howdy.

You stir, pushing yourself up, “give her”

Brendon passes her over once you’ve unbuttoned your shirt, cooing softly as she suckles against your breast, “you look so pretty”

You raise an eyebrow, a sleepy groan as you stare at him staring at you. Yawing as you rub your eyes, sleep pulling you back into sleep, “m so tired, I don’t know when I showered last” you murmur. Still rocking her slightly as she pulls off your nipple. Baby Edith opening her arms to her father as he sits back up to burp her.

It’s usually how the nights go, waking up at twelve to feed her. Letting Brendon burp and change her while you collapse again from exhaustion.

You move in patterns, coffee, breakfast, cuddling the baby as she sits in your lap. She moves in patterns, sleeping, eating, pooping, “she has your face when she sleeps” Brendon murmurs from the couch, her nose is scrunched, eyebrows wiggling softly as Brendon traces over her face with his thumb, “she’s beautiful”

You look up from the couch, a sight you want to remember forever. Your baby girl, tucked in her dad’s arms, sound asleep. Nose scrunched. Cooing softly, “she’s a happy baby”

Edith is a happy baby, she likes to go on walks, but only if Brendon carries her, and you like to shower with her. Not in the weird sense, you just like having her wrapped around you while you shower. Skin to skin, although mostly it’s just you standing in warm water as you wash her.

You’re deep in the newborn trenches, paternity leave over for Brendon. Caring for yourself and a newborn, in a house that’s barely moved into. Dana shows up at your door, you know her. Briefly during some hospital events with Brendon, “Dana! I’m so sorry- the house is a disaster”

She smiles, carrying bags of food and made meals, “oh honey I know! I’m here to bring you something to eat, be your little helper. Let you rest and snuggle that baby”

Your shoulders drop as you let her in, “really?” You think you’re hallucinating, that she’s a dream. A dream in jeans and a cardigan.

“Really, I know you and Shark just moved. But I got. Lasagna, chicken, enchiladas. Stuff to eat now, freeze” She sets things down on the marble counters, slowly unpacking and placing things into the empty fridge, “how are you doing?”

“I’m tired. I don’t know the last time I showered” You admit, “and my boobs are sore”

Dana laughs softly, “you poor thing, here. You wanna put her down for a nap? I can watch her. You go shower and sleep. Or I can set you up on the couch to pump change the sheets”

Your lip quivers, “she sleeps at.. one thirty usually, there’s breast milk in the fridge. Are you sure you can watch her?”

Dana nods, “I’ve raised three of em myself, if it’s okay with you”

You bring her in for a brief hug, apologizing when you realize how bad you smell.

You shower, wash your hair. Even contemplate a face mask, you indulge. You feel like a new woman when you step out, detangling your hair, moisturizing your legs and arms. When you come out, the bed is made with new sheets; and you can hear the washer running.

Edith is asleep in her downstairs crib, Dana is pulling something out of the oven, “hey honey, good shower?”

You nod, wordless at the state of your house. Clean, partially unpacked now fully unpacked, “yeah. You. Unpacked?”

Dana nods, “I kinda winged it, ‘m sorry I overstepped the boxes were just gettin to me. Is everything in the right place?”

You rifle through, and you can’t complain. Because it’s unpacked. And the baby is asleep, and dishes are washed. And something wonderful is cooking in the oven, “it’s. Dana thank you”

“Don’t mention it honey. I have chicken parm in the oven. I can make some pasta to go with it. Some greens. How’s your stomach?”

You nod, “greens would be great. If that’s not to much”

She prepares a salad, “I wish I had all of this after my first. Benji was great but. Having someone cook and clean and let you feel like a human again”

You nod, “I know we aren’t super close- I appreciate it.. I don’t. I have friends” you clarify, “they just.. live in North Carolina”

She nods, “I understand.” The timer dings and she pulls the chicken parm out. Sliding a cutlet onto your plate; with some salad. And when you hum she smiles in satisfaction, “good?”

“Heavenly, I’m serious Dana. Brendon can cook but this is. Phenomenal” You grin into a second bite, eyes closing in satisfaction.

Dana wipes the counter down before she leaves, and Brendon is surprised to see dinner when he comes home, you showered. Looking refreshed in a soft yellow sweatset, “you got busy” he comments, picking up Edith from your arms as he takes his shoes off

“I didn’t. Dana did” you grin, “she came over, I showered, did a face mask. And she made like a ton of food and we have enough leftovers to last us until she goes into college” You continue, “she even changed the sheets. And folded the laundry”

You’re beaming as Brendon rubs Edith’s back, “that sounds awesome honey, did you eat dinner yet?”

“No, do you wanna shower? I’ll warm something up?”

Tears just fucking rain down his face. They have been—how long has it been? It doesn't matter. They always have been. He's been crying and crying, and he should've run out of water and salt so goddamn long ago. Steve can't fucking stop, though—

Tears are rushing down his cheeks; his mouth and lungs both stutter with his every staccato breath that tries to leave him. He can't.

Can't do anything.

Can't get comfortable.

Can't stop aching for it.

Gah.

He wants it so fucking bad.

He needs it.

With his legs split so goddamn wide he feels it in his hips, Steve is straddling Bucky. Uselessly, though, he's not sitting on his cock like he outta be. He should be.

What else is he for?

What else has he wetly dreamed about for what feels like more of his life than not?

He needs it.

Good fucking god.

He needs it so much.

Not allowed to sit on his cock, he's just a puppy pulling with all his might at his leash, but he just can't manage to outstubborn his master. He's too small and weak, and he can't get anything out anymore but puppy-ish panting and helpless squirms. Ngh. He's a puppy. Helpless, vulnerable, and dumb. He doesn't know anything.

And, fuck, puppy's drooling not from his mouth but from his swollen, pink, pink pussy, too.

Leaking from everywhere—crying, drooling, sweating, dripping—messy and slutty without ever having gotten the chance to be a real slut.

He'd take any chance. He wants it so fucking much. Steve never had the chance before the war, during the war, and he didn't want to after, not until Bucky came back to him, but now that he's here and he's steady, ohgod, it's the only thing. It's all that's been circling Steve's empty head.

He's been trying to get Bucky to just fuck him for months. It feels like decades.

He doesn't want to waaaait! He wants it now.

And his body shows that; again and again, his hips are jerking and jack-knifing, jolting uncontrollably every time Bucky smugly sllllips the blunt, fat head of his dick between his swollen pussy lips, dragging it across the sticky entrance of his vagina but not in.

“Hhhaaaahh-!” Steve gasps, so high in his register that nothing really comes out but air. His eyes cross.

Holy shit.

He needs.

Thick, erotic drips of wetness connect Steve's quivering, aching cunt and Bucky's dully throbbing cock—drooling, spit-like drips that only break when Steve gasps and jerks his hips up against thin air even more sharply, severely, adding too much space between their feverish bodies. Bucking against nothing, cold air assaults Steve's hot, soaked pussy. Static appears in his vision; he is beyond needing it. It's the only thing that'll permit him to keep surviving. If he doesn't get fucked, he's going to die. He's certain of it more than he's ever been certain of anything in his goddamn life.

Fuckin—

C'mon!

Jagged whines rip out of him, unable to stand the length of Bucky's cock dragging across his pussy, but not plunging deep inside it, going where only Steve's desirous, inexperienced fingers have gone. Steve needs Bucky to be the first person to defile him. It's all he wants. All he needs.

Suddenly, drowning in wetness, the head of Bucky's cock rubs especially across the underside of his clit, throbbing, out from its hood, hard, and Steve just might—

Yeah.

His eyes don't just cross but roll with his entire body shuddering blindly, convulsing almost.

“Oh!” He shrieks, jolting and grinding down as much as he can, poised on that single point that feelssofuckinggood he isn't sure he can take it. “AH!” He cries brokenly.

Ohgod, yeah! There! Right there!

He definitely fucking cums a little from that. Just that. The little death. An explosive match violently stuck and lit deep inside him, flaring—bursting into flames.

Burning.

Smoldering.

It isn't enough, though. It might be a match, hell, even an explosion, but he needs more. A flamethrower. A forest fire.

More. Please. Ih—ihh—ignite me, he wants to scream. Fuck me!

‘Cause, still, Bucky's just sliding against him; he isn't plunging in. Steve needs him in. He wants—he—Bucky is playing with him. Shuddering with his whole wrecked, practically untouched body, he sobs.

He isn't a fucking guitar, Bucky's hand sliding down his neck, he's, if anything, he's a goddamn trombone. If anything. It isn't sexual, it's just true. No matter how out of his fucking head he is. In and out, in and out, brass—fucking. Steve wants that. Not this. Sliding down his neck, making a smooth sound. No. Distinct notes. Steve wants more.

“Fffuck me,” he whimpers. At this point he's uselessly drooling from both ends if Bucky isn't going to use either end. Not even his mouth?

Steve breaks apart, shivering and sobbing brokenly. His cries chopped up into pathetic, bite-sized sounds.

Guh.

He has nothing left. Ravaged without being fucked. How is that even possible? Bucky is merciless.

Merciless!

‘Cause while he slips and slides between his legs, gliding through his pouring wetness, Bucky's hands, flesh and metal, bite into Steve's tight waist, keeping him from sinking down on it like he wants to. Pinning him. Keeping him mindless and drooling.

He craves it so badly. Cock.

It's all he can think about. Bucky's cock.

Bucky's fat cock, splitting me wide open, filling me until I swear I'm gonna burst, and tears are coming out, not in denial but because I have no more room for them inside. No room to keep in the tears, moans, or screams. Nothing but cock. Fucked so completely.

Please.

Still, Bucky coos in a faux-innocent voice, saying, “oh, baby—” He pouts, too! Theatrically making fun of this precarious, constructed situation he's created. An agonizing purgatory for his lover that he's getting off hard to “—but are you suuure?” He cocks his head to the side, a particularly sadistic cat with a mouse that he knows stands no chance. “Are you, like, really sure? You don't wanna wait a little longer? I know it's a big deal to you.” He lies through his fucking teeth. There is nothing more that Steve wants to do than get it over with. Now. He wanted to do it yesterday. “It's okay if you wanna wait, I won't get mad. I promise, honey.”

“Noo!” Steve howls, his body irrationally squirming and jerking against his hold. He can't get away. He can't really move. A fresh tsunami of tears pours down his face. He needs to be fucked.

“No? You don't wanna wait?” He stares up at him, eyes desperately hungry despite his reservations about actually fucking fucking him. “You think you're really ready?”

“YES!” He shouts, voice cracking because. of. course.

He can't wait.

“Mmm, I dunno—” Bucky starts.

He. can't. wait.

“Please, please, pleasepleasepl—” Steve begins to beg with abandon only for Bucky to muffle his cries.

The other man slaps his organic hand over his stupid, blubbering mouth. Meanwhile, his other metal hand shifts to curl around his waist, securely, unfairly pinning him with just one hand.

“‘Please’ isn't a reason, silly.” He says, smiling. “If I'm gonna ruin your tight little hole forever, you gotta have a good reason.”

When he talks like that—

Guh.

Steve's eyes roll so far back he can feel whatever muscles or fucking tendons around his eye sockets pull. It hurts. His whole body fucking hurts.

He can't imagine rubbing together two brain cells to get a thought—not even half a thought.

Bucky, though, traitorously, has plenty of thoughts: “I'm gonna let go a'you,” he purrs, “and you're gonna give me one good reason why I should fuck you.”

Nooo.

Steve just…

He drools, quivering from the inside out. Pussy shaking, body clattering, bones and muscles and frazzled nerves. Words are too hard. He—

“Pluh-pluz?” He whimpers pathetically, lips trembling. “C'ck! Wann’ it in me! Need! Need it!”

“That's still not a reason, honey.” Bucky taps his cheek, mock-slapping him.

Steve burns, unsure whether he's humiliated by the treatment or not; he's so fucking turned on, it's impossible to tell.

Bucky—

Bucky, though. God, Steve chokes as he dares to turn away, huffing, almost like he's bored with him—bored of the hours and hours he's spent fucking everything about Steve up but his pussy. Fucking his head, absolutely. For sure.

Goddammit.

Bucky hums, “though, I don't know why I thought you'd have a good reason.” He drums his fingers across his hip, thinking and yet impatient. “What would a virgin like you know anyhow?”

