#buckyfeels

summary:

You and Barnes have good days, and you have bad ones. Ones where you orbit like the earth and the moon -- close but never touch. Others where everything is running too hot and you clash like two dying stars. Coffee on Sundays, Monsters on Thursdays, and Fridays he drops it on Dr. Raynor like she can fix it.

pairing:

divinestark!readerxbucky for context: who are you? what are you? why are you here?

other parts: masterlist, one, two, three, four wc: 6.5k

requests: open if you wanna be on the taglist, tell me!

Some days…you and Barnes look like friends. Real friends, like real people. The shower incident? Forgotten. The space / no space day? Gone. 

You weren’t sure what had prompted Bucky Barnes to go to Starbucks, but early this very day he had sat beside you like he wanted to ask you something. You were still wearing your shades, and you didn’t know if he was ready to see you without them. Not now, perhaps never. You didn’t know. 

He had seen them once, before he was Bucky again. “Yes?” You finally said, looking over at him through your shades finally. You were lounging in one of the kitchen chairs, legs stretched out like you owned the place with an arm hooked over the back of the chair while your other hand held open a very well loved copy of Pride and Prejudice. 

A picture of ease, perhaps even cockiness. “Can youmakemecoffeorsomething?” He sighed, scratching at his jaw as he mumbled something incoherent. 

“Huh?” You asked him, crossing your legs and shifting towards him. You sat up a little. His eyes swept over you—not leering, just cataloguing. Measuring your body language like it meant something. 

“Do you know what a brown su…hm,” He glanced at something worn and folded in his hand. Your eyes were bright with amusement, but he wouldn’t be able to see it. 

You bit into your bottom lip as you recognized that he was looking at a Starbucks order. “Bucky Barnes, did you go to Starbies?” You asked him with rapidly growing amusement. 

“What? No.” He said deadpan. “I went to Starbucks.” You snorted at that. 

“That’s what-Oh, nevermind.” You decided, waving it off. You held your hand out for the order, and the soldier avoided your gaze as he placed it in your hand. His fingers were rough, reluctant. Your touch was gentle, fingers still soft even after the fighting. 

You angled your body slightly away to push your glasses up. He shifted with you like a shadow. “Oh! I get this all the time. You want me to make it?”

“Yeah,” He said quietly, almost bashful as he watched the side of your face. He didn’t want you to look at him, not with that all seeing haze. Then again, he wanted it. Yet, he dreaded it.

Ah, the duality of man. 

“Okay, I can definitely try.” You said simply, like it wasn’t an act of congress for him to work up the courage to approach you and ask. Though, he knows he wouldn’t have gone to anyone else. He wants it to be you. 

In every fucking way. 

You stand and let your shades fall to your eyes once more, moving to the kitchen cabinets. “I can’t cook, but I can make some coffee.” You told him with a little smile, glancing over only to find him following. 

“Can I help?” He asked, and you falter and nearly drop the espresso machine as you’re pulling it down from the cabinet. He was too close. He smelled like Tom Ford and sweat before it sours. There’s a sick part of you that can practically feel him against your tongue as you run it over your teeth. You want to press your nose into his flesh and just breathe. 

You nearly want to bite him, and he bleeds red around the edge of your glasses where you’re so close to seeing him for what he is. He caught the machine with one hand, chest pressing in and caging you against the counter. His free hand hovered near you, but not touching. Not yet. 

“Easy, angel.” He said, but his voice went low like it’s a sweet nothing. Like your callsign is a secret name only Bucky can call you. You looked up at him, as the tip of your tongue pressed to the corner of your mouth. 

“Yeah, sorry.” You murmured. Your cheeks went pink and you turned in place as he set the machine down. He was still close, chin nearly touching your forehead. You could have melted into him. 

He could have melted into - “Okay, so.” You began, and you clapped your hands together. Whatever spell you cast seemed to be banished as you clapped your palms. “There’s brown sugar in the cabinet, can you grab that for me?” You asked, and you almost caught the hesitation. 

You missed the way his hands flexed and fingers curled into his palms. Like grabbing you and taking exactly what he wanted nearly crossed his mind. The counters looked sturdy - “Bucky?” You said his name so sweetly, even when you weren’t. 

He cleared his throat, handing you the brown sugar. Then he set the coffee down beside it as you got to work. 

Your laughter drifted through the kitchen and common areas. “Hey, give me some space here!” You could be heard telling him. 

In the other room, Natasha’s head snapped up and Sam met her gaze as Bucky murmured something with a low laugh.

“I told you.” Sam said to her in a hushed tone, and then to Clint who was nowhere to be found. Though, there was an awfully suspicious noise coming from the ventilation shafts. 

“I’m helping.” Bucky said low. 

“You’re hovering.” You could be heard countering. Had you been any closer, you would have gently elbowed him away. 

“Potato, potahto…” He muttered, and then he lifted himself onto the counter beside you. He looked down at you, and he could see your lashes over the rim of the shades. He bit into an apple he had taken from the kitchen table. 

You looked up at him, and watched his lips close over the red and green like it was biblical. Bucky’s tongue was the first thing you saw, pressed to the bottom of his mouth. The first bite was torturous, and it felt like slow motion. His tongue ran over his lips in an effort to catch any juice. 

He grinned at you, but not like he knew. Like he was enjoying this. That made you feel like an abomination, sexualizing him over an apple. The second bite was easier to stomach if you didn’t look. You did. 

His top teeth bit in first, moderately straight teeth crunching into it. His hand, the flesh one, big with long strong fingers and a vein trailing into his sleeve pulled the core of the apple as he bit, the flesh separating from the husk. It was a bigger bite, and he said something as he chewed around it. 

His tongue again - fucking A - chased sliding juice over the waxy peel. 

“Hm?” You said, still shaking his coffee like it was a martini. “Oh!” You said with a little embarrassed smile. “Yes, it’s done.” You poured the iced coffee into a tall glass with ice, topping it with a cold foam you bought at the store. 

You went to hand it to him, missing the longing stare. You always did. “Before you drink this, just remember I’m not a barista, I’m an Avenger.” 

“Is it…gonna Avenge me?” He asked you in mock apprehension, taking it slowly. His vibranium hand wrapped around the glass, your fingers slotting in between them with ease. 

“Oh, fuck you.” You said back with a snort, and then he sipped it. His eyes rolled back for a moment, closing. You were going to lose your mind. You were losing your mind. You couldn’t keep doing this. From now on, no food or drink in the kitchen when Barnes is around. You decided you have to make it a rule. It’s borderline fucking pornographic. 

“It’s good. Really good.” He finally said. “If I ask, can you make me these again?” 

“I just taught you how to make it.” You told him, crossing your arms. 

“I wasn’t watching the coffee.” He admitted bashfully, and you laughed like it was nothing. It was most definitely something. 

…Then there were other days you couldn’t see eye to eye to literally save your life. 

It was a team mission. Some HYDRA cell still thriving like fleas amongst rats. You and Bucky were side by side, assigned and ready. 

He was half-distracted as he checked your weapons for you. It was a small act of service, automatic, while you spoke something Enochian at the mouth of the jet. Arms folded at the elbows, palms open, facing skyward.

Prayer looked different for you. No clasped hands. No whispered bargains with God. Just Enochian—syllables that seemed to curl around his ankles and sink under his skin. You were a mystery, and yet he knew you better than most. The contradiction burned.

Before takeoff, you moved to sit beside him. You’d been on recons before, but nothing this big. Nothing that demanded the full force of the team.

And nothing that demanded the Iron Angel suit. Sleek Stark tech, nanotech fused with vibranium, hugging your frame. Your shades were gone, replaced with a visor—responsive, interactive, feeding you biometrics, vitals, comms. All Stark’s fingerprints, written across you.

He’d never seen you like this—not as himself—and his pulse was already hammering.

You didn’t buckle, which already pissed him off. Instead, you dug under your seat for a protein bar and water. Eating before missions always unsettled the team, except Sam. Sam, who caught the bar you tossed him without missing a beat.

“Can you—” Bucky exhaled sharply, then did the damndest thing. He reached over and buckled you in himself. Another line crossed. Another rule he broke with you, and what was one more at this point?

His hands were gloved, large, deliberate as he pulled the belt over your middle and shoulders. Tight. Secure. Enough to make you look up at him.

“You make me feel like I’m getting strapped into a rollercoaster,” You mused, chewing.

“Oh, shut up.” His voice was low, muttered, his mouth a sharp line. “You gotta start buckling yourself. What if we hit turbulence and you slip right out of your seat?” He adjusted the strap, tugged your braid free from the harness, careful in a way that made his chest ache.

“Okay, mother hen,” Sam teased. “Angel baby’s got it.”

Bucky scoffed, a sound edged with steel. “Don’t call her that.” His jaw was tight, brows drawn, pretty mouth pressed flat. Sam shot you a look, eyebrows raised, like what’s his deal? You’d noticed it too—the way he’d been wired since the briefing, the weight pressing heavier the closer the jet drew to the facility.

“Buck,” You said finally, and you placed a hand over his forearm. The metal plates shifted beneath the leather, beneath your touch. He didn’t look at you for a moment, but then he turned his head just a little, eyes on the floor. He could hear you though, this you knew. “I’ve got your six.” Is all you said. 

His eyes met your visor. He swallowed thickly. This was too familiar, he thought. This air, this mission, this fucking cult.

“Okay?” You said to him again. The jet hit turbulence. His body went rigid, muscles pulled taut like wire. You murmured something—just one word—and the bristle in him eased. The hum of engines softened, the team blurred into background noise. It was just you, and him, in a bubble.

“What did you do?” He asked you, finally meeting your gaze. 

“It’s protection.” You said back to him. “Like… a prayer for one.” Your voice was soft as you said it. His flesh hand reached over to where your palm rested over his vibranium forearm. 

“I’ve got your six too, Angel baby.” You scoffed a little at that, nose wrinkling. Then he smiled, a reluctant one, but genuine none the less.

When you got into enemy airspace, a few SAMs (surface-to-air missiles) pinged their radar. 

“Angel, Falcon,” Steve said, and as this was the first time Bucky had worked as a team on a mission, his brows shot straight to his hairline. “SAMs inbound. We won’t be able to drop the team in, so—”

“Finally. Some action.” You said, and your hand that he had sandwiched between his vibranium and flesh slipped away to unbuckle. Had he missed something? Didn’t they have countermea-

He realized you and Sam were the best countermeasures at their disposal. Disposal was such a filthy word, and he didn’t like it. 

“Whoa, what?” Bucky said as you stood. 

“I’ll take care of the SAM’s,” You told him, and your visor displayed readings that were reversed. “I’ll meet you on the ground.” 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—” His pulse spiked. Splitting up wasn’t how you worked. Not with him. Not ever.

“You sit here and look pretty.” You told him. “I’ll see you in a minute.” The smiles only lasted so long. 

You checked in on comms, voice clear, steady. Steve gave a thumbs up. Sam bumped fists with you as the deck lowered.

First out, you dove like you’d been born military—arms crossed, body cutting the air clean. His stomach plummeted with you.

Through the jet’s glass, he saw you flick up and roll hard to the side.

“Yeah, I got them pinged. Join me, Sammy.”

Sam laughed as he stepped off the lip of the jet, chasing you into fire.

For Bucky, the ground came up too hard. Too fast. The concrete vibrated up through his boots, rattling in his bones like old chains.

The team had little time to hop out of the jet before the pilot could tuck in  somewhere safe for extraction. Gunfire cracked in the distance, muffled by the static in his comms. 

The concrete walls weren’t walls—they were commands barked in Russian, they were fists at his back, they were seventy years of being dragged forward without choice by a chain around his throat. The taste of iron was warm in his mouth. 

You landed behind him with the sound of wings. Heavy and wrong in a place like this. Your movements were purposeful and sharp as you took to his side. 

This was like a scene out of one of his nightmares. It was like being dragged back in. Long concrete corridors, floodlights against rusted fencing. The insignia spray faded on half washed walls. They were still alive. 

Like goddamn roaches in the slums. 

“Clear,” You said to him, steady. He hated how you could remain so steady and he felt like the rug was about to be pulled from under him. Something felt wrong. Maybe it was him, maybe it was this goddamn place. 

You stayed at his six like you had promised, yet his heart pounded in his ears. His stomach felt heavy. His tongue felt too thick to tell you that the air smelled wrong—metallic, old blood baked into concrete—and that this silence wasn’t real. This was the silence weaponized and used against you. 

His gaze turned to you, the only true fixed point in any of this. Not here. He prayed. Not here. 

You, who knew him disarmingly well, lowered your blade to step to his side. “Talk to me,” You said to him gently. 

“I can’t.” He bit out, brows low. 

“Look at me.” You all but demanded, and your fingers curled around his wrist for a moment in a desolate hallway. He was forced to face you, and his whole body was stiff. You looked at him from his eyes to his how he planted his feet. “Something is wrong?” He nodded once, exhaled sharply through his nose. 

“I just-” Like he had to explain it, like you wouldn’t believe him. 

“Then we deviate and make it right.” You said firmly. “Tell me where your gut is leading us. I’ll follow you.” You promised. His gaze darted to one side, then the other. “Then we deviate and make it right,” you repeated, taking a step towards him. 

He let you anchor him like that, toes of your boots touching. Like the lead he could tug on to go home. Instead of tucking behind him, you followed at his side, ever present. 

You were no longer his shadow, but his partner. You were practically silent, jaw set and eyes watching. You worked well together, like there was a tether you maintained and were never far from. 

You couldn’t recall when, but Steve’s voice cracked through the comms. “A-angel? Buck?” He said, breathless. The distant sound of gunfire seemed to skip on the line. 

“We’re here.” Bucky answered for them, voice low and rough. There was a millisecond delay, causing him to echo slightly in your comms. Imperceptible to most. 

“They knew we were coming, the slate was wiped clean on the west side.” 

“How the fuck did they know we were coming? This is clearance five-” Barnes was already tight over it, and your hand found his flesh bicep. You didn’t realize you were even doing it, fingers curling in the material slightly. He softened towards you, body curling and shifting towards you without him even catching it. 

“I know.” Steve muttered into the comms. “We’re coming to help clear the east compound with you. S – oming – ten –” You furrowed your brows. 

“Stevie?” You said into comms. “Hello? We – “ Barnes pushed you back with one hand over your chest plate. You thumped into the wall with a gasp. He practically covered your body with his own, head ducked into the shadows with you as two guards rushed past into a revolving door at the end of the hall. 

“We have to talk to – “ Their words were cut off by the distant clamor in the other room. His hold shifted from your chest plate to your hip. You couldn’t feel his touch through the plating. You just felt the pressure. His head turned then, following where they had walked. Your eyes, however, followed the line of his throat as he swallowed. The strong profile of his nose, the way his tongue wet his bottom lip. 

He was beautiful, and it was fucking devastating. He gently squeezed, and then he turned away from you to the door. He nodded his head once, and you followed behind him. You didn’t know how much longer you could pretend not to be attracted to him. 

You were not even human. You were made for war, for avenging, not for matters of the heart. You knew better than this. That tether that connected you seemed to snap tight as a few feet grew between you, like a reminder to be present at his side. 

It sent your heart racing, and you shook your head to remain present. Looking away from him was like turning your back on God. No, you’ve done that. This was worse. This was turning your back on everything. 

You ached for him in a way that was unhealthy, unreal, inhuman. 

The den of this compound was a cylindrical room. Rooms lined the walls, small walk ways lining the walls and staring down into the lower floors. Comms static bled into your ears, but something cold and purposeful settled in your bones. Like you had flipped a switch. 

You could feel him like another limb, moving like he was tapped right into your nervous system in a way no one ever had been.

“I’ll go low, you go high.” He told you, and you nodded once. “Any trouble, set this shit hold on fire.” He broke free on your right, and you took to the steps on your left. 

