#bucky ff

The hotel suite sat on the top floor of a glass-walled tower overlooking the Coachella Valley, where the desert was already bleeding into gold and violet dusk. The floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the living space, turning the entire room into a glowing box of sunset and distant festival haze.

Inside, everything looked expensive in a way that was almost too clean to feel real: cream linen couches, a marble coffee table cluttered with water bottles, VIP passes, and half-open packaging from last-minute wardrobe fixes. The faint thrum of bass from the festival outside pulsed through the glass like a heartbeat the entire city shared.

Before any of them even spoke, your presence was already everywhere in the room... not physically, but in the way every screen seemed to orbit around you. On Sam’s phone. On Natasha’s tablet. On the muted hotel TV looping entertainment news. Your face kept appearing in fragments: rehearsal clips, paparazzi shots, fan edits already dissecting your outfits for the night. It was always like this around you, even when you weren’t there.

You weren’t just performing at Coachella that night.

You were the headline.

You weren't just famous in the way most celebrities were famous. You were globally unavoidable. The kind of pop star whose songs didn’t just chart, they lived in public memory like landmarks. Every comeback broke streaming records. Every tour sold out in minutes that felt almost suspiciously fast. You were called the “princess of pop” by magazines that ran out of new ways to describe your consistency: flawless vocals, cinematic concepts, stage presence that made arenas feel intimate and personal even from the nosebleeds.

And then there was the other layer, the internet.

The one where your image became mythology. You were a sweetheart in interviews, soft-spoken when you wanted to be, laughing easily in a way that made people think they knew you. Fanboys adored you openly. Fan edits multiplied daily. Entire corners of TikTok treated your expressions like lore, slowing down your smiles like they were clues.

And somewhere in all of that, the Steve Rogers narrative had taken root and refused to die.

Bucky stood near the couch, one boot resting on the edge of the coffee table like he had forgotten furniture was not decorative. He wore a fitted black henley with the sleeves pushed to his forearms, dark tactical pants that somehow looked more casual than military now, and his hair was pulled back into the low bun you had texted him about earlier that day. It was neat. Intentional. And unfairly attractive in a way that made Sam visibly suffer the moment he saw it.

“You look like you fix motorcycles and ruin women emotionally,” Sam had said immediately.

Natasha was lounging on the arm of the couch in a black satin slip dress with a loose robe half-tied around her waist, red hair still damp like she’d rushed through getting ready just to avoid being early to anything. She held a champagne flute like she was already bored of the evening and waiting for something interesting to happen. Steve stood near the glass wall in a plain gray shirt and baseball cap he was doing absolutely nothing to hide behind, sunglasses hooked lazily in his hand. Sam was slouched in a chair, phone in hand, scrolling with the intensity of someone trying to argue with the internet.

Bucky’s phone lit up, your contact photo filling up the screen immediately.

His expression changed before he could stop it, softening instantly.

Sam noticed. “Oh no. That’s the face again.”

Natasha leaned slightly to look over his shoulder.

It was a mirror selfie. Backstage. You, already in your first outfit of the night. You wore a baby pink rhinestone corset, tiny white fur trim, glitter catching in the corners of your eyes like stardust. Your hair was pinned up messily, strands falling loose around your face. You looked like trouble disguised as perfection.

The message read:

first outfit <3 u ready? :)

put the bun back exactly how i showed you or i’m ignoring you tonight

Bucky exhaled through his nose, then typed: that a threat?

The typing bubble appeared instantly.

it’s a guarantee.

Then another message:

i can tell when you’re overthinking. stop it. just do the bun right.

Sam leaned forward. “She talks to you like you’re her emotional support soldier.”

Natasha didn’t look up. “That’s because he is.”

Steve finally turned from the window. “She’s very particular.”

Bucky muttered, “She’s bossy.”

Natasha’s mouth twitched. “You like it.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Instead, he adjusted a loose strand near the bun automatically, like his body had already decided it was going to obey you whether he admitted it or not.

Then Bucky’s phone buzzed again.

send proof of bun.

He angled the camera and took a quick photo—bun tight, hair cleanly pulled back, black henley framing his shoulders under the warm hotel light.

Sent.

Three seconds later:

okay wow. don’t let anyone else look at you tonight :P

Sam groaned. “I hate this relationship.”

Natasha smiled into her glass. “No you don’t.”

Steve adjusted his cap again, glancing at the time. “We should head out soon. Traffic will be bad.”

Bucky barely had time to lock his phone before it started lighting up again, except this time it wasn’t you.

It was TikTok.

He didn’t even open it before Sam pointed. “Oh no. Don’t do that. That’s how you lose peace.”

Bucky ignored him and tapped anyway.

Immediately—

A video loaded.

A fan edit of you and Steve at last year’s gala, slow-motion, cinematic filter, soft piano music layered over it.

Text on screen says, "she looks at him like he’s home.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

Swipe.

“You cannot convince me Y/N isn’t dating Steve Rogers. look at this.”

The clip starts with you laughing at something Steve says during an interview, head tilted slightly toward him, crowd noise fading into romantic audio.

they’re literally endgame!

this is america’s royal couple idc

Swipe.

A compilation titled: “moments Y/N forgets she’s not in love with steve rogers”

It showed clips of you and Steve walking a red carpet side by side. Steve adjusting your microphone at an event. You touching his arm briefly during a charity appearance camera zooming in on shared smiles that were probably nothing and everything at once depending on who was watching

Bucky’s thumb paused for half a second longer than it should have.

Natasha noticed immediately. “Don’t do that thing.”

“What thing.”

“The thing where you let TikTok convince you reality is optional.”

He didn’t respond, just kept scrolling.

Another video loaded.

“Okay but be serious for a second,” a girl said into the camera, “Y/N and Steve are literally built like a romance novel. like she’s the princess of pop and he’s captain america, that’s insane storytelling.”

Cut to another clip: your interview answer about “admiring people who do the right thing no matter what.”

Bucky read the big bold text overlay flashing right in front of him: "SHE MEANT HIM."

Sam laughed from the chair. “They’re doing narrative analysis on her like it’s a thesis.”

Swipe. Another.

This one had a million likes already.

Steve smiling at you during a press event, and you smiling back. The caption: “if they’re not together what is this energy? mom and dad fr"

Bucky’s grip on the phone tightened slightly.

Swipe.

Another video immediately autoplayed.

A compilation of fan comments scrolling too fast to read fully, but the gist was clear: Steve and Y/N are perfect, Steve is so respectful, they’re both America’s image, this is what healthy looks like.

Bucky finally locked the phone for a second.

The screen went dark.

Silence in the room held for maybe two seconds.

Then it lit up again.

Your name.

Another message from you, like you could feel the shift through the silence.

i’m going on soon. don’t get weird about anything online. can't wait to see u after the show :)

Bucky stared at it.

Sam leaned forward slightly. “That’s… actually kind of unfairly calming.”

Natasha smiled faintly. “She knows him.”

Steve exhaled, almost relieved. “She really does.”

Bucky put his phone down this time, properly, like it had weight now.

“Let’s go,” he said again, quieter.

The roar of the crowd hit them before they even reached the VIP section. It wasn’t just noise, it was pressure, like the entire desert had turned into a single living thing that reacted to your name. Thousands upon thousands of people packed into the festival grounds beneath flashing lights and towering LED screens, the air itself vibrating with bass so heavy it felt like it was coming from inside the ribs. Giant spotlights swept across the audience in slow, cinematic arcs, catching waves of raised phones and glittering signs, while drones hovered above like silent eyes recording every second.

Your name illuminated the entire stage in pink and gold lettering: Y/N. It wasn’t just a title above a performer anymore, it looked like a monument. The stage design stretched wider than anything Bucky had seen in person before, all layered platforms and moving risers, with a long catwalk slicing straight into the crowd like a runway built to swallow distance. LED panels wrapped around everything in shifting visuals with soft pink hearts one moment, sharp metallic glitch effects the next, already cycling through aesthetics that matched your eras like chapters in a story.

