#bitsandbobsandstuff

Licking salt off his fingers, Bucky grumbles under his breath as he pushes open the front door of their apartment, flipping on lights as he goes. Sam slogs behind, kicking off dirty boots and throwing his duffel bag and shield on the kitchen island with a dramatic groan.

“I hate this part of the job. Should I should clean it all tonight, or..." he trails off, glaring at the mud caked bag. He answers himself immediately. "Yeah no. I’ll deal with it tomorrow, I’m done with everything today.” Turning to Bucky, he fixes him with a pointed stare. “What about you? You're going to bed, right? Or you gonna be that guy who cleans everything and writes his report right away so I feel like a slacker? I hate when you pull that crap, some of us actually need sleep you know.”

Bucky fiddles with the zipper on his jacket.

“Yeah, yeah. Same. I’m going to bed. Soon.”

Sam eyes him suspiciously.

“I know that voice. That’s your liar voice. Same one you used when you promised not to eat my fries. Are you - “ Bucky bristles and Sam sighs. “Of course you are. Seriously?”

Ducking into the refrigerator, Bucky digs through the packed shelves until he unearths a monster sized energy drink. He gulps it down in three swallows.

“Yes, seriously,” he says tersely. “It makes me feel better. I’m not gonna apologize for it.”

“Man, I’m not asking you to apologize, I’m just saying.”

Crumpling up the empty can, Bucky chucks it into the overflowing blue container labeled RECYCLING ONLY!!!! in Sam’s careful cursive. He says nothing. They’ve been here before.

“I know. You’re always just saying.”

“Sometimes you’re the worst,” Sam says flatly. “Just a reminder, if you call me again in the middle of the night and I have to come pick you up, I will dropkick you in the nuts.”

With that, he trudges toward the hallway, heading for his room. Bucky leans over the island and calls after him.

“You going with roses or lavender tonight?”

“Actually it’s the cotton candy one you got me for Christmas,” Sam hollers back. “It makes me smell like a snack and I like that. So goodnight and go fuck yourself.”

“Swear jar!”

The sound of Sam’s laughter fades as he bangs his door shut. Alone now, Bucky takes a deep breath, counting slowly in his head.

Standing in his bright, cheerful kitchen, all those flashbacks of gunshots and explosions should be fading. He has more than enough combat training to know how to tune out the bad and focus on the good. And normally he’d pop an extra strength sleeping pill, call it a night, and pass out under his favorite feather quilt.

But there was something about this mission that was agitating. More than usual. He feels that familiar energy skittering under his skin and he knows. He has enough experience with his own fucked up brain to know it won’t disappear unless he does something about it.

“Fucking fuck,” he mutters.

Scrubbing a frustrated hand down his face, he decides to throw on a fresh shirt before he goes. Not that it matters, it’ll be sweat stained and blood splattered soon enough, but it makes the process feel less like a suicide mission and more like a ritual. The illusion makes a difference.

He hurries down the hallway, feeling immensely grateful your work trip was extended, so you’re not here to witness this idiocy. He still hasn’t worked up the courage to tell you this particular vice.

Nudging open his bedroom door, tosses his coat on a chair and starts to strip off his shirt, but then he sees it.

Something is wrong.

The room is empty, but his bedside lamp is shining bright, bathing his messy bedroom in a warm yellow glow.

Something is definitely wrong.

Since Sam spent three hours last month berating him for their sky-high electricity bill, Bucky’s made damn sure to turn off every light the moment he leaves any room, because Sam and his soapbox are exhausting. He checked all the lights before they left. Every single one. He definitely turned this off.

The pile of blankets on his bed begins to move.

Bucky silently shuts the door and drops into a low crouch, drawing a curved blade from his boot. Knife tight in hand, he inches closer.

A familiar face pops up from under the blankets, rubbing tired eyes.

“Bucky? Is that you?”

