushes ever deeper, nudging places you didn’t know existed, claiming them for himself.

His blunt tip finally sinks all the way in and you feel him in your stomach. In your lungs, your throat.

“Christ, you’re unreal,” he pants against your ear, smokescreens in the form of saccharine things distracting from the dull pain.

“Think she might be made for me, honey. Tight fucking pussy swallowing my cock—”

You moan, walls unwittingly clutching him. He groans.

“Fuck, not gonna last if she’s grippin’ me like that.”

“Bucky,” you murmur.

“Yeah, princess?”

“‘s too much,” is all you can muster, gaze falling to the sight between your bodies. Blue eyes and blown-out pupils follow, and he grins. The grip he has on your wrists tightens.

“Yeah?” he pants in bliss, still buried in you, “This is what I think about every morning. Every night.”

Then he thrusts once, shallow at first. Two strangled voices echo in the room.

“Fuck—wasted my time dreaming of you... could’ve had this all along.”

Your hands don’t know what to do: fingers stretch and claw at air while his hand keeps you where he wants you. He splits you open, hips steadily sawing into yours. It leaves you at a loss, coherence deleted with each rock of him until only three words loop: ‘please’, ‘Bucky’, and ‘more’—because you’re a paradox like that.

A symphony worth waiting years for.

And because he can never deny you, he gives.

Makes you cum on his cock just like that, pounding mercilessly into your sensitive spots. Your hair forms a halo on the pillow while plump lips part, crying out his name again and again. He drives into you just the same, eyes never straying from your face, just to convince himself this isn’t a dream.

The way you clench around your cock tells him it isn’t. Dreams can never feel this good—he knows because he’s had plenty.

“Fuck,” he grunts, cock buried so far up in you that you almost cum again when he does.

You mewl at the hot spurts of him inside. For a second the fever breaks, satisfied with release, but as you’re flooded with his spend, the appetite rises. The ravening isn’t over. His eyes say as much.

A dark intention takes over him, affection corrupted by avarice. What other expressions will you show him? What secrets sounds can he steal from you?

How far can he make you fall?

Minutes melt into hours.

Here you are now, a picture of ruined grace draped across his lap. Lingerie ripped, chains and jewelry in knots, sparkling diamonds in the dark illuminating the blotches around your throat.

He keeps you sat on his cock for god knows how long already. Tears blur your vision, and the feeling in your chest is the same as your poor, plugged up cunt.

Full.

God, you’re stuffed with him—his cock, his cum. A mess in both body and mind, slick with his spend and yours sluicing down your ass and the sheets, overflowing. The drip of it is warm. So is his naked chest against yours.

There are thin pink lines on his skin—your nails dragged down there when he sinks you down onto his length, weak and wanting even after how many orgasms, you don’t know. You lost count. The same scratches must exist on his back from when he fucked you on yours.

Through all this, somehow your husband is still hard as he holds you in his lap. He lets you sob into his neck, big hands caging your hips.

The same hands that dusted dirt off your knee the first time you fell from your bike.

You’re compelled by the cardinal sins. Greed, lust, and gluttony order your hips to roll, to shift, to do anything just to feel something.

He coos, resting his forehead against yours.

“Sssh, you can’t,” and he’s right, because his fingers are bruising stillness into you. “You need to wait, sweetheart.”

You sound like you’re past pathetic. He really meant it when he said he’d drill it into your head: the pace, the pleasure, him.

“Bucky, please—”

“Made me wait all this time, think it’s only fair you should, too.”

Large hands adjust you on him. You gasp, feeling driblets of him escape your cunt before he sits you all the way down his cock again.

“Now, how ‘bout you tell me a story while you learn to be patient?” he breathes. “Something from when you were a kid. About us.”

You want to scream. How are you supposed to speak, let alone think? All you want is to rut into him again, to feel him throb, to drink the friction—

The corner of his lips twitch up.

“Maybe I’ll let you move if you do.”

Either your husband is a telepath, or you’re so wonderfully obvious.

Bucky sees your throat swallow, the gears turning in your mind. His blood sings, and maybe he’s the worst man alive for enjoying this a little too much: watching you work through a haze. His pretty girl, too drunk oncock to function.

One of his hands stroke your cheek, almost coaxing the words out of you, then he coos like he’s not the cause of your misery.

“You can do it, sweetheart. Tell me a story.”

It’s the softness in his voice that damns you.

“I—” you begin, unsure, lungs still clawing for air, “remember that time… after summer break?”

He resists the urge to tease: which summer break? You spent so many together.

“You came back and your voice c-changed.”

“Uh-huh,” he nods, teasing your nipple with a thumb. He remembers. You whimper, the sound pitiful, but you’re being so good for him, staying still even when one of his hands went astray.

“What about it, honey?”

“It was… I was so confused,” your voice hitches.

He doesn’t stop touching you.

“You looked the same, but—ah—you sounded like—”

His hand moves from your chest back to your ass. Fingers sink into the flesh, grip you closer to him, as if there was any room between your bodies in the first place.

“Like?”

Your head drops into the crook of his neck.

“Like a man,” you admit, muffled.

He breathes near your ear.

“Look at you now, finally treating me like one,” you can feel him grin, taking your earlobe between his teeth. “Letting me fuck you like one, ‘s that right?”

The nod you give him is slow, like you’re drugged. He lifts you up just enough to sink you down. A temporary relief that makes you mewl.

“So? Do you still want to be just friends?” he grits.

You shake your head, eyes blank and wet. That one thrust is enough to vaporize your vocabulary.

The tears at your lashes makes his cock twitch. He used to hate seeing you cry. Felt helpless with every cartoon band-aid he smooths over your skin. Reminded him of the time you had to fly halfway across the world for a fucking degree, the damp pillowcase you slept on, the way he couldn’t stop you from leaving.

Now? Crying is all he wants to make you do.

“What am I to you now, hm?”

Your breath breaks.

“H-husband,” you croak, “you’re my husband—”

“That’s right. Smart girl.”

As if to reward you, he bounces you on top of him again. You almost collapse onto his shoulder, a ragdoll to pleasure.

“Please, Bucky, I want—”

“Want what, baby? Wanna stop?”

You whimper, shaking your head again in the crook of his neck, arms around his back. He almost laughs, but the spasm of your cunt around his cock, full with his cum and yours, strangles the sound into a guttural groan.

“Tell me.”

“Want more,” you whine shamelessly. He gladly exploits it.

“Let’s see if you’ve learned your lesson first.” A hand grabs your face, forcing you to peel away from his body to look at him.

You stare back. He’s sweaty, eyes dark, lips swollen. You’re probably about thrice as wrecked.

“Who do you belong to?”

“Yours—I’m yours.”

“You’re my what? Finish that sentence.”

You nearly choke. “I’m your wife.”

“Attagirl. What else have you learned?” His tone is cruel. Cold. But you know better. Blue irises drown you with devotion in a single look. In them, you find your answer.

“You—ah—take care of me. Make me feel good.”

“There you go, sweet thing.” His lips latches onto yours, a thief to your breath as if you had any left to spare. “D’you want me to take care of you now? Wanna feel good on your husband’s cock again?”

“Yes. Please.”

You feel his cock twitch inside of you.

“Still want a divorce?”

“No—” your hips begin to sway, the hunger clawing at you, but his hands are steel restraints, fingers sinking into flesh.

“What do you want, then?”

“You,” you sob, “please, Bucky, want you—”

He watches your face contort, desperation and desire mingling into the most delicious expression he’s ever seen on you.

One day, he’ll take a picture.

“Y’know, I told you I love you earlier, but you never said it back,” a thumb holds your chin in place. “Think you can do that for me? Say it real sweet for your husband.”

Your chest cracks open with feeling. The night tumbles through you like a tidal wave, where everything comes crashing: his confession, the papers thrown on the ground, all the way to your mother’s tiramisu he got the restaurant to make for you.

Still, the wave builds. It sweeps up old memories to the forefront.t

The two of you on the balcony the night you got engaged. You crying in his arms hours before boarding a plane. A birthday party where the cake was your favorite flavor instead of his.

The surge summits at the memory of awkward pencil scratches.

James Buchanan Barnes is my best friend.

Every feeling known to you is suspended like they’re encased in floating water. The nostalgia of youth, unabated longing, dark desires, and a kinship brought about by fate—

—then gravity pulls them down, and they break.

So do you.

“I love you,” you rasp, voice hoarse with timeworn truth. “I love you so much, Bucky, I love you, I love you, I love you—”

He swallows your confession in a kiss, tongues tangled, fingers buried in hair. You grind down once.

He lets you.

So you do it again. And again.

“I love you too, baby, so fucking much,” he murmurs into your mouth. You move with the opposite of inhibition.

“My good girl. My best girl—”

He rips a scream out of you when he stills you again, only to thrust up. You’re already so close, it drives him out of his mind more than he already is.

“Gonna fill my wife up with my cum,” he grits, “make it take. Wanna see you round with me.”

The promise nearly ends you. He senses its impact, feels his own need grow.

“Yeah? You’re gonna leak for days when I’m done with you,” a growl as he mauls your neck more than he already has, “let ‘em see who you belong to.”

“Fuck—Bucky!”

“You’re mine, honey. All mine.”

He triggers your ruin like that. Smiles as he watches you shake in his lap, breathless while he relentlessly ruts into you even as spurts of viscous white oozes down your thigh. He uses his cock to push it back in.

A hint of humor tickles the back of his mind: that after all these years, it took a near-divorce to bring the two of you together.

“Remind me to burn those papers tomorrow,” he rasps against your mouth.

When he pushes you back onto the bed, he’s already making time in his schedule for a renewal of vows.

Halloween always made you a little nostalgic—memories of costumes, candy, and parties. But tonight? You and Bucky had conspired to do the opposite. No trick-or-treaters, no noise, no costumes. Just the two of you, tucked away from the world, movie playing on the TV.

Earlier, you’d placed a large bowl of candy out on the porch with a scribbled sign that read Take Two. Bucky had smirked at your half-hearted attempt at neighborly duty, but he didn’t argue. “Better than me opening the door every five minutes,” he teased, amused edge in his voice that always made your skin prickle.

Now, the world outside was full of laughter and rustling leaves, but his apartment was cocooned in shadows and flickering light. The Thing flickered on, bathing the room in grainy cool-toned glow. You curled against the couch cushions, glass of port wine in hand, toes tucked under a soft blanket that Alpine liked to curl against, specially when it was fresh out of the dryer.

Bucky sat beside you, stretched out in sweatpants and a black dry-fit shirt, one arm slung casually over the back of the couch, the other holding a beer on his thigh. Casual for him.

But his eyes had been on you more than the screen all night—tracking every twitch, every time you hid behind the glass waiting for a jump scare, and every laugh at the horrible special effects 1982 was able to provide.

“You’re not even watching,” you accused softly, turning your head toward him, poking his thigh with your foot.

“I’m watching,” he replied, a small smirk pulling at his mouth. Then, after a beat: “Just not the movie.”

The wine warmed your cheeks. You tried to hide it by sinking deeper into the blanket, but when he shifted closer, draping his arm from the couch to around you to pull you into his side, your pulse gave you away.

He smirked. He always did this. After a few months together, you stopped feeling self conscious that he could literally hear your heart rate spike whenever it did. And he may or may not have liked to be the reason why.

His hand started innocently—rubbing slow circles at the top of your arm. Then lower, down your back. Then drifting lazily along the side of your ribs. His thumb brushed the curve of your waist, feather-light but deliberate.

The movie played on, forgotten, as you melted against him. His voice ghosted against your temple, teasing. “You’re warm.”

“Wine,” you murmured, sipping again just for something to do while he kissed your shoulder, your clavicle...

“Mhm,” he hummed, letting his fingers spread against your side, each stroke lower than the last. “Thought so. Can taste it in your skin already.”

You laughed softly, tipping your head back to glance at him. “Taste it in my skin? What does that even mean?”

His gaze caught yours, glinting in the dim light. “Means you’re sweet tonight, sweetheart. Sweeter than usual.” His thumb stroked the hem of your shirt now, testing how far you’d let him wander.

As far into your mortal soul as he'd like, you told him once.

Your stomach fluttered—half from the wine, half from him. You didn’t stop him. You'd never.

