progooner123

[progooner123]

This is a masterpiece!!!!!

Brutal Devotion (part 2)

Pairing: John Walker/US Agent x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader Enemies To Lovers! <3 Summary: You and John face the consequences of your fight at the gym. Here is the first part ----> (Part 1) Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst, Fighting, Violence, Cursing. (I think that´s all?) A/N: The final of this chaotic story <3 In this part, Bob is the team member who handles the tech part (plot requirement lol) I really hope you like it!!! <3 Comments, opinions and shares are very welcome and appreciated! WC: 27k

Yelena, her earlier bravado utterly extinguished, swallowed hard, her face pale. "I... I'll check on Y/N," she murmured, her voice lacking its usual purr, replaced by a tremor of genuine concern and guilt. She hurried out, avoiding looking at the destruction she'd instigated.

Ava exchanged a worried glance with Bob, then silently followed Yelena. Alexei, for once without a quip or food, gave John a long, somber look, then clapped Bob heavily on the shoulder before lumbering out, leaving Bob hovering uncertainly.

"Come on, Bob," Bucky said quietly, his voice heavy. "Give him a minute." Reluctantly, Bob followed the others, leaving Bucky alone with the shattered remnants of John Walker.

Bucky stood for a long moment, his metal hand clenched, his gaze sweeping over the devastation before settling on John. The silence stretched, punctuated only by John’s shallow, ragged breathing. Bucky walked over slowly, his boots crunching on scattered composite shards. He stopped beside John, looking down at the ruin of a man.

"You okay, Walker?" Bucky asked, his voice low but firm. It wasn't just about the physical injuries.

John didn't answer. Didn't blink. His gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, vacant and hollow.

Bucky sighed, a sound of profound weariness. He crouched down beside John, the movement deliberate, bringing himself to eye level. The stench of sweat, blood, and dust was sharp.

"Stop being an idiot," Bucky stated, his voice devoid of judgment but laced with a blunt honesty that cut through the silence. "This... this whole mess? It's gone on long enough. Months, John. Too long Months. The whole team sees it. We see the heat, the sparks, the way you orbit each other like damned neutron stars about to collapse. We see it, even when you're throwing insults or trying to kill each other."

John’s jaw clenched minutely, the only sign he’d heard.

"You think you're hiding it?" Bucky continued, his gaze steady on John’s profile. "You think the anger covers it? It doesn't. It amplifies it. You're making it harder on yourselves, harder on everyone in this tower, for no damn reason except stubborn pride and whatever guilt you've got festering inside that thick skull."

He paused, letting the words sink into the heavy quiet. John remained motionless, but his breathing hitched slightly.

"And I know," Bucky said, his voice dropping lower, becoming almost gentle, a tone rarely used. "I know you think that after Olivia... after everything you lost... that you don't deserve it. That you don't deserve to feel that again. To risk it. To be happy." He saw the flicker of raw pain in John’s eyes, quickly shuttered. "You think the shield, the titles, the failures... they stripped you of the right to anything good. Especially love."

John’s throat worked, but no sound came out. His gaze remained fixed upwards, but Bucky could see the sheen of unshed tears mingling with the dust on his lashes.

"Everyone deserves a second chance, John," Bucky said, his voice firm with conviction. "Everyone. Even you. Especially you. Hell, look at me. Look at this team. We're all walking disasters who got second, third, fourth chances. The question isn't if you deserve it. It's whether you want it. Whether you're brave enough to reach for it, even knowing it could blow up in your face. Especially knowing that." He placed his metal hand briefly, firmly, on John’s uninjured shoulder. "Stop fighting her, Walker. And stop fighting yourself. It’s exhausting to watch."

Bucky rose to his feet, the joints in his knees protesting softly. He looked down at John for another moment – the battered face, the vacant stare, the utter stillness that screamed louder than any rage. The choice, the next move, wasn't his to make.

"Just... talk to her," Bucky said finally, the words hanging in the dusty air. "Before you destroy what’s left. Or before she finishes the job."

He turned and walked out of the ruined gym, leaving John Walker alone on the mat, staring at the ceiling, the weight of Bucky’s words settling onto his already fractured soul like another layer of debris. The silence returned, deeper now, filled only with the echo of truth and the terrifying, unresolved question of what came next. The trembling in John’s jaw was the only sign of the storm still raging within the stillness.

--

The sterile quiet of your room pressed in on you, a suffocating counterpoint to the roaring chaos still echoing in your skull. You hadn’t made it past the threshold before collapsing onto the cold, smooth floor, your back against the wall beside the door. The adrenaline that had fueled the fight, the telekinetic burst, the desperate grappling – it had vanished, leaving behind a crushing void filled only with a raw, aching sorrow that seemed to emanate from your very bones.

Your chest felt tight, constricted, like your heart was a physical weight too heavy to bear, bruised and bleeding internally. Each breath hitched painfully. The tears started to fall again, hot tracks carving paths through the dust and sweat on your cheeks, remnants of the gym floor and your own fury. Then came the sobs – deep, shuddering gasps that wracked your entire frame. You curled in on yourself, knees drawn to your chest, forehead pressed against them, as if trying to physically contain the pain spilling out.

How? The question circled like a vulture in your mind, sharp and relentless. How did we get here? Images flashed: the initial spark of challenge in his eyes across the common room, the dangerous thrill of their verbal sparring, the electric tension always present between you both, the intoxicating power of invading his dreams, his thoughts, the devastating intimacy of feeling his surrender in that fabricated space. You wanted each other. Fiercely. Undeniably. It hadn’t been just a game, not really. It had been a dance, a terrifying, exhilarating dance on the edge of something real.

But pride. Stubbornness. Fear. You’d weaponized it. Turned desire into ammunition, attraction into a battlefield. Each provocation, each retaliation, each psychic intrusion and physical clash had been another brick in a wall built of mutual hurt and misunderstanding. You’d seen the precipice, known you should stop, wanted to stop somewhere deep down… but the momentum of your own damned stubbornness had been too strong. Like watching a train wreck in slow motion, powerless to derail it.

The tears flowed harder, a torrent of regret and self-recrimination. You saw John’s face beneath yours on the gym mat – not defiant anymore, but resigned, accepting your blows, the blood on his lip and brow, the look in his eyes that wasn’t anger, but a profound, weary sadness that mirrored your own. He’d stopped fighting. And you’d hit him anyway. The memory was a physical blow, doubling you over with a fresh wave of sobs. The games hadn’t been funny anymore. They’d become a catastrophe, a self-inflicted wound that felt fatal.

You didn’t move. Hours bled into each other. The light filtering through the window shifted, casting long, accusing shadows. The dust motes danced in the fading beams, indifferent to your grief. You didn’t eat. The thought of food turned your stomach. You didn’t shower; the lingering, phantom smell of the gym, sweat, blood, and ozone from your power felt like a fitting shroud. You simply lay on the cold floor, then eventually crawled onto the rumpled bed, curling into a tight ball, your face buried in a pillow that quickly grew damp. Sleep was impossible, a distant luxury. Your head throbbed with a vicious, unrelenting headache, a physical manifestation of the emotional maelstrom. You just wanted to dissolve, to cease existing, to escape the crushing weight of what you’d broken.

---

The knock, when it came late the next morning, was soft. Tentative. You didn’t stir. You barely registered it. Your eyes felt swollen shut, gritty and raw. Your body ached with a deep, pervasive exhaustion. The headache was a constant drumbeat behind your temples.

The door hissed open. You flinched, burrowing deeper into the pillow, wishing the intruder away.

Footsteps, quiet but purposeful, crossed the room. The mattress dipped beside you. A familiar scent –  sweet shampoo, and a faint, clean citrus – cut through the stale air of despair.

“Y/N,” Yelena’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, stripped of its usual sardonic edge.

You didn’t look up. You couldn’t.

Yelena didn’t say anything else for a long moment. She tried to talk to you after all happened but you did’t want to talk. She let you rest, thinking that maybe you need time, a little at least, and decided to try again the next day.

Now, she was there. The silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then, you felt a gentle hand on your back, resting between your shoulder blades. The touch was hesitant at first, then firmer, warm and grounding.

“Oh, honey,” Yelena murmured, sounding strangely tender. “Look at you.”

Slowly, painfully, you turned your head, peering out with one red-rimmed, swollen eye. The light, even dimmed, felt like needles. Yelena’s face swam into focus – her sharp features softened with concern, her blonde hair pulled back simply. There was no judgment in her eyes, only a deep, aching sympathy that somehow made you feel even worse.

The sight cracked the fragile dam holding back your tears again. A fresh sob escaped, ragged and broken.

Without a word, Yelena shifted. She didn’t ask permission. She simply gathered you into her arms, pulling you upright and against her shoulder. You stiffened for a second, unused to such open comfort, especially from the usually prickly Widow. But the warmth, the solidity of Yelena, the sheer humanity of the embrace shattered your remaining resistance. You collapsed against your friend, burying your face in Yelena’s neck, your body shaking with silent, wracking sobs. Yelena held you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back.

“I am sorry,” Yelena whispered, her voice thick with her own emotion. “I am so sorry, Y/N. My plan… it was stupid.  I thought… I thought forcing you together would make you see. I did not see this.” She tightened her hold as another wave of sobs shook you. “Shhh. It’s okay. Let it out.”

Both sat like that for a long time, Yelena a silent anchor in your storm. The tears eventually subsided into hiccupping shudders, leaving you feeling hollowed out, utterly drained, but the crushing weight had lessened, fractionally, by being shared.

Yelena gently pulled back, keeping her hands on your shoulders, her gaze searching your ravaged face. She brushed a tangled strand of hair away from your damp cheek with surprising gentleness.

“You both,” Yelena said, her voice regaining a little of its usual directness, though it remained soft, “are the most stubborn, prideful, stupid people I have ever known.” There was no bite in the words, only weary truth. “Look at this. Look what you have done to each other. To yourselves.”

You looked down, fresh tears welling. “It’s too late,” you whispered, your voice a raw croak from crying and disuse. “We broke it. We broke everything.”

“No,” Yelena said firmly. She tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet her eyes. “It is only broken if you leave it broken on the floor. Like children who smash a toy and walk away.” She sighed, a deep, weary sound. “Y/N, listen to me. Everyone. Everyone in this tower sees it. Bucky sees it. Ava sees it. Bob, Alexei… even me. We see how you look at him when you think no one is watching. The fire, the challenge… and the want. We see how he watches you – like you hung the damn moon and stars, even when he is arguing with you. You burn for each other. It is… blindingly obvious.”

You flinched. Hearing it stated so plainly, so undeniably, was both a relief and a fresh agony. “Then why?” you choked out. “Why is it so hard? Why does it hurt so much?”

“Because you are both idiots!” Yelena exclaimed, though her touch remained gentle. “Because you are both carrying so much hurt, so much pride, so much fear of being vulnerable, that you turned the easiest thing in the world into a war!” She leaned closer, her gaze intense. “Loving someone? It is simple. Admitting it? That is the hard part. Especially for people like you. Like him. Soldiers. Broken things. Used to fighting, not… surrendering. To trust.”

She smoothed your hair back again. “This game you played? It was armor. Hiding behind sarcasm, behind power, behind anger… safer than saying ‘I want you. I need you. I see you.’” Yelena’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “He stopped fighting, Y/N. On that mat. He let you hit him. What does that tell you?”

It told you everything. It told you of his exhaustion, his defeat, his willingness to take your pain because he felt responsible. It told you of a surrender deeper than physical.

“He needs to hear it,” Yelena said softly. “And you need to say it. Not with your mind. Not with your fists. With your words. Stop fighting the inevitable. Stop hiding. Go to him. Talk. Not to argue. Not to win. Just… talk. Be honest. Be… human. It is the only way the bleeding stops.”

You closed your eyes, fresh tears leaking from beneath your lids. Yelena’s words weren’t a magic fix, but they were a lifeline thrown into the chasm of your despair. They were the simple, terrifying truth you’d been desperately avoiding. The games were over. The war was lost by both sides. All that remained was the terrifying vulnerability of truce… or the desolate silence of permanent defeat.

Yelena pulled you into another firm hug. “The hard part is done,” she murmured. “You broke. Now you rebuild. But you don’t have to do it alone.” She held you until the trembling subsided, offering the silent strength of a friend who had seen darkness and knew that even the deepest wounds could, eventually, scar over. The path forward was terrifyingly simple: lay down the weapons, open the door, and speak the truth. The question was, did either of you have the courage left to do it?

---

Silent days passed again, just the same way after the thoughts and after the dreams.

Locked in your room, you stared blankly at your hands – still trembling from the fight. Your temple throbs where his grip bruised you, but the deeper ache is in your chest. "No, you don’t. That’s the problem." His words replay like a knife twist. You cried – silent, furious tears – into your pillow, muffling sobs so no one hears. When Yelena knocked, you didn’t answer. You didn’t eat. You didn’t sleep. You traced the ghost of his blood on your knuckles. 

 A purple bruise bloomed on your temple. Silver eyes are swollen, shadowed. You moved like a ghost through the Tower’s halls, avoiding the gym’s wreckage. 

 ---

He paces his room until dawn, Bucky’s words haunting him. "Do you want it?" He stared at his reflection: split lip, the fading scars of a man who’s lost everything. He rehearsed apologies in the mirror – "I’m sorry about your parents" – but choked on the words.

At 3 AM, he stood outside your door, fist raised to knock... then walked away. 

His knuckles were raw, ribs bruised from your telekinetic blast. He avoided the med-bay, wore long sleeves to hide the wounds. His gait is stiff, pride masking pain. 

By the second day, you sat alone in the darkened common room at night, nursing cold coffee. When John entered, you froze. Your eyes met – a flash of shared agony – before you left. Later, you overheared Ava whisper, "They look so... broken." You slammed your fist into your thigh, hating the tears that returned. You dreamed of his resignation – "Hit me" – and woke gasping. 

 Anger curdled into shame. You replied to his accusation: "You crossed the line." Part of you believed it. 

--

He trained alone in the ruined gym, punching the only standing bag until his hands bled.  He watched you from afar: how you picked at food, how your shoulders slumped when you thought no one saw. That night, he drank. Not to forget – to feel. The bottle whispers: She’ll never forgive you. 

Fear caged him. He wanted to say, "The dreams... I didn’t hate them." But the risk of your rejection felt like losing the shield all over again. 

On the third day…

You forced yourself into the common room. John was there, staring out at the city. The air crackled. You hesitated – just talk to him – but saw his white-knuckled grip on the couch. He regrets it. All of it. Defeated, you turned to leave... 

"Y/N." His voice was gravel. 

You stopped. Didn’t turn. Held your breath. 

"I... Never mind." He walked out. 

You slid to the floor, back against the wall, tears streaming silently. Coward. Both of us. 

He almost said it: "I’m sorry." But your flinch when he spoke gutted him. He spends hours cleaning his gear, avoiding everyone. In his mind, he repeated: “I don’t know how to fix this."

His bruises have faded to sickly yellow. But the hollowness in his eyes remained.

The Watchtower’s klaxons weren’t blaring; they were screaming. Crimson emergency lights bathed the common room, stripping everything of color, painting faces in stark relief. The mission brief scrolled across the main holo-screen: **OPERATION: SHATTERPOINT. NEURO-TOXIN RELEASE IMMINENT. STRIKE TEAM DEPLOY: IMMEDIATE.**

John Walker was already moving before the first syllable finished. Muscle memory, honed by a thousand scrambles, kicked in. He slammed his coffee mug onto the table, the ceramic cracking, and lunged for the weapons locker embedded in the wall, his movements sharp, focused, the fog of the last three days burned away by adrenaline. Finally. Action. Purpose. Something to hit.

You were a half-step behind him, your own weariness shoved aside by the raw urgency vibrating through the tower. You reached for your tac-vest hanging nearby.

Bucky Barnes stood like a pillar of grim resolve near the entrance to the Quinjet bay, his face set in lines of cold command. Yelena, Ava, and Alexei were already geared up, checking weapons with practiced efficiency, the usual banter silenced by the threat level.

John grabbed his shield – a heavy, blunt instrument compared to the star-spangled symbol he’d lost, but solid – and clipped it to his back. He turned, heading for the bay ramp, expecting you beside him.

"Walker. Y/N." Bucky’s voice cut through the din, cold and final. "Stand down."

John froze mid-stride, halfway to the ramp. You stopped beside him, your hand still on your vest buckle. You both turned, identical expressions of disbelief etched onto your faces.

"What?" John’s voice was dangerously low, a growl building in his chest.

"You heard me," Bucky stated, his gaze unwavering. "You two are staying. Bob will coordinate comms and surveillance from here. You’re backup."

"Backup?" John took a step towards Bucky, his frame radiating incredulous fury. "That place is about to spew death across three states! You need every hand!"

"I need a team that functions," Bucky shot back, his voice like titanium. "Not a liability. Not a powder keg." His eyes flicked pointedly between John and you, landing on the faint, lingering yellow-green bruise near John’s temple, the subtle tension in your shoulders. "What happened in the gym? That can’t happen out there. Not with stakes this high."

Yelena paused at the top of the Quinjet ramp, her usual smirk absents. She met your eyes, a flicker of something unreadable – apology? Regret? – before turning away. Ava looked stricken, her gaze darting between Bucky and the grounded pair. Alexei grunted, hefting his pulse rifle. "Is waste of good fighters, James," he rumbled, but didn't challenge the order.

"The best thing you can do for the team right now," Bucky continued, his tone softening marginally but losing none of its steel, "is stay put. Monitor. If things go sideways and we need you, we’ll call. But until then… you’re benched."

John’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. The frustration wasn’t just tactical; it was deeply personal. Being sidelined again. Judged unfit. A liability. It scraped against the raw nerve of every failure, every loss. He looked at the Quinjet, the open ramp a gateway to purpose, to redemption, slamming shut in his face. His jaw worked, teeth grinding, a vein pulsing in his temple. He looked like he might explode.

You, in contrast, went utterly still. The color drained from your face, leaving you pale beneath the emergency lights. Your gaze dropped from Bucky to the floor. The accusation – liability – landed with the weight of a physical blow. This is my fault. The thought was a cold knife. Your reckless telekinesis, the uncontrolled fury that shattered the gym, the toxic war with John that poisoned the team… it had led here. To be deemed untrustworthy when lives hung in the balance. Shame, hot and acrid, washed over you, momentarily eclipsing the mission’s urgency. You didn’t argue. You couldn’t. Bucky was right.

"Bob," Bucky said, turning to him, "you have the watch. Keep them looped in. Let’s move." He gave John and you one last, unreadable look – part command, part pity – then turned and strode up the Quinjet ramp without looking back. Yelena, Ava, and Alexei followed, their expressions grim. Ava offered you a small, helpless glance before disappearing inside.

The heavy hydraulic whine of the ramp closing was the loudest sound in the suddenly too-quiet bay. Through the closing gap, John caught a final glimpse of the team strapping in, Bucky settling into the pilot’s seat, his face set. Then the ramp sealed with a definitive sound.

The engines whined, building to a deafening roar that vibrated the floor plates beneath their feet. The Quinjet lifted, sleek and lethal, hovering for a moment before pivoting and accelerating out through the open bay doors into the crimson-lit dusk.

John stood rigid, staring at the empty space where the jet had been. His breath came in short, sharp bursts through flared nostrils. The frustration, the humiliation, the sheer impotent rage boiled inside him, a pressure cooker with no release. He couldn’t hit Bucky. He couldn’t hit the mission. He spun on his heel, his gaze sweeping the bay – the pristine walls, the parked vehicles, the silent equipment – all symbols of his confinement.

With a raw, wordless roar of pure fury, he lashed out. Not at a person, but at the nearest inanimate object – a reinforced steel maintenance trolley laden with tools. He kicked it with all his enhanced strength. The trolley screeched across the polished floor, tools scattering like shrapnel with a deafening clatter, before slamming into the far wall with a resounding **BANG**, leaving a significant dent.

He didn’t look at the damage. He didn’t look at you. He just stood there for a second, chest heaving, fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white. Then, without a word, he stormed past you, his shoulder brushing yours in a jarring, unintentional contact. He didn’t stop, didn’t look back, just disappeared down the corridor towards the ruined gym, leaving behind the echoing clang of metal and the thick scent of ozone and thwarted fury.

You remained rooted to the spot. You hadn’t flinched when the trolley crashed. You hadn’t moved when he brushed past. Your eyes were fixed on the open bay doors, on the spot where the Quinjet had vanished into the blood-red horizon. The roar of the engines faded into the city’s hum, then into silence. The team was gone. Into danger. Without you.

Bob cleared his throat awkwardly from his iPad. "Uh, Y/N? I’ve got the primary feeds up on Screen Three if you… uh… want to monitor?"

You didn’t answer. You just stood there, a lone figure in the vast, echoing bay, the emergency lights painting you in stark red and shadow. The weight of Bucky’s decision, the echo of John’s rage, and the crushing burden of your own guilt pressed down on you, making the air feel thick and suffocating. Liability. The word echoed in the silence left by the departed jet. You wrapped your arms around yourself, a silent, solitary sentinel watching an empty sky, the taste of ash and failure heavy on your tongue. The mission had begun, and they were already drowning.

Hours bled into the Watchtower's tense silence. The common room, usually vibrant, felt like a tomb lit by the cold blue glow of mission feeds. Bob hunched over the console, fingers flying across holographic keys, his brow furrowed in concentration. Screens displayed chaotic thermal signatures, fragmented comms chatter, and shaky helmet-cam footage from Yelena: crumbling concrete corridors, flashes of energy weapons, the grim set of Bucky's jaw as he fired.

Thank God the team taught Bob how to monitor for missions while he couldn’t go. He was really good at it.

You sat rigidly in a chair besides him, your gaze fixed on the screens. Silver eyes tracked every movement, every flicker of threat, your face pale and drawn. The bruise on your temple seemed darker in the monitor's light. You hadn't moved much since the Quinjet left. The weight of being grounded, of being the liability that kept you from your friends, pressed down on you like stone. Every grunt of pain over the comms, every shouted warning, twisted the knife.

John was conspicuously absent. He hadn't emerged from his room since storming off. The silence from his quarters was heavier than any outburst.

"Y/N?" Bob's voice was soft, tentative, breaking the rhythmic hum of the computers and the tense crackle of the comms. Ava was calling for covering fire; Alexei roared in pain.

You didn't look away from the screen showing Yelena ducking behind shattered machinery. "Hmm?"

"You okay?" Bob asked, swiveling slightly in his chair to face you. His kind eyes held genuine concern, cutting through the digital fog of the mission.

A bitter, humorless sound escaped your lips. "Does it matter? They're out there. We're... here." Your voice was flat, devoid of its usual fire.

"It matters," Bob insisted gently. He paused, watching your profile, the way your knuckles were white where you gripped the armrests. "Look... I know things are... complicated. With Walker. With everything." He took a breath, choosing his words carefully over the sound of Bucky barking orders. "He's... he's a good man. Flawed, yeah. Angry, definitely. Carries a lot of hurt. But deep down? Good. And you..." He met your eyes when you finally glanced at him, startled. "You're a good woman. Strong, brilliant, fierce. You both have your demons. Who here doesn't?" He gestured vaguely around the empty room. "But... maybe you should give yourselves a chance. A chance to be something other than enemies." He sighed, “You are my friend and I… I would like to see you happy.” He smiled shyly.

You stared at him, the raw sincerity in his words piercing through your numbness. Bob, gentle and sweet, always sees the potential, the good, even in the wreckage. Your throat tightened. You looked back at the screen just as a blast rocked Yelena's feed, sending static across the image. Ava screamed Bucky's name.

"Thank you, Bob," you whispered as your hand gently cupped his. The words thick with unshed tears and the crushing weight of the unfolding disaster. You meant it. For his kindness, for seeing you when you felt like a failure. But his words felt distant, irrelevant against the immediate horror on the screens.

Suddenly, Bucky's voice cut through, sharp and strained, overriding the chaos: "--overwhelmed! Fall back to Point Delta! Repeat, fall back to--" His transmission dissolved into a burst of static and a bone-jarring *crunch*.

The main tactical screen flashed red. Blinking icons representing Yelena, Ava, and Alexei clustered near a flashing red marker labeled **POINT DELTA - CLIFF EDGE**. Bob's face drained of color. "Oh no... structural collapse detected near their position! They're pinned!"

He frantically worked his console. "Bucky! Yelena! Do… do you copy? What's your status?!" Static hissed back. The helmet cams showed frantic movement, glimpses of a sheer drop beyond crumbling concrete, enemy fire intensifying from multiple angles. Alexei was limping badly, supporting Ava who clutched her side. Yelena fired desperately, her expression grim. Bucky was nowhere in the feeds.

"They're cornered," Bob breathed, horror-struck. "The cliff... if they get pushed back any further..." He looked desperately at you.

You were already moving. Bob's words about chances and goodness evaporated. The only thing that mattered was the terror on your friends' faces, the certainty of death on that crumbling edge. The liability label burned away in the furnace of protective fury.

You didn't run; you stormed. Past Bob, out of the common room, down the corridor towards the secondary hangar bay on the roof. Your movements were swift, silent, purposeful. Years of combat focus slammed down over your emotional turmoil. Save them. Nothing else matters.

You hit the roof access panel, the cool night air hitting your face as the doors slid open. The sleek, angular shape of the secondary Quinjet sat ready. You sprinted towards it, the ramp already descending at your approach command.

You were halfway up the ramp when a heavy boot landed beside yours. You froze, whirling around.

John Walker stood on the ramp, breathing slightly hard, his expression unreadable in the dim hangar light. He must have heard the alerts, the panic in Bob's voice over the intercom, and moved like lightning. He wore his tac-gear – the shield strapped to his back, his jaw set. There was no anger in his eyes now. Just a terrifying, focused intensity. He met your gaze.

No words. No accusations. No "I told you so." Just a shared, desperate understanding reflected in your eyes: Our team is dying. Go.

Your locked gaze lasted only a heartbeat, a silent pact forged in the crucible of imminent loss. You gave the tiniest, almost imperceptible nod. John turned and vaulted into the co-pilot's seat.

You didn't hesitate. You slammed your hand on the ramp control. As the hydraulic whine started and the ramp began its ascent, you were already sliding into the pilot's seat, fingers flying over the ignition sequence. The engines roared to life with a throaty scream that drowned out the distant city sounds and the frantic pounding of your own heart.

You didn't wait for the ramp to fully seal. As soon as there was clearance, you yanked the controls. The Quinjet shot upwards like a bullet, punching through the thin layer of city haze into the cold, star-dusted sky. The Watchtower roof fell away below them.

On the comm, Bob's voice crackled, frantic: "Y/N?! John?! What are you--? Bucky just managed a burst! They're falling back! The cliff section is unstable! You can't--!"

"We're already on route, Bob," you stated, your voice cold steel, cutting him off. Your eyes were fixed on the nav screen, plotting the shortest, most dangerous route to the dam's coordinates. The jet screamed through the night. John, beside you, was a silent, grim statue, scanning tactical data on his screen.

No discussion. No plan. Just speed. Just the unspoken, desperate drive to reach your family before the cliff, the enemy, or time itself claimed them. The only sound was the howl of the engines and the frantic beating of two hearts finally united by a single, terrifying purpose: Save them.

--

The secondary Quinjet slammed down on a relatively stable plateau a quarter-mile from the collapsing dam, kicking up dust and gravel. Before the engines fully whined down, the ramp was crashing open. The scene before them was chaos rendered in smoke, fire, and the echoing cacophony of battle. The cliff face near the dam was crumbling, sections shearing away into the churning river far below. Enemy fire spat from fortified positions along the access road and higher vantage points.

"Bob, status!" You barked into your comm, already striding down the ramp, twin vibranium-alloy knives snapping into your hands from your thighs sheaths with a lethal *shink*.

"Yelena and Alexei are pinned 200 yards northwest, behind a collapsed generator housing! Ava is 100 yards due west, trapped in a drainage culvert under heavy fire! Bucky's signal is intermittent, last ping was near the main control room access tunnel – deep inside, surrounded!" Bob's voice was frantic but precise. "Enemy converging on all positions! Structural integrity failing!"

John hit the ground beside you, shield already unslung, his eyes scanning the terrain with predatory focus. Dust coated his face, his earlier fury replaced by a terrifyingly calm lethality. He didn't look at you; his gaze tracked the tracer fire stitching the air towards Ava's position.

"We clear a path," he stated, his voice a low rumble cutting through the din. "Work together. I go first, draw fire. You shield us, push back. Get to Ava first, she's closest and exposed."

You hesitated for a fraction of a second. His plan made tactical sense. But trusting him, relying on him after everything… your knuckles whitened on your knives. Ava's faint cry of pain over the comms decided it. This wasn't about you.

"Okay," you said, the single word clipped but clear. No argument. No sarcasm. Just acceptance. The mission. The team.

John didn't wait. He was already moving, a blur of motion, his shield snapping up as enemy fire immediately zeroed in on the new threat. Energy bolts *SPANGED* off the reinforced surface.

"NOW!" he roared.

Your silver eyes narrowed. You flung out a hand. A shimmering, concave telekinetic barrier bloomed into existence just behind John, wider than his shield, catching the crossfire he couldn't block. Concrete chips and energy blasts dissipated against the invisible wall. You pushed, physically straining, sending a kinetic pulse rippling outwards that knocked two advancing mercenaries off their feet. John exploited the opening, charging forward, shield bashing one enemy aside while his sidearm barked, dropping another.

It was brutal, efficient, and terrifyingly coordinated. John was the battering ram, the unyielding point, drawing fire and shattering defenses with sheer aggression and the impact of his shield. You were the protector and the unseen weapon. You deflected sniper rounds aimed at his back, used telekinetic shoves to knock enemies off balance into his path, and once, when a grenade arced towards them, you caught it mid-air with your mind and hurled it back towards the thrower with devastating effect.

Both moved like extensions of each other – he advanced, you covered his flanks and rear; you identified a threat, he neutralized it before you fully voiced the warning. Bob fed you constant updates, guiding you both around collapsing structures and enemy strongpoints.

"Left, Walker! Three hostiles behind the burnt-out truck!"

"Shield up, Y/N! RPG incoming!"

"Push right! Culvert access is clear!"

Both reached the drainage culvert under a hail of fire. John slammed his shield down, creating instant cover as you dropped to your knees beside Ava. The Ghost was curled up, clutching her side, her suit torn and soaked with blood. Her face was pale, eyes wide with pain and fear.

"Hey, hey, look at me," you said, your voice surprisingly gentle despite the chaos. Your hands, glowing faintly silver, pressed against the worst wound. Ava gasped, then sighed as the sharp agony dulled under the warm rush of healing energy. You focused, knitting torn tissue, sealing punctures, staunching internal bleeding just enough to stabilize her. It wasn't a full heal – not here, not now – but it was life-saving. "Can you move?"

Ava nodded weakly, gritting her teeth. "Y-yeah. Thanks, Y/N."

"John! Get her to the jet!" You commanded, already rising, your eyes scanning for the next threat. John didn't question. He hauled Ava carefully to her feet, half-supporting, half-carrying her, his shield still deflecting fire as he moved back towards the relative safety of the Quinjet ramp.

You covered their retreat, knives flashing to deflect a close-quarters attacker while your telekinesis held back a renewed barrage. As soon as John deposited Ava inside the jet, he was back at your side, shield raised.

"Yelena and Alexei next," he stated, breathing hard but eyes blazing with determination. "Northwest. Generator housing."

You met his gaze. Dust, sweat, and soot streaked both your faces. There was no anger there now, only the shared, desperate resolve forged in fire. You both had saved one. You would save the others.

"Lead the way," you said, your voice tight with focus. Your knives dripped with fresh ichor, your power hummed around you like a barely contained storm. John nodded once, a grim understanding passing between you. The dance of war resumed, their movements synchronized, relentless, cutting a bloody swathe towards their trapped comrades. The dam groaned ominously behind you, but your world had narrowed to the next enemy, the next step, the next life to pull from the jaws of death. Together.

