#stalker!bucky

Bucky sits across from your apartment. He had given you a task. One you were usually really good at. Don’t touch yourself without his permission. The problem was he’d purposefully set you up to fail. The mission Steve had dragged him on had only been for three days, but he’d let you wait for seven days. Not a word from him, it had taken every hair of control for him not to kick the door down and take you exactly the way he wanted to. But the reward would be worth the wait. Currently, you were walking back and forth, wearing an oversized shirt, thumb against your lip. He knew you were on edge, had watched you squirm and rut against a pillow the last couple of nights. While he palmed himself through his pants, wishing he could just slip inside you.

The relationship you both had, if it could be called that, was unique to say the least. There were rules. Bucky liked things just a certain way. He never got a key, and you never changed the locks. Any footage from your room cameras was sent to him and then deleted. You fought back, but didn’t scream, you obeyed what he said, when he said, or he won’t let you come. Neither of you was to have sexual partners outside the relationship. The thought of someone else getting to touch you made his skin crawl. He barely tolerated other men speaking to you at your job. That was one of the very few rules he let you have: no killing customers.

One of the most important rules was that you never told anyone about him, ever. In turn, you both got to live out your darkest sexual desires as much as possible. It was intoxicating, addictive, and much more fun than Bucky could have imagined. He never thought he could have this, have someone who wanted to be used the way you did. It should have disgusted you, but you'd begged for it enough times for him to be convinced.

Now he finds himself here, half hard, sitting and waiting for you to snap under the pressure. To finally give in to temptation. You picked up your phone for the hundredth time today and scrolled through it. You won't text, another rule, specifically for when he was away. You toss it down and stomp over to the bedroom. You stood there staring at the bed, the bed where he’d eaten you out so good, you’d soaked the sheets. Where you let him take a knife and leave small marks over your body. He probably owed you a dozen new sheets. Bucky could see how torn you were. How much you want to give in.

“Come on, Sweets,” Bucky says out into the cool evening air. “Know how much you want to touch yourself.”

With frustration, you move over to the window and close the curtains. 

“Knew it,” Bucky chuckles, and packs things away quickly. 

He is down and across to your building in a few minutes, taking the stairs two at a time. No way he was waiting for the elevator, not when he knew he could outrun it. 

Sliding into the hallways, Bucky jogs over to your door. He leans forward and listens, slowing his heart and holding his breath. It was distant, but the wet sounds of your fingers were just heard over the hum of the building. 

Lock pick in hand, he has it open in moments, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. His footsteps are silent as he moves into the apartment. Your door is slightly ajar, and he can smell your arousal now. The sweet, floral, musky scent that makes his mouth water. Can hear how your breath hitches, the way you’re trying to get yourself there, even though he was the one who made you see stars. You'd bemoaned about how it wasn't the same if he didn't do it.

Standing in the doorway, he peers in. Your shirt is off, legs spread in a wanton fashion. Your face was flushed, brows pinched, lips parted. One day, he was going to take pictures of you, the way you were so raw, so consumed by pleasure. That was the thing about you, you were so unencumbered, so open with what you wanted and needed. And you gave it to him without a second thought.

Bucky's eyes flow down from your breasts that move with every bitten off breath. Down over your stomach that flexes as your fingers move, palm flat against your mound. Fingers sliding along your wet lips, body spreading open so he can see how your hole clenches around nothing. Watching as you drip down over your ass and onto the sheets. A whimper leaves as you stick a finger inside, your body gripping and pulling it deeper. It needs to be him, his fingers, his tongue, his cock. Pushing and spreading you open in a way only he can. 

Giving in, he finally pushes the door open. Your legs slam close, your eyes going wide as you take him. Breath catching in your throat as you try to form words.

“Bucky,” You hush out, trying to cover yourself somehow. Trying and failing to make it look somehow like you weren’t doing what you were doing. “I-ah-fuck.”

Bucky lets out a low chuckle as he starts to peel off his gloves. “You just couldn’t wait? Always so greedy, bet you were throbbing thinking of me. Hoping I’d show up, take care of that ache.”

You whimper, curling your legs up against your chest, “I couldn’t take it anymore. I-I-needed something, Bucky.”

He rolls his eyes, “I needed something, Buckyyy.” He mocks back at you as he starts to take off his jacket. “Just a wet hole, can’t stop yourself, need me to be inside you all the time. Isn’t that right?”

You're trembling slowly moving to the edge of the bed, “Yes. Nothing feels as good as you.”

“Undress me, then I’ll decide if you get to come tonight or not.” Bucky hisses, a smirk stretching across his lips as you trip over yourself to start undressing him. 

Even with shaky hands, your fingers undo each strap of his vest, dragging the zippers down. Carefully placing each piece on the floor. Then you are pulling his shirt up, making sure his arm doesn’t catch on the material. You don’t touch his skin, knowing better than to do that, making sure to stay looking at him as your hands find their way to his belt. 

“Simple rules, for a simple girl,” Bucky chuckles as you unbuckle him. “All I want is for you to wait for me. For you to listen. But you’re just too much of a whore. Have to touch yourself. Surprised you didn’t try to find someone to fill my spot.”

He can see how the words hit, your face crumpling in, you lived off praise and being used. Knowing you disappointed him upsets you, which just makes Bucky harder. Dropping to your knees, you unlace his boots and pull them off one at a time, even as the words bite into your skin. Fingers peeling off his socks, before you stop at the button of his jeans.

“What if I didn’t come back. Just left you to your own devices? Do you think you’d ever find anyone like me?” Bucky tips your face up so that you’re looking at him. “Answer me.” 

You're near tears, eyes wide and shining.“No, no, I could never. I could never find anyone like you.”

He squeezes your chin with a grin, “Good, now finish what you started.”

His pants hit the floor, and you carefully remove him from them. Then go to his boxers, you're looking up at him making sure that it’s okay before you pull them down. A small sigh leaves him as his cock bobs in front of him. Almost fully hard, and dripping a little. Bucky watches your tongue dart out, knowing you'd love to take him in your mouth. But not yet, this was for his pleasure, not yours.

“Get on the bed, all fours, face the headboard.” Bucky hisses, loving how quickly you respond to him. He looks at you, naked ass on full display, part of him wants to see if he could fit there. See if you’d really struggle; it would be new for both of you. Not tonight, no, he’d save that for another night. Right now, he needed to be inside that dripping pussy. 

