#queuelle

You turned, your eyes dropping to the flesh fingers wrapped around your wrist, then rising to meet his face. His jaw flexed. Tension rolled off him, held back behind stubble and armor and a soldier’s discipline he wore like a second skin. But it was more than that.

He knew how this worked. You both did. Sometimes missions blurred into seduction. Sometimes flirtation was the weapon.

Still—he breathed out, voice dropping. “I know what this is. I know you’ve gotta flirt. Play the part. That’s fine.”

You held his gaze, silent.

“But I’m gonna be in that room too,” he added, quieter now, almost like it hurt to say. “Watching him look at you. Listening to every word you say in my goddamn ear. And I can take a lot, but I’m still a man, alright?”

His thumb brushed across your pulse—gentle now. “Just don’t overdo it. Don’t give him more than what’s needed. Don’t make me sit there and hear you moan in his ear like it doesn’t fucking ruin me.”

The last part nearly broke in his throat. It wasn’t anger. It was something else. Something hot and human, coated in restraint.

You softened.

“I know,” you said, quieter. “It’s just a means to an end, Bucky. You have my word. I’ll do just enough.”

His eyes searched yours like he needed to be sure. Needed it anchored.

You gave him a small nod.

But deep inside, you knew.

These missions never stuck to plan. Sometimes the target needed a little push. Sometimes—when the drug took too long, when the man was strong, when timing burned too fast—you had to exaggerate. Make it look real.

And maybe, just maybe…

tonight would cross that line.

—

The club slammed into your senses—bass pounding through the floor, lights slicing in deep violet and strobe white. The air smelled like sweat, spilled liquor, and desperate heat. You walked in wrapped in that second-skin black silk, your dress clinging to every curve like it had been poured on. Short. Low-cut. Slick with sin.

You didn’t head to the target right away. You let yourself exist first—moving through the room like your heels wrote every beat of the music. You knew the asset was watching. You felt his eyes from the second you crossed the threshold.

Two tables behind, you knew Bucky was watching, too. Close enough to cover you. Far enough to let you work. His voice echoed in your head even now: “Don’t make me sit there and hear you moan in his ear like it doesn’t fucking ruin me.”

You swallowed it down. Focused.

The asset looked exactly as briefed—ex-military bulk softened by money and whiskey. Sharp eyes. Thick hands. Smiling like he already owned the room.

His men came to you, one leaning in just enough to graze your hip. “He’d like to meet you.”

You smiled. Innocent. Deadly. “That’s sweet. But I like to make the first move.”

You crossed the space, hips swaying. His gaze never left your legs.

In your hand: a glass of vodka, clear as a lie. Laced. Fast-acting. Measured.

You slid into the booth beside him, placing the drink between you.

“Didn’t think a man like you would have to send others to flirt for him,” you said, voice like warm smoke.

He chuckled, slow. “I like efficiency.”

You stirred the vodka with your finger—smooth, teasing—then pulled it back and offered the glass with a smirk. “So do I.”

He took it. Drank. Eyes never leaving the curve of your mouth.

You leaned in, just close enough for your perfume to do the talking. “This kind of attention you always get, or am I just special?”

He let his gaze drop, soaking in the cleavage framed perfectly by the dress. “You’re not like the girls I usually see here.”

“I’m not a girl,” you murmured. “And you’re not just some guy, either.”

You let it linger in the air. Heavy. Coded.

He shifted closer. “You speak in riddles?”

“I speak in trades,” you said, voice low. “You look like a man who deals in things that shouldn’t be touched.”

He smiled, drunk on you—but not drunk enough. The serum should’ve hit harder by now. Should’ve softened his eyes, loosened his tongue. But he was sharp. Solid. The clock was ticking.

You glanced toward Bucky’s table.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But your skin burned under the weight of his stare.

You knew what you were about to do would hurt him.

But this wasn’t a game anymore.

So you swung a leg over the asset’s lap and settled down, smooth and slow. The hem of your dress barely covered your ass now, riding up just enough to reveal the snug stretch of your tactical shorts—black, skin-tight, regulation-issue but cut scandalously high for mobility. His eyes dipped lower, breath catching as the illusion unraveled.

Your shorts pressed flush against the bulge already forming beneath him, the fabric thin but secure—barrier, not invitation. His breath hitched. His hands landed at your waist, eager and clumsy, fingertips brushing the edge of nylon instead of skin. You let your hips roll once, slow, deliberate—not to tease, but to extract. Mechanical. Controlled. Just enough friction to fry his brain and loosen his tongue.

“What are you guarding so tight?” you whispered in his ear. “Where does it sleep? Who tucks it in?”

He groaned, breath hitching. “Red Hook… basement level… old biotech clinic—front’s shut down. Back entrance behind the deli. Third keypad to the left… code’s three-nine-alpha…”

You tilted your head to let him nibble your earlobe while he spoke, your hands running lazily over his chest. You hated it. Hated every second. But your face didn’t show it.

Not until his words slurred. His grip slackened. And his head dropped back.

Out cold.

The drink finally worked.

You climbed off slowly, fixing your dress with careful fingers.

And when you stood?

You didn’t need to look.

You felt Bucky’s stare drilling into your spine. Hot. Furious. Silent.

You’d done what you promised.

Just enough.

Barely.

But the line had been razor-thin.

And the aftermath?

It was coming for you.

—

Bucky didn’t say a word when you stepped away from the asset.

Didn’t look at you.

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t even breathe your direction.

He just turned. Shoulders drawn tight. Vibranium fist clenched. He moved fast, controlled, vanishing through the back exit of the club like he couldn’t stand to be in the same room as you one second longer.

The comm in your ear clicked off.

That silence hit harder than any slap.

You stood there for a breath—dress still slightly hiked, heart hammering against your ribs—before forcing your legs to move. Every step down the hallway felt heavier. Guilt wrapped around your spine like ice. You hadn’t wanted to go that far. But you’d known the second the serum lagged that it was either that grind… or let the op slip through your fingers.

You pushed through the alley door into the night.

The air outside was sharp and sour—wet asphalt, exhaust, the dull hum of street noise. The black SUV waited by the curb, engine already running. Bucky sat behind the wheel, face cast in the glow of the dash lights. Vibranium hand flexed once on the wheel. Then again.

You approached carefully, like he might shatter if you spoke too soon.

You slid into the passenger seat. Closed the door softly.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak.

Just stared straight ahead, jaw locked, teeth clenched so tight it looked painful. The city passed in silence as he pulled out onto the road, hands steady, eyes burning holes in the traffic.

You glanced down at your lap, fingers fidgeting. “I had to get him talking before the serum kicked in,” you said quietly. “He was resisting it harder than expected.”

Still nothing.

“Bucky…”

He exhaled—through his nose. Sharp. Barely contained.

“I know why you did it.”

His voice came out flat. Controlled.

You turned toward him, catching the hard line of his jaw, the way that vein in his neck was still ticking.

“I just—he was slipping under, and I knew if I didn’t do something, I’d lose him. I wasn’t enjoying it—”

“But you fucking ground your hips on him,” Bucky snapped, eyes finally cutting to you. His voice didn’t rise, but it cracked, broken glass under velvet. “You pressed your body against another man’s cock like it wasn’t mine you’re supposed to be riding.”

Your breath hitched. Shame curled in your stomach like fire.

“I didn’t want to,” you said. “It was only ever for you.”

He looked away again, jaw flexing hard.

“I get it,” he said, after a moment. “I do.”

But it didn’t sound like understanding.

It sounded like restraint.

He said nothing else.

Just kept driving.

Until his right hand—the flesh one—left the gear shift and slid onto your thigh. Slowly. Hot.

You blinked, heart skipping. His palm moved up, lifting your dress inch by inch until the tactical shorts underneath came into view—thin, black, still dry against your skin. A reminder: that entire act, that entire grind? It meant nothing. No arousal. No pleasure. Just strategy.

But when his fingers slid under the waistband?

When his knuckles brushed your heat?

That’s when your breath hitched.

Because you started getting wet then—only then. Your body responding to him, and no one else.

He paused for half a second. Felt the shift. The slow bloom of warmth between your thighs.

A low growl rumbled from his chest.

“Look at that,” he muttered, voice low, dark, possessive. “You’re only getting wet now, sweetheart. Not for him. Not up there in his fucking lap.”

You whimpered, your thighs tensing, hips twitching toward his touch.

“This?” His fingers pushed deeper. “This is mine. No one gets this but me.”

“Only you,” you breathed, voice barely holding. “Only you, Buck.”

His fingers pumped slow at first—two… then three. His thumb flicked your clit in lazy circles while the pads of his fingers curled up, hitting that spot that made your mouth fall open in a gasp.

You moaned. Soft. Stifled.

But not enough.

“Say my name,” he growled. “Say it like it fucking means something.”

You tried. Choked on it.

He fucked his fingers in deeper.

“Say it.”

“Bucky,” you gasped, the sound breaking free as your head tipped back. “Bucky—please—”

He swerved hard into a side street. Then another. Pulled into an alley dark as sin, hidden behind crates and dumpsters and silence. He slammed the car into park. Killed the lights.

Turned toward you with that fire in his eyes.

—

“Back seat,” he ordered. “Shorts off. Now.”

You didn’t question it.

Didn’t ask.

You scrambled over the center console, breath caught in your chest, heat pooling between your thighs. The dress was already bunched around your waist, riding high. You leaned back against the cold window, knees bent on the seat, and finally hooked your fingers under the edge of your tactical shorts—still clinging to your thighs, still damp with your own guilt.

You peeled your shorts down, slow but shaky, skin prickling as you dragged them past your knees and tossed them aside. The leather was cold beneath you, but your body burned hot. You shifted, leaned back against the SUV window, legs parting instinctively in the tight space.

Through the tinted glass, you saw Bucky climb out of the front seat, jaw tight, eyes stormy.

He slammed the door behind him, hard enough to rattle the frame—then opened the rear passenger side.

And when he stepped in, he filled the entire space.

Broad shoulders ducked low, head nearly brushing the ceiling, body moving with purpose as he sank into the backseat with you. The air between you thickened instantly—hot, electric, inevitable.

He was everywhere. The space felt smaller with him inside it—broad shoulders brushing the roof, body folding awkwardly in the tight quarters, but he made it work. He always did. And now, he was on his knees between your thighs, crouched over you, arms braced on either side like a man caging what’s his.

“No more pretending,” he rasped, breath thick, eyes locked on your dripping heat.

He gripped your thighs, calloused fingers digging in, spreading you wide open.

“No more acting.”

Then his breath hit your folds. Hot. Possessive.

“And no one,” he growled, voice dark and deadly, “will ever make you come the way I do.”

Then he buried his face in your pussy like it was his fucking prize.

Not soft.

Not slow.

But god, not careless either.

He licked you like he needed it to breathe—tongue flat and strong, dragging up your slit and latching onto your clit like he was starving for it. He sucked hard. Claimed it. The sound of it—wet, lewd, hungry—filled the cramped SUV, echoing off the windows.

You moaned, legs already trembling, head thudding softly against the glass.

He groaned into you—tongue flicking, circling, devouring—like he knew exactly how your body worked and wanted to remind you who trained it. His nose brushed your mound, his chin soaked with you, his mouth relentless.

It wasn’t just need.

It was marking.

Like he was writing his name in your cunt with every lick, letting the whole damn city know whose you were.

You squirmed, overwhelmed, but he locked your hips in place.

“Stay still,” he warned, voice raw against your skin. “Take it. You owe me this.”

You gasped, back arching, nails digging into his scalp.

“James—fuck—”

“Say it louder,” he growled, licking harder now. “I want it echoing in your fucking skull the next time you let someone else touch what’s mine.”

“Bucky,” you choked out. “Bucky, please—I’m—”

Your voice shattered as the orgasm slammed through you—hot, fast, brutal. You came on his mouth with your thighs trembling and his name torn from your throat like it was ripped from the center of you.

But he didn’t stop.

Even as you cried out, shaking, spent—he kept going.

He licked you through it, slow and thorough. Cleaning you up. Tasting you like you were the only thing that could calm the fire still burning in his chest. His mouth dragged along your folds like he needed more. Like he’d never get enough.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were swollen, chin soaked, eyes burning.

He leaned up, voice rough and quiet.

“Mine.”

Then he backed out of the seat and got behind the wheel again—still hard, still silent, cock straining against his pants as he shifted back into drive.

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t have to.

You were panting in the passenger seat, legs still spread, cunt still aching from his mouth.

And the safehouse?

Ten minutes away.

You weren’t going to walk out of that room.

You were going to crawl.

—

Bucky killed the engine like it had offended him. His hands were still tight on the wheel. His cock was straining, painful in his pants, his breath ragged from holding back ever since he licked you raw in the backseat.

He got out first—door slamming shut behind him—then moved to the rear.

The moment the back door opened, you blinked up at him, legs still parted slightly, the hem of your black dress bunched indecently high on your hips. Your tactical shorts were somewhere on the floorboard. Forgotten.

His jaw ticked hard.

Without a word, he reached in—gripped your waist, fingers biting into your skin—and pulled you out like you weighed nothing. You gasped, hands flying to his shoulders, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

You could feel his cock through the rough fabric of his pants—thick, hot, pressed right between your thighs.

Your lips crashed into his before either of you could think.

It was rough. All tongue and teeth. No rhythm. Just claiming. His vibranium hand gripped your waist to keep you balanced, fingers pressing through the dress. His flesh hand slipped low—cupping your bare ass under the hem, gripping, kneading.

You moaned against his mouth, and he answered with a groan that rumbled from deep in his chest.

He carried you like that—mouth on yours, kissing like he was branding you—toward the front door of the safehouse. His back hit the wall as he fumbled for the keypad, keying in the code with fast, practiced taps. The lock clicked.

The door opened.

He stepped inside, still holding you up, the door swinging shut behind with a deep slam that vibrated through the floor.

You didn’t stop kissing.

You couldn’t stop.

He walked you deeper inside, mouth never leaving yours, breath hot, cock twitching against the heat of you. Each step toward the bedroom felt like another second he was barely keeping it together.

By the time he reached the doorway, you were gasping into his mouth—desperate, wrecked, clinging.

He broke the kiss with a heavy breath. Set you down slowly, like he was restraining the urge to throw you on the bed and rip the rest of your clothes off in one go.

His eyes dropped, dragging down your body.

Then he spoke—voice low, rough, possessive.

“Strip. All of it.”

You didn’t hesitate. Hands went to the hem of your dress, still clinging to your skin—wrinkled from the SUV, soaked with heat and sweat. The black silk slipped up your body in one smooth pull, dragging across your hips, your waist, your breasts.

The backless cut slid over your shoulders like a final sigh before you tossed it aside.

No bra. Just bare skin. Breasts flushed and rising with your breath. Nipples tight. Still sensitive from the way you’d been edged on the drive here.

Bucky’s jaw flexed. His eyes dropped—drank in everything.