The knife drops with a clatter and Bucky huffs a sigh of relief at the sound of your voice. Climbing onto the bed, he presses a kiss to your forehead, inhaling the light scent of your peach moisturizer.

“Jesus Christ sweetheart, you scared the hell out of me. What’re you doing here? Thought you were gone another two days?”

“Came home early,” your voice is low, raspy with sleep. “But I'm all kinds of jet lagged, timezones can kiss my ass. How was your mission?”

Bucky smoothes his thumb across your cheek. That jittery feeling briefly fades at the touch of your warm skin and he thinks longingly of crawling in bed and wrapping himself around you. He shakes his head, desperate to force himself off this weird precipice, but the energy pulses again.

“Mission was fine,” he lies softly. “I’m just gonna shower and finish a few things, and then I’ll come to bed. Okay?”

Eyes already fluttering closed, you snuggle into the blankets and steal one his pillows, offering one last sleepy smile.

“Okay. Hurry though, won’t stay awake long.”

Bucky leans down to capture your lips in a gentle kiss, but you're already asleep. He whispers in your ear.

“I'll be back soon.”

*****

When you wake, the room is dark. Beside you, where Bucky should be, the sheets are cold. Struggling to sit up, you peer into the dark corners of the room.

“Bucky? Where are you?”

Tiptoeing to the bathroom, you flip on the lights. The space is empty, everything in order: toothbrushes in place, the jar of cottonballs packed full, Bucky’s expensive shampoo beside your body wash. Towels are folded over the rack, crisp edges hanging straight. When you brush your fingers over his plush green towel, you notice it’s bone dry.

Confused, you wander out of the bedroom, into the kitchen. The dim glow of streetlights outside throws sharp shadows across the wall and as you step onto the balcony, you expect to find him nursing a whiskey or stealing a smoke or reading a book. Something.

Nothing.

This isn’t completely out of the ordinary. Now and then, when the thoughts start swirling, he wanders out for a walk, letting the night air and the concrete heartbeat of Manhattan work it's magic. But normally, he kisses you awake and begs you to come with him. He never leaves without telling you.

As much as you hate being that person, you can’t help the ripple of nerves. Creeping down the hall, you decide to knock on another door.

“Sam. Sam. Are you awake?”

There’s a faint thud and a metallic clang, followed by a string of muffled curses. A moment later, the door swings open revealing a bleary eyed and fully naked Sam Wilson.

“God dammit Bucky, I broke my toe again, what do you - oh shit. Shit, hi. Sorry. I didn’t know you were here. Shit.”

Fumbling behind the door, Sam grabs the red, white, and blue shield and hurriedly covers himself.

“No, no, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have woken you, I didn’t mean to see your, um, your - stuff. Your, you know. Your goods,” you babble, voice ratcheting up. “Anyway. Yeah. Um, I was just wondering if you might have any idea where Bucky might be?”

“My goods? What the hell, way to make it awkward,” Sam chuckles. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I know where he is, but - didn’t you talk to him before he left?”

“Kind of, but I was mostly asleep. He said he was coming right to bed.”

There’s no surprise from Sam, only resignation. Leaning against the doorframe, he fixes you with a serious look.

“Of course he did. So listen, I’m gonna level with you here and if he has a problem with that, he can deal.” He pauses for a moment, choosing the words. “You know how sometimes after a really rough mission, there’s shit just bouncing around in your head? Like some crazy adrenaline rush you can’t ignore? Well sometimes you gotta find a way to deal or it fucks with your head. Make sense?”

“Of course. Decompression tactics.”

“Exactly. So anyway, we all got these routines to stay sane. Me, I like scented bubble baths and sleeping naked.” He gestures vaguely at his bare chest and the strategically placed shield. “Wanda bakes. Natasha eats Skittles and shoots things. Everyone’s different. Whatever your brain wants you to do, you listen. Except Steve, I guess. We try not to listen to Steve.”

“Why?”