You shiver as he crawls onto the bed, his hands running up and gripping your ass. He squeezes it hard enough that you whimper, but keep yourself firmly in place. He lets go and lifts his hand to bring it down with a loud smack. A gasp escapes your lips, he grins and does it again, your body trembles. Bucky wishes he could watch you as he did this, landing another blow on the other side with his metal hand. You can’t help how you're pushed down onto your elbows. He uses his metal hand and lands several more blows, your ass turning bright red with purple markings. A perfect outline of each finger, something you'd feel for days.

Bucky leans down and takes a bite. He can’t help himself; he just has to take a nibble, a taste of your sweet flesh. Your hand finds your mouth as you shove it against your face to muffle the scream. He sucks a little and then soothes it with his tongue for a moment. The urge to mark you everywhere makes his cock twitch. So he leans up and sinks his teeth into your lower back, having you writhing under him.

“I shouldn’t fuck you,” Bucky growls, sitting up, one hand covering his latest bite mark. He grabs his cock and rubs it over your wet folds. Slapping it against your trembling hole. “Should leave you right here, make you wait until tomorrow, or maybe another week. See just how pretty you’d beg me then.”

Another whimper leaves you, body vibrating; he can feel the way your hips move. Metal hand gripping your hip hard enough for you to still. Knowing that you're on the verge of collapsing with anticipation.

“But, I’ve also waited, and I can’t help myself,” Bucky pushes the tip of his cock into your wet hole and slides all the way in, in one movement. 

This time, you do scream, before whimpering as your head drops against the sheets. He can let it slide this time. Bucky takes a moment to savor just how fucking tight you are sucking him in, how you’re dripping around him, pussy squeezing and fluttering. 

“Fuck, it was worth the wait,” Bucky admits, as he pulls halfway out and then slams back in. He doesn’t let you adjust, doesn’t wait for you to be ready. “Going to come inside this fucking greedy cunt. Know how much you love having me dripping out of you. Then I am going to stretch this ass of yours, and fuck you there too. Always so needy, sucking up anything I give you, always wanting more. See how much you can take tonight.” 

“Please,” You get out, starting to fuck back against him. “I’ll take it, whatever you want.”

Buck can’t help the grin that stretches across his face. Pulling out, he flips you over so that he can grab your throat, metal hand clamping around it. Not enough to black you out, but enough to threaten it. You throb around him as he pushes back in, your mouth opens, brows scrunched together, as your tits bounce with each brutal thrust.

“Fuck, fit me like a glove. How can you be so tight when you let me fuck you like this?” He taunts, his palm pushing on your pubic mound. Knowing just how badly you want him to touch you clit. “Don’t you dare cum. You cum when I let you.”

You nod your head frantically, lips drawn into your mouth. He squeezes your throat a little, making you gasp. He can feel his release building, seeing you bent in half taking him like nothing. Looking down to see your pussy clenching around him, dragging him back in, squeezing him, begging him to cum inside you.

“My toy, my fucking toy,” Bucky growls, leaning down, to kiss you hard. Teeth crash against each other, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth. He grunts as he feels his orgasm crest, his hands pull your hips tight to his, as he plunges in and out a few more times. “All mine, only mine.”

“I am yours,” You gasp, as he spills deep inside you. 

“Good girl,” Bucky pants, as he sits back onto his calves, holding you tight and full against him. Letting his cock throb and twitch inside you. 

Your body collapsing against the bed, eyes locked on his. He watches as your finger carefully comes and touches where you're both joined. You wipe up the mixture of his and yours cum, before bringing it to your lips. 

Bucky feels himself twitch inside you as he watches you lick at your fingers. Already knowing there is more to come.

“Fuck, you're something else,” Bucky growls, leaning down to kiss you hard again. 

These two just.... ugh... they are always so fucked for the other

TAGLIST :

@iamthatonefangirl @flockoff-featherface @opheliabbarnes @unificsation @heldbybarnes

@firingstars @54nboo @winterdecember18 @houseofhyde @blowingbarnes

He’d hung it himself. Pressed it gently between your older ones. Threaded the sleeve just slightly through so it would catch your attention. Not too obvious, but enough to draw the eye. It had taken weeks to decide which one before buying it for you. The soft grey, heavy-weight cotton that he'd worn just a few times, just till held just a hint of his scent; not the sharp aftershave or cologne he sometimes used in public, but him. Clean sweat, pine soap, and warmth. Something to be a comfort.

You pulled it from the rack, stared at it a second too long. He watched you take stock of it, the way your fingers grazed up the fabric like it was something precious. Reverent. Like maybe you thought it had meaning. Like it was a gift. God, how he wanted you to touch him like that. The way you pressed your nose into the soft cotton, breathing in, and he almost moaned, biting hard into his lip to keep the sound in. It was too much. Too perfect.

His fingers clenched tight around the edge of the desk.

Then…you put it on.

The rush was instant. Heat bloomed under his skin, electricity racing up his spine. You liked it. You accepted it. You didn’t throw it aside. No furrowed brow, no confusion. Just that small, fragile moment where you tucked your hands into the sleeves and adjusted the fit at the hem. You shifted a little, rolling your shoulders as if to feel the weight of it settle against your skin. You looked down at yourself, at the fabric like it mattered, like it meant something- and maybe it did.

His hoodie. On you.

He exhaled hard, pressing the heel of his metal palm to his chest like he could steady his heart. But it wasn’t working. Every breath was shaky, tight. He was sweating now and didn’t even care.

Mine.

You didn’t know it yet. Not fully. But this was the first step. You’d worn something he gave you. You’d let him touch you without even knowing it. That meant something. That meant everything.

His mind raced. Ideas collided with feeling. Heat. Hope. Possession.

This was it, this was the shift he’d been waiting for. Now he could act. Now he could start appearing. Soft, casual. Organic. But real. Present. So you could finally see him the way he saw you.

He got up too quickly, pushing back the chair, breath already coming harder than it should. His hand raked through his hair, pacing from one side of the apartment to the other, trying to let the movement settle him. He needed to move, needed to bleed some of it off, because he was shaking and smiling like a fucking idiot and his hands wouldn’t stop twitching.

He had expected to feel something. Satisfaction, maybe. Relief. But this was overwhelming. His heart thumped like it wanted out of his chest, jittery and frantic and warm. It felt almost as good as that time you’d smiled at him in the grocery store. That tiny, perfect moment he kept replaying in his head like a sacred reel. But this was even better. More intimate. Closer.