There weren’t many in the rooms you came across. You had gotten through maybe ten rooms before you saw anyone. A man came out of one room, gun already ready. You kicked into over drive nearly immediately, the slick sound of a blade leaving its sheath. It was sharp gun metal, sliding up through his vest. Thirteen inches of a high carbon steel bowie knife slid through his ribcage like it was cutting butter. 

You grit your teeth as you cut up from the navel to the tip of his chin. He didn’t even get the chance to make a noise. You made little work of his body, kicking the fallen soldier back into the room and letting the door swing softly closed. The next one came from behind, releasing a grunt when your elbow slammed into his throat. You used the but of the same blade to crack against his helmet once, twice, and then peeled it off with your fingers. 

Something deep and hungry like a growl reverberated from your throat. You wrapped your fingers around his throat with your left hand, cutting off his air as warmth trickled down your fingers where his helmet had cracked his skull open. You set the helmet down quietly, trying to remain covert in the operation despite the inhuman sound you had made. 

He choked out a plea and then died, his eye bulging from the ruptured socket grotesquely. You laid him down gently. For your own sake, not for his. Your visor was clear, allowing you to see each and every one of them. 

Not all of the men you killed were bad, many were lost. It didn’t matter, you saw their souls. You could see the cracks in the foundation where HYDRA had planted roots. They would be bad men if they continued down this path. 

You weren’t here to save them. You were here to eradicate them. 

The next one was further up the steps, and when he saw you he wanted to bolt. He turned on his heel, choked out something like he wanted to tell the others “No! She’s here!” 

You were there when he turned around, impossibly fast and terrifying with the way you breathed down at him. Your knee kicked into his chest, and he hit the concrete wall behind him with a grunt. He raised his gun to shoot, but you had grabbed his hand and twisted where he held the rifle until his fingers cracked and his wrist hung limp. Your other hand clasped over his mouth, muffling his screams. You punched him in the shoulder that held the gun, shattering that bone. 

His arm hung limply as you removed his helmet, looking down into his eyes. An act of mercy, perhaps. You made it quick, pulling him into your chest and breaking his neck in one swift move with your right arm as you held his mouth closed with your left hand. 

“Shh.” You grunted, licking your lips. Someone’s blood coated your tongue, but it wasn’t your first taste and wouldn’t be your last. 

You nearly missed the man coming up behind you when a shot fired from two floors below where Bucky was handling his own attackers. Your head jerked up at the sound, and your ears picked up on the man opening his mouth behind you. Lips slick with saliva, his skin was wet with sweat. 

You could smell everything. Taste everything. The air was electric. A hiss slipped through your teeth as you leapt, hands out like claws, dragging him to the ground. His bones folded beneath your knees with an ugly crack. The catwalk trembled, and for a heartbeat, you sounded less like a soldier and more like something hunting.

You dodged one shot, and from one hand extended a burst of holy fire that caused your target to scream as his clothes melted into his flesh. He fell from the catwalk with a shriek. Comms seemed to kick back in right then. 

“-commotion?!” Steve called through comms. “Do you copy?!”

“Hi, Stevie.” You mused, and Bucky could hear you grunt on comms.Bucky jumped when a burning body landed beside him with a thump.

He glanced up instinctively—and for a second, he thought his mind was playing tricks. Through the red strobe of the alarms, he caught a sliver of you on the catwalk above. One hand clamped over a man’s mouth, the other wrenching at his shoulder until the limb came free with a wet snap. Not dislocated. Not broken. Torn away, neat and violent, like pulling meat from bone.

You didn’t roar. You didn’t scream. Just a sharp grunt, almost satisfied, as you shoved the twitching body back into the shadows.

Bucky blinked, heart hammering. For a moment, he wasn’t sure he’d actually seen it—maybe smoke, maybe blood loss. But then the spray caught the light, misting down, and he knew.

“So, we’ve been spotted.” Barnes said flatly into his comms. The lights flickered red then, an alarm sounding. 

“We’re experiencing some push back at the doors. Get out, now!” Steve called over comms. 

“Angel, you head up through the vent.” Barnes commanded, glancing up at the ventilation shaft. The enhanced soldier stepped into the room, chains dragging at his wrists, mask hissing with each labored breath. Tubes pumped into swollen boils along his back, the skin stretched so thin it looked ready to split. He was massive—eight feet of muscle and bile, his body jerking like it could barely contain itself.

Without hesitation, he backhanded Bucky into the wall. The concrete cracked under his weight.

“Angel, respond!” Bucky barked, staggering to his feet, shoulder aching.

“What’s your status, guys?” Steve said over comms, anxious and weary. 

The man – who was looking more like a creature than a man, made a noise. The creature tilted its head, the tubes pulsing. When it spoke, the voice crawled through a thick accent, muffled through fluid and metal: “Winter Soldier,” He said in a thick accent. “You’re mine.” 

“Oh, fuck me.” Barnes breathed out. The thing engaged Bucky with a strength that Barnes had maybe twelve bodies ago. Maybe. 

The monster moved, far too fast for its size, and hurled a table like it weighed nothing. The corner clipped Bucky’s vibranium arm, jolting pain through his body. A chair followed. A steel cabinet. Barnes ducked and weaved, every blow he landed reverberating through his bones—strong enough to stagger most men. But this thing just absorbed it, tubes hissing like a heartbeat.

And then came the smell. Sterile, metallic, chemical. The tang of antiseptic and machine oil. His lungs locked. For a moment, he wasn’t in the room—he was back in the chair. The straps biting into his arms. The cold air of the Hydra facility pressing into his skin. The sound of a handler’s pen scratching notes while they tested his strength against another “volunteer.”

The thing lunged, and for a half-second Bucky saw not the monster but himself—chained, feral, unrecognizable.

“Been waiting for this day, Soldier.” He said angrily, throwing a metal table at Bucky. It clipped his vibranium shoulder and he grunted, nearly falling to his side. He dodged a chair flung at him and uppercut the thing with his left arm. It stumbled back, not expecting his strength. 

“Stark? Where the fuck are you? Get out of h-” Bucky grunted as he rolled away from another object. He swiped at it’s legs, but only one buckled. The thing panted for a moment, seemingly struggling with moving back to it’s feet. “Confirm you’re out.” He commanded. 

“Понял тебя.” The creature spat, yanking Bucky down by his leg. He reached for the metal bar, tearing it from the floor with devastating strength. MRE’s and liquor bottles clattered to the ground as they fell from the bar. He raised the bar over his head, and Bucky raised his left arm over his head. He’d survive the hit once, but if the monster had the strength to do it twice? 

He wasn’t so sure. The blow never came.

There was a flash of heat and something bordering on a roar that shook the ground beneath him. You were a flash of white beneath the flashing red lights. You put your heels together, slamming both feet into the beast's chest with strength that could only be divine. 

“Ты его не заберешь.” When did you learn Russian? He wondered as your voice cut like a blade.

The bar was thrown from his grasp as he toppled back with a great rumble. You stood in front of Bucky then, wings flaring and sliding into place beneath your suit. Your visor was gone, probably slipped from your head - which would explain why you hadn’t told him you refused an escape. “Он мой.” Your voice was low, eyes reflecting the flashing lights above like a panther as you poised to strike. 

He heaved, ears ringing. For a heartbeat he felt small, frozen. Later he would curse himself for freezing in a place like this. He felt the straps of the chair dig into his flesh for just a moment. 

Then he realized that here in this moment, it wasn’t just Hydra’s monster against Bucky. It was now Hydra’s monster against you. 

And whatever that made you, even if it was worse, you were still his. 

Bucky had no time to stop you as you charged the beast, still struggling to rise. Fire ran up your arms, two bowie blades in your hands. You smelled of blood and something harsh, sweet—like raw power. It made his nose burn.

The monster tried to sit up, but you landed on it, legs latching around its head. Your movements were unnatural, inhuman. Bucky shouted your first name, panic rising in a way he’d never felt before.

The enhanced creature released a cry of pain as you cut its tubes loose. One massive, seven-fingered hand latched onto your braid, trying to pull you off. You doubled down, letting go of its head to clamp onto its arm at the shoulder. Your blades bit into bone, flesh peeling away like orange skin.

Horrific, methodical, predatory—you carved it apart like a thanksgiving turkey. It grabbed you and hurled you several feet. You hit hard, chest plate cracking down the middle. Bucky rushed to your side as you rolled into a crouch.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?!” he shouted, fury and disbelief mingling.

“What’s status?!” Steve barked over comms. “We’re in!”

Bucky reached for your face where a cut ran down your brow. You didn’t look at him. He watched it heal. You bared your teeth at the enemy—predatory, deliberate. He faltered.

“You should’ve run! Are you insane?!” he yelled again. You shoved him behind a pillar just as a metal bench hurtled toward you both. You leapt aside and charged once more.

Furious, he watched as you smiled at the creature, slurred taunts slipping past your lips. “Yeah… you like that, baby?” The reinforced door behind it gave way, the Avengers rushing in, noses wrinkling at the scent of blood and burning flesh.

“What’s the d—” Steve began, but Bucky reloaded, no time to finish. He turned the corner, gun raised. He couldn’t let you fight this alone.

A head rolled toward him.

His breath caught. His stomach dropped.

“What the fuck is that?” Natasha hissed, the jawless skull nudging Bucky’s foot.

You were panting, standing at the center of the chaos. Eyes flicking over their feet so as not to meet theirs directly. The beast burned beneath you—but you didn’t. Heat licked your skin yet left you untouched. Bucky had never seen this tested theory realized in real life.

You held a pair of dog tags, shoulders rising and falling, head tilted toward your dislocated shoulder as you pressed the metal into Steve’s hand like a present.

“Got him,” you said, finally. Then a smile stretched across your face—slow, predatory, satisfied. Blood coated your teeth, nose subtly reshaping as it healed.

Bucky froze. Horror and fascination warred in his chest. His body betrayed him before he could even process it.

He didn’t speak to you the entire flight back. Your head tipped back as you held your visor in your hand. Eyes closed, letting the storm of energy from the fight settle…then releasing it. A faint twitch in your fingers, almost imperceptible, betrayed that the fight wasn’t fully gone from you.

He couldn’t place his anger. It wasn’t from you besting him on the field. It wasn’t a visceral reaction to your methods, as horrifying as they had been.

No. It was anger that you should have run. Fury because you should have gone up instead of coming back down for him. Rage because your shoulder was dislocated—and you hadn’t said a word.

Instead, you walked the length of the jet with your good hand out, healing the others. You spoke Enochian over wounds like you had fire to spare, turning it into a living, glowing light. Flames licked at everyone else’s injuries, and like a true martyr, you plopped into your seat afterward—refusing to touch your own wounds. Even then, your eyes flicked toward the ceiling, tracking some imperceptible movement as if your predator instincts were still scanning for danger.

You were careless. Not in the quirky way, with quips and one-liners. Careless in the quiet way that made him wonder if you’d done it on purpose. As if the pain was yours alone to carry, something you could nurture and bear like a badge of honor.

“Shoulder’s dislocated,” he said, stopping at the archway of the common living room. You nodded, eyes lowered—but he caught the flash of a sharpened smile, teeth just barely bared, like a predator acknowledging its own survival.

“Yeah,” you replied, clipped but not unkind. Not asking him to put it back for you. And still, somehow, there was the faint scent of iron and fire clinging to you—reminders of what you had been moments before.

He reached for you, and you let him. His breath brushed your neck as he murmured a warning. Your eyebrow twitched, jaw tightening. A faint hum ran under your skin, subtle but unnerving—like the echo of fire still coiling through your veins. With careful pressure, he popped your shoulder back into place. You released a grunt as your head snapped back, tendon and muscle stitching themselves beneath the flesh.

“That was careless,” he said, holding your elbow. You ignored him, slipping from his grasp, head turned away. No visor to shield him from the haze of divinity in your gaze, the tiny sparks of energy dancing along your fingertips.

“I got him,” you said, for the second time that night, voice steady despite the faint shimmer of heat that rippled over your arms.

“I told you to run,” his voice cut hard, and you made a face like you’d snap.

“I deviated and made it right,” you bit out, third time that night. A subtle quiver of muscle beneath your skin made him pause, the inhuman precision still lingering, like a predator that hadn’t fully left the kill.

“You could have been hurt—” His voice was harsh; the anger radiated off him. You could smell it—battle and frustration mingled with the faint iron tang that clung to you, remnants of your own fight.

“You could have been killed,” you shot back, walking with your back to him. Tiny flames flickered over your knuckles, almost imperceptible in the dim cabin light. “You could say thank you—”

“Thank you?” he echoed incredulously. “Are you out of your goddamn mind? I should thank you for nearly getting torn in two—” His voice sharpened, anxiety spiking. Hydra’s stench lingered, their threat still raw in the air. A threat that he had to keep you from. They could have it all if they just left you. 

“It was hardly close!”

“It was close enough!” he snapped, grabbing your uninjured arm as if the other shoulder hadn’t healed. “You’re not all-powerful—”

“Listen,” you said, eyes on his chest, unwavering. A subtle flicker of white-hot light traced your forearm for a heartbeat, just enough for him to see it if he looked too closely. “I did what had to be done. That’s how this works.”

“No. This works with you watching my six,” he corrected. “Not going billy-fucking-badass and putting your neck on the line—”

“He was going to crush you!” You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head. You wanted to see him, unshielded, no glass separating you. A faint hiss escaped your throat as your muscles tensed—still a little feral, a little ready to leap.

“Then he crushes me—”

“No!” Your voice was firm, raw, unflinching. “No.” Your ungloved hands found his biceps, holding him steady. A ghost of heat ran through your touch, subtle but undeniable. You opened your eyes, fixing them on a single point on his chest.

“You could have literally died. You were naive, and you got lucky. But next time, it may not go—” You pushed him back—not hard, just enough to create space. Sparks of residual fire danced along your fingers.

Everything was running too hot. His lips were just there.

“I did what I had to do,” you said, hand cutting through the air with force. Heat traced faintly up your arm, visible only to him. “I do what I will always do for you. I won’t change because a monster shows up. I won’t change my method. Not if the sky falls, not if you ask, not if it’s dangerous. Not when the alternative is losing a partner. This is just how it is. That’s fucking that.”

You dropped your gloves on the kitchen counter, hands running up your face through dried blood and braided hair. A tiny ember flickered at your fingertips, almost playful, almost feral. “Goodnight,” you said, firm, final.

The door closed without another word. 

“...And I don’t want her to change.” Bucky told Raynor the very next time he went in for a session. “It’s not that. She’s just terrifying.” He confessed. 

“She’s everywhere, in everything. She’s –” In my fucking blood. If he was an honest man, he would have owned up to it right then. “There’s not one thing she leaves untouched, and she’s so careless on the field. She has tunnel vision and I thought it was her head for a second.” There was one truth out. 

He had dreamed of it every single night leading up to this session. He had dreamed that it was your head rolling towards him, jawless with your eyes open and bulging. 

“James?” Raynor said, trying to get his attention. When he opened his eyes, he was staring at the floor – no angel head in sight. “Are you afraid that maybe you’ll lose her to this fight?” 

His fingers curled on his knees, his back straightened. He felt sick at the thought of his dreams becoming a reality. He had placed your head in a casket and had to explain to your father why he let it get you. Pretty eyes he only ever saw when you were dead – “What? No.” He lied. 

The notebook opened then, and Raynor began to write. “O-Okay. Yes.” He bit out like it made him sick. “I am…” His jaw worked as he glanced to the wall. “Afraid.” 

“Have you talked to her about it?” Raynor asked him. 

“No!” He said quickly. “Why would I do that?” You had been fine since the mission. He had been up every night all night. He had listened for your breathing in the next room. He had watched you carefully. Watched your shoulder, watched your body, made sure your head never left your shoulders. He couldn’t stomach it. 

Raynor frowned deeply. “Alright,” She finally said. “I didn’t want to have to do this, but I’m sensing that you both need to work through this assignment before we can really move on to pressing matters.” 

“Have to do what?” Bucky asked her suspiciously. 

“Couple’s therapy.” And all of the air left him like he’d been kicked in the chest. 