Reaching Yelena and Alexei was a gauntlet carved through fire and crumbling concrete. The generator housing was a twisted tomb of metal and sparks, offering scant cover. Enemy fire poured in from elevated positions along the access road and the dam's crumbling superstructure.

John became a relentless storm. He charged fortified nests, his shield a battering ram against makeshift barricades, his enhanced strength tossing aside debris or enemies foolish enough to get close. He drew fire like a lightning rod, trusting you to be his shadow, his shield, his unseen executioner.

And you were. Your twin knives weren't just blades; they were extensions of your will. With sharp flicks of your wrist and focused telekinetic bursts, you sent them flying. They became silver streaks of death, whistling through the air to find throats, sever gun barrels, or lodge deep into the chests of enemies sighting John from blind spots. A mental tug, a twist of power, and they ripped free, arcing back to your waiting hands, slick with blood, only to be launched again. You wove a lethal tapestry of steel and psychic force around them.

A mercenary aiming a heavy machine gun at John’s exposed flank dropped, a knife buried in his eye socket. Another screamed as a blade severed his firing hand before returning to your grasp. You used telekinetic shoves to trip attackers into John’s path, or deflected ricochets that would have found your mark.

"Left flank! Heavy weapons team setting up!" Bob's voice crackled, urgent.

John pivoted, shield raised just as a hail of armor-piercing rounds slammed into it, the impacts driving him back a step. You saw the danger behind him – two more mercenaries rushing from cover with plasma rifles.

Your knives were engaged elsewhere. No time. You threw up a broad telekinetic shield just as the plasma bolts seared the air. The impact against your psychic barrier sent a jolt through your system, a sharp spike of pain behind your eyes. You gritted your teeth, holding it.

"Walker! Yelena's position is collapsing!" Bob yelled.

John roared, surging against the heavy weapons fire, using your shield as mobile cover. You were meters from the generator housing. Yelena popped up, firing precise bursts, her face smudged with soot but eyes blazing. Alexei lay behind her, a crude bandage soaked red around his massive thigh, his face pale but his expression furious.

"Y/N! Took you long enough!" Yelena shouted, a flicker of relief in her voice.

"Get Alexei ready to move!" John bellowed, deflecting another volley. "We're getting you out!”.

You focused on clearing the immediate path, knives flashing, telekinetic pulses shoving debris and enemies aside. The strain was immense. Healing Ava, constant shielding, the precision knife-work – it was draining your reserves faster than you ‘d anticipated.

Suddenly, a chilling *WHOOSH* cut through the din. From a higher vantage point on the dam's cracking wall, a mercenary stood, an RPG launcher smoking on his shoulder. The rocket snaked through the air, trailing fire, aimed directly at the cluster around the generator housing – John, you, Yelena, and the injured Alexei.

Time slowed.

"RPG!" John roared, instinctively raising his shield, knowing it wouldn't be enough against the high explosive at this range.

You didn't think. You reacted. With a raw, guttural cry that tore from your throat, you threw everything you had left. Not a shield. A force. A massive, concussive wave of pure telekinetic energy erupted from you, not towards the rocket, but towards the air in front of it, compressing it violently.

***BOOOOOOM!***

The RPG detonated prematurely, ten meters short of its target. The explosion was deafening, a blinding fireball that hurled shrapnel and a concussive wave in all directions. John was thrown back hard against the generator housing, his shield ringing like a gong. Yelena ducked, shielding Alexei. You took the brunt of the psychic backlash. The force of your own power rebounded through you. You staggered, a blinding pain lancing through your skull. A torrential nosebleed gushed over your lips and chin, dripping onto your tac-suit. Your vision swam, dark spots dancing at the edges. You swayed, catching yourself on a jagged piece of metal, gasping for air.

"Y/N!" John was beside you instantly, his hand gripping your arm, steadying you. His eyes scanned your face, the blood, the dazed expression, with raw alarm cutting through the battle focus.

"I'm... I'm okay," you gasped, wiping blood from your nose with a trembling, dirty hand, leaving a crimson smear. The world tilted, then steadied. The pain was excruciating, but the immediate danger was past. "Just... drained. Get them... get them moving!"

John didn't hesitate. He hauled Alexei up, the big man groaning but clamping a massive hand on John's shoulder. "Is good time for rescue, Captain Pain-in-Ass!" Alexei grunted through gritted teeth.

Yelena provided covering fire, her shots precise and lethal. "Move! This whole section is coming down!"

You pushed through the dizziness and pain, summoning the dregs of your power. You couldn't throw knives anymore, but you could create a weak, shimmering barrier behind them as they retreated, deflecting stray fire as John half-carried Alexei and Yelena covered their six. It was a slow, agonizing retreat under constant fire, you stumbling, your head pounding with every step, every use of power.

Somehow, they made it back to the Quinjet. Ava, pale but alert, helped pull Alexei up the ramp. Yelena leaped on last, spinning to lay down suppressive fire.

"Get us airborne!" John yelled, dragging you up the ramp as you sagged against him, your strength failing. The ramp whined shut just as a hail of fire slammed into it.

You collapsed against the bulkhead inside, breathing raggedly, blood still trickling from your nose, your face ashen. John dumped Alexei onto a jump seat and whirled to the cockpit controls Ava had managed to prep.

"Bob! Status on Bucky!" John barked, slamming his hands on the console, bringing engines back to full shriek.

"Signal's weak! Deep in the access tunnel network! Bio-signs erratic! He's not moving! Enemy converging on his last known position!" Bob's voice was frantic. "The main control room structure is failing!"

John's knuckles were white on the controls. He looked back at the bay. Yelena was binding Alexei's leg. Ava was trying to stem your nosebleed with a med-pad, the telepath trembling with exhaustion and pain.

They had two critically injured teammates. You were spent, possibly concussed. The jet was damaged. And Bucky was deep in the collapsing, enemy-infested heart of the dam, seconds from death or catastrophic failure.

The impossible choice hung in the smoke-filled air of the Quinjet. Save Bucky and risk everyone? Or leave him to save the others?

John's eyes met yours across the bay. Yours were clouded with pain, but the fierce determination hadn't extinguished. You gave the faintest nod, pushing yourself slightly upright against the bulkhead, wiping blood from your chin. You both had come this far. You weren't leaving him. Not now.

"Plot me a course, Bob," John growled, his voice like grinding stone. "Deepest penetration point. Now." He slammed the thrusters forward, the jet screaming towards the dam's breached flank, towards the heart of darkness where Bucky Barnes awaited his fate.

The air inside the battered Quinjet tasted of blood, ozone, and desperation. Bob’s voice crackled over the comm, rapid-fire, guiding John through the labyrinth of collapsing tunnels towards Bucky’s fading signal. "Left at the next junction, John! Structural integrity at 15%! Thermal bloom ahead – likely hostiles!"

John brought the jet to a shuddering halt deep within a crumbling access chamber, the ramp groaning open to reveal smoke, falling debris, and the ominous creak of failing concrete. Bucky’s signal pulsed weakly nearby.

"Y/N..." John started, his voice tight with concern. "You're in no shape. Stay in the jet. I'll get Bucky."

You met his eyes, a flicker of defiance battling the overwhelming fatigue. He won’t be able to do it alone. Without a word, you reached into a small, reinforced pouch on your utility belt. Your fingers closed around a slim, pre-filled injector pen. John recognized it – a high-grade, tactical adrenaline/stimulant cocktail, designed for superhuman metabolisms in extreme situations. A last resort. Temporary. You’d mentioned having it, but never using it. But now was the moment.

Your hand shook slightly as you pressed the injector against your thigh, through your tac-suit. A faint *hiss*. You closed your eyes for a second as the potent cocktail hit your system. A shudder ran through you, then your spine straightened. Color flooded back into your cheeks, chased by a dangerous, artificial vibrancy. Your silver eyes snapped open, blazing with renewed, almost feverish intensity, though the deep shadows of exhaustion remained beneath the surface.

"Let's go for Bucky," you stated, your voice clipped, sharpened by the stimulant. The tremor was gone, replaced by a brittle, hyper-alert readiness.

John saw the worry warring with necessity in your eyes. The stim would keep you going, but it was borrowing strength you didn't have, and the crash would be brutal. But Bucky was dying. He nodded curtly. "Yelena! Be ready to launch the second we're back on that ramp! Don't wait for niceties!"

"Da, Captain Obvious!" Yelena called back, already strapping Alexei in tighter, her eyes fixed on the access point, pistol ready.

They plunged into the choking smoke. The stimulant coursing through your veins turned your exhaustion into razor-wire focus. Your knives flew with renewed, almost reckless speed, guided by sharp telekinetic flicks. John was a whirlwind of violence, his shield shattering barricades, his fists breaking bones. They fought in terrifying harmony, clearing a path through the converging enemy towards the flickering red light of Bucky's locator beacon.

You found him slumped against a shattered control panel, unconscious, bleeding from a head wound and a deep gash across his ribs. John scooped him up effortlessly but grimly. Carrying Bucky meant his shield was his only weapon, his mobility hampered.

You took a moment to heal him, just enough to put his life out of danger. You quickly finished and you were moving.

"Cover us!" John barked, turning to retrace their steps.

You became a one-woman rearguard. Knives whirled, telekinetic pulses shoved debris into pursuers' paths, and shields flared to deflect bullets aimed at John's back. The stimulant fueled you, but the drain was immense. Your movements started to regain a slight tremor as they neared the access chamber.

Suddenly, a figure materialized from the smoke – not a mercenary, but a hulking brute in reinforced armor, cybernetic enhancements glinting. He moved with unnatural speed, ignoring your flying knives that skittered off his plating. He slammed a fist into your telekinetic shield. The impact reverberated through you, staggering you, breaking your focus.

He was on you before the disorientation cleared. A backhanded blow, more machine than muscle, caught your ribs. Air exploded from your lungs. You hit the ground hard, grit biting into your palms, the taste of copper flooding your mouth. Get up. GET UP. You lashed out blindly with a surge of telekinetic force, a desperate shove that bought a single, gasping second. It scraped him back a meter, boots grinding on concrete.

“Walker! Go! Now!” The shout tore from your raw throat, eyes locked on the advancing Goliath. John hesitated—you felt it, that familiar, agonizing second of his conflict. “TAKE HIM!” you screamed, raw and final.

The stimulant’s artificial fire was guttering out, leaving cold ash in its wake. Your power sputtered—a dying star. You threw everything left: chunks of debris, a wave of concussive force, a psychic scream meant to scramble circuits. He absorbed it, shrugged it off like rain. Each step he took vibrated the crumbling floor beneath you. Exhaustion wasn’t just fatigue; it was a leaden weight dragging your soul down.

His hand shot out—inhumanly fast, impossibly strong. Not a punch. A vice. Cold, plasteel-reinforced fingers closed around your throat. Your own hands clawed uselessly at his forearm, finding only unyielding metal and cable. He lifted you. Your boots left the ground. The world tilted, narrowed to the red glare of his cyber-eye and the terrifying absence of breath. Pressure built behind your eyes.

John, ten yards from the ramp with Bucky, froze. He saw you dangling, your face purpling, your struggles weakening. Saw Yelena in the jet doorway, screaming at him, waving frantically. Saw the entire structure shaking violently, huge chunks of concrete plunging from the ceiling.

Leave her. Save Barnes. Orders. Logic.

His gaze locked with yours, fading, desperate for a split second. Logic died.

He surged forward, not towards the jet, but back towards you. He dumped Bucky unceremoniously but carefully just inside the access chamber entrance, within sight of the ramp. "Yelena! GET HIM!" he roared, then turned and charged the brute.

The enhanced enemy barely had time to register the new threat before John slammed into him like a runaway train. The impact tore the giant's hands from your throat. You crumpled to the ground, gasping, retching, vision swimming.

What followed was pure, savage brutality. John fought with no shield, no finesse, only desperate, enhanced fury. He dodged crushing blows that cratered the concrete floor, landed shattering punches that dented armor, and took hits that would have broken bones in a normal man. He used debris, leverage, sheer bloody-mindedness. He fought for every second, every inch, knowing the dam was seconds from total collapse. You, on your hands and knees, tried to summon your power to help, but only weak sparks flickered. You could only watch, helpless, as John wrestled the monstrosity.

Finally, John found an opening. He jammed a jagged piece of rebar into a seam in the brute's neck armor, twisting with all his strength. The enhanced enemy gurgled, eyes wide with shock, then collapsed, dark fluid welling around the impaled metal.

John staggered back, breathing in ragged gasps, blood dripping from his mouth and a gash on his forehead and cheekbone. He turned towards you, relief warring with urgency on his battered face. "Y/N! Come on!"

He took a step towards you.

***KABOOM!***

The hidden C4 charge, likely planted as a final trap or triggered by the collapsing structure, detonated directly beneath where the brute had fallen. The force was cataclysmic. The floor erupted in a blinding fireball and a shockwave of pure destruction.

You were lifted off your feet and hurled backwards like a ragdoll, straight towards the gaping maw where the access chamber met the sheer cliff face and the roaring river far below.

John reacted on pure instinct. He didn't think. He leaped. Not away from the blast, but towards your tumbling form. He tackled you mid-air, wrapping his arms and body around you, pinning you flush against his chest. He twisted violently in the air, bringing his shield around to face the expanding fireball and the falling debris.

You, battered consciousness clinging by a thread, felt the searing heat, heard the deafening roar. With the last vestige of your power, amplified by adrenaline and sheer will to survive, you threw up the strongest telekinetic shield you could muster. It wasn't a bubble, but a concentrated barrier layered over John's physical shield, reinforcing it.

The combined blast wave and plummeting debris slammed into both. John's shield buckled under the impact, the kinetic force driving the breath from his lungs. Your psychic barrier flared blindingly bright, absorbing the worst of the energy, then shattered like glass, the backlash snapping your head back with a cry. You were falling, tumbling through smoke and debris, the world a chaotic blur of fire, dark rock, and churning white water rushing up to meet you both.

The icy embrace of the river hit you like a sledgehammer. The impact drove you deep into the freezing, turbulent darkness. John's grip on you never loosened, his shield still instinctively angled to deflect the chunks of concrete raining down around them. You went limp in his arms, the stimulant's false energy utterly spent, consciousness fleeing as the freezing water and crushing pressure claimed you. Both plunged into the depths, locked together, swallowed by the river and the roaring aftermath of the dam's final death throes. The surface, and the world above, vanished.

--

The Quinjet shuddered violently as Yelena wrestled it through the maelstrom. Lightning strobed against the reinforced viewport, illuminating the grim tableau within. Bucky Barnes lay strapped to a med-cot, unconscious, face pale beneath smears of grime and blood. Alexei Shostakov slumped against a bulkhead, teeth gritted, his leg hastily bound with torn fabric already soaked crimson. Ava Starr hovered near Bucky, her hands clenching into fists of frustrated impotence. The acrid smell of burnt wiring, blood, and ozone hung thick in the recycled air.

Yelena’s knuckles were white on the controls. Every jolt of turbulence sent fresh agony rippling through the cabin. Alexei hissed a stream of Russian curses. Ava flinched, her form flickering like a dying bulb. Below them, the churning blackness where the dam had been, was swallowed by the storm unleashed. Where John and you had fallen.

“They…” Ava’s voice was a ghost of itself, barely audible over the engines and thunder. “…they pulled us out. All of us. While the place was coming down.” Her eyes fixed on the black void beyond the viewport. “We just… left them.”

Yelena didn’t turn. Her gaze remained locked on the navigation screen, a muscle jumping in her jaw. “There was no choice, Ava,” she stated, her voice clipped, devoid of its usual sharpness. It was a cold, hard fact. “Bucky is out. Alexei can’t walk. We can barely stand. Going back into that collapse, in this storm, with hostiles likely still active? It’s suicide. And it wouldn’t have helped them.” The words tasted like ash. The logic was sound, the reality brutal.

The quinjet flew over the area several times, scanning for signs of either of you, but no sign appeared. "Shit," Yelena cursed under her breath as a tear escaped and ran down her cheek. There was nothing they could do now.

Alexei slammed a massive fist against the bulkhead, making the jet vibrate. “Pizdets! Trapped! Like rats! And those two… throwing themselves into fire!” His anger was a mask for the helplessness twisting his features, the pain making his eyes glassy. He’d seen Walker’s desperate shove that saved Bucky, seen you, veins standing out like dark cords on your neck as you pushed your telekinesis past breaking to shield them all for those critical seconds.

The Tower’s landing pad emerged like a mirage through the lashing rain. Bob -  looking worried – stood braced against the gale under the meager shelter of the entrance canopy. His eyes widened as the battered jet touched down, engines screaming against the wind.

He was moving before the ramp fully lowered, ducking under the downpour. His fingers fidgeted nervously with the hem of his sleeves. His expression was pure anxiety. He helped Bucky.  “What happened? Where’s— “. His eyes scanned the emerging, limping figures. “Where’s Y/N? John?”

Yelena pushed past him, water streaming down her face, her movements stiff with exhaustion and concealed injury. Alexei hobbled heavily, leaning on Ava, providing support, her face etched with hollow exhaustion. They moved with the grim focus of survivors desperate for sanctuary.

Bob’s gaze darted between them, searching faces that refused to meet his. “Guys… Yelena!” His voice rose, sharp with dawning dread, cutting through the roar of the storm. “Where are they?”

Yelena stopped. Rain plastered her blonde hair to her skull. She finally looked at him, and the raw, uncharacteristic sheen in her eyes – a mix of fury, bone-deep fatigue, and a grief she couldn’t yet name – was more terrifying than any enemy. Her voice, when it came, was low, hoarse, stripped bare.

” They didn’t make it to the jet.”

A beat of crushing silence, filled only by the howling wind.

” We’ll find them.”

The promise was fierce, absolute, but it landed like a stone in the pit of Bob’s stomach. Didn’t make it. It wasn’t confirmation of death, but it was the void of uncertainty, the image of that collapsing dam face and the raging river below.

The sterile brightness of the Tower’s med bay was a jarring contrast to the chaos they’d left. Doctors and med-techs that were sent by Val, swarmed Bucky and Alexei. Ava sank onto a gurney, her form shimmering weakly as the adrenaline crash hit. Yelena stood rigidly by the window, watching the storm rage against the panoramic view of the city, her arms crossed tight as if holding herself together.

Bob paced, anxious energy radiating off him. “We have to go back! The jet— “.

“The jet wouldn’t survive takeoff in this, Bob,” Yelena cut in, still staring out at the lightning forking across the sky. “It’s a Category 5 system sitting directly over the impact zone and the river basin. Winds are tearing trees out of the ground. Visibility zero. Thermal scans are useless. Any search pattern would be suicidal and blind.” She finally turned, her gaze meeting his, hard and pragmatic despite the exhaustion. “We are no good to them dead. Or captured again.”

Ava spoke softly from her gurney, drawing a thermal blanket around her shoulders. “They saved us. Dragged us out one by one while the C4 timers were counting down… John carrying us… Y/N using the last of her focus to shield Bucky…” Her voice cracked. “We failed them.” The quiet admission hung heavy in the antiseptic air.

“You´re talking as if they were… they… they are ok, right? Yelena?” Bob looked for an affirmation that no one could give.

Yelena didn’t look at him. She couldn’t.

Alexei, gritting his teeth as a med-tech examined his leg wound, growled, “Walker is cockroach. Hard to kill. And Y/N? That witch has tricks even Satan doesn’t know. If anyone survives falling off a dam into hell’s bathtub… it’s them.” It was bravado, but laced with a desperate hope they all clung to.

Bob slumped into a chair, running his hands through the hem of his hoodie. The image of John, arrogant and broken, and you, fierce and fragile, facing that explosion… it was seared into his mind. The frustration was a physical ache.

Monitors beeped softly. Rain lashed the windows. The storm outside mirrored the tempest within the med bay – the howl of helplessness, the thunderclap of guilt, the relentless downpour of fear for their missing, broken comrades. They were safe, patched up, sheltered. But two vital, volatile pieces of their fractured family were out there, somewhere in the dark and the drowning rain, fighting a battle for survival they might already have lost.

---

The river hit like concrete. The cold wasn’t just cold; it was a shock that seared his nerves, punched the air from his already bruised lungs, and sent agony screaming through his broken ribs. Water, thick with mud and debris, swallowed you both whole. Darkness pressed in. The current was a living thing – a monstrous, churning serpent dragging them deeper, tumoring them violently against submerged rocks. Splintered wood from the dam slammed into John’s back. He gritted his teeth against a scream, swallowing icy water that burned like acid.

You were unconscious. Utterly still in his arms. Dead weight in the murderous flow. Panic, colder than the river, seized him. No pulse? Drowned? He couldn’t check. Not yet. Survival first. He clamped his arms around your torso, locking you against his chest with a grip fueled by desperation and failing adrenaline. His legs kicked furiously, fighting the downward suck of the current. Every movement sent shards of glassy pain through his ribs. His vision pulsed black at the edges. Air. Need air.

Debris battered you both – chunks of concrete, twisted rebar, branches torn from the banks. One branch scraped across his temple, legs and arms. Blood swirled, dark tendrils in the murk. He saw the surface – a shimmering, distorted silver sheet – impossibly far above. He kicked harder, ignoring the fire in his chest, the screaming protest of his muscles. Your head lolled against his shoulder, your face deathly pale, lips tinged blue. Hold on. Just hold on.

The ascent felt like an eternity. His lungs screamed. Spots danced before his eyes. His kicks grew weaker, more erratic. Just as darkness threatened to consume him completely, his scrabbling hand slammed against something solid and unmoving – a massive, algae-slick boulder wedged deep in the riverbed. Anchor. With a final, Herculean heave fueled by pure terror for the woman in his arms, he pushed off the rock, driving you upwards with his legs.

Both breached the surface with a gasp that was half sob. John choked, spewing river water, sucking in great, ragged gulps of rain-lashed air that felt like knives in his chest. He immediately tightened his grip on you, keeping your head above the churning surface. The current was still fierce, trying to rip you from his grasp. He scanned the bank – steep, muddy, treacherous. Twenty yards downstream, a slightly less vertical slope offered a chance.

Every stroke was agony. He swam one-armed, clutching you with the other, his legs churning against the current. Debris continued to pummel you both. He took a glancing blow from a floating log on his already injured ribs. Stars exploded behind his eyes. He tasted copper. Don’t drop her. Don’t you fucking drop her. If he drops you, you are dead. He reached the muddy bank, clawing at roots and slick earth with his free hand. It gave way. He slid back. Tried again. Finally, he hooked his arm around a thick, exposed root, anchoring you. Heaving, gasping, trembling with exhaustion and pain, he dragged you first, then himself, onto the cold, sucking mud beyond the water’s reach.

He collapsed beside you, chest heaving, each breath a wet, rattling gurgle that terrified him. Punctured lung? Rain sheeted down, plastering his hair to his face, washing mud and blood in runnels down his skin. He rolled onto his side, ignoring the protest in his ribs, and pressed trembling, numb fingers to your throat.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Weak. Erratic. But there. Relief, sharp and dizzying, washed over him, almost as potent as the pain. You were alive. Unconscious, hypothermic, and utterly vulnerable, but alive. He checked your breathing – shallow, but present. No major bleeding he could see, but the pallor, the blue lips… Hypothermia.

He had to move. You couldn’t stay here, exposed on the bank. The storm he didn’t even know when it started, was worsening; thunder boomed like artillery, lightning fracturing the sky. The forest loomed, dark and unwelcoming. He had no idea where you were. Miles from the dam? Further? Direction was meaningless. Shelter. Fire. Now.

Gritting his teeth, John pushed himself up. Agony lanced through his side; he choked back a cry. Then, with a groan that ripped from his soul, he bent and gathered you into his arms. You were slight, but dead weight was dead weight, and his body was a symphony of broken parts.

He walked.

The forest floor was a treacherous mix of mud, slick leaves, and hidden roots. Rain lashed his face, blinding him. Wind howled through the trees, sounding like lost souls. Every step sent jolts of pain through his ribs and up his spine. His breathing grew more labored, the wet rattle deepening. He stumbled often, catching himself against trees, jarring his injuries, and nearly dropping you. Each time, he tightened his grip, whispering hoarse, unheard reassurances: ” Hold on, Y/N. Just hold on.”

Hours bled together in a haze of pain, cold, and exhaustion. Night, absolute and suffocating, broken only by the terrifying strobe of lightning. The temperature plummeted. His shivering became uncontrollable tremors. You remained frighteningly still in his arms, your skin icy even through your soaked clothes. He talked to you, nonsensical things, just to stay conscious, to fight the creeping numbness in his own mind.

” Remember the gym? You… you slammed me good… arrogant bastard, yeah… deserved it…”

” Stupid damn mission… I’m going to kill Bucky… if we live…”

” Don’t you die on me, witch… not after… all this…”

Doubt gnawed at him. Was he walking in circles? Was he taking you deeper into nowhere? He was running on fumes, on sheer, stubborn willpower forged in a hundred hellholes. But even that was fading. His vision tunneled. His legs felt like lead. He was going to collapse. You were both going to die here, cold and broken in the dark.

Then, during a blinding lightning flash, he saw it. A stark, angular silhouette against the roiling sky, nestled in a small clearing ahead. An old cabin. Wooden walls weathered grey, roof sagging, windows dark and gaping like empty eye sockets. Abandoned. Possibly unstable. But shelter.

A surge of desperate hope, sharp as the pain in his side, propelled him the last hundred yards. He stumbled into the small, overgrown clearing, collapsing to his knees just feet from the rickety porch. He gently lowered you onto the relatively drier ground under the eaves, then slumped forward, forehead pressed to the muddy earth, gasping, coughing violently. Blood speckled the mud. Bad. Getting worse.

Summoning the last dregs of his strength, he crawled onto the porch. The door hung askew on rusted hinges. He shoved it open with his shoulder, the screech of metal echoing unnaturally loud in the storm’s din. The interior was a single room, thick with dust, cobwebs, and the smell of decay and rodent droppings. Empty. Dank. But blessedly dry and out of the punishing wind and rain. A stone fireplace dominated one wall. A rusted metal bedframe with collapsed springs and a thin mattress stood in a corner. A rickety table and one chair lay overturned. And a door leading the way to a small bathroom.

It wasn’t salvation. But it was a chance.

John dragged you inside, then collapsed beside you, shivering violently on the dusty wooden floor. The storm raged outside, a furious counterpoint to the terrifying silence within the cabin and within you. You both were alive. Barely. Trapped. Injured. And the true battle – against their wounds, the cold, the ghosts of your past, and the terrifying vulnerability of your present – was just beginning.

The world tilted violently. Darkness pulsed at the edges of his vision, promising sweet, painless oblivion. Just rest… just a moment… you lay crumpled on the dusty floorboards a few feet away, your stillness more terrifying than the storm’s fury outside. Your skin was the color of river silt under the flickering glare of lightning.

No. The thought was a guttural command, ripped from the core of his military conditioning. Fire or die. He forced his eyes open, blinking against the dust and rainwater stinging his vision. The stone fireplace yawned before him, filled with ancient ash and the skeletons of long-dead birds. Agony was a living thing coiled around his ribs, tightening with every shallow, wet gasp. Punctured lung. Definitely. He dragged himself forward on his elbows, each movement a fresh hell. The floorboards felt like ice against his soaked pants.

Gathering tinder was torture. Brittle twigs blown into a corner. Dry moss peels from between the wall logs. He found a few pages of a disintegrated journal under the bedframe.

Desperation clawed at him. He fumbled through his boot, fingers brushing cold metal— the hilt of his combat knife. He dragged it out, its blade glinting dully in the gloom. Steel and flint. The knife’s hardened spine. He scanned the debris near the hearth, vision swimming. A fist-sized chunk of quartzite, fractured and sharp-edged, lay half-buried in ash. He seized it. Flint. Numb, blood-slicked fingers positioned the knife’s spine against the quartzite, angled over the dry journal page. His first strike was weak, clumsy. The blade skittered, producing only a pathetic shower of white sparks that died instantly on the stone. Focus. For her. He sucked in a searing breath, ignoring the coppery taste flooding his mouth, and struck again. Harder. *CRACK.* A single, bright spark leapt, landing on the paper. It glowed orange for a heart-stopping second… then faded to grey. A sob of frustration choked him.

“Come on you fucking shit,” he cursed, frustrated.

He struck a third time, pouring every shred of will, every ounce of failing strength into the motion. *CRACK-SSST.* A cluster of fierce sparks rained down. One caught, a tiny, defiant ember on the paper’s edge. He dropped the stones, cupping his shaking hands around the fragile glow, blowing with agonizing gentleness—each exhale a rattling cough that brought fresh warmth to his tongue. The ember pulsed, breathed, then bloomed into a frail, hungry tongue of flame, licking at the dry moss. The fire grew, casting long, desperate shadows that danced like specters on the decaying walls. Heat. Life.

Heat began to seep into the frigid air, a tangible promise. Now the wet clothes. His own were easier, in theory. Peeling the soaked undershirt over his head was an exercise in pure agony. Broken ribs grated. He cried out, a harsh, animal sound swallowed by thunder, as the fabric pulled free. His torso was a canvas of brutal purple bruising spreading across his left side, a shoulder, and back, scrapes, and the angry, reopened gash on his temple. He shivered uncontrollably despite the growing fire’s warmth. Then he slowly took off his boots and pants.

He crawled to you. The intimacy was clinical, born of dire necessity, yet it felt like a profound violation – of you, of the unspoken war between both.

“Don’t hate me for this…” he whispered.

His numb fingers fumbled with the zipper of your tac vest, then your tactical shirt. Every brush against your icy skin sent a jolt through him. He worked methodically, focusing on the task, refusing to let his gaze linger… until he had to lift your limp torso to pull the sodden fabric free.

Lightning flashed, illuminating your bare shoulders, the stark lines of your collarbones, the faint tracery of old scars he’d never seen, and the intricate, swirling tattoo of thorns and daisies in the left part of your lower belly. He didn’t know you had. Well, why would he know that? He thought it was sexy, but seeing it now, on her vulnerable, near-lifeless form, was a punch to the gut. If you survive this, he would ask you about it.

He looked at the bruises already blooming on your ribs from the river rocks and his desperate grip. Your trousers were next, a necessary, awkward struggle. He left you in your underwear. Your legs had big bruises too.

He placed the clothes near the warmth of the fire to dry and managed to find a couple of old blankets in a small cabinet in the bathroom of the abandoned cabin. “Thank God,” he murmured.

He dragged you near the fire. As he worked, the silence pressed in, broken only by the storm and the crackle of the fire. The pain, the exhaustion, the sheer, overwhelming aloneness with your unconscious form cracked something open inside him. Words spilled out, raw and unfiltered, a desperate ramble to keep himself conscious, to fill the void where your sharp wit should be.

“Gotta… gotta stay awake, Y/N,” he rasped, his voice thick with pain and fatigue. He gently rolled you onto the blanket near the hearth, then collapsed beside you, dragging half the blanket over himself. He propped himself against the wall, inches from you. The firelight played on your pale face.

“Know I’m… an idiot,” he confessed, the words slurring slightly. His head lolled back against the wall. “Arrogant bastard. Screwed up… everything. Cap. Lemar. My family…” A wet, rattling cough shook him. He spat blood-tinged phlegm into the dust. “But you… You never let me forget it. Hated that. Hated you for it.” A weak, pained chuckle. “Love the way you hate it… when I call you ‘witch’.” He turned his head, his blurring gaze finding your profile. “Eyes flash… like lightning. Gets me every damn time.”

He was drifting. The warmth was a seductive trap. He fought it, focusing on your face. “You’re… amazing. Always thought that. Even when you were… crawling inside my head. Messing with me.” His breath hitched. “Five nights… Saw things… Felt things… Shoulda have made me hate you more. Didn’t. I think… I never did.” He swallowed hard, the admission scraping his throat raw. “Scared the hell outta me. Still does.”

