You rouse from sleep to find the room still dark, the tiny ghost of moonlight seeping through thin curtains. The sheets are gone as your hand search blindly, but warm breath gusts across your thigh.

Bucky's awake, but out of habit, you glance to see his abandoned pillow beside you.

Your body forces you to stretch, to push away what fatigue it can until tantalizing fingers press your muscles back to the bed.

You should be scared of him.

A notorious assassin, vicious, bloody, brutal, and the Winter Soldier was a title to pour ice in the veins.

But his hands, oh, his warm and wandering hands.

How long did it take him to learn to use his hands just so? You think of how many test subjects there may have been, but you refuse to be jealous of anyone who likely died long before you were born. Then it occurs to you that he may know how good this feels because he touched himself.

A rush of blood abandons your brain to follow his feather-light touch.

"It's not even light yet," you groan in the dark.

Bucky doesn't respond. The pale lit face focuses on his little circles, propped up on his metal elbow. He blinks lazily.

You could roll over, or he would oblige if you shooed him away, but why? You could lay here, and he would play with you, dancing over your body for hours.

Uncharacteristically, Bucky takes a firm grip over your thigh, releasing the muscle gently before squeezing it one palm-length higher. More insistent than usual, you think, but you could be persuaded.

He finishes his suggestive massage up your leg, laying the hand flat against your hip.

He waits.

Though sleepy, you smile because Bucky is one of the most infuriatingly patient men you've ever met. He'll live a whole lifetime before leaping something he wants, but every so often, he begs, in his own unique way, for your attention.

You take a deep breath, comfortable in your power while his fingers flex and press again.

Fine. You'll throw him a bone. "What? Do you need something?" It's a lazy question.

He lets out a sharp exhale, heaving himself up to your neck, sliding his arms beneath yours to grip your shoulders. He presses his lips above your collarbone and moves to kiss just below your ear.

"What's the magic word," you giggle.

His voice comes gruffly. "It's not funny."

You shrug into his hold. "Little bit," you offer and tilt your head down to his.

Instead of words, Bucky shoved his knee between your legs to spread them as he lowers his body flush with yours.

Very insistent.

He must have had a nightmare. He likes to be grounded in something good after waking from horrors. He won't talk about it, and you never ask…specifically.

It's harder to breathe with the weight of him on your chest yet comforting. You suppose there are worse ways to wake up…or die.

Your fingers twist into his thick hair as he teases nipples beneath your tank. The rocking of his hips rubs the soft boxers he wears against your thigh, rolling your underwear up with it.

How long had he wanted you before waking you?

He's rock hard beneath that fabric, panting into your chest as if tortured for hours.

You force him to roll over, straddling the deep cut V leading to his torment.

Bucky releases your shoulders to lay one arm over his face, ashamed of his desperation, stifling heavy breaths.

Must have been one hell of a nightmare.

Leaning to nudge away his arm, your pelvis slides along the length of him.

"Please," Bucky says softly, "I need you."

His metal arm rests above his head as the other pulls against your ass, spreading you slightly. His torso jumps off the bed so he can take your lips, slipping an urgent tongue deep into your mouth.

You both rock back and forth, unsure how to balance in the chaos of pleasures, until he grabs at your ass again, this time tearing away the fabric between you.

He breaks the kiss to tilt his head beneath your chin. You gasp for air while he wets his fingers with your mingled saliva, and he returns to lift you from behind with a finger inside.

You're raised, basking in the pulse of one and then two fingers, all while Bucky uses his metal arm to slide his boxers down. The band pulls his cock forward to graze your thigh before it springs back to lay at his stomach.

"Let me," you croak, hoarse with lust.

Bucky grabs your hand to smear across his open mouth, a slick trail of kisses preparing you to guide him in. His missing fingers leave a void in you that needs filling.

He's thick, and while to look at, not overly long, you know the depths he can reach. Even as you descend onto his length he pulls you to his chest to hold you close.

Bucky's face is lined and strained as he presses kisses to your open lips. A silent scream escapes you as if the pressure of his cock can hit your lungs.

He lets out a small cry. He waited too long to wake you.

"You're so tight," he grunts between husky gasps.

You slowly bounce against him, leaning to his ear. "Cum for me."

Another stifled cry from him and your hands return to his hair, pulling his head back to watch ecstasy roll over his resistant features.

Straining your head over his, you position your mouth just above his before repeating your demand. "Cum for me." You clamp your lips to his, muffling tiny whines with each plunge of your hips.

His hands latch around her waist, Bucky holds you down against him as he empties inside you, crying out into your kiss.