"Okay, okay… next step. Next step is…"

He had to talk to you. Really talk to you. Hear your voice directed at him. Watch you look up and meet his eyes, those eyes of yours that made him feel real. That made him feel seen. He just had to find the right moment, the right way. It was happening. He could feel it. The shift. The pull.

You’d worn him.

You chose him.

Café? Maybe the one near the bookstore. You liked their lemon muffins. He could time it. Pay for your coffee ahead of you, one of those cute pay-it-forward things. Flash a smile, offer to sit. No- too forward. You’d say no. You had a husband.

Laundromat. That was better. Neutral ground. He could drop his laundry bag too close to yours. Let it spill. Ask for help. But- no, shit, that made him look incompetent. Like a man-child. Like someone who couldn’t look after himself, let alone you.

What about the bookstore? You still went Sundays. If he happened to pick up something you loved, maybe even reach for the same book -no. No, that wouldn’t be enough and he’d just given you that book, the one you took from the laundromat. You wouldn’t even be going to the book store any time soon.

The park crossed his mind. People met in parks, didn’t they? Strangers sat near each other, shared paths. It wouldn’t be weird. He could bring a book. Sit on a bench close to where you usually walked. Maybe even offer to share crumbs with the birds or ask the time? That was normal. That was casual.

Maybe he should asked Steve or Sam, they had ideas about these things.. about how to be a person. 

But then he groaned. No- fuck, no. He couldn’t do that either. Not now. Not when he’d already dropped hints to both of them about seeing someone. About you. About how you were special, how he’d made plans to see you, soft lies layered over dirtier truths. He’d let too much slip, gotten too dreamy around the edges when they asked about how his weekend had been, or if he was finally going to let someone in. He couldn’t backtrack now. Couldn’t ask Steve how to casually bump into you at a park or a store without sounding like a lunatic. Couldn’t ask Sam for advice on what kind of line to use that wasn’t creepy.

They’d know. They’d know.

Steve would give him that look. The tight-lipped, disappointed one that made him feel twelve years old again. Sam would ask too many fucking questions. And worse- Sam would joke, would poke, and it would be too much. This wasn’t something he could share. Not yet. Not when it wasn’t real. Not when it was still just yours and his, even if only he knew it.

He was on his own with this. And it had to be perfect. Not rushed. Not messy. You deserved more than that.

"I just want to talk to her, why is it so hard to just find the right moment to talk to her!"

He muttered, sharp and frustrated, dragging a hand through his hair again as he put his notebook down, the page he'd been scribbling on smudged by the heat of his palm. A half-formed sentence bled into the margin. His jaw clenched tight. There had to be a way. There had to be a right way.

He’d been pacing for most of the day.

Thinking. Overthinking. Every plan, every possible approach, every excuse to see you again that wouldn’t come off too eager, too calculated. The list in his head had grown longer and more desperate with each hour- until finally, just to soothe the ache in his chest, he sat back down and clicked open the feed.

He glanced at the screen.

And froze.

You were in the kitchen. Still in the hoodie tucked around yourself like armour. But you weren’t just moving. You were prepping. Dinner. You were moving with intention, like you were trying.

But something was off. Something in your posture, your mouth. The way you held the spoon like it weighed too much. Before you disappeared into the lower cupboards, rummaging with a strange sort of purpose. He leaned closer to the screen.

Candles?

He blinked. "What..?"

You pulled out the jarred ones you only used on anniversaries. Arranged them absently on the bench. His stomach twisted.

What were you doing?

That’s when it clicked.

You were fussing with the meal too much, checking the oven, adjusting things that didn’t need adjusting. Stirring the sauce like it had personally offended you.

His heart stuttered.

It hit him all at once. A punch to the ribs. When you petted the shirt again and looked at the clock on the wall. 

You thought he gave it to you. Not Bucky. Him. That miserable prick you lived with.

“No,” Bucky whispered, standing too fast, chair legs scraping loudly behind him. “No, no, no…”

He stared at the screen, lips parted, heart hammering. Rage lit his veins like fire. That bastard got your trust? He got the small bloom of hope that Bucky had so carefully planted?

He slammed his metal hand down on the desk. leaving a dent. 

But Bucky didn’t flinch.

His breath came in hard, hot bursts. He stared at the screen, frozen in place. His hands curled into fists.

You adjusted the pot on the stove. Wiped your eyes with the back of your hand. Still in the hoodie.

Still thinking it came from someone who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you.

Bucky’s face twisted. His voice came out low, raw, as he growled at the screen. “It was me, not him. I thought of you. I care about you. Not that deadbeat. Not the man who ignores you. Not the one you keep trying for.”

He paced once, then slammed both palms down on the desk, bending forward over the screen like he could force the truth through it. “I’m the one who sees you. I’m the one who knows what you need. Not him. Not that son of a bitch who bites your head off every time you do something he doesn’t approve of!”

His breath caught, voice trembling. “He doesn’t even care. He doesn’t see you. Doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t know what you sound like when you’re happy, when you laugh at those dumb shows. He wouldn’t think to leave you something like this, something soft. Something that might make you feel... worth it.”

He shook his head hard, like he could knock the fury out of himself. “It was me. It was supposed to be from me.” He knew you didn't know that, but it didn't make it hurt any less. 

His voice cracked. “You’re gonna thank him, aren’t you? Gonna smile at him. Tell him it was sweet. Tell him it meant something.”

And then the realization hit him like a hammer to the chest.

What was Nic going to say when he saw you in the hoodie?

What was he going to do?

The blood drained from Bucky’s face. He gripped the edge of the table again, knuckles white.

He’d put you in the line of fire. He’d given you something that might make Nic snap.

"No. No, no, no... fuck!"

He turned on his heel, already moving.

The go bag was already half-packed.

It always was. Just in case. Not because he was paranoid- but because some things were inevitable. Bucky didn’t believe in luck anymore. Just preparation.

He yanked it out from the hall closet. Dropped it on the bed with a thud that echoed back at him like a warning.

One hand moved fast, automatic. The other more deliberate, grabbing what he might need if Nic did something unforgivable. If things escalated before Bucky could reach you.

Gloves. Zip ties. Taser. Duct tape. Med kit. Burner phone. Backup charger. a change of clothes, encase, either for you or himself if it came to it. 

Comfort. Protection. He would give you both. Even if you didn’t understand yet.

Bucky reached then for the smaller zipped cased the one that held something he knew he wasn’t supposed to have.

The ketamine.

He paused with the vial in his hand. Turned it over once. Twice. It looked too small to carry this much weight. His thumb brushed the label, the edges of the seal.

