howdy.

You turned and quickly walked away.

His feet were already moving.

"Bucky, maintain visual!" the analyst shouted through the comm.

He never slowed.

"Barnes, stand down!"

Nothing.

"Bucky!" Sam's voice.

"Wait for backup!"

Too late.

He shoved past the first cluster of guests, nearly knocking a champagne tray to the marble floor as he sprinted after the black dress disappearing through the gallery doors.

The gallery opened onto the rear terrace almost without warning.

Warm candlelight gave way to the cool Roman evening, and the change was immediate. The orchestra softened behind thick stone walls until it became little more than a distant melody drifting through the open doors. Beyond the balustrade, Bellini's gardens stretched toward the river in perfect symmetry, illuminated by carefully placed lanterns that turned marble fountains and ancient statues into pale silhouettes against the night.

Guests lingered outside in small groups, champagne flutes balanced effortlessly between their fingers as they admired the view over the city. Laughter drifted across the terrace. Somewhere nearby, someone lit a cigar. The scent mixed with expensive perfume and freshly cut jasmine carried on the breeze.

To everyone around you, the evening remained perfect.

You resisted every instinct urging you to run. Not here. Not with this many eyes.

The worst thing you could do now was confirm his suspicion by panicking. So you walked.

Measured and unhurried. The same steady pace you'd maintained since entering the palace. Your heartbeat, however, had become impossible to ignore.

You could feel it against your throat. Against your ribs.

Against the pulse in your wrists.

Behind you, he followed. Not close enough to touch, not far enough to lose.

The distance between you never seemed to change. You didn't need to look back to know he was still there.

You simply knew.

Inside his earpiece, voices continued speaking over one another.

"...Barnes, maintain observation…”

"...South surveillance is repositioning…”

Bucky heard every word.

He listened to none of them.

His entire world had narrowed to the woman walking twenty yards ahead of him.

The black gown. The bare stretch of her back disappearing beneath hair.

The scar.

God...

The scar.

His stomach still hadn't recovered from the moment he'd seen it.

Every instinct he possessed insisted he was looking at H-17.

Every other part of him begged for another explanation.

Not her.

Please...

Not her.

He had spent the last several minutes wondering why he couldn't stop looking at her.

Wondering why she had managed, if only for a heartbeat, to quiet the grief that had consumed every waking moment since Asa died. Now all he could think was how cruel the universe truly was.

Out of every woman in Rome, it had been her.

You reached the broad staircase leading into Bellini's gardens.

The terrace ended there, beyond it, the protection of the gala disappeared.

You paused only long enough to rest one hand lightly against the cool marble railing. Your eyes swept the gardens below.

Lanterns, guests, security, stone pathways, three exists, one service gate, and the river beyond.

Your mind mapped everything in seconds.

Hydra had made sure of that. You descended without hesitation. Each step carried you farther from the music. Farther from the witnesses. Farther from the safety of pretending this had all been a misunderstanding.

“Buck." Sam's voice broke through the static. "We're almost to your position.” No answer. “Bucky." Another beat. "Just wait for me."

His jaw tightened.

His eyes never left you.

Waiting wasn't an option anymore.

Not after he'd seen the scar.

Not after she'd looked at him the way she had.

She knew.

He was certain of it.

She knew exactly what he'd seen.

Your heel caught briefly against the uneven stone. Barely enough to interrupt your stride. Enough.

You reached down without looking. The buckle released beneath practiced fingers. The first shoe slipped free. You never broke pace.

It disappeared soundlessly into the darkness beside a hedge. Five more steps. The second followed. Cool stone met bare skin.

Immediately, your stride lengthened.

You felt lighter.

Faster. Behind you, Bucky watched both shoes vanish into the shadows.

The gesture lasted no more than two seconds.

It told him everything. She wasn't trying to leave the gala anymore. She was preparing to disappear. Something inside him snapped.

Until that moment, some small part of him had still believed he could follow protocol. That surveillance teams would quietly move into position. That Sam would arrive. That together they would identify H-17 and end the evening exactly as the Bureau had planned.

The abandoned shoes erased that possibility.

She had made her choice.

His body answered before his mind could.

The first stride came almost involuntarily.

The second carried him off the terrace.

By the third, he was running.

The analyst's voice immediately cut across the channel.

"Sergeant Barnes, do not pursue!”

He never slowed.

"Barnes, stand down."

Gravel exploded beneath his shoes as he crossed the final stretch of the garden.

"Bucky!" Sam's voice was sharper now, louder than before. "Wait for backup!"

Still, nothing.

His breathing had already begun to overtake every other sound.

The distance between them began to close. Not because you were slowing. Because he was relentless.

You heard it. Not footsteps. No…momentum. The unmistakable rhythm of someone who had committed entirely to the pursuit.

You didn't look back. You didn't need to.

The Winter Soldier had stopped following. He was hunting.

And for the first time that evening, you ran.

The gardens disappeared behind you as the wrought-iron gates burst open, and Rome swallowed you both whole.

The moment you crossed beyond Bellini's gates, the city seemed to explode around you.

The quiet elegance of the palace vanished behind the steady roar of Roman nightlife.

Restaurants spilled onto narrow sidewalks beneath strings of warm lights suspended between centuries-old buildings. Conversations drifted through the air in a dozen different languages, punctuated by bursts of laughter, clinking wine glasses, and the distant hum of Vespas weaving effortlessly through evening traffic.

No one looked at you twice.

Not at first.

To everyone else, you were simply another woman leaving an extravagant gala. Until you started running.

You cut sharply around the corner of the first building, narrowly avoiding a waiter emerging from a side entrance with an armful of empty wine crates.

"I'm so sorry," you called instinctively as he stumbled backward in surprise.

The apology had barely left your mouth before you were gone. Seconds later, Bucky reached the same corner.

The crates crashed across the pavement. The waiter instinctively reached down to stop one from rolling into the street.

You knew better than to run in a straight line.

Hydra had taught you that years ago. Straight lines were predictable.

Predictable people got caught. Every intersection became a decision.

Left. Too open. Right. Dead end. Forward. Crowded.

Perfect.

You slipped between tightly packed café tables, murmuring apologies as startled diners pulled their chairs inward just quickly enough to let you pass.

Someone shouted after you.

Someone else laughed, assuming they had just witnessed lovers arguing.

No one understood what was actually happening. You hoped it stayed that way.

Behind you, Bucky entered the same street barely four seconds later.

The café erupted into chaos. Chairs scraped violently across old stone.

A waiter yanked an entire tray of untouched pasta out of the way just before Bucky vaulted over the edge of the outdoor seating rather than weaving around it.

His polished dress shoes struck the cobblestones with enough force that the sound echoed between the buildings.

He never lost sight of the black dress.

Not once.

“Bucky." Sam's breathing was heavier now. He was running too. "Talk to me.” Silence. “Buck." Another pause. "Where are you?"

The analyst cut in before Bucky could answer.

"Captain Wilson, GPS has him crossing Via dei Coronari."

"How far?"

"Closing on Piazza Navona."

Sam muttered something beneath his breath. "Damn it..."

Bucky pushed harder. You burst into the piazza.

The open square stretched before you beneath the glow of street lamps and restaurant terraces packed with tourists lingering over late dinners.

A violinist stood beside Bernini's Fountain of the Four Rivers, completely absorbed in his music until the sudden movement caught his attention.

Your eyes swept the square.

Too exposed. Too many witnesses. Too few exits.

You changed direction immediately. Not toward the fountain.

Toward the narrow passage disappearing between two ancient buildings on the western side of the square.

Bucky saw the change the instant you made it. He didn't hesitate and neither did you.

Your lungs had begun to burn.

Not from exhaustion but from the constant changes in pace.

Sprint.

Slow.

Turn.

Jump.

Accelerate again.

Every movement demanded a new calculation.

The city itself became part of the equation. A delivery truck blocked one street completely. You ducked beneath the raised loading platform instead of going around it.

Bucky arrived less than three seconds later.

Too broad to follow the same route without losing momentum, he planted one hand against the truck, vaulted cleanly over the rear loading gate, and landed hard enough to rattle the entire vehicle.

The driver stepped out of the cab just in time to watch him disappear.

You risked your first glance behind you.

Immediately regretted it. He was closer. Much closer.

Close enough now that you could see the determination carved across his face.

His tie had come loose somewhere during the pursuit, hanging unevenly against the front of his shirt. The top button had been torn open, dark hair falling across his forehead as he ran.

He wasn't slowing.

He wasn't tiring. He was simply coming for you.

Your stomach tightened.

Impossible.

You'd studied him.

Read every file Hydra had ever kept.

You knew exactly what he was capable of.

Knowing and seeing it with your own eyes were two entirely different things.

You rounded another corner.

Nearly collided with a young boy chasing a soccer ball across the alley. You caught him instinctively before he stumbled into the street, steadying him by both shoulders.

"I'm sorry.” The words came automatically.

The ball rolled away.

The boy looked up at you, startled but unharmed.

You were already running again.

Five seconds later, Bucky reached the same alley.

Ahead, church bells rang across the city.

Nine o’clock. The sound rolled over the rooftops as both of you disappeared deeper into Rome. Neither of you had spoken a single word. Neither of you needed to. The chase had become its own language.

The alley spilled onto a narrow street lined with shuttered cafés and flower boxes overflowing from wrought-iron balconies. Laundry stirred gently overhead in the evening breeze, suspended between buildings that had watched Rome reinvent itself for centuries.

You didn't hesitate. Your eyes were already searching three streets ahead.

A delivery van idled beside the curb while a pair of workers unloaded crates through its rear doors, blocking nearly the entire roadway.

Perfect. You veered toward it.

Not around it.

Through it.

The workers barely had time to react before you slipped between two stacks of wooden crates, ducking beneath the raised lift-gate with practiced ease. One of them shouted something in Italian as you emerged on the opposite side and disappeared into another alley.

The opening behind you narrowed again as one of the crates shifted dangerously out of place.

Bucky reached the truck less than two seconds later.

He didn't even slow.

Your breathing had settled into a rhythm.

In.

Out.

Count the corners. Count the exits. Count the people.

Hydra had drilled it into you until it became instinct.

Never outrun someone stronger. Outthink them.

You cut sharply through a bustling side market, weaving between vendors selling fresh fruit, flowers, and handmade leather goods beneath striped canvas awnings.

An elderly woman carrying two grocery bags stepped directly into your path.

She blinked after you, confused but unharmed.

Only moments later, Bucky burst into the same market.

Ahead, the street narrowed again before opening unexpectedly onto a small stone bridge crossing one of the city's quieter canals.

Moonlight shimmered across the water below, broken only by the slow wake of a passing river taxi drifting beneath the arch.

Your pace faltered for the first time.

Not from exhaustion, but from calculation.

Across the bridge was too exposed. Back the way you'd come was impossible. To the left a staircase descended toward the water.

You made your decision instantly.

Instead of crossing the bridge, you vaulted over the low stone barrier, catching the iron railing as you dropped onto the narrow maintenance walkway running beneath it.

Your shoes would've made that jump dangerous. Bare feet didn’t. Your landing was silent.

You never looked back.

Bucky reached the bridge seconds later.

He saw the empty roadway.

Then, movement below.

His eyes dropped just in time to catch the edge of your black gown disappearing beneath the bridge.

A lesser pursuer would've continued straight. He didn't.

Without breaking stride, he planted one foot against the bridge's stone wall and vaulted the barrier, dropping after you. His shoulder clipped the railing on the way down.

Pain shot through him. He ignored it.

His shoes struck the narrow walkway with a heavy crack.

Too loud.

Too heavy.

He'd already lost three seconds.

You heard him land. Closer.

Too close.

Your heartbeat lurched.

You pushed harder.

The canal funneled the sound of his footsteps directly toward you, every impact echoing beneath the ancient stone arches until it became impossible to tell exactly how far behind he really was.

That uncertainty was almost worse. You risked another glance. He was there.

No more than fifteen yards now. Hair falling across his forehead.

Breathing harder than before. His tie hanging loose around his neck. His jacket unbuttoned and whipping behind him with every stride. He looked less like a government agent now...

And more like something relentless. Something that simply wouldn't stop.

The canal eventually emptied into a quieter part of the city.

The restaurants had disappeared behind them, replaced by narrow residential streets where flower boxes hung from wrought-iron balconies and warm lamplight spilled lazily across centuries-old cobblestones. Laundry stirred gently overhead in the evening breeze, suspended between buildings that had watched generations come and go without ever changing themselves.

Your breathing had settled into a rhythm. Not because you were no longer running, but because panic had never made anyone faster.

Hydra had taught you that years ago. Panic narrowed your vision.

It made people predictable. Predictable people got caught.

Think.

Don't run.

Think.

You stole another glance over your shoulder.

He was still there. Closer than before.

His tie had long since come loose, hanging unevenly around his neck. The collar of his white dress shirt had been pulled open somewhere during the chase, dark hair falling across his forehead as he closed the distance with the same relentless pace he'd maintained since Bellini's gardens.

He wasn't tiring.

That realization settled heavily in your chest.

Of course he wasn't.

You hadn't spent years studying the Winter Soldier because Hydra thought he was ordinary. Ahead, the street split around a small stone chapel. To the left, the city opened toward a brightly lit boulevard crowded with late-night cafés.

To the right, a narrow alley disappeared between two aging apartment buildings before bending sharply out of sight. You made your decision without slowing.

The alley.

Dark.

Confined.

Invisible from the street.

You disappeared around the corner.

Bucky followed less than two seconds later.

By then, you were gone.

Not because you'd outrun him.

Because you'd stopped.

Halfway down the alley, a recessed doorway sat several feet back from the street, swallowed almost entirely by shadow. You slipped into it without hesitation, pressing your back against the cold stone as your breathing came under immediate control.

One hand rested lightly against the wall.

The other hovered instinctively near the pistol concealed beneath your gown.

You didn't move.

You didn't breathe.

Hydra had taught you that movement attracted the eye long before sound ever did.

So you became part of the wall.

Footsteps thundered toward you.

Closer.

Closer.

Then, silence.

You stayed exactly where you were.

One second. Five. Ten. Twenty.

Hydra had also taught you that the first mistake people made after escaping pursuit was believing the pursuit had ended.

You waited another full minute before finally allowing yourself to exhale. The breath left your lungs slowly, almost painfully. Only then did you step out from the shadows.

Your heart was still racing, though your face revealed none of it. You smoothed the front of your gown almost absently before tucking a loose strand of hair back into place.

To anyone passing by, you were simply another guest walking home from an evening gala.

Nothing more.

You left the alley at an unhurried pace, blending effortlessly back into the quiet rhythm of the city. The hotel stood only a block away.

Its warm lights glowed softly against the street, the doorman chatting idly with a couple climbing out of a taxi as though the night were no different from any other.

___

You found the back entrance to your hotel a minute later.

The service corridor was empty.

The fluorescent lights overhead hummed softly, their cold glow replacing the warmth and grandeur of Bellini's palace with something altogether more ordinary. Metal shelving lined one wall beside stacks of freshly laundered towels waiting to be distributed throughout the hotel, while somewhere farther down the hall came the faint clatter of dishes being loaded into industrial dishwashers after another busy dinner service.

