Brat-Tamer Bucky

You had taken great care to be less intense over the past week. This was the first time Bucky had been in your apartment since that day, and that hadn’t been without struggle. He asked to come over several times, even showing up and knocking on the door while you pretended to be asleep. It all felt very juvenile—the ignoring and avoiding and missing calls. But you didn’t know how else to respond. 

You loved Bucky. You loved him and it felt intense, but, apparently, things had moved too fast for him. A few months of dating were not enough. You were too much.

You had told him you loved him for the first time just days before you overheard his confession, so connecting the dots hadn’t been very hard.

You were too much. 

Avoiding him had been made easier by your intense work schedule. You stayed overtime and texted brief excuses. That had worked for a time. But last night, Bucky showed up at your office with a bag of takeout and an uncomfortably furrowed brow, and you knew it was probably time to face this. 

You gave him space for a week, and now it was time to practice being less intense in person. You couldn’t avoid him forever. And it hurt—being away from him for too long. Not that you would admit that. Not now. 

“I don’t know how good this is going to be,” you huffed out a laugh, ladling noodles into two bowls. “It’s a new recipe, and I’m kinda low on groceries.” 

When you glanced up at Bucky sitting on the couch, his smile looked strained. “‘M sure it’ll be great.” 

You replied with a short smile, glancing down at the bowls as you joined him in the living room. You sat far enough away for it to make sense—one cushion over, not halfway in his lap like you used to. The television created a soft backdrop of some show you weren’t paying attention to, but the meal was otherwise silent. 

You missed kissing him.

When he came in, you gave him one quick press of your lips and then darted back to the kitchen, ignoring the feel of his hands on your waist as they rushed to grab you. He was only doing all of that to appease you—the calls and trips to your office and the affection. 

If you let him do what he didn’t want to do, you would lose him. 

“Well,” you prompted, your teasing smile almost wobbling over the bowl. “How is it?” 

Bucky caught your eye from the other side of the small couch. His expression narrowed on your mouth, and then he winced, almost imperceptibly. 

Something dropped in your gut. 

“It’s good, sweetheart.” 

You kept up your smile, but as you turned back to your meal and pretended to watch TV, everything felt final. Your jaw was stiff as you took your next bite, the food tasting like nothing and curdling in your stomach. You hadn’t done enough. You hadn’t given him enough space. He had been so adamant about coming over because this was the end. 

You left your bowl half-filled when you placed it on the coffee table, the smell of it nauseating. The inside of your cheek was bleeding from where you bit into it. 

“Done already?” Bucky asked. He had finished a few minutes before you, his dish next to yours, and his arm looped back behind the couch. He wasn’t touching you. Almost, but not. 

“Yeah,” you replied. The single word sounded unstable, and you cursed your throat for feeling so thick with anxiety. You looked at Bucky from the corner of your eye, only to find his eyes closed and his expression pinched. 

Your lips parted. Were you going to beg? That would only make it worse, surely. Too intense, too much. 

Maybe this would be for the best. Some time for a break would—

“Please, tell me how to fix this.” 

You blinked at the TV, and then you blinked over towards Bucky, lips still parted but no words escaping them. 

A pause as breath was caught in the heaviness of your chest, and then, “What?” 

Bucky moved his tongue to his cheek, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees. He was wearing a hoodie today, and it felt so uncharacteristic that you had almost been distracted at the door. 

“I can’t… I can’t lose you, okay? I don’t know what I did, but you gotta tell me or I’m—” his hands came up to run over his head and fall at the nape of his neck. “—just tell me what I did, sweetheart. Please.” 

He turned to look at you then, only a foot of space between you but the distance almost stifling. Your hands clenched atop your knees, and he watched them, eyes flickering to any movement you made. He tracked your unsteady breath, the way your gaze couldn’t stay rooted in one place, and each minute shift in your features. 

“I don’t—I don’t understand,” you offered, because it was the truth. 

Bucky’s jaw rocked to the side. “You barely said three words to me this week. You didn’t want me over—didn’t want to see me. I fought through your building security to bring you dinner, and you looked… Baby, I walked through the door and looked about ready to cry. I mean, you didn’t even—you barely even kissed me today.” 

Your gentle sigh weighed down your chest. You dropped your gaze down to the couch, unaware that Bucky was desperately trying to find himself there, leaning his head down to no avail. This didn’t make any sense. You really couldn’t do anything right, it seemed. 

“It’s just—baby, I thought you said—” Bucky started, speaking in such disjointed sentences you looked up to try and parse them out. His shoulders untensed as you did, but then he said, “Thought you loved me, is that still true?” and the confusing swirl of emotions turned to devastation. 

“I do,” you fervently replied, shaking your head as if that made sense. “Of course I do, Bucky, but you…” 

“I what?” Bucky rushed to get clarification, the vulnerability so clear on his face it made you ache. 

“I thought I was too much for you. I was trying to give you space. I thought you were going to end things tonight.” 

“Why in the hell would you think that?” he exasperated, the words harsh but his delivery of them so gentle. 

You bit into your bottom lip and let out another breath, the pressure on your chest looming down into your ribs. The fists on your knees moved to pick at a loose thread on the couch. 

“I came by on Saturday—to your apartment, I mean. You left your jacket in my car, and I knew you were going to be out late with Sam.” 

“But I didn’t—” 

“I never actually got inside your apartment,” you revealed, knocking your head to the side, still unable to fully meet his gaze. 

A tick of silence passed. 

“You heard me.” 

This was the worst part. It made you seem immature, eavesdropping from the hall of his building. It made you seem immature, and you were also petty because you avoided him for a week. You fought the urge to allow the couch to swallow you whole.

“I didn’t mean to hear you,” you stressed, pulling and tugging at the loose corner of your cushion. “I left pretty quickly. I didn’t—” 

“Hey,” Bucky interrupted. He placed fingers under your chin, forcing your gaze up to his. The concern in his features masked lingering hurt, and you moved your hands into your lap to squeeze them together instead. “What did you hear, baby?”

You flickered your gaze between his eyes. “I’m not mad at you. I understand, you know? I wouldn’t want—” 

“Y/n. What did you hear?”

“That you think I’m too intense. That this—us—is too much, maybe.” 

Bucky kept you in his hold, but he closed his eyes. The hurt melted from his face only to be replaced with something akin to regret. He shook his head slightly, jutted out his jaw, and then he looked at you once again, his features strained. 

“Damn,” he whispered. The fingers under your chin moved to cup your cheek, rubbing soothing shapes there. “Thought you were leaving me, did you know that? Whole time this has been my own fault. God.” 

Bucky shifted forward on the couch until your legs were pressed close. You untucked yours to accommodate him, greedy for the contact despite your confusion, and he only got closer. When his forehead touched yours, you gave in to the burn in your waterline, vision blurrier than it had been. 

“I love you so goddamn much,” Bucky began, moving back only an inch to find your watery gaze. “When I said you were intense, I meant that this is the most I’ve ever felt for someone. That the intensity was mutual. That maybe, at the rate we’re going, it would be too much for you. I was asking Sam for advice—seeing if he thought I should back off.” 

“You?” you asked, the word crackling in your throat. 

“Yeah, me, sweetheart. Not you. I was afraid you were gonna bolt one of these days. I’m not exactly the easiest to get along with, according to quite a few people, and I know that loving you means that I’m probably the worst around you.”

The muscle at the corner of your mouth twitched, and along with it went the stress that had settled in every nerve ending in your body. The tension in your jaw released, your chest began to ease, and the only remaining negative was the sadness at Bucky’s confession—at his fronted vulnerability. 

You reached up to catch his wrist in your grip, and he responded by bringing his other hand up to hold you fully.

“I love you,” you affirmed. Bucky’s own smile was sad. “I’ve never thought about ‘bolting.’ I spent this entire week sad and lonely because I was afraid you were going to leave me. I was trying to show you that I could be… chill, I guess.” 

“Chill?” Bucky repeated with a scoff-like laugh, brows shooting up as he brushed his thumbs along the dampness of your cheeks. “I drove past your apartment every night this week. I used that shampoo you left in my shower just to make my bed smell like you again. I wrote…God, I wrote you this letter because I figured maybe if you got something in the mail—” 

“You sent me mail?” you interrupted. 

Bucky’s face blushed a bashful pink, his mouth open in a defensive smile. “We can forget about the mail, okay? Now that we’re talking it out.” 

“Right. I’m going to check my mail when you leave.” 

“Hey,” he demanded, his playful, pointed look reorienting you to the reason behind the tears now drying on your face. When you settled back into his gaze, Bucky readjusted you in his hands, bringing your head into his shoulder until you were fully in his arms. “I love you, you got that? I’m sorry you heard what you did and thought—thought that wasn’t true. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I never want to feel like that again—like I’m losing you.” 

You tightened your fingers into the material of Bucky’s hoodie, taking a moment to relish in his arms around you. You nodded against him, hoping that would suffice, and it did. He kissed the side of your head and leaned back against the couch, bringing you with him. 

Bucky never saw this coming.

After years of being a super-soldier, he thought he finally had it all figured out; the unlimited stamina, the lack of fatigue, and the sheer strength and muscle that the average person couldn’t obtain in two lifetimes of effort.

But Hydra’s serum never came with a handbook on side effects. Bucky never imagined he’d encounter anything like this—until he met you.

You were the first woman Bucky had dated since coming out of cryofreeze, and he was damn well going to make sure you were the last. Being with you made him open up both emotionally and physically. He let you into his heart and, well... you made the mistake of letting him between your legs.

The first few times you had sex, you assumed his uncontrollable trembling and heavy breathing were just nerves. After all, it had been decades for him. But even buried deep inside you, he always made no effort to move. His muscles strained and his face twisted into a grimace, as if it were taking every ounce of his will just to hold back.

Hold back on what, exactly?

At the time, you didn’t know yet.

“Bucky,” you whispered, resting both hands on his shoulders.

He hovered above you, eyes half-lidded, his bare chest heaving as his strong arms caged you against the mattress. “We don’t have to do this if you’re not ready. We can take our time. It’s okay.”

“No. It’s not that I’m not ready,” Bucky let out a low, agitated groan. “I’m more than ready, doll. I just—fuck. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

You frowned slightly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his face. “You’re doing great, honey. Just… move your hips. Create a little friction, like this—”

You began to rock your hips up against him. Bucky’s head dipped, his arms nearly giving out as he threatened to collapse on top of you. The feel of your tight, silky walls rubbing against him was clearly more than he could handle.

“Fuck—Jesus, baby!” he barked out, his hips twitching involuntarily as he rutted even deeper into you. “Careful—shit, I’m gonna cum if you keep moving like that—”

“I know, baby,” you encouraged. “I want you to cum.”

When your boyfriend—who’s a literal super-soldier—is a panting, trembling mess on top of you, eyes rolled back and babbling filthy words, how could you possibly stop?

Especially since, despite being together for a while, you had yet to actually see him cum.

Determined, you wrapped your legs tight around Bucky’s waist. The sudden movement caused him to lose his balance and topple fully onto you, his weight pressing you into the bed as his cock pushed even deeper. A broken moan tore from your throat as you felt him sink more inside, rocking your hips rhythmically against his.

“Shit, baby—this isn’t good—” Bucky babbled, his hips slowing their movement as he rocked lazily against you. “Fuck… I’m—”

You felt your heart leap into your throat. Every time Bucky was close to cumming, he pulled out at the last second and never let himself finish the job. He’d always excuse himself and run to the bathroom, never saying what for—but he’d always come back with his shoulders a little less tense.

It didn’t take more than one brain cell to piece together that he was finishing on his own in there.

But now, with your legs clamped tight around his waist, you weren’t going to give him the opportunity.

You squeezed your legs tighter, your cunt clenching around his shaft as you felt him pulse. Bucky groaned, his nose nuzzling into the crook of your shoulder as his whole body began to shudder and shake against yours.

“Baby, I—I can’t—” Bucky moaned. “I’m gonna cum inside you. I can’t… need to pull out!”

“It’s okay, Buck,” you reassured him against his ear, your hands rubbing up and down his broad back. “I’m on the pill. You can cum inside, baby.”

“Fuck—no, that’s not it…” Bucky grunted, his voice breaking as his breathing grew even heavier. “Fuck… baby. I can’t cum inside you—you can’t take it.”

“Bucky, just do it,” you groaned, ignoring his warning as you ground your hips up one more time.

You didn’t care about his excuses.

All you wanted was to finally feel him come undone inside you.

“Cum inside me, Bucky. I want to feel you. It feels too good to stop now.”

He let out a panicked, strangled sound, his metal hand clenching the bedsheets so hard the fabric began to tear. He tried to lock his arms to push himself up, desperate to pull out before it was too late, but you weren’t having it. You shifted your hips, tilting your pelvis just right to catch the head of his cock, locking your legs tighter around his waist and pulling him back in.

He moaned loudly as he sheathed back into you, the sensation of your tight cunt deliciously squeezing his shaft making his mind go dizzy.

“Wait—baby, no!”

Bucky arched his back as his cock pulsed and throbbed, his head snapping back as his eyes rolled into his head. The wet heat hit your cervix, making you gasp, but it didn’t stop there. He just kept coming, and coming, and your legs felt like jello around him as he kept pumping you full.

Bucky’s body spasmed, his muscles bunching and twitching as the super-soldier serum’s side effect made itself known. He was absolutely flooding you, filling you deep. You felt like you were drowning inside, the hot, thick weight of him filling every spare inch of you. It was too much for your body to hold—the excess began to spill out, slicking your thighs and the bedsheets beneath you as he continued to pulse and pour into you.

He let out a long, broken moan, finally collapsing against your chest as a trembling, sweaty mess.

He looked completely mortified, refusing to look at you as if he expected you to shun him or push him off in disgust.

“I told you,” he rasped, his voice shaky. “I… I’m sorry. Fuck. Let me grab a towel to clean you up—”

“Bucky, wait—”

Before you could even tell him to stay, he quickly scrambled off the bed. He fumbled for his boxers, pulling them up as he ran for the bathroom in a hurry.

While you waited for Bucky to return, you flopped back onto the bed and let out a disbelieving breath. You propped your legs up, tilting your head down to see the “damage” he was so painfully ashamed of—and your heart skipped a beat.

You were a total mess.

His cum was dripping down to your navel from when he had desperately tried to pull away, trailing down to your mound and between your folds. When you lifted your leg a little higher, your cunt made an embarrassing squelch as more of his seed trickled out of you, staining the sheets.

“Oh my god,” you gasped quietly, eyes going wide at just how much he filled you.

Your face went bright red over the fact that he could produce such a… massive load. It was a testament to just how much the serum had changed him, turning him into something more than human, yet vulnerable in the best possible way. Knowing that his body was capable of filling you so completely—of literally overflowing—was the hottest thing you had ever experienced.

Bucky returned, but he wouldn’t even look in the direction of the bed. He moved shamefully, his head hung low and his shoulders hunched as if he were trying to make himself smaller. He had a clean, damp towel in his hand, and he moved to the edge of the mattress without saying a word.

“Bucky…” you spoke softly, reaching out for him.

“Don’t. Just—don’t,” he muttered, his voice cracking. He gently spread your legs to get to the mess, but his eyes stayed fixed on the towel, never once meeting yours.

As he began to wipe you down, he just kept repeating the same words under his breath, like a mantra of shame. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, doll. God, I'm sorry.”

The towel was already becoming saturated, and he had to fold it over twice just to try and catch what was still sluggishly leaking out of you. Every time he moved the cloth, more spilled out, coating his fingers and the sheets. The more he cleaned, the more he seemed to sink into himself.

“Look at you,” he rasped, his face twisting with guilt. “You’re a mess. I... I literally drowned you in it. I told you that you couldn’t take it, and I still let it happen. I shouldn’t have let it get that far.”

He looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin, his movements frantic as he tried to clean you up. He was so caught up in his own head, so convinced that he had done something disgusting, that he didn’t even notice you weren’t looking at him with disgust at all.

You reached out, your fingers gently catching his wrist to stop his frantic movements. “Bucky, look at me,” you said, your voice firm yet soft. “It’s okay. I promise, I’m okay—”

“No, it’s not okay.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair in frustration as he finally met your eyes. He swallowed hard, his gaze searching yours as if he were expecting you to judge him for what he was about to say.

“It’s the serum,” he confessed. “It doesn’t just make me stronger or faster. My metabolism, my recovery, even this. It’s like my body is constantly over-performing, and working overtime to produce more of everything. It doesn’t matter how much I try to hold back or how many times I go to the bathroom before we start… it’s always like this.”

He looked away, his jaw clenched with embarrassment.

“And it’s not just the physical part. The serum enhances every feeling that’s already inside you. Everything is louder. Every feeling is dialed up to fucking eleven. When I’m with you, and I’m… I’m horny,” he blushed, sheepish. “It’s not just a feeling. It’s feels like a goddamn command. My body just takes over.”

When he finally looked back at you, his blue eyes were watery with guilt, and it made your heart hurt.

“Especially because it’s you. I love you so much, and that love just feeds the serum. It makes me want you so bad I can’t breathe, and then my body reacts by… by doing this to you. I’m a super soldier, doll. I’m supposed to have discipline. But when I’m inside you, I’ve got none.”

You reached up, cupping his face with both hands and forcing him to keep eye contact. You didn’t care about the mess all over your body and the sheets; you just wanted him to see that there was nothing to be ashamed of.

“Bucky, listen to me,” you pressed, thumb swiping over his cheek gently. “I don’t want your discipline. I want you—all of you.”

You leaned in closer, your voice turning into a comforting whisper.

“And if you want my honest opinion, I think it’s incredibly hot. Knowing that you want me so much that your body literally overflows. It makes me feel wanted in a way I can’t even describe—”

Bucky flinched slightly, his face getting even redder. He broke contact by looking down at the sheets in denial. “You’re just saying that to be kind. You’re covered in me, doll. I ruined the bed. I practically drowned you. There’s nothing ‘hot’ about losing control like a—” he grimaced, “—pervert.”

“Okay…” you took a careful breath, trying for a different angle. “What if we found a way to make you feel more in control? Something to try to contain it?"

He glanced at you, wary. “Like what?”

“We could start using condoms,” you suggested softly. “The heavy-duty kind. It would catch everything, Bucky. It stays inside the latex, so there’s no mess, and no reason for you to feel like you have to run to the bathroom the second you’re done. Then after we have sex, we could just lay together instead of having to worry about staining the sheets. Would that make you feel more comfortable?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart.”

“We could at least try it?”

Bucky stayed quiet, his eyes drifting down to the towel in his hand. You could see the gears turning as he considered the idea of a physical barrier—something to keep his “situation” under wraps so he could focus on you instead of his own anxiety.

But the truth was—he hated that he even had to consider this.

Internally, every heightened cell in his body recoiled at the idea of a barrier—even if it was something as flimsy as a condom.