He pulled the heavy blanket over you both, tucking it awkwardly around your shoulders, his movements growing slower, more uncoordinated. The effort drained the last dregs of his strength. He slumped lower against the wall, his shoulder brushing yours. The firelight painted the cabin in shifting oranges and deep blacks. Dust motes danced in the air. Outside, the wind screamed like a banshee.

His gaze, clouded with pain and encroaching unconsciousness, settled on your face. So still. So unlike the fierce, defiant woman who haunted his days and invaded his nights. A surge of something vast and terrifying – regret? Tenderness? – washed over him, colder than the river. His hand, trembling violently, lifted with monumental effort. His calloused, blood-streaked fingers, infinitely gentle, brushed a strand of wet, dark hair from your icy forehead. The touch lingered, a silent benediction in the howling dark.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words barely audible over the storm and the crackling fire. It was an apology for everything: for the thoughts, for the dreams he shouldn’t have craved, for the cruel words in the gym, for failing to protect you better, for dragging you into his wreckage, for the terrifying, unwanted truth of ”That’s the problem.”

The final thread of consciousness snapped. His hand fell limply onto the blanket beside your shoulder. His head slumped forward, chin resting on his chest. His labored, wet breathing grew shallower, more erratic. The firelight glinted on the sweat and rain still beading on his bruised skin. He was out. Utterly spent. Broken. Beside the woman who was his poison and his only solace, in the fragile sanctuary of firelight, while the relentless storm raged its fury against the decaying walls of the abandoned cabin.

---

Consciousness returned to you like a thief in the fog. First came the pain: a migraine jackhammering against the inside of your skull, a deep, hollow ache in your bones, and a terrifying absence where your telekinesis usually hummed. Then came the sensations: gritty dust beneath your cheek, the rough weave of an unfamiliar blanket, the dry, smoky scent of a dying fire, and a residual, fragile warmth radiating from embers glowing feebly in a stone hearth.

Fire?

Your eyes fluttered open, vision swimming. Darkness, punctuated by the dull orange pulse of the embers and the sporadic, blinding flash of lightning through grimy windows. Rain hammered relentlessly on the roof. Where…? Fragmented memories slammed into you: the concussive roar of C4, the sickening lurch of freefall, the crushing embrace of water, the terrifying stillness of John Walker shielding you as both plunged… John!

Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the disorientation. You jerked your head to the side.

There he was. Slumped against the rough stone wall beside you, head lolled forward onto his chest, utterly motionless. The firelight painted stark shadows on the brutal map of bruises discoloring his torso – deep, angry purples and blues blooming across his ribs and shoulder. Your clothes were gone, replaced by the scratchy, moth-eaten blankets pooled around you both. The clinical logic of hypothermia prevention registered dimly, overshadowed by the sheer vulnerability of his stillness.

“Walker?” Your voice was a dry rasp, barely audible over the storm and the frantic thudding of your own heart. You reached out, fingers trembling, and tapped his shoulder. No response. Not even a flinch. “Hey!” Louder now, laced with a fear you couldn’t contain. You pushed yourself up on one elbow, ignoring the lance of pain in your head, and shook him harder. “John! Wake up!”

Silence. A stillness deeper than sleep. Deeper than exhaustion.

No. No, no, no. The panic surged, icy claws digging into your chest. You’d been out for hours. How long had he been like this? You scrambled closer, the blanket falling away. Your hands, cold and shaking, cupped his face, lifting his head. His skin was clammy, pale beneath the grime and the bruise on his temple. His breathing… You strained to hear… it was shallow, wet, and terrifyingly irregular. A horrible, rattling gurgle accompanied each weak inhale.

Inside. The realization was a sucker punch. No gaping wounds, just the horrific bruising. Internal injuries. Bleeding. A punctured lung. Things that killed slowly, agonizingly, without immediate, advanced medical care. Things you didn’t have.

He needed a healer. You were the healer. But you were a drained battery, a cracked vessel. The stimulant crash had left your mind a desert, your psychic reserves scoured raw. Telekinesis was a distant dream. Healing? It felt impossible, but you had to do something.

He shielded you. Took the blast, the fall, the river rocks. Carried you for miles. Lit the fire.

Why? Why did he do it? He should have been on that jet. Safe. He’d saved the others. He’d earned his escape. Instead, he’d thrown himself back into the inferno for you. Grabbed you when the enhanced brute had you by the throat, pure oxygen cut off, terror blinding you. Jumped towards you as the world exploded, wrapping himself around you like human armor as both plummeted into darkness. Taking the impact, the cold, the pain… all for you.

You couldn’t lose him. Not like this. Not after that. Not after everything.

“Okay, okay…” you whispered, more to yourself than him. “Okay, John. Hold on.” Gritting your teeth against the migraine’s scream, you placed your palms flat against the worst of the bruising on his ribs. You closed your eyes, reaching inward, searching for the faintest spark of your power in the desolate void.

Nothing. Just the gnawing emptiness, the psychic equivalent of static.

“Come on,” you pleaded, voice cracking. “Come on, please.” You pushed, mentally scrabbling against the walls of your own exhaustion. A faint, sickly flicker of silver light sparked beneath your palms, then died instantly. Pain lanced through your temples. You whimpered.

He walked for hours. In agony. For you.

You took a shuddering breath, forcing yourself into a semblance of calm you didn’t feel. Focus. Breathe. He needs you. You drew in air slowly, deeply, ignoring the way it made your ribs ache. You visualized the power not as a raging river, but as a single, stubborn ember in the ashes of your mind. You nurtured it. Fed it with sheer, desperate willpower. For him.

A soft, silvery glow began to emanate from your palms, weak at first, like moonlight through thick cloud. It grew steadier, brighter, infused with tiny, dancing sparks of energy that moved around your hands, posing directly into his bruised ribs. The light seeped into his skin, illuminating the network of damaged tissue beneath. As your power connected, fragments of his recent memories flooded your mind, vivid and overwhelming:

The Chokehold, your own face, contorted in terror, feet dangling. The crushing pressure on your throat. His raw, blinding panic – sharper than any battlefield fear – as he charged, roaring your name.

The Fall, The deafening blast. Debris flying. Your body tumbling through smoke. His desperate leap, arms outstretched. The impact of catching you, the jarring pain in his ribs instantly eclipsed by the primal need to shield. The terrifying rush of air as both fell.

The River, Cold like a thousand knives. Darkness. Your limp weight in his arms. The crushing fear you were gone. The agonizing fight against the current, every kick a torment. The desperate scramble onto the mud.

The Walk, The crushing weight of you in his arms. Agony screamed through his side with every step. The relentless cold, rain, and wind. The terrifying stillness of your face. His voice, raw and broken, whispering: ” Hold on, Y/N… Don’t you die on me, witch… not after… all this…” The sheer, grinding willpower it took to keep moving, driven only by the need to save you.

The Fire, The agony of stripping your wet clothes, the clinical detachment warring with something deeper, more terrifying, when he saw the tattoo on your vulnerable skin. His rasping confession by the firelight: ” Love the way you hate it… when I call you ‘witch’… Gets me every damn time… You’re amazing… Scared the hell outta me…” The profound gentleness of his fingers brushing your hair from your forehead. The crushing weight of his whispered ”I’m sorry” before oblivion claimed him.

Tears streamed down your face, hot against your cold skin. You saw it all – his pain, his fear, his sacrifice, his regret, and the terrifying, unwanted depth of his feelings laid bare in delirium and desperation. It wasn’t just duty. It was him. John Walker, broken and arrogant and impossibly complex, choosing you against all logic, against his own survival.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, not just for your past cruelty, but for the cost he was paying now. The silver light flared brighter, fueled by your grief, your guilt, and a sudden, fierce protectiveness. You focused your dwindling power, directing it into the shattered ribs, the bruised lung, knitting torn tissue, and stemming internal bleeding. It was excruciating work. Your migraine intensified into a white-hot agony. A trickle of warm blood seeped from your nose. A metallic taste filled your mouth. Your hands trembled violently over his ribs, the light flickering precariously.

You pushed harder. He pushed for hours. For you. The light stabilized, pulsing with your own heartbeat, sinking deeper into his battered body. You felt the ragged wetness in his breathing begin to ease, the terrible rattle softening. The bruised tissues beneath your palms seemed to warm, the angry discoloration subtly lightening at the edges.

You knew you’d pass out but it was the least important problem right now. Your injuries would heal on their own. This was the most important right now. Save him.

The last vestiges of your power drained away. The silver light winked out. Darkness rushed in, not just around you, but within. The migraine became an all-consuming void. The world tilted violently. You had nothing left. Not a spark.

With a soft, broken sigh, you collapsed forward. Your forehead came to rest against John’s sternum, just above where your hands still lay over his healing ribs. Your tears soaked into his skin. Your body was a lead weight, wracked with shivers that were no longer just from the cold. You felt the faint, steadying rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. Stronger now. Clearer.

He was breathing. He was alive. That’s all that matters.

The fire had dwindled to embers. The storm still raged. And you, the fierce telepath who weaponized vulnerability, lay broken and unconscious across the chest of the man who had weaponized sacrifice to save you, your hand curled protectively over his heart.

---

John surfaced slowly, painfully, from the depths of exhaustion. The first sensation was warmth. Not the fierce blaze of the fire he’d lit, but a softer, more persistent heat pressed against his side. Then came the dull, familiar ache – remnants of trauma, fatigue deep in his bones – but crucially, the knife was gone. How long has he been unconscious? His ribs, while tender, didn’t scream with each breath. His lungs drew air cleanly, deeply, without the wet, drowning rattle. He knew instantly, viscerally: you did this.

He cracked his eyes open. Firelight, low but steady now, flickered in the hearth. You were curled against him, your head resting just below his collarbone, one arm flung loosely across his waist. The moth-eaten blankets covered you both. Your breathing was slow, deep, and the harsh lines of pain and strain smoothed from your face in sleep. Utterly drained, yet peaceful.

A little smile touched his lips, fleeting and private. You’d been a ghost, a ruin, and still you’d scraped the bottom of your shattered power to pull him back. You’d fought death for him, just as he’d fought the river and the storm for you. You both were a mess, a toxic tangle… but damn if you weren’t a team when the world tried to break you both.

He shifted his gaze to the grimy window. Beyond the streaked glass, daylight fought a losing battle. The storm raged on – rain sheeting down, wind howling through the pines, turning the forest into a writhing, grey-green sea. The ancient trees blocked what weak light dared penetrate, casting the cabin in perpetual, storm-choked twilight. More than twelve hours. Maybe a full day lost to pain and oblivion. He didn’t even know. The team… Bucky, Alexei, the others… they wouldn’t be coming. Not in this. They’d be licking their own wounds, grounded by damage and weather. The thought brought no anger, only weary acceptance. You were on your own.

But the clawing fear of imminent death had receded. You were battered, exhausted, stranded… but not dying. Not anymore. Survival now meant rest, recovery, and waiting out nature’s fury to find a way back to the tower. He gently adjusted the blanket around your shoulders, tucking it against the chill seeping through the cabin walls. The simple act felt monumental. He looked at you again, he could appreciate your profile, his thumb gently caressed your cheek, slowly, all the way down to your chin. You were warm again. He smiled, then he closed his eyes, not to sleep deeply, but to drift, lulled by the drumming rain and the warmth of the woman who’d somehow become his anchor in the wreckage.

--

When you stirred, it was to profound disorientation. The migraine’s iron grip had loosened to a dull throb. You felt… warm. Properly warm, deep-down warm. And comfortable. Not slumped against cold stone, but cushioned. You blinked open heavy eyelids. Firelight danced on rough-hewn wooden walls. You were… on the bed. The rusty springs groaned faintly beneath you. Your clothes – dry and smelling faintly of woodsmoke – brushed softly against your skin.

How? The last thing you remembered was collapsing forward, your forehead hitting John’s chest, utterly spent after pouring the dregs of your power into him. You hadn't been in bed. He must have… moved you. Lifted you, injured and exhausted as he still was, and placed you here. For comfort. The realization sent a shy, unexpected warmth blooming in your chest, separate from the fire. A small, tentative smile touched your lips as you pushed yourself up slowly, relief washing over you as the movement didn’t spike your headache.

You scanned the cabin. The fire was brighter, healthier – he’d tended it. Logs crackled, casting long, dancing shadows. But John wasn’t there. A prickle of unease, quickly dismissed. He wouldn’t leave. Not now.

The cabin door creaked open, cutting through the storm’s drone. John stumbled back inside, soaked to the skin. Rainwater streamed from his hair, plastering dark strands to his forehead and temples. Droplets traced paths down his stubbled jaw, his neck, dripping onto the bare skin of his torso. He shook his head like a dog, spraying water, wincing immediately as the motion jarred his still-bruised ribs and shoulder. Deep purple blooms still marred his skin, stark against the pallor left by exhaustion and cold. Fresh scratches from the forest laced his arms.

Your eyes met across the dim space. A heavy, electric silence hung in the air, thick with everything unspoken: the river, the healing, the confessions whispered in firelight, the raw vulnerability of your survival. The easy venom was gone, replaced by a profound, awkward tension. It felt like the fragile, charged quiet after their brutal gym fight, stripped even of sarcasm’s armor.

"You're awake." His voice was flat, devoid of inflection, a careful neutrality. He shut the door against the howling wind. "How do you feel?"

You met his gaze, the shy warmth retreating behind a familiar, instinctive wall. "Fine," you replied, your tone matching his careful evenness. You gestured vaguely towards him with your chin. "You?"

He peeled off the soaked upper tactical clothes, revealing the full map of bruises and healing cuts. He moved stiffly, deliberately. "Better." He draped the wet garment over the broken chair near the fire, steam already beginning to rise from it. The firelight played over the planes of his chest, the water gleaming on his skin, the stark evidence of his sacrifice for you. He was handsome, you thought again, the observation startling in its clarity and unwanted intensity. You quickly looked away, focusing on the rough-hewn wall beside the bed.

He approached the bed, movements still careful. In his hand were a few handfuls of small, dark wild berries – serviceberries or juniper, perhaps – and some wrinkled, earthy-looking tubers. "Found these," he said gruffly, holding them out. "Not much. Won't poison us." He’d gone out alone, into the storm-lashed woods, foraging for you both.

Your expression softened, just for a moment. The gesture, small as it was, pierced through the awkwardness. "Thanks," you whispered, taking the meager offering. Your fingers brushed his, cold and wet. A tiny spark, quickly suppressed.

He didn't linger. “In the bathroom, there is a towel and water, if you need it.” He added, retreating to his chosen spot – the far wall, opposite the bed – he slid down to sit on the dusty floorboards, back against the wood, putting deliberate distance between you. He stretched his legs out with a barely audible groan, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, looking utterly spent despite the healing. The silence descended again, heavier this time, filled only by the crackle of the fire, the drumming rain, and the unspoken weight of the past days.

After a long stretch of quiet, broken only by the storm’s fury, he spoke without opening his eyes, his voice a low rumble. "Storm’s gotta break sometime. When it does… we walk. Find a road. Get to the Tower." A statement of fact. A plan. Something solid in the uncertainty.

Silence answered him. You picked at the berries, the tart burst on your tongue a small anchor to the present. You watched him across the firelit space – the exhausted soldier, the man who carried you for miles, the man whose deepest fears and unwanted desires you’d seen flicker in his memories. The man sat as far away as the small cabin would allow. The silence wasn't hostile. It wasn't comfortable. It was simply… there. A fragile truce woven from shared trauma, exhaustion, and the terrifying, unacknowledged shift in the war between them. You waited, not just for the storm outside to pass, but for the one within to find its new, uncertain shape.

The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was a live wire strung taut between you, humming with everything unsaid. You sat rigidly on the edge of the old bed, picking listlessly one more of the bitter berries. The fire crackled, the only sound besides the relentless drumming of rain on the roof and the occasional groan of wind in the ancient timbers. John remained against the far wall, a brooding statue carved from shadow and exhaustion, eyes closed but jaw clenched. The air felt thick, suffocating.

He could feel your anger. It radiated off you in waves, a psychic heat even without your powers actively projecting it. It wasn't the sharp, defensive anger of your usual sparring. This was deeper, darker, simmering with self-loathing and a terrible, gnawing guilt. It scraped against his own raw nerves.

He could hear your breathing a little loud, he knew and could feel your brows were furrowed, your shoulders were tense, and the way you ate the berries, not even enjoying them. He knew, even without having to see you.

"You're pissed," he stated flatly, not opening his eyes. It wasn't a question.

Your head snapped up. "What gave me away? The near-death experience? The hypothermia? Or maybe it was watching you almost die on the floor because of me?" Your voice was low, dangerous, each word a shard of ice.

John’s eyes opened, sharp and weary. "I didn't die. You fixed me. Again." He said flatly. "And it wasn't because of you. It was for you. There's a difference."

"Semantics!" You spat, surging to your feet. The berries were scattered forgotten on the dusty floorboards.

“You’re pissed because I saved your life?! You should thank me, witch!” he said, anger growing inside him now.

“Don’t call me that!” Her index finger pointed at him with anger. "It’s the same damn cycle! You throw yourself into the fire, I drag you out, we hate each other a little more, rinse, repeat!”

“What the fuck was I supposed to do? Let you die?” he asked in disbelief.

“You should have left! I…” You shouted. Your hand rested on your forehead for a moment as you found the words. “Why, Walker? Why keep doing this?"

"Maybe because someone has to!" he shot back. He pushed himself off the wall, wincing only slightly. The movement was deliberate, testing the fragile tension, taking a step closer. The space between you crackled. "Maybe because when that psycho had his hand around your throat, all I saw was red! When that dam blew, all I knew was I had to get to you! Is that so hard to understand?"

"YES!" You screamed, the sound raw and startling in the confined space. "Because it’s stupid! Because you should have been on that jet! Because you knew what I was doing to you! You knew it was me in your head, twisting your dreams, playing with your desires like some sick puppet master for five nights straight! And you just… let me!"

And in a heartbeat, the whole conversation changed. It wasn't just about the mission anymore; it was about everything. Everything that wasn't resolved came out in an outburst driven by anger and frustration.

He stopped advancing, his face hardening into a mask of bitter comprehension. "Of course I knew! From the first goddamn night. That sensual whisper that sounded just a little too much like your sarcastic bite? The way the illusion felt… familiar? Like it was pulling from something real I shouldn't have wanted? Yeah. I knew."

Your breath hitched. The admission hung between you, heavy and damning. "Then why?" You demanded, your voice trembling now, laced with fury and a terrifying vulnerability. "Why didn't you stop me? Barricade your mind? Throw me out? If it felt so violating, why let me keep crawling back inside?!"

A harsh, humorless laugh escaped him. He took another step, then another, closing the distance with predatory slowness. His gaze was intense, serious. "Why? For the same reason you didn't slam the door shut on my thoughts. When I’d think things… deliberate things… loud enough for the telepath next door to hear. When I’d imagine what it would feel like to pin you against that gym wall for something other than a fight. When I’d picture shutting that smart mouth up with something other than an insult."

You froze, your back instinctively seeking the solidity of the cabin wall behind you as he advanced. Your eyes were wide, pupils dilated, reflecting the flickering firelight and a dawning horror.

"You heard those, didn't you?" John pressed, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. He was close now, close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from his battered body, smell the damp earth and rain on his skin. "Every single one. Loud and clear. And you didn't stop me. You didn't throw up a shield. You didn't call me out. You just… listened."

He stopped inches from you, forcing you to crane your neck to meet his burning gaze.

“You know damn well the reason. So you tell me why.” He waited for your answer, but you didn’t say anything, you looked down.

You were always that smart and confident woman who answered his advances without fear, always pushing a little further. But in this moment, in front of him, totally vulnerable, angry, and frustrated. You chickened out, not knowing what to say, or how. You didn't want to admit it, but deep down, you were afraid. Not of him, but of what you felt. That feeling was so powerful that even without having him yet, you were already afraid of losing him. And he knew this, he saw it and felt it. But this was it, you have to face it and say it out loud once and for all. And seeing you hesitating made him more frustrated.

His hand came up, not to touch you, but to slam his fist into the rough wooden wall beside your head with a thunderous *CRACK* that made you flinch. Dust rained down.

"WHY, Y/N?!" he roared, the sound raw, scraping his throat. The carefully maintained control was gone, obliterated by exhaustion, pain, and too long time of pent-up, toxic longing. "Jesus! Tell me why you let me scream those thoughts into your head if it disgusted you so much!"

You tried to turn your head away, tears welling hot and furious in your eyes. "Stop it, John—"

"NO!" He leaned in, his other hand bracing against the wall on your other side, effectively caging you. “You are pissed, aren’t you? Let it all out, it’s damn time. No more running away.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you… I…”

His breath fanned your face, hot and ragged. "Stop being a GODDAMN COWARD! Stop running! Stop hiding behind your powers and your sarcasm and your goddamn walls! We’re past games! Past dreams! Past screaming our feelings through psychic static and fistfights!"

You looked at him, your eyes widened.

His voice dropped again, thick with a desperation that bordered on agony. "Tell me what you want. Right here. Right now. No more lies. No more illusions. Just the fucking truth."

Your chest heaved. You tried to shove against his chest, but he was an immovable force, fueled by a lifetime of frustration and a revelation that couldn't be contained. "Get off me,"

"TELL ME!" he demanded, his forehead almost touching yours, his eyes boring into yours, demanding surrender. "Say it! Scream it! Whisper it! I don't care! But say what you really want! Because I am so tired... so goddamn tired... of pretending..."

He paused, the words catching, the admission a seismic shift in the foundation of your war. His voice cracked, raw and utterly vulnerable, stripped bare of every defense. "...that I'm not desperately, completely, fucked-up-ly in love with you!"

Silence.

Deafening, absolute silence. Even the storm seemed to hold its breath.

You stared at him, your eyes impossibly wide, the tears spilling over, tracing paths through your cheeks. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. The world narrowed to the cage of his arms, the intensity in his shattered blue eyes, the brutal honesty of his confession hanging in the charged air between you like a physical thing. The carefully constructed fortress of your anger, your guilt, your control, crumbled into dust. He’d reached through the wreckage, past the violence and the manipulation, and laid his broken heart bare.

And in that terrifying, silent void after the explosion of his truth, the only sound was the frantic, shared hammering of your hearts.

The silence after his confession wasn’t just absence of sound; it was a physical pressure, thick and suffocating. You stared up at him, trapped between the unyielding wall and the heat of his battered body. His bare arms, corded with muscle and marked by deep purple bruises from carrying you, from shielding you, from surviving for you, framed you like prison bars you never wanted to escape. Tears, hot and unchecked, mirroring the rainwater still tracing paths down his own skin.

"What?" The word was a broken whisper, torn from a place of raw disbelief. Had the river water filled your ears? Had the psychic burnout finally shattered your mind? Love. He’d said love. Not obsession, not twisted desire born of conflict, but love. The word felt foreign, terrifying, impossibly large in the decaying cabin where you’d only ever known how to wound.

He didn’t retreat. He leaned in, his forehead brushing yours, the contact sending a jolt through both of you. The dam holding back his truth had burst, and the flood was dark, fierce, terrifyingly honest.

"I want you," he rasped, the words rough gravel against the charged air. "Not in some fucked-up dream, not as some twisted game. You. All your sharp edges, your vicious tongue, your goddamn terrifying power, the way you look at me like you want to set me on fire and put me out." His breath hitched, a wet sound that spoke of lungs still healing, of emotions too long caged. "I love you, Y/N. I’m in love with you. And when you crawled into my head… yeah, it was a violation. It was cruel. But I let you stay because I liked it, and so did you. I craved it. Because it was the only way I could feel you… touch me… want me… without you pulling a knife or slamming me through a wall." His voice dropped, raw with a vulnerability that stripped him bare. "It was the only way I could pretend, for five fucking nights, that you might… love me back. Even just a little. In a dream."

He pulled back just enough to see your eyes, his gaze burning into yours, demanding an answer. The predator wasn't hunting prey anymore; he was offering his own throat.

You flinched, looking down, unable to bear the intensity. The weight of his confession, the sheer, terrifying size of his feeling, crushed you. "I… I don't know how," you stammered, the tears flowing freely. "What to do. I don't… I don't know if I am good. If I can be… good. For you. After everything… the dreams, the fights, the… the control…" your voice cracked. "I break things. I hurt you…”

A harsh, almost tender sound escaped him. He cupped your face, forcing you to meet his eyes again. His thumbs brushed away your tears, a gesture so achingly gentle it shattered your defenses completely. "We’re both fucked up, Y/N," he said, his voice low, intense. "We’re broken, we’re intense, we’re probably a little crazy. But that doesn’t mean we don’t deserve… this. I love you. And I know," he insisted, his gaze holding yours prisoner, "I know you love me too. You just have to stop being afraid of it. Stop being afraid of us."

You saw it then, reflected in his eyes – not just his love, but his own bone-deep fear of rejection, of being unworthy. The same fear that had always made you lash out first. You hesitated, not because the feeling wasn’t there – it was a supernova threatening to consume you – but because the sheer immensity of it terrified you. Could you hold it? Could you possibly be enough for this damaged, brilliant, infuriating man who had carried you through hell?

He waited. The silence stretched. He saw the hesitation, the flicker of fear winning. His eyes shuttered, the fierce hope dimming. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He started to pull away, his hands leaving your face, his body turning slightly, the movement radiating a crushing resignation. He’d laid his soul bare, and the silence was his answer. He thought you wouldn’t say it.

In an instant, different memories of moments appeared in your mind: the dreams you both saw that last night before the mission, your deepest desires, your desire to be with him and send everything to hell. Because you deserved it, you both deserved it. To feel love and everything that entails, to face it together without thinking about the future.

You remembered his smile, his real smile, when he wasn't carrying the usual weight on his shoulders, and the intense, carefree gaze of those impossible blue eyes when they rested on you. You wanted to always see him like that, you wanted to be the cause of that smile that melted your heart. You wanted to be happy with him. You wanted all. And in that moment, your walls finally fell.

The sight of him retreating, of that raw vulnerability hardening back into familiar, weary defeat, was the final push.

"John."

His name, a desperate whisper, stopped him cold. He froze, half-turned, not daring to look back.

Your voice, when it came, was soft, trembling, but utterly clear in the storm-lashed cabin. "I've always loved you."

He turned back slowly, disbelief warring with dawning, incredulous hope in his eyes. He searched your face, finding only the raw, terrifying truth mirrored in your tear-filled gaze. No sarcasm. No armor. Just you, finally, devastatingly, open.

He closed the distance in one stride. Your hands, small and cold, lifted instinctively, pressing flat against the center of his chest, over the fierce, steady beat of his heart. The heart you’d mended. The heart that was yours. You could feel the powerful thud beneath your palms, the warmth of his skin, the faint ridges of scars earned in battles long before you met.

"I thought I would lose you," you breathed, voicing your deepest, most primal fear – the fear that had driven your cruelty, your control, your desperate dream-weaving. The fear that had almost become reality. "Down there… in the water… on the floor… I thought you were gone. I was scared.”

He didn’t speak. Words were useless now. His hands, calloused and strong, came up to frame your face, his thumbs tracing the line of your jaw, wiping away the last traces of tears. His gaze held yours, blue eyes blazing with an intensity that stole your breath. In that look, you saw everything: the years of conflict, the shared trauma, the unbearable longing, the fierce protectiveness, your fear, your guilt, your fire, the love that had always burned beneath the venom, and finally, the bone-deep relief that you were here, alive, and finally his.

He dipped his head slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn’t. You tilted your face up, meeting him halfway.

The kiss wasn't hesitant. It wasn't a tentative exploration. It was a reunion. Slow, deep, and profoundly meaningful. It was the sealing of a pact forged in blood, water, and fire. It was the end of a war and the terrifying, exhilarating beginning of something entirely new. His lips were firm yet yielding against yours, tasting of rain and exhaustion and a sweetness you’d never imagined. He kissed you like a man drowning who’d finally found air, like a soldier laying down his weapons after a lifetime of battle.

It was a kiss that spoke of love fiercely won, of wounds acknowledged but not defining the future. It was a kiss that melted the icy core of your fear, replacing it with a warmth that spread through your entire being, making your legs tremble and your heart pound against your ribs in a rhythm that matched his own.  Inside, within the circle of his arms, against the wall where your war had finally ended, there was only this: a deep, abiding stillness, a profound understanding, and the slow, sweet burn of a love that had finally broken free.

The first kiss had been a revelation—soft, deep, and trembling with the weight of everything unspoken. But now, restraint was a distant memory. The fire between you, long fed by cruel games and aching restraint, roared to life, consuming you both. 

Soon, his hands were everywhere, mapping your body with a reverence that bordered on worship. He took his time, savoring every inch of you, learning the way you shivered when his lips traced the delicate shell of your ear, the way your breath hitched when his teeth grazed the column of your throat. His touch was deliberate, possessive, as if he needed to memorize you—every curve, every scar, every place that made you gasp. 

You arched into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, nails scraping his scalp in a silent demand for more. He growled against your skin, the sound vibrating through you, dark and approving. His hands—rough from battle, yet unbearably gentle—slid down your sides, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. He wanted to leave marks, to claim you in ways no dream ever could. 

"Do you remember my thoughts?" His voice was a rough whisper against your pulse, sending a shudder through you. "The dreams?" 

You did. Every single one. The way he’d imagined you beneath him, over him, wrecked by him. The way he’d wanted to hear you say his name like a prayer, like a curse. 

His lips crashed back into yours, swallowing your moan as his tongue swept against yours, hot and demanding. He tasted like salt and smoke, like the storm outside and the fire between you. One hand pinned your wrists above your head, his grip unyielding, while the other traced the bruises left on your neck by the enemy who’d dared lay hands on you. His mouth followed, pressing tender, reverent kisses over each mark, as if he could erase the violence with devotion. 

"Mine," he growled against your skin, the word a dark promise. "No one touches you like this. No one hurts you. No one takes from you. Not ever again." 

You whimpered, your body alight, every nerve singing under his touch. The contrast was intoxicating—the way he could be both tender and ruthless, how his hands could be gentle even as his grip on your wrists tightened. He was overwhelming, all-consuming, and you never wanted him to stop. 

His free hand slid lower, tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, before gripping your thigh and hitching it around him. The sudden press of his body against yours drew a ragged gasp from your lips. He was already hard, so hard, and the friction was maddening. 

"Tell me what you want," he demanded, his breath hot against your lips. "Say it. I need to hear it."

You didn’t hesitate. "You, John. All of you. Now."

A dark, satisfied sound rumbled in his chest. He kissed you again, deep and filthy, before murmuring against your mouth, "Good. Because I’m not stopping until you forget every dream, every thought, every fucking second you ever doubted this."

And God, he made good on his word.

The storm outside raged, a furious counterpoint to the tempest both unleashed within the cabin’s decaying walls. That first tender kiss had ignited a fuse, and now the explosion consumed you both. Restraint, honed through months of bitter games and desperate denial, shattered completely. What remained was a raw, devouring hunger – a love forged in darkness, tempered by violence, and now blazing with an intensity that threatened to burn you both to ash.

He meant every growled word, every possessive claim. His fingers, calloused from combat yet shockingly deft, played at the hem of your tactical shirt. The rough fabric was a final, flimsy barrier. He pushed it up, inch by agonizing inch, his knuckles brushing the burning skin of your abdomen. You gasped, a sound swallowed instantly by his mouth as he reclaimed your lips. It was wet, messy, a clash of teeth and tongues fueled by desperate need. He could taste the faint, tart ghost of the berries you’d eaten, a fleeting sweetness lost beneath the overwhelming salt of sweat and the primal, metallic tang of want.

Your hips arched instinctively, seeking the hard, demanding pressure of him. The friction was electric, maddening, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest. He loved it – loved your involuntary surrender, the way your body answered his even as you tested his control. You strained against the iron grip pinning your wrists high above your head, a token resistance that only fueled the fire. The sheer, effortless strength it took to hold you there – vulnerable, exposed, utterly his – sent a dark thrill through you. God, you loved it. Loved his dominance, the unyielding certainty of his possession in every touch, every kiss, every graveled word.

