“Y’almost got the hang of it!” You most certainly do not.

Bucky tries to tug you along the ice, his hand secure in your double-gloved one– per his insistence on keeping you extra warm– but it’s no use. The ground stutters laughably beneath each attempt of sliding your feet.

Bucky’s never seen anything so adorable before; you’re awful.

Of course, to make matters worse, they’re all gifted on ice– Maria drifts by with a graceful spin, a howling Scott and Natasha racing just behind.

“C’mon Bunny, just slide your feet in time with mine. Small strides, like this,” he demonstrates the movement away from you in hopes your body will be able to mimic the action.

It won’t. You can’t.

“Can’t you just carry me? This holding my hand thing isn’t working,” you whine. Bucky laughs ignoring your groans, grabbing your face and kissing the corner of your mouth until you smile.

“Nope! I need to see you twirlin’ around first and then,” his thumb brushes over your bottom lip longingly, “we’ll talk. But I gotta go get the living room ready, stay out here with Maria, yeah?” He smiles at you– like he’s never witnessed something more worthy of his worship– with the radiance of every last ray of sun, warm and at rest in his stare.

And after the incredible day you’ve all had, this was the last thing on his list before the sun disappeared for the evening. This morning, he’d bundled you in too many cable-knit layers (and then an additional one just to be safe), an oversized coat, and thick garments for your neck, hands, and feet. But watching you bounce on the ice again and again… he wishes he added a few more.

Bucky had everything planned down to the very second; from the beginning dimmings of the sky’s glow so the fairy lights hanging from the cabin into the trees would shine just right, to the dough being rolled out, cut into intricate shapes to be placed in the oven with ample amount of cooling time– can’t have the icing melt off the tops, Bunny. Needs to be perfect for you.

Steve and Natasha had spent over an hour untwining the offending garland and string lights that Sam had managed to knot together, while you and Torres got a head start at throwing plastic balls and pine cones up the side of the smallest of the giant pines encompassing the cabin.

The last tray of cookies had been placed in the oven while the canola oil was set out for the potato mixture, waiting to be fried in Bucky’s special pan– his ma’s old one she only used this time of year.

The success of today was important to him for more reasons than one. He finally has something strong, something certain, worth making memories with– ones that will last him a lifetime and replace all the pain that's led him to now. Bucky only wants to share everything he is with you.

Including the small frozen pond; which Scott, Steve, and Sam tested their weight on, year after year, hopeful they’d bring a little cheer back into Bucky’s life.

Upon his request, of course, you’ll stay out here. Bucky wasn’t asking– he had everything meticulously pinned like points on a map. You know better than to derail any of his plans. So your brilliant grin and sweet hum against the warmth of his cheek is enough to guarantee he’ll be okay leaving you with his friends for a bit.

With a feigned mutter of disapproval, a 'you carry me everywhere, but now it’s an issue?' and an accompanying pucker of your lips, Bucky reluctantly watches as Maria hauls you away, taking over as skating instructor. He shimmies his skates off before shoving his boots back on, joining Steve to get his cabin all set for watching your favorite holiday movie.

****

Bucky can’t help himself, the window is right near the couch he’s meant to be fixing the blankets on. He spent weeks planning this. Hours getting all the lights outlining his cabin just right, dangling them from branches and trunks alike. He needed this to be pristine, for you. Pausing to look out was too tempting, a perfect distraction directly in his line of sight at the mess of people dancing around the ice. Specifically, on you. His Bunny, right at home with his family.

And oh– how you shine. You're impossible to miss, the center of it all, always. To Bucky, anyway.

Bucky blinks with a particular tunnel vision these days, a fixation on the most beautiful thing that’s ever stumbled into his life. The window’s fogged and he’s thankful, for once, that he forgot to clean it better; a frost-tinted circle illuminating your ambrosial luster.

And while quickly moving to place an additional few logs on the fire, he can't fight the urge to get back outside to you. You love curling up against his chest right in front of the flames, warm cream colored blankets and sweet kisses shared until Bucky's reeling, flushed scarlet and suffocating for more.