The movie was forgotten now, you couldn't bring yourself to care about who was or wasn't the thing, you put your half-finished glass of wine on the coffee table. His hand, once idle at your waist, tightened suddenly, pulling you tightly to stay perched on his lap like you'd meant to stay there for eternity.

“Bucky—” you breathed, but the protest died the second his mouth found yours.

The kiss was heat, desire, his tongue sliding against yours, the faint sting of his teeth grazing your lip. His hands roamed—one pressed to the small of your back, the other gripping your thigh and dragging you rocking you on him while you were straddling him.

You could feel him, hard beneath you, the type of heat pressing between your legs that made your mouth water. But there was something else too—something sharper.

When you broke for air, you saw it. His fangs, peeking just beneath his lip, glinting in the dim light of the TV.

Your breath caught, arousal tangling with the adrenaline that surged through your veins. “Bucky…”

He cursed under his breath, trying to turn his head away. “Shit—sorry. I can’t—”

“Don’t,” you whispered, fingers clutching his jaw and pulling him back to face you. "Don't hide from me."

He did that the first time his fangs accidentally made an appearance early in your relationship. He'd expected you to run, scream, throw garlic bulbs at him and try to keep him away with your fingers crossed in front of you, but you didn't.

Oh no.

That night he had you on your back crying for him to stop while pulling his face even closer do your pussy with your hands tangled in his hair. A delicious paradox he made sure you experienced again, and again, and again.

"Wait, what about garlic? Do I have to keep it out of the house?" One of the things he loved most about your sex life was your ability to laugh at yourself and still have him hard as a rock.

He punctuated his chuckle with another deep thrust that made you grab the headboard to avoid hitting your head. "You can make all the garlic bread you want, baby. It don't bother me."

Your heart hammered, back in the present, each thud ringing in his ears like a siren. You tilted your head, baring your throat. “Please?”

His pupils blew wide, chest heaving. “You don’t know what you’re asking me for.” he rasped, fighting himself as his thumb stroked your racing pulse.

“I do.” Your lips brushed his ear, coaxing. “You want it. I want it. Take it, James. Take me.”

He whined—wrecked by the sound of his name on your tongue, by the rushing in his head that wasn’t just bloodlust but want. Centuries of restraint, of refusing the temptation he lived with every time he touched you, all of it hung by a fraying thread.

He leaned forward slightly and his fangs grazed lightly on your skin, just enough to sting, then pull back, trembling. “I’ve never…”

“Then do it now,” you begged, hips rolling against him as if to push him over the edge. “I want to feel you lose control.” He moaned at the feel of you rubbing against him, cock getting harder by the minute.

The sound of your blood pumping was deafening, like a drumline only he could hear. Each pulse against his tongue made it harder to resist, his lips dragging along your throat, tasting your warmth, your sweat, your wine-laced sweetness.

It was like waving a juicy steak in front of a very, very hungry bear.

He tore himself back, chest heaving. “No—no, I can’t,” he rasped, fingers digging into your hips like he was holding himself in place by sheer force. “If I feed on you… if I don’t suck you dry, you’ll be bound to me. It’s not just blood, sweetheart.”

You let out a whimper at that. Being his forever didn't sound so bad. Your pulse thundered against his hand, his words making your whole body tremble. And still, you tipped your chin up, eyes burning into his. “I’m already yours.”

That undid him.

A guttural growl vibrated out of his chest as he flipped you onto your back, the blanket falling away. Your breath hitched, but there was no time for nerves—he was already dragging your shorts and panties down, his hands rough, desperate. He shoved your thighs apart, kneeling between them, eyes black with hunger.

“God, you smell—” he broke off, mouth pressing hot, open kisses to the inside of your thigh. His tongue stroked slowly, savoring the taste of your skin. Then his teeth sank in, just shy of breaking, nipping, teasing, until you were writhing.

“Bucky—” you whimpered, every nerve ending electric.

He groaned against you, fangs sliding lower until he finally gave in. A sharp, sudden sting, and then bliss as his teeth pierced your flesh. "ah!"

You gasped, arching, the bite shocking heat straight to your core. His lips sealed over the puncture, and he moaned like he was starving, tongue lapping, fangs pressing deeper.

The pull was unlike anything you’d ever felt—draining but euphoric, like every heartbeat funneled into his mouth, every vein lit on fire. Your blood sang for him, the wine you drank earlier making it rich and heady, sweeter than anything he’d ever tasted.

His moans deepened as he drank, rough and hungry, hands pinning your thighs wide when you tried to squirm. The more he took, the more undone he became—hips rutting against the couch, his self-control unraveling as the taste of you intoxicated him.

You clutched at his hair, torn between the dizzying pull of weakness and the sharp, aching pleasure. “Don’t stop,” you gasped, voice ragged.

One of his hands slid down from holding your knee open to splay on your pelvis, thumb finding your slit and spreading the wetness around, "Mmm, fuck."

He lifted his head briefly, mouth wet and red, eyes blazing with something feral. “So fucking sweet,” he panted. “I can’t—god, I can’t stop.” And then his mouth was back on you, feeding harder, faster, like a man possessed, while his thumb found the taut bundle of nerves and rubbed lazy figure-eights on it.

Your body hummed with the stimulation, each drag of his mouth a surge of ecstasy and surrender. You felt both emptied and filled, claimed in a way deeper than sex, every ounce of yourself pouring into him.

And him—he was drunk on you, a thousand times worse than any blood he’d ever tasted. You were decadent, addictive. Each swallow set his nerves on fire, each heartbeat pounding against his tongue like a tiger chained inside a cage begging to be let out.

When you moaned his name, trembling, it nearly broke him. He drank deeper, too much, and you went lightheaded, dizzy with pleasure and loss, your body arching helplessly into his mouth.

Only when he realized your pulse had slowed beneath his tongue did he pull himself back from the haze between your thighs, blood slick on his lips, chest heaving as he stared down at you in horror and awe.

Your body was still trembling, head light, vision a little blurred as you tried to catch your breath. The room seemed to tilt around you, every nerve raw from the feeding.

Bucky dragged his mouth from the punctures in your thigh, licking the blood from his lips with a low sound that made your stomach flip. He looked wild—fangs bared, jaw slick with red, chest rising and falling like he’d just come up from drowning.

And then he bent lower.

“Bucky—” your voice cracked, half in warning, half in desperate need.

“Haven’t even touched you here right yet,” he murmured, his breath hot against your folds. His hands pinned your thighs wide, thumbs stroking up and down the trembling muscle as if to soothe the sting of his bite.

Then his tongue slid against you, slow and deliberate. The aftershock of blood loss made the sensation explode—every stroke magnified, every flick against your clit sharper than it should’ve been. You gasped, body arching before you even realized it, fingers tangling tight in his hair.

“Fuck—oh my god—”

He moaned into you, the sound vibrating against your clit, and it felt like he was drinking from you all over again, devouring. He alternated between long, greedy licks and sharp little sucks, his teeth grazing just enough to make your thighs twitch.

The dizziness made it impossible to keep track of anything but him—his mouth, his tongue, the wet heat of his lips wrapping around you. Every nerve in your body was lit up, your blood thrumming so loudly you thought he must still hear it in his head.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he groaned against you, lips glossy with a mix of blood and your wetness as he bent lower to thrust his tongue inside of you as his nose nuzzled your clit, and you cried out, nails digging into his scalp.

The contrast made you delirious—where his feeding had been sharp, draining, possessive, this was indulgence, worship to the god of your pleasure in the altar between your legs.

But the dizziness blurred them together until you didn’t know where one ended and the other began. Every pull of his mouth felt like he was still taking from you, binding you, claiming you as his.

He put two fingers in and curled them just slightly inside, reaching the spot that undid you so easily every single time. "Bucky, Bucky- fuck, feels too- ah!- much.. nggh"

He just looked up at your and took his mouth from you for long enough to let out a "Mmmm, m'girl can always take more. S'good to me." before diving right back in, even letting his fangs graze your clit at one point to tease a yelp out of you.

When your orgasm hit, it was overwhelming—your whole body arched, mouth falling open in a silent cry, thighs trembling around his head. You swore you could feel your pulse in your ears.

He didn’t stop. Not when you shook, not when you whimpered, not when you begged. He licked you through it, slow, savoring, his tongue gentle now as if to soothe after the storm. When he finally lifted his head, his mouth was slick, his lips swollen, eyes black and shining with hunger and devotion.

Then he leaned up, kissing you slow and deep, letting you taste yourself, taste the faint copper still on his tongue.

You were still buzzing, floaty and warm, when his kisses slowed, then deepened again. His hands slid over your hips, fingers curling under your shirt like he couldn’t quite help himself.

You laughed softly against his mouth, arching into his touch. “Bucky…” you teased, rolling your hips against him. “You could just… fuck me, y’know.”

The groan that tore out of him was half agony, half hunger. He kissed you harder, fangs grazing your lip again. He pulled his sweats down with your help, pushing the elastic waistband down with your feet when you had your legs wrapped around his waist.

His cock slapped against his stomach, tall and proud. Thick, veiny, red and leaking, needy to stretch the velvet of your walls around him and paint it white.

He gripped it at the base and rubbed it in the wetness leaking out of you, making you whine. "C'mon, Buck, don't be mean..." you tilted your hips up to chase the friction of him.

He nudged the head against your pussy, making you bite your lip and grin up at him.

Knock knock knock.

You both froze.

A muffled chorus of tiny voices carried through the door: “Trick or treeeaat!”

Bucky dropped his forehead to your shoulder and actually growled. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You bit back a giggle, your body still humming under him. “Guess the ‘Take Two’ sign didn’t work.”

He sat back just enough to glare at the door, jaw tight. “Can’t they read?”

"They're probably five... or fifteen."

The knock came again, louder this time, followed by a little “Hellooo?”

You dissolved into laughter, burying your face against his chest. Bucky sighed, muttering curses under his breath as he reluctantly pulled the blanket over you both. “Swear to God, if they take the whole bowl…”

You giggled harder, clutching his shirt. “You sound like such a grumpy old man.”

His hand cupped your jaw, forcing you to meet his still-dark eyes, his mouth curving into a wicked smirk. “And you sound like a girl who’s begging to get fucked into the couch the second they’re gone.”

"Why wait?"

That elicited a spark in his eyes that you only ever saw when he was gonna make you swallow your words... amongst other things.

The knock came once more, followed by the sound of little feet running off, laughter fading down the hall.

His cock was still heavy and hot against your folds, your hand still around him. His chest rose and fell hard, fangs flashing when he finally looked at you again.

Your eyes widened just as he shifted his hips, pushing forward. The thick head of him parted you, stretching you slow but deep. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, head falling back against the cushions.

“Bucky—” Your eyes rolled back as he continued to push in.

“Shhh.” He pressed his mouth to your throat, teeth grazing the pulse point. “Pretend we’re not home, sweetheart.” His next thrust sank him fully into you, the force making the couch creak.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, muffling the broken sound that tore out of you. He groaned at the sight, grinding his hips into you until your whole body trembled.

“Good girl,” he rasped, kissing your palm before pinning it back down. “Keep quiet for me.”

Another thrust, slow and heavy, made your legs shake. The lingering dizziness from him feeding on your blood magnified everything—the stretch, the heat.

Outside, you thought you heard more laughter, another knock echoing distantly on someone else’s door. But here, in this room, the world had narrowed to him—his cock sliding deep, his mouth dragging hot kisses up your throat, his voice in your ear.

“Already bound to me,” he murmured, rutting into you harder, needier. “Already mine. Let ‘em knock all night.”

You bit your lip, trying not to cry out, but your body betrayed you, clenching around him so tightly he groaned against your skin, half-feral.

“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, voice a low rasp right at your ear. “Still flutterin’ from my bite, still squeezin’ me like you’re tryin’ to pull me deeper.”

Your hand slid up the back of his neck, nails scraping his scalp. “Maybe I am,” you whispered, breathless. “Maybe I want you all the way in, James. Don't wanna have any-fuck- any part of me not belong to you-u, oh!”

He groaned, hips stuttering, his fangs scraping a warning over your pulse. “Sweetheart, you keep talkin’ like that and I’m gonna—” His words broke off, a growl catching in his throat as you clenched around him again.

You giggled, hazy and warm. “Gonna what?”

He pulled back just enough to look down at you, eyes black, his mouth curling into a dark, crooked smile. “Gonna forget there’s a world outside this apartment. Gonna fuck you ‘til you can’t even remember your own name.”