The audience even screamed every time a crew member so much as stepped into view because they thought it might be you. Even shadows got mistaken for you. Even your absence felt like anticipation.

Bucky stayed close behind Natasha as security pushed them through a side corridor into the VIP barricaded area near the front. The closer they got, the more overwhelming it became—heat from bodies, the smell of desert dust mixed with perfume and sweat and smoke machines already testing their cues. The bass wasn’t just heard anymore; it physically pressed against his chest in rhythmic pulses that matched nothing but the scale of what he was about to watch.

People noticed them almost instantly.

“Oh my god.”

“Is that—?”

“The avengers! They're here!”

Phones lifted like a wave cresting all at once, screens glowing as they tilted upward. The reaction spread through the crowd in ripples, turning heads, pointing fingers, half-shouted guesses bouncing between strangers who suddenly had something else to look at while waiting for you to appear. Steve pulled his cap lower instinctively, shoulders tightening as cameras caught sight of him from every angle. Sam, on the other hand, grinned and gave a casual wave like he was at a neighborhood barbecue instead of standing in front of tens of thousands of screaming people, which only made the reaction louder.

Bucky kept his head down, moving with Natasha’s lead until they reached the side-stage viewing area. From here, everything opened up.

The catwalk stretched out like a glowing spine into the crowd, cutting through the sea of people and ending in a circular platform surrounded on all sides. Above it, suspended lighting rigs hovered like mechanical constellations, shifting colors in slow gradients that bathed the audience in pinks, reds, and deep electric blues. The main stage loomed behind it like a skyscraper of screens, layered with moving visuals. Your past music videos are playing in edited loops, clips of choreography, close-ups of your face slowed down into something almost unreal.

Bucky could feel the crowd more than he could see them from here. It wasn’t just cheering anymore, it was anticipation stretched to the breaking point. A thousand conversations all happening at once, all orbiting the same name, the same expectation.

And then he started hearing it.

“Steve Rogers is here too, right?”

“I swear I saw him backstage earlier—like at that charity thing with her—”

“He's definitely here for her, I wonder if she knows"

Bucky’s jaw tightened slightly at that, subtle but immediate, his attention shifting without him meaning to. Another cluster of fans nearby, phones angled toward the stage, voices rising over the bass.

“Now that he’s here it’s literally confirmed though.”

“Right? Like why would Captain America be at her show unless—”

“Unless it’s real. It HAS to be real.”

Bucky’s hand flexed once at his side, metal fingers twitching faintly before he forced them still. His gaze stayed forward, fixed on the empty stage as if looking anywhere else would make it worse. Natasha, walking just ahead of him, didn’t turn around, but her voice dropped slightly anyway, just enough for him to hear.

“Don’t spiral,” she said simply.

“I’m not spiraling,” Bucky muttered automatically.

“Sure,” she replied, dry.

Behind them, another fan voice carried, louder this time, almost excitedly convinced of itself.

“I’m telling you, this is like the official confirmation episode. Steve’s here, she’s performing, it’s literally going to happen on stage.”

That one hit a little differently, like it landed heavier than the rest.

Bucky looked down for half a second, then back up again, steadying himself without acknowledging it.

Steve, who had been quietly taking in the scale of everything with a more reserved expression, shifted slightly closer. He had heard enough by then, enough repetition of his name next to yours, enough certainty in strangers’ voices that didn’t match reality.

He glanced at Bucky briefly, then stepped in closer beside him as they stopped at the viewing rail.

“Hey,” Steve said quietly.

Bucky didn’t look at him. “It’s fine.”

Bucky looked at him then, sharp but controlled. Steve met it without flinching, tone steady, grounded in something calmer than the crowd.

“She’s performing,” Steve said. “That’s all this is right now. The internet is going to build stories no matter what happens in front of them.”

Steve glanced back toward the stage, then toward Bucky again. “Plus, you're the one she’s texting during all of this,” he said quietly.

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose, gaze returning to the empty stage where every light was now building toward your entrance.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment, quieter than before. “I know.”

And then the entire stadium lights shifted again, as if the desert itself had decided the waiting was over.

The stadium went black like someone had pulled the plug on the entire desert at once. No light, no movement, just a suspended silence that lasted half a heartbeat too long— long enough for eighty thousand people to hold their breath without realizing they were doing it. Then the screen above the stage flickered once, twice, and burst open in a wash of neon pink, yellow, and white strobe. Your name didn’t appear this time. It announced itself.

A single note hit first. It was low, distorted, almost like it was being dragged through glass. Then another layer stacked on top of it, brighter, faster, until the sound built into something unmistakable. The opening of your set. Your signature intro. The one every fan recognized instantly even before the visuals fully resolved. The desert lit up in pulses, synchronized like a heartbeat trying to catch up with itself.

And then you appeared.

Not immediately center stage, but elevated, on a platform that rose slowly through the floor like it had been waiting beneath the world the entire time. White light hit you from below first, turning you into a silhouette before the color fully caught up. Then everything snapped into focus: you in a structured, crystal-studded bodysuit that shimmered between soft pink and chrome under the lights, a matching sheer cape that moved like liquid behind you, hair styled in soft waves that framed your face like it had been painted there on purpose.

The crowd screamed.

The sound wasn’t just loud, it was physical. It rolled through the VIP section like a shockwave, vibrating through the barricades, through the stage, through Bucky’s chest before he even fully processed that you were there.

Natasha tilted her head slightly. “There she is!"

Sam let out a low whistle. “Yeah, okay. That’s insane.”

Steve didn’t say anything at first, just watched as the stage transformed around you—lights shifting into synchronized geometry, dancers appearing in layers behind you like they had been hidden in the architecture itself. Moving platforms rose and fell in time with the beat, and the entire stage felt less like a set and more like a living system built entirely around you.

Bucky wasn’t speaking either.

He just watched.

Because you didn’t stand still for even a second. You moved like the stage was reacting to you instead of the other way around, every step triggering a shift in light, every turn pulling the audience deeper into the performance. The camera screens flashed between close-ups and wide shots, cutting between your face and the sea of people losing their minds in real time.

Your voice came in clean, controlled, effortless over the production. It was bright and teasing, already fully in command of the crowd. You weren’t easing into it. You were owning it from the first second.

A few songs later, the set started building.

The visuals shifted. Pink turned into deeper reds. Glitter into sharp light beams. The choreography tightened. The energy changed... not slower, just sharper, like something was about to pivot.

The music kept rising, playful but charged now, that familiar teasing tension threading through the arrangement as dancers moved in formation behind you, creating shapes that looked almost like they were spelling something the crowd couldn’t read yet.

You paced toward the end of the catwalk, still singing, still smiling, completely unbothered by the scale of what you were doing to the audience.

Bucky’s grip tightened faintly at his side without him realizing it.

This was where the performance stopped being just performance and started becoming something else entirely.

The lighting softened.

The crowd screamed louder because they could tell what was coming even before it arrived.

“Coachella,” you said into the mic, and the desert answered instantly. The crowd erupted so loudly it felt like the ground itself shook in response, a wave of sound rolling through the VIP barricade and into the night sky.

You laughed softly, letting it breathe for half a second before lifting your gaze across the sea of lights.

“Before my final song I just wanted to ask something.”

The cheers grew louder immediately, scattered screams turning into a single rising roar.

You tilted your head, pacing slowly at the end of the catwalk like you were thinking out loud.

“Has anyone of you become obsessed with something?”

A beat.

“…or someone?”

The crowd exploded.

Even the Avengers section reacted. Sam let out an impressed “ohhh,” Natasha smirking into her drink, Steve raising his eyebrows slightly like he already knew where this was going. Bucky, though, just stared at you like the rest of the world had disappeared behind your voice. There was something soft in his expression now, something almost disbelievingly fond, like he still wasn’t used to the fact that this was his life.

“…cause I have.”

The scream that followed was deafening.

You smiled into it, unbothered, glowing under the lights.

“I wanna dedicate this song to someone…”

You paused, letting the anticipation build, eyes drifting across the stadium before landing right on the camera.