“What’s on your mind, Buck?” Steve wonders.

They wordlessly walk out of the cabin and down the porch steps, transfixed with the painting of Joaquin and Sam twisting you unwillingly around the ice.

Steve clears his throat.

But Bucky’s somewhere else entirely, your squeals of frightened joy are running circles between his ears, rendering him breathless in a moment he never wants to leave. From the moment just a half hour ago you spoke so softly, "Need you to hold my hand Lumby, what if I suck? Never done this before", to now– he watches on with an ardent tenderness bleeding from his eyes in the shape of you. Sam pushes at your hips from behind, directing your laughing frame wobbling straight into a panicked Torres.

Bucky’s so tragically in love with you.

“Her.”

Your skate catches the bottom of Sam’s too-long jeans, sending you both toppling to the ground in a heap of broad shoulders and heavy limbs– courtesy of a painfully groaning Joaquin and cackling Sam. Steve smiles, observing Bucky take in the picture before him, a low chuckle rumbling within his knowing chest: there’s nothing like watching your best pal falling more and more, so deeply in love, Steve thinks. He nods.

“Mine too.”

“And what’s my girl doin’ in your thoughts?” Bucky smirks, eyes grudgingly leaving your triumphant pose on top of your conquered pile of a bickering Sam and Joaquin. When he meets Steve’s eyes, he finds a noble grin.

“I’m thankin’ her. Never seen you like this, so…” Steve gestures to him, a grand wave of his arms Bucky feels deep in his chest, “So happy. Bucky, she’s–”

“Bucky! Bucky, help me!” They both whip their heads at the excited sound, the two men once face-first on the ice and under your victorious smirk now standing tall on their blades with you lifted high above their heads. Maria and Natasha jump up from their bench to rush to your rescue, hurling insults in between fits of laughter at the two idiots passing you round and round in swooping circles.

Steve looks to his friend, and in Bucky's contentment he sees it– adoration and fondness and relief vibrating warmly.

Bucky melts– his bunny and his best friends. And they adore his girl almost as much as he does. He couldn’t feel more alive.

“Torres! Wilson! Put my girl down, I swear if I find even a scratch on her–”

“You have her in like nine layers. Think she’ll be fine, if she doesn’t pass out from heat exhaustion first…” Sam mumbles securing his arms tightly around your middle, dodging the raucous taunts of the two women before placing you on shaky legs.

You stay standing for a solid three seconds, the air returning to your overexerted lungs. One slide of your foot, then the other. Just like Bucky showed you, left, right, le– your body meets ice.

Shrill mirth fills the woods at, yet again, another fumble of your own two legs. With an enamored chuckle, Bucky moves swiftly, hoping to get to you before another fall occurs. He’s never seen a person fall so much in his damn life.

“So. I’m terrible at this,” the dejected huff swirls past you both in a frozen gust of air. Your body shivers in a tired sulk, working hard to remember what it feels like to be standing. Bucky bends down and aids you out of your skates, shouting for Scott to toss him your boots. Right foot then left, and he secures the thick socks he made you wear over the tops of the laces.

Bucky looks up at you, a satisfied sound whispered into the frigid evening. There’s a playful pity swimming within his features. But his eyes always betray him, completely overflowing with his adoration for you. It nearly knocks you off of your feet, dizzy and back spinning ‘round icy ground. The entrance to the fence that encases the pond snags on your puffy parka and Bucky grabs at your wrists, sliding his thumbs gently down to the thick fabric concealing those precious lifelines of yours. He brings the tops of them to his mouth with a gentle hum.

Nothing feels more secure than falling into the safety Bucky’s presence brings. He stands, plump lips never leaving your knuckles for a second.

As if the evening was expecting you both, frost-bitten air and the last swirls of daylight envelop you in a greeting of serenity. The lights still glimmer and your friends still laugh and yell, but the evening permits you to forget all of that for a moment.

Looking into Bucky’s eyes feels a lot like home.