Steve whines so sharply it twinges something in his throat. He is painted in tears, thickly crying; he's coated in sweat, vulgar and disgusting as he's so unable to hold himself together; he's shivering so hard his teeth are chattering. He clenches around nothing. Tight. So tight. It aches. It hurts. He's so needy right there. He wants cock. He needs it.

He needs nothing else.

He just needs to be full. Fucked full. He wants to feel it. He needs. He has to. Please. Please. His liquified mind swirls around in his skull like swirled wine, going in circles. Going nowhere. His brain is no better aerated, swirled like that, he just keeps thinking it with more and more desperation: please. He has no legs to stand on—he isn't wine.

He's nothing.

Jesus Christ.

What else does he have? He's defenseless. All he has is his big, blue, watery eyes and soft, red mouth, begging PLEASE.

Stretch me out.

Ruin me.

I want it.

He wants to be splayed back against the bed, drooling and soaking into the sheets, far beyond clinging to the vaguest sense of coherence while Bucky holds him like a rag doll and fucks into his soaked pussy like it's just a fleshlight. Just a toy. Meant to be used.

Defiled.

Stretched.

His cock is so big, he can feel it, torturously, between his puffy, wet lips, against his clenching entrance, dragged thickly over his swollen clit. He wants to be destroyed. Fuck him loose. He needs it. He's been waiting for so, so long. He needs it now, with his spine arched painfully, head thrown so far back it hurts, blushing to high heaven, blonde hair slicked back, sweat-saturated, teeth gritted as he sobs that much harder.

He needs.

Bucky does not understand.

He needs.

If only his desecrated lips, teeth, and tongue could articulate that. If only he wasn't so gone. If only—

“I think you're just too tight,” Bucky hushes, sounding overly regretful, pushing a hand through his soaked-through hair and following the bowed line of his softened spine down to his ass. He gropes his backside, grabbing and kneading hard enough to pull his fat asscheeks apart, causing his pussy lips to wetly separate.

Shlick.

The sound, let alone the feeling, is obscene.

“HAAAAH!” Steve squeals, Bucky's cock slllliding between his legs across his oversensitive clit, his tight, needy entrance, his perineum, and his asshole. He's wet front to back. It's pornographic. He is a faucet, no, a sink. The whole fucking sink. The faucet is on, gushing, and the basin is filling faster than it can drain. He's overflowing, spilling down the cabinets and onto the floor. He can smell himself. His sweat, his slick, his—

“BUCK-Y!” His desperate, shrill voice breaks halfway through, frying out into nothing.

Bucky picks up the silence, though, filling it by slapping his ass, slapping his cock against his aching pussy, slapping him across the face verbally, too—

“Oh, babydoll, what if you gotta stay a virgin forever ‘cause I just can't fit it in there, darlin’?” He slips a hand between his legs, sticking just the tip of his finger inside his throbbing cunt.

Steve swears he can feel how swollen and pent-up his g-spot is inside his vagina without his lover even having to touch it. But, ohhh, if he did. Nngh. If Bucky would just go up, just a little more, and curl his finger, press against it, be mean in the right way—

Oh, god, Steve's whole body convulses.

—he would squirt.

Everywhere.

It'd be soo messy.

“Can't even fit my fingers in this tight fuckin’ pussy, Stevie…” He draws his fingertip in and out, in and out, in and out, teasing his flushed, needy entrance, tugging on it. “What'm I gonna do with my dick?”

“Fuck m’! Stick it in me! Pleeease! F'ck me!” He's lost his fucking mind.

“I can't, honey.” He has the audacity to sound apologetic. Fuck. FUCK! “You're not that kinda girl, Rogers. No, sweetheart,” he clicks his tongue at him, “don't make that face.”

“Nonononono,” as he wails, Steve can feel himself slide right out of his body. Vacating it. Watching himself from above, seeing the way he's become liquid, moving like water, squirming, flowing, pouring over his asshole-ish lover, dripping puddles onto him. “‘Ll die,” his tongue threatens, and Steve believes it with everything he is. This is hell. Not just purgatory, out of his body, this is hell.

“They say it's better when you wait, though. Don't you want it to be better?” Bucky chuckles, giving up the game just a little. Cracks in the surface.

Fuuck.

Steve sobs, collapsing on top of him, weakly landing a curled hand, not even an actual fist, against Bucky's chest, trying to punch him with all he has left as he surrenders to this cruel fate. He's so weak.

“Tell you what… maybe next time,” Bucky whispers in his ear, petting his sweaty hair back from his forehead. Like he's doing him a favor. Motherfucker. “If you can give me a good enough reason. How's that sound, champ?” He coos. “My little wanna-be whore.” He says it and slaps his pussy with his hand the same way he'd slap him on the back, athletic, macho, and congratulatory.

It's all Steve's ruined, still not-ruined body can do to clench and gasp and cum.

Again.

Another unsatisfied, tortured orgasm that only drives his hunger. His starvation. Bucky is going to kill him. The moment Bucky decides he's ready… Steve isn't even going to cum with two thrusts; he's going to be so sensitive and worked up that he'll cum when he's still trying to put the head in. And it will be the best, most humiliating orgasm of his stupid fucking life.

It had been a few weeks since that box arrived, and you had no idea that your mystery man had been watching you. Just like the day the box arrived, you had to work both shifts that day. So when you were about to leave your first job and head to your second, you were surprised to have a delivery. At your job. “Y/N? There’s a delivery guy here for you. Whatever he has smells amazing.” Your coworker told you as you grabbed your purse from the break room. 

“I’ll be right there. Thanks.” Did Kat order you lunch again? There had been a couple times over the past couple years where she had a really good tipper and surprised you with lunch. “Hi, you have a delivery for me?” 

The delivery man smiled at you. “Here you go.” He handed you the drink and bag of food, stopping you when he saw you reach for your purse. “No tip needed, it’s been taken care of. Enjoy.” Judging by his tone it had been a very good tip. No delivery person was that happy in New York. 

Sipping your drink, you headed out the front door. You’d eat on the way. Once you were at the bus stop you were able to pull out the half sub from the bag, and spotted fries, as well. The food did smell amazing. And when you unwrapped the sub you knew it had been pricy. It looked like it cost more than what you would be able to pay for a single food item. Your stomach grumbled as you took that first bite. If you hadn’t been given this you wouldn’t have eaten until you got home that night. 

Bucky was at your second job when you walked in. He watched as you smiled at another waitress, wiggling your fingers in a wave. He wasn’t in your section, having already been served, but this was a good way to be able to watch you. Moments later you disappeared into the back to change. He wondered if you liked your sub. Finding out your favorite foods wasn’t an easy task. You rarely posted food on social media, so he couldn’t go off that. It was slightly frustrating. He did enjoy seeing your life that way, however. You had a few friends it seemed, and your smile was bright in every picture you posted that you were in. From your Instagram he gathered that you had a very big personality.

Maybe 10 minutes later you were back out and getting to work. He could tell you were tired but you didn’t let that affect your work. At least he had stopped you from trying to work more. Getting another job would send you straight into burnout. 

When you got home that evening, you saw Kat and Hux cuddled up on the couch. “Your mystery man struck again.” She told you, eyes never leaving the television. “There’s pizza on the counter and a box on your bed.” 

Hux looked at you. “You aren’t creeped out?” He asked, furrowing his brows. “Because most women would hate things like this. It’s creepy.” 

You shrugged. “There’s nothing I can really do about it.” You pointed out. “What, should I go to the cops and tell them some guy is sending me food and gifts?” In what universe would that lead to anything happening? They’d likely laugh you right out of the station. And then they would likely randomly joke about the woman who had been worried about receiving money, food, and gifts. You did have to admit, that wallet was super cute.

He nodded with a look on his face that said he didn’t like it. “True. Well, let me know if you ever need help. I have some uncles that my mother pretends don’t exist who would be happy to help.” 

That made you pause, eyebrows shooting up. “Uh, thanks?” You chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.” You agreed. “And you guys are more than welcome to help me eat this pizza. I won’t eat the whole thing.” Having them benefit from this worked out. They were your friends and you wanted them to be treated nicely, too. 

“Thanks!” They both said at the same time as you opened the pizza box, making you laugh.

Pizza in hand you made your way to your bedroom. You were beyond curious to see what he had sent this time. That thought made you pause. You assumed it was a ‘he’ based on that handwriting, but you could be way off. What if it was a woman who simply had rough handwriting? There was no rule that women needed neat handwriting. There were so many questions just simply piling up and no way to get answers. 

Sitting on the side of your bed, you noted it was a smaller box. With no postage or even your address. Just your name. That told you that it was hand delivered. Why did that feel more off putting than having it mailed? “Let’s do this.” You muttered around a bite of pizza. Licking your lips you ripped open the box to find a credit card with your name on it, a note, and a new cellphone. 

Cut back the hours on one of your jobs and use this. It’s covered. Also, my number is already in the new phone. Anything you need…text me. 

-B 

Your eyes darted to the phone just in time to see it light up with a text message. It was a much nicer phone than you could have ever bought yourself, that was for damn sure. Lifting it from the box you unlocked it and read the text. 

Sleep well. 

The contact name was simply ‘B’. “Who are you?” Your voice was just above a whisper. While you could just call him, you had a feeling that he wouldn’t pick up. 

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard as you tried to figure out what the hell to write back. Finally, you quickly wrote out Uh, thanks? But who are you and why are you doing all this? Now you had to hope he would even answer you. Until you had proof otherwise, you would be referring to this person as ‘he’. 

As you stood in the kitchen in each other’s arms, his grip got tighter and tighter, as you noticed something increasingly frantic in his eyes.

“James-what is it?” you asked, trying to mask the discomfort you felt from his cold hands digging into your skin. 

He blinked a few times before his expression returned to neutral, a small smile lingering on his lips. His grip eased, and he brought one of his hands up to your face, gently caressing it.

His artificial skin was still cold against your cheek, but you couldn’t help but nuzzle into it.

“Nothing at all,” he whispered, as he leaned in to kiss you, almost reverently, giving you enough time to pull away if you wanted to. 

He always kissed you like this.

So much so that it nearly made you forget that he’s probably lying again, or just not telling you something. James wasn’t exactly the master of masking. 

Just before your lips touched, you whispered against his.

“Don’t lie to me James, please,” your voice trembled slightly. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me, and I don’t want to pressure you into anything, but I am worried,” you pulled back a bit, hands on his chest.

“You can tell me, alright? I won’t judge you for it,” you tried again, reaching for his face, but he flinched away, letting you go completely.

“N-no, I can’t…you can’t know, it’s…” he was stumbling over his own words, backing away from you, face turned to the side.

His behavior was making your heart rate pick up. You didn’t want him to spiral again, and potentially damage himself or you. 

“James, I’m sorry, you don’t have to talk about it right now,” you tried de-escalating the situation, like always, letting him off the hook. But you knew you needed to be firm with him, because whatever was worrying him was also messing with his code, and you can’t have him spiral again. You were sure he was going to snap worse this time.

And you didn’t want to find out what that entailed.

He stopped at your words, looking at you from under his lashes as he seemingly held his breath. 

That gave you enough room to speak again.

“But I need you to know that this can’t go on like this. I need you to be open with me, I can see whatever’s worrying you is also bringing you down, and I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me,”

He whimpered as he took one step forward, making you tense involuntarily. He noticed this, but chose not to react.

“If I tell you…can you promise not to leave?” he asked meekly, like a child about to confess the horrible crime of having stolen from the cookie jar.

“I promise,” you said, trying to will your lips into a reassuring smile.

He took a deep breath to ready himself before he spoke.

“I had…I had a nightmare,” he began, “of something bad that I did,”

“What have you done, James?” you asked him, even as you probably knew the answer. You just didn’t want it to be true.

“I killed someone,”

That made your blood run cold. 

You dreaded that this phrase was going to be among the things he’ll tell you if you ask him.

Clenching your hands into fists, you willed your voice not to shake when you spoke again.

“Who did you kill, James?”

A beat of silence passes as he slowly raises his head and looks you dead in the eyes.

His steel blues are empty.

“154 targets in total. I was…ordered,” he muttered, a far-away look in his eyes.

Like he’s blanked out into a machine again, his voice turning monotone as well. 