No alarms.

No shouting.

No footsteps behind you.

You swiped your keycard through a second security door before stepping into the staff elevator. The doors slid shut.

Only then did you allow your shoulders to lower the slightest fraction. The elevator climbed quietly.You leaned your head back against the polished steel wall and closed your eyes for exactly one breath.

Not to rest.

To think.

How had he recognized you?

The question refused to leave.

You replayed the ballroom over and over again.

The conversation. The older collector. The champagne.

The elevator chimed softly.

Seventh floor.

The doors opened onto a quiet corridor lined with thick carpet that swallowed the sound of every footstep. Soft lamps cast warm pools of light across dark wood paneling, the entire floor wrapped in the expensive silence unique to luxury hotels after midnight.

You stepped out.

Everything looked exactly as you'd left it.

Housekeeping carts were gone.

Room service trays had already been collected.

A couple disappeared around the far corner, laughing quietly to themselves before the hallway fell silent once again.

Normal.

You began walking.

Room 714.

Six doors.

Five.

Four.

Your breathing had finally begun to steady.

You'd lost him. You were almost certain of it now.

Hydra had drilled countless escape exercises into you over the years, and tonight had followed the same principles you'd practiced hundreds of times before.

Break visual.Change pace. Disappear.Wait. Never assume.Never celebrate.

Still, relief found its way in anyway.

Small.

Careful.

But there.

You reached your door.

The keycard unlocked it with a familiar green flash.

One hand remained inside your evening bag as you pushed the door inward, fingers brushing the grip of the pistol hidden beneath the fabric more out of habit than genuine concern.

The room was dark. Exactly as you'd left it.

You stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind you.

The lock clicked.

Silence.

For several long seconds, you didn't move.

Your eyes adjusted slowly. Everything appeared untouched.

Only then did you cross the room, slipping the pistol free as naturally as another person might remove their shoes.

The curtains remained partially open.

Rome glittered beyond the glass, thousands of lights stretching across the city beneath the dark Italian sky.

You crossed toward the window and looked down at the street below.

Nothing.

No black SUVs. No agents.

The tension in your chest loosened for the first time all evening.

You let out a slow breath, barely louder than the traffic drifting up from the streets below, and reached toward the curtain, intending to close out the city for the night.

Your hand stopped halfway.

The window.

You frowned.

You had left it closed before Bellini's.

You were absolutely certain of it.

Every muscle in your body tightened at once.

Slowly, your eyes lifted toward the rooftops across the narrow street, instinct replacing relief in the space of a heartbeat. Hydra had devoted entire training modules to one man and one discipline alone. The Winter Soldier didn't need to force his way through doors. He preferred distance. Elevation. Patience. If he'd followed you here, the first place he'd choose was never inside the room—it was somewhere across from it, hidden behind another window, waiting for you to make one careless mistake.

Your breathing slowed deliberately.

Panic made people careless.

Careless people died.

Without stepping in front of the glass, you shifted sideways until your back rested against the wall beside the window, safely outside the line of sight from anyone watching across the street. Only then did your hand disappear beneath the fabric of your gown, fingers finding the spare magazine secured against your thigh exactly where you'd left it before the gala.

The familiar weight settled comfortably into your palm.

Your pistol remained steady in your other hand as you guided the magazine into place with one smooth, practiced motion.

The metallic click sounded unnaturally loud inside the otherwise silent room.

You closed your eyes.

Not because you were afraid.

Because listening had always been more valuable than seeing.

The city breathed outside.

A car passed somewhere below. Voices drifted faintly from the street.

Then, another click.

Not yours.

To your side.

The sound was unmistakable. Metal.

A safety disengaging.

Your eyes opened instantly.

Every instinct you possessed screamed at you not to look too quickly.

The silence stretched for what felt like an eternity before a voice emerged from somewhere behind you, low enough that it almost disappeared into the darkness.

"Drop the fucking gun."

The warmth you had begun to feel only moments earlier vanished completely.

Slowly, you turned your head.

The room remained almost entirely dark, the only light spilling in from the city beyond the open window, cutting pale lines across the hardwood floor.

At first, you saw nothing.

Then the shadows moved.

He stepped forward just enough for the moonlight to find him.

The tuxedo he'd worn at Bellini's barely resembled one anymore. His jacket had disappeared somewhere during the chase through Rome, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled unevenly toward his forearms, the top buttons hanging open as though he'd stopped caring long ago. His tie rested loosely around his neck, half untied, while damp strands of dark hair clung to his forehead from sweat that had never had the chance to dry.

He looked exhausted.

Not the exhaustion of a man who had run across half of Rome. The exhaustion of someone who hadn't truly slept in weeks.His pistol never wavered.

Neither did his eyes.

Whatever kindness had existed in them less than an hour ago, when he'd apologized after accidentally bumping into you beneath Bellini's chandeliers, had vanished completely.

There was only anger now.

Raw.

Unfiltered.

The kind that didn't belong in a government briefing room or on a mission.

The kind born from grief.

"I said..." His voice came again, rougher this time, each word sounding as though it had been dragged painfully from somewhere deep inside his chest. "...drop the fucking gun."

You held his gaze for another second before slowly lowering your hand. Not surrendering. Simply placing the pistol onto the nearby table where both of you could still see it.

His expression didn't change.

Not even slightly.

He took another slow step into the room, his eyes never leaving yours.

His breathing had become uneven, his composure visibly cracking beneath something far heavier.

Your gaze drifted, almost involuntarily, toward the window.

You weren't planning anything. You were calculating.

Distance. Height. Landing.

His voice cut through the thought before it had finished forming.

“Don't." Quiet. Almost exhausted. "You won't make it."

Your eyes returned to him. "I—"

"Shut your damn mouth.” The words weren't shouted. They were cut from stone, ”You don't speak unless I tell you to."

Silence settled over the room once more.

The pistol never wavered.

Neither did his eyes.

He was watching everything. Your breathing. Your shoulders. The minute shifts of your weight across the floor. He knew you were thinking. Calculating.

Looking for a way out. His gaze followed yours to the curtain hanging beside the open window.

For the first time since entering the room, something changed.

Not his expression. His decision.

He looked back at you. Then toward the window again.

“Go." You frowned.

The room fell silent.

Every instinct you possessed screamed that something was wrong. People didn't corner someone at gunpoint, only to let them leave.

He took one deliberate step backward, never lowering the weapon.

You searched his face for something.

Anything. Nothing, no hesitation.

No bluff you could immediately recognize. Just anger raw enough to make your stomach tighten. You didn't trust it.

He noticed. "What?" he asked bitterly, “You don't want it anymore?”

Another heartbeat passed. Then another. Your fingers tightened almost imperceptibly. The window remained open. The fire escape beyond it disappeared into darkness.

Every calculation pointed toward the same conclusion.

If there was a chance, this was it.

Without another word, you moved.

Fast.

Your shoulder struck the curtain as you crossed the room in a single burst of motion, one hand catching the windowsill before swinging yourself effortlessly onto the narrow iron fire escape outside.

Cold night air rushed against your face, carrying with it the distant hum of Rome below as you disappeared into the darkness without looking back.

Bucky never moved.

He remained exactly where he'd been standing, the pistol still trained on the open window long after you had vanished from sight, as though some part of him still expected you to reappear.

His breathing refused to steady.

The room suddenly felt impossibly quiet.

Only minutes earlier, he'd been standing beneath Bellini's chandeliers wondering why a stranger had managed to steal his attention for the first time since Asa's funeral. For one reckless, unforgivable moment, he'd forgotten what grief felt like. Forgotten the weight he'd carried every waking hour for the last three weeks.

Then he'd seen the scar.

He couldn’t breathe, and all he could see was red.

Then— “Sergeant Barnes?” He pressed the transmitter without taking his eyes off the darkness outside. A brief pause.

Then Sam's voice answered.

"We've got her."

Silence.

"She's in custody."

Bucky closed his eyes.

Only for a second.

Every other weekend in Delacroix, somebody lights a grill, drags coolers out onto the dock, and pretends life has always been this simple.

Sam calls them “casual little cookouts,” which is a lie considering there’s always enough food to feed a football team, music echoing through the boatyard, at least one argument over who burned the burgers and about twenty people yelling over each other while the Louisiana sunset turns everything gold.

Bucky usually keeps to the edges of it all.

Not hiding exactly, just observing. Helping when someone asks. Nodding along to conversations. Holding a beer long enough that people stop offering him another one. And every single cookout for the last two months, somewhere around sunset, he notices you. Always near the water. Sometimes sitting on the edge of the dock with your sandals abandoned beside you, sometimes leaning against one of the old wooden posts near the boatyard. Always looking out toward the horizon like you’re listening to something no one else can hear.

The first time he saw you, he thought to himself how pretty you were, the way the reflected sun off the water glowed across your face. The second time he wondered if you were waiting for someone else to join you. By the fourth cookout, he started looking for you before he even got out of the truck.

Tonight is no different. Bucky stands near the cooler pretending to listen to Sam and Torres argue over seasoning while his eyes drift automatically toward the water, and there you are. Leaning against the fence near the boats, drink hanging loosely from your fingers while the sunset paints orange light across your skin.

Bucky stares too long. Again.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam mutters beside him without even looking up from the grill. “Go talk to her before you wear a hole through the poor girl.”

Bucky nearly chokes on his beer.

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

“I’m just standing here.”

“And lookin’ at her like she hung the moon.”

Bucky scowls while Sam grins into the smoke curling from the grill.

“You got exactly five minutes before somebody else gets the nerve first.”

“That’s not—”

“Five.”

Bucky hates that his stomach actually drops a little at the thought, because he hasn’t done this in a long time, not like this not when it matters. Across the yard, you laugh softly at something one of the Wilson kids says before drifting back toward the quieter end of the dock again. Alone.

Bucky exhales slowly.

Say something to her. Anything.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he starts walking. The wooden boards creak beneath his boots as he approaches. Closer now, he notices details he couldn’t from afar, the condensation sliding down your cup, your hair moving gently in the breeze off the water, the way your shoulders relax out here away from the noise. You glance over at the sound of his footsteps. And suddenly Bucky Barnes the former assassin, war veteran, and literal super soldier—completely forgets how conversations work.

“You uh—”

Brilliant start.

“You’ve been standing there a while.”

The second the words leave his mouth, Bucky wants to launch himself directly into the bay.

Nice going, Barnes.

But then you laugh, soft and surprised and warm enough to knock the air from his lungs.

“Oh, yeah,” you admit, looking back toward the sunset. “Guess I have been.”

Then your eyes flick back to his.

“I didn’t think you’d notice me.”

And Bucky, the poor bastard, his brain short-circuits entirely. Because how is he supposed to answer that honestly?

I notice you every single time you walk into a room. I started showing up early hoping you’d be here. I know exactly what your laugh sounds like from across the yard.

Instead what comes out is something much clumsier.

“I’d have to be blind not to notice you.”

Your cheeks flush immediately and Bucky’s soul leaves his body.

“I mean—” he starts quickly, panic rising fast, “not like I’m staring at you or anything—I just meant like—”

You save him then, with that warm gentle smile of yours.

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “I know what you mean.”

The relief nearly takes his knees out. Then after a tiny pause, your voice gets quieter.

“I notice you too.”

Bucky stares at you, stares like he’s trying to process whether he imagined that.

“You do?”

Smooth. Very cool.

You laugh again, ducking your head slightly.

“Kind of hard not to.”

Something warm unfolds slowly in Bucky’s chest. Shock first, then confusion, then happiness so sudden it almost feels dangerous. And when you smile at him again, all shy and sunlight-soft in the fading evening glow, he thinks distantly to himself.

This is good, right? Yeah. Okay. Time to send it home.

Bucky clears his throat.

“I uh—”

God. Why is he suddenly sixteen years old again?

“I notice,” he says carefully, glancing toward your cup, “your drink is empty.”

You look down at it like you forgot you were holding it.

“Would you maybe wanna get another,” Bucky asks, trying very hard not to sound like this is the most nerve-wracking moment of his life, “with me?”

There’s half a second where he’s convinced he ruined it somehow. Then you smile bright enough to rival the sunset behind you.

“Yeah,” you answer softly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Bucky tries to play it cool, he really does, but as the two of you start walking back toward the lights and laughter of the cookout together, he can’t stop the small smile pulling at his mouth. And behind the grill, Sam Wilson watches the whole thing happen before immediately shouting aloud for everyone to hear.

“IT’S ABOUT DAMN TIME.”

Bucky flips him off without hesitation which makes you laugh so hard you nearly spill your drink again as he shakes his head and mutters something about this being a setup.

"A setup?"

"You and Sam."

"We've never discussed you."

"That's exactly what somebody discussing me would say."

The two of you reach the cooler then, and Bucky bends down to grab fresh drinks before you can.

"What are you having?"

"Lemonade."

He already knows, you've had lemonade at every cookout. Still, hearing you say it feels oddly satisfying. Bucky twists the cap loose before handing the bottle over, and your fingers brush his. It's brief, barely there, the kind of touch most people wouldn't even notice. But Bucky does.

The warmth of it lingers embarrassingly long.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Neither of you pull away quite as quickly as you probably should and it makes Bucky's heart do something deeply inconvenient.

You seem completely unaware or maybe you're pretending to be, he honestly can't tell. The realization gives him a strange burst of courage. Because you've been smiling at him for the last half hour, because you noticed him too. Because if he leaves tonight without asking, Sam will probably never let him live it down. Mostly because he doesn't want to wait another two weeks to talk to you again.

Bucky clears his throat and immediately, you glance toward him and suddenly the nerves return full force.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Very smooth, professional even, he thinks.

You bite back a smile and Bucky points at you.

"Don't."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You are."

"I haven't said a word."

"You're thinking things."

That finally earns a laugh and the sound settles some of his nerves, just a little, just enough. Bucky rubs the back of his neck. Then, before he can overthink it.

"Would you maybe wanna come to the next cookout with me?"

Your eyebrows lift slightly.

His stomach drops, so he rushes onward.

"I mean—not that you aren't already coming. Obviously you're already coming."

Fantastic.

"God."

You laugh again.

Bucky closes his eyes briefly.

"Let me start over."

"Okay."

He's smiling now despite himself.

"So. Next cookout."

"Next cookout."

"Would you wanna come with me?"

The teasing fades from your expression and something softer takes its place. Your smile becomes smaller, warmer, the kind that twinkles across your eyes.

"I'd like that."

Relief crashes through him so quickly he almost laughs.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You nudge your shoulder lightly against his, this time definitely on purpose.

"I've kind of been hoping you'd ask."

“Why do you still live there? It’s so far from here.” Sam asked Bucky on the jet, coming back from a mission.

“Yeah pal,” Steve adjusted his shield. “It’s far and you always have something to do.”

Bucky looked down at his boots.

He liked that place, the cozy condo he found four or five block away from the Avengers’ Tower, but he loved even more his neighbor.

“It’s somewhere I can wind down… you know how I am…” Bucky gulped, worried about saying something more than what he wanted. “It’s also cheap and there’s no Tony Stark pumping heavy metal in the morning.” He smirked.

