A/N: Mature content is labeled in this chapter. The beginning and end are {{{{bracketed}}}} and I tried to isolate it so that there's enough story around it. Hence, 6k words... Enjoy, and comments always welcome!
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE—December 13th, 2039
If Sam kept forcing down food, she wouldn't think about the last meal she'd had: breakfast salad and slippery fruit-soup with arguably the deadliest being in the universe. However, if she ate one more bite, Sam was going to hurl on the tile floor of the Rogers' kitchen.
Nothing tasted good, every piece a numbing lump, a necessary evil. It felt like hours she'd been sitting at that bare wood table, angled towards one dish or another, plied with a few more sips of coffee if she could just finish the plate. She corrected herself; coffee tasted good, familiar.
At least the food worked. Extremis took every molecule, every morsel of energy, and made her whole again. Metabolically speaking, it was miraculous, and Sam found herself taking mental notes as if she were in the lab again. Within hours of dropping from the sky after serving as some kind of blood-bag for her mother, Sam could no longer wrap her fingers all the way around her wrist, and she filled her clothes again.
Bucky plunked a glass of water on the table. Sam watched with tired eyes. Water she could manage. Stopping, she could not. If she stopped, she would have to sleep, and if Sam considered thinking bad, then sleeping was much worse. Thanos would be there, too, all of their faces would.
"You've got a baby brother. Howard, Howie. Tony's sent me a message." Bucky swiped through his tablet before collapsing it. He sipped at his own glass while Sam chugged hers loudly. "Says we can't reply due to being—uh, he calls it the Mirror Dimension—but your mother is doing well."
His eye twitched before he tucked the gadget into his back pocket, farther out of sight than it needed to be, muttering, "at least Strange called him back…"
Sam processed the news slowly, unable to pinpoint Bucky's mood. He was talkative without engagement behind the words. He blurted things out, things about nothing in particular. The weather as they landed in the field outside, the freshness of the milk in the fridge, placement of utensils in a drawer, and the new brand of dish soap at the sink were all hot topics. Apparently, the smell of the soap was too strong, and it left a film even after rinsing. Notably, he asked Sam nothing about what happened since she left.
It was the most nervous calm she'd ever seen, like automated personable behavior from Missy in the early days when she 'tried on conversation' for size.
"Did you hear me?" His eyes pierced her when they fell to her in earnest, causing Sam's hand to shake the glass on its way back to the table. The wood echoed the vibration. Sam looked away, embarrassed.
Night overtook the grey a while ago, so she didn't have much to see out the long patio door windows until a little round face appeared.
"Who's that?" Sam clucked, and Bucky bristled, spooked until seeing the deep fur scruff against the glass before green eyes stared back. "Hello, sweetheart."
A grey cat, huge with winter fluff, watched Sam walk up to the window and rubbed its cheek over the glass where her pointed finger landed.
Bucky laughed in relief. "Oh, that's Karma," he shrugged. "Always comes back around. We think 'e lives in the woods back there mainly."
"'E?" Sam opened the door a crack, but the cat backed away.
"Don't know if it's male or female. Sharon thinks it's a 'he' and Steve thinks it's a 'she,' but I just think 'e's just hungry. Always hungry…" Bucky went over to the pantry and dug in a noisy bag at the bottom. He walked over to Sam at the door. "Karma won't come inside—" he bent down to pile the little morsels on the icy ground "—because," he added in a rehearsed way, "you do not control Karma. Karma finds you."
Bucky brushed off his hands. "Come on. Shut the door. It's cold." He shifted Sam aside with a hand at her waist, turned the bolt, and returned to his chair.
Sam watched at the glass door with fascination. Karma hissed, sniffed at the ground, then stepped forward into the food which disappeared as its big paw landed on the wood. The cat stared right at Sam, however, crying. Sam put up a confused hand.
Mirror dimension, she thought as the cat sauntered away in the dark, weird place. Also, cats. Pretty weird, too. It was a nice, safe thought. She'd write that down.
"Did you never have a pet?"
"No," Sam said as she straightened up, "Clint used to tell us about his childhood dog, Boom Hound, who died of cancer. Lost over half of his body weight and needed to be carried to the yard to do his business. He kept saying he just couldn't go through it again." Her eyes remained low.