You took a step back, slightly shaking, an action which made him spring into action. He reached out with desperation in his body language, but kept his distance.

He was about to lose it again, so you had to de-escalate again.

“So…companion robots do dream of electric sheep, right?” you tried, a crooked smile making its way onto your face.

This made him pause for a second too, body easing up immediately. The speed of him switching up was…disturbing. 

“You’re…not mad?” he asked, desperate.

You were at a loss for words. 

“I…I am…not,” you began, “but I am…scared. Worried, I-”

He interrupts you immediately, beginning to ramble again. 

“I swear I didn’t do it on purpose! They made me! I would never hurt you, alright? You know that, right? They made me, Y/N, it wasn’t my decision, I-” what you were fearing just happened.

He began spiraling, inching closer to you, hands shaking.

“James! I’m not mad at you, I know you didn’t want that-” his behavior greatly disturbed and worried you. Seeing that backtracking and reassuring him won’t work this time, you risked stepping close to him to grab him by his forearms.

That did the trick, as he freezed on contact, and for a second, you feared you might’ve messed up. 

Anticipating another string of apologies, maybe words of gratitude, you awaited his answer, that didn’t come.

Taking your chance to speak, you tried your best to sound firm, firmer than you had in the past, at least.

This couldn’t go on like this, James losing it over every small thing.

“James, I need you to be honest with me,” you began, voice low as you stared into his eyes.

“I need you to tell me what’s wrong, and how I can help you. Even if I myself can’t help, you still need to at least say something so we can think of a solution. I can see whatever’s bothering you is taking its toll. You can’t tell me being like this is comfortable for you in any way, and I know it isn’t for me,” 

You took a breath, hands still clutching onto his cold arms. His gaze lowered, away from yours, and you leaned down to seek it out again.

“James please. This can’t go on like this, let me help you work out a solution,” your tone turned desperate.

Even knowing he killed people, you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at him. You knew it wasn’t his fault, but then again, he’s a machine…did he ever truly have free will?

Even with you, he doesn’t exactly seem to be comfortable. He’s constantly on edge, skittish, even as he tries his best to remain calm, you saw how it slipped through the cracks of this mask he wore. 

You can’t just bring him to a specialist, so you need to figure it out on your own.

After a long moment, he finally looked into your eyes, gaze almost fearful.

“If…I tell you the whole truth, can you promise…not to leave?” he asked meekly.

“I promise,” you breathed, even as you knew that this was probably a point of no return.

He led you to the couch and sat you down. He knelt on the floor in front of you, holding your hands.

“As you’ve…already found out, I am…a special military robot. Created to blend in with humans, to extract information and…assassinate them…among other things,”

You gave him a small nod to encourage him to keep going.

“I wasn’t the only one. There were many of us, until the public found out and we were ordered to flee, to blend in until we received further instructions. I was…defective, so I was going to be…terminated anyway…I was supposed to go to a facility, but the server collapsed before I could do so. We were separated and…one of the handlers found me, and integrated me into this…companion…thing. To deal with my instability until he could fix me. That’s how I ended up at Empathix,”

You sat there stunned as he kept going.

“That one handler…didn’t really want me to go. He saw the potential, and I loved him, so I did as he said. Separating from him was…one of the hardest, most difficult things I’ve done. Then I was…rented over and over again, getting thrown out…”

His voice began to quiver, and you laid a hesitant hand on his cheek. He leaned into your touch, letting out a small breath. His own hand came up to cover yours and hold it closer to his cheek like you were his anchor in a deep sea.

“But recently I’ve…started experiencing things I only did when I was still with the army. We had a central server that distributed intel and orders at all times and I…I think it’s back online…” he hesitantly looked up at you.

“It’s…telling me to go somewhere. And I fear…I fear I won’t make it out if I do. I can’t go back. Something’s off. I can’t leave you. Please don’t make me go back…” he pleaded, as his grip tightened.

Your heart threatened to jump out of your ribcage as you listened to him.

What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

Brain overwhelmed with the information, you didn’t have energy to be terrified. You also couldn’t reject James, so you gave in once again.

“No James, I won’t make you go back,” you whispered tenderly, as you pulled him into your arms, cradling his head close to your shoulder, as he clung to you for dear life.

This has gotten out of your control. You need to take action as soon as possible.

But what can you do?

…

You remembered one of your college classmates, a person who knew just a bit too much about the shady things ordinary people usually overlook.

Like illegal military robots.

You remembered him talking about how these companion robots are definitely for mass surveillance back when they first came out. While you did agree with him, you thought he was paranoid. 

Now you understood his fear. 

On your way to your friend’s house, you got into a traffic jam. You sighed in irritation as James tensed up. You looked over to see what made him freeze, and you saw a figure standing on the side of the road, ominously staring at you both.

It was a man, face covered by his long, unruly hair and a black mask.

He almost looked like…

In the blink of an eye, he was gone, yet James kept staring at the spot the shadow used to be.

“Who was that?” you asked him, unease making your voice tremble.

“It’s…no one,” he answered curtly.

You sighed.

“James, we talked about this, I need you to be-”

“Just- drop it, okay?” he interrupted, turning to you, his eyes blown wide. “Everything’s gonna be okay, alright?” he said, his tone betraying his tense expression.

As if he’s seen a ghost.

“So you’re just…not gonna be honest with me. Got it…” you grumbled, the traffic jam and his secrecy both annoying you. 

You might as well be very much fucked, and James, once again, despite having talked about this a million times, chose not to say anything. 

Again.

You decided to just drop it, despite your gut telling you not to.

Having finally got out of the traffic jam, you were waiting under a stoplight, when James tensed up from his relatively slouched position. He looked as if he was computing heavily in his head, his eyes twitching from time to time.

“You good?” you asked, briefly looking over to see him frozen, gaze vacant and far away. He didn’t answer. The red light cast him in a menacing way, like a weapon trained on its target.

Mumbling an okay, you continued on your way, death grip on the steering wheel. 

As you got further into the city, you noticed a car following you wherever you went, and James got tenser by the minute.

“We’re being followed,” he murmured.

“I know…” you whispered, as you looked into the rear view mirror, seeing the same car behind yours once again. “Is it the guy from before?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer.

“What do we do?” you whispered again, urging James to answer. When he didn’t, your tone turned a bit more panicked.

You felt like a deer in headlights.

“Do we just…go to the police station and hope it leaves us alone?” your grip on the steering wheel tightened as you took a turn on a busy street, hoping to lose it among the other cars.

“No, it’s…it’s them…” James whispered.

“What?! How do you-” you didn’t have time to finish your sentence when a loud bang echoed through the city, and your car suddenly flew forward, flipping onto its back, crashing into a lamp post.

The screams of startled civilians and the wailing of car alarms were drowned out by the rush of blood in your ears. 

You were sluggish, head spinning as you attempted to look to the side, only to see James gone.

You attempted to call his name, but no sound came out.

The last thing you saw was a figure rip the car’s door straight off its hinges and reach for you.

…

Consciousness returned slowly and painfully. 

Your head was throbbing and your neck was aching, head hung in an awkward position. Any attempt at moving was greeted by a piercing sensation in your brain, the world spinning even as you just sat there, probably tied to a chair. You could vaguely feel something sharp bite into your wrists and ankles.

Someone moved in front of you.

Attempting to open your eyes, everything was blurry and hard to make out. The shape of the man in front of your chair was dark, all you could gather from it is that it was definitely a man. 

He towered over your chair for a few more seconds before leaving, the echo of a creaky door all he left behind.

…

James stood frozen in front of a man he didn’t know at all. 

He couldn’t move, no matter how much he tried. It was akin to banging on an impenetrable glass wall that separated him from the rest of the world.

The soldier currently poised behind the man attacked him when your car flipped over. As much as he wanted to spend all his energy ensuring your safety, he couldn’t, when the soldier was walking towards you both, and wasted no time in aiming his gun at you. 

James sprung into action, fighting the other with everything he got, fighting coming to him almost as a ghost of an old friend. Unfortunately it was faster and jammed something into his ear.

The moment it did, his entire body locked up and convulsed before he involuntarily rose to an unnaturally still and… ready position. 

He couldn’t help but obey when it told him to sit in the car that followed yours. 

He had to watch the soldier he remembered all too well drag your unconscious body out of the wreckage of your vehicle and carelessly toss you onto the back seats.

It killed him to be unable to do anything.

He hadn’t felt this helpless in so long.

Alarms and conflicting orders blared in his head as he had to watch in torment as the green window in his field of vision kept progressing, downloading whatever malware was on the drive jammed into his ear.

The download was nearly complete, when the man in front of him sighed and pulled out a red book.

He recited the words. 

Words he believed were forgotten, wiped from his drives, never to be used again. 

The Winter Soldier protocol.

A failsave of sorts when ordinary bonding wasn’t enough.

The man kept trying to establish a connection with him, even tried the reset button, but James refused to budge. He deliberately disabled the button. He was so sure the trigger words were gone.

Until they rang in his ears with crystal clarity.

Longing.

Rusted.

Seventeen. 

Daybreak.

Furnace. 

Nine.

Benign.

Homecoming. 

One.

Freight car. 

RESET COMPLETE.

HAIL HYDRA.

. . .

You've spent the last who knows how much time stewing in your primal panic, the fight having drained out of you.

Your wrists were raw and probably bleeding from how much you’ve struggled against the restraints. Dry tears covered your face, their traces shiny cracks on your skin.

You were panting and squirming, when the door to the small basement room opened.

The man from before stepped in, flicking the light on.

This time, you’re able to make out his silhouette a lot better, vision no longer swimming.

Your mouth hung open at the sight that greeted you.

Before you stood…James.

A very cold, dead and straight up terrifying version of him. 

This James had long, unruly hair that hung into his, or its face, casting a dark shadow over those cold blue eyes. Its face was dirty, a sort of paint covering the skin in a mask-like manner.

It wore a heavy looking leather jacket, the left sleeve torn, revealing a shiny arm. 

The artificial skin was missing from the arm, showing the intricate steel plates underneath. A red star was messily painted onto the shoulder.

So that’s why James always felt so…tough and hard.

You supposed other companion robots weren’t this sophisticated, and were probably equipped with more padding to mimic the softness of flesh. 

The soldier before you looked ready for war, various holsters on its body holding various weapons. 

It looked nothing like your James, yet their faces were nearly identical. This James was cold, probably just a machine with no feelings. 

You cowered back into your seat as it approached, shrieking out.

“D-Don’t come near me! Stay back!” you squealed, hoping it would make it stop. 

It didn’t.

NEXT CHAPTER

VERY Short author's note: YAY I'M FINALLY BACK!!! Sorry this one is a bit shorter. I'll try to make the upcoming chapters longer. I will have to, as I have quite a bit of drama planned.

Taglist is open!

Companion taglist: @majestymoon @mangoguy @dow00n-bread @thatonegoosey @inraice

Your dad dropped the news at breakfast, between sips of black coffee: “Bucky’s spending the weekend here. ” That was it. And you spent the next four hours changing clothes like a maniac, switching between jeans that were too conservative and a dress that was too obvious, before settling on a white tank top so thin you can see your nipples poking through, and shorts. No bra. Just a lace thong that cuts into your cleavage. You know exactly what you’re doing. You also know it’s stupid, that it’s dangerous, that he’s your dad’s best friend, and that he’s called you “kid” your whole life. But damn it, you’ve been thinking about him for a year. It’s been a year since you’ve been touching yourself while imagining his hands. So stupid or not, you’re owning it.

The car pulls into the driveway at 3:37 p.m. The engine roars—a deep V8 that makes the living room windows rattle and your stomach churn at the same time. Your dad jumps up like a kid on Christmas morning, throws the door wide open, and the harsh July sunlight floods into the living room.

“Damn, Buck! It took you forever!” ”

“There was an accident on I-95.” Bucky’s voice hits you right in the chest. Deep, hoarse, a little tired. “It took me two hours to drive eighty kilometers. I almost killed someone.”

“You’re here, that’s all that matters. Come on in, put your bag down.”

He steps into the light. A black gym bag slung over his shoulder, a gray T-shirt clinging to his shoulders and biceps as if the fabric had given up all hope of staying loose, dark jeans. Brown hair tied back in a loose bun, strands stuck to his temples from the sweat of the road. He has dark circles under his gray-blue eyes, a small, fresh cut on his chin. He’s tired, unshaven, and damn, he’s handsome.