“Absolutely not.” 

if you made it this far ily THIS WAS A LOT LONGER THAN I INTENDED, SORRY! TAGLIST @torntaltos , @lilyyyy2005 , @wandanatissuperior , @mangostrawbsonnyangel , @4ngelberry, @cassity357

a/n: i'm so madly and completely in love with bucky, so this is what i think would be like to be loved by him. if you disagree with these, boohoo!

It wasn't my intention to kill you It never should have been this way, What can I say?

It's true I did assasinate them, I never knew how many I'd slay,

When I hear indoctrination call It's my heart that takes, Takes the fall

Won't you come out and play with me? Step by step,

Heart to heart Left, right, left We all fall down Like toy soldiers

Bit by bit torn apart, We never win, But the battle wages on For toy soldiers

It's getting hard to remember in the morning My head is spinning constantly, How can it be? How could I be so blind to this affliction?

If I don't stop The next one's gonna be Steve Only emptiness remains, It quickly follows all the pain.

Won't you come out and play with me?

Step by step, Heart to heart Left, right, left We all fall down Like toy soldiers

Bit by bit torn apart, We never win, But the battle wages on For toy soldiers

Only emptiness remains (ahh) It quickly follows all the pain,

Won't you come out and play with me?

Step by step, Heart to heart Left, right, left We all fall down Like toy soldiers

summary:

A recon goes bad, but you got his back. You always have Bucky's back, don't you, Angel?

pairing:

divinestark!readerxbucky for context: who are you? what are you? why are you here?

other parts: masterlist, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight

wc: 3k

warning: real bad slowburn, cursing, a lil gore,

requests: open if you wanna be on the taglist, tell me!

Months had passed since you buried whatever had been threatening to surface that night at the club, and one thing had become clear: nobody got Bucky Barnes like you did.

He’d never say it out loud, never give it that kind of air, but the truth clung to him like a second skin. You carried something of his, and he wasn’t sure if you’d taken it that night or if you’d always had it. Maybe it dated back to that rooftop in D.C., when he was all teeth and trigger-pulls and not nearly himself.

There was in him, when it came to you, a devotion that had nothing to do with gods or ghosts. It was smaller, sharper, and infinitely more dangerous. Maybe it was your laugh, the one that shook loose even when everything was going to hell. Maybe it was the way you cursed at him like you weren’t afraid. Or maybe it was the look in your eyes right now, while his blood slicked hot under your palms, like he wasn’t a monster at all.

Like he was just a man, and you were scared to lose him. 

“I told you to wear the vest with the kinetic plating.” Your voice was low and furious as you pressed harder into his side. His shirt was ruined, skin split open, the wound bubbling under your hand. “But you never listen.”

"Better not be passing out." You hissed at him, glancing up. A smear of his blood coated your cheek. 

"And miss you fretting over little ole me? Never." He murmured with a pained grin, looking over you. "I told you to go right." He reminded you. 

"If I would have gone right, I'd be scraping you off the concrete and into a bag." You argued back, ducking your head as shots fired off behind you. You reached over with one hand as your right burned right through his flesh to heal it. You grabbed his face. "Hey, I'm not done bitching." You hissed. 

"I'm resting my eyes-" He released a pained grunt as you grabbed his hands and placed them on the barely healed wound.

"Don’t you dare.” You commanded, and then you were hooking one arm under his leg and another through his arms. "Hold on, honey." You grunted as you lifted him over your shoulders and rose to your unsteady feet. He groaned, emasculated and still hurting. 

He should have been embarrassed—helpless on your shoulders—but instead he felt a sharp relief. You had him. Even when the world was fire and bullets, you had him. He let himself trust you fully, though the rational part of him screamed it was insane.

"This is so humbling-" He moaned against his own arm. 

"Keep complaining, big guy." You said over the barrage of heavy artillery as you booked it through the war zone quicker than humanly possible and breathing heavily. 

"We're never telling..." His head lolled. You shifted his weight slightly to jostle him. "An-anyone." He said tiredly. 

"Goddamn, you're big." You hissed, shoulders curving away from a machine gun sentry.  You grunted as you pushed the last half mile to the jet that was hovering. You were lucky they stayed without the request. Your comms had gone down again, which unfortunately was something that you were all too used to.

He barely registered the hail of bullets or the spray of debris. All he could feel was your determination, your heat, your hold on him. He’d followed you into hell a dozen times before, but this—carried like this—was something else entirely.

God, you were relentless. Every step, every dodge, every scream of artillery—you carried him through it all. He could barely breathe from pain, but the admiration? He felt it swell.

By the time the quinjet bay door slid open, your legs were shaking.

“Jesus,” Sam muttered, eyes wide as you staggered in. “You carried him?”

“Shut up,” you snapped, voice breaking as you laid Bucky down. “Get the medkit.”

Steve was already there, hand brushing your elbow as if it could anchor you. You jerked away.

“I got him.”

Steve’s frown was soft but deep. He helped anyway, steadying Bucky while you ripped gauze from the kit. Bucky’s lashes fluttered, head rolling toward you like even half conscious he knew where you were. A dependency that seemed normal to you, but no one else. 

"Stark?" He said, and you released a heavy exhale. 

"I got you, Buck." You said, and when the mouth of the jet closed, the shields activated.

Sam released a relieved sigh as you handed it off to him. "Why do your recons always go to shit?" He asked, and you just snorted a laugh as you moved to Bucky's side. 

"Go right next time." Bucky winced as you peeled back the shirt that still clung to him. 

"Wear the vest next time." You retorted, warm hand pressing to the half healed wound. He cracked a half smile, eyes fluttering closed. "You can rest now, I'll take it from here." You murmured, and then you let your holy fire heal him once more. 

The jet was quiet as you whispered enochian over his wounds, his flesh hand curled around your wrist as he nodded off. 

"What happened?" Steve asked. 

"Mech suit tried to flay me." You informed him. "Barnes played the hero." Bucky grumbled something sleepily. "Shut up." You said to him absently. 

“Fight like an old married couple,” Sam muttered. Neither of you bit out a shut up like you wanted.

Steve and Sam shared a look. It was the same look they'd been sharing for the past three months or so. Since Bucky started monopolizing your time and you let him. 

It had come slowly and then hit the team all at once. You, who had always been at Steve's hip, had sat beside Bucky at breakfast. It was simple, but a shift. 

Then, you began to train with Barnes rather than alone. That, coupled with making him a special coffee in the morning and his little grin when he realized he was the only one who got one made was suspicious. 

Quips at his expense were shut down. He no longer ate alone. He moved, you moved. Like magnets. 

“Hell,” Bucky grunted as the med assistant helped him onto his cot in the medbay. “I’m fine.” He told the man. 

“I know the wound has closed, but it’s just the process for us to monitor you after you’re healed.” They reminded him. You were on their heels, hands clammy as you ran them over your thighs. 

“I just don’t want to sleep here-” Bucky began to refuse. “All of my stuff is upstairs-” Split between your rooms. 

Natasha was handing you a bag that you had asked for upon touch down, a few articles of his clothes and some of yours. His blood coated your suit, the scent of him thick in the air. 

“It’s protocol, Buck.” Steve told him firmly. “Relax.” Your eyes cut to your friend, then back to Bucky. 

“Looks like it healed nicely, minor scarring.” The man said, looking over Bucky’s already scarred body. Bucky, who was used to this, still was not a fan. 

“Can we give him some air?” you cut in sharply, your voice carrying the kind of authority that made people move. The assistant hesitated until you added, quieter, “He just needs space.”

“Okay, Ms. Stark.” Said the assistant, moving to the chair to grab the fresh linens and set them at the foot of Bucky’s bed. “My name’s Alejandro, so just holler if you need me.” He told the team. You only nodded as Alejandro left. 

“I need a shower, I smell like nazi.” Steve decided after a beat, and Natasha got the message. 

“Yeah, me too.” She commented easily. “You guys okay?” You nodded at her, unzipping the bag she had given you without looking up. “We’ll come back later.” You spared them a glance as they passed. 

Steve pressed a kiss to your temple as he always did. Bucky’s eyes watched the contact, his own protocol. When the door shut behind them, you were holding up a wrinkled tee and a pair of sweats for Bucky. “You should clean up.” You told him. Your voice was the only sound besides the sound of the AC in the solo recovery room. 

“You’re mad.” He stated as he stood from the cot, metal and flesh hand running down his naked upper half. Your eyes followed the movement of his hands. You inhaled sharply, eyes tracing the puckered pink flesh that you had fixed. You recalled the shrapnel curving up, slicing through him rather than you. 

It should have been you, shouldn’t it? You had been careless, Angel. Now look what you did-

“Angel,” He said, taking the items. Had the cut been deeper, had the moment been any more wrong, and you would have been picking up pieces of Bucky Barnes. You would have spent a lifetime pulling pieces of him out of you in hopes you could feel anything again. He said your first name next, soft and low. 

“Yeah,” You finally answered. “I’m pretty fucking mad.” Your voice wasn’t harsh as you said that, but honest. 

“I’m in one piece-” 

“You almost weren’t.” You said back. You had healed him before, pulled bullets out of him. You had stitched his skin together with holy healing many times before. Something had shifted. 

“Sweetheart,” Bucky said, taking the clothes from your hands. You shook your head, the warmth in his tone making you grit your teeth. 

“It would have been my fault.” You told him. “Clean up for me?” Bucky sighed at that, nodding his head. “I’ll get your blood off me.”

That made Bucky freeze in his tracks to the shower, movements stiff and sore. “You’re leaving? W-” 

“I’ll be right back.” You told him quickly, pulling your own set of lounge clothing from your bag. You deposited the bag on the chair beside the bed. “I’m going to hit the locker rooms a floor down-” 

“Wait, no.” Bucky refused. “Just stay here? I’ll be really quick-” 

“I’ll be back by the time you’re out-” You tried again, but he wasn’t having it. 

“Then shower here first.” He offered. 

“No, you need to.” You countered. 

“Then just wait for me.” His voice was bordering on thinly veiled desperation. “I promise I’ll take ten minutes, angel.” 

“Bucky-” You heaved a heavy sigh, arms dropping at your sides. “Fine, just don’t fall in there.” You told him, and his shoulders relaxed enough for him to shuffle into the adjoining bathroom in his recovery room. You sat uncomfortably in the stiff chair in the corner, moving the bag to the floor instead. You unzipped your jacket, peeling it off your arms and upper half. Any wounds sustained had healed or were on their way to it. A fractured rib shifted, but you barely registered it. It was a hairline, nothing severe enough to cause concern. 

And when he came out, hair damp, skin flushed, offering you a shy, crooked smile, something inside your chest shifted. He looked almost…young like that.

“Told you I can be fast,” he teased, trying to lighten the air.

You snorted, brushing past him into the bathroom. “Don’t get cocky.”

The shower was quick, efficient, though you lingered under the water longer than you needed to, letting the last traces of blood swirl away. By the time you emerged, toweling your hair, he was leaning in the doorway.

“Think you could stay?” He asked you.  “I’ll order take out and let you pick the show…”

You stared up at him, cocking your head to the side. “Bucky, I-”

“It’s easier when you’re here.” He said, like he always did. He glanced away from you, then back to your face. You could feel his body heat. “You don’t want to share the bed?” 

“It isn’t that, you know it.” You replied. “I’ll stay, Bucky.” 

“Then you’re mad.” He assumed. “Still.”

“Bucky,” You said gently. “I’m tired, I’m hungry, and you almost got cut to pieces. Of course I’m pissed at you, but you know I’ll stay.” You reached a hand out to his elbow, pushing him back into the room gently. 

“Good, because I called that Chinese place that you like.” He commented, letting you steer him away from the bathroom. “And I queued up that stupid show you watch when you don’t know what else to look at.” He was making good on his offer, desperate to make up for your anger. 

“Jersey Shore is a national treasure-” You argued. 

“Everyone was on coke.” He muttered in a deadpan voice. “I figured that some gym, tan, laundry would make you feel a little better.” 

Dinner arrived, cartons spread between you on the cot that was too small for one, let alone two. You pretended not to notice his knee pressed against yours. Pretended not to notice the way he watched you pick the peppers out of your lo mein and slid them into his carton without a word. Pretended not to notice how natural it all felt.

Later, the show buzzed low from the mounted TV. His shoulder brushed yours. His breathing evened out beside you.

“Don’t do that again,” you murmured, eyes fixed on the screen.

“No promises,” he said softly, already half-asleep. “You’re my partner.”

And that was the truth of it. Messy. Unspoken. Unavoidable. You were his.

And he was yours.

Two days later, the briefing was called. It was sudden, announced at 10:00 am via a single notification on your phone. Assemble. 

You and Barnes had procured the flashdrive, an encrypted terabyte of information. Once the encryption was lifted, it became apparent how imminent the threat was. 

“Thank God for Lattimer.” Steve said. “He was able to help us decode the drive, and it’s not great.” The team was scattered across the conference room. 

“The pilot?” Asked Clint with a raised brow. “Hm.” He said in surprise. “He should get a promotion.” Clint was leaning back against the glass, watching Steve with exhausted interest. Your father was at the frontof the room with Steve, arms crossed as he shifted from foot to foot. 

“Yeah, not before me.” Sam commented with a laugh on the left side of the table. Natasha passed out the folders, detailing each person's part in this mission. 

You and Bucky were last, having gotten breakfast at a local diner. 

“Sorry!” You said quickly. “We-” 

“Went out for breakfast?” Steve questioned with a raised brow. You, ever the planner, presented him with a to-go plate. “You took him to my favorite place? Betrayal.” You smiled up at him regardless before following Bucky to your seats where your plans were. 

Bucky pushed your chair in with his left foot absentmindedly. 

Steve tapped the decrypted flashdrive contents against the table. “This is bigger than anything we’ve seen. The Cradle of Eden isn’t just an artifact—it’s a power source the size of a nuclear device. And it’s up for a private auction.”

Natasha leaned forward, voice low. “HYDRA isn’t working alone. There’s a network—a shadow market, mercenaries, private collectors. Whoever gets it first could decide the fate of entire cities.”

“That’s why it has to be us,” Steve said. “And you two will go undercover as a married couple. High society, no slip-ups. The network is watching everything. Every gesture, every word.”

You exchanged a glance with Bucky. Your previous closeness suddenly felt like it wasn’t nearly enough. You’d have to be perfect. Together. Completely.

“We’re talking about people who kill without blinking,” Natasha added. “And they’re patient. Very patient. Any mistake, and—well… let’s just say it won’t end quietly.”

He caught your glance and felt that familiar tug—protection, trust, something more. They were close already, closer than he’d ever been with anyone. But this… this would demand more. Total reliance. And he wasn’t sure if he could bear the thought of losing you under those circumstances. 

“When do we leave?” You asked, flipping through the packet slowly. 

“As soon as possible. We have everything you need already on the jet.” Steve began as you noted the car you were assigned, the names you would be adopting. 

“Barnes and Stark as a married couple?” Sam snorted. “Okay, so what’s the cover?” Bucky kicked Sam under the table at that. He didn’t open his packet, he looked at yours. 

“Everyone else will be playing support. Natasha and Clint will be close, but they will not be there. You’re going in alone.” Steve said. 

Tony didn’t look pleased, but you weren’t looking at him. Your eyes went to Bucky once more. 

“Full briefing on the jet by FRIDAY. I need you to be in Paris by tonight. Take off in twenty, landing in approximately eight hours. From there you’ll do car pickup, wardrobe, etcetera. Tonight there’s a high profile event thrown by Sylvia Moretti.” Steve showed you a picture of a stunning blonde. 

“Her husband is Maurice.” A dark skinned man with light eyes and a grizzly scar. “Is the one in charge of the underground bid. You make it in with Sylvia, you find the item before the bid or you get to it. We have to make sure we infiltrate this sale.” 

“How long are we going to be under?” You asked Steve. 

“Minimum one week.” Steve said back. “Communication will be minimal, but Natasha has built you an incredible background.” Tony swiped through the projection, showing an astounding online presence. Small followings, intimate images cooked up by doctoring the photos with stark tech. 