His free hand slid fully under your shirt, a brand against your heated skin. There was no hesitation, only a reverence bordering on obsession as his palm smoothed over the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist. He wasn't just touching; he was mapping, claiming, worshipping. His mouth left yours, trailing a searing path down your jaw, finding the column of your throat. He bit down, not gently, a sharp, possessive sting that drew a sharp cry from your lips – a cry that melted into a shuddering moan. His teeth grazed the marks, a dark promise whispered against your pulse.

"Mine," he repeated, the word vibrating against your skin. "Every scar, every gasp, every fucking tremor. Remember the dreams, Y/N? How I wanted you just like this? Pinned. Wanting. Mine." His voice was thick with dark intent, filthy and thrilling. He spoke of the fantasies he’d projected, the illicit thoughts he’d broadcast, not with shame, but with a fierce, possessive pride. He’d wanted you to know, to feel the depth of his twisted craving even then.

The raw, unfiltered obsession in his tone, the way his fingers dug possessively into the flesh of your hip, the relentless pressure of his body holding yours immobile against the wall – it was intoxicating. It made you tremble, not with fear, but with a desperate, writhing need. This wasn't gentle love; it was a conflagration. It was dark, possessive, undeniably toxic in its intensity, yet it resonated with the deepest, most fractured parts of your soul. It fueled your own fire, making you crave more – more of his bruising touch, more of his filthy promises, more of the all-consuming oblivion only he could offer. You loved this dangerous, consuming side of him, the side that mirrored your own hidden shadows. He wasn't just loving you; he was devouring you, and you surrendered to the feast, arching into the storm of sensation, lost to everything but the feel of his hands, his mouth, his body, and the dark, possessive love that bound you together in the heart of the tempest.

The cabin, the storm, the world beyond ceased to exist. There was only him, the heat, the pressure, the delicious, terrifying sense of being utterly claimed, and the shared understanding that this was your ruin and your salvation, forged in fire and finally embraced.

His lips swallowed your gasp as his hands framed your face, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. The angle was perfect—dominant, possessive—allowing him to plunder your mouth with slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue.

His body pressed flush against yours, the hard planes of his chest and abdomen molding to your softer curves. Every inch of him was sculpted, honed by war and violence, and you reveled in it. Your fingers traced the ridges of his abs, the powerful swell of his pectorals, before gripping his arms. His biceps flexed under your nails, the muscles taut from the force of holding you in place. He was strong—brutally, beautifully strong—and the raw masculinity of him made you weak. 

He smirked against your lips. The bastard. He knew. He knew exactly what you loved, what made you melt, what made you his. 

"You love that, don’t you?" His voice was rough, dark with amusement and something far more dangerous. 

You didn’t answer—couldn’t. Not when his knee pressed between your thighs, parting them just enough to send a jolt of pleasure through you. A moan tore from your throat, and he swallowed it greedily, as if your sounds were something to be devoured. 

"Fuck," he growled, pulling back just enough to watch you. His thumb brushed your lower lip, swollen from his kisses, and his gaze burned with something feral. "Look at you. Already a mess, and I haven’t even touched you properly yet." 

You were a mess. Breathless, trembling, your skin flushed with heat. Your fingers dug into his arms, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping you upright. And maybe he was. 

His eyes darkened as he took you in—the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips parted on shaky exhales, the way your body arched toward his, seeking more. Needing more. 

"I remember," he murmured, voice thick with lust, "exactly how I imagined you’d sound. How you’d feel." His hand slid down your throat, over the frantic pulse there, lower, lower—until his fingers brushed the waistband of your pants. "And now I get to find out." 

A shiver wracked your body. 

He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring, and the sound he made was almost animalistic. "I can smell you," he rasped. "Fuck, it’s intoxicating."

You whimpered, your nails biting into his skin. 

He grinned—a slow, wicked thing. "Tell me you want this." 

You didn’t hesitate. "Yes."

His grip tightened. "Say it." 

"I want this. I want you." 

His mouth found yours again as his hands tore at your tactical shirt. Fabric ripped, buttons scattered like fallen stars across the dusty floorboards. The sports top beneath followed, baring you to the waist in the firelight’s flickering embrace. Cool air ghosted over your skin, instantly replaced by the searing heat of his palms.

His touch wasn’t gentle; it was a claim. Calloused fingers mapped the delicate landscape of your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. His mouth followed, a scorching brand descending from the hollow of your throat, across the slope of your shoulder. He worshipped you not with reverence, but with the desperate hunger of a man starved. When his lips closed over the peak of your breast, hot and wet and demanding, a ragged cry tore from your throat.

One large hand slid down, possessive and firm, cupping the curve of your backside, squeezing with a familiarity that made you gasp, then laugh breathlessly against his hair. "Forgot you were obsessed with my ass," you managed, the words thick with arousal.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his own eyes dark pools of molten desire. A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. "Guilty," His thumb traced the swell possessively. "Don’t worry. I’ll give it the worship it deserves… soon." The promise was a dark caress before his mouth descended again, capturing your other breast, his tongue swirling, teeth grazing lightly, drawing another deep, shuddering moan from your core.

Your head fell back, eyes squeezing shut, lost in the onslaught of sensation. His free hand roamed your back, tracing the line of your spine, pressing you impossibly closer. "So fucking beautiful," he rasped against your damp skin, the words vibrating through you. It wasn’t just admiration; it was awe laced with dark possession. A soldier kneeling before a goddess forged in battle and fire, his devotion fierce and consuming.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, not pushing him away but anchoring yourself, pulling him harder against you. He answered with a sharp nip below your collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark – a dark, blooming bruise against the pale canvas of your skin. A brand. His brand. You cried out his name, a raw, broken sound that seemed to ignite him further.

Abruptly, he straightened, pulling you flush against him for a searing, possessive kiss. Then, with effortless strength, he turned you. Your palms slammed against the rough, cold wood of the cabin wall, a shocking contrast to the heat radiating from his body pressed tight against your back. Your spine arched instinctively, pushing your ass against the hard ridge of his arousal. His arms banded around your waist like iron, holding you captive, his hands sliding up to cup the weight of your breasts, thumbs circling the hardened peaks, drawing gasping whimpers from your lips.

His mouth found the exposed column of your neck, teeth scraping, tongue soothing, as you willingly tilted your head to the side, offering him everything. One of your hands remained braced against the wall, the other flew back, fingers twisting in his hair, holding him to your skin. He groaned, the vibration a dark rumble against your throat.

Your hard nipples and breasts pressing against the wall, feeling the cold in your feverish skin was an exquisite sensation.

His hands began a slow, deliberate descent. Palms smoothed over the trembling plane of your stomach, the dip of your navel, the soft skin of your lower belly. The anticipation was agony, exquisite and sharp. Then came the sound – the deliberate, agonizingly slow scrape of his knuckles against the fabric of your pants. His fingers found the button. The snick of it releasing echoed like thunder in the charged silence. The zipper followed, a slow, torturous descent that bared your skin inch by inch to the cool air and the heat of his intent. His breath hitched against your neck, a low growl building in his chest. The storm raged outside, but the true tempest was here, pinned between the cold wall and the inferno of his body, waiting for the final barrier to fall.

His left hand splayed possessively across your lower belly, holding you firm against him, a hot brand searing through the thin fabric still separating you both. His right hand… Gods, his right hand. Fingertips brushed the delicate lace edge of your underwear, a maddening whisper of contact that had your hips jerking back involuntarily, seeking friction, seeking him. The hard ridge of his arousal pressed against your backside, drawing a guttural groan from deep in his chest that vibrated through your entire being. His lips traced a path of fire – open-mouthed, wet kisses down your neck, across the slope of your shoulder, along the upper ridges of your spine. Each kiss was a brand, a claim laid over the marks of battle.

Desperation clawed at you, a primal need that overrode thought. You pressed back harder, grinding against him, a silent, urgent plea. The groan that tore from him this time was pure animal hunger, followed by a sharp, possessive bite on your earlobe. "John," you gasped, the single syllable thick with everything you couldn’t articulate – the eagerness, the raw desperation, the dark, consuming obsession that mirrored his own. It was a volatile cocktail, terrifying and perfect.

He chuckled, a dark, knowing sound that rumbled against your skin. "Yes?" he murmured, feigning innocence even as his teasing fingers dipped lower, tracing the lace hem, deliberately avoiding the aching heat beneath. The denial was exquisite torture. Your eyes squeezed shut, breath coming in ragged pants. "Touch me," you begged, the words torn from you, raw and vulnerable. "Please."

The sound of your plea, laced with need, seemed to ignite him further. He laughed again, low and dangerous, a predator savoring its prize. "Yes, ma'am," he breathed against the shell of your ear, the formal address a shocking contrast to the intimacy, sending another violent shiver cascading down your spine.

Then, finally, his fingers slid beneath the waistband of your pants, encountering only the thin barrier of damp lace. The groan he let out wasn't just arousal; it was awe. His breath hitched, his brow furrowing as he encountered the undeniable, slick evidence of your desire. "Jesus Christ, baby," his voice was thick, rough with wonder and fierce pride. "You're soaked." The revelation thrilled him – that just his kisses, his touch, his presence could reduce you to this state. It was power, it was validation, it was intoxicating. He was doing this. To you.

Your lips parted on a silent cry as his fingers pressed against you through the lace, the contact electric even through the fabric. He worked with agonizing slowness, tracing patterns that promised everything and delivered nothing substantial, his teeth grazing and biting the sensitive skin of your shoulder, leaving fresh marks while his hand teased your core. Your hips moved of their own volition, seeking more pressure, more friction, your mind dissolving into a haze of pure sensation. "God..." escaped you, a broken sound.

His fingers moved the fabric to the side so he could finally feel your warm and wet pussy. It was amazing. You moaned louder, lost in the perfect sensation. “Oh, yes, John!”

You were so warm, wet, sensitive and terribly aroused that almost made John cum right there.

His hand moved faster for a fleeting, blissful moment, applying just enough pressure to make you cry out, before abruptly withdrawing.

A protest died on your lips, silenced before it could form. He didn't give you time. Strong hands gripped your hips, spinning you slightly as he sank to his knees behind you. The cool air hit your exposed skin as, in one swift, decisive motion, he tugged your pants and underwear down your legs, discarding them. The vulnerability was absolute, obscene. And utterly exhilarating. You looked at him over your shoulder.

"I can't wait anymore, baby," his voice was a dark rasp, filled with a hunger that matched your own. "I need to taste you." His hands returned to your hips, fingers digging in possessively as he pulled you back towards him. Instinctively, you arched your back, presenting yourself, offering everything to him. Just him.

The sight that met him stole his breath. Firelight danced on smooth skin, illuminating the slick evidence of your desire trailing down your inner thighs. The position was profoundly intimate, vulnerable, and charged with a dark, beautiful obscenity. A low growl of pure appreciation rumbled in his chest. "So fucking perfect..." The words were barely a whisper, a reverent observation before he closed the distance.

His mouth found your core with a reverence that bordered on worship, yet held the fierce intensity of a conqueror claiming his prize. The first touch of his tongue – hot, wet, seeking – was a lightning bolt. Your hands flew back, fingers tangling in his hair, not to guide, but to anchor yourself as the world dissolved into the exquisite, devastating sensation of his mouth on you, devouring you with a hunger that mirrored the storm raging outside the cabin walls. The storm within had found its perfect, devastating expression.

His mouth was relentless—hot, wet, and devastatingly skilled. Every flick of his tongue, every deliberate stroke, sent waves of pleasure crashing through you. You were drowning in sensation, your fingers clawing at the rough wood of the cabin wall for purchase, your knuckles white with the force of your grip. His hands held you firmly in place, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your backside, opening you more to have better access and ensuring you couldn’t escape—not that you wanted to. 

He pulled back only for a moment, his lips and beard glistening, his breath ragged. "You taste exquisite, baby," he growled, voice thick with reverence and raw hunger. The words sent another shudder through you. He wasn’t just enjoying this—he was consumed by it. 

“I could live between your legs all my life, sucking your sweet pussy nonstop.”

Then his fingers joined the assault, sliding into you with effortless ease, curling just so, drawing a broken cry from your lips. His eyes darkened as he watched you, mesmerized by the way your body arched, the way your breath hitched, the way you fell apart under his touch.

He could swear he was in heaven right now. That sight made his pupils dilate even more: your pussy completely soaked, dripping down your legs and the floor. Your hole sucking in his fingers as he pushed them in and out. He was mesmerized. He has been dreaming of this exact moment, and now it is a reality. And couldn’t get enough.

"Jesus fucking Christ..." he muttered, his own control fraying at the edges.

“Fuck, look at you baby, you’re dripping, hot, so desperate for me. I love your pussy, I can’t get enough,” his fingers never stopped.

This was better than any fantasy, any dream. This was real—your taste, your sounds, the way you trembled for him. 

"I need more," he rasped, before diving back in, his mouth sealing over you once more. His tongue worked in sinful harmony with his fingers. He licked your folds with expertise and hunger again and again. He didn’t stop. Then, he alternates between licking and sucking your clit, his mouth closing around your sensitive pearl, sucking gently at first and adding more pressure then.

“Open your legs wider for me, baby,” he commanded. And you obeyed. His palms squished your ass harder as his mouth ate roughly your pussy. He was so fucking starved and your dripping pussy was his feast. His head moves up and down to let his mouth eat you out all the way through your clit, folds, and hole.

He was savoring everything you offered him, and the sounds that he made while his mouth sucked at your cunt and his fingers came in and out of your hole without mercy, were so erotic and filthy.

The combination pushed you higher, faster, until you were gasping and moaning his name like a prayer. 

"John! Oh my god—don’t stop, please! Don’t stop!" Your voice was raw with desperation, your legs shaking violently as the pleasure coiled tighter, tighter— 

And then it shattered you. 

Your climax crashed over you in a relentless wave, your body bowing under the force of it. Your head and arms leaned on the wall for support. He didn’t relent, didn’t give you a moment to recover—he devoured you through it, drawing out every last tremor, every aftershock, until you were limp and trembling. 

Only then did he finally pull away, rising to his feet slowly, while his lips left little gentle kisses all the way up your spine. His arms wrapped around your waist, steadying you. His hands turned you gently, bringing you to face him. You were dazed, wrecked, your lips parted, your eyes glazed with pleasure.

"You okay?" His voice was rough but impossibly tender. 

You couldn’t speak. You nodded weakly, your breath still uneven. Your entire body is still trembling.

"Good." His thumb brushed your swollen bottom lip, his gaze burning into yours. "Because now..." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch featherlight. "I’m going to make you mine."

The promise in his voice—dark, possessive, final—sent a fresh wave of heat through you. 

His fingers, still slick with your arousal, traced your lips. Without hesitation, you opened your mouth, taking them in, your tongue swirling around them in slow, deliberate strokes. His breath hitched, his eyes turning black with lust. You held his gaze the entire time, a silent challenge, a surrender. 

When you finally released him, you purred, low and satisfied. 

"Fuck." His voice was wrecked. "You are so fucking sexy."

And then he kissed you—hard, deep, and filthy—claiming your mouth with the same intensity he had claimed the rest of you.

The kiss dissolved into something primal, messy with shared breath. His hands didn't fumble; they moved with deliberate, lethal grace to his belt buckle. The rasp of leather sliding free, the snick of the button, the agonizingly slow descent of the zipper – each sound was a drumbeat in the charged silence, amplified by the storm outside and the tempest within. His eyes never wavered from yours, holding you captive with a gaze that promised possession, worship, and ruin all at once.

When he finally pushed his clothing away, revealing himself fully, it wasn't just his arousal that commanded attention. It was the raw, powerful masculinity, the strength etched into every line of his body, the lingering bruises – badges of sacrifice for you. He was painfully hard, magnificent in his intensity, a force of nature barely contained. He was big, thick, with a prominent vein deliciously adorning its length. He was beautiful, and so painfully hard.

You bite your lip again, hard enough this time that a bead of crimson welled. His gaze tracked the tiny rivulet, a dark fascination flaring in his eyes. Before you could react, his thumb swept the blood away, then his tongue followed, a hot, intimate stroke that tasted your fear, your excitement, you. He sealed the taste with another kiss, fervent and deep, sharing the coppery intimacy, binding you further.

Then his hands were under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly against the rough cabin wall. The sheer, unthinking strength of it – the ease with which he held you suspended – stole your breath, sending a fresh jolt of desperate need through your core. Your hands flew to his neck, fingers digging into the corded muscle there, anchoring yourself as your bodies slammed flush together, skin slick with sweat and desire. Your breathing was ragged, desperate gasps mingling in the small space between your mouths.

His hand slid between your tightly pressed bodies, fingers finding your heat, slick and ready. He teased, circling, applying maddening pressure just outside where you needed him most. "This," he rasped, his voice thick with dark triumph, "This is all I dreamed about. For so long..." The confession vibrated against your lips. Your head thumped back against the wall, a low whine escaping you as you arched, hips seeking friction, seeking him. A predatory smirk touched his lips. "You want it so desperately, witch?" The old nickname, laced now with dark possession, ignited you. Your nails raked down his shoulder, finding the deep purple bruise marring his skin. He groaned, a sound of exquisite pain-pleasure, and you captured his mouth again in a kiss that was pure fire, pure love, pure claiming. "Yes," you gasped against his lips, the words raw, stripped bare. "I want you so badly, John. Please, fuck me.”

It was the final surrender he craved.

He filled you slowly, achingly, a searing stretch that stole your breath and made you cry out against his mouth. Heat radiated from the point of connection, spreading through you like molten gold. For a heartbeat, he held still, buried deep, letting you feel the sheer, overwhelming reality of him. Then the stillness shattered. He moved, a driving rhythm that started deep and claiming. His gaze dropped between you both where you were connected. The sight of it, filthy and hot, sent a wave of fire through his body. His cock, incredibly hard, slowly enters your pussy, pushing impossibly deep, disappearing inside you, and then pulling out just to repeat the process again and again and again nonstop. His cock is fully covered with your slick.

“This is so fucking amazing… Look at this beautiful mess.” He said mesmerized.

You felt every inch of him, his pace was an amazing agony. God, you regretted all the time you both wasted fighting instead of being together fucking like this. This moment didn’t even finish, and you were already thinking about all the places and ways he could fucked you again.

You felt so good, he felt so damn good. He knew what he was doing, he knew exactly how you like it and when, and Jesus, was that even possible?

You loved every second of it, but you wanted more; you needed to feel that devastating orgasm again.

“Oh God, please… Faster!”

His pace quickly escalated into something rougher, more desperate, fueled by your plea and months of pent-up longing and the raw edge of your shared darkness.

The sound of his skin against yours was maddening, so obscene.

You were a symphony of sensation in his arms – a gasping, moaning mess, your head thrown back, your body arching to meet every powerful thrust. He watched you, utterly enthralled. The sight of you unraveling for him, the sounds you made – raw, desperate, his – the sheer, unguarded love and desire shining through the ecstasy… it was more exquisite, more beautiful, than any dream. He couldn't get enough. His mouth found the column of your throat again, not gentle now, but claiming. Your skin was shining with light perspiration, and he felt the salty taste with his lips and tongue. Kisses morphed into sharp nips and possessive sucks, leaving a constellation of darkening marks on your skin – a map of his ownership.

“Jesus! I can feel the way your pretty pussy is clenching my cock, baby,” his eyes closed for a moment, focusing on that exact feeling. “It drives me mad, fuck!”

A sharp hiss escaped him when your wandering hand found another deep bruise on his shoulder. But instead of recoiling, his rhythm increased, becoming harder, faster, driving you both towards the precipice. The line between pain and pleasure dissolved into a white-hot blur. He craved your touch, even the sting. "Shit, do that again," he begged, his voice wrecked.

You obeyed, fingers pressing deliberately into the tender flesh. A shudder wracked him, a groan ripped from his chest, and his grip on your thighs tightened, fingers digging into the soft flesh with bruising force. “Oh my God!”, you moaned wildly, lost in the maelstrom. “Mark me. Claim me, John!” He loved every single one of your words. In response, he adjusted the angle slightly, sinking impossibly deeper, hitting that place that sent stars exploding behind your eyelids. "John! Yes! Right there!" Your cry was frantic, pleading, utterly surrendered. Your nails are leaving red marks on his broad back and shoulders. He groaned with a smirk on his lips.

"Yeah, baby? Right there?" His voice was guttural, strained. "Fuck! You feel so perfect." Your fingers then tangled in the hair at his nape, tugging hard, a silent demand, a shared anchor. The sensation, combined with the relentless pressure inside you and the exquisite sting of your nails on his bruise and the tug of his hair, shattered the last vestiges of control.

The climax hit you both not as individuals, but as a single, detonating force. Yours ripped through you first, a convulsive wave of pure, blinding ecstasy that tore a scream from your throat. He followed instantly, triggered by your clenching heat and the raw sound of your release. He buried himself to the hilt, his own cry a harsh, guttural sound against your skin as he pulsed within you, pouring everything – the love, the obsession, the long time of battle and longing – into that searing connection. It wasn't just pleasure; it was annihilation and rebirth, a claiming so profound it echoed in your very bones.

You clung together, trembling, slick with sweat, hearts pounding a frantic, synchronized rhythm against each other's chests. The storm still lashed the cabin, but inside, there was only the heavy silence of utter saturation, the lingering echoes of your shared fall, and the profound, terrifying beauty of two broken souls finally welded together in the consuming fire of your dark, possessive love. He held your weight effortlessly, his forehead resting against yours, your ragged breaths mingling in the aftermath of the beautiful ruin you’d made of each other.

The world narrowed to the rough wood against your back, the solid heat of his chest against yours, and the profound, trembling connection between you. You stayed locked together, suspended against the wall, breathing harshly into the shared space between your lips. His forehead rested heavily against yours, a point of grounding intimacy. His arms, still wrapped securely under your thighs, keeping you flush against him. The storm outside was a distant roar, the crackling fire a soft counterpoint to the frantic drumming of your hearts slowly settling. He was still buried deep within you, a lingering, possessive anchor in the aftermath of the tempest you’d unleashed.

Eyes closed, you simply existed in the saturated silence. The frantic energy, the desperate need, had burned itself out, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep stillness. A shared exhaustion that was pure, blissful peace.

Slowly, you opened your eyes. His face was inches away, etched with the same dazed satiation you felt. Your hands, trembling slightly, lifted from his shoulders. One traced the strong line of his jaw, rough with stubble. Your thumb brushed the curve of his lower lip, swollen from your kisses. The tenderness of the gesture felt monumental after the raw intensity that had preceded it.

He stirred, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the pad of your thumb. Then, one of his large hands enveloped yours where it rested against his cheek. He brought it to his lips, turning it over to press a slow, reverent kiss into the center of your palm. The warmth of his breath, the soft pressure of his lips against that sensitive skin, sent a fresh wave of quiet emotion through you, entirely different from the earlier frenzy. He held your hand there for a long moment, covering it with his own, pressing your palm firmly against his cheekbone. It was a silent language, speaking volumes of a protective, cherishing love that ran just as deep as the passionate possession.

Your heart clenched, melting entirely. You watched his face, the stark vulnerability in his usually guarded eyes now laid bare for you alone. He opened his eyes then, the deep blue meeting yours, holding your gaze with an intensity that was now tender, not demanding. A soft, utterly genuine smile touched your lips, radiating pure, unguarded love meant solely for him. "I love you, John," you whispered, the words barely audible, yet echoing louder than any shout in the quiet cabin.

He didn't hesitate. A matching smile, startling in its tenderness and lack of cynicism, softened his features. "I love you, Y/N" he murmured back, your name a caress on his lips. It was simple. It was profound. It filled the space between you with a golden light, the shared daze transforming into a deep, settled contentment.

Carefully, reluctantly, he eased himself from your embrace, lowering you gently until your feet found the dusty floorboards. A soft sigh escaped you both at the separation. Without a word, he guided you towards the rickety old bed. He put the mattress on the floor, the old bed wouldn’t support your weights.

He went to the bathroom, took the towel he had found before and dampened it with water, and with surprising gentleness, began to clean the sweat and evidence of your passion from your skin. His touch was meticulous, almost worshipful, a stark contrast to the bruising grip of moments before. He wrapped the thick, musty blanket around your shoulders, tucking it close.

Then, he joined you, settling onto the thin mattress. His strong arms enveloped you instantly, pulling you back flush against the solid warmth of his chest. You nestled into him, your head finding the perfect hollow beneath his shoulder. He rested his cheek against your hair, breathing in your scent –sweat, berries, and you. A profound sense of peace, of rightness, settled over him, deeper and more fulfilling than any victory he'd ever known. He felt… home. Utterly at peace.

For a long while, you both simply lay there, listening to the storm gradually lessen its fury outside, the fire crackle, and the synchronized rhythm of your breathing. Your fingers traced idle, loving patterns on the skin of his chest, over the faint remnants of bruises you’d helped heal and the newer marks you’d left in passion.

"Why," you murmured, your voice husky with spent emotion and contentment, "did it take us so long?"

A low chuckle vibrated in his chest beneath your ear. "Because we're idiots," he stated simply, the truth undeniable. "Stubborn, proud, fucked-up idiots." The shared laughter that followed was warm, free of bitterness, an acknowledgment of your shared flaws and the sheer relief of having finally overcome them.

His hand drifted up, fingers gently tilting your chin so you looked up at him. The playful glint faded, replaced by a deep seriousness. His gaze held yours, intense but soft. "I'm sorry," he said, the words weighted. "For everything I said. Everything I did. That hurt you. The gym... the words... pushing you away when all I wanted was to pull you close."

He continued, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "I wasted so much time. Precious, stupid time. Playing the damaged hero, the unlovable asshole, when all I ever wanted, from the moment you looked at me with those beautiful silver eyes and smiled... all I wanted was this." His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer against the solid warmth of him. "You. In my arms. Safe. Wanted. Loved."

He took a shaky breath, his gaze unwavering, intense. "No more wasting time. No more games. No more hiding. I promise you, Y/N. I promise to take care of you. Not because you need it," he added quickly, a ghost of his old defiance flashing, "but because I want to. Because seeing you safe, seeing you happy... it’s the only mission that matters now."

Tears pricked your eyes, not from sadness, but from the sheer force of his sincerity. "I'm sorry too," you whispered back. "For the dreams. The invasion. Using my power to hurt you instead of loving you as you deserve. Because you deserve to be happy, John." You trailed off. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss, yes, but infused with a profound tenderness and forgiveness that sealed your apologies more effectively than any words.

When you parted, breathless again but in a gentler way, a familiar, roguish grin touched his lips. "Though," he drawled, his thumb brushing your lower lip, "gotta admit... those hot dreams you cooked up? Pretty damn spectacular. Might miss those."

You swatted his chest playfully, laughing despite yourself. "Don’t worry, we’ll make them a reality."

He kissed your temple, pulling you closer.

As drowsiness began to claim you, wrapped in the blanket and each other's warmth, you nestled deeper against him. "Mmm," you sighed contentedly. "First thing when we get back to the Tower... a proper shower. A long, hot one."

He nuzzled your hair, his arms tightening possessively, yet comfortingly, around you. "Deal, and we can make the bathroom dream come true,” he murmured playfully, his voice thick with impending sleep. "But right now... this is perfect."

And it was. In the decaying cabin, amidst the aftermath of the storm and the echoes of your own personal war, you both had found something far more powerful: a fierce, enduring love, forged in fire and tempered in tenderness, finally cradled in peace. You drifted into sleep, entwined, safe, and utterly, completely belonging to each other.

The thin mattress, the scratchy blanket, the lingering scent of woodsmoke and sex – none of it mattered. Both slept deeply, peacefully, tangled together in a way that spoke of profound trust finally won. The frantic energy of the storm, both outside and within your own hearts, had finally quieted.

--

John woke first, as dawn painted the cabin's grimy windows in shades of pale gold and grey. The silence was soft, filled only with the gentle patter of residual rain and your steady breathing against his chest. He lay still for a moment, simply absorbing the reality: the warm weight of you in his arms, the smooth silk of your skin pressed against his side, the utter peace radiating from your sleeping form. A feeling, vast and tender, swelled in his chest, unfamiliar and utterly perfect.

Unable to resist, he pressed a feather-light kiss to the crown of your head, breathing in the scent of your hair – smoke, sweat, and something uniquely you. Another kiss followed, this time on your temple. Then the curve of your shoulder. Each touch was a quiet celebration, a whisper of adoration against your skin. He traced the line of your spine with a gentle fingertip, feeling the subtle shift of muscle beneath smooth skin.

A soft sigh escaped you, a sleepy murmur as you instinctively burrowed deeper into his warmth. He smiled against your skin, continuing his tender assault: kisses along your shoulder blade, the nape of your neck, the sensitive spot just behind your ear. He felt the exact moment consciousness truly returned – a subtle tensing, a deeper inhale, followed by a slow, languorous stretch that pressed your backside more firmly against him, drawing a low hum of contentment from his own throat.

Your eyes fluttered open, blinking slowly in the dim light. You turned your head slightly, finding his gaze already fixed on you, filled with a warmth that made your breath catch. No words were needed. A slow, drowsy smile spread across your face, radiant and utterly unguarded. It was a smile just for him, born of safety and deep, abiding happiness.

"Morning, witch," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep but laced with undeniable affection. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead.

"Morning, soldier," you whispered back, your voice husky. You shifted slightly, turning more fully within the circle of his arms until you faced him, though your back remained nestled against his chest. His arms tightened instinctively, pulling you closer. One hand slid up to cradle your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair, while the other rested possessively, protectively, on the curve of your hip.

Both lay like that for long, precious moments, bathed in the quiet dawn light. Affection flowed between you in a tender current: soft, exploring kisses exchanged without urgency; his thumb tracing idle patterns on the skin of your hip; your fingers lightly tracing the lines of his forearm where it held you. Playful gazes met and held, speaking volumes of shared joy and disbelief that you were finally here. Soft laughter bubbled up over nothing – a shared memory sparked by the creak of the mattress, a silly observation about the dust motes dancing in a sunbeam finally piercing the window.

It was a happiness so profound it felt fragile, yet solid in its newness. The long time of friction, the battles, the cruel words – you were ghosts momentarily banished by the sheer, overwhelming rightness of this quiet intimacy.

Eventually, with a sigh that was part contentment, part reluctant practicality, you began to stir more purposefully. "We should..." you started, making a small movement to sit up.

His arms instantly became steel bands, pulling you firmly back against him. "Nope," he declared, nuzzling your neck. "Stay."

You laughed, the sound bright and warm in the quiet cabin. "John, we have to get dressed. The storm's passed. The team will come looking for us."

He groaned dramatically, burying his face in the curve of your neck and shoulder. "Don't care," he mumbled against your skin, his breath warm. "Want to stay like this. Forever." His hand slid up from your hip to splay possessively across your stomach, holding you close. "Just you. Just like this."

You melted into his embrace for a moment longer, savoring the feel of him – the solid strength, the warmth, the sheer rightness. Then you turned your head, capturing his lips in a slow, sweet kiss that held a promise. When you pulled back, your eyes, soft and full of love, held his. "We will be," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "Like this. Every day. From now on. I promise. But right now," you added with a gentle, teasing smile, "we need pants."

His answering smile was slow, wide, and utterly besotted. He pressed one last, lingering kiss to your lips, then released you with obvious reluctance, his fingers trailing down your arm as you finally sat up.

He propped himself up on an elbow, watching you as you rose. The dawn light caught your silhouette as you moved towards your discarded clothes. He didn't just look; he gazed. With unabashed admiration and lingering awe, his eyes traced the lines of your body – the curve of your back, the dip of your waist, the strength in your shoulders, the soft curves of your backside – now illuminated in the soft, new light. It was a look devoid of simple lust, filled instead with reverence and the sheer, overwhelming love of a man seeing something infinitely precious.