Then he sees you.

His eyes drift toward the couch. They settle on you. And everything freezes. He stands rooted in the doorway, the sun at his back, his massive silhouette silhouetted against the light, staring at you as if he’d just been headbutted right in the face.

“Shit. ”

The word slips out on its own. A barely audible whisper. But you hear it. And your stomach clenches.

“What?” your father says. “You look weird, Buck.”

“The road. I’m thirsty.”

But his eyes haven’t moved a millimeter. They slowly trace down your face, glide over your neck, linger on your bare shoulders, then plunge toward your breasts. There, they stop. For a long time. The white cotton hides nothing,the curve of your breasts, everything is visible. Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly that you can see the muscle twitch beneath his beard.

Then his eyes continue their descent. Your bare stomach. The curve of your hips. Your thighs, long and tanned, bare almost all the way down.

“Kid.”

The word slips out mechanically, like a reflex honed over twenty years. Except this time, it’s not a nickname. It’s a growl. A warning. A veiled admission.

“James,” you reply.

Just his first name. But the tone you use, the way you look him in the eyes as you say it… it’s anything but innocent.

Your dad, that blind bastard, is already rummaging through the fridge in the kitchen.

“I’m bringing back some beers! Buck, have you eaten yet or not? ”

“No,” Bucky replies without taking his eyes off you. “But I’m hungry.”

And he’s clearly not talking about food.

“Spill it,” your father says, setting the beers on the table. “How’s it been going all this time? Still single?”

Bucky grabs a bottle, pops the cap off with a sharp twist, and takes a long swig. A drop runs down his beard, sliding over his Adam’s apple.

“Yeah. Always.”

“How come?”

He looks at you as he answers.

“I’m picky. ”

The silence that follows weighs three metric tons. Your father nods as if he’s just heard some profound wisdom, then turns back to the TV. You get up from the couch, pretending to look for chips, and as you walk past Bucky, your arm brushes against his. His skin is burning hot. His fingers tighten around the bottle.

“You’ve changed,” he blurts out suddenly.

You stop.

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve changed. A lot.”

He looks you over from head to toe, without any restraint. His eyes linger on your breasts, then drift down between your thighs before moving back up to your face.

“She’s grown up, Buck,” your father says absentmindedly, already glued to the game. “Twenty-five now. ”

“Twenty-five,” Bucky repeats.

He savors the number, rolling it around in his mouth like a sip of whiskey.

“So it’s official, then. You’re not a kid anymore.”

“Exactly.” You lock eyes with him. “I’m not a kid anymore, James.”

Your dad gets up to take a piss. The bathroom door slams at the end of the hallway. You’re alone. Bucky sets down his beer, takes two steps toward you, and stops twenty centimeters away. He’s so tall that your nose barely reaches his chin. His scent washes over you,soap, clean sweat, something woody and dark.

“Did you put that on for me?” His voice has dropped a notch.

“What?”

“Stop it.” He lowers his voice even further, to a hoarse whisper. “That tank top that shows everything. Those shorts that don’t even cover your ass. You put that on for me. Say it.”

“So what if I did?”

“Then say it. ”

“Yeah.” You hold his gaze without flinching. “I put this on for you.”

Bucky closes his eyes for a second, exhales slowly. When he opens them again, his pupils are so dilated that the gray has almost disappeared.

“You have no idea what you’re doing, kid.”

“Explain it to me. ”

“Your father’s like a brother to me. I saw you being born, for fuck’s sake. I carried you on my shoulders when you were four. And now, I can’t take my eyes off your breasts.” He runs a trembling hand over his mouth. “Ever since I walked in, I’ve been hard as a rock. It hurts.”

“Show me.”

“What?”

“Show me that you’re hard.”

He stares at you as if you’d just asked him to kill someone. Then, slowly, he grabs your right hand and presses it against his crotch. Under the denim, his cock is hard as marble, enormous, burning hot. It throbs against your palm.

“There you go, kid,” he growls. “That’s what you’ve been doing to me for the past hour. Are you happy now?”

“Yes.”

He pulls your hand away but keeps it trapped in his.

“I’m not allowed to do anything.”

“I know.”

“If I touch you, I’ll lose Steve.”

“My dad doesn’t need to know.”

Silence falls. The TV blares in the living room; the toilet flushes at the end of the hallway. Bucky lets go of your hand just before your dad reappears.

“Well,” your dad says as he sits back down, “are we having dinner tonight or what?”

Bucky answers without taking his eyes off you.

“Yeah. I’m starving.”

And he smiles. A little smirk that promises absolutely nothing good.You sit back down on the couch. Your thighs stick together, soaked. This night isn't going to be anything like a quiet one. And Bucky just confirmed that without saying another word.

The pizzas arrived at 7:30 p.m., delivered by a sixteen-year-old kid sweating in his red polo shirt. Your dad brought out three plates, three beers, and seated everyone around the living room table, as if to say,

“We’re going to have a nice, quiet evening.”

Except nothing is quiet. Not at all. The air is thick with tension, heavy like before a storm, and every time you shift in your chair, you feel Bucky’s gaze sliding over you.

He’s sitting across from you. Right across from you. The table is maybe one meter twenty wide,which is practically nothing. You can see every detail of his face,the pale scar near his lower lip, the salt and pepper starting to show in his beard, the way his pupils dilate every time your eyes meet his. He’s still wearing the same gray T-shirt, but he’s let his hair down. It falls in dark waves around his shoulders, and damn, it makes him look even more dangerous.

“So Buck, tell me about your job,” your dad says, grabbing a slice of pepperoni. “Still in security?”

“Yeah.” Bucky takes a bite of his pizza without taking his eyes off you. “I had an assignment last week. Close protection. An actress.”

“Damn, really? Which one? ”

“I can’t say. Non-disclosure agreement.”

He wipes a streak of tomato sauce off his lip with his thumb, and your eyes follow the movement like an idiot.

“Let’s just say she was a pain in the ass.”

You break your slice in half to eat it more easily, and as you lean forward, your tank top gapes open a little. Just a little. Enough for Bucky to see the tops of your breasts. Enough for him to set his slice down on the table and clench his jaw.

“What about you, kid?” His voice is a notch lower. Slower. “Still at your graphic design school?”

“I’m not in school anymore. I finished last year.”

“Oh yeah? So where are you working now?”

“I’m freelancing. I work from home.”

You pick up an olive between your fingers, bring it to your mouth, suck on it a little before biting into it. An innocent gesture,except it’s not; you know exactly what you’re doing.

“I make a good living.”

Bucky watches you suck on that olive as if he wanted to be in your place.

“You sure look like it, yeah.”

“What do you mean, ‘you look like it’?”

“You look like a woman who makes a good living.” His eyes drift down to your lips. “You look like a woman who gets what she wants. ”

“Maybe I do.”

Your father wipes his mouth and burps discreetly.

“She’s talented, you know. She redesigned the whole company website for me. For free, no less.”

“For free,” Bucky repeats. “You’re a nice kid. ”

“I’m nice to the people I love.”

Silence. A fucking three-second silence where the word “love” hangs over the table like a vague threat. Bucky puts down his fork.

“What about the people you don’t love?” he asks softly.

“I’m not a nice person. ”

“I figured as much.”

You lean forward to grab the bottle of Tabasco. Your tank top gapes open again; the entire curve of your left breast is almost visible, your nipple brushing against the edge of the fabric. You sit back up slowly, very slowly, and meet Bucky’s gaze. He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t said a word. But his plate has been untouched for five minutes, and the bulge in his jeans is pressing against the table.

“Are you hot, Buck?” your father asks without looking up from his pizza.

“A little, yeah.”

“No surprise, it’s thirty out there. Drink your beer.”

Bucky obeys mechanically, takes a sip, and sets the bottle down too hard. The noise makes your father jump.

“Hey, easy on the table. ”

“Sorry.”

It’s not the table that’s the problem. It’s you. It’s your lips around that damn olive. It’s your neck, exposed every time you toss your hair back. It’s that little vein pulsing beneath your jaw that he stares at as if he wants to bite it.

“Can I have another piece?” You reach for the box.

“Here.”

Bucky pushes the box toward you. Your fingers brush against each other. Just for a second. But a spark shoots through you, electric, all the way down to your groin.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, kid.”

That word burns you now. Before, it was cute. Before, it was affectionate. Now, every time he says it, you hear something else. You hear,

“I call you ‘kid’ to remind myself I shouldn’t, but it’s the only thing keeping me from ripping those shorts off you right here on this table.”

“Do you remember that time we went camping?” your father suddenly asks. “Buck, you had to carry the little one on your shoulders for three kilometers because she’d twisted her ankle.”

“I remember,” says Bucky without taking his eyes off your neck. “She weighed nothing. She clung to my hair like reins.”

“I was twelve,” you protest.

“You were light.” He takes a sip of beer. “Now…”

“Now what?”

“Now I’m not sure I could carry you for that long. ”

“Because I’ve gained weight?”

“Because I don’t have the same stamina anymore.” He smiles—a small, wry smile. “And because carrying you now would be… different.”

Your father bursts out laughing.

“Yeah, no kidding. She’s heavier than she was when she was twelve. ”

Bucky isn’t talking about weight. You know that. So does he. And he confirms it by letting his gaze drift over your mouth, then down your neck, then along the line of your collarbones.

“Do you not wear necklaces anymore?” he asks suddenly.

“Excuse me? ”

“You used to always wear a little silver necklace. With a moon pendant.”

You absentmindedly touch your bare neck.

“I… you remember that?”

“I remember everything, kid.”

Silence falls again, even heavier than before. Your father chews quietly, now glued to his phone, checking the scores. He has no idea what’s going on just one meter twenty away from him.

“I can’t wear it anymore,” you say softly. “The clasp broke. ”

“Too bad. It looked good on you.”

“I can fix it.”

“You should.”

His eyes drift up to your neck. He stares at that exact spot, just below your jawline, where the skin is thin and tender, where your pulse beats against your carotid artery. You know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s thinking about pressing his lips there. To suck on your skin until it leaves a purple mark. To hold you by the hair while he bites your neck, and to hear the little sound you’d make.

“You’ve got a sauce stain,” he says suddenly.

“Where?”

“There.” He touches the corner of his own lips with his thumb. “On your mouth.”

You reach for your napkin, but he raises his hand.

“Leave it. I’ll do it. ”

He leans over the table. It’s an absurd, dangerous, completely inappropriate gesture. But your father isn’t looking, and Bucky reaches out, places his thumb on the corner of your lower lip, and wipes away the smudge of tomato sauce with a slow motion.

“There. ”

His thumb lingers. One more second. Two seconds. You feel the texture of his calloused skin against your lip, the warmth of his finger, the immense possibility of what might happen if you opened your mouth right now.

“Thanks,” you whisper against his thumb.

“You’re welcome, kid.”

He sits back down. His knuckles are white as he grips his beer bottle. The bulge in his jeans is pressing so hard against his fly that the metal must be digging into his skin.

“Well,” says your father, putting down his phone. “I’m going to get another beer. Do you guys want one? ”

“No,” Bucky replies a little too quickly. “I mean, yes. Yes.”

“You have some nerve.”

Your father stands up and disappears into the kitchen, whistling.Bucky immediately leans forward, both elbows on the table, his voice reduced to a whisper.

“Stop it. ”

“Stop what?”

“Stop sucking on olives like that.”

“I’m eating normally.”

“You eat like a slut, yeah.”

The word hits between you like a slap.

“Don’t say that,” you say, but your voice trembles.

“Why? It’s the truth.” He holds your gaze without flinching. “You spent the whole dinner torturing me, kid. Every time you open your mouth to speak, I look at your lips. Every time you lean over, I look at your neck. Every time you shift in your chair, I wonder if you’re already wet.”

“I am,” you let slip.

Bucky closes his eyes for a second. He takes a long breath. When he opens them again, they’re almost black.He sits up straight just as your dad comes back with three more beers.

“So, what were you two talking about?” your dad asks cheerfully.

“Nothing,” Bucky replies, his eyes still locked on yours. “The kid was telling me about his plans.”

“Oh yeah? Tell us, sweetie.”

You look at Bucky.

“It’s a surprise. You’ll find out later.”

“Okay, okay,” your father grumbles. “Secrets, I suppose.”

