Chapter 8

Bucky was uncertain why he was back at Cassandra's motel room. Perhaps it was the element of his training that demanded the sacrifice of loose ends, or disparately, after all this time, perhaps it was simple loneliness. There was no one in this city he knew other than she, and thus, here he stood sheepishly staring at her locked door, dripping wet from the continued downpours of the heavens, his arm raised awkwardly in a half attempt to knock.

He lowered his hand. This was ridiculous. He could not return here, it wasn't safe. For either of them. He was being pursued by HYDRA. He need to get as far away from her as possible.

Yet here he stood, soaked to the skin, his long hair dripping into his eyes. And when the door slammed open seeming of its own accord, Cas gaping at him, he pushed past her roughly, attempting courage he didn't feel, a kind of bravado he hadn't felt in decades.

"You came back," She supplied unnecessarily.

He stood awkwardly in the center of the room, his presence filling up the small space like a heavy smoke.

He just stared at her as she shut the door, and approached him.

"I'm glad you came back," she said, and laughed ruefully. "I didn't really want to get wet again."

She was standing before him, small, her bulky sweater sliding off her shoulder as she rolled up her sleeves, and he cleared his throat uncomfortably, a feeling rising up in him that he had not felt since...

He moved away from her to take a quick look out the window, trying to interpret what he was feeling.

Feelings were not allowed him, he was a weapon, an asset to be taken from the armory when needed, and replaced when not in use. He had not been fully human for decades, and since his memory had been dumped back into his brain like a flood, he didn't know how to handle all these feelings that welled up in him. Loss, grief, anger, confusion...lust.

He could feel his heart speed within his chest, a rush of energy that coursed through his limbs like an unchallenged conflagration. He felt angered by the reactions his body was having toward her, and he clenched his fist, his metal arm recalibrating as if in response to his inner struggles.

Cassandra took a step toward him. "Bucky?" she said his name uncertainly. When he didn't make a move, she put a hand on his shoulder.

He swiveled suddenly, grasping her arm in an iron grip, and propelling her backwards, he tossed her onto the freshly made bed. She stared at him, her eyes wide.

"Why are you trying to help me?" Bucky asked softly, the first words he had spoken since entering the room. "What possible reason do you have for allowing me entrance to your home?"

He kneeled onto the bed, hovering over her menacingly, and she gaped upwards at him. He could see her her pulse point speed against her skin.

"I want to help you because you deserve to be saved," she answered, her voice breaking slightly. There was fear in her eyes, but there was something else too...something bestial and warm, and Bucky slid his knee between her legs to better pin her there underneath him. He could feel her heat, even through his trousers, and he could feel his body responding in kind.

"Why do you think that?" he asked huskily. "I could kill you right now. I have killed countless people, innocents, and victims, and yet you still believe I can be saved?"

"Steve Rogers believed it," she whispered.

Bucky felt that familiar rage and helplessness well up in him, and he grabbed her shoulders, shaking her.

"Don't you start that," he hissed. "Steve Rogers looks at me like I'm someone else. Someone I can hardly remember."

"He loves you, no matter what," she responded. "You're his friend-"

With a violent curse, Bucky kissed her roughly, his anger evident in the way his lips crushed hers, his metal hand hurting her as he gripped her shoulders.

"Stop saying that," he snapped finally, their breath uneven. He could see fear in her eyes, and a familiar rage rose up in him like an unstoppable inferno. Tearing her shirt, he kissed her again, their teeth clacking together, and she tried to push him off.

"Stop! Bucky, you're hurting me!" she cried, but the animal inside him, the killer who could not be sated with any matter of blood, bit her lip, his hands tearing at her clothes and at her skin. He growled as she fought him, that unholy passion for blood and fire eating away at his very soul.

He suddenly pulled away, the monster demanding a glimpse into her terrified soul, and found her staring up at him, her expression, not one of fear, but one of horrified resignation.

He was transported suddenly to a time when he danced the night away, a beautiful, laughing woman on either arm, warm, willing kisses on a rain soaked evening, the light from the setting sun blazing the droplets like flames upon crystal. He was James Buchanan Barnes, and he hated himself.