The billionaire laughed snorting at the cockpit near Nat.

The remaining journey back home was quiet and peaceful, everyone thought about what to do within the next couple of days of rest.

Once the jet landed on the tower’s platform, Bucky packed his bag and headed out.

He always walked from the tower to his condo. He liked the night air and the dark atmosphere around him. He passed in front of a florist, and like every time he did, he thought of coming home to you with a big bouquet of roses. He saw in his mind the happiness on your face, your arms linked to his neck and your body pressed to his.

The reality was way more different.

You were on his floor, your door right in front of his. Some hello every now and then, a wave of hand if you saw him while being on the phone. He would never forget how your eyes widened the first time you saw him.

You recognized him immediately.

Bucky Barnes, the former Winter Soldier, on your floor.

Broad shoulders, wide chest, blue eyes and dark brown hair. A cheeky but shy smile when he presented even if that wasn’t necessary.

You run into your apartment, not wanting to face him and Bucky immediately got it.

You were scared of him.

Again, the reality was different.

Once you run into your apartment, you rested your back against the door. Chest moving up and down, a hand on your heart trying to calm it down. Your lower lip crushed between your teeth.

Bucky Barnes was by far the most handsome and hottest man you’ve ever seen.

Your body reacted immediately, like on autopilot, and you clenched your legs.

In the following days, you took a peek in the peephole trying to figure his routine.

Bucky did the same with you, but you had very different habits.

Bucky at five in the morning always headed out for his morning run. You preferred sleep.

Around nine, you finally woke up. Shower and a light breakfast and then straight to your office. At the same time he usually took his shower after his four hours of cardio and exercises.

Having different habits and routines, and not seeing you both as much, made it even more weird when you both got locked in the elevator.

People were supposed to know your neighbors and the fact he was taking more space with his body made you tremble.

Bucky got that as fear.

He saw you in the corner of the elevator, trapped and scared. He tried to make himself little bit but of course it was impossible.

He was a super soldier, six feet tall and 200+ pounds. His shoulders took all the space and he shuffled in his feet uncomfortably and ashamed of his past.

In your head tho, the reality was the total opposite.

You looked at him, finally not from a peephole. It seemed that his shoulders almost asked you to grab them, to rest your tights on them while he ate you out while grabbing his locks. You took a moment to admire his metal arm. You noticed how he tried to pull down the sleeve, trying to cover even the hand.

You took your sweet time admiring his lips. They seemed so soft and full. Imaging them on your skin made you shiver more.

His eyes were the thing you loved more. They were usually so shiny and bright. A blue so intense you found yourself staring at them in pictures once you found out he was your neighbor.

The great Bucky Barnes. The man turned into a weapon and then finally a hero with all the recognition he deserved.

You suspected he wouldn’t like being recognized like the Winter Soldier and so you preferred waving at him from the distance and simply saying hello to him.

“Sucks being stuck here, right?” You tried to asked him.

He hummed nodding.

“Okay,” you whispered crossing your arms on your chest. “So… do you like it here?”

“It’s fine.”

This time, you nodded without speaking.

You saw him in the opposite corner of the elevator far from you, as far as the space allowed.

Suddenly the elevator shook and you lost balance, crushing into his arms. His reflexes were on point like you suspected, as he grabbed you in a second. His flesh arm around your waist and your face against his chest. You inhaled his intoxicating smell. You didn’t see it but he smelled your hair too as he was way more taller than you.

“Oh sorry, Bucky.”

You looked up at him.

He looked down at you.

Bucky.

You said his name, so you of course knew him.

You saw the pain in his eyes. The regret of his past conditioning his present.

He removed the arm immediately from you and licked his lips.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “Did it hurt you?” He asked with a low tone.

You were about to reply but the elevators’ door opened. You saw two firefighters opening the heavy and metal door.

“Are you alright guys? Hey,” one of the firefighters removed his helmet. “You’re Bucky Barnes… god… you’re a hero.”

“Yeah… thanks…” Bucky replied shyly.

The firefighter who opened the door immediately helped you to get down since you were blocked between two floors. You refused his hand, and looked for Bucky’s hand. He gave his flesh hand to you, helping you balancing.

You looked at him straight in the eyes while thanking him.

It was now two weeks after being locked in the elevator. Bucky was nowhere to be found. He disappeared three days after.

You heard his door opened during the night and you immediately run towards the peephole. You saw him with his tactical gear and a duffle bag.

Almost a week away, you heard the news.

The Avengers were in a country you barely remember the name, fighting for the world. The local anchorman and cameraman filmed them after a fight.

Dirty, bloody and exhausted.

Bucky appeared on the screen.

Your breath got stuck in your throat.

He was suffering, painfully tired and absolutely handsome. His eyes tired and puffy. His chest moving up and down.

You picked the phone up and took a picture of the screen.

You missed him so much even tho you barely interacted with each other.

You got back on the bed and closed your eyes imagining him coming back.

After another week, he was back. You heard the keys in the door and immediately jumped up from your couch. You swung your door opened as he was about to close his.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

He turned and looked at you.

He didn’t have the same exhausted and dirty look he had on TV the week before, but he had a sad look in his eyes.

“Go back to sleep.”

“No.”

“We barely know each other… you should stay away from me.”

“No.” You replied again.

Bucky moved suddenly and you took a step back flinching at the speed not at him.

He froze.

“See?” He smiled sadly and got inside his apartment.

You run towards the closed door. “Bucky, please… you don’t get it. Open please.”

You kept knocking on his door but he didn’t answer.

He stayed near the door, hearing your knocking and looking at you through the peephole.

After some minutes your eyes were red and tears began to stream on your cheeks.

Bucky died inside seeing you like that, but he kept his facade.

As the days passed, you noticed how he avoided you even more. It looked like he was trying to even avoid getting on the floor the same time as you. At least sometimes you used to meet at the elevator.

He kept his five in the morning run cause he knew you would sleep at that time. He began to notice how the curtain of the living room, perfectly on sight from the street, was closed every time you were out and wide opened when you were in as you took all the natural light possible. He started monitoring the curtain as his personal tracker.

Close safe.

Open not safe.

It was inevitable seeing each other again.

It happened one afternoon after a summer storm. You were back from the office, no umbrella and light dress on. The first thunder made you walk a little bit more faster. As the rain began to pour, you found yourself two blocks ways from the condo.

The water wet your dress, making it cling to your body. Sadly that attracted weird looks from a man waiting on the bus.

You passed in front of the stop, one block from home, and he whistled at you. You kept your face down for not getting an eye contact with the man, and also for shielding your eyes from the rain and wind. You were right in front of your door looking for your keys, sensing his presence approaching.

“Hey beautiful,” the man began. “Why don’t you let me in your home.”

“Get off!”

“Mommy didn’t teach you the manners?” He lifted his arm in the air. You didn’t know what for, because it got stuck in the air.

Turning, you saw something shiny and metallic grabbing the man’s wrist.

Bucky.

You exhaled calming yourself, while your heart kept beating hard in your chest.

“Think you need to go dude.” Bucky said with a lower tone of voice. His eyes almost closed threatening, teeth gnarling and an evil smirk on his face. A wet wall of muscle, probably coming back from a run.

The man completely shuttered.

He nodded quickly and once Bucky left him, he run in the rain.

“Bucky,” you began.

“Did he hurt you?” He asked you worried. “Did he?”

You shook your head, thinking at what could have happened. “Thank you. You’re my hero.” You said opening the door of the hallway.

He looked down, letting you pass in front of him. You noticed he gave a final look at the street before closing the door.

You press the elevators’ button and stood near him. His scent, mixed with the rain, was in the air and you found yourself inhaling all.

The elevator hissed and again he let you pass in front of him. He pushed your floor’s button and rest his back against the wall of the elevator.

His henley stuck to his chest, his hair wet and messy. He passed a hand through them and you took a deep breath.

You turned and pressed your chest against his.

“Don’t talk.”

You pressed your lips against his, lifting yourself on your tip. Your arms circled his neck as your fingers began to play with his hair.

He growled in the kiss and grabbed your hips. You began to press yourself more against him and you felt definitely something getting harder.

“Wait,” Bucky told you. His hands on your shoulders. “Wait… wait… wait.”

Shame and sadness on your face.

You’ve never felt so bad.

Was that meaning he wasn’t interested in you?

Was it all in your head?

Were you the only one feeling the attraction?

“Sorry Bucky… I misjudged apparently…”

You slid away from him.

The elevators’ door opened and you rushed out. Bucky remained blocked and shocked.

You kissed him.

Hardly and passionately and roughly.

He saw you closed the door of your apartment and disappeared.

Why did he told you to wait?

Wait what?

Something more exciting of this?

His body reacted way too good at you but his brain stopped him.

He got back to his home and didn’t let anyone interrupting him.

He moved to the bedroom, cock heavy in his pants. He laid down on the bed while removing pants and underwear. He grabbed his shaft, already hard and leaking. He thought about your face, your hands around his neck and your chest against his.

Your soft and full boobs crushing on his hard pecks. He pressed his metal hand more around the base of his cock, while his mind pictured you in your soaked dress. The fabric clinging to your body like a vision.

He slid his hand up and down more, his thumb gliding on his tip as he felt the pleasure rising in his body.

What he didn’t know in that moment, was that you were doing the same in your bedroom.

You didn’t even take your time to remove the dress, you simply pulled it up around your hips as you sat on the bed. Legs spread opened and your phone on the dresser.

Bucky’s news picture on the screen.

You looked at him. His eyes looked at you as you were able to capture the moment the starred at the camera.

Your hands began to slid down your body. You fingers rolling your nipples pinching them.

Your chest already moving up and down quickly. You spread your legs more, lifting one on the mattress. Your index began to play with your clit, but it wasn’t enough.

Sitting better, you laid down on your elbow and rolled your clit more into your fingers.

“Bucky…” you panted. “Yeah… please…”

You licked two fingers and slid them in your hole. Already worked up, you didn’t need much time.

His picture staring at him was able to let the pleasure rise in you. You grabbed the sheet under you and starred more at the pic. You remembered his chest against yours, how his hands grabbed your hips and his soft and wet hair in your fist.

“Please let me come Bucky…”

“Please let me come Bucky…”

Bucky couldn’t possibly imagining what was happening on the other side of the wall. He suspected over the weeks that your bedroom was right near his and just a wall was separating you. Now he was sure.

He heard your moans after coming down from his high, already worked up enough.

He stood up, letting his clothes fall on the ground and rest naked against the wall. He pressed his forehead on the wall and grabbed his cock hard again.

Being a super soldier with enhanced senses had some flaws but this one was definitely an advantage.

Metal hand on the wall and flesh around his cock, Bucky began to pant and moan again.

He heard all the wetting sound your fingers made. He heard his name coming out of your lips and that made him shiver more.

“Y/N,” he grunted against the wall, punching it as he came again.

It was the first time he said your name out loud.

Everything stopped and he realized it later.

You heard him hearing you.

You stood, unsatisfied, and walked toward the wall. “Bucky?” You asked in the silence of a stormy afternoon.

“Yeah…”

“Can you hear me?”

“Yeah… I can…” his hand still around his cock. He pumped himself more as you spoke.

“Want to help me?” Your hand slid down too. “Why don’t you come here? I’ll opened the door just now…”

Bucky heard your footsteps getting far and even your door unlocking. His sense were so overstimulated that he was aware of everything.

You got back and punch lightly the wall for him. “Here I am… I’m waiting Bucky…”

“I’m ruining you if I’ll come…”

“I’m counting on it…” you breathed out. Your fingers sliding inside you again and Bucky heard the wetting sound he heard before.

He took his short, no underwear, and put them on. “Coming sweetie.”

He didn’t think of putting his shirt on, it wasn’t necessary.

In a second he was inside your apartment.

You scent reached his nostril in a second and he felt his cock hardening even more.

He removed his shorts and began pumping himself again.

“Follow my voice, Bucky…” you told him.

He gulped and licked his lips and indeed followed your voice.

You kept talking to him until you saw him on the edge of your room, naked and hard. He growled when he saw you. He kept pumping himself as you kept sliding in and out your fingers from your pussy.

“How… how could you… po-possibily... hear me…oh my god…”

“Sweetie,” you saw his knuckles getting white as he pressed more. “Super hearing… you made me weak and on alert all the time…”

His cock twitched in his hand.

Naked too and legs spreading on the bed. You back anchored to the mattress as you rested on your elbow. Your hand kept playing with your pussy.

“Why don’t you come here?” You asked in a sexy tone.

He moved like a leopard, precise and fast.

He grabbed your knees and spread your legs even more. He took a look at your glistering pussy before diving in you. His tongue licked a long stripe until his teeth grabbed your tiny and pulsing clit.

“Fuck… Bucky… you’re so good…”

“I know… stay there…” he ordered you.

You tried, really tried, but he was too good and your upper body irreversibly stood a little.

As he felt your core clenching, after began pumping two fingers in you, he stopped.

“Why?” You whined.

“Told ya to stay there. You have to earn it now…”

He looked at you with a smirk, you didn’t feel any ounce of fear, just excitement.

He slid up, reaching for your lips. He dove his tongue in your mouth as his hand kept your chin steady. He bite your lower lip while his all body crushed yours. You felt his fingers still playing with your pussy.

“Bucky… please…” you panted against his mouth.

“You wanna come?” He asked you, kissing your neck.

You nodded.

He looked at you and turned your entire body on the bed.

“Ass up,” he said lightly spanking it. “Are you gonna stay there?”

“YES YES YES… I’LL DO IT…”

“Good girl…”

He kissed your back, still a little wet from the rain in your hair. He grabbed his fat cock and teasing your entrance with his tip. You tried to wiggle a little but you were remembered what he told you with his hand grabbing a little harder your hip. You stopped when you felt him sliding into you.

It stung a little but it immediately transformed into pleasure. You felt every inches of him, stretching you deliciously.

He grabbed your hips both and began to push harder inside you. “God you are made for me…”

“Bucky…” you were able only to pant and moan his name.

“Yeah… that’s my name… scream it loudly…let everyone hearing it…”

“BUCKY!” You screamed as he pull out and push himself inside hardly.

“So beautiful with that dress on it… wait,” he kept pushing inside you. “Is that my face on your phone?”

You froze while he was still pushing into you. In the rush of adrenaline you completely forgot your phone and his picture.

“Can… explain…” you tried to told him in the middle of your moans.

“God,” he lowered more on you, letting your legs buckled and fell on the bed. He crushed you more as he kept pounding in you. “That’s the hottest thing even… I heard my name from your mouth pretty girl…”

“Bucky… please…”

“Yeah… just like that…”

He grabbed a fist of your hair, pulling yourself up on your not so stable knees. He circled an arm around your waist, then rested his palm on your chest letting you up. Your back pressed more against his chest. His cock kept sliding in and out. He felt clenching your muscles and snacked a hand on your clit. His fingers played with your clit.

“God Bucky… I need to come…”

“Come pretty girl… come on my cock…”

Your body reacted in an aggressive rush of pleasure. He let you fell forward, balancing on your elbows. Your ass pushing more against him as he kept pushing and sliding in you walking you through your orgasm.

