:)

There are cathedrals everywhere for those with the eyes to see. With him here, all six feet of him, you finally understand what that phrase means.

He’s built like an architectural world wonder, demanding passersby to stop and stare. Take a picture if they dare.

A face chiseled so finely it might make Michelangelo envy. Pixels on screen could never compute the composition of his features, strong jawlines in contrast to a delicate cupid’s bow. His arms are as steady as steel beams (does that count as a simile when one of them is literally made of vibranium?), metal fist clenched around a leather briefcase. The latter looks like it’s taking the former hostage instead of the other way around.

Then there’s everything else, because the sheer existence of him is quietly scorching your earth.

The salt-and-pepper stubble framing his face, hair that calls for fingers to card through them. Among the fragrant roast of coffee, he smells faintly spicy. Herbal. A warmth you can drink down, a scent that invites thoughts you shouldn’t think of—like that nose dipping in between your legs…

Blue eyes snap onto yours, almost shining thanks to the navy suit.

He caught you staring. You right yourself into a semblance of professionalism.

“I realize we haven’t met in person before,” you recover with a smile, offer him a handshake and your name—just in case he forgot about the person who writes his speeches. “It’s nice to finally meet you, sir.”

That last part slipped out like a secret, a decent salutation disgraced with imaginary sins. But there’s no such thing as bad thoughts, because actions speak louder than words… except you have no right to claim that defense, having pretended your fingers were his.

“Likewise,” is his clipped response. He doesn’t say anything else.

People say desperation stinks. If restraint has one, you’re basically doused in it, like a European with three spritzes of perfume—just less pleasant and more pitiful.

So you bite your tongue. From now on, each word you speak might expose the unspoken, and you’d rather die than entertain the possibility of him finding out. The auxiliary brakes are on. You spiral, you lose; and the here-and-now is the worst time and place to have a mental meltdown.

He’s here. Literally pick any other time to embarrass yourself. Please?

But the quiet resonates heavily above buzzing frothers. The payment terminal beeps while the barista asks if someone would like whipped cream like it’s not 8.50am.

You cave, trying to break the silence with a question he hasn’t answered.

“Was the flight alright?”

“It was fine,” he replies almost immediately. No further elaboration.

You should’ve known. This congressman has never been one for talking, whether it’s small or big—a real anomaly among his species. His favorite thing to comment on your drafts is to cut it short, expected airtime be damned.

What you also should’ve known is what to say next, because now you’re awkwardly stood next to each other. Him in line. You on the side, scrambling for something to say, but it’s too early to process the fact that your hot boss—the one you touched yourself to—is so close you could touch him instead. If you dared.

Someone with a soundboard would find this pocket of silence perfect for crickets.

Pushing is not an option, you think to yourself. Maybe he’s grumpy from having to cross state lines so early. Or from no coffee. Or having to attend a meeting in eight minutes with no coffee.

You have no idea of knowing that none of your theories come close to the real reason for his silence.

In truth, James Buchanan Barnes is shaking under the skin of his self-control.

There was protocol in the army. A certain way to do things: how to make the bed, log the bullets, wipe the gun, pitch the tent—although he’s trying his best not to right now. There was protocol even in HYDRA. That discipline was instilled in his bones, even when it wasn’t really him. His body remembers. Scarily enough, he does, too.

As scary as the fact that there is no protocol for this situation.

No policy for when the melody and face that thawed frozen desires turned out to belong to the same person. No handbook titled You Fantasized About Fucking Your Subordinate: Now What? to read through. No one to penalize him for misconduct but himself. The four-digit dollars he’s spent on Brooklyn—you—fuck, he’s going insane—does not qualify as a fine.

Not when he’d gladly pay double the amount just for you to talk to him again.

Except you were talking to him, at least before he turned to stone. Like if he stood still enough, he’d cease to exist.

Fight, flight, or freeze. Who can blame the man kept alive in a seventy-year cryo for choosing the most familiar option?

In a twisted turn of events, his fantasies of you turned out to be justified. The guilt of filling the blanks of Brooklyn’s voice with your face should be gone, but a bigger problem stands in its place.

Your mere existence is a temptation. He’ll have to fight it until Congress is in session again, and back to D.C. he goes. Or, until he breaks his molars from gritting his teeth too much. Whichever comes first.

The battle’s already started, and he’s far from prepared.

The barista calls out your name and order. You fetch it and return dutifully to his side—Christ, the thoughts that flashed through him just then… The last time he gave you orders, you obeyed so beautifully.

Put them in for me. Two of ‘em.

Beg, sweetheart. Use that mouth.

“Mr. Barnes?”

You saying his name drags his soul back to his body. He blinks, registering the way you look at him with mild concern.

“Yes?”

“I asked what you were going to get.”

“A double shot,” he replies. Thank god his lungs remember how to breathe. “What did you get?”

“A piccolo.”

The follow-up question slips, despite himself.

“Who orders a piccolo?”

You respond with a playful pout, and damn it all to hell, the only thing he can think about is what flavor your lip gloss is when he sucks it off of your face—

“Sensitive people, Mr. Barnes. Sensitive people like me order piccolos.”

There it is, the dip in your timbre, the wavelengths matching a specific time you teased him. At this point he knows you by hearing, not just by heart, the same way he knows you are sensitive… if you moaning in the phone just a few days ago is anything to go by.

There’s a replay of that cadence in dreams, before he wakes up with his brain humming the tune: please, J, want your fingers.

That same rhythm is now clothed in a different phrase, innocent enough to stir his chest. He’s a linguist filling up a dictionary with things he hasn’t heard you say before. The staccato in piccolo. The smooth ‘r’ in his last name, unaware of who you’re really talking to, the kinds of things you’ve said to him.

You don’t even know it’s him.

Or do you?

Now that the thought has needled itself into his psyche, he’s slowly being poisoned by it.

J seemed an anonymous enough alias at the time, but now that you’re here, now that he’s talking to you, he wonders if you can tell. Will you recognize his voice even as they wrap around different words, like he does yours?

You’re the placid picture of professionalism. There’s no indication that you’ve caught on. Not that he wants you to. It’ll be bad if you notice.

So why does it disappoint him a little that you don’t?

He walks away before he can think. Before he answers that question with the thing in his chest and not his head.

“Mr. Barnes?” you call out, confused. “Weren’t you going to order?”

“See you in the office.” He doesn’t look back.

The serum already means he doesn’t need a cup. That, and he’s starting to understand you’re a much stronger stimulant than caffeine.

He did end up seeing you in the office, but not if he could help it.

It was difficult, because his hungry eyes were so painfully aware of you, for one. It also made him feel like a grade-A pain in the ass. Especially since you walked in the meeting room five minutes late, slightly flushed from power walking, an extra cup of coffee in hand.

A double shot espresso. For him.

You went back in line and got his order. For him.

The space between his ribs tightened at that. So did his pants. He was silently grateful for the two-hour sit-down meeting—a first.

And speaking of gratitude, he only offered you a quick “thanks” for the coffee you went out of your way to get, not even meeting your eyes.

Looked straight at the front of the room at a PowerPoint slide. Pretended to not notice the downturn of your lips at his dismissal. Tried to ignore the slight slump in your shoulders he recognizes as defeat. All of them practically impossible when his entire body was screaming for yours, but he powered through.

He didn’t know he could, not when he knew what you smelled like.

Not when you were right there across the conference room, yet everywhere all at once: in his bed with your legs parted while he feasts on you, on top of him with your mouth by his ear. By his side as you’re sound asleep.

Then he was brought back to the present when you spoke. Something along the lines of an upcoming union roundtable.

Except the fantasies didn’t leave and he thought about a different kind of table—one he promised to bend you over.

The movie directed itself: you splayed on the oak bureau, crumpled papers on the ground, your skirt and underwear pooling at your ankles uselessly while he pounds so hard into you the desk scraped parquet floors. Above the slaps of flesh is the echo of sweet begging—yours, floating through a deserted office late at night. Out in the open. No one else to hear.

How does a person run from their own thoughts? They haunt him in broad daylight, trap him in a place filled with people.

He can’t. So he hides from you instead.

The final escape happens at the end of the day. Tomorrow is the scheduled ribbon-cutting at Flatbush, the one you’ll attend, which means there is going to be no way for him to not talk to you without appearing like he can’t stand your guts—when all he possesses is an unhealthy desire to rearrange it.

Briefcase in hand, he slips out of his office a little later than the rest of the modern bullpen, offering you a quick ‘good night’ before disappearing into the elevator, as if he has somewhere else to be. In reality, he’s going home to that brownstone apartment and resist the urge to touch himself to the thought of the body he’s avoided the entire day—the one that houses the soundtrack of his dreams.

You watch him leave in a rush, one of the rare glimpses you’ve caught of your congressman today. You don’t even have the time to say ‘good night’ back.

He’s gone.

And somehow that makes your mind spin.

Good night?

A strange feeling in your gut—delayed response to what he said, like a barrier between you and reality.

It’s those words: a common parting and your name. Two things you hear almost everyday. So why is there a chill down your spine? Does it have to do with how obviously he was avoiding you in the office, exiting conversations when you entered, averting eyes when they met? Or is it because his voice is in the air you breathe?

His voice—

A thought shoots out like a nervous pain, one that you’ve tried to numb since that last phone call. The eighth one.

J could stand for James.

Paranoia begins to bubble. The empty office doesn’t help, worsening the echo chamber of your thoughts.

Has it been him all along? What if it is? Does he know it’s you? There’s no way—if he has, he’d have you fired on the spot. But what if he finds out it’s you? Oh, that’s worse, because Congressman Barnes is nothing if not astute.

Your mind draws a picture of his disappointment without your consent. You’re almost more scared of letting him down than being dismissed from your post.

Okay, that’s why you’re scared. You’re scared because he’s your boss and you care deeply about his opinion—blame your parents for starving you from validation. Not because you’ve pictured him on top of you, not because he made you come undone through the phone like it was nothing. And definitely not because you’ve thought of more.

Underneath the tremors, there’s somehow a quiet reckoning. If your boss is really J, a part of you won’t be surprised.

But if J really is your boss, then you can at least blame him for calling you first.

Thing is, you blame people for mistakes. The thought of this being one makes your sternum hurt.

You pack your things. Everything between clocking out and climbing into bed is a blur.

There’s only more unrest to be found above your pillow. You fall asleep rewinding memories of J’s whispers. The city drones on beyond your bedroom window.

Brooklyn’s nights are never really peaceful, anyway.

Around the bend between the Methodist church and the pizza parlor with excellent pastrami, there’s an animal shelter. The signage up front that says Flatbush Animal Shelter and Veterinary Clinic is white acrylic, pristine compared to the vintage look of the rest of the neighborhood. In a few minutes, the lights inside will turn on, and strays will find in it a new home—before hopefully they gain a more permanent one.

About forty people are gathered in its parking lot. Half press, half locals, all here to see the cutting of the ribbon—or the man standing in front of it.

Congressman James Buchanan Barnes held a white kitten five minutes ago, and the cameras flashed enthusiastically. You can see the images all over the internet already: him looking gently at the spot of snow in his metal hand while it looks back at him, eyes squinted in feline affection. In passing, you told him that if he doesn’t adopt the little furball, you will.

It’s a beautiful blue morning, uncluttered by typical newyorkian skyscrapers that greedily claw at the sky. The air is crisp, and so are your blazer and skirt. A light breeze blows, cool like the blue in his eyes while he says a few words.

Your words. The ones he felt comfortable enough to make his.

“People say you only get one shot to do things,” he starts, addressing the crowd, “and that was what I believed, too. Tried to get life right the first time.”

There’s a pause. Twenty feet away, in the crowd, you wonder what he thinks about in this quiet moment. The train, or the things that came after?

“But in reality, none of us can. Get it right the first time, that is. Unless you’re the type to strike it lucky. Not everyone is. Myself included.”

He continues.

“Second chances are what got me to where I am. What let me start over. I’m sure most of us here can think of a time when we, or a loved one, refuse to let our past chain our future. It’s forging a new path after time behind bars. Recovering from addiction. Dealing with grief. These things aren’t easy, and often you can’t do it alone. You need family. A friend.”

You know the words he’s going to say, but somehow you’re still hanging on to them.

“But people aren’t the only ones who deserve second chances. Animals do, too, and they often don’t get the support they need.”

There’s a poignant silence in the crowd.

“And I know not every animal in there is as sweet as Alpine. Some of them might be suspicious. Nervous. Scared. They might be a handful—an inconvenience.”

He smiles ruefully. That isn’t part of the script. For a moment you think he’s not talking about animals anymore.

“But sometimes… in helping others start anew, we get to do that, too. And I’d like to think that’s what happens when you care, no matter how difficult it gets.”

A microsecond of blue in your line of sight. A moment where his eyes meets yours among the crowd, lingering just enough before he addresses the people lined up at the front: volunteers, veterinarians, donors.

“Congratulations to the community who made this shelter possible, and thank you for giving the animals—and people—of Flatbush the chance to start over.”

The parking lot resounds with claps and cheers before the actual ribbon-cutting begins. You watch him through awkward smiles at the camera and traded handshakes, the dance of politics that he somehow made endearing by looking like he isn’t enjoying this at all.

And maybe he isn’t, but you watch him pet Alpine the white kitten again, and your heartbeat hitches.

The car ride back to the bustling part of Brooklyn is more grueling for Bucky compared to the public appearance earlier. That fact is made true solely for the fact that you’re next to him in the backseat, all prim and proper in a nice structured jacket and a pencil skirt that makes his hands jealous of the way it gets to wrap around your curves.

Then there’s your perfume. The way your hair frames your face. Your fingers thrumming on your lap.

It’s torturous, getting to know every part of you outside of your voice—as if you haven’t devastated him with that alone. Just by existing, you’ve dismantled the barricades of the years, of everything that’s come to pass. Now he’s the only person in this car who knows the mess made by thawing desires.

Because that’s what you are: not a distraction. A want. Urgent as a child with a sweet, forbidden as man with a particular fruit.

God, he’s doomed.

“You’re good,” he says, cutting the white noise of wheels on tarmac. The ride’s been quiet so far—the last thing you expect him to do after facing press and public is speak to you.

“What?” you ask, blinking as you look up from your phone.

Blue eyes trace your face. You feel like a mission brief the way they’re trained on you. Something to be decoded.

“The speech. You’re good.”

Brows knit ever so slightly as you respond. “Oh. Thank you, sir.”

“I mean it,” he replies. “You write like you know me.”

You tense. His words lands like lead, heavy at the double-meaning your mind ascribed to them. His eyes never leave yours, and it makes you think he’s baiting you, except you’re forever left on the fence of uncertainty when it comes to where he stands. Cards close to chest, chips on the table, never certain about how you’re going to play.

Either he’s not part of this game of deception, or he has the winning hand. You don’t know which to believe.

The bluff you offer is a smile and a casual reply, light and easy—like you’re not wishing you have another woman’s voice. Like you don’t regret sending those name cards to Washington.

Like you’re not torn between wanting or hating the idea of him knowing you made each other come undone.

“I do know you—it’s my job, remember? They make you read things when you first join. Policies, stances, the words you like to use, the anecdotes you prefer in your addresses…”

“Right.”

His tone acquiesces, but his eyes don’t. There’s an intensity that pins you, almost as real as a hand on your shoulder. A bid to call your bluff.

But the stakes are raised and you have everything to lose. Your job. His respect. Him. The thought invites cold on your fingers and feet.

Then the car slows to a stop—you’re back at the district office.

“We’re here, sir.” That’s the driver, pretending not to hear your conversation.

This is the perfect chance to forfeit this round, so fold your cards and abandon them at the table by getting out of the car first.

“Good job on the speech. You delivered it well,” you say, not looking back at him.

And just like that, you’re the one avoiding him.

The game morphs into a kind of hide-and-seek, much easier to play with 2,000 square feet and his permanently closed office door. He thankfully doesn’t chase. You last the entire rest of the work day almost forgetting what transpired—lost in a flurry of emails, meetings, and first draft deadlines. For the first time since he arrived yesterday, you feel less anxious. More composed, nerves dulled by the motions of the day.

The congressman probably doesn’t know anything. He just has a staring problem (a known fact that’s included in your onboarding packet), and you’re just too much in your head. Scared because what you’re doing is not only extremely inappropriate for a damn member of congressional staff, but also unlawful—the moonlighting part, not the phone sex part.

By mid-afternoon, the nagging feeling fades.

Next thing you know, someone rushes to the elevator lobby with a peppy “have a good weekend!”

One blink and you realize you’re the last person left in the office.

Sighing, you stretch your arms up overhead, fending off the day’s soreness in your shoulders. You were in such deep focus, you didn’t even notice everyone leave, including him. A feat that deserves a treat. Maybe you’ll pick up that tub of ice cream on the way home.

A familiar baritone floats from a familiar doorway, calling your name.

You quickly right yourself. Congressman Barnes watches. He hasn’t left—standing there, hand on the doorknob to his private office, waiting. No suit jacket, top two buttons undone, sleeves rolled. Standard attire past the most difficult time of the day.

“A word, please?”

It’s confusing, the warmth that floods your face, the bitterness in your mouth. You’re at your desk, but your consciousness pulls itself back to when your body last felt this weight. When his blue eyes were last on you.

In the car, with that three-way tug-of-war between knowing, not knowing, and pretending not to know.

You’re spiraling again. But unlike earlier, there’s nowhere to run.

“Of course.”

You walk towards his office. He lets you enter a room bathed in the last dregs of sunset. The door clicks closed behind you as you try not to wring your hands.

Brooklyn looks good from here. You distract yourself by counting the number of buildings beyond the window—near impossible, but less intimidating than confronting the man standing behind you and what he could possibly need a word for.

He doesn’t tell you to sit. You turn to face him.

“What’s this about?” For all your experience speaking, it’s a miracle that your sentence comes out even.

The blue in Bucky’s eyes look different in the warm pinks and oranges streaming in from outside. Now they look like they’re housing a storm.

He unleashes it with words.

“I’ll be frank. I think you should quit.”

“What?”

A wave of nausea washes over you. When he doesn’t immediately answer, your eyes dart across his face to look for one. All you find is turbulence that turns your stomach inside out: the clench of his jaw could be anger or the restraint of it, the stoicism in the rest of him a sign of dismissal or a deep sense of disappointment.

Because looking at him only adds to your list of questions, one escapes.

“What do you mean, I should quit? You just told me I was good at—”

“I’m not talking about this job.”

That’s when the second wave hits—not just nausea, but everything else that you’ve experienced, all at once.

Dread magnified, agitation escalated. Your blood runs cold, and maybe that’s the last thing that keeps you together. You’re icy when you respond, a final attempt of sanity, or at least what you have of it:

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t?” his shoes click clearly against the hardwood floors, but you barely hear it above the static in your mind. Three steps later, he’s in front of you.

“I think you do. We both do, sweetheart.”

That nickname, sweet and scathing in the way you’ve heard it in your sleep.

The fake smile you muster is weak. You mask it with a shake of your head.

“Sir, I’m afraid I—”

“Don’t pretend anymore. Not when I can’t.”

Suddenly there’s no distance. You’re staring up at him while he peers down past your poorly constructed mask. All it takes is for you to really look at him, for once—no turning away in denial or dampened desire—and it breaks. Not loudly, but quietly: the same way the world broke in half.

People turned to dust back then. Him included. Now it’s your conviction’s turn to crumble.

Because there’s always been whispers in the back of your mind since you first saw him in that coffee shop. You acted blind, pleaded asylum, thinking they made complications when really, he’s the missing puzzle piece. The blend of his face and what you thought was someone else’s voice isn’t frightening because it was wrong.

It’s frightening because you were right this entire time.

“You… you’re J,” the breath you say that with shakes.

The realization—no, the acceptance lands like finding a bruise after it’s healed. The softness of it rattles your ribcage nonetheless.

His voice the antithesis of yours: steady but hoarse, the sound of someone who’s sinned and paid penance only to do it again. He drinks in your expression. Weighs reality against the possibility he’s played in his mind a million times over.

“Brooklyn.”

Words slip. Your feet nearly do the same, weak with the truth.

“How long have you…?”

“Yesterday. At the coffee shop. Heard you and I knew.”

Your lips part slightly. Nothing comes out.

“Why do you do it?” he asks, quiet. It’s incision under a blanket. You swallow, throat too dry to speak. The answer you find is a summary of a complicated truth.

“To pay for things.”

“Things like?”

“Debt. Bills.”

You pause. Consider how you got here.

“Life.”

But he smooths those thoughts over with the back of his fingers on the side of your face, trailing an electric line down from cheekbone to chin. You nearly jolt—from surprise that this is happening more than anything else, and the overwhelming want that settles after. It gives way to a heat under your skin that climbs so fast, you think you might require medical attention.

Instead, you get his. The disease and the cure in one touch.

Meanwhile, Bucky’s breath shudders at the feel of you. It tells him you’re real, no longer a plaguing vision just this side of heaven. He’s heard you without telephone static, seen your curves outside of a screen, caught a whiff of your perfume and cataloged it in his head.

Now that he’s touched you, too, one final sense in the five he owns is overcome with greed:

It wants to know what you taste like.

Warm hand cups the hinge of your jaw, tipping your head up to look at him properly. Eyes drink in the flush dusting your cheeks. The thirst grows.

Your lips part when metal fingers snake up your waist, holding you closer to him, blurring the lines of your relationship. Congressman and citizen, employer and employee, sinner and sinner.

But he doesn’t moves. He watches. Waits.

Until he feels your fingers dare to rest on vibranium forearm. Then the flutter of your eyelids, and the slight part of your lips.

Quiet signals. Permission.

So really, you shouldn’t shiver so much when he swipes his thumb on your bottom lip, coaxing them to part more. In getting what you want, you realize you’ve underestimated just how much you want it.

“That first call,” he whispers, “you faked it, didn’t you?”

The floor nearly caves under you.

“I—”

He cuts you off with a tortured smile. Here he is, standing in a prison of his own making, caging the one who locked him up and set him free at the same time.

“Must’ve been just another damn call for you. Got no idea how you ruined my life with it.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Then I’ll make you.”

Lips crash into yours, and it feels like the beginning of a resolution. No room for opposition, just motion.

He kisses like he doesn’t need air, indulging the way a starved man would. It’s hungry, messy, the kind that sweeps you off your feet—so you grip his forearm and the front of his shirt just to stay grounded. That pulls a grunt out of him, then he tilts his head to the other side, only to drown in you again.

“Can’t fucking sleep because of you,” he mouths in between, “got me dreaming about you when I do.”

You moan like the admission burns. His hand traces urgent paths, each one confirming daydreams and night visions: sliding down the slope of your waist, brushing your hip, groping the flesh of your ass in an eager palm. The metal one keeps you close by the back of your head, stern in all the ways that make your knees buckle.

“This pretty face, this fucking body—”

Even when he parts, he doesn’t. Mouth slides to nip and lick at your ear before making a home below your jawline. He gives no quarter in claiming you for himself, especially with the noises he drags out of you. Bares his teeth against throat. Molds honesty out of a voice so accustomed to serving honeyed lies on a silver platter.

The thought occurs to you with him on your neck, hand squeezing your chest: in this moment, you’re the most truthful you’ve been in years.

So maybe it’s that liberation that moves your fingers through his perfect hair, guiding his face to yours.

He kisses you again. You taste his words.

“Gonna show you just how much I’ve thought of this.”

“James—”

That wracks a shiver down his spine, raises the hairs on the back of his neck. He moans into you. The sensation reminds him longing, rusted, furnace, daybreak, but instead of a loss of control, you trigger the need for him to take it—to make pleasure, yours and his, his mission.

A man shouldn’t be so tempted by his own name.

The path he takes to corner you into his desk is straight, but space-time is curved, because you don’t register what’s happening until your heels knock against wood, too preoccupied by the way he’s got your blouse off your body and on the floor. A hand sweeps over the surface without care. Papers scatter on the floor, noisy and undoubtedly crumpled. The bureau is cool under your palms.

He crowds you. There’s no room to second-guess what important brief might be lost in the fray, because you feel the hard line of him grinding against your core.

You whimper. He stares.

“Feel that, sweetheart? That’s all for you. Your fault.”

Something flashes in your eyes then, and you launch at him. Blame the accusation for the way you drag his head down to yours, lips locking, bodies turning so that he’s the one with his back against the table.

If it’s your fault, you’ll gladly fix it.

He curses while you kneel, lets you unbuckle his belt and helps you after. But he tips your chin up before you can touch him, making you watch as his other hand takes his cock out right in front of your face.

He lets it hit the side of your cheek, tip damp with precum.

“So good for me, on your knees without me asking. You want this?”

“Yes,” you nod, eyes darting between his face and what you’re supposed to put in your mouth—he’s big. The sight dispels whatever hazy hallucinations you’ve had of him, replacing them with something real.

Something with veins you can trace like rivers.

“Good girl. Open.”

You obey like he’s law. Not to avoid punishment, but to gain reward. The scent and taste of him assault you, although all he’s done is tease the tip past your plump lips.

“Lick it. Slowly, baby.”

Your tongue does so without thought, finding a new master in his command. His exhales give way into something ragged. A hand kindly combs through your hair while you savor him, slow like he said—but in doing so, you discover that you’re the less patient one.

So your lips close in on him, humming, eager to please. Fingers touch the rest of his length to further his downfall. They tease before wrapping around the girth, just letting him feel the warmth of your palm. And he does.

Head thrown back. Your name is gritted through teeth.

“C’mon, sweetheart, put that pretty mouth to good use.”

And you do.

You do your best, because the best is what you want him to remember you by.

The slick sounds that echo are more sinful that some of the words you’ve traded with each other. His cock is slick with precum and your saliva, but you don’t let him see the glisten often, bobbing him in and out of your mouth. Your congressman rewards you with murmurs of praise that go straight to the space between your legs, clutching at your head like you’re deliverance.

It’s not long before his hand takes over your pace. You moan, feeling him guide you by your hair.

Then his cock brushes the back of your throat and you gag. He twitches in your mouth.

“Takin’ me so well,” that Brooklyn drawl starts to show, “like you’re made f’me.”

Black pupils swallow blue irises as he takes in the sight below: you, lipstick smeared at one corner of your slick mouth, taking his cock down your throat. Your eyes are stare back at him.

It’s at this moment he decides patience is an overrated virtue.

You moan when he forces you off, only to haul you up on your feet and sit you on the table. Hands paw at your skirt. It pools at your ankles. He spreads the thighs he just exposed, making room for him between your legs. You clutch at his shoulders when his big hands envelope your chest, dragging bra cups down.

“Fuckin’ look at you,” he rasps. His mouth feels empty all of a sudden.

So he captures a nipple in it, make you arch your back towards him. Hips rut into each other while he plays with you like it’s payback, hand pinching the other hardened peak before he switches. Sucks. Laves until both are reddened with attention, until he feels rather than sees the damp spot in your underwear.

Lips detach with a pop, but he’s still hungry.

“Need to taste you.”

Then it’s him kneeling on the floor. He takes you into his open mouth, underwear still on. You mewl. He growls.

Even from above the fabric, you taste like a win after a long campaign.

He keeps you there, just like that. Pins you on the desk while his tongue teases the seam of your pussy from over your soaked panties. Flicks at your clit like you’re not trembling above him.

“James, p-please—”

He grins, looking up. So that’s what you look like when you beg.

If mercy finally lets him have a proper taste, then that’s what he’ll give you. Your underwear joins the skirt around your ankles.

Then he mouths your pussy like he’s always wanted to. Feverish. Dripping. Loud.

“So goddamn wet,” he moans into you, the syllables muffled, the sounds that come after so wet, you’re red at your ears. His tongue is mean in its movements; it dips into your hole in pretense, only to trace up your folds to flick your clit once. Stern. You gasp.

“Look so pretty. Taste so good. Can’t believe you’re lettin’ me do this…”

You can. Why can’t you, when you’ve thought of this, too? Actions speak louder than words, so you card your fingers through his hair while he thumbs at your clit, whimper when his other hand busies itself with your nipple.

His tongue begins to learn you in ways it shouldn’t, the result of desires manifest. But even with the excessive amount of times he’s imagined having you in this position, nothing could have prepared him for this: the entirety of you, soaked and oh-so-sensitive, babbling a litany of ‘oh my god’s. He memorizes your flavor for a later dream.

Except, if he continues to get what he wants, there’ll be no dreaming left. Just doing.

Moans climb. He recognizes the pattern, but it’s much more delicious in person.

The sound of you cumming, that is.

There it is, that little catch in your breath before you stammer his name. This time, he’s not pumping his cocky dry at the sound of it. A finger busies itself, curling inside of you. He huffs at how tight you are. You let out a keen noise, begging, pleading. His mouth assaults your clit. Kisses, then sucks while the finger thrusts in and out of you.

Something in his heart melts at the long, drawn-out whine. It makes his cock twitch up against his stomach.

You soak his face, legs twitching by the sides of his head, and he thanks the red threads for bringing him here.

Your eyelids are heavy from the haze, vision and limbs still scrambling to collect themselves, but you see it. Feel it. Him, standing up to tower above you, sky-blue eyes over the landscape of your body as he guides your back down onto the table. The support doesn’t help you calm down—especially not with the way his finger is still teasing your folds, up and down, keeping you pliant.

But then he puts it in his mouth. Dessert, as if he didn’t eat enough. You feel wetness drip down to your ass and let out a shaky exhale.

The silence of the room is charged. The sun’s disappearing, letting night paint the edges of the sky indigo. Three words cut through the burgeoning dark.

“Still want this?”

You blame your response on the orgasm he just gave you, but your greed is your own.

“Please, James,” you whisper, looking up at him with lost eyes, “need you to show me how I can’t disobey you.”

“Do you now?”

The tone he takes is unamused, but you know better. His cock betrays restlessness, already teasing your entrance, alternating between that and stroking your clit with the tip. Your blood sings. Either you’re still coming down from your high, or you’re already so wound up, you can’t tell.

You nod your yes, anyway. Circle your fingers around his wrist to bring his warm hand to your mouth. Kiss his fingertips. A pledge of allegiance not to country, but to the cataclysm that is you and him meeting in this way.

He sighs in disbelief. Your mouth is dangerous in both the way it kisses his hand and the words that comes out of it.

But it’s his civic duty to respond to your mandate.

“You’re going to answer my questions truthfully.”

His voice is low, and his other hand—the metal one you’re not kissing—dips toward the same direction, playing with your chest. You nod, tongue teasing his finger. He pulls away, gripping the sides of your face to make you look straight at him.

“Uh-uh,” he tuts. “Say ‘yes sir’ if you understand.”

our heart jumps, as if you haven’t thought of this before. Granted, this is no longer imagination, more a cross-examination. You’re a naked witness, dirtying your boss’s nice desk with your slick—but he put you there, so who’s to blame?

“Yes, sir,” you muster.

“How many times did you fake it in our calls?”

Blinking, you look up at him. Surprised and confused at the same time.

“You’re a smart girl. Count.”

You swallow, unsure if it’s dread or excitement in your stomach.

“…Five.”

He presses the blunt tip of his cock against your hole. You moan, and it’s gone.

A hand moves to your throat. The metal one.

“Do you touch yourself to other callers? Do they make you cum?”

You shake your head, eyes narrowing in fear. Not because he might hurt you, but at how much the thought of it makes you wet.

“Use your words, honey, you’re so good at that, yeah?”

“N-No, just J. Just you,” you breathe, holding his wrist to keep him there, not to remove him. “Can’t cum if it isn’t you.”

Something about that must have affected him. He freezes above you.

Huge hands shift to wrap around your waist, locking your body, lining up his cock with your pussy.

“And now you’re going to let me fuck you. Say ‘yes sir’.”

“Yes, sir.”

He smiles. Your heart floods with warmth at the thought of having pleased him. So does the greedy thing between your thighs.

Until he speaks again.

“Five times. Gonna make you cum five times, for the fake ones you gave me. Say ‘yes sir’.”

You stop breathing, eyes wide. It takes everything, but you say it anyway.

“…Yes, sir.”

“Good girl. Look at me when I take you.”

And then he pushes into you, sinking down slow until he’s all the way to the hilt, each inch of him making you sob. He fills you up, and the line that he blurred is no longer on hold, it’s being erased.

No more dial tones or speech comments, no more guessing games. Just two bodies that are wired to each other, brought together by voices like true norths.

“Y’know, I thought I was the worst type of human, thinking about the sweet girl that works for me while Brooklyn made me sleepless,” he pants, positioning your legs to bracket his waist. You link ankles behind his back, heels digging into fabric.

“She’s beautiful, smart, writes like she knows me. Felt like a creep, tainting her in my mind like that.”

“James—”

“But now that I know you’re the same fucking person…”

He pulls out. It’s so excruciating that your hips chase him, but his hands keep you still.

Then he shoots you that lopsided smirk that looks like a violation of code, and you know you’re in trouble.

“…I think we’re gonna be just fine.”

You scream as he rolls back into you, all the way down, so much faster than before you swear you can feel him in your lungs. He grunts at the grip of your gummy walls, cunt greedily taking all of him, and laughs before leaning down. Breath puffs heat on your neck. You feel feverish all over.

For a split second you think of the security camera at the corner of the ceiling. The congressman himself, shirt crumpled, slacks low. A woman, bare save for the sweat on her skin and a bunched-up bra, lying on his desk.

A PR nightmare shouldn’t feel so good.

He pulls out and thrusts in. It shakes your body on his desk, all thought dissolving into the murmured noise that slips out of you. Vague, lost—a reflection of your mind.

“There she is, soundin’ all pretty for me.”

He thrusts again, head dropping next to yours.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight.”

It should be embarrassing, how quickly he makes you come undone, because it doesn’t take long and you find yourself clenching, gasping at the violent knot forming in your lower belly. It’s insistent. Tugs at you like a leash, almost like it’s been there since the first time he called.

The drag of his cock is cruel, languid on the out and merciless on the in, but it’s his words that tightens your grip on his body and loosens it from reality.

“People fucking themselves when you talk to them… they don’t know you’re thinking about me.”

His hand holds your face, making you look straight at him.

“Won’t let anyone else hear you cum. Just for me. Mine. Right, sweetheart?”

“Y-yes, sir!”

“Say it. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” your breath is labored but the words are easy, “I’m yours, James—”

The sound of his name hitches high into a scream when he slams into a deliberate spot. Manicured nails claws into his clothed back, sweat misting underneath. The little crescent moons don’t hurt, but he groans anyway. A testimony of how, as much as he finds it so easy to pick you apart you, the reverse applies.

“James, please,” you murmur, eyes meeting his on the verge of ruin.

He lets you.

“Go on, then, give it to me. Cum on my cock.”