Horrified, he stumbled off her, wiping the blood from her cut lip off his mouth with horror written upon his every feature. What had he done? What had he done?

She stared at him, her lip sluggishly bleeding, dark scarlet against her pale skin. Cas shook herself slightly, then got off the bed, her knees shaking.

Bucky backed away from her., hitting his hip on the nightstand with a loud thud. "Get away from me" he bellowed.

"Bucky," she whispered, trying to shrug away the panic that fluttered against her ribcage like a trapped bird. "Bucky, it's okay." She rested her hand upon his heaving chest, taking a deep breath to quiet her own, raging storm. "Bucky," she hesitated for a long moment. "Bucky, I am your friend. It's okay, I'm not upset," she lied.

Bucky stared at her. backing away. Tripping on the chair leg, he hit his shoulder on the lamp that sat on the end table. Cas started violently as it shattered to the floor, the shade bouncing away from them across the carpet. Hands shaking she approached him again.

"It's okay," she told him, brushing his hair away from his sweat sheened brow. "Bucky," she whispered, and kissed him.

As his mouth moved against hers, her heart pounded in her chest with fear. Twelve years, she had only lived to find him, and in this moment, as her fingertips brushed the stubble on his jaw, she realized that he was the only reason for her to live. She had nothing, she was a nobody. Except for him. She had to help him, that was the only thing she was good for. After seventy years, he was an animal, all instinct and training. But after all this time, she could finally do something for him, and if surrender was all she could give, he could take her body and soul.

His metal hand slid up her back, sending shivers up her spine, and she moaned his name into his mouth, her fingers fisting into his shirt. He grunted, picking her up, his hands clenching her shapely derriere and as she wrapped her legs around his hips, he settled her onto the end table, now blessedly lamp free, thrusting his tongue into her mouth.

Her fingers twisted in his hair, and a fire burned through her body like napalm, pooling between her legs, swelling with need as his mouth left hers to nip hungrily at her throat.

Fear was no longer at the foremost of her mind as her hips bucked of their own accord, rubbing against his arousal. Bucky growled at her, pinning her on the desk more securely as he nipped and licked her sensitive collarbone, his hand skimming up her thighs to grasp the elastic of her bulky sweatpants. Pulling them off, he tossed them onto the bed, kissing her again, his hand skimming up the sensitive skin of her inner thigh to that damp, pulsing nub hidden by the lacy fabric of her panties.

She gasped as he twitched the thin partition aside, his fingers touching just beneath where she prayed he would touch. Licking her upper lip, he smiled, a dangerous look in his eyes.

"I want you to beg," he breathed against her ear, sucking at her earlobe as his fingertips swirled just outside her arousal. She shuddered, her hips gyrating.

"Bucky," she gasped, her hands fisting in his hair. He bit her throat and she cried out at the pain. "Please take me. Please."

With a growl he scooped her up off the end table, tossing her into the bed. She watched him shuck the ragged jeans and hoodie with hungry eyes, her hands brushing his muscled ribs as he settled on her again. He kissed her roughly, his hands kneading her derriere, his metal hand cold on her rump as he brought her knees up on his waist.

With a thrust he sheathed himself within her wet, throbbing center, and she moaned, her hips lifting to meet his thrusts. His rhythm was tightly controlled, and as he eased himself in and out, all sweat and lust, their combined arousal rising between them, cloying and sticky, she let out another guttural moan. Her innermost muscles throbbed with the pressure that built uncomfortably within her until it was all she could do to just ride out the ever building tension that threatened to burst her into a million shattered sparks. She was his, and with every grunt and nip against her sensitive sin, he was branding her thus. Their ancient ritual of lust was one of possession and pleasure, and flames licked at their sweat slicked bodies like tongues of heat, burning their very souls.

Cas reached her zenith, moaning his name as if screaming for some kind of salvation, and with a guttural Russian curse, he was brought to his peak, spent upon the bosom of his lover.