Blue

So he drove in new posts and wired new fencing, replacing what collapsed under the might of last night’s storm. The old couple next door promising cuts from their sow for the effort he put in on their shared fence line. He smiled and nodded, waving them off, determined to get the work done as quickly as possible.

If he was quick, maybe he could get home in time.

But the day dragged on, and the sun was hanging low in the sky before he finally got done.

Cresting the hill on his four-wheeler, his family farm appearing before his eyes, he eagerly looked to the front yard …

Nothing.

You’d left.

He wanted to shrug off the feeling, wanted to think back on the night before as a happy memory — a dream, he scoffed — but something itched at the lonely muscle in his chest. His face scrunched up as he pulled up alongside the drying tire tracks from where you’d driven off his farm and out of his life.

Sighing, staring out down the dirt drive off his property, Bucky sat for a moment.

Until his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Steve.

“Hey, punk,” he drawled, sharing greetings with his old friend. “… Storm made a mess of things. Blew down the mile of fence that—Yeah, yeah, the one y’warned me about last time. I know.”

He scratched at the dried salty sweat on his neck.

“That ain’t all the rain blew in.”

The memory of your soft skin, your smile, your airy laugh, washed over him and he held that memory close.

“I gotta tell you a story …”

He stands in the small green room behind the curtain, suit jacket already buttoned, tie perfectly straight, thick fingers flexing at his sides like he’s about to step into a boxing ring instead of a town hall. His jaw is tight, the faint crease between his brows giving him that serious, intimidating look that made half his district vote for him in the first place.

“You’re gonna scare them,” you murmur, stepping into his space.

His eyes soften immediately when they land on you. That’s the thing about Bucky—he can go from imposing congressman to your husband in half a heartbeat. “I’m not tryin’ to scare anyone,” he mutters, though his shoulders are stiff. “Just want it to go well.”

“It will,” you promise. “You’ve rehearsed this speech like thirty times in the kitchen.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, some of the tension bleeding out of him. “You were supposed to forget that.”

“Never,” you tease, smoothing your hands up the lapels of his jacket. “I have it memorized too, just in case you choke and I have to run out there and finish it.”

He gives you that look—half exasperated, half smitten—that makes your stomach flip even after years together. “You’d love that.”

“I would.”

There’s a stage manager counting down somewhere beyond the door. Three minutes.

Bucky swallows. You can see it—the nerves. Not because he doubts himself, but because he cares. He cares so much it makes him anxious. He wants to say the right thing, do the right thing, represent people well. It’s written into him as deeply as the old soldier instincts he still carries.

“C’mere,” you whisper.

He leans down automatically, and you cup his face in your hands. Your lipstick is a soft rose shade tonight, something you picked because he once told you it made you look like you’d just come in from the cold. You press a kiss to his cheek, right over the faint line of an old scar. “For courage,” you murmur.

Another to his other cheek. “For clarity.”

He smiles, that shy, crooked smile he only ever gives you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And one for luck.” You stretch up and kiss the tip of his nose because it’s right there and because he always scrunches it in the cutest way when you do.

He laughs under his breath, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you closer. “You’re gonna ruin the image, sweetheart.”

“Your image can handle a little love.”

Someone calls his name. Thirty seconds.

He squeezes you once more, forehead brushing yours. “Stay where I can see you?”

“Always.”

He steps back, shoulders squaring again as he turns toward the stage entrance. You watch him take a slow breath, then another. The curtain parts. The crowd starts clapping.

He walks out into the lights.

You’re too focused on the way he carries himself—confident, grounded, steady—to notice anything else at first. He reaches the podium, adjusts the microphone, flashes that warm, practiced smile at the audience.

Then you hear it. A ripple of delighted laughter.

Bucky falters for half a second, clearly confused. He glances down at his notes, then back up at the crowd, brows knitting together. The laughter swells, mixed with a few audible “aww”s and the unmistakable sound of phone cameras clicking.

You frown slightly, craning your neck from the wings.

And then you see it.

There, bright and unmistakable under the stage lights, are three perfect lipstick marks: one on each cheek and a very prominent one right on the tip of his nose.

You clap a hand over your mouth.

Oh no.

He’s still speaking, because of course he is. “Good evening, everyone,” he starts, voice smooth despite the way his eyes narrow suspiciously at the audience reaction. “Thank you all for coming out tonight—”

More laughter.

Someone in the front row calls out, “We love your wife, Congressman!”

His hand lifts instinctively to his face, brushing his cheek. When he pulls it away and sees the faint smear of pink on his fingertips, his eyes widen just a fraction. He pauses, exhales, and then, to your utter surprise, he laughs.

It’s unguarded and warm and completely disarming.

“Well,” he says into the microphone, shaking his head. “Guess I’ve already got my good luck charm.”

The crowd practically melts.

Instead of wiping it off immediately, he leaves it there. All three marks. He launches into his speech like that, cheeks faintly pink—not from your lipstick, but from the realization that the entire internet is probably watching him stand at a podium with his wife’s kisses stamped all over his face.

By the time the event ends, the photos are everywhere. News outlets pick it up within the hour. “Congressman Barnes Goes Viral for Adorable Pre-Speech Moment.” “Lipstick Kisses Steal the Show.” There are slow-motion clips of him realizing what happened, memes of the nose kiss, comments about how refreshing it is to see a politician so openly loved.

When he finds you afterward, he’s half mortified, half amused. “You did that on purpose.”

“I absolutely did not,” you insist, though you’re laughing too hard to sound convincing.

He wraps his arms around you anyway, burying his face in your neck. “Internet’s never gonna let this go.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

The teasing only gets worse when Sam corners him at the next event. “Man,” Sam says, grinning ear to ear, “I’ve seen you take down terrorists without breaking a sweat, but one little lipstick ambush and you’re defenseless.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but his arm stays firmly around your waist. “It was a tactical oversight.”

Sam snorts. “You wore it through the whole speech. That’s not oversight. That’s whipped.”

You beam proudly. “Thank you.”

Bucky just shakes his head, trying and failing to hide his smile. “I prefer ‘well-loved.’”

And every time he steps out onto a stage after that, you make sure to press at least one kiss to his cheek. He always pretends to grumble about it, checking reflexively for smears before walking into the lights, but you’ve caught the way his hand sometimes lingers over the spot afterward, like he’s carrying a secret.

Because no matter how many cameras flash or how many speeches he gives, he still walks out there knowing he’s loved.

Better yet, you shouldn't reply at all. You should leave him on read, let that little notification sit there unacknowledged while he spirals for once, wondering if you've finally moved on.

Best option - the one that would require something adjacent to self-respect - you should block his number. Should have done it weeks ago, when you'd seen him out with another girl and your friends had spent the entire cab ride home telling you what you already knew. He's never going to commit. He's never going to change. Block his number.

You'd promised you would.

You hadn't, obviously. Instead, you’ve had Ari Levinson saved as “DO NOT ANSWER” for the past four weeks. Like seeing those words flash across your screen would be enough to override six months of muscle memory and bad decisions.

But it hasn’t helped even once. And it doesn’t help now, at 2:47 in the morning, when your phone buzzes again because your hand moves before your brain can interfere.

I know you're awake | 2:49 AM

Arrogant bastard. He doesn't know anything. Except he does, doesn't he? Knows you like he's mapped you from the inside out. Knows the glow of your screen is already bleeding blue light across your rumpled sheets. Knows you're staring at his text with your heart doing that stupid hummingbird thing it does whenever he reminds you that he's out there, somewhere in the city, thinking about you.

yes. | 2:52 AM

Three dots appear immediately. Disappear. Appear again. He's typing, deleting, retyping. The hesitation should comfort you - evidence that maybe he's nervous too, that maybe this costs him something. But you know Ari well enough to recognize the tactic. He's drawing it out. Making you wait. Building the tension because he knows exactly what those little dots do to your pulse.

Your heart hammers against your ribs and you hate him for it. Hate that your body is already ahead of you, already warm and restless, muscle memory doing the work your dignity should be doing. But six months of Ari has ruined you for anything or anyone else. 

Ruined you for anything that isn't his big hands on your hips holding you exactly where he wants you, his thick cock filling you up so perfectly your eyes roll back, his voice low in your ear talking you through it until you're shaking. Ari Levinson is a lot of bad things. But between your thighs he is devastatingly, infuriatingly good.

Good | 2:53 AM

Been thinking about you. | 2:53 AM

The ease of it makes you want to scream. Been thinking about you. As if that explains the two weeks of silence. As if that justifies showing up in your notifications like he still has the right.

You should ask where he's been. Who he's been with. If she knows he's texting you at three in the fucking morning.

But your thighs clench anyway, because your body doesn't care about your pride. Your body remembers what been thinking about you means in Ari's vocabulary. Remembers the last time he'd said it, three weeks ago when he'd shown up at your apartment after midnight. You'd barely gotten the door open before his mouth was on yours, walking you backward into your apartment with his hands already sliding under your shirt.

“Been thinking about you all fucking day,” he'd growled against your throat, and you'd melted like you always do, let him peel you out of your clothes and fuck you against the kitchen counter.

You'd had bruises on your hips for a week after. Had pressed your fingers into them whenever you needed to remember that you were real to him, that you weren't just imagining the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

yeah? | 2:55 AM

what about? | 2:55 AM

There's a pause. Longer this time. You can picture him so clearly it hurts. Sprawled in his bed, chest bare, all that dark hair dusting across muscle and tapering down his stomach in a trail your tongue knows by memory. The broad sprawl of his shoulders. The thick arms. The heavy muscle of his thighs. The kind of body that makes you feel small in ways you've stopped pretending you don't love. 

And already half-hard just from the anticipation of watching you slowly give in via text message.

You know what about | 3:00 AM

You do know. God help you, you know exactly what he's thinking about and your body has already started making decisions without consulting you.

that's not an answer | 3:00 AM

ari | 3:00 AM

You add his name in a second text, and you realise you’re already chasing. That’s what he does. He texts you first, casts the line, and then sits back and watches you swim toward him every time. 

I'm thinking about the way your thighs shake when you're trying not to cum before I say you can | 3:01 AM

Heat floods through you, pooling low in your belly and spreading outward until your skin feels too hot. Your free hand slides under your waistband without a second thought, fingers slipping through how wet you are and your hips tilt up into your own touch. But all you can think about is how much better he feels. 

you're an asshole | 3:02 AM

I know | 3:03 AM

Let me come over anyway | 3:03 AM

And there it is. The ask that isn't really an ask because you both know how this ends. The presumption that should offend you but doesn't because he's earned it, hasn't he? Six months of this dance, of you saying no and meaning yes, of drawing boundaries and then opening the door anyway when he shows up with that look in his eyes.

You stare at the message until the words start to blur. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

This is the moment. The fork in the road where you prove to yourself, to your friends, to your therapist, to everyone who's watched you self-destruct over Ari fucking Levinson that you're capable of choosing yourself. That you're more than the girl who waits for 3 AM texts. That you deserve someone who doesn't make you feel like a toy he keeps on the shelf until he wants something warm to sink into.

i'm not the one you should be texting at 3am | 3:05 AM

There. Boundaries. Self-respect. All the things you're supposed to have.

Probably not | 3:06 AM

But you're the one I want | 3:06 AM

Four words and you feel them everywhere. The lie tastes bitter even secondhand, transmitted through pixels and cellular data. The one I want. Not the only one - you're not quite delusional enough to believe that. But the one he wants right now. 

Presumably she's asleep, blissfully unaware that her—what? Boyfriend? Situationship? Whatever Ari is to her—is currently sexting his other whatever-the-fuck-you-are. Maybe she's in the bathroom. Maybe she's asleep next to him and he's doing this anyway, getting off on the proximity of the secret. The thought makes you nauseous and aroused in equal measure.

You should say to fuck off. Should tell him to lose your number, block him for real this time, delete the photos from your phone and burn the clothes he's left in your closet. Should pull your hand out from under your waistband and go to sleep. Should feel literally anything other than the dark, sick satisfaction currently unfurling in your chest at the thought of him choosing your bed over hers. 

fine | 3:09 AM

You send it before you can talk yourself out of it. Then you drop your phone face down on the mattress like you can't stand to look at what you've just done. Three seconds later you pick it back up.

One word. All that internal warfare and it comes down to four letters and no punctuation, casual as anything, like your heart isn't hammering against your ribs. Like your fingers aren’t still moving absently between your thighs because your body made the decision before you even sent that text. 

20 minutes | 3:10 AM

Be ready for me | 3:11 AM

The command in those last four words makes your stomach flip. You drop your phone onto the nightstand and stare at the ceiling, your heart still racing, your body already preparing itself.

Twenty minutes to shower, to shave, to make yourself into the version of yourself that he wants. Twenty minutes to pretend you haven't been wanting this every single night for two weeks. Twenty minutes to become the girl who's winning, even though you both know she's losing.

Your phone buzzes twice more, and you grab it so fast you nearly drop it.

Wear that black set | 3:13 AM

You know the one | 3:13 AM

You do know. Of course you know. The lace set he'd bought you a month ago, presented in expensive tissue paper after he'd cancelled dinner plans for the third time. “Let me make it up to you,” he'd murmured, watching you unwrap it with heat in his eyes. 

You'd worn it for him that same night. Had modelled the set while Ari sat on the edge of your bed watching you with dark eyes and that infuriating half smile, turning you with one finger like you were something he'd commissioned. Had ended up on your back with the lace pushed aside and his mouth on your throat while he fucked you slow enough to make you beg for it.

The sick satisfaction blooms darker, spreading wider through your chest like poison ivy.

── ⟢  ₊ 🌙 ˚・🥀 ⊹ 

The knock comes at exactly 3:32 AM. Three sharp raps, confident and unapologetic. The knock of someone who has never once considered that he might not be welcome.

You've been perched awkwardly on the arm of your couch for the last three minutes, fingers worrying the tie of your robe into knots. The black lace sits against your skin like a reminder of every bad decision that's led to this moment, delicate and expensive and utterly wasted on what's about to happen. The set and the silk robe thrown over it feels like costuming, like you’re playing the part of someone in control.

You're not in control. You haven't been since the first time Ari Levinson looked at you like you were something worth ruining himself for.

Padding over to the door, silk robe whispering against your thighs, you take one steadying breath before you open it. And there he is.

He's devastating. That's the only word for it. Big in a way that makes your apartment feel like a dollhouse. Shoulders broad enough to block out the hallway light, and tall enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. 

The t-shirt stretched across his chest leaves nothing to the imagination, which is almost funny because your imagination doesn't need the help anymore. You know that body. Know it embarrassingly well. Know exactly how it feels to be underneath it - small, delicate and so deliciously overwhelmed by the sheer size of him. Your thighs press together involuntarily at the thought.

His hair is slightly mussed, falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look softer than he is. And the beard - god the beard - is fuller than the last time you saw him, framing a mouth that knows exactly how to destroy you.

But it's his eyes that do the real damage. Blue enough to drown in, they rake over you with a possessive appreciation that’s entirely unapologetic. 

“Look at you,” Ari rumbles, voice already rough, deeper than usual. His eyes linger where your robe has fallen open just enough to reveal the black lace underneath, tongue flicking out to brush his bottom lip. “You trying to kill me?”

“You told me to wear it.” You lean against the doorframe, trying for casual, but your pulse is hammering visibly in your throat and you know he can see it.

“I did.” He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, and the smile that crosses his face is slow and pleased and entirely too satisfied with itself. His eyes sweep over you once again, like he's taking inventory of something that belongs to him. “And you listened, you’re always such a good girl for me.”

His praise unfurls something warm and pathetic in your chest. You hate how much you want to be his good girl, how desperately you crave the affection he'll give you.

The door clicks shut behind him and suddenly your apartment feels too small, the air too thick. He shrugs his jacket off, tosses it somewhere without looking. Underneath, the sleeves of his t-shirt are pushed to his elbows, revealing his thick forearms, corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. And attached to those big hands that know exactly how to take you apart. 

You make yourself look back up at his face. It doesn't help. His eyes are already on you, full of heat and already dark.

“Hi,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you meant.

“Hi, baby.” His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. His palm spans from your chin to your ear, and you feel small in a way that makes your stomach flip. He could break you so easily. In some ways, he already has. “Missed you.”

The words land like a gut punch. “And whose fault is that?”

“I know.” His thumb traces your bottom lip and your breath catches. “I'm sorry.”

He's not, though. You both know he's not. Sorry would mean changing, would mean choosing you in daylight instead of just in the dark. But then his hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back further, and his mouth hovers just above yours. Waiting. The bastard is waiting for you to close the distance, chase it, prove how much you want him.

“You're an asshole,” you whisper against his lips.

“You said that already.” His breath mingles with yours. “Say it again. I like when you're mean to me.”

You should. Should call him every name you've been saving up for two weeks. Should ask him where he's been, who he's been with, if she knows he's here. Should demand answers or respect or literally anything other than this.

Instead you kiss him.

His hand tightens in your hair the second your lips touch his, taking over immediately, changing the angle to deepen it on his terms. Your mouth opens instinctively when his tongue presses against your bottom lip, and he licks into you like he owns it. You whimper into it and he swallows the sound whole, pulls back just enough to drag his teeth across your bottom lip before coming back deeper. Tasting you. Taking his time. His other hand grips your jaw, holding you steady, and the message is clear - you're not going anywhere, and you both know it.

“Fuck, I missed this,” he groans, punctuating it with another kiss. “Missed those pretty noises you make for me.”

Pulling back just enough to breathe, eyes dark, he swipes his thumb across your swollen bottom lip, dragging it down. Without thinking, your tongue dips out and chases his thumb. He notices. Of course he notices, the corner of his mouth curving as he steps back and drops onto your couch. One arm stretches along the back it, the other rests on his thigh, and his legs spread wide in an easy sprawl.

“Come here, baby.”

He tilts his head at the space between his knees, one finger curling in a single lazy beckon, and your feet are moving before your brain has any say in the matter.

You stop between his thighs and his hands find your hips immediately. Big, warm, and immediately possessive, settling on your hips with a certainty that makes your breath catch. You make the mistake of looking down at him and catching those deadly blue eyes looking back up at you through thick lashes, and your stomach drops straight through the floor. Standing between his spread thighs you feel it acutely, how much larger he is. How solid. His hands nearly span your entire waist and something about that, about being held so easily, makes heat pool low and insistent.

His fingers find the tie of your robe and toy with it, unhurried, knuckles grazing your stomach through the silk.

“This is pretty,” he murmurs, tugging one end of the belt slowly until the bow dissolves. Your robe falls open and his eyes drop, taking in the full view of black lace underneath. “But I like what's underneath better.”

The silk whispers off your shoulders and pools at your feet, leaving you in nothing but scraps of lace while he remains completely, infuriatingly dressed. And that thought alone - the disparity of it - sends heat rushing straight between your thighs. His eyes devour you slowly, like you're something he's very pleased with himself for having.

The thick bulge straining against his jeans suggests he's more than just pleased.

A sharp inhale escapes you when his hand palms your ass, tugging you closer between his spread thighs until his mouth finds your midriff. Warm lips press against your skin in lazy kisses as your hands slide into his hair. His hands smooth up the backs of your thighs to grip your hips, anchoring you in place, and his mouth moves across your skin slow enough to make you dizzy.

“Do me a favour, babygirl,” he rumbles against you, thumb tracing the lace at your hip, light enough to make you shiver. “Give me a little spin, yeah?” The timbre of his voice has dropped somewhere sinful. “Want to see all of you.”

Your face flushes but you obey, turning in the circle of his thighs while his hand guides you. You feel his gaze like a physical touch, lingering on the curve of your ass where the lace cuts high, on the line of your spine, on the backs of your thighs.

“God, I missed this view,” he groans. “Come back here.”

When you complete the turn, both his hands reach for you, gripping your hips and pulling you forward into his lap in one smooth motion that steals your breath. You end up straddling him, thighs spread wide over his, the rough denim of his jeans against your bare skin. His mouth finds yours immediately, greedier this time, more demanding, tongue sliding against yours while his hands roam. Your waist, your back, your ass, mapping you like he's reminding himself of everything he's been missing.

One hand cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple through the lace until it peaks, and then he pinches lightly. You gasp into his mouth, hips grinding forward instinctively. 

“That's it,” he breathes. “Fuckin’ love the sounds you make. Love feeling you respond to me.”

His hips roll up slightly and the pressure against your clit makes your head fall back. He takes advantage immediately, mouth moving to your throat, beard scraping sensitive skin as he kisses and bites his way down to your collarbone.

“Ari—” Your hands fist in his hair, needing something to hold onto.

“I've got you baby.” His hands slide to your hips, guiding you into a rhythm, encouraging you to grind against him. “That's my girl, take what you need. Use me.”

So you do. Hips rolling, chasing the friction, grinding down against the thick ridge of him while his mouth stays greedy on your throat. His hands guide you, encourage you, grip harder when you hit the right angle. The lace between your thighs is soaked through, dragging against denim with every roll of your hips.