The serum didn’t just make him produce more; it made him feel more.

Every nerve ending made him sensitive, making the sensation of being inside you an all-consuming experience. His mind couldn’t fathom putting a layer of latex between himself and your warmth. He lived for the feeling of your tight walls clenching around him, the friction of skin-on-skin, and the way he could feel every internal pulse of your climax against his own. To him, a condom felt like a cage, a dulling of the one thing that made him feel truly alive and connected to his humanity.

But when he looked down at the towel—stained with the evidence of his own lack of control—the shame came roaring back harder.

He couldn’t keep doing this to you— drowning you, staining everything, making the room reek of sex, and then hiding in the bathroom like a pathetic, wounded animal.

“Yeah,” he lied, forcing a smile. “Yeah, doll. If that makes you feel better… if it keeps things cleaner… then we’ll use ‘em.”

He reached out and squeezed your hand, his metal fingers careful and gentle, hiding the fact that his body was already mourning the loss of the direct contact he craved. He’d trade his own pleasure for a bit of his dignity back if it meant he didn’t have to see you covered in his ‘freakish’ excess ever again.

“We’ll try it your way,” he whispered, leaning in to press a lingering, bittersweet kiss to your forehead. “Whatever it takes to keep me from making a mess out of you.”

A few days had passed, and the heavy-duty box of condoms sat on the nightstand like a silent mediator between his shame and your desire.

Now, with the lights dimmed, Bucky was over you again. But everything felt wrong. To his enhanced senses, the thin layer of latex felt like a suit of armor. He was moving into you, but the friction wasn’t the same. He couldn’t directly feel the small flutters of your muscles or the exact texture of your silkiness that usually drove him mad.

It was driving him towards a different kind of frustration—a sensory deprivation that made him groan in irritation.

“You okay?” you asked softly through a moan as he rutted into you.

“Fine,” he grunted, his thrusts diving deeper into you, desperate for that satisfaction.

Bucky grabbed your thigh, hiking your leg over his shoulder as he repositioned himself. One strong, flesh arm tensed next to your head while the other whirred in its vibranium casing. He angled your hip so he could fuck even deeper into you, your back arching as the tip of his cock hit your sweet spot.

“Oh, fuck! Bucky—!”

“Fuck,” Bucky rasped, his hips moving at an uneven, frantic pace. “If you keep crying out like that, I’m gonna cum.”

The condom suddenly felt excruciatingly tight, stretching to its limit as he felt himself begin to pulse. His body shuddered as his cum started to balloon the latex; the sensation of that extreme stretch made him panic.

He couldn’t stay inside. The pressure was simply too much.

The rubber wasn’t going to hold.

“Shit—I can’t—”

You felt his hips pull away, and you wrapped your arms tighter around his back, whimpering as you tried to hold him, but it was no use. “Buck—stay inside, please—”

And with a groan, Bucky pulled out at the last possible second.

He collapsed onto his knees between your legs, his breath ragged and hitching desperately. The condom was dangerously full, the reservoir tip engorged and already starting to seep at the base from just pumping it full.

He couldn’t stop. His hands flew down, his fingers—both vibranium and flesh—wrapping around himself over the slipping latex. He began to stroke himself with quick, heavy pumps, the sensation of cumming so much making him painfully sensitive—his body couldn’t help but crave more. His back arched, and he gasped as he watched his own seed continue to flood the condom, spilling over the rim and coating his knuckles as it dripped down on the bed.

You could only pant, watching him finish himself off right in front of you.

He looked like a wreck, his eyes rolled back and his chest heaving. Even with the latex in the way, the release was still so intense, it was dripping out of the condom and making the room smell like the musky scent of sweat and sex.

Bucky let out a long, jagged exhale that sounded more like a snarl than a breath.

“Fuck,” he rasped, irritated. He didn’t look at you—he just stared at his hands, watching the excess drip onto the sheets he had tried so hard to keep clean. “I knew it. I knew the goddamn condom wouldn’t hold.”

You swallowed hard, sitting up and reaching for him, but he pulled away. He didn’t seem sad this time. Instead, his shoulders were shaking with the frustration of himself and the entire situation.

“Honey, please—”

“I knew it wasn’t going to work,” he snapped. His blue eyes were dark, blown out with frustration. “I told you. I told you it was too much for a piece of rubber, and I just fucking embarrassed myself in front of you again.”

He gestured wildly at the mess—the leaking latex and the white streaks dirtying his vibranium fingers.

“I couldn’t even feel you, doll. I was suffocating in that thing, and I still ended up making a mess of everything anyway.” He let out an agitated sigh. “It’s a joke. The whole thing is a joke. I’m trying to make love to you like a normal partner should—trying to be a goddamn gentleman—and I just end up looking like a fucking animal jerking himself off on the bed because I can’t even stay inside my own girlfriend.”

You were starting to get tired of him apologizing for something that made your blood sing, tired of him treating his own body like a broken weapon instead of a source of pleasure. He was so busy being angry at the mess that he was completely missing the fact that you were practically fawning over him because of this.

Instead of arguing or trying to soothe his ego with words you already knew he wouldn’t listen to, you decided to show him exactly what you thought about his ‘problem’.

You sat up and crawled towards him, your legs finding his waist as you toppled yourself over him. Bucky was so caught off guard, so deep in his self-loathing, that he didn’t even resist as you forced him down against the pillows.

“Sweetheart—what are you—!”

“It’s always about what you think, Bucky,” you said.

Your hand reached down, your fingers sliding down his stomach and fingers grazing gently against his half-hard, half-soft, cock. “You’re so busy deciding for me that this is ‘disgusting’ or ‘wrong,’ but you never once stopped to even consider what I think.”

Bucky’s breathing grew heavier at the sight of you on top of him, his flesh hand coming up to hover over your waist, unsure if he should pull you closer or push you away. “Doll, look at me. I’m a mess.”

“Yeah,” you sighed wistfully, taunting. “But not nearly as messy as I want you to be.”

Your hands found the base of the condom, pulling it off in one quick swipe. It popped off the head of his cock, and his dick sprang free, sending the cum pooling out of the rubber and onto his shaft, his pelvis, his thighs, and the sheets.

“Jesus—baby! No! It’s getting everywhere!”

Without another word, you leaned down and took the head of his cock into your mouth, your tongue immediately swirling through the thick, salty cream of his seed.

Bucky’s entire body jolted at the feel of your warm tongue caressing his tip. A broken, high-pitched moan escaped his throat as his back arched off the bed. His fingers tangled into your hair—not to pull you away, but to hold you there in sheer disbelief.

You sucked him deep, your throat working to swallow the heavy pulsing of his cock, making it clear with every wet, hungry sound that you didn’t just want him—you wanted all of him.

Even the parts he was afraid of.

He was trembling underneath you, the frustration and shame finally melting away into helpless surrender.

“Fuuuck,” he whined, tossing his head back against the pillow.

The sound was a complete contrast to the angry, frustrated man he had been just seconds ago. Encouraged by his moans, you swirled your tongue around the sensitive veins of his shaft, lapping at the leftover seed from before.

Because he had just finished, his nerve endings were painfully sensitive and overstimulated. Every wet slide of your lips felt like an electric shock to his system. His metal hand clamped onto the headboard, the wood creaking under his vibranium grip, while his flesh hand stayed buried in your hair.

“Doll, it’s—too much,” he gasped, though his hips stuttered upward in a helpless, jerky motion. “I’m too sensitive... I just... god, I can’t breathe.”

He was hyper-responsive, his heart beating wildly in his chest. Despite his own pleas, he didn’t pull you away—and he didn’t want to.

The sensation of you worshiping the very thing he’d been ready to hide, and the feeling of your mouth swallowing every last remaining drop, was overwhelming his brain. Every time your lips hit the base of his cock, or your cheeks hollowed out to take it all in, it elicited a sharp, broken sob from his throat.

And when you looked up at him— your lips glistening and chin smeared with his seed—and gave him a slow, hooded stare, he felt like he was going to collapse right then and there.

“Shit, baby. Take it out… out of your mouth. Fuck.”

Bucky’s hands shook as they tightened in your hair, trying to tug you away, desperate to spare you from what was about to come. But you were determined, your hands locking onto his thighs to keep him in place.

You had made a silent promise to yourself to take every bit of him, and once the first thick pulse hit the back of your throat, Bucky’s protests instantly dissolved into a moaning mess.

He felt as if his entire body were on fire; his mind and vision spun in circles. The feeling of your wet lips suctioning around the base of his shaft and your warm tongue pressed against the heaviness of his cock was all too much.

He lifted his head off the pillow, watching your throat work rhythmically as you tried to keep up with his pace. Seeing you so dedicated to him—seeing your cheeks stretch and your eyes water as you refused to let a single drop go to waste—did something to his heart.

“Fuck… baby,” Bucky rasped. “Look at you… you’re taking everything.”

As he watched you through hazy eyes, he realized just then how good it felt to be taken like this.

To have his flaws not only accepted, but also devoured.

Eventually, the volume of his cum became too much. You gasped, pulling back as you began to choke on the thick, salty heat, and as soon as his cock was free of your mouth with a wet pop, the pressure sent his seed nearly spraying across your face. It painted your cheeks, your chin, and even caught your eyelashes as he continued to pulse.

Bucky was spent, his muscles twitching as his chest heaved. “Fuck.”

He should have felt ashamed for cumming too much again. He should have ran to the bathroom like he always did, grab a towel, and clean you up.

But as he watched his seed slowly trail down your cheek—a thick white contrast against your flushed skin—he couldn’t look away, even if he wanted to. You were panting, your lips parted and glistening, looking like a beautiful, sultry masterpiece he had personally painted himself.

“My god,” he breathed, his voice gravelly.

Bucky reached out with his flesh hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he cupped your jaw. His thumb moved slowly as he smeared a streak of his mark across your cheekbone.

For the first time, he didn’t want to clean you; he wanted to look at you like this for hours—covered in his love.

“I thought I was making a mess of you.” he whispered, his thumb grazing your bottom lip. “But you look... god, you look perfect like this.”

Bucky’s heart leaped in his chest as he watched you lick your lips, tasting him. Then you gave him a soft yet sultry smile that finally shattered what little defense he had left.

“I love it, Bucky,” you whispered. "I love every bit of you—especially the mess.”

You leaned back slightly, tilting your head as the light from the table lamp caught the white streaks on your skin. “Besides,” you teased, your a little playful and teasing. “Don’t I look so pretty, marked by you?”

Bucky’s breath hitched, a low groan rumbling in his chest at your words. He had never thought of seeing it this way, but witnessing the way you batted your lashes, your face dirtied with his release—it was as if the question had uncovered something dirty deep inside him.

The shy, apologetic man was gone, replaced by a man who wanted nothing more than to paint his partner with his love.

His vibranium hand came up to slide behind your neck, his cool fingers tangling in your hair to hold you steady as his eyes took in your debauched face. Meanwhile, his flesh hand cupped your jaw, giving it a firm squeeze as he watched your pearly lips pucker.

“Pretty doesn’t even cover it,” he rasped, his eyes dark and possessive. “You look like you belong to me. And if you’re tellin’ me you like it... if you’re tellin’ me you want this...”

He parted your mouth with his thumb, his own seed already slicking his digit as he pushed past your lips. Bucky let out a deep, shuddering exhale as he watched you instinctively twirl your tongue around his thumb, the way your cheeks hollowed out as you sucked on him.

“If this is what you really want, then I’ll give it to you, baby. Every time—I’ll give it all to you. And from now on, I expect you to take it all.” He pulled his thumb back slowly, watching the strand of saliva and seed stretch between his hand and your lips.

“And you will take it all, right?”

You nodded, eyes hazy with lust and love. “I will.”

no words. thank you for taking the time to read my work, and I hope you enjoyed!

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before you could finish, he'd quickly scramble off the bed, face red with embarrassment, to grab a clean towel.

this was the same routine every time you two had sex. and for once, you wanted him to come inside. you wanted to feel all of him, especially since you knew just how much bucky wanted to fill you up too; he was just holding himself back.

the next day, bucky had you pinned to the mattress, the poor bedframe creaking and groaning as he fucked you deep against the soft cushions.

"god, you feel so fucking good, baby," bucky moaned. "fuck."

he was close, you could feel it. he was pulsing, throbbing, and his movements were sloppy and uneven.

he drew his hips back just slightly, and you knew he was going to try and pull out.

but before he could, your legs—trembling and shaking—quickly wrapped around his hips, nudging him back against your pelvis as he slammed into you with one hard thrust.

"oh my god—!" he gasped, his body collapsing and enveloping yours as he lost his balance. "jesus—baby. what are you doing? you know i can't cum inside—it's too much. you won't be able to take it—"

"i can take it," you rasped. "i can take it, bucky! please, let me try taking it all. i want to try."

"shit," he grunted. "this—this is bad, baby. this is dangerous. i'd fill you up so deep, it'll be spilling out of you. i'll make a mess, sweetheart. i can't—fuck, i can't—"

but despite his words, his hips kept grinding sloppily and lazily against yours. it was growing impossible to pull out by the second. how could he? when your breathy moans were filling his ears deliciously, and your soft legs were wrapped tight around his waist, refusing to let him go?

so with one, final hard and deep thrust that made your head spin, he let himself spill inside you.

thick, hot ropes of cum shot deep inside, filling you completely to the brim as his body shook and trembled atop you. it was a lot, and it kept going and going, but even then, your legs refused to drop from around his waist. you told him you were going to take it, and you did.

you felt every pulse, every ridge, and every throb his cock had to give you as he filled you completely until your body couldn't hold it all and it started dripping out of you and onto the mattress.

bucky's face immediately burned hot with embarrassment. he didn't even want to see the damage he'd done to you—he felt it.

"jesus christ," he mumbled into your neck, his body shaking from the aftermath of his intense orgasm that couldn't seem to subside—no matter how much he came.

No one ever saw it coming, but Bucky Barnes was the picture of a perfect partner. Everyone around him knew better than to get between him and his girlfriend. To say he was in love with you was an understatement—no.

He was hopelessly devoted to you. Utterly and completely.

Despite the rough glares, the deep voice, the intimidating stature, and the whole ex-brainwashed-assassin thing, he was a total softie when it came to you. It was like taking a big, brooding Bucky Barnes, tossing him into a blender, and turning him into pure, warm mush you could drink right up.

He was clingy in the sweetest way possible. He was always close, always there for you when you needed him. He gave you the softest kisses known to mankind. He spoiled you endlessly, told you every day how beautiful you were, and made sure you never once forgot how special you were to him.

Bucky loved you. You knew that for a fact. He was good at showing it.

Except there was one problem.

Aside from all the kisses and cuddles, he never took things any further. You both had been together for a few good months now, and not once had the two of you had sex.

There were moments—more than a few—when his body gave him away with a hard-on. When you were tangled up in bed, or curled together on the couch, you felt the way his body reacted to you. When you would try to slip your hand lower, thinking maybe it’ll get somewhere, he would gently catch your wrist and say “No, sweetheart. Not yet.”

After that, you stopped making the first move. You let him set the pace for his comfort. But as the weeks stretched into months, the harder it became to ignore the feeling of insecurity creeping in.

It wasn’t like he never gave you signals. He had bought you lingerie and suggestive pajamas to wear to bed more than once. And every time you slipped them on, you told yourself, “this is it. Tonight’s the night!”

But then… it never was.

You respected his boundaries—of course you did. You loved Bucky, deeply. And you would never push him into something he wasn’t ready for. You told yourself over and over that love wasn’t measured by sex, and that what you had was still something beautiful and real.

But that didn’t make the selfish, insecure ache go away.

Because sometimes, when the lights were out and Bucky was sound asleep beside you, those stubborn thoughts crept in anyway. Ugly, unwelcomed whispers that made you wonder if maybe… you weren’t what he wanted in that way.

That perhaps, you weren’t enough to make him want you like that.

You tried to shove the feeling down, to remind yourself that the way he held you, looked at you, and loved you meant more than anything else. But it was hard to silence that insecure part of you that just wanted to feel desired—not just loved, but wanted.

Eventually, you realized you couldn’t keep pretending the feeling wasn’t there. The weight of the feeling was too damn heavy on your chest, only growing heavier each night he refuses to touch you.

You loved Bucky. God, you loved him more more than anything. And you trusted him enough to know this wasn’t something you could just bury and let fester. You’d done your research—most couples fall apart over financial strain or intimacy issues. For you, it wasn’t just about sex. It was about the self-esteem that came with it.

You didn’t understand. How could he be so loving, affectionate, and clingy, with clear physical signs of being aroused by you, yet still refuse to take things any further? There had to be something deeper he wasn’t telling you.

So, you made the rational choice to talk to him—because communication was vital in a relationship.

The two of you were curled up together on the couch, your legs draped over his, his arm lazily wrapped around your waist. His thumb drew soft circles against your skin, and for a second, you almost lost your nerve—because there it was.

That damn erection pressing subtly against your thigh, the one he always deliberately ignored.

“Bucky,” you said softly.

He hummed in response, turning his head slightly toward you. That gentle, half-asleep smile of his nearly made you want to drop the idea of confrontation all together.

But you persevered. “Can we talk about something?”

That got his attention.

He straightened slightly, blinking the sleepiness from his eyes. “Yeah. ‘Course. What’s goin’ on?”

Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, heart beating a little too fast. “I don’t want you to think I’m upset with you,” you began carefully. “I love you. And I respect your boundaries. Always.”

His brows furrowed together, just a little—as if he already knew where this was headed but didn’t like it.

“But,” you continued softly, “I need to be honest with you. It’s getting a little hard for me. Not because I want to pressure you—never that—but because…” you hesitated, teeth catching your bottom lip. “Because sometimes it makes me feel like I’m not wanted. At least not… in a sexual way.”

There was a quiet pause, and every second that ticked by felt like it was crushing your lungs. You didn’t even want to meet his eyes—too scared of what might come out of his mouth.

The silence drowned you. Would he finally admit that he just didn’t find you attractive enough?

“What? Baby, no,” Bucky said finally, shaking his head hard. “That’s not—”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard like he was trying to compose himself. “I don’t want you to ever think that. You’re everything to me.”

But his voice was shaky, his gaze flicking away from you for a second too long. All little things, but enough to make you anxious.

“Then why…” you trailed off, trying to steady your own voice. “Why does it feel like you don’t want me?”

His jaw clenched, and you could feel his hand squeeze slightly against your arms before softening again. “It’s not like that. I just—” he let out a small, forced awkward laugh that didn’t meet his eyes. “Can we not do this right now?”

Your heart squeezed a little. Not because he was being mean, but because you could see the way he was retreating—like a door slowly closing before you could get a foot in.

“Bucky,” you pushed. “I need you to be honest with me. I’m not trying to push you into anything. But I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t affect me. I… I just want to understand.”