Naturally, John Walker couldn't let the moment pass without comment. A slow, appreciative grin spread across his face. "Y'know," he drawled, his voice still sleep-rough but laced with familiar, playful arrogance, "the view from this angle? Definitely rivals the one last night."

You rolled your eyes, but a blush stained your cheeks, and a smile played on your lips. You bent to pick up his pants, balling them up playfully. "Shut up, Walker," you retorted, your voice fond. With a mock scowl that didn't reach your eyes, you tossed the bundle directly at his head.

He caught them easily, laughing – a genuine, carefree sound that filled the small space. "Just stating facts, sweetheart" he grinned, finally pushing himself up.

Both dressed in comfortable silence. You pulled on your layers, the fabric feeling strangely foreign against skin that still hummed with the memory of his touch. As you fastened your boots, you watched John pull his undershirt over his head. The movement pulled taut the skin over his ribs and shoulder, revealing the deep, lingering bruises – stark purple and blue maps against his skin, souvenirs from the river rocks, the fall, the desperate trek carrying your weight.

A pang went through you. Without a word, you crossed the small space between you. Your hands lifted, palms glowing faintly with the soft silver light of your power, reaching instinctively towards the worst of the discoloration on his ribs. You could mend this. You wanted to mend this last trace of pain he’d endured for you.

But at the moment your palms could make contact, his hands closed gently but firmly around your wrists, stopping you. You looked up, surprised, and a flicker of question in your eyes. The silver light winked out.

He met your gaze, a soft, understanding smile touching his lips. It wasn't rejection; it was something else, something profoundly tender. "Leave them," he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion. His thumbs stroked the inside of your wrists.

"But..." you started, frowning slightly at the vivid marks.

"I know you can," he said, his smile deepening as he looked down at the bruises, then back into your eyes. "But I want to keep them. For a little while."

Your brow furrowed. "Why? They hurt."

"They remind me," he said simply. His gaze held yours, intense and open. "They remind me of this place. Of carrying you. Of keeping you safe. At that moment, everything changed." He released one wrist to gently trace the edge of the largest bruise with a single fingertip, a gesture almost reverent. "I'll never forget, Y/N. Not a second. But these... they're proof. Tangible proof of the day I finally got it right. The day I fought for what truly mattered and won." He brought your captured hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "And you," he added, his voice thick with gratitude, his eyes shining with it, "you've already done so much. You saved me, truly saved me, in more ways than one. Let me carry these. Just for now. A reminder of the battle that brought me home."

Your resistance melted. The love and fierce protectiveness swelling within you transformed into a deep, aching tenderness. You understood. These bruises weren't just injuries; they were medals. Testaments to his sacrifice and your survival. You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss not to the bruise, but to the center of his chest, over his heart. "Okay," you whispered against his skin. "Just promise you'll let me kiss them better later."

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Every damn day, witch," he vowed, pulling you close for a moment, resting his forehead against yours. "Thank you. For everything."

You finished dressing in a silence filled with a new layer of profound intimacy. As John shrugged into his suit over the shirt covering the bruises he’d chosen to keep, you watched him, your heart full. He was a man marked by battles, inside and out. But these marks, borne for you, kept by choice, spoke louder than any words of the fierce, devoted love that now bound you.

Ready, you stood for a moment in the center of the dilapidated cabin. The fire was cold ash now. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams. It was just a ruin, a place of hardship and survival. But to you, it was hallowed ground. The place where walls had crumbled, wars had ended, and two fractured souls had finally, irrevocably, become one – in heart, in flesh, and in spirit.

John reached out, his hand finding yours. His fingers laced through yours, strong and sure. He brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss that was a silent vow. No words were needed. Your eyes met, holding a universe of understanding, love, and the fierce, tender future you would build together.

The morning air was cool and clean, sharp with the scent of pine and damp earth after the storm. Sunlight, bright and hopeful, streamed through the towering canopy, dappling the forest floor in patterns of gold and deep green. You walked hand-in-hand through the quiet woods, the silence between you comfortable, filled with the profound understanding forged in the crucible of the cabin.

The roar of the river grew louder as you approached the bank. It looked different in the daylight – powerful, yes, but no longer the churning monster that had tried to claim you both. Sunlight glittered on the rushing water, transforming it into a ribbon of liquid light cutting through the emerald forest.

You paused, your gaze distant for a moment, a slight frown of concentration touching your brow. A faint, familiar thrum vibrated the air, felt more than heard. A slow smile spread across your face, radiant and relieved.

"They're here," you said softly, your voice carrying over the river's song.

John stopped beside you, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. His eyes, scanning the sky through the gaps in the trees, held a flicker of the old tension – concern for the team you’d fought beside, the family you’d endangered and saved. "Who?" he asked, his voice low, the unspoken question hanging: Are they all okay? After the trap, the dam, our... disappearance?

You turned to him fully, the smile still lighting your features, warm and certain. "All of them," you affirmed, your psychic senses confirming the familiar presences aboard the approaching craft. Relief washed over him, visible in the slight relaxation of his shoulders.

You took a step forward, towards the riverbank, ready to signal your position. But his hand held firm, anchoring you.

"Y/N."

His voice, rough yet impossibly tender, stopped you. You turned back, your breath catching at the intensity in his eyes. The sunlight caught the blue, turning them into deep, clear pools reflecting the forest and your own image. All the guardedness, the sarcasm, the defensive aggression was gone, stripped away. What remained was a love so vast, so fiercely devoted, it stole your breath. He wasn't afraid to show it anymore. Not to you. Never to you again.

He took your other hand, holding them both gently but firmly, grounding you before him. "I love you," he stated, the words simple, profound, and utterly unshakeable. "More than I ever thought possible. More than I deserve." He took a breath, his gaze unwavering, locking onto yours with the same focus he brought to a battlefield, but now directed solely at your future. "I want to pass my entire life with you. Every damn day. Fighting with you, sure," a ghost of his familiar smirk touched his lips, "because let’s face it, we’re both stubborn as hell. But loving you more. Protecting you. Building something real. Something ours." His thumb stroked the back of your hand. "Forever. That’s what I want. You and me."

Your smile blossomed, brilliant and unrestrained, lighting up your entire face, chasing away the last shadows of your past battles. It was the smile of a woman who had fought through darkness and found you home.

He looked down at your eyes, truly looked. The sunlight filtering through the leaves above played across your face – illuminating the curve of your cheek, the determined set of your jaw softened by love, the intelligence and fire in your eyes. Shadows danced like gentle kisses over your skin, contrasting with the golden light. In that moment, framed by the vibrant forest, bathed in the dappled sun, your eyes shining with love and unshed tears of pure joy, John Walker swore he was looking at an angel. His angel. Forged in fire, tempered by war, and utterly, breathtakingly his.

He was no poet. His romance wasn't flowery words or grand gestures. It was this: raw honesty, fierce devotion, unwavering commitment, spoken with the gruff sincerity of a soldier who’d finally found his reason to lay down his weapons and build. And you loved it. You loved him.

He didn't wait for words. He leaned down, his hands releasing yours only to slide around your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your forearms rose, hands cradling the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, almost touching his shield in the process. Your lips met.

It was a kiss that held everything. The slow, deep tenderness was born in the quiet dawn on the cabin floor. The passionate fire that had consumed you in the night. The profound relief of survival. The dizzying joy of promises made and a future claimed. It was love, pure and fierce, sealed under the open sky, by the river that had tried to end you both but instead became the backdrop to your beginning.

His arms held you secure, a shelter against the world. Yours held him close, the anchor to his soul. You breathed each other in, lost in the perfect, silent language of your joined hearts.

In the distance, the distinct, growing thrum of the Thunderbolts Quinjet broke through the forest sounds, a beacon drawing closer. Your family was coming. Home was coming. But for this one, suspended moment, standing on the riverbank bathed in sunlight and shadow, wrapped in each other and the profound peace of love finally, completely won, you and John were already home. Together. And the future, bright and fierce and yours, was just beginning.

Thank you for reading! <3

Tag list: @rm-mononucleosis @alexwinchester23 @blackparacosm @yallgotkik @grathy

[progooner123]

short drabble for my stucky x reader lovers! takes place sometime during or after cacw!

the backseat reeks of leather and a mix of sweat.

steve’s hands dig into your hips, pulling you back onto him with every rough thrust, the rhythm shaking the car with every movement.

your cheek presses against bucky’s thigh, his cock heavy on your tongue. he groans, metal fingers tangling in your hair, guiding you deeper. "fuck, just like that," hips jerking up.

steve’s breath is hot on your skin as he leans down to whisper in your ear. "feel good, sweetheart? takin’ us both?" he drives into you harder.

the stretch almost feels too much, filling you completely.

you whimper around bucky, the vibrations making him curse even more than he already was.

bucky’s thumb strokes your jaw. "so good for us, doll. suckin’ me so pretty while steve fucks you full."

it’s overwhelming, too much – the feeling of steve's cock sliding in and out of you, your tongue working around bucky's, the heat of them both surrounding you in the cramped backseat of the getaway car.

steve’s pace turns punishing as he gets closer. "gonna come," he grunts.

bucky’s head thuds back against the window. "me too. fuck, her mouth—"

bucky spills his cum down your throat with a moan, his head thrown back against the glass of the window. his hands are on your hair, pulling you impossibly closer to choke on his cock and swallow all of him.

steve follows, burying himself deep, pulsing inside you. you could feel his cum filling you up from the inside, white spurts coming out as he thrusts in and out of you.

bucky’s hand gentles in your hair. "easy, doll. easy. we got you."

steve presses a kiss to your spine, still fully sheathed inside you. "we've always got you."

[progooner123]

NEED THIS

I’ve got you, baby

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Authors note: sweet boyfriend Bucky has been on my mind for a while now and today was way too quiet at work so here it is. No real plot, just Bucky being the sweetest and most caring boyfriend one can wish for and taking care of his overstimulated girlfriend. Based on this request. Thank you, dear Anon, for sending it my way!

Warnings: fluff, mild SMUT 18+, more suggestive than real smut

Word Count: 1,5 K

You cry out a sound caught between a sob and a shattered moan, your fingers clutching the twisted sheets beneath you. Your breath stutters, back arcing, head falling helplessly against the mattress. You haven’t just lost count of how many times you’ve come, you’ve lost all tether to reality.

You're so overstimulated, you seem to have forgotten how to speak. Every nerve feels flayed open, raw and humming, as if your skin can no longer tell the difference between pleasure and pain. Your thighs tremble, muscles twitching with every brush of air, every drag of touch that no longer feels real. There’s a buzzing in your ears, a distant roar like waves crashing, or maybe your own blood rushing wild and hot through your veins.

Your chest heaves, lungs barely able to draw breath as you try and fail to come down, even the sheets feel too much, too rough, dragging against fevered skin, making you gasp, flinch, whimper.

“C’mon, baby, give me one more,” Bucky murmurs, voice low in your ear, his hand glides down to your thigh, coaxing it higher around his waist, as he continues pounding into you. “Sweet Jesus, you look so goddamn gorgeous like this, doll. I could watch you come on my cock all damn day.”

Your whole body jolts, legs trembling violently beneath him. “Bucky, I… I can’t…” you gasp, voice catching, breaking apart with the rest of you.

Bucky stills the moment he hears your voice crack, the breathless “I can’t” slicing through his mind like a blade, his hand instantly softens on your thigh, grip loosening, lips brushing against your temple as his chest presses gently to yours.

“Hey, hey… baby,” he breathes, voice softening into something warm and quiet like velvet in the dark. “Shit… I’m sorry, sweetheart. Are you okay? I forgot myself.”

You feel his cock twitch inside you as he eases back just enough to see your face, and before you can stop it, a soft whine slips from your kiss-swollen, plush lips.

That little noise from you, raw and unguarded, hits him harder than anything else, the sound makes his expression crumple. 

“Oh, honey…,” he whispers, brushing his lips across your cheek like he’s trying to soothe the tremble in your breath. “That was too much, wasn’t it? I’m so sorry, baby.”

His hands roam gently now, one anchoring at your waist, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers threading through your damp hair with slow, calming strokes. 

“You’re so perfect, so good for me,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “Got carried away… Jesus, when you fall apart like that, I just lose myself. I wasn’t thinking… should’ve seen it.”

You don’t trust your voice yet, but your body leans into him instinctively, searching for comfort, as a tear slips down your cheek and he catches it with his thumb.

Having a supersoldier boyfriend with superhuman stamina definitely has its perks… though sometimes, it’s a little too easy to forget just how much he can give.

“I’ve got you now. I’m right here, sweetheart. We can stop, or I can hold you, or… whatever you need. You just tell me. You want me to pull out?”

“Don’t move,” you breathe and Bucky freezes instantly. 

“I’ve got you, baby. Let’s just breathe together, yeah?” his lips press to your temple in one  long and slow kiss, followed by another to your closed eye lids, then another in the corner of your mouth, thumb brushing a damp strand of hair from your forehead. 

His storm-blue gaze wrecked with adoration searches your face with open worry, his breath ghosting soft over your skin.

“You’re doin’ so good for me,” he murmurs. “You take me so well, honey. Always so fuckin’ sweet. Didn’t mean to push, … just wanted to make you feel good.”

His cool and steady metal hand glides over your side, grounding you with every slow impossibly gentle pass. Bucky’s other hand cradles your face, thumb brushing softly over your cheek as he keeps pressing a trail of kisses along your jaw, just below your ear, to the corner of your mouth. Each kiss is slower than the last, like he’s tethering you back to him, back to now.

“Just breathe with me, yeah? That’s it,” he murmurs. “We’ve got all the time in the world, no rush.”

“You’re safe,” Bucky whispers, watching your face relax, lips brushing your temple. “I love you so much, sweety. Nothing else matters right now but you. Are you better?”

You nod, shaky, eyes fluttering shut as another quiet sob leaves you not from pain or fear, but from release… and that soft, dizzying feeling of being full of rainbows, full of love, full of him.

Bucky doesn’t flinch, he takes it all, his breath is warm against your ear as he keeps whispering sweet nothings in your ear. He’s still painfully hard, still buried deep inside you, but that can wait, you come first, you always come first.

He’d rather take on the entire Dora Milaje than risk making you feel even a second of discomfort. The thought drifts in so absurd and uninvited, and he huffs quietly at himself – what the hell does the Dora Milaje have to do with him being balls-deep inside you? Still, it’s true – he’d do anything to make you feel good – sometimes, maybe even a little too much.

Bucky’s heartbeat pulses steady against your chest, a rhythm you can slowly sync to, his presence wrapping around your frayed edges like silk.

“Look at me,” he says softly, coaxing your gaze back to him. “You need anything? Want some water?”

His thumb strokes your cheek again, not demanding anything, just offering himself like a harbor.

“You did so good, baby. So damn good. I’m so proud of you.”

You can still feel the steady pulse of his cock deep inside you, a deep thrum that hasn’t faded. Gosh, the first time you saw him you’d practically choked on your own breath.

“This is not gonna fit,” was the only thing you’d managed to blurt, wide-eyed and entirely unfiltered.

A faint smile tugs at your lips as you cling to that silly memory, letting it pull you slowly back to reality. Oh, yes, it did fit. It more than fit.

Your smile lingers as you breathe in the scent of him. The weight of his body, the way he holds you like you’re precious, the press of his lips slow and still against your skin – it all feels like home now.

Funny, really. That first time, you were so sure you’d never walk properly again.

He’d been so careful, so gentle, asking you every step of the way if you were okay, if you wanted to stop, and you, somewhere between overwhelmed and completely wrecked, had only managed to whisper, “Don’t you dare.”

It had been slow, a little awkward, a lot intense and somehow, perfect, like two puzzle pieces trying to remember they’d been carved to fit each other all along. 

You shift slightly now, your thigh brushing his hip, and his arms tighten reflexively.

“You remember?” you murmur against his throat, voice a bit scratchy. “Our first time?”

Bucky hums low, lips curving at the corner. “The first time?” His thumb strokes your cheek again. “You looked at me like I was a damn mountain you had to climb.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “You were. Still are, sometimes.”

That earns a low chuckle from him, vibrating through his chest. “You climbed me anyway, sweetheart.”

You smile, curling closer. “Never climbed back down.”

“Good,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Don’t want you to.”

You don’t say anything to that, you don’t have to. The way your fingers thread through his hair, the way you bury your face into the crook of his neck, the way your body finally begins to relax, it says everything. 

Then, after a long beat of silence, Bucky shifts just barely.

“Hey, uh… is it okay if I pull out?”

You hum softly against his neck, nodding.

A pause.

“You sure, sweetheart? I can wait. Doesn’t hurt or anything, right?”

Another small nod.

Still, he waits a beat longer.

“Just… one more time – you're really okay?”

You smile into his skin. “Bucky,” you whisper, voice still a little rough but touched with affection, “pull out before you grow roots.”

He huffs a quiet, sheepish laugh, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Right. Okay. Gonna move real slow.”

And he does, he pulls out so carefully as if he’s worried you’ll break, his hands never leaving your body. Once he’s out, he’s already reaching for the blanket, already curling around you, already tucking you into the safety of his chest. It’s just who he is, he always treats you like something he was built to protect.

You melt into him, limbs heavy and boneless, body tender but sated. His fingers stroke your back in lazy circles, his lips brushing over your hairline as he whispers, “That’s my girl. You did so good. I love you, sweetie.”

And you’ve never felt so safe, so completely and fiercely loved – every breath, every tremble, every quiet sound – he’s there for all of it. He’s there for you.

“I love you too, Buck,” you murmur, already half-drifted into sleep.

[progooner123]

Perfection WOW

Don't wake me

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Warnings: fluff, angst, mild SMUT 18+, some canon typical violence during a fight, Bucky being adorably sweet and lost, haunted by his past and self doubt, mention of masturbation, premature ejaculation. Set between Winter Soldier and Civil War when Bucky is hiding in Bucharest. Bucky's involvement with repressions under Romania's communist regime implied but not explored. Slow burn neighbours to lovers, lots of sexual tension.

Word Count: 11K

Summary: He never meant to be seen, hiding in the shadows of Bucharest, Bucky lives a quiet, fractured life until the neighbor next door knocks on his door asking for sugar, and everything begins to shift.

After S.H.I.E.L.D. and everything else that had previously made sense fell, there wasn't much left to do. Yes, it was Bucky who had pulled Steve out of the river. He didn’t know why. Or maybe he did, just wasn't prepared to admit it.

The world was different now. He was different. And all of a sudden there was no place for him in it. Certainly not for the Winter Soldier, and perhaps not even for Bucky Barnes. He wasn’t even sure who that was. A ghost? A name? A memory someone else had of him? Did he ever exist in the first place?

So Bucky did the only thing that made any kind of sense. He took off running. Not toward anything, just away from everything. Away from the taunting sound of his own name, from all the fragmented faces he couldn’t quite recall but couldn’t forget either, away from a world that no longer felt his. Maybe it never was.

With no real plan or destination in mind he somehow ended up in Bucharest, Romania. It wasn’t home, it wasn’t anything, but it was far enough and quiet enough.

He found a tiny one-room apartment on the fifth floor of a crumbling old building where the walls were thin, the plumbing whined at night like it was protesting its own existence, and the neighbors kept to themselves. He paid in cash. Nobody asked questions. Perfect.

He picked up work in construction. Long days of lifting, hauling, sweating under the sun. It was hard, even grueling sometimes but it was honest work. It dulled the edge of the nightmares, wore down not only the anger but even his relentless body until he could collapse into sleep. When people asked for his name, he said “James.” It felt OK, even natural or close enough to it.

He kept to himself, head down, barely speaking, always with a cap pulled over his eyes, and a glove on his left hand, even in the heat. He counted exits everywhere he went and slept with a knife under his pillow. And he stayed alone. Always.

Right up until you.

You lived two doors down. Your apartment always smelled of coffee and something sweet with music playing softly through the walls. You were kind in that spontaneous, organic way without being loud or nosy. You never lingered too long, but you always found a few minutes to talk to the old, wrinkled grandma from 6B, left extra cookies on the windowsill for the neighborhood kids, and smiled when you passed him in the hallway.

Still, Bucky saw you.

At first, it was how you moved in that gentle, unhurried way, as if you lived in your own rhythm and didn’t care about keeping up with the rest of the world. Then it was your laugh, the way you said “hi” to him on the stairs, always with that smile. You were the only one who did it with a smile. And of course the warm spill of light from under your door at night when everything else in the building felt cold and dim.

He tried not to look. Shoulders hunched, eyes down, always turning away before your gaze could catch his – that’s how you usually saw your new, quiet, broad-shouldered and handsome neighbor. But you noticed him anyway.

You noticed how he flinched when a door slammed too hard, how he never unlocked his own without first looking over his shoulder, how he scanned the hallway the way most people checked the sky for rain.

You saw the tight line of his jaw, the way silence clung to him, the way his deep, striking blue eyes always looked as if they were carrying something heavy.

But somehow, despite it all, you still thought he was... sweet.

Not just because he was handsome, though that didn’t hurt. It wasn’t about the broad shoulders or the sharp cheekbones or the low, hesitant “thank you” he mumbled sometimes. No, there was more than that. It was how you never saw him raising his voice, even when kids were screaming through the halls and bumping into him while running down the stairs. The way he helped the elderly woman from the sixth floor carry her groceries without being asked or the way he quietly brought down the stroller for the single mom on four like it was nothing.

And of course, you were aware of the glances, the ones he thought you didn’t catch. The quiet sighs, the way his gaze followed you sometimes, as if he was trying to summon the courage to speak but was unable to.

You were curious. Just curious, no more than that. Or at least that’s what you told yourself when one evening, after spending far too much time doubting yourself, you finally knocked.

It was a dumb excuse. You had sugar, but there you were, standing outside his door with an empty mug in your hands, heart flipping in your chest, trying to play it cool.

When the door creaked open, he looked at you like you’d just set off a fire alarm. With suspicion written all over his face, his eyes scanned you, then darted down the hallway before returning back to you.

“…Sugar?” he repeated, voice low and a little rough, touched with a slight accent.

You smiled. “I just realised I’ve run out of it and I’m already halfway through the recipe.”

There was a long pause and you could almost hear the gears turning behind his eyes, measuring, calculating, unsure how to react, but then he nodded silently, took a step back and disappeared into the apartment. A moment later, he returned, handing you the filled mug, his fingers brushing yours for just a second too long.

You opened your mouth to say something else, but the door shut gently in your face.

Yet you didn’t give up and the next night, you stood again before his doors with a plate of pancakes in your hands, wrapped in foil to keep them warm and fresh. You weren’t sure if it was bold or stupid, but you knocked anyway.

He opened the door quicker this time but looked even more confused.

“What’s this for?” he asked, brows drawn together.

“For the sugar,” you said with a shrug. “You saved my cake last night, it just seemed fair.”

There was a long pause, and when you already feared the door would just slam shut before you again, he reached out and slowly took the plate from your hands. You noticed his left hand was still covered in a glove. 

“…Is it… is it for me?”

You smiled: “Of course it’s for you.”

Something flickered in his eyes that looked almost like a smile.

“…Thank you,” he said, so quietly you almost missed it. His gaze dropped, his lips twitching into something shy and uncertain and before you could answer, the door clicked shut again.

Bucky stood in the middle of his kitchen for a long time, the plate of pancakes still in his hands, steam curling up. His palms were sweating and his pulse wouldn't settle. 

It wasn’t panic, it wasn’t the dread of being recognized or some buried memory clawing its way up from the dark. This was something completely new, something he wasn’t prepared for. 

Someone had knocked on his door with something warm and kind in their hands. No threat. Just... pancakes.

He let out a breath and set the plate down, gripping the edge of the counter.

He wasn’t sure what scared him more: that you’d done it, that he liked it or that the short interaction had left him so painfully hard he had to bite back a groan and focus on breathing just to stay in control.

He hadn’t even touched you, and yet the scent of you still lingered in the air, warm and sweet and maddening.

The water in the shower ran hot as he leaned into the tile with both hands, chest heaving as the spray poured over him. He let his head hang, jaw clenched, in a futile hope the hot water would wash that feeling off his skin, but it was already under it.

Your voice, your smile, the look in your eyes when you handed him that plate.

With a rough, broken sound, he wrapped a hand around himself, eyes squeezing shut as he was flooded with the images of your laugh and the simple way you’d said “of course it’s for you”, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

It didn’t take long. It never did, not when it was you behind his eyes. He came with a sharp gasp, forehead pressed to the tile, hips twitching, breath ragged and uneven.

Afterwards, he just stood there, water pounding his back, heart hammering and shame settling low and heavy in his gut. Not because of what he’d done, but because he wanted more and for the first time in what felt like forever he didn’t feel numb and it was driving him mad. 

Bucky didn’t sleep much that night, not because of nightmares. No, those stayed mercifully quiet this time. It was you that kept him up this time – the sound of your knock, the scent of pancakes, the memory of your smile.

And somewhere deep inside him there was a quiet, reckless, stupid hope that you’d knock again. 

Fuck, no. Leave her out of it, he told himself for the hundredth time, tossing and turning over in bed but it didn’t matter, because his hand was already moving, slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, fingers wrapping around himself with a desperate kind of frustration. His chest rose and fell faster, the air in the room suddenly thick, suffocating, but not as heavy as the heat pooling in his gut.

He tried to think of something else, anything else, but you were already there.

That stupid, sweet smile you gave him when you handed over that plate –  the one that said he wasn’t dangerous, that showed no fear, only warmth and kindness, the one you would never cast at him, if you knew who he really was. 

He groaned, low and raw, pressing the heel of his other hand to his eyes as if he could block out the image of you behind his lids. It didn’t work, it never did.  

His hips bucked up into his hand before he could stop himself, breath catching in his throat. It was fast and ugly and aching, and he hated every second of it, of how little control he had, how easy it was for you to undo him with a smile and a plate of pancakes.

White streaks of his cum splattered across his belly, his breath catching in a stifled gasp as he buried his face in the pillow, trying to muffle the sound. His hand stayed wrapped tightly around himself, fingers trembling, chest still rising and falling hard.

He didn’t move for a long time, just lay there, slick, spent, and sinking deeper into self-loathing with every second as each breath tightened the knot in his chest, each heartbeat a reminder that it didn’t matter how many times he came to the thought of your smile, as if he were entitled to it, as if he deserved to want you.

He didn’t. He knew that.

Bucky woke with a sharp cry, shooting upright as though struck. His heart thundered, blood roaring in his ears, that old familiar weight crushing his ribs while the echo of a gunshot rang through the hollow corners of his mind.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

The blanket was twisted and soaked with sweat. He shoved it aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sitting there with his head in his hands, trying to breathe, trying to remember where he was, when he was, who he was.

It took him a while to come back to his senses but finally he stood slowly and shuffled barefoot across the cold floor toward the bathroom.

The man staring back at him in the mirror looked like a stranger in his own skin – dark circles, hair damp with sweat, eyes wide and hollow. 

He splashed cold water on his face and scrubbed his hands dry on a threadbare towel, avoiding the mirror entirely now before moving into the kitchen where he stopped short.

The plate of pancakes still sat on the table, untouched, covered carefully with foil.

He stared at it for a long moment before reaching out, slow and unsure, still half convinced they weren’t truly meant for him, that taking one might somehow be a mistake.

He took a bite and damn… they were good, fluffy, with just the right amount of sweetness, soft in the middle and with a hint of crisp at the edge.

He stood chewing in silence, one hand braced on the counter, the other still holding the fork, and his mouth tugged at the edge, not quite a smile, but close.

Then he heard them – your footsteps in the hallway.

Your rhythm was familiar by now, light and easy, almost like dancing, full of quiet confidence and grace. The sound nudged something in his chest, made his pulse trip once, then again.

Bucky’s hand hovered over the door handle. He could stay inside, wait it out until your steps faded, until it was safe, or…

He moved before he could second-guess it.

“Morning,” you said, glancing toward the creak of the opening door and your voice carried that effortless brightness again, the kind that softened corners, that made this hallway, stale with damp concrete and flaking paint, feel almost inviting and warm.

Bucky swallowed. “Hey,” he mumbled, then cleared his throat. “Uh …hi.”

Smooth.

You slipped your keys into your bag and looked up at him again. You didn’t seem surprised to see him, just genuinely glad and somehow, that made it worse.

Bucky shifted his weight, rubbed the back of his neck. “I…uh… about the pancakes. Just… thanks. For that.”

You smiled, bright and easy. “You liked them?”

He blinked, as if you’d just asked if he liked air. “Yeah,” he said quickly. Then quieter, almost sheepish: “They were really good.”

The second the words left his mouth, he looked away, his cheeks going a little red. It was kind of sweet, how fidgety he got, it looked as if he didn’t know what to do with his hands, or his feet, or the fact that someone was actually talking to him, like part of him was still considering just bolting back into his apartment and pretending this conversation never happened.

“Well,” you said softly, “you’re welcome. I’m really glad you liked them.”

A pause stretched between you, as you waited whether he would continue the conversation. Bucky nervously shifted his weight as he desperately tried to come up with something else to say, but his mind had suddenly blanked out. 

You tilted your head, smiling just a little. “Hey, if you’re hungry again later… I work at my parents’ shop. It’s just a few blocks from here. We sell homemade food, nothing fancy, just soups, fresh bread, stews, that kind of thing, but if you’re around… come by. I’ll treat you to lunch.”

His eyes widened slightly, then he blinked, once, then again, as though his brain needed a second to catch up.

“Me?”

You laughed, soft and warm. “Do you see anybody else here?”

A faint, nervous smile tugged at his lips, and his gaze dropped to the floor, searching for something steady in the scuffed tiles beneath his boots.

“That’s... really kind of you,” he mumbled.

You grinned and gave him a little wave as you started down the stairs. “See you then, James.”

He stood there for a moment, staring at the spot where you’d just been, then remembered to breathe.

The shop was small, tucked between a laundromat and a florist, with hand-painted signs in the window and the smell of something warm and herby drifting out onto the street.

Bucky stood across the road, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, eyes fixed on the front window. He could see you through the glass. You were laughing with someone behind the counter, your sleeves rolled up, your hair pulled back – nothing special and yet it made his stomach twist.

He shouldn't have come.

He’d walked past the place twice already – once fast, pretending he was on his way to something else, and the second time, slower, casting side glances towards the window. And now he was just... standing there, rooted to the sidewalk, unmoving, a stranger to his own nerves, trying to convince himself to disappear before it was too late. 

You’d just been nice and probably hadn’t expected him to actually come, you’d probably already forgotten about it altogether... and then you looked up.

Bucky flinched, immediately stepping back, unsure whether to bolt or blend into the brick behind him but it was too late, your eyes had already locked on him. 

Your face lit up, and before he could make the snap decision to disappear around the corner, you were pushing through the front door, wiping your hands on your apron.

“Hey!” you called, voice bright and easy, full of that same warmth that always knocked the air out of him.

He froze as every instinct told him to run, but his feet stayed planted, pulse kicking up as you crossed the sidewalk toward him.

“I was starting to think you got lost,” you teased lightly, then nodded toward the shop. “Come in. Food’s still warm.”

He hesitated, staring at the doorway like it might bite him.

“I don’t want to…uh, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he mumbled. “You looked… busy.”

“I am busy,” you grinned. “Feeding people. You qualify.”

He gave a soft, awkward laugh, it seemed he wasn’t sure if it was okay to find you funny, then, slowly, cautiously, he followed you inside.

The shop smelled of rosemary and fresh bread. It was cozy, with mismatched chairs and a few tiny tables.

Bucky hovered by the door, unsure of where to go or what to do with his hands, as he tugged at the glove on his left one.

You gestured toward a table by the window. “Sit wherever you want. I’ll bring you something.”

He nodded, then quietly chose one in the back, easing himself into the seat with slow caution, as though afraid it wouldn’t hold him. He rested his forearms on the table and looked down, trying not to let it show how tightly wound he was, how he’d spent the entire morning telling himself this was a terrible idea.