“Soaking these pretty panties,” he rasps against your collarbone, like he can feel exactly how wet you are through his jeans. “Love having you like this. Love watching you fall apart. All for me.”

The praise washes over you, warm and devastating. He's always been good at this - making you feel seen, special, like you're the only person in the world who matters. It's intoxicating and dangerous and you can feel yourself getting lost in it, in him.

Your hips are moving faster now, chasing more friction, and he matches your rhythm with slow, controlled rolls of his hips that drag against your clit through your panties and make your eyes flutter shut. Your lips part around a needy little sound you have absolutely no control over, hips stuttering forward greedily as your head tips back.

“Fuck, look at you. So beautiful when you're desperate for it.” His hand slides up to cup your face, thumb pressing against your parted lips and tilting your chin back down until you meet his eyes. They're dark, pupils blown wide, and the heat in them makes your breath stutter. “You have any idea what you do to me babygirl? How fucking crazy you make me?”

You want to believe him. Want to believe that this means something, that you're not just convenient and willing at 3 AM. But the wanting is what breaks you. His hips roll up and pleasure spikes through you sharp. You're so turned on it aches, so close to the edge already, and underneath all of it is the creeping, horrible feeling of wanting this to mean what it doesn't mean.

“My girl.” His mouth brushes yours as he says it, barely a kiss. The hand on your cheek slides into your hair as his hips keep moving. You can feel how hard he is, how much he wants this, wants you, and for a moment it's so easy to believe that wanting and choosing are the same thing.

“You'll always be my girl, won't you? You know that.”

The thing is, you do know. That's the problem. You know it in the way his name in your phone makes your stomach drop. In the way you put on the black lace without hesitating. In the way your body has been his since the first time he touched you and has never quite figured out how to belong to itself again. You know it in your bones.

But knowing you're his and knowing he's yours are two very different things. And only one of them is true.

The first tear slips free before you can stop it and you instinctively try to hide your face in his neck. Seeking his warmth, his scent and the solid size of him, because he has ruined you so thoroughly that even now, even like this, he’s what your body reaches for. He’s the reason you’re crying and he’s who you want to cry into and that’s the most pathetic part of it.

But his hand catches your face before you can, palm curving around your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks. Your lips pucker involuntarily into a helpless little pout, fresh tears spilling over his fingers as he forces you to look directly at him. 

“Oh baby,” he coos, soft and devastating and not entirely kind. His hips roll up and you whimper through the pout he’s forcing on your lips, grinding you against his erection in a rhythm that makes your body sing even as your heart splinters “What’s this? What’s going on in that pretty head?”

His thumb swipes at your tears almost lazily, eyes tracking each one with a toxic mix of heat and hunger and satisfaction barely concealed beneath concern. The humiliation and the pleasure coil into something indistinguishable from each other, and the need between your thighs deepens with every tear he collects.

“I cant do this anymore,” you manage, small and pathetic and entirely unconvincing. 

More tears follow, hot and wet against your cheeks. Beneath you he's harder than before, thick and obvious through his jeans, his free hand pressing your hips down into a rhythm you're helpless to resist. The friction drags a moan out of you that breaks halfway into a sob, messy and humiliating, and you're still pouty-lipped and crying in his palm. He watches it happen with those dark, greedy eyes before schooling his expression back into something that looks like concern. 

He tilts his head, blue eyes wide and earnest, and you feel insane. Like you've invented the problem out of thin air. “Where’s this coming from?”

The gentleness of his tone is pure performance. Like he has no idea why you'd be falling apart in his lap. Like he isn’t the architect of every wound he’s now pretending to care about. Like your tears aren’t exactly what he came here for.

“You know where.” You try to pull away but his hand tightens on your cheeks, keeping you seated firmly in his lap, keeping the thick ridge of his cock pressed right against your clit through the soaked lace.

“I really don't, baby.” His thumb swipes another tear, slow and unhurried, and his hips roll up just enough to make your breath catch mid-sob. “Talk to me. Let it all out.”

But you can't. Can't articulate the war happening inside you. The way your body is screaming yes while your heart is screaming no. Can't explain that you're furious and desperate and so far gone for him that the anger only makes you want him more.

More tears spill over and you watch his pupils dilate, watch his breath catch.

“We're done,” you finally say, the words muffled and graceless against the pout his fingers are still forcing on your lips. “I mean it this time.”

For a second he just stares at you, and then his expression shifts into something that makes your stomach drop. Not surprised - of course not - just entirely indulgent like you're a child throwing a tantrum.

“Aww, baby.” His voice goes soft, syrupy, as though he's talking you down from something small and silly. “Hey, hey. It's okay, good girl. Let it all out.”

“I'm serious—”

“Shh, I know. I know you are.” His thumb traces your bottom lip, wet and trembling, and his tongue drags slowly across his own like he's already thinking about tasting your tears. “You're upset. You've got all these big feelings and nowhere to put them, yeah? Go on baby, show me how much you're feeling right now, cry because it’s over.”

The patronizing tone makes you cry harder, which seems to be exactly what he wants. His eyes track each tear with rapt attention, that small smile playing at his mouth. Your face is still caught in his grip, bottom lip still protruding in that humiliating little pout, wobbling with each wet sob

He uses that grip on your face to pull you forward into his mouth before you can reply. The kiss is messy and wet and salty with your tears, his tongue licking into you like he's tasting the evidence of everything you feel for him, everything you just tried to end. You moan into it despite yourself and he swallows that too, hips rolling up beneath you slow and deliberate, keeping the rhythm, reminding your body what it wants even as your heart tries to want something else.

He pulls back only to drag his mouth across your cheek, your jaw, following the wet trails your tears have left behind. His tongue collects them one by one and the groan that rumbles out of him against your skin makes your thighs clench around his, as he keeps you pressed against the hard length of him that proves he's not taking any of this seriously.

“So fucking sweet,” he rasps, mouth moving to find more, greedy. “My pretty little crybaby.”

Once satiated with your tears, his hand finally releases your cheeks and you collapse forward immediately, face buried in the crook of his neck where you wanted to be ten minutes ago. Your arms loop weakly around his broad shoulders, breath ragged and wet, nose pressed into his skin. You're still crying - soft, hiccuping sobs you can't quite get a handle on - yet your hips continue to grind desperately against him because your body has clearly given up on listening to your better judgment.

His other hand slides down between your bodies, palm grazing your stomach, the lace at your hip, and then the soaked fabric between your thighs. The first brush of his fingers against the soaked lace makes you moan into his throat before you can stop yourself, hips bucking helplessly into the contact.

“Ari, I said—I ended it—” But your protest is weak and entirely unconvincing because the rest dissolves into a moan that you muffle desperately against his neck.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “You're drenched.” 

His fingers trace the wet fabric, and another wet moan escapes you as he presses against your clit. “See? Your body knows what it wants even if you're confused up here.” His thumb taps gently at your temple, patronising and tender all at once.

Pushing the lace aside, the first stroke of his thick fingers through your wetness makes you moan into his neck. He hums his approval into your hair before sinking two fingers into you in one slow stroke, and your whole body shudders.

“Ari, you're not listening,” you manage between ragged breaths, hips grinding down onto his hand despite every word coming out of your mouth. “I ended it. I told you I—” Another moan chokes off the sentence as he curls his fingers deeper, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit.

“I am listening, babygirl. I hear you,” he soothes, infuriatingly gentle. “You're very upset. Very hurt. And you're handling it by making a big declaration at four in the morning while you're sitting in my lap in that lace I bought you.” He keeps pumping his fingers into you as he talks, and your whole body jolts, hips grinding down into him. “While you're soaking my fingers and grinding on my cock.”

He works you slowly, deliberately, fingers curling with the kind of patience that feels like torture. Your protests dissolve into something more honest - desperate little whines against his neck, mewled into his neck because that's the only place you can hide. Your tears keep falling even as your hips chase his hand, even as your fingers claw at his shoulders, even as every coherent thought you had about ending this burns away to nothing.

“Please, please, please—”

You’re so close, desperately close, trembling on the edge of it when he pulls his fingers free. The sound you make is pathetic and defeated, and goes wilfully ignored. 

Ari brings those same fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan that vibrates through his chest. 

“Fuck, don't know what's sweeter, baby.” His eyes track between his fingers and your wet cheeks, dark and considering. “You or those pretty tears.”

He sucks them clean one more time like he can't help himself, then reaches down.

The zip of his jeans is the loudest sound in the room. He frees himself and an eager moan actually escapes you because god, his cock is so pretty. Thick and hard and flushed dark, the swollen head already glistening, a drop of precum sliding down to streak against your inner thigh.

The kind of cock that's ruined your standards permanently.

Those big hands close around your hips with that ease that always makes you feel like a doll he's positioning. And he uses every inch of those broad shoulders and corded forearms to drag your soaked pussy along the length of him without pushing in. Just sliding you over him, painting himself in your wet heat while the lace stays bunched to the side and you make needy little sounds against his throat.

The fat head of his cock catches your clit and you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Ari,” you whine, a desperate little plea. “Please.”

“Please what, babygirl?” His voice is pure honey, dark and indulgent. “Tell me what you need.”

“Need you to—” Another gasp as he catches your clit again. 

“Use your words, c’mon, know you can do it.” He guides your hips forward again, achingly slow, the thick head of him nudging against your entrance before he pulls you back. Not pushing in, just making sure you know exactly what you're begging for.

“Inside,” you sob against his neck. “Please, I need your cock Ari.”

“Hmm,” he teases, almost thoughtful as he tilts his head. His hands still on your hips, holding you hovering right there, right on the edge of it. “I would, baby. You know I would.” He pauses, and you feel your heart drop into your stomach. His thumb strokes your hip in possessive circles. “But I thought you ended it. Thought you meant it this time.”

Your face snaps up to his, panic and need crashing into each other behind your eyes.

“Ari, please, no—I need you, I need—”

“Aww.” His voice softens, faux-tender, that infuriating little crease appearing between his brows. “Baby, no, I'm just doing what you asked me to do. It’s over, right? We’re done. That's what you said.” He drags you slowly over him again and the head of his cock catches your clit and you sob, fresh tears spilling hot down your cheeks. “Wouldn't want to take advantage.”

“I didn't mean it.” The words tumble out of you in a desperate rush, choked and wet and humiliating. “Ari I didn't mean it, I'm sorry, please, please I'm sorry—” You kiss him before he can answer, messy and needy, lips chasing his, hands fisting in his shirt to keep him close. “Please, I need you, I need it, please don't stop—”

You feel his cock twitch against your folds. Hot and obvious. A pulse of want he can't hide. He hums against your mouth, low and pleased, and you can feel him smiling.

“Shhh,” he breathes against your lips between kisses, voice dropping to something dark and pleased. “Look at you. Crying and begging and apologising. So fucking pretty when you're like this. Gone all dumb for my cock, haven't you?”

He drags you over him again, slow and torturous, the slick head of him catching your clit and making you whine.

“Yes,” The word falls out of you broken and grateful. “Yes, please, Ari—”

“Yeah?” His mouth moves against yours, almost amused. “You want me to take care of you? Even after you tried to end it?” Another devastating drag. “Even after you broke my heart?”

“Please, I'm yours, please—” Your hips are still chasing him, still desperate, every word collapsing into the next.

“Okay, baby. Okay.” His tone is generous now. Magnanimous, like he's bestowing something. “I'll give it to you because that's what I do, isn't it? I take care of my girl.” His hand slides to grip the base of his cock, the other tightening on your hip. “This is why you're mine, crying so pretty for my cock.”

He lines the thick, swollen head of his cock up at your entrance, and guides you down with his hand on your hip. The first inch of him has your eyes rolling back already, stretching you open with that familiar fullness that your body has been craving for two weeks.

“Shit, baby,” he groans, head tipping back briefly. “Tightest little cunt I've ever felt. Made for me, isn't it?”

You try to chase his mouth, desperate to keep kissing him, but your jaw won't cooperate. Instead, it keeps falling slack with every inch you take, lips parting uselessly around the moans pouring out of you. By the time you're fully seated your forehead is resting against his, your mouth hanging open against his lips.

“Dumb already,” he rumbles, watching your face with dark amusement, watching your wet, glassy eyes blink slowly back at him. “What am I going to do with you, baby?” His thumb finds your bottom lip, slipping into your open mouth and pressing down on your tongue. “Suck. Good girl. Keep that mouth occupied.”

You close your lips around his thumb obediently, sucking, eyes fluttering shut around the dual fullness of him in your mouth and inside you. His hips give a small, lazy roll beneath you and you whimper around his fingers.

“Go on, show me how much my little crybaby needed this.”

You find your rhythm slowly, hips rolling, chasing the friction, thighs burning with the effort of it. Ari watches you from beneath heavy lids, enjoying every second of making you work for it - not helping, not even a little. Just watching you ride him like you’re entertainment, thumb still pressed to your tongue, free hand coming up to pop the clasp of your bra like he has all the time in the world.

It falls away and his hand cups your breast immediately, squeezing, thumb dragging over your nipple before pinching it sharply. You whimper around his thumb, drool clinging to his knuckle, trailing down your chin in thin little strings.

He pinches harder and you clench around him hard enough to make him hiss, so he does it again just to feel you grip him. You're close. So desperately close you can feel it shimmering just out of reach, coiling tight in your belly with every roll of your hips. Soft whining sounds escape around his thumb with every breath.

“You getting close, baby? Want to cum?”

You nod frantically, eyes wet and pleading, drool slipping down his hand. A thin string of it pulls from your lips as you try to form the word yes.

“Then beg for it,” he purrs, lazy and mean. “You want it so bad? Let's hear it.”

You try. You really try - tongue working uselessly around his thumb, shaping syllables as best you can. What escapes is something that vaguely resembles please, mangled by saliva and his cruel pressure on your tongue, deliberately obstructing the attempt.

His grin is slow and wolfish. “That supposed to be begging?”

A desperate whine vibrates against his thumb. He presses it deeper in response, just to feel you gag, just to watch your lips stretch wider around him, and your eyes well with fresh tears.

“Nah.” His mouth drags to your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Not good enough, babygirl. All I hear is spit and nonsense.” His free hand drops between your bodies, fingers brushing your clit - just a mean, fleeting touch - and you sob desperately. “Drooling all over my fingers like a needy little thing. Can't even beg right - guess you don't want it that bad, huh?”

A pathetic cry claws its way out of you, half-strangled by the thumb still in your mouth. You shake your head wildly, eyes glassy and wide. So you try harder. Put everything you have left into it, hips still rolling desperately, thighs shaking.

“P-plea'—Ari—please—wan'—wan'—cum—”

Slurred, barely English, mangled around his thumb. But desperate. Unmistakably desperate.

He groans - deep, hungry and satisfied - hips finally snapping up to meet yours. He drags his thumb from your mouth just long enough to hear the broken sob of relief that breaks loose from your lips before his mouth crashes against yours.

“Good girl,” he breathes against your tongue. “Fucking good girl.”

He fucks up into you hard, one big hand gripping the curve of your ass to slam you down to meet every thrust. The other stays between you to circle you clit with perfect pressure. Every snap of his hips hits you so deep you can feel it in your teeth. The sound of it is filthy, slick and wet and rhythmic, your apartment filled with the obscene slap of skin and your broken, mindless cries.

“Fuckin' look at you,” he growls against your jaw. “That’s my fucking girl, riding my cock so pretty.”

You can't answer. Can barely hold yourself upright. His name is the only word left in your mouth—Ari Ari Ari Ari—a desperate, broken loop as he drives into you.

“That's right.” His thumb works your clit faster, mouth dragging across your jaw. “Say it. Whose are you? Whose pussy is this?”

“Ari—” you moan. “Ari, Ari, Ari—”

“Yeah, that's right. Mine, so let me feel my pussy soak my cock.”

You break apart. Your whole body convulses, walls clamping down around him so hard he hisses, the orgasm tearing through you in wave after wave while his hips never stop, never slow. His name is still falling helplessly out of your mouth in a broken chant as he fucks you through it, hips snapping up into you while you sob and shake and clench around him.

“Fuck—fuck, baby, just like that—strangling my cock.”

His rhythm goes sloppier. Hungrier. His hand leaves your clit and his arm wraps around your waist instead, holding you against him, pinning you in place so he can fuck up into you with everything he has left.

“Gonna fill you up, baby. Fill this perfect pussy with my cum.”

You nod helplessly, squeezing around him and he loses it. His hips drive up one last time, burying himself deep, and groans against your skin as he spills inside you. You feel every pulse of it. Every hot, possessive flood while you tremble in his lap, his cock still twitching, his hand still gripping your ass like he can't quite let go.

You come down slowly, in pieces, his arms still locked around you and his cock still buried deep. His mouth moves over your throat, your jaw, your tear-tracked cheeks. Soft, sweet kisses that are a complete contrast to what he just did to you.

“My perfect girl,” he murmurs, voice gentle and warm. “Always so good for me. Always so fucking perfect.”

You can't even respond. Just whimper against his shoulder while his hand strokes up and down your spine, gentling you, his other hand cradling the back of your head. You're floating somewhere between exhaustion and bliss, and he holds you through all of it, patient and warm and impossibly tender. 

Praise pours out of him in a low, constant stream, and you let yourself sink into it, let yourself believe in it, just for a minute.

When he finally pulls out you feel his cum start to slip out of you immediately. Hot and slick, sliding down between your thighs onto the warm wet head of him still pressed against you. He glances down and tuts, both amused and disapproving.

“Mm. Look at the mess you're making, baby.” His thumb catches some of it where it's beading on his cock and brings it back up to your bottom lip, smearing it there, watching your face. Your tongue darts out before you've made any conscious decision about it. He hums, deeply pleased. “You made the mess, reckon you ought to help clean it up.”

He guides you off his lap slowly, careful with you, until your knees meet the floor between his spread thighs. You look up at him from there - face wet, lips parted, cum running down the insides of your thighs onto your apartment floor - and the expression on his face stops your breath in your chest.

That undone, almost tender expression he never wears anywhere but here. Only ever when he thinks you can't tell, when his guard has slipped, when you've fucked him past the point where he can keep the walls up.

It's the drug. It's always been the drug. It's why you didn't block his number when you said you would. Why you opened the door at 3:32 AM. Why you let him talk you out of ending it without ever actually arguing. Why you'll do the same thing the next time, and the time after that, and the time after that. Because no one else has ever looked at you the way Ari Levinson looks at you right now.

His thumb traces your bottom lip, possessive yet tender. “Open up, babygirl.”

more mads: honestly, i'm not entirely sure that's what the request meant, but i started listening to "don't smile" to get inspo for the fic and my mind immediately went to dacryphilia and that was it really, so um, sorry if this isn't what you meant anon, but i hope you, and anyone else who read this enjoyed anyway!! if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make my whole day. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33 <33

Bucky hurried over to you and wrapped his thick arms around you. He was squishing you against his chest, but you didn’t mind. His fingers threaded through your hair, and he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. You broke the silence and checked in with him.

“You okay, honey?”

“Better now.”

Despite his comment being cheesy, it did its job in making you smile, and you ran your hand along the edge of his suit jacket. Seeing him all dressed up like this was always a treat. You could tell that Bucky was itching to get out of it, though. He shifted on his feet, and you teased him lightly.

“Are you that eager to get changed?”

“Yes, sweetheart. This suit is stuffy, and I’m all sweaty.”

It was no secret that Bucky got sweaty when he was nervous, and it was always amusing. You laughed softly and started helping him out of his suit. He kept resting his weary head on your shoulder, which made it a little hard to get around, but you let him. Once the jacket was off, you started to unbutton his dress shirt, and you took a moment to admire his sculpted torso. Your ogling didn’t go unnoticed, and he got a little cocky.

“Oh, you like that?”

Rolling your eyes at the sudden inflation of Bucky’s ego, you finished your task, and he was bare from the waist up. Your husband’s physique never failed to impress you. He’d been working out even more lately and it showed. You huffed and undid the clasp of his pants.

“You’re being cocky again, Barnes.”

“You always make me feel so good, sweetheart. Can’t blame me for letting it get to my head.”

“Alright, big guy. You need a shower.”

“You’re coming with me, right?”

You knew that it wasn’t going to be a simple cleansing shower with Bucky, but he’d been working so hard lately. Helping him find a release was the least that you could do. Besides, you weren’t going to pass up the opportunity to be fucked by your man. You pretended to be put out and groaned softly.

“Fine, I guess I can join you.”

“That’s my girl. C’mon.”

Dressed in only his boxers, Bucky picked you up in one swift motion and carried you toward the master bathroom. His excitement was evident in the way that he was practically bouncing down the hall. As he entered the bathroom, he double-checked that Alpine wasn’t in there and shut the door. The kitten had recently taken up the hobby of playing in the sink and hiding in between the shower curtains. Thankfully, she was elsewhere in the apartment.

Bucky turned back to you and carefully set you down. You’d been lounging in a slip dress and no panties, so there were minimal layers for him to take off. He slowly stripped you of your clothes and stepped back to look you over. Damn, he was lucky. His voice was almost awestruck when complimented you.

