This is a songfic, with Old Irish Gaelic, some magic and hella fun.

Read and review, please!


Looking down into the marina, Bucky watches Tony's bash on his ridiculously expensive yacht. The music and laughter carry over the water, to the hotel balconies high above. Tipping his head to the side as he sips his drink, it wasn't his thing, not anymore. Indulging in meaningless chatter and subtle married women was old. The drinks, food, and flesh were just mere distractions. Steve could make the rounds for the brass and coax the influential to give for this benefit, tonight he preferred to stay in the shadows. Not far from his position the sound of a balcony door opens then a feminine tired sigh. He leans further into the shadows. A haunting melody plays with a soft hum, tugging on his memory. It was popular during his days chasin' skirts and pulling Steve from fights. The mournful horn draws his attention as a voice rises with the music.

I don't know why but I'm feeling so sad

I long to try something I never had

Never had no kissing

Oh, what I've been missing

Lover man, oh, where can you be?

Curiosity peaked he searches for the source, quickly he spies on the lower tier a silhouette of a woman. Swaying to the beat she raises a glass to the sky.

Someday we'll meet

And you'll dry all my tears

Then whisper sweet

Little things in my ear

Hugging and a kissing

Oh, what we've been missing

Lover man, oh, where can you be?

The breeze shifts lifting Hermione's shorten curls, carrying over her unique feminine scent of cinnamon, and oranges mingling with the salt from the sea leaving a tang on Bucky's tongue. The pleasant scents tickle Bucky's senses causing a tingling sensation just beneath his skin. The sound of the waves and party noise became a distant buzz as he began to gaze upon the night sky, seeing the stars that shape Cernunnos.

Once Bucky hit puberty his father sat him down for a lesson in family history, "I will tell you, boy, we Barnes are of the Ó Bearáin clan, a strong warring clan. It is said it is in our blood to head the call of war embrace its darkness. To be cast into the misery of war to test our hearts. If victorious. If we return with honor from that hell fulfilling our duty, then only then our true match is revealed. It will be feeling so deep and dark it will scare the shit out of you. Don't ignore it, head it. Follow it and own it. The one who will bring glory to our family and enrich it with new strong blood. Hear me, James, it is in our blood."

A golden Awen torc shimmers around Bucky's neck as places the drinking glass down next to a vase of baby's breath. His shadow is gone before the liquid settles.

I've heard it said

That the thrill of romance

Can be like a heavenly dream

I go to bed with a prayer

That you'll make love to me

Strange as it seems

He doesn't like the sad desperation in this woman's voice or how her head tips back trembling. The light catches her just so as she makes motions to wipe something off her cheeks.

Someday we'll meet

And you'll dry all my tears

Then whisper sweet

Little things in my ear

Hugging and a kissing

Oh, what we've been missing

Lover man, oh, where can you be?

Sniffling Hermione pulls her feet into the chair, wrapping her robe over her legs, she gulps her drink down. It was Beltane and she just couldn't bring herself to celebrate. She loved the Traditional rites bringing forth ideas, hopes, and dreams into action. Honoring, life and its abundance with those who survived, the festivities would lift her heart and mind but this year. She didn't have the strength to watch others perform the Tein-eigen. Encouraging couples to pledge themselves then jump the fire. Forcing herself to smile and drink in merriment as the blessed ribbons were collected to preserve or add the ribbon's thread to the couple's family tapestries. Joining in teasing newlyweds with lewd jokes of possible babies in nine months' time. All the while ignoring the pitying eyes for no wizard would take a barren witch. Continuing the bloodline matters above all in the Enclaves. For babies guarantee customs or the least the family name will last another generation.

No matter her accomplishments, wealth or influences, Hermione Jean Granger, Entrepreneur, Master of Potions and Arithmancy, Brightest Witch of her age, blah, blah, blah is still considered an outsider, strange and useless.

In the long struggle 'for the greater bloody good', her strength has waned, her will to rage against the injustice has faded for there was no one to call her own.

Oh, what we've been missing

Lover man, oh, where can you be?

Closing her eyes as the music died, her nails dug into her skin as she accepted there were things she couldn't change.

Taking a stuttering deep breath, pushing her hurt and fears away to focus on the meaning of the day. The celebration life in all forms. Hermione prays for fortune to all in life and peace in death. The hairs on the back of her neck rose as she took another deep breath, pulling in the scents of sea salt coupled with Aster and male musk.

"A bhean chóir." (My lady.)

The flash of yellow light from Hermione's spell can be easily seen and ignored as fireworks erupt in the sky. Bucky's prosthetic hand takes the brunt of force as the torc absorbs her magic. The combination of his unexpected voice, flinching from the noise and abundant alcohol she stumbles too close to the balcony rail.