A few more thrusts and you do. Walls clamp down on him while you sob, spasming and twitching, head thrashing—all of the things he never gets to see in phone calls.

It’s a type of exhilaration that grips him like night does the sky outside, an obsession mirroring the one he has for your voice. He doesn’t stop thrusting, starts learning instead: each tremor of your limbs, the gush of your cunt, the look on your face—fuck, that nearly does him in.

“That’s one,” he coos when he finally slows down, kissing your fluttering eyelids, then your cheek, then your lips. You taste remnants of yourself when you breathe. His tone betrays affection. Addiction.

Fireworks are still going off in every nerve ending, but he’s already flipping you. A stern arm wraps like a band around your torso, the other pressed next to one of yours on the table, fingers slotting in between. Your heels clack noisily against wooden floors as you find your bearings. Both hands on the desk, bent over, legs spread. Even ecstasy-addled, you recognize this as a promise being fulfilled.

Gonna bend you over my desk. You can take it, can’t you? Be a good girl? Arch your back nice and high for me?

You throb, suddenly feeling empty.

“God, you’re perfect,” he says against your shoulder. “Beautiful. So fucking gorgeous.”

He sinks in again and your calves nearly give out.

“A-ah—”

The hot breath next to your ear makes you shiver. He kisses you there as if it’s consolation for making your legs shake while tip-toeing to meet him for that perfect angle. You sigh at the loss of the heat of his chest on your back. He pulls away, but it’s only momentary: he just wants to admire that arch of you, fingers trailing up in a way that almost tickles.

He’s kind enough to lean back down, enveloping you with his body as he pounds, hips slapping against your ass. But blame the duality of man, because he’s also cruel enough to keep you locked out of the heaven only he can give, whispering damning things against your ear as he does. Slows down when you’re close to that precipice (“ssshh, don’t cry, that’ll make me a worse man”) before speeding up again, the injustice of him sending you further down the spiral of insanity (“good girl, take it, take all of me”).

The sounds in the room are making it worse: wet slaps of his cock into your poor cunt, the quiet shifts of the desk until its legs are scraping savagely against expensive herringbone floor. You’ll say the faint marks on the floor is his fault, how he intends to bring about your second orgasm. He’ll say it’s yours for being so tight.

Either way, the both of you crest over like that—your knuckles white at the sides of the table, his chest against your back.

“Fuck—!” he shouts your name, muffled on the crown of your head.

You cum, and so does he, hot ropes painting your walls white while you slump onto the table, dirtying it with sweat and drool.

He jerks his hips into yours like it’s possible to be even deeper. It’s dizzying. There’s so much of him.

Then kisses are being littered on the canvas of your back, and he pulls out, groaning at the sight. Thick driblets of his cum and yours trickle out your hole, slow as they drip down to your inner thigh. You feel its heat.

“Two. Look at you. So full of me.”

He murmurs praises into your hair, pressing the words with his lips onto skin. You catch your breath, letting him hypnotize you in the haze.

The line disappears. Borders melted. Now you’re just two exposed nerves, tangled after the tempest, united under an oath of intimacy that supersedes secrecy.

You understand now, the liberty of having nothing to hide.

A few deep breaths and more than a few tissues later, your anxious thoughts take over.

You just had sex with your boss. Your boss, who turns out to be your number one caller, the one who reignited the passion in you. Who’s to say you won’t backslide into becoming nothing to one another?

He’ll ask you to keep it hush. You’ll do as he says. Anything more will jeopardize both your careers.

Funny how, after you tasted honesty, the prospect of lying feels painful. Chilling, even.

Which makes it all the more stunning when he drapes his suit jacket over your shoulders and kisses your temple. You look at him while he holds you. Savor the brush of his fingers on your face.

“Let me take you home.”

The car ride is quiet. With his warm hand on your thigh, there’s no need for words.

Home turns out to be his brownstone apartment, where the lighting is warm, and the bathroom tiles are cool. You know because he presses you up against them. You let him, lips against his even as he traps your hips between his and a hard place, the steam making it look like a dirty dream. That’s where he gives you your third: common fallacies of a man trying clean you up, only to make a mess out of you.

Afterwards, he’s gentle in a way that contradicts his metal arm: drying your hair, dressing you in an oversized shirt, telling you how good you’ve been for him.

But there’s still the fourth and the fifth. They happen in bed.

To his credit, he’s more tender—maybe it’s how he can see you’re losing consciousness, a live wire charged and shorted over and over again, or maybe he’s influenced by plush mattress and soft sheets.

He makes you cum twice, holds you close both times.

Once with you on his lap, steady hands guiding the grind of you on top of him while blue eyes watch your body move, tired and pliant but still wanting. He ends up bouncing you on top of him. Delights in the way your mouth falls open in silent screams, voice hoarse—yet you still cry out at his urging, being the good girl you are. The sound tastes like salvation when he kisses it off of you.

He delivers the final one with you laid down on the bed, legs pressed against your chest. You marvel at the sight of him, shirtless, muscles coiled inward towards your body underneath his like sunflowers pointing at the sun. He holds one of your legs up while he thrusts, body enveloping yours, the pace punishing in its leisure.

First comes the familiar coil, then the whispered promises.

“Gonna take care of you. Make you feel good.”

“Feel me right here? You like it deep, don’t you?”

“C’mon, cum for me, honey. Wanna fill you up again.”

That’s five, total—not even including the first one he gave you on his tongue. A vote of confidence on how Congressman Barnes delivers.

Everything else that come after is featherlight. So is the sensation in your shoulders.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t pretend nothing happened. He makes you coffee in the morning: a piccolo. The two of you share a breakfast omelette on one plate, as well as the knowledge of each other’s morning voice. Husky. Raw. Proof of not only sleep, but what you did before that.

You tell him things in whispers.

The zeroes left in your student loan, the decisions you made to even think of clearing them, how he stopped being just another a caller after that time with the fire alarm. How he made you laugh. How he made you touch yourself again.

He strokes your hair while he listens. For once, the worries pass.

After that collision course, the home he took you back to expands into a universe of its own. Not just places—his, yours, the dinner dates he whisks you to after work—but also time. The months of back-and-forth between D.C. and Brooklyn, through which he somehow sticks around.

Sometimes it’s as subtle as a “did you eat?” text that tugs at your heartstrings. Other times it’s a committed trip over the long weekend: just the two of you and a hotel room he won’t let you step out of.

His profile demands secrecy, which is fun for a while. The sneaking around makes you feel younger. He thinks the thrill makes you all the more irresistible.

Until somebody posts a photo on Twitter: the two of you in an upscale restaurant with a three-month reservation backlog, holding hands above the table.

Bucky thanks the powers that be for your back facing the camera. Let the tabloids and forums focus on him and the love-struck look on his face.

Nobody on the team says anything. Not even Sheryl, even though the two of you know that nothing slips past his communications director with ten years of D.C. experience. It signals a non-concern, a personal matter so insignificant in his politics, he doesn’t hear about it beyond digital whispers.

As far as fires go, this is a tealight candle.

The two of you talk about it anyway. About the steadiness that already exists before the conversation. It’s not perfect—neither of you are, not with the way he wants nothing more than to have you hanging on his arm at all times, except he’s a person with a past, and you could be a target.

You cradle his face in your hands when you tell him nothing is guaranteed.

When you crash into each other that night, it’s with love. You show it with body and words. So does he.

The very next day, he kisses you good morning in front of the entire team. The bullpen continues as usual, like you’ve presented them with headlines from last week’s paper. Turns out the two of you were quite obvious even before the paparazzi photo.

callmebrooklyn.vip is no longer a valid URL.

You’ve stopped taking calls since that first night—count on a politician to ruin income sources, you like to joke. He always smiles in response. Kisses you like he’s happy to be allowed just this one monopoly.

Pretends he doesn’t already have a Christmas present lined up for you.

Presents, as it stands: your student loans are quietly cleared, and the shelter at Flatbush just informed him that Alpine the kitten is back on the adoption roster.

To be loved is a full-time job.

From board room bitches to escorts lingering on the sides of streets, every woman works hard to be loved—if not by others, by themselves. To make sure they’re seen the way they want to be. To prescribe to others how they should be perceived.

Confident or shy. Innocent or less-than. Mommy, or little girl, or somebody whose sexual circuitry flips with the flick of a switch.

It’s all about control.

For you, it’s all about your voice.

You came to that realization while fooling around with your high school boyfriend at the time. Hard to miss the seven magnitude shivers when you pressed hushed murmurs against his ear.

The part that’s only funny in retrospect? You were complaining to him. The exact words elude you, something to the effect of “please make me cum,” and said in a way that implied he couldn’t.

But boys like him are just like their adult male predecessors from ancient Greece: insisting that the universe revolves around them. He replied with a “gonna make you scream, baby” that sounded much cockier than what’s between his legs.

Yeah, he made you scream alright. Except you faked an orgasm just to get him to stop. Either you made a great impressionist or he was dull, but these facts were not mutually exclusive.

As unpleasant as that experience was, at least you walked away with a quantum-level working theory. You tested it out with rigor in the following years as if it were a scientific hypothesis. Assessed the if-then relationship between ecstasy and words, gathered diction-based data, ruled out correlation.

Determined causation.

At the end of it, you found a fundamental truth: the world’s a stage full of aspiring actors, and you were born as the soundtrack.

A glorious one, at that. One that pushed grown men to the point of horny tears. Duel of The Fates-core.

Then student debt rose like an overnight tide, and you jumped into the deep waters of Patreon and Quinn to keep yourself afloat. Picked a cute username, an even cuter banner, flirted in the comments, the works. You got to try out different personalities on the same day. It was good… for a few years, at least.

Until the drought that is burnout hit you. Literally.

You had to buy a lot more KY Jelly to compensate for the bone-dry fount of creativity and something else between your legs. Time alone with your toys became more work and not at all play. JOI stood for “jokes on I!” instead, because who was there to blame but yourself for starting such a venture?

You eventually marked yourself as sexually inactive at the doctor’s.

So, yes. The fun evaporated, but the checks kept coming, just like your listeners. You didn’t, but you kept posting anyway.

It’s the cash that makes you wet, you told yourself. The switch to phone sex was your way of cutting the middleman. A triple-double-u that meant fully owning what you earned. Soon, you were making a lot more bank than you did with companies.

You have good taste. Money lets you prove it. It chips away at your student debt, buys you nice shoes, got you a decent apartment in good ol’ Brooklyn.

People cum with the city’s name on their lips, thanks to you. If only that got you a rental discount.

When you got a new job last month (because god knows you need a break from moaning), you printed nice name cards to slip into promising places. Call it guerilla marketing. The monetary returns have been fantastic—you suspect it was through those name cards that you got your fattest cash cow of the month.

J’s minute count is slim, but his wallet’s the opposite.

He’s 225% ahead of the next guy in terms of dollars spent per minute. If you weren’t a greedy girl with no friends and a full wishlist, you would’ve blocked calls from other men.

Speaking of calls, the first one with J was so textbook you could laugh.

Textbook is making it sound like you were fingering yourself with the help of lube and some foley hacks (you have two hands). Textbook is sighing demurely while you describe positions you’re too tired to do in real life. Textbook means being thankful he didn’t ask to roleplay something niche like a subplot to season 4 of Lost.

Yes, you got that once. Lost was literally what you were, capital L and everything.

Textbook also means faking an audio orgasm that might win you Best Actress. If only the Academy knew.

But somewhere along the way, textbook sessions with J began to unravel, simmering slowly like water on a low fire. A rising fever that’s deceptively comfortable.

It started on the fifth call, when he spoke for the first time.

“How was your day?” was his first fully formed sentence.

You didn’t have to ask him back. Anyone with ears could tell he was tired.

Fifth call J was a man battered and bruised, voice gruff and a little hoarse. He had this sort of… melancholy tinge of acceptance to his plight, one that you related to. That endeared him to you much more than the amount charged on his card.

The question was simple, but the way he said it made you think he actually cared. It seemed like he didn’t even touch himself in the time you talked—some callers have in the past. He hummed in between like he doesn’t mind paying the money and attention.

He ended the call with the usual “good night, Brooklyn.” Your heart clenched. So did your legs.

Call number six was the first to make you laugh in the history of your hotline’s existence.

You were in the middle of telling him how to touch himself. “Can you tease the tip for me, baby?” like he hadn’t been doing that for the past ten minutes, because he was good and quiet, with the exception of bitten back grunts and the occasional breathless ‘fuck’s.

Which was why you jumped in your skin at the sudden high-pitched beeps in the background. You sat up straighter in your seat.

“J? What’s going on?”

There were metallic clatters, hissed out curses, and rustling sounds you couldn’t quite discern. But then the beeps stopped eventually, and he was back on his phone.

“That was the fire alarm,” he pants. “I, uh, forgot was heating up leftovers.”

The sheepish admission ripped out a loud cackle out of you. You quickly gathered yourself.

“Sorry!” you giggle, “Oh my god, I didn’t mean to—are you okay?”

“Yeah.” You could tell he was smiling.

Then he laughed as well, silky smooth despite the awkward situation. Your gut responded on your behalf, foaming with a languid warmth you used to know.

After that call ended, you noticed the evidence. They were there before, but like the fire alarm that beeped in his place, you’re seeing past your own smokescreens. Elevated heart rate at the sight of his caller ID. Your mouth going dry whenever he made a sound that signaled his release, as if it wants to drink whatever he had to offer. The glistening slick on your panties.

You pretended it was just ovulation. It didn’t work.

It almost doesn’t matter. Because today is call number seven, and he’s the one talking dirty to you.

You’re in bed with a thin t-shirt and underwear on your body. You never take work calls in bed—the first anomaly. The second is just how wet you are, sheets damp from slick and the sweat on your back as you writhe by the touch of your own fingers. How many minutes has it been? You don’t know, the timer’s ticking all the way at your computer. You can’t think. And that’s his fault. Is this what your callers feel like?

The third anomaly is his voice. Gone away is the usual softness in his sighs. Here to stay is something steady, low in his chest, then a command that’s highest in the chain.

“Make sure you’re all stretched out for me, baby.”

The nickname fires like a karmic gun, shooting lightning down your spine and making it arch. Your hand gropes the flesh of your chest, fingers circling a pebbled nipple under your shirt. The other stays between your legs, teasing, opening.

In this one call, J went from not speaking more than five words to pouring filth straight into your ears. You don’t know why, but you’re not exactly complaining.

He says things that make you think your hand is his, that you arehis. Honest whimpers float in the air, audible even through your noise-cancelling headset. It sounds like a stranger’s. You should be mortified. When was the last time you didn’t perform? Why does each moan feel more real than the one before? How is he making you feel so good?

“Gonna bend you over my desk. Pull that skirt down, then the little thing you’re wearing underneath.”

In your mind’s eye are flashes of an oak bureau and the American flag, a bookcase by the window. His voice brings back thoughts of dangerous territories.

“Tell me, what color is it?”

“Black,” you moan, teasing your clit.

Someone’s hair color that you only got to see on screens, styled differently these days.

“Bet it looks pretty on you, almost sorry ‘m gonna ruin it.”

“A-ah—”

Fingerpads circle your dripping hole despite your eagerness, inching closer the way his voice gains that sharp edge. You think he can hear your lungs heave.

“Is she soaked for me, baby? Wanna fuck her with my fingers.”

You nod like he’s in the room and whine out a “yes.”

The truth, for once.

The other truth you’d rather die than reveal is that you’re picturing your boss.

The boss you only get to see online once a week… if you’re lucky. It’s barely a meeting and more of a passing-by, because he only has eighteen minutes to stick around—which should be a crime, because that’s barely enough time to go through the updates, and his salt-and-pepper beard deserves to be stared at longer.

Your fault for planting the name cards at Capitol Hill. Constituents should make their voices heard, right?

On the contrary, people also say to not shit where you eat. Except you’re convinced that Congressman James Buchanan Barnes is one of the only people in that building who would throw the card away after finding out what it’s for. The man is as burned out as charcoal, and so are you.

That, and the fact he’s never stopped fighting for the people, was why you joined his team.

“Beg, sweetheart. Use that mouth.”

The voice grips you by the throat, grabbing you back to the here and now. You muster a response amidst the haze.

“Please, J, want your fingers—”

Of course you feel some type of depraved when you picture the man on the Hill. Your O-shaped mouth wraps around an entirely different letter that just had to be his initial, too.

No, stop it, you tell yourself, already catching your own mind teetering past an edge. A line so close to being crossed. You try to breathe, to list down every man in Congress with a name that starts with J. Maybe that would help. J could be anyone. Jeff Lewis, Vermont; Jacob O’Donnell, Jersey; Joseph A. Samford, Connecticut…

Except you keep coming back to the name in your email inbox this morning.

Good work on the speech. James Buchanan Barnes Member of Congress U.S. House of Representative

He didn’t reply to the entire thread. Just you.

“Put them in for me. Two of ‘em,” J says, voice warm despite the static.

Instead of wresting you from daydream, this time it chains you. J’s voice and his face start to merge, a metamorphosis with no way back.

“Slowly, honey.”

You twitch at the new nickname and do as you’re told. They sink slowly with a wet sound. Suddenly you realize how long it’s been since you did this.

A pathetic mewl escapes you when they’re all the way inside.

There’s a bit of fuzz on the phone when he chuckles. In the background, you hear more: soft slaps that can only mean he’s touching himself, except he’s past touching and earnestly pumping. The vision sears itself behind your eyelids. Blue eyes darkened with lust, tie loose, face twisted in pleasure, bleeding the night away behind his office desk just for this…

“Good girl.”

“Thank you.” The breathy response is pulled out like you’re a well-trained animal.

“Don’t thank me yet. Keep ‘em there. Mine’ll be so much bigger than yours, you know that?”

“F-Fuck, J…”

“I know,” he coos back, “that’s exactly what I’m gonna do to you. Sink my cock in that pussy, fill you up.”

There’s a hiss as if he’s burned by his own fantasy, but the sound was so hot it goes straight to your core. The wet sounds of flesh hitch into a faster rhythm. Your fingers mimic him in a juvenile sort of impatience, like you’re scared you won’t ever feel this good again. Like you want it to be him inside of you.

“Gonna fuck you so hard you won’t remember how to speak, honey.”

“Oh my god—”

God’s nowhere to be found. The broken groan J lets out is infernal. Your cheek presses against the pillow, and you faintly feel drool leak out from one corner of your mouth.

“You can take it, can’t you? Be a good girl? Arch your back nice and high for me?”

“I’ll be good, I’ll be so good…”

“Promise?”

Your response is a sobbed out yes.

“Good fucking girl. Gonna fuck you ‘til you’re full of me,” it’s almost a promise, the dip in his baritone, “‘til your pussy remembers nothing else but me.”

You shake your head, hips high in the air as your fingers chase a precipice.

“Gonna cum inside of you, make you feel all of it when you walk—”

“J, can’t, I’m—”

He’s panting at this point, breath heavy in your ears. “You’re what, honey? Talk to me.”

“—cumming, please let me cum, please—!”

A humorless laugh. Then: “Do it. Let go for me.”

He kept talking for another thirty-six minutes. Made himself cum twice in that time span.

You think you got up to four. Or was it five? Everything turned fuzzy once he told you to use your toys.

After purrs, praises, and a customary “good night, Brooklyn”, it ends. You step into a scalding shower, hoping to wash off the slick smeared on your inner thighs and inappropriate thoughts of your boss. One of them is much dirtier than the other.

The shower only half-worked.

The sleep that arrives doesn’t feel as restful, like a shadow looming over you. It remains even during the following days, haunting the corners of your mind while you talk to other callers. You don’t even know if the lies you sold are convincing anymore.

You start wishing they all had his voice.

Bucky didn’t know what came over him.

Actually, no, he knew exactly what came over him.

It’s the status update meeting. You were chewing on that poor pen again. A usual occurrence, if not for the way your eyes looked so… dark. Like you weren’t entirely there. Like you were picturing something else.

All it took was one look at the way your lips wrapped around the innocent plastic, and his mind started replacing it with a cock.

His.

The thought unlocked another layer of hell for him.

He tuned into the meeting in bits and pieces. They ran through his schedule while he amended it in his head: travel to Brooklyn while Congress isn’t in session; appear briefly in whatever event his team has finagled him into; see if anyone has broken into the old brownstone apartment while he’s gone…

Then Sheryl said something that sunk in like a needle that demanded all his attention.

Your name. How you’d be attending the ribbon-cutting at Flatbush in Sheryl’s stead.

In a matter of days, you’d be real. No longer a profile picture on a screen. A body standing next to his.

Something he could actually touch.

That was what came over him, in that eighth call with Brooklyn. A reckoning. He’s sinned for you in secret. Gave you someone else’s voice. Drowned in dreams and dazed reality, not really knowing where you began and she ended. An unholy fusion, just like the one he does with you in his head.

He recorded that eighth call to fuel his fantasies. He could easily call again, but there were too many packets too read, too many hands to reluctantly shake. Where he has money, he lacks time.

Especially now that he’s back in New York.

And time is ticking away the longer he waits in line at this coffee shop. It looks nice enough, smells good, and is right next to the District Office, where he needs to have a meeting in ten minutes. He purses his lips, still holding onto his work briefcase and smelling like airplane air.

Should’ve probably gone to a shop further down the road, but it’s a little too late, sunk cost fallacy and everything.

He technically doesn’t even need coffee, what with the serum. It’s just a force of habit. A small luxury. Not at all a way to delay the inevitability of meeting you.

“Can I get a piccolo, please?”

Bucky blinks, feet frozen. Not because he’s been standing still in the queue.

Because he knows that voice.

Can recognize it a mile away since he has its waveforms tattooed in his mind, and now it’s at the front of the line near the counter. He’s memorized the shape of those vowels. Sure, he’s never heard her say “with oat milk, please” specifically (other than the beautiful “please”), but the tone is the same. Velvelty, smooth, honeyed, only this time without the tack of static.

The highest definition of X-rated dreams.

So she does live in Brooklyn, is what Bucky thinks at first, before the woman turns, locking eyes with him—

—and he sees you instead, wide-eyed, like you’re just as surprised as he is.

There’s a sensation in his gut akin to a melting. Something else hardens. He feels like Pavlov’s dog.

Then the expression on your face morphs into a smile as you approach, kitten heels clacking on tiles. You look good in that outfit. Professional, diabolical—his first time seeing what you look like from your neck below. But as much as he needs to etch the lines of your body, he’s taken aback by your voice.

That damn voice.

“Mr. Barnes. You came. How was the flight?”

A less perceptive man would’ve missed the business card on the floor of the men’s bathroom.

It camouflages almost perfectly against the marble tiles typical of Capitol offices: cream-colored with a sort of understated opulence that shows respect for legacy and country—both increasingly hard to find in the people working in this building.

But Rep. James Buchanan Barnes of New York’s 9th district sees it.

Of course he does. He has to. The hallways in D.C. are as rife with information as underground hideouts and unsanctioned labs he once took down with bullets instead of bills. He might not do that anymore, might be wearing a different kind of suit to show up to a different kind of work, but sharp ears and even sharper eyes can’t be unlearned.

His hands are still slightly damp from washing, but he picks the thing up, metal fingers careful not to damage the delicate edges of the cardstock.

It’s elegance in ivory, with tastefully small text at its center, debossed to accentuate each letter:

call me brooklyn www.callmebrooklyn.vip

Bucky’s eyebrows furrow.

That’s the name of his district. Also the name of a woman. The implication of promiscuity lands heavy in the air, casting shadows like a sultry smile unfit for the halls of Congress.

This is a tart card. At least Bucky suspects so.

A pocket beacon for less-than-legislative favors has somehow found its way to the bathroom floor of a congressional office in Washington, D.C., probably dropped by a politician too busy thinking about Brooklyn in the middle of their work day—and not the Brooklyn he promised to take care of, too.

The fact that it has a link instead of a phone number suggests sophistication. A statement of differentiation.

This is not the kind of service peddled in run-down telephone booths or motel doors, this is something much more lethal. Precise.

A clean sniper shot, if you will.

Blue eyes stare holes into the card. In a previous life, he’d lift the prints off of this thing and run it against a database of the entire Capitol to find a match. Fifteen minutes till he’d get a name, district number, and browser history.

But what good would that do? Seventy percent of the House of Representatives have probably engaged in the services of an escort, what with lonely times at the Hill, free from the watchful eyes of spouses, insert a third excuse here. Keyword being probably—Bucky’s numbers are a rough estimate.

The remaining thirty percent are likely impeded by hip replacements, knee surgeries, and the like. Or are too repressed to even muster up the drive.

He belongs in that last bucket. Not the prosthesis—he’s got that in common with the seniors, except he doesn’t get tired—but the repression.

What once was perfect control begins to fray at the seams. He’s getting sick and tired of hearings so pointless they might as well be circles. Had enough of documents that aren’t even half as substantial as their word count.

So he pockets the card as he walks out of the bathroom and back to his office, disguising curiosity as principle, cynical what-ifs swirling in his head.

His subconscious demands an excuse to probe. Perhaps the person who dropped this card also dropped morsels in the ears of the lover they paid for. The confidential kind of morsels: government plans, state secrets. A cause for concern. A motive for action.

Bucky Barnes can’t entertain the thought of a call girl without making it national business.

He walks with purpose down the hallway, steadfast in the direction of his office, ignoring a couple of chatting aides along the way.

Twenty more minutes until the virtual meeting with the district office, a flurry of updates from the team stationed in his borough. Twenty minutes until his no-nonsense district director tears more holes into his already mauled calendar and makes him do things like get a haircut, which he did last week.

Apparently the new haircut did wonders for PR. His communications director reported a 150% increase of ‘positive public sentiment’ across all channels.

“You’re appealing to them as a figure of authority,” she said once on a Slack channel, but he knew for a fact that it translates to “people are calling you daddy.” Discovering the tabloid headlines was an accident. Reading the comments on his public social media account was a mistake. One of them said something about riding his metal arm.

Thank god he doesn’t have Twitter, and that is why.

He opens the heavy mahogany door to his office, letting it close with a soft click.

The space is modest: alabaster walls, a wooden bureau, bookcases beside the floor-to-ceiling window bleeding the room with late afternoon sunlight. The stars and stripes stand in a corner. For all his achievements, official or otherwise, he only allowed a small number of them to be displayed on the wall.

There’s a photo of the Howling Commandos. Another with him and Steve in the army.

Sighing, he discards his suit jacket on a nearby chair. Unbuttons his collar, loosens his tie, rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. Rituals of a burned-out councilman who has only been in office for a year.

Then he sits behind the desk and finds himself keying in the website on his laptop, because god forbid this little foray is part of his work computer’s digital footprint.

It’s just legwork. Making sure this link is what he thinks it is. Nothing more.

What shows up is just like the name card he found: classy and minimal. There’s no text coded in hot pink. No heavy-handed euphemisms. No gallery of naked bodies. It looks like he could accidentally flash this on a Zoom call and not a single person would bat an eye.

The background is a neutral beige that’s easy on the eyes compared to the harsh white he’s accustomed to. There’s an image of a dangling red phone in the center—the kind attached to cables. He skims through the sparse page, which is so short it’s not even scrollable.

Vague descriptions mark the screen in a serif font designed to tantalize.

Call Brooklyn for voice-only entertainment. One-on-one conversations. Tell me what you like.

There’s a little pill that says offline (leave a message). Underneath it, a Call now button.

Suspicions confirmed. Technological advancement and life improvements come hand in hand—except for whatever the fuck is up with pointless AI-generated videos these days—and that includes life improvements in the bedroom, or the steps that lead towards it.

He’s unfortunately been on Tinder. Learned of OnlyFans without his consent. Phone sex is like the eldest sibling in that line-up of services. A byproduct of a time when intimacy meant more than an eggplant emoji. When the spoken word hit harder than… whatever Hinge is doing with that audio feature Sam showed him.

So if he knows everything he needs to, why did he click on the terms and conditions?

There’s a pop-up with a wall of text, well-formatted and written in actual English, unlike most of these things. Whoever runs this sit does not play about being clear. Each bullet point emphasizes privacy: calls are encrypted, recorded only for legal pursuits should there be a reason for one, but the line is otherwise unsupervised. Brooklyn respects keeping identities confidential, including her own, and reserve the right to terminate or block a call if she finds it breached.

Shame that nobody reads T&Cs, least of all the people looking for phone sex.

He closes that pop-up and hovers over the Call now button. It highlights itself, jet black, demanding for attention.

Curiosity always kills the cat.

His ma used to chastise him with that line back in the day. Stop dreamin’ about flying automobiles and such, James. And she was right, because it’s been almost a century since she said so, and aerial highways are not a thing. Probably never going to be, unless it’s Wakanda.

That being said, he learned later in childhood that the saying was not complete.

Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought him back.

So yes, maybe he’s starting to admit that this is curiosity. Not an investigation, or caring about code of conduct. The fire that fuels it doesn’t lie in wanting to know how this business card ended up in Congress—that’s part of it.

What leads him on is the fact that Brooklyn is doing such a good job at tempting him without showing anything at all.

He’s tried being good after the ice, after everything. No more occasional one-night stands since he took up office, and not with a call girl thereafter. It’s too risky given his identity. After everything, he’d like to feel safe, for once, and for now, his right hand is safe enough. So are videos of people rutting into each other’s bodies.

No face, all appetite.

Calling Brooklyn would be the same. What difference does it make? Just a voice and some extra dollars. Something to think about in sleepless nights. Nothing ever wrong with talking to a person—and in this case, he doesn’t even have to say a word. Silence has always been his preferred method of communication.

It doesn’t help that she’s named herself after his constituency. It had to be an alias, right? Maybe she’s from there. Maybe she grew up a couple blocks away from where he did, only lifetimes apart. Same brownstone block, different era.

That thought latches onto him like stubborn teeth. The air walks a tightrope.

What’s the worst that could happen? he thinks to himself. She’s offline.

Listening to the voice of his constituents is an important part of his job, anyway.

He clicks the button.

It leads to payment. A low price per minute, but mental math tells him she’s earning well above America’s hourly average with this little venture. He enters a burner debit card.

Then an empty form sits on the screen’s center, waiting for input.

Last step: what should I call you?

Blue eyes blink. He types a thoughtless “J” and clicks next, but not before the footsteps and chatter in the hallway past his door fade out. It almost feels juvenile, what he’s doing. In his extremely official workplace, no less.

But he’s in too deep to back out.

A phone number appears on screen. He calls it on his cellphone—again, not the work one.

Even before he presses the smooth slab against his ear, he can hear his heartbeat drumming in it. It pulses a lot faster than the calling tone.

The silences in between taunt him, the seconds running long. Ten of them pass.

Then, finally, a voice.

“Hi, you’ve reached Brooklyn. I’m sorry I missed you. Call back again soon? I’d love to talk to you.”

And god, what a voice.

It’s sweet even through the phone, syrupy and soothing with a lilt laced with just the right amount of eagerness that makes him forget this is her job. She sounds pretty. Patient. Attentive. A master weaver, dripping promises in a voicemail message, already threading the sound of that I missed you in the fabric of his mind.

What other words would she string together to make a man come undone?

His jaw clenches.

This is more dangerous than Red Room-trained honeypots. He’s already picturing a face, fleeting wisps appear and disappear as imagination constructs one to his liking, never staying long enough to ever be final. Hair he can sink his fingers into. Lips that match the sin they speak of. A waist to house his hands. The scent of flowers.

The work computer chimes with a meeting reminder. There’s a hard line in his pants.

It’s still there ten minutes into the sync with Brooklyn—the people working to make his job easier than it should be, not the one that got him hard with a five-second message.

The meeting is a round-up: status updates, green-lights, and a quick outlook all together. To say he’s distracted while someone’s going through the event calendar for October is an understatement. He stares at the grid of faces on screen, specifically at the one on the middle-right.

Your grid.

You were hired by his communications director at home base. New blood. Pretty, young, and off-limits—reasons why he can’t help but pay attention to the way you’re chewing the end of that pen, among other things. You write things down on your notebook off-screen. Wear a hair clip when you’re working from home, as opposed to a rotation of lipstick colors when you’re in the office.

He likes you. He hasn’t met you in person. Hasn’t even spoken a word to you since you joined a month ago, a passing “hello” at one of these meetings.

That’s a good thing, because then he can actually keep himself in line.

Even through a screen, you’re beautiful enough to make good men do bad things. And the public is still deciding whether him wearing Armani instead of Kevlar makes a good enough man.

“—will you draft the address? For the ribbon cutting at Flatbush.” That’s Sheryl, Communications Director, calling your name for the assignment.

Bucky watches as you smile sweetly and send a thumbs-up emoji.

Okay, so when you use it, it’s cute. When he does, he gets called an ‘unc’ by Cass.

The meeting ends. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. Another hearing and he’s done for the day.

Brooklyn’s voice from earlier slips in like silk. Missed you. Call back again soon. Vague whispers of the face, once fleeting, begin to settle.

When the smoke fades, he pictures yours, along with that innocent curl of your lips.

What transpires next is normal in a day in his life. Hearing’s dismissed. He adds things in his to-do list before going back to a barely decorated apartment near the Hill, maybe heat up some leftover pizza if he’s hungry.

And he is hungry. Just not for food.

Nothing helps: he’s tried watching the news, noting political movements—someone named Fisk is a surprise candidate for Mayor of New York. Read packets meant for tomorrow, completed a vibranium arm wash cycle on the dishwasher.

All he craves is to hear that pretty voice again. This time with a pretty face in mind.

Whiskey goes down his throat like willpower down a drain. He pours himself another glass and goes through the secret motions—the one he did in the afternoon.

Personal laptop. Burner debit card. ‘J’.

By the time he presses call, he’s already hard. This time, the call tone doesn’t last three seconds.

“Hi, J.”

There it is. The honey-sweetness of each syllable. The tone of her is different from her voicemail: breathier, lower, like she’s also sinking into a soft surface after a long day. Like she’s smiling.

“I’m sorry I missed your call earlier, but I’m so glad you’re here now.”

He doesn’t respond, frozen on the couch, breath hitching, heartbeat loud. What should he say? Should he say anything? He’s a public official, faced the camera a number of times, spoke into a mic half of those times. What if she recognizes his voice?

There’s a beat of charged silence—both literally and figuratively thanks to the per-minute fee she’s got her claws on. He thought she was going to hang up, but remembers there’s no reason to.

Why waste a paying customer?

“Are we feeling shy today? That’s okay,” she coos.He palms himself.

“Do you want me to talk to you instead? Press one if you want me to, hang up if you change your mind. No hard feelings.”

Fuck, she didn’t have to sound so understanding. And there are no hard feelings, but something else is—it just twitched in protest at the thought of ending the call.

He puts her on speaker and presses one. The phone sits on his lap.