“You know who you are.”

The jumbotron cut to your face instantly. Close-up. Soft lighting. Glitter in your lashes. You smiled directly into it like you were speaking to one person in a stadium of thousands.

Bucky saw it on the screen and smiled without meaning to, small and quiet, like it slipped out of him before he could stop it.

Sam immediately leaned in. “Oh my god, she’s about to emotionally ruin you in 4K.”

Bucky didn’t look away from the screen. “Shut up.”

The beat dropped.

“Don’t have to tell your hot ass a thing / Oh yeah, you just get it”

The crowd screamed again, louder than before, immediately locking onto the energy shift. Cameras flashed everywhere. Somewhere in the audience someone yelled, “SHE’S SINGING THIS FOR STEVE!” and it spread fast.

Steve actually heard it this time.

He gave a small sideways glance toward Bucky, something calm and almost reassuring in it, like he wanted to cut through the noise before it built into something heavier.

Bucky met his eyes briefly.

A silent exchange.

Then Steve gave a faint nod, like ignore them, like it’s not what they think.

Bucky nodded back once, understanding without needing more.

“You make me wanna make you fall in love”

The crowd roared, lights shifting pink and gold across the stage as dancers moved in tight formation behind you. You didn’t miss a beat, voice steady, playful, teasing the entire stadium like it belonged to you.

Bucky’s gaze followed you instinctively, softer now, fully locked in. There was something almost unreal about watching you like this, and the fact that with thousands of people screaming your name, every light in the desert pointing toward you... your expression still felt personal in the way it always did when you texted him stupid things at 2 AM.

He didn’t even realize he was smiling again.

Sam noticed anyway. “Yeah, okay, he’s in love.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Bucky said again, but there was no bite in it.

Steve’s attention flicked back toward the crowd as another wave of chatter rose near the barricade.

“Steve and Y/N are literally happening tonight, I swear—”

“That’s why he’s here, look at him—”

Steve exhaled quietly, then leaned just slightly closer to Bucky so only he could hear him.

“For the record,” Steve said, calm, steady, “I’m not confused about any of this.”

Bucky glanced at him.

Steve added, “And neither should you be.”

Bucky held his gaze for a second, then nodded once, slower this time.

The music pulsed forward.

“I know you want my touch for life”

The crowd erupted again, phones rising like a wave. Bucky watched you move across the catwalk, lights catching on your outfit, your smile sharp and bright as you played with the audience like it was second nature.

And despite everything, the noise, the theories, the constant wrong assumptions, there was something grounding in how clearly you were performing for this moment, not for the narrative being built around it.

Sam bumped Bucky’s shoulder lightly. “Hey. Eyes up. She’s literally doing her thing.”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh under his breath. “Yeah. I see her.”

“...let you lock me down tonight”

The beat softened into something more teasing, more dangerous, the kind of rhythm that made the crowd lose their minds without fully understanding why.

Bucky felt it anyway. That pull. That focus. Like the entire show was narrowing in real time.

He didn’t notice the comments anymore. Not really. He keeps on watching you.

That was it.

“Can’t help myself, hormones are high / Give me more than just some butterflies”

Your eyes lowkey swept the VIP section.

Scanning.

A little slower this time.

Bucky straightened slightly without thinking, like he felt it before he understood it.

The crowd took it differently.

A ripple went through them instantly.

“Is she looking for Steve?!”

“She’s literally scanning for him—”

Sam groaned. “Oh my god, they’re narrating again.”

“Wanna try out some freaky positions?”

The crowd screamed so loudly it almost swallowed the next beat.

You suddenly ran forward toward the camera, playful, grinning like you were about to break the entire internet on purpose.

“Have you ever tried this one?”

You blew a kiss directly into the lens.

The screen cut instantly.

Steve.

Close-up on the jumbotron.

The crowd lost it completely. Even louder than before.

Sam wheezed. “OH NO—”

Steve blinked once, clearly caught off guard, then let out a short breath through his nose like he had accepted his fate.

Bucky heard it now—different pockets of the crowd reacting exactly how the internet had trained them to.

Bucky’s jaw tightened slightly before Sam immediately leaned in again.

“You okay man?”

Bucky didn’t respond.

Because you had already moved.

A quick glance, again, towards the VIP section.

Toward him.

Not long, but enough.

And then you turned back to the crowd and started walking.

“... you know I just might / let you lock me down tonight”

You moved toward the stairs now, still singing, still perfect, still fully in control of the entire stadium.

Bucky’s attention tracked you immediately.

You passed the barricade slowly as you sang, cameras following, security adjusting as you descended into the crowd-level walkway.

The audience went feral, reaching out, screaming your name as you moved closer and closer to the VIP section.

And then—

you walked past Steve.

Steve shifted slightly aside instinctively as you passed, more out of awareness than anything else.

And then you stopped...

Right in front of Bucky.

The sound didn’t drop, but it sharpened. The crowd saw it at the same time.

“No way—”

“WAIT—”

“OH MY GOD.”

You continued singing.

“Adore me… hold me and explore me…”

And you sang it directly to him. Eyes locked.

No crowd in your face anymore.

Just him.

Bucky froze for half a second, breath catching, expression softening immediately like he didn’t know how to function under that kind of attention.

Steve, just behind, stepped slightly closer behind Bucky, not pushing, just guiding the moment forward as the barricade tightened with security and movement.

“mark your territory, tell me I’m the only only only only one…”

The stadium erupted again, louder than anything before it.

Bucky didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Because you were looking at him like there was no one else in the world.

“...hold me and explore me”

Your voice softened slightly, still carrying, still perfect.

And then your hand lifted.

Pressed gently to his chest.

The crowd absolutely detonated.

Bucky inhaled sharply, eyes flickering for just a second like he felt everything at once.

“tell me I’m the only, only, only, only one…”

Your hand slid down his chest slowly as you finished the line, deliberate and controlled, the entire stadium screaming like it was witnessing something irreversible.

Sam made a sound like he had given up on life entirely. “OH MY GOD.”

Steve let out a quiet, almost amused breath behind them, like he couldn’t believe the internet was about to implode this hard.

And you—

You just smiled at Bucky like it was easy.

Then you stepped back and let go.

Turned.

And ran back toward the stage.

Still singing.

Still owning every second of the chaos you had just created.

You were already moving back toward the stage as the moment at the barricade dissolved into chaos behind you, security guiding the flow but never touching you. The bass never let up, carrying you forward like you were still fully inside the choreography even off-center. Fans reached out as you passed, screaming your name into the desert night, phones shaking as they tried to keep up with you.

“I know you want my touch for life”

Your voice stayed steady as you stepped up toward the stage, the camera catching you mid-motion, glitter flashing under the lights as you glanced once toward VIP before turning back.

Bucky hadn’t moved. Just watched you like everything else had gone quiet around him.

Sam leaned slightly. “She’s really just acting like that didn’t happen.”

Natasha hummed. “It did. Just not for her.”

Steve stayed quiet now, eyes on you, expression softer than before.

You reached the stage again, lights snapping back into full intensity as dancers fell into place behind you.

“If you love me right, then who knows?”

The crowd roared instantly, the energy snapping back into full performance mode.

"I might let you make me Juno"

You moved across the stage with ease, smiling like you never left.

Bucky’s gaze stayed locked on you, unblinking now.

Sam muttered, “Yeah, she’s enjoying this way too much.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Because you were still looking his way sometimes.

"Let you lock me down tonight"

The lights shifted warmer, fireworks beginning to glow faintly in the distance as the crowd built toward the end.

Bucky exhaled slowly, shoulders easing without him noticing.

“One of me is cute, but two though?”

The crowd screamed the lyric back at you, phones rising higher.

“Give it to me, baby”

You pointed out over them, playful, effortless, in control of every second.

And then—

“You make me wanna make you fall in love!"