Bucky adjusted in his seat.
"Ya know, there was once I came out of HQ, and there was just this beautiful golden retriever laying there, sunbathing. Thought his owner was in for a meeting. Went over, gave him pets, even played fetch with a little branch. 'Bout ten minutes in, this dog comes running back with the stick and—" he snapped his fingers "—turns into a damn fifteen-year-old, mutant shape-shifter kid who ran off from the X's tour that day. Damn near had a heart attack right there. You know what he said to me?" Bucky put his hands up at the audacity before they slapped down to his thighs. "'Big fan. You looked like you needed some fun, sir.'"
Sam tried to hide a smile, but the image warranted at least one escaped snort of laughter.
"What a little shit," Bucky mumbled, perfectly amused. He brushed at his pant leg, watching as Sam's shoulders sank and she looked back to the daunting food. After a moment he added, just as casually, "you know, you have to sleep at some point."
The terror flooded in. Her wide eyes watered in strain. Tremors shot down her hands. This was a much less flattering development in her recovery.
"Please don't make me."
Bucky jumped out of his chair to kneel at her side. "Hey, hey, I'm not—how about—" he took a twitching hand into his "—I think you'll feel better after a wash. I can clean up your clothes. It'll help."
Sam looked down at herself for the first time since landing at Memorial Park, covered in ashy smears and several dark stains littered her arms and clothes. Whose blood was on her, she didn't know, but she suddenly understood what may have been extra alarming for Pepper about a strange woman grabbing at her. The blouse was anything but pristine now. Sam reached for her hair to find it crusted with dust.
"Jeez," she muttered, "how bad's the smell?" Sam couldn't meet his eye for the answer.
"Come on." Bucky tugged at her arm gently.
It was supposed to help, to make her feel fresh and new and relaxed, so the poor thing would sleep. As he asked for her clothes to wash, Sam caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, pushed him out, and slammed the door between them. He waited and took the dirty garments she shoved through the tiniest crack. He smiled, however, when he realized she had not removed his remaining cuff, a distinctively possessive gesture for someone so ready to be rid of bad memories.
He went about cleaning and searching—he hoped respectfully—for clothes for Sam to borrow within Sharon's things, but being two very different sizes and shapes, he had to choose the loosest things he could find in the drawers. Bucky snatched a few things from Steve as well since carrying Sam around soiled his own. No unnecessary reminders.
The shower still ran when he dropped the clothes off by the door, so he cleaned up the kitchen.
The shower still ran, so he hung up the clean clothes to dry.
The shower still ran.
An hour and forty-five minutes in, Bucky began to worry, pressing his ear to the door, listening. He suspected exactly what he found.
The steam around her was gone. Sam stood with her back to the clear-running water, blankly staring at the wall with her arms crossed over her chest, still clutching a bar of soap.
"It's a bubble. There were no other possibilities. Our timeline's a loop," Sam whispered, icy drips draining into her mouth. "I was inevitable."
Bucky stepped in to turn the shower off, leaving a void of input across Sam's numb body, and she straightened without the pressure. He grabbed her towel and waited politely with kind blue eyes, looking at her face, looking at her.
"Tony called it a knot," he tried softly. If Sam was crying, he couldn't tell with all the hair draped across her face, but she let him tuck the towel under her arms and across her back. He plucked the soap from her hand to put back on the ledge.
"Do you think Thanos saw it? Maybe that's why he…wanted me for a daughter. He knew. He saw," she repeated. "I know all their names."
It was the first mention of the Titan Sam made, but he knew not to engage that now. As Bucky smoothed the wet locks away, her eyes focused behind him, through him. At least her skin felt warm again.
Sam was drowning, and he recognized the precipice well. After wading into dark waters, the riptide had come for her. He was watching from afar at the shore of humanity, waving, while the current grabbed her ankles and pulled. During his turn, no one was in the water with Bucky, stuck in his hideout apartment in Romania all those nights, sinking over and over.