“Thank you. I really want to know more about you, J. Are you a man? One if yes.”

He taps the number again.

She sighs. “Good boy—can I call you that? Do you like that…?”

One.

He exhales. Did she hear him?

A soft giggle on the other end of the line. Maybe she did, because the next thing she says hits as hard as a premonition.

“Wanna touch yourself for me?”

He already is. He lets her know with the phone, and as if wanting to provide proof, he loosens his belt. The metal clinks softly before a zip goes down, stern and fast.

“Mm.” A short silence. “You probably had a long day, didn’t you, J? You can relax with me.”

And then she starts stitching words together that pull a thread in his spine, making him arch. It’s gentle. Kind, even, the way she whispers things she’d like to do.

Nothing too much at the beginning. How she’d just sit on his lap and kiss his cheek, maybe try to map the lines of his face with her lips. Would he let her fingers on his body? she asks, because if so, she’d place them on his chest to point at the next place her mouth should land. She’d let him touch her too. Sink fingers into her thighs, run palms up her back, feel the weight of her on top of him…

The tumble down comes after a simple question.

“Do you like my voice, J?”

Yes.

Because then her words spell out his ruin.

“Can hear how much you do,” she murmurs, all sensuality and sin, “jerking yourself off so hard for me…”

He is, right hand pumping in earnest. Lips open, eyes half-lidded, looking blankly at the miles past the walls of reservation. A man seduced to explored perimeters of pleasure. In his mind, she’s really there, warm and willing under his hands, honeyed lips pressed against his ear. The device on his thigh becomes a hardware designed for his downfall, the heat emanating from it poorly mimicking the one her body might provide.

A rasp on the phone, breathy, fatal.

“Fuck, J—”

His first time hearing her curse.

“I’m so wet right now…”

His first time groaning out loud.

She responds with a sigh. He hates the fact that he can’t feel it across his cheek.

“Wanna grind of your cock. Make you feel how, ah,” Christ, that catch in your voice is illegal, “how soaked I am for you. Wanna put it inside, J, please—”

At that point, there’s no holding back his voice. A moan bubbles at the back of his throat, quietly begging for more without words, and then he hears it. The squelches.

She’s touching herself.

“F-feel so empty,” she whimpers, wet sounds in the background. “Want you in my mouth, in my cunt, anywhere, fuck…”

She doesn’t stop. His hand doesn’t, either.

“Gonna sink down reaaal slow for you, J. Put on a show while my pussy swallows your hard cock. Or maybe you’d tug me down by the ass and make me sit on it like a good girl?”

“Oh god, baby,” she moans. He nearly spasms at the nickname. “Need you to stuff me full… fuck me ‘til I have nothing in my head but your cock. ‘Til I can’t talk,” a breathless laugh, “too busy screaming for you.”

“You’d fuck this pussy right, won’t you? Make me ride you? See my tits bounce in your face?”

“Wanna see your cum leaking out of me, baby. Wanna feel you push all of it in again.”

Somewhere along the way, he pictures the face he saw in that meeting: you and the way you chewed on that pen. Replaces than pen with something else.

That got him. He cums, gritting a long, drawn-out “fuuuck” out from between his teeth, stars overwhelming the borders of his vision. There’s warmth. Copious amounts of it on his right hand, a speck on his neck. He pants, lost in the haze, but not so much that he doesn’t catch her whines from the phone.

“Please, want it s-so bad, gonna… ah—hngg!”

Her voice devolves into a delicious meltdown of mewls that he’s sure to dream of, reedy from a tight throat. Then she’s panting too, he can almost see her chest rising and falling in time. The giggle that escapes her sounds as if she ran away from home and into the arms of a forbidden lover.

The quiet rings loud in his ears.

He hangs up before she can breathe out something else that’ll undo him, the movement so quick it’s like he got burned.

Between roundtables with unions and lengthy briefing memos, rallying votes for veteran rights shouldn’t feel like the hardest fight in his life.

This is coming from someone who fought armies, the worst of humans and the best of otherwise. He’s been brainwashed. Snapped to dust. Brought back to life. Yet Bucky has no one else to blame for being on the political battlefield. He signed himself up to these trenches, just like the one in the forties.

His trigger discipline lasts for about three full days until his next call.

“I thought I said something wrong, you know,” Brooklyn purrs. “But I’m glad you’re here now.”

He’s figured it out this time. Earphones in, left hand on his phone, right hand pumping his cock—all while she feeds fantasies into his ravenous mind, paints pictures with her siren song. He still doesn’t respond with words of his own, only answering with a tap.

“You hear that, J? It’s my little vibrator.” He doesn’t, he just hears her. “She’s gonna help me cum. Make me think of you while I do. Would you let her?”

Yes; one.

“I’ll let you shove my face into a pillow. Stretch my tight pussy out from behind, your chest against my back.”

One.

“Fuck, c’mon, baby,” he always loses his mind when she calls him that, “cum with me? Need you to, please, I’m gonna—”

He lets her hear him in pieces: hisses when he toys with his pink leaking tip, gasps at the first pump, then urgent groans as he spills all over himself.

Right before that razor’s edge, he keeps seeing you, sweet girl in the communications team. The things he’d do to you flash in his mind’s eye.

Your tongue swirling around his cock, doe eyes staring up at him from between his legs. On your back, knees against your chest while he pounds you till both your lips are drooling. Then, the thing Brooklyn said, face down, ass up, all for him to use.

It gets worse with every call. The grey matter between his ears can only remember the color of your eyes and hair. The shade you chose to paint your lips, one he keeps replacing with slick white. At the end of each pornographic phone call, he’s faced with a string of ones on his phone screen. All the yeses he’s given, all the times his willpower dissolved like wet paper.

By the fourth call, he’s spent close to five hundred dollars on her—mostly in tips.

By the seventh, he’s her highest paying customer of the month. There are still two more weeks until the end of September.

“If you had it, doesn’t that mean it was worth fighting to have?”

You’d shaken your head, turning your fork between your hands with a long sigh. “No, it means I had it, then… I guess dropped it. If it was worth having, I wouldn’t have dropped it.”

“What if you didn’t drop it?” Steve had raised his brows, and you’d stabbed your fork into your food, almost chewing right through your cheek. 

“But I did.”

“How about if it’s indestructible?”

You’d given him a flat look. “Anything can be destructible if you’re destructive enough.”

“Then what if someone knocked it out of your hands-”

“I feel like you’re getting too caught up on the metaphor,” You’d mumbled, and Steve had shrugged.

“It’s just not making sense. You’re saying you had it. If you love something, you fight for it. To keep it.”

You’d hummed. “I thought if you loved something, you let it go?”

“That’s a loose rule. You can’t be letting everything you love go, or else you’ll end up alone.”

Maybe you’d just never loved something. Maybe whatever you’d been told to read as love was wrong, or you’re just defective and not capable of the raw, tear-the-world apart love that Steve had been talking about. And everything falls through your fingers because it can sense that, and fighting for it would be holding it hostage.

“You’re not going to fix me in one conversation, Steven.” You’d muttered, kicking his shin under the table. “Eat your pancakes.”

Steve had sighed, but listened. 

Then, years later, he’d gone back in time to Peggy, and you hadn’t bothered to stop him. 

You hadn’t loved him, but it had been the closest thing you’d ever had to something. More than just a body for warmth, more than just flat word for the sake of speaking, more than just company for the prayer of not being stranded. For a very long, long time you’d been certain that Steve had been your shot. That you’d missed it because you had horrible aim and sand for bullets, and now you were alone just like he’d warned you’d be.

And you’d been wrong. You’d been so horribly, impossibly wrong, because you’d been right. All the wires and nerves had gotten tangled and crossed in your body, and you’d been right about the wrong thing, and you’d ended up so lost that the sky had gone black until one star blinked at you, and guided you home.

You’d never loved Steve. He’d never been your shot. 

And when love had hit you—really, truly fucking hit you—it hadn’t been like the train or comet or blow to the gut people had always told you it would be.

It had been clear. The world had gotten sharper, and colors had been more vibrant, and you’d known. 

You’d never been in love before. 

You were in love now.

In half a second, you’d fallen into it, and you’d never be able to crawl back out. You didn’t know how to fight for it, but you could wait for it. You could lie here like you were in a grave and wait for flowers to bloom above you, and then maybe he’d pick them and know you’d grown them for him.

Because Bucky doesn’t know that you love him. You don’t know how to tell him, either, because every other time you’ve said it suddenly seems like at lie, and no words are big enough anymore. 

And Sam had fucked it. One day you’re going to shove him into the ocean or something, because he’d found you after the Blip and told Bucky you were the girl. The one that Steve had found in a crowd and kept, who was smarter and kinder than someone named Sharon, who they’d been supposed to find and take care of, but gotten sidetracked.

That would’ve been like a noose on your heart, in you’d really heard that part of Sam’s sentence. That Steve had told him to find you and look after you, but then left anyway, only for Sam to completely forget.

But you hadn’t heard him.

You’d been staring at Bucky, and the world had been clear, and you hadn’t been sure if it was a ringing in your ears or some sort of fucked up, heavenly choir. 

Maybe it had been adrenaline, in that first moment. You’d told yourself, over and over, that maybe it had just been the rush of meeting him, because Steve had told you so much already.

But then you’d followed them back to New York, and it had been love. It had been long, heavy love that was stronger than anything you’d ever felt, and made you do stupid, pathetic things to just keep yourself in Bucky’s orbit. It started with being whatever he and Sam asked you to be, because you didn’t feel expendable, but you wanted to be irreplaceable. You’d made yourself so useful in every way possible. With research and computers and undercover work where you got to hang off Bucky’s arm and smile at him, and he’d smile back like he loved you, and it was just the job but fuck, it was like a drug.

Being in love had made you smarter, as the months passed. You could do stitches and relocate joints, fly a plane and read in two new languages, and an average hacking job but an outstanding acting one. Your cooking has gotten better, mostly making different kinds of eggs, because it’s something you do with Bucky once a week, and you can play the piano, because he’d mentioned he liked it once. 

You were going to rot away here. Loving Bucky in silence and never saying anything, and it would be a soft and gentle death because Bucky does like you. You’re friends, and he’s called you important to him and yelled at you for being reckless, but not wanting you to die isn’t the same pure, wrathful love you feel for him. 

But you’re the girl. Steve’s girl. That was left behind and fell into Bucky’s care. That he keeps around for you—some unknown shift had occurred, and you know you’re not being allowed to remain in Bucky’s orbit because Steve asked him to keep you there—but as a friend. 

You can be a friend. You can be whatever the fuck Bucky needs you to be, just as long as you’re allowed to stay here.

And being his friend is easy. Doing things for him is easier. Loving him, even in numbing silence, is the simplest thing in the world.

“This is so fucking stupid.” Bucky had grumbled last week, glowering at his paper, and Sam had shrugged. 

“I think it’s fun.”

Bucky had shot him a glare. “We’re using glitter gel pens, Sam, you know this is stupid.”

“I happen to like glitter gel pens.” Sam had shot you a grin across the table as he said your name, and you’d narrowed your eyes in a silent warning he’d completely ignored. “Do you think it’s stupid?”

“The pens or the lists?”

Sam’s grin had grown. “Lists?”

You’d shrugged, dropping your gaze to your own blank sheet of paper. “They’re kinda dumb, but I’m still going to do it.”

“See, Buck?” Sam had raised his brows at Bucky’s scowl, then turned back to you. “How about the pens?”

“I like them.” You’d spun yours between your fingers, trying not the feel Bucky’s gaze over your skin. “But I like glitter, and Bucky doesn’t-“

“I like glitter.” He’d grunted, scowling at his own pen. “But it doesn’t belong in pens. It’s impractical.”

Sam had rolled his eyes. “They can write, man, that’s all they gotta do.”

“Yeah, Buck. You have no whimsy.”

You’d smiled at him, and he’d returned it, but it had been the only smile he’d offered for the rest of the day. 

But the point hadn’t been to get him to smile. It had been to make him do the lists, because his therapist said it was important, and if he didn’t, he’d be in violation of his pardon conditions again. It had taken a very long, tense afternoon to get it done, but he’d handed his list to his therapist the next day, and you’d kept your crumbled in your jacket pocket since.

And you still weren’t fighting for things. 

You think it’s how you ended up here. In this warehouse, your head spinning and everything a little too bright.

You can’t really remember, and this might just be an incredibly odd dream. Your tongue feels loose in your mouth, your skin has an odd buzzing feel over it, and this couch is made of what’s probably velvet, and you’re pretty sure Spiderman is standing right next to you, holding your list.

Your list. He’s reading your list. No one’s supposed to read that list, and you almost broken Sam’s hand for trying, and you know Sam-

“What the- fuck-“

Spiderman looks up at you right as you topple off the couch, his eyes widening his suit.

“Oh, shoot, sorry, ma’am-“

He pulls you back up to your feet, this list still in his hands, and you’d try to grab it but your whole body feels like jelly and mist. Nothing in you but your thoughts, floating around and narrowing in on the list, why does Spiderman have your list-

“What-“ You groan as he sets you back on the couch, closing your eyes to try and ward off the bile rising up your throat. “Why- What is- What happened?”

“Um,” Spiderman’s voice cracks slightly, sounding almost uncertain. “You were poking around where civilians shouldn’t be, miss- And I was looking in the same lab-“

You frown, keeping your eyes squeezed shut. “Lab?”

“Yeah, uh, one of the secret evil government ones-“

“Fuck.”

It’s coming back in small, hazy pieces.

Bucky told you that you didn’t need to do this, but you’d done it anyway. You weren’t recognizable, and you were careful and smart, so you’d be in and out before Sam and Bucky realized you’d gone and the building’s security realized you weren’t there for a meeting.

Something had happened. You’d gotten the evidence you needed, and there had been vial or canister, and you’d knocked it over because your phone had started ringing, and it had been Bucky. You’d think you’d declined the call, or just let it ring to voicemail, but he’d sent you a very angry text seconds later.

He’d noticed you were gone faster than you thought he would. He’d worked out what you were doing, and he was coming to grab you because you were being stupid, and when he’d called you a second time, you’d- 

You’d thrown your phone in panic. It had broken the canister. And everything had gone black.

“Do you, uh,” Spiderman clears his throat from somewhere in front of you. “You look like you remember what happened?”

You give a half-nod, letting out a long breath. “Where am I?”

“You’re in my warehouse.” 

You open your eyes at that, and Spiderman shakes his head. 

“It’s a safe warehouse. Really safe. The safest. You collapsed, ma’am. I couldn’t just, uh- leave you on the floor? Alone? But-“ He looks down to your list, then back to you with an expression that’s somehow nervous through the mask. “May I please ask you a question?”

You can’t really go anywhere. And he’s already read your list, so there’s not much to lose.

“Sure.”

“Does the Bucky from your list have a metal arm? Because it’s not a- uh- I’ve only met one guy named Bucky, and he tried to punch me because we were doing this big fight at an airport, and he had a metal arm, and he’s not- uh- he seemed alright, but it was super complicated, and if this,” he points to your list, his voice growing higher and higher by the second. “Is the Bucky I know, then- uh- Is it?”

“Yeah,“ you let out a long, breath, and something is cloudy over your skull. Your Bucky does have a metal arm. “It is.”

“Oh, okay.” Spiderman blinks at you, then the list. “You, uh- You guys seem close, then. That’s cool.”

For a second, you want to lie. Just say you’re not that close, just co-workers, and Spiderman doesn’t need to be thinking about Bucky because it’s really, totally nothing.

But you can’t lie. The words just die at the top of your chest, and you can’t even bite your tongue and swallow the truth, or you’ll choke on your own spit.

“It’s- I- I love him.”

You’ve never said that aloud before. Not even to the mirror. But Spiderman just shrugs like it’s nothing, and then gestures to your list.

“Yeah, I uh- I worked that out, ma’am. He’s on here like ten times.” Spiderman’s eyes narrow on the paper. “Upstate, where you can see the stars. Bucky’s ass and arms. Candles. My blue vase. The color blue in general. The color brown, too. Bucky’s hair when he actually uses his fucking conditioner. Bucky’s eyes. Bucky when he’s sleepy and his Brooklyn accent slips. Cotton Candy ice cream.” Spiderman looks up at you with a nod. “Oh, that stuff is really good, there’s a place in Queens that makes it, and it tastes like- well, cotton candy-“ 

“That’s nice.” You mumble. “Can you please- just- I already know what the list says-“

“Right, of course, sorry.” Spiderman pauses, bouncing slightly on his feet. “It’s a nice list though.”

You sigh. “I know. That was the point.”

“To make a nice list?”

“Yep.”

Spiderman sounds like he’s frowning. “That’s- uh- Why? I mean, you don’t have to tell-“

“It was for Bucky’s therapy. He had to make a list of all the good things in his life, so Sam and I did it with him.” 

You didn’t want to tell Spiderman that. He’d even been about to say you didn’t have to, but you did. He asked, and if you don’t say the truth, it feels as if all the oxygen will burn up in your lungs. 

That can’t be good.

“Hey, kid?” He sounds like a kid. And if he’s not, he doesn’t correct you. He only nods and takes a step closer, waiting for you to continue. “Do you know what I gassed myself with.”

“Um.” Spiderman swallows. “No? But I have a guess-“

“Is your guess truth gas? Because my guess is truth gas.”

“Yeah, it is. I mean, that’s my guess too. You’ve, uh, you’ve been really honest. Not that you’re not an honest person, I don’t know you, but I’ve asked a lot of personal questions-“

You give him a flat look. “You could stop doing that, you know.”

“Uh- Yeah. Sorry. I will.” Spiderman glances over his shoulder, then back to your list. “He’s gonna be looking for you, right? Mr. Barnes?”

“Probably.” You mumble, and Spiderman’s eyes widen.

“Are you guys, like, together-“

“No, we’re not.”

“Oh.” Spiderman gives you what’s likely meant to be an apologetic expression, “Sorry, that was another personal question. But, uh, if you’re not together, why-“

“We’re friends. And he was-“ You let out a breath through your teeth, and maybe you should just ask Spiderman to put tape over your mouth before this gets worse. “Not happy I was in the lab. And he has to protect me. He promised Steve.”

“You knew Captain Rogers? That’s so-“

“We were fuckbuddies.”

Spiderman’s eyes widen again. “Oh. Good- Good for you.”

He gives you a weak thumbs up, and you manage to pull your arms over your body into a tight hug.

“Do you, uh- Do you want me to call Mr. Barnes for you-“

“Yes, please.”

You list off Bucky’s number, and when he picks up in only seconds, you think you can hear him shouting at Spiderman through the phone. 

If you were lucky, you’d convince Spiderman to knock you out again. To eliminate the truth serum problem by force, and make it so you don’t have to look Bucky in the eyes when he arrives. But you suggest it, get shot down, and don’t push it further.

And when Bucky bursts into the warehouse—Sam right on his heels and looking far too amused for the situation—you really wish you’d fought harder. Fought at all. 

You can’t do this. You can’t listen to Bucky snap at Spiderman for being an idiot and kidnapping you, and watch Sam’s eyes light up when Spiderman explains the whole truth gas thing. 

“So anything we ask her, she’s gonna have to tell us the truth?”

Bucky’s jaw twitches as he glances at you. “Truth gas isn’t real. It’s just the aftereffects being knocked out-“

“It’s real, Mr. Barnes-“

“Only one way to find out.” Sam cuts off Spiderman with a wide grin, saying your name in a mockingly casual tone. “What was the best thing you and Cap ever did in bed?”

“Sam-“

Bucky looks like he’s going to throw Sam into the wall, but he’s too late. 

“Face-sitting.” When this is over, you’re going to shoot Sam yourself. “I liked the beard a lot.”

Sam’s grin looks like it’s going to start glowing. “Damn, good for you girl. You know, if you like beards-“

“Sam.” Bucky’s voice has dropped to almost a growl, and he’s not looking at you anymore. “Go start the car.”

There’s a long moment where they seem to be having a silent conversation—Sam wearing a shit eating grin and jerking his head in your direction, Bucky looking like he’s one brief moment away from strangling Sam with his bare hands—but before you can figure out what’s happening, Spiderman’s tapping on your shoulder.

You manage to angle your head to frown at him, and he’s holding your gaze in the silence, pointing to your list in his hands, then Bucky.

“Does he know you-“

“No.” You cut off the kid’s whisper before he can finish the sentence, because Bucky will fucking hear him. “Don’t say it.”

“Don’t-“ Spiderman pauses, then nods frantically. “Oh, yeah, sorry- Just- This is yours.”

He shoves the list back into your jacket, right as Sam walks outside with a dramatic sigh, and Bucky turns back to you, his expression unreadable.

“You weren’t supposed to go in alone.” He grunts, and you swallow.

“I know.” You give him a small, nervous smile. “Sorry.”

“I- No, you’re not.”

“I am.” You insist, somehow managing to lean forward as he approaches, and something strange flashes over Bucky’s eyes. “I can’t lie, Buck, I really am sorry, I- I didn’t want to freak you out, I promise-“

Bucky shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “Alright. I got you. Hold on.”

You blink at him. “Hold-“

Bucky hauls you over his shoulder without another warning, and you can barely hear Spiderman’s shouted goodbyes and last apologies over the drum of your heart. 

“Bucky-“

“Not now.” He grunts, squeezing your thigh with a hand, and that’s not fair. Your body goes molten from it, and he doesn’t know that, and if he asks why you’re suddenly breathing so heavy you’ll have to tell him that you can feel an ache in your core, it’s all his fault.

Bucky doesn’t seem all that interested in talking, though. There are no lectures about being insane and getting yourself drugged. No snaps or grumbles about not telling him where you were going.

He won’t even look you in the eyes, and it’s a million times worse. He just sets you flat on your back in the car and moves to the passenger’s seat, and Sam’s sympathetic look only makes you taste more bile.

Maybe this was a straw on something you hadn’t thought could break, and he’s going to tell you that you’re done. That if you can’t listen, you’re not allowed in the field anymore, and that’s not his fucking call to make but you know Sam won’t stand against him. You work with Bucky the most, and if he says he doesn’t want you anymore, you’re out.

He’ll still be your friend, but you’ll see him less. No more long train rides or later nights in hotels where you can watch him sleep like a fucking creep, imagining he’s holding you to his chest instead of a pillow. And without you there he’ll meet someone, and she’ll become his world, and you’ll be left with this glass over your heart that only becomes stained with color when Bucky looks at you. You’ll be stranded again, and Bucky will be guiding someone else home, and that grave you’ve dug for yourself will bloom a million times until you’re buried under it, and Bucky never removes the dirt from your lungs.

“So.” Sam breaks the silence, and maybe if you bite off your tongue you can save yourself from what’s coming. “Truth gas, huh?”

“Yeah.” You mumble, feeling the flush heat your face, and Sam hums.

“How’s it feel?”

You pause, but only to find the right word. “Fuzzy. Like- Drunk, but paralyzed and also kind of high.”

“Damn, that sounds nice-“

“It’s not.”

“Sam.” Bucky mutters, and you wish you could see him. If his arms are crossed, if he’s scowling, if he looks revolted by the sight of you. “I’ll crash the fucking car.”

“No, you won’t. Hey,” Sam drawls your name, and you can hear his grin. “You remember Singapore?”

“Yeah, I remember the country-“

“You remember the mission we did there, during the Avenger’s break-up era?”

You swallow. “Yes.”

“You remember how you and Cap vanished for like, an hour?”

“Sam.” You let out a long breath, and try your fucking hardest to dodge this. “You know I do-“

“What did you guys get up to?”

“Sam.” Bucky growls, but it’s—again—too late.

“I made him get food with me.”

“See, Buck,” Sam says, and you can see him gesturing in your periphery. “It’s not that bad-“

You cut him off, and you can’t stop yourself. “Then we had sex. I gave him a blowjob.”

There’s a long heavy silence, and you think they’re doing the silent conversation again. You can feel your every nerve, alight in your body, and if Bucky doesn’t kick you out you might just run away anyways. He can’t want to hear about it. Steve was like his brother, you’re talking about how you used to fuck his brother, and edging dangerously close to a worse conversation where Bucky tells Sam to shut up, and you agree, and when Sam asks why you’re siding with Bucky, you say it’s because you love him-

Sam says your name again, and whatever silent threats Bucky had given him didn’t seem to be sticking. “What would you do if Steve came back?”

“Nothing.”

That’s an easy one. Sam’s asked you that a million times before, and he seems to be convinced that whenever you say nothing, it’s a lie. That you’ve been hiding how you’d break down in tears and throw yourself into his arms, declaring that your love is undying when it’s never even existed at all, sobbing until Steve forgives you for not asking him to stay.

You’re pretty sure that Sam thinks that, if you’d asked Steve to stay, he would’ve. And you don’t really care either way, because he hadn’t stayed. He’d made his choice, and it had maybe left you hollow for a few months, but now you know that what had been a small bullet wound with Steve was really nothing at all.

It would be a gash through a vital organ, if it had been love. It would’ve been your spine out of your body and your brain leaking out of your mouth, your skin flayed by the loss.

Because Steve had only been a compass. You could make another one, or find another one, and it only guided you north. If he came back, you’d only offer him a hug and a smile, because he’d still be your friend but there was nothing more to do.

Not when your heart wasn’t screeching for him. Not when you had a home, and a way back to it that you might be about to lose, and why isn’t Bucky saying anything-

“Why’s that?” Sam drawls your name, and something twists in your gut. He sounds too casual, as if he’d expected that answer. “Thought you were Steve’s girl-“

“We had sex, Sam, we weren’t soulmates-“

The fuckface doesn’t drop. You hope Bucky stabs him. “But you loved him, right?”

“I never loved Steve, he was just-“ You’re going to fuck vomit. “He was my friend, and the sex was good, really good, but it wasn’t love.” 

There’s another silence, and maybe if you do vomit, you’ll choke on it and pass out. 

“Told you, Buck.” Sam mutters, and you frown into the air.

“What did you tell him-“

Sam cuts you off with a chuckle. “Tell ‘er, man, what have you got to lose-“

“Sam.” Bucky grunts, and you can hear his glower. “If you don’t drop it, now-“

“Jesus, hold onto your ass. Here, how about-“

“I’m fucking serious-“

“So am I.” Sam cuts off Bucky’s hiss, humming your name like nothing is wrong in the world at all. “How do you know you didn’t love Steve?”

“It wasn’t what love feels like.” You mumble, and maybe you can talk around this. Answer the questions truthfully, without saying the thing.

“Interesting. And what does love feel like?”

“Good.” 

“What’s good.”

“Love.”

You swear you could hear Bucky snort, or at least cough. 

“Alright, smartass.” Sam mutters, and you can hear him tapping on the wheel. “You ever been in love?”

Fuck. “Yes.”

“How many times?” 

“Once.” You’re going to throttle him. Drown him. Take Bucky up on that crash the car thing, because Bucky will be fine, but maybe you and Sam will die and then you can fucking murder his ghost-

“Anyone we know?” Sam’s voice is far too casual. He knows. You don’t know how, but the shithead knows.

“Yeah.”

“Really?” Sam chuckles to himself, and Bucky better punch him now, before it’s too late- 

“Yes.” You mutter, pressing on your eyelids until you can see little spiraling patterns. “Sam-“

“Who?”

You try to swallow it. You really fucking try to choke on it, to just let it kill you, to bury yourself before this can ruin everything, and Bucky won’t even be your friend anymore-

But you have no powers. No extraordinary will or resolve or healing factor, to flush the gas out of your system at will or bite down that immovable fact. 

It’s more than truth. It’s a tenant, a law, something as simple as cold air will sink and time will keep moving. 

You will. You just will. You’ll always fucking do it, and there’s no world ending disaster to save your from say that you simply do and have and will love-

“Bucky.” 

You think it’s a mercy, how the gas is fogging over your brain. You hear something slam into something else, but the car keeps moving, and a tight silence hangs over the rest of the ride that you allow yourself not to feel. You just keep your eyes closed and pretend nothing happened at all, because you’ve broken it, and you’re done.

It has to be done. Bucky knows, and he said nothing in return. You don’t have to worry about it, because this is going to kill you, but you’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. Bucky isn’t saying anything, and even Sam has stopped talking, and you’re going to fucking wither and fall away into nothing but you’ll be fucking fine. Bucky doesn’t owe you anything. Just because you love him like the water loves the moon and bees love flowers and trees love birds doesn’t mean he has to give you anything in return. 

To him you’ve just been his friend, and loving Bucky might be clarity for you, but for him it’s probably strange. You’re Steve’s girl that got left behind. You’re the little shadow that he’d already been planning on surgically removing from his wake, and you loving him shouldn’t make that different. He’s not going to just love you because you love him. If anything he might think you’re trying to twist his will, make him feel guilty for planning to push you away, force him to let you cling to him a little while longer out of obligation.

The same obligation that has him carrying you inside, when you finally park the car.

He must think you’re asleep. Must not want to wake you and force that conversation, with how he’s holding you in your arms like you’re a damsel or princess, and not just another piece of luggage.

You’re greedy. You won’t pretend to wake up, because you’re greedy, and you want this for just one more second. To let your face press into Bucky’s chest, to smell the coffee on his shirt, and amber of that old cologne he wears when he thinks he doesn’t have mission to do.

You’d ruined that. You’d made him grab you from a warehouse, made him carry you inside, and you don’t know why he’s setting you on your bed with such care when you fucked everything-

This isn’t your bed, it smells like that cologne, and a piney shampoo, and the blankets are thinner than yours.

“I know you’re awake.” Bucky’s voice is low, from somewhere across the room, and you really wish you could sit up. “I’m goin’ out with Sam to check out the lab, make sure nothing else got fucked on your trip. I-“ He pauses, and you can hear a slightly shuffling before he speaks again. “Don’t move. Please. I’ll be back.”

You couldn’t move if you wanted to. The gas is still running through your system, and when the door closes behind Bucky, exhaustion slams into your chest. 

It’s not sleep exhaustion. It’s drifting in and out consciousness, the light of the room seeming to shift as you roll around Bucky’s bed—this has to be Bucky’s bed, and you don’t really want to think about that too hard right now—ending up with your face buried in his pillow. You think you can, at some point, hear people moving around near you, but it’s nothing. The world, right now, is just you, in Bucky’s bed, breathing an imprint of him in as your limbs start to grow heavy, and motion returns to your body.

But you stay in Bucky’s bed. You don’t have the strength to move. Physically, at first, but then that’s just an excuse.

You don’t want to move. You won’t fight to convince Bucky to let you stay, but you also won’t fight to set yourself free before he kicks you to the curb. 

So you just wait. And you’re tired enough that you don’t hear him come in.

You yelp as a big, cool hand presses to your brow, and your eyes shoot open to find Bucky already watching you.

“Lab is fine.” He mutters. “And Sam’s out. He’s walkin’ it off.” 

You don’t respond, and Bucky’s throat bobs slightly.

“I didn’t beat him not. Not go for recovery and shit, but I did yell at him a lot. And he’s sorry. He’ll be bringin’ you cake later, to show it.”

Another beat of silence, and Bucky won’t stop looking at you.

“Ice cream cake.” He grunts. “You had a fever, for a minute. Think the cold will help.” He switches hands, frowning as he scans over your face. “You feelin’ better?”

You let out a long breath, and you can’t do this. You can ride it out, but you can’t do it.

Bucky grunts your name when you don’t answer, his brow furrowing slightly. “I need you to tell me you’re feelin’ better.”

You just blink at him, and give a tiny, weak nod. 

“Are you gonna talk to me?” His voice sounds strained, and you can’t fucking do this- “I- You don’t need to explain, I just want you to stop ignoring me-“

“You were ignoring me first.” You mumble, and you sound like you’re whining. This is horrible, and if Bucky wasn’t going to toss you away before, he will now. “You wouldn’t look at me.”

Bucky’s jaw ticks. “I’m looking at you now, doll.”

“Bucky-“

“Is the truth gas gone?:

You blink at him. “I- Maybe, yeah-“

“Tell me a lie, then.” His tone is urgent, and maybe the gas isn’t gone. Maybe you just finally fell into full sleep, and this is a dream. 

“Um…” You blink at him, your voice barely a rasp. “I can’t think of anything.”

“Shit, how about- Who ate my dumplings?”

“Sam.” You whisper, and Bucky frowns.

“He said you did it, so that’s a lie-“

That manages to pull a weak smile out of you. “And you trust him?”

“I-“ Bucky runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. “You’re right. What about this. What color are my sheets?”

You frown. “You can see them, Buck, they’re blue-“

“I know, you just gotta lie. Say they’re pink.”

“They’re pink?”

“Thank fuck.” Bucky lets out a long breath, watching you carefully as he continues. “No interrupting me until I’m done, got it?”

“Bucky-“

“Got it?”

His tone isn’t harsh, but it’s sharp. Almost desperate. 

You can’t fight.

All you can do is nod, and whisper, “Okay.”

“Good.” He braces his shoulders, the same movement as when he’s prepping for a fight, his eyes never leave yours as he speaks. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I thought- Shit, I was sure I’d fuck something up. Ask why you snuck off on that mission, and you’d say because you didn’t trust me to do it, then I’d ask why, and you’d- goddamn it-“ He cuts himself off with a groan, his word almost pushed through his teeth. “I didn’t want to hear it, doll. I didn’t want you to tell me what I knew, cause then it would be real, and I’d have to live with that. You’re, I never even hoped for it, cause that’s just not how this is supposed to work, and he might have left but he’d have to come back- I woulda always come back for you, wouldn’t have left you in the first place but the kid’s always been a punk, might’ve taken him a second- But you- Wait-“

Bucky reaches into his pocket, and you shouldn’t have agreed not to interrupt him. You’re only half-following what he’s saying, and he’s pulling out your fucking list, and maybe if you can’t fight it’s time to run-

Before you can move, Bucky’s hand lands on your thigh, holding you in place as he scans over the list. Like he’d been ready for you to go. 

Gripping you so tight, he might not want you to leave.

“I don’t think my accent slips that much.” He says, and you swallow. “And I try to use the conditioner, but sometimes I’m in rush.”

You swallow. “Bucky-“

“And that vase is shit.” He puts down the list, looking back to you with a heavy caution in his eyes. “I only made it cause Sam threatened to hide my arm, if I didn’t do that stupid fucking pottery class with him. Not nearly as good as that sunset painting you got in your room.”

“I-“ You take a heavy breath, forcing the words out, slow and neutral. “It’s a nice painting.”

“Sam mentioned Steve made it for you.”

“He did.” You mumble. “During the Blip.”

“But you don’t love it.”

You shake your head, and Bucky’s eyes narrow.

“Really is a horrible vase.”

You only shrug.

“Shit-“ Bucky sighs, glancing to his nightstand. “Can I show you something?”