“Steve likes to karaoke.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Sam sets his mouth in a grim line. “He doesn’t sing, he raps. And he has dance moves. He’s like a bargain basement Eminem.”

“Yikes.”

“Yep.”

“So, Bucky’s off decompressing? Why wouldn’t he just tell me?”

Part of Sam thinks you should ask Bucky yourself, but the other part - the part that grudgingly likes Bucky Barnes even though he’s a dumbass lacking basic self-preservation skills - feels like he should spill the tea.

“I guarantee he’ll be back in a few hours, he always is, but since he has some personal shit driving his little ritual, I’ll tell you where to find him just in case.”

And so you listen solemnly as Sam explains. When he's done, you can't decide if you want to hug Bucky or smack him in the head.

“Thanks Sam," you sigh. "I’ll go find him. Make sure he doesn’t do something stupid.”

“Good luck with that. If you figure out how, I could use some tips.”

Sam steps back to close the door, but you stop him.

“Wait. Since I can smell the bubble bath on you, can I just check - are you okay? Do you need anything?”

At your concern, a slow smile tugs his lips. He nods.

“I’m okay. But thanks for asking. I mean it.”

Keeping the lower half of your body demurely away from the shield and naked Sam, you gingerly lean in to give him a one armed hug. A sugary scent wafts off his skin, so sweet it makes your teeth ache.

“Is that cotton candy?”

“It’s delicious right? Now get outta here, before I tell Barnes you were trying to peep on my goods.”

*****

Down a dark street on the Lower East Side, there’s a nondescript black door beside a vacant laundromat. Tacked on the brick beside the door is a dingy brass plaque, with the surname of some long-forgotten tenant etched in barely legible letters. Rubbing your thumb over the thin metal, you can feel the letters spell out a word.

K-u-l-a-k.

While your Russian is not as fluent as Bucky’s, sounding out the letters under your breath is enough to let you know you’re in the right place.

Kulak. Rough translation?

The Fist.

Glancing around the empty street, your fingers find the smooth brick four down and two across, before giving it a firm push. It pops out, revealing a black keypad. Punching in the eight-digit code Sam shared, the door clicks and slides silently open. Slipping inside, you see a rickety looking elevator and before you can talk yourself out this insane excursion, you punch the round black button, step inside, and hold your breath.

With a whoosh, it plummets. Faster and faster it falls, until you feel the odd vibration of rumbling metal beneath your feet. It sounds like a heavy bass beat, the feel of a thousand drums tickling through your toes, crawling up your legs, banging in your chest.

The elevator bumps to a stop.

When the doors open, the sound knocks you back like a physical blow.

The cavernous room resembles an underground warehouse, exposed metal beams twisting along the ceiling like the ribs of some giant beast, layers of mesh wire adorning the walls. Down one side of the room, a long bar takes up the entire wall, hundreds of liquor bottles illuminated by coils of neon lights.

On the opposite wall is a massive tournament bracket. Names, rankings, and win-loss records are listed out, betting odds outlined beneath each.

Bewildered, you scan the list of names until you see it, listed under the ELITE division:

BARNES RANK: 1 W-L: 4-0 ODDS: 2:1

“Bucky, what the fuck,” you mutter.

In the middle of the room, a wide space is roped off into a square ring. Assembled around the barrier, crowds of people are screaming and cheering, stomping their feet, sucking in a collective breath, as some gruesome scene plays out before them.

Elbowing through the throngs of people, you duck under pumping fists, cringing when you rub against the sweaty armpit of one very enthusiastic, very hairy man. By the time you reach the edge of the ring, you’re covered in sticky spilled cocktails and sour beer. Gripping the rough black rope, you lean forward, finally discovering why everyone is going crazy.

Bucky stands in the center of the ring, dressed in a white shirt and black jeans, worn combat boots on his feet. His right hand is wrapped with wide strips of white tape, stained rusty red and his face is a patchwork of bruises - purple-blue along his jaw, a shiner ringing his eye - and blood oozes from his busted lip. When he rakes a hand through his hair, it stands up in messy, sweaty spikes.