He still wouldn’t look at you.

“Why don’t you want to have sex with me?” you asked bluntly—not as an accusation, but as a plea for the truth.

Bucky’s breath hitched. He finally looked up, lips parting like he wanted to speak, but no words came out.

“I…” he faltered, his hands flexing against your waist before falling away completely. “It’s not that I don’t want to.” He let out a shaky breath. “It’s the opposite, actually.”

You tilted your head slightly, confused.

He dragged a hand down his face, and you could practically see the gears turning in his head as he struggled to put his feelings into words. Finally, in a hoarse whisper, he admitted softly.

“I’m scared I won’t be able to control myself.”

His gaze dropped to the floor, shoulders tense and jaw tight. “You don’t get it,” he continued, voice so low it was like he was talking more to himself than to you. “When it comes to you, it’s… different. It’s not just wanting you—it’s needing you. I mean, just look at you—”

His eyes flicked up, skimming over your face, down your body, then back to your eyes with a raw honesty that made your breath catch. “You’re this soft, fragile little thing. If I make love to you, I wouldn’t want to hold back.”

Bucky looked into your eyes like he was pleading you to understand—and you did. You did understand. But under the weight of his confession, a spark stirred in your chest. A stubborn, competitive fire. Because you loved Bucky—all of him. Which meant you wanted to take… all of him, even the parts he thought you couldn’t handle.

You inhaled slowly, scooting a little closer to him. “Then… what if we set a boundary?”

He gave you a questioning look. “What?”

“A safe word,” you explained carefully. “Something that we can use if it gets too intense—if either of us wants to stop.”

You thought it was a good idea, and expected Bucky to be on the same page. But he sucked in a breath, his brows furrowing together in that familiar expression—one you knew meant he wasn’t fond of the suggestion.

“I’m serious,” you said, gently reaching for his hand. He didn’t pull away, but his fingers twitched against yours, still unsure. “I trust you, Bucky. More than anyone. And I want you to trust yourself, too. We can set the pace, we can stop whenever you want. If you feel like it’s too much—just say the word, and it’s over. No guilt. No pressure.”

He bit his bottom lip, his silence making you more anxious.

“You think it’s that easy?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t think it’s easy,” you shrugged, trailing your hand down to his, giving it a soft, reassuring squeeze. “I think it’s a start.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, the sound rough. He looked down at your joined hands with a small pout that made your chest ache. “I don’t know if I can follow that,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I don’t know if I can trust myself to stop once I start.”

You stared at him for a moment, processing his words, before finally asking, “But… is having sex with me something you want?”

Bucky’s gaze softened, a mix of frustration and longing. He didn’t need to think about it before answering, his voice rough but honest as he looked you square in the eye. “More than anything.”

Despite everything, you believed him. There was nothing more to say, so you let it go.

Since that night, though, you couldn't help but tease him. You knew it wasn’t exactly fair, but you needed to feel something—that spark, that connection, that heat between you. So, you started to frequently wear those slutty pajamas he bought you—lingerie so barely there you might as well have been naked. You would purposefully linger just a little too long when your hand brushed against his leg, letting your fingers trail down his thigh, knowing full well what it did to him.

You would snuggle closer on the couch, wiggling so your body pressed up against his, feeling his muscles tense as you did. And when you bent over—whether to pick something up or just move around—your hips would sway a little too much, your body just a little too close to his.

The little acts were almost unconscious—more instinct than strategy, really. But they were all worked without fail. You could feel that tension from him more than ever. His body would stiffen up, his usually bright puppy eyes would darken with slightly, and his jaw would clench in a sexually frustrated away.

As the days dragged on, you had noticed how much more on edge he seemed recently. Usually when you climbed into bed in your slutty pajamas, he'd welcome you and shower you in compliments. But tonight, his blanket was pulled up to his nose, his back turned squarely toward you.

“Are you calling it an early night?” you frowned, crawling onto the mattress beside him.

He mumbled something under the covers that you couldn’t quite make out. You lifted the blanket, slid underneath beside him, and felt him instantly tense up. With a soft, sleepy sigh, you wrapped your arms around his waist, settling your hands on his lower stomach as you spooned him from behind.

He immediately shuddered at your touch.

“Are you okay, baby?” you asked softly, nose pressed into his shirt, inhaling his scent.

“F-fine,” he grunted.

The contrast between your usually soft and puppy-eyed boyfriend and this pent-up, grumpy mess was amusing. Your hands subtly trailed lower, brushing the crotch of his sweatpants. He shuddered again, but didn’t pull away—he never did.

“Don’t you want to see what I’m wearing? I'm wearing one of the little night slips you bought me,” you asked softly and innocently from behind.

He sucked in a sharp breath. “Baby…”

Your hands trailed lower, your fingertips barely grazing the straining bulge beneath his sweatpants. God, he was rock hard, just the small graze of your fingertips made his hips buck and his cock twitch instinctively.

A low groan rumbled from his chest, and his eyes fluttered shut. “Sweetheart,” he whispered. “If we were to set a safe word, what should it be?”

You couldn't help the small smile that curved your lips as you gave his clothed cock a subtle squeeze that made him gasp. “Well, if we’re speaking in theoretics, it should be ‘Brooklyn.’”

Your hands hovered just above him, expecting him to use the word, but he remained silent.

Instead, he took in a deep, shaky inhale. “Okay.”

Your hands slowly dropped back onto his cock, and he immediately twitched and throbbed beneath your touch. Your thumb grazed the outline of his head, and as you moved your fingertips, you felt something cool and slick.

He was leaking.

You grinned, though he couldn’t see it. “How was your day, baby?” you asked innocently, the question sounding almost taunting.

“G-good,” he muttered, subtly rocking his hips into your hand. “So... good.”

“That’s good,” you murmured, keeping your palm heavy and still against his cock. “I missed you today. I just stayed home and cleaned. I was wearing this night slip you got me. It’s so comfortable, it feels like I’m wearing nothing.”

His breath hitched. He could already picture it—you bending over to clean and pick up items, looking domestic yet tempting in that skimpy little dress. He could picture it clearly because you had been doing exactly that these past few days—purposefully teasing, purposefully taunting. Now, with your palm still against him, you were testing the last of his patience. His hips began to rock more suddenly and deeply, his cock aching for friction. He told himself he wasn’t going to lose control. He tried to convince himself that this act alone was enough for him.

As long as he didn't turn around and look at you—wearing that flimsy dress with your perky chest visible, your ass exposed—then he was safe.

All he had to do was not look at you.

“Fuck,” he swallowed hard. “Did you now?” he questioned, clearly trying to distract himself from your touch.

His cock was growing heavy and hot beneath your touch, and with the aggressive way his hips were rocking into your palm, you couldn't help but increase the pressure. “Mhm,” you drawled. “I was being very good today.”

His jaw clenched as he tried to compose himself, his back shuddering as your hand worked him greedily. “Yeah?” he breathed, straining the word out. “You were being a good girl?”

You let out a soft little whine at the nickname, your legs clenching together to soothe the warmth creeping between your thighs. Then, you lifted your leg, draping it lazily over his, pressing yourself impossibly closer so that your breast pushed against his broad back.

You peeked over his shoulder, his hands were fisted in the sheets. You knew you were being selfish, taunting him like this—but you couldn't help it. You wanted to see him break, and the cracks were becoming more and more visible.

“Bucky,” you whined, your free hand coming up to caress the soft strands of his hair. “Why won’t you look at me?”

The stark contrast between your soft, gentle caress on his hair and your greedy hand working his erection made it impossible for him to think. His mind was spinning with one thing only: to take you.

But he wasn't going to look at you. He made sure of it.

“Don’t you want to see how I look?” you pouted, squeezing your legs more tightly against his.

He took in a deep, steady breath before responding. “I’m sure you look beautiful, baby.”

“How do you know if you haven’t even looked at me?”

“Baby,” Bucky warned, his voice rough and demanding. “Don’t test me right now. I’m trying so hard to be a good, respectful man, but I—oh, fuck!” He moaned as your palm worked faster on his cock, giving it a subtle squeeze as you pumped him through his sweatpants. “Shit, baby. You better fucking stop right now or I’ll—”

“Stop what?” you cooed innocently, your head resting on his shoulder as you stroked him from behind. “I’m not doing anything bad, am I?”

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “Don’t push it, honey. I mean it.” But despite his warnings, he had yet to say the established safe word. “Fuck—stop.”

You gasped softly, your teasing posture deflating a little with a dramatic sigh. “Oh, you mean it? Okay, okay. If my good, respectful boyfriend is feeling threatened by my hand, I definitely wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You deliberately pulled your hand away, leaving his heavy, throbbing erection alone in the confines of his sweatpants. You even slid your draped leg off his, and the absence of your warmth made his hips spasm once, sharp and frustrated.

You paused, waiting to see if he would finally give in. When his shoulders remained tense and his body stayed still, you let out a long, disappointed exhale. Without another word, you turned back around so that both your backs faced each other.

Even though he hadn’t said ‘Brooklyn,’ you still didn’t want to risk pushing him further. You had never reached this point in your relationship where he sounded genuinely frustrated and pent up. You couldn't tell if his reaction was solely sexual frustration, or if he was actually upset.

Either way, you didn't want to gamble with the possibility of upsetting him.

You had tried. You had been trying for days, and now, you were done. Suddenly, the skimpy night slip felt like an insult to your pride and self-esteem. You pulled the blanket over your body with a shuddering sigh—a sound Bucky definitely heard.

A long, tense silence stretched between you. Both of you were completely still and neither of you dared to move. You wanted to speak up, maybe ask if you had gone too far—but Bucky was so damn quiet, you convinced yourself he had already fallen asleep.

Then, he spoke up first.

“Are you okay?”

You snuggled deeper into the mattress, trying to hide yourself even though he wasn't looking at you. “I’m okay.”

There was another pause, and you thought that would be the end of it. Then, you heard shuffling behind you. Suddenly, strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you into soft fabric and a wall of muscle. Bucky’s warm arm curled tightly around your body and pulled you flush against him.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered into your ear. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Despite the sincerity and softness in his voice, you immediately felt his erection press against you underneath the blankets. You swallowed hard.

“You didn’t upset me, Bucky,” you explained softly, keeping your body still. “I just... I don’t want to push you or force you into something you’re not ready for. But I can’t lie and say it doesn't hurt, you know?”

You felt him stiffen behind you, his arms tightening around you just slightly. “It’s not that I’m not ready,” he explained gruffly, his voice deep and raspy. “I can take you right here, fuck. I want to take you right here—but I won’t, because I know you’re not ready.”

His hand rested heavily on your hip, his thumb circling slow patterns over the fabric of the gown as he spoke. You knitted your brows, glancing over your shoulder at him with a confused look. “What do you mean I’m not ready? I’ve been ready for a long time now.”

“I’m saying, if I pulled the blankets off you and saw you right now—wearing that slutty little dress—I’d flip that gown up and fuck you right through the mattress,” his grip on your hip tightened, his voice a low growl. “I want to, baby. I want you so badly, but I can’t. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Bucky,” you whispered, turning completely around to face him. He had to clench his jaw to compose himself. “I’ve told you this before. You can’t hurt me.”

“Jesus, baby. You’re not understanding me,” he grunted, his hungry eyes slowly wandering down your throat to your collarbone. “You’ll be a crying mess. You’ll be begging me to slow down, and I won’t be able to stop.”

His warnings should have scared you, but they only made you shamelessly wetter.

You bit your bottom lip, and you felt his cock twitch against your leg at the sight of your face. “Well… it’s a good thing we established a safe word, right?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I told you. Safe words are unreliable—”

But before he could finish his sentence, his words died in his throat as you slowly lifted the blanket, finally revealing yourself to him. The sight of the thin night slip clinging onto your curves, the strap falling down your bare shoulder, and the curve of your breasts poking through the fabric made his throat go completely dry.

“Fuck,” he grunted quietly—the word slipping out before he could stop it.

“Bucky, please. I can take it,” you reassured, holding his gaze. “I want to feel you make love to me. I want to feel every inch of you. I don’t want you to hold back. I can take it. Please.”

He let out a shaky exhale as his eyes fluttered shut, forcing himself to look away. You could tell it was taking everything in him to keep it together—but you also knew that just one more push could break him open completely.

So, you grabbed his hand and placed it back onto your hip, scooting even closer and batting your eyelashes up at him.

“I need you, Bucky,” you whined. “I need you so badly—it hurts. Please give yourself to me.”

His eyes fluttered open, and it was like something in him snapped. His eyes lost that usual soft, puppy-eyed glow and were replaced with something darker, hungrier. His gaze wandered down your body with a shaky breath, and as his eyes took in your whole form—vulnerable and inviting right in front of him—he couldn't hold back anymore.

He sat up abruptly, gripping the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers and yanking them down past his hips. His cock sprang free, heavy and hard, slapping against his stomach.

“I’ve been trying to be a good man—a good partner for you,” he snarled, his eyes burning with desire.

His free hand wrapped around his erection, pumping himself slowly and deeply. You watched, completely captivated, as his thumb rubbed the head of his cock, smearing the pre-cum.

“I’ve been doing so fucking good—holding out for months, trying to resist you. But fuck, you’re testing my patience, baby girl.”

“You asked for it,” he didn't ask or plead—he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly sound you barely recognized. His hand pushed the hem of your night slip up past your hip. “You told me not to hold back. Fine. I won’t.”

His lustful eyes wandered down your body, where your bare thighs lay exposed and the night slip was bunched messily around your waist. His gaze took you in completely—and you felt small and defenseless beneath his heavy presence. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, a low groan slipping from his throat as he admired you.

“Damn, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick. “I was right. You look fucking beautiful in this tiny dress.”

His fingertips caught the waistband of your panties, pulling them down in one swift tug past your legs and tossing them carelessly onto the floor. With rough hands, he gripped your legs and spread them wide—baring your wet slit to his ravenous eyes.

Despite being together for a few months, this was the first time you two saw each other completely bare, intimate, and vulnerable. All you could do was lay there mesmerized by the sheer size of him. He was big and hard in a way that should have scared you, and maybe he was right, maybe you wouldn't be able to handle him. But with your man hovering above you, practically panting at the sight of you—radiating an overwhelming need to claim you—you were determined to take every inch of him.

Bucky must have noticed your hesitation, because a smug grin tugged at his lips. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he taunted, fisting his cock in his hands. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”

His grip on your thigh tightened as he positioned his cock against your entrance, rubbing his tip up and down against your wet folds. You shuddered as he coated himself with your arousal, and you let out a shocked gasp as the tip of his cock probed and caught against your entrance before he pulled it back to rub against your slit again.

“Christ, baby…” he groaned, his cock purposefully catching on your entrance again before retreating. “You’re so damn wet. It would be so easy to just slip it in... to slam all the way in.”

Your legs instinctively tightened around his waist, gripping the bedsheets as if bracing yourself. “I-I’m ready, Bucky…”

A mocking and almost cruel laugh escaped his lips. He shook his head, probing his tip at your entrance again. “You’re not ready,” he rasped. “You’ll never be ready to take me—but it’s okay. I’m still a good man, a good boyfriend for you, aren’t I? I’m so good, I’ll even help you…” he slowly pushed the tip past your entrance, “… ease into it.”

A small whine escaped your lips as you felt his tip slip inside you. It was only the head of his cock, but it was enough to make your walls flutter tightly around him, subconsciously trying to invite him even deeper.

“Oh, fuck,” he moaned, eyes fluttering shut with all the restraint left in the world as he stilled his hips. “You’re so fucking tight, and that’s just the tip, baby…”

“Please…” you whined, “give me more.”

Bucky groaned—almost in frustration—as his hips slowly began to rock back and forth, fucking you with just the tip of his cock. You moaned beneath him, your back arching as you tried to subtly move your hips against his, attempting to push yourself deeper onto him.

“Oh, fuck, Bucky…!” you let out another moan as you pushed onto him, pulling more of his thick cock to stretch you out. It was more than just the tip, and not nearly halfway up his shaft, but it was enough to make your legs shake.

“Fuck… you greedy little slut,” he groaned, his hands finding your hips and tightening to keep you still. “You’re so fucking greedy, trying to take all of me already.”

His hips started to move as he held you still, fucking you with only what was already inside you and refusing to slam all the way in. The stretch burned, but it felt way too damn good. He was so big, stretching you full, and this wasn't even all of him.

Bucky gritted his teeth as he watched you whimper and whine beneath him. You were so tight your walls were clamping down on him, making it hard for him to move. He knew his size was hurting you, but how could he pull away when you were writhing beneath him so cutely?

Pleading for more when you could barely take what he had given you so far?

“What’s wrong, baby?” he cooed, leaning down to wipe a stray tear from your cheek. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”

“Y-yes…” you shuddered. “I wanted this… I can take it—oh, fuck!”

You squeezed your eyes shut as he began to push in deeper. Your wetness only made it easier for him to slide in. A low, raspy groan rumbled from his chest as he tossed his head back in pleasure, finally feeling your tight walls stretching around his cock.

He paused just before he hit the base. “Fuck, baby! God, you’re so fucking tight…” he breathed. “I need to put it all in, okay?”

Just as he was about to move his hips, he saw your eyes squeeze shut again as you braced yourself. “No,” he snarled, his voice dropping low as one hand cupped your face, shaking your head lightly. “Don’t you dare close your eyes, baby. You’re going to keep them open while I stuff the rest of my cock in your pussy. You wanted this, doll. So you’re going to get it.”

Your eyelids fluttered open, eyes glossy from tears. You looked up, and your once gentle, loving boyfriend was staring down at you like you were his prey. It was a dark, hungry gaze, as if the only thing he wanted to do was claim you, ruin you until your body was branded as his.

“I… I can take it,” you sniffled.

He smiled, a dark, wicked curve of his lips. He drew his hips back until only the tip remained inside you. He then lifted your thighs slightly, spreading you even wider for him, before he slammed forward until the base of his cock was buried deep inside you.

“Ohhh… fuck!” he groaned, letting himself be fully buried before immediately grounding his hips, rocking himself slowly against you.

Your back arched off the bed, eyes instinctively squeezing shut as he shoved the rest of his thick cock deep inside. As his hips rocked, you felt every pulsing ridge of him, and your walls clamped down on him, struggling to accommodate his large size. To say it didn't hurt was an understatement, but you were fiercely determined to take him. You wanted to prove to your boyfriend that you could be a good girl and take every last inch like you said you would.

“... Bucky!” you gasped. “T-too much… be slow, okay?”

He snarled as he leaned over you, the heavy weight of his body completely pressing down on yours. His flesh hand slid through the strands of your hair, giving it a rough tug. You winced, your eyes shooting open.

“That’s it. Look at me,” he demanded, grounding his hips against yours.

