note: this is unhinged 😭

Art Donaldson never really planned for the frat life, and he certainly didn’t expect to end up as the frat president of the house. The role usually belonged to guys like Patrick, and Art was supposed to be the one preparing for his career, but somehow he found himself at the top of the social ladder. He couldn’t deny it, though, that he liked the way people looked at him as he walked through the halls, and the ego boost helped his game on the court whenever he felt the pressure of going pro. The connections were useful for his future career, but the real benefit came from the way he could get whatever he wanted.

Being the president of the biggest frat house on campus meant he had access to things he shouldn’t touch, but he took them anyway because the rules didn’t seem to apply to him anymore. He spent his nights in the back room with a bag of white powder to take the edge off the stress, and he enjoyed the favors that came with his title, which meant the power to silence people who knew his bad habit. You were just another part of the arrangement, and he treated you like a prize he earned for being the best on the team. He didn’t care about the consequences as long as he had his spot at the top, while he used everyone around him to get what he needed, but that control didn’t last forever.

The reputation he built as the perfect athlete started to crack when those rumors about his behavior behind closed doors came out, and eventually, you’re not immune to hearing about the gossip. You didn’t want to believe the stories about him snorting lines in that frat house, but the details from the guys were too specific to ignore. This mess turned your relationship into something ugly, yet he kept acting like nothing changed despite the way you looked at him with doubt. It felt like you were just waiting for him to mess up again, and he didn’t seem to care that his secrets were getting out.

The doubt in your head only got worse whenever his frat is having a party, just like this day, where Art spent the entire night acting like you didn’t exist while he talked to other people but you. You finished a few too many drinks to deal with the cold shoulder he gave you and went upstairs to his bedroom since you couldn’t stand the noise of the party anymore. The door finally clicked open after an hour had passed, but Art walked inside without turning on the light, so he didn’t really notice you at his bed. He went straight for the dresser and opened the bottom drawer while ignoring your presence in the room.

His fingers grabbed a small plastic baggie from a small box, and he gripped it tightly in his palm. “Art,” you whispered, and your voice cracked. He jumped and turned with wide eyes while hiding his hand behind his back. “Jesus, you scared me,” he breathed and wiped sweat from his forehead. He looked toward the door and back at you before his jaw tightened. “What’s in your hand?” you asked and stood to get a better look. He didn’t answer right away, but his grip on the baggie didn’t loosen as he stared at you. Art shoved the baggie into his back pocket as he tried to hide the evidence, but you walked toward him until his hands held your waist.

He pulled you against his body, and his eyes darted around the room as if he could still escape the question. “It’s nothing,” he muttered while his palms felt irritating against your skin. You leaned close and watched him hold his breath. “Don’t lie to me when I saw exactly what you grabbed,” you whispered and reached toward his pocket. He blocked your arm and shook his head, but his grip tightened. “You’re just drunk and seeing things,” he lied and moved his face closer. You scoffed and shoved his chest because the gaslighting made you want to scream. “I’m not crazy, Art, and I know you’re doing that shit again,” you snapped and reached for his pants.

Art gripped your arms and walked you toward the mattress while shaking his head. “I told you I stopped doing that months ago,” he claimed as his fingers dug into your skin. You reached for his pocket, but he stepped into your space and forced you onto the bed. “Stop acting crazy,” he muttered while he tried to stare you down. You felt the alcohol hitting harder, and your mind went to the worst places since he kept lying to your face. “Maybe you’re cheating on me, and that’s why you’re acting like this,” you shouted while you shoved his shoulders away. He didn’t back up, and he just stood between your legs while he pinned your wrists down to keep you from reaching behind him.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he barked back because he’s doing drugs, sure, but he would never cheat. He leaned in closer until your faces were inches apart. “Let go of my hands, Art,” you snapped while you tried to twist your wrists out of his grip. He didn’t move away, but he leaned in and gave you a quick peck on the lips as he tried to soften his tone. “What’s got into your mind tonight, huh?” he murmured while his thumbs rubbed against your skin. He kept standing between your legs and acting like he was the one being patient with you. “Are you just upset because I didn’t give you enough attention downstairs?” he asked while he let out a short laugh.

You felt the heat rise in your chest, and you glared at him because the manipulation was too obvious. “Fucking junkie! You can’t even look at me without lying,” you spat while you kicked your foot hard against his leg. He didn’t flinch, but his eyes went cold as he loomed over you to keep you from standing up. “You’re acting like a brat because you’re drunk,” he responded while he kept you stuck on the edge of the bed. You leaned forward and bit down hard on the skin of his shoulder while he hissed from the surprise. “What was that for?” he grunted as he realized you weren’t going to play along with his games.

He sighed and shook his head while his grip on your wrists finally loosened. “Fine, fine. Sorry, baby,” he muttered before releasing you. You didn’t waste a second and reached behind him to snatch the baggie from his back pocket before he could stop you. You held the plastic between your faces to stare at the powder. “You really thought you could lie to me like I’m stupid?” You asked while watching his eyes follow your hand. Art reached out to grab it, but you wiggled the baggie just out of his reach while a smug look stayed on your face. “It’s not a toy, so don’t play with it,” he snapped while his jaw tightened.

You kept moving it back and forth in front of his nose, but he didn’t move from between your legs. “I’m just stressed out, okay?” he argued while he tried to sound like the victim. He held his hand out flat and waited for you to drop the drugs into his palm. “Give it back to me right now,” he ordered as he leaned in closer to your face. “You’re such a pathetic loser,” you muttered and slid the baggie through your collar, then tucked it under the cup of your bra. Art watched the plastic disappear against your skin, and his hands immediately reached for the hem of your top. “Don’t fuck around with me because it’s not funny anymore,” he growled while his fingers gripped the fabric.

He didn’t wait for an answer and yanked the top over your head until it was off. You sat in your bra while he stared at the spot where the drugs were hidden, but he didn’t back away from his spot between your legs. “Hand it over,” he snapped, and his hand slid under your bra to find the baggie. Art felt the plastic baggie against the skin of your breast, and he didn’t pull his hand out after he found what he wanted. He squeezed your chest while using the plastic to rub your nipple, and he watched your reaction with a dark look in his eyes. “You’re such a prick,” you hissed while you tried to push his arm away, but he just kneaded your flesh with his palm.

The plastic crinkled against your skin while his fingers worked the baggie over your nipple. “I could just snort a line right off your tits and forget about the party downstairs,” he muttered while he leaned in to bite your neck. You breathed shakily as the scraping sensations messed with your head. “You like how this feels, mhm?” he whispered while he kept rubbing the baggie against you. “You’re an arrogant asshole, Art,” you hissed while you swung your hand and slapped his cheek hard. He didn’t even flinch, but he let out a rough laugh while he reached around your back with his free hand. “Keep hitting me and see what happens,” he muttered while his fingers unhooked your bra.

He pulled the fabric away from your chest, but he never removed his palm, and the baggie was still between your breast and his skin. One strap fell to your arm because he wouldn’t move his hand to let the bra fall completely. “You like playing these games, huh?” he asked while he watched your breath hitch. You hated how much he was being a dick, but your cunt was already soaking wet for him. “I hate you so much,” you whispered while you looked at the mark your hand left on his face. “I fucking hate when you do this shit, Art,” you snapped while he finally moved his hand from your chest. He gripped the baggie before shoving it into his pocket and dropped to his knees between your thighs.