If he didn't pull her back, if he didn't give her a way to feel human again, Sam might never come back. He could stop it but not with words. He would never be able to articulate the whole mess of experience and emotion. Bucky couldn't even articulate his feelings when giving her a birthday gift…
The dark vibranium band rested prominently on Sam's forearm, crossed over the towel rising and falling with her breaths. At her neck, a pulse steadily tapped against supple skin, and her lips were glossy pink. Bucky thought of the same selfish wish he had on all those drowning nights on the run: to be touched, held, loved. It was all he had to give.
His arms snaked behind her back and neck, pulling her flush against him. Eyes closed, his mouth found hers in a desperate plea to return. He felt her weight sway in shock before her lips gently pushed back and parted for him. This invitation, this glimmer of light in a sea of darkness, fueled him. He rushed to steady their fall towards the shower wall, rocking backward as Sam clawed her hands and legs up him. The towel pinned between them fell.
When Samantha pulled at what little cropped hair remained at the crown of his head to gasp in a breath before biting his lower lip, Bucky hit the other wall with a grunt, rolling them till her bare back pressed to the tile and he could release his lips from hers. He went for her neck next, relishing an anguished cry that sounded above his ear. For a moment, she spread her arms, exposing her collarbone to him before he realized her fingers laced around the neck of his shirt and ripped it away.
She paired the sweeping gesture with a moan that drove goosebumps to pill all over his arms. They were flesh to flesh now, hard and soft wrapped indistinguishable from each other, skin slippery.
He released suctioned lips from her throat to look up.
Her mouth lay open, letting heavy breaths pass. A broad, toothy smile replaced it beneath heavy lids and nearly black eyes.
"Hi," Sam whispered, tugging at the hair still trapped in her fingers.
Bucky smiled back.
{{{{Mature content: Skip to next brackets if preferred}}}}
The tipping point was the way she looked at him. Her tone was entirely playful, but the smile did not hit her eyes. Sam asked for trust and patience with the dark fear of judgment at the center of those blown-out pupils.
Bucky's blood drained from his face. I would never, he thought, let you live what I did. He pulled her a little closer, but no words came out. This convoluted, roiling ocean of guilt and innocence left him sinking towards pessimism and swimming for optimism. Was it any wonder he searched for hope? He could only hope that his eyes said as much as hers at this moment.
She broke eye contact first. He watched the pulse in her neck thunder with every second, and his own fear faded, draining away towards a pressured heat in his chest, in his core. Her clean, fresh smell hit his nostrils like the smell of food to a starving man. He took in the soft prickle of her goosebumps under his fingertips.
He watched her collarbone rise and fall. Soft, pristine, scar-free flesh stretched before him, against him, beneath him.
Bucky leaned forward just an inch to touch his nose in the hollow beneath her neck, ripping an almost violent release of air from Samantha. Her head hit the tile behind her with a thud. When he tilted his head, she wouldn't look down, and he noticed that her hands released their grip.
He deliberately huffed hot air across her chest, and Sam tensed, whining softly.
She wasn't there with him anymore. She was trying to separate, consumed by internal screams.
He knew the path. No one understands. They can't know what I am. They can't understand. No one would want me if they knew. No one deserves the baggage. I deserve no one.
Bucky pressed closer to her, lips finally touching the collarbone.
"Look at me," he murmured into her skin. "Look at me, please."
"Buck, I..." Sam choked on her terror and embarrassment.
Bucky ran a hand up to her face with a concerned, furrowed brow. He shifted his pelvis forward to hold more of her weight as he leaned back. The coarse hair between her legs brushed against his navel. He tilted her chin towards him. "Where did you go?"
Sam's face was confused. "Danvers...her blood was blue. Her face—" she cut herself off in disgust. "I can see all of their faces, their pictures. I stared at that wall for hours."
He bit his lip and nodded. That was a wound only a lot of time had healed for him. Perhaps he mistook real healing for mental scar tissue and nerve damage, but nonetheless, he felt the pang of recognition in his chest. His hall of victims had filled over quite a long time. Sam's took one day, one decision.
When he spoke, he tried to filter out the worst parts. "You'll have nightmares," Bucky started, his voice very low, "probably. Some are true, and some are worse. Sometimes you'll go numb," you won't feel as much as you should, and you'll think you're broken, "like you'll never feel properly again." You can't trust your feelings or thoughts. Believe people shouldn't trust you. You won't let them. "You're gonna feel lost. Like you deserve to be lost. Like no one should bother to find you or to help. You're gonna want to feel…" people's hate for you because you'll think you deserve it…
He rested his forehead on her shoulder.