A failsafe. A way to end the threat cleanly.

His jaw clenched.

“You don’t get to touch her for my mistakes,” he muttered, fingers curling tighter around the vial. “You don’t get to break her because I wanted her to feel wanted…”

The guilt was sharp. His throat tight.

He tucked the vial into a side pocket and zipped the bag shut, every motion stiff, mechanical. Like if he stopped to feel for even a second, he’d come undone.

He grabbed his knife. His keys. His gloves. Put on his cap. Slid everything into their designated places like a soldier locking in for war.

Then he looked one last time at the camera feed.

Your back was to the window. Still at the stove. Still in the hoodie.

Still unaware.

Bucky looked at his watch. His pulse skipped.

He was running out of time.

No more hesitating. No more second-guessing. You were his to protect, even if you didn’t know it yet.

He was out the door before the footage had a chance to refresh.

Scene 5: The Fight

Bucky jumped the back fence just as Nic’s car swung into the drive, headlights cutting across the far side of the house like blades. The sudden light washed over the kitchen curtains and flashed against the shed.

“Shit…” Bucky hissed under his breath, dropping low into the shadow of the shed.

He pressed his back to the wooden boards, heart hammering as he peered through a gap. He could see you moving inside. You were still stirring something on the stove, glancing over your shoulder like you were trying to time it all just right. His hoodie clung to you, soft and loose around your body.

He held his breath as Nic entered the kitchen from the front of the house.

He couldn’t hear every word at first, but the tone was enough. Sharp. Cold. Accusatory. It was the way Nic always spoke when he wanted to punish you without raising his hand.

Bucky inched closer, moving to hide near the tree. The kitchen light haloed your hair like a spotlight on a stage you hadn’t agreed to stand on. You were standing there, explaining, pleading. Nic’s voice rose, a bark of laughter, then venom. Bucky’s stomach twisted as he caught pieces of it, accusations, mockery, disbelief.

He watched the entire argument unfold in real time, like a slow car crash he couldn’t stop.  You didn’t just stand there this time. You pushed back, voice low but firm, eyes shining with unshed tears and fury. You were trying. Fighting. Even if it was small, even if it wouldn’t change Nic’s mind, Bucky saw it. Felt it.

A twisted sort of pride bloomed in his chest.

You were still in there. Still had that spark.

Your own hurt expression cut into him deeper than he expected. A growl formed in his throat, guttural and raw. His fists clenched into the dirt, every muscle wound tight.

Nic didn’t deserve to see that side of you. Didn’t deserve to break it down.

But then you stopped, Bucky watched confusion turn into real hurt. He saw your shoulders stiffen, saw you freeze at the insult, Nic’s final jab. You stood there, absorbing it. Like you thought you deserved it.

Every muscle in Bucky’s body tensed. His fingers clawed at the bark next to him. He was shaking with the effort not to break through the door. His jaw ached from how tightly he held it shut. His breathing came sharp, shallow. If he moved too soon, if he made it worse, if he scared you instead of helping you.

The door slammed. Nic stomped out, muttering. Got into his car. Engine growled. Headlights swept back across the yard as he reversed out. Gone.

Bucky straightened halfway, eyes still locked on you through the glass. He was about to go after your aggressor, stop him, end it, when he saw you move. Saw the way you bent at the waist, hands gripping your head, breaking apart silently as the taillights disappeared.

He stayed outside, chest heaving, heart hammering as he watched you unravel.

This was his fault. He did this.

He watched you pull out the wine, his brows pinching at how quickly you poured. He crouched lower, getting under the kitchen window, listening as you yelled and screamed and raged at the empty room before moving deeper into the house, away from where he could hear.

He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the feed. The little screen showed you moving into the bedroom. Pulling things from drawers. Packing.

His heart lurched.

“No. No. Fuck." 

Any plan he had now, coffee shop, park walk.. all of it didn't matter now. 

Bucky Barnes needed to do something and now. 

While you were in the bedroom Bucky entered through the back. Nic hadn’t locked the door after leaving and you were too upset to think of it.

Everything was familiar now. The smell of the kitchen.  The meal you'd worked so hard on discarded. The faint hum of the fridge.

His eyes landed on the open bottle of wine. Regret punched through his ribs.

“I wanted to do this right.…” he whispered, voice low, an apology you couldn't hear. 

His hand moved automatically to his jacket, fingers brushing against the small, hidden pocket. Buvky pulled out the little vial, the one he’d kept close for months without ever really thinking he'd use it on you. Not like this.

He cast one look toward the stairs, heart thudding.

You were still up there, Bucky could hear the muffled thud of drawers, the movement of fabric. Still wilding around, still packing. Still trying to escape.

“I didn’t want it to happen this way,” he murmured, thumb rolling the vial between his fingers. “But I can’t lose you. I can’t have you go somewhere I can’t follow. Not when you're this close. Not when I can help you.”

He poured the dose with gentle hands. Precise. Not too much. Not enough to hurt you- just enough to keep you from running. Just enough to keep you safe.

He capped the bottle, set it back exactly as it had been.

Then he slid into the dark corner of your little ‘office,’ the place you always retreated to, heart in his throat. Listening as the slamming of drawers stopped. That wasn’t good. That was the sound of someone reaching the edge.

He pulled out his phone from his hiding place, the tiny screen showing you sit on the bed, slumped over. He knew that posture. He’d seen it in shelters, in barracks, in himself.

That was hopelessness.

You came back to the kitchen slower than before. Hollowed out. Silent. The fight had taken everything from you, scraped you clean inside and left only ash. Your arms hung heavy at your sides, the hoodie still draped over you like a shield you didn’t know had been meant for comfort. Still unaware of the hands that had chosen it.

Bucky watched from the dark, his heart stuttering with every step you took. You moved like your soul had been carved out. And when you reached for the glass again, his own breathing stopped. 

Bucky saw the way you clutched it, like it might anchor you. Like it might undo the ache.

You downed half the contents before pouring more.

The wine didn’t soothe you- it never really did. He could see it on your face. The twist of your lips, the bitterness at the back of your throat. But you drank anyway.

Then you moved into the living room.

Bucky almost gave himself away when you paused, startled by a noise outside. He froze, breath caught, hidden by the shadows as you stared out into the dark for a moment too long. His fingers twitched against his knees; he had to curl them into fists to stop himself from moving. God, how he wanted to cross the room, wipe the lingering wetness from your cheeks, wrap himself around you so you never had to feel like this again. He wanted you smiling, wanted that soft expression that belonged only to him. You just... folded. Dropped yourself onto the couch like your bones no longer knew how to hold you, and his throat tightened at the sight.