“I’m coming sweetie…” he rasped, hands grabbing your hips.

“Inside Bucky. I want it inside.”

He let his head fall behind and grunted as he came. Hot spout in you, that he kept inside with his big cock.

He finally slid out of you, resting his forehead on your back. Once he stood, you stopped him.

“Lay down.”

“What?” He asked you confused.

“Do it.”

He did, and laid down on the bed. You knelt on the bed and turned. Bucky began to understand once you straddled his legs.

You lowered your head near his cock, too close.

“Sweetie… you don’t have to…”

“I want to,” you smiled at him. “I really do.”

You pressed a kiss on his tip as he pushed his head more into the pillow. Grabbing the base of his shaft, you began to bob the head on him. He was very well endowed so you had to really hollowed your mouth. His hips jerked up a little as he felt the tip of his cock in the back of your throat.

His hand immediately flew to you head, grabbing a fist of your hair. He wasn’t controlling you, he was guiding you and you wanted to be guided by him.

Already overstimulated, Bucky came again in a few minutes. You let him come into your mouth, greedily swallowing all of him.

You felt on him, arms opened and chest ready to let you sleep on it.

As your skin touched his, he circled you with his arms and caged you against his warm and sweaty body.

He peppered your head of kisses, it was sweet and kind, totally the opposite of what you both did.

“Why did you avoid me, Bucky?”

“It was easier. You’re too pure to be in this with me…”

“But I want to…”

“No, you don’t,” Bucky slid his hand on your back in a gentle caress. “The first time you saw you run away… I know fear when I see it… but it’s not your fault… I mean…”

“OH MY GOD!” You laughed hard and loud. “YOU REALLY THINK THAT?”

Bucky looked at you as you stood naked in front of him.

“Sweetie it’s normal… I get it…”

“Why the hell would you think that after I let you fuck me?”

“Well-” Bucky stopped.

Now that he was thinking, why letting him in your bed if there’s only fear from your side?

“You don’t tremble because I scare you?”

“Bingo,” you replied sarcastically. You took a look at his sad eyes. “Oh god, Bucky I’m sorry… you must sensing fear from people a lot…”

He nodded sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Well,” you said sitting on his tights and circling his neck with your arm. “I am not scarred of you… and the first time I saw you I run inside because I was horny…”

You looked down, right at his cock, and smirked.

“Horny?”

“Yes horny. Weren’t you horny the first time you saw me?”

“I’m always horny when I look at you…”

You turned, straddling his lap. The warm of your pussy touched his cock, hardening it again. You kissed him deeply and hardly. His tongue fought with yours. You snatched a hand between you, grabbing his half hard cock.

A couple of pumps and it was hard fully again.

Keeping kissing him, you let it slid inside you again.

You didn’t move, he didn’t just grab your hips.

He remained there, his cock protected in your warm and welcoming pussy. His metal hand, a little cold treat with the warm temperature in your room, resting on your back keeping you caged against him.

Kissing Bucky was good, maybe too good.

You rolled your lap a little and he grunted in your mouth. The sound made your nipple hardening even more.

He circled his flesh arm around you now, he pressed it against your hips.

You began to move a little, adjusting the position.

“Don’t move please…” he moaned.

You nodded but clenched your muscles. He moaned more, harder and deeper.

Music for your ears.

You did it again and made him come again.

A couple of pushes from under you as he came, made your orgasm approached too.

Hours later, the storm was already a memory from the past.

You convinced him to take a bath with you.

“How could I fit in there?” He asked you confused.

“We’ll make you fit…” you voluntary smirked in an allusive way.

You did made it fit in the tub.

His back completely against the end of the tub. His long and big legs spread opened. The right one completely out, resting his calf on the edge of the tub.

You sat in the middle of his legs, grazing his cock on more.

“Sweetie, you need to behave…”

“No.”

You laid down, back to his chest.

Your torso completely on him.

You took his arm and circled your collarbone with it.

“Are you sure it’s okay for you, sweetie?”

“More than okay, Bucky.” You said, eyes closed.

His metal fingers grazed your forehead, sliding out of your cheek some wet locks of hair.

“Can I wash your hair?” Bucky asked whispering.

“Of course, Bucky.”

You sat better, feeling already the loss of his chest to your back. You stretched your arm on the other edge of the tub, where some bottles stood there.

“Here,” you said, turning to him slightly. “Here’s the shampoo.”

He took the bottle as it was made of glass, then squeezed out a little amount of shampoo. Lathering between his hands, he makes the foam.

Once his fingers were on your scalp, you moaned.

“God… your so good…”

You heard him taking a deep breath.

“Mmh... Bucky… just like that…”

“Sweetie please…” he fought the urge to pull your head toward him and kissing you.

“I love this.”

“Yeah,” he snorted. “Figured…”

As he washed and rinse your hair, and even untangled them, you turned to him.

“Your turn…”

“What? How…”

“Don’t worry.”

You took the same little amount of shampoo and lathered it too.

You began washing his hair, and then you pulled his head toward your chest.

“Stay there.”

Bucky rested his face on your boobs, the best pillow he could get. They lightly giggled as you move your arm on his head.

He found himself cupping them with his both hands.

“Sorry,”

“Don’t say sorry. Do it again.”

He did.

Light and soft touch. He took care of them as he took care of you before.

His fingertips rolling your nipples making you deep breathes.

Once you rinsed his hair, he kissed your chest.

“I can get used to this, sweetie.”

“You have to get used to it.”

You kissed him, he circled your waist and pulled you against him slouching some water out the tub.

Thinking of the question from Steve about how he preferred living there, well… now he had a real answer.

A faint, sleepy babble. Followed by a hushed, familiar voice.

“Hey, hey… easy there, sweetheart. You’re okay.”

Your chest tightens instantly.

You sit up slowly, pushing the covers back, careful not to make the mattress creak. The bedroom door is cracked open, and through it, you can see the hallway—just enough to catch a glimpse of broad shoulders and dark hair.

Bucky.

He’s standing just outside the nursery, one large hand braced against the doorframe like he needs the support. The other arm is cradling your daughter against his chest, her tiny body bundled in soft cotton pajamas with little yellow ducks on them.

She’s wide awake and it's barely seven in the morning. 

“She’s got your timing,” you murmur, voice still thick with sleep as you pad quietly toward them.

Bucky glances up at the sound of your voice, and the look on his face—God, it gets you every time.

Soft. A little tired. Completely, utterly in love.

“There you are,” he says, just above a whisper, like speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. “Was gonna let you sleep.”

You lean into his side, resting your head briefly against his shoulder before peeking down at your daughter. She blinks up at you with wide, curious eyes, her tiny fist tangled in the collar of Bucky’s shirt.

“Hi, baby,” you coo, brushing your fingers over her cheek. “You waking up early again, huh?”

She responds with a delighted little noise, kicking one leg against Bucky’s stomach.

He huffs a quiet laugh, adjusting his hold on her automatically. Effortlessly.

You remember when he was afraid to even touch her.

Now, he moves like he was made for this.

“She wouldn’t settle back down,” he explains softly. “Figured I’d walk her a bit. Didn’t want her cryin’ and wakin’ you.”

You hum, watching the way his thumb strokes absentminded circles along her back. The way his metal arm stays tucked close, careful, controlled, while his flesh hand does all the gentle work.

He still does that. Even now.

“You can wake me, Buck,” you say gently.

“I know.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Just… you do enough. Thought I could take this one.”

Your heart squeezes.

“You always take more than ‘one,’” you tease quietly.

His mouth twitches, almost a smile.

“She’s got lungs,” he mutters. “Didn’t think something that small could be that loud.”

As if on cue, your daughter lets out a happy squeal, waving her arms like she’s proving his point.

You both freeze.

Then you laugh—soft and breathy, trying not to encourage her too much.

“Okay, maybe she gets that from you,” you whisper.

“Me?” he scoffs, though it’s barely audible. “I was a perfect angel.”

“Mm. Sure you were.”

He shifts his weight, glancing back toward the nursery. “You wanna go back to bed? I got her.”

You hesitate.

There’s a part of you that wants to say yes—to curl back up under the covers and steal another hour of sleep. But then you look at him again.

At the way he’s holding her like she’s the most precious thing in the world.

At the quiet pride in his posture. The carefulness. The awe that still hasn’t faded, even months later.

You shake your head.

“No,” you say softly. “I wanna stay.”

His eyes flick back to yours, something warm settling in them.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He nods once, like that’s all he needs.

You reach out, gently smoothing down a tuft of your daughter’s hair. She grabs your finger instantly, her tiny hand impossibly warm and strong.

“She’s got you wrapped around her finger already,” you murmur.

Bucky snorts quietly. “Had me the second I heard her cry.”

Your throat tightens.

You remember that moment too.

The way he had stood beside the hospital bed, completely frozen, like he didn’t trust himself to move. Like one wrong step might break everything.

And then she cried.

And something in him just shifted.

“I didn’t think I’d be good at this,” he admits suddenly, voice lower now. More vulnerable. “Still don’t, some days.”

You look at him, really look at him.

At the man who survived a century of war and pain and came out the other side still capable of this kind of tenderness.

“You’re kidding, right?” you say softly.

He shakes his head, eyes dropping back to your daughter. “I just… I don’t wanna mess her up. Don’t wanna—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.

You step closer, pressing your palm gently to his chest.

“Hey,” you whisper. “Look at me.”

He does.

“You’re not him,” you say, firm but soft. “You’re not your past. You’re her dad.”

His breath catches.

“And you’re the best one she could’ve gotten.”

For a moment, he just stares at you.

Then his shoulders drop, tension easing in a way that tells you he needed to hear that more than he’ll ever admit.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

“Yeah.”

Your daughter lets out another happy noise, like she’s agreeing.

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head.

“Guess that settles it,” he says.

You lean into him again, the three of you standing there in the soft morning light, wrapped in a kind of peace that feels almost surreal.

“C’mon,” you whisper after a moment. “Let’s get some coffee before she decides we’re done being quiet.”

He grins—really grins this time.

“Too late for that, I think.”

As if she understands, your daughter squeals again, louder this time.

You both laugh.

And just like that, the quiet is gone.

"Bless me Father for I have sinned…" you trailed off, fidgeting with the laced edge of your dress. "It's been quite some time since my last confession."

Shifting uneasily in the small booth, you weren't even sure why you had decided to come into the church. After not stepping foot in one for close to a decade, you had expected to burst into flames considering the transgressions that brought you here in the first place.

"That's alright." A deep velvet baritone sounded behind the lattice to your left, obscuring whoever was meant to absolve the sins you had committed. "Just tell me what you'd like to confess."

Clearing your throat, you opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out. Nerves clashing with the onslaught of things you needed to confess, yet not knowing if there was such a thing as oversharing with a priest.

"Are you nervous?"

"A little," was your meek response, not sure why when the booth made it feel like you were indeed talking to a higher entity.

"Would it help if we could see each other?"

The offer was surprising. Every rendition of this you'd seen in movies or experienced while growing up, there was always a veil of privacy. Those were the rules. Yet you were certain that a man of God would know the limitations.

Your curiosity piqued. "I think so."

There was no fanfare, just a swish of robes, the creak of old door hinges, and your side of the booth opening. Father James Barnes was by no means a small man. His wide frame took up nearly the entirety of the free space, until he folded himself onto his knees directly in front of you. Large hands braced on either side of your hips, his belly a soft plush covering muscle pressing into your knees.

"Is…is this allowed? Why are you on your knees?" you asked, eyes darting around his handsome face, willing yourself to focus on the rise and fall of his chest instead of the sacrilegious scandal currently taking shape at the forefront of your mind.

Warm thumbs brushed the hem of your dress , rough pads catching on the lace and dragging it up imperceptibly. Possibly a mistake, or by intention you didn't have an answer.

"On my knees I realize I'm much closer to the holy spirit than I am when I stand." A simple response, punctuated with another pass of his thumbs too deliberate to be accidental. "Especially when the thing I look down on now, seems to be the closest I'll get to heaven on this mortal plane."

Pupils wide in the dim light were trained at the apex of your thighs, hands drifting up and up in a teasing test of a resolve you didn't have.

"Is that so?" you asked, all thoughts of atonement billowing from your mind as your legs parted in invitation instead.

Father Barnes nodded, leaning closer, fingers now finding damp fabric as he grew bolder. "If you grant my ascension, I'll deliver your absolution."

Everything Taglist: @overwintering-soldier @stanmarvelous @wint3rbarnes @barnes-babydoll @defn0tonyourleft @herejustforbuckybarnes @stesha02 @sheriff-bodecker @miraclediviner @tw1sters @bucksbby @daddysbitchybaby @metal-armed-muse @imtoooldforthis82 @daydreamgoddess14 @hailmary-yramliah @nachtigall127 @ornateglass @steelandvibranium @stkmaprang @misswhiddless @mariamorales1998 @mistressmkay @ladymiseryy @my-drvidess @alli0-0 @buckyscaptain @castielscaplan @juniebjonesin @angelryex @elliestwoleftfingerss

Bucky Only: @thegirlwhowaited5everok @phantom-wolf-girl @optimisticchildtyrant @sassandscribbles @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @procrastination20 @mathcat345 @highhopes1008 @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @scarletkanami @onyx8514 @jamesbbcrnes

Stan Characters Only: @iamthatonefangirl @cassity357 @erina00 @buckytakethewheel @buckysdecaflove @singulartoast @writtenbyeos

“A woman who knows what she wants,” she remarks, typing and clicking away on her computer. “That’s good. We can make that happen. Assembly is four to eight weeks for custom rings. Does that timeline work for you?”

Bucky nods. A month or two will give him the time he needs to figure out how the hell he is even going to ask. Bucky is not a words guy by any means, and he’s a little terrified of saying something stupid or cliche or—

“This is a model of what the ring will look like,” the sales associate says as she turns the monitor towards him, “based on her specifications.”

Every thought in Bucky's head flies out the window. The image on the monitor slowly rotates, showing every sparkling angle. It’s very… you. His chest tightens with some nebulous emotion hovering between adoration and excitement and abject terror. This is really happening.

“Wow,” he mutters under his breath.

“What do we think? Will this meet her exacting standards?” the associate asks, somewhat playfully. 

Bucky finds his voice after a moment, clearing his throat again. “Yeah. Looks good.”

She smiles professionally. “Let me print you out an estimate.” There’s more clacking away at the keyboard, followed by the mechanical complaints of a printer whirring in the air.

The associate slides a piece of paper towards Bucky, tapping different figures with her pen as she speaks. “There is a deposit, that’s the amount you see here. Covers materials and design time.”

Even the number listed for the initial deposit makes Bucky wince internally. Steve had joked a couple weeks back, “You know what they say — three month’s salary or he doesn’t love you!” Bucky doesn’t have a regular salary, but if he did, this would be more than three months.

“When the ring is ready, you can pay the rest in full,” she continues. Perhaps sensing his hesitation, she adds, “Or we have certain financing options available, if you’re interested.”