Another slow thrust, his cock dragging wetly out of you only to push back in until his hips were flush to yours. The wet sound made you whimper against his mouth.

You bit your lip, your giggle breaking into a moan as he rolled his hips in a tight circle that had your toes curling. “Don’t… stop…”

His fangs grazed your lip again. “Wasn’t planning on it.” He pressed his forehead to yours, voice a low growl.

Yeah... you were so glad people took Halloween seriously, being loud tonight wouldn't attract anymore attention than a haunted house.

A/N: if this was buns do not perceive me okay? byeeeee

How long before you let him?

“Jeans and a nice top it is,” you said, sorting through the small pile you made. You thought earlier that perfume and makeup would be too much since it wasn't technically a date, but a spritz and minimal makeup wouldn’t hurt. He’d like it, right?

You smiled when you checked your phone and saw another message from Bucky. 

“Still won’t tell me about your dream? I’ll get it out of you somehow.”

You bit your lip as you reread it. You expected maybe a message or two from him, but he had been reaching out all day and you were checking your phone more than you wanted to admit. He asked how the unpacking was going, checked on your baking and not-so-subtly mentioned he wasn’t allergic to anything and should be your taste tester. He even sent a photo of Alpine curled up on his lap, which made your heart melt. 

But the thing that really made your heart melt was when he asked how you were doing. It didn’t feel like a throwaway question. You didn’t know him well but you knew enough that he wouldn’t ask if he didn’t want to know. How was he so genuine? 

You giggled as you typed a message back. Maybe he would get it out of you, or maybe you’d keep him guessing. “Keep dreaming. See what I did there?”

You felt a little silly sending that. Your ex certainly didn’t appreciate funny messages. He always found a way to turn them around and make you feel small when he bothered to reply. 

But with Bucky, your phone lit up almost immediately. “You’re witty, Sweet Cheeks. I like that.”

You hugged your phone to your chest, wishing you could wrap your arms around him and thank him for being so kind. He likely had no idea how much his kindness meant to you. Why did that make your heart ache? Why did you feel pathetic for clinging to it? 

“God, I really need a drink,” you whispered. 

You tried not to look at the device again once you started getting ready, checking yourself out in the mirror with every angle possible. Bucky must’ve been rubbing off on you since you turned to look at your ass and wondered if it looked good. Since when did you care about that? 

The knock on your door had you jumping out of your skin with anticipation. “One sec!” you called out, taking one last look at yourself and smoothing out your clothes before you rushed to the kitchen. You had a small plate of treats ready for him to try. God, what if he hated them? You didn’t need to impress him, but you wanted to.

You smiled once you opened the door and saw Bucky standing there. He wore long sleeves since it was cooler, but they only served to enhance his muscles. He made looking good appear so effortless. It wasn’t fair.

“Looking good, Sweet Cheeks,” he said, licking his lips. “Got the beer, chairs, blankets, Al, and firepit all ready to go.”

“And all I’m bringing are treats,” you said, presenting him with the plate. “That doesn’t really seem fair.”

“You’re bringing your sweet self, too, so that’s all I need,” he said, licking his lips again when he carefully looked over the desserts. “Bet you made these with love.”

“Of course, I did,” you said. You always put love into your baking.

“So, if you made them with love and you’re giving them to me, then you love me.” He smirked when your eyes bulged. “I know, I know. It’s a lot really fast, but I accept it.”

You shook your head. “That’s a bit of a stretch and you know it,” you said, but there was a wide smile on your face. “I haven’t even had that drink with you yet.”

“Okay. I’ll put a pause on the ‘love’ talk for now. Maybe after a drink or two.”

“Ridiculous,” you said to yourself. He was ridiculous and wonderful.

“Hang on. Turn around.” He made a spinning motion with his finger and you did a slow turn after a second. His groan drifted to your ears, raspy and lustful. “You’re seriously killing me. And I’ve decided those pants are illegal, so you should take them off. Now.” He waited a beat. “Why are you not taking them off?”

This man continued to praise you more and more in the very short time you knew him. “Oh, they’re illegal, huh?’ you asked, giggling when he nodded. “Well, they’re not coming off right now. And if they really are illegal, I guess I’m out here breaking rules tonight.”

“Happy to help you break some rules. Maybe break your bed while we’re at it,” he said, a promise hanging between you. “I can fix it and help you break it again.”

Your breath hitched and you tried to hide it. “Can we please sit and have a drink?” 

“Since you asked so nicely,” he replied. 

You glanced at him as he led you away from your trailers. He walked close to you, but not so close that you felt smothered. The slight breeze made you shiver and you were happy to see the fire pit just a few feet away. You smiled to yourself when you noticed that the chairs were right next to each other. And there were lights in the trees. Did he set that up?

It felt intimate though it was meant to be casual, and you liked that you weren’t far from your new home. It was thoughtful of him. “This looks great.”

He looked right at you. “It does,” he whispered. 

You blamed the heat in your cheeks from the flames as you walked to the chairs. “Hey, Alpine,” you sat when she sat up and stretched. “Keeping Bucky’s seat warm for him?”

“She’s good at that,” he teased, helping you sit. His touch sent jolts up your arm. “But you’re welcome to take a seat on me and keep me warm.”

“Oh, my god.” You shook your head at the cat. “Your owner is something else.”

“Oh, she’s well aware,” he teased, catching her easily when she sprang into his arms and still managing to keep hold of the treats. “And she stays with me anyway.”

You were glad they had each other. “I feel bad. I should’ve made a treat for her. Maybe next time?”

You were banking on there being a next time, which you shouldn’t. You didn’t want to wear out your welcome or cling to him. That was the last thing he needed.

He paused before he sat down. “You’d make treats for her?” he asked softly.

“Yeah, if that’s okay with you,” you replied.

His smile was as soft as his voice. “That’s really fucking nice of you, and she’d love that.”

You smiled back. “I’ll make sure it’s something special,” you promised.

Bucky handed you a beer before he looked over the plate again. “Where to start?” he murmured, selecting the brownie after careful consideration. You held your breath when he sank his teeth in and let out a pornographic moan, his eyes slipping shut. You clenched and watched him lick his lips before he took another bite. The things he could likely do with that mouth…

“So, you like it?” you asked breathily. 

“Like it? Are you kidding me? Best brownie I’ve ever had.” He opened his eyes and ran his tongue across his lips again. “I seriously think you baked this with sin and love. Jesus fucking Christ.”

You looked in your lap, suddenly shy and your heart full. There was no laughter from him, no joking, and that meant everything. “Thanks,” you whispered, lifting your gaze. “Not sure it’ll go well with beer, but…”

“Like I give a shit,” he said, shoveling the rest of the treat into his mouth. Your eyes widened. He really liked it that much? “So, talk to me,” he said once he swallowed.

“Talk to you about what?” you asked, too distracted by his perfect mouth. You sipped your beer and tried to imagine your old group doing this. It was always fancy drinks and dressing up. Nothing casual, nothing real.

“Anything you want,” he said, cracking his drink open. “Want us to get to know each other.”

You did want to know more about him. “So, I can ask you whatever I want?” 

“Yeah. I’m an open book.”

“Okay,” you said, biting your lip. “How long have you lived here?” 

“About ten years now. Seems like only yesterday,” he said, staring off like he was reminiscing. “Believe it or not, I grew up in a city. Stayed there until I was in my mid-20’s.”

“Never would’ve guessed,” you said, but you knew better than to judge a book by its cover. What brought him out here? “And you have a sister. What about your parents?”

A flicker of sadness crossed his face. “They passed away years ago. It’s just Becca and I,” he said. 

That broke your heart. You didn’t know what it was like to lose a parent, but that was a terrible loss. “I’m so sorry,” you said, briefly touching his hand.

He stared at the spot you touched and gently smiled. “I like to imagine they’re together somewhere, dancing to some old music and watching over us,” he said. You hadn’t expected a deep discussion off the bat, but it was nice that he shared this with you. “Mom’s probably pissed that I’m not married yet,” he added with a chuckle. 

“Do you… want to get married?” you asked curiously. 

“To the right woman, hell yeah.” He stared at you and you managed not to shift in your seat. “I mean, I did tell Becca I met my future wife.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “And you don’t say that about all the new neighbors?”

He looked offended. “Hell no.”

“You ever sleep with a neighbor?” “A couple,” he said easily, like he had nothing to hide. And he didn't. 

Your eyebrows shot up just the same. It was nice that he didn’t dodge the question. And jealousy didn't rear its ugly head. There was no reason. “And…?”

“And what? I don’t have any kids running around if that's what you're asking. Clean as a whistle.” 

“That’s good to know,” you said. He didn’t seem like the type to hide any of that. 

He made sure you were looking in his eyes when he spoke again. “Not to mention that was ages ago. Not dating or sleeping with anyone.”

“Ages ago, huh?”

“Just me and my hand.” He held up his right hand before he looked at the other. “I mean, sometimes I switch to my left so it feels different.”

“Keeping it interesting,” you teased. “So, those old neighbors, no strings attached?”

“Nope. Not on either side. Blew off steam and nothing more,” he answered. 

“I don't know what that's like. I’ve always been in relationships,” you admitted. You weren't sure if you were cut out for sex without some sort of label attached to it. 

“It’s not for everyone.” He stared into his bottle with a sad smile. “Truthfully, it’s really not for me and that's why I don't do that anymore.”

You almost reached out to touch his hand again. “It’s not a bad thing to want more.”

“I guess not,” he said more to himself than you. “One of the things that almost everyone here has in common is that we all want something more in life. Some of the women are single moms trying to do better for their kids and others just got out of bad relationships and are trying to find their way. A few are a combination of the two.”

You sympathized. You didn’t have kids, but your heart went out to anyone freeing themselves from a bad relationship and trying to figure out the next step. “I hope things are looking up for them,” you said. You still wondered what brought Bucky to this place since he grew up in a city.

You thought he looked a little sad when he asked, “Does it bother you that I slept with women I wasn’t serious about?”

“No,” you answered immediately. Too fast for his liking since he raised an eyebrow.

“No?”

“No,” you said again, slower but firm. “Why would it bother me? We just met each other. Your past is yours, and I’m not going to judge you for it.”

It wasn’t your place to pick apart any of his past or his choices. You had a past, too. As far as you were concerned, he didn’t owe you a thing.

There was also a naively optimistic voice in your head that said you were different. If Bucky took you to bed it wouldn’t be a one and done thing. Not if he told his sister and best friend about you. Not if he looked at you the way he did.

“You may not judge, but I’ll bet you want to know if I flirt with everyone.”

“Do you flirt with everyone?”

“Not the way I flirt with you,” he said seriously. “I swear that I’ve never gone on about anyone else's ass the way I did with yours and will continue to do.”

Your heart stupidly skipped a beat. “So, why mine? What is so spectacular about it?”

What made you so special?

“It’s an onion ass.”

“It’s a what now?” you asked, beyond confused as you sipped your beer.

“Already told you the answer, Sweet Cheeks. It’s an ass so beautiful it could make a grown man cry.”

You almost sputtered. “Yep. You're utterly ridiculous.” “Not ridiculous. I'm being honest.”

You shifted in your chair. “Well, my ass will lose its appeal. Trust me.”

He looked offended by the mere thought. “That’s highly unlikely. Your ass won’t quit. Ever.”

You wanted the optimistic voice in your head to come back and drown out the mocking laughter and taunts you were used to. Why did the mind like to remind you of the worst when you should’ve been focusing on the best? Why were you your own worst enemy?

“You’re just being nice,” you muttered, taking another swig. 

He sat up straighter and took a good look at you. “You really don't believe me, do you?”

You sighed, not wanting to get into it while wanting to unleash it all at the same time. “Bucky, my ex-boyfriend was a two-faced liar with just about everything. The kind of guy who would say to my face that I looked great and then laughed and put me down to his friends when he thought I couldn’t hear him. Or maybe he knew I was listening and he just didn’t care.”

It was humiliating that the person who was supposed to protect and love you was the very person who tore you down. The worst part was that he did it with a smirk on his face. You would never understand a man who did everything to make their partner feel small just so they could feel big.

He stayed quiet for a minute. “Why stay with a prick like that?” he asked curiously, a bite to his voice as well. 