“You’re so beautiful, you know that?”

“Thank you, baby. You look real good, too.”

Seeing the way that you were looking at him, Bucky’s face tinged pink and he scoffed a little. He loved giving you compliments, but he was the master at deflection when you turned it around on him. Now, it was his opportunity to do just that. He dropped his boxers before hoisting you back into his arms and dragging you into the shower.

He turned the faucet handle and steaming hot water filled the space. The water cascaded down your back as his hands roamed the expanse of your skin. Bucky’s voice was gruff when he spoke again.

“Turn around and put your hands on the tile.”

“What happened to getting clean?”

“Fuck that. We’ll wash up when I’m finished with you.”

Realizing that this was a command and not a question, you instantly obliged. You turned around and pressed your palms flat on the tile wall. Bucky anchored his hands on your hips and shifted so that you could feel his hard length pressing against your ass. His lips were moving against the side of your neck and leaving small marks on your skin. You were getting needy and impatient, so you rubbed against him. That earned a sharp smack to your right ass cheek and you yelped.

“Jesus. What was that for?”

“You’re getting impatient. You need more, huh?”

“Yes, please. Please.”

The desperation was dripping from your voice, and it made Bucky feel unbearably hard. His lips traveled down to your shoulder and he left another small hickey. You fought the urge to grind against him again and exhaled deeply. He placed a softer kiss to one of the bruises and nodded in satisfaction.

“I’ve got you, baby. Be ready for me.”

Responding to your eager nodding, Bucky aligned himself with your entrance and gave you a second to brace yourself. He then harshly buried his cock inside of you, and you cried out at the sudden intrusion. Low grunts slipped past his lips, and his breathing was heavy in your ear. The way that he slowly stretched your walls was dizzying.

You whined and exhaled shakily as he continued driving into you. The sex might’ve been rough, but Bucky wasn’t being overly aggressive. He never was. Between ragged pants, he continued kissing your neck and murmuring praise.

“Taking me so damn good, sweetheart. You close? Tell me when.”

“Mhm. Fuck, James, I’m close.”

“Let go, baby.”

As the orgasm knocked into you, your knees started to buckle and your husband kept you upright. He rocked into you a few more times until he reached his own euphoria and spilled inside of you. Resting his forehead on your shoulder, he moaned your name and filled you completely.

Once the two of you had recovered in tandem, Bucky brushed some wet hair off of your back and steadied his breathing. He was still holding you up and making sure that you didn’t end up on the shower floor. His voice was wrecked when he spoke up.

“God, you have no clue how much I needed that. Thank you, sweet girl.”

“Glad that I could help.”

Your voice was equally ruined, and it made Bucky want to fall apart all over again. Even though he wanted to stay inside of you forever, he knew that you were both exhausted, and he wanted to get you into bed. He pulled out and laughed softly when you whined.

“You’re a needy little thing, aren’t you?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Laughing softly, Bucky shook his head and gave your ass another light smack. You could be such a brat, but he’d assumed that he’d fucked the attitude out of you. Apparently not.

“How do you still have an attitude after that?”

“It’s terminal.”

“Okay, you’ve got jokes tonight.”

After teasing you again, he stepped away and grabbed a nearby wash cloth. Bucky poured your favorite body soap onto it and started scrubbing you down. His movements were slow and reverent in nature. He took his time to admire the love bites that he’d left on your skin and smiled at the sight. He’d never admit it, but your husband could be a possessive bastard. Having a physical reminder of the fact that you were his caused a sense of pride to bloom in his chest.

While Bucky washed your body, you focused on relaxing and enjoying the aftershocks of your pleasure. All of the tension had drained from your body, and you were pliable against him. The moment that he was finished washing you, you spun around and started taking care of him. He melted into your touch and mumbled his thanks.

“Thank you, baby.”

“Of course. Just rest for a moment.”

You worked shampoo into his scalp and used the pads of your fingers to wash away any built up hair product from his press hearing. He’d started greasing his hair back, and it could be a pain in the ass to get out. Bucky relished in your gentleness and the way that you cared for him. He was a fair bit taller than you were, so it took some maneuvering to be able to properly clean him. You got the job done, though. Seeing that you were finished, he pressed a kiss to your forehead and took your smaller hand in his.

“Let’s get you to bed, darlin’.”

Bucky Barnes Taglist: @sunday-bug @onyx8514-blog @death-in-a-tar0t-card @mandoloriancookie @wonwoostuffs @stayonmars @ruebeee

Bucky's eyes widened slightly, and his cheeks immediately turned pink. You had always spoken your mind and weren't shy when it came to talking about sex, but it got to him every time. He took a shaky breath and shook his head.

“You're something else, y'know that? It's not fair to say shit like that when you're all the way back home.”

“God, I cannot wait for you to be back. I'm pretty sure that my vibrator will be burnt out by the end of the week.” You were unable to stop yourself from teasing him further, so you kept pushing. Your smile kept growing. It was always fun to watch him squirm.

Letting out a frustrated groan, Bucky ran a hand through his hair. He checked his watch and tried to calm himself. Unfortunately, his body didn't get the memo and his dick quickly grew hard.

“Baby, you're killing me here. I've got a meeting with a new sponsor in a few minutes.”

“You're getting worked up, aren't you? We could always work one out quickly. Might help you focus on your meeting.”

You were also eager to find your release, and you pressed your thighs together. You hated it when he had to travel for business. The two of you both had high sex drives, and being apart felt like torture.

“It's unfair that you're not here in person. God, I need you.” His face was flushed, and he adjusted his slacks in a vain attempt to conceal the tent forming in his pants.

“I wish I were there, baby. You have no clue.”

You couldn't take it anymore, and you slipped a hand past the waistband of your sweatpants. There was no point in being subtle - you both knew what you were about to do. You made sure that Bucky had a clear view of your body.

His eyes went wide again, and he leaned closer to the computer screen so that he could see what exactly you were carrying out. He realized what was happening on the other side of the call, and a whimper escaped his lips. His breath hitched, and the strain against his boxers was almost painful.

“Goddamn, baby. You are not playing fair.”

“I've never pretended to be a nice person. Keep talking.”

You had taken off your pants and underwear. Two of your fingers were pressed against your core and they were rubbing slow circles on your clit. You were trying to take your time, but it was quite an effort. Your face felt warm, and your chest was moving quickly.

The way that you were talking to him and the look on your face only served to turn him on more. Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to get comfortable. You were not making this easy on him. He watched you intently, and his eyes were filled with adoration. His baby was so fucking perfect.

“You look so good, my love.”

“You like when I'm all worked up for you, huh?”

He whined softly and nodded eagerly. Bucky loved seeing you like this and it was killing him that it wasn't his fingers pumping into your pretty pussy. Tired of holding back, he unbuttoned his jeans and looked at you pleadingly. He wasn't usually this submissive, but he was so needy.

'Mhm. So pretty. Can I join you, please? I have time.”

As soon as Bucky spoke with that breathy tone, you let out a low groan and moved your fingers quicker. “Go ahead, baby. Thank you for asking.”

He let out a choked sound of relief and fervently worked his pants towards his knees. Bucky's hard cock sprung from his boxers and he mirrored his girl's actions by slowly stroking his length. He bit down on his bottom lip and took a deep breath through his nose, so that his noises were somewhat muffled. He was desperate, but the last thing that he needed was a noise complaint from the neighboring hotel room. Wanting you to be able to see what he was about to do, he scooted the chair back a bit and made sure that he was in frame.

“Thank you, sweetheart. Can you see me alright?”

Focusing your gaze back on the screen, you nodded and slowed your movements again. You were getting close, but you didn't want to come before he did. “I can see you. You look so pretty, sweet boy.”

Bucky whimpered again, and the flush across his cheeks grew darker. Leave it to you to make him blush like a fucking schoolboy. His hand started to pump faster, and his breath was coming out in small gasps.

“Baby, I miss you so much.”

Wanting to reach your peak a little faster, you switched your movements and started moving your fingers up and down against your swollen bud. You were trying to be quiet, but it was becoming more difficult.

“I wish you were here, James. You're always so good for me.”

That was almost enough to send him over the edge, and he gasped softly as he got closer. “Fuck. Baby, keep talking like that, please.”

“You like hearing that you're a good boy?” Your voice held a slight rasp, and it was obvious that you were right there with him. It would only be a matter of time before you came.

It was too much, and Bucky knew that he was seconds away from bursting. His stomach felt coiled tight, and his skin was hot. “Can I come? Please. I've been real good, baby.”

“You've been so good, pretty boy. Let go for me.”

That was all it took, and Bucky cried out as his body convulsed slightly. He had made a mess of his lap, but he was too far gone to care. His head lolled back lazily against the desk chair, and his chest heaved.

Seeing your man fall apart like that was enough to push you over the edge, and your orgasm quickly followed. Your legs trembled, and you kept touching yourself in languid movements. You were trying to prolong this high for as long as you could. The two of you sat like that for a few more minutes, recovering in tandem. Bucky's meeting was long forgotten.

You spot him before anyone has a chance to warn you—your heart giving a traitorous flip and your eyes welling up with tears involuntarily.

Steve’s heart leaps into his throat when he spots you.

Suddenly, he has no idea why he’s come here.

“Hi.”

You bite down on your lip to stop it from wobbling.

“Hi. What are you doing here?”

“I just wanted to talk, to see you. Can we—” He tries to guide you to the side of the room, but you don’t budge.

“There’s nothing to talk about. I’m working.” You need him to leave, need the lump in your throat to stop rising before you completely fall apart.

“I just— sweetheart please— I miss you— just five minutes please, m’begging.”

“What do you want Steve?”

“I don’t— I don’t know— I want— I wanted you to…” He trails off, his stupid puppy dog eyes meeting yours and it takes everything in you to not cradle his face in your hands and wipe the tears about to fall.

“I know. I know you wanted me to stay, but you don’t get it Steve, I needed to move.”

You loved him. You love him. Of course you do. How could you not? Steve was everything you could’ve dreamed of — attentive, protective, and loyal to a fault.

But you needed more from your life than being Captain America’s girlfriend. And being in New York meant you’d always be just that.

So you left.

And Steve — well Steve would always put his duty above everything else. His duty to the city, to the Avengers — never mind his duty to you.

So he watched you leave—taking his heart with you, dripping all the love you’d poured into it right onto the floor of your shared apartment.

“I just—sometimes I can't believe how i got this, y'know. You, the kids.”

“You deserve every bit of it bucky. You’ve fought death to keep it” you reminded.

He shook his head at the memory. Even after all these years the memory of titanic was fresh in your mind like a wound you got yesterday.

Somehow it was both the most tragic yet the most magical experience of your life. It had changed your lives in a way that if you were to remove it from the evnets your life you could say with surety that your life would have been miserable.

You would have had to live out your days as john walker’s wife, which to him was synonymous to ‘his puppet’ The last you knew he was getting divorced after being sued by his wife’s father for domestic violence against her.

According to the newspapers, he had entered a marriage of convinience contract with the daughter of a wealthy businessman to fuel his dying business. And apparently his business was flourishing unlike his reputation.

You winced slightly as the baby moved inside your belly. Hand going on top of your bump instinctively.

“Little one giving you trouble?” Bucky asked, leaning forward to rest against the hand on top of your swollen belly.

“He's been moving non-stop. Didn't let me get any sleep last night” He clicked his tongue in disapproval before resting his head on your belly. Your fingers immediately finding their place in his hair.

“You being naughty, peanut?” He questioned “You don't bother your mama or I'll give you a good lesson when you come out” he warned but there was no heat in his words, if anything he was smiling.

“Hey! Nobody threatens my kid” you feigned anger and he put his hands up in surrender making you giggle.

He looked so good like this. All wide smiles and teasing comments and all yours. It was in moments like these that made you think boarding that ship was the best decision you ever made.

Because if it wasn't for that, you wouldn't have this. And it wasn't like you hadn't paid the price for it.

You had.

You couldn't go to pools or lakes now. Couldn't sleep in complete darkness. Couldn't shower in cold water even in summer.

Bucky had lost his arm. Undoubtedly the metal arm he had now was fully functional but it still wasn't real. Nightmares had plagued his days for years after the incident.

He still couldn't sleep through the nights most days without feeling like he's drowning.

It had taken a lot of courage and a lot of tears for you both to arrive at a place like this where you both were comfortable and content with the life you were building.

“We're naming this one James” you said suddenly, as the memories of past refreshed the conversation you had on the deck of the unsinkable.

He raised an eyebrow “No we’re not”

“Yes we are. Remember I told you I wanna name one of them James?” you reminded.

You saw recognition flash across his face before a teasing smile replaced it “If we do that then we're naming the next one after you”

“No we're not” you blurted out instantly, horrified for no apparent reason.

“Oh now you’re saying no” he smirked

You smiled despite yourself. “You're evil”

“And you're still married to me.”

You threw a pillow at him, he catched it swiftly resting it in his lap before leaning in slightly.

No sooner had his lips brushed yours when you heard a loud shriek from down the hall. “I’m awakeee”

“And the gremlin awakens” he sighed against your mouth.

“Daddyyy” seven year old juniper launched herself at her father, the moment he was in her line of sight.

Bucky caught her with a grunt “What's got you so excited junebug?”

“Daddy did you forget?” She looked scandalized “Auntie Nat is coming tonight.”

Auntie Nat was the kids favourite person to be around. She visited you every time she was in town. Which wasn't as often as the kids would like so they got very excited when she was around.

“I’m soooo excited. I'll show her all my new dolls and daddy we can also tell her about the tomatoes” juniper was really proud of the tomatoes her and bucky had grown in the garden.

She barely let her younger brother wander around them, afraid he'd pluck one or two. Which was unlikely because Steve was the calmer one of the two.

“Oh yeah?” Bucky raised a brow

“Yes and mama we can make the apple pie like we did last time”

She contributed absolutely nothing the last time you made apple pie for Bucky’s birthday. Her only service to you was that she managed to keep it a secret until the evening.

“We should definitely do that” you agreed, knowing now wasn't the time she'd take a no. If you denied, she would somehow coerce bucky into making it.

“A little easy there on mama, honey. She's a little tired today.” Bucky interjected calmly “Your brother has been a menace all night. He certainly takes after you” he flicked her nose making her giggle.

She was definitely one of the naughtier children and a harder pregnancy. Where Steve was calm and let you sleep through the night. Juniper was hell bent on making you pee yourself every time you tried to lay down.

Bucky always teases her about it. That she has been naughty since the very beginning of her existence and for some reason juniper finds it very funny. She prides in being the naughty kid.

There was one time she tried to swallow a bottle cap at three years old and you remember telling bucky “Girls are supposed to be less naughty”

He had just laughed “Well, what do you expect, doll? She's my kid. Of course she's the most mischievous of them all.”

And that was the whole point, wasn't it? That you were able to give your kids the childhood you never had.

You would always take pride in the fact that the greatest gift you gave your kids wasn't bringing them into this world but that you gave them bucky barnes as their dad.

Where you didn't have the freedom to even choose what you could wear or how you could laugh, your daughter sprinted around in your backyard wearing the same comfortable clothes as her brother did.

Where the girls out there still weren't allowed to make their own decisions, your daughter had somehow convinced bucky into putting her in a karate class.

Where her friends came to school in tight braids and uncomfortable ponytails she had asked bucky for a pixie cut one summer and bucky had happily cut her hair himself.

“She's so much like me” he had said one day watching her from the porch as she carried a water hose across the yard to drench her brother in the spray.

And that was the thing. Maybe people talked behind your backs about how your girl is too loud for a woman. And maybe people commented on bucky saying he's a bad parent because how could he give so much freedom to his daughter?

But the truth was that the freedom wasn't his to give. And it was probably the best thing about him that he was so painfully reverent. So focused on being the father you never had that he never surrendered himself to the stereotypes. Never taught your kids that girls were supposed to act a certain way or wear certain clothes.

He let children be children. You knew for sure that if your daughter was going through a tomboy phase he'll buy her all the punk rock CDs she wanted. And if someday she wanted to try being feminine, he'll take her to shop for dresses himself.

But how she should act or be wasn't his to decide.

“Mama” A tiny voice tore you out of your train of thoughts. You looked down to see Steve standing on front of you with his hands tucked behind his back, clearly hiding something as he shifted nervously on his two feet.

“What is it honey?” You crouched a little so he could reach you better.

He looked at his dad, nervous and flushed. Bucky nodded with a smile and he shyly pulled his hands from behind his back to reveal the cutest, tiniest bouquet of wildflowers you had ever seen.

You could see the effort immediately. The mud on his fingers, the carefully picked stems and the way he bundled them together with a string so they wouldn't fall apart.

“Oh my goodness!” You exclaimed “That is so beautiful. Thank you so much stevie” you picked him up, resting his weight on your side and kissing his cheeks until he squirmed away.

“Do you like it?” He asked shyly

“I love it so much baby. You're my little gentleman, aren't you? Bringing the most adorable bouquets for mama”

He hid his face in your neck at that. Bashful. You ruffled his hair, chuckling.

Bucky's eyes met yours then, they talked something about how happy he's to have this life with you. Yours replied in earnest, telling him how grateful you were.

What else could you have asked from life? A loving partner, a home you built with so much love and care, kids to play in the very home, making it even more alive.

You had everything.

Perhaps you weren't rich like before. Far from it. But only if richness was calculated on the measure of money. If the meausre of wealth was love, you might as well be the richest of them all.

Dividers by @diviniyae

Tag list : @redstarleftarm, @sweetserendipity65, @sambuckystony, @nymphhbabiee, @darlingdenise, @venigrantrogers, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @bstan01, @phoenix-in-writing, @singulartoast, @danerb67, @onyx8514, @globetrotter28, @buckysdecaflove, @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog, @herejustforbuckybarnes, @v33mustdie, @star-yawnznn

The cold air of the Atlantic bit at your skin as you stepped onto the deck.

It slipped beneath the thin fabric of your dress and wrapped around your bruised skin like icy fingers. The night air of the ocean was sharp enough to sting but you welcomed it. It was the first honest feeling you’d had all evening.

Inside, the music still floated faintly through the ship—laughter, clinking glasses, polished shoes gliding across marble floors. The grand world of the first class cabins glittered like something unreal.

Out here, the cold was real.

Your hand curled around the railing as you walked, the metal biting against your palm.

You didn’t even notice the ache in your ribs when you breathed too deeply. You were used to that kind of pain now. The dull throbbing beneath the silk sleeves. The fingerprints blooming purple and blue along your arms.

Your fingers traced your lips gently, You could feel the bruise forming. The makeup must have chipped away by now, the blue of it showing clearly in the glow of the ballroom lights.

The thought passes through your mind like a wave hitting the bow of the ship. You let it splatter away like water. Willing yourself not to care.

The man who adorned you with such grisly marks, didn’t care if it hurt. The mother who asked you to compromise, didn’t care if it stung. The friends who saw the evidence but remained silent, didn’t care if this was your life.

So why must you care?

There’s a burn behind your eyes. But the tears don’t fall. They refuse to, now. After all the times the tears fell, and went unnoticed, they have made their dejection known.

There’s an ache in your skull, that denies to make itself known. There’s a lump in your throat, that abstains the words from flowing out.

So you just stared wordlessly, into the darkness.

The ocean stretched endlessly ahead, black and restless beneath the moonlight. It looked peaceful from far away.

You climbed the railing slowly.

The metal was slick with frost as you lifted one foot up, gripping tightly with your numb fingers. The wind tugged at your hair, whipping strands across your face as the ship carved through the water beneath you.

For the first time in what felt like years, your chest filled with something close to relief. No expectations. No suffocating rooms. No dominating hands. No one watching you. Just the wind, the sea… and the quiet promise of freedom waiting below.

You balanced carefully on the railing, your toes gripping the narrow bar, dress fluttering wildly in the wind. The cold air burned in your lungs, but you leaned forward slightly, staring down at the dark water rushing past.

One step. A little courage. That was all it would take.

You could surrender yourself to the cold, to the waves below, to the loving embrace of mother nature, and put an end to your misery.

Your eyes closed themselves, body leaning forward before your mind caught up and alarmed you with the consequences. Just a little more. Just…..

“Careful there. The water must be cold at this hour.” The voice startled you. Body jolting in surprise as you gripped the railing harder for balance. You didn’t turn around to see who it was “Go away” your voice came out shaking.

The ocean roared beneath you.

“Ma'am” he tried again, softer this time, breath fogging in the cold “If you jump, I’m gonna have to jump in after you”

You turned around just enough to glare at the man. But the sight of him knocked the breath out of your lungs.

The man standing a few steps behind you looked entirely out of place against the dark ocean and freezing wind.

A soldier.

The sharp lines of a sergeant’s uniform caught the moonlight, the dark wool coat buttoned neatly despite the cold. The brass buttons glinted faintly, the insignia on his sleeve unmistakable even from where you stood. The wind tugged at his hair, a little longer than regulation perhaps, dark strands falling across his forehead.

He looked… warm. Kind. Real in a way the polished men in the dining hall never were. Your eyes drifted up before you could stop yourself and then they stopped.