He knew. He’d seen the way the fucker had looked at you. Had seen his eyes drop to your cleavage over and over again. Had heard the bastard groan when your pussy rubbed against his lap.

And now here you were—naked in front of him.

And he was the only one who got to touch.

As you stood there naked, his hands went to the buttons of his shirt. He popped them open one by one—quick, clean. Then peeled it off and let it drop to the floor behind him.

His pants?

He unbuttoned them. That was it. He met your gaze as he pushed the waistband down just an inch—enough to reveal the shadow of V-lines and the thick bulge still fighting for release.

He stepped closer, low voice sharp and steady:

“You started this.”

His gaze dropped to your still-wet cunt.

“Now you’re gonna take everything I’ve got.”

—

Bucky’s pants were already unbuttoned, low on his hips, the thick shape of him straining against black boxer briefs. He looked down at you, chest rising and falling, eyes dark and hungry.

“On your knees,” he rasped. “You wanna make it up to me, sweetheart? Start there.”

You dropped instantly—knees hitting the hardwood, palms sliding up his thighs.

He hissed through his teeth when you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and dragged them down just enough.

His cock sprang free.

Hard. Thick. Flushed deep red at the tip and already leaking. Your mouth watered.

He watched you watch him. Smirked like he was reading your mind.

“Like what you see?” he murmured. “Is this what you were thinking about while grinding on that fucker’s lap?”

You shook your head, breath shallow, voice barely a whisper. “Only ever think about yours.”

He stepped closer, cock inches from your lips. “Say it again.”

“Only want your cock,” you said, eyes locked on his. “Always.”

“Yeah?” He reached down, wrapped his metal hand around the base, gave it one slow stroke. “You want it in that pretty mouth?”

You didn’t answer. You just opened your mouth and took him.

The first inch made his hips stutter. The next made him groan.

“Fuuuck, baby…”

You slid your tongue along the underside, hollowing your cheeks as you sank lower—taking more, deeper, until your nose brushed his pelvis and spit started to drip down your chin. You bobbed your head with purpose, working him like you’d done this a hundred times—like his cock was the only thing you were meant to swallow.

He hissed, one hand gripping your hair, the other braced against the wall behind him.

“God damn—you look so fucking good with my cock in your mouth.” His voice was gravel now. “So fuckin’ perfect… every inch of it.”

You moaned around him—on purpose—tongue curling just right, letting the sound vibrate through his shaft.

His hips jerked forward and he groaned. Deep. Raw.

“Oh, you like that, huh?” he growled. “You like the taste of my cock? Like how it fills that needy little throat?”

You moaned again, this time louder, eyes fluttering shut as you sucked harder—lips tight around him, spit pooling at the corners.

“Look at you,” he panted. “So desperate to please me. All that shit back there, and now you’re here… gagging for it.”

You swallowed around him once. Then again.

He let out a broken, wrecked sound that made your thighs clench.

“My cock,” he muttered, voice gone low and fucked-out. “Always gonna be yours, baby. No one else gets it. No one else deserves it.”

—

Your throat was wrecked from the effort—slick with spit, lips swollen around his cock as you sucked him deeper, faster, like you couldn’t get enough of the taste of him.

Bucky’s hips twitched, breath hissing through his teeth, every muscle in his thighs taut.

“Fuck—don’t stop, baby. Don’t you fuckin’ stop—”

You moaned around him again, greedy and soft, and that was it.

His grip in your hair tightened—his thighs locked—and then his cock pulsed once, twice, and he let go with a deep, broken groan.

Hot, thick ropes of cum painted your face.

Across your cheek. Your lips. Your chin. A drip landed at the corner of your mouth, warm and heavy. He held your head still, letting it happen. Letting you take it.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he panted. “Just like that.”

You stayed there, kneeling, breath shallow and mouth parted—cum dripping down your skin, cooling in the air. Dazed. Ruined.

But he wasn’t done admiring you.

He reached down, cupped your jaw in both hands—flesh and vibranium—guiding you up, slow, until you were standing again, swaying slightly on your feet. His thumbs dragged through the mess he left, smearing it across your flushed cheeks, his eyes devouring every inch.

Then he leaned in.

And licked it off your skin.

His tongue dragged up your cheek—slow, filthy—then circled the corner of your mouth. He moaned low, like the taste of his own cum on your skin satisfied something animal in him.

“Mine,” he growled, voice dark and reverent. “You wear it so fuckin’ well.”

You whimpered, eyes half-lidded as his tongue lapped once more—this time over your bottom lip.

Then, without warning, his arms wrapped around your thighs and lifted you clean off the floor.

You gasped as your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist again, arms clutching his shoulders. His cock, still hard and leaking, pressed between your soaked folds—barely touching, just there, heavy and teasing as he walked you across the room toward the bed.

You felt it—every step—the way your slick coated his length, the head of him bumping your clit, sliding through your folds as he carried you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, smirking against your neck. “You’re dripping for me only, aren’t you?”

His flesh hand gripped your ass tight, fingers spreading across the soft skin like he owned it.

“You dirty little slut,” he growled—voice smug, filthy, hungry. “All this mess, and you’re still so fucking wet for me.”

You moaned against his throat, clinging to him tighter.

“You think sucking me off makes it even?” he breathed. “Nah. You’re not off the hook, sweetheart. Not ‘til I’ve fucked that grind out of your memory.”

He reached the bed.

Dropped you onto the mattress with a low grunt, his chest heaving.

—

You looked up just in time to see him wrap one hand around his cock—thick, flushed, still slick with your spit and the mess between your thighs. He stroked himself once, slow, his jaw clenching tight as his hand glided over the length.

Your slick made every sound wetter, filthier. And he watched you like you were prey.

“Turn around,” he said—voice low, gravel-wrapped filth. “Back to me.”

You obeyed instantly.

Rolled over, lifted your hips, and grabbed the nearest pillow—propping yourself up just right. Your chest sank into the sheets as your ass rose high, knees spread wide to accommodate for his size, your folds glistening and parted, waiting for him.

You heard it. That sound. That moan he didn’t even try to hold back.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathed. “So perfect. So fucking obedient for me.”

You arched deeper, giving him more. Offering yourself the way he liked—completely. Without hesitation.

He stepped between your legs and ran the thick head of his cock through your folds—gathering slick, bumping your clit once, twice, making you whimper into the sheets.

“You’re soaked,” he muttered, voice low and tight. “Dripping all over me.”

Then he pushed in.

Slow.

Deep.

Thick.

The stretch made your mouth fall open, eyes squeezed shut as he filled you with one steady thrust—your cunt sucking him in, clenching around every inch.

“Goddamn,” he groaned, hands gripping your hips. “You were made for this cock.”

You whimpered, body tensing, back arching deeper.

“Yeah… that’s it, baby,” he murmured, rocking in just a little more. “Feel that? Feel how tight you are around me? Fuckin’ gripping me.”

He bottomed out, hips pressed against your ass, and let out a low, broken moan.

“Shit. So fucking good. This pussy—this cunt—was made to take me.”

Then he started moving.

Thrusting hard. Controlled. Not rough—but not gentle either. A rhythm built for branding, for claiming, every movement steady and deliberate. His cock slammed into you with that perfect drag—thick and hot, sliding through soaked walls that welcomed every inch like it belonged there.

You moaned into the pillow, fingers gripping the sheets, your thighs trembling as he fucked you deeper.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “Ass up, knees wide, taking every fucking inch like a good little slut.”

You whimpered—because it wrecked you when he said it like that. Not to degrade, but to own. To punish you in pleasure.

“My good girl,” he moaned. “You’re so fucking wet for me. Clenching like you need it.”

Each thrust slammed your hips forward, his grip unrelenting, cock buried in you over and over again, the sound of skin on skin filthy and perfect.

And he wasn’t even close to done.

—

You were moaning into the pillow, fingers clawing at the sheets, every thrust dragging you closer to the edge.

“Bucky—fuck—I’m gonna come,” you gasped, voice high and wrecked, thighs trembling under the force of him.

But his hands didn’t slow.

If anything, they tightened on your hips.

“Not yet,” he growled. “Not the fucking time, baby.”

His hand tangled in your hair, tugging your head back—not too rough, just firm, in charge—until your spine arched and your mouth fell open in a cry.

Then he slammed into you harder. Deeper.

You could barely breathe. His cock pounded into you from behind, thick and relentless, dragging over every perfect spot inside you. Your slick made it loud, each thrust a wet slap that echoed through the room.

You sobbed, close, body twitching.

“Please, Bucky—I can’t—”

He yanked your hair again—harder this time—until you were upright, your back flush to his chest, ass pressed against his hips. You whimpered, the new angle hitting you even deeper, your cunt fluttering around him as your orgasm crashed through you with violent, blinding heat.

You squirted, soaking his cock, the sheets, everything.

And Bucky? Fucking smirked.

“Goddamn,” he grunted, cock twitching inside you. “Look at that mess, baby. Look at what you gave me. No one’s ever made you come like that.”

You were shaking, limp in his arms—but he didn’t let go.

Didn’t stop.

He kept going—fucking you through the aftershocks, through the overstimulation, through the trembling cries that spilled from your mouth as your pussy clenched again and again.

“Bucky—James please—too much—”

Your voice broke, hoarse, desperate, head falling back onto his shoulder.

But he just moaned into your ear, voice filthy and breathless.

“No, baby. You don’t get to tap out yet.”

His teeth grazed your jaw as he drove into you again, rougher now, cock dragging through your soaked walls like he was trying to ruin them.

“This’s what happens,” he growled, “when you grind your pretty little pussy on another man’s lap.”

You sobbed again, your cunt fluttering around him uncontrollably.

“You let him feel it,” he panted, hips slamming up into you. “Now I get to remind it who the fuck it belongs to.”

You whimpered, hands slipping off your thighs, too weak to hold yourself up.

He caught you, arm locked under your chest, still fucking into you like it was the only language he spoke.

“This pussy,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous, “is mine. Say it.”

—

Your voice broke again—“Bucky—too much—please—”

And this time, instead of pleading the word, you meant it.

You reached back, tapping his thigh gently, hips squirming away as your overstimulated cunt fluttered helplessly around him. Your hand slid to his, guiding it away, your body trembling in the cradle of his chest.

He got the message.

He slowed.

Breathed heavy against your back… and finally let you go.

He pulled out with a low, drawn-out groan—his cock slick, flushed, twitching from the effort not to come right there. He sat back on his knees, then dropped off the bed, standing at the foot now, watching you like something sacred.

You moved slow. Gently flipped onto your back, thighs still shaking. You folded your knees up, spread them apart, presenting yourself with your head tipped to the side, hair messy against the sheets. Your fingers slipped between your folds, teasing yourself—wet, messy, flushed from being pounded raw. You looked at him through heavy, lidded eyes.

“My pretty little pussy’s only for you, baby.”

His mouth parted.

His body twitched.

“Fuuucking Christ,” he muttered, voice half-broken, hand running down his face. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

He climbed back onto the bed—over you now—knees braced to either side of your hips, cock bobbing near your entrance but not touching yet. He leaned in and kissed you—really kissed you. Slow. Deep. Tongue sliding against yours with a reverence that made your chest ache.

He pulled back just enough to pant against your lips. “I fucking love you,” he moaned. “Every part of you. Every inch. You know that, right?”

You nodded, dazed, breathless. “I know. I love you too.”

He kissed you again—one hand cradling your face, the other made of vibranium, cold but careful as it slid down your chest. He cupped your breast, thumb teasing the peak, fingers squeezing gently. Your nipple twitched under the metal and he smirked against your mouth.

“So sensitive,” he whispered.

Then he slid down your body, vibranium fingers trailing from your breast to your slick heat. He circled your clit gently, slow and patient now—just enough pressure to make your hips jerk. You were so wet still. So open.

One vibranium finger slipped in.

You gasped.

He groaned.

“Still clenching,” he murmured. “Still so fucking tight for me.”

He thrust it slowly once, twice, and then pulled it out—watching your walls twitch around the loss.

Then he grabbed his cock—thick, veined, soaked—and lined himself up again. He braced one hand on the mattress, the other at your thigh, and pushed back inside—slow and deep, his moan shaking through your chest.

Not rough this time.

Not punishing.

But no less intense.

He fucked you with love now—hips rolling into yours, cock dragging over every sensitive spot like he knew the shape of you from the inside out.

Every thrust said: you’re mine. I love you. You’re safe.

And your pussy soaked it in like it never wanted anything else.

—

Bucky’s thrusts were slow and deep now, rolling through you like waves—his hands sliding under your thighs to press your legs higher, folding you up just the way he knew drove you wild.

“Hold them here,” he whispered, voice rough and reverent as he guided your knees up toward your chest. “Let me in deeper, baby.”

You obeyed, trembling slightly as your knees framed your chest, and he slid in all the way—his cock dragging through your dripping, overstimulated walls with a rhythm that felt like he was fucking straight into your soul.

He leaned down, pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, your collarbone—then sucked, just enough to leave hickeys blooming across your skin.

Marks.

Proof.

His.

“I love you,” he murmured between kisses. “Love your body. Love this pussy. Love you.”

His thrusts deepened, hips rocking harder now—controlled but urgent.

“You love me too, right?” he whispered near your ear, voice quieter now. “You only act like that with me, yeah? Only mine, baby?”

You nodded, breath catching, hands gripping his shoulders. “Only you, Bucky. Always you.”

That broke him.

“Fuck,” he groaned—just as your orgasm slammed through you again.

You clenched around him, crying out his name, and he came with you—cock pulsing deep inside as he filled you with heat, hips jerking forward in short, frantic bucks. His moans were wrecked, low and filthy against your neck.

Even after he emptied everything into you, he didn’t move.

Didn’t pull out.

He shifted, carefully—sliding one arm under your back, the other under your thigh—until he could lay beside you in that tight fit of tangled limbs. His cock still inside, your bodies joined. Your walls fluttered around him in soft, pulsing squeezes, but they were easing now, slowing. Content.

You exhaled, eyes closed, lips parted.

Done.

So full of him.

So full of love.

He left soft, fluttery kisses on your cheek. Then a plush one on your lips.

You smiled against his mouth.

“Baby,” he whispered, nudging his nose against yours. “We gotta clean you up. We still need to shower.”

You hummed, too tired to lift your head. “You carry me. I can’t feel my legs.”

He chuckled. “I got you.”

—

The water was warm, steam curling around your bodies. Bucky stood behind you, gently massaging shampoo into your hair with careful fingers, rinsing you like you were made of something breakable. His cock had softened, finally, resting against your lower back.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into your wet shoulder. “If I was too rough. If I hurt you.”

You shook your head lightly, water cascading down your back. “I’d do the same if you were the one grinding on another woman.”

He stilled behind you.

You added, voice soft but dark, “Actually… I’d probably do worse. Maybe a little dick-chopping.”

Silence.

Then—“Jesus fuck,” Bucky muttered, stepping back half a step. “You’re not joking.”

You turned your head slightly, smirking. “I don’t joke about that kind of thing.”