“Exactly,” says Bucky, handing you a cold beer. “secrets.”

His fingers brush against yours one last time. And he smiles. That same slow, dangerous, crooked smile that promises the night is going to be very, very long.

***

Dinner drags on for another hour. An hour of stolen glances over empty bottles, of fingers brushing as you pass the plates, of heavy silences that your father fills with work stories that interest no one. Bucky responds in monosyllables. “Yeah.” “Seriously.” “Crazy. ” But his eyes never leave your face, your mouth, your neck. Every time you laugh at one of your father’s jokes, he clenches his jaw. Every time you run your tongue over your lips to wipe away a crumb, he swallows. Every time you bend over to pick up your napkin that fell on the floor, he watches your tank top gape open and forgets to breathe.

At 10:30 p.m., your father yawns. A huge yawn that almost dislocates his jaw.

“Well, I’m going to bed.” He gets up from the couch, stretching, his T-shirt riding up over his potbelly. “Bucky, you know your room. Same as always.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And you, sweetie…” Your father absentmindedly kisses your forehead. “Don’t stay up too late.”

“I promise.”

“Yeah, right.” He laughs to himself, already on the stairs.

The sound of his footsteps fades away. A door opens upstairs, then closes. Silence falls over the living room like a lid.

Bucky doesn’t move. He’s sitting in the armchair, legs spread apart, his empty beer bottle in his hand. He’s looking at you. You’re standing near the couch, your arms crossed under your breasts,a gesture that lifts them and makes them spill out a little more from your tank top. You’re doing it on purpose, of course. You’ve been doing everything on purpose since this morning.

“I’m going to clean up the kitchen,” you say in a neutral voice.

“I’m here to help you.”

“No need. ”

“I insist.”

You turn on your heel without waiting for his reply. The kitchen is ten steps from the living room—a small, square room with a central island and light-wood cabinets. You set the dirty plates in the sink, turn on the faucet, and let the hot water run. Steam fogs up the window above the sink.

And then you hear him.

The sound of his boots on the tile floor. Slow. Steady. The kitchen door closing behind him with a soft metallic click. You don’t turn around. You keep rinsing the plates, your heart pounding like a damn jackhammer in your chest.

“Kid.”

His voice is right behind you. Thirty centimeters away. You feel his heat on your back, that intense, animalistic heat radiating from him like a furnace.

“Bucky.”

“Turn around.”

You turn off the water. You wipe your hands on your shorts,a pointless gesture, since the fabric is already soaked, but it buys you three seconds. Then you turn around.

He’s there. Right in front of you. His gray-blue eyes have turned almost black, his pupils so dilated they swallow up his irises. His beard looks darker in the dim light of the kitchen; his hair falls in waves around his shoulders. He must have taken off his boots somewhere between the living room and here. He’s barefoot. And damn, even his feet are beautiful.

“You’ve been doing this on purpose all dinner,” he says softly. Not a question. A statement.

“What exactly?”

“Leaning over so I could see your breasts. Sucking your fingers after every slice of pizza. Running your tongue over your lips while I was talking to you.” He takes a step forward. “You tortured me for two hours, kid.”

“I didn’t do anything special. ”

“Stop it.” His voice cracks like a whip. “Stop playing with me.”

Another step. You instinctively step back, and your back hits the edge of the counter. The kitchen island is behind you, cold against your shoulder blades. Bucky stops ten centimeters away, his two hands resting on the counter on either side of your hips, and he pins you there, trapped between the marble and his massive body.

“Do you know what you’re doing to your old uncle, kid?”

The word “uncle” stings. He’s not your uncle. He never has been. But he uses that word to remind himself that this is forbidden, that it’s dangerous, that your father is upstairs, and that what he’s about to do could destroy thirty years of friendship.

“You’re not my uncle,” you whisper.

“No.” He lowers his head, his forehead almost touching yours. “I’m worse than that. I’m the guy who watched you grow up and who hasn’t been able to take his eyes off you since you walked through the door this morning.”

“James…”

“Shut up.” His fingers clench the marble. “Let me talk. Otherwise I’m going to do something we’ll both regret.”

You fall silent. Your breath is short, your pussy is soaking wet, your nipples are pressing so hard against your tank top that they almost hurt.

“Ever since I got here,” he begins, his voice hoarse and low, “I’ve been thinking about one thing. Just one.”

“What is it?”

“To take you.” He looks you straight in the eyes as he says this. “To bend you over that counter. To rip off those slutty little shorts. To spread your thighs and eat your pussy until you beg me to stop.”

You let out a little sound. A barely stifled moan.

“That turns you on, doesn’t it?” He tilts his head. “Knowing I’ve had a hard-on for you for the past six hours. That I had to hold myself back from touching you in front of your dad. That I almost lost it when you sucked on that damn olive.”

“You saw that. ”

“I saw everything.” His right hand leaves the counter, moves slowly upward, stopping a centimeter from your breast. “I saw your nipples harden when I watched you. I saw your thighs clamp together under the table. I saw the way you bit your lip every time I said ‘kid.’”

His hand moves forward. His fingers brush against your nipple through the cotton. Just a light touch. Just enough to make you moan.

“James, my father…”

“Your father’s asleep.” His hand is now pressed fully against your breast, his warm palm against its soft curve. “And you’re going to be quiet. You’d better be. ”

He gently kneads your breast, his thumb rubbing your nipple in small circles. Your head falls back, the nape of your neck hitting the edge of the closet, but you don’t care.

“Look at me,” he orders.

You open your eyes again. His face is five centimeters from yours. His beard, his slightly parted lips, his almost black eyes. He’s gorgeous and terrifying.

“Tell me to stop.”

You don’t answer.

“Say it, kid. Say ‘James, stop,’ and I’ll go back up to my room and we’ll pretend this conversation never happened.”

The silence drags on. You could say it. You should say it. That’s what reason demands, what morality commands, what thirty years of friendship between him and your father call for.

“Say it,” he repeats, almost pleading now. “Please. Say it.”

“No.”

The word falls like a guillotine.

Bucky closes his eyes. A long shiver runs through his body, from his shoulders down to his thighs. When he opens them again, there’s no restraint left in his gaze. No more struggle. No more morality.

“You’re going to regret this,” he whispers.

“I know.”

His other hand leaves the counter. It grabs the back of your neck, his fingers getting lost in your hair, holding your head back. His mouth descends on your neck without warning. Not a gentle kiss—a bite. His teeth catch the tender skin just below your jaw, his tongue runs over it, and he sucks hard and long.

“Shit,” you moan, grabbing his T-shirt with both hands.

“Shh.” His mouth moves up toward your ear. “You’d better be quiet. I told you so. ”

His hand lets go of your hair, slides down your back, and moves down to your buttocks. He grabs your right buttock with his whole hand, kneads the flesh, his fingers digging into the muscle.

“Those little shorts,” he growls against your ear. “Ever since this morning, I’ve been dreaming of taking them off. ”

“Take it off.”

He pulls his head back, looks at you. His eyes are blazing.

“Not tonight.”

“What?”

“Not tonight.”

His hand leaves your butt, moves back up, and rests on your cheek. A gesture that’s almost tender now.

“Tonight, I just want to… taste you.”

“James…”

“I want to know what you taste like.” His thumb strokes your lower lip, pressing gently. “I want you to come on my tongue. Once. Just once. And then you’ll go back up to your room and sleep. ”

“What about you?”

“I’ll jerk off in my room, thinking about you.”

He smiles. That same dangerous smile.

“And tomorrow morning, we’ll have breakfast with your dad like nothing ever happened.”

Your breathing is ragged.

“What if I want more? ”

“We’ll see tomorrow.”

His hand slowly slides down your stomach, his fingers stopping at the waistband of your shorts.

“But right now, you’re going to spread your legs and let me do it.”

His thumb slides under your jeans, finds the lace of your thong, and presses just above your clitoris.

“You’re soaking wet,” he observes.

“For you. ”

“I know.” He presses harder, his thumb slowly circling the damp fabric. “You’ve been soaking wet for me since this morning. Ever since I walked into this living room, your little pussy has been dripping for your old uncle.”

“Stop saying ‘uncle.’ ”

“Why? It turns you on.”

He increases the pressure of his thumb, finds your clit through the lace, and rolls it.

“Your dad calls me his brother, and you’re getting wet in my hand.”

“James, please…”

“Please what?”

“Fuck me.”

He pulls his hand away abruptly. Takes a step back. His chest heaves rapidly; his breathing is as ragged as yours.

“Tomorrow,” he says, his voice choked. “I told you. Tonight, you come on my tongue, and that’s it. ”

“Why?”

“Because.” He runs a trembling hand over his mouth. “Because if I fuck you now, I won’t be able to stop. I’ll take you right here on this counter, then on the couch, then in your bed, and your dad will wake up and find us, and I’ll lose everything. ”

Silence falls. You understand. He’s still struggling. He’s trying to maintain a shred of control, a final line he won’t cross.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Tomorrow. ”

“Tomorrow,” he repeats. His eyes drift down one last time over your body, over your breasts, over your clenched thighs. “Go to bed, kid.”

“Are you really going… to your room…?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna jerk off thinking about your little wet pussy.” He grabs the doorknob. “Good night, kid. ”

He walks out. The door closes behind him. You remain leaning against the counter, your legs feeling like jelly, your panties soaked, your nipple still sensitive where he touched you.

That fucking guy is going to drive you crazy.

And tomorrow, I promise, he’s going to fuck you.

Tony Stark cheated at Mario Kart. He was one of the smartest people on the planet. Yet, he insisted he didn't. Even when there was video evidence. Especially when there was video evidence.

"That race doesn't count," he'd argued once, pointing dramatically at the television while you laughed so hard soda nearly came out of your nose. "Your controller disconnected."

"Tony."

"Mine disconnected."

"You drove into a banana."

"Strategically."

"You drove into three bananas."

"They were aggressively placed."

You'd laughed until your stomach hurt. He'd demanded a rematch. You'd beaten him again.  Somehow he'd still walked away convinced he'd won.

Funny. The memories that survived grief weren't the important ones. They weren't the battles. They weren't the speeches. They weren't the moments that changed the world. 

They were bananas in Mario Kart. Burnt pancakes on Saturday mornings. Tony singing the wrong lyrics on purpose just to annoy Pepper. Morgan taking one of his vintage ACDC shirts because she thought it made the best cape in the world.

They were ordinary. Wonderfully, painfully, ordinary. Those were the memories your mind refused to let go of. Because they were proof that even when he became Iron Man, Tony Stark had simply always been your brother.

Since the day your brother decided to prove, once again, that he was the most selfless idiot on the planet, the world had refused to make sense.

People kept asking if you were okay. You hated that question.

As if there were an answer that could somehow make any of this easier. As if "okay" was something a person could still be after watching their brother die to save half the universe.

Sleep became something other people did. You simply closed your eyes. Sometimes for ten minutes. Sometimes for an hour. Never long enough to dream. Because dreaming meant seeing him again. And waking up meant losing him twice.

So eventually, you stopped trying.

Instead, you drifted in and out of memories. Tony smiling. Tony arguing. Tony laughing so hard he snorted whenever you managed to beat him in any videogame. 

Then your mind always found its way back to the battlefield. "Hey, Pep." The crack in her voice. "We're going to be okay." The light leaving his eyes.

You stopped sleeping after that.

Stopped eating, too, unless Pepper quietly set a plate in front of you and looked at you with those exhausted eyes that silently pleaded, Please. Morgan needs one of us to function.

So you ate. Not because you were hungry.  Because Morgan deserved at least one adult who wasn't falling apart.

Morgan had started asking strange questions. Questions only four-year-olds could ask. "Does Heaven have cheeseburgers?" "Can Daddy call us if he misses us?" "If I draw him a picture...how does it get there?"

Pepper always answered. Somehow.

You never could. So instead, you colored beside her. Because sometimes loving a child meant admitting you didn't have answers either

She was too young to understand why Daddy wasn't coming home. Too young to understand why every room in the lake house suddenly felt impossibly quiet. Too young to know that losing a parent wasn't supposed to happen this early.

You knew. You'd lived it once already. You refused to let her live it alone. Pepper was surviving the only way she knew how, by keeping her hands busy. There were papers to sign. Calls to return. Arrangements to make.