Bouncing on his toes, he dances around the ring, his eyes wild and bright. Before him is a lanky man covered in freckles, sporting an electric blue buzzcut, and hissing at Bucky with unconcealed rage. Locking eyes with the man, Bucky casually wipes away the blood on his mouth and flicks it at him.

And then he grins. That cocky, wise-ass, bullshit smirk that is equal parts adorable and so infuriating even you want to punch him sometimes.

A piercing siren blares.

Blue Buzzcut launches himself at Bucky, fists swinging. Bucky ducks almost lazily, before returning a punishing gut punch and an elegant uppercut that lifts the man off his feet. He flies backward, hitting the ground with a heavy groan and Bucky keeps dancing in place, waiting for him to rise. The man crawls shakily to his knees, before collapsing with a groan.

Knockout. Less than 30 seconds.

The crowd goes ballistic.

The siren blares again and Bucky raises a victorious fist in the air, before sauntering off to his corner. Gulping down a bottle of water, he flexes his fingers, examining the bloody tape and ignoring the mob of voices chanting his name.

“Barnes! Barnes! Barnes! Barnes!”

Jumping in place a few times, he shakes out his arms and cracks his knuckles. He grabs another bottle of water and takes a long drink, before dumping the rest down the back of his neck. And because he tends to be excessively theatrical even on a normal day, he pulls his shirt off and tosses it behind him with all the flair of a professional stripper.

The crowd goes completely, utterly, and totally insane.

From your vantage point across the ring, you see the smallest curl of a smile, before he smothers it down with a snarl. Rolling his shoulders back, he sinks naturally into a fighting stance and waggles his fingers, beckoning the next fighter.

“Come on, big boy,” he calls. “Let’s see it!”

Gripping the rope, you watch a black haired giant slowly enter the ring. Covered in red and black tattoos and at least seven feet tall, he towers over Bucky. Wrapped around his hands, you see a wicked set of bloodstained brass knuckles.

“Okay, listen up you bunch of drunk degenerates!”

The snarky voice booms through the room and you turn your head to see a familiar figure perched in a chair high above the melee. Dressed in red and black spandex, his face covered by a mask, Wade Wilson sounds positively gleeful narrating the show.

“Here he is, straight from the cold ass fucking streets of Moscow, give a big round of applause to this badass motherfucker who goes by - wait, seriously? Dagger? Dude, that's the name you picked? What the fuck's wrong with you? Jesus Christ. Alright, well his name is real fucking stupid, but he looks like he could eat your fucking face, so anyway, Dagger's gonna give our boy Barnes here a run for his money. Fists up, you crazy assholes, these people came here to see some motherfucking blood and guts, so FIGHT!”

There’s the shriek of the siren and both men step forward, quick as lightning. Dagger starts with a flurry of short jabs, and Bucky knocks down every hit with nonchalant ease, the gold vines in his vibranium arm glittering under the neon lights. His grin grows wider.

Dagger keeps punching, his frustration growing with every missed hit. His swings get progressively wilder, until he overreaches and stumbles sideways. Bucky twists gracefully aside and begins to laugh, eyes dancing merrily as he glances toward the crowd.

And somehow in that crushing madness, with hundreds of screaming fans - his eyes land on you.

The laughter dies instantly. Shock flashes through his face, eyes growing wide and panicked. He freezes on the spot and in the middle of a bloody fight, that hesitation becomes a very painful problem.

Dagger swings again and this time, Bucky takes a brass-knuckled fist square in the face.

The momentum behind the punch sends him sprawling and he hits the floor hard, breath punched from his lungs. Rolling away, Bucky avoids a boot to the head, and scrambles back to his feet, backpedaling around the ring to where you stand. Dagger beats his chest and faces the screaming crowd with a triumphant roar.