He grabbed your shoulders gently to turn you around. The shampoo dripped down your temples, eyes squinted closed as you faced him.

He cradled your cheeks in his palms, kissed your nose once, then said with absolute sincerity:

“I swear on my long-ass life… I will never, ever test that.”

You both laughed—soft and tired—your foreheads resting against each other under the water.

Still full of heat.

Still full of love.

You’d tried everything to get out of it. Claimed you were on your period—he handed you a heating pad and said you could rest after one lap. Told him you were sleepy—he brought you coffee and kissed your forehead until you got dressed. Said you had pending reports—he reminded you your team was off today and physically took your phone away.

Today? There was no escape. Bucky Barnes had made up his mind, and your ass was getting dragged out of bed.

He stood just a few paces away now, breathing easily, barely a sheen of sweat on his stupidly perfect face. He looked like he’d gone out for a casual walk. Meanwhile, your lungs were in revolt and your legs were contemplating early retirement. He’d lapped you more times than you could count, each time with that smug little grin and a wink like he wasn’t actively trying to kill you.

You shot him a death glare as you hunched over, hands on your thighs, gasping.

“Traitor,” you muttered under your breath.

As if summoned by your suffering, Bucky jogged back to your side, eyes sparkling with amusement and affection—those glacier-blue depths that always managed to look soft when they were fixed on you. Not a drop of sweat clung to his skin. His dark hair was perfectly tousled, not drenched, and his black jacket hugged every line of his body like it was tailored to worship him. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a photoshoot, not finished a ten-mile run.

He grinned, all charm and mischief. “Finally done, baby?”

You groaned, dragging yourself upright with one last dramatic breath. “Not fair,” you pouted, lips dry, voice hoarse. “I could do better if I had the damn serum too.”

He let out a low laugh and reached up to ruffle your hair, even though you flinched away with a whine. “Yeah? You did ten miles, babe. Most people can’t even do three. I’m proud of you.”

“You’re evil,” you said, but it came out weak, almost fond.

Bucky leaned in, brushing a kiss against your temple. “C’mere,” he murmured, crouching a little and patting his broad shoulder. “I’ll piggyback you home.”

Your heart stuttered—because yeah, maybe he made you run like a prisoner in a bootcamp, but goddamn if he didn’t make up for it by being the sweetest man alive. You climbed onto his back with a tired whimper, arms looping around his neck. His hands slid under your thighs, hoisting you easily, and you let your cheek rest against his shoulder, body melting against his.

His scent—sweat, faint cedar, something like pine and leather—invaded your lungs and calmed you. The warm press of his body, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the easy strength in his arms…

You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to do anything.

Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the ache between your legs every time he handled you like this—effortlessly, confidently—but you found yourself sinking into that helpless softness, completely pliant in his arms.

—

You didn’t even bother to shower. Despite Bucky’s firm reminder not to touch the bed while you were soaked in sweat, you collapsed onto it anyway the second he set you down. Face-first, limbs sprawled. Every cell in your body screamed for mercy.

“I just told you not to get outside clothes on the bed, doll,” he grumbled somewhere behind you. “You’re gonna stink up the whole damn—”

You didn’t care. Not when your legs felt like they’d been boiled alive. Not when your lungs were still trying to remember how to breathe properly. And certainly not when the mattress beneath you felt like heaven incarnate. The sheets cradled your body, warm and soft and forgiving. You’d survived. Barely.

It didn’t matter that Bucky had carried you the entire way home—twenty-five minutes by foot, uphill, with ease—while you just clung to him like a human backpack. Your legs still hated you. They pulsed with soreness, heavy and limp, and you were too far gone to even strip off your sticky sports bra or peel off your leggings. You sank deeper into the bed, eyes fluttering shut, your entire body a weighted ache.

But then…

That warmth crept up your spine.

Subtle at first. A flicker. A ghost of pressure between your thighs. That slow build of something… needy.

Oh.

No.

You knew this feeling. That low hum of arousal that started in your stomach and melted downward like honey. It was ridiculous, wasn’t it? You were half-dead from exercise, fully clothed, not even freshly showered, and still—your body ached in a different way now.

You remembered reading somewhere that intense physical activity could trigger arousal. Some post-workout hormonal thing. At the time, you’d laughed.

Apparently, you were the chosen one.

You squirmed slightly on the bed, as subtly as your aching muscles would allow. The friction of the tight fabric between your thighs made your breath hitch. Oh, fuck.

You turned your head just barely, cheek pressed to the mattress, eyes tracking Bucky as he moved around the room. He was muttering to himself now, tugging off his running shoes and unzipping his sleek black jacket—the fitted kind, snug around his biceps and made for cool-weather runs. Underneath, he wore that short-sleeve compression tee that clung to every line of his chest like second skin. His running pants stayed on—tactical-cut, dark and thick, hugging his thighs and hips like they were molded for him.

Not a single drop of sweat marked his body. His shirt stayed dry. His skin barely flushed. Every muscle in his abdomen shifted with effortless precision when he moved, flexing beneath the fabric, carved and controlled. Even while scolding, even half-annoyed—he was beautiful. Too beautiful.

Still grumbling, he ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Didn’t even stretch after running. I swear, sweetheart, you’re gonna lock up like the Tin Man—”

Your eyes drank him in. Every hard line. Every twitch of his jaw. The way his forearm flexed as he wiped sweat from his brow. The deep V of his hips when he unhooked his belt lazily and tossed it on the floor. You didn’t even notice yourself moan.

It slipped out without warning. A soft, pathetic sound from the back of your throat.

Bucky paused mid-sentence.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at him. But you knew he heard it.

Still face-down, your lips curved in a sleepy little smile.

Yeah. Maybe you weren’t completely dead after all.

—

You let out a long, heavy sigh as you rolled onto your back, limbs dragging like dead weight. Every muscle screamed. But the second your shoulder blades sank into the mattress, it felt like heaven. You blinked up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling with post-run exhaustion… and something deeper starting to stir underneath it.

You turned your head just slightly and saw him at the foot of the bed, still muttering to himself like a grumpy old man. Something about outside clothes and ruined sheets and “how many times do I have to tell you…” — but your ears had tuned out.

Your eyes hadn’t.

They were locked on the way his black compression tee clung to his torso, outlining every line of muscle like a sin. The way his running pants sat low on his hips, stretching tight over his thighs, leaving nothing to imagination. He was still fully dressed—just his shoes off and his jacket somewhere on the floor—but somehow it was worse like this. More dangerous. Effortless.

You smiled.

Lazy. Sheepish. Just a little mischievous.

He caught it immediately and rolled his eyes.

“Oh no,” he muttered, walking toward the dresser, facing away from you. “Don’t you start.”

“Start what?” you asked sweetly, voice light and high and full of innocent sin.

He ignored you.

You bit your bottom lip. “You know how sexy you are when you’re annoyed, right?”

Still nothing. But you saw the tiniest flex in his jaw.

“I mean it,” you went on, letting your voice drop into a slow, flirty purr. “The way your shirt hugs your back… those tight sleeves… your thighs in those pants? Baby, you look like you were carved for sin.”

“Jesus,” he muttered, head tilted back like he was praying for strength. “You’re laying in your outside clothes right now.”

“And I’m being punished,” you said, utterly unrepentant. “Forced to look at my obscenely hot boyfriend while I can’t even move. Cruel, really.”

He turned to face you then, arms crossed, glaring half-heartedly.

You didn’t blink. Just let your eyes drag down his body, slow and obvious. Your gaze stalled on the outline between his thighs.

“I swear I saw your dick twitch in those pants.”

He scoffed. “It didn’t.”

“It did,” you said, grinning. “Just the tiniest little flinch. Like it heard me.”

His hand dragged down his face. “You’re insufferable.”

You smirked. “Mm. My beloved cock’s on my side, it seems.”

Bucky let out a grunt—sharp and low—and you knew that sound. That was him holding back. Fighting the urge to pounce.

So you gave him the final push.

“Come and use me, baby,” you said, voice soft and aching now, all your earlier teasing stripped down to raw need. “Do me. Just… use me. I’m too spent for anything. My pussy’s throbbing for you. It wants you.”

Your hand lifted weakly from your stomach, hovered over your center—still clothed, still damp with sweat—and fell back to the bed with a soft thud, helpless. Like your body had given up the fight. Like it was offering itself to him.

“I can’t move,” you whispered. “But I need to be fucked. Please, Bucky. I just wanna lie here and be used by you. I don’t care how. Just… do something.”

You meant every word.

There was no game. No act. Just aching limbs and a burning need only he could fill. You needed his weight over you. His hands pinning you down. His voice in your ear telling you how good you were, how soft, how wet, how perfectly made for him.

You watched his eyes darken. His jaw clenched. His fists curled at his sides.

He was already losing the war. And you were more than ready to surrender.

—

Bucky slowly walked toward the bed, steps deliberate, jaw still tight. That grumpy little scowl was fixed on his face—but you saw the corners of his lips twitch. He was trying not to smile.

You knew that face.

You knew he wanted this too. Always did. He’d told you before—muttered it against your neck after long nights, half-asleep, all sincere—that if he had it his way, he’d keep you in bed and fuck you every single day. Just because he could. Just because he loved you. Just because he liked how you let him have you like this—soft and pliant and so damn needy.

He climbed onto the bed slowly, letting his weight dip the mattress, bracing his hands on either side of you as he hovered above. The heat of him soaked into your skin instantly, and your eyes flicked down—straight to the heavy tent straining in his pants.

His breathing had deepened. His eyes darkened.

“Did you mean it?” he asked, voice low, almost quiet.

You blinked up at him, confused at first, brows twitching.

He leaned in just an inch closer. “When you said to use you,” he clarified, eyes locked to yours. “You meant that, baby?”

You nodded, soft and sure. “Just do me however you want, Bucky,” you whispered. “I’m all yours.”

Something in his chest shifted. His shoulders dropped a little, and his mouth curled—not into a full smile, but close. Close enough that it made your stomach flutter.

“Don’t take it back later, doll,” he said, tone teasing but serious underneath.

And then he kissed you.

Not rushed. Not greedy.

Just deep.

He kissed you like he’d waited all day for it. Like this was what he was always meant to be doing. His lips pressed slow and warm against yours, his mouth coaxing you open, his body still hovering while yours stayed limp beneath him. You didn’t lift a finger. Didn’t try to match his intensity. Just let him kiss you how he wanted—how you needed—until your breath caught in your throat.

His vibranium palm came up to cradle your face. Cool against your flushed, overheated cheek. The contrast made you whimper softly, and Bucky pulled back just slightly, catching your bottom lip between his teeth. He nibbled once—gentle—and let it go.

Then his back straightened as he sat up briefly. He tugged the black hair tie from his flesh wrist—always there, always ready—looped it around his fingers, and swept his dark hair back into a low, tight bun at the nape of his neck. That little motion—so casual, so in control—made your thighs twitch.

He leaned back over you, lips hungry this time, and kissed you again, deeper, messier, his flesh hand sliding down over your chest. His touch was firm but reverent, his thumb brushing the slope of your breast before cupping it gently.

Your sports bra—thin, lightly padded, soaked with sweat—clung to your skin like second skin. Your nipples were already stiff beneath it, achingly obvious through the damp fabric, and Bucky let out a low hum when he felt the swell under his palm.

But he wanted more than that.

He sat back just slightly and gripped the hem of your tank top, eyes flicking up to your face like a warning. You didn’t move. Didn’t say a word.

So he peeled it upward, slow and deliberate, baring your stomach first—then your chest. He pushed it all the way up until it was bunched under your armpits, leaving your sports bra fully exposed to him. You were still covered, but barely. The thin material left nothing to the imagination. The outline of your nipples strained against it, sharp and swollen and so temptingly sensitive.

Bucky’s breath hitched.

“Fuck,” he muttered under it, eyes darkening. “So fuckin’ pretty like this.”

He leaned in again, his fingers grazing the side of your breast as he brought his mouth down to the peaked swell pressing through the fabric. He circled his thumb lazily over it first, teasing, coaxing another tiny shift from your hips. Then, with almost reverent control, he let his teeth scrape over the sensitive spot, catching it gently through the bra.

The soft wet drag of his tongue followed—hot, slow, obscene.

You gasped softly, fingers twitching at your sides.

He mouthed your breast through the thin material like he had all the time in the world, like you were the only thing worth worshiping. The fabric stuck to your skin, making every movement exaggerated—every flick of his tongue, every pull of his lips against the soaked material sent sharp heat shooting straight between your legs.

Still, you didn’t move.

You didn’t lift your hand. Didn’t thread your fingers through his hair.

You just laid there, aching.

Lazy. Desperate. Helpless.

Just like you’d promised.

—

You let out a soft, broken moan when his vibranium hand slipped beneath your bra, the chilled metal cupping your breast like it belonged there. The contrast was delicious—cold, precise fingers tracing your heat-swollen skin, gently rolling your nipple between metal fingertips until it ached.

Bucky took his time.

He teased the peak slowly, expertly, watching the way your mouth parted, how your hips gave the faintest twitch in response. Then, after a few lingering strokes, he slid his hand free, only to hook his fingers at the base of the bra and begin peeling it upward.

You felt the stretch of the fabric, the tight tug as he slowly lifted it over your breasts, letting them spill free into the air.

But he wanted more. Full access.

So he moved fast.

In one smooth motion, he wrapped his arms around your waist, lifting you slightly—just enough to free you from the cling of damp cotton—and pulled both your tank top and sports bra off your body with practiced ease. You didn’t lift a finger. You didn’t help. Everything was done by him—quiet, controlled, careful.

Now you were bare to him.

Bucky groaned at the sight. Deep and low, like it came from his chest. His eyes devoured you—soft skin, flushed peaks, the rise and fall of your breath as you just laid there for him.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, already leaning back in.

His mouth found yours again in a deeper kiss—slower this time, wetter, hungrier. Then he began to trail down. Wet kisses along your cheek, then your jaw, his stubble scratching lightly against your skin. His lips dipped to your throat, your collarbone, and lower still. He left hickeys on the way down—faint bruises blooming across your chest like he couldn’t resist leaving his mark.

Then he settled between your breasts.

Cupping them with both hands, he nuzzled his face into the softness of your chest, breathing you in like he was worshiping. You could feel the heat of his breath against your skin before his tongue lapped slowly at one nipple, then the other. His mouth closed around the sensitive peak, wet and reverent. His lips dragged, tongue swirling, teeth gently tugging—then switching to the other breast, groaning low as he tasted you.

He smelled it then. That sweet, slick scent drifting up from between your legs.

Sex and sweat and honey.

You saw him shiver, just slightly, as the scent hit his tongue like a drug.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasped against your skin, lips wet. He kissed down your sternum, slow and wet, trailing spit across your stomach as he moved lower. “You taste so fucking good.”

You moaned again, louder this time. Your legs twitched, your hands balled weakly at your sides. You still couldn’t move. Still didn’t want to. This was what you needed—Bucky taking his time, touching you like you were his to savor.

He reached the waistband of your leggings next. Hooked his fingers under both fabric and panties.