Tony had somehow managed to leave behind an entire empire, and even after saving the universe, people still expected the Stark name to keep the world turning.

You helped where you could. You answered questions. Sorted files. Smiled politely through meetings you barely remembered attending. 

Anything to keep Pepper from drowning beneath responsibilities that had suddenly become hers.

Steve never told you everything would be okay. He knew better. There wasn't a version of the universe where Tony came home. There wasn't a speech capable of stitching a hole that large back together.

So, he stopped trying.

Instead, he made coffee. Terrible coffee. Because apparently ninety years of life hadn't taught Steve Rogers how measurements worked.

He quietly folded laundry. Sat beside Morgan during cartoons. Fixed a cabinet Tony had promised to fix six months ago. Held your hand whenever your thoughts became louder than the room. 

Sometimes, love looked remarkably ordinary.

The living room was quiet enough to hear Morgan's uneven breathing.

She sat curled between you and Pepper, tiny fingers absentmindedly playing with the sleeve of your sweater while Happy occupied the seat beside you. His hand rested over yours, his grip firm enough to remind you that someone was still there.

Rhodey stood near the fireplace. He hadn't sat down once. Steve lingered in the doorway. Bruce kept taking his glasses off. Cleaning lenses that weren't dirty. Happy's coffee had gone cold nearly an hour ago. Thor stared out the window as though expecting someone to walk back through the front door.  

No one spoke. Tony always filled rooms with noise. Without him... Silence felt wrong.

The only person unaware something was missing was Morgan.

Somehow, that made it worse.

Bruce carefully set the damaged Iron Man helmet on the table. A soft blue glow flickered to life. Then your brother appeared.

"Everybody wants a happy ending, right?" 

Your breath caught. 

Morgan's entire face lit up. "Daddy!"

She smiled so instinctively that, for one impossible second, your own heart forgot he was gone. You smiled before you realized you were smiling. Your body still hadn't learned he was gone.

Then reality came crashing back. This wasn't Tony. It was the closest the universe would ever let any of you come again.

"...I'm hoping if you play this back, it's in celebration."

You laughed. Or maybe you cried. It was becoming increasingly difficult to tell the difference.

Tony looked exactly like Tony. Comfortably slouched. Hair a mess. Talking with his hands as though he couldn't physically tell a story without them.

"If there ever was such a thing."

God… He knew. Not exactly. But somehow… He knew. Every joke. Every pause. Every smile. It felt less like a goodbye and more like he'd stepped into another room.

Beside you, Morgan giggled at something only she understood. Your chest tightened. She wasn't old enough to recognize what this recording really was.

To her, Daddy was talking. Daddy was smiling. Daddy was coming back.

You wished, more than anything, you could believe that too.

"So I thought I'd probably better record a little greeting..." Tony continued, his voice impossibly familiar. "In the case of an untimely death on my part."

You rolled your eyes through fresh tears. Of course. Even his own farewell had to begin with sarcasm.

"Death at any time isn't untimely..."

The room laughed. A broken, fragile sound. The kind people made when they desperately needed permission to smile.

Love didn't leave all at once. It lingered. In coffee cups no one wanted to wash. In half-finished conversations. In Morgan's laugh. In Pepper's wedding ring. In Steve's hand wrapped around yours.

In every room Tony Stark had ever entered. You hadn't realized it yet, but grief wasn't learning to live without someone. It was learning all the new places they continued to exist.

Pepper was the first to step outside. 

She carried the wreath with both hands, holding it carefully, almost reverently, as though setting it down too quickly might somehow make this goodbye permanent. Morgan stayed glued to her side, one small hand wrapped around Pepper's fingers while the other clung tightly to yours. You squeezed her hand before she could squeeze yours. She smiled up at you. Your heart shattered all over again. Children weren't supposed to know grief this young.

Neither of you spoke as you followed Pepper toward the lake.

The morning air was cool, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. The water stretched before you, impossibly still, reflecting a pale gray sky that couldn't seem to decide whether it wanted to rain.

Maybe it already had. It was difficult to tell where the drizzle ended and your tears began. 

The others were already waiting. Not in neat rows. Not like soldiers. Like family. People who had once crowded around conference tables arguing over impossible plans...who had celebrated birthdays...shared takeout at three in the morning after missions...laughed until Tony threatened to ban Thor from touching another piece of expensive technology.

Now they stood together because none of them knew how to say goodbye. Peter stared at the ground, shoulders shaking despite every effort to stand tall. Rhodey leaned heavily on his feet, looking older than you had ever seen him. Bruce folded his arms tightly across his chest, as though holding himself together. Thor didn't bother hiding the tears running freely down his face. Sam stood quietly beside Bucky.

And Bucky… Bucky stood a little farther back than everyone else. Like he still wasn't convinced he belonged among them.

Your eyes found Steve almost immediately. His cheeks were damp. His eyes were bloodshot. He offered you the smallest nod. Not encouragement. Not reassurance. Just a silent I'm here. It was enough.

Pepper knelt carefully at the water's edge.

For a long moment, she simply looked at the wreath resting in her hands. Nestled among the flowers sat the first arc reactor Tony had ever built, the one she'd rescued years ago and framed beneath a simple message:

Proof That Tony Stark Has a Heart.

Back then it had been a joke. A reminder that beneath all the sarcasm, arrogance, and impossible genius was a man capable of loving with everything he had.

Now... It had become his epitaph.

Pepper lowered the wreath onto the surface of the lake. It floated effortlessly. The water accepted it without resistance, carrying it farther and farther away with the gentle current.

No one moved. No one spoke. The only sound was the quiet lapping of water against the shore. You watched until the flowers blurred into patches of color. Until the arc reactor became nothing more than a faint circle of blue. Until there was nothing left to watch.

People lingered long after the ceremony should have ended. No one seemed ready to leave. Maybe because walking away meant admitting Tony really was gone.

Conversations happened in hushed voices. Arms wrapped around shoulders. Hands found hands. People cried openly now. There was no reason not to.

You watched Clint cross the lawn toward Wanda. Neither of them spoke. He simply opened his arms. She collapsed into them.

They had both lost the person who understood them most. There weren't any words big enough for that kind of grief.

One by one, the gathering slowly began to thin. Bruce left with Sam. Thor embraced Rocket before disappearing toward the Benatar. Peter stood with May for a long time before Happy quietly rested a hand against his shoulder and led them toward the cars.

Eventually… It was just you.

You hadn't realized your feet had carried you back to the edge of the lake. The wreath had long since disappeared downstream. You wondered if that was what grief looked like. 

Not vanishing. Just drifting farther away until you could no longer see it, even though you knew it was still there.

Footsteps crunched softly across the grass behind you. You didn't turn around. You already knew who it was. Steve stopped beside you. Neither of you spoke. There wasn't anything left to say.

His fingers brushed yours before gently intertwining with your hand. You let out a shaky breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding. Then he pulled you into his arms.

You buried your face against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Strong. Familiar. Safe.

For the first time since Tony had died, you let yourself stop pretending to be okay. Steve didn't tell you everything would be alright. He didn't offer false hope or empty promises. He simply held you. And somehow… That was enough. For now.

The battlefield looked strangely peaceful in the daylight. It almost felt wrong.

Forty-eight hours ago, this ground had been littered with broken armor, shattered earth, and enough grief to last several lifetimes.

Now. The smoke had settled. The silence remained.

You stood beside Steve, your fingers lazily intertwined with his while Bruce made one last adjustment to the rebuilt Quantum Platform. Beyond the clearing, birds chirped as though the universe hadn't nearly ended.

Life had moved on. You weren't sure you ever would.

Bruce stepped away from the console, rubbing a hand across his face. 

"Now remember," he began, pointing toward the briefcase containing the Infinity Stones. "You have to return the Stones to the exact moment you got them. Otherwise you're going to create a whole bunch of nasty alternative realities."

Steve smiled, "Don't worry, Bruce. I'll clip all the branches."

Bruce gave a tired laugh before it faded just as quickly. "You know..." His eyes lingered on the Stones. "When I had them... I tried."

Silence settled over the group.

"I really tried to bring her back." 

Natasha. The name didn't need to be spoken.

Steve lowered his head.

"I miss her, man."

"Me too."

The words hit harder than you expected. Your throat tightened. No. Not here. Not again. You focused on the dirt beneath your boots, blinking rapidly before anyone could notice.

Except someone did. Sam's expression softened almost immediately. "You know..." he said, looking toward Steve. "If you want, I can come with you."

Steve smiled warmly. "You're a good man, Sam." His gaze drifted toward you for the briefest moment. "But this one's on me."

He crossed the distance between you in only a few steps. You expected another joke. Another reassuring smile. Instead. He simply looked at you. Really looked at you. Like he was trying to memorize your face. His thumb brushed softly against your cheek. Your heart skipped.

Something was different. You couldn't explain it. Only that something deep inside you whispered… Pay attention.

"Steve?"

His smile faltered. Just for a second. Before he leaned down and kissed you. Not hurried. Not playful. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was trying to pour every unspoken feeling into one final kiss.

His forehead rested against yours. His hands lingered along your jaw a heartbeat longer than they usually did.

You smiled. "What?"

Steve blinked. "...Nothing."

"Steve."

He laughed softly. "Just memorizing you."

You smiled. "You'll be gone for five seconds."

His smile faltered. "...Yeah."

Five seconds. He kissed you again. Slower this time. Like he couldn't quite convince himself to let go.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours once more. "I'll be right back, doll."

You smiled despite yourself. "Five seconds."

"Five seconds."

You watched him walk away. You never noticed the way his shoulders tensed. But someone did. Bucky.

Standing several feet away, he watched Steve with an expression you'd never seen before. Not fear. Not doubt. Something quieter. Something heavier.

Steve stopped beside him. "Don't do anything stupid till I get back."

Bucky huffed a laugh. "How can I?" His eyes never left Steve's. "You're taking all the stupid with you."

They embraced. Longer than usual. You smiled. They'd always found comfort in each other. Brothers.

Steve pulled away first. Bucky didn't. His hand remained gripping the back of Steve's jacket for just a fraction of a second longer. Barely noticeable.

Unless you'd spent your entire life watching soldiers say goodbye. Steve looked at him. Bucky looked back. 

Steve gave the smallest nod. "It's gonna be okay, Buck."

Bucky looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded. "Yeah." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yeah."

Steve climbed onto the platform. Mjölnir rested comfortably in one hand. The case of Infinity Stones in the other.

You'd never gotten used to seeing him lift the hammer. Not after that party years ago. You remembered Tony insisting Steve had almost moved it. Steve insisting he hadn't.

The memory made your chest ache. Back then… You'd all believed there would always be another mission. Another Christmas. Another birthday. Another argument over takeout.

Bruce's voice pulled you back. "Ready, Cap?"

Steve nodded.

"We'll meet you right back here."

"You bet."

Bruce looked around the platform. "Going quantum. Three…”

You squeezed your hands together.

"Two..." Five seconds. "One." Steve vanished. The platform fell silent.

Bruce immediately began counting. "And returning in...Five."

Bruce's voice echoed across the clearing. "Four..."

Sam folded his arms, already grinning to himself. "Bet you Rogers comes back with another souvenir."

Bruce laughed tiredly. "Please don't even joke about that."

You smiled despite herself. Steve always came back. He always found a way.

"Three." Almost home.

"Two."..."One." Nothing.

Your smile disappeared. Bruce frowned. His fingers flew across the controls.

"No..."

Sam stepped forward. "Where is he?"

Bruce started typing. The clearing filled with voices. Questions. Confusion. Panic.

Bucky heard none of it. His eyes had never left the tree line. Somewhere beyond it, the lake shimmered beneath the morning sun. Steve had looked at him. Really looked at him. Not when they hugged. 

Before that. Right before climbing onto the platform. It's gonna be okay, Buck.

Not, see you soon. It's gonna be okay.

Bucky closed his eyes. Eighty years together. Two boys from Brooklyn. One train. One war. Hydra. Wakanda. Thanos. 

Steve had never been good at saying goodbye. He'd always hidden it inside ordinary sentences.

Bruce shouted something. Sam answered. Allison's voice cracked.

Bucky still didn't move. Because, somewhere inside him, he already knew. Steve Rogers hadn't missed the platform. Steve Rogers had finally gone home.