You asked yourself the same thing so many times. “Because our parents decided that we were going to get married, so I was expected to put up with it,” you replied. And you didn’t say so, but a very small part of you thought that was what you deserved before you realized you deserved better. 

“Fuck that. This isn’t the old days. They can’t just decide that,” he snapped before he sat back in his chair, his jaw clenching. “Sorry. You didn’t ask for my opinion.”

“It’s okay,” you said. It was nice that he was upset on your behalf. “But they didn’t care. Neither did my friends.”

“Some friends,” he mumbled so low you almost didn’t hear him. 

“My parents told me it was par for the course for couples to argue like that and some of my friends were either in similar situations or they had their own issues to deal with, so they didn’t have time for mine,” you said, blinking a few times. If he asked, you could blame the burn in your eyes from the smoke. “I had to suck it up and deal with it on my own.”

You gripped the bottle tighter, trying to remember the last time your friends checked on you before you left. It was always you reaching out first, you trying to keep everything together. Did they even notice that you pulled away? Did they care when you stopped trying?

There was heartbreak in his stare when you glanced at him. Anger, too. “One of the things he said the most when we fought was that there were plenty of women just like me out there… better women, in fact. And to add salt to the wound after our fights he’d ignore me. He’d look right through me for minutes, hours, even days. I was just… invisible. Non-existent.”

You stared into the fire like it would hold answers to questions you hadn't asked yet. You weren’t sure what was worse, when he used his words as weapons or his indifference. Both left wounds that would heal with time, but the scars would remain. Maybe one day the right person would help them fade just a little more. 

“And then you left,” he whispered. 

“And then I left,” you echoed, taking a deep breath. You dumped a lot on him in a short time and you wished you could take it back since your burdens weren’t his to carry. It was nice to get it out, especially since he defended you and didn’t judge. 

“Ended up here at the trailer park,” he said.

“My grandma left some money for me when she passed away, and I saved as much as I could from my paychecks, too. I think she knew I didn't want the life my parents thought I should have,” you said, glancing back at your place. It wasn’t a mansion and you didn’t need it to be one. “I think she’d be happy that I’m here because this is mine and it’s real. My life. My choices.”

“She sounds wise.”

“She was,” you agreed. You missed her. “She was sincere in a world full of insincerity.”

“You value that… sincerity. Honesty,” he guessed.

“I do. And you’re probably one of the most genuine people I’ve met in a long time. You have no filter whatsoever, but it's refreshing,” you said, seeing a ghost of a smile touch his lips. “So, I don't think you're a liar when you say the things you do. Not even close. I just think my appeal to you may eventually wear off.”

He leaned forward, the fire catching in his eyes. “That's never going to happen,” he said with enough force that it nearly knocked you back. 

“You own a mirror, right? You’ve seen yourself. You can have anyone you want,” you told him. Anything to deflect and make him not see the parts of yourself you willingly opened. Anything to stop you from saying that he could do better than you.

“Don't want just anyone,” he said, keeping his eyes on you. “And thank you, by the way, for telling me part of your story. I have a feeling that wasn’t easy for you.”

You nodded, but didn't say anything. Maybe he understood why you didn't want to depend on others. Your support circle was never that at all. 

Another minute of silence passed before you said, “Sorry to be such a downer, but thanks for listening. You're really easy for me to talk to.”

“Not a downer. I’m happy to listen,” he said, smiling wide when Alpine suddenly jumped in your lap. “So is she.”

“Quite the pair, aren’t you?” you asked, gently petting her fur once she curled up. 

“We are,” he agreed, but he was looking at you. “So, what about work? You talked about filling out job applications.”

“Oh, yeah. Still figuring that out, but I don't think I want to be in an office ever again.”

An office or corporate setting would remind you too much of the world you left behind. You didn’t want to be surrounded by those cold walls and people being treated like robots or numbers. There was something else out there waiting for you to seize the opportunity.

He smirked. “Me neither.”

You smiled. The atmosphere felt lighter than it did a minute ago. “I can’t picture you being happy in an office.“

“Fuck no. I love my shop. Opening it was one of the best decisions I ever made,” he said, his pride evident. He should be proud. “Is there a job that you think could make you happy? Or at least make you feel content?”

You thought about it. “This may sound kind of silly, but baking is something that makes me happy and I’m decent at it. If there’s a bakery or shop or something that could use an extra hand, I’d love that.”

“Decent? Your brownie almost made me bust a nut.” You laughed, but he didn’t. “I’m serious. You should go into town and see.”

He was being serious. “I didn't see anything online.”

“Some of the owners are a bit more old fashioned. Prefer signs in the windows and face-to-face interaction instead of posting online.”

“I can do that,” you said. You wouldn’t get your hopes up, but it would hurt to look. “It'll be good to explore a little too.”

He looked pleased to hear that .”So, you really plan on sticking around.”

“Well, I didn’t uproot my life just to take off so soon,” you said. This is where you were meant to be. You could feel it. And you wouldn’t go back where you didn’t belong.

“Fair enough,” he chuckled. “If you need a tour guide, I can show you around.”

“You enjoy my company that much, Bucky?”

“I do,” he said. God, you believed him. “And .I'll do my best to keep proving that to you.”

“You don't have to prove anything to me,” you whispered. He had done more for you than he knew.

“I want to,” he whispered, gently and fiercely, like he really did have something to prove.

“You’re something else. You know that?” you asked.

“Is that a bad thing?” he countered, a smirk on his handsome face. 

“No. Like I said, it’s refreshing. I think you already gathered that I’m used to passive aggression and being flat out ignored, so I will take honesty over that any day.” “Your ex and everyone else… Fuck them and not the good kind of fucking,” he growled quietly. You liked that sound. “You’re better off without them.”

“I know,” you whispered. You deserved so much better. “Now I just have to prove it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “To them?”

“To myself,” you replied. 

You learned to survive on scraps of love and affection when you deserved entire meals. Everyone deserved that. You weren’t going to settle. Not now, and not ever again.

His gaze softened considerably. “I think you already have.” You smiled and bit your lip. “Thanks.”

He reached out and took your hand. “You know, you opening up to me, I should open up to you more, too.”

“This isn’t a contest. I’m not keeping score,” you said. He didn’t have to tell you anything. 

“But it’s important.” He paused and you weren’t sure if he was bracing himself or you. “I’ve… been to prison. A while ago. Before I moved here.”

His confession settled like an echo after a gunshot. Of all the things you thought he'd say, that didn't come to mind. “Prison?” you repeated, swallowing when he nodded. He looked rough around the edges, but you still couldn't imagine him in a place like that. “Can you tell me why?”

Bucky wasn’t a common criminal. You felt it in your bones. So, what happened? 

His gaze hardened, the light from the flames harsh against his face. “Some asshole tried to assault my sister, and I couldn’t let that happen.”

Your mouth fell open, once again not expecting the words that came out of his mouth. “Someone tried to hurt Becca?”

“Yeah.” He took a large swig of his beer and squeezed your hand. “We were out with some friends, and this one guy wouldn't leave her alone. I got a bad vibe from the start, and so did she. Anyone with eyes could tell she was really uncomfortable when he kept trying to buy her a drink, but he didn’t care and he wouldn’t take no for an answer.” He tapped his finger against the can. “My friends and I don’t appreciate guys who push when they’re told no.”

You thought back to the day before. Bucky graphically flirted with you and still continued to do so, but he backed off and was apologetic when you mentioned harassment. He had some sense of boundaries and respected them. No wonder a guy like that pissed him off. 

“I told him she didn’t want a drink and to stay the fuck away from her.” You could just imagine the bite in his voice when he told the guy to leave Becca alone. He was a good big brother. “The asshole didn’t even look at me. Just smiled at her with empty eyes and walked away. I suggested closing our tab and taking off even though she tried to say she was just fine, but she wasn’t,” he said, his eyes flickering to you. “She was shaken.”

You leaned a little closer. Alpine did, too, likely sensing his turmoil. “What happened?” you asked above a whisper.

“Friend went to close out the tab while Becca and I both went to the bathroom. I came back and didn’t see her. Another minute passed and she still didn’t come back.” He breathed out slowly. “I should’ve just waited for her outside the door.”

“Bucky…” you whispered. You wanted to say whatever happened next wasn’t his fault. 

“I had that bad feeling again and I rushed back there. I don’t know if that asshole was watching and waiting until she was alone, but he had her cornered just past the bathroom door.” He sounded so cold, nothing like the warmth you were used to. “I could see her struggling and crying and…” Your stomach turned while he took another deep breath. “I basically blacked out after that. I’ve seen the footage of what I did, but I have no memory of anything after seeing how scared she was.”

Your eyes burned. The rage and fear he must’ve felt seeing his sister in such an awful ordeal. Poor Becca. Poor Bucky. “What did the footage show you?”

“It showed that I snapped. I got the asshole away from her, but I beat the shit out of him. It was like I shut down and was outside of my own body when I did it. Like a fucking machine. Couple of bouncers had to pull me off him and Steve, my best friend, was trying to make sure Becca and I were both okay,” he replied evenly, but his shoulders slumped like he was suddenly tired. “The guy suffered a brain injury, but he recovered overall. And I went to jail for assault and battery. Sentenced to 5 years. Served less than 3 years. Good behavior, first offense.”

It sounded similar to a crime of passion to you. Bucky didn’t go out that night with the intention of hurting anyone. All he saw was his sister getting hurt and the intense emotions made him react the way he did. 

God, you couldn't imagine being in prison. Did he have to watch his back? Did anyone hurt him? You were thankful he got out on good behavior. 

“I actually had a girlfriend before I went behind bars. For a short time, I even saw a future with her… and she dumped me. Said it was too much for her, and she didn't speak to me again.” He scoffed a little. “Becca and Steve never liked her anyway, so I guess we were both better off.”

“I’ve been let down before, too, and it sucks when the person should’ve had your back.”

The air rushed out of your lungs. He saved his sister and his girlfriend dumped him? While you didn't know how serious they were, it had to hurt that she wrote him off and didn't stand beside him. Maybe that was part of the reason why he didn't do relationships for a period of time. People can't let you down if you aren't going all in. 

“After I got out, I couldn't get an office job or anything like that with my record. Didn't really want to anyway. Couldn't afford rent on my own in the city and I didn't want to burden Becca or anyone else by crashing with them. So, I came out here.” He gestured to his trailer behind him. “Opened my garage with Steve and the rest is history.”

You sat in stunned silence, words lost to you. You wanted to comfort him because he certainly deserved it. God, you wanted to weep for him, but you willed yourself not to cry. You were sure your eyes were brimming with tears anyway. 

“I get it if you don’t want anything to do with me after this,” he said quietly. It sounded casual, but there was hope that you wouldn’t push him away. “I just figured it was easiest to rip off the bandaid and tell you now. Especially since you were so honest about your ex and why you're here”.

You turned to fully face him, quickly blinking the moisture away. “Thank you for telling me,” you said, making sure he looked at you. You wanted him to see the compassion in your eyes. “I can't even imagine how hard that is for you to carry around every day.”

He paid a hefty price for saving his sister. She may have internal scars from what she experienced, but he prevented further damage. Your heart still broke for both of them. He lost time by being in prison, and she lost her brother for all those months.

He shrugged a little and took another sip. “You know, she blamed herself when I got sentenced. Said she ruined my life,” he continued, his voice raw. “But she didn’t. She’s my sister. I told her I can live with jail, but I can’t live with someone trying to hurt her or worse. And I’d do the same thing all over again.”

“She’s really lucky to have you for a brother.”

“And…” His jaw clenched. “I don’t scare you?”

“Not at all,” you promised. Just like he got bad vibes that night, you had gut feelings, too. There were no warning bells going off when he was around. He wouldn’t hurt you. He wouldn’t dare.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. You set your beer down and Alpine hopped off your lap when you moved. Keeping his hand in yours, you helped pull him up. He stared at you curiously before you wrapped your arms around him in a tight hug. He exhaled, his body practically melting into yours when he hugged you back. You breathed in the scent of the fire and his cologne, soothing you as you soothed him.

“And I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered. You weren’t going to avoid or push him away because of his past. 

“You still want my company, Sweet Cheeks?” he asked, his voice a low rumble in your ear.

You closed your eyes, shivering despite the heat from the fire. “Of course, I do.”