“It’s not like I’m a junkie or something,” he muttered while looking up with tired eyes. “I only do it occasionally to take the edge off,” he adds and shakes your head because you weren’t buying his excuses. “You’re acting like a total idiot, and you’re going to end up dead if you don’t stop,” you said while you leaned down closer to his face and you grabbed his jaw to make him look at you. Art didn’t say anything at first, but his hands traveled to the waistband of your bottoms. He hooked his thumbs into the fabric and tugged your panties, but you slapped his hands before he could undress you. “I know it’s bad and I’m sorry, okay?” he whispered as he stroked your hip.

“It just helps me relax. You know how stressed I’ve been lately,” he murmured while his fingers grazed your skin. You swung your hand and slapped his face again, but he just let out a chuckle while he looked at you. “You like hitting me, don’t you?” he provoked while he gripped your waist and leaned his forehead against your stomach. “Because I fucking hate you,” you muttered while you hit his shoulder with your fist. Art huffed and leaned forward to bite your stomach before his tongue swiped over the skin. “I wonder how it feels to do a line right off your body,” he whispered, and his breath fanned against your stomach.

You didn’t say a word, but hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your bottoms and your panties to push them down. You raised your hips off the edge of the bed a little so he could slide them past your ass, and Art immediately grabbed the fabric to take over. “I bet you’d make a perfect table,” he teased while he yanked the clothing down past your thighs. Art tossed your clothes across the room after he pulled them off your feet and gripped your knees to pry your legs wider. He stared down at your bare cunt, and his thumbs rubbed your inner thighs. “You’re so fucking pretty,” he muttered while his gaze was fixed on your folds.

He reached into his pocket for the baggie again, and he looked up at you with a grin. “Can I please just do one line right here on your pussy?” he asked while his fingers toyed with the plastic. Your cunt pulsed at the thought of the drugs against your clit, but you tried to act like he was being crazy. “You’re out of your mind,” you whispered before you watched him lean forward between your knees. “Just one, baby,” he coaxed while he pressed his lips to your inner thigh. “This is a one-time thing, Art,” you muttered and spread your legs wider. He looked up, and a grin broke across his face. Then he scrambled to his feet.

“Just move to the middle of the bed,” he ordered while he started fiddling with the seal of the baggie. You scooted back and lay against his pillows before Art kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the mattress. He crawled between your thighs and used his free hand to shove your knees apart. “You’re going to love this,” he whispered while he lowered his head and gave your clit a few licks. “Ngh- just do it,” you breathed, and your fingers traced the pattern on the sheets. Art reached into the baggie and pinched the white powder, then rubbed it against your slit. He leaned down and snorted the line off your skin, and some powder stuck to your wetness.

“Fuck you’re so soaked,” he grunted and used his tongue to clean the coke from your folds. You gasped, and your hips jerked against the bed because your skin started to feel numb where he touched you. “It feels weird,” you whimpered and watched him look back up with wide and hungry eyes. Art reached into the baggie and pinched more white powder, then sprinkled it over your clit and mound. You let out a short breath while you watched him ignore your earlier deal, and you tried to kick him off, but he gripped your ankles to pin you down. “Stop moving, or you’re going to make a mess of everything,” he warned while he shook his head at you.

You tried to shove his shoulder with your foot, and you glared at him while your body tensed up on the pillows. “I said only one line, and you’re overdoing it, Art,” you snapped while you tried to pull your legs back. “Come on, just let me eat your pussy while I finish the rest,” he coaxed while he looked up at you with a grin. He didn’t wait for you to agree and lowered his face between your thighs until his nose pressed against your clit. You felt his lips against your hole, and he started licking you while he snorted the powder. “Nnngh, Art,” you moaned while your head fell back and you felt his tongue working deep inside your wetness. Art grunted against your folds before his hands squeezed your thighs.

Art kept his face buried in your heat, and he thrust his tongue deep inside your hole while he continued to eat your pussy. His nose rubbed against your clit with every lick as he snorted the remaining powder. “Oh god,” you gasped while you gripped the hair at the back of his head. He grunted against your wetness, but he didn’t pull back to say anything while he focused on your cunt. Art looked up with blown pupils, and he went right back to devouring you while his tongue worked inside you. “M-more,” you whined while tilting your hips to meet his face. Art pulled away from your entrance and shoved two fingers inside your soaking cunt.

He pumped his hand while sucking your clit as messy moans filled the room. “Art… plea-” you cried out while you arched your back against the bed. A loud knock hit the door, and someone shouted for him from the hallway. “Yo Art, you in there?” the guy yelled while the handle rattled. Art pulled back with a frustrated look to glare toward the door. “Fuck off and go find another room,” he shouted while his fingers were still buried inside you. He realized he never locked the door because his original agenda was to get his baggie. “Shit, I forgot the door,” he muttered while he pulled his hand out of your wetness.

You watched him pull away from your thighs, and you glared at him while he climbed off the mattress. “What the fuck, Art?” you grumbled as you adjusted your position. He stood and checked the hallway before looking back. “Do you want everyone at the party to walk in and see you naked?” he asked while gesturing toward your open legs. The thought bothered you, and you scrambled under the covers to hide your body. Art walked over to the door, and he finally turned the lock before he turned back around to face you. “Maybe if you weren’t so high, you would’ve remembered to do that before you started putting drugs on my cunt,” you teased while you watched him walk back toward the bed.

“There’s still a little bit left in the bag,” Art muttered while he looked back at the spot on the bed where he left the powder. He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it while he walked back toward you. You watched him struggle with the button of his pants as he undid them along with his boxers, while his movements looked a bit clumsy from being high. “No more Art,” you grumbled while tugging the covers against your chest. He stared with wide pupils before sitting on the edge of the mattress while his cock swung free. “Please?” he whispered while he reached out to tug at the edge of your blanket.

He crawled under the covers and hovered between your thighs while the blanket fell over you. You didn’t even notice him grab the baggie from the sheets because he moved so fast to get on top of you. His cock rubbed your stomach as he waited between your legs, but he didn’t try to put it inside you yet. “Just last time? Please? You’re still going to let me do it there, right?” he asked while staring at your breasts with desperate eyes. You gripped the pillows and looked up as he breathed over your face. “I thought you were finished after my cunt,” you breathed while you could feel your cunt pulsing from the thought of Art wanting it this much.

Art grunted and shook his head before bringing the baggie toward your chest. “Not until I use what’s in here,” he muttered while he looked at the powder. He lowered his head, and he took your nipple into his mouth to suck it. Art shoved his hips up to rub his cock against your stomach. “Promise I’ll be good,” he whispered after pulling back to look at you. You felt his cock move against you while he licked your nipple. “Baby…” he groaned while he held the baggie over your tits. You gripped the pillows, and you watched him beg while he looked at your chest. “Just let me do it here,” he muttered while rubbing himself against you again.

He shoved his hips up to rub his cock against your stomach as you grabbed his jaw. You held his face tightly while he stared at your breasts. “Fine, but this is the last fucking time I’m doing this shit with you,” you snapped as he tried to nuzzle into your palm. You watched him lean into your hand, but you didn’t let go of his face. “If I see you with coke again or you even ask me for this, then I’m reporting your ass to the administration, and you’re off the tennis team and out of this house,” you threatened while he let out a noncommittal grunt. You knew he wasn’t being sincere by the way he kept moving his hips, but you squeezed his jaw even harder until he had to look at you.

“Do you fucking understand me?” you asked while he groaned at the pressure. Art let out a ragged breath as his cock ground against your belly, and he stared at you while his breathing hitched from the way you held him. “Yeah, I got it,” he muttered while he looked back at the powder in the baggie. You dug your fingers into his jaw, and you squeezed even harder as his answer sounded way too dismissive. “I said, do you fucking understand me?” you growled while you forced his head back. Art winced at your grip, and he stared at you with wide pupils while he tried to nuzzle into your palm. “Please, I do, okay?” he rasped as he looked completely desperate to get what he wanted.