Blood pouring from his nose, Bucky leans into the rope barrier, yelling above the noise.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“What do you think I’m doing? I was looking for you!” You shout. “What the hell are you doing?”

Dagger turns back to face him, snorting and bellowing like a bull in a ring. Bucky grimaces.

“Ah fuck. Listen, can I just - can I finish this first and then we talk? I’ll make it fast, I swear.”

Throwing your hands in the air, you wave him away.

“Go! Just please try not to get your ass beaten!”

Relieved, Bucky nods frantically and dashes back into the fray.

With the knowledge of you waiting behind him, he spits a mouthful of blood at Dagger’s feet and barrels back into the fight with a vicious sneer. Whirling and ducking, he lands three quick hits in rapid succession, short and sharp to the belly, but it’s his right cross that seals the deal. Dagger spins away, blood spraying the crowd, and lands spreadeagled.

Out cold.

The siren blares one more time and the crowd howls their delight, stomping and clapping as another 'W' is added on the bracket next to BARNES.

Snatching up a towel, Bucky wipes his face and waves at the announcer stand.

“I’m done Wade, I’m out! Pull me off!”

“What?! God dammit Barnes, you cocksucking piece of shit, I dumped all my fucking money on you!”

Ignoring Wade’s furious shrieking, Bucky flips him off and jogs back toward you, hopping over the rope barricade. He lands at your side and you grab hold of his sweat slick arm.

“Bucky, what in the world -“

“Hang on,” he interrupts. Curving an arm tight around your waist, he steers you through the crush of people. All around, unknown hands slap his back, his shoulder, his arm, shouting congratulations and insults and even a few marriage proposals, but he ignores everything. Guiding you to a dimly lit hallway, he shoves open a heavy door, pulling you inside a small bathroom before flipping the lock. The noise is instantly muffled.

He moves to the sink and flips the facet full blast, splashing icy water on his face, rubbing away drying blood from rapidly healing wounds. He squints at his reflection in the dirty mirror and sighs irritably at his now crooked nose. Placing three fingers on either nostril, he snaps the bones back in place with a pained grunt. Drying his hands on his jeans, he takes a deep breath and turns back to you, eyes on the floor. There’s a long moment of silence, before he finds the courage to look up.

“Okay, let me have it.”

But of course you can’t. Not when you know why he’s in this club, shoulders slumped, shame in his eyes.

“Buck. I’m not mad at all. You just had me worried, since I had no idea this was something you did…I had to come make sure you were okay.”

Bucky softens at that confession. Longing fills him up, to take away your sadness and never distress you again.

“Thank you for being worried,” he says. “But I’m okay, I promise.”

Gesturing at the cuts and bruises littering his skin, you shake your head. “Are you though? Sam said you had other reasons for coming here. Stuff from your past.”

Taking tentative steps closer, Bucky watches your reaction. You can smell the faint scent of his deodorant, under the tang of sweat and blood.

“I really am okay, sweetheart. But I’m sorry you found out like this, I should've come clean a long time ago.” Bucky frowns, gathering his thoughts. "It all started years ago when I was still with Hydra. There was one handler who had all these - side jobs, I guess. Ways to make money under the table. One night, after this shitty mission in Detroit, he met me at the rendezvous point and I was all over the place. Could barely see straight, the whole thing had set me off. And this guy, he takes one look at me, tells me to get my ass in the car, and he drives to an old warehouse outside the city. I honestly thought he was taking me somewhere to kill me off. Like maybe he figured I wasn’t worth the effort or something. It scared the shit outta me, but I also felt kinda relieved. You know?”

The ghost of a smile flickers. It bruises your heart.