His vibranium hand slid beneath your hips like nothing, lifting you easily—like you weighed nothing at all—while his other hand tugged the tight material down your thighs in one slow drag. He slid off the bed to kneel, pulling them fully down past your knees, past your calves, until they were tossed aside with zero ceremony.

And then he just looked at you.

Laid bare across the bed. Faint bruises scattered across your breasts. Your cunt glistening between parted thighs, slick already dripping onto the sheets beneath you.

His cock strained painfully against his pants.

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” he murmured, eyes blown wide with hunger. “You look so good like this. So fucking sweet. Can’t believe how good you smell—like sex and sugar.”

He stood, yanking his shirt off over his head in one swift pull, then shoved his pants and briefs down together. His cock sprang free with a heavy bounce, flushed and leaking at the tip, arousal glistening across the head. He groaned as he wrapped his hand around it, stroking just once—slow—spreading the pre-cum down his shaft.

“Didn’t even touch your cunt yet,” he muttered. “And I’m already this fuckin’ hard.”

He climbed back onto the bed—this time not hovering.

His weight settled over you gently, not crushing but close. Braced slightly with his vibranium arm, he slotted himself between your thighs and kissed you again, deep and possessive, while his knee pressed into your inner thigh, nudging your legs wider.

You gasped into his mouth as he rocked his hips forward, dragging the length of his cock along your soaked folds—hot and thick, the slick sounds obscene between you.

You were completely naked.

Beneath him.

Open.

His to use.

And you still hadn’t moved a muscle.

—

Bucky pulled back from the kiss, chest heaving just slightly, lips wet and pink and shining with your taste. You barely had time to catch your breath before he moved.

With ease, he slid both arms beneath you—one warm, one cold—and lifted you like you weighed nothing. Your legs dangled limply, useless with need, as he repositioned you across the mattress. He carried you closer to the edge of the bed, laying you back down gently, your hips now perfectly aligned with where he knelt on the floor.

His eyes were locked between your legs.

He didn’t say a word.

Just settled down, bracing one hand on your inner thigh as he leaned in.

His head dipped.

And he devoured you.

His tongue licked a slow, hungry stripe up your folds, curling as it reached your swollen clit. He paused there, lips wrapping around the bud, sucking with obscene care—firm enough to make your thighs twitch, soft enough to keep you on edge.

You whimpered, breath caught.

Then he did it again.

He slurped every drop of arousal leaking out of you, groaning into your pussy like it tasted better than anything he’d ever had. His nose bumped against your mound as he buried his face deeper, his tongue working relentlessly over every part of you. He licked your folds with reverence, sucked your clit again until it throbbed, then slipped lower—tongue-fucking you with precise, expert strokes.

“F-fuck,” you choked out, back arching slightly against the mattress. “Bucky—oh, god, baby—just like that…”

He moaned into you. The sound of it vibrated right against your cunt, making your hips jump.

His vibranium hand came up then—cold, slick with your arousal—and pressed against your entrance. One metal finger pushed in smoothly, curling upward just right as his mouth stayed latched on your clit. He fucked you slowly with it at first, shallow and steady, while his tongue never let up.

Then a second finger slid in beside the first.

“Bucky, fuck,” you gasped, voice already wrecked. “Feels so good—feels so good—”

Your hips jerked again, barely lifting off the bed, but he held you steady. That strong hand flattened gently on your thigh, pinning you in place as he fucked you deeper with his fingers—slow thrusts, deliberate curls—while his tongue traced tight circles over your bud.

You couldn’t stop moaning.

Couldn’t stop praising him in breathless, broken gasps.

“You’re so perfect, baby,” you whimpered. “Always make me feel s-so good… You know exactly what I need—fuck—just like that, just like that…”

He groaned again, loud this time, his breath hitting your folds in hot waves. The sound of it, the feel of his mouth, the perfect pressure of his fingers inside you—it was too much.

Your inner walls clenched tight, fluttering around him as he slipped a third finger in.

Your back arched.

Your mouth opened in a silent cry.

And then you came—hard.

The orgasm tore through you like lightning. Your cunt clenched around his fingers as you squirted just a little, a warm splash wetting his face and chin.

But Bucky didn’t pull away.

He groaned into it.

Tasting you. Taking it.

Only when your body fully stilled again, trembling and breathless, did he finally lift his head.

His face was soaked. His stubble glistened, lips red and swollen, jaw wet with your release. His flushed cheeks, his glazed eyes—he looked absolutely ruined. But proud.

So fucking proud.

“Goddamn,” he breathed, staring at you like you were art. “You came so hard, baby. Made a fucking mess.”

You whimpered softly, dazed, eyes fluttering open just enough to catch the way he licked his bottom lip.

“Smell like heaven. Taste even sweeter,” he muttered, still between your legs. “Could live right here.”

Then, softly, with just the slightest growl—

“All that for me, huh? This pretty little pussy, all mine.”

—

Your breathing was still shallow. Chest rising and falling with the aftershocks of release, lips parted, eyes half-lidded and dazed.

Bucky watched you.

So soft.

So fucked-out already.

And he wasn’t even close to finished.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—only smeared the wetness further across his flushed skin—then leaned forward, placing a firm kiss to your trembling inner thigh.

“C’mere, baby,” he murmured. “Not done with you yet.”

Before you could even try to move, he was lifting you again.

Strong arms slid beneath your thighs and back, and in one easy sweep, he had you cradled against his chest. You let your head rest on his shoulder, arms draped lazily around his neck. Your legs fell open naturally, wrapping loosely around his waist.

Then he stood.

Carrying you.

Guiding your body.

You felt his cock—hot and hard and slick from your folds—press against your entrance as he backed toward the nearest wall for balance. He bent his knees slightly, adjusting his grip, then lined himself up.

And thrust in.

One long, slow push.

You gasped against his neck as he filled you completely, your body stretching around him, still pulsing from your last orgasm. But you didn’t move. Didn’t help. You just let him hold you there—impaled, trembling, claimed.

“That’s it,” he growled softly into your ear. “Just let me fuck you, sweetheart.”

He started to move, his hips bucking upward while yours stayed still, each thrust lifting you just slightly before he brought you back down onto his cock again. You moaned helplessly in his arms, your nails digging faintly into his shoulder, but still—you didn’t help. You didn’t ride him. He rode you.

“Feel that?” he panted, kissing your cheek as he fucked up into you again. “All you gotta do is hang on, baby. Let me do everything.”

You nodded weakly, whimpering his name.

Bucky didn’t stop—he walked.

Still inside you, he carried you down the hall. Each step jostled his cock inside you, and your breath hitched, your lips finding his jaw as your thighs squeezed tighter around his waist.

He reached the kitchen. Stepped right up to the island.

And set you down.

He pulled out with a wet sound, just enough to turn your body around and push you gently against the cool countertop. Bent you forward with a hand between your shoulder blades. Then he slid back in—smooth and full—until your hips met the edge of the marble and he bottomed out.

He set a faster rhythm now.

Still not rough. But urgent. Deep. Powerful.

The sounds between your bodies were obscene—slick, needy, relentless. You cried out softly, arms slack on the counter, face pressed to the smooth surface. Bucky groaned above you, hands gripping your waist tight, pulling you back into each thrust like he couldn’t stand being even an inch away.

“You take me so fucking well,” he muttered, hips snapping forward. “This pussy was made for me. You were made for me.”

You were close again. He could feel it—feel the way your walls clenched around him, feel the heat blooming again in your core. But before it crested, he pulled out.

You whimpered, almost sobbed at the loss.

“Shhh,” he whispered, kissing your shoulder. “Not yet, baby. You’ll come again. Just not here.”

He lifted you again, cock still hard, twitching against your stomach. Carried you to the living room like you weighed nothing, and laid you flat on the couch. Your limbs sprawled, loose and spent, head sinking into the cushions.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t even try.

And Bucky smiled.

“You’re perfect like this,” he murmured, kneeling onto the couch. “So good for me, baby. Letting me use every inch of you.”

He climbed onto the couch, knees bracketing your torso now—straddling you fully, just above your belly. His cock hung heavy and flushed, resting right over your sternum. From this angle, you didn’t have to do a thing—just lie there and let him use your body like it was made for him.

And slid his cock between them.

You moaned as the hot, heavy weight of him pressed into the softness of your chest. He moved slow at first, hips rolling, the head of his cock brushing your chin with every pass. His eyes fluttered shut.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he groaned. “You’re so soft. So warm. Just right for me.”

His pace picked up slightly—still controlled, still reverent. He pressed your breasts tighter together, guiding the friction with both hands, watching your spit-slick skin mold perfectly around him.

“You fit me everywhere,” he murmured, voice breaking slightly. “Doesn’t matter where—I touch you and it’s like you were made for me.”

You watched him—watched his abs tighten, his jaw slacken, his throat work around the moan he tried to hold in.

“God, baby, I love you,” he rasped, cock twitching between your breasts. “I fucking love you. So much.”

You whimpered, overwhelmed.

Every inch of you was soaked in him—in his body, his scent, his words.

He leaned in, breathing hard now, and kissed you again—messy and full of need, still moving between your tits as he whispered against your mouth:

“You’re mine,” he said, almost breathless. “Every part of you. All mine.”

—

And then you felt it.

His rhythm stuttered. His hips jerked forward one last time, harder, needier, and he groaned—deep and broken—as he came.

His cock pulsed between your breasts, warm ropes spilling over your chest, streaking across your flushed skin in slow, heavy spurts. You felt the heat of it trickle down between your ribs, painting you in him. Marking you. His seed glistened against your skin, sacred and hot, and Bucky moaned again at the sight of it.

“You look so good like this,” he whispered, voice frayed. “All covered in me.”

But he wasn’t done.

Even as his breath trembled and his hands shook, he shifted lower, sliding back down your body, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance again.

He pushed in slow.

You whimpered—high and soft—as he filled you, gentle this time, deeper than before. You were so warm. So soft. So still. Bucky felt like he was sinking into heaven.

Your body didn’t fight him.

It welcomed him.

He leaned in close, nose brushing your cheek, mouth near your ear.

“I’ll be gentle,” he whispered. “I promise, baby. Just wanna feel you. Wanna make love to you until you forget your name.”

You moaned weakly, barely able to respond. Your hands twitched beside you, limp and useless, but your legs parted more, letting him in fully.

He rocked into you with reverent precision. Each thrust smooth, slow, sure. Like he wasn’t just fucking you—he was branding his love into you. Etching himself into your bones. His chest brushed yours, your breasts bouncing softly with every movement as his vibranium hand cradled one, thumb sweeping lazily over your nipple.

“I love you,” he panted, thrusting deeper. “I’m yours.”

Another slow roll of his hips.

“You’re mine. You’re everything.”

He leaned down again, kissing you hard, tongue sliding into your mouth with a groan. You moaned back—exhausted, overwhelmed, but drowning in the warmth he kept pouring into you. It felt like being held from the inside out. Like being blanketed in love.

He never stopped.

His pace stayed gentle, but it carried a rhythm that built and built, soft waves crashing into your core. Your whimpers grew louder. Higher. His name left your lips in broken pleas.

“Bucky…”

“I got you,” he whispered. “I’ve got you, baby. I’m right here.”

You felt your high coming again—slow and blinding. Your whole body tensed, your back arched faintly. Bucky felt it. Matched it. He moved faster, never rough, just deep and steady and so full of love it hurt.

He came again right as you did.

Your body jolted—not from pain, but from the force of it. A tremble that started deep inside and rolled outward, stealing your breath. Your walls clenched tight around him as he spilled into you, cock pulsing, burying it all as deep as he could. He groaned, his face tucked into your neck, his hand gripping your side like he couldn’t let go.

And you…

You were floating.

Eyes half-shut. Lips parted. Chest rising slowly.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

But not from pain. Not from exhaustion.

From comfort.

From the way he’d loved you so gently you didn’t know where you ended and he began.

Your voice came out soft. Barely audible.

“Feels too good… I can’t… open my eyes…”

Bucky chuckled against your skin, still catching his breath. He pressed a kiss to your temple, to your cheek, then your mouth.

“Yeah?” he murmured, brushing damp hair from your face. “I fucked you to sleep, didn’t I?”

You gave the faintest nod, your lashes fluttering.

“I didn’t even move,” you mumbled, drifting. “Didn’t do anything…”

“And still took it all like my good girl,” he whispered, smiling as he pulled the blanket from behind the couch and draped it over you both. “Go on, baby. Sleep. I’ll hold you.”

And he did.

With one arm wrapped under your back and the other splayed over your stomach, he kissed your forehead and let you melt into him—completely spent, completely safe.

Just how he always wanted you.

—

You didn’t wake slowly—you woke deeply.

Like surfacing from the bottom of a still ocean, lungs full of peace, limbs heavy with satisfaction. You blinked your eyes open and stared at the ceiling, momentarily disoriented by how still everything felt. No tension in your shoulders. No buzzing anxiety. Just the slow, warm ache between your legs, and the lingering hum of being held.

You shifted your head slightly—and that’s when you realized:

You were no longer on the couch.

Bucky must’ve moved you sometime while you slept. You were on a rolled-out floor mattress now, cozy and plush, layered with your softest throw blankets. Your favorite pillow cradled your head. Another one—the plushie he always teased you for loving—was tucked under your arm. And you were fully wrapped in a blanket, warm and clean and cocooned in the unmistakable comfort of care.

Everything smelled like Bucky.

And steak.

You heard it—faint sizzles and the dull clatter of utensils from the kitchen just beyond the living room. A warm light glowed under the doorframe. Something soft played on the TV, volume barely audible. It was the most comforting thing you’d felt in months.

You blinked again, then slowly pushed yourself up on one elbow, turning toward the source.

He was there—Bucky, in grey sweatpants and a fitted tee now, barefoot, hair loosely tied, standing over the stove like he belonged in someone’s quiet dream. He glanced up just as you stirred.

A smile curled his lips.

“Well, well. Morning, sleeping beauty.”

You rubbed your eyes, voice thick with sleep. “Morning? What time is it?”

“Eight,” he said, glancing at the oven clock.

“…Eight? Like. PM?”

“Mm-hmm.”

You stared at him, stunned. “We… we started before noon.”

He chuckled, plating up a steak with practiced ease. “We made love a little before, yeah. You passed out sometime after round three.” He looked over his shoulder, grinning. “You’ve been out cold for a solid eight hours.”

Your jaw dropped. “I slept eight hours? In the middle of the day?”

“Didn’t move a muscle,” he teased. “I carried you off the couch, set up the mattress, tucked you in with your favorite plushie—like putting down a baby deer.”

You flushed, flopping dramatically back into the pillows, blanket pulled to your chin. “God.”

He kept talking as he worked. “Though, to be fair… I’m the one who ran more than ten miles, carried you home uphill, and did all the work.”

You sat up again just to pout at him. “You’re a different breed, Bucky. You’re enhanced. That’s like… cheating.”