Over the next couple of weeks, something started to shift between you and your shy but handsome neighbour. Lunch at your parents’ shop turned into a regular thing. He never said he was coming, but you always saved him a spot near the back, and without fail, he showed up – cap tugged deep, left hand covered in glove, like he needed a layer between him and the rest of the world. He didn’t talk much, mostly he’d just sit there quietly, eyes on you, listening to you talk while wiping down counters or restocking shelves.

One afternoon, when you mentioned in passing that your kitchen sink was leaking again, he offered to take a look, no hesitation, no awkward pause, just a soft, “I can fix it, ” as if being useful to you meant something important.

When you said yes, his shoulders relaxed in this barely noticeable way, as if you’d handed him permission to be here, to take up space in your world without needing to explain why.

He spent an hour under the sink, toolbox beside him, and even though you offered him coffee and tried to make small talk, he mostly just nodded or shrugged, cheeks a little pink the whole time and when the drip finally stopped, he looked so endearingly proud in his quiet way, not boastful, just relieved to have done something right.

You liked it, no this was not the right word, you loved this quiet pull, this thing that bloomed in your chest when he showed up for lunch, when his eyes found you from across the room, calm and stormy all at once, that ridiculous flutter in your stomach every single time and the way his steel-blue gaze stayed with you long after he’d left.

You didn’t know what to call it, not yet, but it was growing.

And you had no idea how much it cost him, how tightly he had to hold the reins just to sit across from you, how much effort went into every half-smile, every controlled breath, pretending to be calm while his heart was pounding like he was in a fight.  

Yes, he enjoyed it, more than he wanted to, more than he thought he had any right to. Your voice, your laugh, the way you always remembered how he liked his tea, the way you talked to him without flinching, without pity, without fear, as if he was just a guy, the way you looked at him so normal, so safe  – it tore something open in him – a soft, unfamiliar ache, a glimpse of something he hadn’t dared imagine could ever be his again. 

It terrified him. He wanted more, and he hated himself for it.

A part of him soaked up every second, fed on them greedily, clutching them like stolen treasures. These small moments had become the brightest part of his day, maybe the only bright part, but just as strong was the voice inside him – the cold, familiar whisper that told him to pull back, to keep a distance, to remember who he was, to never forget that people like him didn’t get to have this, didn’t get to be chosen.

Didn’t get to be loved.

The apartment was too warm.

Or maybe it was just him, pacing from wall to wall, jaw tight, skin buzzing like he couldn’t get comfortable in his own body. The air felt thick. 

Bucky dragged a hand down his face with a frustrated growl. 

Enough.

His thoughts had spiraled so far past the line of decency he didn’t even try to pretend anymore. He’d jerked off two times today and God knows how many this week, thinking about you, your mouth, your laugh, your fingers brushing his.

He hated how easy it was, how vivid it all felt even though you'd barely even touched him. His body ached, strung tight with tension, and still, nothing gave him relief, not really, because no matter how many times he came into his own fist, sweaty and breathless in the dark, it wasn’t you, it wasn’t your hand, it wasn’t your lips, it wasn’t your breath against his neck, it wasn’t your thighs parting beneath him.

He stared at the ceiling, searching for answers it didn’t have. 

He’d tried to be good, tried to keep his distance. You were kind, and warm, and safe, and he didn’t want to ruin that but he was losing his grip. His fists clenched and unclenched as he stood near the door, sweat at the nape of his neck despite the chill creeping in through the cracked window.

The guys on site had joked more than once about a place a few blocks away. Pretty ladies, not like some other places, not cheap, but tidy and quiet, no questions asked. He hadn't even looked up when they talked about it, but now?

“Fuck it,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket off the hook.

He didn’t stop to think, just yanked open the door and headed down the stairwell, boots hitting the steps hard enough to echo. The streetlights buzzed above, casting a pale yellow over the pavement as he walked, fast, shoulders tight.

He told himself he just needed to burn off the need and the heat, get it out of his system before he did something worse, before he crossed a line he couldn’t walk back from. Before he gave in to the temptation to knock on your door and beg for something he didn’t deserve.

The night air bit at his skin, but he welcomed it, let it sting, he just shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept walking.

The brothel was tucked behind a small café, down a side alley with no street sign, just a dim red light glowing above a narrow doorway. Bucky stood outside for too long, frozen in place, jaw tight, stomach churning. He almost turned around. Twice.

The air inside was warm and perfumed, low-lit, with soft music playing from speakers tucked somewhere behind velvet curtains. It didn’t smell bad, just overwhelmed by too many scents competing at once, cloying and artificial. The front room resembled a lounge, with a wide bar, a few small tables, and plush armchairs arranged in soft pools of lamplight.

The girls were scattered around the room, some perched at the bar, others lounged in armchairs with some kind of detached stillness on their faces as if they were waiting for a train. Most wore lingerie or barely-there dresses, skin glowing under the amber light. They looked bored. Tired. Used to it.

The girls smiled when they noticed him, some with interest, others with habit, a few leaned forward a little, resting arms on crossed legs, their makeup was perfect, hair done and eyes expectant.

Bucky’s throat tightened, as he didn’t quite know where to look, so he kept his head down and moved further in, already regretting every step.

His hands stayed jammed in his pockets while every part of him whispered that this was a bad idea but just when he was about to turn around and walk back out his eyes landed on a half-lit figure seated near the corner with legs crossed and hands folded in her lap. Bucky’s heart instantly dropped somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

He blinked, dragging his hand over his face as if trying to dispel a vision, but there was no doubt that it was you.

You looked different, made up and dressed for the part with lips painted red, you were turned just slightly away, chin lifted, with an expression telling that maybe if you didn’t look directly at anyone, none of it was real, but Bucky knew you.

He knew that curve of your jaw, the shape of your mouth, the way your fingers curled when you were nervous and then you suddenly turned and your eyes met his, wide and stunned, recognition hitting you with the force of a slap.

Your mouth parted just a little but your face crumpled, eyes turning glassy and embarrassed, even beyond embarrassed, as shame hit your face in a wave, and you quickly turned away again, in futile hope it could make him unsee you. 

Bucky froze, as if the air had been sucked out of the room. He didn’t know what to do, where to look or how to breathe as his throat closed and chest collapsed inward like he had been struck.

So he did the one thing he was trained to do: react. He turned his head and nodded to the girl sitting closest to him, someone blonde, someone whose face he didn’t even register, and reached out, letting her take his arm.

"Come on, sugar," she said, voice smooth and low. “I’ve got a room free.”

Bucky didn’t look back at you, he couldn’t, he just gave a stiff nod and followed her, not even knowing why, not thinking. She led him quietly down the hallway without saying much. The door clicked shut behind them with a soft snick, and suddenly he was in a tiny room that smelled of rose perfume, cheap soap and dust.

The room was small but clean, the walls painted in muted tones that tried and failed to feel warm, the only furniture being a narrow bed and a dim lamp in the corner. The girl turned toward him with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Tell me how you like it,” she said gently, reaching for his belt, as her fingers brushed lightly against his stomach. “Rough? Slow? You want me to talk, or keep quiet? From behind, maybe? Blowjob costs extra, but since it’s your first time here, I can cut you a deal.”

Bucky flinched, visibly, as if she’d slapped him.

The girl froze for a beat, her hand still hovering near his belt, eyes narrowing just slightly as she registered the shift in him, as Bucky stepped back, fast, like the air between them had turned toxic.

“I…” His voice caught, raw and hoarse. “I shouldn’t be here.”

She raised her hands in quiet surrender, backing off. “Hey, it’s okay. I didn’t mean to…”

Bucky was already moving, stumbling back toward the door with his heartbeat thundering in his ears, stomach twisting and hands shaking.

“Sorry... I’m so sorry, I…I can’t. This was a mistake,” he muttered, reaching for the handle without even glancing at her as he shoved the door open and fled.

He didn’t stop, didn’t look at anyone, didn’t even breathe.

He rushed down the hallway, past the bar and the velvet chairs, past the painted smiles, until the front door hit his shoulder and the night air his lungs. He turned the first corner he saw and slammed his back against a cold brick wall, gasping for air and dragging both hands through his hair.

He felt sick.

Not because of the place, not because of the girl, but because, even in that room, with a stranger’s fingers brushing his belt, it was you he’d been thinking about.

He didn’t just want you, he needed you, and there wasn’t a single part of him that believed he deserved to, not even after he’d seen you there.

But somehow, that wasn’t even the worst part.

It wasn’t that you had been there, it wasn’t that this was how you apparently got by, that made his heart ache in a thousand unfamiliar ways.

The part that truly gutted him was that he hadn’t seen it, not once. After all those lunches, after all those moments spent across from you, listening to your voice, watching the way your eyes softened when you smiled, he never saw it and never dared to ask anything. He actually didn’t know anything about you apart from that you made the most delicious pancakes in the whole world.

And worse, far worse than that, was knowing that you had seen him there.

You forced a smile on your face as you greeted the few customers. Your parents had left earlier today and the front was quiet. You were thankful for that, as you were not up to any conversation. 

You’d barely slept the night before, your eyes burned, and your head ached, but it didn’t matter. Because he wasn’t coming. Why would he?

He had every reason to turn around and never look at you again.

You’d ruined it, whatever it was, that quiet rhythm the two of you had slipped into, the steady presence of him sitting at the back table, always listening, always there. The way he’d started looking you in the eye more often, the way his smile had stopped feeling as  something he had to force. It had all felt like the beginning of something soft and unspoken, but real.

And now it was gone.

He’d seen you, dressed as someone else, sitting with other girls, waiting to be picked like a bottle off a shelf.

You felt sick just thinking about it.

He must think you’d been playing him this whole time, that your kindness was fake, that your stories were an act, that you were just another girl who sold herself. Yes, you were.

You hated that thought, hated that your chest felt hollow and your hands wouldn’t stop shaking as you wiped down the same counter for the third time. You hated how ashamed you felt, not for what you did, but for how he might see it, for how he might see you now.

Every time the door creaked open, your eyes darted up and your stomach twisted, but it wasn’t him. Until it was.

You looked up and there he stood just inside the doorway, still in his jacket, hair slightly damp from the drizzle outside.  You froze and he didn’t move either, just stood there, jaw tight, hands buried in his pockets.

You swallowed hard and turned back to your stack of napkins.

Bucky stepped forward slowly, the bell above the door jingled behind him, but he still didn’t say anything. You could feel his gaze on you, heavy and unsure, … and lost, it seemed he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to begin.

You opened your mouth, no idea what you were going to say, but the words never made it out because the door swung open again and three men stepped inside like they owned the place. Cheap leather jackets, thick chains – the kind of guys who always talked too loud and wore smiles that cut. You felt your stomach drop as soon as you saw them.

Not again.

“Morning,” the one in front said, grinning as he tapped his knuckles on the countertop. “You know what time it is, sweetheart.”

Your blood ran cold.

Bucky turned slightly, body tensing.

“I already told you,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “We’re not paying, not again. My dad said…”

“Yeah, well,” the man interrupted, leaning closer, “maybe next time Daddy should come out here himself instead of sending you, huh?”

One of the others chuckled darkly, and the third turned to Bucky, giving him a once-over. “This ain’t your business, man. You should leave.”

Bucky didn’t move, he didn’t even blink.

The first man clicked his tongue and turned his attention back to you, eyes sweeping over you slowly, like he was sizing up something on a menu.

“Would be a shame if something happened to this cute little place,” he said, tapping his fingers on the counter. “Could start with the windows, you know… accidents happen… a fire could even break out if you aren’t careful enough or... maybe there’s another way to settle things.”

He leaned in closer, breath sour, voice dropping to something low and greasy.

“How about we knock a little off the price… if you treat us right.”

The others chuckled behind him, one of them muttering, “Heard she’s not a stranger to that kind of arrangement.”

The leader smiled, but there was nothing kind about it. “Yeah. Word around is you’re good at making things... personal, friendly even. That’s true, sweetheart?”

His hand inched across the counter toward yours, grabbing your wrist and pulling you closer, while his other hand reached out stroking your cheekbone. 

You closed your eyes just for a heartbeat, taking a deep breath as you tried to pull your hand back with a hiss, it was when you heard it – a sharp groan of pain and your eyes fluttered open again. 

Bucky had grabbed the guy’s wrist and twisted hard, the sound of bone popping echoed in the shop like a gunshot, and the guy dropped to his knees with a howl.

The other two lunged, shouting, but Bucky was already moving – fast and controlled as if someone had flipped a switch, erasing the shy and hesitant guy who could barely meet your gaze and replacing it with someone else entirely, someone sharp, efficient, and dangerous.

One punch sent the second guy crashing into a chair, the other took a knee to the gut and went down gasping. No wasted motion, no hesitation, your friendly and kind neighbour moved like someone who’d done this a hundred times before.

One of them scrambled back to his feet, pulled a knife from inside his jacket, and slashed out blindly. Bucky sidestepped and caught the man's wrist mid-swing – a twist, a sharp crack and the knife clattered to the floor with the man screaming.

The last thing you saw was the second one pulling a gun from his waistband. 

Bucky closed the distance in two steps, knocked the gun aside, grabbed the guy by the front of his jacket, and slammed him into the wall hard enough to rattle the framed menu hanging next to the register. The gun skidded across the floor.

The third was crawling for it but Bucky stomped his boot down on his wrist before he could reach it. There was a crunch, followed by a howl of pain. Another knife came out, flashing toward his ribs, but he caught that too, twisted the guy’s arm behind his back and slammed him face-first onto a table, snapping the wood clean in half.

“You done?” Bucky growled and you didn’t even recognise his voice.

There was no answer, just coughing and groaning as the men scrambled to their feet and limped their way toward the door while one of them looked back, clutching his ribs, and hissed through broken teeth, “You’re dead, man. You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

Bucky found you behind the counter, curled up tight in the corner, back pressed against the wall, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes squeezed shut, and hands clamped over your ears. You were rocking, small, rhythmic movements, like your body was trying to calm itself the only way it knew how.

Bucky carefully crouched down beside you. 

“Hey,” he said softly, “it’s me. You’re safe now. They’re gone.”

You didn’t see him and didn’t hear him, you didn’t flinch when he crouched beside you, didn’t move when he reached out but stopped short, afraid to touch you. Your chest heaved in ragged and shallow breaths, as if even the air had turned against you. 

You didn’t respond, just kept rocking, the same distant, hollow look frozen on your face. You weren’t fully there, your mind had retreated somewhere deep, sealed itself behind a door and refused to come out.

The soft rocking didn’t stop, your lips moved, but no sound came.

“Hey,” he whispered again. “It’s over.”

Nothing.

Bucky knew that place you were in. He’d lived there, knew what it felt like when your body stopped feeling your own, when your mind disconnected and drifted somewhere unreachable, with no promise of return. 

His hand finally dropped, slow and careful, resting gently on the floor beside yours, still not touching, waiting. You didn’t move.

“Please, look at me,” Bucky’s arm rose shakily and stopped just an inch from your shoulder before slowly brushing the back of his fingers against it.

You flinched violently, a choked, guttural sound bursting from your throat as you recoiled, arms flying up to shield your head, body curling in on itself, shrinking down, bracing for something awful.

“I’m not…I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said quickly, the words tripping over his breath, even as he tried to steady his tone. “Hey, it’s me. It’s just me.” 

You shook your head in sharp denial, lips parting in a frantic whisper – no, no, no – again and again.

At first, it was just pressure. Arms. Someone’s arms wrapped around you, slowly, hesitantly, carefully, as though whoever it was wasn’t sure they should be doing it. You didn’t register who it was, your body didn’t give you time, acting on pure instinct as it jolted and you screamed – a raw, cracking sound that tore out of you louder than you thought possible. 

“No, …don’t,” you gasped as you pushed against them, trying to twist away, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. You thrashed, tried to shove away the arms, the weight, the contact as your fists uselessly beat against something solid – a chest, a shoulder – hard, broad and unmoving. You felt fabric. A jacket. The scrape of a zipper. 

“Hey, hey…” the voice came low, just beside your ear. It was familiar, soft. “It’s me. It’s just me. You’re alright. You’re safe now. Just… just breathe, okay?”

You didn’t. You couldn’t. Your breath kept catching in your throat, your chest tightening as though it didn’t know how to work anymore.

“Can you hear me?” Bucky asked and your mind finally registered that it was really him. 

You nodded a little, barely.

His arm stayed wrapped around your shoulders, warm and unmoving while his other hand, the gloved one, settled lightly against your back. His touch wasn’t soft exactly, but it was gentle, like he’d thought about every place he could hold you and chose the safest ones.The pressure wasn’t hard, but it anchored you as his palm moved slowly, just a slight shift. Up, down. 

He was rocking you now.

“Try to match me,” he said. “Breathe in.”

With a sob trembling on your lips you sucked in air too fast. It hitched, ugly, useless, and you almost choked on your own breath

“It’s okay,” he said. “Try again.”

You could feel his chest against you, broad and muscular, but not crushing, just steady like he knew exactly how much weight to give and nothing more.

You didn’t mean to lean into it, you didn’t even realize you had, until your forehead rested against the curve of his shoulder and you could smell him – leather and sweat.

“Let’s do it together. Breathe in,” he repeated, inhaling slowly, his voice even quieter now. “There you go, in and out. Slow. You’re doin’ good.”

You followed it this time, barely, but it was enough, your fists slowly unclenched, but one stayed gripping his sleeve, you didn’t even remember grabbing it.

“Don’t think. Just breathe. In and out.”

Bucky’s chest rose and fell steadily, and you focused on that, on the weight of his arm around your shoulders, on the sound of his breathing.

His hand on your back… it felt strange, stiffer, harder, as if something hidden beneath the glove wasn’t quite right, but it wasn’t harsh. He kept it gentle, stroking your back, its movement rhythmic, but not touching more than he needed to.

“I’ve got you,” he said again.

You didn’t answer, not out loud, but your body gave in and you leaned into him a little more.

Your kitchen was warm and quiet, the light above buzzing faintly. You pressed a cotton pad soaked with antiseptic to the cut in Bucky’s forearm and he flinched, not from the pain but from the touch itself.

You weren’t sure how long you’d sat on the floor behind the counter earlier, folded into his arms, his grip steady and quiet and solid around you. He hadn’t rushed you, hadn’t asked if you were okay. He’d known you weren’t and that asking wouldn’t help. So he just held you, tucked awkwardly but securely against his chest.

He didn’t let go until your fingers finally loosened their grip on his sleeve, until your breath started to even out, until your body, still shaken, had come back to itself. 

After that, he helped you clean up the mess the fight had left behind including the broken chair and table. He locked the door, flipped the sign, turned off the lights. Neither of you said much beyond the basics. Where’s the mop? Where should this go? You didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t seem to, either. He walked you home, in silence. 

It was only at your door, just as he turned to leave, his sleeve shifted and you caught the smear of red blooming through the fabric on his forearm, and now he was here, sitting in your kitchen, jacket off, sleeve rolled up. 

His eyes were on you, watching, tracking your every move, but you didn’t look up. Not yet. The silence started getting heavy, but you still didn’t know what to say.

“I just wanted…”

“About last night…” both of you spoke at once and both stopped.

Bucky looked down at the floor, then up, then back down again, rubbing the back of his neck.

You folded the gauze you’d used, just to have something to do. 

Bucky cleared his throat. “You go.”

“No, it’s okay,” you said, voice quiet. “You first.”

He nodded, but didn’t speak right away, just stared at his hands, the one gloved, the other freshly bandaged.

“I, uh… I wanted to say I’m…” He paused, swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

You blinked. “For what?”

His eyes darted to yours, then away again just as fast. He looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

“For… being there. Last night.” The words came out rough. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean… I didn’t even…” He stopped himself, ran a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have been there.”

You didn’t say anything as you were still trying to make sense of what he was actually apologising for.

“I mean, I wasn’t…shit…,” he dragged a hand down his face, cheeks slowly turning crimson. “I didn’t know, I swear, I didn’t know that’s…,” he cut himself off again, voice trailing into a frustrated sigh.

His leg bounced under the table, his fingers tightening into a fist.

“I just… I was stupid. I shouldn’t’ve gone and then I saw you and…” he shook his head. “I didn’t know what to do.”

You watched him unravel, slow and quiet and real, his usual stillness gone, replaced by a boyish, nervous energy you hadn’t seen before. 

Bucky looked up, slowly. “It wasn’t about that, not really. I just… I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

His eyes widened slightly, as if he hadn’t meant to say that out loud, a flush crept into his cheeks as he immediately dropped his gaze again.

“I mean – not like that or not just like that. I don’t know what the hell I’m saying.” He groaned and stood up suddenly, pushing the chair back with a soft scrape. “Shit…sorry. I think I should go.”

“No, James,” you said quickly, reaching out to him but he wasn’t looking at you. He stood there, arms hanging somewhat awkwardly by his sides, eyes locked on a spot on the floor.

“I just wanted something to make it stop,” he said, quieter now. “The wanting. The… whatever it is I feel around you. It messes with my head, makes me forget myself and I thought if I just... took the edge off, maybe I could look you in the eye again without…” He shook his head. 

You stood still, heartbeat in your throat. The words sank in slowly, as if your mind had to replay them twice just to believe what you’d heard. He wanted you, not just in passing or by accident, but enough that it scared him, enough that he’d gone looking for ways to make it stop.

“I wasn’t trying to replace you,” he continued. “That’s the thing. I know that now. I didn’t want anyone else, I just didn’t think I had any right to want you and… and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I went there. I’m sorry you saw me, I’m sorry I let you see how messed up I really am.”

He finally looked up at you. “Please don’t hate me,” he said as if the words hurt coming out.

Your breath caught in your throat and your fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the table as you stared at him. 

You looked down at his hand, hanging by his side, his bare one, not the gloved one, and slowly, carefully, you reached out. Your fingertips brushed his knuckles first, feather-light and when he didn’t pull away, you gently curled your fingers around his.

He froze and you heard the sharp breath he sucked in, saw the way his jaw tightened.

“Hate you?” you echoed softly, eyes still on the wound you were tending. “James, you just risked your neck taking on men no one else even dares to argue with.” Your thumb brushed faintly across the skin of his forearm. “You sat with me while I fell apart… helped me clean up, walked me home and now you’re sitting here asking me not to hate you?”

You gave a small, sad smile and leaned back slightly against the table behind you. “I thought you’d never come back after last night. That you’d seen me there and decided I wasn’t…” You hesitated. “Wasn’t worth the trouble.”

Bucky blinked, his mouth parted slightly, then shut again, and his brows drew together like the words physically pained him.

You took a breath, steadied yourself, and kept going.

“I’m not proud of it,” you said, voice low but sure. “But I’m not ashamed either.”

His eyes snapped up, surprised, not at your confession, but at the strength in your tone. There was no bitterness, no apology.

“This is what it takes,” you said. “My mom’s got a heart condition. She needs medication every month just to keep things steady. It’s expensive and not covered. And we try, God knows, we try to make the shop work, but it’s never enough. Rent, bills, food – there’s always something.”

You paused, mouth dry, your other hand nervously fidgeting with the edge of the tablecloth.

“She doesn’t know,” you said finally. “If she ever found out how I’m paying for it… she wouldn’t take the pills. She’d rather die than let me… do this.”

Your voice cracked, just barely, as you looked down.

“So I’m asking you,” you murmured, “please don’t tell anyone, especially not her, and please… don’t hate me.”

There was a beat of silence, then Bucky’s head snapped up like you’d struck him.

“What?” His voice came out stunned, almost breathless.

You gave a small, bitter laugh. “You asked me not to hate you, remember?” You glanced at him. “So I guess… now it’s my turn.”

His brow furrowed, deep, as he shifted closer. “You really think I could hate you?”

Your gaze dropped again. “I don’t know. Maybe. Sometimes I think I’d hate myself, if I were someone else, if I found out the way you did…”

You stood there, so close you could feel the heat of him, your hand still holding his, the tension in his fingers making your own tremble slightly.

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking up to yours, then back down again.

“It’s Bucky,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Call me Bucky.”

The way he said it, it wasn’t casual, it wasn’t just a name, it was an offering, a piece of himself handed over to you as if something fragile.

“Okay,” you whispered, your lips tugging into a soft, surprised smile. “Bucky.”

He looked down at you, the sound of his name in your voice changing something in his expression, softening it, unraveling some quiet thread inside him. His features eased, and he leaned in, just slightly, until your breaths met in the narrow space between you, until your noses nearly brushed. 

But then, at the very last second, he paused and pulled back, and you had a feeling he was bracing for rejection, for punishment, for something to crash down and ruin this before it even began.

You didn’t let him retreat. 

“I like that name,” you murmured, rising to your tiptoes, your hand lifting to his face, fingertips grazing the edge of his jaw as you tilted his chin toward you and pressed your lips to his.

Bucky exhaled sharply, it seemed almost the air had been punched from his lungs, but he didn’t pull away. His lips parted and he kissed you back, hesitant at first, then deeper, his hand tightening gently around yours.

When your tongue brushed his, he inhaled sharply through his nose, then kissed you deeper, his mouth parting to let you in and his tongue met yours with careful pressure, tentative at first, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed this much of you, but when you didn’t pull back, when you kissed him harder, he let go of the reins.

You leaned in closer, your hand still cradling his jaw, the warmth of his stubble beneath your palm tickling and grounding you simultaneously.

And that was the moment something inside him gave out, he groaned low in his throat, his free hand finding your waist, fingers curling tight into your shirt, seeking to hold onto something. You barely had time to catch your breath before he deepened the kiss, searching and hungry, mapping your mouth with his tongue with a kind of need that felt older than memory, the kind born from years of wanting nothing but to stay alive.

His hands moved, one sliding down to the back of your thighs, the other bracing your spine, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he lifted you.

Your breath hitched as he picked you up like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his hips without thought. He stepped forward, guiding you gently backwards and setting you down on the table, not breaking the kiss for a second.

You gasped softly as Bucky moved between your legs, hands firm at your hips, his body was warm and solid between your thighs, his mouth eager and relentless.

You could feel the tremble in him, even as he held you. Every kiss carried a storm of want, fear, and aching restraint, each touch told you he'd been waiting for this for far too long, that closeness had always come with pain, either his own or someone else's and yet, in this moment, he let it happen, he let himself be there, with you, without pulling away.

A soft, guttural sound escaped him, low in his throat, muffled against your lips. It made your stomach twist and heat spread low and fast.

You tangled your fingers in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and his hands moved without hesitation now, one sliding up the curve of your waist to your ribs, thumb brushing beneath the edge of your shirt, the other gripping your hip, firm and anchoring, keeping you where he wanted you.

You arched into him instinctively, and you moaned softly, feeling his arousal pressing against you, hot and hard even through the layers between you. He groaned softly, the sound lost against your mouth, his hips stuttering forward like he couldn’t help it.

Your breath caught, fingers curling into his shirt, but just when it seemed he might give in completely, he froze. Something inside him slammed shut, his hands went still, breath stuttering against your cheek, and his forehead dropped to your shoulder.

He stayed that way, silent, unmoving, chest heaving as though dragging himself back from some invisible edge while the tension in him buzzed under your hands, his whole body wound into hesitation, caught between fear and want.

Slowly, he pulled back.

You blinked at him, lips still parted, heart hammering in your chest as his gaze searched your face, looking for something, maybe for a sign, or for a reason not to do what he was about to do.

“I need to… show you something,” he said hoarsely.

You blinked, startled. “Okay.”

He stepped back a fraction, as if putting even that tiny bit of distance between you made it easier to breathe, and looked down at his left hand – the gloved one. Without another word, he began to peel it off, slowly, as if it cost him. 

You hadn’t thought much of it before, he always wore it, even when it was warm, even when it didn’t make sense.You knew he was working in construction, and the most reasonable thing to assume was that the hand was damaged, may be broken and healed wrongly, may be something else. 

The leather creaked until it finally slipped free and there it was. Metal – seamless and gleaming in the low light. 

Bucky didn’t look at you, his jaw was clenched tight, eyes fixed on the floor as if he couldn’t bear to see your reaction.

“This is what I am,” he said, voice low and bitter. “A monster. You must have heard the stories. They are all true.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out yet. You were too stunned, not by the metal, but by the pain in his voice.

“I don’t deserve this,” he went on, motioning vaguely toward you. “Not you, not your kindness, not the way you look at me like I’m – like I’m good.” His voice cracked slightly, and he turned, as if he meant to walk away.

“Bucky,” your voice was sharper than you intended, but it stopped him cold, he froze, half turned away, shoulders stiff.

“Don’t,” you said, more quietly this time. “Don’t walk away from me. Don’t end this, whatever this is, before it has even started.”

He turned, slowly, reluctantly, eyes flicking to yours and then down again, still expecting to see fear or disgust there. The metal arm hung at his side – a weight he had long ago grown used to carrying, but never learned how to stop hiding.

“Take off your shirt,” you said softly.

His eyes widened. “What?”

“Your shirt,” you repeated, a little more firmly now. “I want to see you.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, he looked stunned, like you’d asked him to strip off his skin, not a shirt. “You don’t… you don’t want to see this.”

“I do,” you said, your voice steady. “All of you.”

He took a breath, shallow and shaky. “Why?”

“Because you’re standing in front of me, waiting to be punished for existing, and I just want to see you, Bucky. Not the name. Not the stories. You.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and for a moment, he didn’t move, but then you reached for him, gently, fingers curling around his metal ones, the other hand sliding along his waist, tugging him back between your thighs until he stood close again. You let your hands find the hem of his shirt, pausing.

Still nothing from him – just breath, warm and unsteady against your cheek – so you tugged it upward.

He flinched, only slightly, but then lifted his arms and helped you pull it over his head.

The shirt hit the floor with a soft sound and there he was – lean muscle and scarred skin, the broad lines of his chest, the pale stretch of his stomach, the gleam of metal where it fused to flesh at his left shoulder with an angry seam.

Your fingers moved almost reverently, trailing across the curve of his human shoulder first, then down across his chest, then, carefully, you lifted your hand to the place where skin became steel, the place they had remade him.

You brushed your fingertips there, light and gentle, and Bucky shuddered beneath the touch.

“This must have hurt,” you whispered. “Beyond reason.”

He didn’t speak, but his eyes – dark, glassy, locked onto yours – said enough. 

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at him like this – like he wasn’t broken, like he could be wanted , like he could be seen.

Your palms settled at his shoulders and you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the scarred edge, right where the line blurred between man and machine.

His breath caught sharply.

Then another kiss, just a little higher, and then another, trailing gently up toward the curve of his neck. 

You felt him tense, just slightly, as if unsure what he was supposed to do with this kind of tenderness, but then his hands came back to your waist – hesitant, as if he was asking for permission – and you didn’t pull away. 

Instead, you leaned your forehead to his and whispered, “You’re not a monster, Bucky. Not to me.”

Your fingers curled lightly at the back of his neck, drawing him closer. His lips brushed yours once, barely there, then again, with a little more pressure, slowly letting go of all the hesitation that had built up inside him.

You felt his hands shift, slide around your back, palms large and warm as they pulled you gently against him. His chest rose against yours, so solid as if made of rock. Your mouths moved together, deeper now, his tongue swept tentatively against yours and he moaned softly into the kiss, so quiet, like it slipped out before he could stop it, making your stomach twist with heat.

You let your hands roam up his arms, across his shoulders, down the ridges of his back, feeling the way he trembled under your touch, as if he was holding himself together by sheer will.

He leaned into you more, his body fit between your thighs like it had always belonged there, and still, his lips never left yours. Bucky’s hands roamed, unsure at first, hovering, almost afraid to hold too tight, to want too much, but when you tangled your fingers in the back of his hair and pulled him closer, another quiet sound escaped him – something between a sigh and a moan – and he gave in.

His hands slid down to your thighs, grounding himself there, his touch still careful even as he pressed in closer between them. 