“Buck - “

He shrugs. “Nah, it’s okay. So we get in this rusty elevator and when the doors open, we’re in a basement and it’s just - it’s full of people. Lights and music and shouting. In the middle of the room, there was an area roped off like a boxing ring and these two men were beating the shit out of each other. Punching, kicking, biting. Fucking brutal. There was a bookie taking bets and the handler gave them my name and threw all his money down on me. I won every single round I fought. That was my first fight club, but it wasn’t the last.”

The way Bucky describes it, the Soldier terrified he was about to be executed, only to be thrown into another fight, it sets your blood boiling.

“He made you fight people? Why?”

Bucky smiles at your angry indignation. He adores these little moments when you get protective of him. It makes him feel bright and shiny. Like someone worth protecting.

“Guess he knew I was a sure thing. No one was gonna beat me, no one ever came close. We never went to the same place twice, and I always wore a mask and gloves, so no one knew who I was. I’d blow off some steam and he’d make some money. It was a win-win. And after, I actually felt better. Like I could breathe again. Most of those missions were fucking horrifying, and I'd just - I’d come out of them so jacked up on adrenaline. Once I got in there and worked it off, I felt better.” Bucky grimaces. “I hated going back on ice when I was anxious. It made the nightmares worse. Anyway, then later on there was another new guy, so I suggested a club and it sort of became a ritual I guess.”

“Are you -“ you hesitate, but Bucky nods encouragingly. “Are you angry? Is that why you want to fight?”

“No, no, no, not at all. It isn’t anger, I’m not mad. It’s honestly just stress relief. I work off the energy and then I feel better and go to sleep.”

Relieved, you finally relax. And you start to think.

Bucky stays quiet and nervously chews his thumbnail while you mull over his story. Finally, you reach for the waist of his jeans, hooking a finger in the band and tugging him in. He goes easily.

“Thank you for telling me, Buck. I love you.”

“I love you too. And I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before, I just felt…stupid. Here you are, this smart, gorgeous, insanely talented woman, and here I am, some dumbass picking illegal fights in a warehouse in the middle of the night.” He grins ruefully. “I didn’t need to remind you that you’re crazy for being with me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I mean, you are a dumbass, but you’re my dumbass.”

“I love it when you sweet talk me,” he murmurs, leaning in for a kiss.

Even amid all his anxiety and adrenaline, the kiss is slow, his mouth moving leisurely against yours.

Behind you, the door suddenly rattles, startling you apart. Someone starts kicking it , yelling for you to hurry. Bucky slams his fist against the door in retaliation, yelling right back.

“It’s occupied! Fuck off!”

The angry snarl disappears the moment he looks back at you. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he breathes in your ear, voice full of that sweetness he reserves for you alone. He peppers small kisses along your jawline, the corner of your mouth, your nose, your eyelids, before he lands on your lips again. You sink into the delicious pressure once more, before coyly pulling away.

“You know Buck, if you needed to work off your energy, you could've just asked me for help.”

Bucky looks aghast. “Hell no, I'm not asking you. I’ve told you, our wrestling stays in the bedroom. I’m not sparring with you, I’d never forgive myself if something happened.”

Trailing your fingers lightly down his chest, your nails click invitingly when they reach his belt buckle.

“I didn’t mean sparring. There are other ways to work off energy you know.” Fiddling with the belt loops, your hands slide lower, teasing fingers cupping his cock. He sucks in a startled breath when you squeeze. “Did you ever think about that?”

The gears crank in his brain while he attempts to work out your question. Unhelpfully, all the blood in his head rushes south.

“What do you - "

Oh.

Oh.

Sex. You mean sex.

Sex can burn off energy. Instead of sneaking into illegal clubs, goading enormous rage fueled men into fistfights, and scrubbing dried blood from under his fingernails, he could have been at home. With you. Sweaty and naked. Fucking.

“I never thought about it," he breathes. "Holy shit, I’m a moron.”

Curling a hand behind his neck, you tug him closer.