You meant it playfully, but something bitter curled inside the words. You hated how small you sometimes felt in comparison. And Bucky, sharp as ever, caught it.

He set the plate down, turned off the stove, and walked straight toward you.

In three quiet strides, he was crouching beside the mattress, warm hands finding your waist before you could blink.

“Hey,” he murmured, gently pulling you into him. “You’re not less just because I can carry you like a backpack.”

You snorted against his chest. “You did carry me like a backpack.”

He laughed softly, then tilted your chin up, brushing a kiss across your forehead.

“Okay,” he said, smiling, “but think about the perks of having an enhanced boyfriend.”

You raised a brow, already bracing.

He leaned in close, voice smug. “Like… wonderfully good sex?”

You smacked his arm with a sleepy glare, biting back a smile. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you love me anyway.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Of course I do.”

He kissed you again—slow, easy, full of affection. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything. Just gave.

You melted into his chest, arms draped around his waist. His scent surrounded you—clean soap, wood smoke, faint traces of sweat and your own body on him—and your whole body exhaled in relief. Like you hadn’t realized how much you needed him until just now.

You opened your eyes again just to look at him.

His face.

His warmth.

His whole being.

And you knew, with a fullness so deep it didn’t even need words—

You were his. And he was yours.

The couch was oversized—wide, low, and so plush it could easily be mistaken for a bed. You were curled up against Bucky, tucked into the left side of his body with your back to his chest, both of you half-covered in a knit blanket that smelled faintly of pine and detergent. His arm was wrapped around your waist, vibranium fingers splayed lightly over your stomach, solid and unmoving at first. His body ran warm behind you, a furnace in human form, even in the thick chill of winter.

He wore a fitted short-sleeved thermal shirt and his favorite dark grey sweatpants. You were in your thickest oversized sweater—the one that pooled around your thighs and hung slightly off one shoulder—and nothing beneath it but soft cotton panties. No bra. No need. Not with him. Not tonight.

The television bathed the living room in a soft glow. A Christmas classic flickered across the screen—While You Were Sleeping, the one you both always returned to this time of year. It had become tradition. The kind of movie you knew line for line, but neither of you watched it for the plot anymore. It was just comforting. Familiar. A backdrop to the quiet kind of love you both had found your way into.

Bucky hadn’t said a word all night. He didn’t need to. Neither did you. His thumb occasionally brushed lazy circles against your stomach, then went still again. Every part of you felt warm—your cheek pressed to the inside of his bicep, your thighs tucked up comfortably, your chest rising and falling with his.

It was only when his vibranium fingers slipped beneath the hem of your sweater that your breath caught—just a tiny intake, nearly silent.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t check to see if you were okay. He never did when he did this—it was one of those quiet, unconscious habits he’d developed over time. Something that soothed him. Something that made him feel connected. His hand slid upward slowly, the pads of his fingers cool at first but quickly warming as they made contact with your bare skin. They moved with intention, but not lust. Not yet.

His palm cupped your breast, fingers spreading around the curve like they knew the shape by heart. Which, of course, they did. He gave a gentle squeeze. Not sexual. Not rough. Just… there. Firm. Familiar. Like you were his favorite thing to hold.

You didn’t react at first. This was normal. He did this all the time when you cuddled, when he couldn’t sleep, when he needed to touch something real after long missions full of too many ghosts.

But tonight… tonight was different.

It had been too long. Too many days spent passing each other in groggy hellos and exhausted goodnights. Too many weeks of deployment, and you—working late shifts, sleeping alone in a cold bed. Your skin missed him. Your body missed him.

And now, with his hand under your sweater and the soft warmth of the blanket draped across your legs, the moment didn’t feel so innocent anymore.

You tried to stay still, to not tense or shift too much, knowing he could pick up on your reactions in an instant. But your heart betrayed you, hammering just a little faster beneath your ribs. He didn’t say anything—but his hand gave a slow, deliberate roll of your breast in his palm.

Not teasing. Just… possessive. Familiar. Warm.

And god, it did something to you.

You clenched your thighs a little tighter together beneath the blanket, but the fabric of your panties was already dampening, the cool touch of his fingers somehow heightening everything. Your nipples had hardened beneath his hand, painfully sensitive against the metal plates, and he brushed his thumb over one now—slow, feather-light.

You exhaled, barely audible. His arm tightened just slightly around your waist.

No words. Just breath and pressure. Just the slow, quiet build of heat where there had only been calm.

The snowfall continued outside, thick and heavy. And inside, you melted slowly—inch by inch—into the way he touched you like you were the only real thing left in his world.

—

You tried to be good. Tried to steady your breathing and keep your thighs from pressing too tightly together. Tried not to let the heat pulsing low in your belly translate into the small, telltale hitches of your breath.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want you. You knew he did—always did. But tonight… maybe he just wasn’t in the mood. He’d just come home. Two deployments back to back, the exhaustion still clinging to his posture even when he was showered, warm, and draped around you like a weighted blanket. You didn’t want to push him, not when all he might need was rest. Just peace. Just this: the quiet hum of a movie and your body tucked against his, safe.

So you tilted your head slightly, nose brushing along the crook of his neck as you shifted into him. You buried your face in the warmth there—his skin still faintly damp from his earlier shower, soft with that clean, subtle scent he always wore. Not cologne. Just him. Cedarwood and heat, soap and sweat, comfort and safety. He smelled like home.

The soft knit of your sweater shifted against your bare skin as you moved, and his vibranium fingers never left you. They adjusted only slightly, curling more deliberately around your breast, giving a slower, firmer squeeze this time. A beat passed. Maybe two. Then, unable to help yourself, you reached for his other hand—flesh and warm—and gently pulled it up from your waist, guiding it under your sweater until it settled over your right breast.

And he followed your touch without resistance.

His palm molded to you instinctively. Rougher than the metal, broader, warmer. He didn’t grope. Didn’t groan. Just cupped and cradled, as if your body was something fragile and familiar and necessary to his own sense of stillness. He mirrored the movements of his other hand, slow and unhurried, fingers kneading in that same absent rhythm. Like muscle memory. Like prayer.

But you… god, you were crumbling from the inside out.

Your eyes weren’t on the screen anymore—not even close. The bright flicker of the film washed uselessly over your unfocused gaze. You blinked slow, dazed, your whole awareness zeroed in on the sensation of him touching you. The cool press of vibranium against your left breast, the hot, pulsing grasp of his right hand against the other. The sweater clung faintly to your skin now, rising and falling with every shaky breath you took.

And you tried. You really tried to hold it in.

But when his thumb dragged softly over your nipple—bare and painfully sensitive beneath the fabric—you broke.

A breath escaped you. Not loud. Not sharp. Just a shaky, desperate little exhale that melted into a soft moan—warm against the curve of his neck where your mouth was still pressed. It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t even that loud. But it was real. And it was enough.

You felt his hands stutter—just barely. A pause. A shift in his rhythm.

Then, slowly… they moved again.

But this time, something had changed.

The metal hand gave a slower, firmer roll, pressing your breast upward just enough to make you arch faintly into the touch. The fingers of his right hand flexed, spread, dragged more deliberately now. There was no escalation—no grab, no pull—but his touch had gained a weight to it. A purpose. Like he was feeling you now. Like the instinctive habit had bloomed into awareness.

And you melted.

You could feel the tension unraveling in your core, slow and syrup-thick. That invisible thread stretched tighter, your thighs clenched without thinking, and your lips parted against his neck again—not for a sound this time, just to breathe. Just to hold yourself together.

Because you weren’t sure how long you could.

—

The shift was subtle, almost lazy in how smooth it felt—but there was a purpose behind the way his hands slid down from your chest, sweeping across your ribcage, over your stomach. A pause at your waist—then the warmth of his grip cinched in and lifted.

You barely had time to react before he guided you into his lap—your back still facing him, thighs now spread and settling between his as he nestled you flush against him.

The blanket slipped slightly down your legs, forgotten. Your sweater bunched at your waist, exposing more of your bare thighs where they now rested over his. And beneath you—pressed right between your cheeks—you felt it.

Hard.

Your breath hitched in your throat, a small fluttering gasp that didn’t quite escape. His arousal pressed firm and hot against you, the heat of it undeniable even through the layers between you. It pulsed, bold and shameless beneath the fabric of his sweatpants.

Classic Bucky.

A smile ghosted the corner of your lips, but it faded almost immediately, replaced by the need curling deep and hot between your thighs. You shifted slowly, like you were just getting comfortable—just adjusting—but your hips dragged along his length, grinding with a deliberate roll.

You felt the way his thighs stiffened beneath you. The way his fingers, resting at your hips now, flexed—hard.

Then his face dropped against your back.

You felt the weight of him there—forehead resting between your shoulder blades, breath warming the knit of your sweater, chest rising against you in shallow pulls. One second. Then two. And then his hands moved again.

They slipped beneath your sweater, palms spreading wide over your skin like they needed to cover as much of you as possible. They found your breasts again with a practiced ease—but now, they moved differently. No longer idle. No longer thoughtless.

He fondled you with intent now.

Thumbs brushing deliberately over your nipples, fingers circling them slowly, dragging out the sensation with almost cruel precision. Every touch made you jolt a little, your body trembling as those sensitive peaks throbbed under his palms. They were so tight, so swollen, like they were aching for more. For anything.

Your back arched into him, chest pushing into his hands, thighs tightening around his hips. You moaned—soft, raw, unfiltered. No attempt to muffle it this time. It slipped past your lips in a shuddering breath, and your hips rolled again—this time instinctive, purposeful, grinding down against the rigid bulge beneath you.

A sharp exhale answered you—sharp, but quiet. Controlled. He didn’t moan, not exactly. Bucky wasn’t vocal like that. But you felt the tension ripple through him, the way his breath caught in his throat and rushed out all at once. It fanned across your back in hot, shaky bursts, the kind that let you know just how wound-up he really was.

He gripped your hips tighter.

Not guiding, not stopping. Just holding.

Holding you in place as your body rocked against his, the friction mounting so slowly it was maddening. Your panties were already damp, clinging to you with every subtle grind, the soft fabric soaked right through and doing little to dull the heat blooming between you.

His mouth pressed harder against your back now. Not kissing—just there. Breathing. Bracing.

And his hands—still on your breasts—moved in lazy, dragging motions that only made the pressure in your core throb harder. It was too slow. Too soft. And yet it had your whole body trembling, your head tipped back slightly as you chased more of it.

More of him.

Your breath caught again, your hips finding their rhythm, grinding in slow circles that aligned perfectly with every squeeze of his hands. You could feel it—every pulse of him beneath you, every twitch of his cock through the fabric, like it was begging for more friction, more warmth, more of you.

And still—no words.

Just heat. Breath. Skin.

Just the quiet sounds of snow outside and the slow, burning unraveling of control between your bodies.

—

You weren’t sure when it became too much—when the low throb between your legs tipped into something unbearable. But you knew it the moment your hips stilled, your chest heaving slightly, your skin flushed hot beneath your sweater. You needed more. Not just his hands. Not just friction. Him.

With a soft, unsteady breath, you slowly lifted yourself from his lap.

His hands fell away, though not willingly. You felt the quiet drag of his fingertips over your skin as you slid forward, knees brushing the couch cushion as you turned to face him now. The glow from the TV flickered over the sharp lines of his face, his eyes already dark, already locked on you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

You reached down, fingers tugging the hem of your sweater. It rose inch by inch, baring the soft curve of your stomach, the underswell of your breasts, until finally—off. You pulled it over your head and let it drop to the floor in silence.

Bare from the waist up now, you stood before him—heart racing, chest rising and falling—and you watched his jaw tighten the second his eyes dragged down to your panties.

Soaked.

Clinging.

The fabric had gone nearly translucent, the dark patch between your thighs leaving nothing to the imagination. It sat perfectly at his eye level from where he lounged back on the couch, thighs spread wide, hands braced on his knees, tension humming through every inch of him.

You saw it—the way his expression darkened, the way his jaw flexed again as his throat worked around a low, rough grunt that escaped him.

His hands moved—slow but sure—and the waistband of his sweatpants was tugged down with no ceremony, no hesitation. No boxers underneath. Just skin. Just him.

His cock sprang free, flushed deep and thick and leaking slightly at the tip, the sight of you clearly having pushed him far past the point of holding back. He shifted only enough to push the fabric down his thighs, leaving him bare and waiting.

And you gave him what he wanted.

You straddled him again—this time facing him. Knees framing his hips, hands braced lightly on his shoulders. Your chest pressed to his, the contrast of heat and breathlessness stealing what little composure you had left.

Then you kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t ravenous. It was tender. Deep. Drawn-out.

The kind of kiss that tasted like missing each other for too long. Like every restless night and every quiet moment of pretending you didn’t ache for this. His lips parted beneath yours, his mouth hot and patient, the weight of his hands returning to your waist as you molded yourself to him. Your bodies aligned like second nature, like they’d never forgotten each other.

And still—you moved.

Your hips shifted forward, just slightly, and the soaked fabric of your panties dragged along the length of his cock. The glide was slow, sticky, teasing—his shaft nestled perfectly between your folds, the tip brushing your clit with every subtle pass. Your panties created just enough friction to make you shudder, and your hips circled in slow, purposeful motions.

His cock twitched beneath you.

His grip tightened on your waist, but he didn’t rush you. Didn’t thrust. He just held you there, letting you grind against him in slow, sensual rolls that made his breath catch just behind your lips. Your foreheads rested together now, noses brushing, his brow drawn tight with restraint.

You moved again, dragging yourself along his shaft with a slow, grinding rhythm—again. And again.

And again.

Wet heat built between you. The slick of your arousal soaking through the thin cotton, smearing over his skin. Each movement sent shivers up your spine, each subtle press of his length against your clit making your thighs shake just slightly around him.

There were no words. Just gasps. Shaky exhales. The sound of your bodies moving in time.

And the snow still falling outside, thick and endless.

—

The kiss hadn’t broken.

If anything, it deepened.

And it was Bucky’s hand that made it happen—the warm one, flesh and strong, lifting from your waist to glide up the curve of your spine. You felt it settle at the back of your neck first, then thread into your hair with a gentle but possessive grip, tilting your head just so. Not rough. Never rough. Just enough to angle your mouth to his, his fingers tangled in your hair like he needed to feel every inch of you.

He kissed you like he’d been starving for this. For you.

Your lips moved together slowly, deliberately—no clashing of teeth, no frantic gasps. Just deep, open-mouthed kisses that made you feel like your entire chest was burning from the inside out.

His metal hand stayed at your waist, grounding you there, palm flat, fingers splayed wide against your bare skin. You could feel the way it pressed in tighter every time your hips rolled forward, every time your soaked panties dragged along the length of his cock. You kept moving—slow, teasing—feeling every ridge of him, every throb.

Then his hands moved again.

The one in your hair slid down—first to the nape of your neck, then over the slope of your shoulder, your upper back, your spine—until it returned to your waist. Now both hands were there, framing you, holding you close. One metal. One warm.

You gasped softly into his mouth when his flesh hand slipped lower.