You released his face after feeling satisfied, but you watched him while he emptied the baggie onto your chest. “You’re such a needy prick,” you mocked while you watched him tap the plastic to get every bit of powder out. His eyes looked amazing despite being high, and you liked the way he looked under the blankets with you. Art grabbed your knees to push your legs wide apart and guided his cock against your cunt. “Ngh, I need you,” he groaned while he started sliding into you. Art lowered his head, and he nuzzled against your chest to sniff the coke while thrusting. You let out a shaky breath as he buried the whole length of his cock inside your cunt.

“Mmn- you better p-pamper me after this,” you moaned while you tried to grind up against him. Art gripped your legs to keep you in place while continuing to push his cock inside. “Yeah? What do you want?” he grunted as he nosed at the powder on your tits. You gripped the blankets as his cock stretched your walls. “You’re t-taking me out and buying me whatever I want- ahhnn,” you gasped, and he thrust slowly to make sure you feel every inch. Art let out a low curse as he nuzzled your chest again to get another hit of the powder. “Hngh, I’ll buy you the whole world if you just keep taking it like this,” he muttered while his cock slid all the way in again.

You clenched around his cock again, and you slapped his face to get him moving. “I hate you- mmn, just move already,” you snapped as you glared at him for a few seconds, and you tried to force a reaction. You laughed mockingly because he seemed close to coming, but he only glared back. “You’re just talk and no action- ahhn,” you goaded while you felt him throb inside your cunt once more. Art groaned deeply and hooked your legs over his shoulders after he rose to his knees. “Stop clenching on purpose, and I might actually give you what you want,” he grunted as he started to thrust into you with a rougher pace.

You gasped when the entire length of his cock was buried deep inside you. “Better- hahh, much better,” you whispered while you watched his face and felt him fill you up with thrust. Art grabbed your calves to hold you in place, and he started moving much faster while he looked right at you. The speed of his thrusts made your head toss from side to side against the mattress with a needy whine. “Your cunt is so addicting- mmf, I can’t stop,” he muttered while he couldn’t look away from your face. You felt heat spread over your face from his words, and you quickly moved your arms to cover your eyes.

“Don’t say that- hah, it’s embarrassing,” you whispered as you hid behind your forearms because his praise caught you off guard. Art grunted roughly, and he held your legs tightly while thrusting deeper. “It’s the truth- hngh, you know what you do to me,” he rasped while the sound of skin slapping filled the room. Art leaned forward to kiss your calf and nuzzled your leg while his hips kept moving faster against yours. You couldn’t help but squeeze his cock as he throbbed inside you. Your lips parted wide while the breath caught in your throat, and you turned your head to bury your face in the pillows. The muffled music from the party below came through the floor, but the slick sounds from your pussy every time he thrust were much louder to your ears.

You both heard footsteps passing by in the hallway, and you knew the guests could hear every moan. Art didn’t slow down at all, and he gripped your legs even harder while he focused on burying himself deep inside your body. You reached between your legs and rubbed your clit while he kept thrusting into you. “I’m wide open for you, and you snorted coke off me- hngh, but I can’t even get a k-kiss?” you complained as you glared up at him through your tears. Art chuckled while watching your fingers move against your folds. “Maybe you’re just too much fun to watch like this- mmf,” he replied while he throbbed inside your cunt because the sight of you touching yourself made him move much faster.

You let out a broken moan, and you worked your clit faster, but he suddenly pulled back until the tip of his cock was almost out. Art paused to watch your cunt clench before burying himself all the way back inside. “You’re g-going to make me finish- fuck,” he rasped as he watched the way you were pleasuring yourself. Art kept thrusting deeply and pulling out until only the tip of his cock remained inside your cunt before he repeated the same motion. You could hear someone speaking right outside in the hallway while your clit pulsed under your busy fingers. You looked toward the door at the sound of the voices, but Art grabbed your chin to force your attention back at him.

He tried to ignore the loud noise coming from the rest of the frat house and the fact that both of you had been inside this room for a long time now. His fingers dug harder into the flesh of your thigh, and he squeezed your leg before his eyes closed from the pleasure his cock felt around your cunt. You wrapped your arms around him and tangled your fingers in his hair. One hand scratched his back while he leaned in to brush his lips against yours, but struggled to kiss you properly because he labored for breath. His breathing turned ragged while he felt the pressure building in his stomach, and his hips started to shake as he pushed himself deep into your cunt.

“Haaah- fuck, just cum inside me,” you begged while you pulled him closer to your chest. Art grunted before grabbing your wrist to pull your arm from his neck. He intertwined his fingers with yours, and he pinned your hand to the mattress beside your head while his other hand gripped the sheets tight. “Please... oh god, please,” he choked out while his cock throbbed and he finally came deep inside you. Art pulled his face away from yours, and he kept thrusting deep into your cunt as he continued to cum. “Mnh-hngh... I’m close too, Art,” you gasped while you looked up at him. “Yeah? You’re gonna come for me?” he rasped while his cock kept sliding slowly in and out of you.

You nodded as your mouth parted, but the moan was stuck behind your throat. He grabbed your other hand that was still holding onto him and intertwined his fingers to pin it down in the sheets. Art watched your face carefully while his cock moved at a slow pace, and he squeezed your hands tightly. Your cunt tightened, and you finally came around his cock while he kept thrusting deep to make sure you were finished. “Oh god- Art-” you cried out while your toes curled and your eyes rolled back in your head. Art watched your body shake as you peaked, and he didn’t stop moving until your pussy stopped clamping around him.

He eventually rose to his knees while he let go of your hands, but he didn’t pull out of you yet. “Haaah... hahh... we gotta go back down to the party,” he panted while wiping sweat from his forehead. You sighed breathily as you looked at him through your lashes. “So you’re finally gonna stop ignoring me?” you asked while you watched him scoff. He pulled his cock away from your pussy, and he squeezed your thigh. “I mean... we can’t exactly sleep right now with how loud it is down there,” he muttered while the music from downstairs thudded through the floor. “God, I fucking hate you and your stupid frat ass,” you groaned while you were still sprawled out on his bed and felt completely spent.

Art just shushed you while he waved a hand and walked toward his dresser to hunt for some tissue. He rummaged through the top drawers, but he didn’t seem to find what he needed. “Just use the shirt,” you suggested as you watched him toss a few items aside. He looked back at you with a confused frown. “What shirt?” he asked while he kept searching the messy surface. You let out an annoyed huff while you watched him struggle. “The shirt, Art! You know... the one we always use,” you reminded him while you waited for him to finally remember where he kept it. “You mean that nasty shirt?” Art asked while he finally pulled the fabric from the back of a drawer.

You nodded and let out a low groan because it felt pretty embarrassing that you two actually kept a specific shirt for this. He didn’t say anything else as he walked back to the bed and climbed in between your legs. “Open up,” he muttered while he gripped the fabric in one hand. You open your legs wider and watch him when he starts to clean carefully the mess in your cunt. Art used the shirt to wipe away the white powder that stuck to your sweaty skin after wiping the cum out of you. He didn’t look tired at all because he was still riding the high from the coke. “Are you still gonna drink when we go back downstairs?” you asked while you watched him finish with your body.

He just shrugged his shoulders as he started cleaning the mess off his own cock. “I don’t know yet,” he muttered, and he tossed the shirt toward the corner of the room after he got off the bed just to search for something. “Want me to dress you up?” Art asked while he looked at you, and he saw that you gave him a small nod. He reached down to grab your clothes from the floor before he sat on the edge of the mattress again. You stood up from the bed to wait in front of him while he held out your panties. You stepped into the leg holes one by one before he pulled the fabric up until it was covering your cunt. “You can just eat some ice cream once we’re down there,” he suggested while he looked up at you.