Bucky straightens up in his chair. He had promised himself that he would handle the ring above board — that way if the fuzz ever came knocking, god forbid, they would have no claim to it in any kind of investigation. Shoes and furs and purses are one thing — perks of the job, but just things at the end of the day. This is more than that. 

It’s a symbol of the promises he wants to make. Of his devotion, his protection, of the life he wants to build with you.

When it comes to you, anything less than exactly what you want isn’t good enough, as far as Bucky is concerned. He's got savings. He can pick up more jobs in the next couple months. It'll be a little bit of a stretch, but… it’s doable. 

“If all this is all agreeable to you, you can sign there, and we will get you started,” the associate says.

Bucky nods emphatically. “All right. Let's do it.”

It's nearly a perfect evening. Bucky is home for dinner at a reasonable hour, for the first time in at least a week. A glass of wine, an episode of Real Housewives, and a foot rub later, you and Bucky are intertwined on the couch, making out like teenagers. Nothing to worry about but the lazy grind of his hips into yours, and the decadent stroke of your tongue against his.

But then you feel him pull away. You feel it energetically, before he even takes his hands off you.

Your hands grip his shirt, trying in vain to drag him closer. "Don't go,” you murmur against his mouth.

“I gotta work, baby.” He kisses underneath your jaw in apology, then sits up and reaches for his shoes. “Family stuff.”

That earns him a sigh. You kneel behind him on the couch and knead his shoulders, your mouth at the nape of his neck.

“You been workin’ so much lately, I feel like I never see you.” You try not to whine, but it comes out that way anyway.

“There's a lot of irons in the fire right now,” he replies vaguely.

“I miss you.” You say it because it’s true. You miss falling asleep in his arms. You miss his hands, his mouth, his steady demeanor, his teasing exasperation with you. In the last few weeks, it feels like you only ever get pieces of him.

With his shoes on, he stands to face you, his hands coming up to cradle your face. You can see the apology in his eyes, how much he wishes he could stay. “I know, baby,” he mumbles, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. “I miss you, too. This is just temporary.”

You can tell he means it, but it doesn’t make you feel better. In a last ditch effort to get your way, you turn on the eyes, begging silently for even twenty more minutes of his attention.

For a moment, you think he just might cave.

“Tell you what.” Bucky takes your hands and coaxes you off the couch to stand. As he speaks, his lips drag across your neck, kisses and nips interspersed between his words. “Tomorrow you’re gonna sleep in, go get your nails done, put on somethin’ pretty, and when I'm done with work, I'll come home and let you put on a show for me.”

Pure manipulation. Nevertheless, you feel a bit like a puppy hearing all your favorite words. 

“Promise?” you ask, with a hint of a pout.

“I promise.” His mouth finds yours again for a goodbye, a sweet but fleeting brush.

“Mmm. I love you,” you surrender, releasing him from your hold.

“I love you.” One final press of his lips to your forehead, and he’s headed for the door.

“Be safe,” you call after him, flopping down onto the couch again with a huff.

“Always am,” he calls back, and without the jingle of a set of keys and the click of the door, he’s gone.

“So. You want to marry my daughter.”

Bucky freezes to the spot. “I…”

Your father leans back in his desk chair, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

When Bucky had requested this meeting, he hadn’t thought he’d been quite so obvious about his intentions. But your father is quite the people-reader, and Bucky supposes that this conversation has been expected for some time.

“I, uh… yes, sir,” he stammers.

“I trust you’ve discussed this with her before coming to me. It's the twenty-first century, after all.”

Bucky nods, making a concerted effort not to fidget under your father’s stare. “Yes, sir. She said I didn't need to ask permission. It still seemed like good manners to ask.”

“Good answer.” Your father gestures to the seat on the other side of the desk. “Sit down.”

His uneasiness gradually fading, Bucky follows the order and settles down into the chair.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” your father begins, folding his hands on the desk. “You know I already consider you part of this family. If you marry her, that makes you as good as blood. There’s duty that comes along with that. You sure you’re ready?”

“Positive, sir,” Bucky replies, resolute.

“Then consider my permission granted.” He smiles, somehow fond and terrifying at the same time. Bucky smiles back, relieved and grateful and still so nervous that sweat beads on the back of his neck.

“You buy a ring already?” your father asks.

“I’m working on it.”

He gets to his feet, reaching into his pocket for a wad of cash, large fingers counting out more bills than Bucky is comfortable taking. “Make sure to buy her something classy.”

Bucky starts to protest, “Sir—“

But he won’t hear it, pressing the folded stack of bills into Bucky's palm. “Take it. I want my little girl to have something special.”

It would be bad manners to reject the money after an insistence like that, so Bucky concedes and gingerly slips the cash into his jacket pocket. “Thank you, sir,” he says, quietly but sincerely.

You’re beginning to suspect that something is afoot.

To make up for all Bucky's late nights and long days, he suggests going down to Rockaway Beach on his day off. A little unusual, but not completely out of character. and the weather is warm enough that you think nothing of the idea at first.

But as the day progresses, it becomes all too clear that something’s up.

For one thing, Bucky is suspiciously… twitchy. While you try to relax on the beach, stretched out on a blanket, he fidgets beside you, his shoulders closer to his ears than normal. Every time you crack an eye open to glance at him, he glances away, caught.

That's another thing. Bucky won’t stop looking at you. You feel his eyes clinging to you all day long. It can't be the bikini doing the work, because obviously he’s seen it before. And it's not that kind of attention, either. You can tell the difference in that regard.

He insists on staying for sunset, and the crowds thankfully begin to thin slightly after the four p.m. mark. When he takes your hand and suggests a walk down by the water, the request is so uncharacteristic of him that alarm bells start going off in your brain.

Is this (finally) the moment? 

As the sun sinks low in the sky and turns the clouds vibrant oranges and reds, you try to act casual, just in case. You don’t want to hedge your bets and then find out that this is just another date. You don’t want to go home disappointed.

As you walk, his hand squeezes yours to get your attention. You turn to him expectantly, and he makes an effort to meet your eyes, his spine military straight.

“Baby, hold on a minute. I got somethin’ I wanna say to you.”

He pauses as if to gather his thoughts, and you’re positive that this is the moment. Unable to contain your excitement, you blurt out, “Oh my god, I knew it!”

Bucky sighs and scrubs hand over face as the spontaneity of the moment dissipates.

“You went through Natasha, didn’t you? I knew it was weird she wanted to reschedule!” Your mouth is a runaway train, babbling away. “We always get our nails done on Sundays! You thought you were being soooo sneaky—“

“Are you gonna let me say this or not?” he grumbles, his ears turning bright pink.

You settle down and try unsuccessfully to repress a smile. “Go ahead. Let's hear the speech.”

Bucky kneels right there in the sand, and you have to hold yourself back from throwing yourself into his arms. Taking a deep breath, he locks his eyes into yours, nerves and doubts visibly dissolving.

“You are the most stubborn woman I have ever met in my life.”

That catches you so off-guard that you half-snort a laugh, your hand flying to your mouth.

He laughs too, a rich and rumbling sound. “You're spoiled, and hot-headed, and extremely annoying on occasion. And I have been head over heels for you pretty much from the moment we met.”

As he reaches into his pocket, your heart pounds like it’s trying to stage a breakout from your chest. His hand re-emerges, closed around a small box.

“You are compassionate, and fierce, and funny, and you love me better than I ever hoped I was gonna get. And I just wanna hurry up and marry you already.”

The box opens. Nestled inside, a diamond ring straight out of your dreams, that glints in the light of the setting sun. You choke back a gasp, your hand still pressed to your mouth, your eyes sparkling in delight.

“Whaddaya say, princess?” he asks, his smile crooked and sheepish and eager all at once.

Your happiness bubbles over like an overfilled champagne flute, and you exclaim, “Yes! Of course, yes!”

In your excitement, you pull him off his knees and into your arms, your lips crashing messily into his. There’s a smattering of applause and a few distant hoots from the remaining beachgoers in the vicinity, but it all fades to the background when his arms surround you, pulling your body flush against his.

“That —,” you mumble between kisses, “was the most romantic thing — I've ever heard in my life.”

When you pull back far enough to look at him, he’s grinning down at you like you’re a trophy or a winning lottery ticket, giddy with pride.

“And if you ever call me annoying again,” you warn him playfully, “you’re gettin’ slapped upside the head.”

He rolls his eyes and gives you a squeeze before releasing you. “Just put on the ring.”

You bounce on the balls of your feet as Bucky frees the ring from the velvet box and slips it onto your finger. The glint of the stone almost blinds you with its beauty. 

“Bucky…” you whisper, momentarily speechless.

“Did I do all right?” he asks, though the satisfaction in his expression says he already knows the answer.

“You did. It's beautiful.” As you spend a moment admiring the boulder on your hand, Bucky leans in to kiss your cheek, victorious.

He looks so incandescently happy that you can’t resist teasing him one more time. “Are you sure this is three carat?” you muse aloud, raising a discerning eyebrow. “It looks more like two-point-five…”

That earns you another squeeze, and a temporary loss of gravity as Bucky lifts you off your feet. “You are such a brat,” he growls through your breathless giggles.

“I love it,” you concede. “I love you.” Your legs hook around his waist, and you kiss him again — longer, deeper, verging on a little too intimate for a public setting. “You are getting the ride of your life when we get home.”

Bucky sets you down with a smirk.

“Promise?”

You don’t make it to the bed. You don’t make it to the couch, either. The two of you barely make it past the front door. As soon as it shuts behind you, you’re kissing him and tugging at his clothes, taking him down to the floor in your urgency. 

As you grind down on the already hard length of his cock, your hands on his chiseled chest, you can’t help but admire the glint of your ring on your hand, set against his tan skin.

You kiss him, deep and filthy and totally in love. Your fiancé. You love that you get to call him that now.

Peeling off your coverup and pulling the gusset of your bikini bottoms to the side, you shift to fit him at your entrance and purr, “Tell me you love me.”

“I love you.” Bucky grips your hips, his eyes dark and his grin sinfully crooked. “So fuckin’ much.”

You moan softly as you sink down onto him, already wound up halfway to heaven. Once you’re fully seated on his cock, you take a beat to adjust and then move, riding him at a steady pace.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he mutters, already shifting his hips up pn every stroke to meet you. “My pretty girl. My fuckin’ wife.”

A sound escapes you that’s half-giggle, half-moan. “Not yet.”

“Details.” He groans and pulls you close before rolling over and trapping you beneath him, picking up your rhythm exactly where you left off. 

“Gonna give you everything you want.” His voice is wrecked, his thrusts sloppy and deep. “Gonna give you the whole damn world, princess. You name it, it’s yours.”

“Bucky,” you whine and arch into him, your climax already fast approaching listening to your fiancé talk about the future. Your future, together. 

“Baby, I'm close,” he rasps. With one arm braced by your head, Bucky reaches his other hand between your bodies to find your clit.

The first contact steals your breath, each little circle against the bundle of nerves sending you careening towards the edge. “Inside,” you beg breathlessly. “Wanna feel all of you.”

Bucky curses, rutting messily into you, just managing to hold out until your pleasure crests  before he loses control. Warmth coats your insides as you feel every pulse and twitch of his cock, as your cunt clenches almost gratefully to take every drop of him.

The two of you stay on the floor, wrapped around each other, the hardwood gradually cooling down your sweaty, overheated bodies. Bucky doesn’t even bother to pull out yet, just nuzzles into your neck and mutters in a blissed out voice,

“I can’t fuckin’ wait to be married to you.”

Broad shoulders that block out the lamplight, thick arms corded with muscle even when he’s still, chest warm and solid where it presses against yours. The weight of him should be overwhelming, should pin you down and steal the breath from your lungs, but instead he holds himself just above you, braced on one arm, like he’s afraid to crush something fragile.

You huff a quiet laugh, fingertips brushing the tense line of his jaw. “You know I’m not made of glass, right?”

His eyes flick to yours immediately—blue, bright, just a little too sharp with concern. “I know that,” he murmurs, but his voice dips low, threaded with something that feels almost like nerves. “Just… don’t wanna hurt you.”

It does something warm and aching to your chest.

This man who has survived wars and worse, who could lift you like you weigh nothing at all, is worried about you.

You curl your hand behind his neck, tugging him closer until your foreheads press together. “You won’t,” you promise softly. “You’re not him anymore, Buck.”

There’s a flicker in his expression at that—something shadowed, something old—but it fades quickly when your thumb traces along his cheek. He exhales, long and slow, like he’s letting something go.

“Still,” he says after a moment, quieter now. “Gotta be careful with something this pretty.”

Your stomach flips at the sincerity of it.

You shift beneath him, letting your legs slide around his hips, drawing him down that last inch he’d been holding back. The contact makes him inhale sharply, the sound catching in his throat like he hadn’t expected it, like it hits him every time no matter how many times you’ve done this.

“See?” you whisper, brushing your lips against his. “I’m okay.”

His answering kiss is soft at first. Always soft at first. Like he’s easing into it, testing the edges of you, making sure you’re right there with him. His mouth moves against yours slowlyand you can feel the way his restraint trembles under your hands when you grip his shoulders a little tighter.

It’s not that he doesn’t want more, you can feel it in the way his hips shift, in the low, almost frustrated sound he makes when you deepen the kiss, but he waits. For you.

He always waits.

“Tell me if—” he starts, pulling back just enough to look at you, brows drawn together.

You cut him off with a quiet, breathless laugh, pressing your finger to his lips. “Bucky,” you say gently, “I will.”

He studies your face for another second, searching for something, and whatever he finds must settle him because his shoulders loosen just a fraction.

“Okay,” he breathes.

And then he lets himself go.

Not all at once, but in slow, careful increments. His kisses grow deeper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a quiet kind of hunger he doesn’t try to hide anymore. His hand slides along your side, warm and grounding, fingers splaying over your waist like he needs to feel all of you at once.

Even then, he’s still mindful. His grip never tightens too much, his movements never rush. It’s strength held on a leash, power softened down into something gentle and consuming all at once.

When you shift under him again, guiding him closer, he pauses just enough to look at you.

“Still good?” he asks, voice rough now, edged with something deeper.

You nod, breath catching as he moves, as the closeness becomes something more, something that makes your toes curl and your hands clutch at him instinctively. “Yeah,” you whisper. “More than good.”

That’s all he needs.

He exhales your name like it’s something sacred and finally settles fully against you, careful even in the way he lets his weight rest there, adjusting instinctively until you’re comfortable beneath him. His forehead drops to yours again, his eyes slipping closed for a moment like he’s overwhelmed by the feeling of you.

“God,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You feel—”

He cuts himself off with a soft groan, like he can’t find the words.

You smile, brushing your nose against his. “I get it,” you tease lightly. “I’m incredible.”

That pulls a quiet laugh from him, low and warm, the sound vibrating through his chest where it presses against yours.

“Yeah,” he says, and this time there’s no hesitation at all. “Yeah, you are.”

The rhythm he finds is steady, unhurried, like he’s savoring every second instead of chasing an end. Every movement is measured, his body moving with yours rather than against it. He watches you the whole time, eyes open and intent, like he’s memorizing the way your face changes, the way you react to him.

It makes something inside you melt.

