#shield

It batters against the tin roof like it’s trying to get in — thunder rumbling over the hills like a warning. You’re curled on the couch in a pair of flannel pajama pants and a worn S.H.I.E.L.D. hoodie, one knee pulled tight to your chest, a book in your lap you’ve read the same page of five times. The fire’s dwindled to glowing coals.

And Bucky’s sitting across the room like a statue.

He hasn’t said much since you both got in hours ago —wet, bruised, exhausted from the mission. Just stripped off his tac gear and sat down on the edge of the bed, mechanical hand flexing like it couldn’t settle. He’s been like that ever since you joined his team —polite, helpful, quietly protective. But always… distant.

Like if he got too close, he’d ruin something.

Another crash of thunder shakes the cabin. You flinch without meaning to, hand clutching the blanket tighter.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Come here,” he says, voice low but solid.

You blink up at him.

“What?”

“You’re cold,” he murmurs. “Don’t argue, I can tell. C’mere.”

You hesitate. He looks so serious, dark hair still damp from the rain, black T-shirt hugging the hard lines of his chest. His expression is guarded, but his eyes are warm — warmer than you’ve ever seen them.

You cross the room slowly. He shifts, leaning back against the headboard, lifting the blanket beside him in invitation. Something tight coils in your chest. You’ve slept in the same room before — hotel rooms, bunkers, quinjet corners — but never like this.

You sit beside him. He wraps the blanket around your shoulders, pulls you in.

And suddenly you’re tucked under Bucky Barnes’ arm, your head resting against the soft fabric of his shirt, the sound of his steady breathing in your ear.

Your body relaxes before your mind can catch up. He’s warm. Unbelievably warm. And strong. You feel it in every inch of him —the way his arm curls protectively around your back, the subtle press of muscle as you lean into him.

“You okay?” he asks after a while.

You nod, barely. “Yeah. Just… long week.”

His chuckle is barely audible. “Understatement of the century.”

For a moment, it’s just the storm and the soft rhythm of your breathing. Then he speaks again — so quietly it barely registers.

“I hate seeing you scared.”

You look up. His jaw is tight, his gaze focused on the firelight.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” he says gently. “It’s okay.”

You swallow. There’s something aching in his tone —something raw.

“You don’t talk this much,” you say softly.

“I know.” He turns his head, meets your eyes. “Doesn’t mean I don’t think it.”

Your breath catches. His eyes are ocean-deep, stormy like the night outside, but warm — so warm.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks.

You nod.

“I think about touching you all the time.”

Your heart stops.

He keeps going, voice steady but trembling at the edges.

“Not just sex. Not even that, really. I think about… brushing your hair out of your face. Holding your hand. Pulling you onto my lap just because I can. I think about waking up next to you.”

He swallows hard.

“But I don’t. Because I don’t want to scare you. And because I don’t know if you’d want that. Want me.”

The rain seems to hush for a moment, like the world is listening.

You reach up slowly, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw. His eyes flutter closed like he’s afraid to believe it’s real.

“I’ve been waiting for you to touch me,” you whisper. “I thought you wouldn’t want to.”

His eyes snap open —like you just lit a fuse.

“Don’t move,” he says hoarsely.

You stay still.

His hand —warm, broad, careful —comes up to cup your face. His thumb brushes your cheek, then your lip. His other hand, the metal one, rests on your thigh with featherlight pressure, like he’s scared you’ll flinch.

You don’t.

You lean in.

And he kisses you.

It’s gentle at first —lips soft and reverent against yours, like he’s still scared he’ll wake up. But then you press closer, fingers tangling in his shirt, and he deepens it —groaning into your mouth, tongue brushing yours, hunger bleeding into every movement.

You shift into his lap, straddling him instinctively, and Bucky grabs your hips like he’s grounding himself —like if he lets go, he’ll wake up alone again.

His pupils are blown wide, lips swollen from kissing, and the look he gives you is hungry —like you’re the first warm thing he’s touched in years.

“You’re driving me insane,” he growls. “You know that, right?”

You rock against him gently, and his jaw goes tight.

“You can touch me,” you whisper, hands in his hair. “Anywhere. However you want.”

He huffs a breath like he’s trying to keep from losing it.

“Fuck, sweetheart…”

His metal hand grips your thigh, spreading you wider over him. His other hand slides under your hoodie and up your back, warm and solid, tugging the fabric over your head and tossing it aside.

When he sees you —bare, flushed, breathing hard —he curses under his breath and cups your chest with both hands, thumbs dragging over your nipples until they stiffen. You gasp, grinding against the hard line of him beneath his sweatpants.

“Lay back for me,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

You do —breathless, already aching —lying back on the bed as he kneels between your legs.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your flannel pants.

“Every inch of you.”

He drags them down, slow and deliberate, along with your panties —eyes never leaving yours as he exposes you. When you’re naked and spread out under him, he runs his hands up your thighs, parting them wider with firm, reverent pressure.

Then his mouth is on you again.

Warm, slow, worshipful.

He kisses your inner thigh, then the crease of your hip, teasing you until you’re trembling, trying to press yourself against his mouth. But he pins your hips with his metal arm and groans, low and broken, like the taste of you has him spiraling.

He laps at you slowly, teasing your clit with the flat of his tongue before sucking softly. You moan—high and sharp —and tangle your fingers in his hair. His tongue circles, flicks, licks deeper until you’re whimpering, thighs trembling.

“You’re so wet for me,” he breathes, voice muffled against your cunt. “So perfect, so good…”

You try to respond, but your hips buck when he slips one thick finger inside you, curling it just right.