And the stunning blues have no intention of leaving your sweet face, sulking up at him with the echoes of crystalized wonder and the twinkling from up above dusting along your features– how could he even feel an ounce of sympathy toward you? Not when your pout entices him like nothing else on this goddamned green earth ever could. Nothing could hold a candle to it.

“Wouldn’t say that Bun,” he decides with a solemn shake of his head, squeezing your fingers within his hold, “You’re not terrible. Just not ready… for public viewing, is all.” A short nod and a hopeful smile search to brighten the affected expression on your face. But it isn’t until he leans down with his nose nudging yours, a teasing pout of his lips on your cold skin, an arm sliding behind your hip urging you closer with a sigh against your cheek that you feel it.

He’d do anything to keep you happy.

It’s evident in the glistening snow nestled within the thick sea of evergreen, its sparkling hue all around you– in the sloppily decorated tree just a few feet shy of the pond– in the group of friends he gathered together just to remind you how loved you are, even during the most difficult season of the year. Bucky’d spend hours milling through his ma’s old recipes to find the perfect cookies and those latkes he remembers enjoying years ago. He’d even go as far as tell a little lie no one could possibly ever believe, that you weren’t in fact hazardous on skates, even if it is just the two of you that hear it. He’d bear long hours in the harsh winds of winter for something other than labor, for a gathering of family his girl knows love him to no end, just to see her showered with the same sentiment– to see that smile.

Nothing about loving you is akin to labor.

But then your lips curl, a small giggle bubbling past your once frustrated pout until the sweet sound blooms, swells, stealing the rhythm straight from his chest. And Bucky’s heart soars, from the very depths of his rib cage to the confines of your wool-clad hands, all from just the blinding smile you have only for him.

Candle: lit.

Your hands reach for his cheeks just as they flush crimson, a startling contrast to the scenery surrounding you. Bucky nearly evaporates, right there.

His pulse is thunderous, urging him to delight in nothing but your joy enduringly. Bucky can’t control it, it croons I love you, I love you, I love you.

You’re breathtaking.

He’d never tell his friends he planned today just for you, of how he stocked his kitchen with baking supplies and festive decor just to watch the happiness sparkling, so alive in your eyes.

Bucky’s anything but subtle. His heart beats only with the air of your affections– his friends know.

“C’mon sweet girl,” Bucky’s nose smushes against your hairline, his kiss warming your chilled forehead. “We’ve got cookies to decorate. Can’t let Sam find ‘em or they’ll be gone before we know it.”

At the sight of Bucky’s reverent lips descending the span of your face, Steve turns to head back to the cabin. With a heavy smack of his arm around Sam’s shoulders and a smile spread proudly across both of their faces, they let their friend take all the time he needs. Natasha’s grin twitches softly, watching Bucky sing of his love for you with every glide of his lips against your skin, with every breath that fills his lungs.

Bucky continues on, reaching and pulling for every little laugh you’ll give him, sparing no expense for the feelings of his friends: "Maria’s terrible on ice, did’ya even see her out there? Nearly knocked poor Torres on his ass.” No, that was you, actually. And you did. “Scott took all the marshmallows, can’t let him find out about our secret stash, kay?” He keeps them in an old tea container, they taste of bergamot. “Stevie thinks he’ll make a better gingerbread house than us, you believe that punk?” He only said that to get Bucky riled up.

Sam hears it– they all do. You hardly attempt to quiet your delight whenever Bucky gets you snuggled close, wrapped entirely bare in his need to be your everything.

A hurried kiss teases his stubble, then graces his lips, and your arm entangles itself around his own until the tips of fingers interlock in a charm of whispered giggles. And while walking the length of the winter wonderland he’s created for you, hyper and giddy and so full of emotion, your heart thanks him.

There's a shuffle, a small dip in the cushion beside you, and the figure to your right shifts as you taste the roof of his mouth. Another readjustment, this time a leg, and suddenly you're hearing a clink-thump as the coffee table wobbles curiously.