“Buck,” you breathe, fingers tangling in his hair as the tension builds, as your body arches up into his without thinking.

Immediately, his hand slides up your spine, supporting you, grounding you, his touch firm but gentle. “I got you,” he murmurs, voice soft but certain. “I’ve got you, doll. You’re okay.”

There’s no fear in it anymore. No edge of doubt. Just reassurance, steady and warm, like he believes it now as much as you do.

You let yourself fall into it, into him, because you trust him completely.

And he handles that trust like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever been given.

By the time everything slows, by the time your breathing evens out and the room feels quiet again, he’s still hovering over you, still watching you with that same careful attention.

“You alright?” he asks, brushing your hair back from your face.

You laugh softly, reaching up to pull him down into a proper embrace this time, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders. “I’m perfect.”

He relaxes then, his full weight finally settling against you as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

“Good,” he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to your skin. “That’s all I want.”

He watched you for a long beat, those storm-blue eyes searching your face like he could read every carefully hidden crack. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smirk, but close enough to make your stomach tighten.

“Fair enough, Doc,” he murmured, voice still low and rough. “Didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

You gave him a small, professional smile and glanced at the clock. “We’re actually coming up on the end of our session. Before we wrap up, I’d like to give you a couple of things to try before next week.”

He nodded, leaning back again, though his gaze never fully left you. You outlined a simple grounding exercise for the nightmares, the 5-4-3-2-1 sensory technique when he woke up sweating and suggested he keep a notebook by his bed to jot down fragments of the dreams if he could.

Then you reached into your bottom desk drawer and pulled out a small woven basket containing various stress toys, squishy foam balls, textured fidget rings, and a couple of smooth worry stones.

“Some clients also find it helpful to keep something tactile nearby,” you added, trying to keep your tone casual. “These can be useful during the day if the anxiety starts to build. You can take one if you’d like.”

James stared at the basket for a second, then let out a low, dry chuckle that sent a shiver down your spine.

“You think I need one of these little toys, Doc?” His voice carried a hint of amusement edged with something sharper. “What, you see me as a little boy who needs something soft to squeeze when things get tough?”

Your face flushed instantly, heat blooming across your cheeks. You set the basket down a little too quickly, fumbling for words.

“No- God, no,” you stammered, hating how flustered you sounded. “That’s not it at all. Some clients, especially those with trauma, find that having something to touch or manipulate helps ground them in the present moment. It’s not about being childish. It’s just… another tool.”

James’s eyes lingered on your flushed face, the corner of his mouth twitching with clear amusement. For a brief second, something hotter flickered behind the blue.

“Relax, Doc. I’m just messing with you.” He shook his head, still smirking faintly. “I’ll pass on the toys. Got enough metal in me already.”

The playful jab hung in the air for a moment, easing some of the tension that had built during the session. You let out a small, relieved laugh, grateful for the shift in mood, even as your cheeks remained warm.

James listened attentively as you wrapped up the rest of your recommendations, repeating the grounding exercise once more and emphasizing the importance of the dream journal. His vibranium fingers continued their slow, metallic rhythm against his thigh, a subtle tell of the restless energy still simmering beneath his calm exterior.

When you finally closed your notebook, he stood, once again filling the small office with his commanding presence. The air seemed to shift with him.

“Thanks,” he said simply, voice low and sincere. “For not kicking me out after I lost my temper earlier.” It softened further. “And for listening.”

You rose as well, smoothing your dress down over your hips, suddenly hyper-aware of how close the session had felt. “That’s what I’m here for, James. Same time next week?”

He gave a short nod, then paused at the door, one gloved hand resting on the frame. For a second he looked like he wanted to say something more. His eyes met yours again, that same intense, searching gaze that made your pulse stutter.

Instead, he offered a small, crooked smile that did dangerous things to your heart.

“Take care of yourself, Doc.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the room feeling strangely empty.

You stepped into the hallway before you could stop yourself, the cool air brushing against your heated skin as the door to your office clicked shut behind you.

“James,” you called, your voice softer than intended but still carrying down the quiet corridor.

He turned slowly, his broad frame silhouetted against the late afternoon light filtering through the window at the end of the hall. Those storm-blue eyes locked onto yours instantly, sharp and searching. The faint scent of leather and warm skin still clung to him, mixing with the faint trace of lavender that followed you from your office.

You walked toward him, your heels clicking against the hardwood floor, each step amplifying the nervous rhythm of your pulse. Your black dress shifted against your thighs with every movement, the sheer tights whispering softly as your legs brushed together. The persistent ache from earlier had only grown sharper.

“If the nightmares get bad- really bad- before our next session,” you said, stopping a few feet away from him, “you can text me. Just to let me know you’re okay.”

James tilted his head slightly, his vibranium arm whirring faintly as he shifted his weight. The dog tags at his neck caught the light for a brief second.

You continued quickly, trying to sound professional even as heat crawled up your neck. “Clients with cases as severe as yours… they sometimes find it more helpful to reach me directly instead of calling the office and waiting to get through my assistant. It can feel isolating when you’re in the middle of a spiral. This way, if you need a quick grounding reminder or just… need to know someone’s there, you don’t have to wait.”

You pulled a small notepad from the pocket of your dress, the paper cool against your warm fingers. Your hand trembled slightly as you scribbled your personal cell number. When you tore the page free and held it out, your fingertips brushed against the smooth black leather of his gloved hand. The contact was brief, but it sent a jolt of electricity straight through you, pooling low in your belly.

He stared down at the small slip of paper for a long moment, then folded it carefully between his fingers, treating it like something fragile.

“You sure about this, Doc?” His voice was low and gravelly, laced with caution. “This isn’t… standard procedure, is it? Giving out your personal number on the first session?”

You forced a calm, professional smile, though your cheeks felt flushed. “It’s just a safety measure. For clients dealing with intense, recurring nightmares and trauma like yours. I’ve done it a few times before when I thought it was necessary. Nothing more than that.”

James held your gaze a second too long. His blue eyes darkened slightly, studying your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but something knowing.

“Necessary, huh?” he murmured, his voice dropping even lower, rough like worn leather. “Or is this because you could see how bad it gets?”

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you were standing, close enough to catch the faint, masculine scent of his cologne mixed with clean sweat. “It’s because I take my clients’ wellbeing seriously, James. That’s all.”

He slipped the paper into the inner pocket of his leather jacket, the movement slow and deliberate. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

“Alright,” he said finally, voice softening just a fraction. “Thank you, Doc. Really. Not many people would offer that.”

You gave a small nod, trying to ignore the way your heart hammered against your ribs. “Take care of yourself tonight, James.”

He lingered for one more second, that crooked, dangerous smile tugging at his lips again. “You too.”

Then he turned and walked away, his heavy boots echoing down the hallway until the sound faded completely.

The second he disappeared around the corner, you rushed back into your office, closed the door, and leaned back against the cool wood, eyes wide.

What the fuck did you just do?

You paced the small space, heels clicking sharply against the hardwood. “Stupid. So fucking stupid,” you whispered under your breath. The lavender diffuser continued its calm hum, mocking you. Heat still throbbed insistently between your thighs, slick and demanding.

He’s your patient. You crossed a major line.

But even as guilt clawed at your chest, a darker thrill refused to die.

You opened your journal with shaking hands and scribbled:

Gave him my number. God help me.

The subway rattled beneath you, the steady metallic clatter vibrating up through the hard plastic seat and into your bones. The car was half-full with tired Brooklyn commuters, headphones in, eyes glazed, bodies swaying with the motion. You sat with your coat buttoned high despite the stuffy underground heat, your black turtleneck dress suddenly feeling too tight against your skin.

Your legs were tightly crossed, thighs pressed firmly together, but every jolt and sway of the train sent a fresh reminder of the slick, persistent ache between them. The dampness had only grown since James left your office. Each subtle shift caused the sheer fabric of your tights to slide against your sensitive skin, teasing you mercilessly and making it impossible to forget how badly your body was still wound up.

Your phone stayed glued to your hand, fingers wrapped around it like a lifeline. The screen had gone dark multiple times, but you kept waking it with your thumb, heart giving a stupid little jump every single time.

You checked again.

Nothing.

Just the same lock screen photo, you and Scott smiling at some rooftop bar last summer, a memory that now felt distant and fake. You exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the low throb pulsing in time with the train’s rhythm.

He’s not going to text you. It’s only been a couple of hours. Stop it.

But you checked again anyway, biting the inside of your lip. The glow of the screen lit up your face in the dim subway lights. Still nothing. No unknown number. No James.

You shifted in your seat once more, pressing your thighs even tighter together as another wave of frustrated heat rolled through you. The ache refused to fade. If anything, the memory of his low, gravelly voice and the way his gloved fingers had brushed yours only made it worse.

The train lurched around a corner, forcing your body to sway. You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, trying to steady your breathing.

This is ridiculous. You’re a licensed therapist acting like a teenager with a crush.

Yet your thumb hovered over the screen once more.

You checked again.

And again.

The apartment smelled of greasy lo mein and sesame chicken, the heavy, oily aroma clinging to the air and mixing with the faint leftover scent of Scott’s citrus cologne. The takeout bags sat crumpled on the small kitchen table, condensation fogging the plastic lids. Scott was already seated, tie loosened and sleeves rolled up, the top buttons of his shirt open to reveal a sliver of his chest. He scrolled through his phone with one hand, chopsticks in the other.

“Hey,” he said without looking up, voice flat. “Got your usual. Extra spring rolls.”

You paused in the doorway, surprised. “I thought you texted me not to wait up. You said you were stuck at the firm again.”

Scott finally glanced up, shrugging as he pushed a takeout container toward your usual seat. “Well, plans change. Sit down, I got us food.”

You forced a smile and sat down across from him, the wooden chair creaking under you. The smooth fabric of your black dress slid against your thighs as you crossed your legs, the persistent damp ache from earlier still throbbing softly between them. You smoothed the hem of your dress, trying to steady yourself.

The food tasted like cardboard.

“So how was work?” Scott asked, stabbing a piece of chicken a little too aggressively with his chopsticks. “Any interesting cases today?”

Your chopsticks paused mid-air. The memory of James Barnes filled your mind, his intense blue eyes, the low rumble of his voice, the brush of his gloved fingers.

“It was… fine,” you said carefully. “The usual. Though I did have a new client this afternoon.”

Scott finally looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah? Who?”

You swallowed. “A man. James Barnes. He’s a veteran with severe trauma. Former Winter Soldier, actually. The session was… intense.”

Scott’s chopsticks stopped moving. He stared at you, jaw tightening. “And?”

You hesitated, fingers gripping your phone under the table. The words slipped out before you could stop them. “He has really bad nightmares. I gave him my personal number. In case things get overwhelming before our next session.”

The silence that followed was immediate and heavy.

Scott set his chopsticks down slowly, the plastic clattering against the container. “You gave him your personal number? On the first fucking session?”

His voice was low at first, but you could hear the anger rising beneath it like steam building pressure.

You shifted in your seat, the heat of embarrassment and lingering arousal making your skin prickle. “It’s not like that, Scott. Clients with cases this severe sometimes need faster access. Calling the office and waiting for my assistant isn’t always helpful when they’re in the middle of a spiral-”

“Oh, bullshit,” Scott cut you off, his chair scraping harshly against the floor as he leaned forward. The sharp smell of sesame oil suddenly turned thick and nauseating.

“You keep doing this,” he said, voice low and edged with heat. “Every time a new male client shows up- ‘special,’ ‘intense,’ whatever the fuck- you start bending the rules. Handing out your personal number like you’re their personal savior.”

His eyes narrowed, jealousy burning plainly across his face. “You always do this shit with the men. What, they all get the special treatment? The ones who look at you like you’re their lifeline?”

He let out a bitter, mocking laugh and shook his head slowly. “It’s never the female clients, is it? Just the men. Always the fucking men.”

You felt your cheeks burn. “That’s not fair. I’ve given my number to women before when-”

“Bullshit,” he snapped again, louder this time. He pushed his plate away, the container nearly tipping over. The sharp scent of soy sauce filled the air between you. “I’m so tired of this. You come home distant as hell, checking your phone every five seconds like you’re waiting for one of them to text you. Meanwhile, I’ve been busting my ass at the firm all day and you can’t even pretend to be present.”

Scott stood up abruptly, his chair screeching back. The sound cut through the apartment like a knife. He ran a hand through his hair, breathing hard.

“I’m done with this conversation,” he muttered, voice tight with anger. “Enjoy your fucking lo mein.”

He stormed off toward the living room, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor. A few seconds later, the TV clicked on loud and aggressive, clearly meant to drown out any chance of continuing the argument.

You sat there alone at the table, heart pounding, the greasy food growing cold in front of you. The apartment suddenly felt too small, too quiet except for the blaring television and the distant sound of Brooklyn traffic outside the cracked window. The slick heat between your thighs still lingered, now mixed with a sharp twist of guilt.

You glanced down at your phone again. The screen remained dark.

Scott passed out on the couch by 10:30, snoring loudly in front of a legal drama, the blue glow of the television flickering across his slack face. You stood in the doorway for a long moment, arms wrapped around yourself, watching the man you’d once been madly in love with. Now he felt like nothing more than background noise in your own life, distant, irrelevant and completely oblivious to the storm raging inside you.

You turned away and slipped into the bedroom, peeling off your black dress and tights. The cool air kissed your overheated skin as you pulled on an oversized t-shirt, the soft cotton brushing teasingly against your hardened nipples. The sheets still carried the faint, stale scent of last night’s disappointing sex, a faint musk of Scott’s release and your own unsatisfied arousal. It only made the ache between your thighs sharper.

Sleep wouldn’t come.

You lay on your back in the dark, staring at the ceiling, heart beating heavily in your chest. Your mind wouldn’t stop replaying the session on an endless loop: the low, gravelly rumble of James Barnes’ voice, the way his storm-blue eyes had devoured you, the electric spark when your fingers brushed his gloved hand. The memory made your core clench with fresh need.

The ache quickly became unbearable.

One hand slowly slid down your stomach, slipping under the hem of your oversized t-shirt and into your panties. Your fingers met slick, swollen folds, you were soaked, obscenely wet, your arousal coating your inner thighs. A soft, shaky exhale left your lips as you dragged two fingers through your dripping slit, spreading the wetness up to your throbbing clit.

You bit your lip hard as you began circling the sensitive bud, slow and deliberate at first. In your mind, it wasn’t your hand. It was his. A large, strong hand, one warm flesh, the other cool black vibranium, sliding between your thighs. You imagined the contrast: the feeling of his vibranium fingers pressing against your slick pussy while his real fingers sank deep inside you.

A soft, needy whimper escaped your throat.

You spread your legs wider, knees falling open, the sheets rustling beneath you. Your fingers moved faster, slipping down to tease your entrance before plunging two fingers inside your tight, dripping heat. The wet, obscene sound of your fingers thrusting into your soaked cunt filled the quiet room. You fucked yourself harder, hips rolling up to meet each thrust, imagining it was Bucky’s thick fingers stretching you open.

“You feel trapped too, don’t you, Doc?” you imagined his rough Brooklyn voice growling in your ear.