The Avengers Tower common floor was doing its usual post-viral-event routine: pretending everything was normal while the TV on the wall refused to stop replaying Coachella like it had become permanent programming. Your performance looped again in glossy slow motion. The pink-gold lights, the barricade moment, that frozen frame of Bucky with your hand on his chest played while a scrolling headline insisted beneath it:

FANS STILL DEBATE BUCKY BARNES VS STEVE ROGERS AFTER COACHELLA MOMENT.

On the coffee table, someone’s phone was just running TikToks on its own at this point.

Yelena sat curled up on the couch with a bowl of cereal, watching like it was live sports. “She is very dramatic walker,” she said flatly as another slowed edit of you crossing the stage played again.

Alexei nodded seriously from the armchair, scrolling. “No, no. This is artistic movement. Very precise. Like ballet, but with internet consequences.”

Yelena glanced at him. “You are enjoying this too much.”

“I enjoy truth,” Alexei said, immediately liking a zoomed-in edit of your hand on Bucky’s chest set to cinematic music.

Natasha stood in the kitchen making tea like none of this qualified as emergency behavior. Steam curled up as she finally said, “You two are going to give yourselves headaches.”

Then—

the elevator dinged.

Bucky stepped out and stopped immediately upon seeing the TV.

His face. Your hand. Crowd screaming.

Frozen in the worst possible angle for someone trying to have a normal morning.

Yelena lifted her cereal bowl slightly. “Oh good. The internet’s boyfriend is here.”

Alexei waved. “Hello, prince charming.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just walked toward the glass wall instead, like distance could somehow reset reality.

Outside, the city below the tower entrance was already packed. Fans. Cameras. Press vans. All clustered tightly like the building had become a landmark overnight. Phones pointed upward. Waiting.

Natasha watched him over her mug. “So, what did her publicist say about this?”

“I don't know, haven't checked,” Bucky said immediately.

Yelena tilted her head. “You are staring very hard at outside people.”

“I’m observing.”

Alexei leaned forward. “They are observing you back. Very intense social ecosystem.”

Before Bucky could respond, the TV switched to live footage.

LIVE: Y/N L/N ARRIVING AT AVENGERS TOWER

Yelena sat up instantly. “Oh. She is early.”

On screen, your SUV door opened. The crowd outside surged like it had been waiting for that exact moment all morning.

Bucky turned fully now. Watching despite himself.

You stepped out calmly. Sunglasses on. Hair loose. Outfit too put-together for 7 AM and paparazzi chaos. Security formed instantly, but microphones still pushed forward.

“Y/N! IS THIS ABOUT BUCKY BARNES?”

"ARE YOU HERE FOR STEVE ROGERS?”

"WHY BUCKY?”

You paused, then said, very calmly, “I forgot my coffee upstairs.”

Silence.

Then chaos exploded.

Yelena pointed at the screen. “That is worst answer. I respect it.”

Before anyone could recover, you added casually, “Also, I’m here for Bucky.”

That did it. The crowd detonated again in real time.

And then another clip cut in on someone’s phone at the coffee table, this one already going viral: a girl in front of a messy bedroom setup, speaking like she was delivering sworn testimony.

“I knew y’all got the wrong guy when I saw her wearing Bucky’s hoodie months ago at that Starbucks,” she said, pointing at the camera like it was evidence in court. “Y’all are just in DENIAL.”

The video zoomed in aggressively on a screenshot of you in an oversized hoodie, coffee in hand, walking beside Bucky months earlier.

Text overlay says:

RECEIPTS WERE RIGHT IN FRONT OF US THE WHOLE TIME

Yelena leaned forward slightly. “Oh this one is confident.”

Alexei nodded approvingly. “Strong argument. Poor grammar, but strong conviction.”

Bucky didn’t say anything.

Because he was already moving.

Natasha called after him, “Hey, you don’t need to—”

But he was already gone.

The lobby felt louder than it should have been, even for Avengers Tower. Security radios crackled. Cameras clicked outside the glass doors. The crowd pressed forward like the building itself had become a stage.

Bucky came down too fast, then slowed immediately when he saw you.

You were already inside.

Just past the entrance zone. Calm in the middle of moving chaos, surrounded by security and microphones and overlapping questions.

“Have you ever dated both of them?”

"Why Bucky Barnes specifically?”

"What happened at Coachella?”

You removed your sunglasses just as the doors closed.

And Bucky was there.

Ten feet away.

He stopped.

You stopped too.

Everything behind you stayed loud, but the space between you was oddly quiet. Like it didn’t belong to the internet.

You looked at him and smiled.

“Hi,” you said.

Bucky blinked once. “Hey.”

His gaze flicked briefly to the chaos behind you. Then back.

“You said coffee?" he added, quieter.

You nodded.

That got him. A small laugh slipped out before he could stop it. He stepped forward.

You met him halfway and took his hand like it was obvious you would.

Behind you, the lobby exploded again—cameras, shouting, headlines being born in real time—but it stayed outside the moment.

Bucky looked down at your hand in his, then back at you.

“You’re kinda early,” he said.

You shrugged slightly. “Traffic was emotional.”

His smile softened properly now.

“Yeah,” he said. “I noticed.”

It has been four months. Four months and one day, to be exact, since Bucky Barnes became mine. I’ve never heard so many people congratulate me and warn me in the same breath, but I never cared. Not when he’s been so precious, so thoughtful, so achingly romantic. Not when he’s spent every single day making me feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

I love him more than life itself. And with him—life and death feel closer than they should.

So why does it feel like I’m still not enough?

Four months, and he hasn't touched me. Not once. Not like that. 

Every time I try, every time I lean in, every time I press just a little too close, he pulls away. Sometimes subtly, sometimes not. Sometimes it’s a hesitant step back, sometimes it’s a firm grip on my wrist, pushing me away just enough to make it clear.

I tried everything. Cute lingerie. Whispered invitations. I even got my hair done for our anniversary last night. Nothing helped, I couldn't shake his composed demeanor, no matter what I did.

Maybe, he doesn’t want me at all. Why would he?

The Bucky Barnes could have anyone. Someone like Natasha—gorgeous, cool, effortlessly magnetic. The kind of woman who could hold her own against a super soldier, the kind who wouldn’t hesitate. The kind who makes sense with him.

Me on the other hand? What was I thinking, believing I would be enough? Just a simple girl, coming from a boring family, with no interesting backstory, nothing to show, nothing to–

"Baby?" Bucky put his face an inch from mine, which immediately snapped me out of my spiralling thoughts. "You okay? Is your stomach upset?" He pointed to the remaining of mac and cheese he cooked. 

He grew to be extremely good at reading my expressions over the past few months. He usually doesn't need to ask; he just knows what's wrong, and eliminates the problem without a word. This time, though, he didn't know. How could he?

"No," I say flatly.

"Sure? Because–"

"I am fine," I snap, louder than anticipated. 

I immediately regret my tone when I see Bucky stiffen, the sound of his metal arm clenching into an unbreakable fist. He takes exactly three steps back from me; measured and calculated. His eyes terrified; I can almost see how he is searching for the possible threats or punishments he would receive, now that he senses the change in the mood. He's still as a sculpture, except for the arms; they are shaking from how strongly he is sqeezing his fist.

Oh, I fucked up.

"I'm sorry. It's just been a really hard week on me, I-"

"You're hurt." 

It's not a question, it's a fact.

"I'm not hurt–"

"I hurt you."

It's not a fact, it's a crime. At least that's how he says it.

I look down to the tiled floor where I can still spot the signs of Bucky's cooking. I cannot look at him. I would need to lie to his face and that is one thing I was never able to do. Not after what he's been through. 

I notice a small movement from him as he takes another step; farther. Way farther away from me. I take a deep breath and force myself to look at him, wishing I didn't as the sight instantly breaks my heart; his eyes are filled with tears, and he's so confused. Scared. Terrified of what is coming. He's gripping onto the side of his shirt, like he always does when he feels unsafe. A lump forms in my throat as I try to open my mouth to speak. I've ruined him. 

"I– uh." The sound I made was barely a whisper, but it made him visibly flinch. "Do you... Do you not... want me?"