“Just sit beside me while I finish my drinks,” he added while he picked up your bottoms and waited for you to step into them. “Do you guys even have my favorite ice cream in that fridge?” you asked while you watched him hold open your bottoms for you. Art hummed as he watched you step into the fabric, and he pulled the material up until it was sitting perfectly in place. You looked down at him while he was sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’re still very naked, Art,” you pointed out while you waited for him to get up. He let out a dry huff as he finally reached for his boxers. “That’s because I’m putting you first,” he replied, and he stood up to start dressing himself.

Art put on his boxers while you hooked your bra in place as you stood in front of each other. “So do I look like I’ve been railed?” you asked while you watched him grab his jeans. Art let out a genuine laugh while he stepped into his pants, and he looked at you from top to bottom. “Trust me... those guys downstairs don’t give a fuck,” he replied as he finished closing them. You rolled your eyes while you reached for your top and put it on your body. “Well, I do!” you snapped while you adjusted the fabric to make sure everything was hidden.

He pulled his shirt over his head, and he let out a sigh while he watched you worry about how you looked. “I swear you still look beautiful even if they can tell I just fucked you,” he said before he grabbed a baseball cap from his desk. You shook your head as you tried to fix your hair. “You’re really not helping, Art,” you muttered while he put the cap on backward. He stepped back in front of you, and he held your waist while he leaned in to kiss your cheek. “Don’t worry about it because you’re with me and nobody’s gonna say a word to my girl,” he promised while he gave you a wink.

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⠀⠀⠀ twenty-twenty-six © addie / musingsofheaven.

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GOD I'm a whore GODDDDDD I'm a whore I need him so bad yo I need him I'm not an ethical gooner I need him in ways people would skin me alive I damn the day that sicko brought me to this app to suffer thanks to him I'm here sharing divine prose wishing I could lick under his skin

You were getting impatient, and you wanted to tease him. It had been a long day of stolen glances and lingering touches. 

“How much longer till we get there?” you questioned “You do know where you're going right?”

You were wearing a skirt. You slipped it on when he said he'd take you for a drive. you loved the easy access that it gave. you shifted your hips off the seat and started to slide off your panties.

“About 10 minutes.”

Perfect

Sam gives you a quick glance then realizes what you're doing. 

“Eyes on the road, Sammy,” you say. The car speeds up. 

“It's Sam”. His knuckles are turning white around the steering wheel. 

You slide them off your legs and put the black lace on his lap.

“Thanks” you say, he sits up, back straight.

You lean back and start to move your hand under your skirt. He can't see so you'll have to paint the picture. Your fingers find your core.

“Mph Sam I'm sooo wet already, can you hurry up.” you draw out the words, trying to sound as whiny as possible. 

“Fuck.” he whispers. He takes his right hand and puts it on your thigh and grabs it tight. Eyes still ahead. 

He moves his hand up and swats your hand away. His finger moves to your core so quickly. He swipes a finger through your folds. 

“Shit, you are soaked” he looks at you for a moment. You had been thinking about this all day. You were so worked up.

Sam's hands are so skilled. He finds your clit and moves in painfully slow circles.

“Sam , please, faster.”

“No, you'll take what I give you. you can wait.” god you loved it when he gets all bossy. 

He keeps his fingers slow and you close your eyes to enjoy the feeling better. But right when it's starting to really feel good. He pulls his hand away. 

You open your eyes to see why he stopped. But he's pulling into an empty lot. Outside of a park. Not a car in sight. 

Perfect.

He parks and as soon as the car stops he's leaning over to kiss you so hard and sloppy it surprises you for a second. He stops just as quickly as he started. 

“get in the back”. He says he steps out of the car and takes a look around . 

You jump in the back seat, and take your shirt off. The car had already gotten hot. 

He moves the seat up to give you more space for you’re ... Activities. 

You were about to take your skirt off when he interrupts

“Leave it on.” 

“Yes sir.” You say with a giggle. You position yourself so your feet are on the seats and your back is to the door. Sam climbs over you. 

His kisses are so rough, you love the passion he always gives you.

He moves his hand down your body, and puts it under your skirt. He slides his tongue into your mouth in sync with his finger inside you. You gasp at the feeling, and he drinks in the sound. 

“God, I wanted to work with you with my fingers all day. I know how much you love it.” he put in a second finger. You grip his shoulder. 

You love car sex because there is no one else you have to worry about sound wise. You can be as loud as you want. 

“fuck Sam I've been, fuck, your , oh my god.” you couldn't think straight. He starts to curl his fingers and pick up the speed. “ Sam fuck im-”

He pulls out. You let out a huff. He just smiles and licks your slick from his fingers. 

You shift positions a little awkwardly. I mean he is 6 '4 and the car is a little small for someone his size.

You're on his lap facing him. His cock is standing at attention. His shirt is unbuttoned but still on. He holds his hand out. 

“Spit.” 

You do

He moves his hand down to his cock and pumps it a few times. You move your hips as he guides his head to your entrance. 

You slowly glide down his cock and let out a sigh when he bottomed out. 

He lets you adjust to his size.

His hands find their place on your hips and he holds them tight. 

You put your hands on his shoulders for leverage and start bouncing. He leans his head back. You take the opportunity to kiss his neck. 

“You feel so good” each word enunciated a thrust. He grips you tighter, his fingers digging into your flesh. He starts to move you up and down his cock, fucking into you. 

The grip he has on you to be able to lift you is a little painful but god you love when he man handles you. 

“I think about fucking you like this all the time. Just. like. This.” the sounds he's making will stick in your head forever. 

Hes picked up his paces and you cant do anything besides let him fuck you. 

Your head is leaned back and he's hitting you at just the right angle. You squeeze around him.

“You close baby? I can feel it. You get so tight when you're close.”

You can feel his resolve slip away as he rushes to get his release in time with yours. 

“fuck , Sam." The tightness pulls until it snaps. And you feel him lift you a few more times till he stops and burys his head between your shoulder and neck.

The windows are fogged. The air is wet and the only sounds to be heard are the critters and heavy breathing. 

You two stay like that for a while, Sam's hand is on your back moving his fingers slowly. You appreciate these quiet moments with him. You don't get to have them a lot.

The silence is broken by the sound of Sam's phone ringing. He leans over to pick his phone up while holding you tighter. Making sure his cock stays inside you, and nothing spills out.

He picks up.

“Hello?”

Bucky didn’t even finish the video. Didn’t even make it past the first “daddy.” His brain short-circuited, his cock jumped to full alert like it was trying to salute, and his lungs simply decided air was optional.

He spent the rest of the day walking around with a problem he couldn’t fix until he got home to you.

So when he finally walks into your shared apartment—hair messy, jaw set tight, pupils blown like he’s half feral—you already know something’s up.

You don’t even get a hello. Just your name in that low, gravelly voice.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, stepping toward him.

“Sweetheart.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I—god, this is gonna sound stupid.”

You tilt your head. “Try me.”

He swallows. Hard. Cheeks pink. Neck flushed.

“I… saw something.” A beat. “A video.”

“Oh?” You bite your lip because you know exactly what kind of video would leave him like this.

He nods, embarrassed. “Yeah. And it’s fine if you’re not into it, I don’t wanna freak you out, but—”

“Bucky,” you interrupt gently. “You can tell me.”

He looks you dead in the eye.

“Call me daddy.”

Your knees go weak. But his go weaker. He looks like he might pass out.

You let the silence drag just long enough for his breathing to stutter.