Your free hand moved up, squeezing your breast roughly, pinching and rolling your stiff nipple between your fingers. The pleasure built fast and filthy, a hot coiling tension low in your belly. Your breathing grew ragged, soft gasps and quiet moans slipping out as your fingers pumped faster, curling to hit that perfect spot inside you.

You were dripping down onto the sheets now, your pussy making wet, squelching sounds with every thrust. The scent of your arousal was thick in the air, sweet and musky. Your clit pulsed desperately as you rubbed tight, frantic circles over it, chasing the edge.

Your phone buzzed on the pillow beside you.

Your eyes flew open, heart slamming against your ribs. You snatched it up with your free hand, chest heaving.

Unknown Number 10:48pm

This is James. Just making sure this number works. Thanks again for today, Doc.

Seeing his name, even just “James”, sent a fresh gush of wetness over your fingers. Guilt crashed over you like ice water, sharp and cold, but it only made you wetter. Your fingers didn’t stop. If anything, they moved faster, plunging deeper, more desperately.

You stared at the text, lips parted, breathing ragged as you fucked yourself harder to the thought of him. Your hips bucked off the bed, thighs trembling. The slick sounds grew louder, filthier. You imagined him watching you right now, those intense blue eyes dark with hunger, his vibranium hand wrapped around his cock while he told you exactly how to touch yourself.

A broken moan slipped from your lips as the orgasm finally hit you, hard, blinding and devastating. Your pussy clenched violently around your fingers, waves of hot pleasure ripping through your body. You came with his name silent on your tongue, soaking your hand and the sheets beneath you, hips jerking uncontrollably as you rode it out.

Even after the last tremor faded, you lay there flushed, panting, and still aching for more.

Scott was still snoring loudly on the couch, the distant drone of the legal drama murmuring in the background, when you finally came.

You buried your face into the pillow to muffle the broken moan that tore from your throat as James Barnes’s name echoed silently in your mind like a forbidden prayer. Your pussy clenched violently around your fingers, hot, rhythmic pulses squeezing tight as fresh slick gushed over your hand and soaked into the sheets beneath you. Your thighs trembled uncontrollably, hips jerking in tiny, desperate thrusts as the orgasm ripped through every nerve in your body.

Even as the pleasure crested and slowly began to fade, you kept rubbing your swollen, oversensitive clit in lazy circles, drawing out every last tremor until your legs felt like jelly.

Afterward, you lay there flushed and ashamed, chest heaving, skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat. Your oversized t-shirt was bunched up around your waist, panties shoved to the side, and your fingers were still buried deep inside your dripping cunt. You felt filthy. Guilty. And somehow, still painfully unsatisfied.

The ache hadn’t gone away. If anything, coming while thinking of him had only made it deeper, a hollow, craving need that your own fingers could never fully satisfy.

With trembling fingers, slick with your own arousal, you reached for your phone. The screen’s bright glow lit up your flushed face in the dark bedroom. You stared at his text for a long moment, heart hammering against your ribs, before typing back with shaky thumbs.

You 10:54pm

Glad it worked. Remember the grounding exercise if the nightmares hit hard. Take care, James.

You hit send before you could overthink it, then immediately turned the phone face-down on the pillow beside you, as if hiding it would somehow lessen what you’d just done.

This is dangerous.

The thought repeated in your head like a warning bell, but your body betrayed you. Your pussy gave another lazy, needy flutter at the memory of his low, gravelly voice. You bit your lip, fighting the urge to slide your hand between your thighs again.

But you couldn’t resist.

You picked the phone back up, opened the new contact, and saved his number under “JB”, innocent enough that if Scott ever glanced at your phone, it might not raise immediate suspicion. You stared at the simple letters for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen. The contact felt heavy. Permanent. Like another line crossed that you couldn’t uncross.

You finally locked the phone and set it down, rolling onto your back. The ceiling fan spun lazily above you, cooling the sweat on your skin. Your thighs were sticky, your core still throbbing with residual heat. Guilt sat heavy in your chest, twisting with something far more addictive, excitement.

As sleep finally began to pull you under, slow and reluctant, the last thought wasn’t guilt.

It was his voice, low and rough, brushing against your ear like a promise:

“You ever catch yourself wondering what it would take to break out of it?”

For the first time in months, lying there in the dark with another man’s name still lingering on your tongue and between your soaked thighs, you felt truly awake.

James Barnes sat on the fire escape of his cramped Brooklyn apartment, the cold October night air biting at the exposed skin of his neck and forearms. The metal railing pressed uncomfortably against his back, but he barely noticed. Below him the city pulsed with life, distant car horns, the low hum of traffic, the occasional siren cutting through the night like a blade. A faint smell of rain and street food drifted up from the alley.

He pulled the folded piece of paper from the inner pocket of his leather jacket, unfolding it slowly. Your neat, careful handwriting stared back at him. He’d already memorized the number, but he still traced it with his eyes like it was something sacred.

Doc gave me her personal cell on the first fucking day, he thought, a low, rough chuckle rumbling deep in his chest. Either she’s the most trusting woman alive… or she felt it too. That spark. That hunger.

He wasn’t naive. Not after decades of being Hydra’s weapon. Trust was a luxury he couldn’t afford, and yet here he was, sitting in the cold with your number burning a hole in his pocket.

Old habits died hard.

He pulled out the encrypted burner phone Sam had forced on him and started digging. Nothing too invasive at first, just surface-level stuff. Professional license. Clean record. Excellent reviews from past clients. A few articles about trauma therapy workshops you’d spoken at, always looking professional and composed in those photos. But Bucky kept scrolling. Deeper.

He found your public social media accounts before you’d locked them down tighter. And that’s when he hit the goldmine.

An older album from years ago. Summer vacation. You, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two, glowing under bright sunlight on a tropical beach in that deep red bikini that looked like it had been painted onto your body. The top strained against your full, heavy breasts, the thin fabric doing almost nothing to hide the outline of your nipples. The bottoms sat dangerously low on your hips, framing the soft curve of your belly and the generous, mouth-watering swell of your ass.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat.

“Well… fuck me,” he muttered, voice gravelly and dark.

He zoomed in, eyes devouring every detail. The way the sun glistened on your wet skin. Water droplets sliding down between your tits. The plush thickness of your thighs pressed together as you laughed at the camera. His cock twitched violently in his jeans, thickening fast.

But he kept scrolling, hungry for more. And then he found it.

A much more recent photo, posted only a few months ago. You were sitting on the floor of what looked like a cozy living room, wearing a soft sweater that dipped low in the front. Two baby bunnies were in your lap, tiny, fluffy things. One was nestled right between your breasts, its little head and ears peeking out from the warm, deep valley of your cleavage. The sweater hugged your tits perfectly, the soft fabric stretched across their full weight, and the bunny looked completely content, burrowed into that plush, pillowy warmth like it belonged there.

It was innocent. Sweet. The kind of wholesome photo that would make most people smile.

But it made Bucky go fucking feral.

“Jesus Christ…” he growled, voice dropping into something animalistic. His metal hand gripped the railing so hard the metal screeched and bent under his fingers.

The sight of that tiny creature tucked so perfectly between your tits triggered something primal and vicious in him. All he could think about was replacing that bunny with his own face. Shoving his head between those soft, heavy breasts, motorboating them, sucking dark marks into the sensitive skin while you whimpered and arched into his mouth. He imagined grabbing fistfuls of your tits, squeezing them around his thick cock and fucking your cleavage until he painted your neck and chin with his cum. How soft and warm they’d feel. How they’d bounce while he railed you.

His cock surged painfully hard, throbbing against his zipper, leaking steadily now. He palmed himself roughly through his jeans, squeezing the thick length as his hips twitched involuntarily.

That should be my face buried there. My hands. My cock. Not some soft little animal getting what I want.

The wholesome image only made it worse, the contrast of your gentle, caring nature with the filthy things he wanted to do to you. He wanted to ruin that sweetness. Bend you over and fuck you until you were drooling and cock-drunk, then let you cuddle against his chest afterward like the good girl you were.

“Fuck, doll… you have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

He zoomed in closer, staring at the way your breasts pressed together around the bunny, the soft swell threatening to spill out of the sweater. His mind spiraled into darker territory: pinning you down, shoving your sweater up, and burying his face between your tits while fingering your soaked pussy. He’d make you come just like that, tits in his mouth, his metal fingers curling inside you, then flip you over and take you from behind while those same tits swayed heavily beneath you.

He was breathing hard now, almost panting, his flesh hand stroking himself more deliberately through his jeans.

But then curiosity twisted into something darker. You had a boyfriend. Some clean-cut prick named Scott.

Bucky’s jaw clenched as he typed the name into the search bar. The deep dive began, and the hatred hit him like a freight train.

Scott fucking Huffman. Thirty-four. Corporate lawyer

He worked at a mid-sized firm downtown. Perfect LinkedIn profile, tailored suits, fake smiles, charity golf tournaments. Dark hair, blue eyes, the kind of generic, polished face that screamed “I’ve never had to fight for anything in my life.” Instagram was even worse. Pictures of him at rooftop bars with overpriced whiskey, posing with his arm around you like he owned you. In one, his hand rested possessively on your waist, but his touch looked weak. Soft. Like he didn’t know how to really hold a woman.

Bucky’s lip curled in immediate disgust.

This is who she’s wasting her time on?

He kept digging. Scott’s social media history showed a string of exes, all pretty, professional, forgettable. Recent posts with you were curated and sterile. Brunch dates. Weekend getaways to boring wine country. Not a single photo that looked like he’d ever fucked you properly. No marks on your neck. No flush in your cheeks like you’d just been railed within an inch of your life. No evidence he made you scream.

Bucky hated him instantly. Viscerally.

Look at this soft-handed little shit. He imagined Scott’s weak, manicured hands on your body and it made his blood boil. That man didn’t deserve to touch you. He couldn’t handle the kind of hunger Bucky had seen flickering behind your eyes today, that deep, aching need to be claimed, dominated, and taken care of so thoroughly you couldn’t walk straight afterward.

Scott probably fucked you in missionary with the lights off. Maybe lasted six minutes if he was lucky. Called it “making love” while you lay there unsatisfied, faking it so you wouldn’t hurt his fragile ego. Probably cried after arguments and bought you flowers instead of bending you over the kitchen counter and fucking the frustration out of you like you deserved.

Bucky’s hatred burned hotter with every new photo and post he found. Scott had never been in a real fight. Never had blood on his hands. Never carried the kind of darkness that made a man dangerous… and useful. He was everything Bucky wasn’t, safe, privileged, ordinary. And the thought of that boring, inadequate asshole kissing you, touching you, sliding his pathetic dick inside the woman Bucky already wanted to ruin made him want to put a bullet through Scott’s skull.

She’s starving, Bucky thought, eyes narrowing. And this motherfucker is feeding her crumbs.

His cock was still painfully hard, throbbing against his zipper as dark, possessive thoughts flooded him. He wanted to message you right now. Tell you to leave that worthless prick and come sit on his face instead. He’d show you what a real man could do, tongue-fucking your cunt until you squirted down his throat, then wrecking you with his cock for hours until you forgot Scott’s name entirely.

He forced himself to close the tabs on Scott before he spiraled further, but the hatred had already rooted deep. That man was an obstacle. Temporary. And Bucky had torn through far worse in his time.

James leaned his head back against the rough brick wall, eyes closed, letting the cold night air try to cool his heated skin. His metal fingers flexed, servos humming. His flesh hand was still absently palming his aching cock, mind replaying those red bikini photos mixed with violent fantasies of removing Scott from the picture.

You’re playing with fire, Barnes. She’s your therapist. She’s trying to fix you… and you’re sitting here fantasizing about destroying her boyfriend’s face and claiming her on every surface of her apartment.

But the pull was undeniable. Something in you had awakened the predator in him, the part that wanted to protect you, ruin you, own you, and make sure no weak, unworthy man like Scott ever laid hands on you again.

He saved your number under “Doc” and stared at the contact for a long time. Thumb hovering. He didn’t type anything. Not yet.

Instead, he slipped the phone away, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. The flame lit up the sharp lines of his stubbled jaw and the dangerous mix of lust and violence etched into his face. He took a long drag, smoke curling into the night.

“Shit,” he whispered hoarsely. “This is gonna get so fucking complicated.”

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

masterlist

Leaves crunching. Branches snapping. Something far off that sounds like it’s either a bird or a creature that absolutely should not be making that sound.

And then there’s Bucky.

“Okay,” he says, slamming the trunk shut with unnecessary finality, scanning the treeline like he’s about to be ambushed. “We set up fast, stay alert, and we’ll be fine.”

You blink at him. “Bucky… we’re camping. Not infiltrating a Hydra base.”

His jaw tightens. His metal hand flexes with a faint whir. “Same difference.”

It is, in fact, not the same difference.

You’d thought this would be romantic. Cute, even. A cozy little getaway—just the two of you, away from the city, away from missions and noise and everything that weighs him down.

You pictured a crackling fire, soft blankets, maybe Bucky chopping wood while looking unfairly attractive.

What you got instead is your super soldier boyfriend acting like every squirrel is a potential threat.

“Did you hear that?” he mutters suddenly, head snapping toward a patch of bushes.

You stare. “That was literally a chipmunk.”

“Could’ve been something bigger.”

“It was the size of a potato.”

“Potatoes don’t move like that.”

You press your lips together, fighting a smile. “Okay, Captain Paranoia.”

He shoots you a look, but there’s a hint of sheepishness there. “Just… stay close, alright?”

Your chest softens a little at that.

“Always do,” you say quietly.

---

Setting up the tent takes twice as long as it should.

Not because you don’t know how—no, you’re actually doing fine—but because Bucky keeps stopping mid-step to scan the perimeter like he’s expecting an ambush.

At one point, he freezes completely, eyes narrowing.

“What?” you whisper, instantly on edge because if he’s tense, maybe you should be too.

“…wind,” he says after a moment.

You stare at him.

“Bucky.”

“Yeah?”

“That was wind.”

He exhales through his nose. “I know.”

“You just said it like it personally offended you.”

“It did.”

You snort, shaking your head as you shove a tent stake into the ground. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re not taking this seriously enough.”

“It’s camping.”

“In the woods.”

“Yes.”

“Where things live.”

You pause, then look at him slowly. “You mean animals?”

“Yeah,” he says, like that’s the most obvious problem in the world.

“…Bucky, you’ve fought literal assassins and alien invasions.”

“And I survived those,” he shoots back. “I don’t know what lives out here.”

You grin, unable to help it. “You’re scared of deer.”

“I am not scared of deer.”

“You just said—”

“I said I don’t trust them,” he corrects.

“That’s worse.”

---

By the time the tent is finally up and a small fire is going, the sun is dipping low, painting everything in warm gold and deep shadows.

It should be peaceful, and truly, it almost is.

You’re sitting cross-legged on a blanket, poking at the fire with a stick while Bucky hovers nearby, arms crossed, scanning the darkness like it’s personally plotting against him.

“Come sit,” you say, patting the space beside you.

He hesitates.

You raise a brow. “James Buchanan Barnes, if you don’t sit your paranoid ass down—”

“I’m sitting,” he mutters immediately, dropping beside you.