In one image, you sat across Bucky’s lap. They posted it to your instagram, your arms around his neck. It was jarring, because it was you, but it had never happened. Can’t wait to spend forever with you. 

Unreal. 

“And they won’t recognize us?”  Bucky asked suspiciously. 

“No, that’s where Angel comes in.” Steve said. “Like she has done before,” He shifted his gaze back to you. “Haze them. They know exactly who we all are.” 

“That’s why it can only be me,” You realized. “It’s simple, I’ll tell them who I am and they’ll simply believe whatever we say. It’s such a small haze. If they look me up, coupled with Natasha running interference on their tech, we’ll be whoever I say we are.” You informed Bucky. 

“Okay,” Bucky said. “Let’s get it done.” He grabbed his folder from the desk as you closed yours. 

It was simple. Get to Sylvia, get to Maurice, get the Cradle of Eden. Whatever the fuck it was. 

TAGLIST @torntaltos , @lilyyyy2005 , @wandanatissuperior , @mangostrawbsonnyangel , @4ngelberry, @celestial-cestlavie, @shameless-klutz, @cassity357, @intothesoul, @the-fantasy-loving-angel, @kickthebooknerd, @stilinskiwitch

summary:

There are a few unspoken rules for being an Avenger.  1.Don’t mess with the settings on Tony’s espresso machine.  2.Don’t touch what Sam cooks.  3.Don’t fuck eachother.  The third is really implied and also probably the most important. You’re not much of a stickler for rules. Are you, angel?

pairing:

divinestark!readerxbucky for context: who are you? what are you? why are you here?

other parts: masterlist, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, nine

wc: 3.6k

warning: slowburn, cursing, a lil gore, alluding to smut

requests: open if you wanna be on the taglist, tell me!

The music was still thrumming when you pushed out of the bathroom. Your hands smoothed over the dress, eyes scanning the crowd. Bucky stumbled out behind you, pink up to his ears and jaw tight. 

You ached in all the good ways, stomach still fluttering. You could almost still hear him in your ears. You hardly had time to forget the warmth of his hands sliding up your dress and - 

Get a grip, You begged yourself, hand running over your messy hair. You heard Bucky say your first name as you pushed through the crowd. How had you been so fucking dumb? Bucky was still recovering and you’d all but thrown yourself at him! Who does that?

Maybe it wasn’t that it had happened, but that he had been charmed into believing he wanted you. Maybe it was because he wouldn’t have done it otherwise. 

You spotted your target just as Bucky reached for you. “Loki!” You bit out his name, teeth already baring in preparation.  “I’m going to fucking flatten you.”

Your palms smacked hard on the bar, where Loki leaned behind it. Bucky’s hand found your elbow, comfortable and safe. 

“Hi, dove-” Loki began, a teasing lilt as he said the name his brother always called you. 

“Don’t fucking call me that!” You snapped over the sound of the music. You felt hot all over, fingers shaking as Bucky began to pull you gently. 

“Let’s just go talk, doll-” He tried to say, and you wrenched out of his grip, not even turning. 

“It was a gift you petulant child.” Loki said to you, his smile turning hard. 

“A-A gift?!” You shouted, and he moved to pour a drink. How could you not have noticed the enchantment? Mead glinted green that had nothing to do with the neon above. 

Your temper outweighed your shame as you rounded the bar and you reached out and batted the glass away with the back of your hand. Loki with his godly reflexes used that same hand to grab your arm. 

Your other hand balled into a fist, raising in a second as you prepared to swing at him. Something cool and metal wrapped around your fist. You breathed hard, head jerking to see Bucky. 

He was handsome, even now. Even freshly fucked out and sobering. “Don’t.” He said to you, and your teeth clenched. Loki released your arm as the soldier crowded you both, and he began to pull you away with his left hand. You allowed him to. 

“Didn’t take much magic for you to spread those l-” Loki was cut off, and Bucky was turning before the god could finish the sentence. You watched with reluctant arousal and a hint of pride as Bucky punched him in the jaw with little warning. Loki’s head jerked to the side with a grunt, and he stumbled back. He glanced up, brushing slender fingers through his obsidian locks of hair to spare you both a bloody smile.

The music damn near hit a record scratch as the hit landed, and the green haze over the team was no more than dust. 

“Whoa!” Someone said, sobering immediately. Steve and Natasha, who had been embracing in the corner, took a breath with a gasp. Sam was rushing to the bar, hands up to deescalate as Loki turned to mist. 

Bucky crowded your space, eyes moving from where Loki had been to where you stood under the dim lighting. “You shouldn’t have-” 

“Don’t.” He said for the second time. “You’d better tell Thor to take him off planet or pick a plot.” He murmured, voice rough. His chest pressed into your shoulder. 

“What the hell was that?” Natasha asked, appearing at the bar with a frown and smudged lipstick. 

“Loki.” Your voice was hard as you tipped a glass over, and the mead inside went green against the wood. 

“He drugged us?” Steve said in shock. “Where’s Thor-” The group of you looked back to where Thor was laid back in a booth with two unknown women pawing at him. Clint was still face down in peanuts, snoring comically loud. Kate was nowhere to be found. 

“Well, at least no one hooked up!” Sam tried to be optimistic. “God, that's the worst case scenario.” 

“Yeah…” You mused, and you didn’t look up at the brunette who was staring at you like you were a puzzle. “That would suck…haha.” 

Bucky was hot on your heels before you even stepped out of the club. You were pushing through people as politely as you could. He stalked after you, shouldering through like a shadow. You made it out of a side exit , stomach turning. 

“We should talk about it-” He began, and you couldn’t think of anything worse. You pretended you didn’t hear him

The night air was a relief, cool against your overheated skin, but it did nothing to slow the pounding in your chest. You stopped at the curb, tugging your jacket tighter around yourself like armor, even though it still smelled like the club and—worse—him.

Bucky caught up to you in seconds, his shadow falling across yours, his boots heavy against the concrete. “We should talk about it,” he said again, voice low, as though someone else might hear.

You barked out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “About what, exactly? The part where Loki decided to play puppet master, or the part where I was weak enough to let it happen?” Because here’s the truth. The way you felt with him tonight was almost exactly the same as every other night. “I should have been better, I’m sorr–” 

The only difference is he wanted you back.

“Don’t do that,” he said sharply. He stepped closer, close enough that the warmth of him bled into your shoulder. His jaw was tight, his eyes dark and searching. “Don’t make it sound like it didn’t mean anything, like – like you took advantage of me.”

Your heart skipped hard, and you hated him for saying it, hated him for looking at you like you weren’t a mistake. You looked anywhere but at him—at the streetlights, at the smudged neon spilling out of the club door, at the cracks in the sidewalk. 

What you didn’t realize due to your stubbornness and your drive to set yourself so far apart from humans, was that this was the way he had always looked at you. Wasn’t it?

“You were enchanted, Bucky,” you said finally, voice low and uneven. “You don’t even know if you wanted me, or if it was just the drink talking.” Or the divinity. Or the dependence. 

“That’s bullshit,” he snapped. For once, he didn’t care about volume, didn’t care that people were passing by. “You think magic made me want you? Doll, I—” He cut himself off, teeth clacking as he shut his mouth too hard. 

The silence between you was electric, the kind that made your palms sweat and your throat ache. You should’ve walked away, left him there under the streetlight with his confession strangled in his throat. But you didn’t.

Instead, you whispered, “Then what, Barnes? What happens when it’s morning and you regret it? When you look at me and all you see is another mistake?”

The muscle in his jaw jumped. His metal hand flexed at his side, like he was fighting every urge he had. And then, softer than you expected, he said, “Then I guess I’ll regret it in the morning. But tonight, I don’t.”

It was too much—too raw, too close to the line you weren’t supposed to cross. You turned, desperate for distance, and his hand caught your elbow again, just like it had at the bar. Gentle. Anchoring. “Don’t run from me,” he said, voice rough.

And you wanted to tell him you weren’t—but the truth was, you were. You backed away one step, then two. 

“Listen, I…” You began. 

“I have to tell you something, angel.” Bucky said, taking a heavy breath. He had to tell you, there was no other choice. He didn’t deserve you, but god damn it he deserved to try. “I have al-”

“Hey, are we heading out?” The door swung open, a tall and flushed Steve Rogers standing in the alley just behind them. He, like everyone else, was a little shaken. Bucky bit back a remark, turning to look over his shoulder at his friend. 

“We just need a second, pal.” He bit out, frustrated with the way this night had gone. He could still smell you on his clothes. He could taste your skin against his tongue. 

“Who?” Steve asked, and Bucky motioned to you with a hand, looking to meet your eyes. 

Except you were gone, and there was only the sound of your wings as you got as far away from this night as divinely possible. 

The next morning, the briefing was torture. Actually, worse. 

You slid into a chair, pointedly leaving an empty seat between you and Bucky, though the space felt more like a canyon. He took it anyway, sinking down beside you. The brush of his shoulder against yours was a quiet electric current, and you tried to keep your face blank as Steve began. Spine stiff, fingers curled around a steaming cup of coffee you weren’t even drinking. Truth be told, your body metabolized caffeine so quickly, it didn't matter much. The room hummed with low, idle chatter. 

Clint leaned against the table, stood  like he couldn’t sit still. Sam looked like he wasn’t only sitting, but reclining further into a place that looked like sleep. Steve stood at the front of the room, maps projected behind him as he read the dossiers like scripture. 

Your father and Bruce were wasting away in the lab somewhere, patched in by FRIDAY but always multitasking. 

Bucky hadn’t looked at you once. Which would have been good – great, even – if it didn’t hurt. If it wasn’t deliberate. He wasn’t even listening to Steve, wasn’t even pretending to listen. His jaw was locked, thumb tapping against the wooden table. 

“Buck, you listenin’?” Steve voice cut through his train of thought. His head snapped up. Then a heavy exhale. 

“Yeah, I’m listening.” He muttered.  Steve moved on, but Sam wouldn’t pass it up. 

“You sure? Looking like you pulled an all-nighter.” He was grinning. “Pandamonium was crazy.” Your stomach dropped right out of your ass and ran away. You felt his eyes flicker to you for a second. Not too long, but long enough for you to feel you’d been caught red handed. Doing what? You didn’t know. You dropped your gaze from Sam to the table, then the window outside. 

“Just couldn’t get to sleep after.” Bucky confessed, and that seemed somewhat true at least. You thought of his breath across your neck when he leaned into you. The heavy thrum of his heart as he pressed you into him as he sat on the bench. The thought changed quickly, and you imagined what it would be like to have him in a bed. 

Natasha’s sharp eyes lingered on the exchange, her smirk a little too knowing. She didn’t say anything – she didn’t have to.

“We’ve got intel on a Hydra remnant,” Steve said, voice calm but steady. “Small facility outside Riga. Not heavily guarded, but we think they’re stockpiling data. Could be old experiments, could be new projects. We’re not sure, but we want it out of their hands.”

The map shifted, highlighting the perimeter.

“Nat and Sam, you’ll take the north entrance, draw patrols out. Clint, you’ll stay high, eyes on the ground. I’ll go with Thor on the west flank.”

You nodded along, already mapping exits and contingencies, until Steve’s eyes flicked toward you and Bucky.

“You two will infiltrate from the east. Quiet, stealth only. Get inside, secure the servers, and we rendezvous in the central server room in case we expect any pushback. We don’t, but just to be safe.”

There was a pause. It wasn’t deliberate, but you felt it anyway. Steve’s gaze lingered a second too long, like he knew something he shouldn’t, like Natasha had whispered her suspicions into his ear.

You swallowed hard. “Understood.”

Beside you, Bucky simply nodded, jaw working, metal fingers flexing against his thigh.

Steve continued, laying out rendezvous points and fallback plans, but you barely heard him. Every word about stealth and subtlety felt like a cruel joke when you could feel the heat of Bucky’s thigh just inches from yours.

The compound felt louder, though that was probably just your nerves. You tried to seek shelter in the kitchen, making another cup of coffee. Like you could even stomach anything without tasting his sweat in your mouth. Bucky walked in then, shoulders filling the doorway as he ducked in. God, those shoulders. The way they’d felt when he held your hips in his hands and split you open on –

“Hi,” You blurted. 

“Hi,” He said back, voice low as though he hadn't used it. He grabbed a bottle of water and shut the fridge harder than necessary. Like he was angry. Was he angry at you? 

“I’m s –” You began as Natasha slipped in. She was silent, smooth. You both stood there, half-turned away from each other, like strangers who’d once been lovers in another life. You should have kicked yourself at the thought. 

Natasha grabbed a spoon for the yogurt from the fridge, her noise seeming unbearably loud in the room. 

Just look at him. Tall, broad shouldered. His side profile was cut from some sort of slab of marble. Lips pink, full. Eyes wide and blue. His soul was still so kind even after all that had been done to him. 

Maybe God was real. Maybe God was real and Bucky Barnes was made in His image and he was proof. Or maybe he was the one who was divine and you were just an innocent bystander. Everyone raise your hands if Bucky Barnes’ looks have victimized you.

Her eyes flicked between you and Bucky once. Just once. And then—just a ghost of a smirk as she stirred her yogurt, like she’d written the whole script already.

“So,” she said casually, spoon tapping the rim of the cup. “You two look cozy.”

You almost dropped your mug. Bucky choked on his water, coughing once before slamming the bottle down.

Natasha’s brows arched, like she was innocently curious. “Relax, it’s an observation.”

You opened your mouth—nothing came out. Heat rose to your face. Natasha caught it, of course. She always did. 

Bucky’s hand kept drumming against the counter. “We should go.” 

“Mm,” Natasha hummed, taking a slow bite. Her gaze cut to you, sharp and knowing. “You look a little flushed, though.” You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. 

“Training room’s free,” she added after a beat, pushing off the counter. “Might be a good way to… work it off.”Her smirk was fully visible now as she left, spoon still in hand.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Bucky muttered something under his breath—too low for you to catch—and shouldered past you on his way out.

Your hands gripped the coffee mug so hard you had to set it down lest you break it. 

The woods felt hungry. The forest swallowed you whole. 

Low branches and bushes of thorns clawed at you as you both moved, boots silent on damp earth. The briefing had drilled into you a million details. 

Angles, entrances, fallbacks. 

A million things to remember, and somehow none of it mattered as much as the man at your back. 

He was silent, a shadow trailing you like it was cut from your very body. Like whatever you were made of, he was made of the same. You never needed hand signals anymore, he just moved when you did. He stopped when you did. He turned as you did. His presence was alarmingly as constant as the thrum of your heart. 

“North side clear,” Natasha’s voice crackled through comms. “Two guards diverted. Moving in.”

“Copy,” Steve said. His voice was steady, reassuring. It should’ve calmed you. It didn’t.

Because he was there, his breath just at your back. Everytime it hit you, you were reminded of a steady bass, hands sliding up your thighs, grip pulling you down. 

Get a grip. You told yourself. 

In a valley below, a HYDRA facility was hidden. Ugly, quatted, all steel and gnarly shadow. You crouched in the underbrush, moving like more animal than woman. 

“Three guards east.” Bucky said into comms, handing you a pair of binoculars. Vibranium fingers met your gloved ones and you bit back a sharp breath. You confirmed his spot with a peek through the lenses. 

“Take them.” Steve ordered. 

You slid his binoculars back, and his eyes met yours as if to offer. You shook your head once, drawing a blade. 

“I’ll take the right.” He said instead. Not an argument, he was drawing a line. You met his gaze but didn’t retort. 

The grass muffled both of your steps. You waited until the floodlight above the entrance passed, and then you moved like smoke. Less than a shadow, more than a breeze. The first guard didn’t hear you, your blade sliding under his vest and into his ribs. Your hand clamped down over his mouth as he dropped into the brush, forgotten. The second turned to late, your blade hitting his sternum. He gurgled and went limp, and then joined his friend in the brush. 