Then—

“Daddy.”

His whole body jerks like you shocked him.

He exhales shakily, grabbing the nearest surface to steady himself. “Jesus—okay—fuck—”

You step closer, slow and deliberate. “You like that?”

“Like—?” He gives a breathless, humorless laugh. “Sweetheart, I damn near lost consciousness.”

You smile innocently. “Daddy.”

He makes a sound. Not a groan, not a moan—something primal and absolutely not legal in forty-nine states.

He crowds you back against the wall, bracing one hand beside your head, metal fingers flexing. “Say it again.”

You drag your nails up his chest. “Daddy.”

His forehead drops to your shoulder like the word physically weakens him. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Maybe.” You tug his hair. “What are you gonna do about it, daddy?”

He looks up. All pupils. Zero sanity.

He lifts you instantly—hands on your ass, your legs around his waist—carrying you to the bedroom like you weigh nothing. You’re already laughing breathlessly, already soaked from how starved he is.

When he drops you onto the bed, he just stands there for a second, staring.

“Say it once more,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “Please.”

You sit up slowly, take his chin, and look him straight in the eye.

“Daddy.”

He practically shreds his belt getting it off.

He’s on you in a heartbeat—mouth on your neck, hands under your shirt, dragging you up the bed, growling words you can barely make out.

“—always knew—” “—sounds so perfect—” “—fuck, sweetheart, do you know what you’re doing to me—”

You tug him down, kiss him hard, whisper it into his mouth.

“Daddy.”

He groans so loud you feel it vibrate down your spine.

Clothes come off fast—messy, rushed, impatient. He kisses every inch of exposed skin, muttering “good girl” and “sweet girl” and “keep saying it” like he can’t stop himself.

When he finally gets you under him properly, bodies flush, your legs spread for him, he presses his forehead to yours.

“You sure?” he breathes.

“Daddy,” you whisper back, cupping his cheek. “I want you.”

Whatever restraint he was clinging to snaps.

He drags the head of his cock against you, slow and deliberate, and your back arches. He groans at the sight—your lips parting, your thighs trembling, your fingers grabbing at his arms.

“That’s it,” he murmurs darkly. “My girl. Daddy’s girl.”

You whimper. “Please.”

He pushes inside you in one deep thrust.

You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Jesus—” he groans, eyes rolling. “So tight—fuck—been thinking about this all damn day—”

He sets a rhythm immediately, hard and deep and hungry. Every time he thrusts, your breath punches out of you. Every time you moan, he fucks you harder.

“Daddy—”

He grits his teeth, hips stuttering. “Don’t—don’t say it unless you want me to lose every ounce of control I have left.”

“Daddy,” you say deliberately, breathlessly. “I want you to.”

He flips you onto your hands and knees so fast you yelp.

His palm slides up your spine, pushing your back into a perfect arch. “Pretty little thing. Made for me.”

His other hand fists your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you sloppily from behind.

Then he slams into you again, harder than before.

You cry out—loud and needy—and he groans like he’s being physically tortured.

“Daddy—”

“That’s right,” he growls, fucking you so deep your vision blurs. “Say it for me.”

“Daddy—Daddy—fuck, Bucky—Daddy—”

“That’s it,” he pants, losing his rhythm, chasing your sounds. “You sound so sweet when you’re begging—god—never gonna get over that—”

You can barely breathe. Barely think. Barely stay upright.

He reaches around to rub your clit, sloppy and desperate.

“Come for daddy,” he orders, voice low and dark.

Your orgasm hits so fast your entire body seizes. You scream into the mattress, shaking, clenching around him so hard he swears violently.

He pulls you back by the hips, burying himself deep as he falls apart.

“F—fuck—sweetheart—I’m gonna—shit—”

He groans into your shoulder as he comes, holding you tight, grinding through every wave.

After a long moment, he collapses beside you, chest heaving.

Silence.

Then—

“…say it again.”

You laugh breathlessly, turning to kiss him.

“Daddy?”

He covers his face with both hands like he’s actually embarrassed. “I’m never recovering.”

“Good,” you grin.

He peeks at you through his fingers. Pinks. Groans.

The ceilings of the compound’s gym echo your breath back toward you, basically wanting you to choke on it. You still smell faint traces of fresh rubber and eucalyptus from the earlier team yoga class you skipped on purpose, because you have been home from a two-week mission for less than twelve hours, and socializing feels like lifting a cement truck with your teeth.

Now everyone’s in the city doing shots or doing karaoke or being alive in a way you currently refuse to be.

You don’t want joy.

You want the barbell.

You want the barbell because two weeks of a deep-cover op in Bogotá will do some serious brain frying to a person. You also feel like you still have mission dust in your hair and you hope if you sweat hard enough you will finally stop being a person who thinks too much.

You are alone in the gym at 11:37 pm on a Tuesday and every single bulb feels like it’s judging you.

You thought training would feel grounding.

It really doesn’t, but you can’t bring yourself to do anything other than that.

The fluorescent lights feel too bright suddenly, they seem to jab needles into your retinas. Mirrors mirror back a version of you you don’t recognize. A version that needs to recalibrate every joint in your body to remember she is real.

Your bones ache from the flight, your knee is still half bruised, your lower back is whispering threats. You don’t listen. Of course you don’t listen. You are annoyingly competitive with the version of yourself inside your own head. The worst opponent possible.

You pick up the barbell anyway, talk to your own reflection like a menace, and decide to go heavier than you should. You imagine Sam calling this late-night atonement energy. You imagine Natasha calling this the I don’t know how to rest disease. You imagine Tony calling this peak dumbass.

You grab the bar. You set your stance. You inhale fire.

Your muscles pull like reluctant rope.

You start your deadlift.

You lift like you are punishing the molecules.

And because the universe is a pretty little brat, your left pinky finger twitches at the wrong millisecond and the weight slips and gravity shows her claws and you make a sound.

You make a sound because the bar crashes directly onto the very top bones of your right foot. Not enough to pulverize, but enough to send every neuron in your leg into a perfect barbershop quartet of pain.

You go still.

The pain is radioactive. The pain is hilariously specific. It’s like your foot is attempting to write a novel in morse code.

You inhale through your teeth so violently you think you might vomit. Your soul briefly leaves your body, files a complaint, and then returns only to scream.

FRIDAY’s soft, neutral voice materializes overhead.

“Agent, you appear to be in acute pain. Would you like me to alert Sergeant Barnes?”

The humiliation is instant.

Absolutely not.

You would rather limp forever. You would rather cut off the foot with kitchen shears. You would rather crawl into a vent and hibernate.

You will not let Bucky I said that out loud? Wow real sorry Barnes find you helpless on the gym floor.

He would smirk once. Once. And then he’d get that smug quiet face. That sergeant face. As if he’s a patient father of a toddler.

No. You can’t do this. You are a superhero. You once bench-pressed a truck. Small truck. Flatbed. And Steve might have helped a little. But still.

“No,” you wheeze, trying to sound composed. “No notifications. This is a private moment. A stupid private moment.”

You grip the iron and shift it away, and your vision whites out like someone turned the saturation all the way up.

Your mouth hangs open like a glitching tab in a browser, and you are trying to breathe with just the top half of your lungs because the bottom half is currently replaying your poor life choices.

You slowly lower yourself onto the mat and clutch your foot like a widow clutching her pearls.

It throbs so intensely you are convinced the bones rearranged out of spite.

“Your injury metrics are not insignificant,” FRIDAY offers again, very calmly.

“I’m fine,” you lie to the ceiling, to the AI, to the ghosts of your own pride. “I don’t need him of all people.”

The gym buzzes with fluorescent indifference.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep your eyes from watering.