Bucky's terrified gaze turns into utter confusion in a matter of seconds. He blinks – for the first time in maybe minutes – as he's struggling to understand my question. I collect all my leftover courage and hope to keep talking. 

"You push me away," I say, trying to be as soft as possible. "We've been together for months, but never... together."

I feel so stupid for not being able to just straight out say it. I'm hoping he somehow understands what I mean, but judging by his scrunched eyebrows, I'm gonna have to be more specific.

 I let out a big sigh and close my eyes to make the embarrassment less painful. "Bucky, we never had sex." 

As soon as the words leave my mouth, his face drops. I lose him again somewhere very far away from me, and he keeps looking at me like I am about to destroy him completely. 

"If you don't want me, that's okay," I assure him, ignoring the bitter taste in my mouth. "I know I'm not the prettiest girl, and you've probably seen better—"

"No!" he snaps, so I lift my head up. He looks horrified, like I've just said something unspeakable. I wait for him to continue, but instead, he keeps staring at me, as if his eyes could tell everything he is unable to.

"No?" I echo. "Then why do you run every time I try to touch you like that?"

He breaks the eye contact by strictly looking at the kitchen counter right in front of him; or at anything that is not me. From all the months I've spent in his presence, I recognize this look too well. He's ashamed. 

"Bucky..."

Silence. He grips the fabric of his shirt, twisting it in his hands. A nervous tick, but to him, a grounding mechanism. He's really trying not to lose himself.

"I—, I don't—," he stutters. "I don't know how."

"What?" I blink. “Bucky, you’ve—” I hesitate. “You’ve been with other women before.”

His head jerks up with a flicker of panic and frustration.

 “That’s not—that’s different.”

“Different how?”

Bucky is refusing to look at me, so I stand up from my seat to make way towards him. He takes a sharp breath when I'm within his reach, but doesn't move. That's a good sign. 

"Look at me, baby," I ask, softly. His eyes snap up instantly, and I see it all there. The fear, the desperation, the battlefield in his head. "Tell me what's wrong."

He tries to do so; he opens his mouth, swallows, exhales, shakes his head, tries again, but he fails, no matter how hard he tries.

"Do you want me?" I ask bluntly.

He nods, still staring at the marble countertop. Okay.

"Are you scared to ask for what you want?"

Another nod. 

"Do you trust me?"

This one is instant.

"Yes."

"Then tell me."

He lets out a shaky breath before he swallows. He turns his head to me, face flustered, his chest moving up and down as he tries to regulate himself.

"Please, can you—," his voice dies before he can finish. He clearly is struggling, like he doesn't know how to want things and the fact breaks a small part of my heart permanently.

"Go on, Bucky. What do you need?" I encourage him.

"I—," he stutters, and then shakes his head hard, like the words are physically hurting him inside his head.

 His body, however, tells the truth on behalf of him. The way his hands tremble and his chest heaves with each exhale, the way his metal fingers twitch against his thigh—he is fighting himself.

I let the silence stretch, waiting, watching the way his face twists with frustration, with hesitation. With want.

“Baby,” I say softly.

His eyes cracks open, blue burning with something raw, something pleading. He sucks in a breath, and for a moment, I think he finally gives in, but then he shakes his head again, hard, turning his face away.

I click my tongue, grabbing his chin, forcing him to meet my gaze. “You want something. I can see it. I can feel it.”

His chest rises sharply, lips parting, but still, he doesn't speak. I lean in, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. 

“Do you need me to guide you?”

His entire body jerks, a sharp inhale ripping from his throat. His fingers are clenching into fists, the tremor rolling through his shoulders like a quake. But he still doesn't answer me.

My grip tightens slightly, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Bucky, if you don’t tell me what you need, I can’t give it to you.”

He exhales shakily, a frustrated, broken sound. His brows knit together, his hands lifting before falling back to his thighs, his whole frame trembling.

“Please,” he whispers.

My heart clenches. “Yes?”

His head dropped forward, breath ragged. “Please… please tell me what to do.”

Oh. 

Oh, fuck.

I smile, slow and knowing, letting the moment stretch, letting him feel the weight of what he's just asked for.

“I’ll show you.” I say, and I find my voice firm. Commanding.

His breath stutters, his entire body tensing, every muscle coiled tight with restraint, with hesitation. He’s fighting it, clinging to the instinct to resist—until I lean in, my mouth brushing over the shell of his ear.

 “If you'll be a good boy for me.”

The sound he makes—soft, broken, fucking relieved—rips through me like a shockwave. My core tightens, ignites, burns, a volcano threatening to erupt at the sheer power of it. 

Bucky Barnes is submissive. For me. 

"Follow me," I say, and as if I freed him from an invisible curse, he makes his way after me.

All at once, every doubt I ever had—about myself, about us—disintegrates. How did I not see this before? How could I have been so blind? He doesn’t need distance. He doesn’t need time. He just needs me. Me in control. Me guiding him. Me telling him exactly what to do.

And fuck, if that isn’t the most intoxicating realization of all, I don't know what is.

I may not be the most experienced woman alive, but that doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that he needs me to be present. He needs me to take this. Own this. There’s no room for doubt, no room to shy away, when he trusts me to take care of him.

I release him just to check his expression, searching for even the slightest hint of hesitation, but to my surprise, I find none. Not a single trace. His eyes track my every movement, locked onto me like a soldier awaiting an order.

And it shouldn't turn me on the way it does.

"Do you want me right now?" My voice is steady, even as I close the space between us, just by one step. 

His gaze sweeps over me, dragging from my lips, to my throat, to my body before he gives a sharp, assured nod.

 "Then take off my dress." 

He moves instantly, without hesitation—like he’s been waiting for this since the moment he met me. His fingers find the hem of my dress; his touch cautious, reverent, like he’s afraid I might pull away at any second. Like he can’t quite believe this is happening.

The contrast of his warm, flesh hand on one thigh, and his ice-cold vibranium fingers on the other, sends a shiver tearing down my spine. Slowly, deliberately, he lifts the fabric over my head, the brush of his knuckles against my skin leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

Once I’m bare before him, he takes a small step back—just to look. His lips part slightly, his breathing uneven, chest rising and falling faster, deeper. His eyes—piercing, devastating—roam every inch of me, burning me from the inside out.

And then, he moves.

He throws the dress across the room without looking, never once taking his eyes off of me. His entire body is vibrating, like he’s barely holding himself together, barely restraining the need thrumming beneath his skin.

The sight of him is stealing every breath I have left.

“Can I take your shirt off?” I break the silence, my own voice softer now.

“Please,” he begs.

I waste no time. I step in, close enough for his ragged breath to ghost over my skin, and strip him bare. It’s a summer night, so he’s only wearing a thin, black V-neck, already clinging to the sweat on his chest–or at least, he was. With one fluid motion, I pull it over his head and let it drop to the floor.

I take a moment, just a few seconds, to admire him.

His body is all strength, broad shoulders and sculpted muscle carved by battle and time. Scars litter his skin, testaments to wars fought and survived, and yet, under the soft glow of the moonlight, he looks like something untouchable. Ethereal. Unreal.

I swallow hard, licking my lips as my gaze travels downward, over his defined abs, the way they tense under my attention, down to the dark trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his boxers. I feel it then—the heat pooling low, the unbearable pulse between my thighs. And he’s just standing there, watching me, eyes so dark they’re nearly black.

I’m already so wet for him, it’s almost embarrassing.

"Undress me," I whisper. 

His breath catches, eyes flash with hunger, the way they always do when he wants but won’t take. But this time, he moves.

With careful fingers, he reaches behind me for the clasp of my bra, hesitant yet desperate. This is as far as we’ve ever gone. Four months of waiting, of skirting the edge, of Bucky refusing to let himself see me without clothes. Back then, I thought it was because he didn’t want me, because I wasn’t enough.

But now? Now I know the truth. He wouldn’t have known what to do. He was afraid to ruin this. Afraid to ruin me.

I snap out of my thoughts as I feel the cold air of the AC dance on my bare torso. My nipples instantly harden as a result, and Bucky notices it just as quickly. His lips are apart, and he's staring at them like an animal on his prey. The way he wants me fills me with every ounce of confidence I’ve ever needed.