The third turned on you, but was unable to speak. A metal hand wrapped around his head from behind. He was silenced as he grunted, back arching as a blade buried deep. Bucky pulled him into the shadows like he was wax paper. 

“Clear.” Bucky said over comms. 

“Alright, let’s get it done.” Steve replied. The deeper you went, the more the air pressed in, heavy with recycled ventilation. You found the server room two floors down, tucked behind another maze of hallways.

“You good?” Bucky’s voice was a low rumble at your ear.

You didn’t look at him. “I’m fine.”

“Sure.” He grunted. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself not to snap back. The door you were looking for was sealed shut, but you scented blood inside. 

The server room glowed faint blue, rows of towers humming like a hive. You slipped inside, only to find your team there. Steve was standing beside a toppled tower that flickered blue twice before going out. His shield was buried in it. 

“Sorry, Angel.” Steve mumbled to you, scratching the back of his neck. 

“It’s fine, Stevie.” You said slowly, and you rubbed your nose before you got to work on fixing what he had so badly destroyed. You plucked his shield from the tower and handed it off to him like it was a paper weight. You removed your gloves and tucked them into your pocket. 

Your hands reached in, flinching at a shock of electricity. Bucky was at your side, frowning down at the mess of wires. 

“Are you sure that’s-” A spark against your hand as you stripped a wire down with your thumb nail. 

Do they think I’m Tony Stark? You wondered as you began rewiring what you could, desperate to get power back to the main drive and quickly. 

“You’re mad.” Steve sighed. 

“I’m not-” You tried to say, and he sighed.

“You should be, he threw his shield right through the goddamn brain.” Natasha murmured grumpily as you worked. You eyed her, making a face. 

“I’m sorry, I said.” Steve wiped some blood from his brow as he grumbled the words. 

“It’s fine, honey.” You had bigger problems. Such as, just off the top of my head, the brunette at your back who wasn’t speaking to you as you winced at being shocked again. He wasn’t looking at you either. 

“How long is this going to take?” Bucky bit out. 

“Just a little-” You started. 

“Can we speed it up?” He interrupted harshly. Bucky eyed the back of your head, then turned to Steve who was pouting. Steve busied himself with moving bodies with Clint and watching the door. Bucky hated when you called Steve honey. 

He hated when you called Steve anything. He hated the way he hadn’t slept because you had infiltrated his dreams. He hated the way your slender fingers worked over wires, tongue running over your lips as you rebuilt a motherboard.

You were so goddamn smart. How could you not see that he was yours? Why even look at Steve when Bucky would give you anything you asked for?

Natasha was watching Bucky, whose expression had gone hard. Bucky didn’t even notice as he listened to you and Steve. You both had always been so close. This shouldn’t have bothered him the way it did. 

“You owe me.” You said to Steve with a quirk of your lips. Bucky rounded the room to check the door as well. Anything to unhear what he was hearing. 

Your visor on your suit displayed code as you began to unencrypt the information that shouldn’t have taken as long as it did to get. 

“Yeah?” Steve laughed a little. “That thai place is open now, we could-” 

“You could flirt literally any other time.” Bucky said to you both, hard and frowning. The rest of you went quiet to look up at him. 

“What’s your problem?” You asked him, and the eyes of the others bounced back to you. 

“You know what my problem is.” Bucky bit out. Your body went cold and your face went slightly hot. 

“What’s going on, guys?” Steve asked, and you swallowed. Your comms pinged unnecessarily. You chalked it up to a bad signal and pulled it from your ear. You were fighting becoming overwhelmed from this entire experience. Bucky, what Loki had done, how bad you had wanted it. 

His magical hands and pretty cock and his mouth- 

“I’ll tell you-” Bucky had had enough, and he released a sharp exhale. He was done choking on this. He was going to tell him the problem because as far as Steve should be concerned, you were off limits. 

“Got it.” You cut everyone off in an instant. The motherboard light flicked on. Nothing dramatic, but a blinking LED in the corner that let you know it was receiving power. 

“You’re a hero.” Natasha murmured.

“Alright, let’s head out.” Steve said with ease. 

Later, as you both sat in the jet, Bucky sat opposite of you. His blade was still clutched in his hands. Shadows hollowed his face, but tension coiled in every line of him.He was tense, and had been tense since you had rebuilt the motherboard in the server room. No, he’d been tense since the club, since you walked into his life and refused to walk out. 

You didn’t quite understand, and he could see that. Though, something hot and heavy settled low in his gut. Shame, but it cut deeper. 

Were you ashamed of him? He wondered. Of what you did?

His eyes lifted to yours, and they were dark, intense. You couldn’t look away. You couldn’t read him without prying into his head. This was dangerous. 

The danger wasn’t what had happened in the club, or the shift that happened every time he looked at you like you were more than just a tool. No, the danger was sitting right in front of you. 

And he was beautiful, and so good, and you didn't deserve him.

So...you would bury this. You had to. Otherwise, it would consume you. 

i'm still kicking! this chapter took like two weeks and i didn't even proof read it! we're going to experience a bit of a time skip in a bit (nothing insane) so allow me to build up some reallllll nice tension.

summary:

We've heard a lot about what Bucky hates, but do you know what his therapist hates? Making no real headway because he refuses to talk to you or talk about anything but you. When will the great "Stark and Barnes" back and forth end so we can get on to some actual issues Bucky has? Well, I'm glad you asked. Welcome to therapy.

pairing:

divinestark!readerxbucky for context: who are you? what are you? why are you here?

other parts: masterlist, one, two, three, four, five, seven wc: 5.3k

requests: open if you wanna be on the taglist, tell me!

So, Barnes didn’t bite the therapy idea. 

Of course he didn’t. Christina had been seeing him long enough to know his resistance to transparency was consistent. Records from his prior providers reflected the same: reluctant to engage, tight-lipped, deflective.

But what was new—what was not part of any previous pattern—was you. The change had happened quickly, without warning, and there was only one major difference. 

Barnes rarely entered a session without mentioning you, even when indirectly. His irritability spiked when describing your recklessness on the field. His anxiety sharpened when he insisted he needed a new assignment because you were “everywhere”, and he couldn’t escape. This was outlined on page fourteen of his clinicals. 

Session 12 – Pt. requested reassignment, cites partner “everywhere.” Visible agitation. Avoidant after prompt for elaboration.

His silences stretched longest when she asked why your name carried such weight and if he feared you or the effect you had on him. And yet, those silences were not empty—his physiological responses were immediate: jaw tension, shallow breathing, fists curling. Noted on page seventeen.

Session 18 – Pt. silent for 6m after Angel mentioned. Observable: fists clenched, increased respiration, jaw tension.

Christina had come to understand that for all his avoidance, Barnes’ only unfiltered moments occurred at the edges of discussing you. That was the crack in the wall. That was the through-line in weeks of sessions otherwise caught in repetition.

He might refuse to name the connection, but clinically, it was evident: his regulation—whether anxious, angry, or withdrawn—was tethered to you. Which was why she documented the recommendation for companion therapy.

It was unorthodox, but it was clinical. Could structured sessions with the presence of his most consistent trigger cause a breakthrough. 

James Barnes was not going to improve in any facet until he could work through his assignment to you and what that meant for him as not only an Avenger, but a man in recovery. 

Predictably, he’d rejected the idea. Flat, immediate. But the notes remained, the rationale sound. Progress with Barnes, if it was to happen at all, would almost certainly require you.

He didn’t know how he was going to ask you. He had refused the idea, point blank. 

However, these sessions were court ordered as a part of his recovery. In order to remain a valuable and acting part of the team, he had to attend each and every single one. 

With Raynor changing the pattern, his routine, he was thrown for a loop. He could refuse until he was blue in the face, but two things were true. 

Companion therapy was happening. 

There was no escaping the hell that had become his life. 

He paced the floor like a caged animal, the appointment card soft at the corners from how many times he’d gripped it. He held it up now like a script, muttering at the mirror above the bare desk.

“My doctor said—” He cut himself off, scowling. “No.”

“Hi, I need a favor.” He pulled a face. Yeah, that’ll get her. “I need you to go to therapy with me.”

Simple. Easy. He repeated it until the words lost meaning. Then he showered, changed into an old red henley and jeans, and forced himself to the door.

When he stepped into the hall, you were there—getting up at the same time, turning toward him. You looked up, smiling with tired eyes. For a moment, his stomach clenched. The nightmare flickered back, unbidden: not smiling, not fine, blood streaked at your temple, slipping away again.

But here you were, and you were fine. You were happy, healed, like it never even happened. 

And on the other hand, his heart was racing, and his mouth was going dry. It felt hot – was it hot all of the sudden? 

You were in sweats and a cropped tee, casual, effortless. He gripped the card in his fist and tried the line. The line he had been practicing. Just a few words, no big deal. 

“I need therapy,” he blurted. That was so not what he meant. Not even close. The words fell like bricks between you. He felt the mistake burn through his chest as embarrassment heated his cheeks.

“Well,” You said slowly, biting back a laugh, “I knew that.” You started to move past him.

“W-wait,” He said quickly. His hand raised, fingers brushing against your arm. He caught himself just before he curled his fingers around your limb. He glanced down at the card in his other hand like it would say it for him. “That’s – I –” He exhaled sharply through his nose, and then shook his head. His hand left your arm to rub over his stubbled jaw anxiously. “I need you.” 

Your heart stuttered to a damn near stop at that. “Huh?” You heard yourself say, looking up at him. You softened, just a little, shifting your body to face him. 

“For therapy. With me.” The words clawed their way out of his throat, his brows furrowing. He swallowed like they’d burned on the way out. 

“What?” You said, your hands meeting in front of you to fiddle with the watch on your wrist. 

“My therapist? Her – she said I need someone to come to therapy. You, she said. Cause you’re my partner. Listen, I – I know it’s weird. I know it’s not, like, a normal ask, but I can’t be on the field if I don’t – if we don’t –” 

“Buck,” You said his name like that again, lips pressing in a firm line as you tilted your head to look up at him. “Just tell me what you need, okay?” 

“It’s a companion program, and its–” He sighed. “You’re my companion.” 

There was a beat of silence, your eyes watching him through your shades. You took a heavy inhale. “Please.” He asked, voice rough. 

“Yeah, of course.” You said, and you meant it. “Of course, I’ll go.” 

Which landed you, and not for the first time, in therapy. 

The leather beneath your thighs creaked as you sat outside Dr. Christina Raynor’s office. You and Barnes had come separately. You’re not sure why, but you opted for flying over. The secretary was avoiding you while simultaneously trying to sneak glances. You chewed hubba bubba quietly to distract yourself from the nerves. 

You tapped your fingers along the arms of the chair in tandem, head tilted back against the wall behind you. You smelled him before you saw him, ten minutes late and hair and shoulders wet with rain. Tom Ford flooded the room like a fog. 

Musk, rain, sweat before it sours. He smelled like a meal, and your throat worked as you swallowed. You were dry, sitting there in slacks and a blouse like this was a Stark conference and not a court ordered therapy session. 

Your hair was braided into two, hands moving to tuck into the pockets of your leather jacket as you finally turned to look at him. 

Bucky’s hands ran up his face and through his hair in what felt like erotic slow motion. His pale skin was flushed pink. He had shaved, just a close shave but not clean. His tongue ran over her lips as rain dripped down his face. His dark shirt beneath his jacket stuck at his neck, the material of the jacket stretching taut over his arms. 

You swore you could hear Marcy Playground playing in the back of your mind. It was ridiculous, but your chest tightened with the old weight of first crushes, impossible crushes. You had thought that feeling belonged to another time. Then James Buchanan Barnes walked in, dripping wet, and you were certain he hung the moon.

The secretary seemed to have the same idea as you, her eyes watching him like he was the first drink of water she had seen in a desert. Bucky reached for a napkin she held out, muttering a thanks as he tried to pat himself down. 

You weren’t discreet, head turning to watch her. Your head cocked to the side, lips pressing into a line. With one finger, you caught yourself pulling the shades down a fraction. She shouldn’t have sexualized him. She shouldn’t even be fucking looking at him. He’s a goddamn patient – Your gaze went hard. 

Your gazes met and yours pierced into her like she was shot, and her elbow bumped her coffee as Bucky turned. Her head ducked almost immediately, hands scrambling for something to do as she tried to avoid looking at him again. 

As he approached you, napkin running over his skin, you pushed your shades back up. The grin you sported wasn’t friendly, which was unlike you. It was predatory, tongue running over your teeth like you were preparing to snap. 

“You’re here,” He breathed, and just like that you were just Stark again. Your eyes found him beneath the shades. “You’re dry.” He commented. 

Hardly, You thought, standing to greet him. You reached out without thinking, fingers plucking at a stray fiber from the napkin that stuck to his cheekbone beneath his eye. Bucky didn’t flinch, because it was you. His eyes glanced at your hand, then your face. You held the piece of napkin up to his gaze before brushing it off your fingers. 

“Y-yeah,” You didn’t stammer. You never stammered. What the hell was that? You cleared your throat. “I flew over, looks like I missed the storm.” You commented, motioning to his wet attire. He laughed a little, just an exhaled breath as he looked down at you. 

“The crazy part is, I just parked around the corner. I don’t know how I got so wet so fast.” He was flushed, ears tinged pink. He smiled bashfully, and you pressed your lips in a line to avoid smiling back up at him like you were sharing a secret. His head tipped down to say something low just as the door opened. 

Your hands went to your hips as you sucked in a sharp breath and took a step back like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t have. 

“James,” Dr. Raynor addressed him first, and then her gaze swept over you. “You must be Ms. Stark.” You gave her your name instead as she stared at you. She opens the door wider for you both, and Bucky motioned for you to go first. You did, making a face as you sat on the far end of the little couch. 

Bucky sat beside you, with a measly five inches separating your thighs. 

There was a beat. “Would you mind taking those off?” Dr. Raynor asked you. You opened your mouth, then closed it. You spared a glance at Barnes, whom you have never looked at with unhidden eyes. Not when he was himself. 

“I’m not scared.” Dr. Raynor said with a small, comforting smile. You reached up with your right hand, finger and thumb plucking them shades from your face. There was no mass of hair to hide behind, and you wouldn’t insult her by covering them with your hands. 

Instead, you looked at her dead on. 

Her pen stilled where she bounced it against her knee. Bucky glanced at the side of your face, but then looked away. Christina Raynor didn't say anything for one more beat. 

“I have heard so many things…” She trailed off. Your eyes pulled more from those that looked than it gave. Your expression was almost empathetic, your gaze like the night sky – or a black hole. Depended on who you asked. “Does it bother you to wear those shades all of the time?” You hesitated, but you didn’t see the harm in the truth. 

“Yeah,” You confessed, and you didn’t elaborate. 

“It feels like the air on an open wound.” Raynor commented. “Not pain, but raw.” 

“That’s one of the nicer ways it’s been put.” You commented back with a half smile. “I try to keep the general public from that feeling.” You tucked your glasses into your blouse. 

“And you don’t look at James?” Dr. Raynor asked. 

“No.” You said. 

“Well,” Dr. Raynor began, finally looking away from you. “You guys have been partners for a few months now, right?” She asked them. 

“Two,” You answered. 

“James is a special case, as you know.” Bucky scoffed a little. “With his permission, of course, I’ve brought you in because you’re his biggest roadblock” You stiffened at that, just a touch. 

“Without my permission. I refuse, just for the record.” Bucky chimed in. 

“Yet, you asked her anyway.” Raynor commented, and Bucky looked to the wall. “I mean roadblock in the clinical sense,” She then clarified. “Not obstacle. Catalyst. His sessions seem to circle back to this assignment. Anxieties, anger, moments of vulnerability. You are his constant, and you have become the center.” You blinked, and Bucky’s jaw worked

“Tell me how you feel about your assignment.” Raynor pivoted to ask you. “About James.” Your head tilted in that way that indicated you were thinking. You weren’t often at a loss of words, but saying awooga awooga zoo wee mama wasn’t an option. 