“Oh—fuck, Bucky—”

“That’s it, baby,” he growls. “Let me hear you.”

He adds a second finger, fucking you slowly with a perfect rhythm as he sucks your clit again. The pressure builds like a wave — deep and hot and inevitable.

“I—I’m gonna—”

“Do it, sweetheart. Come for me.”

You fall apart on his mouth, writhing, gasping, your hands pulling hard at his hair. He doesn’t stop — licking you through it, holding you firm until your body finally slumps back against the mattress.

He looks up at you, lips slick, eyes glazed with want.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You reach for him, dazed. “Need you inside me.”

That’s all it takes.

He strips fast — sweatpants gone, briefs gone — and your eyes go wide at the size of him, thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip.

“Condom,” he mutters, reaching for his bag—

“No,” you whisper. “I’m on the pill. I want to feel you.”

His eyes darken. “You sure?”

You nod, pulling him in. “Please.”

He lines himself up, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds, and groans like he’s barely holding it together.

Then he pushes in —slow, stretching you inch by inch, until he bottoms out and you’re both gasping.

“Jesus Christ,” he pants. “You’re so tight. So fuckin’ perfect.”

He stills, letting you adjust, kissing your shoulder, your cheek, your jaw. “You okay, baby?”

You nod. “Move.”

And when he does —slow and deep at first, then faster, rougher —it’s like the world narrows to just the two of you. His hands grip your hips, his mouth never leaves your skin, and every thrust drives you higher.

He murmurs praise like a prayer—

“So good for me.”

“You feel like heaven.”

“I could stay inside you forever.”

When he feels you tighten around him again, he fucks you through your second orgasm — hard and deep — before groaning into your neck and coming inside you with a shudder that rocks his whole body.

He doesn’t pull out. Not yet.

Just stays there, buried deep, breathing against your collarbone.

“I’ve never—” he murmurs. “Never had this. Not like this.”

You stroke his back, warm and damp with sweat.

“You have it now.”

He kisses you then —soft and slow, like a promise.

And this time, it’s not about hunger.

It’s about home.

The fire’s burned down to embers.

Outside, the rain has stopped. All that’s left is the gentle patter of water dripping from the eaves and the faint glow of early morning light peeking through the curtains.

You’re warm —so warm —tucked beneath the threadbare sheets, wrapped in Bucky’s arms.

His body is solid heat against your back, chest rising and falling steady with sleep. One hand is splayed across your belly, the other curled under your neck, holding you close like he still doesn’t quite believe you’re real.

You shift slightly, and his breath catches. The hand on your stomach tightens, thumb brushing your skin like a reflex.

“Did I wake you?” you whisper, voice soft.

“Mmm,” he hums sleepily, lips brushing your shoulder. “Been awake. Just didn’t wanna move. S’too good.”

You smile, turning in his arms to face him. He’s a mess of tousled hair and morning stubble, blue eyes heavy-lidded and soft.

“Hi,” you murmur.

“Hi.” He leans in, noses at your cheek. “Can I kiss you?”

“You never have to ask.”

The kiss is slow —tender and lazy, mouths fitting together like they’ve always known how. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye, and you melt into him like you’ve been waiting all your life to be held like this.

When you shift again, your bare thighs brush his —and you feel it.

He’s hard. Already. Pressed warm and thick against your stomach.

You pull back to look at him.

His cheeks are pink. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t be sorry.” You reach down, wrap your hand gently around him. His hips twitch.

“I want you again,” you whisper. “Just like this.”

He swallows hard, eyes locked on yours. “You sure?”

You nod. “Slow n soft.”

His jaw clenches, just a little. Then he exhales and kisses you again —sweeter this time, deeper, like a slow ache.

Like gratitude.

The sheets fall away as he shifts over you, pushing your legs apart with his hips. He slides his metal hand beneath your thigh, lifting it gently as he rolls his body over yours.

He’s big —broad and warm and so careful —and you feel yourself open for him all over again.

“I didn’t hurt you last night, did I?” he murmurs, brushing your hair back.

“No,” you whisper. “You made me feel so good and safe.”

He groans softly, like that this alone is enough to undo him. Then he reaches between you, guides himself to your entrance, and sinks in slow.

The stretch makes you sigh —familiar now, but no less intense. He presses deeper until your bodies are flush, his cock buried inside you, and stays there for a moment, unmoving.

His forehead rests against yours.

“I could stay like this forever,” he breathes. “You feel so good. So warm. So perfect.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist.

“Then stay.”

He moves slowly, rolling his hips in deep, rhythmic strokes —not chasing release, just feeling you. Making love like he has nowhere else to be, like your body is the only place he’s ever felt peace.

The way he looks at you —like you hung the stars —has your whole chest aching.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. “Can’t believe I get to touch you like this.”

You kiss his cheek, his jaw, his shoulder. “Touch me more.”

And he does. Big hands exploring your body all over again —your waist, your breasts, your thighs. He never stops moving inside you, never pulls all the way out. Every thrust is slow and deep and intimate, like he wants to leave a piece of himself inside you.

When you start to tremble beneath him, he cups your face with both hands.

“Let go, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You come with a soft cry, clinging to him as your body shudders. He follows moments later, gasping your name, cock pulsing inside you as he buries himself one last time and spills deep.

You stay tangled together afterward — skin flushed, breath slowing, heartbeats syncing.

“I think I’m addicted to you,” he murmurs against your neck.

“Good thing we’re stuck here another day.”

He chuckles, pulling you tight against him. “Don’t tempt me.”

But his voice is soft. Sweet. Like he wants to be tempted. Like he already is.