You genuinely might vomit.

“Friday,” you whisper-yell, shaky and wrecked, “this stays between us.”

There is silence. And the glimmer of a camera diaphragm narrowing somewhere behind a tinted panel.

You close your eyes.

You stay there, trying to breathe through the sharp pain, refusing to acknowledge the part of your stomach that dipped when FRIDAY suggested him. The part you would sooner die than admit.

Because if Bucky Barnes walks in here right now and sees you like this, you will never hear the end of it.

You stay seated on the cold gym floor for exactly fifteen seconds before panic kicks in.

Because logically, rationally, historically; Bucky never actually mocks you when you get hurt. Not once. He is surprisingly gentle in those moments. Weirdly soft-spoken then. His eyes do that serious, scanning thing and he starts troubleshooting silent solutions like a one-man tactical medic unit.

And yet.

You are absolutely convinced that this particular flavor of idiotic self-injury will turn him into the smuggest man alive. This is different. This is embarrassing. This is textbook hubris. You can practically hear his voice in your head.

really?

the bar fell on your foot?

Your pride is choking you like a boa constrictor of your own stupidity.

You haven’t even seen him yet tonight. You stepped off the quinjet, showered, lowered your cortisol enough to pretend to be a functional human, and then came here to sabotage yourself with iron. Classic. Meanwhile, the rest of the team went out to some bar in Brooklyn because they apparently enjoy friendship and daylight and the dopamine of communal beverages.

Bucky stayed behind. That’s nothing new. Bucky never goes with them. He does not do sociable frivolity. He does the exact opposite. He haunts the hallways like a large, beautiful housecat with too many knives.

And you could hear him earlier.

When you were changing in your room, you heard the solid thud-thud-thud of his boots pacing in the hallway you both share. A restless zig-zagging that made the wood subfloor complain just enough to announce his existence. Like he was waiting for his thoughts to quiet. Or for something to happen.

And now the risk of him appearing is non-zero.

You very carefully begin the slow-motion process of standing up on your one functional foot. The pain radiates catastrophically, like a small nuclear detonation in the cluster of metatarsals you once trusted. You hiss under your breath, like a dying teakettle.

You limp.

It is not dignified.

You are trying to disguise it as a casual limp. A sexy limp. A limp that implies you are aloof and ethereal and maybe you just did something mysterious and glamorous. You are trying to make this limp seem like a lifestyle choice.

FRIDAY thankfully doesn’t call you out on it.

You take another hobbling step toward the door.

Your foot screams like a siren.

You grit your teeth and tell yourself fiercely, that you’re going to make it to your room like a stealth operative. You are not going to encounter him in the hallway. The universe loves you. It is rooting for your dignity.

The universe, of course, does not answer, and the hallway that leads away from the gym feels like a mouth about to bite down.

It is a dim, blue twilight ribbon of motion sensor light. You commit to the bit. You commit to the limpless limp. You commit to an Oscar-worthy performance of nothing is wrong here, I am merely walking like a normal person with normal bones that have not betrayed me.

You try to glide past the kitchen as though you are not a person in agony but instead a hologram of a person in agony.

You are almost safe, but then you see him.

Bucky is standing at the kitchen counter in a soft gray T-shirt, hair damp like he just showered, stirring honey into a mug of tea with an absent expression that looks almost thoughtful. Or irritated. Or both. His face always sits somewhere between those two coordinates.

In the overhead LEDs he looks like a man who’s been alive too long and somehow still cares enough to steep Earl Grey.

He glances up at exactly the wrong or right second.

His eyes catch yours fast, as if he expected you.

You tell your face to perform. Placid. Composed. The girl who has two functioning feet and never did anything as embarrassing as dropping iron on her own bones.

Your right foot is an electrified balloon.

“Hey,” he lets out gruffly.

You blink in the same startled way a raccoon might blink after being caught in someone’s garbage.

“Hey,” you say, voice too casual. Casual like a person trying to launder their own voice through a filter of charm.

He looks too awake for this hour. Damp hair pushed back, shirt soft and lived-in, sleeves loose on his shoulders.

He glances at you in that slow, data-logging way he always has. His jaw makes a tiny shift.

“You’re back.” He says it as though it’s information he already had. Stored away. It’s as close as he’ll get to I was aware of your absence and the knowledge of that makes your chest go fizz.

“Yeah,” you answer, absolutely planting both feet to the ground in a stance that looks stiff and unnatural. Both feet touch the ground, technically, but all your weight stays on the left leg. Your right foot is barely skimming the tile, like a very nervous hovercraft. “Got in earlier. Crashed for a while.”

Bucky studies you for one long second.

He has that look that reads people like a list of ingredients.

“Rough trip?” he asks, with that deep and throaty voice.

You swallow. “Kind of.”

He takes a sip. Eyes stay on you. Calm. Reading you like a page with underlines.

“You want tea?” He nods vaguely at the kettle. He doesn’t even say it as a question. It’s just Bucky being Bucky. Communicating in half-offers so he can pretend he doesn’t have feelings.

You try to pivot and your right foot brushes the tile a little too forcefully and your soul leaves your body, briefly. “No, thanks.”

He nods once, takes a sip. “Others are out in Brooklyn.”

“Yes,” you echo, as if you had just invented geography. “Bars. People. Laughing. All that.”

He hums. “You didn’t feel like joining?”

You shrug, hoping the casual movement distracts from the fact that your right foot has become a private expanding sun of pain. “I was tired. I wanted some peace and quiet. And a shower with real water pressure and products that don’t smell like industrial lavender.”

His mouth tugs at one corner. The hint of an almost-smile.

But he doesn’t stop studying you.

He taps his spoon on the rim of the mug, lightly. “You good?” he asks with a small tilt of his head. This is his version of leaning closer without actually leaning closer.

Your heart rate spikes so abruptly you nearly wobble onto your injured foot. Your stomach does a weird flutter, and your mouth lies on autopilot.

“Yeah,” you say too fast, too bright, too defensive. “Just tired, still”

Bucky hums, setting his tea down. He taps his metal thumb on the counter twice. It’s a little thinking tic you’ve catalogued without meaning to.

You plant your feet deeper into the floor to make it look more natural, but that was another stupid decision. Lightning surges up your right foot. You keep your expression intact, hopefully. But your small smile feels strained and brittle, like a sticker coming off in the wrong direction.

Bucky squints at you subtly. He does not buy it. He does not not buy it either. He is in the investigative purgatory of maybe.

“You sure?” His voice drops half a register. Not teasing. Sincere. Some microscopic muscle in his jaw flexes.

You nod. “Yeah, totally.”

He stands there, still, like a statue that thinks it’s a shadow.

“You’re standing kind of weird,” he assesses.

“Weird how?” you ask nonchalantly, but you feel the sweat at the nape of your neck starting to sting.

Both feet remain on the ground for demonstration and you think you might faint from the flash of pain but you do your best to keep your face movie-perfect. It doesn’t really seem to work but all you can do is try. You need to leave before the pain makes you involuntarily scream.

He stares at your posture. “Don’t know.” His voice is faraway, reflective. However, his eyes are a little too focused for your taste.

You decide you should leave before he witnesses the collapse of your whole performance. You start to pivot - warily, guardedly, like a spy tiptoeing through a field of pressure plates.

“Okay well, I’m back in my room, trying to get some sleep in,” you start, feeling nervous but doing your best not to let it seep into your tone. “Guess you should too.”

He watches you turn, watches you aim your body toward your bedroom hallway like a wounded gazelle refusing to acknowledge the predator in the room.

“Good night.“ His voice is quiet.