“I don’t like you fighting Bucky, you do enough of that in the real world. If this is something that makes you feel better, I’ll support it.” Nuzzling against his jaw, you lick a slow path up his neck. He shivers. “But I’d rather you use all your energy on me. Doesn’t that sound like more fun?”

When you nip his ear, he swallows a groan, his hips bucking into your hand.

“Oh god,” he sighs. “Yeah, that’s a better idea. So much better.”

Tilting your head back to meet his eyes, Bucky chases your lips, drunk on this new thought. His sweaty body stretches against yours and you can feel him, hard and heavy between your legs. An irresistible idea pops into your head.

“Are you still buzzing now?”

“I am, yeah,” he admits, voice rough. “But now it's 'cause I'm thinking about your sexy ass. Makes me wanna fuck you right here.”

“Then do it. Take the edge off. Then I’ll take you home and finish the job.”

Bucky gapes at the request.

“Wha - here? In here? Are you serious?”

Reaching under your skirt, your fingers hook on the silky band of your underwear, and you slide them down. Tucking them into Bucky’s back-pocket, you slap his ass.

“Your move, Barnes.”

He stares at you, every muscle tense. A dark gleam appears in his eyes and he licks his lips, still unsure. But then he feels you grinding against his cock, whispering for him to touch you, and in the next breath, his mouth slants over yours.

The kiss is wild, tongue and teeth, salt and danger. Delicious.

Breaking away, he sinks to his knees, eager hands sliding up your calves, squeezing your thighs. He shoves your skirt up and pins your hips back against the door, and then his dark head is between your legs. Vibranium fingers tickle up your belly, a firm hand holding you still as he flattens his tongue and licks long, slow strokes up your pussy.

“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan. Shaking hands grab handfuls of his hair, tangling in the damp strands. He growls at the feel.

“Keep pulling my hair, baby. Just like that.”

He nudges your legs wider, sliding a hand up to rub against your core. His tongue tickles your clit, sucking it between his lips and you can’t stop the cry when he pushes two fingers inside your cunt. He thrusts up again and again, driving you onto your toes until you're seeing stars. Grasping his shoulders for leverage, you feel hard muscles straining beneath his flame hot skin.

“Bucky,” you whimper, weak against the onslaught. “Oh god that feels so good, Bucky, keep going, I’m gonna come, Bucky please - “

He moves his hand faster, fingers fucking into you harder. Even with the music blaring outside, you can hear the slick, wet sounds of desire. He answers your desperate plea with one of his own.

“Go on, give it to me. Come on, cum for me.”

That does it, the throaty vibration of his deep voice rumbling against you and suddenly you snap. Knees shaking, you squeeze his head tight between your thighs, yanking a fistful of his hair as you gasp out your orgasm. Bucky growls happily at the feel, his thick fingers gently stroking inside you, while you shiver through the aftershocks.

Breathing hard, you brush the hair back from his forehead. He gazes up at you, that cocky smirk on his lips.

“I thought we were working off your energy, not mine,” you pant.

Bucky turns his face against your thigh and laughs, the brush of stubble along his jaw scratching your skin.

“Couldn’t help myself, I know how good you taste. Been thinking about it all week.”

“You're ridiculous. Now get up here and fuck me,” you urge, cupping his chin. “I want this to be about you. Whatever you need, take it. I’m all yours.”

His face lights up and he pops to his feet, belt buckle clinking, shaky hands fumbling with his zipper. Glancing around the bathroom, he shimmies his pants halfway down his thighs and then grips your thighs, lifting you off your feet. His heavy body presses you tight against the door.

“Don’t touch anything, it’s fucking filthy in here,” he rasps in your ear. “Hang onto me, I won’t let you go.”

He maneuvers your body just right, staring down between you to watch the blunt head of his cock slide teasingly through your slick folds, lubing himself up. Desire crawls up your spine as you watch his expression turn dark and hungry.

“Bucky, please -”

The order fades to a startled gasp when he yanks your hips down, burying himself deep inside.