Hermione shrieks losing her breath as Bucky pulls her to him. Her mind was spinning as they struggle, causing her to drop her wand before letting off another hex. Her breath and magic become erratic, the early signs of a panic attack. Recognizing the signs, Bucky pulls her down with him on their knees. She feels his hand in her hair, press her into his shoulder as murmurs in her ear, "Breathe liom." (Breathe with me.) "Dún do shúile agus breathnaigh go mall." (Close your eyes and breathe slowly.)

Bucky rubs the small of Hermione's back, as she whimpers, blue sparks drop from her hair surrounding them, turning into flames. The most primal part of him reveled in her raw power as it pressed against his skin. His witch will knock out the grid attracting too much attention. Pressing his lips to her temple he silently prays, pushing his will to calm her magic.

Hiccupping, Hermione feels something pressing against her magical core. It felt darkly dominating and male. In defense she began lashing out, seeking to defend but her sharp sparks were being held back. "Lig dom, mo bhean. Sciar dom ualach, lig dom, do pian a mhaol." (Let me, my lady. Share with me your burden, let me, ease your pain.)

She lost count how many times this man's words repeated. His probing was too strong against her already weakened defenses, sagging she gave up. He felt like a cool rolling mist, deceptively light, filling her, compelling her to relax, easing her anxiety. Instinctively she arches baring her neck in submission, softly whining as began he anchoring his core to her.

The flames died as the fireworks came to an end. "Who?" Heavy-lidded with exhaustion and confusion, this man was speaking Goidelc (old Irish Gaelic).

Licking her lips, Hermione peers up to his face, finding her voice she softly asks, "Ní thuigim, cah tusa?' (I don't understand, who are you?)

Shifting to take her more comfortable, Bucky wipes the tears from her cheeks. Then begins tracing her nose, and arched eyebrows lastly to her full lips. Bucky murmurs, "Tá a fhios agat cé mé, do mheaitseáil fíor. Ar gach bealach, déanfaidh tú mo líne a shaibhriú.. (You know who I am, you true match. In every way, you will enrich my line.)

Filled with a sudden rage Hermione hits Bucky, following up with a cutting hex. For a moment he actually saw stars. Scrambling past Bucky, Hermione makes it inside the room before being tackled, her back to his front, pinning her arms down and locking her legs with his own. The balcony door slides shut as the curtain shifts to block the view from others.

Struggling she sobs, "Bréag tú, mé ... Ní féidir liom! Ní féidir liom! Tá mé briste, scriosta!" (You lie, I… I can't! I can't! I am broken, ruined!)

Bucky's torc amplifies his magic to quiet her rage, as he whispers in her ear, "An bhfuil muinín agat ar do draíocht? (Do you trust your magic?)

Biting her lips as she closes her eyes, she can't move, trapped by both body and magic, weakly she nods.

His hands slid to her wrists, crossing her arms, bringing fher lush to him. "Do focail, mo bhean." (Say your words, my lady.)

"T-ta" (Yes)

Nuzzling her neck, Bucky's fingers entwine with hers mimicking the beginning of their magical bonding. Hermione's breath hitches as she squirms causing him to chuckle, "Abair ar" (Say it again.)

"Ta-ah"

From across the room, Bucky watches their reflection on the floor mirror. Cradled in his arms his match is small, lush with curves, with wild dark curls and golden skin. Slowly her breath evens within full parted lips. Shifting them within direct sight of the mirror, he calmly calls to her. "Oscail do chuid súl, mo cheann." (Open your eyes, my one.)

Gathering her resolve, Hermione' eyes open, upon the reflection, tawny meet hazel. She did not know this man, who came in like a specter. Her golden irises contract as his magic flows into her coaxing her to play. Instinctively her magic answers, searching, finding cold empty spaces within him to fill as he fills hers, taking, giving finally balancing.

His strength surges into her filling her senses with the warm fire of Astar with a bite of metal. Steadfast, comforting and secure. Bring forth her most feminine desires. Her want, not need to be soft without ridicule. Her want, not need to make a home without feeling trapped. The understanding to complement and not take away.

Her magic engulfed him in a cool fire with the zest of orange and the spice of cinnamon. Steadfast, comforting and secure. Tempering his need for war, coaxing his dark fury with slivers of light. He could feel the dark magic in deep within her, trapped, waiting to subrogate or murder. Probing around the anchor Bucky found it was corrupt male magic. Placed long ago, and if this male was still alive, he was now a dead man walking. This little witch was his, no pests allowed. Slowly not to alarm her or trigger the spell he imprinted his magic on hers. Matching the same intensity and determination of dominating his magic began to unpin the corruption and pushing it out. His torc hums for a full minute turning black then back to gold again.

Gasping, Hermione's eyes flutter closed and as rippling waves of pleasurable pain flow into every cell of her body. Distractingly Bucky nips her neck.

"Ghlac do dhraíocht draíocht ormsa, an gcuireann tú fáilte roimh dom mar fhear" (Your magic has accepted mine, do you welcome me as a man?)