He moaned softly as he fucked himself into you. His vibranium fingers rested coolly on your hip, and you shivered at the touch despite the warmth of his body pressing down on yours. You let out a cry as he gave you one sharp, sudden thrust, your head tossing back before his grip on your hair went tighter, forcing your gaze to steady on his.

“I-I said to slow down…” you swallowed. “Y-you’re too—”

“Too big, am I?” he smiled, and it wasn’t the usual soft smile he’d give you. No. This smile was mocking, almost condescending. “I know I’m too big. But I warned you, baby. I told you you were this small little thing…” another sharp thrust that made you gasp, “... so small you can’t even take all of me.”

You tried wiggling around, attempting to make yourself comfortable—though it was futile. And the slight shifts and movements only made his cock throb harder inside you, each friction-filled rub making his shaft twitch with pleasure.

“Fuck… so… s-so small, so tiny and tight,” he grunted, his hips moving faster, the sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the room as he continued to belittle you. “Thinkin’ you can take all of me… but look at you—you’re a crying, whimpering little mess.”

Bucky had never spoken to you this way. He always showered you with praise and soft words, but the sheer condescension in his voice now only made you wetter, driving an undeniable craving for more.

“M-more,” you begged despite your weak voice and legs trembling around his waist. “More… please—”

“Yeah?” he laughed, the sound sharp and disbelieving. “You want more?”

Before you could reply, his grip on your hair and waist tightened. His body fully enveloped yours, and he began pounding into you, hard and fast. You cried out, your hands desperately clutching his back as you cursed and babbled his name—but he didn't slow down for a second.

“Fuck—so fucking good, baby girl,” he groaned. “You don’t know how bad I wanted to do this…” He tilted his head down, pressing soft kisses to your neck that starkly contrasted the brutal, relentless pounding of his hips. “To grab you from behind every time you’re cleaning…” another kiss, “...throw you down on the floor and fuck you until you cry, until your throat’s raw from screaming my name.”

You were doing exactly that.

Tears welled in your eyes as he fucked you hard and deep. “Bucky!”

“Yes,” he breathed heavily. “Scream my name.”

“B-Bucky, oh my god—it’s too—I…”

“Shit, what a babbling little mess you are.”

He nuzzled his face in your neck, eagerly sucking, leaving filthy, bruising marks along your sensitive column. He was fucking you so hard and deep, mumbling dirty words into your neck—sounds you could barely distinguish over the frantic slap of skin, your own desperate moans, and the creaking of the bed beneath his assault.

Your head spun with overwhelming desire, and the moment his hand released your hair and trailed down between your bodies, his fingers finding your sensitive clit, you knew it was over. Your eyes widened at the overwhelming sensation, and your walls clenched down on his cock, tighter than ever, as you felt yourself coming undone.

“B-baby!” you gasped, clinging to him desperately. “I’m gonna—”

“You’re gonna cum, baby? Already?” he taunted, though his fingers never faltered in their relentless, merciless movement.

“Bucky… please, fuck, I’m going to come—it feels too good. Oh my god!” you gasped.

He sat up, his arms sweeping under your thighs, lifting them and folding you nearly in half. Your legs trembled, suspended in the air, while he slammed into you—deeper than before—in that punishing position.

You cried out his name, “Bucky! Oh my god—please, I can’t—”

“You can,” he grunted, his voice commanding, “and you will.”

He fucked into you, harder and deeper, indecent noises and rough words spilling from his lips in a relentless litany of lust. You felt him throb and pulse deep inside. Even through the haze, you knew he was close, too, but he wouldn’t let himself go. Not until you did.

“Fuck—come for me, baby. Now,” he demanded, the words hard and mean. “What the hell are you waiting for, sweetheart? Trying to hold out for me?”

“N-no, I…” you blubbered, his cruel, deprecating words sending an agonizing jolt of lust through your entire body.

His words alone were the final push. Your legs trembled, your eyes still wet with tears of pleasure and pain as you screamed his name. You clamped down on him, hard enough to wrench a loud groan from his chest, and came all over his cock.

“Fuck! Jesus, baby…” he snarled.

Bucky’s hips tried to continue their relentless rhythm, but he was forced to still because your inner walls were so unbearably tight. You panted and sniffled beneath him, trying to close and relax your legs, but he held them rigidly in place.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“… tired,” you whimpered.

“Yeah?” he smiled again, and this time it was with a softer adoration—his grin almost boyish. “You’re sleepy?”

You nodded.

He tilted his head, that soft admiration gleaming in his eyes. “But I haven't come yet, baby.” His free hand gently trailed to your cheek, wiping the tears away. “You’re not going to leave your boyfriend high and dry now, are you?”

“B-but…” you panted, your legs shaking uncontrollably. “I don’t think I can—”

His fingers cupped your cheeks, squeezing them to silence you. “Baby,” he warned, “I told you I couldn’t hold myself back once I started.” He then pulled his cock out slowly, the loud, wet sound of your arousal filling your ears as your face instantly warmed with embarrassment.

Before you could protest, he grabbed your hips with strong hands, hauling and flipping your body until your stomach hit the mattress with a soft thud. You yelped as his hands gripped your waist, hiking your hips and presenting your backside bare for him.

“We’re not done,” he grunted from behind you, grabbing his cock and positioning the head at your entrance for round two. “Not until I come.”

“Bucky, I—” your words died in your throat as he drove into you again in one fluid motion, filling you completely.

The stretch burned even more than before, and your cunt, overwhelmingly sensitive, forced you to bury your face into the pillows. Your hands squeezed the fabric as you arched your back, taking every painful inch of him again.

“Oh my god! T-too much…”

“But it feels so good, doesn’t it?” he moaned, fucking you deep. “Tell me how good it feels, baby…”

You were a babbling, drooling mess, barely able to form words, staining the pillows with your tears.

Bucky let out a disapproving sound from behind. His hand slunk around your waist, his finger pressing against your clit and rubbing it in rough, merciless circles. Your whole body convulsed at the sensation, utterly overstimulated as you shook and trembled. Bucky’s vibranium arm circled around your body, the metallic coolness making you tense up as he pulled your hips back and forced you to hold still.

“Tell me, baby,” he demanded, his voice raspy.

You tried to answer, you truly did, but only a ragged gasp escaped. Your eyes were fluttering, and your body trembled violently in his hold. He held you tighter, leaning down to bite softly on your bare shoulder.

“Fuck... I’m gonna cum, baby,” he moaned, his movements growing sloppy and desperate, losing all rhythm. “Christ, it feels so good, doesn’t it? You can’t even say anything because you’re so—fuck, so drunk on my cock... can’t even think straight either, can you?”

Your inner walls clenched and pulsed around his cock at his taunts, and the sensation shattered what little control Bucky had left. He gave you one final, rough thrust, his cock burying deep inside you as he let himself come undone, making your whole body jerk. Even as he held you impossibly full, his fingers never stopped their merciless pacing.

You were so stuffed with him, unable to form a single coherent thought. You weren’t sure how much you could take. He began to rock his hips again, a slow, agonizing grind against your overstimulated flesh.

“Yes, yes—you’re taking me so well, baby girl. Fuck, my cum is buried so deep—”

“...B-brook…”

His hips stilled.

His hands paused.

He held his breath, his face still pressed against your shoulder.

“W-what was that?” he rasped, waiting.

“... Brooklyn.”

The word broke him instantly.

Bucky snatched his hand from your clit and yanked his throbbing cock out in one urgent motion. A small, vulnerable whimper escaped you at the sudden, aching loss. His vibranium arm was quick and soft, turning you over. In the next moment, he had pulled you flush against his chest, both large arms wrapping tightly around your trembling body.

“Fuck, baby. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice dry and thick with remorse.

He looked down to see your tear-streaked face and felt a sharp clench in his heart. His eyes drifted to your neck, the soft skin now riddled with dark, bruising marks left in his wake. He let out a shuddering breath, overwhelmed by the sight of you—utterly ruined by his intensity.

“Fuck,” he muttered, the curse directed only at himself. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I didn't mean to go that far. Are you okay? Shit…”

Your body shook, and your heart clenched at the sound of his distress.

You knew Bucky would never hurt you intentionally, but the overwhelming sensations left you physically weak. And truthfully, despite the intensity, it was the most mind-blowing sex you'd ever had.

“That was… good,” you managed quietly, your voice shaky and breathless.

He frowned down at you. “Good? Baby, how can you say that?” his voice wavered. “I… I hurt you…”

His thumb brushed the corner of your eye, wiping the wetness away. With a trembling arm, you lifted your hand, gently wrapping it around his wrist as you looked up at him.

“No… it was good,” you repeated with a breathless laugh, realizing how unconvincing you sounded. “It was good, Bucky, it was just… a lot for me, that’s all.”

His eyes softened, dropping to your hand wrapped around his wrist. He continued to soothe your cheek with his thumb. “I told you we shouldn’t have…” his voice broke, and he swallowed hard. “We shouldn’t have done this. I’m so sorry.”

“Bucky, stop apologizing,” you cooed gently, tilting your head up to press a messy, sluggish kiss to his lips. “It’s okay. You didn't hurt me.”

“Honey, look at you. You’re covered in…” he made a face, ashamed of himself. “… hickeys. And your hair’s a mess.” He raised his hand, trying to smooth the strands down.

“Bucky,” you said firmly, grabbing his hand and meeting his gaze. “Stop. I’m okay, baby.”

You gently moved his hands away from your hair and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles. He let out a ragged sigh at the feel of your lips. “It was good. Really good,” you continued, your voice shaky but sincere. “And I want to do it again, and again, and again. More times than I can count. I just needed a little break, okay?”

He pursed his lips, clearly wanting to argue, but he held back. He looked deep into your eyes before nodding quietly. “Okay,” he repeated, but the word was strained, as if he were trying to ground himself. “Okay. I understand.”

A long pause followed—a silent moment where you two simply stared into each other’s eyes. He occasionally leaned in to press a soft kiss to your cheek, his finger dragging over your face reassuringly and gently, as if you were the most fragile thing in the world, and he hadn’t completely ruined you just moments ago.

“I know you said it was okay,” he whispered. “But I still feel like shit for losing control.”

You gave him a tired smile, your hands rising to cup his cheek. “But you listened to the safe word,” you pointed out. “You stopped the minute I muttered it, and you were just over here telling me that safe words were ‘unreliable.’”

He exhaled, breath shaky. “I know. As good as it felt, I didn’t want to hurt you. God. That’s the last thing I want to do.”

You leaned in, pressing a soft, slightly wet kiss directly to his lips—a gesture that held none of the rough lovemaking and only pure, quiet affection. “I know that, Bucky. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

He looked down at the state of the night slip, now messily bunched around your waist with the strap falling loose from your shoulder. Your hair was disheveled, your neck was marked with bruises from his lips—and yet, to Bucky, you were the most beautiful and precious thing he had ever laid eyes on.

“This…” his fingertips fiddled lightly with the lace hem. “This dress is very dangerous.”

You smiled. “You were the one that bought it for me.”

Bucky huffed a laugh.

“I know. And all I had to do was not look at you.”

thank you for reading <3

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“Bucky, please,” you managed to say before your voice cut off with a choked sob. “Please come up with me. I’m worried about you. I don’t want you to be down here by yourself.” One of your hands twitched forward, just a few inches, before you yanked it back to your body.

Bucky was a monster. He was a liar, and selfish, and greedy. He was withering you dry, but you were still there. You were there, you were hurting, you were asking for him. 

Hadn’t you learned by now? He wasn’t anything to you. He wasn’t anything to anybody.

Bucky shook his head and sat back down onto the couch. “Go upstairs,” he ordered. “I’ll have Pepper call you after I talk to her.”

Your wide eyes betrayed your astonishment for just a moment before you were able to hide it. Then you nodded, hurriedly wiping at your face to dry the tears that had leaked down your cheeks. “Right,” you sniffed. “Okay.”

Bucky hadn’t expected you to give in that easily, and there was a twinging pain inside his chest at your quick acceptance— but instead of retreating to the elevator and disappearing like you were supposed to, like he needed you to, you walked toward him.

Your legs were shaky, but you were still as much of a threat as Bucky had ever seen. He bristled, immediately on guard when all of the deeply-ingrained alarms in his head rang out— danger, danger, danger. Of all the opponents he had fought in his life, all of the agents and soldiers and traitors, you were the most formidable by far. By the time you reached the couch where he sat, he was fighting for breath, his chest heaving. He closed his eyes and braced himself for your caustic touch, but it never came.

He peeked one eye open when he heard you settle down onto the floor next to him. “...What are you doing?”

You folded your legs underneath you and leaned back against the front of the couch. “I’m staying with you,” you said simply without looking up.

“Why?” The single syllable came out venomous, more aggressive than he intended, but not more aggressive than you deserved.

“Do you want the truth?” Your glistening, narrowed eyes met his own. “I can lie, if you want, but I won’t mean it.”

“I… I don’t…”

“I’m here because it’s my job,” you said emotionlessly, speaking more to the wall behind Bucky than to him. “Because I am contractually obligated to make sure that you, Bucky Barnes, are looked after while your teammates are gone.”

The words were a kick straight to his gut. Not the first blow you had landed that evening, but easily the worst. Of course that was it. He didn’t want to believe it, but he should’ve, he should’ve known— “Okay,” he choked out, too stupid to come up with a good response.

You sighed. “That’s the lie,” you said, softer now. “Would you rather hear the truth?”

Oh. It took everything in him to keep his voice steady when he answered. “...Yeah.”

“You think I don’t know an act of self destruction when I see it?” You posed it like a question, but there was a stinging bite to your words that Bucky hadn’t expected. “I’m here because I care about you. Because I’m worried about you, and I don’t want to leave you alone like this.”

“You should,” he said quickly, and you quirked your head, waiting for an explanation. “You should want to leave me alone. I don’t know why you—” But his voice cracked, and instead of fighting it, he fell silent.

You took a slow, deep breath, but your voice still trembled. “There is so much gentleness in you,” you said haltingly. “And you won’t— or can’t— accept it, but…” You exhaled shakily, a failing attempt to compose yourself. “But I see it. And if that’s too much for you, if you need me to leave, then fine.” The dam finally broke, a flood of tears spilling down your cheeks. “But not yet. If I only get one more night, then I’m gonna make the most of it.” You tore your eyes away from his and settled back against the couch. “I’m staying.”

None of that made sense. You were delusional, clearly, but you also said you were going to make the most of it, and yet you just sat there, in silence, with him—

An hour passed, maybe two, and neither of you spoke. After a little while you turned on the TV, just something to fill the emptiness, and each grating noise, each stupid laugh track felt like razors in the back of Bucky’s throat that he just couldn’t swallow around. 

You stayed on the floor right below him with your knees pulled up, your arms wrapped around them for warmth. It was completely baffling; there were plenty of other places to sit. Even if you didn’t want to share the couch with him (of course you didn’t), there were others, and lounge chairs, and even the fucking ottoman if he was really reaching. But you stayed right there, next to him on the cold tile floor.

You stared at the screen, but Bucky never took his eyes off of you. He watched as your legs pilled up with goosebumps, as you rubbed your own arms to try to create warmth. Despite your efforts, you began to shiver. 

“You’re cold,” he said.

You didn’t deny it. “I’m staying with you.” 

Bucky sighed. You needed your stupid blankets.

And as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he needed you. 

He took a deep breath. “Maybe we should go upstairs.”

It was your idea in the first place. Honestly, stuff like that isn’t even on Bucky’s radar. It’s not something people did back in his day— or at least if they did, they didn’t talk about it.

But one day you’re giving him a blowjob in that almost lazy, face-fucking way he likes. You’re on your back on the bed, head comfortably on the pillow, and he’s on his knees, straddling your chest. He’s got his left hand on the headboard and his dick in your mouth, and he’s taking his time with it. Savoring it. Gives a couple of deep thrusts into your throat before he grips the base of it and pulls out. He rubs the head over your spit-slick lips, spreading a bead of precum like lipstick while he lets his orgasm mostly fade back.

When he’s ready, he taps his cock against your lower lip. “Open,” he murmurs, voice heady and deep. You obey and stick out your flat tongue for him, and he can’t help but give that a few heavy smacks as well.

Then another deep thrust into your mouth, and repeat.

You dig your fingernails into the muscle of his ass, encouraging him, and fuck, he loves this. It’s almost perfect. Almost, but not quite, because no matter what he does— no matter how he shifts, or glances down, or leans back— he can’t see your tits from this angle.

You notice his distraction.

“Here,” you say the next time he pulls out. “Back up a little.” He does, releasing the headboard and moving further down your body, and there— that’s what he wanted. He paws at your chest with both hands, massaging and squeezing as his abandoned cock drips a string of precum onto your belly. He can’t decide whether to jerk himself or thumb over your nipples until they're hard and perfect, so he compromises. His left hand kneads your breast, pinching and rolling the nipple, while his other hand pulls at his cock.

When you suddenly sit up, breaking him out of his trance, the indignation on his face is comical. But you give him a knowing smile before you lean over to pull something from the bedside drawer, and he watches in awe as you snap open the bottle and drizzle lube all over your chest.

His eyes flicker between your own and your shiny, slick tits as you spread the lube around. “No,” he breathes, because he thinks he knows what this means, but he just can’t let himself believe it. You’re a wet dream come to life, a fantasy he didn’t even know he had, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever recover if he’s reading this wrong.

“Yes,” you reply, flashing a devious smile. You use both hands to push your breasts together, and that’s all it takes— he’s got his dick between them before you can even tell him what to do.

“Oh, shit,” he hisses. His thighs spread a bit more so he can get lower, get closer to you. He has to reach further to get his hands on the headboard again, but what other option does he have? Float above you unmoored as he rolls his hips, intoxicated by the soft glide and the picture-perfect view below him? He’s staring down at you with his mouth open, watching how you squeeze your breasts together as he thrusts, and— of course.

He pushes your hands out of the way so he can hold your tits instead.

His thrusts are a little jerky, a little more unsteady than he expected, but it’ll be okay.

“Gonna come like this, baby?” you ask, one corner of your lips curled up, smug like you already know the answer.

“No,” he almost whines, because he’s not— he’s not ready to be done. Still wants to see your lips, swollen and slick and perfect around his cock when he lets go. Still wants to feel you swallow around him, taking everything he can give you.

But he can’t stop fucking your tits. Can’t even slow down. He’ll do this for a while longer, he reasons. It’s foreplay, right? Doesn’t feel as good as your mouth, but there’s something about the way you squirm below him with want, the way the tip of his cock peeks out at the dip of your throat before disappearing again, that persuades him to stop fighting it. Fuzzy static takes over his head as he succumbs to the sight and sensations.

After a particularly long drag back through the valley of your tits, he feels that twinge. That shift. Alarm bells are ringing somewhere in the back of his head, but he tunes them out— the world can burn, for all he cares. This feels too good to stop. 