"You can touch them," I whisper, not sure he even heard me, but then he takes two steps towards, putting his flesh hand on my waist.

I gasp, the breath catching in my throat as his warm, steady touch trails up my skin. His movements are slow—painfully, torturously slow—like he’s memorizing me with his hands, drinking me in through touch alone. He reaches my left breast and he cups it, his thumb immediately finding my hard nipple. His breath shudders, sharp and heavy, his chest rising with a strained inhale as he circles my achingly hard peak with his thumb, teasing, testing, learning me.

I struggle to hold in my moan, my teeth sinking into my lip as he pinches it, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure straight between my legs. And fuck, he’s watching. His vibranium arm remains stiff at his side, fingers curled into a tight, trembling fist, his jaw slightly slack, his lips parted as he watches himself touch me.

He’s fascinated. Hypnotized. Like this is the first time he’s ever allowed himself to truly want something.

"Both hands, please." My voice is barely a whisper, barely a sound, just a needy, broken plea. His head snaps up, and for the first time in what feels like forever, his eyes meet mine.

His metal hand, still clenched in restraint, relaxes. With slow, careful hesitation, he brings it up, inch by inch, his fingertips skimming my ribs before finally—finally—he touches me. A shiver rips through me, my body instinctively arching into the icy contrast of metal against my heated skin. I don’t pull away; if anything, I lean into him, chasing the sensation, craving more.

"You're being so good for me," I praise, my voice low.

Bucky fucking breaks.

His entire body stutters, trembles; his breath hitching, his knees nearly buckling beneath him as a wrecked, desperate whimper falls from his lips.

Fuck. That has to be the sexiest sound in the world.

“Can I—” His voice cracks, his fingers flexing against my skin. “Can I please kiss you?”

He is pleading, over and over, his voice shaky, utterly undone.

“Please, I need it. Please.”

His words shoot straight to my core, the need in his voice a direct pulse between my legs. I want him so much, I might sublime from the heat he ignites inside me.

I don’t hesitate. I grab his arm, pulling him against me, forcing his bare chest to crash into mine. He melts against me, his body burning, muscles taut, already trembling with restraint. And then, I kiss him. Or maybe he kisses me. Either way, the moment our lips meet, Bucky loses himself.

He kisses me like he’s starving, like he’s drowning and I’m his only air. His mouth is hungry, relentless, desperate, lips crashing into mine as he’s trying to devour me whole.

And fuck, his hands.

They roam everywhere, one gripping the small of my back, the other skimming just beneath my panties, teasing, taunting me, and just when I think it couldn't get any better, his metal hand clamps around my ass, gripping tight, keeping me steady. Feeling the cool vibranium pressing into my heated skin, I moan straight into his mouth, my body shuddering in his hold.

“Put me on the bed. Now.”

The words leave me in a command, and Bucky moves before I can even take another breath. With one arm, just one, he lifts me with ease, like I weigh nothing to him. He lays me down, gentle but firm, already moving to cover me with his body—but I stop him.

“Not yet.”

I shake my head, and he immediately halts, his breathing labored, controlled. He looks wrecked, like he's using every bit of self control to keep himself away from me. Still kneeling between my legs, still so fucking obedient, and yet—his eyes. His fucking eyes, they’re eating me alive.

“Take it off,” I order, nodding toward his jeans.

Bucky keeps his eyes locked on mine, hands trailing down, slow and deliberate as he reaches for the button of his jeans. With a quick flick of his fingers, they’re undone. His piercing gaze never leaves me, his eyes dragging over every inch of my body, devouring, worshipping.

I don't have much time before he stands up and slowly pushes his jeans down. I gasp when I see the thin, black material of his boxers that do nothing to hide him. The thick, heavy outline of him, pressing against the fabric, takes my breath away.

I’ve never seen him like this before. Not even close. I’ve felt him—hard, pressing against me on nights where he’d let himself have just a little. But then he would stop and shut it down. I couldn't understand why, not until now, and I don't have one second to think about it, because he pushes his boxers down. His cock is finally bared to me in full, and Jesus fucking Christ.

He is huge. How is that gonna fit?

“Please,” I hear a small plea towards him, and I shot my eyes back to his face. 

His breath is wild, erratic, chest heaving like he can’t get enough air, like he’s on the edge of breaking. His flesh hand is poised, ready to touch himself, to relieve even an ounce of the pressure, but he doesn't. Not without my word. I bite my lip, reveling in the power of it, in the way his entire body trembles under restraint.

“Take this off, too,” I instruct, gesturing to the lace panties that I’d bought months ago—back when I thought he’d see them then.  Back when I thought we’d be here so much sooner. 

But I don’t have a single complaint left in my body, because when Bucky finally moves—he rips them off. The thin fabric tears from me in one sharp pull, and for a split second, I wonder if he just ripped them in half.

His eyes drag over me, drinking in every inch of bare skin, mapping the places he’s never let himself truly look at before. I feel just how wet I am, now that there’s nothing to soak up the slick. I can feel it all pooling between my thighs, proof of just how badly I want him.

A flicker of  shyness grips me—how did I get this lucky? How did I end up with him, undone and starving, in front of me? But I don’t let myself hide; instead, I sit up slowly, deliberately, my movements calculated, letting myself kneel on the soft mattress.

I look up at him, like I could devour him with a single breath. The six-foot-tall ex-assassin is towering over me, radiating pure heat, his entire body coiled tight like a predator barely holding back.

And then, soft as a prayer, I say, “I want you.”

As if I’ve broken a curse, Bucky snaps. His fingers clamp around my throat, his mouth slamming into mine, the sheer force of it knocking me back onto the bed. He pins me down, all of his weight pressing into me, heavy, suffocating, absolutely fucking perfect. The way he kisses me makes me crazy; he's hungry, possessive, and so filthy, I can only moan as a response.

His cock, thick and heavy, sliding between my soaking slit, his length gliding right over my clit with each slow, torturous grind.

“Fuck—” I moan straight into his mouth, my hips instinctively tilting up, chasing every ounce of friction he gives me.

I lose every bit of control I had left. Overcome with greed, I grab at him, pull at him, take as much as I can. My fingers tangle in his long hair, keeping him locked to me, refusing to let him break the kiss for even a second. 

I let my other hand wander; I trace the sharp lines of his back, trailing lower, until my palm finds his ass. I squeeze, hard, forcing him to rock against me even harder, dragging his cock rougher, deeper through my slick folds. My breathing is a wreck, my body moving instinctively, clinging to him, needing more, more, more.

I want him. All over me. Inside me. Taking me apart.

“Can I—” His voice shatters, breathless. He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, his eyes wrecked with need.

“Can I please put it in?”

And fuck, he looks at me like a puppy, wide-eyed, begging.

“Please, I’ll make you feel so good,” he purrs against my neck, teeth grazing my skin, lips pressing open-mouthed kisses.

“God, yes,” I groan.

Bucky grabs himself, his fingers shaking with need as he positions his cock right at my entrance. He could thrust in immediately, take what we both want without hesitation, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pauses; his eyes flick back up to mine, searching, waiting, needing something more.

And I know exactly what he wants.

“Be a good boy and fuck me, Bucky.”

I'm way past hesitation or shame. All I want is him taking over me, claiming me, pressing me into himself. The words shatter something inside him; his mouth parts, his pupils blown wide, and then—without ever breaking eye contact—he slides inside.

A broken moan leaves my lips as my spine arches, my body opening for him, stretching around him, and fuck, he fills me.

Completely. Entirely. Devastatingly.

I’ve been aching for this moment for months. I’ve fantasized about him taking me, and now he’s finally inside me. A deep pressure builds low in my belly, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes as he pushes deeper and deeper, until I feel the blunt tip of his cock press against my cervix.

He’s so fucking hard. I can feel him throbbing inside me, feel the pulse of his cock against my walls, and it drives me insane. I wait for him to finally move, but after a few seconds of stillness, I open my eyes.