"Oh, shoot, I—"

But the words are clipped as you pull his face back to yours, hands cradling that perfectly-angled jaw. No distractions. Just him.

You can't remember the last time you felt like this, the last time you were in this blood-pumping position. It's been months at least for you. As for Bucky… even longer.

Hence, the slow beginnings all those months back. You were both just getting back into the chaos of the dating world and were equally as unconfident. While you were quick to find your footing again, as for Bucky, that timid shell was tougher to break – even now, there's still pieces intact.

Not one to get ahead of yourself, you let him set the pace. Nearly a month before a first kiss, another before an invite inside, and yet another before a night spent over. After more pg-rated dinner dates and movie nights than you can count, slowly but surely, Bucky began opening up to you.

Now it's all culminated in tonight. With a nice home cooked meal, a bottle or two of wine, and an agreement to spend the night behind you, you found yourselves snuggling on the couch, half-watching the television. Though neither of you had any specific ideas about where this evening would lead, with the lingering touches of hands here and soft caresses of thighs there, before you knew it, the movie was an afterthought as you were pressed up against him, shoving your tongue into his mouth.

You sigh as you let yourself get lost in the moment – the taste, smell, touch of him intoxicating; invigorating, even. Your head bobs rhythmically with Bucky's and the hulking man responds in turn, gingerly mirroring your moves as he attempts to follow your lead.

As his scruff scrapes the skin of your palms, you feel Bucky's own fingers fluttering around your body, nervous butterflies afraid to land. Undiscouraged, you release his cheeks to take his hands within your own, brazenly planting them on your lower back, permitting him to venture even lower. You return your hands to the sides of his face, and with a little more encouragement on your part, eventually, Bucky starts to mimic your enthusiasm, his massive hands rubbing, groping, pulling at you.

Emboldened, your lips and fingers explore the marble-smooth contours of his face. Plump lips lead to an angled jaw, chiseled by one of the masters himself. Soft earlobes trail down to a pulsing neck, hot and red as a flush creeps under his collar.

Your hands inch their way towards the back of his head, tickling the damp skin of his nape. As your fingers stretch out and catch the hairs at the base of his skull, you hear a moan, almost a whimper, as your fingers scratch at his exposed scalp.

You pause, unsure if your ears deceived you, before cautiously trying again. Another pull, another moan, and your lip curls triumphantly as you nip at his carotid.

The loop repeats undisturbed – tug, groan, grin – as you pluck at the string holding Bucky together, winding his limbs taut. As you connect with his mouth once again, absently, you sling a leg over one of Bucky's own, brushing a hardness at the convergence of his thighs. 

A gasp parts his lips in shock. He pulls away from you suddenly, arms stiff as he holds you at a distance. His abruptness catches you by surprise and you too pull back, hands suspended mid-air.

Bucky's breathless as he takes a moment to collect himself, then two, then three, as the air gradually returns to him. You similarly steal a breath or two for yourself, your body frozen as you fear you've overstepped your bounds.

After a while, he gulps. "S-Sorry, I—" he mutters, his hands drooping by his sides. "I just wasn't… I-I didn't— I haven't—"

"It's okay," you reassure him, palm coming to gently cup his face. You know this is all a bit fast, a bit uncharted, so you can't say you blame him for being jumpy. "Do you want to stop?"

"No! No," he responds hurriedly, his hands flying back up to your waist, fingers pressing urgently into your flesh. "No, it's— I'm alright, just— Don't stop… Please."

You offer a sympathetic smile, thumb brushing the highpoint of his cheek. You nod. "We can go slow, okay?"

He wets his lips and takes a slow breath. After a beat, he returns your nod.

Steadily, you lean forward to give him the barest of pecks on his bottom lip. You pull back an inch. "Is this okay?" you check.

His eyes are already shut as you look at him, his lips red and swollen, slightly puckered in anticipation. His lashes flick open just a sliver at your question, and he nods again, his hands sliding to your hips.