Fingertips dipped between your thighs, and he hooked two fingers around the soaked fabric right at your core. Then, with a slow, practiced motion, he pulled it gently to the side—just enough to expose you. The drenched cotton dragged across your sensitive folds as it shifted, baring your heat and slick directly to him.

And then—you felt him.

Your bare slickness now dragging directly against his shaft, no fabric between you. The length of him pressed snug between your folds, tip catching on your clit with every grind. So warm. So hard. So there.

Your moan slipped free, muffled into his mouth.

But it was his that did it—quiet, strained, low in his throat. Barely audible, but you heard it. You felt it. The low rumble vibrated against your chest where it was pressed to his. It wasn’t loud—but it hit something deep inside you, some button that flipped everything over, and suddenly your hips were moving faster.

You rocked against him with more urgency now, the slow burn giving way to need. Each roll of your hips dragged your folds along his length, coating him with slick as you moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The soft sounds of your bodies sliding together filled the air, warm and wet and so damn intimate.

Your foreheads rested together again, your hands tangled in his hair now, fingers clutching tight. His grip on your waist had grown firmer, less patient. His thumbs dug into your skin as he anchored you to him, letting you use his body like you needed—because you did.

Your breathing was ragged. So was his.

Neither of you spoke. But your hearts were pounding now, pulses spiking with every grind, every stroke. Your clit throbbed with every pass over his shaft, the tip of him catching just right, over and over again, until your thighs trembled from the tension.

His jaw clenched hard beneath the stubble. He wasn’t moaning—but the quick, staggered exhales from his nose, the way his chest rose against yours in uneven bursts, said everything.

You moved faster. Hips circling, rocking, chasing the friction you both needed. Your slick folds coated him completely now, smearing down his shaft with every drag. You could feel the heat pooling in your belly, the tremble rising up your spine. It was too much. Not enough.

His hand slid down again—metal now, resting over the small of your back, pressing you harder against him. His other hand still holding your panties to the side, fingers trembling just slightly now.

Every part of him was focused on you.

And the only sound was the wet, muffled grind of your bodies and the snow still falling thick against the world outside.

—

Your grinding had grown slower now—deeper, more deliberate—like your bodies had found a rhythm too perfect to rush.

But then Bucky shifted, just slightly, and his nose nudged against your neck. He inhaled there, long and quiet, dragging the breath in like he needed to commit your scent to memory. Like he hadn’t smelled you in weeks and wanted to bury it deep in his bones.

“Missed this,” he murmured, his voice a low gravel, almost hoarse. He breathed the words directly into your skin, lips brushing your nape. “Missed you.”

You melted into it, head tipping to the side as your body leaned into his. That voice—so soft, so full—was the kind that made your thighs press tighter around him.

He kissed the spot he’d just spoken into, then another. Then lower.

One arm curled securely around your waist, holding you close, as the other hand released the grip on your panties and slid back up. Not rushed. Not grabbing. Just caressing.

He cupped your breasts again—one in each hand now, thumbs brushing slowly over your nipples. Your breath hitched when he squeezed, palms full and warm and reverent, like he was savoring you in pieces. He bent slightly forward, mouth trailing downward from your neck to your collarbone, lips parting with each press of a kiss. Soft. Lingering. You could feel the faint heat of his tongue as he reached the top curve of your chest.

Then he kissed lower.

One breast. Then the other. The weight of him between your thighs only made it more intense, the aching stretch of want radiating from your core to your throat.

His stubble scraped your skin in gentle passes, then his lips latched on, leaving a warm, wet trail of hickeys—nothing harsh, nothing showy. Just small reminders. Gentle claims.

By the time he made his way back up, his hands were cradling your waist again. You barely noticed the shift until you felt his muscles tense beneath you.

He moved you—slightly lifted, slightly adjusted. His cock now resting at your entrance, thick and hot, and so perfectly positioned that you could feel your slick gathering right there. The head of him brushed against your folds, your clit, and you both sucked in a breath at the same time.

His lips were at your jaw now, warm and open, voice barely more than a whisper:

“Need to feel you again.”

And there was no resistance. No uncertainty.

Just the stretch of your body as he held you steady… and the quiet, aching anticipation of finally being filled.

—

His hands still held you steady, one warm and calloused at your waist, the other cool and smooth across the small of your back. You could feel his cock nestled between your slick folds, the tip catching on your clit with every soft grind—but the moment had quieted now. No rush. No wild urgency.

Just you and him, skin against skin, wrapped in the ache of having missed this too long.

Bucky’s breath was shallow against your cheek, his lips barely brushing your jaw as he whispered, “Let me in, sweetheart…”

Your answer was just a nod, a soft tilt of your hips as you lifted slightly—just enough for him to angle himself beneath you.

His hand guided the tip to your entrance, not rough, not even firm—just there. Present. Gentle.

And then, slowly, you sank down on him.

The stretch was intimate—an inhale that filled you to the lungs, not just the core. His thickness pushed into you inch by inch, the glide made easy by how wet you already were. You both exhaled at the same time, your brows furrowed, your chests trembling from the overwhelming closeness.

“Jesus,” he breathed, the word more reverent than obscene, voice caught in the back of his throat. “You feel like… like home.”

You whimpered as your hips settled down, fully seated now, the head of his cock resting deep inside you. Your walls fluttered around him, clenching in slow, greedy pulses.

He was buried to the hilt—and still, he didn’t move.

He just held you.

Hands sliding along your back, over your hips, up to your waist. His fingers splayed wide as he smoothed them over your ribs, then higher, cradling your breasts with a kind of slow, aching tenderness. He thumbed over your nipples, swollen and flushed, watching your breath hitch with every brush.

“I missed these,” he murmured, lips brushing your collarbone. “Every part of you.”

You tipped your head down, resting your forehead against his. “I missed the way you touch me,” you whispered back. “Like I matter.”

His hands slid up to cup your jaw, his thumbs brushing the corners of your lips. “You do,” he said, soft but firm. “You always do.”

Then he kissed you.

It was slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that stole your breath not from passion but from emotion. Your hips began to move again, finally—tiny circles, shallow rocks, nothing frantic. Just motion. Just feeling. The way your bodies responded to each other like no time had passed.

Every slow glide of your hips drew him deeper, made you gasp softer. You tightened around him with every shift, and Bucky’s hands never left your body—one trailing down your spine, the other moving back to your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple again in rhythm with the way your hips rose and fell.

The sounds were quiet. Just breath. Just skin sliding against skin. The occasional moan that slipped from your throat, the kind you didn’t mean to make, but couldn’t hold back.

“You’re so soft,” he whispered, lips trailing from your cheek to your neck. “So fucking soft, baby.”

You nodded against his temple, hands cradling the back of his head, fingers lost in the slightly damp strands of his hair. “Don’t stop,” you breathed. “Please don’t stop.”

“Not going anywhere,” he murmured, kissing the curve of your shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

And he did.

He rocked into you now, slowly, each thrust perfectly matched to your own movements. You were both trembling, both teetering at the edge—but neither of you wanted to fall too fast. Not yet. Not when it felt this good to just be here.

Every inch of you was alive. Every nerve singing under his touch. You could feel his chest rise sharply each time your walls clenched around him, could hear the change in his breathing when you rolled your hips just right.

And when he finally whispered your name—barely audible, broken and sacred against your skin—it pushed you right over the edge.

Your orgasm crept up slow, warm, like heat blooming outward from your core. Your breath stuttered as you clung to him tighter, thighs shaking around his hips, walls fluttering in long, gentle pulses around his cock.

Bucky groaned against your neck—low, muffled, like he was trying to hold it back but couldn’t.

He followed a moment later, his hips pressed deep, arms locked around you as his cock throbbed inside you. You could feel the warmth of him spill, filling you as his entire body shuddered with release. He held you tight as the pleasure swept through him, buried his face in your neck like he needed the scent of you to survive the moment.

Neither of you moved right away.

You stayed like that—joined, pulsing, clinging to each other like gravity had shifted and only this touch could keep you grounded.

Eventually, you lifted your head. He cupped your face, thumb brushing the wet corner of your eye where a tear had slipped out—neither joy nor sadness, just emotion too big to contain.

He pressed a soft kiss to your lips. “C’mere,” he said, barely more than a breath.

He slipped out of you slowly, and you winced just slightly at the emptiness. He was quick to pull the blanket back over you both, easing your body against his chest again. This time you lay sideways across his lap, cheek pressed to the space above his heart, legs curled close.

His arms wrapped around you completely—his metal hand resting over your spine, warm hand stroking gently at your hip.

Outside, the snow still fell in silent waves.

Inside, everything was still. Safe. Loved.

“Baby?” he called out, voice lighter than usual.

You peeked from the couch where you’d been curled up with a blanket and a book. “Hey, welcome back.” Then your eyes narrowed, amused. “You’re covered in something… fuzzy.”

He blinked, then glanced down. A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. About that.”

He set the food down and shrugged off his jacket, revealing even more fur speckled along the sleeves of his black long-sleeve shirt. He didn’t even bother brushing it off. Instead, he practically beamed as he sat beside you, still riding the high of his afternoon discovery.

“There’s this cat,” he began, already breathless with excitement. “At the café downstairs. All white. Like—not cream or off-white. White-white. Snow.”

You tilted your head, already smiling. “And she attacked you?”

“No,” he said, eyes softening as he looked at you. “She curled up on my lap while I was waiting for your pastries. Like she just decided I was furniture. Didn’t flinch when I pet her. She even rolled over so I could scratch her tummy.”

“She showed you her belly?” you laughed, heart fluttering at how gentle he sounded. “That’s trust. Instant soul bond.”

“That’s what I’m saying.” His knee bounced slightly. He was trying to contain himself, like he was unsure if this would sound silly—but you already knew the answer.

“So… I wanna bring her home,” he said, glancing at you, hopeful but cautious. “If you’re okay with that. I already checked—she’s a girl. I’d name her Alpine. Like the snowcaps in the Alps. Pure white. Peaceful. It just… felt right. I think she reminds me of that part of me I never got to have.”

That last part made your chest ache a little—softly, sweetly. You leaned forward, cupping his jaw and brushing your thumb over his stubbled cheek.

“I love it,” you said. “And I love her already. Let’s go get Alpine.”

—

Later that evening, you were both back at the café. The little white cat was still perched in her usual spot by the patio, paws tucked under her like a loaf of bread.

Bucky crouched down and softly called, “Hey, Alpine…”

Her ears twitched. She lifted her head, saw him—and without hesitation, padded straight over. She hopped onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, head bumping against his chest before she curled against him.

“Yup,” you murmured, watching him hold her like she was the most delicate thing in the world. “You’re hers now.”

He scooped her up carefully, and she made no fuss—just settled in with a quiet purr, trusting and content.

—

The evening ended with a smooth vet visit—Alpine was healthy, just a little underweight—and a very enthusiastic trip to the nearby pet store that felt, quite honestly, more like preparing for a royal homecoming than a casual adoption.

The moment you stepped inside, Bucky froze like a soldier facing an unexpected new mission.

“This is… a lot,” he muttered, surveying the rows of colorful packaging and towers of cat furniture like they were tactical assets on a battlefield. You watched his eyes dart from brand names to ingredient lists with the same intense focus he used when analyzing mission files.

He lingered in the litter box aisle for an embarrassingly long time, crouched in front of three nearly identical models with his brow furrowed. One had a carbon filter, another promised “maximum odor control,” and the third came in sleek matte black.

“This one looks like it belongs in Stark’s bathroom,” he grumbled.

“Then she’ll probably hate it,” you replied, laughing as you nudged him. “Just pick one that doesn’t look like a spaceship.”

“She deserves something classy,” he insisted, eventually settling on a simple beige model with a privacy hood and golden trim. “She’s got dignity.”

The indecision didn’t stop there. In the food aisle, he hovered like a man trying to choose the perfect wine for a Michelin-starred dinner. He held up one bag of premium organic kibble like it held the answer to the universe.

“This says wild-caught salmon,” he mumbled, reading the back. “But this one has freeze-dried duck. Which one’s better? Which one screams ‘I love you and I respect your primal instincts’?”

“She’s a five-pound cat, Buck.”

“She’s my five-pound cat,” he said stubbornly. “I can’t give her anything boring. What if she hates me?”

Then, with sudden intensity, he looked at you and said, completely serious: “Should I just buy raw steak? Like… once a week? A little Friday night ritual? We could call it Alpine’s Ribeye Hour.”

You burst out laughing. “No, babe. No ribeye hour. She doesn’t need red meat marbled to perfection.”

A staff member nearby chuckled and gently stepped in. “If she’s not on a raw diet, that much red meat might upset her stomach. Fancy kibble and wet food will do fine. Maybe throw in a few freeze-dried treats.”

Bucky nodded slowly, as if receiving sacred instructions.

“I just want her to feel safe,” he murmured, running a hand through his hair. “Like she’s somewhere soft and permanent.”

“She already does,” you reminded him softly.

Eventually, you both left the store with a small cart piled high: a tall cat tree (“She deserves the high ground,” Bucky declared), a pastel pink ceramic bowl set (“Matches her tiny murder princess energy”), a soft faux-fur bed, several mouse-shaped toys, a bag of treats shaped like little fish, and a feather wand Bucky couldn’t stop playing with while waiting in line.

“She’s gonna think we’re insane,” you said.

“She’s gonna think she won the lottery,” he replied.

—

By the time you were both back at the Watchtower—inside your cozy, shared space that passed for a home more than a mission base—Alpine was already out of her carrier and trotting forward like she’d been here before in another life.

Tail held high, she made her rounds with purpose. First the kitchen, where she sniffed the legs of the island and examined the corner near the fridge. Then the couch, where she clawed lightly at the throw blanket you’d folded earlier that morning, as if testing the texture for naps. She darted into the hallway, disappeared into the bathroom, and reappeared with what looked like a stray cotton swab in her mouth.

“She’s inspecting her kingdom,” you whispered.

“No—she’s checking for weak spots in our defenses,” Bucky replied seriously, crouching to retrieve the cotton swab from her mouth. “Classic flanking maneuver.”

Eventually, she made her way into the bedroom, pausing only once to look over her shoulder and chirp—a soft, curious sound that neither of you had expected to melt your hearts the way it did.

You followed her inside, and watched as she leapt effortlessly onto the bed. But not just anywhere. No. She walked with clear intent to Bucky’s side—his pillow still creased from that morning—and plopped down like she owned it.

“I…” Bucky blinked. “I think I’m the chosen one.”

“You are,” you smirked, leaning against the doorframe. “You’re covered in fur and she already slept on you once. You’re marked.”

As if to prove it, Alpine stretched and rolled sideways, exposing her belly to the ceiling as she purred and rubbed her face into Bucky’s pillow like she was stamping her signature all over it.

He stepped forward slowly, like if he moved too fast she might vanish. But when he sat on the edge of the mattress, Alpine stood, walked over, and—with the most casual entitlement—climbed halfway up his leg like a tiny mountain lion scaling familiar terrain.