You nod—words are really too much, too dangerous—and Bucky opens the side drawer, pulling out his own crumpled paper, almost identical to yours, and places it in your hands.

He doesn’t have to tell you to read it. Your eyes are scanning over the paper before you can stop them, and you’re not going to choke on vomit or spit or words.

You’re going to choke on your heart, right in your throat and trying to find a way out of your body. Maybe to blind you, before you can see too much and this all becomes hopelessly reality.

You’d tried not to think about what Bucky’s good things list contained. If you made even a single appearance. It always hurt too much, because what if you didn’t. What if he was apathetic of your presence—not hate, you would know if Bucky hated you—and you’d have strangle your own love a little further, bury it even deeper, wander after him a little more aimlessly, because what was home for you wasn’t anything for him-

“Sam tried to steal this, before I gave it to my shrink.” Bucky mutters. “He’s been trying to convince me to stop making assumptions about you and Steve for months, and his methods started to get out of line few weeks back. This,” Bucky taps the paper, still clenched in your hands. “Was his idea, not the doctors. He’s gonna be so fuckin’ annoying now, swear to god if he hired the spiderkid I’ll rip off his wings and toss him off the roof-“

“Bucky.” You whisper, and you’re worried you’re going to tear the already worn paper. “Do you mean this?”

He nods before the last word is even fully out of your mouth. “Never meant anythin’ more. Didn’t think you’d ever even see it. Or read it.”

You can tell that. His handwriting is rushed, and scratchy, and the words are almost illegible. The header says Good Things - JBB, in big letters, and everything else you have to squint to read.

Bucky likes Sam, but there’s an added note of sometimes in the margins. He likes YouTube, and that has a note as well, explaining there are a bunch of videos about how to upkeep his bike and fuck with the stereo of Sam’s car so it only connects to your phone.

All his items have little notes added on. Bucky likes the flowers in the park, because they make you smile when he puts them in the vase he made you. He likes peppermint ice cream because you always steal some of it, and then give him some of yours. He likes eggs because you make them for him, and the piano because you play it, and Russian because you can read it now, and sometimes you’ll pass notes like teenagers just to piss Sam off, and that makes him laugh. 

And Bucky likes you.

That one is underlined five times, and crossed out, and moved to very bottom of the page with a different header.

Best Things - JBB.

You look up at him with wide eyes, and he looks guarded. Worried.

“You need to say it first.” He mutters, scanning over you carefully. “Because you want to say it. You need to- Shit,” Bucky sits a little taller, his voice hoarse as he says your name. ”You need to want this.”

You can hear the missing word. 

Bucky.

You have to want Bucky.

And you’ve never fought for anything in your life. You’ve been like a chemical, reacting in a chain without any desire or thought to build yourself into anything more. It’s never mattered what you’ve wanted before, not with anyone. Steve finds you, then leaves you, then Sam finds you, then Bucky finds you, and you burst and bounce off of all of them without a thought because that’s what you do. 

You don’t fight for things. 

But you’d never been in love before either, and it’s moving you faster and with more fire than the truth gas had. You love Bucky, so this isn’t blood spilt in his name or a bullet bruising your organs to protect him. No plans or strategies or broken bones, because this isn’t something that can be broken. You dropped it but it’s still fully intact and filled with something better than you’ve ever had before, so you do more than fight for it. 

You’ll spit and bite and snarl to keep it in your hands. You’ll build something out of roses around it until nothing can take it, and then you’ll still defend it with everything you have, because to you it will still be clear and delicate and more resilient than the ocean.

And when you finally speak, there’s something strong to your voice that hadn’t been there before, because you want Bucky to hear it. To never doubt that, at the end of the day, you want him.

It’s clear. And the words flow out of you even easier than when you’d had no choice.

“I love you.” You push up onto your knees until you’re barely a breath away, your body still only steadied by his hand on your thigh. “You. James Barnes. Nobody else. Ever.”

“That’s good.” He mutters, his free hand reaching to cup your face. “Shit, that’s- Are you-“

“I’m sure,” you offer him a small smile. “Don’t ask stupid questions, Bucky.”

His lips twitch slightly, and you’ve never seen his eyes so dark. You can fucking feel it. Across your skin and in your gut, right into your vein and more electric than a storm. If you bother to think back, he’s looked at you like this countless times, but it’s as if one last veil has been lifted, and it’s really written all over his face before he can say it.

“I love you, too.” Bucky says your name in a soft voice than you’ve ever heard, his hand squeezing on your thigh, and you’re gone. Flying and falling and growing into him, up to him, over him.

You’re almost fully pressed over him.

He doesn’t seem to mind at all. 

“I’m going to kiss you now.” He pauses, raising his brows like he’s expecting you to flinch away.

You can’t have that.

Your hands fist in his shirt in half a second, and you yank him down into until you’re certain he feels it the same way you do. That this going to be immovable. You’ll mold into Bucky and climb on to his lap and open your mouth when he groans and presses his tongue on your lower lip, but that will only ever be for him. Your love for him will only ever fucking build, until it’s bursting through the atmosphere and coating everything, and you’re never lost again. 

The kiss deepens from long and slow to almost frantic. You can taste whatever fruit and coffee he’d been having while you were knocked out, and you can feel his every muscle ripping when he pulls you tighter to his chest, and you need him. More. All of it. You can bite at his lips and moan at his tongue down your throat, half claw your way up his body and grind down onto his leg, but you need more-

Bucky grunts your name, pulling back with his hands planted on your hips, and at some point you’d managed to straddle his thigh. 

He’s not letting you move, as he scans over your open, flushed features, and you can’t stop the whine that leave your lips.

“Jesus, baby-“

You let out another weak sound as the ache between your legs becomes painful, and drop your brow to his. “Fuck- Bucky, you can’t just say that-“

He frowns at you, brow furrowing slightly. “What are you- you mean baby?”

“God-“ You whack his arm, trying to roll your hips against him, but you barely even manage to squirm. “You’re such an asshole-“

“Yeah, ‘m sorry, ba- pretty girl.” He’s trying to help you, but pretty girl is worse, and you start to kiss over his jaw just have something. 

Biting and nipping along the line of his scruff, moving your hands under his shirt to trace over his stomach, and abdomen, and-

“Shit-“ Bucky knocks your hand away with a grunt, the metal hand starting to rub firm circles on your waist. “I’m tryin’ to be a gentleman, doll, get you on a date first-“

“Date later.” You mutter, moving one hand back up to tug at his hair. “Want this, Bucky, I- I’ve been- Fuck-“ You yank at his hair again as Bucky growls, attaching his lips to your neck and sucking, wet a long line over your collar bone as he starts to guide your hips back along his thigh. “God, that feels so good-“

“I know, baby.” He smirks against your skin when you moan, and you bury your face in his shoulder. “But we’re goin’ on that date later, alright?”

“Yeah, yes please, just-” you nod desperately, tugging at Bucky’s shirt. “Off, please-“

He leans back for a second, pulling his own shirt over his head before ripping yours off, diving his head to kiss along the line of your breasts and he holds you steady on his thigh. 

You’re going to fly out of your skin. Somewhere in the dizzying, building high of Bucky’s mouth anywhere he can get it, and your arms wrapped around his neck as you grind onto his thigh, he lifts you up for half a second and rips your jeans off, right before guiding you right back to where he’s decided you belong.

Riding his thigh with your cunt forming a dark spot on his jeans, your moans muffled in his chest or swallowed by long, heavy and bruising kisses.

And you’re close. You’re so close, and you can feel his cock straining right where your clit keeps bumping, and he’s started to lick and bite at nipples, and god, he’s so fucking good-

“Think you can cum like this, baby?” Bucky’s words vibrate through your whole body, and you moan against his lips. “I can help you, if you need a little more, all you have to do-“

“Please.” You whisper, squirming in his hold as he starts to kneed at your skin. “Fuck, Bucky, please, more-“

He silences you with another rough, almost branding kiss—as if he’s trying to push himself into your body, when he’s already been there for what may be forever—and grabs your leg, swinging it over until you’re fully sat on his lap, your bare pussy exposed to the air.

Bucky pushes a finger into your cunt without warning, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing harsh, firm circles until your gasping into his open mouth and yanking at his hair, every other strangled sound just another plea for more.

He gives it. Two fingers, pumping in and out of you, and it feels so good, you’re going to light on fire and burn because his thumb is just pressing down on your clit as his fingers crook at rub on the sensitive point inside of you, and he’s so fucking good-

Something white-hot and tight snaps in your core, your pussy starts to spasm and make wet sounds you’d never heard before, and you cum on Bucky’s hand with a high, relieved gasp of his name in his ear, yanking on his hair one last time. Bucky’s groan rolls through your whole body until a small, softer orgasm leaves you shaking in his arms, and when you pulls back, he’s watch you with an open, reverent expression.

Bucky pulls his hand out of your still quivering pussy, his gaze fixed on the wet mess you left all over his fingers, and you almost apologize before you see the expression on his face.

It’s hunger. And when his eyes drop only slightly to his own pants, you can see a large, wet stain around his crotch.

You swallow, looking back up to meet Bucky’s stare, and somehow the love on his face is clearer than before. Almost ardorous, and he’s licking his fingers clean without breaking your stare, and fuck, he’s already pressing right into your inner thigh again-

“You came in your pants.” You whisper, and Bucky shrugs.

“You squirted.” He glances down to his hand, then your parted lips, and his eyes flash slightly. “Can you open for me, babydoll?”

That one’s dangerous. You might do anything Bucky asks, if says it in that low, devout voice and calls you babydoll.

He groans as you obey, wrapping your lips around those same fingers that had been inside of you and sucking, moaning and licking around him, trying to show him what you’ll do for him if he lets you fall to your knees for him, touch him, taste him instead of your own release-

“God, you’re perfect.” Bucky mutters under his breath, and you start to grind down onto his already hard dick, steadying yourself with your fingers dug into his chest. “You want- Shit- I think you want more-”

You cut him off with a moan and a nod, and that’s all it takes. 

It’s almost impossible, how fast Bucky has you tossed backwards on this bed, towering over your naked body for only half a second as he rips his own jeans off, right before falling forward and kissing you until you’re dizzy and melted into the mattress, scraping at his back for more because you can feel his cock, free and big and pressed right onto your stomach-

Bucky rises up with wide eyes, his attention flicking to the nightstand. “I- Uh- Wasn’t expectin’ to do this anything soon-“

“Are you clean?” You trace your hand over Bucky’s jawline until his eyes fall back to yours. “Because I’m on the pill, and the last guy was a virgin.”

Bucky blinks at you for a second, then snorts, dropping his brow to yours. 

“You think you’re funny, doll.” He mutters, kissing slowly along your neck. “But I’m clean, and if you’re sayin’ what I think you are, you’re gonna be feeling me in that sweet pussy for a month.”

You swallow, a smooth shiver moving up your spine. “Promise?”

“Fuck- Are you-“

“Stop asking if I’m sure, Bucky-“

You cut yourself off with a squeak as Bucky slams his cock into you, and your back arches off the bed.

He must have somehow grown from seconds before, because fuck, he’s big. Splitting you open and filling you up until you’re already seeing faint stars, big. Driving you out of your mind just by sitting inside of you without friction, and that thought enters your head and now all you can think about is Bucky moving-

“I’ve got you, baby.” He mutters in your ear, and you must have said that aloud, because he starts to fuck you.

Really, properly fuck you until you can’t really tell where Bucky’s stopping and you’re beginning. Pounding into your cunt, with his skin slapping against yours and a big, rough, warm hand pulling and flicking at your nipples as his mouth attacks your skin, and fuck-

“Bucky-“ You gasp, your words morphing into a whine as he slams into that already raw, abused spot inside of you. “Fuck- I-“

“I know, baby,” He kisses over your face, never breaking pace as he soothes you. “Think you can come again, pretty girl? Gimme once more, before I fill your- Shit- Fill you up like you-“

Bucky groans your name as you squeeze around him, and any deceptively soft words turn in animalistic glowers as he drills into you. 

You’re not sure when you cum. If it’s when Bucky starts to repeat that he loves you, over and over in your ear, his movements growing unmeasured and desperate as his cock stared to slam into your pelvis. It might have been when the metal hand found its way to pinching and rubbing your clit, or when Bucky angled your hips up and started to drill into you at an impossibly deep angle.

But you know that you don’t think you’ll ever fully come down from this high. That even as Bucky paints your cunt white with his own release and a roar of you name, you’re still floating, and everything is just a blur of salt and blue and pine and Bucky and good. He’s leaking down your thighs, but remaining buried inside of you as you both take long, ragged breaths, and he’s good. Warm and sprawled over you, strong and caging you in his arms like you’re a work of art or diamond, all yours and good.

“You promised me a date,” you mumble in his ear, and he chuckled, turning his head to kiss your cheek.

“I did, didn’t I. You think Sam’ll notice if we got out tomorrow night?”

You roll your eyes. “I think Sam is lucky he’s not getting poisoned after that shit.”

“You want me to poison him, doll, just say the word-“

“No-“

“How about head trauma. I can give him head trauma-“

You giggle, running your fingers through Bucky’s hair until you swear you can hear him fucking purring. “Don’t give Sam head trauma. It would make you sad.”

“Shut up.” Bucky grumbles, squeezing you a little tighter. “You never said yes to dinner.”

“Dinner sounds perfect.” You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and there’s the ardor again. 

You’ve never felt anyone’s pure attention do that to you before him. Make everything in you soft and feral all at once, because it will only make you bloom but you’re certain now that you’d rip the fabric of time and space apart to keep it. 

“I love you.” You whisper, and Bucky’s grin splits his face.

Those grins are rare. Teeth and joy and light and all Bucky, more priceless every rare metal and magic in the world.

But they’ve never been rare for you. He’s almost always offered them to you like they were nothing, and if loving Bucky was clarity, admitting it is omnipresence. 

You’re everything, and everywhere, and you love him, and you don’t know how you’d never seen that he loves you back. It’s been written in crude but deep words, everywhere you could ever look.

“I love you, too.” Bucky brushes a little hair out of your face, his eyes almost sparklingly like stars on yours. “Think it’s okay if I show you, a lot, for a long time?”

Your smile hurts your cheeks, and you think the light in your body could outshine the sun.

“Yeah, it’s- please.” You lean up to press your lips to Bucky’s in a soft, slow kiss. “Please do that.”

He smirks, nodding as he tangles his hand in your hair. 

“Whatever my girl wants, I’ll get her.”

“Good.” You whisper. “Cause I’m yours.”

And this is it.

You’re home.

End Note: Sam Wilson and his silly fuckeries. Biggest little brother energy in the world.

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The first two are self-explanatory, but the third is a wild card you never expected. He came home with it at the start of the summer and never looked back, carefully tending to it night and day with an intense devotion that had you feeling more than a little jealous. Hours went into polishing the chrome details and treating the leather seats. He drove it as if he was transporting the Ark of the Covenant. Sometimes you’d even catch him in the garage, just admiring it in quiet awe before bed.

You didn’t even know Bucky was into vintage cars, having just suffered through his year-long crazed motorcycle phase, but there’s no disputing it now. He acts like the cherry-red convertible is his first born child.

So it’s no surprise to you when Bucky announces he’s going to give the car a wash on a particularly steamy July day. You’re fanning yourself with a magazine while sitting next to the open window, hoping for an improbable breeze to cool your flushed skin. Bucky, with his super serum regulatory system, looks frustratingly comfortable for the number on the thermometer, although he’s swapped his usual dark t-shirt and jeans for a white tank top and loose-fitting shorts. It’d make you stop and stare if you weren’t on the brink of a heat-induced psychosis.

“Most people stay out of the sun when it’s this hot,” you grumble, watching as he dons a pair of shades.

“I’m not most people,” he replies with a toothy grin.

“Don’t I know it,” you sigh, pressing a glass of ice water to your neck.

“Wanna help?”

You wave your hand at him. “No thanks. I prefer not to have heat stroke today. I’ll just be in here, enjoying the show.”

His smile grows smug. “Tips are always appreciated.”

“Better make it worth my while, then.”

He chuckles before stepping out into the burning heat of the summer afternoon. You watch from the window as he backs the convertible down the driveway until it’s directly in your line of sight. From the glance he throws your way, you know it was intentional. You’re not complaining.

Bucky gathers his supplies carefully, methodically laying them out in front of the car: bucket, rags, soap and sponges. The hose is last, and like the tease he is, he takes his sweet time uncoiling it much like a cowboy does with his lasso. The muscles in his shoulders ripple with every motion, his vibranium arm glinting in the sun, until the hose is laid out exactly how he wants it and he’s ready to begin. When he disappears around the corner to turn on the water, you realize your nose is almost pressed up against the glass. And is that drool you feel on your chin?

The worst part is that he isn’t even trying. And he’s only just started.

You wave the magazine faster.

When he returns, Bucky carefully soaks the trunk of the car with a gentle stream of water. Then he pours the soap into the bucket, bending over to mix until it’s overflowing with suds. It’s crazy that you can see every muscle in his back flex through his tank top, but again, you’re not complaining.

Bucky swipes the sponge over the wet car and begins cleaning it to perfection. He starts with the bumper, dark shades slipping down his nose, and works his way up until he’s leaning over the trunk. Once he’s satisfied that he got every inch, he pulls back, blessing you with the sight of a very wet and see-through shirt. The magazine slips from your grasp as you gaze upon his carved chest and sharp abdominals, the dark nipples poking through the fabric.

You’re out of your chair and opening the door before you realize that you’ve left the safety of the shaded living room.

Bucky looks up as soon as he hears your footsteps on the driveway, bubbles dripping down his hand. “Am I about to be tipped?”

You roll your eyes. “Nice try. I guess I’m…here to help.”

“Something change your mind?” he asks with a smirk, and you swear he flexes his abs.

“Oh, please. I only came out because I know the hose water’s cold and that’s better than melting inside.”

He gestures to it. “It’s all yours.”

You shoot him a look before picking up the hose and moving to the front of the car. The water trickles out onto the hood, and you eagerly stick your hand under it. The temperature is crisp against your skin; you swipe across the back of your neck, then your collarbone. The trails of water leave goosebumps in their wake as they drip past your neckline, but it’s the best you’ve felt since you woke up this morning to the sticky heat of another concerningly hot day. You add a handful to your face for good measure, then — blinking through the drips — your eyes find Bucky.

As predicted, he’s watching closely, with that familiar hungry undertone to his stare. With or without intention — you’re not sure yet — this has become a standoff, a game of who can wind up the other more.

Once upon a time you’d say it’d be crazy to be turned on from something as normal as washing a car, but with Bucky, you’ve learned that nothing’s off the table.

Sucking his teeth, your boyfriend turns back to his sponge, reverently cleaning the brake lights with unwavering focus. You fight down a smile and grab the other sponge.

The two of you quietly wash the car, the relentless sun baking your exposed skin. You’re regretting not putting on sunscreen, but settle for splashing your arms and legs every so often with the hose to help with the burn. From the corner of your eye, you can see Bucky turning away pointedly each time, shoulders tense, and it gives you an irrational sense of pride. Looks like you’re the one putting on the show now.

The more you buff the car, the more you begin to appreciate its cherry-red body, the luminescent sparkles hidden in its depths, the reflection of the metallic accents. It truly is a beautiful convertible, and you can’t help but feel oddly powerful every time you sit in the passenger seat when Bucky takes you for joy rides around town. There’s a possessive feeling in your chest as you make it shine, like for the first time you feel able to claim it as much as yours as it is Bucky’s by giving it the million-dollar treatment. You’re starting to understand his obsession.

Once the front is cleaned, you start down the side, carefully washing the fenders until they gleam. You must have gotten lost in the motions of it because you nearly jump from your crouched position when a shadow falls over you.

Bucky’s made his way up the same side until he’s met you in the middle. His sponge knocks into yours, spraying soap and bubbles over your arm and on your shirt. You grunt.

“You did that on purpose,” you mutter with a sideways look.

“No I didn’t, you’re in my way,” he mutters back, rubbing vigorously at an invisible spot. More suds fly off the sponge, coating your shorts this time.

“Bucky!”

“What?”

“You’re getting me wet!”

He grins, not taking his eyes off the place his sponge cleans. “Well, that’s nothing new.”

You grit your teeth, even though you can taste the truth of his words on your tongue, can feel the truth of his words beyond the soap and water. But you’re not losing this war.

Without thinking, you grab the hose off the ground next to you, flick the nozzle to ‘spray’ with your thumb, and point it at your boyfriend. And then you pull the trigger.

A jet of water hits him directly in the side, catching him by surprise and sending him straight onto his ass. You make sure to aim for his shorts, quickly drenching them until they stick to him like a second skin, and the wake of it soaks his shirt as an unplanned — yet happy — consequence. Bucky puts his metal hand up to stave off the water getting into his face.

“Hey, hey, hey!”

You let go of the trigger, your smile smug, and stand over him. There’s no denying that he looks positively humbled, the image of a drowned kitten with his big blue eyes blinking up at you in disbelief. You drop the hose and cross your arms in triumph.

“Now who’s wet?” you ask sweetly.

Bucky wipes off the excess water from his eyes. They flash at you in warning. “Oh, it’ll be you, doll.”

He springs up with super human speed, and you have only half a second to jump out of his grasp and scamper around to the other side of the car. “Bucky,” you warn, using the convertible as a barrier. “Don’t you dare.”

He stalks around the hood, forcing you to retreat to the trunk, a wickedness in his tight smirk. “You started it, baby, don’t back down now.”

You gulp, knowing you can’t run circles around this car forever; Bucky’s jumped greater lengths than the Mustang, after all. You take another step but almost trip on a rag left on the ground. Instinct takes over and you grab it blindly — it’s soaked and heavy in your hand before you launch it at him. It’s safe to say the both of you are wildly surprised when it hits its mark, landing directly in the middle of Bucky’s already wet chest with a loud smack.

His eyes burn into yours when it drops to the ground. “Now you’re really getting it.”

You shriek when he takes off, coming around the side of the car and scooping up the hose as he goes. The ice cold water hits your back and nearly knocks the breath out of you, but you keep running until you’ve swapped places around the car. The assault stops just in time to prevent any water from getting inside, and you take the opportunity to crouch out of sight against the front bumper, chest heaving.

“This isn’t a fair fight and you know it!” you call out. Bucky laughs in response.

“Fair? You’ve gotten most of the hits, sweetheart.”

“Put the hose down, Bucky — for the sake of the car.”

A pause as Bucky considers. “Nuh-uh. You just want me to put it down so you can have it.”

“Fuck,” you whisper, eyes squeezing shut. So much for that ploy.

Your ears strain for the sounds of Bucky moving, but all you can hear is the buzzing of summer bugs and that indescribable high-pitched whine that comes with intense heat. Despite the game, your heart thuds against your chest. You love Bucky more than anything, but you’d be the biggest idiot to ever forget that he was once the scariest ghost story told in the darkest corners of the world. His past is made up of secrecy, silence and impossible kill shots. You couldn’t think of a worse opponent to go up against.

Just then, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and you look over in time to see the nozzle of the hose stick out around the corner. You dive, the spray hitting your bare feet as you take cover on the other side of the car.

You hear Bucky laugh again. “Natasha would be impressed if she could see you right now.”

A breathless smile snakes across your face as you crawl towards the back of the convertible. “Maybe you’ve finally met your match, Barnes.”

He groans. “Don’t say that, it only makes me want you more.”

“If you drill me with that hose, that’ll be the only thing you’re drilling tonight.”

“That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.”

You dare to peek over the top of the car. Bucky seems to have taken inspiration from your stealth moves and is using the car as shelter. You glance under it to find his feet somewhere on the side, near the hood. Your eyes land on his forgotten sponge, sitting just within reach next to his half-filled bucket of soapy water. As quietly as you can, you grab the sponge and toss it over your head. You hear it hit the ground on the other side of the car from him, and what follows is the scrape of gravel as he slides over to investigate the sound. Your window of opportunity opens.

Moving on silent feet, you pick up the bucket, trying desperately not to let the water splash, and follow behind Bucky. You see him poke his head around the front of the car, and then you pounce.

The bucket is turned upside down over his head, drenching him from head to toe. He gasps and sputters, whipping around to see you dancing out of reach so not even the hose can get to you.

“I win!” you declare.

“Says who?!” he demands, standing up. The water runs off him in rivulets, a sudsy wet spot growing rapidly where he just sat.

“Says me — you’re completely soaked and I’m still dry,” you answer with a smile, hand on your hip.

He narrows his eyes at you before peeling his wet shirt off his body, letting it hit the ground without fanfare; he pushes his slick hair out of his eyes, and your mouth goes suddenly, yet predictably, dry. Bucky notices the way you’ve gone still and a slow smile works its way across his face.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

“No,” you say immediately.

“Come here, I wanna congratulate you on your win.”

“Bucky—“

“Baby, just one hug, that’s all I want.”

And then he’s taking off after you across the driveway, through the front yard and around the large oak tree. You squeal every time he comes close enough to swipe at your shirt. You know he could easily catch up to you, but Bucky’s always liked the chase.

“No, please—“ you beg, legs burning as you make a break for the front door.

But that’s when you feel two arms, one warm and one cold, snake around your waist. You’re lifted off the ground and spun around, tucked against a hard, wet chest that soaks through your tank top. Bucky buries his drenched face into your neck, pressing hot kisses there as his hold on you tightens. Your shrieks quickly melt into giggles as his large body folds over yours, his lips continuing to attack every inch of you that they can reach while your clothes begin to dampen against his skin.

“Gotcha,” he says in your ear. You smile, fighting weakly against him.

“Buckyyyy…”

“Now what did you say earlier? Something about drilling you?”

Your laughter carries across the yard. The sun beats down on the half-washed car. Bucky’s prized possession is momentarily forgotten as he carries you into the house, more than ready to remind you what his real prized possession is.

sammy speaks: hi! this was short and sweet and probably trash but I wanted to make sure I got it out there before July ended :) I have missed you all sm!!!! I’m so sorry that I haven’t gotten to the latest comments, reblogs and asks about at your back door, but I will get to them soon, I promise. and I have soooooo many fics by other incredible authors to catch up on too ugh!!!!!! summer is always so crazy for me and I may have underestimated how much free time I actually have to write, but I’m hoping to get something else out next week, so stay tuned!

The storm refused to leave.

It settled over the coast like an unwelcome guest, filling the sky with heavy gray clouds and turning daylight into a muted, washed-out version of itself. Rain drummed against the cottage roof morning and night, sometimes gentle enough to disappear into the background, sometimes loud enough to shake the windows. The weather report insisted it would move offshore tomorrow, tomorrow came and it stayed. By the fifth day, you'd stopped checking altogether.

Instead, you found yourself sitting on the porch each morning, wrapped in your mother's old knitted blanket, a mug of coffee cooling forgotten in your hands.

The repaired half of the railing remained sturdy, the unfinished section remained cordoned off by a pair of old sawhorses. An ugly reminder of last week, of words you couldn't take back. Rain blurred the horizon until the ocean and sky became one endless sheet of gray. Even through the weather, you watched the tide. It came in, and went out. Again, and again, and again. Your mother used to say that if you watched the tide long enough, you'd realize the ocean never really lost anything, it only borrowed it. Shells disappeared beneath the waves only to wash ashore somewhere else, driftwood floated away before returning months later, smoother than before, even footprints weren't erased forever. Just carried somewhere else, the looming promise of its return fizzing away in the foam caps.

You used to roll your eyes whenever she said things like that.

"You make everything sound like a life lesson."

She'd smiled over the rim of her coffee.

"That's because everything is one."

At fifteen, you'd thought she was unbearably sentimental. At twenty-eight, sitting alone on the porch she'd loved so much, you wished you'd listened more carefully.

The tide rolled away from shore, then returned. Give. Take. Give. Take.

Your thoughts had begun doing the same. Every quiet moment became another negotiation, another impossible bargain.

If I'd called more... The thought arrived before you could stop it. You'd called every Sunday and most Wednesdays. Sent pictures throughout the week, but maybe, maybe every Sunday hadn't been enough. Maybe she hadn't told you she was lonely because she didn't want you to worry. Maybe she spent evenings sitting in this very cottage wishing you'd come home.

If I'd visited more... You'd always meant to but work was busy. Projects piled up, clients demanded impossible deadlines. There would always be next month, next summer, you used to tell yourself. The holidays, there was always another visit waiting somewhere in the future.

Until suddenly there wasn't.

If I hadn't left... That one stayed the longest. You imagined impossible versions of your life, one where you'd never accepted the promotion, one where you'd stayed in town after college, one where you'd bought a little house down the road. You pictured stopping by after work and fixing things around the cottage, cooking dinner together, insisting she let you carry the groceries.

Would she have gone out that morning if you'd been here? Would you have driven instead? Would she still be alive?

Your rational mind answered immediately. You know that's not how this works, yet your grief ignored it completely. Instead, it continued rewriting history, searching desperately for the version where everyone lived. You found yourself replaying your final phone call with her, not the words but the spaces between them. Had she sounded tired? Had she paused longer than usual? Had she been trying to tell you something?

You couldn't remember and that frightened you most. You were already forgetting, not the important things, but the ordinary ones. The exact sound of her laugh. Whether she'd still said "goodnight, sweetheart" at the end of every phone call, whether she'd preferred daisies or sunflowers. You'd spent your entire life assuming there would always be time to ask again.

Time had quietly disagreed.

The cottage creaked behind you as a gust of wind rattled the windows, the lights flickered once, twice then steadied. You looked toward the ceiling instinctively. The storm wasn't showing any signs of slowing down and the weather radio had warned about possible outages all morning.

You sighed. One more errand.

You'd hoped to avoid town for another few days but apparently life had other plans.

An hour later you found yourself pulling into the hardware store parking lot beneath a sky the color of wet concrete. Rain tapped steadily against the windshield as you sat there for a moment watching droplets race one another down the glass. The store's fluorescent lights glowed warmly through the windows while people hurried inside carrying umbrellas. You pulled your hood over your head and stepped into the rain.

The automatic doors whooshed open and warm air smelling faintly of sawdust and fertilizer wrapped around you. You headed toward the lighting aisle, your list echoing through your head, flashlights, lanterns, extra batteries and a few oil lamps, just in case.

Your mother always kept oil lamps ready for hurricane season.

"Electricity's nice," she'd always said. "But candles and lanterns don't care about power lines."

The memory almost made you smile. Almost.

You reached for the last hurricane lantern on the shelf as another hand reached for it at exactly the same time. You closed your eyes before you even looked. Of course.

"You've got to be kidding me." You muttered.

Across from you, Bucky looked equally unimpressed. Rainwater dripped from the ends of his hair onto the shoulders of his jacket.

"Not my fault you keep showing up where I shop."

You let out a disbelieving huff.

"I'm fairly certain this shelf existed before either of us walked into this store."

He considered that.

"...Probably."

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth threatened to move. You caught it before it could. Thunder rolled across the coastline once more, echoing through the store. Though you couldn't see it, beneath buzzing fluorescent lights and the smell of fresh-cut lumber, the tide quietly shifted again.

For a second, neither of you reached for the lantern as rain drummed steadily against the roof overhead. Someone pushed a cart down the next aisle. The ordinary sounds of the hardware store settled around the silence neither of you seemed eager to break.

You shifted your weight.

"So..." you looked down at the lantern between your hands. "I should probably apologize."

He tilted his head slightly. "For what?"

You blinked. "The porch."

His expression stayed neutral.

"You know..." you gestured vaguely. "The part where I told you to get the hell out of my house like a crazy person."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Heat crept into your face despite the cool air humming from the store's vents. "I'm really sorry about that day."

The words came easier than you'd expected.

"My life is kind of..." You laughed softly, humorless. "...a mess right now."

You rubbed absentmindedly at the back of your neck. "And you didn't deserve any of that."

The admission hung awkwardly between you. "You probably think I'm some crazy unstable person."

Bucky's shoulders lifted in a small shrug. "I don't think you're crazy."

A breath escaped somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

"Well..." you looked toward the ceiling. "Maybe you should."

The corner of his mouth twitched, not enough to become a smile but enough that you noticed. The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, just, thoughtful. Outside, thunder rolled again closer now.

Then, quietly—

"It's not your fault."

You looked up. "...What?"

Bucky leand one shoulder against the shelf beside him. "Whatever's eating you alive inside."

His voice remained calm, matter-of-fact.

"It's not your fault."

You stared and your heart gave one strange, uncertain beat.

"...What?" The word came out much smaller this time, almost afraid. How did he—had someone told him? Had Mrs. Patterson said something? The diner? The grocery store? Was the entire town talking about you?

Your stomach twisted.

Bucky shook his head as though answering a question you hadn't asked.

"You have this look." He gestured vaguely toward your face, toward all of you.

"Every time you walk into a room..." he searched for the words. "...you brace yourself."

You frowned. "For what?"

"For what you think is going to happen."

His eyes stayed on yours.

"Then nothing does." Another pause. "And you still look devastated."

Your throat tightened. Nobody had ever described grief like that before. Not as sadness, not as crying. Bracing. As though every ordinary moment carried the possibility of another terrible phone call, another loss, another rug pulled out from beneath your feet.

You hadn't realized you were doing it.

Apparently everyone else had.

"...That obvious, huh?"

His answer came immediately. "Yeah."

You winced.

He looked away briefly. Then added, almost absentmindedly—"Well... I know that look pretty well."

Something about the way he said it stopped you from asking. There was no bitterness, no self-pity, just recognition. Like two strangers unexpectedly speaking the same language. Your eyes drifted, almost involuntarily, toward the sleeve covering his metal arm and you thought about the first day on your porch. The way he'd noticed you staring and the way he'd quietly let the moment pass.

Nobody ended up carrying that kind of history without learning something about loss.

"I'm sorry."

The words slipped out before you thought about them.

Bucky looked back at you. "You said that already."

The tease was gentle, light enough that you felt yourself smiling. A real one this time, small but real.

"Yeah well..." you glanced down at your shoes. "I mean it."

"I know."

Another silence settled between you. This one softer than the others.

The rain battered the windows harder, and the wind howled around the building.

You inhaled slowly, held the breath, then let it go.

"Can I..."

You stopped. God, this felt awkward.

"...Can we..." another deep breath. "...like..."

You laughed quietly at yourself. "Can we start over?"

Bucky looked at you for a long second, his face remained completely unreadable and your stomach sank. He's going to laugh. He's absolutely going to laugh. Instead, he shifted the lantern into his other hand, then held out his right.

"I'm Bucky."

You blinked. A surprised laugh escaped before you could stop it as you nodded your head. Your fingers slid into his hand, warm, solid and steady. The simple contact startled you more than it should have. You couldn't remember the last time someone had shaken your hand, the last time another person had reached for you without pity or obligation, without condolences waiting behind their eyes. Just... hello.