His face. Strong jaw dusted with stubble, lips curved slightly like he already knew something you didn’t. But it was his eyes that held you—light in the moonlight, sharp and focused entirely on you. Watching you with a strange mixture of caution and curiosity.

You realized, dimly, that you had been staring at him for far too long. His mouth curved slowly to one side.

“Well now,” he said, voice warm and rough with a Brooklyn drawl softened by the wind. “That’s a first.”

You blinked. “What is?”

“Usually when a lady’s standing on the railing of a ship in the middle of the Atlantic,” he replied easily, taking one slow step closer, “she’s not lookin’ at me like she’s deciding whether I’m worth interruptin’ the evening for.”

Your fingers tightened around the cold metal bar. “I wasn’t—”

“Because I gotta tell you,” he continued, strolling another step closer like the situation was nothing more serious than a late-night conversation, “I’ve had women look at me plenty of ways before. Annoyed. Amused. Once or twice impressed.”

His eyes flicked deliberately up and down your figure before settling back on your face again. “But that?” he said with a soft chuckle. “That’s a new one.”

“What do you mean?” Your brows furrowed

“The thoughtful look” He cleared “What's that about?” He leaned closer, like asking for a secret “What are you thinking?”

“None of your business” you attempted, but the bite in your voice was swallowed in the cold wind around you.

“Certainly not.” He agreed “But if I'm about to watch a young lady, and a very beautiful one at that, hurl herself into the cold waters of the Atlantic, Only to get mauled by the sharks and die of hypothermia, I guess it becomes some of my business”

“Who tells you I'm not getting mauled by sharks here.” You confessed, voice shaking, as your chest constricted at the agony you tried to swallow down.

His eyes softened, understanding rising beneath the concern. Its only then that he took in the the blue of your lips, the green on your arm, the slight limp in your foot.

He winced, the woman in front of him was the epitome of beauty to him by all means. Her skin glowing in the faint glimmers of moonlight.

Face bright but shadowed by something he recognised as torment. His heart gave a lurch. The only marks on the skin of a woman like this, should be of love. Of passion.

The only expression on her face should be of joy. Of glee. Not the raging dilemma of whether to suffer through or to end it.

“Well,” he tried slowly, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t jump.”

You blinked at him, confused. “And if I do?”

He didn’t need time to consider that. He just shrugged, the answer clear as day in his head. “Well,” he said, “then I gotta jump in after you.”

Your brows drew together. “Why would you do that?”

He gestured vaguely toward the ocean. “Because if I stand here and watch a lady go over the side, someone’s gonna say Sergeant Barnes should’ve done something about it.”

You stared at him. “And that’s the only reason?”

He grinned slightly. “Well,” he admitted, “that and the fact I don’t much like the idea of you freezing to death down there.”

“I wasn't gonna jump” you lied. Still standing on the ship’ stern, gripping the railing for dear life, you lied. You didn't know why. Just something about him made you want to say that.

“That’s a relief,” he replied, sounding entirely unconvinced. “Here I was thinking I’d interrupted something important.”

His gaze drifted casually over the dark ocean below your feet. Black water surged alongside the ship, endless and merciless beneath the moonlight.

He let out a low whistle. “Hell of a view you've picked.” The waves roared past the hull, distant and cold and final.

Your stomach twisted. “It’s quiet,” you murmured.

“Quiet?” he repeated.

“Yes.”

He huffed out a short laugh. “Lady, that water down there is about thirty degrees and meaner than a pack of alley cats,” he said. “Quiet ain’t the word I’d use.”

You glanced back at him. “Then what word would you use?”

He tilted his head, studying you more carefully now. “Cold,” he said. Another step closer. “Lonely.” The wind blew harder across the deck. “And permanent.”

Your breath caught in your throat. The wind whipped your dress around your legs as you tried very hard not to notice how close he was getting.

He was only a few feet away. You could see the faint scar along his jaw. The steady rise and fall of his chest as the cold air fogged his breath.

“You seem awfully calm about this,” you said.

“Oh I’m not calm,” he replied lightly.

“You’re not?”

“No ma’am,” he said. “I’m just buying time.”

You frowned. “For what?”

“For you to keep lookin’ at me like that,” he said, voice turning teasing again, “instead of lookin’ down.”

You rolled your eyes and turned your head away from him feigning annoyance—And that was the moment he moved.

One strong arm shot forward, wrapping firmly around your waist. And before you could even gasp, he pulled you backward off the railing.

Your feet left the metal bar and suddenly you were stumbling against solid deck again, the world tilting as you crashed straight into him.

His other hand steadied your arm, holding you firmly against his chest until you regained your balance.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The wind rushed across the deck, louder now that your feet were firmly planted on it again. The ocean roared past the hull below, but it sounded farther away somehow—like it belonged to another world entirely.

Your hands were still clutching the front of his coat. You hadn’t even realized you’d grabbed him. The thick wool felt grounding beneath your fingers.

His arm was still around your waist, steadying you as though he didn’t quite trust that you wouldn’t tip backward again the moment he let go.

Your breathing slowly began to calm. So did his.

When you finally looked up, you found him already looking down at you. The teasing expression he’d worn earlier had softened into something quieter now. Concern lingered in his eyes, but he didn’t say anything right away.

He just studied your face like he was trying to memorize it. Or trying to understand it.

The wind pushed a strand of your hair across your cheek. Without thinking, he lifted a hand and brushed it gently aside. The touch was so careful it startled you more than the sudden grab from before.

You weren't used to gentle touches after all. Of course you belonged from a rich family, a noble family. But money doesn't guarantee gentleness. Nor does it guarantee happiness.

“You alright?” he asked quietly, breaking the fragile silence.

You nodded after a moment. “Yes.” You confirmed.

But he didn’t let go just yet. Instead, his gaze drifted past you briefly to the railing you had been standing on moments earlier. The dark water rushed below it endlessly.

When his eyes returned to you, they were firmer. “Listen,” he said, voice low but serious now. “You don’t gotta tell me what put the idea in your head tonight.” The wind tugged at his coat as he spoke.

There was no teasing in his voice this time. No clever remarks. Just quiet certainty. “Just please don't do that again” he requested, as if you were something precious to him, that he was afraid of losing. “Don’t climb railings,” he added softly. “Don’t stand up there alone thinking nobody would notice if you disappeared.”

The words hung between you.

For a moment you didn’t know what to say. Not because it was true, it wasn't. People would notice your disappearance, just they wouldn't care. Your eyes dropped briefly to the brass buttons of his coat, still gleaming faintly in the moonlight. “Thank you,” you said finally.

“For what?” He blinked. Like he hadn’t just saved your life

“For pulling me down.” Your voice was soft but steady. “For not… letting me make the mistake.”

He studied you carefully, like he was weighing those words. “You’re welcome,” he said after a moment.

Silence settled again. Not the kind that was uncomfortable. But the kind that felt full.

He tilted his head slightly. Fingers coming up and brushing your lower lip. You winced at the sting that went through the blooming bruise. But even through the pain, you were surprised at the touch. It wasn't sexual in the slightest. Not demanding, not asking, not taking. Just feeling.

“Tell me what happened” he inquired, fingers still skimming against your lips.

You realized a second later that he isn't just talking about the bruise. Or about the railing. You feared he might have already connected the dots.

“What is it?” he insisted. His eyes shone with something similar to care.

You swallowed through the lump in your throat, eyes going glassy. “It’s nothing”

“Please—” he tried again but you shook your head. He didn’t need to know. He must not.

You had realized very quickly that the people around you were vultures. They would tear away at any one who tried to attack their reputation. And somewhere in the dark night and the cold waters, you had realized that this man, this stranger you’ve never met before would fight for your safety.

You had no idea how you knew. Just that you did. Just like you also knew that you'd protect him from those vultures at all costs. His eyes found yours again. waiting. Hoping. But the words that come out of your mouth are anything but.

“Thank you again.” you curtsied “If there’s anything I can do to return the favour, please—”

“Your name” he cut you off

“I’m sorry?”

His cheeks turned rosy as he answered. If it was due to the winter air, or something else, you didn’t let yourself think. “You can give me your name in return”

You hesitated. Part of you didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want to tie this moment—this strange, unexpected kindness—to the world waiting for you inside. But something about the way he stood there… patient, but curious… made it difficult to walk away without saying anything at all.

You finally gave in. You told him your name. He repeated it quietly, almost testing the sound of it. A small smile appeared on his face, brightening it up even more than the moonlight in the dark night. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

You took a step back. Then another. The wind caught your dress again as you turned toward the doors leading inside. “Goodnight, Sergeant,” you said softly.

He straightened slightly. “You know my rank but not my name?”

You glanced back over your shoulder.A faint smile touched your lips. You almost didn't want to put a name on that face. Allowing yourself the only freedom you could by letting your imagination run wild. If you never see him again, you can call him whatever you wanted. In your dreams, he could be whoever you wanted. “I didn’t ask.” You whispered, smiling faintly.

Before he could answer, you stepped through the doors and disappeared into the warm glow of the ship’s interior.

Out on the deck, Sergeant Barnes stood there a moment longer, the cold wind tugging at his coat. Staring at the place where you had been. And wondering why he already hoped he’d see you again.

Warm air and music rushed over you the moment the doors closed behind you.

The ballroom glittered just as it had before you slipped outside—crystal chandeliers dripping light over polished floors, the orchestra swelling into another lively tune, couples gliding past in perfect circles. Laughter carried across the room, glasses clinked, silk and satin shimmered under the lamps.

It looked untouched by the cold night outside. Untouched by the ocean. Untouched by the moment that had almost happened.

You paused just inside the doorway, the warmth rushing painfully back into your skin. Your fingers still trembled faintly from the cold—and from the memory of steady hands pulling you back from the railing.

For a brief second, you considered turning around. Going back out. But before you could take another step— A hand seized your arm. Hard.

Your breath caught sharply as you were yanked sideways into the shadow of a tall pillar near the edge of the ballroom.

“Where have you been?” John Walker’s voice was low and sharp enough to cut through the music.

You froze.

He stood far too close, towering over you in his immaculate dinner jacket and overpowering cologne. Everything about him looked polished—the pressed lines of his suit jacket, the perfect knot of his tie, the slicked-back hair.

Except for the anger burning in his eyes. His fingers tightened around your arm. Pain shot up your shoulder. “I—” you began quietly. “I was just—”

“Don’t,” he snapped. The word came out through clenched teeth. His grip tightened again, nails digging through the thin fabric of your sleeve until you had to bite down on a small gasp.

“I turned around for one minute,” he said, leaning closer so no one else in the room could hear him, “and my fiancée had vanished. Do you have any idea how that looks?”

“I only stepped out for some air,” you said quickly, your voice small despite your effort to sound calm. “It was warm inside and I—”

“For air?” he repeated sharply. His eyes swept over your face with sudden irritation. Then they narrowed. “What the hell is that?”

Your stomach dropped.

His hand released your arm only to grab your chin, turning your face toward the nearest light. The bruise. The one blooming faintly along your lower lip, barely concealed beneath powder that had smudged in the cold wind outside. Your heart began to pound.

“You couldn’t even manage to cover it properly?” he hissed.

“I tried,” you whispered. “The cold outside must have—”

“You tried?” he scoffed.

His grip on your chin tightened painfully. “You walked into a ballroom full of people looking like this.”

Your gaze dropped immediately to the floor. Not by choice. By habit. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t fix my reputation,” he snapped.

A couple drifted past nearby, laughing together as they crossed the dance floor. No one looked your way. No one noticed the way his fingers dug into your arm again when he released your face.

“Do you have any idea what people will say if they see that?” he went on coldly. “What they’ll assume about me?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“That’s the problem,” he interrupted. “You never mean anything. You just do whatever foolish thing comes into your head without thinking how it reflects on your fiancé.”

His hand clamped firmly around your jaw again. Harder this time. “John,” you said quietly, trying not to wince. “You’re hurting me.”

“Good,” he muttered. “You need to be punished for your foolishness”

And then he started pulling you through the crowd. You stumbled slightly as he dragged you along, trying to keep pace with his long strides. “John, please—” you murmured urgently. “People are watching.”

“That would be a shame, wouldn’t it?” he said bitterly.

The ballroom blurred past in glittering lights and music as he hauled you toward the grand staircase leading to the private cabins. “I was only outside for a moment,” you said again quickly, your voice shaking now. “I just needed some air.”

“Oh I’m sure you did,” he replied coldly. You almost tripped when he jerked your arm again.

“Walking around a ship alone in the middle of the night with your face looking like that,” he continued, his voice low with contempt. “Do you have any idea what conclusions people might draw?”

“I wasn’t speaking to anyone,” you said quickly.

He stopped abruptly at the base of the staircase. Turning to face you. His eyes were sharp and searching. “No?” he asked.

Your heart pounded. “No,” you whispered.

He studied your face for another long moment. Then his hand tightened again around your arm.

“Good,” he said flatly. And without another word, he dragged you up the staircase toward your cabin.

All the while you kept your head lowered. Trying not to cry. Trying not to think about the quiet man standing on the freezing deck outside—The one who had held you carefully. The one who had asked gently. The one who had said please like you mattered. So very different from the man now pulling you painfully down the corridor.

The music from the ballroom barely reached this far down the hall, softened into a distant murmur behind thick walls and polished doors. The carpet swallowed the sound of footsteps, leaving only the faint rustle of clothing and the tightening grip of John Walker’s hand around your arm.

You tried to keep pace with him. You really did. But his strides were longer, faster, fueled by anger that made his grip harsher with every step.“John—please,” you whispered once more. “You’re hurting—”

He stopped abruptly. The sudden halt made you stumble straight into him. Before you could regain your balance, he shoved the cabin door open and dragged you inside.

The door slammed shut behind you with a sharp crack that echoed in the small room.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The cabin was dimly lit by a single lamp on the bedside table, its warm glow illuminating polished wood furniture and neatly arranged luggage.

The bedspread remained untouched, perfectly smooth, like the room itself had been waiting patiently for your return.

John finally released your arm. But only so he could pace away a few steps.

You stood where he had left you, hands clasped tightly together in front of you to stop them from shaking.

Your arm throbbed where he had gripped it. “Do you have any idea,” he began slowly, his voice tight with restrained fury, “how humiliating it is to stand in a room full of men who are watching my fiancée wander around looking like that?”

You swallowed. “I didn’t wander—”

“You disappeared.” The word cracked through the room.

“I stepped outside for a moment,” you said softly, trying to keep your voice steady. “I told you it was warm in there and I just needed—”

“You needed, what!” he snapped. He let out a short, bitter laugh. You needed to parade that bruise around where people could see it?”

“If it bothers you so much, you shouldn't have put it on me in the first place” words tumbled out of you before you could stop them, your brain to mouth filter malfunctioning.

John whipped around. Eyes dark with fury, and regret washed over you like an ice cold bucket of water. His hand came around the back of your neck. Gripping tight enough that you could hear his knuckles crack.

“What did you just say to me?” He hissed through gritted teeth. He reeked of alcohol, making you grimace.

You tried to draw your face back, fighting against the grip. “John, please—” you tried again and his hand loosened slightly, before tightening again.

“I told you,” he snapped sharply, “to stop talking back.” The room seemed to shrink around you. Your hands trembled violently at your sides.

“I’m not talking back,” you said, your voice thinner now but still there. “I’m just saying it isn’t fair that you blame me when you’re the one who—”

“You don’t get to tell me what’s fair.” His voice rose suddenly, sharp and dangerous.

Before he drew his hand back, only to swing it down harder as it met your cheek with a sharp crack. The force caught you completely off guard.

You stumbled backward, your heel catching on the rug as the world tilted violently. Your shoulder slammed into the edge of the small wooden table beside the door before the back of your head struck it.

Pain exploded behind your eyes. You cried out softly as your body collapsed to the floor. The table lurched with the impact. The porcelain vase sitting on top of it crashed down beside you. It shattered against the floor with a sharp crack. Fragments scattered across the carpet and polished wood.

You barely had time to lift your hands before one of the larger shards sliced across your palm. A sharp sting followed by warmth. Your breath hitched. For a moment the room spun around you, the dull ache in your head pulsing with every heartbeat.

You stared down at your hand. A thin line of red welled across your skin where the broken porcelain had caught you. Across the room, John stood frozen. His chest rose and fell heavily as he stared at the scene in front of him—the broken vase, the overturned table, you sitting on the floor clutching your hand.

“You see?” he said finally, his voice tight with irritation rather than concern. “You can’t even have a simple conversation without turning it into a disaster.”

You looked up at him, stunned. Your head throbbed where it had struck the table. Blood slowly slid down your fingers.“For Fuck’s sake,” he muttered. “Now look at this mess.”

His eyes flicked briefly to your injured hand, but his expression remained cold. “You should remember your place.”

Your throat tightened painfully. Slowly, you pulled your hand closer to your chest, trying to stop the bleeding with the fabric of your sleeve. Your vision blurred slightly—not just from the pain in your head. But from the agony in your heart.

You whimpered, trying to hold the sobs in. Trying not to break down in tears in front of the man who would rather worry about his expensive carpet getting stained from your blood than the anguish he had caused you.

He scoffed at the noise, turning around and storming out of the room like you weren't worth wasting another moment on. The door shut behind him with a firm, irritated click.

His footsteps faded down the corridor a moment later. And then the cabin fell completely silent.

You stayed where you had fallen.

For a long moment you didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even try to stand. The soft lamp beside the bed cast a warm glow across the room, catching on the shards of porcelain scattered across the floor like tiny pieces of moonlight.

Your head still throbbed where it had struck the table. When you touched the back of your hair carefully, your fingers came away trembling. Your other hand hurt worse. Blood had begun to drip slowly along your wrist, thin red lines slipping between your fingers where the broken vase had cut your palm.

You pressed your sleeve tighter around it. The sting pulsed steadily. But the pain barely reached you. Instead, your mind drifted somewhere else entirely.

Cold wind. Dark ocean. A steady voice saying Don’t move. You could still feel the warmth of strong arms pulling you safely off the railing. Still hear the quiet firmness when he had said, Don’t do that again.

You stared at the floor. For the first time that night, tears blurred your vision, before a soft knock sounded at the door. You quickly wiped your eyes with the back of your wrist before you could think about it.

The door opened slowly. Your mother stepped inside. She paused immediately when she saw you on the floor. “Oh my goodness,” she breathed. Her heels crossed the carpet quickly as she hurried toward you. “What happened?”

She crouched beside you, carefully lifting your injured hand. “Oh dear,” she murmured when she saw the cut. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing,” you said quietly.

But she was already rising, moving quickly to the washstand. “I told you to be careful,” she called gently over her shoulder as she fetched a clean cloth and the small tin of antiseptic she always carried while traveling.

You said nothing.

She returned and helped you sit up properly, brushing broken porcelain aside before guiding you to rest against the edge of the bed. “There now,” she said softly, dabbing the cloth against your palm.

The sting made you flinch slightly. “You must be more careful around these things.” Her voice remained calm, practical. As if this were simply another small accident.

You watched her hands as she worked. Precise. Efficient. The way she had done countless times before. “What happened?” she asked again, though her tone suggested she already knew.

“The vase fell,” you murmured. She glanced briefly toward the shattered pieces across the floor. Then back to your face. You saw disappointment flash across the eyes of the woman that had birthed you.

Her gaze lingered for a moment on the bruise along your lips. A small sigh escaped her. “I told you to cover that better before going downstairs.”

Your fingers curled slightly. “The powder came off outside,” you said quietly.

“Outside?” she repeated.

“I stepped out for air.”

She clicked her tongue softly in disapproval. “You shouldn’t wander around alone like that,” she said. “Especially when your fiancé is entertaining important guests.”

You stayed silent. She wrapped a bandage carefully around your palm. “You must try harder to avoid upsetting him,” she continued gently. “Men like John carry a great deal of pressure.”

Her voice remained patient, almost soothing. But you knew better. “They have expectations placed upon them. Responsibilities.” The cloth tightened around your hand. “And when his fiancée contradicts them or embarrasses them publicly…” she added, tying the knot neatly. Her gaze lifted to yours again. “You must understand how that reflects on him.”

You already knew what she was going to say next. You had heard it before. So many times. “Marriage requires compromise,” she repeated softly. “Adjustment.” Your eyes drifted toward the floor again.

“You’re very fortunate,” she continued. “John is well respected. Successful. A man with a promising future.” Her hand rested lightly on your arm. “You must try not to provoke him.”

The words slid over you like a familiar script. You didn’t argue. Didn’t correct her. Didn’t mention the slap. Or the bruise. Or the way your head still ached from striking the table. You knew she didn't care.

Instead, your thoughts drifted again to the freezing deck outside. To a man in a sergeant’s uniform who had spoken to you like you mattered. Who had looked at you with concern instead of irritation. Who had said please.

You could still see the faint scar along his jaw. Still hear the warmth in his voice. Still remember the way he had repeated your name quietly, like it was something worth remembering.