It would take about thirty minutes. Bucky just had to wait it out, though each moment set him more on edge. 

You sat there, blank, staring into the void of the dark room while the wine glass dangled precariously from your fingers. He didn't want to leave, but you'd need things. Bucky slipped up the stairs silently, retrieving the half-packed bag from your bedroom. His grip was gentle, his movements practiced, but his chest tightened when he looked inside. It was barely filled. Just a change of clothes. A charger. A few small items you’d grabbed in a haze of anger and pain before you'd run out of steam.

He crouched by the drawers, pulling them open quietly, taking care not to let them creak. From the third one; your intimates, socks, he added more. You’d want these. Need them. He could get you other things later. Better ones. Softer fabrics. Things picked out together, like real people did. Like couples did. Like he’d always dreamed of doing with you.

He grabbed your phone charger from the bedside, your toothbrush from the bathroom, your lip balm from the edge of the sink. All those small, intimate touches of your life. The things people took when they left. The things you’d miss.

Coming back downstairs, he paused. He could hear the soft, broken sniffles from the living room. They hit him square in the chest.

Still moving with the silence of a cat, he went to your little office. He crouched, collected the notebooks, the folder of papers for your course, the flash drive from your desk drawer. You wouldn't leave without these. He knew that. You’d worked too hard, even when you doubted yourself.

The dark didn’t matter, his eyesight was sharp, trained. He closed your laptop softly and slid it into its sleeve. He hadn't expected the next noise that reached him.

A whimper. Then another. Your crying had picked up again.

And suddenly, all of it, the bag, the prep, the planning, it became unbearable. Because you were still hurting. Right there. And he had to be the one to end it.

"M'such an id'ot.." your slurred voice come in from the other room as Bucky finished putting your bag near the office door as he moved towards the living room again. "S'my fault, I jus' keep... wha's wrong with me?" 

"It’s not," he said, the words spilling out before he could stop them. His voice was soft, caught somewhere between a whisper and a plea.

Your head whipped around, confused. "What? Nic? Who- "

But the sudden motion made your balance slip. Even just sitting on the couch, your body tilted sharply, coordination lost.

Bucky surged forward without thought, catching the wine glass just before it tipped from your hand and shattered. He placed it carefully on the coffee table, his movements deliberate and calming.

You tried to push yourself up. Your limbs trembled, sluggish and heavy. "Wha’s goin’ on... wh-who- "

"Shh, shh... it’s okay," he murmured, crouching in front of you like he would to soothe a frightened animal. His gloved hand reached out, slow and steady, cupping your cheek with such reverence it nearly undid him. "Gonna be so much better now."

You blinked hard, eyes unfocused. 

He leaned in, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. His voice dropped to a vow. "We’re going somewhere better for you. I promise."

Then, with practiced ease, he lifted you into his arms.

His arms wrapped around your body. He cradled you close, whispering comforts you couldn’t fully hear.

"I’ve got you now. It’s going to be okay." 

You made a sad, broken little noise and tried to move in his hold, but it came out weak and slow. Instinct without energy.

And he held you tighter.

Finally, finally, you were his to hold.

tags:

“You—” The words choke out in your throat when Bucky takes a step closer. Your limbs freeze, one foot shifts back. Your eyes dart around the room for something — anything. Your only exit is the front door that he just locked.

You’re trapped. 

“How did you—” you swallow, “—how’d you find me?”

Bucky doesn’t answer for a moment, striding out of the shadows towards you. He reaches up, you flinch, he pauses. He tilts his head curiously, almost confused that you would shy away from his touch. “I never lost you, sweet girl.”

“That’s not possible,” you whisper. “I changed my name, my address, everything. You couldn’t possibly—”

The look he gives you is almost pitiful. “Did you really think I would let them come between us? I know you better than anyone. I know your next move before you even start plotting it. That’s how you want me, isn’t it? You want me to know you.”

Your lips quiver as Bucky finally reaches up, brushing the back of his fingers on your cheek. His hands are warm. Too warm. Like he’s been here for a while. But his touch is gentle and you nearly nuzzle your face into his hand, caving in to muscle memory. 

“I thought I could eventually move on. But it feels real to me now, it felt real to me then. I love you, sweetheart. More than anything. Come home with me.”

“Over my dead body.”

You remembered your first days spent here all too well.

You screamed and cried for help. Cowering in the corner as he walked towards you.

The helplessness you felt as he explained what was going on.

"I've been watching you for a while now, you know. You never noticed me.. not once." he scoffed.

He takes a strand of your hair in his hand, twirling it around his finger "You know it's not safe for someone who looks as pretty as you to walk home alone." you whimper trying to get away from his grasp.

You kicked, screamed, and cried until your voice was shot.

He sat there watching, amused at the sight.

He stood with a grunt.

"You'll be staying with me for a while.. look at me."

You ignore his order.

"Not gonna ask you again."

A hum escapes his throat when he once again gets no response, followed by an intense sting at you scalp.

You hiss in pain, you hands shoot up wrapping around his wrist. The only thing you can mutter is a hushed plea for him to let go.

"Oh sweetheart," he shakes his head, forcing your head back with a tug "you're mine now. You'll learn soon that your disobedience won't be tolerated here, not by me."

He smirks, wiping the tears running down your cheeks.

He shushes you "I don't wanna hurt you. I'm going to take care of you. Okay?" he says as if he didn't have a fist full of your hair painfully tight in his grasp.

"That sounds nice doesn't it? No more work, no more fights with your good for nothing boyfriend, no more walking to an empty apartment.."

He pushes himself between your thighs.

"It'll be just you and me. And if you're good, maybe I'll let you live upstairs with me." he whispers, his lips ghosting over your throat.

He grinds his bulge over your pussy.

A grunt escapes his lips as he repeats "I don't wanna hurt you. Not unless you give me a reason to."

You shiver, squeezing your eyes shut as he leaves a trail of sloppy, wet kisses down your neck to the valley between your breasts.

His thumbs rub your nipples. He smirks as they harden under his touch.

"Let me show you what I can do for you."

He looks you over once more.

He had discarded almost all your clothing, leaving you in your lacy, black panties.

He smiled an irritatingly smug smile in seeing your chest rise and fall rapidly.

"Scared?"

Your hands balled into fists as the man hovering above you pins them above your head.