"Everything…" will be ruined or tainted with some tiny memory or shred of guilt… "is muddy."
Bucky had never spoken those sentiments out loud, never told anyone the real and exhaustive cycle of shit that surged through his head until he felt sick most days, but when he let it fall out of him like toxic sludge, the words evaporated and the pain dissipated slightly.
Sam let her hands fall to the base of his neck, relaxed before a soft squeeze comforted his still racing mind. The sharp rim of the cuff grazed his chest as he sighed. He thought, now that she had heard his jumbled and incoherent rant, she wanted to get down and away from him.
He nodded softly in her skin and lifted his head. "Okay," Bucky said, shifting off the wall, giving Sam space to release her legs and stand. She shifted forward with him, moving a hand to rest her chin. He tried to steady her slide down by placing a hand at her waist.
The responding sharp breath pulled cold air across his newly wet neck, and Sam shook her head gently.
"Okay," Bucky repeated, soothingly sliding the hand around to the small of her back instead. "Okay." He walked them out of the bathroom so that he could sit on the edge of the bed.
Sam sank to his lap, nudging her hips and legs until comfortable, keeping a tight grip around his shoulders. The slinky fabric of sports shorts could not hide the heat of her on his lap, and Bucky swallowed hard.
"Whatever you want," he whispered.
Her hands were at his face, dark eyes intense over steady words."I don't want to feel this anymore." The blue ring flashed around Sam's pupils again, or perhaps that was a trick of the lamplight.
The back of his fingers dragged up and down her stomach, maintaining their light touch even as Sam breathed into him, always stopping just over the lower swell of a breast. He stared between them at her body atop his, and Sam watched him for any sign of distaste. She wasn't ashamed, too deep in lust to truly care, but if anything she could do now would force him to agree—
"Turn around," the horse gravel of Bucky's voice ordered.
Lightning shot down her spine, and Sam clenched in unexpected shock.
When she did not immediately move, Bucky lifted his head to reveal eyes all but black, blown out to a thin blue line of their own. Sam went cold and hot all at once, frozen by his intensity. She caught herself stuck in what she imagined was a goofy expression, mouth agape. Then the hovering hand moved quickly to push her right side off-balance of his lap. She would have fallen if his other arm had not snaked around her turning torso, his thumb momentarily pressing at the divet of her throat while he pulled her back to his chest.
The spin made Sam brutally aware of her heavy leg against his thigh as Bucky parted his legs, forcing hers wider. Before she could recover, the hand left her waist and plunged down, gently pressing, circling.
A breathy whine escaped her, feeling all of him, his nose nestled below her ear, his mouth against her neck, waiting.
Sam's hands hovered over her chest and thigh, shaking like leaves. She tried to recover, shrieking internally to calm or at least to act calm, but she felt stupid, clumsy, unworthy.
Bucky gently nuzzled her ear, brought her thoughts back to the pressure of his stalled hand, and Sam clamped her grip over his forearm across her chest. The stability was only physical.
He waited, Sam didn't know for how long, before slowly moving his hand back up over her mound, dragging fingers through her hair towards her stomach. She leaned back to stop his retreat until she realized Bucky was waiting for permission.
"Yes," Sam choked out, the sound more of a barked command than the delicate plea she intended.
And so his hand returned, smoothing two fingers through her fold to part her lips, exploring. Teeth gently followed the hot mouth at her neck. Every exhale became a high-pitched sigh, but his grazing fingers dampened Sam's embarrassment with each swirl. Her brain fought for control, for blood, and forced her to seize forward, but he wouldn't allow the distance. Bucky took her momentum and brought them both to their knees on the carpet below. He let her bend forward to plant her hands beneath them, pinning Sam, legs spread at his mercy while his middle finger breached slick walls.