His arms wrapped a little tighter around you when you tried to pull away from the hug. “Can I just hold you for another minute?” he asked, your throat dry when you locked eyes. “It’s just… It means a lot that you’re so understanding.”

Bucky didn’t just peel back a layer of himself beyond the confident flirt. He showed you so much more. He was a fierce protector and a man with so much heart. 

“You can keep holding me,” you agreed, leaning into him. It was nice to be needed, even for just a moment. 

You closed your eyes, your heart both full and heavy from the discussion. He had a sister he’d kill for and you were barely a footnote in the story of your own family. But you didn’t feel alone tonight, and you refused to feel sorry for yourself. Not when he had his arms around you like you mattered in some capacity. 

“Why don’t we finish those beers?” he suggested after a minute, but seemed reluctant to let you go. 

“I think you should try the cookie with it,” you said, taking a seat again.

His trademark smirk appeared. “You’re saying I should eat your cookie?”

You giggled. “There he is,” you teased, the atmosphere completely back to normal. The tough discussion of the night was over, but it was something you both needed. “Thanks for tonight. This was a really nice change of pace.”

He held his beer can up. “To nice changes,” he said, clinking it with yours. 

“To nice changes.”

Alpine meowed, too, taking her place on Bucky’s lap again. You gazed at the two of them, completely at ease as the night went on. You thought about Becca and wondered when you’d meet her. And Steve. And you hadn’t forgotten about the potluck. You didn’t expect everyone to open up to you the way he did, but you hoped they liked you because you weren’t going anywhere. 

But tonight, you knew Bucky liked having you around and that was more than enough.

Oh, these two. They deserve a happy ending. What do we think of his past? How will the potluck go? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

He was named after one of the twelve apostles, but Father James was not as great as his namesake. Merely six years into his clergyship, he'd hit that wall even the holy saints of old could not dispel: a drought of faith, they called it. A dark night—he'd read that book by St. John the Cross, who described a time so hollow it didn't seem like God was there.

But he persisted, because that's what scripture says. The measure of faith in God has never been in miracles or good deeds, but in perseverance through this nothingness. It is through nothingness that the divine will work wonders.

A form of penitence. A purge.

So Father James prayed—or tried to—every night. Spent at least an hour a day in the adoration room, staring at that blessed sacrament that called him to a life of purity. Cared for the flock of sheep that he was assigned to: the townspeople were kind, but like real livestock, their bickering can get loud at times.

Still, he did his best to be grateful.

Until that fateful day he saw you, pretty among the congregation. White modest dress. Soft smile. You'd look up at him at the pulpit while he delivered his homily. Though seminary taught him to engage with all members attending mass, his gaze would inadvertently land on that beautiful head of hair covered in a delicate veil. He tried to place you, but failed—never seeing you with anyone, never catching the hem of your dress outside of the church doors. Almost like you’re a figment of his imagination.

And you do become one, in a more real sense, because after a few Sundays, he started dreaming of you.

Soft at first. Wisps of white lace and curled smiles. Fluttering lashes and fingers toying with a rosary.

But that soon changed: prayer-clasped hands began to wander down his arms and chest, the hair framing your face tickling his. It didn’t take long until he woke up on sheets damp from sweat and something else.

His first dirty dream during priesthood, six years in.

Where he’d kneel and pray, he could only sit in a defeated silence now. Recited three Hail Marys for the virgin to intercede against evil while his body still sang from the buzz. Pretended to not feel the weight of you on top of him as he went about his day, blessing crosses and counting communion wafers.

The man of the collar soon found himself leashed to a different type of master in the absence of the Holy one who ordained him. His unconscious filled his barren faith with images of you on that pew, knelt down, but soon the Devil morphed your open mouth when he said "the body of Christ" into doing something else.

Taking his body and not the Lord's.

He woke up feeling like he didn't sleep that particular night. The heat that licked him had to be sent from Hell, the things he made you do in his dreams so wrong... but why did it feel so right?

You, on the other hand, were having the time of your life.

Hell may be full of dissenting demons and backstabbing blasphemers, but even these base creatures recognized that order was a necessary conduit for ambition.

And pride is the original sin, so it was natural for all residents of Hell to be ambitious, yes?

That included you—a rising member in the unholy order of succubi, born to tear good men away from salvation.

You've seduced kings. Influenced them to war over women (because being wanted felt so good). But one of God's soldiers? Now that's a knighthood you hadn't woven your wings into. You took up the assignment with greed enough to make Mammon proud.

The slow descent was always your favorite part—the slower the better, because what is immortality for if not torment? And you had to give him his flowers, because he was a good man.

So good. Prayed after every haunting. Washed away his sweat and buried himself into the life he thought God called him to, when just moments ago he was buried in you. You could taste that slip of control: a flavor so delicious it almost made you stronger every night.

Playing a pretty parishioner was just your dedication to detail. Some of your cohort may deem it theatrical, inefficient, but you knew it was critical.

You wanted to make him think it was him. That he lacked faith. That he was no better than the rest of the people in the pew—maybe worse. Pressure him under a slow fire until he fell on his own.

And he did, because after countless Sundays of seeing visions of forbidden beauty, after dreams that lingered like nightmares, he broke.

You didn't blame him. You worked extra hard that night. Gave him everything—well, almost, because he was still unconscious—but still, enough to make the most pious of men suffer. St. Benedict himself had to lunge into barbed bushes at the violence of such fantasies.

You made sure he could feel everything.

The slick of sweat. The smell of sex. The roll of your hips into his and the sound that slipped out of your plump lips.

"I'm sorry, Father," you'd cried, high-pitched, but unrepentant in the way you chased your high and his.

You were more that purgatory's fire, you were Hell's, and so was the heat between your legs that consumed him. With the cover of sleep and darkness, you bound him under a spell, one that canted itself in the way he thrusted into you halfway through, wresting your control away (except it was entirely your plan), and ravaged you, so clear and real.

When he woke up, it was as though the sheets painted the outline of two bodies.

That was his fall from grace, because his hand wrapped around himself instead of around the rosary.

The Mother of God cannot save him, because she hasn't tasted what he was made to crave.

So he stopped praying, and you kept visiting. In plaguing dreams. Between pastoral hymns. He watched, waited, not knowing you were doing the same, not knowing how you delighted in the feasts he presented you. Fruits of his own fantasies, work of his own hands.

Those same hands blessed and broke bread, and you understood why this was such a coveted task in your ranks: nothing compared to the wine that was bleeding a holy man dry of his faith, no matter how lacking it was in the first place.

Which was why you wanted more.

Call it Mammon's influence. The teachings of Jezebel. Orders from Asmodeus himself.

But above all that, you did it for yourself: to quench a thirst that demanded he knew it was you. To make him bring you to bed willingly. A final test, so to speak—not for you to prove yourself, you were more than capable, but for you to watch him jump that cliff into warm waters out of his own foolish volition.

Making yourself known was easy. You spoke to him after mass. Simple, sweet—traded small talk like you didn't know what he was really thinking of. Saw him resist the urge to writhe under his own skin, the energies that wafted off of him making him that much more irresistible. A meal you prepared for months, stewing in tension and discomfort.

You gave him your name at the end of it, and giggled when you heard him whisper it in the night.

Were you jealous of the way he called for Mary this entire time? Maybe. Succubi aren't such understanding creatures.

The conversations never lasted for more than a minute. By design, of course. You talked about everything innocuous under the sky: the weather, children chipping paint off the church columns, how you looked forward to apples in the orchard—a nod to your favorite part of scripture, the forbidden fruit.

He responded in kind, and also with kindness. Smiled. Blessed you before you left. Said your name in his room.

Wouldn't it be poetic to drag this out until the Nativity? When the entire church celebrated the birth of Christ, his faith would die. In its place, there would be a worship reserved just for you.

So you met him more often. Asked for spiritual direction. Divulged in polite diction how your thoughts strayed to the kind that was impure, that meant sinfulness, that required forgiveness.

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned," you'd open by custom, knowing full well your voice had caused him to do the same.

He always listened. Offered sacred texts to counter thoughts, like words from that silly book actually got through to him—they stopped mattering since your first visit.

But you nod, played the part of a defiled innocent, and thanked him. Every week. Then it became every other day.

You pushed, but never went for the kill. Not until he allowed you to.

And in the final week of Advent, the holy season of cold contrition where the faithful are called to return to the path, he finally strayed.

"These are normal thoughts for a young woman," he said, sounding sympathetic. You knew better of the undercurrent: he was admitting his own sin.

"Father, may I ask...?"

He blinked at you, almost out of a stupor. Had the movements of your lips cause that? Cute.

"You may."

"You—how shall I say this," you shook your head, looking away, finding the words as if you hadn't kept them in your pocket for ages, "you're a young man, too. Have you...?"

Though words were left unsaid, the tips of his ears turned pink.

"My dear, I am not exactly... young."

You smiled. "But you are a man, are you not?"

It should've startled him, how easily he answered your question.

"I am. Man, human, as flawed as you are."

He should've looked away. Should not have paid so much attention to your eyes or the shape of the vowels that left you when you said:

"Great is the burden of a servant of the Lord."

Was he? The Lord's servant?

When was the last time he saw, touched, eaten the blessed sacrament that he consecrated himself and felt something? How long had it been since prayers brought voices? These days it was always you.

Your voice in his ear—"God bless you, Father." Your hands in his dreams—"I can't stop, Father, I'm sorry." Your taste in his mouth, which he stopped washing away: it felt so real, the tang, the slick, the heat.

And now he saw it: the brush of your hand on his. He should have heard your confession in the booth and not his office.

Fingers brushed lightly above his knuckles, and electricity took over, lighting up nerves in a way that divine intervention itself couldn't stop.

He forgot his litanies. Followed his lust. And now here he was, letting you hold his hand—an act so innocently indecent.

"Father?"

Christmas was still a few days away, but it was a miracle how his voice hadn't left him.

"Yes, my dear?"

You brought his hand to your lips, kissed his knuckles, and Father James didn't think he would be able to describe the sensation of a soul damned until this point.

It wasn't cold like he thought, the absence of God in this moment. It was warm. Comfortable. A fireplace in winter past the faithless dark night he trudged through: salvation in a different shape. It was wrong, that much he knew, but the puzzle piece fit so right.

"They say a burden shared is a burden halved..." you murmured, eyes never leaving his, lips still on his skin. Sweet with promise. "Would you share yours with me?"

He didn't have to answer. His body did it for him.

that concludes today's reading. some extra funnies for you:

a/n: just a silly one-shot because I needed to write something halloween themed for the winter soldier. I tagged it dub con just in case, because he’s rough and doesn’t explicitly asks her, but reader is very much enthusiastic and horny for him since the beginning. also, reader's personality and behavior is inspired by rose nylund from the golden girls and karen from mean girls. I guess at the end it took a different turn compared to what I had planned, but I can't help it and always end up making the characters a little sentimental.

I honestly loved writing this one-shot, and dare I say I’m quite proud of it, so I really hope you’ll enjoy 🎃

“I can already smell the weed from here, it’s only eleven for fuck’s sake.” Sarah rasps, grimacing as she gets out of the driver seat of her Nissan Versa. 

“It’s a college party, were you expecting tea and cookies?” Nicole rolls her eyes, bent as she ties her shoes. 

The huge mansion sits amongst the bare trees like a sore thumb. Strings of fake cobwebs dangle from the balconies like tangled yarn, while the light projectors on the ground give the white building an even paler look, bordering on blue, almost ghostly. Pumpkins with bizarre carved faces are all lined up on the balconies and the porch; the latter is already crowded with masked people drinking and smoking. One of the few latecomers almost trips over one of the realistic grey graves adorning the front lawn along with a big steaming cauldron. 

“At least this year Ethan and his minions put effort into decorating. Do you remember last Halloween, Y/N?” Nicole turns around, already walking onward with Sarah at her side, and finds you looking into the car window, adjusting the white corset of your costume.

“Jesus,” Sarah huffs exasperated, bringing a hand on her hip. “Stop fussing, you look good!” 

“Just a sec…” You mumble, turning sideways to check your butt. This year you three agreed to not choose a them. Last Halloween picking a group costume was hell, mainly because Nicole wanted to go as Cher, Tai and Dionne from Clueless, while you suggested Clover, Sam and Alex from Totally Spies. Sarah was too busy with her now ex-boyfriend, and a few days before the party she ditched you and Nicole to dress up as Princess Peach and Super Mario with him. 