“Oh god,” he groans, a ragged sigh of pleasure. His mouth searches for a bare space of skin on your neck and he sucks, grounding himself. Clenching your thighs for leverage, he thrusts up. The metal belt buckle slaps your thighs with every sharp jerk of his hips, echoing off the walls. Each thrust is followed by a warm exhalation, a quiet grunt that sends shivers rippling through you.

“You feel good Bucky, you feel so good.” Eyes drift closed and you give yourself up to the feel of Bucky using your body, taking what he needs from the soft, wet heat.

He breaks from mouthing at that comforting space on your neck, licking along your jaw until he takes your mouth in a rough kiss. He bites your lip as he pulls back.

“Look at me,” he pants, hips rolling faster. “Open your eyes. Watch me.”

It’s a herculean effort to drag your eyes open, but the sight of Bucky’s bright blue keeps you locked in place. He watches you intently, his expression a blend of sweet adoration and fierce lust. Pressing his forehead against yours, he thrusts harder, driving his cock deeper. Every slap of his hips jolts your body against the door, tightening the coil in your belly. He brings you right up to the edge, as you drink in the image of this bloodied, bruised, beautiful man.

He has a spectacular bruise blooming down the side of his face, blood still smeared on his cheek, sweat slicking the back of his neck. Beneath your palms, you feel scorching hot skin and taut muscles shifting with every sensuous roll of his body. In that moment, he’s never looked sexier than he does tonight, fucking you in this dingy bathroom with graffiti painting the walls and the neon glow of blue and purple lights illuminating the sharp angles of his body.

This time, the orgasm catches you off guard. Eyes rolling back, you scream out his name and Bucky feels your cunt gripping him, squeezing tight.

“Fuck baby, that’s it,” he grits out. Rough hands grind into your skin harder, harsh thrusts moving faster, as he chases his own pleasure. You feel his heavy cock filling and stretching your aching core, until he chokes out a strangled groan and buries his face against your neck.

In the silence of the bathroom, you can hear the sink dripping, and the buzzing crackle of the fluorescent light. Breathing heavily, Bucky relaxes against you. It takes a minute before he can speak.

“That was fucking amazing,” he says hoarsely. “You’re fucking amazing. God damn.”

He lowers you carefully to your feet, zipping himself up before hurrying to grab a handful of paper towels for you. Reluctantly, he pulls your panties from his back-pocket and returns them.

“Here, you might want these until we get home. But then I want them back later, okay? They're my trophy tonight.”

Laughing, you brush the wrinkles from your skirts.

“Weirdo.”

“Yup.”

With just these few minutes together, he already seems calmer, more peaceful. Rubbing his arm, you tentatively ask.

“So you feel better? That helped?”

“Hell yeah,” he says softly. “Feel much better. It’s different than normal, but like - a nice different.”

“Good,” you say, tenderly kissing his still semi-crooked, swollen nose. “I’m glad.”

“Thank you, baby,” he murmurs. “For being here, for doing this. For being you.”

“Anytime, Buck.”

Turning toward the door, you straighten your dress and steel yourself for the frenetic crush of people still raging outside, but a question pops in your head. You stop, turning back to him with a serious expression.

“What’s up?”

“Do you think Sam might let us have some of his bubble bath? The cotton candy one? I think we need a detox after - well, after this.” You wave your hands vaguely around the dirty bathroom with a grimace.

Bucky wraps an arm around you and laughs.

“I actually bought myself one too, Sam ain't the only one who likes bubble baths. Let’s go get naked.”

I want to say that this story just had everything: mystery, romance, slow burn. The author does such a balancing act between the person that Bucky wants to be but there are still things that haunt him, things that don’t allow him to connect to people but it never comes out a weakness -- but as a strong point that help him with the mission hand. It’s a Bucky that has done a lot to be the person he is now, but doesn’t forget what he once way. The mystery and its connection to both Bucky and the main character as so well done!