A carnal moan erupted from her throat as Sam stretched out like a cat, sinking her hips into his. The sounds were not one-sided. Propped above her with his now free hand, Bucky traced his tongue down Sam's spine, groaning at the shiver his path elicited. His pumping finger dripped with her, so another followed, allowed deeper by the flex of his wrist. He gripped her waist to pull her back, flush against his chest, both on their knees, worshipping at the temple of each other.
She began to cry, screaming out with each curled thrust and the friction above it. He held her down now, arm replaced between her breasts and hand pressing against her shoulder. She felt Bucky's forehead at the base of her neck, relentless in his focus to please.
Sam's core pulled taut, aching. The screams transformed to softer moans and bated breaths in anticipation. The electric summit approached but not before a sheer drop of panic. The world dropped out beneath her.
She forced the leg beneath Bucky's hand to jerk away, rising off the floor. Sam stumbled to the door frame of the bathroom, panting. She wobbled on gelatinous limbs, unable to bring herself to look back at him. Stumbling drunk on liquid passion, she escaped to the bed, collapsing face up onto the bouncing mattress with her hands glued over her face. Spasming muscles only newly rebuilt in an imperfect body rippled over her in almost painful twitches.
Sam never much cared what her body looked like. Except for the two times she'd been extremely malnourished due to circumstances that, for the most part, had nothing to do with her body—certainly, nothing to do with her physical attractiveness—Sam remained the size she was at Harvard. She wasn't an athlete. She ate whatever was easy and within grabbing distance of her lab and Mistress. Suddenly, there was a man—Bucky Barnes, to be exact—in the room watching the jiggle of her thighs convulse on weak legs. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry until his fingers swirled around the inside of her ankle and a kiss brushed across her knee.
Her body decided to laugh, a horrible, humorless giggle that brought Sam awareness of the completely uncovered body just beyond a covered face. Her face was arguably the least offensive part of her. In an exasperated huff, keeping her eyes closed, she forced her arms down in a petulant thud against the quilt, and before deciding what to do with her newly free hands, Bucky's fingers laced through one. She felt him shift from the floor, slinking up her leg, and a hot breath blew across her upper thigh.
Sam clamped her knees together and rolled. Her eyes flew open to the ceiling. Another choked giggle and the panic sent Sam on her elbows up the bed. Bucky followed, an arm and leg on either side of her, straddling without touching her, save for the mesh fabric of his shorts tickling the joint between her hip and leg. She had no choice but to look at him.
He captured her gaze, locked eyes with hers only to dart occasionally to her mouth. Sam felt consumed by the attention, between panic and pleasure. Beneath the tangled thoughts of what she should think or expect or feel or want, a potent need built.
The skin over his sharp jaw tightened, a prickle of dark stubble covering the whole glorious sweep, and he bit his lip, licking over the red flesh before returning his eyes to hers.
Did she look terrified? Did she look like a scared kid? Did she look like she would let him do anything to her if he just licked those lips one more time? Sam had no idea. Her heart thundered and her nipples pebbled. Her still-wet hair soaked the fabric beneath her head. If she looked terrified, it wasn't because she didn't want this; it was because she wanted this so badly. Her inner voice had called her stupid and ridiculous and convinced her this was not possible for so long. Intellectually, Sam could not grasp the concept this was happening.
Time travel. Sure. Using Infinity Stones. No problem. Bucky Barnes half-naked on top of her waiting for permission. Get the fuck out. No.
And so "no" is what Sam's brain screamed, even while her hands made to grab Bucky's powerful biceps, even while her legs spread to touch the inside of his thighs, even while her back arched to press her chest to his. It morphed into an internal groan of "no, don't stop."
He sank to meet her on the soft bed, shifting to tuck his legs between hers, slowly allowing the bulge of his shorts to settle over her wetness. His arms slid under her shoulders, forcing Sam's to encircle his neck, and Bucky smoothed loose strands of damp hair from her flushed face.
His scent had changed, steeped in an earthy musk of excitement, and he spoke low, needy. "What do you want, angel?"
Sam felt the vibrations in her toes as the pet-name echoed around chaotic thoughts. She had never heard him call anyone 'angel,' and her blood surged with pride to hear it for her. Only her. Only now. At the moment she felt the least worthy of sympathy, compassion, or attention, this bold and stoic god-among-men claimed her as his angel.