This is a rite of mutual sexuality and sensuality, passion, vitality, and joy. Not of brutality and strife, that would only make a bond of twisted intentions and a bitter harvest.

Sharply Hermione turns to him, "Do focail go cúramach, fear nó fear céile?" (Say your words carefully, as a man or husband?) nipping his bottom lip sharply.

Bucky smirks, no doubt this clever, vindictive witch was going to be pregnant before walking out this door.

"Ghlac do dhraíocht draíocht ormsa, an gcuireann tú fáilte roimh dom mar fhear? (Your magic has accepted mine, do you welcome me as your husband?)

Hermione smirks in turn, "You have no idea what you are in for." Her fingers entwined in his. "Cad is ainm duit?" (What is your name?)

"James Buchanan Barnes is ainm dom." (My name is James Buchanan Barnes.)

"Ar mo dhráma, agus an aontas seo, mé, Hermione Jean Granger, glacaim leat, James Buchanan Barnes mar mo fhear céile amháin agus ní hamháin d'athair mo pháistí. (Upon my magic, and this union, I, Hermione Jean Granger, accept you, James Buchanan Barnes as my only husband and father of my children.)

Good, she didn't react to his name. Bucky hold loosens as Hermione words began to bind him to her.

Breathing as one they spoke, "Ar feadh bliana agus in aghaidh an lae. mar sin mote a bheith." (For a year and a day, so mote be.) Ribbons of gold, red, purple, white and green wrap around their left hands, sinking into their skin.

Taking control for the first time Hermione tips his chin down to nibble on his lips to gain entrance. The kiss was hot, feral, the growls she made with each plunge of her tongue made him moan and strip her bare. Her hands weren't idle as she kept him distracted, guiding him to the edge of the bed. Small warm hands began kneading and pulling at his clothes, dropping on the floor to whatever flat surface they find to be found later.

"Oh."

Shit, this just may be a deal breaker.

Bucky watches his witch. Lightly Hermione caresses his shoulder, as she straddles him. Curious instead of appalled. Deliberately placing her hot core over his, "Hmm, this explains some things." Slowly she rocks her pelvis forward, side, back, side and forward again, all the while licking each prosthetic fingertip. Sucking his finger to the knuckle before moving on to the next.

Repeat.

He feels her get hotter, wetter, groaning his other hand grips her thigh as their movements align. Watching his reaction, she saucily smiles. "Ar dtús, bhí mé ag smaoineamh ar do chuid lámha a dhéanamh, agus an bhéal roimh dheireadh dom. (Initially I was thinking of making you first come with my hands, then mouth before finally inside me.) Cocking her head to the side, "Anois, táim ag smaoineamh, cén chaoi a gcuirfidh mé ritheanna cosanta a chur ar an mbronnadh seo? (Now, I'm wondering, how am I going to put protection runes on this contraption?)

Growling Bucky pulls her down while thrusting up, swallowing her groans. Bracing his feet on the floor as his hands grip the back of her shoulders, driving himself deeply, again and again. Invading, conquering taking what is his, preparing her body for his seed to take root.

"Oh, bloody hell!"

Pouring every drop of lust, passion, and possessiveness Hermione stroked Bucky's tongue with her own. As he drove into her filling her so tightly, bordering on pain, she could only mewl in delight. Heat began to coil, their bodies now slick, Hermione was helpless as her body began to tighten. Her fingers tightened in Bucky's hair as Hermione began to scream her completion only to cut it short by biting his shoulder. Her teeth broke his skin, blood now coats her tongue.

"Shit" Bucky almost lost it. Gripping her head, he rolled them over, go figure he had a biting fetish. Rotating his hips, his witch gasps as her muscles flutter in response.

Fuck restraint.

This was a claiming.


Late morning the next day

What do you say to the man that shagged you until the predawn? Run a bath, order the menu to feed you just to start over again.

Buried under covers and man, Hermione's thoughts concluded, "He's a keeper and maim others who try to encroach on her territory."

Snuggling closer to the radiator called her husband. Hermione peers at the sleeping man, his chest slowly rising and falling. Her husband sleeping on his back, this was promising. She is a woman of her word.

Bucky's eyes flutter open and he sighs awake. His prostatic hand entangled in the sheets as the other was gripping his wife's hair.

Sleepy soft Irish accent laces his words, "Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph." His body tenses for what seems to be forever before sagging back into the mattress.

Lapping every drop Hermione places small kisses on Bucky's quivering thighs before laying her head on his chest listening to his heart.

Bucky closes his eyes as he wills his body to calm, "We need to talk."

Sighing, Hermione looks at him. No words could describe the feeling of completion or balance she felt at this moment. Fuck caution and logic, their magic called to one another. It was true, unapologetic, and beyond societal rules or norms. A primal instinct that demanded to be followed to the end.

"Ok."

Only then did a matching torc materialize around her neck. It was a delicate duplicate of his own, Bucky smirks so very pleased.