“It’s…complicated.” You said at last. “Some days I feel like I drag him along. Other days, he’s the only reason I make it out at all. Mostly,” Your gaze dropped to your hands, where there you rubbed them together. “Mostly, we feel like a live wire. “That was the only way to define it.” She scribbled something down. 

Oscillation between burden and reliance. Underlying anxiety response: “live wire”? 

“That’s not fair.” Bucky said roughly. His fingers curled in his leather gloves. “You think you’re a drag? I can’t even be on the field if you’re not with me.” His gaze shot to the side where you sat. You hadn’t expected that, eyes darting down to the side as well. 

“What do you mean by that, James?” Raynor interjected. 

“It’s not the same,” He swallowed hard, unable to meet anyone’s gaze. He couldn’t. “I mean…” He scrubbed at his jaw. “I mean, if she isn’t there, I don’t have – I feel like – If you’re not there, it feels like there’s no gravity. No ground.” 

You’d never heard him talk about you like that. Not in reports, not when he thought you weren’t listening, and you hadn’t expected it once. 

Explicit dependency, reluctant to admit. “Feels like there’s no gravity.” 

“You’ve identified a dependency.” Raynor commented. “What’s that mean to you?” Bucky looked up, but Raynor cleared her throat. “Tell her, please.” 

Bucky’s gloved fingers ran over the corners of his mouth. He felt cornered, and he pressed his mouth into a thin line. His jaw worked again, and his fingers on his other hand curled in his jacket pocket. 

“It means that I feel like,” He exhaled slowly. “I don’t trust myself to make the right call if you’re not there. It means when you run in without thinking,” His voice went rough, and Raynor noted that. “I can’t breathe until you come out again, because I–” He swallowed again, mouth dry. “It means you’re everywhere. I don’t know how to live with it, or without it.” 

“No one, and I mean this,” He continued. “Makes me as angry as you, and scares the shit out of me in the same measure. You are terrifying.”

The words were heavy. Heavier than you expected. You glanced at the clock on the wall, thumb pressing into your own pulse as if you were checking if you were alive. You were. 

Twenty minutes had passed, and you felt worse than when you came in. Raynor said your name to get your attention. 

“How does that make you feel?” She asked. You shifted on the couch, lips pressed together like before. You didn’t answer right away, foot tapping against the floor. 

“Bucky is incredible on the field.” You admitted. “I’m confused, because I sometimes feel like he doesn’t like me very much. Um,” You sighed, tilting your head from shoulder to shoulder, buying yourself another breath. “That being said, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him. He knows that.” You said, tongue running over your teeth. 

“Don’t say that.” His response came quickly, cutting. His voice was low and edged. He was staring at the side of your face. 

“What?” You blinked. 

“Nothing you wouldn’t do for me,” He echoed, anger prickling his skin and threading through each syllable. His hand ran through his hair before going to the arm of the couch. “That’s the problem with you. You don’t care what happens to you. You don’t even hear yourself when you speak, which is ironic because all you ever do is talk.” Raynor flipped a page, pen scratching through the paper.

Stark: “Nothing I wouldn’t do for him.” PT: Triggered by self-sacrificial framing. Anger to mask fear response. 

“Why’s it even matter? Buck, it’s my job–”

“It matters because I can’t–” He broke off, swallowing the rest of it like it was bile. He breathed in sharp, chest rising and brows furrowing like the air hurt coming in. “You throw yourself in without a thought, and I–” His voice caught again. His silence felt worse than his words. 

“And what?” You asked him with a sigh and subtle roll of your eyes as you faced ahead. You tilted your head back for a second. “You can’t stop me? I know, you’re not supposed to. That’s not your job.” 

His laugh was bitter, edges jagged and sharp. “Not my job?” He said incredulously. “You think I can just stand there and watch you bleed because you have a god complex and think you’re invincible?”

“I never said I was invincible,” You snapped out, nearly turning on him but realizing your shades were off. Your fingers curled around them, and Raynor noted that. 

Utilizing glasses as a way to avoid intimacy? Protecting PT or themselves? 

“That’s worse!” His voice rose then, sharp enough for Raynor’s hand to twitch. His throat worked, and he rasped out his next words. “You don’t get it. Last time, no, every time you do that, every time, I’m right back where I was. I can’t breathe, I can’t move, I can’t–” His hand ran over his face to cover his mouth. Something cool rolled through him. 

His words stung, chest tight and throat dry. “I don’t understand, but I want to. Bucky, my job is to watch your back. More than that, you’re my partner.” 

“No, that’s what soldiers do. And I–” His eyes went cold. “That’s not what you are. I don’t want another soldier dying for me.” 

The silence that followed was heavy. Raynor noted the tremor in his hand, the way he shifted away the more he confessed that he couldn’t. 

Assoc. with combat trauma. Strong protective fixation. Stark shifts towards him, hands twitch. 

“I’m made for this. I’m good at this,” You told him. “You have to let me–”

“No, you have to stop making me the reason you don’t give a damn about yourself.” He snapped. That one…that one cut. It cut deeper than you cared to admit, and you bit back a snide remark. 

“Okay, let’s take a breath.” Raynor said. “Right now, both of you.” You obeyed reluctantly, and you could hear him do the same. It was shaky, a breath in and then out. 

She glanced between the both of you, then down to her notes. “You’re talking yourselves in circles. James is triggered when you disregard your own safety. You feel misunderstood when he reacts due to that worry. The cycle repeats.” 

“You,” Raynor looked at you. “Are worth more than any fight. You are not an Avenger first, you are a daughter, a sister, and…you are a friend.” That made you swallow hard, eyes darting away. You weren’t human, and you didn’t know how to explain that you didn’t think you were awarded those simplicities. You were born for this. 

“You’re made of far more than a fight, and I think you’re the type to work yourself to dust.” Bucky scoffed at her comment, irritation evident in the way he rolled his eyes. 

“Right now,” She began, glancing at both of you. “Everything between you is filtered through missions, through danger. It’s no wonder you escalate. If you only fight together,” She said evenly. “You’ll only ever fight each other." 

Neither of you responded. You supposed she was right, despite your begrudging acceptance. 

“You need to spend time together outside of the field,” She continued, voice professional but firm. “Time unrelated to work, out of the team housing. That’s how you learn to tolerate each other without adrenaline and high stakes. That is what helps you balance your need to protect,” She glanced at you. “With your need for intimacy.” She glanced at Bucky but he looked away. 

“You’re supposed to be on the same side.” She told you both. “Once we get you on the same side, we work on how you can love without losing. So, that’s your new assignment. Time. Together.” 

Both of you sighed. It wasn’t a burden, but both of you wondered how the hell you were going to make this work if you could hardly pretend to remain unattracted to the other. 

“Not training, not fighting over who’s right and who’s reckless. Just time.” She closed her notebook, and despite the soft brush of paper on paper it sounded like a gunshot in a quiet room. 

“Then, I’ll see you both next week.” She said, and the three of you stood. 

Next week? You thought. You’ve got to be kidding. 

But, as you said, you would do anything for him. He stood tall, broad, and you met his eyes through your shades finally. You and Bucky exited the office, and this time the secretary remembered her place. 

The weather outside was abysmal, and you knew a flight home was not an option. Your phone came out immediately with a grumble. He glanced over, watching your background of you, Steve, and Sam switching to the Uber app. 

“I–I can give you a ride.” He muttered, looking over at you. He wasn’t offering, not really. It was more like a statement, a declaration even. His keys spun around his fingers. 

You raised an eyebrow, looking over at him. “Really?” You asked. “After all that?” You nodded at the closed office door behind you all as you stepped outside under the awning. 

“I’m fine,” He said immediately. Far too quick. “I just won’t feel right if you’re in someone else’s car. It’s…easier if you’re with me.” He worked his jaw, looking up at the gray clouds and heavy rain. For a moment he saw you in a taxi, the yellow steel wrapped around a power pole. You glanced down at your Uber app, thumb hovering over confirm. 

“Okay,” You said. “Let’s go.” He breathed out like he had been holding it for the entire session. He took a step towards the road, motioning for you to follow. He was at the passenger side, hand sliding to where yours had been reaching to open the door. He held it open by the door frame, and yours caught it as you slipped in. Your eyes met his through the shades once and he cleared his throat. 

The car ride was quiet, loaded. For once, unsaid words felt less like a war and more like a bridge. 

That night, the city light spilled through the blinds in slatted streams over the hardly furnished room that Bucky Barned occupied. 

His bed was pushed beneath the window, a thin blanket thrown from his body. He shifted once in bed. He was shirtless, his bottom half clad in only sweats. His skin was damp with a sheen of sweat as he rolled to the other side slowly. 

His expression was tight, and the only word that left his mouth was your name. 

In this dream, he watched you fight that HYDRA abomination once more. All smells like rust. You were more magnificent here, but it wasn’t enough. It never was. 

He grunted as it held you down, seven fingered hands holding your braid in one hand and your neck in the other. It pulled, and pulled, and pulled. 

Your scream cut through the air like a knife, and it stole every breath from his lungs. He was running, but you were only getting further away. He watched as your eyes met his, your neck pulling far too much from your shoulders until rriiippp. 

Your head was thrown at him like it was scraps, your spine still attached. Your blood clouded his visions when it hit his eye. Your eyes bulged, mouth wide open in a silent scream. He couldn’t even bring himself to pick up your fucking head as it nudged his boot. Your body was thrown after, limbs still twitching like you were seizing without a head. He was sick, and again the only thing he could do…was scream. Muzzle too tight. 

“Bucky!” Your head said to him, voice low and disembodied. Cold hands pulled at him, and he fought them off as they tried to drag him away from you. He shouted your name like if he was loud enough you’d come back. He began bargaining. He’ll do better. He’ll spend time with Steve. He’d go to fucking therapy again, he promised. Please, just come back. 

“Bucky!” Your voice was closer now, and he arched away from your hold - your hold? You leaned over him, hands holding his biceps as your hair spilled over your face. 

“Bucky,” You breathed when he stopped screaming. He fought you for a breath longer, his hand shooting out like he’d grab your throat when he saw you. 

Unhidden eyes, brows drawn in worry, lips wrapped around his name like they were made for it. 

Your eyes pulled more than they gave like always. His entire nightmare seemed to vanish in the back of his mind. Your hands moved like this wasn’t alien territory, up to his face, angling his head. 

“Talk to me,” You rushed the words out, panting. “Talk to me.” You said again, and he murmured your first name. 

Then, “Angel?” But it was so broken, and his eyes. His fucking eyes welled with tears, and he was not just red. Bucky Barnes was looking at you like himself and you could see every part of him like it was written down. He was a culmination of colors. Red, like you had glimpsed on the edges of your shades. Blue, like he had been before he was himself..but not in the way Steve was. The way the sky was after the storm. Purple, which you had seen in Kate, and this impossible to describe glow. 

He was broken pieces and shattered light, but more than that, Bucky Barnes was a good man. He was a good man, which you never doubted, and he was beautiful. The sight of his soul stole the words from you. “God, they took you–” He said, and it was wrecked. His face caved, hands moving to cover his face. 

It wasn’t only the nightmare, it was how raw it felt for you to see him that caused him to break in your arms. His voice was muffled as he began to cry. 

Not soft cries, and not pretty ones. Sobbing cries that shake your body and make you ill. You leaned over his bed, your knee pressing into the mattress. Your hands moved from his biceps to his shoulder. Then you ran your hands back down both the flesh and vibranium arms to his elbows. 

“Bucky,” You said softly, realizing that this ran deeper than your stubbornness on the field. You had caused this in some way. “Hey.” You tried again, and he could only shake his head. His vibranium hand went to your chest, pushing you gently back as he continued to cry. 

“Weren’t supposed to s-see–” He sobbed, and then he turned in the bed onto his side. He was humiliated, stripped bare. You usually were mindful of boundaries, but he needed you. Neither of you would admit it. 

“Bucky,” You whispered his name like it was scripture, fingers curling around his wrist and holding his hand there. “It’s okay. It was a nightmare.” His voice was muffled as he tapered a sob off into clearing his throat, shoulder jerking. “I’m not going to leave. I’ll stay.” You said firmly. “I’ll always stay.”

“Go away.” He demanded, voice muffled by his hand and weak. You just sighed, your other knee going to the mattress. 

“Shut up.” You said with a huff, and then you just sat there. You moved to lean back against the headboard. You crowded him on the twin sized bed. It was far too small for him, and usually the team member occupying  would have furnished a room by now. 

You had even swapped out for a queen, Steve went for a full. You all had made a home in your rooms, but Bucky’s room remained as it came. A twin bed, a nightstand, a desk, and a dresser. One photo taped to the wall, one notebook on the desk. A few books littered the dresser, and his clothes sat in a box beside it like that’s how he sorted laundry. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” You told him finally when he stopped crying. He didn’t turn over yet, his larger body curled up like he wished to disappear. He used to do this in his HYDRA cell. He would make himself the smallest he could. 

“You can’t see me like this.” He mumbled, broken and raw. “Your eyes…I can’t hide.” 

“You don’t have to.” You said back to him. “You said my name.” You said softly. 

“And you came?” He said, as if he couldn’t believe it. 

“You called.” You said back like it was simple. “I’ll always come when you call for me, Bucky.” He turned slowly, eyes not meeting yours. He took stock of your body. You sat with your back to the headboard, your hands in your lap. Your legs were crossed on his bed like you belonged there. 

His eyes met yours once and then he looked away, unable to feel the air on that open wound. 

“I forgot them, I’m sorry.” You finally said, referring to your shades. “I was getting a glass of water and I heard –” 

“No, it’s okay.” He said quickly, but his voice was rough. He was sitting up slowly, shaking his head. ”I’m sorry–” 

“Enough. We’re both sorry.” You said quietly. You reached out a tentative hand then, knuckle wiping under his eyes. Your thumbs followed after, and his eyes met your eyes finally. He took a sharp breath, brows knit together. He looked fragile, terrified. You looked away. 

“No, wait.” He whispered. “Look again.” His hands cuffed your wrists. “Do I look like him?” It was the only thing he’d ever wanted to ask you. This fear was paramount. This fear haunted him, almost as much as the thought of losing you did. 

“I just see you.” You said to him honestly, gently. Another tear slipped free, and he was leaning forward until his forehead pressed against your shoulder. 

“He’s not in there?” His voice was muffled by your sweatshirt. 

“No,” You told him, head tilting to rest your cheek against the top of his head. 

“I have no right to ask, angel. I know that.” He said, your callsign sounding more like a pet name. “It’s just eas–” 

“Can I stay?” you asked instead, not willing to force him to ask. You knew what he needed, what he’d been saying all damn day. It was easier when you were with him. A relieved breath rattled through him. 

“Well, since you’re begging.” He said dryly, the tension giving way for a shaking laugh. 

When he woke, you were gone. The scent of your skin on his pillow was proof enough you had been there. 

summary:

You and Bucky are getting closer. Closer than you are - closer than you should be. Sharing beds and enchantments when you know better. You know better, don't you, Angel? ...Angel, you okay? You don't look so good... How much have you had to drink?

pairing:

divinestark!readerxbucky for context: who are you? what are you? why are you here?

other parts: masterlist, one, two, three, four, five, six , eight wc: 6.9k

requests: open if you wanna be on the taglist, tell me!

MDNI WARNING: POORLY WRITTEN SMUT AHEAD!

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Things got complicated. 

He had fallen asleep on your shoulder—innocent, almost childlike. He hadn’t meant to. Neither had you.

Before dawn you woke, heat coiled around your waist. For one awful, wonderful moment you thought you were still dreaming. It wasn’t a dream. His body was heavy against yours, and the sensation clawed at something you’d never made room for.

You kept your eyes shut, lashes trembling. Slowly, you cracked them open and checked. Relief—and dread—flooded through you. He was asleep.

The intimacy was suffocating. His cheek pressed against your breasts, his arm locked around you like a shackle he didn’t know he’d forged. One hand splayed over the small of your back, fingers twitching as though even in sleep he was fighting not to lose you.