Bucky is watching me so carefully, his eyes flicking over my face, searching for even the slightest sign of discomfort. His arms shake violently, his knuckles white from gripping the sheets beside my head. He’s breathing fast, erratic, his small, shaky breaths cold against my ear. And he’s moving too slowly, like he’s terrified of losing control.

“Relax, baby. You can let go.”

I lift my hand, gently stroking his beautiful face, my voice barely a whisper. His eyes soften, then immediately darken.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he rasps, his voice hoarse, ruined.

“You can’t,” I assure him. “I can take it. I want to take it.”

The sound that escapes him—a helpless whimper, like he’s been waiting his entire life to hear those words. His body trembles, his control hanging by a thread, his cock twitching inside me at the sheer relief of it.

He might be above me, but he is completely at my mercy.

“You’re doing so good,” I murmur, just inches from his lips, my breath fanning over his skin. “Don’t stop.”

The second I say it, he melts.

Raw, desperate need unleashes from him so suddenly, it knocks the breath from my lungs. I wheeze in surprise, barely able to keep up before he grabs the bedframe above my head with his vibranium arm and picks up the pace—hard. The deep, wrecked moan that rips from his throat sets me on fire; a wildfire raging low and uncontrollable, consuming every last of my coherent thoughts. All I know is him—the way he moves, the way he fills me, the way every precise thrust hits where I need him most.

I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer, and he collapses into me, his mouth claiming mine in a sloppy, desperate kiss. His thrusts are relentless, shaking the entire goddamn bed, and I have to grip his vibranium arm for dear life just to keep myself in place.

Somewhere in his haze, even now, he thinks to protect me—his flesh hand cradling the top of my head, shielding me from the bedframe. My chest tightens at the gesture, and I let my lips trail down his sweat-slicked neck in silent gratitude, my teeth grazing over his skin.

Something inside me snaps as I feel his salty skin on my tounge. My nails rake down his back, digging into the hard muscle, desperate to leave my mark. My teeth sink into his shoulder, biting, scratching, taking him. We’re sliding against each other, slick with sweat, the heat of the summer night making everything feel even filthier, more raw, more real.

And Bucky is falling apart.

He’s moaning, breaking, unraveling against me, the sounds deep and ragged, each one rougher than the last. If I didn’t know better—if I didn’t know how utterly overwhelmed with pleasure he is—I’d think he was in pure agony from the helpless little cries slipping from his lips.

“Tell me I’m good for you,” he whispers, almost afraid to ask, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

“You’re such a good boy for me, Bucky.” 

The words fall from my lips like a promise, and fuck, the sharp, broken gasp he lets out shreds me to pieces. It’s high and desperate, so fucking needy, and it goes straight to my core.

He kisses me, hard and possessive.

“I’ve been waiting…” His voice is unraveling, barely understandable.

”… for so fucking long.”

Then suddenly—

Thrust.

“And you—”

Thrust.

“Feel—”

Thrust.

“So—”

Thrust.

“Good.”

His voice rasps in pure, guttural pleasure. I’m nothing but a puddle beneath him, completely ruined, and somehow, he’s not finished.

His rhythm snaps, his thrusts turning harder, rougher, deeper, more possessive.

“Mine,” he snarls, his voice low, primal. He slams into me, hard, forcing me to take it.

“Mine, you understand?”

I can’t speak. Can’t think. There’s no rational thought left, no words, just pure, consuming pleasure. So instead, I match his pace, my hips rolling up to meet every devastating thrust. The way his words set me on fire, I let the flames consume me. My orgasm builds dangerously fast, and I’m hanging by a fucking thread, barely holding on under the brutal precision of his movements.

“Bucky—God—”

His name falls from my lips like a prayer, breathless and desperate.

“I’m—”

Judging by his increased pace, he knows exactly what I'm trying to say. He lifts himself, just enough to look me in the eyes, and I’m trying so hard not to let my eyes roll back, not to completely lose myself in him.

“Please.”

His voice shatters, breaking apart in my ear, pleading.

“Please cum on my cock. Please, baby, please—”

This is all I need to spiral. The coil inside me snaps violently, my entire body arching, shattering as a scream tears from my throat. I crash into pleasure, drowning in it, my walls clenching tight around him, milking him, pulling him deeper.

“Oh, fuck—” Bucky’s voice breaks, his hips stuttering, his rhythm completely unraveling as he feels me fall apart around him.

“That’s it—fuck—that’s my girl.”

His praise sends a violent aftershock through me, my body trembling, shaking, completely spent. I gasp for air, trying to regulate myself after the most devastating orgasm of my life, but I don't stand a chance. Bucky's not finished, not yet.

“I—I can’t—”

Bucky’s voice isn’t even human anymore. It’s a shattered, breathless little whimper, choked between desperate gasps, his body trembling like he’s about to break. His hips falter, his cock twitching so agressively inside me I swear I can feel it in my throat.

But he won’t let go. Not yet.

Not without permission.

“Please—”

The word falls apart in his throat, barely even understandable.

“Please, baby, please—please let me cum, I need it, I need you, I can’t hold it, I can’t—”

He’s whining, his breath is gone, his voice is gone, his body is gone; he is completely, utterly mine.

“Release it, baby.” My fingers tighten in his hair, dragging him deeper inside me. “Be a good boy and give it to me.”

And that’s it; he doesn’t just fall apart—he disintegrates.

His hips slam forward, burying himself so fucking deep inside me, holding us together, his muscles locking up, convulsing. And if this wasn't enough, he whimpers.

“Ohhh—fuck, fuck, fuck—”

His cock twitches and throbs uncontrollably, and I feel everything. The first violent, overwhelming pulse. The hot, thick flood of him spilling deep inside me. His hips keep jerking, his muscles keep locking up, his whimpers keep breaking apart into desperate, breathless sobs.

“Baby, baby—please, please, oh my God, I—I can’t—”

His hands claw at my waist, face burrowed into my neck, his breath a gasping mess. His voice cracks, completely breaking apart, and then a single, desperate sob escapes from him.

He cries. Bucky Barnes cries when he cums.

His body shakes uncontrollably, his hips rocking forward on their own, like he’s trying to push it even deeper, like he’s chasing something he’ll never be able to reach.

“Baby, baby—please hold me, please—fuck, I love you, I love you so much—”

His voice is cracking, completely gone, and I gasp as I feel another orgasm building inside me. Another slow, rolling wave, ignited by his moans, his desperate little whimpers, the way he’s still trembling inside me.

“Bucky—oh, fuck—”

The second he realizes what’s happening, it destroys him all over again.

“Baby, you’re gonna— Fuck, fuck, fuck—please, baby, please—”

His hips snap forward as a last burst of desperate energy, his hands gripping my waist so tightly I feel the bruises forming.

“Oh, baby—please, please cum on my cock again, I wanna feel it—please, baby, please, please—”

The filth of it, the raw need in his voice immedately shatters me. I scream his name, my body convulsing around him, my walls tightening, pulsing, taking him deeper, squeezing him so hard he sobs.

“Oh—oh fuck, baby, I’m still cumming—”

His cock throbs again, another weak, helpless little spill, and he whimpers so high and wrecked he sounds like he’s dying.

“I can’t stop—baby, I can’t stop, I can’t stop—”

His breath is gone, tears spilling onto my skin, his voice a trembling, begging mess, pleading for the final release. Not a moment later, he collapses.

His body slumps into mine; arms useless, his breathing erratic and broken. His tears still fall, his entire body shivering, overstimulated, still whimpering, still sobbing.

He’s still inside me, throbbing. Utterly gone from this world.

His hands stay locked firmly around me, fingers clutching, shaking, gripping, like he’ll die if I let go. And on top of that, he just won't stop crying. Soft, helpless little sobs hide into my skin, as he's holding onto me for dear life.

“Baby,” he whispers, his voice so broken and small.

“Baby, please don’t let go—please don’t go.”