Of course you two had to go and clash again on something as simple as matching outfits; Nicole insisted on Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy, but you had no idea who they were, so you voted for Daphne and Velma. Long story short, the two of you had no time to buy decent costumes and ended up dressing as a devil and an angel. 

Just like thirty other girls at the party, at least. 

That night, Sarah saw her Super Mario going at it with Princess Daisy–aka her cousin–in one of the many bathrooms of this same mansion, and in that moment she swore to not do group costumes ever again.

Now, in front of the Nissan, a Kim Possible looks pretty much done with life, as a Cher from Clueless sits on the curb with the first cigarette of the night lit between her lips, while a bunny in pink and white taps her mouth to even out the glittery lipgloss.

You thought the ears were a little too big when you bought them, but now paired with the sheer corset and the short pink skirt, they look perfect.

“Okay,” you tug the tight skirt down, but you don’t actually care about the fact that the fabric doesn’t even budge, snug against your thighs. “Let’s go, bitches!”

“Hey–” 

Sarah’s warning comes too late, when your body is already colliding with something firm like steel. You yelp, and a large hand promptly grasps your bare arm to prevent you from falling over backwards. You don’t even notice your eyes squeezed shut at the impact, so you open them quickly, meeting a broad chest covered in what looks to be a black tactical vest. Your chin lifts and that’s when you see a pair of dark blue eyes staring down at you. Though you can’t really see his face, the bottom half is covered by a black mask.

Hot. 

“Hi!” You beam as your head tilts a little, knowing how much guys like it when you do it. The bulky man just stares at you, frowning in a way you can’t understand if it’s assessing you or getting ready to scold you since you almost toppled over him.

A beat of silence passes between you, in which you let your curious eyes roam around his face, then they land on his large shoulders. A tingling sensation teases your lower belly, and you almost cower in embarrassment at how shameless you are being under this man’s scrutinizing gaze. 

It’s not your fault you like your men big.

Someone clears their throat, but you can’t look away. You don’t want to.

“Y/N, let the gentleman go, c’mon.” Sarah takes your wrist, wrapping her other arm around your waist to gently guide you away. The long fingers around your forearm jump back as if they have just been burned. 

“Nice costume, man. Looks expensive.” Nicole nods at the strange guy, still rigid in the same spot you left him, save for his eyes, that follow you carefully as your friend keeps a leisurely pace. 

That man looks weird and the last thing Sarah wants is to set some potentially dangerous man off on Halloween night. There are too many creeps around on nights like this, and she wouldn’t be surprised if a pervert took the chance of a chaotic college party to harass girls.

You still turn around twice before you cross the threshold with your friends, locking eyes again and again. He’s still there, this time fully turned towards the house, and you really hope he’s here for the party as well.

Years without being touched with anything other than whips and medical equipment, and what undoes him is a sweet-looking girl with bunny ears. 

He can’t even remember the last time he felt such a delicate thing brush against his body. Because you are delicate. Too delicate. Too soft. Smaller than him. He could literally break your bones with a flick of his wrist, yet you looked at him like you wanted to be devoured.

His heartbeat has not slowed down since the moment his hand wrapped around your arm. As your friend took you away from him, he had the time to appraise your body: plush thighs straining against that meager piece of fabric that theoretically should be a skirt; tits almost spilling over the indecent top that seems to have been sewed directly on your torso; and those white fish net stockings digging into the flesh of your legs… The small pink ribbons on the hem are there to give the stockings a cute touch, yet to the soldier they made your bunny outfit look even more lewd. 

The thing that really made him gulp was the puffy, white cotton tail stitched at the top of your skirt. Such a shame it wasn’t attached to your body. He would have pulled at it until you let out that sweet little yelp again.

With a shake of his head, the soldier chases such bizarre thoughts away. 

You weren’t supposed to be here. Nobody was.

The orders were clear: break in, shoot everyone and wait in the nearest safe house for extraction. 

No witnesses.

The target is an ex-HYDRA scientist who was able to run away ten years ago. He hid well, completely covering his tracks to the point he changed state every year. The soldier ponders if he was involved in the Winter Soldier project too at some point. He wouldn’t know. The face depicted in the files provided by his handler looked like any other. 

The mission involved killing his wife and son as well, if present. They were supposed to be home, at least the couple. HYDRA enforced the no witness rule each time he would slip up at the beginning. That meant killing any person standing too close to the crime scene, and he learnt that the hard way. The scars on his back faintly pulse as a mocking reminder each time.

However, this situation is entirely new for the asset. For starters, the black SUV owned by the ex-scientist is not in his usual place. Considering his house looks like a downtown club full of sweaty students in ridiculous clothes, he has to be away. 

He can’t proceed with the mission, the target is not where he was supposed to be. 

HYDRA hasn’t contacted him to give him any new order, meaning he has to wait in the safe house for some lower agent to pick him up. It could be anytime between tomorrow and a week.

The soldier looks back at the building overflowing with youngsters, then at his gloved fingers as he flexes them. With a barely audible sigh and determined eyes, he starts walking.

Inside, it is pure chaos. The bass of the speakers could be heard from the lawn, but now you it thunders in your rib cage as you roll your eyes at the umpteenth awful EDM remix of some new pop song that you don’t even know the words of. You rather dance to early 2000s hits, possibly not ruined by some DJ wannabe. 

People spill through every hallway, and the improvised dance floor is packed with students clumsily rubbing against each other, while smaller groups glued to the walls shout to hear each other, red cups in their hands. 

The smell hits you as soon as you cross the threshold: a mix of cheap perfume, spilled beer and sweat. Laughter bounces off the high ceilings, mixing with the occasional elated screams when the DJ turns the fog machine on.

A reeling vampire bumps into your shoulder, causing you to sway on your pumps, but Sarah catches your elbow in time, then glares with disdain at the several drunk students looking like they are going to throw up any moment now. 

“I hate college.” She gags, scowling at a group of jocks loudly daring each other to drink whatever neon-colored concoction the host is mixing.  

You grin at her, knowing she would much rather be at home watching some gory movie, but after the stunt she pulled on you at the last minute last Halloween, you and Nicole forced her to come. After the cheating jerk, she completely shut men out, but you really hoped being here would encourage her to at least have fun with some hot masked stranger for one night.

From the windows, you catch a glimpse of the dark trees beyond the property. The man is not there anymore, and your eyes immediately land on the open door. They jump from person to person, but you only spot plenty of vampires, cheerleaders, devils and witches. No sign of the hot, weird man. You sigh dejected, turning back to your friends who are debating whether to venture into the kitchen to have a drink, risking to meet some couple fooling around, or dance. With a small smile you adjust your bunny ears and vote for a drink.

“Hey Nic!” The three of you turn around at the same time when a familiar male voice calls for your friend. Jacob, the football team’s captain, is jogging towards you, stopping short right before Nicole. “Hi girls. Nice costumes.” He grins, tilting his head to wiggle his fingers at you and Sarah, who simply nods at him.

“Hi, Jacob! Yours is nice too!” You smile, then slightly lean closer to your friend. “Is that a football uniform?” You mutter, still smiling. 

“Yeah, it is.” She raises both eyebrows, pursing her lips as she tries to hide her laugh. Jacob is not a bad guy, he’s just a little… Self-absorbed. And maybe a tad much obsessed with football, to the point he makes being the captain his whole personality. Nicole went on a date with him once and came back with a headache; she tried to let him down gently but the guy asked to stay friends and now follows her around like a lost puppy.

“Which football player did he dress up as?” You turn your head at her, and Sarah’s features go slack. She watches you for a beat, mouth opening and closing once, before she shakes her head, concluding eavesdropping on their conversation is the best choice. 

“I need a teammate for beer pong.” Jacob gestures to the table at the very end of the living room, full of red plastic cups neatly arranged. Nicole sighs, grimacing a little. 

“I don’t know. Maybe later, I’m with my friends now.”

“Don’t worry about us, Nic!” You exclaim, taking Sarah by the arm. “We’re getting a drink and then we'll join you, right Sarah?” She nods, smirking at Jacob’s hopeful expression. 

“See? C’mon, we’re gonna crush ‘em. Don’t you remember you have a winning streak to defend?” He gives her a half-sheepish, half-cocky smile, stretching both his arms to encourage her. 

She laughs, a perfect, sharp sound that carries over the music. “Okay, fine. See you later girls!”

As she steps up beside him, someone close to the table shouts her name. Then another voice joins in. Within seconds, the whole group is chanting her name like it’s some kind of football halftime show.

“Nic! Nic! Nic!” She throws her arms up, pumping her fists to the sky to the beat of the roaring chorus. 

Sarah then turns at the sound of your laugh, nodding towards the kitchen. “C’mon, Lola Bunny. Let’s get a drink.”

This is exactly the kind of night you long for: loud, chaotic and utterly unpredictable.

If his handler found out about this, he isn’t sure he would get away with a simple hair pulling and some whipping on his back.

“Cool outfit, dude!” A guy dressed up as a banana with only his face visible shouts after him; the soldier looks him up and down, before reprising his new mission for the night. His enhanced smell unfortunately catches everything: from the sweats of these hormonal college students, to the spilled rum right beside the mixing console.

“Shit, man. That's a nice costume you have there. It looks like real metal–” Before the hand can even reach his wrist, the soldier’s instincts skyrocket and his vibranium fingers clutch the guy’s forearm. Hard.

“Ow ow ow– sorry sorry! Y–You’re crushing my bones, dude!” The Walmart Jack Sparrow looks up at him with tears in his eyes, features twisting in pain as the asset towers over him like a promise of death. At some point, he notices a small group of whispering students has gathered around them, and with a grunt, he roughly releases the guy. The pirate stumbles back in her friend's open arms, who is evidently much smarter since she reprimands him about touching others without their consent. Satisfied with the clear warning, the soldier turns around and starts walking towards the living room.

He raises an eyebrow, scanning the sea of people with his keen eyes. Then, he finally catches a familiar pair of bunny ears excitedly turning left and right; the asset slowly moves to a dark corner, arms crossed and back leisurely resting against the wall. 

And he waits.

Nicole’s yellow and navy-blue plaid jacket is neatly lying across Sarah’s arm as she rolls up the white sleeves of her shirt, a cocky grin spreading across her sweaty face. 

“Watch and learn, losers.” She snarls, grabbing a ping-pong ball from the bowl.

From the sidelines, Sarah offers a shout of encouragement, her voice already a little hoarse from all the previous screaming as Nicole’s ping-pong balls sank one right after the other in the rival team’s cups. You lean against your friend, eyes moving from left to right to watch the two couples at opposite ends of the wood table; a red cup still full with some peach Vodka is held in your right hand, barely acknowledged as you’ve been too busy enjoying the match. 

Nicole lines up her shot, posture perfect as if she has done this a hundred times, and flicks her wrist. The ball drops perfectly into the last cup with a satisfying splash. The crowd goes crazy, multiple people yell your friend’s name as you and Sarah cheer, briefly hugging. Jacob throws himself at Nicole, and she shrieks as his muscled arms lift her body from the ground, parading her around like he would do with the player scoring at the last minute of an important game. Nicole blows a kiss at the other team, and once standing on her own feet, bows before the intoxicated crowd surrounding the table. 

You dart forward to hug her, while Sarah claps from behind. 

“You were great Nicole! That was a really Tour de France!” You beam excitedly, but Nicole just stares at you deadpan for a second, before bursting out laughing, too tipsy to deal with your clueless ass. “Thank you, Lola Bunny.”

“Oh hell no.” The celebration is short lived as you hear Sarah’s exasperated raspy voice. Her eyes go wide, yet she diverts them immediately, getting closer to you and the beer pong queen.

“Tactic guy is here.”

“Hm?” Your head tilts as you look around, not understanding what’s happening. 

“The man from before with tactical gear on. Tactical guy.” 

He’s so easy to spot, he literally towers over everyone with his total black look and that judging frown permanently etched on his features. Your eyes twinkle as your mouth automatically takes the shape of a big smile. From his bulging arms to his overall confident and calculating posture, anyone could determine he definitely doesn’t seem to belong at a college party. 

The people around him are too inebriated to notice him, yet he doesn’t even spare a mere glance to anyone who isn’t you, not even the girl basically wearing lingerie who keeps strutting up and down the room, hoping to catch the attention of his icy eyes. 