His palm was warm against yours, comfortingly so. You realized, with a strange ache in your chest, how long it had been since you'd touched another human being. You hadn't noticed the absence until the warmth returned.

You gave your name. "It's nice to meet you, Bucky."

His smile arrived slowly this time, small and almost shy.

"You too."

The handshake lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary as neither of you seemed in much of a hurry to let go. Eventually, you did, almost reluctantly.

"So..." he nodded toward the lantern in your cart. "Preparing for the apocalypse?"

"The power's been flickering."

He glanced toward the ceiling as another crack of thunder echoed overhead. "...Fair."

The lights buzzed once and flickered then recovered. Then the rain intensified all at once, not just rain anymore. Sheets of water slammed against the storefront windows hard enough to blur the parking lot into gray. Several people stopped what they were doing to look outside.

Someone muttered, "That's not good."

Bucky frowned toward the entrance. "My bike."

You followed his gaze to the motorcycle that sat completely exposed, already disappearing beneath the downpour.

"You can't ride in that."

"I've ridden in worse."

Lightning cracked somewhere uncomfortably close. Both of you instinctively looked toward the windows.

"...Maybe not today."

Without really thinking about it, you spoke. "I can give you a ride."

"You sure?" His eyes shifted back to you.

You nodded. "It's the least I can do."

He considered the offer, then smiled faintly.

"Then I accept."

Relief settled somewhere inside you.

"...But."

You should've known there'd be a but.

"I drive."

You frowned.

"What?"

He took your keys from your open palm before you could protest. "I don't need you backing into any more stationary objects."

You let out an offended laugh. "I hit one motorcycle."

"You hit one motorcycle that belonged to me."

You waved your hand. "Details."

"They're pretty important details."

Despite yourself, you found yourself laughing again. Quieter this time and without the sharp sting of guilt that had followed the first one. Not gone, just less immediate.

The drive began exactly as expected. Rain pounded the windshield as the wipers struggled to keep up. Roads disappeared beneath standing water.

You assumed he'd direct you toward town. Instead—

"Left here."

You frowned when he didn't take it.

"My cottage's the other way."

"I know."

Another turn. Another unfamiliar road.

"Bucky..."

"It beats sitting in that old cottage with no power waiting for the walls to blow down."

You looked out at the storm. The trees beginning to bend beneath the wind and the relentless rain. Part of you wanted to argue, to insist you could handle it, that you'd spent the past several weeks proving you didn't need anyone. But another part, a quieter part, was simply tired. Too tired to spend another night pretending isolation was the same thing as healing.

So, for once... you didn't argue.

You simply watched the rain race across the windshield as Bucky drove toward a place you hadn't expected to end up. And for reasons you couldn't yet explain, you didn't mind nearly as much as you thought you would. Bucky's house sat at the edge of town, tucked beneath a stand of old live oaks that leaned toward the shoreline as though they, too, had spent their lives listening to the ocean.

It wasn't large. Just a weathered one-story cottage with faded blue shutters and a wide front porch that had clearly been repaired more than once over the years.

Some porch chairs rocked gently beneath the covered awning despite the storm. The windows glowed warm against the gray afternoon. Home. The thought came uninvited. Not your home. Just someone's.

The engine quieted, rain continued drumming against the roof.

"You coming?"

You blinked, realizing you'd been staring.

"Right."

The dash from the truck to the porch lasted only a few seconds, still long enough to soak the hems of your jeans, for the cold rain to sting your cheeks.

Bucky unlocked the front door.

"Watch the rug."

"What?"

"It likes to slide."

Sure enough, your foot caught the edge. You stumbled and Bucky reached out instinctively, steadying your elbow before you could fall.

"See?"

"I wasn't going to fall."

"You absolutely were."

"I recovered."

"You were recovering and I caught you."

You rolled your eyes.

"I liked you better when we were strangers."

He laughed quietly as he disappeared into the kitchen.

"Liar."

The house smelled like cedar and coffee. Something simmered in a slow cooker somewhere, while fresh rain drifted in every time the wind rattled the windows. It wasn't immaculate. There were books stacked on side tables, a flannel thrown over the back of the couch, a toolbox sitting half-open near the fireplace. Evidence of someone actually living there, not performing the idea of home but just existing inside it.

You found yourself standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room unsure what to do with your hands. Unsure what the etiquette was for unexpectedly taking shelter in a near stranger's house.

"You drink tea?"

His voice carried from the kitchen.

"Usually coffee."

"I've got coffee."

You hesitated.

"...Coffee sounds nice."

"Good answer."

You heard cupboards opening, the clink of mugs, water beginning to boil. Normal sounds. Ordinary sounds. They settled something restless inside you. Your gaze wandered toward a bookshelf, to the photographs lined the top. Friends, family, people smiling beneath summer sunlight. You looked away before examining them too closely, it felt private.

The rain intensified again. Hard enough that conversation would've been impossible outdoors yet inside, everything felt wrapped in warmth. The mugs arrived a few minutes later, one was set carefully into your hands. The ceramic radiated heat through your chilled fingers, you hadn't realized how cold you'd become.

"Thanks."

"Mhm."

Bucky settled into the armchair opposite the couch. Not beside you, not close enough to crowd but present enough to feel normal. Steam curled lazily from your mug and you watched it disappear into the air.

One breath. Then another.

Neither of you spoke. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, it simply existed, like the storm, like the ocean. Eventually, your eyes settled on the rain streaking across the windows. You could feel your thoughts beginning to form and figured now was better than ever.

"I..." the word caught.

You tried again. "My, uh..."

Your fingers tightened around the mug. "A few months ago… my mom died."

Saying it aloud still felt impossible, like speaking another language. The room remained quiet around you two. Bucky didn't interrupt, didn't offer sympathy, didn't tell you how sorry he was. He simply listened.

"I tried to keep going." You laughed softly, without humor. "Back in the city."

Another pause.

"I went back to work."

The meetings, emails, presentations and business lunches. You remembered every single one feeling wrong. Like wearing someone else's clothes.

"It all felt...wrong. So," you looked down into your coffee. "I sold almost everything I owned and quit my job."

The sentence sounded absurd now that it was out loud, pulling another quiet humorless laugh from you.

"I packed three boxes," your throat tightened. "And I came back."

Back here. Back to the town you'd spent years convincing yourself you'd outgrown.

"I thought... I thought it would make things better."

The storm answered for you. Rain battered the windows, wind sighed through the trees and up against the door. Howling through the air

Your voice cracked. "I think I'm just unraveling."

Silence settled between the two of you. Not empty or echoing, just patient.

Bucky looked into his own mug for a long moment before speaking. "I lost someone."

You looked up.

"My..." he smiled faintly to himself. "My best friend."

His thumb traced absent circles against the ceramic.

"He was the closest thing I had to a brother. To family."

Something softened in his expression. Memory.

"I think..." he breathed slowly. "I think a part of me always knew it was coming."

The admission seemed difficult, like lifting something heavy.

"But it still hurt."

He looked toward the rain, his voice remained steady.

"I knew he deserved peace. I just didn't know how I was supposed to find mine without him."

The words settled somewhere deep inside your chest. Because that was it, that impossible contradiction. Wanting someone you loved to stop hurting, then not knowing how to continue once they had.

You looked down at your hands. "...Did you?"

He blinked. "What?"

"Find it."

His eyes looked out toward the window. Beyond it, the ocean churned beneath dark skies. The tide continued its endless rhythm despite the storm. Coming in. Going out. Taking. Giving.

A small smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

"Yeah." He leaned back in the chair. "Took a little while."

The smile grew, barely.

"But... " his gaze drifted toward the shoreline visible through the rain. "I'm happy here."

There was no grand revelation in the words. No dramatic speech, just quiet certainty as though happiness wasn't something he'd found all at once. As though it had arrived slowly piece by piece, like driftwood washing ashore after a storm.

You followed his gaze to the ocean. The waves were rough, the sky still dark, nothing about the view suggested peace. And yet sitting here, wrapped around a warm mug in a house that smelled like coffee and cedar while rain beat steadily against the roof... you found yourself believing him.

Maybe peace wasn't the absence of storms. Maybe it was simply finding somewhere safe enough to wait for them to pass.

Your eyes burned and the tears arrived quietly this time. Not with the overwhelming force they'd carried these past months, just a slow sting gathering behind your eyes. You blinked once, twice and the feeling eased, you'd cried enough in front of strangers. You weren't sure Bucky counted as one anymore. The realization caught you off guard. That somewhere between repairing porch railings and sharing coffee during a storm, he'd become... something else. Not quite a friend, not yet. But no longer a stranger.

You let the thought settle without examining it too closely while the rain continued its steady assault against the windows. The tide churned beneath an angry sky, the water rushed toward shore. Pulled away again. Give. Take. Give. Take.

Your mother would've liked this house.

The thought arrived gently and not with the sharp ache it usually carried. She would've complimented the porch swing, asked Bucky entirely too many questions, probably insisted on bringing over blueberry muffins after learning he lived alone. The image lingered, then floated quietly away before you realized you were smiling. It was small, almost invisible.

Bucky noticed anyway.

"What?"

You shook your head. "Nothing."

"Hm."

He didn't press.

Instead, both of you watched another flash of lightning brighten the horizon. The silence settled comfortably around you once again. Eventually, curiosity won.

"So..." you turned toward him. "How'd you end up here anyway?"

He glanced over.

"You don't exactly look like the beach local type."

The words left your mouth before your brain had fully approved them.

You grimaced. "...No offense."

"Offense."

The reply came so dryly you couldn't help it, a laugh escaped, short and soft.

"You are impossible."

"I've been told."

You tucked one leg beneath yourself on the couch.

"So?"

He rubbed a hand thoughtfully across the back of his neck.

"My buddy Sam."

"The one in the pictures?"

He nodded.

"Lives outside Delacroix."

The unfamiliar name rolled around in your head.

"I spent some time down there." His gaze drifted toward the rain-speckled windows. "Needed somewhere to land."

The words were simple but you suspected there was an entire story hiding behind them. One he wasn't ready to tell and you understood that.

He continued.

"Turns out..." a tiny smile appeared. "Life by the water isn't too bad."

You looked toward the ocean. "It grows on you."

"It does."

The room fell quiet again.

Then another question slipped free.

"So why didn't you stay there?"

Bucky's expression became perfectly serious.

"I'm not a fan of the local marine life."

You frowned.

"...Marine life?"

It took your brain a second. Then—

"You mean—"

"Alligators."

"You left an entire state because of alligators?"

"I saw one smile at me."

You stared.

"They... don't smile."

"They absolutely do."

"They don't."

"They literally do."

You laughed again, longer this time.

"You are making that up."

"I wish."

"You've got to be kidding."

"I'm telling you."

He held one hand out dramatically.

"Eight feet long."

Your brows furrowed with amusement. "You know they get bigger than that."

"I wasn't sticking around to measure."

You shook your head.

"So you traded alligators for hurricanes?"

"They're easier to reason with."

"Hurricanes?"

"They usually announce they're coming."

You laughed hard enough to shake your head.

"That's terrible logic."

"It hasn't failed me yet."

"No..." you smiled into your coffee. "I suppose it hasn't."

The warmth in the room settled deeper. The storm still raged outside, wind bent the sea grass nearly flat, rain blurred the horizon into watercolor streaks of gray and blue, the tide continued its endless conversation with the shore. Coming. Going. Taking. Returning. Neither of you spoke for a while, you simply watched.

The strange thing about grief was how loud it usually was. It demanded attention, filled every corner of your mind until there wasn't room for anything else. Yet somehow, sitting beside someone who wasn't trying to fix it, who wasn't pretending to understand every part of it, who wasn't offering hollow reassurances or carefully chosen condolences… it grew quieter. Not gone, just, less alone. You thought back to the endless what ifs that had occupied every waking moment since your mother's death.

If I'd called more.

If I'd visited sooner.

If I hadn't left.

Questions with no answers.Questions that only circled back to themselves like waves chasing the shoreline. You looked toward the ocean again. The tide was beginning to turn, pulling gently back from the beach, making room for the next wave. Your mother had always believed the sea had something to teach people willing to sit still long enough.

You'd spent years dismissing that as one of her charming little philosophies. But tonight, watching rain streak across the glass while a near stranger quietly shared your silence, you wondered if maybe she'd been right. Not because the ocean had answers, but because it never stopped moving no matter what it carried away, no matter what it brought back.

Eventually, the lights flickered once more as a strong gust of wind howled up against the side of the house.

Bucky sighed theatrically. "There goes your excuse to avoid fixing that porch."

You rolled your eyes.

"There it is."

"What?"

"The sarcasm."

"I was worried you'd started to miss it."

"I definitely hadn't."

"Liar."

You smiled into your mug. Maybe. Just maybe.

The storm finally broke three days later.

The first morning the sun returned, the entire town seemed to spill outside at once. Windows opened, porches filled, children raced toward the beach carrying towels nearly bigger than they were. The ocean glittered as though nothing had happened, as though it hadn't spent the better part of a week throwing itself against the shore.

You were halfway through your morning coffee when someone knocked. Three quick taps.

You opened the door to see Bucky stood there, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

"Morning."

"Morning."

He nodded toward the beach.

"Wanna take a walk?"

The invitation hovered between you.

You should've said no. It would've been easier. Safer.

Instead you set your coffee down on the end table. "...Sure."

Just a walk, right? That's all. The thought came quickly. You're not making friends, you're just walking, there's a difference. Just finally taking in the sun after it was sorely missed over the past week. That's all. You repeated the same excuse the following afternoon when he asked again, and the afternoon after that. It's just coffee, just conversation, just company. Nothing permanent because so long as it stayed that way it couldn't hurt you, temporary things couldn't become something you lost. You clung to that logic with surprising determination.

The beach stretched wide beneath the afternoon sun. The tide had gone out, leaving smooth wet sand that reflected the sky like glass. Neither of you hurried, sometimes you talked, sometimes you didn't. Bucky seemed equally comfortable with both until he stopped suddenly, bent down and picked something from the sand.

"What?"

He held it out. A small piece of pale blue sea glass rested against his palm, its edges had been worn perfectly smooth.

"You know what this is?"

"Sea glass."

"I figured you'd know that much."

You bumped his shoulder lightly. "I grew up here remember."

"Fair."

He rolled the tiny piece between his fingers.

"It starts as broken glass like a bottle."

You looked down at it. "Or a jar."

"Something somebody threw away." He skipped it lightly across his palm. "Spends years in the ocean. Moving through the waves and sand."

His thumb brushed over its smooth surface.

"And eventually..." he handed it to you. "...it transforms and becomes this."

You turned it over carefully as it caught the sunlight. Soft, translucent, and beautiful.

"It doesn't even look like glass anymore."

"Exactly."

You stared at it for a long moment. The ocean whispered around your ankles, a gull cried somewhere overhead.

"Is this your cryptic way of giving me advice?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "It's just glass."

There was a brief pause between you two before he bent down to pick up another piece, this one still jagged, the edges rough and not yet worn by the sea.

"Used to be something you loved, then it broke and you cast it out because it hurt you. But eventually it comes back, and after some time you realize how beautiful its become."

His words weren't lost on you, the ache in your chest that your mother left hasn't truly subsided nor do you think it ever will. Finally, you shook your head.

"I don't think people work that way."

Bucky looked at you.

"I think some do."

"I don't."

The words came quietly.

"I think..." you swallowed. "I think some things stay broken."

His gaze remained steady. "So do bottles."

You looked away.

"Bottles don't have to fight their way through everyday to get..." you searched for the word. "...fixed."

"I didn't say fixed."

You frowned.

He nodded toward the sea glass still resting in your palm.

"I said transformed."

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to. Instead, you closed your fingers around the glass and handed it back to him.

"Well until I throw myself into the ocean and get thrashed around for a couple years I think I'll stay this way."

Bucky didn't argue, didn't insist otherwise. He simply smiled that quiet little smile of his.

"Keep it."

You looked up.

"What?"

"The sea glass."

He shrugged. "I found another."

"But that ones not smooth yet."

"I like it this way."

There was a strange thump in your chest as you slipped it into your pocket, something you didn't recognize until a few moment later as your heartbeat. Skipping a beat. You decided not to shed any more light on that as you continued your walk with him, the glass shifting lightly in your pocket with each step. You didn't take it because you believed him, even though a quiet part wanted to, but now somehow it felt wrong to throw it back.

A few mornings later, Bucky knocked on your front door again. When you answered, he looked oddly uncertain, something you hadn't seen before.

"I made something." He blurted out, his usual sarcasm nowhere to be found as he held out a small bundle wrapped carefully in an old handkerchief.

You unfolded it slowly.

It's a necklace, simple leather cord, tiny knots woven carefully by hand and in the center the pale blue sea glass.

You looked up. "You made this?"

He rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck with a shrug. "I had some extra cord."

Your thumb traced the smooth glass.

"I figured..." another shrug. "...it looked better around you than sitting in a drawer."

For a long moment, you couldn't find any words. Nobody had made you something in years. Not bought, but made. Something about that mattered more than you could explain.

"It's beautiful." You voice was quiet.

The compliment seemed to embarrass him.

"It'll probably fall apart eventually."

You laughed softly. "I'll take my chances."

He smiled. "So will I."

That night, after he'd gone home, the cottage felt different. Not less lonely, just less silent. There was a strange warmth to the air as you moved about. You changed into pajamas, made yourself tea all while the necklace rested against your collarbone, cool against your skin.

Your phone sat charging on the kitchen counter. Waiting. Seven voicemails, still. You stared at the notification for a long time. Then, before you could change your mind you pressed play. The speaker crackled softly.

Then—

"Hi, sweetheart."

Your mother's voice filled the quiet kitchen, bright and ordinary.

"Just wanted to remind you that the strawberries at the market are finally in season."

You laughed through the tears already gathering. Of course she called about strawberries.

"I know you'll probably forget to eat actual fruit if somebody doesn't remind you."

A pause. You could hear a grocery cart rolling somewhere in the background.

"Anyway..."

The familiar warmth in her voice wrapped around you.

"Call me when you get a chance."

Another pause.

"Love you."

The voicemail ended with the soft click of her hanging up.

That was it. No final wisdom, no hidden goodbye, no feeling that she'd somehow known. Just strawberries and groceries. A reminder to eat fruit on an ordinary Tuesday. Somehow, that hurt more than anything else. Because life hadn't ended with a grand farewell, it had ended in the middle of an ordinary conversation. Just another voicemail you'd planned to return after work.

You stood alone in the quiet kitchen, tears slipping silently down your face. The necklace rested over your heart. Outside, the tide continued its endless rhythm. Coming in. Going out. Borrowing. Returning. And for the first time since your mother's death, you allowed yourself to miss not just the moment she died—

But all of the beautifully ordinary moments she should have still been here to live.

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There’s something peculiar about the way a woman can be broken without ever making a sound.

No cracks. No gasps. No shattering porcelain on the floor.

Just a quiet kind of nothing that settles behind her eyes like dust on a windowsill, inevitable and slowly turning everything gray.

You were folding laundry when you found it.

One of Brock’s white shirts. The expensive kind. Egyptian cotton, triple-stitched, with his initials monogrammed just inside the collar—BRR—like a cattle brand stamped into the fabric. You’d pressed it yourself that morning, running the iron over the sleeves in slow, methodical passes, breathing in the steam and starch and the faint ghost of his cologne.

And then you saw it.

Lipstick.

Not yours.

Too red. Too loud. The kind of colour worn by women who laugh too hard at dinner parties and drink too much gin straight from the glass. Women who don’t bother to wipe the smudge off the rim before they hand it back to the waiter.

Right there, faint but certain, a smear near the collarbone. Just a whisper of crimson against the white. Like a signature. Like a taunt.

You didn’t scream or crumble. You just held the shirt between your fingers and stared at that mark like it was a wine stain on the wallpaper. Inconvenient and not even worth fussing about.

Because this is what it meant to be Mrs. Rumlow. And you had no one to blame but yourself.

After all, you weren’t swept off your feet. You were just worn down.

Brock pursued you the way a dog gnaws a bone—persistent and aggressive. He asked you out eight times before you said yes. Called your job every afternoon until the receptionist started putting him through just to shut him up. Sent flowers to your apartment; carnations, always carnations, because he never bothered to learn what you actually liked. Showed up at your mother’s dinner parties with that performative charm, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, grinning like he’d already won.

And everyone else loved him.

Your friends said he was handsome. Your mother said he had prospects. Your father just nodded and shook his hand and called him a good man.

You didn’t feel anything at all really.

But the word “yes” started falling out of your mouth like clockwork. Yes to dinner. Yes to letting him in. Yes to the ring—heavy and perfect and exactly what a girl should want. Yes to the house with the white picket fence and the immaculate lawn. Yes to the title—Mrs. Rumlow.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Until suddenly you were thirty, standing in your laundry room at two in the afternoon, holding a man’s shirt that didn’t even smell like you anymore.

And what now? You could confront him. Cry, maybe. Throw a tantrum. Smash a vase against the wall and watch the pieces scatter across the hardwood.

But for what? To make him feel bad for fifteen minutes before he went right back to doing whatever he pleased? To force an apology you knew wouldn’t mean a thing?

No, thank you.

You hung the shirt neatly over the back of the chair, the way you’d been taught, and went back to folding towels. Matching corners. Smooth stacks. The rhythm of it steadied something in your chest.

That afternoon, you made a lemon cake.

You creamed the butter and sugar until it was pale and fluffy. You zested the lemons until your fingers smelled sharp and bright. You poured the batter into the pan and watched it rise through the oven door, golden and perfect. You whipped the frosting by hand until your arm ached, then spread it in smooth, even layers across the top.

And when you sat down in your immaculate kitchen—surrounded by the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock, with a slice of cake on a china plate in front of you—you took a bite.

The frosting was just a little too sweet.

You felt absolutely nothing at all.

Dinner was silent.

You set the pot roast on the table, the porcelain platter warm against your palms, steam curling upward like cigarette smoke in a half-empty bar. The scent of rosemary and roasted carrots hung in the air, filling the dining room with something that smelled like home… even if it didn’t feel like one.

Brock thanked you without looking up from the newspaper.

The words came out flat, automatic, as if spoken by a machine. He ate quickly, efficiently, like everything in his life. Fork, knife, chew, swallow. A rhythm of consumption without pleasure. He checked his watch between bites, that little gold-faced wristband catching the chandelier light, and you wondered if he ever really tasted anything at all.

You nodded at the right moments. Smiled when he made a dry comment about work… something about a man named Alexander Pierce, a deal gone sour, a shipment delayed. You didn’t really listen. You just let your mouth move in practiced curves while your eyes drifted to the lipstick stain you’d pressed out of that shirt hours ago.

You poured him another drink when he tapped the glass. The two clinks of his wedding band against the crystal, a wordless request you had long since learned to obey without thought.

You didn’t bring up the lipstick.

Why would you? He would deny it. Or worse—he would tell the truth like it was trivial, like it was nothing more than a spilled drink at a work function, a kiss on the cheek from a client’s wife. He would wave his hand and say you know how these things go, sweetheart, and then he’d go back to carving the roast.

So you kept your mouth shut and your hands steady and your face smooth as porcelain.

After dinner, you washed the dishes while he stood behind you. His hands found your hips in that familiar way, yet less like a husband touching his wife and more like a man checking the fence posts on his property. You didn’t flinch or lean back into him. You just let the warm water run over your fingers and watched the soap bubbles pop one by one against the stainless steel.

He guided you upstairs without a word.

In the bedroom, he didn’t turn on the lights. He never did when he was in this mood. It was easier for him to pretend you were anyone he wanted. Easier for you to pretend you didn’t know who he was imagining. Easier for both of you to exist in that shadowed space without having to look each other in the eye.

He unbuttoned your dress halfway, just enough to get what he needed, and pushed inside you with a sigh. The same tired exhale he gave when he loosened his tie after work. A release. Not affection. Not even desire. Just pressure leaving the body, a valve opened after a long day.

He moved like a man finishing a task before bed. His breath warm and stale against your neck, tinged with whiskey and gravy. Your cheek pressed into the pillow, eyes open in the dark, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling where the moonlight bled through the curtains.

You didn’t make a sound. You didn’t tremble or cling or gasp. You just lay there, letting him take what he thought was his, feeling nothing but the soft thud of your heartbeat in your ear and the slight friction of the sheets against your thighs.

When he came, he groaned your name like an afterthought and rolled off you immediately. A completed chore. The mattress shifted as he settled onto his back, and within minutes his breathing evened out into the low, rough snore you’d grown accustomed to.

You pulled the sheets back up to your chin and lay on your back, staring at the ceiling.

The moonlight cut pale lines across the room, sharp and silver, like broken glass scattered on the floor. You traced them with your eyes, following the angles where they crossed the crown molding, the light fixture, the corner where the wallpaper had begun to peel ever so slightly.

They didn’t point anywhere. They didn’t mean anything. They were just lines of light falling across a dark room where a woman lay next to a man who didn’t see her.

The ache between your legs was faint now, fading into something distant and numb. You folded your hands over your stomach, fingers interlaced, like a woman lying in a casket.

The ceiling fan hummed above you, a low mechanical drone that filled the silence with something almost like comfort.

Then you let sleep pull you under, still hollow, still quiet, still waiting for something to crack.

Tuesday

You sat in the kitchen with a cigarette burning between your fingers and your second cup of coffee growing cold on the counter, wearing a satin robe the colour of pale champagne; too soft, too pretty, too delicate for a life this dull. The fabric whispered against your skin with every small movement, a reminder that you still had a body, still had nerve endings, still had wants that went unacknowledged.

The floor was spotless. Linoleum gleaming under the morning light, every crumb swept, every scuff wiped away. The breakfast dishes were stacked neatly in the drying rack, porcelain and ceramic arranged like soldiers at attention. Everything in its place. Everything perfect.

And for a moment, just one dizzy, suffocating moment, you considered what it would be like if you just… walked out.

Not packed. Not explained. Not left a note. Just stood up, pushed back the chair, and let the front door click shut behind you without a backward glance. No destination. No plan. Just the simple, radical act of leaving.

You thought about the other wives on the block. Margaret with her twin boys and her perpetual exhaustion. Doris with her tennis club and her too-bright laugh. Eleanor with her country luncheons and her gossip that cut like a finely sharpened knife. All of them busy, all of them pretending they weren’t slowly going mad in their identical houses with their identical husbands and their identical lives.

You didn’t have a baby. You didn’t have a career. You didn’t even have friends you really liked—just women you drank tea with because it was expected, because the calendar said Monday and Wednesday meant bridge club whether you wanted it or not.

You had a house that stayed clean and a husband that didn’t. And every day felt the same.

Breakfast. Clean. Grocery store. Smile politely. Dinner. Dishes. Sex if he remembered. Sleep. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

You stubbed the cigarette out in the ceramic ashtray, the ember hissing against porcelain, and let out a long, slow breath. Maybe you’d bake something today. A cheesecake, perhaps—the one your mother had taught you, the one that took two hours and left your hands smelling of cream and sugar. Or maybe you’d just sit here, watching the clock tick toward noon, counting the minutes until the day blurred into the next one.

Knock. Knock.

Your head turned, like a reflex you hadn’t trained but couldn’t control.

The clock on the wall said 10:45. Which meant it was Tuesday. Which meant—

You already knew before you opened the door.

The morning light spilled across the porch, catching in his hair, turning it something between caramel and chocolate. He stood there in his postal uniform; navy trousers pressed sharp, shirt buttoned to regulation, the leather strap of his mailbag cutting across his chest.

But beneath the uniform, he wore a white t-shirt, the collar just visible at his throat, and he’d cuffed his sleeves once, twice, to show his forearms. Tan skin dusted with fine golden hair, muscles that moved beneath the surface with a boyish, easy strength.

There was a curl stuck to his forehead, dark and damp from the morning humidity. Your fingers itched to push it back.

He smiled when he saw you, that wide, eager grin that made him look like he’d just found something he’d been searching for. “G’mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.” His voice had a rumble to it, low and warm. “You’re lookin’ mighty pretty this mornin’.”

The words landed somewhere in your chest, like a stone dropped into still water. You didn’t smile back, not the full thing, anyway. Just a curve at the corner of your mouth, a softening of your eyes. You held the doorframe with two fingers, the satin of your robe draping against the painted wood.

“Thank you, James.” His name felt intentional on your tongue, drawn out just a little longer than necessary. “Right on time, I see.”

Bucky scratched the back of his neck, a gesture so young, so unpolished, it made something tighten in your stomach. “You know me, ma’am. Gotta keep to a schedule.” He laughed once, a short breath of sound. “Wouldn’t wanna disappoint.”

Disappoint. The word hung in the air between you, weighted with something neither of you acknowledged aloud.

He pulled the letters from his bag with careful hands; one bill, one catalog, one cream-coloured envelope with your mother’s looping handwriting on the front. He offered them to you, and you reached out to take them, your fingers brushing his in the exchange.

A whisper of contact. Barely anything at all. But your skin remembered it. Tingled with it. Held onto it like a secret.

You looked down at the envelopes, then back up at him. His cheeks were flushed, that telltale pink climbing up from his collar, and he was looking at you like you were something more than a housewife in a bathrobe holding a stack of bills.

“You have a good day now, ma’am,” he said, quieter this time, as if the words were meant only for the space between you.

The ma’am made something in your chest loosen. It wasn’t condescending, not the way Brock said it when he was irritated, a dismissive verbal pat on the head. This was different. Like being called something sacred.

“Thank you, James.” Your voice came out steadier than you felt. “I’ll see you Thursday.”

His grin widened, a flash of white teeth, and he touched the brim of his cap like a soldier saluting. “Yes, ma’am. Thursday.”

Bucky turned and walked back down the path, his stride easy and confident, the mailbag swinging against his hip. You watched him go, fingers still pressed to the doorframe, the letters clutched against your chest. He glanced back once, just before the hedge swallowed him from view, and caught your eye.

He didn’t wave. Neither did you.

But the look he gave you lingered long after he disappeared.

You closed the door slowly and leaned against it, the wood cool against your back through the thin satin. And suddenly, all you could think about was Thursday.

All you could think about was him.

Thursday

You put on lipstick before breakfast.

Not the usual pale pink you wore to bridge club or church, the kind that barely registered on your lips, a ghost of colour meant to be respectable and forgettable. No. Today, you reached for the tube tucked behind the vanity mirror, the one you’d bought weeks ago on a whim and never worn. A glossier red. Crimson. The kind of shade that demanded attention.

It wasn’t quite as brazen as the stain on Brock’s collar’ that shade had been brighter, cheaper, applied with less care, but it was close. Close enough to feel like a statement. Close enough to feel like your own small rebellion.

You curled your hair, too. The iron hissed against the strands, shaping them into soft curls that brushed your shoulders. You ironed your best blouse, cream silk with mother-of-pearl buttons, and paired it with a navy skirt that cinched at your waist and fell just below your knees. You dabbed perfume behind your ears, at your wrists, between your breasts, letting the scent settle into your skin like a secret.

All for what? A two-minute doorstep exchange.

Maybe.

But it had been a long time since you got ready for someone. A long time since you’d felt the flutter of anticipation in your chest, the nervous checking of your reflection, the quiet thrill of wondering if he would notice.

And Bucky? He always noticed.

The morning moved slowly. You tried to busy yourself—made the bed with hospital corners, scrubbed the kitchen counters until they gleamed, cleaned out the icebox with methodical precision. But your hands went through the motions while your mind wandered elsewhere.

You kept glancing at the clock.

10:32.

10:39.

The coffee grew cold in your cup, untouched.

10:44.

Your pulse quickened, an involuntary flutter against your ribs. You wiped your palms on your skirt, smoothed a hand over your hair, touched your lips to check the lipstick was still perfect.

Then—

Footsteps on gravel.

Your breath caught. You straightened your posture, squared your shoulders, and walked to the front door with a calm you didn’t feel. You opened it before he could knock, the morning light spilling across the porch and catching him mid-step.

“Well, good mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.”

He stood there with a toothpick tucked in the corner of his mouth, rolling it lazily between his lips. Same cuffed sleeves, same easy stance, same sunshine grin, but something shifted when his eyes landed on you. The grin faltered, just a fraction. His gaze traveled down, then back up, taking his time. Top to bottom. Appreciative. Hungry.

Your skin warmed under the weight of it.

“Why, James,” you said, your voice light and teasing, carrying the faintest lilt of surprise. “You’re lucky I’m dressed. Another ten seconds and you might’ve caught me in a robe.”

He laughed, a low, full sound that rumbled from his chest. “Guess I showed up just in time, then.” He pulled the toothpick from his mouth, tucking it into his shirt pocket, and let his eyes linger on your lips. “You look real nice today, Mrs. Rumlow. That colour suits you.”

You felt the compliment settle low in your belly. You leaned against the doorframe, letting your hip jut out just slightly, letting him see the curve of your waist beneath the silk. “Thursdays feel longer than Tuesdays,” you mused, taking the mail from his outstretched hand. Your fingers brushed his on purpose this time. “I think I like Tuesdays better.”

He cocked his head, watching your fingers trace the edge of the envelope. A slow smile spread across his face, not shy now, not boyish. Something else. “Then I guess I’ll have to make Thursdays worth your while, won’t I?”

There it was. The cocky edge under all that charm. The faintest bite, the shift from sweet to knowing. He wasn’t just flirting anymore, he was answering you.

You felt it in your chest. In your thighs. That quiet, familiar clench that hadn’t visited in years, the one you’d thought had died somewhere between Brock’s indifference and your own resignation.

“You always this flattering to the women on your route?” you asked, tilting your head, keeping your tone airy. But your eyes held his, unflinching.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Only the pretty ones.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? So just Mrs. McCall across the street, then?”

He laughed again, and God, that laugh. It was warm and genuine, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. He placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “You wound me, Mrs. Rumlow. You know you’re my favourite.”

The way he said it. That confident little smirk. The way his eyes dropped to your lips again, just for a second, before returning to yours, like he was memorising you.

It shouldn’t have made your thighs press together. But it did.

He made no move to step back. You made no move to end the conversation. The morning stretched around you, the only sounds the distant hum of a lawnmower and the thrumming of your own pulse.

“You got plans this weekend?” he asked suddenly.

The question caught you off guard. You blinked, your composure slipping for just a moment. “No,” you admitted. “Just the usual. Laundry. Groceries. Maybe lunch with some women I don’t particularly like.”

He smiled again, wide and wolfish this time. “I could think of better ways to spend a Sunday.”

Your lips parted. You could feel the weight of his words, the implication wrapped in that easy grin. But you didn’t speak.