After ragged breaths, Bucky ducks his head beneath your chin. "Sorry," he begins, "I just—"

"Shh."

He runs his hands up and down your sweating back, and when he grazes the sides of your waist with a light touch—ah, it tickles. The jolt arches your body away from his hands and into Bucky's chest. He takes the opportunity to suck at your nipple, flicking his tongue across peaked flesh.

"Okay," you moan, noticing the rising light of dawn on the walls, "feel better?"

He switches to your other nipple. "When you…I will," Bucky mumbles.

Slowly, he lifts you up and off, dripping semen to the sheets below, rolling you farther away from the wet.

If the loss of his fingers left you wanting, the absence of his swollen dick is excruciating. He loves to play when you're so sensitive, riding the high of orgasm while trying to stay afloat in a riptide to sleep.

Bucky drags short nails (and now warm metal) gently along the outside of your legs until both feet are in his hands, pushed apart to allow him access to your thighs. He crawls across you like a hunter over wounded prey, but he's smelling you for desire, not fear. This is how he plans his attack once the white-hot need settles to a smoldering fire.

Fingers delve into you, shock and pleasure escaping in a throaty gasp. He curls them inside while his thumb and mouth trace cursive outside, exploring what elicits the most noise.

At first, he pins your hip down, but once he finds joy in your needy pulsing, you're released, free to roll into his mouth at an increasing pace.

Your leg shutters uncontrollably, and you clap a hand over your mouth. "Oh my god."

You roll to grab a pillow, something to muffle what are sure to be hazardous screams if he continues, and the invitation is accepted.

Bucky flips you to your knees, dragging your ass backward to meet his taut stomach, his renewed interest throbbing between your legs.

"Gotovin."

Russian brainwashing…so the nightmare was about Hydra, and Bucky's mind is struggling to find new associations for things marred by pain and violence. What he wants is good memories in the light, something to outlast the bad in the dark.

You have to hold a breath to get out the word, "ready."

Lower, like the growl of an animal, he says. "I wanna hear you—" he leans over to pull the pillow away from your face "—tell me what you want." He drags his forehead along your spine.

"Fuck me." It comes out as a breathy squeak, unhinged from control or care. "Make me cum."

He spreads your ass with his metal hand, sliding his tip across your entrance to lubricate his way. Again. Too slow, and he's barely a few inches in before he runs his cock along all your blood-soaked nerves.

You're about to beg when—uh, sweet filling friction, he's in, fully yours for the taking. Your body spasm over his length as he begins to move.

While his metal hand remains firm on its cheek, he slaps the other, grunting with increasing thrusts.

One long cry warps in your throat as he pounds in and out of you, his balls thumping against your own engorged point of pleasure.

Bucky draws your back up flush to his chest, biting your shoulder as his hand comes down to stroke you. He has to hold you close to hinder your wilding bucking, so close, so close to him and explosion.

Your cries are so loud. You couldn't stop if you tried, and you'd die if he didn't take every—

—breath—

—from—

—your—

—lungs.

You thrust so hard back into him that the teetering balance is broken, collapsing face-first into the sheets, and Bucky manages to catch himself before his weight falls onto you.

He's still inside. The new angle pins your growing knot of pleasure tight against his aching cock, and each tiny movement sends shockwaves through your belly and down your legs.

Your legs flail as you try to control the spasms, but Bucky grabs an ankle to spread you again.

It's over. It's here. The flood of noise bursts through your body and brain, shattering reality. Fists of fabric stifle your howl of exhausted release. You're pinned beneath his weight as he cries into your shoulder blade, pumping in his last lustful drops, hilt deep in your warmth.

Oh god, oh fuck, oh god. It's all you can think, waves of the same nonsensical explosions hitting you over and over. Not until the tide draws back and you return to your body do you notice your mouth never closed after your last scream.

Bucky remains tucked against your back, panting, grasping at your thigh like a lifeline, shuttering every few seconds while holding back another groan.

"Holy shit," you finally manage, realizing you're almost raw as he pulls out. The chill of his cum running down the crease of your leg makes you shiver.

Bucky curls beside you, grasping for your hands to bring to his lips. He mumbles apologies over and over. He does that after nightmares, too, believing he's become some brutal assassin again by wanting…well, anything for himself.

One day, he won't feel so guilty. One day he won't have nightmares, but for now, you pull your hands from his to wrap your arms around him, bringing his head to nozzle into your chest.

His breathing finally slows as the full light of day drapes over his perfect body which hides his imperfect mind, and you fall asleep again, warmed by him close to where he belongs.