She hoped tears wouldn't fall from her watering eyes before she responded. She needed him to believe her, to see the pinprick of truth within a galaxy of miscommunication, to not be deterred by her flood of emotions. She laced all of her fingers through his hair and tilted his clear blue eyes to meet hers.
"You," Sam whispered. Pure and simple, just like the Bucky she loved, the one who took hold of her chin to capture her lips, the one who raked his nails down her body in order to remove the one remaining barrier between them, the one who devoured every little noise escaping her. Pure and simple, as nothing in their lives had ever been before.
Sam used her heels to help push the shorts down his legs until they fell over the edge, surprised by the intensity with which Bucky dove back to her body. She could feel him getting harder as her hands roamed his back.
With every rush of blood through his heart, Bucky's cock twitched against the soft folds at Sam's entrance, but he didn't push further. Instead, he angled himself to slide through what lubrication he milked from her on the floor. The sensation made Sam desperately empty, thrusting her hips up in retaliation. Bucky released her mouth, retreating to her neck as his weight shifted to one side, retracing his fingers past her ribs, past her belly, past the joint of her hips.
He dipped a finger back inside her, mercilessly curving it before retracting to insert two. His fingers felt rougher with her increasing sensitivity, but they soon abandoned her. Sam mewled when nothing returned before realizing Bucky was touching himself with her slick. Though she could not see, a little shiver went through her spine at the thought, and it spurred her to latch her legs up around his ass, open, ready.
He groaned into her collarbone, the smooth tip of him grazing past wanton flesh, back and forth as he stroked himself. Another nip at her neck and his hand abandoned his cock to squeeze at Sam's ass. He tilted his head down to sear his gaze over the length of her body, letting out a huff when his eyes returned to hers.
He shook his head, and Sam freaked, retracting her arms to cover herself until Bucky rolled them over in a swift move that left Sam spinning even more.
He sat up beneath her, face level with her breasts, and kissed her sternum.
"I needed," he mumbled into her skin, "access."
Sam swore she could hear a cheeky smile in his voice and pursed her lips, unamused. She forgot how to care, however, when his mouth closed over a nipple and a hand cupped the other breast, sliding two fingers around that nipple to pinch.
His bracing stubble on such tender flesh sent jolts of excitement straight down to her groin. Her fingers found his hair again. He released a hand to align himself, weeping tip barely vanishing inside her tight warmth, and left his cock there at her mercy. His hand stroked over her stomach again.
You bastard, Sam whined, and from the chuckle rolling vibrations over her nipple, she questioned if she'd said that aloud.
Her knees and legs were unset jelly, but Bucky kept his thighs behind hers, propping her up until she regained control.
You chivalrous bastard. This time Sam smiled, too, before sinking to take another inch of him in, thick and filling, letting his hands grope and roam after a stutter of pressure.
Was that a tremor?
She sank again, halfway this time, pushed past a moment of pain to a delicious, silky stretch, and one of Bucky's thighs failed behind her as his mouth fell open against her.
Oh, I've got you now, Sam relished, relaxing her fingers to pet his hair, and then steadily sank all the way down.
Bucky's mouth gave up as he raced to grab her hips, leaning her just a bit forward, angling until his body lifted hers for a moment. He lifted his head until his face tucked beneath her chin, panting over her neck. His fingers gripped a little tighter at her hips, so Sam rolled forward in answer. His palms slid over her ass, and in-kind, she pulled up a ways before rolling back down.
Sam's own moan distracted her from watching Bucky's response, but his hands followed each movement, then encouraged it, then guided it, until Sam found herself riding Bucky hard, scraping her clit over the muscular cut of his abs.
Every thought she tried to have exploded like a firework, vanishing in a blaze of smoke and light only to be replaced by another equally as fleeting. The heat accumulated all over her before humming to concentration at the spot hit by Bucky's plunging cock. She was screaming, but by the time her own noise pierced the veil of inner ecstasy, Sam didn't care.
When Bucky's mouth became active again, she couldn't say. When his hands began to roam and grasp and pinch again, she had no idea. At some point, she released his hair to focus on propping herself up by his chest. Somewhere in there, he began watching her again.
Time was nonexistent.