He stepped back then, finally, breaking the spell slowly. He tipped two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute, his eyes never leaving yours. “See you Tuesday, Mrs. Rumlow.”

“Tuesday,” you repeated, your voice softer than you intended.

He turned and walked down the path, his stride easy, his shoulders broad beneath the blue uniform. You watched him go, watched the way his hips moved, the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck. And this time, when he glanced back, just before the hedge swallowed him, he didn’t just look.

He winked.

You closed the door slowly, and exhaled through your nose, a long, shaky breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. Your heart rattled against your ribs. Your lips still tingled from the weight of his gaze.

You were old enough to know better. Old enough to recognize the danger in a boy who looked at you like you were the sun. But today? You didn’t feel old. You didn’t feel married. You didn’t feel like a housewife in a quiet suburb with a cheating husband and a hollow life.

You felt looked at. You felt chosen. And maybe Bucky had other girls. Maybe he had dozens, scattered across his route like wildflowers. But when he looked at you like that, like you were the only woman on the planet, you let yourself bask in it.

Saturday Night

Brock wanted sex, again.

You could always tell by the way he stood in the doorway after his shower, towel slung low around his hips, rubbing the bridge of his nose like the very thought of wanting you exhausted him. It never felt like desire. It felt like appetite, hunger without taste, a reflex he performed out of schedule rather than longing. He never looked at you the way Bucky did. He looked through you, like you were a task to check off before sleep.

You were propped against the headboard, a copy of Ladies’ Home Journal open in your lap, your eyes scanning the same paragraph three times without reading a word. The magazine had been a shield. A pretense of being occupied. But when Brock padded over and plucked it from your hands, his fingers brushing yours without lingering, you didn’t protest.

He placed it on the nightstand and you watched his shadow fall across the bed.

“You ready for me?” he asked, already knowing the answer. His voice was flat, perfunctory.

“Mhm,” you murmured, the sound soft, neutral. Invitation enough.

He climbed on top of you, the mattress dipping under his weight. His lips found yours in a single, dry kiss , just a press of mouth against mouth before he pulled back. His lips were damp from the shower. Impatient. He pushed your nightgown up over your hips, the cotton gathering in wrinkled bunches around your ribs. The air hit your thighs, cool and indifferent.

“I missed you,” he whispered, but the words were hollow, a script he recited by rote. He didn’t mean it. He never meant it. But the sound still filled the room, settling between you like dust.

You opened your legs because that was the routine. That was marriage. That was being Mrs. Rumlow, a woman who spread her thighs for a man who forgot she had a name beyond the ring on her finger.

He entered you with a grunt. As you felt the familiar weight of a man claiming what he believed belonged to him. His hips settled against yours, and he began to move, steady, mechanical, like the piston of a machine. In. Out. In. Out. His breath hot against your neck.

It didn’t hurt. It didn’t feel good. It felt like nothing.

You stared over his shoulder at the wall. The pattern in the wallpaper blurred as your focus drifted. The lamp on the nightstand flickered once, a tired bulb. The headboard creaked with each thrust, a rhythmic complaint that had long since become white noise. You counted the creaks. Six. Seven. Eight. You wandered through the numbers like hallways, searching for somewhere else to be.

Your mind wandered. It always did. But tonight it wandered somewhere new.

James Buchanan Barnes.

You pictured him without even meaning to. The curve of his smile, that boyish confidence that didn’t know its own power. His hands, rough and calloused from sorting mail and lifting parcels, curling around envelopes with a casual grace. Forearms tight and sun-browned, taut with youth and strength, so much younger than they should be for how much they made you ache.

You imagined those hands on your waist instead. Sliding over the curve of your hip. Fingers digging in like he was afraid you might slip through them, like he wanted to hold on so tight he’d leave bruises you could press in the morning and remember.

Brock groaned into your shoulder. A sound of effort, not passion. You barely heard it.

Your mind was in your foyer. Sunlight streaming through the side window, catching the gold in James’s hair, turning it to chocolate brown. His eyes dropping to your lips and the quiet hitch of his breath when he realised you were wearing red today. The way his tongue touched his bottom lip before he spoke.

You imagined him standing too close. Close enough that you could smell the soap on his skin, the faint salt of a morning’s work. You imagined him saying your name with that low rasp, Mrs. Rumlow, not as a title, but as a confession. Almost shy. Almost cocky. Almost daring you to stop him.

You imagined him whispering something filthy in your ear. Something a young man should never say to a married woman. Something you would let him say anyway, would crave him to say, would press your thighs together under the kitchen table and pretend not to hear.

“I think about you when I’m alone, Mrs. Rumlow. Late at night. Do you think about me?”

Brock picked up his pace. His breathing turned heavy, tight, a rhythm he knew by heart. His hips slapped against yours, harder now, more insistent. Your body moved out of habit—a practiced arch of your back, a soft sound you’d learned to make at the right intervals. But you weren’t there.

You were in the kitchen with Bucky, morning light streaming through the lace curtains. Your robe hanging open. His mouth hot on your throat, trailing down, down, tasting the perfume you’d dabbed there just for him. His voice unsteady and hungry, cracking with want. His hand sliding up your thigh, like he had been dreaming about the feel of your skin for months.

“Tell me you want this,” he’d whisper. “Tell me you want me.”

You imagined him losing control. The careful restraint crumbling. The boyish charm replaced by something ravenous, something that needed you so badly it frightened him. You imagined him taking you right there against the counter, your back arching, your fingers tangled in his hair, every sound you made pulling him deeper.

Your breath caught. Heat crawled up your spine like fingers tracing vertebrae. Your nails dug into the sheets, white-knuckled, pulling the fabric taut.

Brock didn’t notice.

You came quietly. An involuntary gasp against his shoulder, a tremour that ran through your thighs and settled deep in your belly. You bit down on the sound, swallowed it whole. You didn’t want him to know why. You didn’t want him to know it wasn’t for him.

He finished thirty seconds later with a strained grunt, his body tensing, his release hot and forgettable. He collapsed on top of you, a dead weight, sweating and satisfied, completely ignorant. His breath evened out against your neck, slowing into the rhythm of a man who had taken what he wanted and was already forgetting he’d had it.

“I missed you,” he said again. A kiss pressed to your shoulder, empty of meaning.

You closed your eyes. Your pulse settled slowly, like dust after a storm.

Your husband had made you orgasm for the first time in years. And he would never know that he had nothing to do with it.

You lay there under Brock’s weight, the lamp flickering, the headboard silent now. Your fingers still curled in the sheets. Your skin still tingled where you’d imagined Bucky’s hands.

You thought about Tuesday. You thought about the red lipstick in your vanity drawer. You thought about the way James’s eyes had dropped to your lips this morning, hungry and hopeful, like a boy ready to sin.

And you smiled in the dark.

Tuesday came again.

And so did you.

Not physically. Not yet. But God, did you want to.

You spent the morning choosing your clothes with the kind of care you usually reserved for holidays or funerals. A blush pink blouse with three buttons undone, sleeves rolled just past your elbows. An indecent skirt that hugged your hips when you walked. You applied your lipstick slowly, blotting against tissue paper until the colour was perfect, a deep, shameful red that screamed look at me.

You heard the mail truck before you saw him. The low rumble of the engine, the crunch of gravel, the squeak of brakes. Your pulse quickened. You stepped onto the porch just as he rounded the corner of the driveway, satchel slung over one shoulder, a stack of envelopes in his hand.

He looked up. Saw you. Stopped.

The sun caught the sweat on his brow, glistening on his temple. He was so young. It made your stomach tighten.

“Mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.” His voice came out a little rough. He cleared his throat. “Got your usual. Couple of bills. A catalog.”

You smiled and stepped forward. Close enough that the breeze carried your perfume straight to him. You saw his nostrils flare, just slightly—, efore he caught himself.

“That’s very kind of you to bring them right to the door,” you said, letting your voice dip low. “Y’know most mailmen would just toss them in the box.”

“I like makin’ sure you get yours proper.” He held out the envelopes. His fingers brushed yours when you took them. Lingered. You didn’t pull away.

You looked up at him through your lashes. “You’re good at your job, James.”

He smiled, crooked and shy. “Only ‘cause the scenery’s nice.”

You laughed softly. “Careful. You’ll spoil me.”

“Well, maybe you deserve to be spoiled.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and warm. He didn’t look away. Neither did you.

Thursday came with a different kind of heat.

Thick and humid, the kind that clung to your skin and made everything feel slow. You wore a sundress, thin straps, low neckline, the fabric loose enough to hint at what lay beneath without giving everything away. No stockings. No slip. Just your body and cotton and the knowledge that the afternoon sun would make the dress cling to every curve.

You heard the truck at the usual time. You opened the door before he could knock.

This time you leaned out a little too far as you reached for the envelopes. Let the neckline gape. Let him see the swell of your breasts, the shadow between them, the way your skin glistened from the humidity.

His eyes dropped.

It was only for a second. Less. But you saw it. The way his jaw twitched. The way his hand tightened around the mail he was holding, crinkling the edge of an envelope.

“Thanks, James.” You straightened slowly, letting him see the smile playing on your lips.

“Y-yes ma’am.” He swallowed. “You have a good day now.”

“I plan to.”

You closed the door and leaned against it, heart pounding. That night, you ran a bath so hot the mirror fogged over. You lay in the water with your knees bent, steam curling around your face, and you let your hand drift between your thighs.

You imagined him on his knees in front of the tub. His hands gripping the porcelain. His eyes on you, dark and hungry. The way he’d look up at you before lowering his head.

“Please, Mrs. Rumlow. Let me taste you.”

You pressed your fingers deeper, biting down on your own wrist to muffle the sound. You came with his name on your tongue, barely whispered, lost in the steam.

Tuesday

The heat came early that morning, crawling through the window screens like something alive. Thick and unforgiving. By the time the clock struck ten, the air in the house had gone still and heavy, pressing against your skin like a warm palm.

You didn’t bother dressing.

There was no point. Brock had left before sunrise, a muttered goodbye and the slam of the front door, off to wherever it was he went when he wasn’t here. The house was yours.

You slipped into your favourit pink champagne robe. You tied it just once at the waist, loose enough that the fabric fell open when you moved, baring the slope of your collarbone, the shadow between your breasts, the long line of your thigh as you walked from the bedroom to the kitchen.

No bra. No slip. Just your skin beneath the silk, damp from the humidity.

The clock ticked to 10:45.

Right on schedule.

You’d been standing at the kitchen window, watching the street through the sheer curtain, a glass of ice water sweating in your hand. You saw the mail truck pull up. Saw him step out, satchel slung over his shoulder, wiping the back of his hand across his brow.

He looked up at your house. Paused. Adjusted his collar.

You smiled to yourself, set down the glass, and walked to the door.

Knock, knock.

You waited two beats—long enough to seem unhurried, not long enough to seem reluctant. Then you turned the knob and pulled the door open.

The heat hit you first, a wall of it, thick and wet. It smelled like cut grass and pavement and the faint, clean sweat of a young man who’d been working under the sun.

And there he was.

Bucky Barnes, all six feet of him, backlit by the morning glare. The light caught his cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw, the brown strands of his hair darkened with sweat and plastered to his forehead. His uniform shirt was unbuttoned halfway, the fabric gaping open to reveal the smooth plane of his chest, the sun-warmed skin, the fine sheen of sweat that made it gleam.

He had a stack of mail in one hand. The other hung loose at his side, fingers twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them.

His eyes met yours.

And then they dropped.

Down your body. Over the open V of your robe. Down to your bare legs, the curve of your calf, the way the silk shifted when you breathed. It wasn’t a glance. It was a slow and helpless look and he didn’t even try to hide it.

You saw the exact moment his brain caught up with his body. His throat moved. His jaw tightened. His gaze snapped back to your face, but it was too late. You’d already seen everything.

“M-Mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.”

The stutter was tiny. Barely there. But you heard it, felt it like a small victory.

“Good morning, James.”

Your voice came out low, syrupy, the kind of voice you used when you wanted a man to lean in closer. You let your hand drift up to the doorframe, the movement casual, but it pulled the robe just a fraction tighter across your chest.

“Hot one today,” you murmured, tilting your head. “I thought I’d stay in something a little lighter. The heat’s been unbearable.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. His eyes flickered down again, just for a second, just a brief, helpless slip, before he forced them back up.

“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked on the word. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s—real hot. Humid, too.”

“You must be dying out there in that uniform.”

“It ain’t so bad.” He shifted his weight, licked his lips. “Got a good schedule. Nice houses. Nice people.”

He held out the mail. You took it, slowly letting your fingertips brush against his. His skin was warm. His pulse jumped under your touch.

“Thank you,” you said, soft. “I notice you always bring it to me personally. You don’t do that for anyone else, do you?”

He blinked. “I—no, ma’am. I usually just leave it in the box.”

“So why do you bring mine to the door?”

The question hung in the air between you, sweet as poison. He stared at you, and you watched him search for an answer that wouldn’t give too much away.

He failed.

“Guess I like seein’ your face.” His voice dropped, quieter now, almost rough. “You’re always real nice to me. Not everyone is.”

You stepped closer, just enough to bring you into the wedge of sunlight spilling through the doorway. The robe shifted, gaping open at your thigh. You saw his eyes track the movement.

“You like talking to me, James?”

“Yeah.” The word came out breathless. “I really do.”

You let a small smile play at the corner of your mouth. “I like talking to you too.”

A silence settled between you. The air itself seemed to thicken, you could hear the hum of a lawnmower two streets away, the distant bark of a dog, the ragged rhythm of his breathing.

The sun spilled across his shoulders, catching the sweat on his collarbone. Your robe was loose, barely tied, the silk shifting with every shallow rise and fall of your chest. Just standing there, two feet apart, was a kind of intimacy.

You could have kissed him then. You knew he would have let you. You knew he wanted you to. You could see it in the way his pupils had swallowed the blue of his irises, the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the way his gaze kept dropping to your mouth and then darting away, like he was afraid of what he might do if he looked too long.

Instead, you smiled.

“Would you like some lemonade?”

The question hung in the air like a dare. His eyes snapped to your mouth, then back up, and you watched him process what you’d just offered. The invitation. The implication. The fact that you weren’t asking him to leave.

He nodded. Too quickly. His voice cracked when he spoke.

“Yeah. Sure. I’d—I’d like that.”

Come in.

You didn’t say it. You just stepped back, letting the door swing open wider, and turned without another word. Bare feet on cool tile. The soft whisper of silk against your thighs. You walked ahead of him, letting him follow, letting him watch.

The robe shifted when you moved, slipping off one shoulder, brushing the backs of your knees, the hem fluttering just above the curve of your calf. You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. You could feel his gaze on you like a hand at your waist, trailing down your spine, settling low.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. No radio humming. No laundry churning. Just the low buzz of the ceiling fan from the living room and the soft, steady tick of the wall clock over the sink.

The kitchen blazed with sunlight pouring through the open windows, catching the dust motes drifting in the still air. The counters gleamed. A half-used lemon sat on the cutting board from this morning. The whole room smelled faintly of citrus and sugar and the clean scent of dish soap.

“Sit,” you said gently, motioning toward the stools at the counter. “I’ll get the lemonade.”

He obeyed. Quietly. He set his satchel down on the counter, then pulled out one of the stools, the legs scraping against the tile. He sat, watched you, said nothing. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers flexing.

You moved unhurriedly. Opened the refrigerator door. Let the cold air wash over you. Bent slowly, reaching all the way to the back for the glass pitcher, knowing exactly how the robe tightened across the backs of your thighs, knowing exactly how the hem rose just a little higher when you stretched.

When you straightened and turned, his eyes snapped up too fast. A flush crept up his neck. He’d been staring. Caught.

You didn’t acknowledge it. Just smiled to yourself and poured two tall glasses, condensation already beading on the glass.

You set one in front of him. Then took the stool across the counter, crossing your legs as you settled. The robe fell open at the knee, baring the length of your thigh. You saw him glance down, then force himself to look at the lemonade.

You brought the glass to your lips. Sipped. Let the cold sweetness coat your tongue. When you set it down, you licked a stray drop from your lower lip, slow enough to make him shift in his seat.

“Still hot out,” you said, your voice light, conversational. “Not used to this kind of heat. Makes a woman crave something cold.”

He swallowed. “Yeah. It’s—it’s bad this week.” His voice was rough, like he’d been shouting, though he’d barely spoken a word.

You tilted your head, studying him. “You alright, sweetheart? You look a little flushed.”

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Just warm,” he managed.

“Mmm.” You rested your chin on your palm, elbow on the counter, watching him. “You know, you’re always so nice. I really like that about you.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Ma’am?”

“A lot of boys your age wouldn’t be so kind to someone like me.”

His brow furrowed. “Someone like you?”

You smiled, bittersweet, letting your gaze drop. “A housewife,” you murmured. “Married. Boring. A little past my prime, I suppose.”

The words hung in the air. You felt the weight of them, the small lie you were telling, the way you were baiting him.

He sat up straighter. His jaw tightened. “You’re not past anything.”

You looked at him, surprised by the sudden heat in his voice.

“You’re—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his damp hair. His ears were red. “You’re beautiful, Mrs. Rumlow.”

The silence stretched between you. The ceiling fan turned overhead, stirring the warm air. Somewhere outside, a bird called. The ice in your glass settled with a soft clink.

You held his gaze a second longer than was appropriate. Then you took another sip of your lemonade, letting the moment breathe.

“That’s very sweet of you to say, James.” Your voice was quieter now. Softer. “Very sweet.”

He swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around his glass, knuckles white, like he was bracing himself against something.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

Just sat in the sun-warmed silence, pretending to be casual while the air thickened between you like honey left too long on the stove. The whole world had narrowed to this kitchen, this counter, this boy with his hands wrapped around a glass like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

You shifted in your seat, uncrossing your legs and recrossing them the other way. The silk whispered against your skin.

His eyes dropped. You felt them like a touch, the way they traced the line of your thigh where the robe had fallen open, the way they lingered on the curve of your knee, the shadow above it. He watched the slow slide of your fingers over your glass, watched the way you wet your lips without thinking, and you watched him right back, cataloging every small tell.

The way his breath stalled when you moved. The way his knuckles went white. The way he bit his lower lip—just the tiniest flicker of restraint cracking, the pressure of his teeth against the soft flesh making you feel something warm and dangerous coil low in your belly.

You caught him. You didn’t say a word. Just smiled, the kind that said, I saw you. It’s alright. I wanted you to.

He bit his lip harder, then let it go. His mouth stayed parted, pink and slightly swollen.

You leaned forward, elbows on the counter, voice dropping to just above a whisper. “Do you like coming here, James?”

The question was simple. Innocent in its phrasing.

He looked up. Met your eyes. Nodded, like he was admitting something he’d been holding back for weeks.

“Yeah,” he said, like gravel scraped smooth by water. “I really do.”

You let the silence fall again, full and heavy and humming. And then, with the softest, most dangerous smile you owned. “Good,” you whispered. “Me too.”

You stood from your stool, the wood scraping softly against the tile. Took your empty glass to the sink, and rinsed it slowly, letting the water run over your fingers, watching the last traces of lemon and sugar swirl down the drain. The tap hummed. The water was cool against your heated skin.

You lifted your eyes to the window above the sink, watching his distorted reflection in the glass. He was staring at your back. The curve of your spine through the thin silk. The dip of your waist. The way your hips swayed just slightly as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other.

Finally, you turned off the tap. Shook the excess water from your hands. Dried them slowly on a dish towel hanging from the oven handle.

Then you spoke.

“Tell me something, James.”

Your voice was soft. Curious.

“Yes, ma’am?”

You turned around slowly, hips resting against the counter’s edge, the thin silk of your robe parting just a little as it settled around your waist. The morning light caught the curve of your hip, the shadow of your navel, the soft swell of your breasts beneath the fabric.

You watched his eyes follow it.

“Do you flirt with every woman on your route,” you asked gently, tilting your head, “or only me?”

His mouth opened, then closed. He actually blinked, like he needed to reset his brain, like the question had short-circuited something vital. His ears reddened. His hands tightened on the glass again, then relaxed as he set it down carefully, as if afraid he might break it.

“Only you,” he said quietly. The words came out steady, but his voice trembled at the edges. “Only ever you.”

You nodded once. As if that confirmed something you already knew, something you’d suspected since the first time he lingered a little too long at your door, since the first time his fingers brushed yours when he handed you the mail.

Then you walked toward him.

Slow steps. Bare feet on cool tile. The sun fell across your path, warm on your shoulders, and you felt beautiful in a way you hadn’t in years. Not for Brock. Not for anyone else. For yourself. For the way this boy’s eyes followed every inch of you like you were something sacred.

When you reached him, you placed your hand lightly on the counter beside his shoulder. Not touching him. Close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from your skin. You leaned in just slightly, letting him smell your perfume.

His breath hitched so sharply it almost broke your composure. You felt a thrill run through you, sharp and electric.

“Look at me,” you whispered.

He did.

You let your gaze drag over his face, the strong line of his jaw, the delicate curve of his lips. The way his blue eyes had gone dark, pupils blown wide, the colour swallowed by want. The way his throat worked as he swallowed again, the Adam’s apple bobbing.

You let your fingers trail down his forearm. Barely a touch. The lightest brush of your fingertips over the fine hair on his skin, over the warmth of him, over the tremour that ran through his muscles when you made contact.

“You know,” you said softly, your voice a murmur, “you have been very good to me these last few months.”

His chest rose. Fell. His lips parted.

“I like our chats, James.”

Your fingers continued their lazy path, tracing the line of a vein, the curve of his wrist. You felt his pulse jump beneath your touch, rapid and wild.

“And I like how you look at me,” you added. “Even when you try not to.”

He swallowed hard. His jaw worked. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, rough and honest and cracked at the edges.

“I am trying real hard right now.”

You smiled. A slow, sinful curl of your lips. “You don’t have to.”

Then, in the softest voice you had used with him yet, “Stand up for me, James.”

He obeyed before he realized he had moved. The stool scraped back against the tile, and suddenly he was towering over you—tall, flushed to the tips of his ears, trying not to tremble.

You stepped closer. Close enough that the fabric of your robe brushed his barely opened shirt. Close enough that your breath touched his mouth. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the slight shake in his hands as they hung at his sides, not quite daring to reach for you.

“You want me,” you said. Not a question. A truth spoken plainly, laid out on the counter between you like a confession.

He nodded. Hard. His jaw worked, and when he spoke, his voice cracked on the first word.

“I been tryin’ not to,” he whispered. “Swear I been tryin’, ma’am. Every time I see you at that door, I tell myself—” He broke off, swallowing. “I tell myself to just hand you the mail and go. Just walk away.”

“But you don’t.”

“No, ma’am.” His eyes dropped to your lips. “I can’t.”

You touched his jaw. The barest brush of your fingertips against the stubble along his cheekbone. He shivered under your touch.

“I don’t want you to try anymore.”

His eyes darkened. Something shifted behind them, the last thread of restraint snapping. What was left was something hungry. Something young and desperate and finally set free. His breathing turned shallow. His hands curled into fists at his sides, then released.

“M-Mrs. Rumlow,” he breathed, voice shaking, “if I touch you I’m not gonna be able to stop.”

You tilted your chin up, lips inches from his. Close enough to taste the warmth of his breath, to see the fine tremor in his lower lip.

“Good.”

That was it. That was the spark.

He grabbed your waist with both hands, strong fingers digging into silk and skin, pulling you into him with a force that stole your breath. His mouth crashed into yours. Hungry and messy and eager. A young man who had been imagining this for months and finally snapped.

You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound, took the chance to push his tongue into your mouth. He tasted like lemonade and something masculine. His hands moved without permission, shoving your robe open at your hips, dragging you against his body like he needed to feel every inch of you through the thin silk.

He kissed you like he was starving. Like you were the first taste of anything real in his short, hungry life. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips, and you felt the tremble in his arms, the barely leashed violence of his need.

You let him. You let him take. You let him lose control.

Because you had been waiting for this. For this exact moment.

You pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “Take me, James.”

The hallway was a blur.

You didn't remember crossing it. You didn't remember the robe slipping from your shoulders and pooling on the floor. You didn't remember the bedroom door swinging open, or the way the afternoon light fell across the bed in golden stripes.

What you remembered was the moment Bucky lost control.

The moment his hands gripped your thighs like he needed to hold you in place or he’d fall apart. The moment he lowered you onto the mattress, his body covering yours, the weight of him pressing you into the sheets.

The moment he said your name.

Not ma’am. Not Mrs. Rumlow. Not anything polite or proper.

But your name, whispered like a sin he was dying to commit, like he’d been saving it for this exact moment, tasting it on his tongue for the first time.

“Please,” he breathed, hot against your neck, lips brushing the thrumming pulse at your throat. “Please let me.”

And then he pushed inside you.

Your gasp broke in half. Your fingers clutched the sheets. Your breasts arched into his chest on instinct, a reflexive surrender.

You cunt was soaked, open and ready, aching for him in a way you hadn’t ached for anything in years. But he still felt too big. Too deep. The stretch of him made your eyes roll back, made your breath catch in your throat.

You hadn’t been touched like this in years. Not with intention. Not with fire. Not with the kind of desperate, worshipful need that made you feel like you were the only woman in the world.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder. His voice was muffled against your skin, rough and broken. “God, you feel—fuck—”

Each thrust was harder. Needier and more frantic. The headboard knocked against the wall in a steady rhythm, the sound mixing with the ragged fall of his breathing, the wet, slick sound of him moving inside you.

He fucked you like he was making up for every time he watched you from the sidewalk and imagined what you’d sound like under him. Like he’d been storing up this hunger for weeks, months, and finally had permission to let it out.

You dragged your nails down his back and he trembled, a full-body shudder that made him bury himself deeper.

“Easy,” you whispered, breath hot in his ear. “Slow down, sweetheart.”

He shook his head, fucking into you harder, faster, his rhythm falling apart at the edges.

“I can’t,” he said, voice cracking. “I can’t, I’m sorry, I—been wanting you so long—”

You grabbed his jaw. Forced him to look at you.

His pupils were blown, dark as ink. His cheeks were flushed, his lips red and swollen from kissing you too hard. A strand of hair had fallen across his forehead, and he looked wrecked in the most beautiful way.

“Then take what you want,” you said softly, stroking his cheek with your thumb. “Come on, baby. Don’t hold back.”

He broke.

His mouth crashed onto yours again, sloppy and desperate. His hips snapped forward in a brutal rhythm, the headboard slamming the wall in a steady, percussive beat. Each thrust drove the air from your lungs, your tits bouncing with every impact.

He stared at you like he’d never seen a naked woman in his life, like you were something sacred and filthy all at once. His gaze traced the curve of your breasts, the flush spreading across your chest, the way your body moved beneath him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he gasped, the words tumbling out broken. “Been dreamin’ about you in this bed—fuck—thought about it every damn night. Every time I walked past your door, I’d picture you right here, spread out for me.”

You moaned, loud and shameless, your fingers threading through his damp hair and tugging him down. Your mouth met his in a kiss that bruised, tongues sliding, the taste of salt and lemon mingling between you.

He kissed like he fucked. All tongue and breath and raw, unfettered hunger. He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth and moaned into the kiss, his cock still pounding into you with that relentless, youthful urgency.

“You like this?” he panted, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His were glassy, pupils blown wide. “You like how I fuck you? Tell me. Please—I need to hear it. I need to know I’m doin’ it right.”

Your voice came out broken, barely recognizable. “Yes. God, yes. Harder—don’t stop—”

His grip shifted. One hand stayed firm on your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh. The other slid under your thigh, lifting it higher, angling you deeper, opening you to him in a way that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

“Shit—James—”

“I know, I know—feels good, right?” His voice was ragged, breath sawing in and out of his lungs. “I can feel you—fuck—you’re squeezin’ me, ma’am. Like you don’t wanna let me go.”

He was falling apart. You were too. Your nails dragged down his shoulders, leaving red crescents in their wake. Your breath hitched, stuttered, dissolved into a whimper. Your thighs quivered around his waist, the muscles trembling with the effort of holding on.

“Don’t stop,” you whined, the plea ripping out of your throat. “Don’t you dare stop—”

His voice broke completely, cracking under the weight of his own need. “I’m not. I’m not. I’m gonna stay right here—gonna give you everything, Mrs. Rumlow—everythin’ I got—”

Your orgasm hit you so hard you didn’t even register your own moan. It tore through you like a wave, white-hot and blinding, clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses that stole your breath and turned your limbs to jelly. Your back arched off the bed, your fingers twisting in the sheets, your vision going white at the edges.

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat as he felt you clench around him, a sudden grip that dragged him over the edge with you.

“Oh—oh my God—” he gasped, his rhythm faltering, his hips stuttering. “You’re—fuck—you’re cummin’—”

And then he fell apart inside you.

A guttural, broken groan tore out of his chest as he thrust deep burying himself to the hilt while he spilled into you with an urgency that bordered on desperate. His body shook, every muscle taut, his hands clutching your hips like you were the only solid thing in a world that had just tilted sideways.

His forehead fell to your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your sweat-slicked skin. He breathed you in; the scent of your perfume, the salt of your skin, the lingering musk of sex, and let out a shuddering exhale.

“Mrs. Rumlow…” he whispered, like a confession. His voice was raw and hoarse. Then, as he slowly pulled out, the loss of him making you feel suddenly empty, he added, “I… I don’t wanna stop.”

You stroked the back of his head gently, your nails grazing the nape of his neck, tracing the fine hairs there. His skin was damp, warm, trembling slightly under your touch.

“You don’t have to, sweetheart,” you murmured, the words low and honeyed.

He lifted his head. His eyes were blown wide, dark and glassy. His hair was a wild mess, plastered to his forehead with sweat. His cheeks were flushed, his lips red and swollen, and under all that, still hard, still pressing against your thigh with stubborn, unapologetic desire.

“I can go again,” he whispered, almost frightened of his own need. “Please let me. I know I just—but I need—please, I ain’t done with you yet.”

Your fingers raked through his damp hair, smoothing it back from his brow. He was so young. So pink. So earnest in his hunger. You’d just let him cum inside you, and he still looked like he wanted to say thank you.

You kissed the corner of his mouth, tasting the salt of his skin.

“Breathe, honey,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his. “You’re not done yet.”

And before he could even answer, you shifted from underneath him, a slow, fluid motion that left him blinking, confused, his body still humming with unspent need. You climbed onto all fours, and looked back over your shoulder at him. The afternoon light caught the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the soft swell of your hips.

You looked over your shoulder at him, a lazy, knowing smile curving your lips.

“Come here, James. Show me what else you’ve been dreaming about.”

His eyes went wide. The pupils had already swallowed most of the blue, leaving just a thin ring of colour around the black. His chest heaved, still slick with sweat, a fine sheen glistening across his collarbones and the hollow of his throat.

You didn’t have to tell him twice.

He was already fully hard again, flushed tip, veins twitching along the shaft, the head glistening with a mixture of your combined slick. When he slid behind you, it wasn’t with the frantic rush you expected. He took his time. Let his hands trace the curve of your ass first, palming the roundness like he couldn’t believe it was real.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice hushed and awed. “You’re perfect. I swear to god—”

“Show me, then,” you said. “Show me how perfect I am.”

His hands tightened. Fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, anchoring himself. And then, he pushed in again. Thick and warm, the slick heat of you parting around him like you’d been waiting for this very moment. You moaned like you meant it, your forehead dropping to the sheets as he filled you inch by inch.

“Jesus—still so fuckin’ wet—” he hissed, hips stuttering as he bottomed out, pressing flush against you.

You were. Dripping with the evidence of his first release and still greedy for more. The feeling of him sliding into that already-fucked heat sent a shiver through you, your inner walls clenching instinctively around him.

“Harder,” you rasped, cheek pressed to the mattress, the words muffled but clear. “I can take it. Come on, honey. Fuck me.”

His grip on your hips turned bruising, fingers pressing deep enough to leave marks you’d find tomorrow. His thrusts came harder, deeper, desperate and sloppy with sound. The wet, obscene noise of his cock driving into you filled the room, mingling with his ragged breaths and your broken moans. He was panting behind you, fingers digging in as he drove into you like he wanted to climb inside, to bury himself so deep you’d never forget the shape of him.

You arched your back, pressed into him, gave him more. Your breasts swung beneath you, nipples dragging against the sheets with each impact. The sensation sent sparks through your chest.

“That’s it, baby. That’s it. Use me.”

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he gasped, his voice cracking. “You’re gonna fuckin’ ruin me, ma’am. I’m never gonna be able to look at another woman without thinkin’ of you.”

And you smiled, even as your mouth fell open with another moan as his cock hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur and your toes curl.

The room was hot. The sheets wrinkled and twisted beneath you. Skin stuck together wherever you touched, his thighs against yours, his chest against your back when he leaned forward, his breath hot on your shoulder blade. The scent of sex clung to every inch of air; sharp and sweet, salt and musk, the metallic tang of arousal and the warmth of two bodies pushed past their limits.

Slap—slap—slap of skin meeting skin. The desperate whine building in his throat. The soft chant of your name breaking from his lips like a prayer, ma’am, Mrs. Rumlow, please, please, each syllable punctuated by a thrust.

“You like this?” you managed to gasp, your voice frayed at the edges. “Fucking a married woman? In her bed? Filling her up like a good boy?”

He whimpered. The sound was raw, stripped of all pretense.

“Yes—yes, ma’am—fuck—” His rhythm faltered, his hips stuttering as he fought for control. “Please let me cum again. Please. I’ll do anythin’—I’ll be so good—”

You reached between your legs and rubbed your clit with two fingers, the pressure just enough to send sparks up your spine, to tighten the coil building low in your belly. Your hips pushed back to meet his thrusts, driving him deeper.

“Then do it,” you moaned, the words thick with approaching release. “Cum in me, James. Again. Show me how much you want me.”

He buried himself so deep you swore you could feel it in your throat, a fullness that stole your breath, that made your eyes roll back. And with a strangled grunt, he came again.

Pulsing inside you like he never wanted to leave. You felt each spasm, each flood of warmth, each desperate clench of his hands on your hips as he emptied himself into you.

The sensation pushed you over the edge. You followed hard, clenching around him, crying out into the sheets as your body finally gave out. The tremors ran through you in waves, stealing your strength, turning your limbs to jelly. Your arms collapsed beneath you, and you sank into the mattress, cheek pressed to the damp fabric.

But he stayed inside. Held your hips. Rested his forehead on your back and just breathed, hot, uneven puffs of air against your spine.

You didn’t move at first. Didn’t speak. Didn’t reach for the sheets to cover yourself. Just lay there, chest pressed to the mattress, skin hot and slick with sweat and the evidence of what you’d done, your breath slowing in the heavy stillness of the room.