Your mother finished tying the bandage. “There,” she said gently. “All fixed.”

You nodded faintly. But your mind was far away. Back in the cold night air. Back at the railing. Back with the soldier who had pulled you back from the edge. And somewhere deep inside, a quiet thought formed before you could stop it.

What might life have been… …if Sergeant Barnes had been the one waiting for you behind this door instead?

The night was dark out side the cabin. The ship had grown quieter.

Most of the laughter and music had faded into distant murmurs somewhere deep inside the great floating palace. The corridors outside the cabins were dim now, the lamps turned low as passengers retired for the night.

But sleep would not come to you. Not with your head still aching faintly. Not with your hand wrapped in fresh bandages. Not with your mother’s soft, practiced words still echoing in your ears. Marriage requires compromise. You must try not to provoke him. Not with John sleeping peacefully beside you like nothing ever happened.

You laid in bed for nearly an hour staring at the ceiling before finally giving up. Carefully, quietly, you slipped from the room. The corridor was empty. No one stopped you as you made your way up the staircase again, your steps light against the carpet.

Your heart pounded faster the closer you got to the deck. You weren’t entirely sure why. You told yourself it was the air. The cold that had felt good earlier. Honest.

But somewhere deep down, another hope stirred quietly beneath the surface. A ridiculous one. One that had no business igniting you like this. You pushed the door open. The wind greeted you again immediately, colder now that the night had deepened. The vast ocean stretched endlessly under the moon, silver waves rolling against the ship’s hull.

You stepped out slowly. And then you saw him. He sat on a floor near the railing, leaning back with one arm stretched along the hardwood floor, the other resting loosely against his knee.

His coat collar was turned up against the cold, his dark hair ruffled by the wind as he looked out across the water. Or rather— Up at the sky. The stars stretched a vast curtain of shimmering crystals above the ship.

For a moment you simply stood there watching him. Then the deck creaked softly under your step. His head turned. Those same sharp eyes found you almost immediately.

For a second he just stared. Before a slow grin spread across his face. “Well now,” he said, pushing himself upright. “Look who it is.”

You felt warmth rise unexpectedly to your cheeks despite the cold air. He tilted his head slightly, studying you with amused curiosity. If he saw the handprint on your cheek, he didn't mention it.

“Don’t tell me,” he continued, standing and brushing invisible dust from his coat. “You changed your mind again.”

You blinked. “About what?”

He nodded casually toward the railing. “The dramatic exit.”

Your lips parted and before you could stop yourself a laugh escaped you. The sound surprising to you in all it's honesty. “No,” you said, shaking your head. “Not tonight.”

He placed a hand over his heart with exaggerated relief. “Well that’s good news,” he said. “I didn’t feel like swimming again.”

You walked a little closer. “Again?” you asked.

“Well if you’d jumped earlier, I would’ve had to,” he said matter-of-factly.

“You’re very sure of that.”

“Oh absolutely.” He gestured to himself with mock seriousness. “Heroic instincts.”

Your smile grew before you could stop it. “I see.”

He looked pleased with himself. But his gaze softened slightly. “You alright?” he asked quietly.

You hesitated before nodding. “Yes.”

His eyes lingered on your face for a moment longer, like he was deciding whether to believe that. But he didn’t push. Instead he leaned back against the railing, crossing his arms. “So,” he said casually. “What brings you back out here if it’s not the ocean calling your name?”

You tilted your head thoughtfully. “I suppose I was hoping to see the stars.” You said, gazing into his eyes like they held all the constellations you wished to see.

He glanced up at the sky. Then back at you. “Funny,” he said. “That’s exactly what I told myself I was doing.”

You raised a brow. “And what were you actually doing?”

He grinned. “Waiting to see if the mysterious lady from earlier came back.”

Your breath caught slightly. “You were not.” You huffed out a disbelieving laugh.

“Was too.”

You tried to look unimpressed but the hopeful look on his face made you fail miserably. “And what if I hadn’t?”

He shrugged. “Then I’d have sat here looking at the ocean pretending I wasn’t disappointed.”

That made you laugh again. Softly this time. He noticed, grin widening. “Well I’ll be damned,” he said. “She smiles.”

“Of course I smile.” You countered.

“Didn’t see it earlier.”

“That’s because you were too busy insulting my life choices.”

“Try, saving your life,” he corrected.

“Debatable.” You teased

He leaned closer slightly. “Oh I don’t think so.”

The wind shifted again, brushing your hair across your cheek. Without thinking, he reached out and tucked the strand gently behind your ear again. The same quiet motion as before. Your breath caught.

For a moment neither of you spoke. You were standing closer now. Close enough that you could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. Close enough that the warmth from his coat reached you in the cold air.

“So,” he said softly.

“So?”

“You got a name,” he reminded you. “Feels a little unfair that I’m still just ‘Sergeant.’”

You smiled faintly, teasing slightly. “You never told me.” You said even though yku were the one who never asked in the first place.

“Well that seems like an oversight.” He straightened slightly. “James Barnes,” he said.

Then he added with a crooked grin— “But most people call me Bucky.”

You repeated it quietly. “Bucky.” The way you said it made something flicker across his face.

“And you,” he said, leaning a little closer again, “are still the most mysterious passenger on this ship.”

You tilted your head. “Is that so?”

“Oh absolutely.”

“Why?”

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “you appear on a railing in the middle of the night, nearly give me a heart attack, disappear without explanation… then come back smiling like none of it happened.” He leaned slightly closer still. “I’d say that qualifies.”

Your heart fluttered strangely. “You’re very dramatic.”

“Only when necessary.”

The two of you stood there quietly for a moment. The ocean rolled endlessly beside the ship. The stars burned above.

You crossed the deck to lean against the railing. Settling beside him, wordlessly. Letting the moment settle softly around you. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt light. Almost giddy. Excited.

And somewhere inside, a quiet voice whispered that this moment—this strange, unexpected night under the stars—might be the beginning of something you had never dared imagine before.

For a while neither of you said anything.

You stood beside him at the railing, the cold wind brushing past you both while the great ship pushed steadily through the dark water. The stars stretched endlessly overhead, brighter than you had ever seen them from land.

Bucky leaned his elbows against the rail, looking out across the ocean. You followed his gaze. For once, the quiet didn’t feel heavy. It felt… easy. Like something that belonged there.

He turned around to face you, eyes drifting down, pausing on your hand. The bandage was wrapped clumsily around your palm. It was impossible to miss in the pale moonlight. His brow knit slightly. “Hey,” he said gently, making you look up. “What happened there?”

You glanced down at your hand as if noticing it for the first time. “Oh,” you murmured.

He waited. The wind tugged softly at your hair again. “It’s nothing,” you said after a moment. “Just a vase that decided it didn’t like gravity very much.” His eyes flicked back to yours.

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Uh huh.”

He didn’t say anything else right away. But something in his expression changed—something quieter, more thoughtful. Like he understood that the sentence you’d given him wasn’t really the whole story.

You felt his gaze linger on your hand a moment longer. “Vases can be real dangerous like that,” he said lightly, but there was no humour in it.

“I can't really do anything about them” the words tumbles put of you before you could stop them.

“Then maybe you should let someone do it for you” his eyes never left yours as he spoke. Earnest. Willing. The honesty, too much for you. You turned away, willing your eyes to look at the stars and not at him.

The irony wasn't lost on you. “You can't really do much about the vases” you retorted

“Well, you can always throw them away” he shook his head slightly, hair moving with the wind.

“It's not so easy when you're attached to such vases” you looked away, the kindness in his eyes making your voice shake.

The wind shifted again, colder this time. You rubbed your arms slightly without realizing it. Bucky noticed immediately. “C’mere,” he said softly. Before you could protest, he guided you toward the bench he’d been sitting on earlier.

You hesitated only a second before sitting beside him. The wood was cool beneath you. For a moment you both stared out at the ocean again. Then, slowly, carefully— His arm slipped around your shoulders. Not forceful. Not claiming. Just… there. Warm.

You leaned into him before your mind had time to argue. The movement felt strangely natural. Your head rested lightly against his shoulder, the steady rise and fall of his breathing grounding in a way you hadn’t expected. For several quiet minutes neither of you spoke.

The ship hummed beneath you. The waves rolled endlessly beside it. His hand rested loosely against your arm. Then it shifted slightly. His fingers brushed the back of your head. The exact spot where it had struck the table earlier.

Pain flared sharply. You winced before you could stop yourself. He froze. “Whoa,” he said quietly, pulling back just enough to look down at you. “What was that?”

You tried to wave it off. “It’s nothing.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “That didn’t look like nothing.”

You gave a small shrug. “Just a table that didn’t like gravity very much.”

For a second he just stared at you. Then realization flickered across his face. The wind ruffled his hair again. His voice softened slightly. “You hit your head pretty hard?”

You shrugged again. “Tables can be unpredictable.”

“Your furniture doesn't seem to like you very much” His face was grim when he said it. The expression telling you that he wasn't just talking about the furniture.

You tore your gaze away.

Because it really was as simple as that. You don't hurt the person you love. And if John thought hurting you was his right, that it's not love.

“Can't really do anything about it” you said, still looking at the stars.

He sighed letting it go. He must've seen the ache behind your eyes. Must've realised this was the very thing you were trying to escape.

So he dropped it, letting the conversation drift somewhere else. Slowly. Naturally. You talked about the ocean first. About how endless it felt. Then about the stars. Bucky pointed out a few constellations he remembered from nights spent camping as a boy.

You admitted you’d never really looked at them before. “You’ve never just… sat somewhere and watched the sky?” he asked.

You shook your head faintly. “There was always somewhere I was supposed to be.”

He looked at you thoughtfully. “That sounds exhausting.”

You smiled slightly. “It is.”

He told you about Brooklyn. Small streets and crowded apartments and summer nights sitting on rooftops with friends. You listened quietly. It sounded like another world entirely.

“What about you?” he asked eventually.

“What about me?”

“What did you want to do?” he said. “Before all this.”

You hesitated. No one had asked you that question in a very long time. “I used to want to travel,” you admitted softly.His brow lifted.

“Yeah?”

“I wanted to see cities,” you continued slowly, the words feeling strange on your tongue. “Different countries. Learn languages.”

His smile was warm. “Sounds like a pretty good plan.”

You looked down at your bandaged hand. “That was a long time ago.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, his arm tightened slightly around your shoulders.“Plans don’t always stay buried forever,” he said quietly. The words lingered in the cold night air. You leaned into him again, your head resting against his shoulder.

For the first time in a long while— You let yourself imagine things. Dreams. Places. A life that felt different from the one waiting behind your cabin door. And beside you, Bucky Barnes kept talking softly under the stars—About everything. About nothing.

As if the two of you had known each other far longer than a single night on the deck of a ship crossing the Atlantic. Bucky leaned back against the bench, one arm still loosely around your shoulders. His coat was warm where you rested against him, the steady rhythm of his breathing quiet and calm beside you.

Then he glanced down at you. “So,” he said.

You looked up slightly. “So?”

“You told me about wanting to travel.”

You nodded. He tilted his head, studying you in the soft moonlight.He tilted his head, studying you in the soft moonlight. “What else?”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he said simply, “what else do you want?”

You stared at him for a moment. No one had ever asked it that way before. Not like it mattered. Not like the answer might actually interest them. “You mean… in life?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said easily, smiling a little. “In life.”

You let out a small breath, unsure whether he was teasing you again. But when you looked up at him, his expression wasn’t playful. He was genuinely waiting. Curious.

“You really want to know?” you asked.

“Sure I do.”

Your fingers fidgeted lightly with the edge of the bandage on your hand. “Well… I suppose I always thought I’d live somewhere near the water,” you said slowly. “Not on a ship exactly but… somewhere you could hear the waves if you opened the window.”

Bucky nodded thoughtfully. “Good choice.”

“And I’d like a small house,” you continued, the words beginning to come easier. “Not very grand. Just comfortable.”

You paused. “Maybe with a garden.” His mouth curved slightly.

Your voice grew softer as the images formed more clearly in your mind. “There’d be a porch,” you added. “With a swing.”

“Oh yeah?”

You nodded. “So you could sit out there in the evenings.”

“And watch the sunset?” he guessed.

“Exactly.” You turned to look at him, eyes earnest as you talked animatedly about your dreams for the first time ever.

He looked pleased with himself. “See? I’m good at this.” You laughed quietly. The sound felt lighter this time. More natural.

“And children,” you added after a moment, surprising yourself. His brows lifted slightly. “Oh yeah?”

“I’ve always wanted children.”

“How many?”

You thought about it. “Four.”

He chuckled softly.“Four?”

“Yes.”

“That’s ambitious.”

You nudged his arm slightly. “I think it’s the perfect number.”

He held up a hand in surrender. “Alright, alright. I won’t argue.”

You smiled again. “I’ve even thought of names.”

“Of course you have.”

You tilted your head, resting it on ypur palm as you spoke. “I always thought I'd name one of them James”

“Yeah? you like that name?” There was a slight smirk playing on his lips when your eyes found him again.

“I really do”

“Well what if your husband has the same name” he pretended to think, as if he was trying to find a solution for a problem that didn't even exist yet.

“Well I guess I'd have to find one who goes by his middle name then” you teased back.

“I guess you do” he winked making you laugh.

It was so easy with him. No practised smiles that were meant to appease important people. No ‘Don't laugh to loud’ and ‘Don't smile too wide’ comments from your mother or john every once in a while, when a real smile threatened to outgrow the fake ones.

Here the moment belonged to you and only you. No shouting voices telling you to stay in your limits. No whispered advices asking you to compromise. Just you under the stars with a man who listened like every word mattered

You kept talking. About books you loved. About the places you’d dreamed of seeing. Paris. Italy. Little towns along the coast where you imagined walking narrow streets and buying fresh bread in the mornings.

You told him how you loved music, though you’d never been allowed to learn an instrument properly. How you liked drawing when you were younger. How you always thought autumn was the prettiest season.

The words poured out of you before you even realized it was happening. Like something that had been locked away for years suddenly found an open door.

And strangely, none of the stories involved the life waiting behind your cabin door. You didn’t mention your fiancée. Or your mother. Or the expectations that had always surrounded you like invisible walls.

For once, the life you described felt entirely your own. Just yours. Just for this night. Eventually you paused, suddenly aware of how much you had said. You glanced up at him nervously. “I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”

Bucky was quiet for a second. Then he shook his head slowly. “No,” he said softly.

His arm tightened just slightly around your shoulders again. “I think it’s the most beautiful conversation I’ve had in a long time.”

You looked at him. The moonlight catching the faint scar along his jaw. The quiet warmth in his eyes. And for the first time in your life, the dreams you had just spoken aloud didn’t feel foolish anymore. They felt possible. At least here. On this quiet stretch of deck. In the arms of a man who had asked simply because he wanted to know.

You stood on the front of your mirror dabbing compact powder on your skin with careless concern. Your mind was too preoccupied to care if the application was even.

The applicator kept hitting the same dip of your cheekbones again and again as you let yourself be lost in the thoughts of the night before.

Thoughts of the man who held you like you were precious. Of how much you talked and still had words left inside you. Of the animated look in his eyes when he told you about brooklyn and Steve. You felt yourself wanting to meet his friends. To see his life and to be a part of it.

“You ready?” John's rough voice cut through your thoughts like knife through silk.

You turned around, adjusting your gown and checking the makeup before nodding. He took your hand without a care to compliment you on your looks or even checking his grip to not hurt your ring clad fingers.

When you reached the main ballroom, it glittered more brightly than the evening before.

Every chandelier blazed with light, scattering gold across polished floors and crystal glasses. Music poured out in practised symphony from the orchestra, elegant and precise, while laughter drifted between carefully measured conversations.

You stood beside John, dressed exactly as expected. Silk draped perfectly. Hair pinned without a strand out of place. Makeup carefully applied—this time thick enough to hide every trace of yesterday.

From the outside, you were flawless. From the inside, Your chest ached.

“…a remarkable opportunity,” one of the men was saying, his voice rich with importance. “The expansion alone could double returns within the year.”

John nodded, fully engaged, his posture straight and confident. “Exactly my thinking,” he replied smoothly. “It’s simply a matter of timing.”

You stood at his side, quiet, poised, offering the occasional polite smile when expected. But your mind wasn’t in the room. It was somewhere else entirely. Cold air. Endless stars. A quiet voice asking, What else do you want? Your fingers tightened slightly around the stem of your glass.

The morning had arrived way too quickly for your liking and you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him ever since you left. There was a charm about him that you never could find in the men that belonged to nobility. There was an ease about being with him. About the way he listened. The way he made space for you in a world that had never done that before.

“…don’t you agree?” one of the men suddenly asked, turning toward you.

You blinked. “I—yes,” you said softly, though you hadn’t heard a word.

John’s hand brushed lightly against your back. A silent warning to pay attention. You straightened slightly. “I think it sounds… promising,” you added carefully.

The men nodded, satisfied enough. The conversation moved on. You exhaled quietly.

And that was when you saw him. At first, it didn’t make sense. A server moving through the room with a tray of drinks. Perfectly ordinary. Except—your breath caught—It was him.

Bucky.

Dressed in a waiter’s uniform that didn’t quite fit him right—too tight across the shoulders, the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal strong forearms. His hair was slightly neater than the night before, but no less unruly under the ballroom lights.

And his eyes, they found you immediately. A slow, familiar grin tugging at his lips. Your heart nearly stopped. What is he doing here? Panic flickered through you. If anyone noticed— If John noticed—

You forced yourself to look away quickly. But it was too late. You could feel it. That pull. That awareness of him moving through the room, closer, weaving between guests like he belonged there.

You swallowed hard.

“I’ll just—excuse me,” you murmured suddenly, stepping back from the group before anyone could question it.

John barely glanced at you, too absorbed in conversation. Relief rushed through you. You moved quickly. Carefully. Trying desperately to not draw attention.

Until you caught sight of him slipping through a side archway near the edge of the ballroom. Without thinking, you followed. The corridor beyond was dimmer, quieter, the music softening behind heavy curtains. You turned the corner—And nearly ran straight into him.

“Careful, doll,” Bucky murmured, catching your arm to steady you. Your eyes widened, both at the nickname and at the way he looked in front of you.

Skin slightly flushed and lips curved upwards into a grin. You told yourself that none of the views you've seen so far travelling around the world could top this one. It will always be the favourite to your eyes.

“What are you doing here?” you whispered urgently.

He looked entirely unbothered. “Well,” he said casually, shifting the tray onto one hand, “I was in the neighborhood.”

“This is not funny,” you hissed, glancing nervously back toward the ballroom. “You can’t be here.”

He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice. “Funny,” he said, “I seem to be here just fine.”

“Bucky—”

“James, when I’m working,” he corrected with a crooked grin.

You stared at him. “This is serious.”

“I know,” he said lightly. “That’s why I dressed for the occasion.”

You glanced down at the uniform. “This is not dressing for the occasion, this is—this is sneaking into a first-class ballroom!”

“Technically,” he said, “I walked right through the front.”

You pressed a hand to your forehead. “You’re going to get caught.”

“Not if I’m charming enough.”

“This isn’t one of your games!” Your voice came out sharper than you intended.

For a moment, he just looked at you. Then his expression softened slightly. “I just wanted to see you,” he said quietly.

The words hit harder than they should have. Your breath faltered. “You shouldn’t have—” you whispered.

“I know.”

“Then why did you?”

He shrugged lightly, though his eyes stayed on yours. “Didn’t feel right not to.”

Your heart twisted painfully.

You stepped closer, lowering your voice further. “If someone sees you—if they recognize you don’t belong—”

“They won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I got a pretty good track record so far.”

You grabbed his sleeve suddenly, pulling him slightly deeper into the shadowed corner. “You need to leave,” you said, your voice urgent now. “Right now.”

He looked down at your hand gripping him. Then back at your face. “Or what?” he asked softly.

“Or you’ll get in trouble.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Bucky,” you insisted, your voice trembling now, “I’m serious.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “You’re worried about me.”

“Of course I am!” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then his grin returned—softer this time, but unmistakably there. “Well,” he said quietly, leaning just a little closer, “that makes sneaking in here worth it.”

You stared at him, half exasperated, half… something else entirely. “You are impossible.”

“I’ve been told.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile.

“This isn’t funny,” you repeated, though your voice had lost some of its edge. “You need to go before someone—” Footsteps echoed faintly from the ballroom. Your grip on his sleeve tightened. “Please,” you whispered.

This time, he heard it. Really heard it. The worry behind your trembling voice. The concern behind your eyes.

His expression shifted. The teasing faded just enough. “Alright,” he said quietly. But he didn’t move immediately. Instead, his gaze lingered on you for one more second.

“You look…” he started, then stopped himself, a faint smirk returning. “Different,” he finished.

You exhaled shakily. “That’s because I’m supposed to.”

He shook his head slightly. “No,” he said. “Not that.” His voice softened. “You look like you don’t belong in there.”

Your heart stuttered but before you could respond, voices grew closer. He straightened quickly. “Guess that’s my cue,” he murmured.