“Did you see that?” he whispered, wide-eyed and trying very hard not to move. “She picked me again.”

You grinned, arms crossed. “Yeah. She’s definitely got good taste.”

Alpine nuzzled her cheek into the dark fabric of his pants before curling into a loaf at his feet, purring like a little motor. The kind of sound you could feel if you stood close enough—warm and steady.

Bucky’s voice dropped to something almost reverent. “She’s home.”

—

Dinner was easy that night. The two of you ate on the small dining table tucked against the window, city lights sparkling far below. You passed each other bites between conversation and quiet laughter, half of your attention stolen by the soft presence now occupying the middle of the table.

Alpine had curled up just to the left of Bucky’s plate, nose tucked under her tail, the tips of her ears twitching ever so slightly. Her soft, rhythmic purring filled the space like background music—comforting, cozy, like a fireplace crackling.

Bucky just stared at her for a long moment, chin resting on his palm, spoon suspended in his other hand.

“You good, Buck?” you asked gently.

He didn’t even look away from her. “Mmhmm,” he hummed, a dreamy smile spreading across his face. “I’m full already. Could listen to that purr all night.”

You snorted into your drink, setting it down with a smirk. “So that’s it, huh? I’ve lost my queen position to a white cat with jellybean toes?”

Bucky finally turned to you with the softest look—like he’d never been more sure of anything in his life—and said, “Nah. You’re the queen. She’s just… the royal advisor. Or a tiny fluffy tyrant.”

“She’s got you wrapped around her paw.”

“She does,” he admitted, completely unbothered. “And I’d do anything she asked.”

You couldn’t even pretend to be jealous. Watching him like this—gentle, light, his guard down so far it was practically gone—you felt the warmth of this little family settling into place around you.

And across the table, Alpine purred on. Content. Safe. Home.

—

Night fell quiet over the Watchtower, the kind of stillness only broken by the hum of distant aircraft traffic and the occasional creak of the unit’s HVAC system. In the soft light of your bedroom, all was warm and calm. Alpine was nowhere to be seen for now—last you saw, she’d been investigating the inside of Bucky’s tactical boot.

You were already under the covers, curled into Bucky’s chest, his vibranium arm stretched behind your pillow and his flesh hand lazily tracing patterns over your shoulder. Nothing heated, nothing rushed. Just the kind of closeness that spoke in silence—shared warmth, steady heartbeats, fingers laced under the sheets like they belonged there.

“I love this,” you mumbled, eyes fluttering shut.

“Mmhmm,” he hummed into your hair. “Me too.”

But then, after a beat, you felt him shift. Just slightly. Then again—shoulders squirming, fingers pausing on your back.

“Bucky,” you said, suspiciously. “Why are you moving?”

He hesitated… then whispered like a kid asking for dessert past bedtime, “Can I… go pet Alpine now?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Are you serious?”

“I’ve been waiting all day to cuddle with her,” he said, completely sincere. “I thought maybe she’d sleep on my chest tonight or curl into my arm or something.”

You groaned and buried your face in his neck. “You traitor. I lose my spot to a rescue cat in less than twelve hours.”

But before either of you could move, there was a soft thump from the hallway—then the elegant click of tiny paws against the wooden floor. Alpine strutted into the room like she owned the lease.

“There she is,” Bucky whispered excitedly, already shifting up onto one elbow with a smile spreading across his face.

You watched, amused, as Alpine paused at the edge of the bed, assessed the situation like a military tactician… and then, with no hesitation whatsoever, padded to your side and flopped down against your stomach. Not between the two of you. Not on Bucky.

Just you.

Bucky blinked.

You stared.

Alpine let out one satisfied purr, stretched long across your middle like a sash, and closed her eyes. Her white fur glowed in the soft bedside lamp, her little pink nose twitching like she’d claimed her spot and would not be moved.

“…She picked you,” Bucky said, sounding personally wounded.

“Oh no,” you gasped, not hiding your grin. “Oh no, Sergeant Barnes, I believe you’ve been rejected.”

“I fed her salmon bits tonight,” he said, genuinely baffled. “I carried her around PetSmart for two hours like she was royalty. I said she was my girl!”

“She was your girl,” you teased. “But clearly, she has her eye on the throne now.”

He narrowed his eyes, flopping back onto the pillow with an exaggerated sigh. “Betrayal. In my own bed.”

You reached over with a smirk, gently shifting Alpine so she now lay in the middle between you both. She didn’t curl into a tight ball, like she had before—instead, she stretched out flat and long, paws extended forward, belly facing up proudly as if to say yes, I own you both now.

Her purring started almost instantly—loud and deep, vibrating against the mattress like a lullaby.

“Well,” Bucky murmured, giving her a fond scratch behind the ear, “if she’s in the middle, then at least I get joint custody.”

You smiled, snuggling closer, your arm brushing his over Alpine’s fluff. “Looks like the bed’s not just ours anymore.”

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple, and whispered, “I don’t mind. As long as you’re both here.”

Tall. Broad shoulders under a worn jacket. Steel-blue eyes shadowed by something older than war. Short dark hair, slight stubble, hands in his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them.

He looked haunted. Not just tired, not just sad—haunted.

And he didn’t say a word when he sat down.

He looked at the bottles behind you for a long moment, then said quietly,

“Whiskey. Neat. Anything that doesn’t taste like regret.”

His voice was gravelly, tired. A little flat. You didn’t ask questions.

But from that first night, you recognized something in him—some broken echo of yourself. That same quiet hypervigilance. That same way of tracking every movement in the room without turning your head. The way he’d flinch—not visibly, but just enough—when someone stood too close behind him.

He missed a day or two sometimes, but mostly? He kept coming back. Always the same drink. Always the same seat in the back right corner, where he could see the exit. You caught on to his patterns fast.

You noticed how he never held eye contact for long—but when he did? It lingered. Heavy. Like there were words he couldn’t say sitting just behind the blue.

So you started talking.

Nothing much at first. Quiet things. Weather. The newspaper stories the old men grumbled about. Then one evening, after he let out a sigh that sounded too much like yours, you asked,

“You ever… been through something bad?”

He looked up at you. Really looked.

Then he huffed out a soft, humorless laugh.

“Yeah,” he said, “I’ve been through a whole goddamn lot of bad.”

And that was it.

The beginning of it.

Small conversations bled into longer ones. Not confessions—but pieces. Shards. Stories without names, told in low voices and half-smiles that didn’t reach your eyes. It wasn’t therapy. It wasn’t healing. But it was something.

Eventually, you told him your name.

And one night, as he stood to leave, tucking his hands back in his jacket, you asked softly—

“See you again tomorrow?”

He paused. Looked at you. Let his gaze stay.

And nodded once.

“Yeah. I think so.”

—

It became a rhythm before either of you realized it.

8pm. Sharp.

Every night, the same soft creak of the door. The same dark-colored jacket, always zipped halfway. Some days navy, some black, sometimes a dark olive green that made his eyes look colder than usual. But always the same seat in the back. Always the same drink.

“Whiskey. Neat.”

No small talk at first. Just his eyes doing that slow sweep of the room. Shoulders always tense beneath his coat. You learned to stop announcing the time when he walked in—he already knew it. You stopped asking what he wanted to drink—it was already poured.

It became a promise.

—

Eventually, he started sticking around longer. Waiting until the last old man shuffled out. Until the shutters half-dropped. And then you’d leave together.

No handholding. No flirting. Just… walking. Sometimes to the back steps behind the shop where the night air hit cleaner, or to a quiet, open lot where broken streetlights gave everything a silvered kind of blur.

It felt like dating. But it wasn’t.

There were no labels. Just shared silence, and the warmth of another human breathing next to you who understood without needing the story.

—

One night, while sitting on a bench near a shuttered florist’s stall—two glasses of whiskey in mismatched mugs between you—you leaned back against the brick wall behind you, tipped your head toward him, and asked with a half-smile:

“So… are you gonna keep being a ghost until you ghost me completely? Or will you eventually let me know your name?”

His mouth twitched.

That look crossed his face—the one where he tried not to be amused but failed. Then he chuckled, low and rasped, like it had been a while since he’d allowed himself to sound like that.

“You’ll know it,” he said, raising the mug to his lips,

“Eventually. When the time comes.”

You rolled your eyes. He smirked. Neither of you pushed it further.

—

You learned where he lived. Apartment 4B. One floor above yours.

He’d walk you to your door, sometimes, his presence quiet beside you like a bodyguard made of shadows. Other nights, you walked him to his. A quiet nod, a soft goodnight. But never once did either of you cross the threshold. Like invisible lines were still drawn across the doorframes.

The distance was small. The space between you, smaller. But still—you kept your walls. And so did he.

—

It was sometime after midnight when you heard the knock.

Frantic. Not loud or urgent—just the kind that clung to hesitation.

You opened the door and there he was.

His shirt soaked with sweat. Breathing uneven. Eyes wide, like he’d run from something or fought something off. And his hands… his hands were trembling.

He tried to speak.

“I—uh. I didn’t know where else… I just—”

You didn’t ask.

You just stepped aside.

He walked in without another word, his boots slow and uncertain. You moved to the kitchen, filled the kettle. Poured him a cup of chamomile. You didn’t ask if he liked it—you just handed it to him.

He didn’t say thanks, but the look in his eyes said more than enough.

You both sat on the sofa, drinks in hand, the soft sound of the city beyond your windows barely there. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It was safe. Heavy, but not suffocating.

And at some point, he let his head fall back against the wall. Let the tension leave his body like air escaping a tire.

That night, something shifted.

Something inside him unlocked—not loudly, not dramatically, but in the quiet way someone lets their guard down just enough to breathe.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t speak. But his eyes lingered when he looked at you that time. Longer than they ever had before.

You didn’t ask him what happened.

You just let him be broken beside you.

And that, for him, was everything.

—

It was a Tuesday. Maybe a Wednesday. You’d lost track.

You and him had settled into that familiar rhythm again—late night coffee, whiskey after the shop closed, sharing a table at that tucked-away café that barely stayed open past nine. The world always seemed to narrow down to just the two of you in that place, your voices low, the buzz of the street outside barely a whisper.

You were mid-sentence—some half-laughed comment about how he always asked for the same drink like it was sacred—when a tall man pushed through the café door.

He moved like he knew who he was looking for. Confident. Sharpened.

And when he saw Bucky, his whole body seemed to tighten.

“There you are,” the man said, low but firm. “We need to talk. Now.”

You blinked. The stranger didn’t look at you, not even a glance—his eyes were locked on the man across from you, the one who sat frozen for a second before exhaling like he’d been waiting for this moment to catch up to him.

“Can it wait?” Bucky muttered, not looking up.

“No.”

That one word had weight. Like it had followed them both across continents.

You looked between them, catching the subtle way Bucky’s fingers clenched around his glass. The tension wasn’t explosive—but it was coiled. Tired. Heavy.

You reached for your bag, rising from your seat with a soft smile.

“I’ll give you two some space.”

He looked at you like he didn’t want you to go. Like he hated that this was how it was happening.

“I’ll come find you,” he said, his voice a little too soft.

“I know.”

You left them inside. The sidewalk outside felt colder than it should’ve. You didn’t walk far—just leaned against the brick wall near the alley, lighting a cigarette you didn’t even want. Their voices carried out through the slightly open café window. Not yelling. But sharp.

“We don’t have backup this time, Buck.”

“So why come find me?”

“Because I need you.”

“You know what happened last time—”

“And I still need you.”

You didn’t know how long you stood there. Long enough for the cigarette to burn down to the filter. Long enough for your heart to start doing that uncomfortable thing—half dread, half recognition.

Then the door creaked open, and he came out.

His jaw was tight. His eyes unreadable. That familiar storm behind them.

You said nothing. Just waited.

Then the other man came out too.

He gave you a once-over—measured, but not unkind.

“Sorry to interrupt your night,” he said. “I really wouldn’t if it wasn’t serious.”

Bucky didn’t say a word. But the other man nodded toward him anyway and added,

“He’s needed. Off-grid. No government, no help. Just us.”

You gave a small nod. Didn’t ask. You could feel the weight of it, and something told you you didn’t want the details—not unless he chose to give them.

The stranger left with a short wave.

You started walking home beside Bucky, footsteps soft on the pavement.

He didn’t say anything for a few blocks. You didn’t press. You were too busy trying to keep your thoughts from spiraling, from piecing together what you already half-knew.

And then, just as you turned onto your street, he said it.

“That was Sam. The Falcon.”

And just like that—it clicked.

Everything. The way he moved. The way he carried his silence. The way you never quite saw him as just some brooding regular with pretty eyes.

You stopped. Just for a second.

Then you nodded.

“Makes sense.”

He didn’t look at you, but you saw the way his hands flexed at his sides. Like he was bracing for a question that never came.

—

When you reached your building, you unlocked your door and turned to say goodnight.

But he didn’t move.

His hand was still gripping the edge of your doorframe. Like he didn’t know how to let go just yet. His eyes were softer now—tired, not angry. Worn down like stone eroded by waves.

“You wanna come in?” you asked.

He nodded once.

You didn’t talk about what had just happened. Didn’t ask where he was going or what he was being pulled back into. You just made him a glass of warm milk—because he asked for it once, weeks ago, in a half-drunken ramble about how it helped him sleep when he was younger.

You handed it to him and sat down beside him on the couch.

Not too close. Not far either.

The night wrapped around you both quietly. And he exhaled—deep, long—like he hadn’t done that all day.

No words. Just presence.

And that was the night you knew he trusted you enough to unravel.

Just a little.

Enough to stay.

Enough to drink milk instead of whiskey.

Enough to want to come back.

—

He stayed longer than he ever had.

He held the glass of milk like it steadied him, but didn’t drink it right away.

You both sat on the sofa, the quiet stretching between you like a thread—tense, but comforting. He hadn’t said a word since Sam left. You hadn’t pressed. But you could feel something under his silence tonight. Something shifting.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low.

“I’m leaving. Tomorrow.”

You turned to him slowly.

“Where?”

A pause. Then:

“Madripoor.”

Your stomach dropped—not in fear, not entirely. Just… recognition. A name that brought back too much.

“Why?” you asked.

He rubbed a hand down his face, exhaling.

“Sam and I—we’re tracking down where the new serum’s coming from. The same kind the Flag Smashers used. We need intel, and… Zemo has connections.”

Your brows furrowed.

“Wait—Zemo? Baron Zemo?”

He nodded, looking equal parts tired and annoyed.

“Yeah. We broke him out.”

You just blinked. “…You what?”

“It wasn’t my idea,” he muttered, then gave you that half-irritated look, like he was annoyed at having to say it out loud.

“But you didn’t stop it.”

He didn’t answer. Just sat there, staring into the untouched milk in his hands.

Eventually, he leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, head down.

“I didn’t want to go back to this,” he said. “Not again. I’ve been trying, you know? Really trying. Making amends. Doing the work. Seeing the therapist. Crossing names off the list. Trying to not be…”

He gestured vaguely at himself.