You can feel his gaze between your shoulder blades. You can feel him trying to parse the strange thing you are doing with your joints. You can feel another single step might make you whimper.

But you keep going.

Because you are determined.

Because pride is something too important to lose.

Because you would rather fall down in an empty hallway and crawl to your room like a tragic mythological creature than let him see you hurt yourself in the stupidest way imaginable.

You try to keep moving. Every step is sending an array of pain through your body, and you’re glad your back is turned to him so he doesn’t see you grimace.

You clear the kitchen doorway. One more corner and you can hide in the blessed anonymity of your room. But as you turn the corner, the pain detonates. White behind your eyes.

Your right foot tries to touch the ground and your entire body says absolutely not.

You slap your hand onto the wall for support, breath hitching like your lungs just skipped frames. Your injured foot is instantly lifted off the ground. You squeeze your eyes shut and inhale through your teeth, because if you make a noise you will cry and if you cry you will dissolve.

“You shouldn’t walk on that foot.”

You startle again. And then freeze like one of those wildlife documentaries where the deer hears something in the wind.

But honestly, you should’ve expected him to follow you.

When Bucky Barnes finds something suspicious, he’ll dig deep, and he’ll get to the bottom of it.

You exhale every lie you were planning to use.

You turn to him a little, trying for nonchalance again. You swallow. Your pride tries to creep into your esophagus and choke you out. Your back is pressed to the wall. Your right foot is levitating like a hostage.

And Bucky takes you in.

A microsecond scan. That mouth like it knows things. Those eyes like they were born knowing how to observe damage.

His face goes blank in that specific Bucky way. Not cold, not warm - just laser discipline clicking into place.

“It’s not a big deal,” you try.

He doesn’t bother arguing your version of reality. He just gives you that look that could bisect molecules. The one that says I’ve been alive a hundred years, doll, I can spot bullshit from space.

His hand - flesh, this time - lands gentle and firm just above your elbow. Irritatingly tender.

“C’mon,” he says, almost whisper-soft, but directing. “Sit.”

Your body obeys before your ego can intervene. You grind your teeth as you move your foot because it feels like stepping on broken glass and electricity. He guides you to the nearest bench in the hallway's alcove and helps you lower yourself down on it.

The sudden absence of your own weight from that foot makes your whole nervous system sag in shaky relief.

Bucky kneels in front of you and the gesture makes your breath hitch. His hair shifts forward a little as he ducks his head to see, that dark, wet-soft strand falling near his brow.

“Let me see,” he utters, extending his metal hand, palm up.

You hesitate. His eyes move up and pin you.

You offer your injured foot in a slow movement.

He eases your shoe onto his palm, deliberate and mindful. That gentleness always shocks you. You keep forgetting the metal arm is the part used for breaking things, not the man.

He presses carefully along the outside of your shoe, testing for reaction.

You hiss, involuntarily, like air bursting from a tire.

His mouth goes grim.

“What happened?”

There’s no edge to it. Just dead-serious need for accurate data.

You scramble for an excuse. “It’s nothing- mission- just a little-”

He cuts you a short, dissecting glance.

“You weren’t limping off the jet twelve hours ago.”

Your stomach drops.

You stare at him.

He doesn’t blink.

You didn’t even know he saw you come off the jet. You didn’t see him watching.

Your brain does that glitch thing. A stutter-step of surprise. An emotional pothole.

“I didn’t know you were there,” you note, voice a little thinner than you wish.

He doesn’t correct. He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t get embarrassed.

“You weren’t limping,” he simply repeats. “So, try that again,” he adds in the same tone, flat but also nonjudgmental.

He continues evaluating your foot, thumb soft.

You are suddenly eight years old and caught with crumbs on your face and cookie-thief written across your forehead.

“It was nothing, just-” you start. You stare at the floor. Then the ceiling. Then your own disastrous sense of dignity. “I dropped a weight on it,” you mumble into the void.

There. It’s out.

Bucky pauses.

Then, he exhales through his nose. The closest thing he has to a sigh.

“You dropped a weight on your own foot,” he repeats, as though he’s documenting the incident in some internal report.

You slap a hand over your face. “Don’t make a thing out of it.”

He lifts your foot slightly to examine a different angle. His voice is subdued and infuriatingly calm. “I’m not. I’m trying to make sure you didn’t fracture anything.”

You grip the edge of the bench.

“Which plate,” he asks, pragmatic. As if he’s logging injury metadata.

“Twenty-five,” you mutter.

He frowns, lifts his eyes to yours. You are drowning in the blue of them. “You went for a PR while you were still jet-lagged.”

You want to fling yourself into a recycling bin.

“Needed to get my mind off things,” you admit slowly.

He doesn’t say anything to that. Just fixes his gaze back to your foot, pensive.

“I need to remove the shoe, doll,” he tells you, voice deeper, tone gentle. “Won’t be able to see the damage otherwise.”

“Okay,” you say, small.

“Alright.” His tone is even but also soft-spoken in a way that makes something jump in your chest. “Don’t move.”

His fingers find the knotted lace. He works it loose with scientific delicacy. He moves slow enough that you can tell he’s preparing for pain spikes. He knows the math of injuries. He’s done field trauma on five continents. He’s probably triaged broken feet in tundras and deserts and alleys.

Your breath goes shallow.

He eases the heel of the shoe back a millimeter at a time.

Your vision fuzzes.

Your body goes rigid.

He pauses.

And after waiting for your next intake of breath, he slides the shoe off, along with your sock.

The air hits your swollen skin and you suck a sharp breath in because the sensation is a category 5 hurricane.

He sits back a bit. Flesh hand holding your shoe. Metal hand holding the underside of your foot. The coolness of his hand is somehow both grounding and electrifying.

You tilt your chin and pull your bravado on like a thrifted sweater.

He looks at your foot. Looks at the bruising that has bloomed purple-black-green like a chaotic galaxy.

He exhales, slow. A low whistle folded in one long breath.

His expression is grim, so quietly fixed in a way that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin and then crawl back in again. His grip remains secure. He keeps cataloguing pain points.

“Yeah, you’re not waking on that,“ he comments decisively. “Not until we ice it.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I can walk.”

His eyes cut to yours again.

“You can pretend,” he corrects. “That’s different.”

He shifts his hold gently, supportive, as if he’s already planned the next three steps.

You get off the bench, reaching for his arm because you are trying to be a reasonable adult. But your foot doesn’t even touch the ground and gives a little spark of fresh agony.

And before you can redirect, or negotiate, he is already sliding an arm behind your back, another under your knees, and lifting you.

Like a damsel.

Like a problem to be redirected.

You gasp, palms flying to his shoulders.

“Bucky- hey- no, put me down-”

He doesn’t even dignify your panic with a reply, he just adjusts you against his chest as though you weigh the mass of a warm towel and starts walking.

It is the least graceful moment of your adult life.

You are hyper-aware of everything. His bicep under the fabric of his shirt. The faint scent of cedarwood shampoo. The fact that your thigh is pressed to his torso in a way that feels obscene for this late hour on a Tuesday.

“This is humiliating,” you complain under your breath, face on fire.

He snorts. “You can feel humiliated while sitting down.”

“Bucky-”

“Stop arguing,” he remarks, and he isn’t condescending. He almost sounds concerned. “You’re injured. I’m not letting you load that foot.”

You stare up at him, mortified and also completely overwhelmed by the fact that his arms are around you and he smells clean and warm and a little like the tea he just had.

Then you try to look anywhere but his face because your heart is beating rude and loud.

The med freezer alcove is small, clinical, stainless steel surfaces and that cold antiseptic smell of professional athletic medicine.

He sets you gently on the padded trainer table and kneels again like earlier.