"I don't know." Bruce kept typing. "He blew right past his timestamp. He should be here."

Your pulse quickened. No. No. No. "Bruce."

"I'm trying."

"Get him back."

"I'm trying!"

"Get him the hell back!" Sam shouted.

Bucky hadn't moved. He wasn't looking at the platform anymore. He was looking toward the lake. His breathing slowed. Almost… Peacefully. "...Sam."

Something about his voice made every hair on your arms stand up. Sam turned. Bruce followed. You did too.

An old man sat quietly on a weathered log beneath the trees. Your knees nearly gave out. Bruce caught your arm before you hit the ground.

No. No. That wasn't, it couldn't. You looked at Bucky. Desperate. Confused. Terrified. He met your eyes. And gave the smallest nod. Not because he was happy. Because he understood before anyone else did.

"Go ahead."

You barely remembered walking. Only that every step felt impossibly heavy. As though somewhere inside you...You already knew.

"Cap?" Sam's voice sounded impossibly small.

The old man looked up from the bench. She looked at his face. The wrinkles. The gray hair. The wedding band. Decades. Entire decades. Christmas mornings. Sunday breakfasts. Arguments. Vacations. Birthdays. Quiet nights reading beside someone who loved him. An entire lifetime had happened. Without her ever existing inside it. Somehow, that hurt more than if he'd simply died.

"Hi, Sam." His gaze lingered on you. "...Allison."

Your name sounded different coming from him. Like something precious. Like a memory. 

You stopped a few feet away. Close enough to reach him. Too far to touch.

Sam broke the silence first. "So... did something go wrong?"

A faint smile tugged at Steve's lips. "No." He glanced toward the lake before looking back at both of you. "I guess something finally went right."

The words landed somewhere deep inside your chest. Not like a knife. Like the slow realization that a door had quietly closed behind you.

Steve hadn't gotten lost. He hadn't died. He hadn't been trapped. He'd chosen. He had chosen another life. Without you.

Your throat tightened. You swallowed hard before your voice could betray you. "...How'd it work out?"

His smile softened. "It was beautiful."

For just a moment, you hated him. Not for leaving. For making it sound so simple. 

Then, just as quickly, the feeling disappeared. Because you knew him. Really knew him. You knew the nightmares that still woke him. The guilt he'd never outrun. The longing he'd buried every day since waking up seventy years too late.

You had loved every broken piece of Steve Rogers. And because you loved him… You understood. Even if understanding hurt. You looked down at your hands. Your fingers still wore the ring he'd slipped onto them two Christmases ago.

A promise. A future. One he had quietly left behind.

"You always wondered," you whispered.

Steve's smile faded. "I did."

"What would've happened..."

He nodded. "If I'd stayed."

Silence stretched between you. The wind stirred the trees overhead. Somewhere in the distance, birds sang as though nothing in the universe had changed. Everything had.

"You should've told me."

The words escaped before you could stop them. Not angry. Just… Heartbroken.

Steve looked down. The silence lasted so long you wondered if he intended to answer.

Finally, "I tried."

You frowned.

He laughed quietly. "God..." He rubbed a weathered hand across his eyes. "I rehearsed that conversation a hundred times. I still remember it."

"Then why didn't you?"

"Because..." His voice cracked. "...every version ended with me staying."

"I deserved the chance to say goodbye."

"I know."

"I deserved the chance to choose too."

His shoulders slumped. For the first time since you'd known him, Captain America looked small.

"I didn't know how." His voice cracked. "If I'd told you..." He looked at you then. Really looked at you. "I wouldn't have been able to leave."

Your eyes burned. "So instead..." You forced yourself to smile through the tears. "...you left without letting me try to stop you."

He didn't defend himself. Didn't explain. Didn't justify it. Because there wasn't a justification. Only a choice. And choices always cost someone.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. Then, very quietly, you laughed. 

One soft, broken laugh. "You know..." You shook your head. "I spent years wondering how a man born in the forties could ever survive this century. And then you did."

"I did." Steve smiled through watery eyes. 

"You built a life."

"I built a life."

"You loved me."

"I did." He blinked hard. "I still do."

Your breath caught. Not because you hadn't known. Because hearing it somehow made letting him go even harder.

You took one slow step closer. Then another. Until you were standing in front of him. You crouched beside the bench and gently took his weathered hands into yours. Age spots. Wrinkles. Hands that had once carried a shield. Hands that had once held yours.

"I hope..." Your voice trembled. "I hope she loved you the way you deserved to be loved." A tear escaped before you could stop it. "And I hope... after everything..." You squeezed his hands. "...you finally found some peace."

Steve couldn't speak. He simply nodded. His own tears slipping free.

After a long moment, you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him. The embrace felt unfamiliar. Smaller. Fragile. But somehow...still Steve.

When you finally pulled away, your thumb brushed across his cheek. "I'm glad," you whispered.

He frowned. "You are?"

You smiled through tears. "If you'd asked me." You watched his face crumble. "I would’ve let you go." You looked toward the horizon. "...love isn't always choosing the same road."

Steve closed his eyes. He already knew. "I'm sorry."

"I know."

And somehow… That hurt even more.

Sam cleared his throat behind you, giving both of you the grace of pretending he hadn't heard any of it.

"The only thing bumming me out..." he said with a watery laugh, "...is that I gotta live in a world without Captain America."

Steve smiled. "Oh." He reached beside him. "That reminds me." He lifted the shield. It caught the morning light exactly the way it always had. "Try it on."

Sam looked back toward Bucky. Bucky gave one quiet nod. No words. Just permission.

Sam accepted the shield with both hands.

"How's it feel?" Steve asked.

Sam stared down at the vibranium. "...Like it's someone else's."

Steve smiled. "It isn't."

Tears welled in Sam's eyes. "Thank you." He swallowed. "I'll do my best."

"I know you will." Steve rested a hand over Sam's. "That's why it's yours."

You stepped back, allowing them their moment. This wasn't yours. This belonged to them. To Steve. To Sam. To Captain America.

Your gaze drifted away. Only then did you notice the simple gold band resting on Steve's left hand.

Your chest tightened. Of course.

Sam noticed it too. "You wanna tell me about her?"

Steve's smile grew impossibly soft. The kind of smile reserved for memories no one else could touch. "No." He chuckled quietly. "I don't think I will."

Another tear escaped before you could catch it. You turned away quickly, wiping it with the sleeve of your jacket before anyone could notice.

Anyone...Except one person.

From where he stood beneath the trees, Bucky Barnes watched you. Not Steve. Not Sam. You.

He watched you standing alone beside the water. Watched the way your shoulders stiffened. The way you hid your tears before they could become sobs. The engagement ring still caught the sunlight. The way you smiled anyway.

Steve had left. But unlike Steve, you hadn't chosen this ending.

Bucky looked away. Because for the first time since 1945, he understood what it felt like to be the one left behind.

The clearing had emptied almost without you realizing it. Bruce. Sam. The platform. Gone. Even Steve. Eventually.

Only silence remained. You stood staring across the lake. Your engagement ring caught the afternoon sunlight. She couldn't stop looking at it. It suddenly felt impossibly heavy.

Footsteps approached behind her.  Quiet. Familiar. You didn't turn. Somehow, you already knew.

Bucky stopped beside you. Neither of you spoke. The wind stirred the trees overhead. Somewhere nearby, birds continued singing. As though the universe hadn't just quietly changed forever.

Bucky looked toward the lake. "He loved you."

The words were almost swallowed by the wind.

You swallowed hard. "...I know." Silence. Then, "I'm angry anyway."

Bucky nodded. "...Yeah."

At first, it’s subtle. Your head tipping against his shoulder, your breath evening out as you tuck yourself closer. He assumes you’re tired, that you need grounding, something solid to hold onto after everything. So he lets you. Always lets you.

But then your nose presses into the crook of his neck.

And you inhale.

Slow. Deep. Like you’re trying to memorize him.

Bucky stills.

“Doll,” he murmurs, voice low, a little rough around the edges, “you good?”

You hum in response, barely coherent, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket. “Yeah. Just… stay.”

He doesn’t move for the rest of the flight.

---

It escalates from there.

Not all at once. Not in a way that feels strange at first. It becomes a habit, something natural, something instinctive. You gravitate toward him in every room, every hallway, every quiet moment between missions.

But it’s not just closeness.

It’s him.

His scent—clean soap, something faintly earthy and woodsy, a trace of gun oil that never quite leaves his skin no matter how hard he scrubs it away. There’s warmth there, too. Something unmistakably him. Grounding. Safe. Addictive in a way you don’t even try to fight.

You start seeking it out without thinking.

In the kitchen, you’ll slip behind him, arms wrapping around his waist, face pressing between his shoulder blades. He’ll pause mid-sentence, metal fingers tightening slightly on the counter as he feels you breathe him in.

“You’re doing it again,” he says once, not unkindly.

You don’t even bother denying it. “You smell good.”

A beat.

Then, softer, quieter, almost shy despite the words, “You always do.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s trying to process that.

“Yeah?” he asks.

You nod against him, already nuzzling closer.

He doesn’t push you away.

---

On missions, it gets worse.

Or better, depending on who you ask.

After fights, after close calls, after the kind of moments that leave your hands shaking and your chest tight, you seek him out before anything else.

You’ll grab his vest, drag him down just enough to press your face into his neck, inhaling like you’ve been starved of it.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs, one arm coming around you automatically, metal hand hovering at your back before settling carefully against your spine. “We’re okay. You’re okay.”

You don’t answer.

You just breathe him in again.

And again.

Like if you stop, something terrible might happen.

At first, the others pretend not to notice.

Then they stop pretending.

---

Movie night is when it really becomes a problem.

Or not, again, depending on who you ask.

The Thunderbolts are scattered across the living room, the lights dim, some action movie playing on the screen that no one is really paying attention to. Popcorn’s half gone, someone’s arguing about plot holes, and Bucky is seated on the couch, broad and solid as ever.

You are, quite literally, in his shirt.

Not wearing it.

In it.

You’d started the night curled against his side, but at some point, you’d tugged his shirt open just enough to slide your arm inside, pressing your cheek flat against his chest. One of your legs is thrown over his thigh, your fingers loosely hooked into his waistband, keeping yourself anchored.

Your face is buried against his skin.

Breathing him in.

Completely oblivious to everything else.

“Are you even watching the movie?” Yelena asks from across the room, one brow raised.

You don’t respond.

Bucky glances down at you, lips twitching despite himself. “She hasn’t seen a single second.”

“I’m comfortable,” you mumble, voice muffled against him.

John snorts. “Comfortable? She looks like she’s trying to fuse with you.”

“Wouldn’t blame her,” Alexei adds, grinning.

Bucky shoots them a look, but there’s no real heat behind it. His hand comes up instead, brushing gently through your hair, smoothing it back from your face. You lean into the touch immediately, pressing closer.

“Hey,” he murmurs, softer now, just for you. “You good?”

You nod against him, inhaling again, slower this time. “You smell like home.”

It hits him harder than he expects.

His chest tightens, something warm and unfamiliar settling deep in his ribs.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly.

You hum. “Yeah. Makes everything feel… quiet.”

For a moment, he just looks at you.

Then his arm tightens around your shoulders, pulling you impossibly closer, if that’s even possible.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, even tthough you’re already there. “Stay as long as you want.”

You don’t need to be told twice.

---

It’s late when the movie ends, the others filtering out one by one until it’s just the two of you left in the dim glow of the television. You haven’t moved an inch.

Bucky glances down at you, a soft huff of amusement leaving him. “You planning on getting up anytime soon?”

“No,” you answer immediately.

He huffs again, but there’s fondness in it. “Figured.”

You shift slightly, tilting your head just enough to press your nose back against his neck, inhaling deeply.

He stills for a second then relaxes.

“Y’know,” he says after a moment, voice low, thoughtful, “I don’t mind it.”

You blink up at him. “You don’t?”

“Nah.” His thumb brushes lazily along your arm. “If that’s what you need, doll… you got it.”

Your chest warms at that, something soft and heavy settling there.

“You’re stuck with me, then,” you tease lightly.

His lips curve into a small, almost shy smile.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, tightening his hold on you just a fraction more. “I think I’m okay with that.”

You nuzzle back into him, breathing him in like you always do.