He keeps thrusting, sloppy and frantic, ignoring all his warning signs. He keeps going, even when his balls tighten unbearably, even when his abs tense and his thighs tremble. He keeps going as that molten pleasure spreads, and as his cock gives that first, harsh twitch.

You gasp, wide-eyed, as the first spurt hits your cheek. “Buck,” you whisper sharply, but he’s groaning too loud to hear you. A deep, needy rumble in his chest that he might have been embarrassed by, if he realized he was making it. But he’s not slowing down, and the pulses aren’t weakening, either; his cock throbs again and again, shooting cum haphazardly at your neck and face. You squint your eyes and turn to the side, but it’s not enough to protect you— so you lift a hand to your clavicle, palm toward Bucky, as a barrier. It’s too little, too late, but at least his entire load won’t end up in your hair.

Eventually his hips slow, his groans soften into labored breaths, and you try to move your hand away— only to immediately take a hit to your chin. “Jesus,” you whisper as you cover him with your hand again. Damn these super soldiers. He’s still going, and even though each spurt is a little weaker than the last, his range is still impressive.

Finally, he opens his eyes and looks down at you, and the sight nearly makes him come again. Pearly white fluid pooling at your collarbones, sticky rivulets leaking down the sides of your neck to the bed below. You use the back of your hand to wipe some off your cheekbone, and he thinks he might pass out.

“Sorry,” he rasps, a sheepish half-smile on his face. But you’re laughing, and he weakly chuckles along with you. “Hang on,” he says. He reaches over to the nightstand, but he doesn’t grab tissues to clean up like you expect. 

He’s got you on your knees in front of the couch, your face pressed into the seat cushion while he slams into you from behind. You had been teasing him all evening— no, teasing wasn’t the right word. You’d been edging him with his fucking clothes still on, working him up to near delirium while a movie played forgotten in the background. It started with you ‘innocently’ rubbing your ass against him while he spooned you, and serum or not, he was only human. He was hard within a matter of seconds, his cock straining against the confines of his sweatpants and twitching against your backside.

Then you rolled over to kiss him, and that was far from innocent— the taste of your mint chapstick was intoxicating, and when your tongue swiped across his lower lip, he groaned and let you in. He slipped his hand up under your shirt while he kissed you, kneading at your breasts in that selfish way he knew you liked, squeezing the soft flesh and pinching your nipples gently. He liked it, too, and soon he was on top of you, rutting against you like some kind of horny teenager in their parents’ basement. It was fine. You liked it.

When you finally broke away from him to catch your breath, he was panting heavily, his mouth open while he looked down at you with heavy-lidded eyes. He couldn’t see or hear anything but you over the static crackling in his brain, and when you smiled at him, he thought his heart might stop altogether.

With a gentle push against his chest, you both sat up, and you climbed up onto his lap. His head fell back when you straddled his thick thighs, because that was it, it was game over— he couldn’t help but groan when you settled yourself down on top of where his length was clearly visible in his sweatpants.

You rocked against him in that delicious, slow, torturous way that you knew he liked, your mouth on his, letting out little whimpers and moans when you felt him twitch against your clothed heat. Those telltale flames were licking at the base of his spine, the corners of his consciousness, and he needed to get inside you— but when he tried to tug his sweatpants down, you just shook your head and smiled that infuriating smile. No, you wanted his clothes on.

With his hands on your hips, you continued to grind against him, and it was fine until it wasn’t— until your motions stuttered and your plush lips dropped open, your muscles tensing up. “Oh, fuck,” you whispered, your wide eyes locking onto his when you finally noticed your orgasm creeping up on you. A whimper squeaked out of you, and you dropped your face to Bucky’s shoulder, biting down on the collar of his shirt to muffle your moans.

“Look at you,” he whispered reverently, pulling you flush against him and holding you tightly in his arms while you shook. “God, look at you.”

His breathing was fast to mirror yours, and his heart matched your hummingbird beat— each of your pretty little noises went straight to his cock, and he almost just said fuck it, almost let himself fold under the pressure of pleasure and come in his pants like you were trying to get him to do. It’s what you fucking wanted, right? His ears were ringing, the fire in his blood boiling up to a fever pitch when he grabbed your hips again.

He was so hard that it hurt, and when your breathing slowed, he started thrusting up against you again— if the dark spot of precum on his sweatpants was any indication, it wouldn’t take long for him to come— but you flashed him that blissful, wicked grin and rose up onto your knees. He groaned indignantly at the loss of friction, and when he met your eyes, you stifled a giggle— this was on purpose, you were torturing him on purpose— and that was that.

“Bucky, please,” you choked out, your words punctuated by the way each swift thrust of his hips knocked the air from your lungs.

As soon as he made his decision, he had you on your knees on the floor in an instant, your soaked panties tugged down around your thighs and his throbbing cock nudging at your entrance. He slid inside you with ease; you loved teasing him, and making him squirm always left you slick and ready. He found a merciless rhythm, the slapping sound of his skin against yours drowning out the noise of the TV.

“Buck, I can’t—” you panted, turning your head so you could see him from the corner of your eye. “Oh, god— slow down—”

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Bucky murmured without slowing his frantic pace. He held your hips with both hands to hold you steady as he slammed into you, the pressure of his fingertips causing blood to pool under your skin. Your eyes watered from the power behind each of his thrusts, and there were black lines on the couch where your mascara smeared across the fabric.

And yeah, maybe it was a bit quick. Maybe it was a bit rough. But Bucky never took his eyes off of you, and the corner of your mouth was curled into a thrilled smile, even as a tear leaked down your cheek— he ducked forward to pepper kisses against it, then down your neck, across your shoulders, anywhere he could reach without throwing off his rhythm.

Bucky was fucking greedy. Always had been. And now that he remembered how good this wretched body could feel, how good you made him feel, he couldn’t fucking resist.

“You can take it,” he panted as he slammed into you, prodding relentlessly at that spot inside of you that made your mind go numb. “C’mon, baby, give it to me. Gimme another. Need to feel you squeeze my cock.” His balls were so fucking heavy, pulled up tight against him, but he had to wait— he was not greedy, he reminded himself, he wasn’t—

“I can’t,” you sobbed, but then Bucky tangled his left hand into your hair and pulled back sharply. Your protests melted into moans as you tightened around him like a vice.

“That’s right, sweets,” he breathed as your muscles began to tremble. “Come for me. I know you need to, know ya want to— you can do it, baby.” He could feel it, could feel you dragging him along with you as you careened toward bliss. Maybe it seemed like he was in control, but you both knew the truth— he was a passenger, a stowaway, and he needed you now more than ever.

“Bucky!” you cried when you hurtled over the edge, the tension in your muscles dissolving into overwhelming pleasure. Your cunt clenched around him in waves, nearly pushing him out of you with the force of your orgasm.

“Ah, fuck, there she is,” he groaned, his hips stuttering as he fought to bury himself deep inside you despite your body’s resistance. “Good girl. That’s my fuckin’ girl.” Fully sheathed just in time for that wildfire to take over, he let the flames consume him, pumping you full of cum with each pulse of his cock. You moaned louder when you felt him throbbing inside you, pushing your hips back against him to keep him as deep as possible.

When Bucky was finally spent, he hunched forward to wrap his arms around you, covering you completely as you continued to flutter weakly around him. He nuzzled his sweaty face against your neck, but the aftershocks jolting through you prevented you from stringing together a coherent sentence.

“Bu… oh g…” you panted against the couch as he pressed kisses everywhere he could reach. He didn’t want to pull out quite yet, but he tugged your shirt back down, straightening the fabric, and ran his fingers through your disheveled hair.

“So good, baby,” he rasped into your ear, and you turned to kiss him with a weak smile on your face. “Love you,” he whispered. “Love you so much.”

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The next morning, he was still on the floor when you handed him a cup of coffee. You looked concerned; you always did when he had nightmares. But there was a knowing smirk, too, that he didn’t understand. You quickly hid it, and by the time he got out of the shower, his makeshift bed was cleaned up, everything back on the couch where it belonged.

A few days later, a black cat plushie appeared on the couch.

And so it continued; whenever he found himself (accidentally, of course) snuggling with one, another quickly joined the pack. He rolled his eyes when he saw them, but they made you happy, so he dealt with them.

But one day, months from now, he’s in the grocery store. And they’ve got this little display near the registers— smaller versions, miniature, of the cats you bought him. They’ve got the same stupid ears, and whiskers, and noses, but they’re so small they can fit in the palm of his freakin’ hand. He adds one of each to his cart, for you. Of course, they’re for you.

This man standing beside you— he’s new, too.

In the back of the restaurant, you and Bucky squeeze into a tiny booth to wait for your food. He hides his hands under the table, but you don’t worry; keeping his hands hidden is more about shyness than shame now. The pizza shop girl isn’t the first to recognize him since you left the compound late last night.

There was the overnight gas station clerk, and the woman behind the front desk of the hotel. Both of them had been completely unaware until Bucky took his hands out of his pockets to pay— and although they offered nothing more than a kind smile and a respectful nod, the recognition made Bucky so tense that he immediately stuffed his hands back in his jacket pockets. After, when he reassured you that he was fine, his tense jaw and the faint electronic whir of his clenched fist told the truth. 

Free breadsticks are great, but they aren’t worth this discomfort that comes from being recognized. If Bucky wants to keep his hands hidden, you understand— and with his hands under the table, no one else in the shop gives him a second look. His face is still all over every cable news channel in the country, but people don’t seem to recognize him when they can’t see that telltale metallic glint. You can’t blame them; who would expect to see the former Winter Soldier on a pizza date in some sleepy college town? Six months ago, you wouldn’t have believed it. 

Hell, you can hardly believe it now. You half expect to wake up any minute now, tangled in your bedsheets with nothing but a hollow ache in your heart to remind you of this dream you’ve conjured. It would be easy enough to imagine him here; you’ve sat at this table hundreds of times before. There were study groups and dinners with friends. A couple of dates, a couple of heartbreaks. Late nights when you didn’t want to be alone, so you would put on your coat and trek a few blocks through the frigid Vermont winter, just to bask in the warmth of strangers’ laughter. 

You sat here alone a few days after you graduated. All of your friends had already left town, ready to move on to their next adventures, but too late, you realized you had nowhere to go. You had no plan. No goals. 

You ate your pizza in tears that night, afraid of what the future held, unsure of what would come next. Mr. Esposito himself brought you free refills all evening, and just before he clocked out for the night, he set an oversized serving of your favorite dessert on the table. The unexpected kindness only made you cry harder; if your hopelessness was so overwhelming that even that cantankerous old man felt sorry for you, you must have been even worse off than you thought. 

Bucky’s knee bumps against yours under the table. It’s a tight fit in that booth, so it was probably an accident— but when you catch his eye, he offers you a sheepish grin.

Things have a funny way of working out.

Bringing his hands above the table, Bucky leans forward and rests his weight on his elbows. You smile; even in public, he’s always trying to be closer to you. He absentmindedly folds and unfolds a straw wrapper, worrying the thin paper in his hands until it begins to fray— his nervous energy is palpable, even though he tries to hide it. It’s only been sixteen hours since the two of you left the compound, and after spending so long stuck in one place, even the most mundane experiences feel brand new. 

Some of them are brand new, of course. 

Bucky adapts so quickly that most of the time it’s easy to forget his experience in the twenty-first century has been anything but ordinary. Filling up the gas tank is nothing new, but it took him a few moments to figure out how to pay with his card— he had only ever used cash while on the run, he explained. And when you asked him to pull into a drive-thru for coffee as the sun came up, he froze while he stared at the bright LED menu, struggling to process the seemingly infinite options. Eventually his uncertain, overwhelmed eyes met yours, and you climbed over his lap to order at the speaker for both of you. 

You got your usual, and two drinks for Bucky— a normal coffee, like you would make him at home, and one of those signature sugary concoctions the chain was famous for. Bucky shook his head while you ordered, staring at you in that exasperated way that you loved, but after trying the drinks he admitted he liked both. 

Maybe if you didn’t know him so well, you wouldn’t notice those quick moments of anxiety when he comes across something he doesn’t understand. You wouldn’t recognize the panic in his eyes, only there for a moment before he manages to hide it and soldier on. Bucky’s ability to take this changing world in stride never fails to impress you, but deep down, you hope he always looks at you like that. 

You hope he always trusts you enough to show you his weaknesses, no matter how big or small. You hope he never feels like he has to hide things from you. You hope he knows you’re with him, no matter what.

All you want is to take care of him as much as he takes care of you, from now until forever.

You should tell him, you realize. You think he knows, but you should tell him, just in case. 

You open your mouth, but before you can get the words out, Bucky flicks the crumpled-up straw wrapper across the table and hits you square in the jaw. 

You gasp, but when you see his face you can’t even pretend to be outraged, because that grin. Crooked and cocky and trouble if you’ve ever seen it, you love everything about that grin. Especially how easily it comes to him now— because that wasn’t always the case. 

“Oh, you dickhead,” you grumble, too loudly, though you can’t keep the smile off your own face. A few patrons turn to look at the two of you, but Bucky doesn’t mind; he’s still snickering when a waiter appears with your food. Breadsticks and two pizzas to share— one with your favorite toppings, the other with pineapple.

He doesn't know how controversial his choice of toppings is, and you aren’t going to tell him. There are very few things in this world that you’re able to protect him from, but this is one of them.

But with one glance into what used to be the conference hall, none of that mattered. Panic rose in Bucky’s chest, and he planted his dress shoes firmly on the tile just outside the doors.

This was a mistake.

Stopping next to Bucky, you let out a low, impressed whistle. “Wow,” you breathed, then glanced up at Steve. “You’re sure we’re invited to this thing?”

Stark’s New Year’s Eve parties never disappointed, and as the grand finale of the publicity tour, he had gone above and beyond for tonight’s gala. Ambient light shone on the sea of unfamiliar faces, glinting off their expensive jewelry as they ebbed around the transformed ballroom. Their classy black formalwear was accented by glitz and glitter, and the tables adorned with gold place settings and decorations managed to be more extravagant than gaudy. But the strings of lights and balloons hanging from the ceiling made the room feel smaller, more claustrophobic, and somehow Bucky was the only one who noticed the walls closing in— 

“Of course,” Steve said, unconcerned. “You’re both on the guest list.”

Bucky huffed out a bitter, halfhearted laugh, and Steve raised an eyebrow at him. Tickets to the gala had been raffled off to donors for several thousand dollars apiece, and staring in at the crowd of tech bros, business moguls, and socialites, it couldn’t be more obvious that Bucky wasn’t one of them— of course he was on the guest list. He was there as a favor, as a kindness. A gift from Tony Stark himself.

Bucky’s invitation to the gala wasn’t the only olive branch that had been extended that day. The first time Bucky read through the article— his article— when it went live early that morning, he was as surprised as everyone else to see a statement from Tony near the end.

“I’ve never been one to take the high road,” Stark said. “I’m not the type to forgive and forget. But if you people think that I’m letting the man who murdered my parents not only walk free, but also live on my [redacted] property, you’re stupider than I thought. Barnes was the Winter Soldier, yes, but things change. And it only takes one iota of interaction with that crotchety centenarian to see that he never would’ve done any of that [redacted] if he had a choice to begin with.”

Tony’s endorsement carried significant weight. Steve was quoted in the article, too, of course he was— but Steve’s bias was common knowledge. It was a given that Steve would always vouch for Bucky; even when Bucky had nothing, he had Steve. Public forgiveness from one of the most influential men in the world— a man who had directly suffered from Bucky’s time as the Winter Soldier— was monumental. 

But standing there at the threshold of the party, Bucky was beginning to think that this invitation was more of a cruel prank than a show of goodwill. Some kind of trap, maybe. A golden opportunity for Bucky to fuck everything up, once and for all. He glanced sideways at Steve, but Steve’s stoic demeanor did nothing to ease Bucky’s nerves. 

These events had been foreign for Steve too, at first, but now he fit in easily. Of course he did. While Steve Rogers could be awkward and honest to a fault, Captain America had adapted. After years of practice he could slip into that role, faking laughter and schmoozing with the best of them for the evening. He looked completely unconcerned by the crowd that waited inside; this was just another day on the job for Steve.

On Bucky’s other side, your excitement was palpable. You had never been to an event like this, and of course you hadn’t brought anything nearly fancy enough to wear. While Bucky and Steve got ready in the apartment, Natasha had swept you away to the closet that stored all of the formalwear used by agents during undercover missions. When you returned, your hair was done, your makeup was applied flawlessly, and the dress… holy shit, the dress. It clung to you perfectly, showing just enough skin, and Bucky couldn’t keep his eyes— or his hands— off you. He didn’t miss the triumphant smirk Natasha shot your way when he stepped up behind you and wrapped his arms around you, or the way Steve licked his lips as his gaze traveled down the expanse of your chest. He didn’t care. Being able to touch you, to hold you like this— he was the luckiest man in the world.

The faint scent of gunsmoke that lingered in the fabric only made you that much sexier. 

Standing there in your dress and heels, maybe you were a little nervous. You fidgeted with your hands as you took in the scene, twisting and pulling at your fingers, but you would be okay. With all your carefree charisma, Bucky knew you would acclimate quickly. 

Sure enough, when you met Bucky’s eyes, you looked thrilled— but he couldn’t hide the worry from his face quickly enough. He tried to unclench his jaw, tried to relax his brow, but there was no fooling you; your mouth curved into a slight frown as you saw right through him.

On any other day, Bucky might have been able to do it. Despite his standoffish silence and his propensity for panic, he might have been able to blend in, to smile and nod and wave, to survive until he could escape. He had survived far worse, after all. It should have been an easy, if not enjoyable, evening. 

But today was anything but ordinary. Bucky’s name had been trending online for over ten hours, and his nerves were fried. 

When his article began gaining traction early that morning, it was quickly picked up by the cable news stations; his face had been plastered across every television screen in the country all day. Before, he might have had a chance at staying under the radar. But tonight, in this crowd of people who had been hearing his name, seeing his face, and listening to his story all day, he was going to stick out like a metal thumb.

Of course, after standing there in the doorway so long, the whispers had already begun.

“That’s him— look—”

One by one, heads raised. Hundreds of gazes burned right through his suit, scorching his skin and heating his insides to a rolling boil. The high-pitched ringing that started in his ears made him wince, but somehow the screech wasn’t loud enough to drown out the deluge of hushed voices, the whispers that spread like wildfire through the crowd. After just a few moments, it seemed like everyone in the room knew that the Winter Soldier was standing just outside.

“Did you read the part about the serum?”

“About his arm?”

Bucky shrunk into himself, hiding as best as he could inside his six-foot-plus frame. He had been stupid, he realized, when he decided to leave his gloves upstairs. Stupid to think he didn’t need them, stupid to think he could do this. He curled his left hand into a fist, as small as it would go, as if he had any chance of concealing it inside the cuff of his tailored suit jacket.