You nodded, stepping back. But your eyes stayed on him. “Go,” you whispered.

He took a few steps back before thinking better of it, surging forward and pulling you into his chest. And despite being startled at the suddenness of the hug, your body melted into him all the same.

When he pulled away, you felt him pushing something into the palm of your hand—a note—before he turned, making his way towards the door.

He gave you one last look over his shoulder then turned, disappearing smoothly down the corridor with the ease of someone who had always known how to slip through places he wasn’t meant to be.

You stood there for a moment longer. Hands shaking. Heart racing. Before forcing yourself to return to the ballroom. Back to the lights. The music.

The music swallowed you again. Bright and loud. You slipped back into your place beside John as if nothing had happened, your posture perfect, your expression composed.

But your hand remained closed. Tight. Careful.

It took several long minutes before you found a moment to yourself—just enough to turn slightly away from the crowd, just enough to unfold the small piece of paper hidden in your palm.

Your eyes flicked down quickly. Third class dance room. In case this gets too dull. I’ll make sure you’re entertained proper.

His handwriting was slightly messy. Like his fingers were shaking when he wrote it. It almost seemed like a weak attempt at fine cursive but charming nonetheless.

Your breath caught. You folded the note quickly, hiding it again. Your heart was racing now. You glanced across the room instinctively.

He was nowhere to be seen. Of course he wasn’t. He had already gone. You'd asked him to. Even though you wished anything but that.

The room suddenly felt even more suffocating than it had before. Because now, you knew what it felt like to breathe. The note stayed hidden in your glove.

You didn’t dare read it again. You didn’t need to. The words had already carved themselves into your mind. Third class dance room. In case this gets too dull. You stood where you were meant to stand. Beside John. Perfectly composed. Perfectly still.

The ballroom shimmered around you—light catching on glass and silk, music rising and falling in careful rhythm. Everything was exactly as it should be.

And yet—Your fingers kept brushing against the folded paper tucked inside your glove. A quiet reminder. A possibility. You forced yourself to focus. To stay. To be sensible. This was your life. This was what was expected of you. You could not simply… walk away from it.

“…and of course, discretion is everything,” one of the men was saying.

John nodded, engaged, confident. “Naturally.”

You shifted your weight slightly, your shoes beginning to ache. No one noticed. No one ever did. You told yourself again— You’re not going. This is foolish. You will stay right here.

John’s hand came to rest lightly on your arm. At first, it looked like nothing..A casual gesture. Possessive, but acceptable. Then his fingers tightened. Not enough for anyone else to notice but enough for you to feel it.

You stiffened slightly. “Smile,” he snarled under his breath, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “You look miserable.” You forced your lips to curve into the fakes smile imaginable. “There,” he said. “Better.”

The conversation around you continued. Numbers. Names. Opportunities. You barely heard any of it. His grip didn’t loosen.

Instead, his thumb pressed deliberately into the inside of your arm, right where the bruise from earlier still ached beneath your sleeve. A sharp sting shot through you making your breath hitched.

John’s smile never faltered as he continued speaking. But his voice dropped again, quiet and cutting. “Try not to look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” he said. “It’s unbecoming.”

Your chest tightened. “I’m doing my best,” you whispered.

“Your best isn’t very convincing.” His fingers pressed harder for a second before they released as one of the men turned toward you again.

“You must find all this terribly dull,” the man said politely.

You blinked. “No,” you replied quickly. “Not at all.”

John’s hand slid back to your waist. Firm. Holding you in place. “You see?” he said smoothly. “She’s perfectly content.”

You felt it then. Clear. Sharp. Not just the discomfort. Not just the pressure. But the certainty. This was your life. This. Standing still. Speaking when spoken to. Smiling on command. Hurting quietly where no one could see. Your fingers curled inside your glove. The paper crinkled softly.

The orchestra chnaged tunes. Someone laughed too loudly nearby. John’s voice cut through it as he continued speaking with the men, confident and smooth, completely unaware of the storm building quietly beside him.

You tried to focus again. You really did. You nodded when expected. Smiled when required. But the words around you blurred. The room felt smaller. Heavier. The note in your hand seemed to burn against your skin. Third class.

You shouldn’t go. It was ridiculous and so very dangerous. Completely improper. You knew that. You knew exactly what your mother would say. What John would say. What anyone would say.

So you stayed where you were. Trying to ignore it. Trying to stay calm. Trying to be who you were supposed to be.

But your heart had already resigned itself to the man in sergeant’s uniform at the edge of the ship calling your name in the dark of the night.

His voice had already replaced the voice of John in your dreams, in your late night fantasies where you wondered how it would've been if John were a gentle man.

Now they were about how your life would've been if it was bucky holding your hand through it all.

You let yourself imagine it. The small house, the garden, the kids. And bucky through it all, building swings on the porch. Harvesting tomatoes from the garden. Teaching math to the kids.

You let yourself build the life of your dreams with the man you could never have. How could you? Women like you were born to be married for business.

And what you wanted for your life didn't matter to anyone but him. To him, it did matter. At least that was what you felt. It mattered to him that you smiled and that you were hurt. Or perhaps it was another fantasy of yours.

But you let yourself commit this sin. You let yourself dream and hope and wish and imagine. Because your mind was the only part of you that was still yours, that didn't have to obey someone else. The only part of you that you could still trust with a secret like this.

“…excuse me,” you said quietly.

The urge to see him again suddenly overpowering enough to mask your fears. You should have thought about consequences, about your reputation. But you couldn't bring yourself past the thoughts of how fun it would be to do something reckless for once.

No one paid much attention as you slowly tried to slip out. John barely glanced at you. “Don’t be long,” he muttered. Voice gruff and insolent.

You nodded faintly. But something in you had already shifted. You stepped away, swiftly at first. Then faster once you were out of their immediate sight.

The music grew faint behind you as you moved toward the doors. Your heart began to race. And for once you didn't think about stopping. Turning back. Rturning and apologising. You didn't care about being good. Being proper. Being—

Your hand tightened around the note. His messy handwriting swimming in your mind waiting to sink in.

You pushed through the doors. The corridor air hit your face, cooler, and quieter than the ugly screech of tables and chairs of the ballroom.

You didn’t stop walking. Didn’t hesitate this time. Your steps quickened, pulse followed. And the further you went, the lighter something inside you felt.

Like a weight was slowly lifting with every step away from that room. From john. From all of it.

You gathered your gown and started moving faster. Almost running now, ignoring the echo of your footsteps. Ignoring the voice that told you this was wild.

Because another voice—stronger now—answered back. He is not worth it. None of this is worth it.

You reached the lower decks breathless. The sound of music met you before you even saw the door. Loud. Unrestrained. Alive in the way rehearsed orchestra could never be.

You slowed just long enough to catch your breath, hand hovering at the door. Your heart pounded wildly in your chest as you pushed the door open.

The moment you stepped into the third-class dance room, warmth crashed into you like a wave. Not just heat. Life. The room pulsed with it.

Music rang through the crowded space, fiddles playing fast enough to make your heartbeat stumble into rhythm with them. Boots pounded against the wooden floorboards, laughter burst from every corner, people sang loudly and terribly without shame, and somewhere near the back a group of men were arguing over cards while someone else balanced precariously atop a table.

It was chaos. Beautiful in all its liveliness. Nothing matched. Nothing was restrained. Nothing was orchestered in the way the noble people loved to have. And somehow it felt more real than every polished ballroom upstairs combined.

For a brief moment you lingered near the doorway, suddenly aware of how out of place you looked in your expensive gown and carefully pinned hair.

Several people noticed immediately. Conversations faltered. A few heads turned. A woman carrying drinks nearly stopped mid-step.

You could practically feel the room thinking the same thing, ‘A first-class woman? Here?’ Your eyes scanned the crowd impatiently until you spotted him.

Bucky sat at one of the long wooden tables near the corner of the room, sleeves rolled to his forearms, suspenders slightly crooked now like he’d long since given up trying to look respectable.

He was laughing at something the blonde man beside him had just said. Probably Steve. You remembered him telling you about his best friend.

Then his eyes lifted and immediately found you. You watched his entire face change in real time. Like the room vanished for him. Like you were the only thing he saw.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the blonde man beside him said, following Bucky’s stare toward the doorway.

Another friend leaned over, a black man. Probably sam. Bucky told you he was the funniest of them all. “No way.”

“Barnes,” someone muttered in disbelief, “you actually got her to come?”

Bucky was already standing before they’d finished talking. He crossed the room quickly, weaving through dancers and chairs with that same easy confidence he seemed to carry everywhere. You barely had time to smile before he reached you.

“There she is,” he said warmly. And before you could even think about it—His arms came around you, pulling you into a hug.

It startled you at first. Not because it was unbecoming. But because it was so natural. So genuine. His arms wrapped around you tightly, stroking your back in gentle sweeps of his massive palm, like he was honestly happy you were there.

No hesitation. No calculation. Just happiness. You laughed softly in surprise as he held you for a second longer than necessary before pulling back slightly.

“I hoped you’d come,” he murmured with unmistakable satisfaction.

“You did?”

“Yeah. Would've been a shame if all my charm was wasted.” You rolled your eyes despite the warmth blooming in your chest.

Behind him, you noticed his friends openly staring now. Not rudely. Just… shocked. And rightfully so. It wasn't everyday they saw a person like you in a place like this. The blonde man blinked at you several times like he still wasn’t convinced you were real.

Bucky glanced back at them with a grin. “Alright, stop gawking,” he called. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“That’s her?” one of them asked.

“You make it sound like he caught a rare animal,” you replied before thinking.

The table erupted into laughter immediately. Bucky looked positively delighted. “Oh she’s funny too,” someone, probably sam, announced proudly.

The blonde man finally stood, recovering enough to offer you a kind smile. “Steve Rogers,” he introduced himself warmly. “Nice to meet you.”

You told him your name.

Steve’s expression softened immediately. “Well,” he said, “any friend of Buck is welcome here.”

He was every bit of the person bucky told you he was. Kind blue eyes. Sweet serene smile. Thin and frail body but voice of iron. Unwavering in a way you rarely ever saw nowadays.

He greeted you like you were one of them. Making you feel wanted in a place where you only knew almost nobody. While the polished men and rich women upstairs, despite them being your fiancée or mother, wouldn't care if you're alive or dead if you went missing for days.

The others quickly followed, introducing themselves one by one, suddenly eager and warm now that the initial shock had passed.

But what struck you most wasn’t just their friendliness. It was how easily they included you. No one cared whether your manners were perfect. No one watched your every movement waiting for you to embarrass yourself. No one seemed interested in your family name or social standing.

They simply… welcomed you. Like it was the easiest thing in the world. One of the women at the table, natasha from what you knew, scooted over immediately to make room for you.

Another handed you a drink with a grin. Someone else asked if you danced. The warmth of it hit you so suddenly it almost hurt. Because it felt so different from the people upstairs.

John’s friends spoke at you. Bucky’s friends spoke to you. John’s world felt polished and cold and careful. Bucky's world felt alive and real. And before you even fully settled into the feeling, Bucky leaned closer.

“So,” he said, lowering his voice slightly. “You gonna sit here lookin’ pretty all night or you gonna dance with me?”

Your stomach fluttered. “You dance?”

He looked offended. “Lady, I dance beautifully.”

Steve snorted loudly from behind him. “You dance like a drunk sailor.”

Bucky pointed at him immediately. “Don’t listen to him.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself. Bucky’s expression softened instantly at the sound. He watched you for a moment—this woman who was totally out place in his world looking up at him like he was the best thing that happened to her that day.

He held out his hand toward you. “C’mon,” he said. “One dance.”

You looked at his hand. Strong and warm and waiting patiently for yours. You realised that this was the first time in your life where no one was forcing you. No expectations. No obligations. Just a choice. Your choice.

Slowly, you placed your hand in his. The grin that spread across his face nearly made your knees weak. “Thank you my lady” he murmured again softly making you giggle.

He pulled you toward the dance floor in a swift motion. The music was fast. Far faster than the elegant waltzes upstairs. You barely had time to react before Bucky spun you into the crowd. “Oh my God—” you gasped between laughs as he caught your waist.

“Relax,” he teased. “I got you.”

“That’s exactly what you said before dragging me into this.”

“And was I wrong?”

You opened your mouth to argue but your words came out as startled laughter as the room blurred around you when he spun you again. He danced like everything else about him—messy, confident, entirely unconcerned with dignity. And somehow it was perfect.

His hands stayed firm on your waist as he guided you through the crowd, grinning every time you stumbled slightly. “You’re doing that on purpose,” you accused breathlessly.

“What?”

“Spinning me too fast.”

“Well,” he said solemnly, “A guy’s gotta impress a woman somehow”

You laughed again. It wasn't the small polite sound you used upstairs. But an actual laugh. A real one. Bright enough that even Steve noticed from the table and shook his head with a smile.

Bucky chuckled softly when he heard it. Your heart skipped. He looked so handsome with that amused smile. That joyous laugh. You realised almost immediately that this moment would haunt your dreams for a long long time.

The dance slowed slightly as the music changed. Bucky’s hands settled more carefully at your waist now. You moved closer naturally.

Neither of you seemed to notice it happening. Or maybe you both did. But nobody said anything. The room around you faded softly into warmth and music and laughter.

And when you looked up at him, he was already watching you. Not your dress. Not your manners. You. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were real either. “You know,” he murmured as you swayed together, “I was worried you wouldn’t come.”

You smiled faintly. “I almost didn’t.”

His brows lifted slightly. “What changed your mind?”

You thought about the ballroom upstairs. John’s hand digging into your arm. The suffocating conversations. The feeling of disappearing piece by piece every time you stepped back into that world.

Then you looked at Bucky. At the warmth in his eyes. At the way he held you like something precious instead of something owned.

And your answer had nothing but honesty in it when you said “I remembered there was somewhere else I’d rather be.”

You saw a flicker of something pass between his eyes. Maybe shock or surprise. Or maybe something else entirely.

You wished to know what that look meant. You wished to ask him. You wanted to talk. Tell him everything you felt. And somehow, you also wanted to saty quiet. Not utter a word and let this moment ingrained itself into your very bones.

Before you could think better of it, you leaned in, nose brushing his as his eyes flicked toward your lips before finding your eyes again.

When your lips met, the kiss wasn't explosive. It was warm. Tenuous in a way new things always are. Both mouths desperate to feel each other. Both tongues itching to explore each other.

He let you savour it. Let you melt into him as his hands found your jaw, tipping it up just enough that his tongue delved deeper into your mouth.

Your eyes shut themselves closed as you forgot all sense of time. Not caring if people saw or if rumors spread.

This was your moment. And for the first time in your life, you were sure, you'd rather die than let it go.

“Take me to your room, bucky” you whispered against his mouth, pulling away, your breath fanning his face.

“What?” his eyes widened, and you repeated, a smile making its way to your face.

“Your room, buck”

He didn’t waste another moment. Didn't give another thought to what people around you would think. What they'd say. He just took your hand in his and guided you out of the dance room.

The hallway to his room was narrow. Very much I like the wide pathways to luxurious first class suites. When he pushed the door open, his room was small. Very small compared to lavish first class cabins.

It was simple—two narrow bunks, a tiny washbasin, a crooked little mirror hanging against the wall. A jacket was tossed carelessly over one chair and a pair of boots sat near the bed like they’d been kicked off without thought.

It was nothing like rooms you grew up living in but somehow, it felt warmer. More lived in and honest. And you found yourself willing to spend an eternity in this tiny room instead of palaces that John talked about gifting you.

Mostly because a palace with John would still be a cage while a small brooklyn apartment with bucky would be heaven to you. “It’s not much compared to your nice rooms. But if you compare it to brooklyn, it's basically luxury” he attempted to joke but you could hear the nervousness behind it.

“I like it better,” you admitted quietly.

Bucky looked at you for a second like he thought you might be teasing him before smiling softly. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “It feels real.” you answered honestly making something in his expression soften at that.

The sounds of the ship hummed faintly around you—the distant rumble of engines, muffled laughter somewhere down the hall, the quiet creak of the ocean beneath everything.

You took his hand in yours walking in and tugging him with you until the back of your knees hit on one of the bunks.

He shut the door with a flick of his arm and your hands found the lapels of his coat the moment the door shut behind him with a conclusive click.

You pulled him closer like he was oxygen you needed to breathe, and before you could overthink it, you pressed your lips on his in a searing, desperate kiss.

It might just have been the most outrageous thing you have ever done in your entire life. If anyone came to know about it, you'd be banished, and tortured, and what not.

But you couldn't bring yourself to care. Your lip trembled against his, making its insecurity known when bucky didn't kiss you back immediately, more out of surprise than anything.

He felt your hands shaking around the lapels of his coat and he gently slid them around his torso, before cupping your face in both hands and kissing you back.

It was slow. Nothing like the impatient kiss you had started with. You realized he was savoring the feeling of your lips on his, of your face in his hands, of your hands around his body.

He didn’t ask for more, didn't delve deeper into your mouth. Not because he didn't want to. God, he wanted to. But he wanted you to feel comfortable even more. He wanted you to feel cared for. In command of.

Your courage ignited just a little more and you let your tongue dart out to brush at his lower lip in the slightest of a lick.

He let you in immediately. Mouth opening, chasing you, as your tongue explored his mouth with curious adoration of someone having their first real kiss.

His own tongue had found home in your mouth. Sliding against your tongue and licking at your lips before promptly pulling away for air.

His mouth was shiny from the kiss, lips swollen where you had sunk your teeth in them. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, but fond all the same.

His hands didn't leave your cheeks, fingers caressing the soft skin as he finally spoke, “You okay?” You nodded pulling him furhter into you until the back of your knees hit the bed again and you stumbled down onto the mattress with him on top of you.

He adjusted his weight on his forearms with a low groan, unwilling to move too much and lose the feel of your body under his. His mouth chased yours with the kind of urgency that only someone who's been waiting too long can have.

His lips trailed down slowly, mouthing at your neck until you whined, tugging at his shirt. He took the bait, pulling it off of him in a swift motion and revealing the planes of his toned chest to you.

It was clear he worked out. He was a sergeant and it showed. Your mouth went dry, hands itching to feel the skin and muscle of him under your palms, your lips.

His hands shook at their resting place on your waist, pawing at the skirt of your gown, pulling at the strings of your corset.

You helped him with a giggle, swiftly peeling each layer off and baring yourself to him. You were flustered in a way someone having a new experience always would be. But the way he looked at you, so adoring, so fond, made you feel respected even though you have never been in a more vulnerable position before.

He kissed every inch of you revealed to him, muttering praises into your skin and making you giggle. By the time youre both naked and breathless you don't think there's any part of you left unkissed.

Maybe because bucky didn't rush it, he touched you like he was worshipping you. Asking every step of the way if you're okay. Murmuring soft praises as he explored parts of you that no one else ever had.

Which was exactly what he was doing right now. Knelt between your thighs, as his mouth worked slow and teasing on your dripping core.

You shuddered beneath him as he licked a long stripe from your sopping hole to your clit, circling his tongue on the aroused bundle of nerves making your thighs tighten around his head.

He made a pleased sound of approval at that. Working to fast and slow, alternatively, the pleasure building tighter and hotter inside of your until his name was the only thing on your mouth. “Buck, please—” you whimpered

“You don't gotta beg sweetheart.” He kissed your thigh “C'mon. Come for me”

You broke with a loud cry, white waves of pleasure washing over you completely. Bucky didn't let up, his tongue worked you through your orgasm until you pushed weakly at his shoulders.

He crawled back up your body and you immediately pressed your lips onto his, tasting yourself on his tongue and moaning at the feel of it.

His fingers found you then, stroking slowly, sliding through the slick wetness of you and nudging at your entrance.

He leaned down slightly. Mouth finding your breast and closing over a nipple. Your back arched itself, offering more of you to him, as your mouth opened in a silent gasp.

His fingers slowly slid in, one at first then another. Two thick digits driving in and out of you as his mouth fondled over your breast.

“Need you bucky” you whined, wanting more of him.

“Not yet baby,” His hand replaced his mouth on your chest as he spoke “gotta stretch you out for me.” His fingers scissor inside you and you cry out.

“Can't have you hurting, can we?” he kissed the tip of your nose, fingers ploughing into faster now. “Come for me baby.” He cooed “You want my cock, don’t you?”

“Want it bucky. Need your cock” you whimpered.

“Then come on my fingers first.” His thumb came up to rub tight circles on your clit, making your thighs shake “Come for me sweetheart. Then I'll give you my cock”

The orgasm surged violently through you. And by the time bucky's fingers left you, your chest was heaving. He waited patiently for you to come down. Ridding himself of the tight constraints of his pants and stroking himself at the sight of you.

There was a faint blush to your cheeks. Face dewy with sweat and mouth open in ecstacy and bucky decided that there was never anything more beautiful than this. Than you.

He stopped the movements of his hand as yours came to wrap around him instead. Your hand felt soft and warm on his cock. So tiny but so much better than his own calloused hand. You grip wasn't as tight as he'd like but having you like this was already so fortunate of him.

