Bucky had been patient.
For weeks, he had stayed close, watching, waiting, letting Harry set the pace. He had followed, protected, ensured that no one—not Fury, not the Avengers, not the pathetic remnants of Harry's past—touched what was his.
But patience had limits.
And tonight?
Tonight, Bucky Barnes was done waiting.
Harry had felt it building.
The weight of Bucky's gaze. The tension in the air whenever they were alone. The way Bucky's fingers twitched whenever someone got too close, too bold, too familiar with Harry.
It had started as fascination.
Then it became obsession.
And now?
Now, it was something else.
Something darker.
Something dangerous.
So when Bucky finally moved, when he stepped into Harry's space with slow, deliberate intent, Harry didn't stop him.
Didn't try to escape when he was backed against the cool glass of the balcony doors, the city lights casting a faint glow against Bucky's sharp, hungry features.
Didn't fight when a strong, metal hand gripped his chin, forcing him to look up into those steel-blue eyes—predatory, possessive, unrelenting.
Bucky had waited long enough.
And now?
Now, he was claiming.
"You think I don't see it?" Bucky murmured, voice low and rough. His fingers pressed against Harry's jaw, not hard enough to hurt—but enough to remind him exactly who had him caged against the wall. "The way you tease me. The way you let me follow you."
Harry's breath hitched slightly, but his eyes—his damn glowing eyes—burned bright with something dangerous. Something equal.
"And what," Harry murmured, voice silk-smooth, "are you going to do about it?"
The last shred of restraint snapped.
Bucky moved, crashing into Harry's space like a breaking storm, their bodies pressing flush as heat coiled between them, thick and undeniable.
The first touch—a hand gripping Harry's hip, the other pressing against the glass beside his head—sent sparks down his spine. A silent warning. A reminder that Bucky was not letting go.
Harry exhaled sharply, his own magic flaring in response—electric, untamed, wanting.
"You're playing with fire," Bucky rasped against his skin.
Harry smirked, eyes dark with challenge. "Then burn me."
Bucky growled.
And then—
Heat.
Lips, teeth, a claiming pressed against Harry's throat, scraping against sensitive skin like a promise wrapped in violence.
Harry let out a low breath, his fingers twisting into the front of Bucky's shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing away.
Magic shuddered through the room, curling around them like a living thing.
But Bucky wasn't afraid of it.
He welcomed it.
Because this?
This was what he had been waiting for.
And he was never letting go.
Much later, when the tension had faded into something warm and sated, when the bruises left behind by Bucky's grip were already beginning to heal under Harry's magic, they stood on the balcony once more.
Bucky still didn't let go.
One arm was wrapped lazily around Harry's waist, metal fingers ghosting over bare skin beneath his shirt. Casual. Possessive.
Harry leaned back against him, feeling the slow, steady weight of something unchanging.
Something his.
Bucky pressed his lips against the side of Harry's neck, slow and territorial.
"You're mine," he murmured against warm skin.
Harry smirked. "Obviously."
Bucky hummed. "Damn right."
And in the shadows behind them, unseen but always watching—
Death smiled.