“He was held captive—”

“They said he was tortured—”

If he ran, people would notice. He couldn’t run, because that would only make him look worse, make more people look and watch and whisper about him. His suit jacket was suddenly unbearably tight around his chest, but he could still walk. He could… say he forgot something upstairs, he thought frantically. And instead of going to the elevator he could go out the front door, could leave and disappear and never come back. 

But just when that vice clamped down on his ribcage, you wrapped your hand around his clenched fist.

You were subtle about it; no one in the ballroom would notice this tiny gesture of tenderness, but the warmth of your hand against his was startling enough to command Bucky’s attention. Your thumb worked in gentle circles, sending pleasant, calming feedback tingling up his arm, and when you pressed carefully along the plates of his palm to ease his fingers open, the pressure around his chest loosened along with his grip. He inhaled a slow, shaky breath, and you intertwined your fingers with his. 

Your hand fit so easily inside of his. So perfectly. 

“He didn’t want it.”

“He tried to stop it.”

“It wasn’t his fault.”

Just ahead, Steve was looking back at him and waiting. At his side, you gave Bucky’s hand a supportive squeeze and gently pushed forward.

There were hundreds of people watching Bucky, but you and Steve were the only two that mattered.

You walked into the party together. 

The carpet in the ballroom was an industrial-looking mix of gray and black, and if Bucky focused all of his attention on watching the pattern swirl and repeat with each step, he was almost able to ignore the whispers. He was almost able to ignore the hundreds of eyes that followed him across the room, like a pack of hyenas studying their prey. 

Some attention was to be expected, of course, walking in next to Steve. Steve turned heads wherever he went, whether he liked it or not; stares and speculation were nothing new for him. But this time, people weren’t staring at Steve— they were staring at Bucky. 

He fucking hated it. 

The last time people had been more interested in Bucky than Steve had been at the trial, and the memory of those camera flashes and clamoring reporters made panic swell in his chest. He held his breath as the tide rose around him, higher and higher with every step he took through the crowd. 

He couldn’t see the pattern on the carpet anymore. The waters were too dark. 

But just when the surf began to lap at his neck, a buoy: Sam and Natasha waved from their assigned table on the other side of the room, catching his attention. 

“Nice of you all to finally join us,” Sam teased around a mouthful of food when you approached. A rope tossed, and Bucky clung to it— he scowled and narrowed his eyes at Sam to hide the pure relief flooding through his veins. He pulled out a chair for you before sitting down across from Sam, but Steve remained on his feet. 

Whatever Steve was saying to the others, Bucky wasn’t listening. He was too focused on the weight of Steve’s hands on his shoulders as he stood behind Bucky, and his firm, reassuring grip. The tender little half-moons Steve rubbed with his thumbs had Bucky melting into the contact while he blinked the anxious haze from his eyes, and when Steve gave his shoulders a quick squeeze before continuing on toward the VIP section, Bucky missed his touch instantly. 

Still, Bucky couldn’t help but smile. This desire for Steve’s comfort, for his touch, was worlds away from how he used to recoil; it was lifetimes apart from the bitter resentment Bucky had harbored for so long. 

Steve had to go now, but Bucky didn’t mind— he felt more amused than abandoned as he watched Steve’s retreating back, his broad shoulders set with resolve. This party was yet another demand on the Captain’s endless list of responsibilities, that was all. Steve had appearances to make and hands to shake. You and Bucky were here as guests, but for Steve, this was work. 

It was okay, really. Bucky understood. But his next inhale came louder than he intended, and he coughed slightly to try to conceal the almost-gasp, too late. You gave him a sideways look, and he smiled apologetically. It was an accident, an unnecessary gulp of air; he didn’t expect to be able to breathe so easily while waves were crashing all around him. But sitting with you and his friends, he found his head was still safely above water. 

Sam watched Steve go, shaking his head. “You know what they say,” he said solemnly. “Once a guy gets his fifteen minutes of fame, he forgets all about us little people.” Bucky was too busy fussing with his cloth napkin, unfolding it and smoothing it across his lap, to notice when Sam turned to him with a cheeky grin. “Half expected you to be up there, too, kissing ass with Steve.” 

At the words kissing and ass and Steve, Bucky looked up and blinked stupidly. If Sam noticed the slight flush that spread across his face, it didn’t seem to phase him, and your amused huff was quiet enough that only Bucky could hear it. “Your ugly mug was all over my TV this morning,” Sam continued, jabbing his fork toward Bucky as he settled back against his chair. “Straight out of my nightmares, I swear. I couldn’t escape it.”

Bucky glared at Sam, but before he could formulate a response, a waiter stopped by the table to offer around a platter of something bite-sized and insufferably fancy. You plucked one of the unidentifiable snacks off the tray and dropped it straight into your mouth; Bucky took one, too, but set it on the edge of his plate. He wasn’t exactly sure what it was, and he wasn’t feeling particularly daring tonight. Maybe that was for the best— your eyes widened with shock at the taste, and you coughed before forcing yourself to swallow it. 

“Did you watch any of the coverage?” Sam asked, luring Bucky’s attention away from your watering eyes and back across the table. His casual tone seemed forced now, and Bucky’s heart dropped while he shook his head. 

No, Bucky had spent the day keeping as far away from the news as possible. It had been difficult enough for him to read the article on his phone that morning, sitting beside you on his unmade bed while Steve was in the shower. His heart raced faster and faster with each paragraph, he was drenched in a cold sweat by the time he reached the end. 

But that was the beauty of it, wasn’t it? He reached the end. It was over. 

The article was exactly as Karen said it would be: Bucky’s story, his interviews, complemented and fleshed out by additional research she had gathered. What he hadn’t expected, though, were the interviews she had done with other people. The quotes she used were never more than a few sentences— this was Bucky’s story, after all, not theirs— but they were expertly placed, adding substance where substance was needed.  

Tony’s endorsement was the most shocking, but he wasn’t the only teammate Karen had interviewed. There were a few lines from Dr. Banner explaining some of the medical procedures Bucky had endured, and Peter Parker (who was very popular with the younger crowd, you told him) spoke of Bucky like he had cured cancer one afternoon after spending his morning rescuing kittens and helping grannies cross the street. Natasha wasn’t mentioned by name, but the anonymous source who emphasized the cruel details of the brainwashing methods that had been used on him couldn’t have been anyone else. 

Sam’s contribution was the most comprehensive. He didn’t sugarcoat the condition Bucky had been in when Sam found him years ago, or the subsequent ways Sam had watched him struggle to find his footing in this new life. But that honesty made his following commendation all the more meaningful, and Bucky swallowed around a lump in his throat as he read, feeling exceptionally grateful for his most unexpected friend.

Steve was quoted several times throughout the article, but Bucky had to skim over those parts; he couldn’t bring himself to read them. Bucky’s last sliver of dignity was cobweb-fine as he sat there on the bed, blinking at his phone and fighting to keep his breath slow, and if he read Steve’s words there would be no stopping the tidal wave of emotion that kept threatening to spill. He had heard it all before, anyway— Steve’s devotion, his admiration for Bucky, how guilty he felt for everything that had happened. How he would do anything, including but not limited to becoming an international fugitive, for Bucky— none of it was new, but Bucky had never allowed himself to believe a word of it. 

It was easy enough for Bucky to convince himself that Steve was wrong when Steve was the only one saying those things; his self-loathing was too heavy for Steve to lift on his own. But now Steve’s voice was just one of many, his long-told testaments nestled within a few thousand words of corroborating evidence— and for just a second, Bucky allowed himself to consider that maybe Steve was right. Maybe Steve had been right all along.

Bucky still wasn’t quite sure he believed it, but his resolve was running dry. 

You weren’t mentioned anywhere in the article. “I’m biased,” you explained with a kiss to his heated cheek when he noticed. “No one would take what I say seriously when they find out who I am.”

“When they— what?” Bucky furrowed his brow. They wouldn’t believe you when they find out you’re a… person? Maybe not a hero like the rest of them, at least not in the traditional sense, but—

Your soft chuckle halted his runaway thoughts. “When they find out I’m in love with you,” you murmured, leaning over to rest your head on his shoulder. “Conflict of interest.”

Oh. Right. Bucky wanted to laugh, but all he managed was a sharp exhale and a grimace. He couldn’t say it, but you understood; the bed creaked as you snuggled closer and wrapped an arm around his tense shoulders, squeezing him tight. 

The article wasn’t all feel-good endorsements and heartwarming anecdotes. While helpful, they would be meaningless without the truth, and Karen spared no details when recounting what Bucky had told her about his time as the Winter Soldier. About the abuse he had endured, the torture he had survived. The things he was forced to do, and the guilt that haunted him still.  Even with you pressed up close, following along on the same screen, Bucky almost couldn’t bear to read it. 

He felt exposed to the bone. It had been hard enough for him to bring all of those suppressed memories to the surface, to face them on his own and speak them aloud with just you and Karen listening. And now those memories, those words he had dredged up and spit like venom through his bared teeth, were printed for the entire world to read. 

He forced his brain to keep reading, to carry on like everything was fine, but he couldn’t stop his physical reaction. His hammering heart, his tensed-solid muscles, and the soft whirs of distress from his left arm as he clenched and unclenched his fist— traitors, all of them.

Here were his secrets, laid out flat and on display. He was terrified, and his body knew— but at the same time, there were tears brimming in his eyes, because his friends— and he wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but he was too goddamn dizzy, he couldn’t— he got a head rush of oxygen with each deep breath, because he could finally breathe.

He didn’t know just how crushing the weight on his shoulders had been until it was gone. 

You rubbed Bucky’s back while he cycled through those rapid-fire emotions, one after the other, like he was making up for years’ worth of feelings all in one go. He choked out a laugh, then blinked furiously and wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, then chuckled again and shook his head. If he was thinking straight, he might have been embarrassed. But you just pushed his sweat-damp hair away from his face and held him, and eventually the swell of emotions subsided. He dried his eyes, sat up straight, and offered you a shaky smile— he was exhausted, a bit numb, and so, so relieved. 

But then, his phone began to ring.

It was like when the story of the botched mission broke back in November, but exponentially worse. This time, it wasn’t just a couple of low-ranking reporters trying to get ahold of Bucky for a quick statement. Now it was news station executives. It was the New York Times. It was talk show hosts and bloggers and publicists, all trying to get that first exclusive interview— because after their initial read-throughs, they could tell this story was going to be big. 

It was too much pressure. Bucky couldn’t handle it on his own.

But the thing was, he didn’t have to. 

On your suggestion, he shut his phone off and went to the gym with Steve for most of the day. You stayed behind to finish packing and keep an eye on the news; you promised that if anything important happened, you would let him know. With you as a buffer between Bucky and the world, he was able to spend his last day at the compound with his oldest friend, boxing and lifting weights until his muscles shook and his mind was quiet.

At the party, Sam was still talking, and it took Bucky a moment to tune back in. “They’re saying a lot of good stuff,” Sam continued with a crooked smile. “You know it’s a big deal when those talking head assh-” he glanced at the surrounding tables and lowered his voice, “-when those talking head assholes on TV can’t even find something to vilify you for.”

That was news to Bucky, though he tried not to let it show. You glanced at him, a quiet pride in your eyes, before quickly lowering your gaze. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked softly.

You shrugged. “Not important.” 

You were right, of course. 

Natasha cleared her throat. “I heard there are some activists in DC calling for an internal investigation,” she said. She concentrated on her plate, pushing her food around almost absentmindedly, but Bucky knew better— her voice was light in that way that meant she knew more than she was letting on. Bucky narrowed his eyes at her, but no matter how intensely he stared, she wouldn’t meet his gaze. “They’re demanding some kind of systemic change,” she continued. 

Okay, well, that seemed like it might be good to know— but when Bucky turned to you, his mouth hanging open slightly, your attention was elsewhere.

There was a gleam in your eye as you watched a waiter approach with another tray of hors d’oeuvres. It seemed you hadn’t learned your lesson the first time around, and Bucky frowned when you grabbed another mystery snack off the tray and held it up to your face to inspect it. After a moment of consideration, you threw Sam a cheeky half-smile and offered it to him. 

“No way,” Sam laughed, crossing his arms in front of him. “I’m good.” 

The first course came and went before Steve managed to break away from his responsibilities and return to the table. Bucky thought he would’ve been exhausted after schmoozing at the bar for the last hour, but Steve was almost giddy with excitement— his honey hair was mussed in the front, his smile permanently fixed on his face. He grabbed an unused chair from a nearby table with gusto, knocking a tray of full plates out of a passing waitress’s hands in the process.

“Oh, god damn it— fucking shit—” Steve cursed as he scrambled to catch the falling tray. The Captain’s choice of language earned some stares from the neighboring tables, but Steve’s enhanced reflexes prevented a true disaster. He caught the airborne dishes with centimeters to spare. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he said hurriedly to the stunned waitress, making sure the tray was stable in her hands before collapsing onto his stolen chair beside you with a sigh. Steve’s knees were spread wide as he leaned back and loosened his tie; the top button of his shirt was already undone, and Bucky’s heart flipped when Steve caught his eye and shot him a lopsided grin.

“Hey, Steve, how’s it going?” Natasha asked from across the table. Too loud, too direct, and with one glance at her face it was clear that she once again knew something the rest of them didn’t. Bucky should’ve been used to that by now, but it was still unnerving to see. 

“Great, great,” Steve said dismissively, though his grin didn’t leave his face as he turned to you. “You guys havin’ fun?”

“Tons of fun,” you said. “Here.” You picked up the now-cold bite-size appetizer off of your plate and held it out to Steve. 

“Don’t—” Bucky began to say, but Steve opened his mouth and leaned in toward you. You giggled as you fed it to him, but Bucky could hear your heart racing; Steve’s eyes never left yours as he closed his lips around the food. The intensity of Steve’s gaze was hot enough to burn, but you didn’t back down. 

Meanwhile, Bucky’s collar suddenly felt a bit too tight; his whole body was warm. The electricity in the air was palpable, and across the table, Sam and Natasha shared a sideways glance.

But then Steve frowned. He leaned back in his seat, his face scrunched in disgust, and you cackled as he swallowed the bite. “Ugh,” he said when he could. He looked at you like you had committed the ultimate betrayal; Bucky had to laugh at his furrowed brows, his distrustful eyes. “What was that?” 

“No idea,” you said gleefully while Steve shook his head like a dog, as if that would make the taste go away faster. 

Bucky tried to keep his expression neutral, but his lips twitched as he passed Steve his glass of water. He hadn’t expected Steve to be this relaxed tonight, but it was a welcome sight. Steve drank the water hurriedly, and when he came up for air, he shook his head. “Evil,” he said to you, but he was grinning. “You pull that on him, too?” he asked with a nod toward Bucky.

You feigned offense. “I would nev—”

“Tried to get me with it,” Sam interjected. “You should know better, Steve. Gotta be something wicked about her if Buck is so into her.” Steve almost looked insulted, but you and Bucky were both laughing, so Sam continued. “You can’t afford to have a soft spot like that.”

“I don’t—” Steve started, too loud. He was growing frazzled, which was strange; his defenses were down, his emotions on full display. It was rare to see Steve like this at home, let alone in a crowd—

Oh, no.

“You know what I think, Steve?” Natasha teased, leaning forward. “I think you’re whipped.” 

Steve let out an exasperated sigh. “What does that even mean?” He tilted his head to the side, his lower lip pushed into a pout, and Bucky knew that look—

“Steve—” Bucky said, but it was too late.

“Means I can get you to do anything I want,” you said, a devious lilt to your words. Steve met your eyes, and there was a moment of silence before he broke into giggles. His cheeks were flushed as he shrugged and opened his mouth, searching for words, stalling for time. 

“Oh, you know how it is, Tasha,” he finally said, a saucy smile breaking across his face, and Natasha’s eyes lit up with delight. “Things were so weird with me and Buck, but we just needed some help, and—” his voice cracked slightly as he turned to you, “— and I love him so much, and you’re perfect for him—” 

Bucky sent you a panicked look, and he could see the dots connect in your mind. “Steve,” you said sharply, to no avail. 

Steve had already returned his attention to Natasha. “And we just had the best week ever— it’s not even about the sex, you know? It’s more than… I mean, the sex is great, don’t get me wrong, but—”

“Steve,” you said again, and finally, finally, he heard you. He froze, a deer in the headlights at the realization of what he had just said out loud. When he lifted his eyes to yours slowly, he looked guilty as sin. “Have you been drinking?” you asked, softer.

The pink tint to his cheeks went cherry red, and he fell forward and buried his face in his hands. 

“Thor told me not to tell,” Steve said, his voice muffled but at least no longer weepy. “Because you’re not allowed,” he said, peeking between his fingers to look at you before turning to Bucky. “And you’re definitely not allowed.”

Bucky grimaced; after Thanksgiving, he wasn’t tempted by Thor’s liquor in the slightest. But even though Steve was allowed to drink— he was allowed to have fun, and no one was upset with him— he was still hunched forward, burning in a pit of mortification. Embarrassed heat radiated off him in waves, and Bucky almost reached out to comfort him.

But just when Bucky raised his hand, he stopped. The hundreds of eyes that had watched him enter the ballroom earlier had mostly lost interest by now, but Steve was always under some level of scrutiny, and his excited voice and overanimated gestures had garnered a bit more attention. Bucky swallowed roughly and settled his hands back in his lap.

Through all these years, Bucky and Steve had never been publicly affectionate, and after the week they had just spent together, Bucky wasn’t sure if he could keep his touch convincingly platonic. He wanted to hug Steve close, to laugh until Steve laughed with him, to tell him that he was okay and that being a little too tipsy at a party was perfectly normal. That Steve was perfectly normal. 

Bucky wanted to, but he couldn’t— so you wrapped your arms around Steve’s broad shoulders and comforted him instead.

If the other guests reacted, Bucky’s stomach was too full of butterflies for him to notice. 

Across the table, Natasha was grinning as she elbowed Sam. He dug out his wallet and silently passed her a ten dollar bill, shaking his head in defeat.

Steve took a deep breath, and after a moment he was able to sit up straight again. “Do you really have to go tonight?” His deep voice bordered on a whine, and he gave you his best attempt at puppy eyes as you sat back. “Can’t you just stay til the morning?” He turned in his seat, redirecting his begging toward Bucky. “You know Tony won’t actually kick you out at midnight, right? You can stay.”

Sure, you probably didn’t have to leave right after the party. But Bucky was itching to get on the road after six months of being locked up, and your little sedan was already parked out in front of the building, packed to the brim. There was the luggage you arrived with last summer, and the things you had collected over the past six months— all the fuzzy blankets and pillows, cooking utensils and pool floats. Bucky’s belongings took up much less room; he had his clothes and his knife collection, some books, and that box of memories from deep in his closet. 