Your thumb swiped across the tip, spreading the wetness there and making him groan. And before he knew it, you nestled slightly closer still, letting his cock slide through the slick of your core, the tip of him nudging your clit and making you both moan into each other's mouths.

He pushed in slowly. Inch by torturous inch as you fluttered and clenched around him, adjusting to his size. “Fuck” he cursed “Still so tight, Sweetheart. I can't even move”

You drew your hips up slightly, helping him slide all the way in to the hilt. His body lowered itself onto you with a low grunt. Face finding the crook of your neck and biting down on your shoulder as he began to rock forward slightly.

His thrusts were shallow at first. Barely pulling out before rutting back in. The pace built slowly, mostly because bucky wanted to take his time with you. His hips stilled every time he felt his restraint snap. He fucked you until your whole body was taut and ready to snap.

“Why are you so tense honey?” He asked driving back in faster now “You can let go. Its just me. Its your bucky.” His hand found your cheek, thumb stroking softly at your cheekbones. “You know I'd never hurt you.” He reassured.

Your eyes found his then, holding his gaze. This man who was so earnest, so painfully reverent even in a moment like this. And in a passing second, you decided that this was the man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.

Not John. Not anyone else. Bucky. Only bucky.

He saw the burn behind your eyes, kissing your tears away as they swiftly leave your eyes. “I love you” he said, voice shaky but firm all the same. You surge forward in an instant. Hiding your face in his neck, the sudden change in the angle making his cock hit deeper and your sniffle comes out breathy.

“I love you too, bucky.” You sobbed “I love you so much”

He ground down, before pulling back out. Rutting into you with more urgency now. The room was filled with muffled sounds of gasps and moans. It reeked of sweat and sex.

But neither of you could bring yourself to care. All you could think about was bucky on top of you. All you could feel was him inside you, twitching ever so slightly as he held himself back.

His fingers found your clit again, circling faster, tighter, pulling you toward the edge with him. You surrendered yourself to the pleasure as it developed you whole, your mouth parting in a choked gasp and you felt bucky's hips still, burying himself to the hilt and spilling into you with a grunt.

He let the weight of his body fall onto you ever so slightly as he rode out the aftershocks of his orgasm. When he finally caught his breath, he rolled over, taking his weight off of you and your body immediately protested at the loss of him.

He would've understood it because he tugged you closer to him almost instantl. Pulling you onto him until you were laying on his chest.

His lips found your forehead in a chaste kiss. Hands settling on your back, stroking it slowly and gentle. Occasionally taking q detour anf playing with your hair, twirling it around his fingers.

It should've been soothing, but as you came down from the high the reality of the situation began to dawn on you. You might be here right now, sated and so in love. But when tomorrow you're forced to go back to your old life, your real life, the nightmare that you're trying so desperately to escape, what would you do then?

And as if it was a cruel joke, your brain suddenly reminded you that bucky didn't know about any of it. About John, about you practically cheating on your fiancée. “What's got you thinking so loud, sweetheart?” He turned your face to meet his eyes.

And yoh realised, he desevred the truth. After what he said to you, after what you did, you owed him honesty. “Bucky, I—um, maybe you don’t know that—I mean, you definitely don't know—You had no idea and I know its my fault. I should've said something before we—”

“Hey, if this is about me not knowing that you have a man in your life, then you don't need to worry. I know”

“You know?” You were shocked to hear that.

“I saw that man with you when I sneaked into that ballroom to meet you” he confessed “And I realised what your relationship was.”

When you didn't show any signs of horror that bucky was worrying about, he went on. “For a moment i thought about pulling away but then i remembered the vase” his fingers found your forearm where the scar from the vase was still fresh.

“And the table” His hand went to the back of your head as if to emphasise what he was talking about.

“And the way your eyes shine when you’re with me.” he whispered. “I saw it in that room, baby. How dead you looked. How miserable. And all I could think about was that you deserved better than that. So much better, sweetheart. You deserve the world.”

His eyes shone with something you didn’t know if you truly understood, he cupped your cheek as he said the next part. “And even though I know I can't give it to you. But I’d sure as he'll die trying.”

“You might have known, bucky. But that doesn't make me less guilty” you confessed

“Maybe not. But I'm no less guilty either. I courted you despite knowing you have a fiancée. I’m at fault too, honey” he said looking into your eyes. “But what we did, what I said—I want you to know that I mean it, every word, every gesture, everything. If you're willing to give me a chance, I want to do this right. Just say yes.”

And for the firsttime that night, you hoped that maybe you could have it all with him. All you had to do was say yes and the future would be right there. He would be right there. He'd hold your hand and everything would be fine.

You could disappear. John would never find you and you would find everything. The freedom. The joy. The dreams. The future. Him.

“Yes”

The room had grown quieter as the night passed. Not silent—never truly silent on a ship this large—but softer somehow.

The distant hum of the engines vibrated faintly beneath the walls while muffled footsteps echoed occasionally through the corridor outside. Somewhere farther down the hall, someone laughed loudly before being immediately shushed.

But inside the little cabin, everything felt warm. Safe. You lay curled against Bucky’s side on the narrow bunk, your head resting against his shoulder while he absentmindedly played with your fingers.

At some point you had both decided sleep wasn't the priority for your tired bodies and now you both laid awake in each other's arms.

The careful curls that your hair had been arranged in a few hours ago had come apart almost completely. Bucky seemed very pleased about that.

“You know,” he murmured thoughtfully, twisting one escaped strand around his finger, “I think this is my favorite version of you.”

You glanced up at him suspiciously. “Your favorite version?”

“Mmhm.”

“What happened to the mysterious elegant first-class lady version of me?”

“Oh she’s alright,” he said. “But this one laughs at my jokes.”

“They’re still bad jokes.”

“You keep laughin’ though.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s pity.”

“Sure it is.” His grin widened when you smiled again.

The warmth in your chest felt almost frightening now. Like you were becoming too attached to this. To him. But every time you tried to pull back mentally, he’d say something ridiculous and drag you right back in.

At some point the conversation had dragged your consiousness to future again. He talked about wanting a cat. You joked that the cat would hate him.

He pinched your side and you tried to turn away feigning annoyance, only to be pulled back into him. You shook your head, smiling helplessly.

“You think about this often?” You said after some time, when he started talking about building a garden for you in your house.

“Not usually with such a pretty audience.” Your cheeks warmed immediately.

Bucky looked unbearably pleased with himself. Smug in a way that made you feel like you've made the right choice in a man. “You blush real easy, you know that?”

“You flirt constantly, you know that?”

“Yeah,” he said easily. “Mostly because watching you react is my new favorite hobby.”

You nudged him lightly with your shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said softly, “you’re still here.”

Your fingers traced lightly over the fabric of his shirt while the conversation drifted again. You told him about books you loved as a child. He admitted he once tried to impress a girl by pretending to understand poetry and accidentally quoted a laundry advertisement instead. You laughed so hard you nearly fell off the bunk.

He looked deeply offended about it. “You’re never lettin’ that go, are you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Cruel woman.”

“You deserve it.”

He spoke quietly about wanting a little mechanic shop someday. Nothing grand. You listened carefully while he described it. “You’d hate it,” he warned.

“Why?”

“Grease everywhere.”

“That’s manageable.”

“I’d come home filthy every day.”

“I think I’d survive.”

He smiled softly at that. You were lost to the dreams of future and into each other when a sudden pounding hit the door. Hard enough to rattle the walls. Both of you jolted upright immediately.

“Buck!” Steve’s voice shouted from the other side. Urgent and panicked. “Buck, open the damn door!”

Bucky frowned instantly, already climbing off the bed. “What the hell—”

Another fist slam against the door. “BUCKY!” Something in Steve’s voice made your stomach drop ominously. Bucky yanked the door open. Making steve practically stumble inside, breathless and pale. Paler than bucky had ever seen him.

“Steve?” Bucky said sharply. “What happened?” Steve grabbed his arm. “The ship hit something.”

For one second, nobody moved. The information taking it’s time to sink in. “What?” you whispered, breaking out of the trance as you felt the floorboards rattle beneath your feet by the surge of water.

Steve looked between both of you. “It’s bad,” he said quickly. “Real bad. Water’s coming in downstairs already.”

A strange sound groaned through the ship beneath your feet and one of the tile creaked open, giving way to an insistent trickle of water flowing into the room.

Your blood went ice cold. Bucky’s expression changed instantly. No teasing now. Only sharp focus. “How bad?” he demanded. Steve swallowed. “They’re saying it’s sinking.”

The room went utterly still. You could hear the faint voice of people shouting, children crying, feet rushing as groups of guests ran toward the deck, doors slamming open and luggage thudding behind as they dragged whatever they could save, with them.

The ship tilted, just slightly. But enough. Enough to feel it. Your breath caught. “Oh my God.”

Bucky moved immediately. “Coat,” he said sharply, already grabbing his own. “Put your coat on.” Your hands shook as you obeyed.

Outside the corridor, panic was building fast now. Voices overlapped chaotically. “What’s happening?!” “Move!” “Get upstairs!”

The ship groaned again beneath your feet. Louder this time, more insistent. You looked toward the floor instinctively and saw water slipping beneath the corridor door farther down the hall. Cold seawater rushing inward from the farther side of the hall

Your heart stopped. “Bucky—”

“I see it.” He grabbed your hand immediately. “Stay with me.”

Steve was already moving into the corridor. “C’mon!”

The hallway outside had transformed into chaos. Passengers poured from cabins in various stages of dress, frightened voices echoing against narrow walls while crewmen shouted conflicting instructions.

The ship tilted again. Harder this time. A woman screamed as luggage slid suddenly across the floor. The lights started to flicker like you were in a horror movie. Which, given the situation was an accurate description.

Water rushed visibly now at the far end of the corridor. Fast. Far too fast. Your pulse thundered painfully in your ears.

Bucky tightened his grip around your hand. “Stay with me,” he said firmly. “Whatever happens, you don’t let go of my hand, understood?” You nodded shakily.

People shoved past desperately. Someone cried openly nearby. A child screamed for their mother. The sound of metal groaning deep within the ship echoed like thunder through the walls.

“Move!” Steve shouted ahead. You ran.

Your shoes slipped against wet flooring as the ship tilted again beneath you. Bucky kept one arm firmly around your wrist whenever the angle shifted too sharply, practically dragging you upright through the crowd.

Water surged suddenly around your ankles. Ice cold and unforgiving. You gasped sharply. “Jesus Christ,” Steve muttered ahead.

The hallway behind you erupted into screams as the water rushed faster. People started running in earnest now. Pure panic. The ship groaned violently again.

Lights flickered themselves off, turning the lower deck dark and unsettling. Someone fell. Bucky immediately pulled you around them before the crowd crushed forward again. “Keep moving,” he said tightly.

Your breathing came in panicked bursts now. The staircases were packed. People shouting and pushing. Trying to get to the lifeboats before the others.

Crewmen tried desperately to direct passengers upward calmly. But calm had gone out of the window the moment ice cold water of the Atlantic touched people’s feet.

“Women and children first!” “What’s happening?!” “Is it true?!”

The ship tilted harder.

A chandelier somewhere crashed violently. Glass shattered. You nearly lost your footing entirely before Bucky caught you against him. “I got you,” he said immediately and his voice cut through the panic somehow. Grounding.

You clung tightly to his hand as you climbed higher and higher toward the deck. Toward the freezing night air. Toward whatever waited above the chaos below.

When you reached the deck, it was chaos. The moment you emerged into the freezing night air, the full horror of it crashed into you all at once. People everywhere. Shouting. Crying.

Crewmen yelling orders over one another while passengers pushed desperately across the tilted deck. Steam billowed into the night sky from the great funnels overhead, and the once-beautiful ship now groaned like something wounded beneath your feet.

The cold hit brutally. Wind tore through your hair and clothes while the Atlantic stretched black and endless around you.

But more merciless than the cold right now was fear. Real and endless and bone deep fear as the reality and graveity of the situation suddenly started to dawn on everybody.

You could see men making calculations as to how to get their wives and kids to the lifeboats, in case they themselves couldn’t make it. You could see women trying to mask their own fear to console their crying children and worried husbands. You could see children trying to make sense of the situation and trying to believe as their mothers said “everything will be fine” even though they could visibly see the otherwise.

You clung tightly to Bucky’s hand as he guided you through the crowd, Steve trailing close behind. “Stay close,” Bucky said sharply over the noise.

You nodded quickly, struggling to keep your footing as the ship started to crack right down the middle. Women were crying openly now. Children clung to parents. Some people still stood frozen in disbelief while others surged toward the lifeboats in growing panic.

A crewman shouted nearby “Women and children first!” The words sent a chill through you colder than the wind. Bucky’s grip on your hand tightened. His eyes darted quickly toward the lifeboats. Then toward you.

Something in his face changed. “No,” you said immediately.

He blinked. “What?”

You shook your head before he could even speak. “No.”

“Sweetheart—”

“No.”

Bucky looked briefly stunned. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“Yes I do. You were gonna tell me to go.”

Another violent groan echoed through the ship. Somewhere nearby, metal screamed loudly enough to make everyone flinch. The crowd surged suddenly, people falling through the cracks in the ship into the dark endless abyss beneath.

Bucky immediately steadied you against him. “Listen to me,” he said firmly.

“No.”

“You need get on that boat. You have first class access, now's the time to use it.” Your stomach dropped painfully. “Go sweetheart.”

There it was. You shook your head harder. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Yes, you are. You have to.”

“No.”

“Hey.” His voice softened slightly despite the chaos around you. “Look at me.”

You did. And immediately wished you hadn’t. Because there was fear in his eyes now. Not for himself. For you.

“You have a better chance than me,” he said carefully. “You know that.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I don’t.”

He huffed out a breath that almost sounded frustrated. “Darlin’, this ain’t the time to be stubborn.”

“And this isn’t the time for you to tell me what to do.”

Despite everything, his mouth almost twitched. “Now’s really when you decide to start talking back?”

You cupped his face in tour freezing hands “You listen to me bucky barnes, you are the omly thing that matters to me now. Don't you see it? How precious you are to me? I can't—” your voice broke “I can't lose you. I won't”

Another lifeboat began lowering nearby, half-full already while people screamed to be let aboard. Crewmen held them back. “Stand back!” “I have a child!” “Please!”

Your heart pounded painfully in your chest. Bucky cupped your face suddenly, forcing your attention fully back to him. Holding in all that he felt for you in the moment because now wasn't the time to say it aloud.

Maybe if he gets another chance at life, he would try. But not now. Now his only priority was to get you on the boat safe and sound. The world around you blurred for a second. “I need you to listen,” he said quietly. The seriousness in his voice terrified you more than the sinking ship. “You can survive this.”

“So can you.”

He didn’t answer quickly enough. And you saw it. That flicker of doubt. Tears stung your eyes instantly.

“No,” you whispered shakily. “No, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look at me like that.”

His expression broke slightly. “Sweetheart…”

“You don’t get to decide I leave without you.”

His thumb brushed quickly against your cheek, cold from the night air. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“I don’t want safe without you.” The words came out before you could stop them.

Bucky went still at that. Even with the panic raging around you. Even with the ship dying beneath your feet. His eyes searched yours like he was trying to understand whether you really meant it. You did. And he knew.

Steve appeared beside you both again, breathless. “Buck, more boats are loading on the port side—” Then he stopped when he saw your faces. Understanding crossed his expression immediately. “Aw, hell,” he muttered quietly.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair roughly. “She needs to get on a boat.”

“She does,” Steve agreed gently.

You looked between both of them in disbelief. “Oh, absolutely not.”

Bucky almost laughed despite everything.

“See?” Steve said. “She’s scarier than you.”

“Not helping.”

The ship tilted sharply again. People screamed as several passengers lost their footing and slid directly into the ocean. Bucky stumbled but you caught his hand instantly in both of yours. “I got you,” you said automatically.

You realised your hands clutched tightly at his coat even when he found his footing. And there was a moment where suddenly you realized something with terrifying clarity. You trusted him more than anyone else in the world.

More than your fiancee. More than your mother. More than yourself, maybe. And the thought of stepping into a lifeboat while he stayed behind felt impossible. Like tearing something out of your chest.

“I’m not leaving you,” you repeated quietly. Bucky shut his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, they were glassy and it nearly undid you.

“You barely know me,” he said softly.

A watery laugh escaped you. “And i’m not losing the only chance I have at knowing you more.”

“Honey—”

“No buck. Don't you know that if I leave we'll never see each other again? They'll take me away bucky. They'll lock me up somewhere and—” you sniffled “and memories of us will all I have for the rest of my life.”

He sighed. Undone by emotion but logic still weighing heavy on the back of his mind. “You will die here” he blurted out the ugly truth.

“Then it'll be kinder than a life with him” you pointed behind you where John would probably be somewhere trying to get into the lifeboats with all his precious jewels and artifacts.

Bucky looked away. He didn't know what to say. He couldn't ask that of you. Your life in return of his love was too high a price.

You pressed your palm on his chest. “I'm choosing this bucky. I’m choosing you. It might be the last and the only thing I get to do with my own will. So, please let me make this choice.”

The lights on the topmost deck flickered and dimmed slightly. A fresh wave of panic ripped across the deck. People began running now.

The bow dipped lower. The reality finally impossible to deny. Bucky looked around once. At the lifeboats. At the freezing ocean. At the terrified crowds. Then finally back at you. And something in him gave way. A small, helpless smile crossed his face masking his concern for your sake.

“You are unbelievably stubborn,” he murmured.

You nodded shakily. “That’s a first.”

He stared at you one more second. Then pulled you tightly against him. His arms wrapped around you fiercely enough that you could feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest. And quietly, against your hair, he whispered “Alright.”

Not agreement. Not surrender. Just Alright.

Like he understood now that neither of you was walking away from the other again. And even when he wasn't sure of it, he knew one thing for sure that if it meant keeping you, he'd die trying.

The night had become a nightmare. The deck was no longer a place of music and laughter. It was screaming and chaos.

The great ship that had seemed unsinkable only hours ago now groaned like a dying thing beneath everyone's feet. The bow was disappearing into the black Atlantic fast and irreversible.

The stern rose higher and higher. People stumbled across tilted decks desperately trying to find safety where none existed. Steve was ahead of you both, helping clear a path through panicked passengers. "Over here!" he yelled.

The deck lurched violently. Bucky never left your hand through it all. All around you, people were crying. Praying. Calling for loved ones. The sound was almost unbearable.

That was until you heard a terrible noise. A deep metallic roar that seemed to shake the entire world. Everyone froze for one horrible second. Then screaming erupted everywhere. The ship was breaking apart. "Oh God," you whispered.

Bucky's face had gone pale. "Run."

Nobody needed telling twice. The deck became a flood of terrified people. The angle grew steeper way too fast. Much steeper.

You found yourselves climbing rather than running now. Clinging to railings. Pulling yourselves upward while the ship rose beneath you. The ocean seemed impossibly far below. Black. Endless and deadly. "Buck!" Steve shouted.

A section of deck shifted suddenly beneath you. Metal shrieked. People fell through. Bucky grabbed your arm and yanked you toward him just as the flooring buckled. The movement saved you. But not him.

A heavy piece of twisted railing slammed into his left arm. The impact throwing him sideways. You heard him cry out. "Bucky!"

He hit the deck hard. You stumbled toward him, worried. Hands cupping his face and making him look at you before your mind had caught up with the incident.

For a terrifying second he didn't move. Then, much to your relief, he opened his eyes. They were glassy and terrified. You helped him as he pushed himself upright.

His face had gone completely white.Left arm hanging awkwardly against his side, bleeding profusely and flesh peeking out from where the skin had given way when the railing struck him.

"Bucky—" "I'm fine."

He wasn't. He was anything but fine. You tore a piece of fabric from your skirt, wrapping it around the wound in a makeshift bandage. When you looked up again his jaw was clenched so tightly you thought he might crack a tooth. Steve saw it too. "Jesus, Buck—"

"I'm fine. We gotta keep going." The lie was obvious. But there wasn't time. The ship groaned again, deck tilting further. People were already sliding. Bucky grabbed your hand again with his good arm. "Move."

The stern rose higher and higher. The freezing wind tore at your clothes. And in a moment, the railing slipped from your hand and the ship disappeared beneath you.

For one impossible second there was only weightlessness. The stars overhead. Bucky's hand in yours as you both tumbled down towards endless nothingness.

The terrified look in Steve's eyes as he watched his best friend fall into the dark abyss. Then the ocean hit. The cold stole everything. Your breath. Your thoughts. Your voice.

It felt like being struck by lightning. Sudden and all at once. Like every nerve in your body had shattered. You surfaced choking and gasping for air. The screams around you were worse now. Far worse. Hundreds of voices crying out in the darkness. You spun desperately, looking for him, praying, hoping…….

"Bucky!"

There he was. A few feet away. Still alive. Still fighting toward you through the freezing water. Relief crashed through you. "Bucky!"

He reached you moments later. Face pale, Lips blue, Teeth chattering but smiling nonetheless. "There you are." You almost laughed.