She doesn’t know he’s busy admiring a much better view that is making his pants tighter and tighter the more he leisurely studies it.

“Holy shit,” Nicole gasps. “he’s staring at you.” Your stomach does a weird flip at her confirmation. At least you aren’t imagining things. 

“Yeah, and it’s fucking creepy. He hasn’t blinked once in the past five minutes.” Sarah frowns, goosebumps running up and down her arms. Nicole just smirks, looking at your parted lips. 

“Go talk to him!”

“What? No way!” Sarah retorts, sharply turning to Nicole. “He looks like he eats people like her for breakfast.”

“That’s exactly her type!” Nicole laughs, pushing you forward a little. 

Across the room, his steady gaze still doesn’t move, unbothered by the chaos. 

Sarah tugs on your right arm. “Seriously, something’s off about him.”

“Go. Flirt. We’re literally right here if something happens.” Nicole ignores her, touching your left elbow. If you were in a cartoon, they would have been depicted as a small angel and devil standing on your shoulders.

You grin as your usual, even if your pulse feels like it’s racing on a Formula 1 circuit. With a little nod, you leave your two bickering friends behind and slowly make your way through the bodies swaying to the beat of Candy Shop. Your heels click against the sticky floor, until they stop short in front of the brooding man. 

“Hi!” You say brightly, shouting over the music. “You look kinda lonely. It’s okay if you don't know anyone, first parties are totally the worst. At my first college party, I ended up throwing up on my crush’s shoes after kissing him.” He doesn’t answer, but a harsh line forms between his eyebrows as he frowns.

“You’re very quiet, but that’s fine. My friend Sarah says I talk enough for two people. Or a whole group, depends on how much caffeine I’ve had.” Still nothing. 

“So, um… What’s your name?” You ask, tilting your head, this time expecting at least a reluctant answer, but the guy just keeps staring down at you with an unreadable expression.

“Hm, you’re the silent type, huh?” You wonder, hiding your amused chuckle. “That’s cool. You're like the protagonist of those spy movies who never smiles until the end, and then everyone swoons.”

He blinks once. Slowly, maybe a little confused?

“Anyway, I’m Y/N.” You twirl a lock of hair within perfectly manicured fingers. “I don’t know if you remember but I actually ran into you earlier outside, near the fence. Sorry again about that. I’m a little clumsy.” You clear your throat, getting a little bit closer to his chest. From across the room, you can imagine Sarah’s horrified stare and Nicole’s excited grin.

“You really are a good listener, by the way!” You gush. “Most guys just check their phones halfway through our conversation.”

“So,” You lean closer, slightly standing on the tip of your toes. “Do you want to dance? You look like you need to loosen up a little.” Your eyes immediately fall down to his torso, following the sculpted muscles hidden under those heavy clothes. It’s honestly a miracle slick doesn’t start running down your thighs as you realize he could literally pin you to the ground and have his wicked way with you right here in the middle of the party.

Well, you spoke too fast.

The flimsy pair of panties you chose tonight to avoid for the outline to show through the fit pink skirt is getting damper; the thought of this beefy man fucking you until you pass out tickles the back of your brain for a second and suddenly your thighs clench against each other with a movement you are sure went unnoticed.

It didn’t. Especially considering the asset is an enhanced individual who could probably track you from a single sniff of your sweet smell. The pungent scent of something entirely you teases his nostrils even through the thick black mask. He hesitates, like he is trying to calculate if ignoring you would end the conversation faster. He doesn’t know if he wants that. On the one hand, he is not sure he can pull himself together if you keep speaking to him with that soft voice of yours, especially if you choose to stay this close to his starving body; on the other hand, he doesn’t want to leave you. 

But then you take his left hand in yours and his spine goes as rigid as a rod.

“Wow, your hands are freezing!” His palm is cold, just like metal, and weirdly smooth. And before he can run away answer, you are unknowingly leading the fucking Winter Soldier straight onto the dance floor full of sweaty college students, him silent and frowning, you beaming. But he doesn’t dare to stop you.

Why would he do that? A pretty girl with soft hands and even softer eyes just talked his ear off, and has been watching him like he embodies all her prohibited wet fantasies. He would be really cruel to deny this pretty thing anything.

The dance floor is a chaos of flashing lights and flailing arms that makes the soldier’s breath hitch, but you don’t give up, and lead him right into the middle of it. 

“Okay!” You yell over the music, so, so close, and raise a finger. “Rule number one: just move! Don’t think too much about it or you'll get self-conscious. I'm talking from experience.” Then raise a second one. “Rule number two: have fun!”

Of course he just stands there, stiff as a marble statue, blue eyes darting back and forth as if he can’t decide between scanning the crowd like he’s on guard duty, and watching the angel swaying her sinful hips right in front of him.

“See? It’s easy! Just let the music guide you.”

No reply.

You smile anyway, looking up at him through your eyelashes. “You know, you look so cool. You’ve got this very brooding bodyguard vibe going on, like I’m some rich man’s daughter and you’re protecting me from his enemies trying to harm me.”

Another confused blink. 

“Maybe I read too many fanfictions.” You ponder under your breath, staring off into the distance for a second too long, before you reprise your little tantalizing moves, giggling as your fingers barely wrap around both of his wrists to coax him to sway with you.

Somewhere at the edge of the improvised dance floor, Nicole is whooping, bouncing on her feet like an overexcited puppy at Sarah’s side, who is observing the scene appalled.

“Fuck.” She whispers, rubbing a hand down her face to calm down.

“I like your company. You don’t talk much, but that’s okay. Also, you’re kind of scary— like, in a cute way.” You chuckle, twirling once and nearly bumping into him again.

That’s when it happens. Barely. A slow, careful shift of his shoulders, but it still is something. His movements are stiff, precise, like he isn’t used to letting go, but it’s enough to satisfy you.

The heavy bass pulse hard in your rib cage, and for a moment, it’s easy to forget he isn’t even really dancing, yet his presence feels like gravity: solid, unshakable, pulling everything towards it. You included.

You twirl once again, grinning, this time giving him your back. His hand accidentally brushes against your hip and that’s when you feel it: the faintest twitch of his fingers. His hand flexes, like he’s fighting the urge to touch you.

Your head slightly turns, sufficiently to look up at him, your smile a tad flirtier and your eyelids blinking slower. “Are you having fun, big guy?”

You don’t expect an answer, obviously, but the way his gaze sharpens, intensely following your every movement, is enough for you. It’s not creepy. It feels… focused. And oh, you love being the centre of some hot man's attention. 

The music slows into a deeper beat, couples around you melting closer together, and you get bolder. Initially it’s your back simply brushing against his chest. And then, you unexpectedly find yourself gasping as his right arm circles your waist, keeping you attached to his front. His jaw tightens as you rub yourself against his solid body, your ass inevitably ending up on his crotch. For a second, you really think he might actually say something. Instead, he exhales slowly, and you shiver when the hot air tickles your ear. 

Your cheeks heat up, not thinking he would actually get closer like this, much less touch you. Yet here you are, rubbing your ass against his visible hard-on, like an animal in heat. 

“You are so beautiful, doll.” He murmurs against your neck, almost too quiet to hear. As a matter of fact, you don’t catch that, be it also because of the thick mask muffling every single sound.

“Not so bad, right?” You bite your bottom lip, slightly turning your face back. Your lips accidentally brush against his mask and the last thread keeping his brain anchored to sanity rips in half.

“Oh!” A loud squeal erupts from your throat as the man spins you around and takes you into his arms. Suddenly, the world is hanging upside down. Or well, you are. He throws your squirming body on his shoulder, and just like that, he starts walking. You can feel several eyes on you, yet you don’t care as you giggle and wriggle, stomach twisting in excitement as your body doesn’t move an inch, completely immobilized by his strong arms. 

An abrupt gust of cold wind makes your body shiver, making you realize he’s taking you somewhere outside.

“Oh my Gosh!” You laugh, feeling the urge to kick your legs like a teenage girl gushing about her crush.

He’s taking you to the woods. Okay, this is really happening!

Inside, Nicole freezes mid-sip. “What the— Is he taking her away?”

“I told you! Fuck, Nicole! I told you!” Sarah shrieks, running to the door with her friend in tow. They both stop on the porch, eyes frantically roaming around, until they see you waving at them from his shoulder, grinning ear to ear. 

“I’m fine! Don’t wait up!” Nicole bursts out laughing at the absurdity. 

“Holy shit, look at her, she’s loving it!” Sarah groans in response, pressing a hand to her forehead. 

“She’s giggling. She’s actually giggling. Why is she giggling?”

Nicole simply shrugs, smirking. “If a quiet man looking like a Greek god in black leather picked me up like that to fuck me in the woods, I’d giggle too.”

They watch in silence as you get smaller and smaller, until you completely disappear amongst the dense trees. Nicole sighs, putting both her hands on her hips.

“Well, you heard her, don’t need to wait up.” She claps once, skipping down the front steps.

“Where the fuck are you going? Of course we’re going to wait for her to come back.” Nicole stops at the bottom of the stoop, throwing back a deadpan look.

“You really think she’s coming back here? They will probably go at it like bunnies–pun not intended–and then he’s going to take her home tomorrow morning.” She climbs two steps, holding Sarah’s wrist. “Like any adult having fun on Halloween.” She punctuates each word as she tugs at it, until her friend slowly complies, following her to the Nissan.

“I don’t know, Nic. There's something about him...” 

“So what if the guy is quiet? Haven’t you thought maybe he wants to stay in character?” She wonders, raising both her eyebrows expectantly. 

“Hm, that makes sense.” Sarah reluctantly agrees, sighing. “Where are we going, by the way?”

“Home. And we are watching the new The Conjuring. You look miserable here.”

“Well thanks, you asshole.”

“You still haven’t told me your name.” You breathe out, yet to be released. After a few seconds of silence, you huff out a laugh. “You really don’t talk much, do you? Whatever. By the way, ten out of ten for the dramatic exit!” He grunts in reply, shaking his head. It’s a deep sound that makes your legs shake a little, wondering if you’ll hear it again when he pounds you against a tree.

The walk feels endless if you dangle upside down, forced to watch the ground without anyone to talk to. Finally, he stops in a rather secluded place, and from the looks of it, you must be quite far from Ethan’s house.

Good. You don’t need some wandering drunk couple ruining your night.

As soon as your heels touch the crouching leaves scattered on the damp land, you shriek, finding yourself pinned to a tree as the man’s hands eagerly explore the sides of your body.

“O–oh! That– that feels nice.” You gasp when his palms squeeze your tits. The asset’s eyes don’t know where to focus, torn between your face gradually unraveling and the outline of your nipples pressing against the fabric of your top.

“I need to kiss you.” He mumbles, almost making you jerk in shock at the hoarseness of his voice. It feels like he hasn’t spoken in a while. A long while.

“I–I don’t understand. W–What language is that?” You whine, clinging to his vest to keep him close. He sighs, abruptly leaving your chest to cup your face with a certain rudeness that twists your insides with arousal.

“Kiss. Close… Eyes…” He utters with broken English, staring right into your sparkling eyes. “Don’t… Look.” 

The implications of seeing his face are several and dire. First and foremost, he hasn’t looked in a mirror in what feels like forever, and his heart wouldn’t bear a potential rejection. He knows what he does it’s repulsive, but you don’t know his real identity–and you don’t need to. His face could reflect that repulsiveness, be in the worst conditions known to mankind. At that point, why would someone as lovely as you allow him to touch you? 

Plus, recognizing him would mean putting a giant target on your back. If anyone were to ever find out about this, you would be in serious danger with both legal and illegal organizations.

The less you know, the better.

You quickly nod, internally cartwheeling as you realize you're finally about to kiss him. Seeing you cover your whole face behind your hands makes the soldier’s mouth twist into what should be a small smile but probably looks more like a grimace. His trembling fingers reach for the side of the mask, stopping there to observe you. He waits, just enough to make sure you are actually following his order. Then, the device is tossed to the side with an uncaring flick of his wrist, falling on the ground with a dull thud.

His hands shake now more than ever as they wrap around each of your wrists, waiting. 

“Kiss, but… Don’t– look.” He repeats.

“My eyes are closed.” You swear, nodding once again. He slowly lowers your hands with great care, until he can see your pinched expression as you keep your eyes squeezed shut. 