He continue his hip movement on you, watching as you tried to remain stone faced. Though, the gasp the managed to escape your stubborn self gave you away.

His right hand slides down your body, making its way between your thighs.

Slowly, he peels the drenched fabric away from your cunt.

You can hear his smirk.

"Dirty girl." he whispers, landing a slap on your soaked pussy.

He flips you over on his lap.

You fall with a thud, your elbows quickly catching you before your face hits the floor.

His hand smoothing over your ass.

You try to crawl away from the man, your ass wiggling in the process. Only for him to land a strong slap on it.

You freeze as a whimper escapes your lips.

He lets out a chuckle. His hands explore your curves once more before he brings his attention to your throbbing clit.

You whine as his unnaturally cold thumb dips into your wetness.

Your body pushes into his touch.

You feel as he slowly pushes a finger in your hole.

"You don't know how many times I've watched you play with yourself. You really should keep your curtains closed. Unless, you like this, don't you?"

You kick away from him, catching him off guard.

You run to the door of your cell pushing it open and running out. Though, you don't make it far.

You're slammed against the wall.

His chest firmly keeping you in place.

"Shouldn't have done that." he drags you back into the cell, his arm wrapped tightly around your waist.

He throws you to the side as he locks the cell, tucking the key in his pocket.

You scurry to the corner, you back against the cool bars.

He stands in front of you, ripping his jacket off.

Your breath hitches as you see the silver that is of his arm.

You squirm as he picks you up, pushing you roughly against the bars.

He huffs "I told you I didn't want to hurt you."

You hear the clink of his belt before you feel him at your entrance.

Your hands grip on to his shoulders as he thrusts into you.

A loud whimper is ripped from your throat as he plunges his abnormally large cock into you.

A hiss escapes him along with a groan as your pussy clenches around him.

Tears brim your eyes as he pounds into you. The squelching sounds grow louder as they become only thing you're able to focus on.

He take your nipple in his teeth, carefully tugging at it.

You are unable to keep your whispers and moans in.

You unashamedly grow louder as you grew closer to your climax.

His lips moved along your neck leaving purple marks along it. He growls and grunts in your ear as he keeps up his insanely fast pace.

Strings of slick keep you both connected every time his hips moved back.

The man chuckled breathlessly as your body shook frantically "Gonna cum for me?" he hushed in your ear.

You nod helplessly, desperate for release.

He fucks into you eagerly, chasing his own high before nodding.

"Cum for me."

Immediately your pussy gushes around his cock, the obscene sound of his dick rutting into you and his balls slapping against you intensifies.

The splattering sound of your juices hitting the ground drive him over the edge.

He buries himself deep inside of you with a grunt and cums.

You huff as you feel the warmth of his release settling inside of you.

When he pulls out his release threatens to spill from your cunt.

He hums, using the tip of cock to collect the cum, rubbing it on your clit before shoving it back inside you.

He waits, watching as his white release seeps out.

His fingers slip inside you further making sure there will be evidence of him in you.

His didgets come out covered in his cream.

"Open." he says softly. You obey, your eyes glistening with tears and pleasure.

He collapses.

Holding you in his arms, your cheek pressing against the cool of his arm.

Time goes by as he rubs circles onto your back and both your breaths steady.

He carefully wraps his fingers around your chin.

'You're gonna be happy here with me?" he questions. You nod hesitantly.

"Say it."

"Yes." you say quietly.

"Say yes, sir."

"Yes, sir.." you reply followed by a sniffle. And with that, a content smile settles on his face.

He tucks his arm under your legs, swiftly lifting you.

Carefully, he places you on the cheap mattress that settled in the opposite corner of the cell. He gently pulls a blanket over your bare body.

He rests a delicate touch on your shoulder as he whispers "I'll be back tomorrow." he pats your hip before standing.

You hear as he open the cell door, closes and locks it behind him.

“Where the fuck is the fucking tuna?!”

You mutter this to yourself, laughing a little, and Bucky smiles to himself indulgently. He recognises the quote immediately, it's from one of your favourite movies. He liked that movie too, it was fun and sweet, the girl got the guy at the end. A happy ending.

You're dancing around your small kitchen blissfully, hips shaking this way and that, your singing voice was terribly out of tune but that didn't matter to Bucky. He just liked seeing you happy and carefree. You're meal prepping if the amount of food you're cooking is anything to go by, but that's good. He loves that you're so conscientious, so careful with your money, you don't need to rely on anyone-

Your door knocks, and Bucky watches as you skip happily over to it, opening it with a smile and a breathy whisper of what Bucky assumes was the man's name.

Bucky goes still behind the closet door. How had he missed this?!

You'd been his girl for over three months, ever since you'd asked him for help in the grocery store. You'd accidentally thought he'd been a worker there, asking him to help you find the tuna, and you'd smiled so sweetly at him. Ever since then, he'd been yours.

He didn't know how he missed this guy, whoever he was, but it didn't matter. You were his.

Hours later, you and the asshole are making out like teenagers on the couch, and that's when Bucky moves. The closet opens quietly, his steps are silent, and neither notice him until the stranger's blood is pouring from the slice in his neck.

✦ ˚ * series * ˚ ✦

temptation - 12.5k

“I found some land in upstate New York, it’s a quiet, woodsy area, with no neighbors for at least three miles. And when I saw her I knew I needed to go through with it. So I bought the property and I’ve been building the cabin myself, I just need a few more weeks to finish it and then I can bring her there with me.” or - bucky’s trying to get his life back in order, but everything changes when he sees you. He’s going to make you his, whether you like it or not.

don't blame me (love made me crazy) - 6.4k

You’ve been stuck in this cabin for a year, and over the course of that time you’ve tried so hard to remember that you didn’t come here willingly. But, Bucky is really good at making you forget that part, until, eventually, you come to believe that this is where you’re meant to be. No matter how you got here.

power over me - tba

“You know what this means, right?” Bucky asks breathlessly, his eyes filled with unshed tears. Truthfully, you don’t know what’s going to happen now. After all, this is going to change things a lot, and you’re not sure if you’re ready to handle it. Not that it would matter, anyway. Not when Bucky immediately says, “We have to get married.”

✦ ˚ * extras * ˚ ✦

He doesn’t remember his name most days.

The alphabet jumbles when he tries to spell it. James? Jamie? No—too soft. 

“Bucky.” Maybe... That one clings like a bruise, familiar and wrong.

But you — he remembers you.