You let your lips leave his just long enough to catch your breath, your forehead pressed against his again. His eyes were still closed, his long lashes brushing his cheek, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile.

“You okay?” you whispered.

He nodded, barely. “I just… I didn’t think this would ever happen.”

Your thumb traced a line down his cheekbone. “Me neither.”

You kissed him again, slower, deeper. His hand found your lower back, fingers splaying out, warm and strong, pulling you flush against him. There was nothing rushed in the way he moved, just longing held back too long, finally finding air.

Your hands slid up over the ridges of his chest, over the warm skin and hard muscle. When you touched the metal shoulder again, you felt him tense for a second, but he didn’t pull away. 

Then, slowly, he bent to kiss your neck, lips brushing just beneath your jaw. Your fingers slid to his waistband, testing the boundary, and he stilled, forehead pressed to yours, breath hitching like the air had just gotten thinner.

“Hey,” you whispered, your lips grazing his. “It’s just me.”

He let out a broken sound that might’ve been a laugh or a prayer. “What are you…? Wait… I…” is voice cracked, low and raw as your fingers deftly unbuckled his belt, undid the zipper and slipped inside, wrapping around him. “Oh, God.”

You gave him a slow stroke, feeling him instantly getting rock hard and pulsing.

“No… no… God, no…” he breathed, but his hips betrayed him, stuttering into your touch. “I… I can’t… oh fuck…it’s too much… I’m…”

His words dissolved into a strangled breath, hips jerking once more despite himself, his one hand clutched the edge of the table, the other buried in the fabric at your lower back, holding on for dear life.

“Shit,” he hissed, head dropping to your shoulder, forehead pressed into your skin, slick with the heat rising in him too fast and too strong as your touch sent shivers down his spine. 

His forehead rested against your shoulder, damp with sweat, his eyes shut tight, fingers trembling where they gripped your back, and every exhale sounded more like a broken moan.

You could feel it in the way his breath faltered, how it hitched, caught, and broke somewhere between your collarbone and the soft space behind your ear. He was shaking now, as if his body couldn’t quite keep up with what he was feeling, as if it was all too much, too fast, and somehow still not enough.

You gave his pulsing cock another slow and gentle stroke, as you felt it twitching and warmth spilling over your hand, quiet and sudden, followed by a low, broken groan that tore from somewhere deep in his chest. You didn’t pull away, you kept your touch steady, gentle, letting him ride it out, but Bucky froze.

His breath hitched sharp, and he pulled back, horror already creeping into his eyes before he’d even looked at you fully. 

“Hey,” you murmured, your thumb brushing across the edge of his hip before he could say a word. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not… I’m…shit…” He swallowed hard, hands fumbling as he tried to fasten his pants. “You must think I’m…”

“Bucky,” you said softly, cutting him off, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek, guiding his gaze back to yours. “Please, look at me.”

He hesitated, but slowly, his eyes found yours. 

“Can you just… for one moment,” you whispered, “accept that I really like you? And that I want you. I’ve wanted you since the day I knocked on your door asking for sugar and that hasn’t changed. Not because we owe something to each other, or what you think I expect.” 

Your thumb brushed along the line of his jaw, and your voice dipped a little, quieter now, but still honest. “I don’t think anything. I know how it feels to be broken, to be used and casted away. I know how it feels to be lonely and starved for love.” 

He stared at you, unmoving, his breath faltered, not sharp or dramatic, just a quiet stutter, and his eyes flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes, as if checking again, making sure this was real. 

“I didn’t think…” he started, then stopped, his brow pinched, and he shook his head slightly, trying again. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

You smiled gently, thumb stroking his cheekbone.

“You don’t have to do anything.”

But he did, he lifted his hand slowly, uncertainly, like you might vanish if he moved too fast. His fingers brushed your jaw, calloused and warm, then settled against your neck, hesitant but tender. 

“I’ve imagined this – you saying something like that. Me… being allowed to hear it, but I thought if I got too close, I’d ruin it…and I did…”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” you said, holding his gaze – those impossibly blue eyes that still made your heart stutter every time they landed on you. Eyes that had followed you quietly, gently, from doorways and reflections, across rooms and silent hallways. They didn’t just watch, they had always made you feel seen and wanted. Not in a way that burned or demanded, but in a way that was steady and sweet, the kind of wanting you’d half-convinced yourself didn’t exist anymore.

Bucky’s thumb traced your cheek. “You’re the only good thing I’ve got,” he whispered, almost ashamed of how much he meant it. “You walked into my life and I haven’t stopped thinking about you since.”

He leaned in, slower this time, and his lips found yours again in a soft, searching kiss, trembling at first, betraying how much he still didn’t trust it, but then it got deeper and more certain.

He exhaled against your mouth, a shaky sound so soft, so full of relief it made your heart ache.

“Then stay,” you breathed against his lips. “Stop running, and stay.” 

His forehead came to rest against yours, his eyes still shut, his hand cradling your cheek, as he whispered back. “Tell me this isn’t just a dream.”

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close. “It’s not.” 

It did feel like a dream though, hours later as you lay in your bed with sheets tangled around your legs, warm and soft and smelling faintly of him – soap, sweat, something deeper, something his. Your body felt heavy and pleasantly sore in the best way as every inch of you had been touched, worshipped, held like something precious.

You’d lost count of how many times he’d pulled you over the edge, how many times he’d made you unravel with his hands, his mouth, his cock, his whispered name on your lips.

Your body still hummed with how he had touched you, like every inch of your skin mattered, how he had pushed inside you, like he was learning you by heart, afraid to miss a single detail, kissing every moan, every stuttering breath from your lips, reading your every expression.

You lay on your side, curled toward him, one leg slung loosely over his. Bucky was half-asleep, his breathing deep and steady, one arm slung protectively around your waist, his bare chest rising and falling against your cheek. You could feel the smoothness of his dog tags where they rested between your collarbones, cool against your skin.

His metal hand, surprisingly gentle, rested on the small of your back, fingers twitching now and then almost as if he had to keep checking you were still here. You’d half expected him to pull away after, to retreat into himself, but he hadn’t, not even for a second. He’d held you like you were safety, like you were home.

You sighed, a quiet, content sound, and pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw, and the scruff there scraped lightly against your lips.

“I’m not dreaming, right?” you whispered, not expecting an answer.

But his voice came anyway, low and hoarse from sleep. “If you are,” he murmured, “don’t wake me.”

You smiled into his skin and closed your eyes again, the steady thud of his heart beneath your palm easing you back into undisturbed sleep as for the first time in a long, long while everything was quiet and everything was good. Everything.

[progooner123]

just thinking about calling Bucky 'Sarge', getting eaten out and fucked against a wall. its a nice thought.

That is a nice thought eheheh

-

You’d only meant it as a joke.

Just a soft little tease tossed over your shoulder while he was doing something stupidly competent—tightening the straps of your vest before a field drop, checking your mags, sliding a blade into your boot with those infuriatingly capable hands.

“Thanks, Sarge,” you said, smirking.

His hands paused. Barely a flinch. Barely a sound. But you felt it. The way the air shifted. Like some wire deep in him, old and rusted, had been pulled taut.

You turned your head, expecting an eye-roll. Maybe a scoff. But Bucky didn’t say a word. Just stared at you—jaw tight, chest rising slow beneath his tactical gear, eyes unreadable.

It wasn’t until later, hours after the mission, adrenaline fading and your body still buzzing, that you realized the look wasn’t annoyed. It was hungry.

Which is why you said it again.

And again.

Until now—pressed against the cold wall of a darkened hallway, your breath fogging the paint, hands scrabbling at the flat surface for purchase—now you understand what you’ve been doing.

Because Bucky Barnes is on his knees in front of you.

And Sarge isn’t a joke anymore.

“Say it again,” he growls into the skin of your inner thigh, stubble scraping rough against your flesh. One of his hands is splayed over your stomach, holding you to the wall. The other is wrapped around your thigh, pulling you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

You’re soaked. Trembling.

“Bucky…” you breathe.

“Not what I asked you to say.” His teeth graze your hip. Not enough to hurt. Enough to make you yelp.

“…Sarge.” You swallow, hips twitching forward without your permission. His mouth is so close.

He hums against your skin like it pleases him. And then he devours you.

There’s no other word for it. His mouth is hot and wet and starving, like he’s been waiting for this—you—for years. He licks you slow, deliberate, like he’s learning you. Mapping every tremble. Then faster. Rougher. Until you’re gasping for breath, forehead pressed to the wall, legs shaking so badly he has to use that metal arm to hold you up.

You try to twist away—instinct, overstimulation—but he growls and pulls you closer, mouth never leaving you.

“You wanted to play, didn’t you?” His voice is low, hoarse, voice vibrating against you. “Calling me that in your sweet little voice.”

You whimper, nodding frantically. Or maybe you’re shaking. You don’t even know anymore.

His tongue works you open, relentless, until you’re leaking down his chin, your orgasm building sharp and bright and inevitable. Your moan echoes off the hallway tile.

“Sarge!” You cry out as you shatter. Your body curls forward, thighs clamping tight around his head, and he lets you ride it out, his grip never loosening, not even when you try to push him away. He licks you through it—drinks every last wave of it—until you’re boneless, twitching, panting against the wall.

Only then does he rise.

He doesn’t say a word as he stands—just looks at you. Dark, focused. His lips are wet. His facial hair glistens. And his eyes? His eyes say you’re not done.

You’re not even close.

You try to say something—maybe thank you, maybe holy shit—but the words don’t come fast enough. His hands are already on you, spinning you around, dragging your hips back, bunching your skirt even higher.

The sound of his zipper is loud in the silence.

You gasp as he presses the heavy weight of his cock between your thighs, dragging it slow through your slick folds, notching the tip against your entrance. And then he slides in. One smooth, punishing thrust.

You cry out, arching against the wall, and his gloved hand covers your mouth. Not to silence you. Just to feel it. The sounds you make. The way your jaw trembles beneath his palm.

“Say it,” he grits out, voice low against your ear. “C’mon. Louder.”

You moan into his hand. He thrusts again, harder.

“Say it.”

“S-Sarge,” you choke out against his glove, raw and open and ruined.

He groans like it’s a prayer. “That’s right,” he mutters, fucking into you with deep, brutal strokes. “Say it again.”

“Sarge!”

Again.

“Sarge—oh my god—please!”

Again. Until it’s the only word in your mouth, the only thing you know, echoing down the hallway while he holds you in place and takes.

Until he fills you with a growl so deep it vibrates through your bones, hips stuttering as he presses flush, releasing with a broken, muffled curse into your neck.

You’re both panting.

Still.

Silent.

He stays inside you. Arms wrapped around your waist. Breathing against your skin like he needs you to remind him he’s still human.

“Guess that name really works on you, huh?” You whisper, half-laughing, half-spent.

Bucky pulls back just far enough to kiss the side of your neck. His voice is a rasp of steel and sin. “Call me that again,” he murmurs, already hardening against you. “See what else you get.”

[progooner123]

let me hear you

pairing: new avengers!bucky barnes x female reader

summary: bucky barnes wants you to be louder during sex.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, pwp, piv sex, loud sex, unprotected sex, creampie, cockwarming, bit of dumbification, dirty talk, praise kink, barely there breeding kink, pet names (baby, pretty girl, sweet girl), aftercare, established relationship

word count: 2.6k

a/n: for week 9 of @buckybarnesevents's Hot Bucky Summer event, we had a free week and y'all voted for post-Thunderbolts Bucky encouraging reader to be louder during sex, so here we are! i don't have much to say about this one, except that it was fun to write and i hope y'all enjoy!! ♡

prompt: FREE WEEK

Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist

It was late at night in New Avengers tower and while the city that never slept still bustled on down below, you were far away from the noise in Bucky Barnes’ room. There, it was nearly silent, save for his ragged grunts and the rhythmic sound of his bed’s headboard banging lightly against the wall.

Bucky’s big body was settled in the cradle of your thighs, his hard length deep inside your tight heat, and you felt surrounded by the super-soldier, overwhelmed in the best way. His thick biceps were wrapped around your shoulders, pinning you beneath him, his hands holding your head like something precious.

All you wanted to do was let yourself give in to the pleasure of the moment, the presence of his handsome face so close to yours, the feeling of his breath huffing against your cheek in warm pants—but something held you back. No matter how much you wanted to, you couldn’t let go. 

A whine worked its way up your throat, but it died on your tongue, trapped behind your teeth. Bucky’s thumb pulled roughly at your lower lip, freeing it from where it had been caught between your teeth.

“Let me hear you, pretty girl,” he rumbled, punctuating his words with a hard thrust, his heavy cock sliding so deep inside your body, it felt like he was making a home for himself—and you had absolutely no problem with that. “Let me hear how good ‘m making you feel, yeah, baby?”

“Bucky.” His name was a soft, pitiful moan that ended in a hitched breath, a gasp, a barely-there whimper. 

He was so deep inside you, barely pulling out before rocking all the way back in, grinding into your cunt and making your slick hole stretch to fit his big cock. 

He’d slowed his pace to an excruciatingly decadent roll of his hips, making you feel every ridge, every vein, every hard inch of his stiff length dragging out of you before sliding right back in. He hit the end of you with every thrust, an exquisite kiss of pain that made the pleasure more devastatingly intense.

It was maddening how good he felt. Bucky’s cock filled you up just enough to make you feel him without hurting you, and he thrust deep inside you with just enough power to steal the breath from your lungs every time he bottomed out. 

It was agonizing, and so transcendentally perfect that you hated how you still couldn’t get lost in it.

Another, sharper whine crawled up the back of your throat, and you tried to resist the urge to stifle it. 

You’d always thought the sounds you made during sex were silly, ridiculous, embarrassing, and nobody had ever cared enough to want to hear you. So you didn’t know how to let it out, how to get out of your own head and just let go. 

“I can hear you thinking, baby,” Bucky murmured in your ear, his hips moving infinitesimally harder and faster as he thrust between your thighs, burying his cock deep in your cunt. “Stop thinking—just feel me, sweet girl.”

His voice was rough with his own pleasure, but the affection in his tone was clear as day, and you melted slightly at the command in his words. Your thoughts began to slow, to soften, and you focused on Bucky’s voice, on the rocking of his hips as he claimed you.

“Feel how good my cock fills you up,” Bucky went on, whispering filthy words in your ear while he thrust deep. “Feel how good your cunt’s sucking on me, trying to drag me deeper. Ya want me deeper inside you, baby? Want my cock buried balls-deep in your pussy so the tip’s kissing your womb, huh?”

“Fuck, Bucky, yes—god yes,” you cried softly on a choked whimper, unable to be louder even though you wanted to. You wanted Bucky to hear how good you felt, but it was so hard to let go and let yourself be loud for him.

The super-soldier hiked your thighs up higher, until your knees were practically digging into his ribs, and his cock pressed deeper inside you, until he reached the very end of you. 

A streak of white-hot pleasure shot straight through you, lighting up every nerve ending in your body until sparks burst behind your eyes. Your gasp at the feeling was shrill, louder than any sound you’d made before during sex, but the cry of bliss cut off in your throat and you were reduced to sharp, panting breaths.

Bucky grunted, pushing past your fluttering inner muscles in a rolling, thrusting movement that had his cock pounding deep into your pussy, hitting that spot that had fireworks bursting in your eyes and reducing you down to little more than a puddle of pleasure.

“Louder—you can let go and be louder, baby, I know ya can,” Bucky growled against your cheek, his lips a soft contrast to the roughness of his stubble. His scruff rasped over your skin, his breath coming in hot, sharp pants that had goose bumps rising down your neck and along your arms.

“I don’t—Bucky, I can’t,” you tried to protest, your head thrashing side to side on the pillow as pleasure, so much pleasure, hammered through your body and drummed at the edges of your mind. And still, your throat stifled your moans, the sounds coming out as choked, sputtering gasps.

“You can, sweet girl,” he promised, cradling your head gently in his hands and speaking the words into your jaw. “Just let go, baby, I’ve got you—go mindless for me and just feel me. I’m right here, I’ve got you, pretty girl, I’ve got you. Let me hear you, please.”

A keening whimper wrenched free from your lips at Bucky’s strangled, desperate plea. Something was building deep in your core, a storm gathering and twisting your belly as the pleasure in your body ratcheted higher, sending you careening toward your release.

The closer you got, the easier it was to do as Bucky said, letting your thoughts go quiet as you focused on him. You felt his breath on your cheek, his scruff grazing your skin, his hands cupping the back of your head, his broad, heavy body pressing you down into the bed. 

You felt the thick length of his cock sliding into your wet cunt, the ridges dragging against your sensitive inner walls as he thrust deep, pressing into that spot inside you. You felt him filling you up, his cock twitching with his own building release, his pelvic bone rubbing against your clit with every grinding thrust.

Pleasure was dancing through every nerve in your body and you focused on that. You focused on the feeling of being overwhelmed, of being cherished by Bucky and like the most perfect, sexual creature to ever live. You were suffused in a delicious, blissful warmth, and you never wanted it to end.

A moan spilled from your lips, so loud it nearly startled you back into yourself, but then Bucky thrust deep into your cunt, rocking against your messy folds and puffy clit until you were gasping in pleasure. Your knees dug into his ribs and your nails raked through his soft, brown hair, tangling in the sweaty strands at the base of his skull.

“That’s it, baby, that’s my girl,” he rumbled, nipping playfully at your ear and grunting when your pussy gave an answering squeeze. “Just feel me fucking that sweet cunt of yours, feel me filling up that perfect hole with my cock—feels good, yeah?”

“Yeah, feels s’good,” you answered without thinking, the truth tripping out before you could even think to stop it. You let out a soft, sweet exhale, sinking deeper into the blissed out, mindless space you’d found. 

“Good girl,” Bucky murmured, his hips surging between your thighs as his pace picked up. “You’re such a good girl for me, baby.”

You could hear the wet slapping sound of his body meeting yours, and it turned you on just as much as his praise. Your pussy was dripping with even more desire, coating him down to his balls, which were slapping against your ass. 

It was so good, but you still needed more.

“Bucky, please,” you whined, you voice growing louder, more high-pitched as you surrendered to the pleasure. Your fingertips dug into the solid planes of his shoulders, clinging onto the super-soldier as he fucked you. “More, please, Buck.”

Your body writhed beneath Bucky’s bigger form, your thighs squeezing his sides and your hips rising up off the damp sheets to meet his thrusts. Your soft tits pressed to his hard chest, nipples rubbing against the dark hair dusting his skin, teasing them to tight, needy peaks.

All the while, mindless moans and desperate whimpers tumbled from your lips, barely catching in your throat as they darted past your tongue. 

“Atta girl, let me hear you,” Bucky rumbled, one of his hands slipping between your bodies. His thumb found your slippery clit and strummed it sweetly, stroking your puffy pearl until your sounds hitched higher, turning even more pathetic. “You sound so pretty, baby, making such pretty sounds for me.”

Bucky thrust deep inside you, petting your clit until you were crying out, your body clenching tight around his larger form. Your thighs squeezed his ribs, your nails raking against his scalp as your fingers pulled lightly on his hair, and your pussy pulsed around his thick cock. 

From your lips, keening, whiny sounds, and gasps of ‘uh, uh, uh,’ poured freely, the pleasure of Bucky fucking you too much to think clearly or dwell on the reasons why you shouldn’t be making noise. You’d finally let go and gotten lost in your super-soldier, obscene sounds spilling from you unbidden—and Bucky seemed wholly pleased by it.

“Such a good girl, sound so pretty, baby,” he purred against your skin, pressing a soft kiss to the apple of your cheek. “I love the sounds you make for me when my cock is buried in your tight cunt, sweet girl—ya sound so fucking good, pretty girl.”

When you only moaned at his praise, he chuckled, his soft laughter so deeply self-satisfied, you felt your pussy gush with even more wetness. His cock slid in and out of your tight hole with ease, rocking into you hard and fast and making you clench with every thrust. 

“Ya gonna come on my cock, baby?” he asked, a teasing lilt in the warmth of his voice. “Ya gonna make a mess all over my cock while you scream your release and suck me so deep in your cunt, my seed’s gonna flood your womb, huh?”

“Bucky!” 

You sobbed his name, the word devolving into a lewd moan when he hit that spot deep inside you with a firm thrust. You were right on the precipice, about to tumble over the edge into oblivion, and it was all you could do to cling to the super-soldier and let your sounds of pleasure fall freely from your lips. 

“That’s right—that’s fucking right, baby,” Bucky growled, brushing a teasing kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Scream my name, let everyone in this tower hear who’s making you feel so good—let ‘em hear who’s making you come, sweet girl.”

Bucky’s thrusts turned wild, his hips rutting between your thighs without the measured, deliberate pace from earlier. His strokes were rough and fast, plowing into your drenched pussy so that the wet, slapping sounds of your joining bodies filled the room.

His hand, still trapped between your bodies, rubbed your clit harder, stroking and pinching the aching bud while your body writhed beneath him. You couldn’t hold back even if you’d wanted to, a litany of discordant sounds spilling from your mouth.

The sharp cries and desperate whimpers and obscene moans from you were mingling with the raspy grunts and husky groans coming from Bucky, along with pornographic noises of the super-soldier fucking you deep into his mattress—and it was wondrous.

It was a beautiful cacophony of pleasure, and you were a part of it, making sounds you never would’ve dreamed of making with anyone other than Bucky. He was the only one who brought it out of you, who made you feel safe and wanted, and who made you feel so much pleasure you were nearly drowning in it.

All at once, your body pulled taut, muscles straining and lips parting even wider. Your lungs expanded in your chest, pushing your tits harder against Bucky’s firm pecs, as you sucked in a deep breath. Then, the tension in your body snapped, and pleasure flooded in. 

And as it did, you screamed his name.

“BUCKY!”

Your super-soldier pressed his grin into your jaw, and then you were carried away in the storm of your release. You were tumbling, free-falling through endless, exhilarating euphoria, your body clinging on to Bucky and your pussy clenching down hard on his cock, begging for his release.

Bucky fucked you through it, and he found his peak a moment later. He grunted his pleasure into your cheek, his hips pressing deep between your thighs. You felt his cock twitch as he spilled his seed in your pussy, filling you up with rope after rope of come.

His big body shuddered and trembled above you, and you dug your fingers into his shoulder blades, holding him closer against your own quivering form. Together, you rode out your releases, catching your breath as your chests heaved and damp sweat cooled on your heated skin.

When you’d both somewhat recovered, Bucky lifted his head from where he’d buried it in the crook of your neck. His handsome face hovered above yours, his blue eyes sparkling with humor and affection in the dim light of his bedroom.

“Knew ya could do it, baby, knew ya could be loud for me,” he murmured, so much warmth in his voice, it made your heart flip in your chest. 

Pride bloomed between your ribs and your lips curved into a delightfully pleased grin, Bucky’s own mouth mirroring the expression as he stared down at you. His fingers brushed down the side of your cheek reverently, his eyes watching their path, before he cupped your jaw in his big hand and tipped your face up.

Then he was ducking down and capturing your lips in a filthy, sweet kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth when you opened for him on a sigh. His tongue stroked against yours, eliciting a weak whine from your throat, and the edges of his mouth curled with a smirk. 

He kissed you harder, deeper, like he could taste the sounds of pleasure straight from your mouth and he was intent on wringing even more from you. A soft moan slipped from your lips, and his smile deepened as he licked it from your tongue.

“That’s it, baby, let me hear you,” Bucky murmured against your lips, rolling onto his back and taking you with him. His cock remained buried deep inside you, your tight heat keeping him warm as he recovered and began to harden again. “Let me hear all your pretty sounds.”

If you weren’t careful, Bucky Barnes would have you screaming so loud, the entire tower really would hear you before the night was over. At that moment, though, you didn’t care. All you cared about was your super-soldier and letting him hear how good he made you feel.

And if that meant you had to be loud, then so be it.

thank you for reading!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated ♡

Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist

[progooner123]

obsessed with her

warning: NSFW - oral (f!receiving) - Bucky insatiable (it's a warning) - PinV

He didn’t mean to fall this hard. Didn’t mean to memorize every shade your eyes turned in different light. Didn’t mean to time how long your smile lingered after you laughed. Didn’t mean to get addicted to the sound of your voice when you whispered his name. But it happened. Fast. Unforgiving. And now, Bucky Barnes was completely, utterly, and almost dangerously obsessed with you.

You weren’t just his girlfriend. You were his anchor.

Every mission, every bad dream, every cold shower in the middle of the night he survived it all by thinking of you. The curve of your cheek. The heat of your body under his. The softness in your voice when you said, “You’re safe, Buck. I’ve got you.” He didn’t deserve you, not really. But he’d kill to keep you. And sometimes, when you weren’t home yet and he caught himself pacing the apartment, heart racing, hand twitching. It scared him how much he needed you. He was always touching you. Always.

Not just in bed, though God, he couldn’t keep his hands off you there either but everywhere. His metal fingers wrapped around your thigh while you watched TV. His lips ghosting your temple in the grocery line. His knuckles brushing yours even while driving. He had to feel you. Just to be sure you were real. He kept photos of you in his phone like a lovesick teenager. Screenshots of blurry selfies, videos of you laughing in bed, that one picture you’d sent while wearing his T-shirt and nothing else. He watched it when he couldn’t sleep. When he was alone.

He watched the way other men looked at you, hell, he felt it. And every time, something in him went feral. You were his. And God help anyone who forgot that. You didn’t know how often he woke up at 3 a.m. just to watch you sleep. How many times he almost cried because he’d never had this before peace, softness, love. You never teased him for being needy. Never mocked the way he clung to you like a lifeline. You fed his obsession. You welcomed it. You made him feel like being a little unhinged about you was… normal. That’s how he knew he was doomed. Because he never wanted anyone else ever again. Just you. Always.

The first time he lost control with you, it was almost too much. You’d been teasing him all day; bare legs, sweet smile, sitting in his lap like you didn’t know what you were doing. So when you whispered “please” in that innocent voice, his sanity snapped like a brittle wire. “Get on the bed,” he ordered, voice low, dangerous. You obeyed instantly, and fuck, he lived for that. He didn’t even undress you all the way. Just tore your panties down, pushed your shirt up, and spread your thighs apart like you were a gift he didn’t deserve. And then he devoured you. His tongue was relentless flat, slow licks up your slit, circling your clit until you were crying out and tugging his hair. But he didn’t stop. He loved when you begged. “Say it again,” he murmured between strokes. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Bucky. I swear-” He growled, fingers replacing his mouth as he leaned up to kiss you, knuckles deep inside, curling just right. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby. You’re mine. You understand? Fucking mine.” You nodded frantically, body quaking. “Then take it, sweetheart,” he whispered, lining himself up. “Take all of me.” When he pushed into you, it was like his whole world realigned. You were so wet, so tight, your body hugging every inch of him like you knew he was built for you. He groaned, head dropping into the crook of your neck as he started to move. “Shit‘s too good. Can’t go slow tonight, doll. Need you.” You wrapped your legs around him and whispered, “Then don’t.” He fucked you like it was the last thing he’d ever do. Hard, deep, desperate. One hand gripping your hip, the other tangled in your hair as he panted your name like a prayer. “Gonna fill you up,” he growled. “Want you leaking with me for days. Want everyone to see who you belong to.” “Yours,” you cried. “Only yours.” That was it. He slammed into you once more and came so hard he saw stars, his warmth spilling into you, claiming you, marking you. And still, even as you trembled beneath him, he didn’t pull away. He kissed your cheeks, your eyelids, your throat. Over and over. Obsessed. “You don’t get it,” he whispered, holding you tight. “You ruined me for anyone else.” You stroked his back softly, lovingly.

[progooner123]

giggling and kicking my feet as I read smut

[progooner123]

OH IM IMAGINING ALRIGHT

okay but can we talk about how Bucky would get his little Brooklyn accent to come out on accident when he gets really filthy and he doesn’t realize it until he notices you like it way too much

“You’re takin’ me so good, baby,” he rasps, the vowels rounder, thicker, rough with heat. “Just like that, yeah? Fuck—knew this pretty little pussy was made for me.”

The accent hits full force, syrupy and raw and unmistakably Brooklyn—and you whine.

Loud.

Like, back-arching, thighs-trembling, shameless kind of whine.

He stills for a second, brow furrowed.

“…You like that?”

You don’t answer right away. Just glance over your shoulder, breathless, eyes glassy, and nod like it physically hurts not to have him moving.

“Say it again,” you beg, voice barely there. “Please.”

And he grins.

Dark. Slow. Knowing.

[progooner123]

OMG!? IM SHAKING THIS IS SO GOOD!

Take me to church (Bucky Barnes x g/n reader)

Summary: Sex with him is never easy.

Tags: implied sex, nothing too explicit; angst, hurt/comfort, soft Bucky Barnes; referenced past trauma, PTSD and panic attacks, references to erectile dysfunction. Sex with feelings. Lots of feelings. Religious symbolism.

A/N: Is Bucky Barnes the cure to years of writer's block? Let's find out.

Sex with him is never a simple thing.

It’s all about small touches, muffled words and breathless pants. Under the faint, flickering lights of the room, there’s nothing else but that deep old yearning only someone who’s been through hell and back can achieve.

Sex with him it’s not about pleasure. It’s about surrender, devotion, worshipping. It’s about him getting on his knees for something bigger than himself, giving up his body willingly for someone to take over.

And each time, you treat it like what it is. A religious experience, a way to cast out the dark shadows that usually envelop him.

It takes a while, of course. His body has been through a lot of damage, of trauma. At first, you can’t even make him respond. As much as you try, as much as it shames and frustrates him, it ends up in nothing.

Only after a few months and lots of gentle encouragement he finally twitches, a small flickering movement that makes him gasp and arch his back off the bed. From there, everything goes uphill.

He’s never on top. He tried once, all those repressed feelings and yearning making him go hard, fast, wild in a way that made your bed creak and your insides churn. Bucky only stopped when your hands pushed on him, silently signalling for him to slow down.

He didn’t continue that night. The guilt, the fear of losing control and causing you pain weighed heavily on his poor heart and body. In the darkness of the room, only interrupted by the faint streetlights slightering in between the curtains, you saw him cry. Bucky never talked about it and you decided that, maybe, what happened that night should remain buried until he decided to bring it up.

For the next few weeks, he didn’t dare to try it again. The next time, he suggested you to restrain him, to subdue him in a way that would make it impossible for him to hurt you. You complied, only because he insisted, and it was a mess. Too many bad memories, too many wrong attachments to the feeling of something around his wrists. He couldn't even get hard and you, once again, didn’t comment on it. You only held him until his breathing calmed down, until he managed to form words again.

The third time came months after. Bucky, laying on the mattress, surrounded by too many pillows to count. You, on top, slowly riding your way into paradise. The creaks of the bed barely concealed the breathless pants leaving his lips, of the way his throat moved when he moaned out your name.

From there, it was always the same. Nothing rushed, as not to put pressure on him. Lots of soft words, and hand holding, and some toys to take the edge off. Bucky, always laying on the mattress, hands aching to touch you but not daring to. And you, hair wild and a smile on your face, catching glimpses of your own reflection on his blown pupils.

Sex with Bucky is about him getting on his knees without being commanded to, ready to devour you whole for hours. It’s about him never touching him with his metal arm, too shy, too afraid to do so. About his warm fingers trailing over your back, drawing shapes only he can decipher.

Nights with him are about his hair against your neck when he hides there, or his beard touching your skin before his lips do when he leans in to kiss your forehead. They are always about his voice, a bit breathless, another bit raspy, when he murmurs against your ear and he confesses all the things he would never say if he wasn’t high on pleasure.

And yes, maybe sex with Bucky it’s also about hunger. That deep, deep starvation that consumes him to the very core. It’s about the need to feel, to hold, to devour, to yearn for a connection that was never allowed for him. About being buried so deep inside of you that no one could ever pull you both apart.

Each time, after it ends, he stays. His eyes stare at you, not with desire nor regret. Bucky looks at you like a man kneeling before a broken altar. Yet, his body doesn’t reach to touch you anymore.