And then, your lips meet. From the way he was treating you a second ago, you would think he was going to kiss you just as softly, like you were a doll made of glass.

Wrong.

The kiss is untamed. His teeth clash against yours, biting and tasting you, and his tongue fucks your mouth as his hands keep your jaw firmly open, allowing him to do whatever he wants. 

And it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever done.

He pulls you closer to his chest, his metal arm now firmly wrapping around your waist as the other hand traces a path down your body, from your bosom to your exposed thigh, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps on your skin. 

The soldier knows he just crossed an inviolable line he can't come back from. He did that the moment he decided to look for you inside that zoo. Yet, that stinging guilt rapidly crumbles the more he kisses this sweet creature.

He has yearned for something warm for so long. Something soft. Something that is completely and utterly his. And now, it is time to finally get that.

The sloppy kiss is met with eagerness from your part, your hands clawing at his vest to keep him there pressed against your squirming form, a way to communicate you need more. You need to feel him too. 

He reaches for the corset first, pulling both cups down until your chest gets freed from their confines. Once his wet lips leaves yours to focus on your neck, you let out a gasp, noticing your head has been spinning all along because of the intensity of the kiss.

Your moans are still pretty restrained, and the asset doesn’t like that one bit. He wants to hear you whimper for him, beg him to paint your insides white, scream his name over and over again.

Name. 

He doesn’t own a name.

Maybe you could give him one. You sound like a creative girl, with all your silly little anecdotes.

When he finally reaches your cleavage, the sight of your tits makes him grunt. His lips immediately latch on your nipple, while his index and thumb flick and pinch the other. Your whimper echoes through the small clearing as he uses his teeth to pull at your sensitive bud, and he swears they get harder into his mouth. The way he kneads and sucks at your soft skin reminds you of a starving man presented with food after a whole week without eating.

The soldier has never seen a more beautiful pair of tits in his entire life. Well, he doesn’t remember ever looking at a woman’s chest before, but if he did, he is sure it wouldn’t even get closer to yours. 

The hickeys that now mark the tender skin of your chest are burning, displaying an angry-red color as the soldier’s mouth worships them softly. 

“What– oh shit– what’s your name? I need a name to scream, please!” You utter between your own wanton noises, eyes still closed as your head falls back against the bark of the tree. Your bare back keeps brushing against it as your body jerks in time with his tongue stroking your nipples. They are so sore, especially when he leaves one exposed to the cold October air to give some love to the other. You’re sure tomorrow the scratches on your back are going to be a pain in the ass, you can already feel them burn as the rough surface cruelly scrapes your skin. 

The asset momentarily leaves your nub with a wet pop, looking up at your parted lips. He grips your jaw with one hand, gathering a bit of saliva into his mouth, before letting it fall gently onto your tongue. You gasp at the unexpected lewd act, immediately swallowing.

“Soldat.” His voice is authoritative, leaving no space for questions and doubts, before going back to tease your boobs. Your eyebrows momentarily knit in confusion, not understanding what it could mean.

Is it a video game character? Is that way he’s all geared up like some sort of spy?

You don’t have time to elaborate a sensible question, as a twist of your nipples draws a loud cry out of your throat. 

The scent coming from between your legs is now too much for his straining cock. He needs to taste all of you; your mouth is sweet, your nipples are sweet...

The soldier is certain your pussy is even sweeter.

With a huff, annoyed he has to leave your soft curves, he makes quick work of removing his tactical vest, throwing it on the ground. You squeal, shocked as you are once again lifted in the air; still, you keep your eyes firmly shut and that makes the soldier soften a little. 

“You’re such a good girl for me, sweetheart.” With a small peck, he takes you away from the poor tree that has already witnessed enough for one night, manhandling until you understand he wants you on all four.

“Stay.” The order growled right into your ear along with his hands squeezing your hips make you whimper as a reflex, nodding promptly.

Now that he’s behind you, you deem the situation safe enough for you to open your eyes. Black spots slowly materialize out of nowhere, yet you notice immediately the rough fabric underneath you. 

“Oh,” You coo. “thank you, Soldat.” 

There might be a feral beast clawing at his chest, challenging him to take you right there right now, over and over again, but he doesn’t want the rough ground to scratch your knees and palms. The softness in your voice tenses him up, enough to feel an unfamiliar sting behind his eyes. Then you say his name. His title. And that stokes the flames in his lower belly until he feels a damn blaze licking at his insides.

You barely catch the black gloves being discarded to the side as his rough hands grope your hips, pushing you back against his crotch. You gasp at the ferocity he puts into his thrusts as he starts rutting your ass, grunting and panting with the effort of not cumming in his pants like a fucking virgin seeing a pretty girl half-naked for the first time.

“Soldat…” You hum, one arm reaching behind to caress a strong thigh. “Don’t tell me you’re going to cum like this, humping me like a dog.” The little airy giggle you let out makes him gulp, shivering at those words that should make him recoil. Instead, the fire grows, and before he can regain control of his body, his hips stop short. 

His nimble fingers don’t waste any more time, lifting the hem of your skirt until your ass is completely at his mercy.

“Yes, yes c’mon!” You encourage him, gently rocking your hips back. The scent is stronger, but it's still not enough. The flimsy panties you wear leave you with a sad ripping noise and a growl you're pretty sure comes from the feral man behind you. You squeal at the sudden bareness of your core, giggling when you hear him inhale deeply. Is he smelling your underwear? Fuck, you want to turn around so bad and enjoy the show.

The soldier almost drools when your scent clings to his nose, along with your slick soiling the delicate fabric. He clumsily puts the panties into his pocket, laying down until he’s right beneath the lower half of your body.

“C’mere bunny.” Rough fingers sink into the skin of your thighs, forcing you down until you are fully sitting on his face. 

“Wait! Oh fuck!” Your lips part pathetically as his tongue finds your clit, pulling your knees apart until you’re completely open for him. Tears form at the corners of your eyes as your hips uncontrollably buck down, clawing at the jacket when the tip of his tongue teases your entrance. 

A loud moan escapes your lips when he finally breaches your hole, eating and sucking as if he’s savoring the most delicious delicacy he’s ever had the chance to taste. Your body squirms at the unforgiving stimulation, still, you’re covering his face like a fucking oxygen mask and you’re very worried he’s not breathing at all. 

“S–Soldat, wait! Your breat– AH!” A smacking sound echoes through the air as his palm leaves his mark on your asscheek. “Oh please!” You beg, hips finally grinding down without restraint as more slick falls into his waiting mouth.

Finally.

The asset internally preens at your pleased reaction to something he did so spontaneously, unprompted. You are treating him like a man. Not a fucking weapon. An experiment. A killer with no dignity left. 

A man.

So he does it again. And again. 

“Taste so good, bunny.” He rasps, returning to your clit, two fingers curling inside you without warning. You yelp, feeling the knot in your belly getting closer and closer to snapping. Your asscheeks are red and burning, yet you don’t stop his punishing palm, arching up into his hand every time it comes down on your tender skin. 

“I–I’m gonna cum– oh God, please please please!” You cry out, sobbing when in response his palm smacks your ass before meanly grabbing the tender flesh, and a third finger joins the other two, pounding against that special spot of yours before your orgasm erupts out of nowhere.

“Fuck fuck fuck– Soldat!”

He wonders what he’s going to do from now on when he hears that word. It would be impossible to not get hard as your delightful whines resound through his mind. 

Your hole spasms as his tongue sucks hard on your throbbing nub one last time, panting heavily when he lifts your shaky thighs up. 

“Holy shit.” He whispers surprised, licking his lips clean. His lower face is completely damp with your sweet slick, and he already knows he’s not going to wash his face until the scent disappears on its own. 

The soldier takes a good long look at your flushed body, now kneeling behind you again. His palms gently caress your red skin, pulling a shiver out of you as one of his two palms is colder than the other, yet the sensation is soothing against your burning cheeks. 

He would really love to kiss the sensitive spots until you fall asleep, but he can’t stop now. You hear a rustling sound behind you but you can’t find it in yourself to focus, still trembling because of the violent orgasm Soldat drew out of you mercilessly. You are not inexperienced by any means, yet you’ve never come this hard and fast in your life. You wonder if it’s the whole situation influencing you, being half-naked in the woods while a feral beefy stranger eats your pussy as if it’s his last day on Earth, or if he's just that good.

Maybe it’s a mix of both, maybe it’s something else. You don’t care. You just want him inside you. Now.

You seem to share the same idea as your eyes widen, suddenly feeling his cock against your slippery pussy. Your gasp soon transforms into a scream when the cock slides inside you. All of it.

Your hole immediately tightens around him, and the soldier needs to take a deep breath, the muscles in his abdomen clenching to prevent himself from cumming in that exact moment and disappoint you. 

When was the last time he was this intimate with someone? When was the last time he felt something other than fear and pain? 

The asset doesn’t hold back on you, swiftly pulling back, before lust takes over him and your trembling arms give up under you. You fall forward with a groan, resting your cheek on his vest as he drapes over your back, grunting foreign words under his breath. You feel delirious with pleasure. An earthquake could literally come at this exact moment and you wouldn’t even notice. 

The stretch of his insanely large length is so unbearable you can’t breath, for a second you honestly fear your hole is going to tear apart. It’s almost embarrassing how it takes only a big cock and a pair of broad shoulders to reduce you to moans and whimpers. 

“Beautiful creature, you’re so lovely.” The obscene noises of your wet pussy taking every inch against your gummy walls drives him wild. You’re like heaven incarnate wrapped around him and he refuses to leave.

“Mine, mine, mine.” You whisper the name he gave you, lying helpless with your eyes rolled into oblivion and drool soaking the dark fabric underneath you. It’s a miracle how the bunny headband still survives on your head as his brutal thrusts push your body back and forth. 

The soldier feels like he’s going to burst any moment now, but he’s ready to deny himself over and over again until he can feel your precious pussy tighten around his cock. He wants to remember this forever. That’s when, with his mind fogged by pure lust, he reaches between your wet thighs, experimentally spanking your clit.

“Fuck!” Your squeal pulls a smirk on his sweaty face, prompting him to do that again. 

“Take it, my sweet little bunny. That’s it.”

Your clit throbs as the man fucking you like an animal smacks it repeatedly, and you’re certain he’s enjoying himself so much watching you jolt each time, panting like a dog the more you squeal and squirm in his sturdy hold. His tip relentlessly taps your sweet spot, it’s just a matter of time before you let out a delirious scream, walls tightening as the knot in your belly snaps, this time leaving you crying and trembling as pleasure settles deep in your bones.

 “Got… You.” The asset grits out breathless when he buries deep into you, yielding to the overwhelming clenching of your hole. He falls over the edge with a guttural groan pulled from the most remote part of his chest. Thick, hot ropes flood your inside; there’s so much cum you almost choke at the weird sensation of fullness. You shiver under him, exhausted but sated. The soldier though doesn’t seem to budge, still hugging you tight as his body shakes with yours. 

It feels too much. His cock snug inside your tight heat, your delicate body held with care by the same hands soiled with innocents’ blood, the sudden emptiness in his chest after such a heavenly experience.

Should he cry? He definitely feels like crying, but he doesn’t know why. He just had the best night of his entire life with the most gorgeous woman on Earth. 

The asset knows he has to move eventually, but he doesn’t want to let you go. He isn't sure he can do that, honestly.

“S–Soldat, my back hurts.” Your voice is faint yet amused, still he scrambles on his knees, slowly pulling out in fear of hurting you. You gasp softly at the sudden loss of contact, your weak arms barely stirring by your sides as you try to get yourself in an upright position, but the man behind you has other plans. Suddenly, you find yourself facing him, gently led down until your back touches the vest. Your brain is too tired to remember the only rule he implicitly set, and shock takes over your features as you can finally admire Soldat's stunning features.

You open your lips, a compliment already forming on the tip of your tongue, when his hands delicately cradle your face, guiding you into a slow but emotionally charged kiss. It’s very different from the ones you shared before, yet your stomach somersault anyway at the care he puts into it, like a lover saying goodbye, and he needs to do it right.

He kisses you until the both of you are left breathlessly, staring at each other with something akin to awe. You look like the personification of debauchery with melted mascara, raw lips and the poor bunny ears barely hanging from your hair. But the Winter Soldier has never seen someone as ravishing as you.