The clock on the nightstand ticked. Somewhere outside, a bird sang. Life continued in the world beyond these walls, oblivious to the sin unfolding in this bed.

You felt the soft drag of Bucky’s fingers down your spine. Tracing each vertebrae like he was memorising you.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice still shaking, still raw. “I can’t believe that just happened.”

You smiled into the pillow, eyes closed, lips curving against the cotton.

“Believe it,” you murmured, voice rasped and ruined. “You earned it.”

He laughed, a breathless sound that didn’t quite mask the wonder in it, and pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades. His lips lingered, warm and soft.

And then another. And another. Trailing up the ridge of your spine to the nape of your neck, where he nuzzled into the fine hairs there and let out a contented sigh.

“I don’t wanna leave,” he mumbled against your skin. “Ever.”

You hummed, a low, pleased sound. Your hand reached back blindly, finding his head, patting it once.

“Then stay a little longer, sweetheart. Clock’s not even at twelve yet.”

He shifted, pulling out slowly, the loss of him making you feel suddenly empty, a faint ache in its wake.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, nosing into your hair, his breath warm against your scalp. The question came out hushed, almost fragile. “Did I—was I too rough?”

You shook your head, eyes half-lidded, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. The pillowcase was cool beneath your cheek, a soft counterpoint to the heat still radiating from your skin.

“No, honey. You were perfect.”

That made him groan, the sound vibrating against your back where his chest pressed flush against you. You could feel his cock twitch, still half-hard against your thigh, a stubborn pulse of warmth that refused to fully subside.

He shifted beside you, curling around your back, fitting himself to the curve of your spine like he’d been made to fill that space. His mouth kept moving, over your shoulder, across the delicate skin where your neck met your collarbone, pressing featherlight kisses that made your breath catch.

“I’ve never…” He paused, his lips still against your skin. “I’ve never felt anything like that.”

His hand slid up your stomach, palm flat, fingers tracing lazy circles into the soft plane of your belly. It came to rest just beneath your breasts, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his palm.

“You’re so fuckin’ soft,” he whispered, wonder threading through the words. “I can’t stop touching you.”

“Then don’t.”

You meant it. Let him have you. Let him touch and kiss and worship every inch of you until your skin felt new again, until the ghost of Brock’s careless hands was erased entirely, replaced by the devotion of this boy who acted like you were something special.

His lips found your jaw. Your cheek. The slope of your neck where your pulse still fluttered. He kissed the hollow of your throat, and you felt the tip of his tongue.

“Can I stay a little longer?” His voice was quieter now. Stripped of the confident swagger he’d worn on your doorstep. This was the boy beneath the uniform, the one who still got nervous around pretty girls and asked permission like he expected to be denied.

You turned your head, looked him in the eye for the first time since you’d let him fuck you senseless. The blue of his irises was hazy, pupils still blown wide, but there was something raw there too. Something that needed to hear the answer.

“You can stay as long as you want, honey.”

His exhale was shaky. His forehead dropped to yours, nose brushing against your cheek, and he let out a sound that was half-sigh of relief.

“Yeah?”

“Yes, James.”

He smiled. A real one, boyish and crooked.

You lay there for a while, tangled together in the wreckage of the sheets, letting your heartbeat settle, letting the room breathe around you. The afternoon light had shifted, softer now, casting long shadows across the floor.

Bucky eventually had to pull away to dress again. He stumbled a little getting off the bed, his legs still unsteady, and you watched him gather his uniform from where it lay scattered across the floor. He flushed every time he caught your eye, a pink bloom creeping up his neck and across his cheeks.

He kept looking back at you. At your thighs still parted, at the imprint of your body on the mattress he’d just ruined.

You watched him pull his uniform pants back up, hands shaking as he fumbled with the zipper. His tucked-in shirt stuck to the sweat drying on his chest, and he smoothed it down like he was trying to make himself look respectable again.

Like he hadn’t just spent the last hour moaning into your pillow.

When he reached the doorway of your bedroom, his steps slowed. His hand came up to grip the doorframe, knuckles whitening. He hesitated. Then lingered.

“Um… I should… I gotta get back,” he muttered, voice small, almost apologetic. “My route. They’ll notice if I’m gone too long.”

You nodded gently, propping yourself up on one elbow.

He looked down at the floor. At the worn wooden boards. Then at you again, as if drawn by some invisible force.

“Was that… was this just…?”

He swallowed, his jaw flexing as if the words hurt to push past his teeth. “Was it just a one-time thing?”

You didn’t move. Not at first. You let him stand there, already addicted, already terrified of losing something he never thought he could have. The silence stretched, just long enough to make him fidget.

“I… I didn’t mean to cross a line,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I know you’re married. I just— I couldn’t help it. Every time I saw you at that door, I couldn’t think straight. And if you don’t want to see me again, I—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You slid out of bed, the sheets pooling at your feet, not bothering to cover yourself. The air hit your skin, but you didn’t shiver. You walked toward him slowly, each step intentional, the floorboards creaking beneath your bare feet.

When you reached him, you put your hands on his face, palms against his stubbled jaw, fingers threading into the hair at his temples. His skin was warm, and he leaned into your touch like a man starved for it.

His breath stopped altogether.

And you kissed him.

A slow, sultry kiss, tongue sliding into his mouth, your body pressed against his until you felt the hard line of him through his uniform pants. He groaned softly against your lips, the sound swallowed by the kiss, his free hand coming up to grip your waist like he might fall without you.

His fingers curled into the doorframe with his other hand, white-knuckled, like he needed the support to stay upright. His chest heaved against yours.

When you finally pulled back, his eyes were dazed. Puppy-soft.

You brushed your thumb over his cheek, feeling the faint stubble, the heat still lingering in his skin.

“Baby,” you whispered, lips grazing his, close enough that you felt his breath ghost across your mouth. “I’ll see you again on Thursday.”

He exhaled like you’d just saved his life. Like you’d reached into his chest and wrapped your hand around his heart and told him it was safe to keep beating.

“Thursday,” he repeated, dazed, the word rolling off his tongue like a prayer. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll… I’ll be here.”

You smiled. Soft and sure. A promise sealed in the space between your bodies.

“I know you will.”

He stared at you one last time, like he didn’t want to look away, like leaving meant losing something he’d only just found. His eyes traced your face, your lips, the line of your throat where his mouth had been. Then he forced himself to turn, to walk out of the bedroom, down the hallway, toward the front door.

You followed at a distance, leaning against the wall just inside the living room, watching through the sheer curtain as he stepped outside. He paused on the porch, shoulders tense, one hand pressed over his mouth like he was still trying to understand what you’d done to him.

He walked down the path, past the rose bushes, past the mailbox, towards his truck, his steps heavy and light all at once. At the gate, he stopped. Turned back. Looked at the house.

At the window where you stood, half-hidden behind the curtain.

He didn’t wave, he just looked. A long, searching look that said everything his stammering words couldn’t.

Then he turned and disappeared down the street, his mailbag slapping against his hip, his life forever changed by the woman in the window.

After that Tuesdays and Thursdays became your favourite days of the week.

The clock became your accomplice. You’d watch the hands crawl toward 10:45, feel the familiar flutter build in your chest, absolute anticipation. That electric hum that made everything sharper, brighter, more alive.

By the time his footsteps sounded on the porch, you were already at the door.

He never had to knock again.

The first Thursday after that Tuesday, you opened it before his knuckles could meet wood, and he stood there, mailbag slung across his body, cap in hand, that boyish grin already spreading across his face. But his eyes were different now. Hungrier. Like he’d spent the the last two days reliving every second.

“Good mornin’,” he said, voice low, glancing down the street before stepping inside.

You didn’t bother with pleasantries. You grabbed his collar, pulled him into the kitchen, and pushed him against the counter.

He laughed against your mouth, surprised and delighted. “Damn, woman—”

You bit his lower lip. “Shut up and kiss me.”

He did.

The kitchen became a playground. Flour dusted the counter where he’d lifted you onto it, your legs wrapped around his waist, his hands gripping your hips as he fucked you slow and deep. The sun streamed through the window, catching the sweat on his chest, and you remembered thinking, this is what mornings should feel like.

“I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you,” he murmured against your throat, thrusting up into you. “All day. Every night.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He buried his face in your neck, breath hot and ragged. “Kept seein’ you in my head. The way you looked at me when I—”

You pulled his head back, made him look at you. “When you what, honey?”

His cheeks flushed. “When I came inside you.”

You smiled, slow and wicked, and clenched around him. He groaned, head falling forward.

“Good,” you whispered. “You keep thinking about it.”

The stairs came next.

It was Tuesday, and you’d been waiting at the top of the staircase when he walked in. You’d worn nothing but his cap, the mailman’s cap you’d stolen from his head the week before, and peered down at him from the landing.

His eyes went wide. His mouth dropped open.

“Mrs. Rumlow…”

“You coming up or not?”

He took the stairs two at a time, but you didn’t let him reach the top. You met him halfway, pushed him onto his knees, and let him bury his face between your thighs right there on the steps. His hands gripped your hips, his mouth worked you until your knees buckled, and you came with your fingers tangled in his hair, your back against the banister, the wood creaking beneath you.

He looked up at you afterward, lips slick, eyes dazed. “I’m gonna get fired if I keep this up.”

You helped him stand, kissed the taste of yourself off his mouth. “Then get fired. I’ll keep you.”

He laughed, breathless, and pulled you into the bedroom.

The dining table became an altar.

It was a Thursday, and you’d set it for two; plates, silverware, a vase of fresh roses, but lunch sat untouched. Instead, he bent you over the mahogany surface, your palms flat against the wood, his body pressed against your back. The china rattled with every thrust. A glass clattered to the floor, shattering.

“Sorry,” he gasped, stilling for a moment.

“Don’t stop.” You pushed back against him. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He didn’t.

Afterward, you lay tangled on the rug, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm. The afternoon light filtered through the lace curtains, casting patterns across the floor.

“I ever tell you what I think about?” he asked quietly.

“What?”

He turned his head, kissed your hair. “When I’m out on my route. Walkin’ up all those driveways. I pretend every door is yours. Every house. Just… imagine your face, waitin’ for me on the other side.”

You lifted your head, looked at him. “That’s sweet, James.”

His ears went red. “Yeah, well. Don’t tell nobody.”

The Cadillac was your pièce de résistance.

Brock had taken it out just once that month, to some dinner with his boss, and he’d left it in the garage, waxed and gleaming, untouched. You knew exactly where he kept the spare key.

You led Bucky out there with your fingers laced through his, past the gardening tools and the oil-stained floor. When he saw the car, he stopped.

“Shit. You’re not serious.”

“Open the door.”

“Mrs. Rumlow, your husband will kill me if he finds out—”

“Bucky.” You turned, pressed yourself against him, looked up through your lashes. “Don’t you want to know what it feels like to fuck another man’s wife in his own car?”

His breath caught. His hands trembled. And then he was fumbling with the door handle, pushing you into the backseat, following you in.

The leather was cool against your skin. The windows fogged up fast. He moved above you, inside you, his mouth against your ear, whispering things that would’ve made a priest blush.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he breathed.

“Then die happy, sweetheart.”

He came with a shudder, his face pressed into your shoulder, his body shaking. You held him through it, ran your fingers through his damp hair, felt the last tremors ripple through him.

He pulled back, looked at you like you’d rewritten the stars.

“I don’t have much,” he said softly. “But everything I got? It’s yours.”

You cupped his face, kissed him slow. “I know, baby.”

And every time, he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

The way he’d trace the lines of your face afterward, like he was memorising you. The way he’d whisper your name. The way he’d hold you after, his arms wrapped around you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

Maybe you weren’t in love. Not the kind you read about in books, anyway. Not the kind that lasted.

But you were wanted.

Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. Every time he stepped through that door, you saw it in his eyes; that hungry, desperate, devoted look that said you were the best part of his week, the secret he’d carry to his grave, the woman who’d ruined him for anyone else.

And for now, that was enough.

a/n | yeah reading back on this, it’s very repetitive in some parts, maybe that’s why i didn’t post it, srry for keeping this fic hostage for eight months chat

but… Yeah! thx for reading

He always stares at you. It doesn’t matter if you’re hanging out at Steve’s place—technically Bucky’s place as well, but you refuse to give him any sort of credit about that—or getting coffee, or at the movies, or here, in another bar on a Friday night, trying to wash the week down with a drink, Bucky stares at you like he’s trying to kill you. It’s the kind of stare you’d find creepy from anyone else. A knit brow and heavy breathing, like just the sight of you makes him want to rip his head off. You glare back when you can, but tonight, you’re determined to ignore it. Ignore him.

Bucky can be as pretty and charming as he wants, he’s not getting a rise out of you. Not one that he can see, at least. When you got to the bar, he drawled your name and teased you about your drink, but you just grabbed your boyfriend’s hand and dragged him across the room without a look over your shoulder.

Maybe one look.

One look that Brock didn’t have to see, because he’s always accusing you and Bucky of having something. You’ve tried to explain to him that whatever something he thinks exists between you and Barnes is just the negative space of pure fucking loathing, but he doesn’t listen. He never listens.

“Barnes wants to fuck you,” he’d muttered last week, after you got home, and you’d rolled your eyes.

“Bucky does not want to fuck me, he can barely stand to be in the same room as me-“

“Because he wants to fuck you,” Brock has snapped. “I don’t want you hanging around him alone.”

You’d scoffed. “That’s- We’re friends-“

“Thought he hated you-“

“He does. But- It’s complicated.”

And it was. Bucky was Steve’s best friend, and Steve was your work husband, and Natasha was your best friend, and Steve’s actual girlfriend, and Bucky’s work wife, and Sam was Bucky’s other best friend and work husband, and your best friend—you’d even lived together, in college, which Brock never seemed to understand the concept of—and Steve’s business partner, which made him your boss, but you Nat’s and Bucky’s  boss, and it was a tangled mess of relationships and years of history that became impossible to unweave. You and Bucky were friends because if you weren’t, you were enemies, and that always hurt right under your ribs in a way you never wanted to acknowledge.

Bucky wasn’t a bad guy. He was a stubborn ass sometimes, and he stared a lot, and got kind of judgey about stupid things, but so did you. The first time you met, you’d just stared at each other for—according to Natasha—five straight minutes. Once you’d been at some stupid charity gala, and you’d spent the whole time gossiping in the corner about the old, rich assholes who needed a party to give their endless money to a good cause. You’d thought that you were friends. Really friends. Friends that could’ve been something more, if he’d asked you to be.

But he hadn’t. He never had. And you’d started to butt heads more, and he didn’t ask if you were good like he used to. He avoided you at the stupid parties and didn’t ask your opinion about small things. He didn’t wait for you to go to lunch, or sit with you when you had to stay late, and suddenly the friendship had slipped through your fingers, because it had been so fast you hadn’t been given time to realize you were supposed to hold on.

Some days you wonder what you did, and you want to strangle the answer out of his pretty, thick head. You thought you’d been good. You’d really thought you’d been good, and then he’d just gone and decided that you weren’t. That there was something about you he just couldn’t stand, and you never get to know what it was.

So if he wanted to play the hating game, you’d play it, and you’d win. You ignored him almost every day, only sneering back when you had a comment that you knew would land like a headshot.

“You look comfortable,” he’d muttered last week at Nat’s, and you’d shot him a glare.

Bucky’s mouth had twitched, as you’d just stared at him. He always seemed to enjoy making you want to kill him. You hope he also enjoyed it, when you actually killed him.

“No boyfriend tonight, huh?” He’d smirked, and you swallowed on your venom. “What, he off fucking strippers again?”

Your lip had curled. You’d just kept glaring, and Bucky had laughed.

“Don’t give me that look, doll. It’s not your fault you can’t keep him satisfied-“

“I keep him satisfied,” you’d snapped, your patience finally fraying.

And Bucky had given you a strange, tired look. It was sharp around the edges, but dull everywhere else. Almost cold. Almost exhausted.

“I bet you do,” he’d muttered, and you’d snapped.

“At least I have someone to satisfy, Barnes,” you’d hissed. “No one can even put up with you for a one night stand.”

Bucky had flinched, and the knot in your gut had been immediate. You told yourself you liked the second his armor shattered slightly. You liked the win. You told yourself over and over, that it was fine, because he struck first.

But your body hadn’t learned the lesson. And it felt wrong to be in your skin, whenever Bucky made that broken, vulnerable face. Like he’d almost forgotten how cruel you could be. Like he’d cared at all, that you’d struck back.

He didn’t. You reminded yourself that he didn’t. It was complicated, because it needed to be, for the sake of explaining to Brock. But to you, it was really, painfully simple.

You’d been in a small, blooming love with Bucky. He’d recoiled and poured hatred on you like pesticide, and your loved had curled and shriveled, but never fully died. You think there might be something wrong with you, that you can harbor feelings for a man who brings you nothing but storms. You gave up on trying to understand it a long time ago. Maybe, one day, you’ll tell your therapist. You’re really hoping the love just dies first. It’s humiliating enough to feel it, let alone say it aloud.

Brock demanded he come with you tonight. To keep an eye on Barnes. You didn’t fight him, because fights with Brock aren’t something you win. He was a relationship you started before Bucky, that had been on and off and on and off for years. In the sacred months where Bucky had liked you, Brock had been off on some work trip in Germany. He’d gotten back right when Bucky had decided to hate you, and you’d been a raw, vulnerable creature, just crawling on the beach for a new shell to call home. Brock had been there. He’d been a tight fight, and the love you’d felt for him had soured from the joy of Bucky, but you’d just needed something. And Brock had been asking you to be exclusive for years. So you’d finally just… given in.

It’s not a dream relationship. Sometimes you worry you’re going to marry him and have his babies, and he’d make such ugly babies. You don’t want them. You don’t really see another way.

You wouldn’t mind having Bucky’s babies. That’s not a very productive thought to have.

“He always stare this much?” Brock asks, and you shrug.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Yeah?” Brock snaps. “Or maybe. Can’t be both, sweetheart.”

“Yeah and maybe,” you mutter. “I don’t know.”

“Either he stares or he doesn’t-“

“He stares, I just don’t know what’s this much-“

“Then you should start paying fucking attention.”

You sigh, and give Brock a tight smile. His lip curls, and his eyes narrow, and you fight the urge to flinch away.

Bucky hates you. Your boyfriend doesn’t seem to like you all that much either. He won’t let Nat sit with you, and he certainly won’t let Sam sit with you, so now you’re just fucking here. At the crowded bar, all but alone, even with half a dozen worried or hateful eyes on you. You only give yourself eyes for your drink.

At least you have your drink.

You’re smiling. Laughing. Lighting up the whole bar from your little corner, and Bucky’s stuck over here in the dark.

He wants to drink until he can’t anything but your face and a whole blur of colors, but he got stuck being one of the drivers. He wants to go over and sock your stupid boyfriend in the face, but that would lead to a bigger conversation he knows you don’t want to have. This is a grave he dug for himself, but it didn’t even work right. He was supposed to bury himself alive and forget about you, high above him, brighter than the sun and prettier than the sky.

Instead he’s just lying in the dirt, six feet down, only able to watch you orbit around him like an angel. It’s hell. It’s torture. It’s exactly what he fucking deserves.

“You’re sulking again,” Steve says casually, and Bucky grunts.

“So?”

“It’s bringing everyone down, Buck-“

“They’re fine.”

Steve sighs. He does that a lot, when it comes to you and Bucky. He sighed when Bucky told him that he’d fallen in love with you. He sighed when Bucky decided you deserved better and started to push you away. He sighed when Bucky would lock himself on the fire escape for hours after parties, smoking and staring out at the city skyline until the wind was threatening to bite his skin off, and he had to be dragged inside.

Bucky knows Steve thinks he’s an idiot. Hell, most days Bucky thinks he’s an idiot. There isn’t a moment that passes where he doesn’t want to go back and suck up the fear, take the gamble, and just tell you he’d fallen for you. Hard enough to break the sound barrier, hard enough to snap him in half before he even hit the bottom, hard enough that he was never going to be able to climb his way back up. But he’s a veteran with a missing arm and a pile of baggage he can’t even shoulder some days. You’d looked at him like he was something good. You’d looked at him like you thought it could’ve been easy, to fall right back.

And Bucky couldn’t have that.

The only thing worse than never having you would’ve been having you, and breaking you. Letting you down. Letting you love him, then letting you realize how wrong you were, to bother to try. So he’d pushed you away.

Steve said that didn’t give him the right to sulk about it all the time. Steve was probably right, but Bucky sulked anyway. It was all he had, now.

That, and hating your stupid fucking boyfriend.

Brock. Dumb name. Sounded like rock. Bucky had a better name. He’d even let you call him James, like you used to. You’re the only person that ever made Bucky sound like an insult instead of a marker of affection. He wants to go back to being James, just for you. But he can’t. Because of Brock.

“What does she even see in him,” he mutters, and Steve sighs. Again.

“I don’t know, but-“

“He’s not that good looking,” Bucky narrows his eyes at Brock. Leaning over the table. Grabbing your arm. Bucky should be the one touching you. “His dick is probably small.”

“I- Uh- Yeah, sure-“

“She deserves better-“

“Better like you?”

That makes Bucky’s head snap to the side. Steve doesn’t even blink, his brows raised in almost mocking gentleness. It pisses Bucky off sometimes, how he’s not allowed to be pissed at Steve.

“You know she’s with him because he asked her, right?” Steve says, and Bucky scowls.

“That’s not- I- He doesn’t treat her right-“

“And you do?”

Bucky tastes bile. Steve still doesn’t back down, just giving Bucky that sympathetic puppy look, and Bucky wonders if he digs himself another foot down, Steve will do him a favor and bury him alive.

“You could just- Talk to her,” Steve murmurs, and Bucky snorts.

“She doesn’t care what I gotta say, Stevie-“

“Because you made her think you don’t care at all.”

“I don’t care,” Bucky snaps, louder than he means to, and Steve gives him an unimpressed look. Bucky scowls and turns back to his drink. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say a thing-“

“You’re thinkin’. I can hear it.”

Steve sighs. Bucky’s going to shove a fist into his mouth, to get him to stop. “I’m just saying, Buck,” Steve murmurs. “Nat thought she was finally going to get over Brock. Before you decided to be an ass to her all the time.”

Bucky scoffs, then pauses. He didn’t actually understand what that meant. It sounded like it meant something important, something he was really supposed to understand, but for the life of him, he can’t work out why. He turns back to Steve with a frown, ready to ask what the hell that meant, but the words are drowned in aloud smash from across the bar.

Bucky’s attention snaps to the side in a second, his body realizing what’s happening before his brain. He’s on his feet when Brock shouts at you, and walking when you shove Brock. He almost breaks into a sprint, when he sees Brock’s hand curl into a fist. It only gets slammed on the table, but Bucky’s heart still threatens to burst through his throat. The bar is crowded. Too crowded. It’s taking him too long to get to you, and Brock shouts something, and you scream something back, and some lady tries to grab Bucky to flirt, but he shoulders her off.

He almost loses you in the chaos. A door slams, and he’s not sure if it’s you or Brock. He looks around for Nat—wherever you went, she’ll be there too—but can’t find her. He stumbles to the table, and his mouth goes dry.

You’re not hurt, but you’re crying. You’re crouching against the wall, Nat petting your head and trying to calm you down. Brock is nowhere to be found. Smart move, Bucky thinks. He was seconds from getting his face knocked in.

“What the hell happened?” He grunts to Nat, kneeling in front of you.

She shakes her head, lips in a thin line. “I’m not sure. They started fighting, Brock smashed a glass, then just- Fucked off, I guess.”

“What’d they fight about-“

“She won’t tell me,” Nat sighs, and you glare at her under gorgeous, wet lashes.

“I’m right here,” you snap, and Nat gives you an apologetic smile.

“I know, but- You won’t tell me.”

You sniff, glancing over to Bucky, then down to the floor. “I don’t want to talk about it,” you mutter, and Nat murmurs your name.

“Was it-“

“Yeah.”

Nat scowls, and Bucky feels like he’s being left out of something.

“Nat, I-“ You grab her wrist, voice small and pleading. “I just want to go home.”

Natasha’s throat bobs, but she nods. Bucky frowns. Nat’s been drinking. Everyone’s been drinking except you and him, and he doesn’t think you should be driving when you can’t even get off the floor.

“I’ll take her,” he mutters, and you shoot him a poisoned glare.

“No.”

“Listen, kid, I’m offering to help-“

“I don’t want your help,” you sneer, and Bucky sighs. He deserves that. He knows he does. Doesn’t make it any easier or sweeter to swallow.

Natasha mutters your name, watching Bucky from the corner of her eye. “It’s either him, or an uber-“

“Uber,” you say immediately, and Nat gives you a flat look.

“That wasn’t a real option. You’re going with Bucky.”

You pout, inching away from him, and Bucky’s face burns. He stares at his hands, trying to pretend he can’t hear your whispers. Trying to pretend they don’t cut into a sensitive, raw, needy part of his heart that no amount of self-inflicted burns has ever been able to steel.

“I don’t want to go with Bucky,” you hiss at Nat, and Nat just shrugs.

“I don’t want you to be alone right now-“

“Then you get in the Uber with me.” Your voice is small. Almost pleading. It breaks Bucky’s heart.

Nat shakes her head, voice gentle, as if you’re a wounded animal. “Bucky will drop you at my place, alright? I just have to take care of something first.”

Your nose wrinkles, but you agree. Bucky doesn’t think you’re happy about it. He can almost feel the disdain emitting from your body like radiation, as Nat helps you to Bucky’s car. He decides not to tell you that Nat’s thing is probably hunting down Brock and killing him. Bucky would join her, if he didn’t have to deal with you. He doesn’t think there’s anything more noble. His worry is devotion. It’s a shame you’re blinder than a real god, to see it.

The drive is dead quiet. Bucky glances at the radio every few minutes, but loses the debate with him over and over to turn it on. He doesn’t want you to hate his taste in music.

You curl up against the window, as far away from him as you can get without jumping onto the freeway. Bucky drums his fingers on the wheel to fill the silence. Your breathing has steadied from short, shallow gasps, but he can still hear you sniffle every few seconds. It makes his vision line with red, and he knows he’s the worst kind of hypocrite, but knowing never helped anyone. He doesn’t understand, how Brock could treat you so horribly. He doesn’t understand how you—beautiful, smart, sweet but unwavering and sharp—could tolerate it.

Bucky parks the car outside of Nat’s. You don’t move, and he wishes he could build the anger to make you. But you smell like vanilla and something summery, and you look like an angel in the streetlights, and all he can feel is bubbling red and green. It spills out of his mouth like vomit, before he can garner the will and kindness to shove it down.

“What do you see in him,” Bucky mutters, and you look over with a frown.

You stare at him. Bucky stares back. He loves it when you do that. It’s a little off-putting, but he thinks he can tell you the truth with his eyes. He’s not sure, though, if you ever see it.

“He’s good to me,” you mutter finally, and Bucky snorts. “He is, don’t- Don’t fucking make that face-“

“I’m not makin’ a face-“

“You are,” you point at him, eyes narrowed, voice cold. “He is good to me, Bucky.”

Bucky raises his brows. It only seems to work you up more.

“Fuck you,” you spit. “Brock loves me, he- He’s- You just don’t see the side of him that I do-“

“I don’t think he’s got enough sides to hide anything, doll,” Bucky drawls, and you scowl.

“You’re just jealous.”

Bucky recoils, fingers tightening on the wheel. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he grunts, and you roll your eyes.

“Fuck off, it’s so obvious-“

Bucky mutters your name in warning, but you just keep going.

“You’re jealous that someone like me could have a partner that loves them, when you’re alone. But guess what, Bucky,” you lean forward, words spitting over Bucky’s slack face. “You’re going to die alone, and I’m not, so fuck you.”

You push the door open, and storm out onto the street. Bucky’s frozen in the drivers seat for a second, a faint ringing in his ears. You’re right. You’re right, and it’s his fault. Not about Brock—that piece of shit isn’t capable of love, even for someone as perfect as you—but- But-

He’s moving before he can think about why. Shoving his way out of the car and shouting your name, chasing you up the sidewalk like a madman. You ignore him. Of course you do. It’s what he’s fucking earned.

“Just- Wait-“ He catches your wrist. You yank it away.

“Leave me alone, Bucky-“

“No, I got somethin’ I wanna say-“

“Well I don’t want to hear it-“

“I know, I know, just-“

“No!” You scream, round on him with a pointed finger, and Bucky feels something split right down his chest at the tears in your eyes. “No, I don’t want to fucking- I- You don’t get to tell me anything about- About anything. This is your fault, your-“

You cut yourself off, and Bucky blinks, leaning back. “My fault?” He laughs in disbelief, when you nod, not meeting his eyes. “How the hell is it my fault?”

You wrap your arms over your stomach, gaze fixed firmly on your shoes. “Brock thinks you want to fuck me,” you mumble, and Bucky’s heart falters in his chest. “That’s what the- The stupid fight way about, alright? And he thinks I shouldn’t be around you anymore, because of it.”

Bucky gapes at you. He’s trying to think of a way to ask that isn’t selfish. He can’t come up with it. “But you’re not going to listen to him, right?”

You shrug. “It’s not like you like being around me,” you mumble, and Bucky’s hands fists.

“That’s not the fuckin’ point, doll-“

“Isn’t it?” You give him a tired look. “Don’t you want me to just- Just go away? Aren’t you fucking happy, that you’re never going to have to deal with me again?”

Bucky’s throat his too tight to speak. This is a walking nightmare, but he can’t seem to wake up. You’re right. This is the part he’s supposed to want, where you bury him and he never has to see you’re beauty and wonder what if. But he’s selfish. He’s too fucking selfish, and he doesn’t want the sun to go away. He can’t lose you. Not like this, not when you seem to have halfway lost yourself.

You give him a prompting glare, tipping up your chin when he’s been silent too long. He swallows. His fingers flex, and he works his jaw until he can speak.

“Don’t,” he rasps, watching you under hooded eyes. “Don’t go away.”

You laugh, but it doesn’t sound read. “Don’t do that, Bucky, don’t act like you care-“

“I do care-“

“No.” You point at him, face tight. “No, you don’t- You don’t-“

Bucky catches your hand, and you immediately go quiet. He takes a small step forward. You don’t take a step back.

“I care,” he croaks, squeezing your hand once. “I care, doll. I- I’ve always cared, I-“

He moves to his knees. You stare down at him, like you’re not sure what you’re supposed to do. Bucky doesn’t need you to do anything. He only prays at the only alter he knows—your feet—that you’ll listen.

“I love you,” he whispers, and your mouth falls open.

“Bucky…”

“I know I’ve been a dick,” he rasps. “I know, and I- I don’t expect you to forgive me, or say anything back. If you wanna slap me, I’ll let you. I’ll let you do anything, doll, just- Please don’t listen to him.” Bucky swallows, daring to wrap a hand around the back of your thighs, silently begging you to stay. “If he’s told you no one else is gonna love you, he’s dead wrong. If you’re letting him tell you what to do ‘cause you think it’s the only way to make him stay, let him fucking leave. You deserve better. You’ve always deserved better. Than-“ His words catch, painful in his throat. “Than me. But also than him. You deserve better.”

He digs his fingers into your soft skin, and you swallow, blinking down at him with soft, glossy eyes.

“I love you,” Bucky echoes like a prayer. “I swear I love you, doll. And I really don’t expect nothing, but- Please.”

You straighten up, and Bucky tries not to flinch when you cup his cheek. Your hand is so warm, so soft. He doesn’t deserve the touch.

“Bucky,” you murmur. “Stand up.”

He blinks at you, then scrambles to his feet. Your mouth twitches. He thinks that’s a good sign.

You stand barely an inch apart, staring into each others eyes. Bucky lets every bit of himself crumble away, until the only thing left for you to see is his love. You let out a sharp breath, and glance to his parted lips.

“You mean it?” You whisper, and he nods in a heartbeat.

“With everything I got.”

You laugh, soft and nervous, and meet his gaze again. “But- You were such an asshole- I thought you hated me.”

“Never,” he whispers. “I- I mean- I was an asshole, but I never hated you doll, ever. I just- I kinda loved you too much, and I’m an idiot-“

Bucky’s voice dies easily, when you push up and press a small kiss to his lips. His hands twitch to catch you, but he holds them back. Not daring to move. Not daring to let this fall apart. Your lips are so soft, and you taste like that sugary drink you’d been nursing, and he thinks he might have just taken a hit of a drug he’s never going to kick.

He’s panting, when you pull away. You smile at him, shy and gorgeous, brows raised in challenge, and he laughs like a ruined man. He dives back down, grabbing your face between his hands and kissing you hard. Kissing you the way he dreamed, your lips molding together and body arching up to his touch, your tongue darting over his lip before he squeezes your jaw, and you open for him with a moan.  He chuckles and spits into your mouth, wrapping an arm around your waist. You scratch his neck and press back with twice the force, dragging a low groan from his chest.

Bucky yanks himself back, and you stare at each other, flushed and panting. You find it in you to speak first. Bucky’s not surprised.

“You love me?” You demand, and he nods.

“All the time.”

You nod, and he thinks he’s got the kind of luck they talk about in kings.

“Good,” you mutter, straightening the collar of his shirt before fixing him with that enchanting, dangerous stare. “Prove it.”

Bucky smiles, and presses a harsh but loving kiss to your lips. You really have no fucking idea.

Proving it is going to be the easy part.

You’ve had dreams about this. So many dreams that living through it takes a lot of convincing, for you to believe it’s reality. You think, through the power of Bucky’s hands and lips, you’re going to get there.

You kissed and stumbled into Nat’s house with your hands roaming and feet tripping over everything but each other. Bucky had ripped your shirt over your head and kicked the door behind him, letting his searing mouth wander over your jaw, your cheeks, your nose and back to your lips. You’d pulled the buckle of his jeans while he made quick work of your bra, using the straps to pull you right back against his chest before tossing it the same way as your shirt.

“Look at you,” he’d muttered, palming your breast with an air of awe to his every word. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.”

You’d flushed and kissed him before he could say any more nice things. They were already making your heart soft and prone to forgiveness. The kind you were trying to make him earn, even if he was probably about to get it for free.

Bucky slid his hand around the back of your neck and kissed you like it was a movie. You’d melted into him, clinging to the hooks of his jeans and letting him angle your face further back. You’d tugged him closer and he’d grunted, wrapping his full bicep around your neck and sliding his hand on your breast down your side. He’d cupped your ass and squeezed it before dipping his fingers under your waistband, pulling it back and forth as he dragged his tongue over your lower lip.

“Wanna take care of you,” he’d muttered, like he was speaking to himself. “You gonna let me take care of you?