You smile to yourself.

For a few minutes, things are quiet. The fire crackles. The air cools. The sounds of the forest settle into something softer, less threatening.

Bucky’s shoulder brushes yours.

Then something rustles in the distance.

He goes rigid.

“Bucky,” you sigh.

“I’m just listening.”

“You look like you’re about to fight the trees.”

“They started it.”

You laugh, leaning into him. “You’re ridiculous.”

His tension eases, just a little, when you rest your head against his shoulder.

“You okay?” you murmur.

There’s a pause.

“…don’t like not knowing what’s out there,” he admits quietly. “In the city, I know the threats. I know how things move. Out here it’s just… unknown.”

Your hand slips into his, squeezing gently. “You’re not alone, though.”

His fingers tighten around yours automatically.

“Yeah,” he says softly.

Another rustle. Closer this time.

He tenses again.

You barely react.

A small raccoon waddles into the edge of the firelight, sniffing around curiously.

You grin. “Oh my god, look at him.”

Bucky stares like it’s a highly trained operative.

“…what is that.”

“It’s a raccoon.”

“It looks suspicious.”

“It looks hungry.”

“It could be both.”

You laugh, nudging him. “Relax. He’s not here to assassinate you.”

The raccoon stares back at you both, then scurries off into the darkness.

Bucky watches it go, still wary.

“…I don’t like him.”

“You don’t like anything out here.”

“I like you,” he mutters.

Your heart does a soft, stupid flip.

You tilt your head up to look at him. “Good save.”

He huffs, but there’s a small smile tugging at his mouth now.

The tension drains from him slowly after that. Your warmth, the fire, the quiet; it all settles into his bones until his shoulders finally loosen.

You shift closer, tucking yourself into his side, his arm automatically coming around you.

“See?” you murmur. “Not so bad.”

“…still think something’s watching us,” he says.

You snort. “You’re impossible.”

“Just being honest.”

You tilt your head, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “If something is watching us, it’s probably confused why a hundred-year-old super soldier is losing a staring contest with a raccoon.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, low and warm, and finally—finally—relaxes completely.

His chin dips to rest against the top of your head.

“…next time,” he says, voice softer now, “we pick somewhere with walls.”

You smile against him.

You hadn't slept much.

Not because of the meeting.

At least...

That wasn't what you kept telling yourself.

It was the headlines.

The comments.

The photographs.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw another notification.

Another article.

Another stranger convinced they knew your life better than you did.

By seven o'clock...

You gave up trying to sleep.

Coffee helped.

Barely.

You stood in front of your apartment window, mug warming your hands as Manhattan slowly came to life below.

Somewhere out there...

James Buchanan Barnes was probably getting ready for the exact same meeting.

The thought made you sigh.

Yesterday had already been exhausting.

Today promised to be worse.

Your phone buzzed against the kitchen counter.

TONY STARK

Tony: Car will be outside in forty-five minutes.

Tony: Don't let the paparazzi see you leave.

You stared at the second message.

A month ago...

That sentence would've sounded ridiculous.

Now...

It was your reality.

You typed a quick reply.

You: Understood.

A second later...

Another message appeared.

Tony: And eat breakfast.

Tony: You'll think better on a full stomach.

Despite everything...

You smiled.

Just a little.

──────────── ✦ ────────────

Across the city...

Bucky Barnes was having a very different morning.

Alpine stretched lazily across the foot of the bed, completely unaware that every entertainment outlet in New York seemed determined to discuss her owner's nonexistent love life.

Bucky adjusted the cuffs of his shirt before glancing at the newspaper someone had slipped beneath his apartment door.

He didn't even have to unfold it.

There it was.

Another photograph.

Another headline.

He let out a quiet groan.

"Seriously?"

Alpine blinked.

"I know."

His phone buzzed.

SHARON CARTER

Sharon: Driver will be downstairs at 8:30.

Another message followed.

Sharon: Please try not to speak to the press before the meeting.

He smiled despite himself.

Bucky: Wasn't planning on it.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Sharon: Good.

Sharon: I'd like to keep today's crisis limited to one.

Bucky laughed softly.

For the first time since this entire mess had started.

Then his smile faded.

In less than an hour...

He'd be sitting across from the journalist who somehow knew how to ask every question he didn't want to answer.

He had no idea what this meeting was about.

Only that it involved both of you.

And somehow...

That made him more nervous than facing a room full of reporters.

──────────── ✦ ────────────

The Barnes Foundation headquarters was quieter than you expected.

No reporters.

No cameras.

Just polished marble floors and employees moving calmly through the lobby.

An assistant escorted you, Tony, and Natasha to a conference room overlooking Manhattan.

"We'll be with you shortly."

The door closed behind her.

Silence settled over the room.

Tony helped himself to a cup of coffee.

"I already like this place."

Natasha rolled her eyes.

You remained standing near the window, absently flipping through your notebook.

Not because you planned to use it.

It simply gave your hands something to do.

Voices echoed from the hallway.

Footsteps.

The door opened.

Steve Rogers walked in first.

Tony greeted him with a handshake.

A second later, Sam Wilson appeared.

He looked at you.

Then toward the still-open doorway.

"So..."

He smiled.

"You're the journalist."

"And you're Sam Wilson."

"The one who owes somebody fifty bucks."

Sam's jaw dropped.

Steve looked away, hiding a smile.

"...Barnes told you?"

"No."

"I guessed."

That earned a laugh from everyone.

Everyone...

Except the man who walked in next.

Bucky stopped just inside the room.

His eyes met yours immediately.

For a second...

Neither of you spoke.

"You."

The word escaped both of you at exactly the same time.

Sam looked between the two of you.

"Well..."

"This should be fun."

Bucky sighed before taking the seat directly across from you.

Of course.

Out of an entire conference room...

You ended up facing each other.

Again.

The last person to enter was Sharon Carter.

She carried a thin black folder under one arm.

Professional.

Confident.

Completely unfazed by the tension filling the room.

"Good morning."

She remained standing.

"Thank you all for coming."

She placed the folder on the table and opened it.

Inside were printed articles.

Social media posts.

Television ratings.

Photographs.

"The last twenty-four hours have been... eventful."

No one argued.

"Our legal team has reviewed every available option."

She looked around the room.

"We considered ignoring the story."

A page turned.

"It grew."

"We considered denying the story."

Another page.

"It grew even more."

She met Tony's eyes.

"Both Parker Media and the Barnes Foundation are now being contacted by sponsors, advertisers, and other media outlets asking for comments."

Tony nodded once.

"They're right."

Sharon closed the folder.

"So."

"That leaves us with one remaining option."

You leaned forward.

"What option?"

She looked directly at you.

Then at Bucky.

"We stop fighting the story."

Silence.

Bucky frowned.

"...Meaning?"

"We confirm it."

The room froze.

"I'm sorry..."

You blinked.

"What?"

Sharon remained perfectly calm.

"The public already believes you're together."

"So..."

"We let them."

Bucky actually laughed.

A short, disbelieving laugh.

"No."

Sharon didn't react.

"We announce that the relationship is real."

"No."

He repeated more firmly.

"Absolutely not."

You looked at him.

Then back at Sharon.

"I'm with him."

Tony rubbed his temples.

"As expected."

"You can't be serious."

"I am."

Sharon folded her hands.

"It would only be temporary."

"It would protect both organizations."

"It would allow the media cycle to move on naturally."

You stared at her.

"You want us..."

"...to pretend to date?"

"Correct."

Bucky leaned back in his chair.

"I've heard terrible ideas before."

"This one just became my favorite."

Sam bit the inside of his cheek, clearly trying not to laugh.

Steve elbowed him.

Hard.

"Ow."

Sharon ignored them.

"I understand this isn't what either of you wants."

"No kidding."

Bucky muttered.

She continued anyway.

"If either of you has a better solution..."

She gently pushed the folder toward the center of the table.

"I'm happy to hear it."

Silence.

No one spoke.

Because no one had one.

You looked at Tony.

He avoided your eyes.

Natasha remained unusually quiet.

Even Steve looked unconvinced.

Finally...

You and Bucky spoke at exactly the same time.

"Absolutely not."

Another heavy silence filled the room.

Sharon exchanged a look with Tony.

Then calmly said,

"I was expecting that answer."

She opened the folder one last time.

"Which is exactly why..."

"...I'd like you to see what happens if you say no."

──────────── ✦ ────────────

The room remained silent.

No one reached for the folder.

No one spoke.

Sharon let the silence settle.

She'd expected resistance.

She just hadn't expected both of you to reject the proposal at exactly the same time.

"Absolutely not."

Bucky leaned back in his chair.

"I'm glad we agree on something."

"So am I."

You looked at Sharon.

"There has to be another option."

"There isn't."

"There always is."

Sharon calmly folded her hands.

"Not one that solves the problem."

Bucky shook his head.

"We issue another statement."

"We tell people the truth."

"We move on."

Steve finally spoke.

"We already tried that."

Bucky looked toward him.

"And?"

Steve sighed.

"It didn't work."

Sam unlocked his phone.

"You wanna know what happened after your last statement?"

He held up the screen.

"'Barnes Denies Relationship.'"

Another swipe.

"'Fans Think He's Hiding Something.'"

Another.

"'Relationship Rumors Continue Despite Statement.'"

Sam shrugged.

"The internet decided your denial was confirmation."

Bucky rubbed his temples.

"Fantastic."

Tony leaned forward.

"The Foundation isn't the only one dealing with this."

You frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Parker Media has spent the last twenty-four hours answering calls from sponsors, advertisers and every major publication in New York."

Natasha nodded.

"And every time we refuse to comment..."

"...the story gets bigger."

You looked between them.

"So we're both trapped."

"Exactly."

──────────── ✦ ────────────

Sharon opened another folder.

"This is where our interests align."

She slid several documents toward Tony.

"The Barnes Foundation is prepared to offer Parker Media something we've never offered another publication."

You frowned.

"What?"

Tony remained silent.

Almost as if he wanted Sharon to say it herself.

She did.

"Exclusive access."

Silence.

"Exclusive interviews."

"Behind-the-scenes coverage."

"Charity events."

"Scholarship ceremonies."

"The Miss Congeniality competition."

"Our fundraising galas."

"Our annual reports."

She looked directly at you.

"For the duration of this agreement..."

"Parker Media becomes the Foundation's primary media partner."

Your eyes widened.

Tony smiled.

"You have any idea how long we've been trying to get that?"

You slowly shook your head.

"Years."

"They've turned us down every single time."

Natasha added,

"No other publication gets that kind of access."

Your journalist instincts immediately began connecting the dots.

Exclusive stories.

Exclusive interviews.

Months of material.

No competition.

Bucky noticed your expression.

He sighed.

"I don't like that look."

You glanced at him.

"What look?"

"The reporter look."

"You've stopped thinking about me."

He gestured toward the folder.

"And started thinking about the story."

"...Maybe."

Sam grinned.

"I knew it."

Steve elbowed him.

"Ow."

Tony smiled.

"There she is."

"The journalist."

──────────── ✦ ────────────

Sharon turned toward Bucky.

"And you're not the only one making a sacrifice."

She placed another stack of papers in front of him.

Business reports.

Sponsor letters.

Board meeting summaries.

Bucky frowned.

"...What's this?"

"Everything we've received since yesterday."

He picked up the first page.

"'Sponsors Express Concern Over Foundation Leadership.'"

Another.

"'Board Requests Emergency Meeting.'"

His jaw tightened.

"...Internal review?"

Steve nodded quietly.

"They met this morning."

"You didn't tell me."

"There wasn't time."

Sharon spoke before either man could continue.

"The Foundation depends on public trust."

"You are the face of that Foundation."

"When your reputation is questioned..."

"So is ours."

Bucky remained silent.

She continued.

"If this continues..."

"The Board will begin questioning your ability to lead."

The room fell quiet.

For the first time...

Bucky didn't argue.

He simply stared at the reports.

Tony finally broke the silence.

"So Parker Media gets the biggest exclusive we've ever had."

He looked at Bucky.

"And you protect the Foundation before the story becomes something it isn't."

Natasha added softly,

"This isn't about pretending to be in love."

"It's about controlling the narrative before someone else controls it for you."

──────────── ✦ ────────────

Bucky looked up.

"So..."

"You want us to fake a relationship."

Sharon nodded once.

"Yes."

He laughed.

A short.

Disbelieving laugh.

"No."

You crossed your arms.

"I'm with him."

Tony sighed.

"As expected."

"You can't be serious."

"I am."

"It would only be temporary."

"It protects both organizations."

"It gives the media exactly what they're looking for."

"So they'll stop looking."

You stared at her.

"They'll never stop."

"They will."

Sharon answered calmly.

"They'll simply move on to the next story."

Sam nodded.

"Unfortunately..."

"She's right."

Steve folded his arms.

"This won't last forever."

"It only has to last long enough."

Bucky looked around the room.

"I still vote no."

"So do I."

You answered immediately.

Both of you spoke together.

"Absolutely not."

Sam looked toward Natasha.

"They're getting better at talking in sync."

Neither of you acknowledged him.

──────────── ✦ ────────────

Sharon closed the folder.

"I expected that answer."

She stood.

Walking toward the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The rest of you instinctively followed.

Down below...

Dozens of photographers waited behind the security barriers.

Camera lenses pointed toward the building.

News vans lined the curb.

Some reporters were already broadcasting live.

You felt your stomach sink.

"There are more than yesterday."

"There are."

Sharon looked back at the room.

"They've been waiting here since dawn."

"They know this meeting is happening."

Tony frowned.

"How?"

"They always know."

Another silence.

Then Sharon spoke the sentence no one wanted to hear.

"When this meeting ends..."

"...they'll be waiting for both of you."

You looked at Bucky.

He looked back at you.

Neither of you liked where this was going.

Sharon smiled politely.

"I'm afraid your relationship..."

"...starts today."

"What?"

Both of you spoke at the same time.

"The photographers cannot see you leaving separately."

Bucky blinked.

"Sharon."

"They'll assume the meeting failed."

"And?"

"And tomorrow's headlines will be worse."

You frowned.

"So what exactly are you suggesting?"

She didn't hesitate.

"You leave together."

Silence.

"You get into the same car."

"You let them take their pictures."

"And from this moment forward..."

"...the story belongs to us."

Bucky stared at her.

"You've planned all of this."

"For the last eighteen hours."

He looked toward Steve.

"You knew?"

Steve sighed.

"I knew there was a plan."

"I didn't know it involved..."

He gestured vaguely between the two of you.

"...this."

Sam folded his arms.

"I told you this meeting wasn't going to be boring."

No one laughed.

Sharon picked up the folder once more.

"You don't have to sign anything today."

She placed it in the center of the table.

"Take it."

"Read it."

"Think about it."

She looked at you.

Then at Bucky.

"But when you walk out those doors..."

"You'll be walking out together."

The room fell silent.

Neither of you reached for the folder.

Neither of you agreed.

But neither of you stood up to leave.

And somehow...

That was answer enough.

──────────── ✦ ────────────

TAGS:@jades-reads @greatenthusiasttidalwave