There were things he needed to leave behind, of course. The majority of his firearm arsenal would stay at the compound for the time being, and Steve promised to keep an eye on his motorcycle. He would be stupid to move it in this weather, and it was protected from the elements inside the garage here. 

And it wasn’t like he was leaving forever. He wouldn’t be living at the compound any longer, but after this quick trip with you, he was still going to have to be there every day for work. He’d pick up the motorcycle when he got back, and if all went to plan, maybe by then he’d have a place of his own to park it. 

Bucky took a sip of his drink. “Gotta hit the road, pal,” he said gently. “Two hundred miles to cover tonight. Won’t be easy in this weather.” He smiled; saying it like that made the trip seem much more urgent than it was, but in reality, he and you had all the time in the world. The itinerary wasn’t exactly full, and reservations could always be broken. 

But that pizza shop in Burlington was calling his name, and you had a whole calendar of plans to work through.

“Promise you’ll call if you need help, alright?” Sam asked. It had been snowing for a few hours with no end in sight, and the roads were white with accumulation. “None of that survivalist sub-zero camping shit. If you break down, or slide into a ditch—”

Bucky sighed. “If we slide into a ditch, Samuel,” he said pointedly, “I will simply get out and pull the car back onto the road.” He lifted his left hand as proof. Sam narrowed his eyes at Bucky, but couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he nodded his approval.

Steve was still pouting. “I’m gonna be so lonely tonight,” he lamented to no one in particular, slowly swirling the glass of water in his hand. “Gonna be so cold. And breakfast!” He turned to Bucky with absolute devastation in his eyes. “No one for breakfast, and—”

You leaned in toward Steve and took both of his hands in yours. “I’ll make you as much breakfast as you want when we get back,” you said soothingly, but Steve sighed. “You gonna be okay, Stevie?” 

Steve took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah,” he said wistfully. “Yeah. It’s just— I’m so happy, y’know? For you two. Oh, look at you.” His eyes glistened when they met Bucky’s, and Bucky had to look away. Steve was drunk; Bucky had no excuse for getting emotional. 

But Bucky startled when Steve lunged sideways, reaching past you to wrap his arms around Bucky’s shoulders. “I’m gonna miss you so much,” he mumbled against Bucky’s neck, his breath warm on Bucky’s skin. 

People were watching, so Bucky stayed perfectly still. He tried to be casual, tried to ignore the way Steve clung to him, the way he nuzzled just under Bucky’s ear in that way he knew wasn’t fair. With Steve distracting him like that, Bucky could almost ignore all of the curious stares, and the new round of whispers that fired up around them.

But Steve pressed a chaste kiss to Bucky’s cheek, and there was no coming back. Bucky might have been able to play it off, but as usual, his body betrayed him— the pink that spread across his face and down his neck was a dead giveaway that this kiss was more than friendly. 

But when Bucky glanced around, he couldn’t see the crowd, or their reaction. He could only see you, and Sam, and Natasha— and all three of you looked thrilled. 

Steve was oblivious, of course. “You’re gonna let me come visit, right?” he mumbled. “When you get a place?”

“Yeah, Stevie,” Bucky said softly. “Any time.”

Bucky didn’t want to dance.

He really, truly, sincerely, did not want to dance. Not here, not like this. 

“C’mon,” you pleaded, squeezing Bucky’s right hand as you tried to pull him to his feet. “Just one song. Or two. Please?”

When dinner was almost wrapped up, Steve was summoned back to the VIP area. Natasha and Sam both stood to go with him; they said it was for the free drinks, but Bucky mouthed a silent thank you to them as they walked away. Steve wasn’t quite sober yet, but under their watch at least he wouldn’t be able to do anything stupid. 

With your friends gone, you and Bucky found ways to entertain yourselves. You ate dessert, because it was there; you drank champagne, because it was there. There was no shortage of interesting people to watch, and Bucky laughed until he had to hide his face in his hands when you began to name and narrate the most insufferable guests. You were slumped against him in your seat, giggling and whispering the intricate backstories you created as he wheezed. 

His cheeks ached from smiling. Maybe these stuffy events weren’t so bad, after all. 

But then, in the middle of a fascinating story about Mrs. Trenchcoat from table twelve and the scandal she had caused with her gardener, the music that had been playing softly in the background crescendoed. Tables were moved, a space in the middle of the room opened up, and to Bucky’s absolute dismay, you decided you wanted to dance. 

It was cute that you thought you could move him. You might as well have been pulling on a lead weight; Bucky stayed firmly seated despite how you tugged at his hand. It was one thing to dance with you in the privacy of his living room, but this?

“Sweetheart…” Bucky stalled, his mouth twisting into a wince as he glanced nervously at the crowd. Many people were still seated at their tables, chattering away, enjoying their too-expensive meals and watered-down cocktails. Some had moved to the dance floor, though none of them were really dancing— they laughed and swayed, the awkwardness they should be feeling eased away by the drinks in their hands. 

None of them were paying Bucky the slightest bit of attention. But that would change— he knew it would change— the moment they saw the former Winter Soldier take to the dance floor. 

“Buck,” you said gently, bringing his focus back to you. Your head tilted to the side, a sly smile on your lips. “You’re an upright fella, yeah?”

The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up. He knew the slang was prehistoric, knew you were teasing, but he couldn’t roll his eyes when you sounded like that. Your silky smooth cadence, that smoky undertone— that was a bedroom voice, not a ballroom voice. He saw the gleam in your eyes, knew you were setting a trap, but he was defenseless; he fell for it anyway. 

You leaned forward, pouting, and his gaze was drawn down your chest to the plunging neckline of your dress. His eyes snapped back up to yours when you huffed, and it took everything he had to keep them there as you spoke. “You wouldn’t make your girl go dance on her own, now, would you?”

His girl. 

Suddenly Bucky was twenty years old again, wholly infatuated and in over his head. He remembered this feeling— the sweaty palms he had to wipe on his slacks, the uneasy understanding that the gal he was trying to talk up was way out of his league. But truth be told, those girls he used to chase after had nothing on you. And if he thought he was nervous back then, well…

But he had no reason to be nervous, he told himself. You were his girl. His. He saw it in every move you made, heard it in every word you spoke. And you were standing in front of him, asking him to dance— what kind of man would he be to deny you?

Bucky climbed to his feet with an unconvincingly resigned sigh. But he had to take a moment to steady himself, to blink, because the pure joy on your face was like staring at the goddamn sun— and the sun was staring right back. All of your warmth, directed solely at him. It was enough to melt a man. He was molten, gooey, unsteady on his feet as you led him to the dance floor. 

Either you didn’t notice the stares that followed the two of you across the room, or you had decided to ignore them, but Bucky wasn’t that strong. Some of the strangers were subtle, sneaking glances as they sipped their wine, hiding their mouths as they whispered. Others gawked outright, but it made no difference— that syrupy softness in his bones hardened again as ice-cold waters lapped at his heels. 

Bucky straightened his shoulders and dug in, still marching forward. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint you, and he had already gotten this far. Even if the tide rose around him, he could probably hold his breath for one song. Could maybe stay afloat for two.

You stopped at the edge of the dance floor and turned to face Bucky, still beaming— at least, until you saw his face. He did his best to smile, but gave up almost immediately. That pained grimace he could force might fool some people, but not you. Never you. 

“They’re watching us,” he whispered as an explanation, the words coming out more panicked than he would have liked.

“Okay.” A new song was starting, a slow one, and you tried to move closer to Bucky. To get in position, like he showed you in the living room all those months ago.

But Bucky balked. He at least managed to keep himself from stepping backward, from causing a scene; his feet stayed firmly planted on the floor, but his arms were stiff at his sides, and a muscle in his clenched jaw started up a steady throb. You frowned, watching him with worried eyes.

This was your last chance, he realized. If you walked away now, people would forget about you— they would go home and say they saw the Winter Soldier at the gala, sure, but that was all. They’d say he was brooding and unpleasant, but that was inescapable. 

But if he took your hand— if he danced with you here, on display for everybody to see— well, that was something worth gossiping about. That would raise questions. Not just about him, but about you, too— because what kind of person would dance with a monster like him? You would be tied to him inextricably. Your reputation would suffer. Why would you want to be associated with the Winter Soldier when you had the option to avoid it? 

If you walked away now, they wouldn’t drag you into this. If you wanted to walk away now, Bucky would understand.

His thoughts were spiraling so quickly that his mouth couldn’t keep up. “They don’t have to know—” he choked out, shaking his head. “You don’t— if you leave, you—” 

You stretched up onto your toes and kissed him. 

This wasn’t just an innocent peck. This wasn’t the kind of kiss that could be explained away as something casual, or shrugged off as something between friends. This was your open mouth on his, your tongue flicking out to tempt his lips apart. Your hands on either side of his face, supporting him, holding him there until you felt him take a deep breath. Relax. Suddenly, the world was quieter. And if a few camera flashes happened to go off in the meantime, well, so be it.

No more questions. No more doubts. No matter what, you were here to stay.

“Now that that’s out of the way,” you said when you broke away, a roguish smile curling your lips— and damn it, he loved you— “let's dance.”

Bucky was still a gentleman, of course. Didn’t want to be too forward. He offered you his left hand, which you took, then wrapped his right arm gently around your waist— but instead of leaving space between your bodies like he intended, you pushed forward to close the gap. 

It was unexpected, but he didn’t mind. Felt more natural like this, anyway— the familiar thud of your heart beating against his chest, and his own a slower, stronger echo. Looking down at you, he tried to hide his smile. “What happened to leaving six inches for Jesus?”

You snorted. “Oh, there’s no saving us now.” 

He chuckled at that, and you squeezed his hand, reassuring, before carefully lacing your fingers with his. Flesh and metal intertwined, one and the same. 

Together you fell into a gentle step, ambling around the dance floor, your clasped hands held proudly for anyone to see. You weren’t ashamed of him. You didn’t try to hide the reality of the hand you were holding, though that would’ve been impossible, anyways— the thousands of tiny lights strung like stars across the ceiling refracted off the exposed metal as he moved, a dazzling display. 

It was embarrassing. Ostentatious, almost. But your bracelet, your goddamn bracelet, was looped delicately around your wrist, and it shimmered alongside him— his perfect match.

Bucky was weak. He was losing it. He took a deep breath. 

The icy water that had been threatening to overtake him was shallow enough to stand, he realized. The soles of his shoes touched down against the rocky shore, and he sighed the tension from his shoulders.

You glanced up at him, smiling, because you could feel it— the relaxation in his muscles, the gentleness in his grip. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. How could he explain his sudden certainty, this confidence that no matter how rough the waters were, he would be able to hold steady? If the words existed, he didn’t know them. 

He chose a different direction instead. “Don’t know this song,” he murmured as he swayed. 

“You don’t know a lot of songs.”

He glared at you. Lovingly, of course. “It’s not like the ones on your playlists, either.”

“Mmm, no,” you agreed. “This one is pretty old.”

One corner of his mouth twitched up, and he couldn’t resist. “Old like me?”

You gave him an unimpressed look. “Not that old,” you said flatly. “After. In between.”

In between. All those decades, history that you could only read about, but Bucky had lived it— well, he hadn’t. Not really. 

The thought settled easier, now that he had heard it so many times from so many people. All of those years, the lifetime he spent as the Winter Soldier— yes, it was him. It was his body, wielded as a weapon, subjected to brutality no man should have to endure. It was his mind, scrambled and wiped, tormented until he had no choice but to comply. 

It was him. He was there— but that didn’t mean it was his fault. He didn’t have to grapple with that dichotomy anymore; both could be true. Both were true. 

In the most basic sense of the word, Bucky was alive all that time. But this? This was living. 

Soft blankets, a sitcom laugh track in the dark. Slow-building confidence and burnt meals for two. A bouquet of flowers, pancakes and coffee, naps in the afternoon. Clumsy conversations. Tentative smiles.

Intertwined fingers, the taste of your laugh against his lips. Nights spent wrapped together, whispering words too fragile to say in the daylight. 

Bucky’s darkest secrets, yes, but his brightest ones, too.

The harsh realities, facing his fears head-on. Acceptance of his past, and his present. You carried the weight of forgiveness when it was too heavy for him to bear alone.

But it grew lighter and lighter, day by day.

The music trailed off into silence, and when the next song began, your eyes shot up to his. They crinkled at the corners, and half a second later, it clicked. Bucky knew this song. 

“Elvis,” he said, his voice so thick with emotion it was almost a croak. The same song you danced to in the living room, all those months ago. At the start of this— whatever this was.

Bucky had never been too good at staying on key, especially not when he had to keep quiet, so he didn’t sing along. But he couldn’t resist breathing the lyrics against your ear, whisper-soft, for you alone. 

“Like a river flows surely to the sea,Darling so it goes, some things are meant to be.Take my hand, take my whole life too,For I can’t help falling in love with you.”

Your skin erupted in goosebumps beneath his words, and he smiled. God, he smiled.

If it wasn’t for his enhanced hearing, Bucky might have missed your next words. They were butterfly-meek, muffled by how you pressed your face against his suit jacket. “Do you think it was meant to be?”

“...Hmm?” He heard you, but that didn’t mean he understood you. His mind had been elsewhere.  

“Us,” you said, not clarifying anything in the slightest. “What if we didn’t meet like this?” 

Bucky wasn’t following.

“Do you think it would’ve happened anyway?” You looked up, serious now, expecting an answer.

Bucky huffed nervously. “You gotta give me more to work with, here, sweets—”

“If we weren’t stuck in here together for so long,” you explained slowly, with more kindness than he deserved. “If we just, like, bumped into each other on the street, would you still… would we…?”

He finally made the connection. “Be like this?” he supplied, hugging you close for emphasis, and you nodded. 

Bucky wanted to shout yes, of course. Wanted to tell you it was you and him, forever, no matter where or when or how. He wanted to quell your fears, reassure you, make it so you never had to wonder again. 

But that wasn’t the truth, and he knew it. 

Six months locked in this building had been stifling, sure. Bucky had resented it at first. But without it, with nothing forcing him to stay, he would have pushed you away at the first sign of trouble. He never would have fallen in love with you, because he never would have allowed himself to know you.

When you first arrived last summer, Bucky was all shattered glass and sharp edges. He held himself like a knife, like a warning— don’t come too close, he tried to say. His heart was a hand grenade, dormant for now, but sooner or later something would pull the pin. And maybe under other circumstances, he would’ve been able to convince you to stay away; if not forever, at least long enough for him to start running. To put distance between himself and the love he didn’t think he deserved, so when the detonation inevitably hit, he wouldn’t hurt anyone except for himself.

But trapped in this building, in this apartment, he had nowhere to hide. And you saw right through him, whether he wanted you to or not.

You saw his nightmares, and how the serrated edge of guilt cut into him as soon as his defenses went down with the sun. You saw how terrors from his past would sometimes get stuck on a loop in his head, and how no matter how irrational they seemed under the bright kitchen light, he couldn’t stop them. You saw his fears, and his doubts— was he redeemable? He didn’t know. Did he deserve kindness? He wasn’t convinced.

Yes, you answered, confident and bold enough for him to hear you over the turbulence of his thoughts. Because you saw his hope, too— you saw the gentleness in his heart, still there despite having every reason to wither. 

He wasn’t as damned as he thought he was.

And by some miracle, in that splintered mess of a human, you saw the reflections of something beautiful. He was in pieces when you met, hiding it as best as he could, but even beneath the flakes of gold holding him together you saw something worth waiting for. Something worth holding on to.

So yes, maybe this was meant to be. Bucky had lost faith in religion a long time ago, but something this perfect didn’t just happen by accident.

“I love you now,” he said, avoiding your question but giving you the answer you needed. He lifted your chin with a gentle metallic finger. “I love you,” he repeated, because that was what mattered— now that he had you, it would never stop being true. He didn’t know how to say it convincingly enough, but you knew what he meant. You always knew. 

You looked up at Bucky and smiled through your tears, and like snow in the sun of your radiance, he melted all over again. He was slush, a puddle at your feet. His own eyes felt wet; he blinked rapidly, and in the corner of his vision, a camera flashed.

It should have made him uncomfortable. It should have made him want to hide, because yes, people were watching him. Whispering about him. But even without looking, he could tell there was something different about how they were staring at him now. The stinging hate and burning vitriol he was used to was gone, and when he looked up, he found only curious eyes and soft, reassuring smiles. 

Maybe it was because of the article, or maybe it was because they were hardly looking at Bucky, anyway. 

They were looking at you. 

You were glowing with happiness, the brightest star in the sky. But maybe Bucky wasn’t the black hole he always thought he was. Like how his hand, intertwined with yours, glimmered under the lights— dancing with you, it seemed like maybe he was reflecting some of your brilliance. 

His light was dim for now, and only when the angle was just right. But maybe with time, it would grow.

Maybe someday he could shine, too. 

The falling snow hadn’t eased up all night, and when Bucky peered through the front doors, the view outside was equal parts beautiful and eerie. With everything coated in a thick layer of white, the road and lawn were indistinguishable. Your car, parked out front and waiting, was encased in a fluffy white shell.

At twenty minutes until midnight, you and Bucky escaped from the gala. You hurried to change out of your formal clothes in the lobby bathroom, shedding the gown and suit for more practical items: jeans and boots, winter coats. Gloves. With the last of your belongings in a small duffle bag, you went to the front door to wait. 

Bucky knew a lot about snow. It made it easy for him to cover his tracks when he didn’t want to be found, and even easier for him to stalk a less knowledgeable target. Snow could be used as insulation if needed, as a last-ditch effort to prevent hypothermia. It could be used to reduce swelling on an injury, or to numb a wound for stitching.

Snow could be bright, even at night. The floodlights outside of the building would normally stretch far across the grounds, but with the density of the falling snow, it was like that brightness was gathered up and kept near. The snowfall caught the light and reflected it upward, creating a luminous glow, and although his range of visibility was limited, up close he could see clear as day.

In the ballroom, the crowd began to count down.

“Ten… nine… eight…”

Bucky’s pulse was racing, his heart hammering in his chest. The thrill of impending freedom, and fear of the unknown— the rest of his life was a blank slate, and the possibilities ahead of him were endless. The past was the past, and here was his future: he couldn’t yet see what it held, but he welcomed it.

“Six… five… four…”

Your gloved hand squeezed his, bulky but still familiar. “Ready?” you asked. You looked up at him with adoration shining in your eyes, giddy with excitement, shaking a bit from the chill.

Bucky exhaled, and nodded. “Been ready, sweets.” 

“Three… two… one…”

The crowd roared as the clock struck twelve. Bucky grabbed your face between his hands and smashed his smiling lips against yours— hard, and only for a second. A quick New Year's kiss, because he was supposed to. He had to.

But then the doors slid open, and you ran. 

Snow also absorbed sound. The whoops and cheers echoing through the lobby were muffled as soon as Bucky stepped outside, and all he could hear was you. Your laughter as you fled, glancing back over your shoulder at him. The soft thuds of your footsteps, slipping on the covered ground. Your hummingbird heartbeat. It was all you. Only you.