"Steve!" bucky suddenly shouted.

You turned around just enough to hear steve yell, "I'm here!" He must’ve jumped in after you and was now fighting the surgung waves to reach his best frined.

You and bucky tried to cross the short distance toward him the best you could. The three of you fought through floating debris. Broken furniture and pieces of the ship, to reach each other.

The cold was unbearable, every movement feeling harder than the last. At some point a wooden panelling floated toward you, you grabbed it with sheer will power, hands and legs feeling numb in the cold of water.

The three of you held onto it for dear life. Then another wave struck. The wreckage spun violently making bucky lose his grip. The injured arm failed him completely.

You caught him before he could disappear bemeath the water. Interlocking your fingers with his good arm to keep him afloat as you could visibly see his consiousness fade slowly due to the blood loss.

The cold continued to steal strength from all of you. Minutes felt like hours and hours felt like days. The lights of the unsinkable had died between all the commotion. Leaving you in nothing but endless darkness. The ocean down below and the sky up ahead.

And somewhere during the darkness and silence, you realised how quiet everyone had gone. Maybe everyone was tired, maybe dead. Bucky was barely holding on in front of you, eyes drowsy and ice kissed. And steve,….STEVE?

Where was he? “Buck,” you shook him awake, “Where—Where’s steve?”

You both looked around desperately, one moment he was there. Holding onto the wreckage. Talking. Trying to keep everyone awake. The next you knew, he’s nowhere to be found. "Steve!" Bucky yelled. No answer. You looked everywhere. Every direction but there was nothing but darkness. Bodies. Debris. And the endless black ocean.

"STEVE!" You shouted too. Silence. Only the wind and waves answered. The realization settled slowly and terribly, like a rock hitting the bottom of a pitt. The ocean had taken him.

You both kept looking anyway. For minutes. Maybe longer. Until your voices became too weak. Until the cold became too much. Until there was nothing left to do.

The stars blurred overhead. Your body felt impossibly heavy now. Sleep tugged at you. Dangerous sleep. The kind where you know there’s no waking up from.

As the hours passed, the cold became its own world. After a while, it stopped feeling like water. It became something larger than that, something scarier, pulling at your consiousness asking to surrender yourself to it.

Something that wrapped itself around every thought, every movement, every breath. The wreckage beneath you creaked softly with each passing wave. The ocean stretched endlessly in every direction. Black water. Black sky. Only the stars remained bright.

You couldn't feel your feet anymore. Or your hands. You weren't even entirely sure how long it had been. Minutes. Hours. A lifetime.

Beside you, Bucky was still holding on with his good arm. Barely. His injured arm remained limp against his side, hanging uselessly in the freezing water. Every so often his jaw tightened sharply when a wave jostled it. But he never complained. Not once.

You hated him for that. Because it made it harder to ignore how badly he was hurt. And you realised with a terrifying certainty, that he was waiting. Waiting for rescue. WAiting for death. Whichever came sooner.

The ocean rose and fell beneath you, slow and endless. As if unaware of the lives it had taken tonight. "Hey." His voice sounded rough now.

You turned your head. Or at least you tried to. Even that felt difficult. "What?" His eyes were fixed on the stars.

"You still awake?"

"Unfortunately." A faint smile appeared.

The darkness stretched around you. Somewhere far away voices occasionally echoed across the water. Fainter now. Far fewer than before. The reality of that sat heavily between you. The ocean had become quiet. Too quiet. And you hated it.

"Bucky." "Hm?"

"I'm scared." The admission slipped out before you could stop it. He turned his head toward you immediately.

For a moment he looked younger somehow. Not Sergeant Barnes. Not the confident man from the dance floor. Just a frightened young man floating in an impossible ocean. "Yeah," he admitted quietly. "So am I."

You stared up at the stars again. They seemed cruel now. Beautiful. Unreachable. Uncaring. "I thought tonight would be different."

Bucky huffed softly. "I'd say it definitely qualifies as different."

You rolled your eyes weakly. How could this man still hold onto his humour. "That's not what I meant."

"I know." His good hand found yours beneath the freezing water. The grip was weak. But present. Grounding. "I know."

Silence settled again. You listened to the waves. To the wind. To the sound of Bucky breathing beside you. And gradually a terrible realization began creeping into your thoughts. No lights. No boats. No rescue. Nothing. Just darkness. And cold. And waiting.

Your throat tightened. "Bucky?"

"Yeah?"

"If..." The word got stuck in your throat. You tried again. “If I don't make it."

Immediately he shook his head. "No."

"Bucky." "No."

His voice was firmer this time. You looked at him. He wasn't looking back. His eyes remained fixed stubbornly on the horizon. As though refusing to acknowledge the possibility made it less real. "Bucky."

His jaw tightened. Finally he sighed. "Fine." The word sounded reluctant. Painful.

You swallowed. "If I don't make it..." His grip tightened immediately. You almost stopped. But the words were already coming. "If I don't make it, I need you to promise me something."

His eyes closed briefly. "What?" You thought for a moment. About the little house. The porch. The wildflowers. The future you'd built together in conversations over a handful of hours. A future that suddenly felt very far away.

"Be happy."

Bucky immediately looked offended. "What kinda request is that?"

"I'm serious."

"So am I." Another wave rolled past. The cold dug deeper making you shiver violently. Bucky shifted closer immediately. Trying to block some of the wind. Trying to protect you from an ocean. The ridiculousness of it almost made you cry.

"You deserve happy," you whispered.

His eyes softened. "So do you."

You looked away. The stars blurred slightly. "You know what the worst part is?"

"What?"

"I only got one day."

His brow furrowed. "One day?"

"With you."

The words came out quietly. Truthfully. "I spent years doing what everyone else wanted." You swallowed hard. "And when I finally got something for myself. I only got one day."

Bucky stared at you. His expression breaking a little more with every word. “Hey” His voice was firm. “Look at me” "We're getting that house."

You smiled sadly. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"The garden too?"

"Especially the garden."

A laugh escaped both of you. Small. Fragile. But real. The only sign of life in this pitt of darkness. Then silence returned. Longer this time. The cold kept pulling at you. Pulling you downward. Toward sleep. Toward rest. You could feel it.

And judging by the way Bucky's eyes kept drifting closed, he could too. Eventually he spoke again. "So if I don't make it."

Your chest tightened immediately. "Bucky—"

"Let me say it." His worrds hung heavily between you. You nodded. His gaze returned to the stars. "Travel."

You blinked. "What?"

"Everything you told me." His voice had grown soft. Dreamy.

"See Paris." You felt tears sting your eyes.

"See Italy."

"Bucky..."

"Learn those languages."

His smile was faint now. "But don't get one of those tiny dogs."

You laughed through the tears. "Why?"

"They're mean."

"They are not."

"They absolutely are." He stayed quiet for a moment Then; "And name one kid after me."

Your eyes widened. "One?"

"Minimum."

You laughed again. "Bucky Barnes, that is incredibly arrogant."

"I know." His grin appeared briefly before fading again.

The darkness seemed heavier now. Both of you were drifting. Fighting it. Losing. Winning. Losing again. Your head felt strange. Far away.

The stars blurred into streaks. And for the first time all night, neither of you had a joke. Neither of you had a plan. Just each other. The ocean rocked gently beneath the wreckage. Peaceful now that it's hunger was quenched.

You rested your forehead against his. Too exhausted to hold it up any longer. And for a moment it felt like maybe this was it. Maybe this was where the story ended.

Not with screaming. Not with panic. Just darkness and cold. And one last quiet moment together. And when you decided to finally surrender yourself to the current, you heard it. A sound. Faint and distant but an anchor nevertheless.

The sound came again. Louder now. A voice. Shouting and looking for survivors. Bucky's eyes widened. "Wait."

"What?" He lifted his head, slightly. And then a lantern appeared in the darkness. Tiny. Far away. But real. A boat. Someone shouting. Someone searching.

"Bucky..." His face transformed. Relief. Disbelief. Joy. All at once.

"Hey!" His voice cracked as he shouted. "HEY!" You joined him. Weakly. Desperately.

The light turned toward you. Toward the wreckage. Toward the two stubborn people who had refused to let go. And as the boat drew closer through the darkness, neither of you said a word. You simply held onto each other.

And watched hope come back across the water.

The first thing you remembered after the rescue was warmth. Not safety. Not relief. Just warmth. Blankets piled over your shaking body. Hands helping you sit up. Voices speaking somewhere nearby.

And Bucky. Even half-conscious, barely awake himself, he kept searching for you. Every time his eyes opened, they found you.

The weeks that followed blurred together. Hospitals. Questions. Officials. Lists of survivors. Lists of the missing. Lists of the dead.

You hated all of them. Especially the questions. "What is your name, ma'am?" The man sat behind a desk with a pen poised above a ledger.

You looked down at your hands. Then at Bucky.

He was sleeping in a bed across the room, pale from surgery and exhaustion. His left arm had been too badly damaged during the sinking. The doctors had done everything they could. In the end, they had been forced to remove what could not be saved.

The loss hung over him quietly. Neither of you spoke about it much. Not yet. The grief was still too fresh.

The official cleared his throat. "Your name?" For a moment you saw John Walker's face. Your mother's. The life waiting for you if anyone found you. The cage you escaped.

Then you looked at Bucky again. At the man who had pulled you from a railing. Pulled you through a sinking ship. Pulled you through an ocean. And somehow given you back yourself.

You lifted your head. The words were soft when they came out, yet firm all the same "Mrs. Barnes."

Bucky hated the first months after surgery. Not because of the pain, though there was plenty of it, but because now suddenly simple things became difficult. Buttons. Doors. Writing. Even holding a cup.

When the grief got too heavy, you sat beside him and took his hand. The real one. The one that still trembled slightly when he was upset. "Bucky." you would say.

His eyes remained fixed on the floor. "Buck." Finally he looked up.

"You’re still you” you said “and you still got me," He didn’t say anything. He never did. Just leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours.

Eventually a metal replacement was fitted. Crude by later standards. Heavy. Silver. Complicated. The sort of thing people stared at. Bucky hated that too. At first.

Then one day he accidentally crushed a walnut with it. Then realised he could do stuff that was harder for him to do before the metal arm. Like pulling doors right off the hinges. Fixing stuff that required heavy lifting. After that he became considerably more enthusiastic.

You found him showing it off to children in grocery aisles at least twice. "Bucky Barnes."

"What?"

"You are using your metal arm to impress six-year-olds."

"They think it's cool."

"They absolutely do." You grinned.

"They got excellent judgment."

And even though the scars of past were slowly healing but through everything, the one subject neither of you could escape was Steve. For months you hoped. People kept being found. Survivors appeared unexpectedly. Rumors spread. Stories changed.

Every knock at the door made Bucky sit up. Every newspaper made him look twice. Every list made your stomach twist. Maybe Steve had survived. Maybe he was somewhere else. Maybe he was recovering. Maybe…….

Hope can survive a very long time when there is nothing else to hold onto. Until one morning the final list arrived. Government officials. Recovered remains. Confirmed identities. You watched bucky pull the paper open with shaky hands. He read it with glassy eyes and the moment you saw Bucky's face, you knew.

You crossed the room slowly. "Bucky?”

He didn't answer. Couldn't. Words had left him the moment he read the paper. The finality kicking in as the hope flickered out like a flame in a stormy night.

He handed the paper to you, wordlessly. Your eyes found the name almost immediately. Steven Rogers. Recovered. Identified. Deceased.

The world stopped around you as you stared and stared at the paper until your vision turned blurry from unshed tears. You read it again and again. As though repetition might somehow change reality. It didn't.

The paper slipped from your fingers. And suddenly you couldn't breathe. “Oh God."

The words came out chocked and watery. Bucky bowed his head. One hand covering his eyes. His shoulders shaking slightly. And for the first time since the ocean, he cried. Years of friendship and memories gone in an instant.

The grief hit both of you like a wave. You cried until your throat hurt. Until your eyes burned. Until exhaustion finally forced silence where words could not. That night neither of you slept much.

You sat together on the porch steps watching the stars. Thinking about a blonde boy fromBrooklyn. Thinking about laughter in a third-class dance hall. Thinking about all the futures that the ocean swallowed whole that night.

Life continued anyway. Slowly and reluctantly. But it did. Because that's what life does. It goes on even when it's stained with grief and scars. And that was how you found yourself several months later, standing in front of a small cottage near the water.

The paint needed work. One shutter hung crooked. The garden was mostly weeds. The porch creaked alarmingly. It was perfect. You looked at Bucky and found him already looking at you, smiling. "The porch squeaks."

"I know."

"The roof's uneven."

"I know."

"The front gate doesn't close."

"I know." You laughed.

"So we're buying it?"

"We're buying it."

The first year at the cottage chaos. Wonderful chaos. You planted wildflowers only for half of them to die. Bucky insisted he could fix the roof himself. He nearly fell off twice. You learned quickly that neither of you had any idea what you were doing.

That did not stop either of you. The garden slowly grew. He built a porch swing one day to surprise you. And day by day, piece by piece, the house became home.

Then one rainy afternoon a scruffy little stray cat wandered into the garden. She was tiny and grumpy. Covered in mud and entirely unimpressed by humans. Naturally, Bucky fell in love immediately.

Bucky picked her uo from the graden like she already belinged to him and the moment she curled up in his lap, bucky knew he'd lost his heart. "We're keeping her." He looked up at you with puppy eyes.

"Obviously." You rolled your eyes but there was no heat in it.

"What are we naming her?"

The answer came almost immediately. "Alpine." The cat yawned. Completely indifferent.

And so Alpine stayed. The garden grew. The porch swing creaked. The house filled with laughter. And some evenings, when the sun dipped low over the water and painted everything gold, you'd find yourself sitting beside Bucky on the porch.

His metal fingers intertwined with yours. Alpine sleeping nearby on the way tree her dad had built for her. Wildflowers swaying in the breeze. And sometimes you'd look at him and remember a freezing night beneath impossible stars. A railing. A dance. A sinking ship. An ocean that had nearly taken everything.

And you felt immensely grateful that somehow, against all impossible odds, the two of you had made it home.

“Baby, you’re doing so good,” you purred, stroking his cheek as yet another shudder wracked his body.

Peeking over his shoulder at Steve, you winked. Steve’s smile bloomed, his hand resting at the small of Bucky’s back gently steadying him.

“You good, Buck?”

There was a sound somewhere between a grunt and a whimper, and you held back your giggle.

Ghosting kisses against his lips, his cheeks, and his damp forehead, you ran your fingers carefully through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp just the way he liked.

His cock hung heavy between you, untouched, bobbing against your stomach with every thrust he took. You ached to press up against him—but that wasn’t what tonight was about.

Shuffling further up the bed from where Bucky knelt on all fours over you, you carefully took his shoulders in your hands and encouraged him to lay his head down in your lap.

Steve took the opportunity to drive deeper, a slow grind that pressed Bucky’s face against the curve of your belly, his guttural moan into your plush soft skin making you bite your lip.

“I know, darling,” you murmured, stroking his hair back from his forehead in time with the tortuously slow strokes of Steve’s cock inside him. “You needed this, didn’t you, hm?”

Bucky huffed a soft yes against your skin, pressing open mouthed kisses into your body.

Above him, Steve breathed out a groan, his dark eyes flicking between where he fucked Bucky deep and where Bucky’s head lay.

“So pretty,” he grunted. “So damn pretty, punk.”

Groaning long and deep at the praise, Bucky’s teeth scraped against you, lips closing on a light nip at your skin, and you couldn’t control the way you jerked up into him.

The rasp of his stubble against your belly, your thighs, and the sensitive skin between drove you wild. You rocked beneath him again, hand at the back of his head urging him lower, until finally his chin brushed against your mound and you sobbed in near-relief.

Bucky caught on quick. He pushed lower, tongue searching for your clit. Your hand in his hair clenched hard, angling him just so, until—there.

Your strangled cry when his tongue pressed and curled matched his low groan at the tangy taste of you.

Bucky ate at you greedily, tongue lapping at your aching folds, drool dripping down his chin to mix with your slick.

“Is he—?”

“Yes,” you hissed, and Steve’s jaw clenched.

His pace never changed, rhythm holding steady, but you felt the shift in power when every driving thrust forward sank him deeper inside Bucky’s body, and Bucky’s face deeper into you. Your hips caught the rhythm, pressing up into his tongue, moaning over the sound of skin on skin.

Your hands stayed woven in Bucky’s hair, keeping him buried deep in your cunt.

He groaned into your flesh when Steve rutted deeper, hummed against you, sending tingling lightening over your skin, but never did he give you his fingers. Your pussy clenched around nothing, aching to be filled, but Bucky knew better.

After all, that wasn’t what tonight was about.

He only pulled away once.

“You gonna cum?”

“Yes,” you and Steve groaned in unison.

Steve fell first. He lost all rhythm, rutting into Bucky with singleminded determination, hands gripping his hips and face scrunched in desperate concentration. Until finally, pressing deep, he came hard with a gasp, pulling Bucky’s hips back tight against him.

Slumping forward the weight of Steve’s body pressed that delightful tongue deeper, Bucky’s nose grinding down onto your clit, and you jerked in his grasp as your orgasm flooded over you.

Your keening cry sent Bucky over the edge and with a shuddering groan he finally came, spilling into the sheets.

Bucky lapped greedily at everything you gave, moaning at the taste, prolonging your pleasure with every swipe of his tongue. You were a quivering mess, moaning helplessly beneath him.

When he slowed, pressing a last precious kiss into you, he rolled to the side, taking Steve with him, using your sweat-slicked thigh as a pillow.

Somewhere between the tangle of bodies, Steve’s hand snaked up to capture yours.

“You would like that, wouldn't you?” He continues, voice rough from hours of exhaustion and and from pleasure. “Want me to stay here forever? Buried so deep you'd never know what it's like to not have me inside.”

You nod, eyes rolling back with ecstacy as his fingers comes up to tease your clit with a flick of his thumb and forefinger before leaving abruptly and finding your hands.

He pushes one of your palms on your abdomen making you feel him move under your hand “Feel that, baby. That's me right there”

His fingers continue their ministrations on your clit and your back arches, hips lifting up to meet his thrusts.

He watches your breasts bounce as you move. Licking his lips he leans down, taking a nipple in his mouth and biting softly.

The tinge of pain soothed immediately by his soft wet tongue goes straight to your pussy and the moan that leaves you is loud and unfiltered.

“I'm never letting you leave now, baby” he murmurs around your chest. Mouth not leaving you for a second.

But you know better than to indulge in his fantasy.

You know better. You know that the guards would arrive soon and he'd be taken into his cell yet again.

And you will have nothing but loneliness until they decided the winter soldier needed to be tamed again.

Dividers by @diviniyae

Tag list : @redstarleftarm, @sweetserendipity65, @sambuckystony, @nymphhbabiee, @darlingdenise, @venigrantrogers, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @bstan01, @phoenix-in-writing, @singulartoast, @danerb67, @onyx8514, @globetrotter28, @buckysdecaflove, @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog, @herejustforbuckybarnes, @v33mustdie, @star-yawnznn, @buckybsdoll

You are beyond interested, you're obsessed.

Bucky Barnes, the only Howling Commando to give his life for his country... and then come back to life 70 years later looking the exact same?

Yeah, the math isn't exactly clicking for you, but you care less about the how or why, when you can focus on the who.

You have an apartment, in Upstate New York, and it just so happens that your window gives you an unobstructed view... right into one James Buchanan Barnes' window, which he leaves open even while he changes.

So, maybe you have a bit of a problem, but god, you just can't help yourself.

He's right there, he has no idea that you exist, and you get to see this man in all his glory every day.

Speaking of, you just woke up. It's 06:15, which means Bucky has been up for an hour.

Crud.

You really hope you didn't miss it, as perverse the thought is.

You, not so stealthily, creep to your window and use your phone camera to zoom in(because while you have an unobstructed view, the view is still a good dozen acres away). You bite your lip, feeling a mix of guilt and pure longing as Bucky steps perfectly into view, his muscular back to you, and his long hair covering his pretty face.

Turn around, you think, heart pounding. You don't even know I'm here.

Now of course, Bucky knew someone had been watching him.

He isn't a super soldier for nothing.

But what he didn't expect, was to like the attention.

As dirty as it is, as sinful as it is...

he just wants to feel wanted.

He wants to be admired.

He wants to be touched with a gentle hand instead of being treated like a weapon.

He's a man too, under all that tough soldier.

He's a man, and he knows a woman is watching him, and for some inexplicable reason, he revels in that knowledge.

So, turning slowly, he lets his button-up shirt fall open and reveal the deep contours of his torso, littered in fading scars and birthmarks.

He looks out through the window, a devastatingly slow smile spreading across his face as he catches the glint of a phone camera, and he waves.

"I know you like what you see."

The other window shuts their curtains quickly, and Bucky chuckles softly as he turns back around and finishes changing his clothes.

This isn't the last I'll see of her, Bucky thinks to himself before opening his door and starting his day.