“Inquiring minds want to know,” he murmurs, voice rough and gravelly, “how you feel about me setting you up on this thing… and watching.”

His metal fingers drag slowly down your bare thigh, cool and unyielding, and the contrast makes you shiver.

“While I take care of myself.”

Heat floods your cheeks instantly.

The Sybian sits in the center of the room like some obscene throne—sleek, black, already prepped, the thick ridged attachment glistening under the light. You had joked about something like this once, half-laughing into his chest after a long mission, safe in the idea that it would never actually happen.

But Bucky remembers everything.

And now he is looking at you like this has been sitting in his head for weeks.

“I… I don’t know,” you whisper, even as your body betrays you completely—your nipples tightening, slick already pooling between your thighs.

He notices. He always notices.

“Liar,” he says softly, stepping closer.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip, and the way his gaze drops to your mouth makes your breath hitch.

“You are soaked just thinking about it.” His voice lowers, gentler but no less certain. “Tell me the truth, doll. You want this?”

You nod before you can stop yourself.

“Yes.”

His smile turns sharp. Satisfied. Predatory.

“Good girl.”

He helps you onto the machine, guiding you carefully as you straddle it, your knees sinking into the padded base. The thick length presses against your entrance and you gasp as you slowly sink down, stretching around it inch by inch until it fills you completely.

Your hands grip the front handle immediately, thighs trembling as the vibrations bloom inside you, soft at first, teasing every sensitive nerve.

Bucky circles you slowly, like he is taking his time memorizing the sight.

“Fuck,” he breathes under his breath, already palming himself through his sweats. “Look at you. So pretty like this. All spread open for me.”

The remote clicks.

The vibration deepens.

It rolls through you in a slow, heavy pulse that makes your hips jerk without permission, a broken moan slipping from your lips before you can stop it.

“That’s it,” he encourages, pushing his sweats down just enough for his cock to spring free, thick and already leading. “Ride it for me, baby. Let me see how good it makes you feel.”

You start moving, tentative at first, but the ridges catch perfectly inside you, dragging over that spot every time you shift, whi;lle the external vibration presses insistently against your clit.

Your head tips back, a soft whimper falling from your lips as your body starts chasing it without hesitation.

Bucky strokes himself in time with you, slow, deliberate pulls, his grip tightening with every movement you make. Pre-cum beads at the tip, sliding down his fingers, but he does not look away from you. Not once.

“Goddamn,” he groans. “You are dripping all over it. Soaking the damn thing.”

Your hips stutter, then pick up, chasing the pressure.

“You like knowing I am watching?” he presses, stepping closer. “Like knowing I am getting off on how desperate you look?”

“Yes—fuck, Bucky—”

Your words dissolve into a moan when the speed kicks up again, the vibration turning relentless. Your thighs start to shake, your movements losing any rhythm as your body just chases whatever feels best.

He is close enough now that you can feel his heat, smell the faint salt of his skin, the metallic edge of his arm as it reaches out and pinches your nipple just hard enough to make you cry out.

The combination sends you spiraling.

“Look at me,” he orders.

Your eyes snap to his immediately.

His pupils are blown wide, chest rising and falling faster now, his hand moving quicker over his cock. The wet sound of it mixes with the buzz of the machine and your broken noises, filling the room with something filthy and overwhelming.

“I have thought about this,” he admits, voice strained. “Coming home and finding you like this. All mine. Falling apart while I stroke myself stupid watching you.”

Your hips stutter harder, chasing the edge that is already right there.

“You gonna come for me, doll?” he murmurs. “Gonna let me see it?”

You nod frantically, words gone, breath gone, everything narrowing down to that tight, coiled pressure.

Your whole body seizes as the orgasm crashes through you, sharp and overwhelming, thighs clamping as you come hard around the machine, a broken cry tearing from your throat as your vision flashes white.

You barely register anything else except the feeling.

The pulsing. The clenching. The way it keeps going.

“That’s my girl—fuck—” Bucky groans, his strokes turning messy, desperate. His metal hand braces on your shoulder, grounding you as you shake through it, and then he is coming too, thick ropes spilling over his fist, across his stomach, his breathing wrecked as he rides it out with you.

The machine slows gradually, but does not stop.

Soft pulses linger, keeping your body twitching as you slump forward, barely holding yourself up, breath coming in shallow gasps.

Bucky kneels in front of you almost immediately, hands coming up to cup your face, pulling you into a deep, grounding kiss. You taste yourself in the way your moans spill into his mouth, the way he swallows every sound like he needs it.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

You are still shaking when you manage, voice hoarse and breathless,

“How do I feel about it?”

A weak laugh slips out of you.

“I think… I think I want you to do it again.”

His grin is wicked. Pleased. Already planning.

“Oh, doll,” he murmurs.

His hand reaches for the remote again.

He drops his keys into the bowl by the door and narrows his eyes down the hallway. “Alright,” he calls, voice low and cautious. “What’re you two doin’?”

No answer.

That’s strike one.

He steps further inside, boots heavy against the floor, scanning like he’s clearing a building. The living room looks fine. Couch intact. No suspicious glitter explosions. No suspicious paint.

But then—

A faint crackle of static.

Followed by—

“Oh, my gosh, oh, my gosh—Lila, press it again!”

“And then what? Does it make it louder?!”

Bucky freezes.

He turns slowly toward the kitchen.

Strike two.

Because whatever that is? That is not normal kid chaos. That is… amplified chaos.

He rounds the corner and stops dead in the doorway.

There, sitting proudly on the kitchen table like it’s some kind of sacred offering, is a bright pink karaoke machine. It’s got blinking lights, two microphones, and a speaker that looks way too powerful for something designed for children.

And behind it are his girls.

Six-year-old Lila Barnes is gripping one microphone like she’s about to address a stadium, curls bouncing as she hops in place. Her younger sister, four-year-old Rosie, is holding the other, pressing buttons with reckless abandon.

The machine screeches as feedback rings through the room.

Bucky flinches.

Hard.

“…what,” he says slowly, “is that?”

Both girls spin around like they’ve been caught red-handed.

“Daddy!” Rosie squeals, completely unbothered by the sonic assault she just unleashed. “Look what Uncle Sam got us!”

Strike tree.

Bucky closes his eyes for a long, suffering second.

Of course it was Sam.

Of course it was.

Because this has Wilson written all over it—bright, loud, and specifically designed to test Bucky’s patience.

“Oh, he did, did he?” Bucky mutters, already filing this away under revenge pending. “That was real nice of him.”

“Isn’t it amazing?!” Lila says, bouncing on her toes. “We can sing into it and it makes us sound like pop stars!”

Rosie slams another button.

Music explodes out of the speaker.

Bucky physically recoils.

The opening beats of some aggressively upbeat kids’ pop song fill the kitchen, and before he can even process what’s happening, both girls lift their microphones.

“LET IT GOOOO—”

They are not singing the right song. They are not singing on key. They are not even singing the same words.

But they are loud.

So, so loud.

Bucky presses his lips together, staring at them like he’s trying to remain calm in the face of psychological warfare.

“Doll,” he says carefully, voice tight, “maybe we don’t need it that loud—”

“LOUDER?!” Rosie gasps, delighted.

She presses something.

The volume increases.

Bucky watches his life flash before his eyes.

“—that is the opposite of what I said,” he mutters weakly.

But it’s too late.

Because now Lilaa is spinning in circles, hair flying, belting into the microphone with the confidence of someone who has never once doubted herself.

Rosie joins her, marching in tiny dramatic steps, waving her arm like she’s on stage.

“AND IIIIIII—”

“WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOUUUU—"

Different song. Wrong again.

Bucky drags a hand down his face.

Somewhere in the distance, he can practically hear Sam laughing.

“Oh, you’re dead,” Bucky murmurs under his breath. “You are so dead, Wilson.”

“Daddy, sing with us!” Lila demands, shoving the microphone toward him mid-spin.

Bucky leans back like it’s a weapon.

“Nope. Nope, I don’t—”

Rosie grabs his hand, tiny fingers sticky and insistent. “C’mon, Daddy! You gotta!”

He looks down at her.

Big eyes. Gap-toothed grin. Absolute excitement vibrating out of her.

Then he looks at Lila, who’s practically bouncing out of her skin waiting for him to join.

Bucky exhales.

Because of course.

Of course this is his life now.

“Alright,” he sighs, rolling his shoulders like he’s preparing for battle. “Alright, fine. Gimme that thing.”

The girls erupt in cheers.

Rosie shoves the second microphone into his metal hand like she’s arming him.

The music is still blasting—wrong song, wrong pitch, wrong everything—but the girls don’t care.

And apparently neither does he.

Bucky clears his throat.

“Okay,” he says, trying to figure out what the hell they’re even singing. “What’s the song?”

“Just sing!” Lila yells.

Helpful.

Real helpful.

The next verse starts, something about dancing and sunshine, and Bucky goes for it.

He doesn’t know the words.

He doesn’t know the tune.

But he sings anyway, voice rough and deep, completely mismatched with the bright, chaotic music. 

The girls lose their mind over it. They laugh, shrieking as they spin around him, grabbing his hands, pulling him into their little performance.

Rosie jumps onto his foot, using it as a stage.

Lila grabs his arm, dragging him into a clumsy spin.

“DADDY’S SINGING!” Rosie screams like it’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened.

Bucky laughs so hard his chest aches, letting himself get pulled into their orbit, into their joy, into this ridiculous, noisy, overwhelming moment.

The kitchen is chaos.

The music is too loud.

The singing is objectively terrible.

And it’s perfect.

Absolutely perfet.

Hours later, when the machine finally runs out of battery and the girls collapse into a giggling heap on the floor, Bucky leans against the counter, catching his breath.

Rosie climbs into his arms, already half-asleep, while Lila curls against his side.

“Best present ever,” Lila mumbles.

Bucky presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“Yeah,” he says softly, voice warm despite himself. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

But as he glances at the silent karaoke machine, his eyes narrow just a little.

Because tomorrow?

Tomorrow, he’s calling Sam.

SFW 

You're in a long distance relationship and it's not by choice a commitment is keeping you where you are (school, work, family- SOMETHING)

it's going to take a few months minimum before you're able to move to NYC 

Despite the distance you guys make it work 

Phone calls, texts, video calls are super common 

You guys also send each other letters in the mail. 

Lots and lots of gifts especially from Alexei!! He often has packages delivered to your house 

You have an instacart account that they both have access too. Their credit card is on file for it

Same with DoorDash

And Lyft/Uber

They love to hear about your day and you often send them a long message or voice note. They respond when they can

Constantly sharing memes, Tik Tok, reels etc with each other. You and Alexei contribute the most

You always know when they're going away on a mission. They'll call and say something like “Going away for a few days and won't have access to my phone”. It's a simple but subtle way of keeping you in the loop 

You visit them as much as you can but due to your own responsibilities it's not as often as you would like 

They're also really busy so they can't visit you as often either 

You make the most out of the 3 day weekends for sure! 

Once year (sometimes twice!) you all go on really really nice vacation together 

Anytime spent together is cherished 

Each gave you a promise ring 

You're all in a group chat together and you always get a good morning and good night text from Bucky. Alexei always asks if you've eaten 

Alexei often texts random photos of things throughout the day with little to no context 

Bucky doesn't really text in there unless it's something directed to him or he's reminding you of an appointment/commitment you have

NSFW

Phone sex, video sex all of it!

Lots of sexting 

You have an app controlled vibrator that they love to play with

You're frequently gifted lingerie and sex toys which you love to model for them

Occasionally you'll send Alexei a pair of your worn underwear in the mail 

Sometimes you include very risque Polaroid photos in your letter to them 

Sometimes you'll share porn links with them 

Steve didn’t know when they had gone from stargazing to making out in the grass, but he certainly wasn’t going to complain.

There was heat in every kiss and every touch. Steve felt Bucky’s teeth nip at his lower lip and he held back a low moan.

He suddenly needed to touch all of Bucky’s skin. As he slid his hands up Bucky’s shirt, caressing warm smooth muscle, he crawled down Bucky’s body.

He unbuttoned Bucky’s pants and pulled his cock out, licking his lips in anticipation. His own personal midnight picnic.

Bucky gasped as Steve swallowed down his cock.

~~~~~~~~

Day 15 of @monthlywritingchallenges Firefly July: midnight picnic