Your sprint through the shin-high snow was more on par with Bucky’s casual jog, so after following you for a few yards he scooped you up in his arms without breaking stride. You screeched and laughed into the quiet night, holding on to his neck while he ran to the edge of the darkness. Just before the light emanating from the compound gave way to black, he turned on his heel and jogged back toward the building. 

He slowed as he approached, and when he reached the halfway mark he gently dropped to his knees. You rolled out of his arms and flopped into the powder, and he had to laugh; he had set you up for a much more graceful landing, but of course you had to do it your own way. 

“C’mon,” you urged as you crawled around, eventually settling flat on your back. “Snow angel. Don’t tell me you’ve never made a snow angel.”

“‘Course I have.” A century ago, maybe, on an undisturbed sidewalk before anyone had the chance to walk by and muck it up. But not since then— at least, never on purpose. Bucky reclined next to you, and though he gave a halfhearted attempt at moving his arms and legs, his attention was on you.

Bucky knew a lot about snow. But he had forgotten how fun it could be, if you could just look past the cold long enough to enjoy it.

He didn’t want to be sappy, so he didn’t notice the way the stars reflected in your shining eyes, and how it made his heart stutter. He didn’t notice the softness in your expression as you watched him crawl over top of you, or how you only had eyes for him, like somehow he was more beautiful and held more magic than the entirety of the cosmos above him.

The choices you had were endless, but you picked him. Every time. 

Bucky focused on the snowflakes that stuck to your hair, landed on your eyelashes, and melted on your cheeks as he leaned in and kissed you. 

You cradled his jaw with one gloved hand. The knit was soft, but it caught in his bristly stubble, and you used it to keep him in front of you even after he broke the kiss. “Bucky,” you said. He pretended he didn’t hear you, just so you would say his name again. “Bucky. Listen to me. I love you.”

He knew. He knew, he knew, he knew.

But then he gasped, his shoulders jerking straight up to his ears, when a handful of freezing wet snow smashed against the back of his neck. 

He arched away from you while you cackled, but that only made it worse. The icy slush slid down inside of his jacket as you scrambled to your feet, and by the time he turned to you, outraged, you were running.

You knew what you did. You knew what was coming. 

Bucky planned to let you run for a bit— was going to let you have a head start— but you didn’t make it far at all before you slipped, falling clumsily to your hands and knees with a shriek. 

It didn’t make any difference, anyway; Bucky’s aim was just as good at one hundred yards as it was at ten. He scooped up snowball after snowball, shaping them in his hands before pelting them at you.

He never missed.

After seven direct hits to your back, you stopped attempting to stand and settled flat on your stomach instead. “I surrender, I surrender!” you cried, the words almost unintelligible through your laughter. Bucky brushed the remaining snow off of his gloves, smug, and walked over to help you up. 

“Oh, you’re gonna regret that,” you panted as you climbed to your feet. “You’re gonna regret that so bad.” 

Bucky knew a lot about regret, too. He had made plenty of mistakes in his life. But if making you laugh like this was what counted as a mistake these days? Well, he could live with that.

“Forgive me?” he asked, grinning, because he already knew the answer.

“Always,” you said. “Because I love you.” He hugged you tight before you finished your thought. “Unfortunately.”

You did, though. You did.

Your lips met his and he couldn’t believe it. His body was numb, but not from the cold. “I love you,” you whispered into his mouth. “I do.” 

He almost asked you then. He wanted to. But you deserved more than a half-assed plan, deserved better than no ring and an impulse. You deserved more, but you wanted Bucky, and whatever messes that entailed. He patted his jacket pocket, as if what he needed would magically appear there, but of course it didn’t. Not yet. Not today.

You were both grinning when you broke apart, but you were trembling in his arms, your teeth chattering as your whole body shivered to keep warm. The frigid water was slowly soaking through your layers of clothes, and you couldn’t hide your discomfort any longer. 

“C’mon,” Bucky said, draping his arm around your shoulders. “You gotta change again. There are more clothes in the bag.” But when he turned to head back toward the building, he paused.

A small crowd had gathered just outside the doors. Still in their suits and formal dresses, they huddled together on the sidewalk, rubbing their arms for warmth as they chatted amongst themselves. It was a shoddy attempt at looking casual— like they would have come outside for any reason other than to watch.

Steve and Sam and Natasha stood at the front, of course, but there were others, too. Either to be supportive, or to be nosy— Bucky didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. He focused on the familiar, friendly faces. They were enough.

You both took a few moments to say goodbye to Bucky’s teammates. His friends. He promised Steve he’d call in the morning, and assured Sam that he would ask for help if he needed it. Natasha watched him with a self-satisfied smile, and Bucky hugged her extra tight— he wasn’t sure why he felt the need to thank her, but he did. 

The car was packed and started. The hotel room was booked and waiting. 

There was still that dark shred of doubt lurking in his chest— telling him he didn’t deserve this, that this happiness wasn’t his to keep. That voice would always be there, he supposed. But it was easier to ignore with his friends standing behind him, and the sun of his universe lighting his path forward. 

Silhouetted by the glow of the night sky behind you, framed in silver and starlight, you looked at Bucky with galaxies in your eyes. “Come on,” you whispered, your voice vibrating with excitement. “It’s time to go.” 

Bucky took your hand and followed you. He always would.

The night was moving unbearably, excruciatingly slowly. Steve had been warming Bucky up for well over an hour now— kissing him first, then stroking him just enough to tease, and now kneeling behind him to finger him— and Bucky was ready to beg. His cock was so hard that it hurt, drooling strings of precum onto the duvet below, and he couldn’t even do anything about it. When he tried to wrap his fist around himself, take some of the edge off, Steve had gently smacked his hand away. 

If he got off now, that would defeat the purpose of foreplay. He knew that. He knew. Steve tried his damndest to avoid Bucky’s prostate as he fingered him open, because every accidental brush, every small moment of pressure, sent Bucky reeling. And he wanted to hold out, but it didn’t help that Steve was naked, too. His thick cock resting against the back of Bucky’s thigh, Bucky could hear each of Steve’s forced-steady breaths, and how his heart was jackhammering away despite his efforts. Could smell the humid, earthen scent of his sweat, and the salty precum that beaded at his tip before smearing across Bucky’s skin. 

But the worst part— the part that made Bucky’s cock jerk painfully when he thought about it, made his arousal coil tight in his gut— was how you were watching them both. 

Because you were there, too. Of course you were. 

“Still okay, Buck?” you asked softly, bringing Bucky’s attention back to earth. Back to where you lounged beside him on the bed, your head casually propped up by your hand. Observing, but not participating. 

The whole thing was a little strange, he knew. Not the most orthodox way of going about it. Bucky nodded and exhaled, releasing the tension from his shoulders with his breath. His jaw was clenched, and he opened his mouth to stretch it for a moment before leaning down to kiss you. You kissed him back, all tenderness; and that was exactly why he wanted you there, watching them like a hawk as you soaked through those pretty panties you were wearing. 

Because Bucky wanted Steve to fuck him. Needed it, at this point. And you would’ve been fine with letting the two of them experiment on their own, because you trusted Bucky— but when Bucky considered it, he felt that small spore of worry take root in his chest. Because his wires were uncrossed now, but what if something changed? 

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Steve. Actually, it was the opposite: he trusted that Steve was going to be so gentle, so caring, that Bucky might not be able to handle it. What if being alone and so vulnerable with Steve was enough to undo the progress he had made? He didn’t want to find out. 

Bucky needed this. But he needed you here, too. 

Behind him, Steve let out a strained sigh as he spread more lube over his length. “Ready?” Only one word, but it said so much: Steve’s voice was gravelly with desire and laced up tight with his splintering restraint. Steve was thrilled with the whole situation; he wanted Bucky more than words could express, and if you being here made Bucky more comfortable, then he had no objections. 

Bucky nodded, but Steve didn’t move right away; he just rubbed the tip of his cock over Bucky’s asshole, back and forth. Teasing little swipes that caught on the rim, because Steve was playing a game with himself; the paragon of self control, challenging temptation and proving he could win. Bucky let out an involuntary whine and pushed back against him, and he didn’t need to see Steve’s face to know he was smiling.

With one hand at the base of his cock and the other on Bucky’s hip to hold him still, Steve lined himself up and gently pushed forward. Bucky dropped his head and bore down, trying to breathe deeply through the burn, because he remembered that, at least, remembered that it made things easier. He shuddered, and— 

Steve gasped and went still when Bucky’s body made room for him. Barely an inch had slipped inside, just the tip, but enough to feel like wildfire under Bucky’s skin. “Ah,” he panted through gritted teeth, but it didn’t hurt as much as he had expected it to; better lube these days, he noted disjointedly. He breathed slowly, trying to acclimate to the stretch, the heat— Steve was always so goddamn hot, and now Bucky felt it everywhere— 

With his eyes squeezed shut, Bucky didn’t see the worried look you shot Steve over his shoulder, but he felt Steve take a slow, controlled breath. “Should I st—?”

“Keep going,” Bucky choked out before he could finish. He lifted his head, though he still couldn’t open his eyes. “Hurts. Feels good. Don’t stop.” 

It wasn’t like this was Bucky’s first time getting fucked. First time in seven decades, though, and he figured that put him as close to rookie status as he could get. But he knew what he was doing, he reminded himself. He could handle this.

“Oh, Christ,” Steve groaned when he slipped another inch inside of him, and Bucky let out a broken moan. He had forgotten how intense this was; each nudge deeper felt like lightning shooting up his spine. Shock after shock left him quaking, but Steve talked him through it: “So good, Buck,” he murmured as he massaged Bucky’s hips. “Takin’ it so good.” Warm, rough hands stroked up Bucky’s back, leaving cool relief in their wake. “Damn, you’re perfect.” 

When Steve finally bottomed out, he wrapped an arm around Bucky’s waist and folded forward, covering him completely. Trying so hard to wait, to stay collected and controlled, but Bucky could feel Steve shaking, could hear his bitten-back moans right against his neck. “In you,” he mumbled, mostly to himself. “In you, holy shit. Got my cock all the way in you.” 

If Bucky had any brain capacity left, he would’ve teased Steve. But he was so goddamn full— he could feel Steve in his lungs with every breath he took, in his heart with every pounding beat. Felt Steve’s dewy skin pressed against the expanse of his back, and his capable hands as they held him. Steve was everywhere; inside him and surrounding him, he was the first and the last, the beginning and end. Bucky’s whole body was trembling with it.

He wanted more.

“Well?” Bucky said before sinking his hips back in a way that made Steve’s breath catch. “You gonna fuck me or not?”

Steve was gentle with him, just like he had been their first time together. Back then Steve was just getting used to his new body, his new strength, and he was so careful to not hurt Bucky. Almost too careful— his loving caresses and tender touches made Bucky melt, but that wasn’t enough— he wanted to burn. Then and now, Bucky urged Steve on, pushing his hips back to meet his motions.

A little harder, a little rougher, then, and that was more normal. More reminiscent of their stolen moments, their nights spent in derelict inns and seedy hotels across Europe. As often as they could, but never often enough— they were no strangers to sneaking blowjobs in an alley, or a quickie in Steve’s tent when they had a moment of privacy. 

But in Steve’s tent, they had to be silent. Steve had rutted into him just like this, slow and deep, at countless camps and outposts during the war. Like the camp they made that night before the mission in the Alps. The night Bucky thought he could convince Steve to come home if he just acted sweet enough. If he just begged enough. But Steve refused, and Bucky hated him for it— one last mission, he said, and then he was done— with the Army, with Steve, with all of it—

The memories rose like bile in his throat. “Stop,” Bucky gasped, his body rigid. “Stop, stop.”

Steve froze instantly. Hands still, hips still, but he knew better than to pull out— knew better than to add any more stimulus to Bucky’s already overwhelmed system. “Stopping,” he confirmed, disciplined even though his voice wavered. “You okay?” But Bucky couldn’t answer; he shook his head and tried to quell his building panic.

The bed shifted as you moved closer to him. “Buck, what do you need?” Your hand settled on top of his, protective and possessive, and that was it, he realized. There you were. Your voice tethered him back to reality; back to the present. Back to the bed he shared with you, and the months he had spent healing and growing. Accepting and forgiving. He opened his eyes to find you just inches away, your love for him written all over your flushed face. 

Your eyebrows were pinched with worry, but your pupils were still blown with desire. Lying there watching him, wearing that delicate bra that hid nothing and those impractically silky panties, he could smell the sweet arousal that had pooled between your legs.

Bucky let out a deep breath, because he was safe. He was loved. He was… so, so fucking hard.

“Get over here,” he murmured, lifting his arm to make room for you. “Come here. Yeah, right here.” You were hesitant to move over, but he insisted. He needed you, too. 

He needed you and Steve at the same time.

You slid over so you were flat on your back underneath Bucky, and he dropped to his elbows to cage you in and press a kiss to your neck. With Steve still hard inside him, waiting patiently, he reached between your legs. “Panties off,” he ordered— that was unusual for him, giving orders, and you watched him with wide eyes as you did what you were told. 

“Buck,” Steve said cautiously. “Are you…?”

“Both,” was all Bucky managed to say. “Need both.”

Your hummingbird heart took off when you realized what Bucky was after, and you couldn’t hide the thrilled gleam in your eye. “For the record,” you said as you kicked your panties free from your ankle, “this is a terrible idea.”

“He’s had worse,” Steve said with an indulgent shrug. He eased out of Bucky gently, and Bucky whined at the loss of contact— that wasn’t what he wanted, was the opposite of what he wanted, he needed Steve in him still— but Steve just reached over to grab some pillows. You yelped when he lifted your hips with one hand and stuffed the pillows under them. “There,” he said, eyeing the angle of your body as Bucky lowered himself on top of you. “That’ll work.”

With your hips tilted up like that, Bucky slipped into you easily. He sighed against your collarbone; his dick had been neglected for far too long, and you were so wet and warm that he couldn’t help but give a couple of practice thrusts. Oh, that was good— too good, and when his cock pulsed threateningly, you immediately clenched around it. 

Bucky jolted, pleasure coursing through him like a current. He gave you a wide-eyed, exasperated look. “Don’t,” he scolded. You couldn’t do that, at least not yet— if you did, this would be over before it began.

“Sorry, sorry,” you giggled sheepishly. He kissed your cheek in response, then let his face rest against yours. “You’re doing so good, baby,” you said, and hiked your knees up over his hips to wait.

The pillows kept Bucky at a good angle, too— not quite as exposed as before, but still plenty accessible for Steve. With a bit more lube and an insolent squeeze of Bucky’s asscheek, Steve pushed back inside of him easily. And if Bucky had thought that you simply clenching around him had been overwhelming, he was woefully unprepared for this. 

“This okay?” Steve asked as he nudged a bit deeper, a bit further. And no, it absolutely wasn’t okay— it was better than Bucky could have ever imagined. Consuming and being consumed, he couldn’t keep still. He jerked forward into you without meaning to, then corrected himself and pulled back, only to be met with the resistance of Steve’s cock spearing him open. 

Bucky gasped, writhing between you and Steve, his feet slipping against the sheets. Steve paused, presumably to let Bucky sort himself out, but— “Keep going,” Bucky pleaded, a mix between a rasp and a whine.

Steve didn’t need to be told twice.

He found a steady, driving rhythm, each of his powerful thrusts pushing Bucky forward and into you. But Bucky couldn’t have gotten any deeper if he tried; his pelvis was just grinding against yours relentlessly, and soon enough he had to cover your lips with his own to muffle your whimpers. And you weren’t the only one falling apart. Steve’s cock pressed right over that spot inside of Bucky with every movement, and soon his mind was empty of everything except that all-encompassing static. He could only pant into your mouth, all attempts at kissing abandoned.

Bucky was trying to let Steve be in control, he really was. But he just couldn’t stop the desperate half-jerking motions that wracked through him as the pleasure built; nothing he did could make this feel any better, but it was difficult to rein in instinct. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he sobbed out a gasp against your neck.

“Easy, there,” Steve murmured, slowing his pace but not relenting. “Easy, easy. Feel good?”

“I can’t…” Bucky said, though he couldn’t remember what he was going to say. “I can’t…” Be coherent, apparently. He tried to take a deep breath, but he didn’t get more than a quick gulp of air. “Feels too… much.”

That was the truth; it felt amazing, and overwhelming, and everything all at once. The fullness in his ass, your wet cunt squeezing his cock. Each infinitesimal movement was amplified by feedback from all of his nerves, natural and artificial alike.

“Okay, okay,” Steve soothed as he stopped. “We can wait. Take a break—”

“No.” Bucky backed his hips to take more of Steve, groaning at the pressure over his prostate and the grip of your pussy on his dick, and something clicked. 

“Go ahead and move,” Steve said softly. “I’ll stay still.” He kept his hands on Bucky’s hips, not forcing him one way or the other, but guiding him.

Bucky found a shaky, unsteady rhythm— shallow thrusts forward into you, then back onto Steve’s cock. He chose the depth, the speed, and he quickly found a combination that had him moaning. “Ah— ah—” Bucky panted, right on the cusp of bliss. “Oh, god.” 

“Sorry, sorry,” you said hurriedly, and that was enough to distract Bucky, slow him down, because he didn’t understand. Why would you apologize? You weren’t doing anyth— “Can’t stop it,” you whined. “Can’t stop. Gonna—” 

Oh. Oh, shit.

You shook when your orgasm hit. Clutching at Bucky’s arms and shoulders, you pulled him flush against you while your chest heaved with your brokens sobs, and that was it.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Bucky groaned, instantly hysterical. His hips pistoned, rapid-fire, between you and Steve as the pleasure rose like a tidal wave inside him. “M’sorry, I’m sorry, I’m— I’m gonna come—” Bucky’s entire body shuddered, and you and Steve moaned in response.

“C’mon, baby, let me have it,” you whimpered. 

Bucky had never felt anything like it. Molten heat coursing through his veins, his heart pounding so frantically it was sure to burst. He shouted against your neck as he spilled inside you, his body jerking and shaking like it didn’t know how to process the fullness he felt as he clenched around Steve’s cock. 

He was still coming, still trembling, when Steve groaned behind him. “So good,” Steve mumbled. “Squeezin’ me… fuck.” Steve straightened up and ran a hand through his own sweaty hair. “Buck,” he said, and there was something about the timbre of his voice that called Bucky back from his blissful haze. Something he remembered. Something he wanted to pay attention to. “Ah, shit. Oh—” And suddenly Bucky was empty, that pleasurable pressure gone as Steve jacked himself furiously before coming all over Bucky’s back.

All three of you collapsed on the bed, and it was a long while before anyone spoke.

“I take it back,” you finally panted. “Not terrible. Not a terrible idea at all.”