To him, you’re the only heaven he’ll ever know. Even if his hands are perpetually stained with blood.

A/N: English is not my first language so... bear with it.

[progooner123]

IM CREAMING I MEAN IM SCREAMING

Nasty Bucky

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Bucky eats you out and he’s nasty about it

Warning: ABSOLUTE FILTH, Bucky eating your pussy, smut smut smuttt, cum eating, pussy spanking 

word count: 1.1k+

Nasty!Bucky who spits on your pussy while eating you out just to watch it slide down your puffy folds until it dips to your entrance. shoving his tongue inside your hole and fucking his saliva deeper inside, chuckling against you when he feels you clench around his hot tongue. “you like that, sweetheart?” words hot and thick against your sticky cunt. 

Bucky gets impatient with not having an answer and pulls away just to spank your pussy, using his metal hand. “asked you a question,” he says sternly, catching your attention. you immediately squeal, voice breaking with a “y-yes! oh god, i love it, Bucky!” you can barely make out a muffled, “good girl, just needa use your words f’me” before he’s spreading your folds open wide, watching as you blossom pink and flushed for him before licking up your slit and sucking your clit directly into his mouth.

Nasty!Bucky who lets his tongue wander when he’s going down on you, slipping inside your ass and feeling your pussy clench around his metal fingers that are still stuffing your cunt full. “quit squirmin’, doll,” he pulls his fingers out, coated in your slick, just to meanly slap your pussy, again, twice before spreading your thighs further.

His tongue licking around your puckered hole, “gonna let me fuck you? want me to fill you up the way no man ever has?” his voice deep and rough, eyes flaring with something possessive, getting off on corrupting you.

Nasty!Bucky who fucks you hard just to see you squirt all over him. his thrusts are nothing short of cruel, swollen tip pushing against your abused g-spot over and over again. you feel the pressure building, your thighs threatening to close from the intense feeling but Bucky won’t have it.

His strong palms are shoving your legs apart and driving his hips even harder into the same spot. you try to warn him, voice wavering with each rough crash of his pelvis against your ass, but he only presses his hand down on your lower stomach, amplifying the sensation until you finally spray.

His chest is glistening from your gushing pussy and you feel a wave of embarrassment knowing you’re the direct cause for the sheen on his abs. Before you can think too much about it, Bucky’s pulling out and diving face first into your cunt. “Hey hey, it’s okay sweet girl, you just needed a good fucking huh?”

He licks at your folds, thumb rubbing harsh circles into your clit as your juices continue to flood his face despite you trying your hardest to make it stop. he runs his face back and forth across your silky skin and groans hoarsely, basking in your taste as he shoves his tongue inside your pussy.

“James!! s’ too much—fuck!” you cry out, muscles giving out as you try to push his head away. he pulls his head back only to spit on your pussy, giving her two more rushed licks before sitting up on his knees once more, stroking his cock and fucking you right back in the same rhythm, a dirty combination of slick and squirt decorating the lower half of his face, coating his lips and that damn smirk you love so much.

Nasty!Bucky who fucks you in missionary just to watch you cry. the way he rams his cock into you is nothing short of mean, his eyes half lidded in lust and his fingers intertwined with your own as he holds them above your head. you’re rendered helpless, forced to take every rough thrust of his hips even when it’s too much. your cunt begins clenching around him too tight, the slight pain that the stretch of his fat cock gives you growing more intense with each relentless thrust.

You can’t even help the big tears welling up in your lash line or your bottom lip quivering as you begin to pout at him. “B-Buck, it’s too deep. fuck, you’re too deep!” you begin to whine out, head turning back and forth against the plush pillow, body being run for all its worth and feeling the twitches throughout your frame in an unfamiliar pattern—you’re at your limit. and he’s still not through.

“just gotta make sure i get all of it, you know this, doll,” his nose is dragging along the column of your throat, his balls slapping wetly against your ass as he ensures every inch of his cock is snug inside your overstimulated pussy. your eyes shut and the tears begin to fall, your heels digging into the dip of his spine to pull him even deeper, body conflicting itself and somehow still begging for more.

“there she is, that’s—fuck sakes—that’s my good girl,” he praises once he feels you pulling him in even closer, head pulling back to look you in the eyes before flattening his tongue against your jaw, licking all the way up your cheek and savoring the salty taste of your tears.

“taste so sweet. you’re cryin’ for it. My baby’s poor little pussy can’t get enough even with all your whinin’,” his words are punctuated with a soft chuckle before he begins lapping at the opposite side of your face. his wet tongue moves slowly across your skin, the humiliation causing soft sobs to fall from your swollen lips but his hips never stop moving. his leaky tip rams against your cervix with each thrust while he presses a wet kiss to the corner of your eye. “so pretty when you cry, we both know how much you want this, how much you need it.”

Nasty!Bucky who can't help himself from eating his own cum out of your pussy. he'd long since lost count of how many times he felt your cunt flutter around him, coming over and over from his insatiable desire to fuck you for all he's worth. he didn't give you time to recover after an orgasm, and if you're honest, you can't be sure you can tell the difference between one ending and the next one washing over your overstimulated body.

Bucky had inhumane stamina, the super serum obviously had its perks, and the bedroom happened to be one of the places it showcases the best. He can go for hours, never getting tired of your broken moans ringing through his ears or that frothy ring of your cum that coats the base of his cock. but when he does finally come, it doesn't mean he's anywhere close to being done with you. He could never get tired of you.

Nasty!Bucky who fills you with so much of his cum that it can't possibly all fit inside of your pussy. it spills out even with him still driving his hips forward to push it deeper, making a mess of your thighs, and his heavy balls as it overflows. The soft silk sheets beneath you now soaking with a mix of your cum. Bucky simply doesn't care and groans out in a raspy tone as he feels his orgasm last longer than normal, his cock somehow still filling you with more of his hot, sticky load.

When he eventually pulls out, he's immediately dropping to his stomach and pushing the backs of your thighs towards your chest. you've never looked so messy before, he's sure of it, as he licks up the thick stream of white pouring out of your sloppy folds. his eyes shut as he revels in the taste of your combined cum, bumping your clit with his nose while his tongue laps at your quivering entrance as he cleans up the mess he made of you. 

He humps the sheets with messy thrusts, “open those eyes for me angel.” You open your eyes and Bucky groans against your cunt, he sucks and bites your clit and it has you whimpering. The look in his eyes is so soft in comparison to how he’s wrecking you. He kisses your clit and moans loudly, his cum spilling all over the sheets but his eyes never left yours. 

[progooner123]

I’m feining for a fic with riding beefy Bucky until he looses it

i need beefy!bucky to rearrange my guts! 🗣️ who said that? 🫣 one of these days i'll write a full fic, but for now enjoy whatever tf this nonsense is (warnings: restraints, tummy bulge, size kink, like a smidge of implied primal play at the end)

The whole point of this was to get Bucky to relax.

Yet, with the way your six foot wall of muscle is staring up at you like he’s a predator whose gone too long starved of his favourite prey — you — relaxed is the last word you’d use to describe him.

“You’re boring me, doll,” yet he’s hissing through his teeth, jaw clenched painfully tight as you slowly notch his tip inside you.

“Shh, don’t make me gag you,” oh but you want him to make you. In fact, the only thing that would turn this scene playing out before you from scorching to scathing hot, would be the sight of cloth bound around your soldier’s mouth and muffling every moan and complaint he aims to make

Really, this is for Bucky’s own good.

The past few weeks have been nothing but watching him stretch himself thin, taking on task after task after task, exhausting himself to the point of damn near forgetting his own name and slipping back into old habits of only answering to Soldat. So, of course, at the first pause for breath that you both found, nestled inside the fickle normality provided by a safe-house, you convinced your soldier to take you to bed.

What you failed to mention were the pair of handcuffs you had waiting for him.

“Quit testing my patience,” Bucky gives another tug of his arm, pulling until the metal cuffs dig into his wrists and wrestle against the headboard. “This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing,” the irony is that you let out a giggle, but who could blame you? The big, bad, throbbing super soldier just rolled his eyes to the back of his skull, completely at your mercy, all because you let yourself sink a few inches down on his cock. “I’m teasing.”

One hand pressing down on his abdomen and controlling how high you hold , your other dances up the length of you before grasping lightly at your throat, touching your skin in all the ways the soldier likes to.

“You wanted to ride me, pretty,” another one of his mouthing-offs that you’re so eager to interrupt, legs spreading a little wider over the sheets as you take him a little deeper, feel that sweet toe-curling burn of the initial stretch signature to Bucky. Full, thick, all-consuming — every word used to quantify largeness applies when it comes to him. “So, hurry up and fuck me.”

“Now you’re just starting to sound like me,” you say, like revenge wasn’t the driving force behind your actions. “Consider this pay-back for all the times you tease me.”

Stuffed to the brim, cunt drooling down onto the base of his dick as you settle into his lap, you test the waters, give a few experimental rolls of your hips. Not rising off of him, not letting a single inch slip out of you, just moving — slow, measured, deep sways of your body, letting yourself feel how he presses up against every part of your walls.

There’s more clinking of metal as you finally test a bounce or two, the hand at your throat pleasing yet nothing compared to the weight of the vibranium necklace only he can gift you. Still, the tighter your fingers squeeze at your throat, the tighter your cunt squeezes around his cock, sending the pair of you into a frenzy of chest-tearing gasps and breath-taking moans.

“I’m so full, Buck,” you pause to grind down on him, emphasising the visible bulge of his cock inside you, pressing up against your guts. “You’re so big, don’t know how you fit inside my little pussy.”

The truth is, the teasing is starting to affect you too. The slow grinds, the salacious words, the sweat melting off your skin, it’s starting to make you ache and throb, a dull strain growing in your hipbones as you spread your thighs wider, welcome him deeper. But it’s worth it, and part of the plan, the perfect cocktail to drive Bucky to the brink of insanity you know he needs to destress, the only way to get him to let go of his inhibitions and fully take from you what he craves — control, power, pleasure.

“Aren’t you gonna thank me for being a good girl,” you can see it growing in his eyes, that wild, glazed over look that tells you he’s only seconds away from snapping. “And sitting on your cock so well?”

Finally, the metal snaps.

You’re off him in the blink of an eye, exhilaration coursing through your veins as you shoot towards the bedroom door. On the bed, untethered cuffs still sit locked around his wrists as Bucky prowls off the bed, nothing short from sporting hackles as he seethes over at you.

“Run, doll,” he mumbles, and you feel yourself grow wetter, ready for the real fun to begin. “‘cause when I catch you, I’m not gonna be nice.”

[progooner123]

If he looked at ME like this? I’d be such a slut omg. I’d do anything he wanted me to. Head? No problem. Make you breakfast? Sure. Fuck me? Please do.

[progooner123]

Nothing Between Us

Summary: Bucky losing his mind when you stop him and take the condom off mid-sex

Warning: Unprotected sex (intentional), condom removal mid-sex, creampie, emotional smut, possessive!Bucky, degradation + praise kink, overstimulation, soft aftermath implied.

♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎

Bucky was trying-really trying-to hold it together.

You were already moaning beneath him, legs wrapped tight around his waist, your body slick with sweat and your cunt squeezing him like a fist with every thrust. He’d been taking his time, keeping it controlled, steady, even though he was right on the edge. Even though every part of him wanted to ruin you.

He was close. So close.

And then your hand slid down between your bodies.

At first, he thought you were going to touch yourself, chase your orgasm with him still deep inside you--and fuck, the idea made his hips jerk.

But then he felt it. The shift. The drag of your fingers at the base of his cock.

And suddenly--

Your hand pushed his hips to still and the condom was gone.

Bucky’s eyes snapped open, he ripped away from the crook of your neck, where he planted himself to stay grounded, his rhythm faltering, heart slamming into his ribs as you tossed it aside like it didn’t matter. He stared down at you, stunned, panting. “What the hell are you doing babydoll?”

Your voice was soft, breathless, a little ruined. “I want you.”

“I’m already inside you,” his brows pinched as he growls, but it came out shaky, unsure.

You pulled your legs up higher around his hips and looked him in the eyes. “I want all of you,” you whispered. “I want you to come inside me.”

That was it. That was the moment he fucking lost it.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t give himself time to think. He slammed back into you--bare, raw, thick and hot--and the sound he let out wasn’t human.

“Christ, baby, fucking--I--” he groaned, the stretch hotter now, slicker, real. “You feel--God, you-- you--this has to be heaven.”

Your mouth fell open in a moan, hands digging into his back, pulling him down until he's practically laying on you. Your cunt clamped down around him like your body was begging to be filled, and Bucky fucking snapped.

His head was spinning, ears ringing as he started moving again, but there was no control left. No rhythm. Just need. “You want this?” he growled, breath hot against your jaw. “Want me to fuck you like this? Fill you up ‘til it’s leaking out of you?”

You couldn’t even form words. Just nodded, already trembling underneath him. “You’re mine,” he snarled. “My good girl, taking it raw. You don’t wanna stop me, do you? Don’t wanna go back?”

You whimpered, “Never.”

That's what did it.

His thrusts turned frantic--deep, punishing, desperate. You were crying out, clinging to him like your life depended on it, and Bucky was unraveling above you. Every time you clenched around him, it pulled him deeper, wrecked him harder. He was ready to start sobbing at the sensation "Baby fuck you're milking this cock I---" his head falls forward resting against your forehead.

You whine and whisper against him, "You're gonna make me cum Jamie"

His eyes glossed over completely, “Cum for me princess, cover my cock with your cum before You make me cum” he panted. “You want that? You want my come inside you?”

Your legs tighten around his waist as you moan louder from his words your breathing gets caught in your chest as your tremble against him, “Yes, Bucky--I James...James please.”

He slammed in one last time and came hard, buried to the hilt, cock twitching as he spilled inside you--thick, hot, so much you could already feel it dripping out around him.

He stayed there, chest heaving, forehead pressed to yours, both of you shaking with the aftershocks.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

Then your fingers brushed his cheek. “You okay?” He blinked. Let out a breathless, wrecked little laugh. “You just broke me,” he whispered. “Fuck completely broke me baby.”

And when you kissed him-soft, slow, full of everything you couldn’t say-he realized you’d meant to.

You wanted him wrecked. And you’d get that side of him. Every. Night after this.

♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎

If you like my work please let me know! Reblogging, commenting and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Request are open <3

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[progooner123]

pent up bucky taking out his frustration on us ? 😓😓😓😓

Hes frustrated with you –doesn't know how many more times he can repeat the same shit to you before it gets through your head.

Bucky doesn't know why he's unusually wound tight at your plight today. He chalks it up to the idea that you really just dont understand —that you dont see the way he's got eyes only for you, the way he watches you when youre just sitting beside him on the couch, or the way he speaks so highly of you in any form of conversation, and the way he watches to make sure nobody else has eyes on the way your jeans cup your curves so beautifully.

So of course he gets frustrated when you get all shy and demure beneath him. Whispering stuttered words of: "do you mean it" and "i dont know what you see."

He's just pissed.

So the only way –he's ultimately decided– is to fuck it into that thick skull of yours. And he does so in such a delicious manner that youre just happy as a clam to be thrown around and to spread open on thsi thick girth of his cock.

Any other time he might find it amusing but he's not in the mood as he grinds your hips into his, holding one if your hands to his chest to stabilize you.

"Oh, fuck," you sob, "i cant, s'too much!" circling your hips into his and throwing your head back as the veiny length of him presses into your heat.

"Dont you fucking move," Bucky hisses from beneath you, moving to press his feet into the plush of the bed, forcing his cock deeper. The way his cock pulses and presses against all the right spots makes your vision blur as you grasp for something, anything.

Bucky takes mercy on you as he holds both of your hands by your wrists in one of his own while the other grabs your waist.

You make a mental note to buy more concealer for the bruises that are sure to manifest if you plan on being in a bikini tomorrow at the party.

You cry put above him, begging him for anything –sobbing and tearing up at the intensity of pleasure.

"How many times do I have to tell you." He drops your wrists rather roughly to pull you by the waist flush against his chest. Bucky wraps both arms around you, pumping his cock into your heat as you moan and sob into his pillow.

"M'cumming." You sob, grasping the cool metal of his arm.

"No youre not." He hisses into the heat of your neck, reaching a hand down to spread the lips of your pussy open. "Not ti'll you tell me what I wanna hear."

Your body responds to him in an instant and you shy in on yourself once more. "Please," is all you say.

Bucky clearly isn't a fan of your plea by the way that he grabs your jaw so quick you nearly jump.

"I've had enough of your bullshit, just fucking tell me what I wanna hear, stop acting all shy n'shit."

His balls press up against your sopping folds and your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head.

"Im yours." You whimper, hoping that'll be enough — you know it wont be. And it isn't when Bucky slips a hand to the nape of your neck, holding you steady so that you cant shy away.

"What the hell did I just tell you," his hand squeezes –not enough but just enough to add a pleasurable amount of pressure– his other hand spreads the fat of your ass cheek open, spreading your cunt open for him.

"M'pretty n'all yours," you force out which earns you a throaty groan from the man beneath you. Bucky presses you flush against him again by the nape of your neck, pumping his cock faster and deeper into your wet heat.

"Thaaaaats it," Bucky growls beneath you, groaning into your ear as he fills you.

[progooner123]

Take It, Baby

Summary: Bucky was just too big and he was desperate for just one more

Warnings: Size kink, filthy talk, overstimulation, soft dom with a filthy mouth Bucky, praising and possession themes. Reader is AFAB.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

“God, look at you,” Bucky groaned, voice like gravel in your ear, deep and filthy. “Tryin’ so hard to take my cock, baby. So fuckin’ tight around me. So full.”

You whimpered, thighs trembling on either side of his hips. He was so deep, and it still wasn’t all of him. You could feel the heft of him inside you—stretching you open inch by devastating inch, your pussy clenching around the thick girth of him like you’d never get used to it.

“I can’t-” you could barely breathe, face flushed, mouth open as you clung to his shoulders. “Bucky, you’re too big–fuck—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, dark and soothing at once. “You are. Look at that greedy little pussy takin’ me, baby. So desperate for it.” His metal hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face down to focus on where his cock was splitting you open. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight I can barely fuckin’ move. Feels like you're suffocating my cock.”

He rocked his hips just enough to push in another inch and you gasped, your eyes rolling back as your nails dug into his skin. He was buried almost to the hilt now, only a breath away from bottoming out—and you swore you could feel him in your stomach.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he purred, brushing his lips against your ear. “Almost there. Gonna split you open real slow so you feel every fuckin’ inch. You love it, don’t you? Love sittin’ on this cock like it’s made for you.” You moaned, the sound shameless and wrecked.

“Say it,” he rasped. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

“You,” you gasped. “Fuck, Bucky—it’s yours—always yours—”

“That’s my girl,” he hissed. “Keep sayin’ it. You want the rest? You want all of me?”

You nodded frantically, tears in your eyes from how good the pressure was. “Then take it.” His hands gripped your hips and slammed you down the last inch with a sharp snap of his hips that knocked the air from your lungs. “Oh fuck—” you cried, your whole body shuddering. “There it is,” he groaned, his head dropping back. “You feel that, baby? Feel me balls deep inside this pretty little cunt?”

You screamed, clenching around him hard enough to make him choke on a groan, and he laughed–dark, wrecked, breathless.

“Shit—you’re so fuckin’ tight. So wet. Drippin’ all over me. Fucking christ you're dripping down my thighs baby, so fucking messy for me. My sweet pussy’s just beggin’ to be used, huh?”

“Please,” you gasped, rutting against him, desperate for more friction, more anything.

“You beg so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmured. “Alright, baby—hold on.”

He started moving. Slow, filthy thrusts that dragged every thick inch of him along your fluttering walls, his cock stretching you open again and again, hitting so deep you were seeing stars. 

“Can feel you milkin’ me, fuck—your pussy knows who it belongs to,” he gritted, voice barely holding together. “You want me to fill you up, huh? Make you even more of a mess?”

“Yes-yes, Bucky-please–”

“That’s right,” he snarled, thrusts picking up, his cock pounding into you now, wet and obscene. “Gonna fuck you stupid on this cock, sweetheart. Gonna fill you so full you won’t be able to think about anything else. You won’t walk right for days. Just gonna lie there all fucked-out and dripping.”

The way he growled it in your ear had your orgasm ripping through you before you could even beg, your walls fluttering and clenching hard around him. You screamed his name, your body shuddering violently in his lap.“That’s it,” he grunted, thrusts stuttering as he chased his own high. “Fuck-gonna–ah-fuckin’ take it, baby–take all my cum–ah shit!”

He came hard, cock twitching deep inside you as he groaned against your shoulder, holding you down on him while you both trembled and breathed through the aftershocks. You were still whimpering, hips twitching in his lap, overstimulated but buzzing, drunk on the stretch and the heat of him pulsing inside you.

Bucky kissed the side of your neck, lips tender now. “Still with me, sweetheart?” he whispered. You hummed softly in response. “That’s it. You did so good for me.” You nodded, dazed and boneless, slumping into him with a ruined little smile. “Fuck,” he murmured, holding you tight. “You really are made for me.”

You were limp in his lap, still full of him, dazed and slick and barely breathing right. Your thighs twitched around his hips. Your cheek rested on his chest, and Bucky stroked your back with one hand while the other cradled the back of your head, murmuring quiet praise like a balm.

“That’s it, baby. You were perfect. Took all of me like a good girl,” he whispered, lips brushing your temple. “So fuckin’ proud of you.” You mumbled something weak, dreamy, nearly nonverbal. All you could feel was the sticky heat between your legs, the slow softening of his cock inside you, the throb of being so full. You thought it was over. You thought you’d be wrapped in a blanket, cleaned up, and kissed to sleep.

But then Bucky shifted.

You blinked, weakly clinging to him as he lifted you in his arms. Easily. Effortlessly. Like you weighed nothing at all. “Bucky?” you asked, voice hoarse. He looked down at you with that dangerous little half-smile—the one that never meant anything innocent.

“You think I’m done with you, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low, syrupy, teasing. “Nah. You were so fuckin’ good for me, lettin’ me stretch you out like that. Gotta reward you, don’t I?”

“Bucky–” you whimpered, squirming in his arms. Your pussy was aching, soaked, overstimulated from the orgasm he’d just wrung out of you with his cock. “I–I don’t think I can-”

“Yeah, you can,” he said, kissing your cheek. “You’re gonna take everything I give you, baby. Gonna lie there like my sweet little meal and let me eat this pussy ‘til you’re cryin’.”

You shuddered.

He laid you down on the bed with so much care you almost forgot what he just said–until he dropped to his knees at the edge and dragged you down with firm hands, hooking your legs over his shoulders like he owned you.

“Look at this fuckin’ mess,” he groaned, spreading you open with his thumbs, staring at the creamy slick dripping from your spent cunt. “So wet. So fucked out. Still twitchin’ for me.”

“Bucky, I’m–sensitive-”

“Oh I know, baby.” He leaned in, breath warm on your soaked folds. “Gonna take it slow. Real nice and slow darlin'.”

And then his mouth was on you. Hot, soft licks that made you sob, back arching as your fingers scrambled for the sheets. He was relentless. Lapping up every drop of his cum spilling out of you, tongue curling right against your clit like he already knew exactly how to undo you all over again. “You taste like us,” he growled into your pussy. “So fuckin’ sweet. Gonna lick this pretty cunt ‘til you’re beggin’ me to stop.”

Your thighs clenched around his head; he just growled and shoved them apart again with a bruising grip. “Keep those legs open for me, baby. Lemme ruin you properly.”

You whimpered his name, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes as his tongue flicked and sucked and fucked you open like he was starving. Every pass of his tongue over your clit made your stomach twist, your hips jerk, your whole body try to crawl away from the pleasure. But he just grabbed you by the hips and dragged you right back onto his face. “Don’t run from me,” he murmured, voice muffled. “You wanted it, remember? Said you needed me. Said you wanted everything I could give ya. So be my good girl and take it babe. ”

Your second orgasm crashed down hard–almost too hard. You cried out, thighs shaking violently around his head, your fingers fisting the sheets as your body convulsed with it.

But he didn’t stop.

Not even when you sobbed his name. Not even when your legs kicked weakly. Not even when the tears slipped free. “Shhh,” he murmured, breath warm and teasing as he finally slowed his licks. “You’re okay. Just let it happen, baby. Let me make you feel good.”

Your voice was barely coherent through the wrecked gasps.

“Too much–Bucky–it’s too much-”

He kissed your inner thigh, tongue dragging softly up your folds like an apology and a promise all at once.

“I know, baby,” he said gently. “Just one more. One more for me... just-- just need one more baby please. ”

He looked up at you, eyes completely glazed over as he begged, then his mouth was back on you—merciless.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

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[progooner123]

whipped

pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x female!reader

summary: Bucky Barnes is soft only for one person - the woman he is whipped for. or, little moments in the every day with Bucky.

warnings: FLUFF, SO MUCH FLUFF. soft!Bucky, no use of y/n mentions of sex, pet names (baby) author is a sucker for domestic intimacy and loves writing/fantasising about it. let me know if I missed something!

word count: 1.5k

masterlist

Bucky Barnes was whipped for you and only you.

his team teased him relentlessly.

the stoic, distant super soldier was grinning when he came back from your first date. it had left Yelena with a burnt hand from pouring too much coffee in her mug, Bob with a bump to the head as he crashed into the wall while walking, and John with a knife cut while he was cutting vegetables. Bucky had sauntered out of the kitchen with a smile and not the frown they were used to. it was enough to put the team on high alert.

they checked if they had somehow accidentally entered the wrong universe or perhaps the world had reversed? some sort of magic spell? (did the sun set in the right direction? apparently it did.)

as it turned out, Bucky Barnes was just happy that day.

he was happy every time he returned from meeting you.

when you met the team, they had mentioned the drastic change in him. you commented how it was almost impossible to imagine him in the manner they described him - all muscles and stone and sharp replies.

with you he was nothing but soft embraces, tender eyes, and smiles.

god, you loved his smiles. the boyish, rather impish, curve of his lips that put your heart on the edge of your skin, ready to burst out any moment. nobody should be that handsome, you thought every single time.

~

he had a drawer of his clothes in your apartment for the night stays. he couldn't remember the last time he went back to his apartment, nowadays alternating between the Tower and your nearby.

he was as well acquainted with the place as he was intimate with you. he had his own key and would stay on the days where he had an off but you had work. you trusted him enough to take care of your apartment. he would look around for any repairs, replacements, or the likes around the house on those days. so far, he has repaired the leak in your bathroom tap, the flickering of your living room lights, and the switches in your bedroom.

you were not complaining, especially not when he removed his t-shirt because “it was just too damn hot under the sink” and you returned home to the sight of your boyfriend with his chest shining, covered with a thin layer of sweat, and biceps bulging with each turn of the wrench in his hand.

yeah, not complaining at all.

when he got out, grumbling something about washers, you pulled him in for a deep kiss, hands around his neck and chest pressed to his. quickly recovering from his initial confusion, his own hands found your waist, pressing his hips to yours.

“Bucky,” you whispered when he pulled away.

“how was your day baby?” he asked, eyes gazing down at you.

“forget about my day and fuck me, Barnes,” your voice was low but he needed no extra push to follow the order. who was he to deny you?

lifting you up effortlessly, hands on your thighs and lips back on yours, he took you to the bedroom.

no complaints whatsoever.

afterwards, he pulled you closer to his body, murmuring something about showering, lips grazing your temple, and asked if you wanted to join him. you asked, why would I ever say no to that, making him laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners from the wide smile on his face. he looked every bit a man who was content with life and at peace with his demons. for once, he felt light.

~

when cleaned up, you sat down together on the couch, hands holding your coffee mugs filled with orange juice, and discussing your day. he rambled about washers and rubber rings that were the cause of the bathroom leak and you told him about the infuriating incompetence of your coworkers that almost cost you the progress of your project.

you were in the middle of explaining their ineptitude to him when you realised he had a distant look in his eyes. not the kind that meant he was thinking about something entirely absent from the room, but the kind that told you he was hyper focused on something in his vision, mind off in some fantasy land unknown to you.

he was staring at your lips.

perhaps the fantasy land wasn't as unknown to you.

he was too busy observing to notice that you had stopped speaking altogether. you shook your head at the lovesick expression on his face, as if you didn't look irritated and exhausted after a stressful day and its recountance.

no, he looked at you like you were the most beautiful creature in the world. like you were the only thing he wanted to look at for the rest of his life.

so you kissed him again. one hand on his neck, the other holding the mug between you both. a lick of his lips and the kiss deepened into a slow savor of each other's presence.

when you pulled away, his eyes still held that look, but were more focused on your face now. “you're the woman of my dreams,” he confessed, voice nothing more than a whisper.

heat quickly crawled up your neck and face, the blush as sudden as his declaration.

“you're crazy,” you told him. “I haven't even combed my hair yet," your fingers tangled in the wet strands.

“don't need to,” his eyes resembled the waves on a sunny day, bright and blue.

you shook your head, a small, embarrassed smile on your face. you were sure Bucky Barnes was sent on earth to put you into a cardiac arrest.

“I almost forgot,” you were desperate to change the subject, knew Bucky’s words and love would swallow you whole if you didn't. “I saw this new recipe today. wanna help me prepare dinner?”

he was an absolute disaster in the kitchen but you were training him to be better. so far, he could successfully chop vegetables without cutting his flesh hand. he could also prepare a basic meal for survival without burning down the house.

“are you sure you want me in there?” he glanced at the kitchen behind you in suspicion, wary of the place, like he was inspecting enemy bases before infiltration.

“you won't fail this time as long as you do it my way down to the last instruction.”

“I'm saying this as someone who briefly heard Adolf Hitler's translated speeches in his hayday,” his lips twitched, barely containing the smile. “you sound like a dictator.”

you rolled your eyes.

“and I'm not complaining. I would follow you anywhere. but you should know that.”

“okay, follow me to the kitchen, Barnes,” you sighed at the dramatics of your boyfriend. you offered him a quick peck before downing your juice and leading you both into the kitchen.

“yes ma'am,” he trailed behind you. he let his eyes fall to your ass, curved perfectly around the shorts you were wearing.

“I can feel you, you know,” you teased.

“yeah? better than coming up to me and begging to be fucked by me every time I take my shirt off.”

you merely shrugged.

“my boyfriend is hot, sue me,” you started taking out the ingredients from the overhead cabinets. when you were unable to reach one on the top shelf, he shuffled closer, casually reaching up and handing you the flour silently.

he was already sitting down in front of the kitchen island to wait for more instructions from you. you decided not to linger too long on the desire to kiss him again when he looked so... inviting.

cooking went smoothly. no fuck ups. you gave him a kiss in reward and he chased your lips, greedy for more. you indulged him.

~

a quiet dinner, filled only with low commentary here and there about the movie playing on TV, was your usual weekday with Bucky. the two of you would occasionally kiss or smile at each other, but appreciated the silence and the food. eating was a sacred activity for Bucky. ever since he started getting a choice for his meals, he felt like he owed it to himself to appreciate every granule. so he did. and he appreciated you for making the food for him on more nights than not.

what he didn't make up for in preparing the dinner, he did in cleaning the dishes. the places were reversed now, you sitting on the island while he meticulously set up the dishes along with his arm.

later, you did your nighttime routine, brushed your teeth, and settled in your bed while your boyfriend locked the door, windows, and turned off all the lights. he never left your safety to chance, always preferring to be overly prepared. your hands outstretched, fingers curling to call him towards you once he was back. he obeyed your silent command without hesitation, long strides bringing him to you. he settled on top of you, thighs slotting between yours and your arms around his waist hugging him closer.

"not too heavy?" he asked like he always did, voice muffled in your hair.

"just perfect," you sighed, breah fanning over his neck and shoulders.

your personal weighted blanket. it helped that he was always warm.

hope you had a fun time reading! likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3