He shouldn’t have looked so young. Not after everything. But he did—long lashes resting soft against cheekbones, lips parted, the faintest flush warming his skin. Freckles. You’d never noticed them. How could you not have noticed? His hair was getting longer, untidy waves spilling over his brow until you brushed them back with a reverence that wasn’t yours to give. His stubble rasped faintly against your shirt.

Then—your name, breathed from his mouth like an invocation.

The word burned through you, more dangerous than any blade. Something inside you cracked open. A sickening, bone-deep certainty filled the hollow places you’d carved out of yourself long ago. You were—no. You couldn’t be. You weren’t allowed to be.

A sound in the hall—the creak of a board—and he stirred. His brow pinched, his grip on you tightened. His body was waking. You couldn’t let him see you. Not like this.

You bent your head, lips near his temple, and whispered in Enochian.

Sleep.

The word carried weight. A blessing, yes, but edged with compulsion. It poured through him, his body slackening instantly, drawn back into the depths. He sighed against you, unknowing, while your heart hammered like it wanted to claw from your chest into his. You were afraid it already had. 

He didn’t feel you slip from his bed. But you felt every inch of him fall away.

The shower was your penance. You turned the water hotter, hotter still, until it steamed around you. Mortal flesh would blister. Yours only flushed. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

If only it could scour him from your skin, strip the scent of him from your hair, erase the memory of his mouth shaping your name.

You weren’t supposed to want this. Nephilim didn’t bend, didn’t break, didn’t fall. But this wasn’t part of the assignment, or Raynor’s therapy, or anyone’s plan.

This was dangerous. This was ruined.

So you did what you always did, Angel.

You buried it.

You know the line, don’t you? It just got…blurry for a few days after. 

Little things shifted before you got the chance to stop yourselves. Your coffee in your favorite mug (‘BEST FLIEING SISTER EVR’ painted on the side by six year old Morgan) were at the end of the counter when you dragged your ass out of bed in the mornings. Mornings when Steve wasn’t there to do it, and even then – you very much doubted he was skipping a run to make sure your coffee was where it needed to be. 

Bucky never mentioned it and he never asked for a thank you. So, you convinced yourself that it was fine. So, when you started setting his plate down before he had the chance to get up and make it…you didn’t even realize what was happening. 

The shift was so subtle, you couldn’t even catch it. 

At sparring, he stopped going for the quick pin. He used to like knocking you flat, pinning your wrists with infuriating precision and waiting for you to growl at him. Now he lingered in the exchanges, letting the spar drag longer than it needed to, every dodge and shift closer than it should have been. Your shoulder brushed his chest more often than was necessary. Once, you nearly tripped over his feet and his arm came around your waist fast, steadying you. For half a second, neither of you moved. You just stared up at him, breath caught, until Sam shouted from the sidelines—“Kiss already or get back to fighting!”—and you both sprang apart like teenagers caught red-handed. After, you’d throw your water bottle at Sam’s back with slightly more force than necessary. 

At dinner Natasha cracked some joke about how you two were “friendly lately,” and suddenly he couldn’t stop glancing your way, jaw tight, fingers drumming against his plate. You didn’t notice, you were handling it. 

It was easier in front of the others. Harder when it was just the two of you. Passing in the hallway at night, brushing shoulders in the kitchen, hearing his footsteps pause outside your door before moving on. Each moment small, simple—each moment unbearable. Devastating. 

Your father caught you once in the briefing room, hand on your shoulder. 

“Hi, honey.” Tony said to you as you sorted a stack of papers that you’d have copied in the lab later from your recent mission. Another success. Barnes and Stark were proving to be one of the best assignments in the past few years. 

“Hey, Dad.” You said back, pushing your shades up with one hand. Tony watched you for a long moment, tilting his head. He leaned his hip on the conference table, clasping his hands over his knee. 

You tilted your head also, a mirror as you watched him think. “Tell me what I’m thinking.” He said to you, offering you a small smile. Tony regarded you like you were a puzzle. 

“No,” You laughed a little, shaking your head. “No, Dad. I’m not prying.” You looked away, eyes glancing up at the window leading out into the courtyard and then back to him. 

“Don’t pry.” He said. “You know me like I know you, kiddo.” He told you, following your gaze to the window for a moment and then looked back at you. 

“Stop using your father psychology on me and spit it out, old man.” You told him, mirroring his position on the conference table with the papers in your grasp. He wanted to pry, but unfortunately only one of you was nephilim and able to crack people open like that. 

“I just,” Tony began. “You know, you’re growing up.” You’re twenty-seven, but we won’t dig into his issues with letting go. “Haven’t you thought about taking some time off? Maybe spreading your wings -- pun intended – and just enjoying…I don’t know, life?” He asked, waving his hand to nothing in particular. You tilted your head again. 

“No,” You said honestly. You had no reason to slow down and breathe. There was nothing to enjoy if you let the world burn. “This is my life.” You held up the papers, looking at the mission report with an expression that seemed satisfied. 

He stood with a sigh. “Babygirl, this isn’t life. This is work.” He told you. He drew closer to you then, hands reaching out. You stood also, and his hands cupped your face like you knew they would. You gave him a roll of your eyes, meeting his gaze with. You entertained him. “You are my biggest achievement,” He told you firmly. “And my greatest joy.” 

You smiled at him, like you always did when he praised you. Your eyes squinted up at your dad. “I just wish you’d give yourself time to experience life before you write it off for paperwork and war.” 

“I love you endlessly.” You said to him instead, and Tony hung his head in dramatic defeat. You stepped back and turned, eyes darting to the left for a moment before meeting his eyes.  “But this is all I need.” 

“Okay, get out of my sight.” He grumbled, waving you off. You spared a moment to kiss his cheek before disappearing out the door. 

He tucked his hands into his pockets, moving to the window. His gaze flickered down to the courtyard where you had gazed, where Steve Rogers tossed a football to Bucky Barnes. He hummed knowingly, leaning against the glass as he watched them with narrowed eyes and a small shake of his head. 

But you were handling it, you promise. 

A thunderclap cracked the sky in two, rattling the windows of the compound. You lay awake, staring at the ceiling. You listened to the rain drum relentlessly against the glass. Your eyes trailed back to the window behind your head with a heavy sigh. 

It wasn’t the storm that kept you awake, but fuck, it wasn’t helping. He was awake just on the other side of the wall. You could feel it, like you always did – a tether drawing taut between you. 

Another crash, and your stomach tightened. You squinted your eyes, listening closely. A door creaked open, the top hinge rusted. Three steps, and a sigh. 

You sat up on your elbows, wild hair spilling over your face and down your shoulders. You pushed it away, eyeing the clock that read 3:23 am. 

There was a hesitation at your door, and you watched the shadow beneath it. You stood, feet bare and quiet as you approached the door. His fist raised on the other side as the door opened slowly. The lightning clapped behind you,and your eyes met his. 

He felt splayed open and raw beneath your gaze. Sometimes, he felt like it wasn’t right for him to see you. He didn’t feel deserving, and he looked away for a moment. He stood leaned against your door frame, all his colors bleeding down on you as he towered over you. His hair was unkempt, locks messed every which way but down and curling near his temples. 

His pillow was tucked awkwardly under his arm, and he looked exhausted. Stripped bare, shadows seeping into his bones tired. His hoodie and sweats looked rumpled by sleep despite him apparently not getting any. 

“I shouldn’t be here,” He said immediately. His voice was low and rough. His arm tightened on the pillow like he was preparing for you to laugh him back to his room. “I can’t sleep. I’m sorry.” 

For a moment you stared up at him, rubbing your nose. You stood in a too big tee that hung off a shoulder and hair unruly. You looked away for a moment, thoughtful. He prepared himself, took a half step back. 

You stepped back too, opening your door further to allow him in. He’d never been in your room before. It was full of you, and much to his chagrin, Steve. Steve and you at some event was framed on your bedside. Steve’s shirt on your body. 

One of Steve’s shoes discarded under your bed. 

“Come in.” You said to him finally, and he slipped past you. His eyes met yours again, and he didn’t shrink away. Your door closed behind him as his throat worked. The lightning clapped and he went rigid. Like second nature, you reached for him when your stomach tightened like it did each time he tensed. Like that band between you pulled tight. 

“I shouldn’t be here.” He repeated, eyes falling on your hand on his arm. He walked to the bed, but dropped his pillow on your floor. His eyes found the window 

“What are you doing?” You breathed out, fingers running through your hair. With his back turned, you piled your hair together in something resembling a ponytail…or perhaps a bun. You tried not to glance at yourself in the mirror as you clipped it up. 

“Laying down?” He said with a huff, his tone sharp. 

“On the floor? No,” You were exasperated. You bent down grabbing his pillow with a snatch. You pushed it into his chest. “Pick a side.” You told him, looking up at him. 

“You near the wall.” He murmured, hand scrubbing his jaw. 

“Plan on bolting?” You joked, crawling into bed and bringing your pillow with. 

“Why not? You did.” He countered, putting his pillow down on the edge of the bed. He lay on top of the covers, tense. He couldn’t stop bracing for the inevitable dismissal. You rolled onto your side, tucking under the blanket. 

There was a long stretch where the only sound was the rain and the low rumble of thunder. Lightning struck, the room going white for a moment. He slowly turned towards you. In this bed there was more room, but the space never felt smaller than now. His vibranium arm curled under his pillow while his flesh arm – the right arm – rested in the space between you. 

You were handling it, and you would bury this, but…

You rolled over slightly, his hand warm in the space between you. You could sense the faintest curl of his fingers in the blanket, like he wanted to pull himself under. You turned and lifted them just as thunder clapped – too close. 

He collapsed, all at once, moving under the covers with his legs first. It didn’t mean anything, but it felt like it did. He curled towards you like it was gravity, head pressing into your shoulder like he dropped some weight he’d had to carry right up until this moment. His pillow lay forgotten as he took over yours. 

His breath fanned over the space between your neck and collarbone, warm just like his hand as he unravelled beneath your covers. 

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, like he was stealing something precious that he had no business to touch. 

“Don’t be.” You shook your head, shifting to let your body curl into him. His flesh hand found the curve of your waist. Not taking, just holding like you’d slip away. His fingers pressed into you there and then loosened as he exhaled long and slow. 

He was out cold, just like that. The storm raged, but this time he didn’t stir. His weight was heavy and warm against your body. Your heart raged against your ribs, eyes wide. Your hand was impossible this time, operating like it no longer belonged to you as your fingers carded through the hair at the nape of his neck. 

You wouldn’t be able to sleep like this, not comfortably. You were afraid of what this meant. But fear folded into exhaustion, and minutes later, you were gone too.

It didn’t just happen once. 

Neither of you spoke of it in the light of day, but that silence didn’t quite erase it either. It became a quiet, unbroken pattern. Some nights you’d sleep alone, surrounded by your trinkets and cool sheets while he lay awake on the other side of the wall in an empty room, feeling emptier still. Other nights he would knock, or you’d open the door before he could, and he’d shuffle in and fall into you beneath your covers where it smelled like Tom Ford more often than not. 

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t planned, and try as you might to avoid it, it kept happening. 

In the kitchen you passed each other coffee and shared looks like nothing had shifted. On missions, you operated like a missing part of him. Precise, deadly, his. No one said a thing, but you felt it – in the way you sat just close enough to feel the heat of his thigh and shoulder. Touches that lasted longer than they needed, or in the way you imagined he looked at you. No shades, no barriers. Neither of you would admit to it. 

You buried it, because that’s what you did. And he let you, because he didn’t think he deserved to ask for more. 

“Come on!” Natasha said to you as you sat in the courtyard. You stretched out on the grass, sun beating down on you as you read. You ignored her, flipping another page of your book. 

“I couldn’t think of anything he’d hate more.” You mused with a sigh, having to reread the page again. Natasha bent down to snatch your book, and you let her. You heaved another sigh. 

“This is the first day we have all been off. No missions, no world ending, and no one maimed in the med bay.” She crossed her arms as she looked at you. “And you’re reading the same goddamn book.” She waved the copy of Pride and Prejudice with her own brand of prejudice. “You need to go out. Get out of this fucking compound.” 

“Natasha…” You trailed off, and she dropped beside you with her elbows on her knees. You raised your eyebrow at her and squinted a little.  

“Listen,” She began. “Sam won’t go if Steve doesn’t go. Steve won’t go if Bucky doesn’t go. If just Clint and I go with Kate, we end up in Bucharest drunk off our ass in the morning.” 

“You’ll end up in Bucharest no matter who goes.” You muttered with a half smile. 

“As I was saying,” She bit back a smile. “Barnes won’t go if you don’t go, because he’s your little shadow. Then I’m down to four people, and all of you sit here and work and pretend not to.” You glanced up at her. 

“Thor’s coming,” She said in a sing-song voice, and you turned to give her your full attention. Hook, line, and sinker. “And he’s bringing the good stuff.” 

The good stuff referred to one thousand year old honey wine. Asgardian mead. 

“Well,” A slow smile spread over your face. “Why didn’t you lead with that?” You held your hand out and she tugged you up into a stand. 

“Oh! You can wear that dress you got that you never wear out!” Natasha said, handing your book off to you. 

Which led you all to Pandamonium. Panda was midtown Manhattan, their regular spot when they did get out. Which was incredibly rare. 

Bucky was highly uncomfortable with the idea of a club, but it beat the alternative of sitting alone in the compound wondering what you were doing and with who. Would you be with Thor? Would you dance with h– 

He shook his head, trying to dispel the image of you and Thor dancing.  At first it was fine, you know? You had shared greetings with the god like a couple of college students, excited energy only seeming to amplify the more you hyped each other up. 

Bucky had seen you party with Odinson before in the controlled environment of the compound, so he was no stranger to Thor. Thor Odinson, who had – just today – bounded into the compound after months of being off planet to toss you into the air. Dove this and Dove that, Thor said. His voice was loud, his hands too comfortable when they reached for you. 

Bucky nearly forgot how much he hated the god’s overly friendly nature. You and Thor (he hated how that sounded) giggled amongst yourselves like school girls, hands clasped together. 

By the time you arrived at Pandamonium, the team was already buzzing with energy. You stopped for a moment at the entrance, checking the bouncer. A fleeting look, a few silent words—just the right gestures—and he blinked, confused, as though whatever he’d seen or thought moments ago was gone. You smiled faintly, slipping inside, leaving no trace. Sam and Steve followed, and Bucky lingered a step behind, scanning you as you moved.

He didn’t know exactly what you’d done—he could feel the pull of something he didn’t understand, and it tightened in his chest. Watching you like that, so confident, so in control… it wasn’t unpleasant. It was dangerous.

“She’s hazing the bouncer. That way he doesn’t tell anyone the team is in here.” Sam told him, and Bucky nodded. You were all smiles, uncovered eyes wide and open. Even as Bucky had become accustomed (not yet unaffected) by your gaze, he had never seen you use it on someone outside of a fight. 

Inside, the team spread out, voices and laughter colliding. Clint was teasing Kate, Sam was recounting a story that had everyone groaning, Natasha leaned against the bar, smirking knowingly, and Steve was still trying to moderate everyone without any success. Bucky’s eyes, however, stayed on you. Every gesture, every laugh, every glance—he noticed it all.

You were handling the crowd with ease, smiling at friends, waving at familiar faces, but Bucky’s focus never left you. A subtle twinge of jealousy tugged at him every time your attention went elsewhere, even just briefly. Though, each time you glanced back to him, the sun shone on him again. 

When he finally stepped fully into the club, the room blurred around him. Black halter dress, slender fingers, painted nails. Your presence pulled at him like gravity, and he swallowed thickly. He tried to mask it, tried to focus on anything but you, but it was impossible.

“Comin’?” you said over your shoulder, tilting your head just slightly.