Even when faces blur and years collapse in on themselves, you remain untouched in his memory. A single point of light in the blood-slick dark. The smell of antiseptic. Your hand pressing gauze to a gash in his ribs. Your breath trembling when you stitched him up.

He remembers how warm your fingers were, even through the leather glove he forgot to take off.

You didn’t flinch when he grabbed your wrist. Didn’t scream when he whispered "Don’t call anyone."

You just nodded. Quiet. Steady. Kind.

He crawled away into the night after that.

But he never left.

Now he lives in the in-between spaces of your world.

The alley across from your building. The rooftop opposite your bedroom window. The corner booth in the diner where he can watch the door without being seen.

He doesn’t mean to be this close. Doesn’t mean to linger.

But you laugh sometimes when you're alone. Whisper to your plants. Dance in your apartment barefoot with no music playing. And it calms the war in his head.

Hydra's ghosts scream less when you're near — even if you don’t know he’s there.

You don’t know about the time your coworker followed you to your car. Or the man who tried to corner you after your shift.

You never saw the blood.

You never asked why your path home was suddenly so clear.

Sometimes he wonders if he’s wrong for doing this. For standing just outside your orbit like a hungry moon. You didn’t ask for this protection. You didn’t ask to be his…what? Savior? Obsession?

He doesn’t know the word for it.

He only knows that when he gets too close to slipping — when the old voice in his mind starts whispering Ready to comply — he sees your face, and it pulls him back.

Not the face of a handler. Not a command.

A memory. A mercy.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You’re sitting on your fire escape tonight, cradling a mug of tea and watching the rain. Your fingers tap the railing like you're playing piano.

He watches from across the street, crouched on a rooftop, soaked and silent.

Then you speak — quietly, into the dark.

"Are you there again?"

His breath stops.

"Sometimes I feel you," you murmur. "I’m not scared. Just feel like…like I’m not alone."

Lightning flares, and for a second, your eyes seem to find his. But they don’t.

He’s too good at disappearing.

Still — something in you knows.

The next night, you find a package at your door. Inside it, a worn leather notebook.

No note. No name. But inside, the pages are filled with shaky handwriting.

Your name, dozens of times. You saw me. You didn’t run.

You press your hand to the page and whisper the name scrawled on the bottom of the page.

“Bucky.”

He’s watching from the roof again, heart pounding.

That’s the first time you’ve said his name.

Like you knew it. Like it belonged to him again. Like he belonged to someone.

To you.

That night, he doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t vanish.

Instead, for the first time since Hydra shattered his mind, he lets himself hope.

That maybe he’s not just a ghost in your life. Maybe one day, he won’t have to haunt you. Maybe you'll look into the shadows, and see him. And stay.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It starts with a smile.

Not yours. His.

The man sitting across from you — buttoned-up, clean-cut, unaware of the red dot painted across his forehead in Bucky’s mind — leans forward.

You laugh. You smile. You tilt your head and touch his arm.

And Bucky sees red.

He’s crouched on the rooftop across from the restaurant patio, the metal of his left arm pressed hard against the concrete, almost like he needs to feel something cold and real to stop himself from acting.

But it’s not working.

He watches the man pour you wine. Offer you compliments. Think he’s earned this moment.

Bucky’s mind fractures at the edges.

That’s not for him. That smile was mine. You gave that to me the night you kept me alive. That laugh belongs to the air I breathe now. He can’t have that. He doesn’t even know what he’s holding.

You lean back, fiddling with your necklace. It’s the one Bucky left in your mailbox two weeks ago—quietly, anonymously. A silver star, tiny and delicate. He thought you’d never wear it.

You do.

That’s the only reason the man across from you is still breathing.

The date eventually ends. You hug him. (Too long.) He leans in for a kiss. (Bucky’s vision goes white.)

You turn your head. He only grazes your cheek.

Bucky exhales slowly. Barely avoids snapping the edge of the building with his grip.

He doesn’t follow you home tonight. He follows him.

You’ll read about it on the news tomorrow: A local man found unconscious in a stairwell. Mugged, possibly attacked. No major injuries. No suspects.

But he’ll never call you again. He’ll delete your number. You won’t even know why.

A block away, in the dark, Bucky closes his eyes. The storm settles.

You’re safe again. You’re his again. You just don’t know it yet.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Bucky watches you from the rooftop. Just like always.

Only tonight, you let the man kiss you.

It’s not long. Not deep. A chaste, polite kind of goodnight. The kind that belongs to people who don’t have shadows sleeping beneath their beds.

But Bucky’s entire world stops.

Your hand rests on the stranger’s chest. Your eyes flutter shut. Your lips — his lips — meet his for three seconds.

Three seconds.

Three.

And something inside Bucky snaps.

He doesn't remember jumping down. Doesn’t remember the way his boots hit the pavement or the wind slicing across his neck.

All he knows is the fire. The roar in his ribs. The buzzing static of no no no no — the words Hydra trained out of him, returning like thunder.

He follows the man.

Not stealthily. Not carefully. Like a wolf tracking a wounded animal, he wants to be heard. Wants the man to feel fear crawling up his spine.

The man doesn’t get far. They’re in a narrow alley when he turns around. Confused. Slightly annoyed.

“You lost, buddy?”

Bucky steps into the flickering lamplight. Leather jacket soaked in rain. Dog tags glinting from beneath the collar. Eyes like a storm he hasn’t tried to hide in weeks.

“You kissed her.” The words are soft. Ragged. Wrong.

The man takes a step back. “Look, I don’t know what—”

“She saved my life.” Bucky takes another step forward. “And you think you can just…touch her?”

By the time the man tries to run, Bucky’s already behind him.

He doesn’t kill him. That would make it too easy. He hurts him. Leaves enough bruises to keep him looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. Leaves him crawling out of the alley with a shattered wrist and a warning he doesn’t dare speak.

You hear about it the next day. The man cancels your second date via a stuttering voicemail.

“I—I don’t know what happened. I think I got mugged or something. I just—I think we shouldn’t, uh—It’s not safe. For you.”

You frown. There’s something in your chest that twists with recognition.

And that night, when you step out onto your fire escape and whisper into the dark, “Are you still there?”

You hear a breath.

Close. Too close.

And this time, instead of hiding…

“Yes.”

And then silence.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You don’t hear the window. You don’t hear the lock click.

You don’t hear him.

The apartment is still. Quiet. Safe.