Except now you’re sitting, and his face is close enough you can count the faint freckles on his cheekbones. You are fully in his gravitational forcefield.

You feel ridiculous. Tiny. Exposed.

He extracts an instant ice pack, cracks the inside unit with a short metal-thumb pressure, shakes it once, then cups your ankle again.

You’re sure the couch in the living room and a simple ice pack from the kitchen would have been enough. But Bucky’s always been a little dramatic.

You wince as he applies the ice.

He watches your expression, careful. Adjusts pressure. Finds the threshold between helpful and too much.

“Next time,” he notes quietly, voice a little rough, “ask someone to spot you.”

You feel heat edge all the way to your scalp.

“I didn’t expect this level of stupidity,” you argue, defensive, self-deprecating.

His mouth almost curves. Not a smile, just a flicker of wry acknowledgment.

“Accidents happen,” he replies, voice level but sympathetically warm.

You scoff. “Not ones this dumb.”

He looks up, a longer look. “S’ not dumb, doll.”

You look away from him. His sincerity freezes you more than the ice.

Your throat goes tight.

He holds the ice pack in place.

You clear your voice, small. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know.” A simple statement.

He adjusts your foot again, more secure. His metal hand brackets the underside so the ice stays even.

“And yet,” you murmur, almost whispering.

He doesn’t look at you.

He just keeps his focus on your foot. His voice is calm, but there’s no exit, no loophole, no weakness in it.

“You wouldn’t have done it yourself.” Another verdict.

And you hate that he’s right. You hate that he knows you so well.

He keeps the ice there until the initial stabbing pain dulls into a deep, sullen throb. Your whole body is humming like a machine red-lining.

He’s quiet for a moment.

Then he shifts the pack aside and carefully cups your heel again. His touch is slow and precise and light enough to heat up your skin.

“Alright,” he murmurs, voice soft. “I need to see how bad it is. I’m gonna check range.”

You nod. Your throat is a mess.

He cups your heel with the metal palm - cool straight through your skin - and with his warm organic hand, he supports the arch.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he instructs quietly, gruffly.

He lifts your foot a hair, rotates it a tiny bit. His eyes never leave your face.

You want to die and also be like this forever.

“That hurt?” he inquires, careful.

You swallow. “No. I mean- yes. Kind of. I don’t know.”

His lips jerk the ghost of a laugh. “Okay. What about this.”

He shifts the angle two degrees right.

A tiny lightning strike of pain arcs straight to your skull.

You suck in air through your teeth.

He freezes.

His jaw clenches.

“That’s a no,” he concludes with a scowl. His thumb traces along the bone line with that careful pressure that feels like a spotlight.

Then he angles your foot inward.

You inhale sharply once more.

He holds still. Eyes on your face. “Top? Side?”

“Top,” you whisper, like shame is oxygen.

He nods once. “Alright.”

He lowers your foot back down with so much tenderness it almost offends you.

“Are you enjoying this?” you ask him with a small teasing curve of your lips.

He gives you a look.

“No,” he states plainly. “I’m trying to see if your metatarsals are intact.”

You blink.

He is so serious. Expression pulled so tight.

But he’s watching you with his face growing a centimeter softer, eyes doing that thing where they go half-warm.

Then he shifts your foot again. He uses his flesh hand to gently lift your toes - just a few degrees - just enough to check something internal and intangible and soldier-logic.

Pain punches through your entire leg in a clean bright line so harshly, you choke on your breath.

Your whole torso jerks back.

Bucky flinches with you. His brows slam together in a hard grimace.

He goes stone still.

His jaw goes hard.

“Okay,” he mutters, almost under his breath, as though he’s already adjusting his internal assessment. “That might be a break.”

Your stomach drops through the table.

“Are you sure?” you nervously ask.

Bucky grinds his jaw, still keeping his gaze on your foot, his hands holding it still. “Yeah. I’m guessing you might’ve fractured something.”

You curse under your breath.

“This is such bad timing,” you groan, instantly nauseous. “I’m scheduled to leave again in three days.”

He lifts his eyes to yours, and the look is very Bucky Barnes you’re not doing that energy.

“No you’re not.”

“I have to.”

“You don’t.”

“I do,” you insist, anxiety rising like steam. “If I bail, Fury will-”

He scowls. “Fury can’t send you anywhere like this.”

You cringe. Because you know Fury’s response would be well then get un-broken.

“Fury’s not known for compassion, Bucky. Especially not for something this ridiculous,” you say roughly.

Bucky’s jaw cements. “I don’t give a damn what he’s known for,” he bites out. “He’s not putting you on a plane like this.”

You sink your fingers into your forehead. “He’ll make me regret it.”

“He won’t,” Bucky utters, tone flattening to steel.

“Bucky-”

“You can’t even put pressure on your foot, sweetheart. Your job is to come home alive. Not to impress anybody with how much punishment you can absorb.” His voice is so low, it almost sounds like a threat.

You stare at him. Speechless.

He places the ice back on your foot, softly. Checks your expression again.

You deflate. Shoulders cave inward. Because you know he’s right. But it’s an awful feeling.

You look at your foot. The black-purple galaxy bruise swelling like cursed bread dough.

“When do you think I can go again?” you whisper, trying to sound casual and totally failing.

He angles his head, considering. He studies your foot again, but his expression softens. He is doing timelines in his head. Calculating bone health, trauma recovery, mission requirements, your ego.

“Depends,” he explains softly. “If it’s a partial fracture - five to six weeks minimum. If it’s a clean break - might take a while longer.”

You make a miserable noise.

He watches your face.

And then, very gently, he softens his tone.

“Look,” he offers, quiet, searching. “This happens, doll. You’re not indestructible. And Fury shouldn’t expect you to be. You’ve been stacking mission after mission, overclocking your system.”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

He continues, softer still, eyes pinning yours like a hand on your sternum.

“Maybe this forces you to stand still for a while. And I think that’s not the worst thing. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”

You huff a laugh that’s mostly sad.

“I don’t even know how to stand still.”

He smirks, barely. Almost invisible.

“Sitting still, then,” he revises dryly, glancing at your foot, “because you’re absolutely not standing on that.”

You let out a burdened sigh.

“I could hop,” you try again, because apparently, your brand is relentless denial.

He deadpans, not even looking up. “You can hobble into a worse injury. That’s all hopping gets you, doll.”

“You’re very bossy,” you grumble.

He lifts his eyebrows at you, a tiny glint of amusement lining up behind his eyes.

He shifts the ice pack a millimeter - just enough to reduce pressure - and you breathe out like a dying accordion.

“This isn’t a setback, doll,” he tells you empathetically, tone so soft. “It’s just downtime. Think it will be good for you. You stay put. You rest. You let your body catch up. And next time, you let me spot you.”

You blink at him with your eyes stingy because the word downtime feels like a permission slip you didn’t know how to write for yourself. Because the way he’s talking to you makes your spine light up in neon.

He looks down again - checking swelling, repositioning the ice once more - and the whole moment is so gentle you don’t know what to do with it.

“I’ll talk to Fury,” he announces, firm and resolute.

You blink at him.

“What?”

He shrugs one shoulder, not looking up at you. “You’re not taking heat for this. I’ll handle it.”

Your chest goes fizzy weird and unsafe.

You keep staring at him.

This man would go to war with an entire intelligence apparatus rather than watch you limp into one more dangerous thing.

And it’s too much to process so you look at your foot again because it’s easier than looking at him.

“You don’t have to, Bucky,” you reply, almost breathless. “I can deal with it.”

“I know.”

And yet.

“The hardest thing is to give up control when you’ve spent your whole life thinking it’s what keeps you safe.”

- Brené Brown