Bucky hesitated, jaw tight, before nodding and joining your side. Your hands went up , bass pulsed low in your chest. The club was alive, lights tinted purple and green above that flared with the beat.  Natasha dragged Kate to the dance floor, Clint trailed after them with mock reluctance, and Sam was halfway through telling Steve the difference between a “club drink” and a “grandpa drink.” Steve’s response was a very flat, “They both sound like overpriced juice.” Sam shot you a look as if to say, He’s hopeless. 

Thor made an entrance like he always did, women fawning over him as he made a bee line to the team. Bucky was your shadow, just over your shoulder as Thor’s light blinded all in it’s path. He clapped Steve hard on the back, pulled Sam into a hug so tight that his feet left the ground. 

“DRINK!” Thor commanded, and your head tipped back in a laugh as the team joined to partake. The light caught your earrings, causing the purple and green from above to shatter over the delicate column of your throat. 

Glasses arrived quickly, golden liquid catching the lights in a way that was unnatural. The mead was brighter, warmer. No one thought to question it. After all, it was Asgardian mead. It was supposed to feel like the sun was thrumming in your ribs. Thor’s frosted mug clanked against yours, spilling froth over the floor. 

He nearly slipped in it, but your hand shot out to steady the god. Bucky grit his teeth. Let him fall. Though, that was selfish. 

You tipped the first mug back, shaking your head at Thor as you both loudly went, “AHHHH!” like vikings. 

“That’s better!” You announced.

Thor released a WHOO! of excitement as he demanded, “Another!” 

Around the bar it was unraveling. Sam was goading Clint into a contest no one would remember in the morning. Steve’s ears went pink as he tried not to grimace over his second sip. Kate, who was not yet an Avenger but just as excited, was already standing on her chair to shout something to the DJ. 

Bucky hadn’t touched his glass yet. He leaned against the bar, arms folded and eyes on you. Watching. 

“Scared?” You teased him, nodding towards his untouched drink. He followed your gaze, breathing in through his teeth. 

“I don’t know if I trust it.” He commented, turning his eyes back to you. If your metabolism was taking the hit of the mead, he couldn’t imagine what it was going to do to him. 

“What’s the worst that could happen?” You tilted your head thoughtfully. That earned you a sgh, and he lifted his glass to drink. His jaw flexed as he swallowed. You watched his throat work, and when your eyes met next – there was no burying the heat. 

The night blurred, brighter and louder than it should have been. Natrasha’s laughter spun through the music, Steve let himself be dragged to the dance floor. Thor nearly toppled three tables showing Kate some Asgardian step. Sam and Clint got into a loud debate about which one of them was the better wingman with bullet points scribbled on napkins. 

Bucky nursed his drink like it might tell him a secret if he stared hard enough. The rim of the glass caught the neon, pale reflections dancing against the metal of his hand. Sam was chanting something over by the bar, Clint had gone facedown in a bowl of peanuts, and Natasha had you by the wrist, dragging you onto the dance floor.

You laughed, half-protest, half-glee, and Bucky felt it in his chest like you were saving it for him.

Every time you glanced back, he was there. Slouched low in the booth, legs spread, a crooked smirk cutting his mouth. Drunker than he’d ever admit. Pink flush high on his cheekbones. He looked almost relaxed, almost normal.

Almost.

Because his eyes never left you, and they were hungry. 

Sure, the mead had loosened his shoulders, made his laugh low and easy when he heard a good joke. It had yet to loosen the hold you had over him. Even through the bass, through the strobing lights, through Natasha – you could feel it. You didn’t think much of the look in his eyes, hell you weren’t thinking at all.

Natasha was whisked away by Steve, a development you didn’t even think of. You couldn’t think, you felt hot all over. You felt giddy, for the first time in…perhaps ever. 

No prayers, no problems, no war. Just the music and the lights flashing and you were spinning. Your hair went wild, spinning around you as you tipped your head back. The floor tipped with you. Maybe it was the mead, maybe it was the crowd, or something more sinister. 

You staggered into a stranger. He was already smirking, tall, hand out–

But then he wasn’t. 

A large hand that was warm and familiar clasped above your elbow and pulled you back a step. You turned in shock…and there he was. There he always was, thank the gods. 

The lights pulsed above you, his face painted green, purple, then shadowed. His eyes never changed, always dark, always fixed. Like you were his one true north. 

“Spoken for,” He bit out to the stranger, eyes lifting to the other man for a breath. His hand moved to your waist, arm curling. You should have said something. You should have pulled away. Why didn’t you?

Your body moved, and so did he. It was like muscle memory, like some instinct. Which was strange, because he hadn’t danced since the 40s. Never at a club. You fell into rhythm like you were wired for it, bodies anchored to one another and breaths drowning in bass and heat. 

Every step was a strike, every spin was a dodge. It was like sparring without blood. 

“Bucky,” You said, but it came out in a breath. 

“Don’t,” He murmured, lips against your temple as you spun into his arms again. His vibranium fingers found your hip, guiding you closer until there was no space. You felt the weight of him everywhere. Hard chest, rough breath, the strength in his arms. 

It wasn’t even dancing anymore. What were you doing? Something hotter, something else, was happening. Something you knew you weren’t supposed to want. 

You felt made for it. Despite the eerie green in your glass which lay somewhere forgotten. The song went sharp, and your movements did too. 

His grip on you tightened as his fingers pressed against your ribs to hold your back against his chest. You felt every devastating inch of his body. 

His jaw was tight, lips against your temple. This was dangerous. It was wrong. 

Neither of you stopped it. The team was swallowed by the blurred edges of your vision. He couldn’t see anything but you, his hand pressing lower into your pelvis. 

“Bucky–” You said again, and your head tipped back against his shoulder. The name broke on your lips. He turned you, his nose dipping to the space beneath your ear. 

“Please, don’t say my name like that.” He pleaded. His voice went low, wrecked. His breath fanned across your throat. Your hips slotted together and you released a sharp breath, lips parted like you would apologize when his mouth was on yours. 

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t sweet or careful. It was messy and raw. It was dark, just like him. His stubble scraped against your skin as he kissed you like he’d waited since 1943 to do this. One of his hands fisted in your hair and the other held you tight to him. Your hands went up his chest, pulling him close by his shirt. 

When he pulled away, you barely registered it. You caught your breath for a moment, and his eyes lifted from your gaze to sweep the crowd. He released his hold on you, and you feared he might bolt for a moment. Instead, his hand found yours. 

It took everything in him to not throw you over his shoulder like the neanderthal he felt like. What was wrong with him? 

He pulled you behind him, shouldering through the crowd with single minded focus. He needed you and he was tired of pretending he didn’t. 

He pushed open a door. You didn’t care where to, and he pushed you in first. The music dulled to a steady thud, mirror thrumming in the bathroom he’d pulled you into. He turned around as the lock echoed, and his hands went to his hair. 

For a moment - clarity - but then you were kissing him first. You tugged him down to your mouth, slotting his mouth over yours. There was no loud thumping or sea of bodies to make this feel less real this time. 

He angled his head to deepen it when you pulled back, but his hands held your biceps. “Stop pulling away.” He said, voice frayed. 

“Everything’s so quiet.” You murmured, and his hands moved to cradle your face. It was soft for only a breath, his lips parting before he even got to you. His right hand moved to the back of your neck, curling in the hair there to hold you. 

He angled your head back and you released a noise you didn’t know you had in you. He groaned low in his throat in response, his left hand going to your hip. His tongue parted your lips for you, ruining you for anyone else. 

“Atta girl,” He said against your mouth, a grin tugging at his lips. You laughed a little as he pulled back. His gaze was all heat as he tilted your head to the ceiling, his lips peppering kisses down your neck. His left hand was at the curve of your ass and he lifted you to the sink with ease. The same hand moved to under one knee. He forced your knees apart and settled between them and his teeth grazed your pulse. 

You released a gasp. He liked that noise and nipped at your flesh. Your head tipped back with a moan, and your fingers curled into his shoulders. He was built like a fucking adonis. He was soft, but with coiled muscles. 

You weren’t thinking much, but you did pride yourself on behaving for so long. 

His hands moved up the outside of your thigh, fingers pressing into your flesh hard. “So easy with you,” He murmured, his tongue flat against your throat. He didn’t stop there, tugging you to closer. His hand trailed over your bare back.  “Never this easy with anyone.” He finished. He leaned back, watching the small red welts he had left over your neck smooth into nothing as your body healed them. Flustered, his brows drew tight. 

“I’ll have to fix it.” He grumbled, kissing up your neck to find your moth. “Have to mark it, don’t I?” 

“Mark what?” You breathed just before he caught your mouth in something hot and hungry. 

“You,” He said lowly, and you ached to press your thighs together to alleviate the need for friction. His eyes fluttered open and he looked down to your spread thighs. 

“Can fix that.” He said, pressing a kiss to your lips again. His hands dropped to your thighs, thumbs pulling the flesh outwards as he dragged you to the edge of the sink. “Let me fix it, angel baby.” He dropped his head to your shoulder, practically pleading. Your dress drew higher, the apex of your thighs in view. “I can smell you everywhere.” He continued to ramble. 

He couldn’t shut the fuck up, and he couldn’t figure out why. Your hands ran up his shoulders, fingers carding through his hair. “Fix what?” You asked him, but you knew exactly what he meant. Your lips pressed against his jaw, teeth nipping at his stubbled skin. 

“This.” He said roughly, and his thumb tugged your panties to the side. He groaned as he looked at your slick folds with unbridled need. His right thumb and forefinger parted your pussy lips, cool air hitting you. You released a sharp breath. “Want me?” 

You couldn’t manage words, which was unlike you. You just nodded. 

“No, say it.” He demanded, reaching up to press you back into the mirror. His hands moved under your knees, pushing your legs further apart. “Say you need me, baby. Just Bucky.” 

“Need you, Bucky.” You relented, eyes meeting his. His colors were all over the place, but he didn’t shy away as he bared himself to you without even knowing it. 

“That’s my girl.” He said, licking his lips. Your eyes dropped to your pried open thighs. “No, look at me. Love when you see me.” He confessed. One hand clasped around your jaw, dragging your gaze upwards and holding you there. 

His right thumb ran up your sopping pussy slowly. “So fucking wet, angel.” He groaned, and his eyes dropped to your pussy. You watched his dark lashes cast shadows over his cheeks as his tongue ran over his lips again. “So – Oh my god, you have the prettiest pussy. Anyone ever tell you that?” He rubbed a little circle around your clit. “Don’t tell me.” 

He curled his body over yours, lips brushing yours. “You’re so quiet, baby.” He murmured, and then his thick middle finger pressed in slightly. Your lips parted as he held your gaze. “Tell me it’s mine.” 

“What?” You gasped out, but he didn’t move his finger. “Bucky, please…” 

“Shut up,” He commanded, pressing his lips to yours in a brief kiss. “All I need,” He pressed a finger in slowly, “For you to say you’re mine.” Your eyes rolled, and his fingers flexed around your jaw to remind you to keep eye contact. You met his eyes again. 

“I’m yours.” You had no idea why you said it or what he had done to you. “Oh, fuck, Bucky!” Another finger joined the one, and he curled them up into your pussy. His bottom lip dragged between his teeth as he watched you with rapt attention. 

“There she is.” He groaned as he scissored his fingers into your pussy in slow deep strokes. “So goddamn tight.” He pulled back, hand moving to move your dress out of the way to watch your cunt stretch over his fingers. His thumb slipped up to your clit and he moaned as you clenched. Your hips jerked as you followed his gaze. 

“Aw, it’s not enough, is it?” He mocked as you whimpered. “But I don’t want to break you.” He pumped his fingers into you and you whimpered his name. 

“That’s a lie,” He released something akin to a laugh. Or perhaps a groan. 

“You can break me.” You told him, finding your voice as his fingers stilled. He pulled his fingers from your pussy, and his thumb pulled your chin down. His fingers went to your mouth. “Don’t want you to move. Just let me do all the work. I’ll take care of it.” He assured you, and your tongue lapped at his fingers as you nodded. 

He pulled you from the edge of the sink, arm curling around you. “You can stop m–” Your lips pressed against his instead, and he bit back a grin. 

“Shut the fuck up.” You murmured, but you both knew you weren’t in control. Not here, not like this. 

“C’mere.” He said against your mouth. He knew how he wanted this, he had spent every night for the last three months thinking about it. Mind you, he had wanted your first time to be something nice. He had wanted you dolled up like this, but on a date. On a picnic. In a nice hotel. He wanted you on a bed. 

He tugged you off the ground, his other hand unzipping his jeans. He stumbled back against the wall, sliding down against the bench near the door of the bathroom. You straddled him on your knees, not yet pressed down but close. One hand held your panties to the side and the other stroked himself once - twice. He didn't give you time, large hands grabbing your ass and tugging you down onto his cock raw. 

He groaned. “Please, don't fucking move.” He said against your mouth. One hand moved to your hair, pulling you back to look down at him. “Fuck, don't fucking move – just let me –” He was cut off as you moaned. His hand wrapped around the back of your thigh, and with inhuman strength he began to move you just like that. 

He moaned, eyes nearly rolling back as he let gravity do the work of bringing you down before he pulled you up. You made a choked noise as he dragged against the inside of your pussy like he was made to be there. Each delicious inch of Bucky Barnes slipped into your pussy like it was made for you

The stretch was borderline painful, his cock nearly too big to take. “Gonna break you, I'm sorry.” He said with a grunt, fingers digging into your skin. “You're so fucking tight, I – no one else can have you. I can't let them.” He rambled, forcing you to take him harder. Your eyes rolled and he released a rough chuckle. 

“Look at you, giving me what's already mine like a good fucking girl.” Your stomach tightened and he gasped as he felt your hips jerk and your tight heat flutter. “Fuck, you liked that, huh? My good girl knows exactly where she belongs, don't you?” 

Do you? Fuck, he's right. This is it. The pinnacle of success. Nothing will ever feel as good as Bucky Barnes’ cock.

“Say it.” He demanded, and you moaned as he tugged your hair back. “Tell me you belong here. With me.” his lips pressed against your throat then. 

“I belong here,” you managed to say, his cock punching up into you. “With you, Bucky.” His hand released your hair, arm circling your waist as his flesh hand bounced you harder. You coiled tight around him as his head fell to your chest. He released something between a whimper and a moan. 

“Fuck,” he said, voice muffled in your chest. Someone approached the bathroom, but his foot shot out to wedge the door closed as you moaned in his lap. You didn't even notice as he kissed up your chest. “Baby, you taste holy.” He sounded like he'd cry as he watched you. 

He nipped at your nipple through your dress, and he felt it then. The tightening that meant you were going to cum. “God, that's it. You gonna cum for me?” He bit into your other nipple next. You whined out his name like it was scripture. 

“Fuck, Bucky.” You gasped, hand curling tighter in his hair. 

“Tell me you're mine again.” He said, hips beginning to thrust up into you slow and deep as he brought you down onto his cock hard. 

“Yours.” It was true, wasn't it? All that pretending and you never buried anything, did you? “I promise.”

“Oh fuck,” He cursed. His hands moved. Vibranium went to your hip to force you down on his cock as he brought his flesh thumb to his mouth. 

His left arm forced you harder, and your back curved towards him with a whine as he pressed against that spongey spot that made tears spring to your eyes. “Gonna-”

“Yeah, you're gonna cum for me, aren't you?” His brows drew tight as he went hot all over. His thumb dropped between you, and he rubbed your throbbing clit in fast circles. “Cum on my cock, baby. Let me – Oh, fuck – There she is…Fuck!” 

He gasped as you began to cum on his cock, the tether between you snapping as he drove up into you three more times. He swelled at the tip, went white hot, and then marked you in a way you couldn't heal away. He didn't stop forcing you down onto his cock until the last of his cum drained from him. Then he held let you sit across his lap as you panted. 

“I’m sor–” Your mouth found his, cutting off his apologies. His brows drew tight in the center, eyes fluttering closed as you kissed him like it would fix it. Your eyes opened finally, and you let your head drop to his shoulder. 

“Me too.” You heard yourself say. The illusion shattered in a moment. One moment you were begging him to break you, and the next you could scent magic in the air like bad perfume. 

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