“Him.”

You softened. “The Winter Soldier.”

He nodded.

“I thought I was done with killing. With running ops. With being the weapon people reach for when things get ugly.”

He looked at you now, finally.

“But the world keeps dragging me back into it. And I… I don’t know how to keep living like this. Decades. I’ve been fighting for decades, sweetheart. I get a few months of quiet and suddenly I’m right back in it.”

It moved you. Deeply. Not just because of the pain in his voice—but because this was the first time he let it out. Fully. Like he trusted you enough to let it hurt in front of you.

So you reached across the couch and placed your hand on his.

Warm. Steady. Real.

“Then let me help.”

His head snapped toward you.

“What?”

You hesitated only a second, then said it.

“I have people in Madripoor. I used to run things there—nothing big, but… big enough. There are still people who owe me. I can get you and Sam in cleaner than Zemo can. I know how the Power Broker works.”

You saw the change in him immediately.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Bucky—”

“No. You’re not going. I’m not letting you anywhere near that place.”

His voice was sharp now. Protective. Too much.

“You’re not dragging me into it,” you said quietly. “I’m choosing this.”

“You got out. You walked away from that life. I’m not letting Madripoor suck you back in.”

“It’s already in me,” you snapped, then softened. “I’ve spent years hiding. I’ve buried what I did. What it did to me. But if you’re right—and they’re making more serum, and you’re walking into that with Zemo, no backup, and zero leverage? You’ll need someone who knows how that world breathes.”

His jaw tightened. He looked away.

“You could get killed.”

You squeezed his hand.

“So could you.”

He flinched like that hurt more than it should’ve. His grip tightened slightly, just for a second.

You waited. Let the weight of it settle.

And finally, after a long beat, he whispered—

“You’d really go back there? After what it did to you?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Only if you let me walk beside you this time.”

—

The meet point was some rundown garage near the docks—half-abandoned, half-suspicious. Bucky walked in like he belonged there, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders tense, expression unreadable.

You followed.

Sam turned from where he was leaning against a rusted table, his eyebrows immediately knitting together when he saw you.

“The hell is this?” he asked, gesturing between the two of you.

Bucky didn’t even blink.

“She’s coming with us.”

“No—no, no. You said we were working clean. Tight. No civilians.”

“She’s not a civilian,” Bucky replied flatly. “She’s connected. Madripoor’s a mess without a map and she is one.”

Sam looked at you—really looked. Like he was reassessing everything he’d assumed.

“You serious about this?”

You nodded once.

“I’m not just here for him. I’m here for the mission. You need a way in. I’m your way in.”

Sam let out a frustrated breath and muttered something under his breath about “bringing ex-assassins to the party,” but he didn’t argue again.

“Fine. But if this goes sideways…”

“Then it’ll go sideways with me,” you said. “Then I’ll go down with it. But it won’t be because of me.”

—

The air in Madripoor was sharp, smoky, and thick with tension. The kind that sat on your skin like sweat you couldn’t wash off. The kind you remembered too well.

The Brass Monkey bar was still the same—loud, wild, dangerous. Neon soaked in sin. People looked up when you entered. The eyes on Bucky were curious. On Sam, cautious.

On you? Hostile.

“Word spreads fast,” you murmured to Bucky as you moved through the crowd, leading them in.

“Why are they looking at you like that?” Sam asked.

You didn’t answer.

Not yet.

You managed to pull a few strings—old favors, old names whispered in back rooms—and soon, someone told you Selby would see you. But she wasn’t alone.

Zemo was already there.

He greeted you all with that smug, gloved calm that made your stomach twist. He looked you up and down like you were a loose thread in a well-tailored suit.

“You brought her?” he asked Bucky, voice dry.

“She got us in,” Bucky replied.

“Mmm. We’ll see.”

Things didn’t go smoothly. Even with your connections, Selby and her crew didn’t trust you. Or rather—they didn’t forgive you.

“You show your face here after what you did?” Selby sneered. “Betraying your own?”

Sam looked over at you, confused.

Selby didn’t let you explain.

“You were supposed to be one of us. But you played both sides. Walked away. Now you come crawling back with Captain America’s leftovers and him?” she nodded to Zemo. “You’ve got some nerve.”

“We need to speak to the Power Broker,” Bucky said firmly.

Selby’s smile was all venom.

“You want to speak to the Broker? Prove you’re still part of the fold. We already let your little show slide,” she added, tilting her head toward the bloodied floor where Bucky had just gone through a very convincing Winter Soldier performance—slamming thugs into walls, eyes cold, metal arm glinting in low light.

“We need more than fists.”

She turned to Zemo.

“You said the Soldier was still yours. That he still listens.”

Zemo gave the smallest nod. Then turned to Bucky.

“Finish the performance.”

“What do you mean?” Bucky asked, already tensing.

Selby smiled.

“One of you doesn’t leave this bar. We want proof of loyalty. A death.”

She looked right at you.

“And I think we all agree it should be her.”

Everything froze.

You didn’t flinch. But your body locked up.

Bucky went still. Like the moment hadn’t reached him yet. Like it was waiting for permission to break him.

Sam stepped forward, voice tense.

“Now wait a minute—”

“No,” Zemo cut in smoothly. “We play by their rules. You want access, you pay the price.”

“She’s not part of this,” Bucky said, voice low, jaw clenched.

“She is now,” Selby replied. “A betrayer, walking in here like she still belongs. That kind of insult needs blood.”

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m—”

“You’ve done worse,” Zemo said, cold and calculated. “Haven’t you?”

That was the moment Bucky flinched.

You could see it—the war in him. Metal fingers curling slowly into a fist. His breath caught between fury and fear. That look in his eyes like the Winter Soldier was knocking, whispering you know how to end this.

Sam’s hand hovered near his own weapon. The room felt ready to ignite.

Your voice was quiet.

“It’s okay.”

Bucky’s head snapped toward you. Eyes wide. Fractured.

“No, it’s not.”

But the guns were already raised. The bar already tense. Selby’s goons, the crowd—no one was bluffing.

And you were the price.

—

The bar was silent. Like it was holding its breath.

Selby had given the order. Guns were raised. Every exit was blocked. The scent of blood and sweat hung thick in the air. And you were standing there—unarmed, calm, watching Bucky like you already knew what he’d choose.

Zemo didn’t flinch. Sam was tense, his body angled like he was seconds from lunging.

But Bucky?

He didn’t move.

He stood there, metal arm half-lowered, fingers twitching like they couldn’t decide if they belonged to him or to the past. His eyes were on you. Only you.

You took a slow breath. Let it settle in your lungs.

Then you smiled. Soft. Like a memory.

And you nodded.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, just for him.

His breath hitched.

You took one step closer. The barrel of someone’s gun moved with you, tracking like a predator, but you didn’t care. You met Bucky’s eyes. Held them.

And then you mouthed it.

Forever yours, James.

His lips parted. Just barely.

And then the gun in his hand rose.

The shot was fast. Clean. Precise.

Your body jolted. Then crumpled. A sharp sound of air leaving your lungs. The thud of your knees. The way your head hit the floor, gentle, like you were finally allowed to rest.

You didn’t move again.

Sam made a sound—a sharp inhale, like he’d been sucker punched.

Zemo said nothing. Just kept his eyes on Bucky, assessing. Approving.

But Bucky?

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t blink.

He stood there like a statue carved from ash, smoke still curling from the muzzle of his gun. A ghost again. Just like before.

Except this time, the ghost he became… was because you were gone.

—

The mission succeeded.

The serum pipeline was shut down. The Power Broker fell. Sam took the shield and made something new with it.

But Bucky?

He disappeared.

Right after the mission ended—after he helped take down the last name on their list—he walked away.

No note. No call. Just silence.

—

It took Sam five years to find him.

A cabin in the deep woods—no signal, no roads. Only accessible by foot or by someone who knew where to look. There were other cabins nearby. Scattered homes used by hunters, mountain folk. But Bucky’s? It sat a little further back. Half-swallowed by trees.

Sam found him in the morning. Mist still clinging to the ground. A small trail of smoke curling from the chimney.

He knocked once.

No answer.

Then again.

The door creaked open slowly.

Inside: quiet. Dim. The fire had burned low. A table set for two. A woman’s scarf hung on a hook by the door. Two mugs. One untouched.

And Bucky, sitting in the corner by the window.

Hair longer now. Beard fuller. Eyes the same—cold and hollow.

He looked up.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t speak.

Sam stepped inside and looked around. Took it all in.

“Been five years, man.”

Bucky said nothing.

“You gonna say anything?”

Bucky’s voice was rough when it came. Tired. Weathered.

“You found me.”

Sam nodded once. Looked at the mug on the table.

“You still set it for her.”

“Every night.”

Sam didn’t ask anything else. Didn’t comment on the scarf. Or the faint scent of her perfume that still lingered in the room. Or the worn photo on the mantel—creased from being held too many times. Of you.

Because he knew.

Bucky hadn’t just lost you.

He never came back from it either.

—

The cabin was still.

Bucky hadn’t said much after opening the door. He never did anymore. But he let Sam in. Sat across from him with that faraway look in his eyes and listened quietly while Sam spoke—about the world, about what had changed, about what hadn’t.

And then, after a stretch of silence, Bucky pushed himself up from his chair.

“’Scuse me,” he muttered, voice almost gentle. “Gotta bring her down.”

Sam blinked. “Who?”

But Bucky was already halfway to the stairs.

Sam stood. “Buck?”

But the man didn’t answer. He moved slowly, stiff joints and a dragging limp in his step. Sam watched the floorboards creak under Bucky’s weight as he ascended.

Then silence.

And after a minute—soft footsteps again. Coming down.

But only one pair of them.

Bucky returned alone. In his arms, he carried a dress. Pale blue. Light fabric. Folded neatly over one arm. It wasn’t modern. It wasn’t even in good condition—frayed at the hem, moth-eaten at the sleeve.

Maybe it wasn’t even yours.

But the way he laid it gently over the back of the empty chair… with such care… made Sam’s chest tighten.

Bucky stepped back, admiring it like it looked beautiful on you.

Then moved to the small stovetop. Started preparing tea with the sort of rhythm that only comes from repetition. Every step memorized. Every motion quiet.

He brought two mugs to the table. Set them down.

One across from him.

The other in front of the dress.

“You always liked this one,” he said softly, eyes on the chair. “Said it made you feel like spring.”

He sat. Lifted his own cup. Then, after a few moments, let out a soft laugh.

“You’re terrible,” he chuckled. “That’s not even how that story goes.”

Sam’s heart dropped.

He stood frozen, watching this man—this ghost of a man—smile like someone had told him a joke. Like someone was really there.

Bucky nodded slowly to the chair.

“You remember that night in Brooklyn? You were trying to convince me that place had the best sandwiches in the city…”

He laughed again.

“It was terrible. But you wouldn’t admit it.”

Sam couldn’t move. He didn’t dare speak. The man in front of him wasn’t Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. He wasn’t even the Winter Soldier.

He was someone else now. Or… someone left behind.

And then Sam remembered the rumors.

The whispers in nearby towns.

“There’s a man out in the woods, lives alone. Says he talks to his dead wife every night.”

“Swears she’s still with him.”

“Real sad story, I think. Poor guy never let her go.”

Sam had never listened. Had written it off.

Until now.

Until this.

He sat back down slowly, eyes on the dress, on the still-steaming mug. He looked at Bucky—who was smiling now, eyes lit in a way Sam hadn’t seen in years.

Not haunted.

Just… soft. Gentle. Happy.

“You’re still here,” Bucky murmured, gaze on the chair. “You never left.”

And maybe, to him, that was true.

—

The tea had gone cold.

The laughter faded.

And Sam couldn’t pretend anymore.

He watched Bucky murmur something toward the chair again, smiling like you were smiling back, and his chest clenched.

“Buck,” Sam said softly.

No response.

“Buck… she’s not here.”

That made Bucky pause.

He blinked. Looked at Sam, confused. As if he’d forgotten he was there.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t do that.”

“I know you miss her. I know—but this… this isn’t real, man.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He looked back at the chair.

Sam stood, carefully. Stepping closer.

“She’s gone. You’re drinking tea with a dress. And I’ve let it slide because I thought maybe it was helping. Maybe it kept you afloat. But it’s not, Buck.”

Bucky’s hands trembled in his lap. The metal one, too.

Sam lowered his voice. Gentle now.

“You’ve carried enough ghosts. Let her rest, Buck. And let yourself rest.”

And for a long moment, Bucky just sat there.

Frozen.

Then nodded once.

Just once.

—

Sam took him out two days later.

A quiet drive. Long, winding roads through empty hills. No words exchanged. Just the weight of what was coming.

The cemetery was small, tucked beside a tree line. Simple stones. No crowds. No press. Just earth and memory.

Bucky stood in front of the headstone for a long time.

Didn’t speak at first.

Didn’t cry.

Just stared.

Then his knees gave out.

He fell to the ground with a broken sound—a sharp, gut-wrenched exhale. Like the weight of your absence finally cracked through every part of him.

“I thought I had time,” he rasped. “I thought I was done running. Done being someone’s monster. You were… you were supposed to be the proof that I could be better.”

He reached out, brushing his fingers over the name engraved in stone. Your name.

“I killed you. I killed the only thing that ever made me feel real again.”

Sam stood quietly behind him. His hand flexed like he wanted to reach out, but didn’t.

“I owed you everything,” Bucky whispered. “And I took it all away.”

And then he cried.

Not like the soldier. Not like the assassin. But like the boy from Brooklyn who lost everything too young. Who got it back—for a second—and then lost it all over again.

Sam stayed there the whole time.

Let it happen.

Because it needed to.

—

They returned to Sam’s place. The old house down south, where time felt slower.

Bucky didn’t talk much. Just moved through the motions. Sat on the porch with a blanket over his lap. Sometimes watching the trees. Sometimes talking to the wind like maybe you were listening.

But there was something… peaceful about him now. Like the fight had finally drained out of his bones.

Sam heard the sobs that night.

Soft, muffled. One last storm passing through.

He didn’t knock. Just stood outside the door, guarding him like always.

And when morning came, Sam made breakfast—pancakes and eggs and black coffee.

He went to knock on the bedroom door.

“Buck? You up?”

No answer.

He pushed it open.

And there he was.

Bucky Barnes, lying still in bed.

Eyes closed. Hands folded on his chest.

A small smile on his lips.

And cold.

Gone.

Not by his own hand. Not by violence. Just… gone.

Later, the autopsy would say it was heart failure.

But the attending physician had a softer term:

Broken Heart Syndrome.

The official name was stress cardiomyopathy. A rare condition. But very real.

Triggered by grief too heavy for the body to hold.

—

Sam buried him beside you.

No press. No spectacle.

Just a folded flag, a quiet moment of silence, and two names carved into stone.

Side by side.

The only caption?

“He was finally at peace.”

And when Sam stood over the grave, wind curling through the trees, he swore he could feel it—

The presence of two people who’d been too tired to keep going.