My heart shatters to a million pieces in a matter of seconds. It becomes evidently clear that he's not here right now. He’s somewhere else, somewhere dark, somewhere cold, somewhere where he had nothing and no one. I feel it in the way he clings to me and his hands shake as they grip my waist. The way his face tucks into my throat, burrowing, searching, nuzzling like he’s trying to disappear into me; like he’s afraid this isn’t real.

"Shhh, Bucky,” I murmur, kissing his damp temple. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Even though I wanted my words to soothe him, he breaks even more instead. His breath catches on a sob, his entire body curling into me, fingers fisting in the sheets, in my hair, in anything he can hold onto. 

“You’re so good to me,” he gasps, his voice shaking. “So perfect, so soft, I—fuck, I don’t deserve this—”

His lips quiver against my skin, hands tightening around me, pulling me closer. The realization that he’s not just crying from overstimulation, hits me like a brick. He’s crying because he’s never felt this before.

Never felt this safe. Never felt this loved. Never felt this cherished, taken care of. 

“Bucky,” I whisper, cupping his tear-streaked face, making him look at me.

His blue eyes are glassy and vulnerable, still wet with tears. God, he looks so much younger like this. Like a little boy, back in the ‘40s, nineteen years old, held too many responsibilities, never got held in return.

I immediately want to fix every bad thing that's ever happened to him.

“You deserve all of this, my sweet boy,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his forehead. “You deserve every single second of love. You deserve to be taken care of.”

He lets out a tiny little sob that slits my heart in half, like a butcher knife.

“But I—” His voice cracks, his fingers digging into my waist. “I don’t—I don’t know how to do this. I don’t—”

His breath hitches, his chest rising, falling too fast. I know him enough to realize he’s panicking, his brain is fighting him, pushing against the comfort, trying to tell him he doesn’t deserve this.

I also know how to shut it down. I pull him into me, wrap my arms so tightly around him that he has no choice but to believe that this is real. I'm real.

“It’s okay, baby,” I say gently, stroking his hair, feeling his body relax against mine. “You don’t have to know how. Just let me love you.”

He immediately eases into me, his breath slowing, his shaking finally dying down. He doesn't know, but he's holding my own broken pieces together too, since I've never felt a love so consuming before. 

“If I fall asleep,” he whispers, as if he is about to say something unthinkable, “will you be here when I wake up?”

My dear God. 

"Of course, Bucky. I'll be right here, always," I promise, my voice firm, not leaving any space for doubts in his broken mind.

Fighting with the strong urge to kill, Bucky hesitantly raised his eyes, too afraid of what he may see. When the worst nightmares came true, his heart dropped to his stomach, and the wave of despair soaked him to the skin. 

The moment he saw your body tied to the scratched kitchen chair, Barnes wanted to scream, but no sound left his open mouth. He tried to let go of the gun and rush you to help, but he couldn't. He stood still in the same place with his hand reaching out towards you, keeping his trembling finger on the trigger.

The only sounds that could be heard were his crazily pounding heart and frightening to-the-bone voice.

"Don't hesitate."

"Do it!"

"N-no." The word barely made it out, almost like it had to squeeze through Bucky's throat.

"What did you say?" The voice hissed, sending shivers down James's spine. This time nothing left his mouth. "That's what I thought. And now... Do it!" 

The click of switching off the safety filled the room. Barnes's grip tightened, almost like an invisible hand helped him with everything he persistently tried not to do. 

"Bucky." You spoke up. "Don't give up. I know you're in there." 

You could see the pain painted onto his face. Though it was your life on the line and you were helpless, you decided to try and help him with the battle, although the finale was pretty obvious.

"Y/N. I-I don't want to do this."

"The end is inevitable. It's time to say goodbye."

"Bucky, fight."

"I'm trying..."

"Tick-tock, it's death o'clock." 

"Y/N!" 

"It's okay... You tried..."

"Bye-bye, it's time to die."

"No! Please, no!"

"I love you, James Buchanan Barnes."

"Bang." The gun fired.

*

"No!"

Bucky's scream echoed through the room, so loud it could wake up every soul living on this level of the compound. He crawled from the bed. Lying down, he pressed his sweaty face to the cold wooden floor. Barnes breathed so loudly that he didn't hear the door opening.

"James?" You crossed the doorstep, gently placing your bare feet on the ground. "Nightmares again?" When you got nothing but silence in response, you added. "I understand."

It definitely broke your heart seeing him like this. Ever since moving in, bad dreams haunted him almost every night. Maybe that's why no one wanted to share a wall with him. No one except you. Daily wake-up calls in the middle of your sleep weren't such a big deal to you for two reasons; 1. You could go back to sleep quickly, and the most important, 2. You had a soft spot for him, which everyone knew of.

"Want me to stay?" You scooted closer to him, the floor's coldness attacking your naked legs. No answer. "Or should I go?" You asked another question while softly brushing his hair with your fingers. 

Actually, you never expected any response. It looked the same every time. You came to Bucky's room, sat next to him on the floor, played with his hair, and spoke to him, yet he didn't say anything. No sentence, not a single word, nothing. But you knew he listened to everything you said, and what's more important, he was thankful for you. In these moments, he was vulnerable and showing this side of him made him feel so ashamed. You, however, never judged him. Ever since he placed his foot in this compound, you treated him with the kindness and respect he deserved.

"Maybe you need something, hm? Hot chocolate, anything sweet? Maybe a plushie? I'm a grown man, Y/N. I don't sleep with plushies." You said, imitating Bucky's voice. A soft chuckle escaped his slightly parted lips. "Okay, okay, just asking. Oh, I know where Tony keeps his snacks hidden. Wanna grab something?" 

Your hand found a way from his hair to his exposed skin. Incredibly gentle brushes of fingers on the scar right above his metal arm made his breathing calm down. "Is it the darkness you hate so much?" You thought out loud. "If so... I have an idea."

Before Bucky could react in any way, you were gone. Curious about what you'd come up with, he managed to sit up. He didn't have to wait long. Minutes later, you were back, carrying a box full of... Fairy lights? 

"I know what you're thinking. I'm not a baby. I don't need lights on during the night." Bucky thought your imitation of him was on point. "I must say that's utter bullshit, sergeant Barnes. There's nothing to be ashamed of. I'm afraid of darkness, and these things saved my life. Besides, sweetie... Sorry to admit, but your room kinda sucks." You laughed. "And this dead plant over there? It's like a dagger in my heart. Seriously, in the morning we're going to the garden shop. Mission's not that important. And this poor little thing I am taking with me. Maybe I'll bring her back to life."

Bucky had nothing against your idea, so the next hour you two spent detangling fairy lights and figuring out how to hang them and make them look good. Not that he cared about aesthetics. On the other hand, you wanted to create a space that he'd feel safe in. After everything he went through, it was the least you could do. 

"I hope we didn't wake anyone up." You said, putting the nail to the circled spot on the wall. "Although I have a little tiny creature in my brain that would give anything to wake Tony." Your joke put a smile on Bucky's face. "Hammer." You reached out your hand, still focusing on the spot. And that was your mistake.

You could feel the wooden handle slipping out of your hand. "Y/N!" Bucky shouted. Before the tool fell on your foot, a green glow surrounded your hand, and the hammer flew back into your palm.

"I think that's the first actual thing you said this night. It's a nice thing it was my name." You winked at him. "Forgot about my powers?"

"That's one of the reasons I let you stay close to me... I know that in time of danger, you'd handle me." Bucky whispered, his eyes finding something interesting on the plain wall.

"Ah, yes. You'd hover over the ground, waving your legs on the sides. That'd be quite a view." You turned it into a joke. "You worry too much about it. I'm not a helpless little girl. And before you say you know that, that's not what I meant. You are no threat to me or to any of us. I wish you'd understand that..." A sigh escaped your mouth. You nailed the last wire up. "Anyway, we are officially done." You took a few steps back to look at the lightning masterpiece you two created.

"And I wish you'd understand that I love you." A thought ran through Bucky's mind while looking at the beautiful smile that was enough to brighten up the darkness in his life. However, he decided to keep that to himself for a little longer.