Bucky seemed eager to let this go on as long as the world turned, but when Sam grew quiet, body still thundering against his, he became serious.
Strong arms curled up her back to hold her shoulders, pinning Sam and her bucking hips into a devastating cycle of friction. Whether the gasping cry she released was his name or an expletive, neither knew. Orgasm hit Sam like a freight car. Afraid of biting his shoulder, she shoved Bucky flat on the bed, hands brutally pushing on his chest while she drew blood inside her cheek from holding in one last scream.
His moans were softer as Sam's walls rippled against his length inside her. The white of her vision faded after a moment, and she noticed a tinge of pain in his voice. She opened her eyes when he said her name, wincing.
The heel of her palm dug into Bucky's chest below his pec.
"I think you may have fractured a rib," he mumbled, followed by a weak snort to laugh it off.
Mortified, Samantha jumped off of him. The stimulation of her dismount shocked them both for a moment.
"It's alright—" he grabbed at his chest "—I'll be fine."
She slapped her hands over her mouth, mumbling apologies into them. Poor Bucky lay there, still hard and with a blossoming red bruise three inches long below his fingers.
Sam's euphoric adrenaline rush emboldened her to scoot back over to his side, touching his taut thigh lightly. "I can make it better."
And then Bucky really laughed, a nervous laugh that left him grasping at the rib. "You don't have to do that," he insisted, but his breath caught as her hand traveled up to stroke him before ending in a groan. He was much louder now, opened up by excitement and desire, and Sam liked it.
"You asked me what I want," she scolded with amusement, "so you did this-" Sam leaned forward to align her face with his, sliding a palm from the tip of him to the base "—to yourself."
Bucky grunted into her mouth, panting at each movement before dropping his head back to the pillows. She dragged her tongue over his torso, planting strategic kisses and nips along the way, until finally running her soft lips across his tip.
She positioned herself to take him in, noticing his knees almost shake as her hands grazed up to his hips. Fingers spread to steady him, Sam finally looked at his cock for the first time, thick like his thighs, flushed hot red like Bucky's neck, ringed with dark hair. Her insides fluttered in remembrance of running her hands through those curls.
Sam had no intention of teasing him, so she warmed at the sight of him barely a moment before her mouth took as much of him as she could at once. Bucky threw his hands to the headboard, desperate not to fist Sam's hair or thrust into her throat. Sam relished the filthy, empty protests of 'fuck,' 'shit,' and 'holy hell.' While close as she'd straddled him, Bucky fought this dirtier, darker desire.
She moved relentlessly, motivated by his every noise, her tongue rolling over and over the underbelly of his cock, up and down, gently tugging his balls as his cum surged forth.
A single, choked plea of "Angel, I'm—" escaped before Bucky yanked a pillow over his unhinged, euphoric moan. He might have been embarrassed were it not for Sam's beaming pride; he could feel the heat radiating from her. His thighs twitched under her grip, aftershocks ravaging every nerve. He contemplated allowing himself a few more expletives beneath the muffling fluff, though the whiteout of his vision faded with his oxygen stores.
{{{{Mature Content End: Sam and Bucky are on a bed.}}}}
A little laugh cut off in Sam's throat as her hands moved away.
He took a fortifying breath, expecting a grin to greet him, but when Bucky moved the pillow, he was greeted by violent red eyes. A pulsing, swirling ruby mist hovered an inch over Sam's skin, and just visible behind her right side was the distorted face of Scarlet Witch, eyes bright and identical to Samantha's.
Wanda looked at Sam with curiosity, form wavering through the same broken-glass effect as Dr. Strange. Her spell jerked Sam's body prone onto the bed with the flick of her wrist.
"What the hell are you doing?" Bucky scrambled to his knees, jolted out of whatever happy fog-filled him moments ago, tossing a corner of quilt to cover Sam.
"So it's true," Wanda smirked, staring at Bucky as the spell released Sam and the flame in her eyes died. "Oh, Captain, her Captain."
The mirror window vanished along with any sign of Wanda, red eyes, or red mist. The thin blue ring around Sam's pupils returned, fading away almost as quickly as it appeared.
A/N: How'd I do? This happens to be the first plotted smut I've ever written, so hopefully not too bad. Thanks for reading, as always!