You kiss him once more, a little stronger this time, and then lower your hands onto his shoulders. "How about this? Is this okay?" you repeat.

With a third and final nod in blessing, this time as you capture his lips with yours, you deepen the kiss, letting your eyes fall closed as you make no move to pull apart.

Soon enough, it's as if no disruption happened in the first place. You kiss him like he breathes life into your lungs, like his taste is one to rival the nectar of the gods. Your skin almost buzzes from an unseen force, the air crackling and sizzling as if electrically charged. 

The current makes you restless as it surges through your veins, and your hands begin to wander like they have minds of their own. With your left, you trace his clavicle downwards, steel beneath silk that entices your fingertips. With your right, you descend along his torso, a steady thump beneath your palm keeping time with the clock.

The more you explore, the stronger the temptation is to roam, finding excitement in all the new discoveries you make. How the hollow of his throat vibrates as he hums, tingling the pads of your fingers. How his ribs expand and deflate as he takes in air, each thick breath headier than the last. How his hips twitch, his abdomen tenses, as your curious touch creeps lower and lower and lower.

You could get drunk off this moment if you'd let it consume you, the feeling nearly addictive as his warmth bleeds into you. It's like your mind is filled with static, your limbs with lighting, and you just can't get enough. Enough of now, enough of this, enough of him… Nothing can sate you, not that you want to be yet.

Reaching the jut of his hip bone, you're hardly cognizant of the way your wrist rocks, the dull note from his chest turning sharper. You feel him start to draw back as if he means to speak, and your body acts on instinct as he tries to halt your measures.

"Maybe we should— Nnngh," he groans as you tug his bottom lip between your teeth; animalistic, possessive, territorial.

With a hand on his neckline, you swiftly pull him back to you, delving your tongue into his velvet mouth. Now's not the time for words. Now's the time for actions; for raw, unrestrained emotions.

Silenced by your lips, Bucky can only mutter feebly into your mouth, a whiny, nearly desperate sound. He mewls and squirms as your hand drops to his thigh, kneading the junction where his leg meets his pelvis.

God, he sounds so pretty, and he tastes twice as good. You can only imagine how the rest of him feels.

Your hands continue to rove Bucky's sturdy body, searching for what, you're not entirely sure. He jolts and shakes at your blind ministrations, and soon you find you're fidgeting alongside him, the tinder catching spark in your belly. 

The flames within you surge higher and higher, stoked by your insatiable probing. The fire is scorching, branding your viscera, reducing your organs to ash and smoke. And yet, despite the carnage, the boiling pit in your stomach, the burn is oh so delicious as it envelops you.

You grab at him, needy, like you can't get close enough, like you'd crawl in his skin if possible. Your fist on his sternum, collar twisted in your hold, aching fingers pulling him further into you. Your mouth against his, lips forming bruises, tongue swallowing every last one of his murmurs. Your hand at his lap, fingers outstretching, thumbnail grazing the hot, hard—

"Ahhhh."

A sharp intake of breath renders your lips alone. Dazed, dumbfounded, your eyes spring open, taking in the scene before you. 

Bucky's head is tilted back, neck fully exposed, mouth propped wide open in a sigh. The couch shakes as he bucks wildly against the air, his hips rolling, pulsing, quaking. His eyes are squeezed shut like he's just stared into the sun, his hands clutching at the waist of your shirt, pulling roughly.

For a moment, you're bewildered as you gaze at him, the pinched expression creasing his face. His stuttered movement draws your attention downwards, and you look low to find…

Oh.

Gradually, sluggishly, Bucky regains use of his senses. His eyes blink open a fraction at a time, like each lid weighs a ton. His arms sag by his sides like his body has liquefied, sand and cement in the place of blood and bone. 

As he slowly comes to, it's clear he's just as confused as you were a moment ago, his brows slanted in question. But then he looks down, and too discovers the large, wet splotch darkening his groin, and the realization soon follows.

Delicately, you untangle yourself from  his embrace, releasing his collar from your hungry grasp. The pressure cooker in your stomach slowly lets off steam as the gravity of what just happened sinks in. 