You’re padding toward the kitchen in an oversized shirt, thinking only of cold strawberries and leftover takeout. Half-asleep, blinking blearily at the fridge light—

Until you feel it. That pull. That weight in the air like gravity’s shifted. Like something just behind you is watching.

Your hand stills on the fridge door. You turn.

He’s there.

Standing in your kitchen like a phantom made flesh. Like he’s always been part of the place and your brain just refused to see it.

Long hair shadowing his face. Clothes dark. Boots wet from the rain.

Eyes—God. Eyes full of pain. Possession. Worship. Ruin.

“Don’t scream,” he says softly. A plea, not a command.

You don’t.

You should. You should run. You should grab the knife on the counter.

But you just stare.

He takes a slow breath, chest rising under the soaked black jacket.

“I didn’t mean to come in. I just—” A pause. His jaw flexes. His voice breaks. “I missed you.”

Your lips part, soundless. Your fingers curl around the edge of the fridge for balance.

“Bucky,” you whisper.

His eyes flicker. Almost a flinch.

“You saved me. You touched me when I was bleeding and broken and not even human anymore.” His voice is a gravel scrape, rising, trembling. “You smiled at me. And that smile—it kept me alive through the screaming and the blood and the fucking programming in my skull.”

He takes one step forward. You don’t back away.

“I watched you,” he breathes. “I know. I know what I am. I wasn’t going to touch you. I just needed to see you. Every day. To remind myself that good still exists.”

His metal hand twitches at his side.

“I didn’t mean to come in,” he says again, quieter. “But he kissed you.”

“You watched me,” you murmur. “You followed me.”

He nods.

“Are you going to hurt me?” Your voice is soft. Barely there.

His eyes meet yours, wide and blue and shattered.

“Never. But I’ll hurt anyone who tries to.”

Your breath catches. You step forward.

One pace.

Two.

He stiffens — terrified you’ll scream, run, reject him. Disappear. Take the only part of him that ever felt real.

But you don’t.

You reach out.

Fingers ghost over the cool metal of his wrist.

That’s all it takes.

A single touch. Warm fingers over cool metal.

And something breaks in him.

He moves.

Slow at first — like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Then faster. Closer. Needier.

His hands are on your face before you can speak — fingers trembling against your jaw. His body presses in, soaking your shirt, crowding your space like he wants to crawl inside your skin and stay there.

He doesn’t kiss you right away.

He just looks.

Eyes wide. Bruised with guilt and longing. Pupils blown.

“I’ve watched you laugh,” he whispers. “Cry. Dance in your kitchen when you thought no one saw. I’ve memorized every piece of you. I’ve done everything for you. But I never let myself have you.”

His voice shatters at the edges. He closes his eyes. Forehead resting against yours.

“Until now.”

Then he kisses you. And it’s not gentle.

It’s months of silence, hunger, pain and need poured into one bruising, desperate press of lips. His hands are everywhere — cradling your face, gripping your hips, fingers digging in like he's afraid you'll slip through him.

Like he’s trying to carve the shape of you into his body.

You gasp into his mouth and he groans, low and guttural, like the sound surprises even him.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, broken, between kisses. “I don’t know what this is supposed to feel like. I just—I need to—I can’t stop.”

His metal hand finds your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck as his lips trail down your throat.

“I think this is love,” he breathes. “Is this love?”

You don’t know if you nod or just fall into him. All you know is the heat of him against you, the way his body trembles like a man starving finally allowed to eat.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing. Sets you on the counter. Stands between your legs like he belongs there.

“Tell me to stop.” He’s panting now, chest heaving. “Tell me, and I’ll vanish again. I swear.”

He means it.

He would disappear. Back into the alleys. Back into the cold. He’d spend another lifetime watching you through windows, if that’s what you needed.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper.

Two words. That’s all it takes.

The last thread of restraint inside him snaps.

He growls — a guttural, animal sound in the back of his throat — and his mouth crashes against yours like a wave that’s been waiting lifetimes to break.

There’s no patience. No finesse. Just need.

His hands are everywhere — metal and flesh gripping your thighs, sliding up your shirt, yanking it over your head with a sharp rip of fabric.

“So soft,” he mutters, like he can’t believe you’re real. “So fucking soft.”

He spreads your legs on the counter like he owns them, like he’s been dreaming about this exact position for months.

He mouths at your throat, your collarbone, your chest — teeth grazing skin like he’s marking you, branding you.

And his voice? Wrecked.

“You don’t know what you’ve done to me. I watch you sleep. I count your breaths. I know the sound your floor makes when you dance. I’ve killed men who looked at you too long. And now you’re letting me—Fuck, you’re letting me touch you—”

He grinds against you, groaning when he feels how wet you are through your thin sleep shorts.

“This is mine,” he growls, slipping fingers beneath the waistband. “You hear me?”

Your breath stutters.

He pulls the fabric down with one sharp jerk. Drops to his knees. Buries his face between your thighs like it’s worship. Like he’s starving.

He devours you. Moaning into your skin. Gripping your hips so hard you’ll bruise. His metal hand wraps around your thigh to hold you open — like he’s afraid you’ll close up and disappear.

“You taste like something holy,” he groans, slick and spit glistening on his lips. “Like you were made to break me.”

You’re whimpering now, shaking — hands in his hair, legs trying to close around his head and failing.

He growls again.

“No. You stay open for me.”

When he stands again, mouth wet, eyes dark, he doesn’t even ask. Just yanks his belt open, pants undone in seconds.

He lines himself up between your legs and you pull him in.

He groans like you broke him. Like every fantasy, every lonely night spent in the dark, every bloody fight and whispered prayer has led to this.

And then he slams into you. Not slow. Not sweet. Desperate. Raw. Possessive.

You cry out — your name falls from his lips like a psalm and a curse.

“Mine. You’re mine. I watched you. I bled for you. You don’t get to walk away now.”

His thrusts are punishing, his metal hand gripping the back of your neck as his flesh one presses against your lower belly — feeling himself inside you.

“Mine.” he snarls again, panting.

You don’t know where you end and he begins.

He’s everywhere. Inside you. Around you. Against you.

You’re dizzy from the pace, from the need, from the way he looks at you, like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he blinks.

He stills. Holds your face in shaking hands.

And whispers, like a vow.

“No one else gets this. No one else touches you. I’ll fucking tear the world apart if they try.”

When it’s over, you're both trembling.

He leans his forehead to yours. Eyes wet. Voice broken.

“Tell me this is real. Tell me I’m not dreaming you.”

You reach up. Touch his cheek.

“You’re real, Bucky.”