With his chin still tucked, Bucky lets out a tense breath, a huff of disbelief escaping his lips. Then he's shyly raising his head towards you, muscles stiffening in unease, blush streaking up his neck, his cheeks, his ears. 

You're both silent as your eyes meet again, neither one wanting or knowing how to address the situation. You didn't intend for things to peak so quickly, and you have a feeling you're not alone in the sentiment. While it's easy enough to decipher the look on his face – embarrassment, shame, horror – as for your mind, it's harder for you to get a read on your thoughts. 

Before you get a chance to dissect your own brain, though, Bucky's voice is filling your head, fragmented sentences spilling out rapid fire.

"M'sorry," he says breathily, exhaling through his words. "S'just been so long since— W-What I mean is I didn't— I wasn't expecting—"

As the apologies – the explanations – tumble forth from his mouth, you can't help how the noise diminuendos, fading to the background until you can't discern it from the sound of the television.

That was… interesting, to put it plainly.

The series of events may have had an unexpected ending, sure, but unseemly? Unprompted? Unwelcomed? That's what you're trying to unravel.

While this isn't the first you've been with a hair-trigger partner, there was something this time that was inexplicably different. In these circumstances, normally, you're left disappointed but understanding; frustrated but sympathetic; optimistic but unsurprised when your own release is lackluster, if you even get that far.

Now, though… Now you're frenzied.

You're feverish, the heat still rolling off you in waves, practically melting you from the inside out. You're frantic, your imagination running wild with possibilities, fantasies of 'What if? What next? What more?' You're free falling, body plummeting through the sky, burning a hole in the atmosphere as you try to come back down to earth.

You take a deep breath, if only to slow your racing heart. You uncurl your nails from your palms as you consider what your next move is.

Where to go from here? 

Bucky's still a broken record in your periphery, apologizing profusely despite it being unnecessary. Even with that premature dip in the road, this evening has been pure, unwavering bliss, your cheeks hot with an enjoyment you can't put into words. While you'd be a liar if you said you weren't a tad upset at the early curtain call, the memories amassed through the night are enough to keep your core tightly clenched.

The dinner, the drinks, the dreamy atmosphere of it all. Not to mention the sensations, the sounds, the sinful taste of his tongue. And, of course, that alluring sight; that knuckle-tearing, lash-fluttering, positively rapturous look on his face as he…

As your mind continues to wander, your eyes follow suit, and soon enough you're drifting back to that sullied spot on his bottoms. The stain is just as apparent as ever, making a spark shoot up the length of your spine. But as your eyes find their mark at the center of his lap, your vision rapidly tunnels, another unnoticed – unexpected – aspect grabbing your attention.

You glance back up at his face, seeing but not hearing the words as they leave his mouth. If he's even aware of himself, of the still-straining fabric of his trousers – tenting, enticing, inviting – then he doesn't show it.

You take one more peer below, the gears turning in your head, the embers in your belly slowly reigniting. Past experience had deemed that the final stroke of midnight, your prince replaced by a pauper. Instead, this night seems to be full of surprises as a path ahead suddenly reveals itself.

"I swear this has never happened befo—"

Bucky's muted as you rear forward, smothering him with a fervent, fiery kiss. 

"Shhh," you hush, then you're pushing, insistently so, so that he's falling backwards, taking you with him.

His back meets the cushions with an ungraceful ooof, his legs sprawling awkwardly across the couch. He looks up at you with all the confusion of a lost, little puppy, but you don't give him a chance to question your actions. 

"It's okay. You don't have to worry," you promise, deftly maneuvering around his frame, planting a knee on either side of his waist.  

Pointedly, you lower your pelvis until you're hovering just above his lap, one more inch and you'd be slick with the mess of it. You chase off any lingering concern with a press of your mouths together, a soft lick at the seam of his lips. Then you lean down slowly, a tease more than anything, until you're tickling the shell of his ear with your whispers.

"We've still got a long night ahead."

__________