“Ye- Yeah,” you breathe, nails digging into his wrist. You’re trying to stay steady. You’re not sure it’s working, with how the room is spinning and your skin is getting heated. “Yes, please.”

Bucky chuckles, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. Your mouth falls open with a tiny gasp, and his brows furrow tight. He slides the pad of his finger between your lips, and you flick your tongue against it. Your eyes droop, and your head tips back as you start to suck on him. Bucky groans, his fingers digging into your hips.

“Jesus,” he rasps. “Always knew you’d be the death of me, doll.”

You coo, and Bucky’s nostrils flare. His hand drifts further down your back, hooking on your bottoms and pulling them with him. You make another soft, humming sound, smiling at him around his thumb, and his throat bobs.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “Just like that, nice and easy.”

Your bottoms fall to the floor, leaving you in only your panties. Bucky glances down, his tongue darting over his lips, and then looks right back to you. He pulls his thumb away, cups the back of your head, and pulls your face back for him to kiss. You moan against his mouth and he groans, pressing over you until there’s no space for anything else left. It’s all just Bucky, everywhere around you and so warm you start to get dizzy. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself, yanking at his shirt and trying to meet every kiss, but it’s hard. Bucky’s demanding, and you’ve wanted this for too long. Just his hands on your bare skin are better than anyone else being inside of you. It’s really unfair.

Bucky cups your pussy when your back hits the wall, and you mewl. He leans back to watch your hips roll against his hand, his eyes going fully dark and a low, rumbling grunt falling from his lips.

“Fuck, baby,” he rubs his hand back and forth, a sweet, lewd sound filling the room. “This wet, just for me?”

You nod a little shamefully, watching him under fluttering lashes. He pulls on the fabric of your panties and snaps it against your cunt, making you buck up with a squeak. Bucky chuckles and rubs over the hurt, leaning down until your lips are brushing together.

“You want me to play nice?” He whispers. “Or fuck you like I’ve been dreamin’ about.”

You blink at him, mouth hanging open and face burning. It’s hard to think, with the drag of his rough, gentle hand against your cunt. For a little while you just stare at him helplessly, and Bucky takes a small mercy, snapping your panties back against your pussy, shocking your heartbeat enough to make you think.

Like he’s been dreaming. You’ve been dreaming too. Holding fantasies about Bucky giving it to you just how you want, walking that thin line you never trusted Brock to balance on. But you trust Bucky. Your Bucky, before the whole mess. The Bucky you can see so clearly now, features shining with affection as he watches you already start to come apart.

“That,” you say, small but certain. “Do- Do it like that.”

Bucky pauses. “Like-“

“How you want,” you whisper, and he goes still.

Bucky scans over your face for an ounce of hesitation. You don’t have any, so you hold his gaze.

He lets out a rough, broken breath. “You sure-“

You press up and kiss him hard. He gets the idea.

Bucky rips your panties off like they’re made of paper, drops one arm under your thighs, and picks you up with barely a grunt. You squeal and try to push away on instinct, but he’s strong. Stronger than you thought, and you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time ogling his muscles. He slams his mouth over yours for a brief, hungry kiss, spits down your throat, and tosses you right over his shoulder.

“Bucky-“

“Shh,” he slaps your ass and you squeak again, dropping your face right into his shoulder. He squeezes over the pleasurable sting then starts to walk, keeping you steady over him.

“Where- Where are we going?” You try to push up to see over his shoulder. Bucky lands another spank on your ass, and you fall right back down with a whine. “James- Shit-“

He’s dragging his fingers over your sopping wet cunt, smearing the mess everywhere he can, humming while he walks. Your thighs clench, but that only seems to give him easier access, and you whine.

“Bu- Bucky-“

“Ah,” Bucky slaps your pussy, and you muffle your moan against his body. “That’s not what I want to hear, doll.”

You swallow and shake your head, bunching his shirt between your trembling fingers. Bucky spanks your pussy again and it clenches around nothing. His thumb drifts, teasing over your clit in tiny brushes, back and forth and back and forth. You whimper, but he just hums, dragging two fingers through the mess between your thighs, before returning to your swollen little button.

“Come on,” he coos, encouraging and mocking all at once. “Use your words for me.”

You can’t. You muffle another moan in Bucky’s shoulder, writhing best you can in his iron grip. Bucky hums like this is casual, like he’s not already taking you apart with the lightest of touches. A door creaks open, and you barely have time to recognize the carpet of Nat’s guest room before you’re being tossed down onto the bed.

You bounce slightly, and Bucky catches your ankles, dragging you right to the edge of the mattress. You stare at him, mouth hanging open, completely unsure what to do with yourself. His lips twitch and he lowers down, pressing a gently, loving kiss to your lips. You arch up and he rubs your thighs, easing you down into his touch. You slump forward, running your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low, satisfied sound from the back of his throat.

Bucky traces his hand a little higher up your thigh, and you try not to buck into his touch. It’s not very successful, and he smiles against your lips, pinching your upper thigh. You whimper and turn your head, trying to save useless face. Bucky chuckles, sucking a small mark under your throat, then flicking his tongue against the sensitive skin.

“James…” You moan, and he goes still. You turn nervously, worried you somehow, already, ruined it. “Bucky?”

His throat bobs. He grabs your chins between two fingers, eyes boring through you, like he can see all your hazy, love-colored thoughts.

“Buck-“

“James,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lip. “Keep callin’ me James, doll.”

You nod, a faint flush burning your cheeks. It’s not even from the way he’s touching you. Not right now. James isn’t a name Bucky lets anyone use. You used to, but then he started pushing you, and you didn’t want to lose that last sacred closeness, of being allowed to use his nickname. But if James is what he wants. He’ll get it. You’ll give him almost anything, right now.

“James,” you breathe, and Bucky’s throat bobs. He leans down for another, slower kiss. You close your eyes and let him control the depth, the unmeasured but drizzle passion like honey. When he pulls away you’re breathless, and he’s on his knees.

Naked and on his knees.

You make a tiny sound, gaping shamelessly at his cock. It’s thick and heavy looking, leaking with pre-cum and probably more than you can take. But you want to try. You want to drool around it in every possible way, looking up and Bucky and getting that faint, affectionate smile.

“You seein’ something you like?” Bucky teases, and you give him a hopeless, embarrassed look. He chuckles and grabs himself, stroking slowly and holding your gaze. “You want it bad, huh,” he mutters, smearing some drool over your cheek. “He ain’t been fuckin’ your right, either. Left you so needy for so long, you get all quiet just seeing a real cock?”

Your face is on fire, but your core is throbbing and aching. You drop your brow against Bucky’s, fixated on his fist, pumping that massive dick.

“Spit on it,” Bucky grunts, and you obey thoughtless, letting some of your need fall from your lips to Bucky’s shining cock. He groans and smashes his lips over yours, his hand pumping faster until he’s groaning your name against your lips.

Then he pulls back, lets go of himself, and just stares at your slack, desperate expression. You swallow, and his lips curve into a faint, starved smile.

“You need to be treated like a whore, huh,” he mutters. “Fucked like a toy ‘till you remember how nice it is, to have my attention.”

Oh, God. Your thighs try to press together. Bucky shoves them apart, using his thumb to part your puffy, swollen pussy lips.

“Pretty little thing,” he mutters, pressing over your clit before dragging his thumb back down. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll fuck you right. Gonna open you up,” he presses his thumb hard against your entrance, smirking at your tiny sound. “Then give you exactly what you need. That sound good?”

“Ye- Yeah,” you manage to babble, remembering his thing about words. “Yes, please.”

Bucky smiles, and presses a quick kiss to your lips. “Good girl.”

You whine, and Bucky doesn’t waste time. He sinks fully down, kissing over your tummy as he shoves your legs fully apart. You watch him, breathing ragged, and weave your fingers through his hair for balance. He kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other. Nips at the sensitive skin, then flicks his tongue over the hurt before kissing it again. He takes his time, kissing all around your cunt, but never letting his mouth go where you really fucking need.

“James,” you whine, tugging on his hair. “Don’t- Don’t tease.”

He chuckles, his lips brushing right against your clit. You squirm, but he holds your thighs down and gives you a stern look.

“I’ll tease you all I fuckin’ want, babydoll,” he mutters, giving the quickest, lightest kiss to your clit. “You’re too pretty and reactive not to play with.”

You whimper, unable to come up with a response that isn’t a fuck you. As fun as it would be to push his buttons and find out just what punishment under Bucky’s attention is—being dragged over his lap, forced to sit on his cock until you’re drooling, brought right up to the edge over and over but never being allowed to fall—you’re too desperate right now. You might cum just from looking at him, it’s been so long, and he seems to know it.

“Needy pussy,” he mutters, tracing his thumb in circles around your clit. “Gonna take real good care of you, pretty girl.”

You mewl because god help you, you really believe him. Bucky pulls back the hood of your clit, blows on it in a way that makes your whole body seize up, then presses a long, slow kiss to the bundle of nerves.

“Fuck- James- James-“

“I know,” he coos, tongue flicking against your pulsing cunt. “Such a greedy fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for me.” He kisses your clit again, making out with it until you’re panting and struggling to sit up. “Lucky I’m feelin’ generous,” he mutters, and whatever restraint he’d been pretending to have was gone.

Bucky shoves his face into your pussy, his beard scraping your thighs and his tongue licking a long, rough stripe up your core until it hits your clit, swirls, and  dives back down. Plunging in and out of your dripping hole before repeating the lick, playing with your clit more and more every time. Thick hands keep your legs spread when you start to get restless, but he lets you buck freely up into his mouth. He seems to enjoy it, how you pull on his hair and cry his name. If anything, his mouth just works harder against you, tongue flicking against your clit in rapid, tiny strokes that send you into a frenzy.

You fall back with a sob, grinding up and craning your neck to try and keep watching him. It’s a beautiful sight, Bucky drowning himself between your thighs. He winks at you, pressing his tongue flat over your entrance, and you fall back with a moan. You’re getting there fast. It would be embarrassing, with anyone but Bucky. He just kisses your thigh and bumps his nose against your clit, muttering you’re close against your skin before diving right back in.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You grab at the sheets, your pussy throbbing like a ticking bomb before an explosion. “Bucky- I- I’m gonna-“

His teeth graze your clit, and he wraps his lips tight around the nub, sucking on it hard. You scream as your vision goes white, your hips flying off the bed, but Bucky doesn’t stop. He lets wraps his arms around each thigh, shoves your legs close around his head, and keeps sucking on your clit, it starts to get all tingly and numb in the best way. It’s almost like he’s tickling it with his tongue, the pressure of his mouth perfect and unbearable, your eyes rolling back in your head as you writhe.

“Oh- Oh my god-“ You sob, pushing at his head. “Bucky- I- I can’t, please-“

He kisses your clit a little more gently, spanks your pussy, and gives you a stern look. “Yes, you can.”

It doesn’t seem to be something that’s up for argument. 

Bucky keeps you pinned to his face, sucking and sucking and sucking, no real care for what else you do. You cry and pull at the sheets, trying and climb away with no avail, and end up rolling onto your stomach, your face pressed into the sheets. Bucky still stays locked against your pussy, the feeling only intensifying when he’s beneath you. You’re all but sitting on his face, grinding you cunt down onto his jaw, sobbing into the sheets as your body becomes taut and wired and ready to snap.

A second orgasm rolls over you like a thunderstorm. Wet and loud and hot. You gush against Bucky’s face, tears starting to stream down your face from the overstimulation. You haven’t even had one proper orgasm in… longer than you want to admit. Brock never really gave you anything more than a shiver, and your patience in your own body was limited to a vibrator and ten minutes before a dull, anti-climatic orgasm that didn’t feel like much, but still made you too sensitive to keep going. Bucky just pulled two out of you, with his mouth alone.

He pulls back when you’re trembling, leaving a last, gentle kiss over your clit.

“Best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he mutters, giving it one more spank before he starts to crawl over your body. “Coulda died there, doll, I swear.”

He laughs to himself, and you whimper against the sheets. Bucky pauses, caging you against the mattress with massive arms, and slowly rolls you over onto your back. You stare up at him, starry-eyed and spent, and his mouth twitches down.

“You alright?” He murmurs, brushing the hair from your face. You nod, and he doesn’t look convinced. “Are you-“

“Bucky,” you whisper, and his throat bobs. “If you don’t fuck me, I’m leaving.”

He laughs, throaty and dry, and ducks back down to give you another, slower kiss. One hand slides down your body, palming at your breast, rolling a nipple between his fingers between pinching gently. Bucky smiles, at the tiny whine it pulls out of you.

“Could spend forever here,” he mutters. “Givin’ every single part of you the attention it deserves. Sucking on these tits while you ride my thigh. Bending you over and opening up that cunt with just my hands, just playing with your ass until you’re drippin’ on my lap.” He groans, his cock twitching against your thigh. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, babydoll. You got no idea.”

You hum, the tears on your cheeks shiner than before. He means it. Whatever doubts you’d had before fade, because you’re sure. Bucky means it.

He settles himself fully between your legs, the more aggressive, dominant mask seeming to fracture, like light splitting through the clouds. Always there, even when he pretends. Coming out when you most  need to see it.

“Gonna go right in,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Opened you up real good. Shouldn’t even hurt.”

You hum, pressing your face against his neck. Bucky rubs his cock against your cunt slowly, covering himself in your arousal before tapping his head against your clit—almost ceremoniously, like paying homage—and notching himself against your entrance.

The stretch isn’t as bad as you thought it would be. Bucky’s still big, so big you can feel it in your throat, so big you don’t think you’ve ever been this full, but he’d prepped you so well, it’s just a faint burn before it molds into pleasure. Bucky’s warm breath fans over the top of your neck as he watches your pussy mold around his cock. He moans something like your name against your skin, and you wrap your arms tight around his head.

“Feels so good,” you moan as he pushes further in. “So- So good.”

Bucky grunts, and you whimper as he bottoms out, balls pressed tight to your ass.

For a few moments, neither of you move. Bucky looks up at you with a wrecked expression you can feel in your chest, and you give him a faint, nervous smile.

“You know I love you too, right?” You say, because it’s the only thing you can think.

Bucky’s throat bobs. He doesn’t seem to have any words, and gives you a slow, romantic kiss. He rolls his hips experimentally, and you gasp against his lips. He’s curved in a way that presses right up against your g-spot, and it’s almost like a massage. You clench down, and Bucky grunts, but he repeats the motion anyway.

“James- Ooooh-“ Your eyes roll back, and Bucky sucks and kisses over your jaw, grinding his cock right against that soft, gooey spot. “Fuck- James-“

Bucky makes a deep, almost feral sound, and starts to move faster. Shallow, brutal thrusts that split you right open. You grab his bicep for dear life, and he watchers your every reaction with a sharp attention. You mewl when he does a swivel move, almost flying off the bed, and he pins you down with a hand splayed over your stomach.

“Feel that?” He grunts, pulling all the way out before slamming back in. “You fuckin’ feel that, babydoll? How good we feel together? Greedy little pussy, swallowin’ my cock up like the whore you are- Fuck-“

Bucky falls back over you, kissing you with spit and teeth and brutal force. You wrap your arms around your neck, moaning loud and shameless as he picks up his pace. Small, measured thrusts turn into the bed creaking, Bucky’s cock drilling into your pussy like he’s trying to knock every thought from your head. It’s working. You’re a drooling, wound up mess below him, and he grins against your lips.

“That’s my girl,” he mocks. “Smart head so fuckin’ empty, when I got you on my cock. No one else makes you feel like this, do they?”

You don’t answer—you can’t—and Bucky smacks your clit.

“Do they?”

You shake your head, babbling out a pathetic half-answer. “N- No-“

“Who fucks you right?” Bucky demands, words harsh but touch gentle when he grabs your jaw.

“You.” Tears start to fall down your cheeks again. “You, Bucky- Please-“

You moan as he hits that spot again, and Bucky groans, dropping down to kiss the tears away, then mold his lips back over yours.

“Damn right, me,” he grunts, skin slapping against skin, the wet, sinful sound of him bullying into your cunt almost drowning out the words. “My fuckin’ girl.”

Bucky leans up, and you almost cry for him before you realize what he’s doing. Bucky grabs your knees with one arm and presses them up to your chest, leaning down to kiss you as he fucks you deeper into the mattress. The angle is deeper like this. You can feel it everywhere, from your toes to your lips. You make a strangled, undignified sound when Bucky’s thumb returns to your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles.

“Cum with me, babydoll,” he grunts, kissing your calf and rutting into your drooling, pulsing cunt. “Come one, wanna fill you up, pump this pussy up ‘till everyone knows, just-“ He groans. “Gimme just one more.”

You don’t know where it comes from. You didn’t think you had it in you, but Bucky manages to pull it out. A third orgasm, slower and longer than the last too. Hotter, as well. Pooling in your gut before flooding out of your cunt. Down your thighs and over Bucky’s cock as you flutter and he doubles over with a roar.

You’re not sure what’s Bucky’s cum and what’s yours. There’s just wet stickiness, filling you up everywhere until your eyes are unfocused and your body is twitching. Bucky kisses you through the orgasms, fucking shallowly into your pussy like he can’t help himself. When you both ease down, you’re blinking at the ceiling with heavy eyes and a warm feeling blooming back into your chest. Free and light and easy, in a way you never expected yourself to have.

This is going to be a mess in the morning. Right now, you don’t really care.

“I guess Brock was right,” you muse. “You did want to sleep with me.”

Bucky sits up with a glare. “Don’t say that when I’m still inside of you.”

You giggle, reaching up to brush some hair from his brow. His gaze softens and he catches your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“Do you believe me?” He mutters, and it’s small and worried. As if, after that, you’d somehow ever let him get away again.

“Yeah,” you smile, and his shoulders slump in relief.

“Thank god-“

“But,” you squeeze his hand. “I think you should keep proving it.”

Bucky chuckles, giving you an amused look before dropping his face right back into your boobs. You beam at the ceiling and pet the top of his head, neither of you in a rush to clean up. You probably should. You really should. Bucky seems to realize why at the same moment you do.

“Nat’s gonna kill us,” he groans, and you snort.

“Yeah. You.”

Bucky props his chin on your chest. “You too-“

“No,” you shake your head. “I’m her favorite.”

“That’s-“ Bucky sighs, and drops his face back down. “Yeah.”

You laugh, and he grins against your boob.

“Worth it,” he mutters, and you smile like a fool.

Because yeah. It was.   

✦End note: sometimes... cheating is okay!✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

Keeps muttering that he's fucking this up somehow, and you don't know how to tell him he's the most gorgeous thing you've seen in a long while - eyes wide, mouth constantly parted, slightly flushed.

Who cannot stop silently thanking some higher power when your bra finally comes off, and most definitely cannot keep his mouth off you - or his teeth, for that matter.

Gets so caught up in the softness of you that he barely registers the fact you're moving your hips against him.

Who can't stop panting into the space between your neck and shoulder when you tangle your fingers into the hair at the base of his neck, tugging ever-so-slightly while you grind down harder on him.

Who barely has time to warn you before he comes in his boxers, his thumbs pressing so hard into your hips you can already feel the purple forming.

Who lets out a noise crossed between a whimper and a moan, so lustful it makes you gasp.

That's Bucky's second mistake, letting himself do a double take. 

It's less conscious than that though, like catching his reflection in a mirror. His eyes move on their own accord, sliding away from his careful profiling and locking solely onto you. 

Draped in silk and sin, poised and perfectly posed. You're perched on a bar stool, entertaining a small group of bald suits with wild hand gestures and well timed grazes of your hand. 

He watches one of your manicured fingers reach out and adjust the lapels of one of their jackets. It's the only time Bucky's ever wished he had his father's hairline. 

The movement is practiced, too perfect to be anything but well-rehearsed. You move like mercury, gentle and smooth. Like you could kill him if he dared to touch you. 

Bucky's third mistake is abandoning his position. It's bad enough he's lost sight of the target, that bald suit went to bathroom three minutes ago. Oblivious, Bucky abandons his spot in the shadows. Losing any vantage point he may have had and walking straight through the heart of the crowd. 

He can't be bothered with politeness, shouldering his way between conversations without even sparing them even an apologetic glance. It's only ten strides, maybe twelve before he has you back within view. 

It's even worse up close, the curve of your chin, the tilt of your smile and the way your tongue peeks out between your lips to grab a wandering drop of champagne off the rim of your glass.

His fourth mistake is looking at your lips. 

Pretty, plush, painted with perfect precision. They only serve to tighten your already iron clad grip on him. He doesn't hear a word you say, he already knows your voice will match the rest of you. 

It's enchanting, the way they curve around each word. He's never taken much stock of how people look when they talk. A mouth moves and he takes no thrill in the way it shapes sound. Until yours. Until he saw them part to allow a laugh passage. Suddenly he's quite sure there's nothing sexier. 

Like Venus has pulled him into her orbit, another moon for her collection. 

Bucky doesn't stop until he's close enough to hear the men around you, chuckles, music and the clinking of dishes all falling to distant static. 

Bucky's fifth mistake is not realizing that there is no static, at least not in the bubble surrounding you. In fact your circle of jesters has gone quiet, beady eyes staring into him as he obliviously stares at you. 

A hand passes back and forth in front of his face, finally freeing him from his reverie. 

When Bucky comes to there's laughter again, at his expense. 

He doesn't even care, too busy processes that he can actually hear it this time. Ringing out an octave above the rest is your giggle, distinctly feminine. It sounds rehearsed, borderline unnatural, as if you've had to force it up your throat and then pitched it be heard above the rest.

It's fake, obviously so. At least to anyone willing to actually listen.

You're talking then, face turned toward him with a smirk on your lips. Your voice is smooth, velveteen. It pulls him in, as if you're giving him all of your attention with every word. 

Bucky leans closer, all of his focus swimming around the sound of your speech. 

It hits him all at once. 

He's listening, hard. His ear turned toward your face to make sure he doesn't miss a syllable and-

He can't understand a word you say. 

What is that? Russian? German? No, he knows those. He only speaks of a little bit of Slovakian, but it doesn't sound like that's it either. 

It's melodic, although Bucky can't be sure if that's the language or just you.

You stare at him expectantly when you're done, voice lilting up as if you've asked him a question. Head cocked slightly to the side to match. 

Like you've told him something he should have already known. Alpine gives him the same look when she wake him up at three a.m. to let him know her bowl is empty. 

You're not a cat though, even if your eye gleam with mischief like one.

Is it French? Maybe you're speaking French?

"I'm sorry I don't-" he fumbles for a moment, heat rushing his cheeks with a vengeance. "I don't speak-"

Your bottom lip juts out in a pout, corners turning down into a soft frown. You say something to the rest of the men, layering it with silk and buttercream. 

He catches a few more syllables that time, the fluidity as they string together some collection of words. Whatever they are has the men disappearing, a slow retreat. Like how ink dilutes in water. Gone before he can even pretend to sound out the first half of what you said.

Your shoulders lower for just a moment, visibly relaxing as you take a step closer to Bucky. 

"Agent Barnes, oui?" You ask. Your smile is smaller this time, more friendly than enchanting. His name is different on your tongue, thick and accented. It's slower than before, as if you took extra care crafting it properly on your tongue.

His name has never sounded like that before. Like someone was paying attention, cared about getting it right.

He wants to know yours. Badly.

Wants to trace each of your teeth with his tongue, lick each syllable off it and taste your voice.

He feels like a kid in a school gym, sweaty palmed with a flipping stomach.

That kid never used to falter though. Bucky prays he’s still in him somewhere. 

Sam’s voice cackles in his ear, his tone something between amusement and frustration.

“I see you’ve met Sirène.”

Bucky’s eyes snap to yours, Sirène?

“I thought we were solo on this one Sam?” Bucky does his best to keep his voice level, offering you a small nod as he speaks.

“Our guy is wanted in several countries Buck, including hers. We went over all of this in the briefing? They sent her over for backup, y’know another set of eyes and someone who could sweet talk his foreign associates.”

The bald suits, presumably.

“Oh.”

“Yeah oh.” Sam’s voice trails on, Bucky hears something about plans and paperwork. Bucky’s also pretty sure there’s a jab about listening ears in there too.

While yeah, he probably should pay more attention during briefings, he’s also pretty sure no file could have adequately prepared him for you.

You’re still in front of him, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you bite back a laugh.

“Siren?” Bucky repeats, directing the question toward you. Eliciting another giggle.

“See-ren.” Sam corrects in his ear. “It’s French.”

Bucky feels his confidence build ever so slightly, at least he was right about that.

He tries again, taking the same care that you did with his. It's a code name, of course it is. But it's something. 

Your grin is enough to turn Sam's voice in his to static.

"Makes sense." Bucky muses, "Pretty sure you could lure any man, anywhere."

Your reply drips like honey, the deepening in your tone unmistakable. "Vous aussi?" You murmur.

Bucky feels his knees start to melt with the way they hit him. Molten and sultry. "I'd fall right in line with them." He continues, unable to directly respond the way he wishes he could. 

Thirty languages programmed deep in his psyche and somehow French isn't one of them.

"Quel genre d'espion ne parle pas français?" You tease, or at least he thinks you tease. 

"I should'a listened when my Ma told me to take French in school."

"C'est pas grave, je les aime mignons et bêtes." You lean in closer on that one, taking the collar of his shirt between your fingers and smoothing it over. 

"I don't know what that means but it turns me-"

"Oooh-kay." Sam sing-songs, cutting Bucky off. "If you two are done with whatever this is, we need to find our target."

Shit. Bucky curses. Of course Sam is right, he really should focus. 

He turns to look at you, something apologetic already half off his tongue when you start to lean in. 

With a hand on his chest, you toe up and whisper in his ear. Or more accurately, into his ear piece. 

"Il Dans le coin le plus à droits, assis fauteuil en cuir." You murmur, close enough for your lips to brush the skin oh his ear lobe. "Nous-I'm observe depuis trois minutes."

You pull back, the hand on his chest snaking up to his neck and curling around the back of it. Just enough for the tips of your fingers to dance along the hair at the base of his head. 

"J'ai entendu sa femme dans la salle de bains. Elle disait qu'il ne fait pas confiance à ceux qui viennent seuls à ce genre d'événement." You continue, all but purring as you rake your nails over his skin. You let out a laugh then, one of the fake ones from earlier. This time you keep it low, soft enough that it won't travel further than the two of you. "Heureusement, je suis venu accompagné d'une belle cavalière."

Bucky's mind in swimming, swirling with the ecstacy of your touch and the vibration of your voice. How is a man supposed to even pretend to listen? 

"Little help on the translation Sam?" Bucky asks. Doing his best to follow your lead, he slides an arm around your waist, his hand resting heavy over the slope of your hip. 

He can feel his pulse in his palm, thrumming hard under the skin with nerves. You don't seem to notice, or perhaps care, not bothering to move an inch as Bucky waits for Sam's response. 

"Our guy is across the room at eight o'clock. He likes couples so she's doing her best to sell it." Sam explains, "So maybe loosen up a bit, give her a hand yeah?"

Bucky feels his throat bob as he swallows, his tongue suddenly gone thick. His nod is short, hardly visible and too stiff for the kind of level head this situation calls for. 

"Yeah." Bucky exhales, "I can do that."

He forces himself to ignore Sam's chuckled Can you? in his ear.

"Respirer profondement." You whisper, taking the hand Bucky had placed (respectfully) on your hip and moving it around to your back, letting it rest at the base of your spine, just where your ass begins to curve.

One long exhale later, and Bucky finds his nerve. 

His hand splays out over your skin, daring to take up the space there. With one quick pull he brings your chest flush to his, nearly throwing your balance as he does so. 

You beam, smile widening with approval. 

"Nice." Sam chides in his ear, equal parts proud and disgusted. 

You squeeze Bucky's shoulder. "Il vient par ici."

"He's headed toward you." Sam translates. 

You bring your hand around from the back of Bucky's neck, sliding it down over his collarbone until your palm rests flat on his sternum. "Laissez- parler."

"Let her do the talking." Sam tells him. Through a window a light catches Bucky's eye, a red scope trained in his direction. Sam's careful aim sitting on his shoulders like armor. 

"My pleasure." Bucky agrees. 

With his hand still on your back, the skin below his ear buzzing from where your lips had brushed, Bucky thinks he means it more than either you are Sam truly understand.

Bucky's began to wonder if S.H.I.E.L.D. asked you to stay on to test him.

Or more specifically, test his sanity. 

With the arrest made, a power vacuum big enough to swallow Wilson Fisk opened up. Wannabe kingpins popping up every three blocks with the potential to wreak more havoc than they have any right to. 

And with the dissemination of your Target's organization, most of them happen to be French. 

They need you, S.H.I.E.L.D. of course. Not Bucky, no Bucky just likes your company. 

If he can even call it that. 

What do you call it when you spend all day with someone and then also spend all of your free time with them and spend all the time you're not together replaying their words in your head? 

Sam calls it a crush, Bucky staunchly disagrees. 

What do you call it when you can't understand a word the other person says?

Sam calls it a Love Actually. Bucky doesn't know what the fuck that means.

You laughed when he told you about it though, loud and obnoxious. Hard enough for your head to tilt back and expose the thin skin of your neck. The line where muscle meets collarbone and the kissable swell of your clavicle. 

Bucky doesn't look up it, afraid of what he'll find. 

Instead he asks you to teach some more French. 

Je m'appelle Bucky. My name is Bucky. 

Explained to him with a smile as you finally slipped him your own.

Pour qui travaillez-vous? Who do you work for?

Your voice guiding him through the pronunciation as you and Sam prepared him for a few simple phrases he might hear. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? What the fuck are you doing?

Rasped though the static of a com as you watch him through a security cam in a van about two hundred feet away. A huff of frustration and Bucky is sure a matching furrow in your brow.

That one is probably his favorite. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? When you catch him eating from one of those shitty breakfast trucks parked outside. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? When he takes you out for sushi (a nice place Sam recommended, emphasizing its romantic atmosphere despite Bucky's protests), this time gasped in mock horror as he picked up a fork. 

He'd stared back confused, already half-offended before he realized what you were talking about. 

You waved the chopsticks sitting between your fingers at him, clicking their ends together once as if to punctuate the sentence. 

Bucky had fumbled, ripping open the paper that held his pair and holding them uselessly in either hand. 

"I'm not exactly sure how to-" 

You'd already reached across the table before he could finish, grasping his hand and articulating it with your fingers. You pulled and flexed until satisfied and then slid the chopsticks into place. 

"Mieux." You'd said with a satisfied nod

Bucky had to ignore the way he stirred in his boxers under the drip of your praise.

At least he's pretty sure that's what it was. 

Qu'est-ce que tu fous? Shouted over a loud bass and shitty DJ. Bucky learns that in the heart of Brooklyn, people do still dance. It just looks little different now. 

And it hurts his ears.

Stiff as board, he watches you from just a few feet away. A tight dress, strappy heels, the lace of your bra just beginning to tease itself over the neckline-

What the fuck are you doing? He curses to himself, blinking hard as if it could change the way his body is already reacting. 

You're dancing, hips swaying in time with the music while your face sits in a scowl. Lips pressed into a line as you stare him down with what he thinks is French for contempt. 

"She wants to go to an American Club," Sam had told him. "A bunch of us are gonna go, y'know make a night of it."

Bucky hadn't been easily convinced.

He'd laughed, full chested and slightly terrified. "Hard pass."

Sam knocked his shoulder, hard enough to yank Bucky straight out of his cowardice. 

"Don't be an idiot." He'd chided. 

"I'm not it's just not my scene." Bucky tried to reason. "You honestly think she'd want me there? What so I can stand there awkwardly all night and pretend to get buzzed?" 

Sam's groan bounced off the walls around them, "You're shitting me right?" 

Bucky shrugged. 

"You've been making fuck-me eyes at each other for the past month." Sam deadpanned. 

The denial was second nature, the only thing that made sense. "She doesn't feel that way-" 

"Do you speak French?" Sam interrupted. 

"No." 

"Okay then shut up and listen to someone who does." Sam said.

Bucky's protest died on his tongue. 

"Just fucking go tonight okay? I'll play translator and then if you don't believe me after that you really are fucking hopeless."

So Bucky Barnes, despite being just about seventy years too old, went to the club. 

He wore those cargoes that make the lady at his Chinese place stare at his thighs. A black t-shirt that is probably a little too small but his other one was dirty and he didn't have time to wash it. Topping it off with a leather jacket and a scoff at himself in the mirror. 

"Qu'est-ce que tu fous?" He whispered to himself, already picturing ten different versions of your disgust. 

Sam had already been knee deep in conversation with you when Bucky finally got there. 

Vowels flying left and right, wild gesticulations that made Bucky fear for the safety of your drinks next to you. 

He had to ignore the way his heart jumped when you spotted him. Forced himself to brush off the way you immediately stopped talking to Sam. 

"Bucky! Tu es venu!" You crooned in his ear, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you took a hug. A month later and the way you say his name is still enough to send a shiver up Bucky's spine.

You'd already had a drink, probably two if the looseness of your shoulders is anything to go by. 

When you pulled back it was to give him an appeasing look, eyes traveling over him with slow deliberation. When you finally met his eyes again, your finished with a slight cock of your head. Then you nodded, as if he'd answered a question you silently asked. 

"Vous êtes à croquer, Sergeant." You finally spoke, ending the sentence with one last hum and a pat on his shoulder. 

Then you were gone, pulled away by another agent and into the dance floor, leaving him alone with Sam at the bar. 

Minutes passed, long stretches of silence with nothing but the chaos of the music and the crowd around them. The shouts of drunk partiers ordering more drinks, the clamor of girls at the DJ booth. 

"You look good enough to eat." 

Sam finally broke the silence, taking a long swill of his drink before looking at Bucky for his reaction. 

"That's what she said." He explained, nodding in your direction. "She also spent our entire conversation staring at the door waiting for you."

Bucky's pulse stuttered, then began pounding a new rhythm. Something between surprised and utterly terrified. 

His face burned, like when you sit too close to a campfire. Bright hot and impossible to ignore. Across the club you glowed with your own light. A flame burning so bright you hurt his eyes, flickering with motions so fluid he has no choice but to keep staring anyway. 

You caught his stare, lips setting into a frown as his favorite words rolled off your tongue one more time. "Qu'est-ce que tu fous?"

Finally, Bucky thinks he knows how you want him to answer. 

The look, the contempt. It's something else entirely. It's half-lidded and frustrated and utterly sick of waiting. You're not disgusted, you're wanting. 

Shit, Bucky realizes, What the fuck have I been doing?

His jacket is shrugged off before he can think better of it, too busy holding eye contact to make sure he actually passed it Sam's direction.

"Hold this." He says, reaching over to steal the last few sips from his friend's drink. 

Your frown turns back up, lips quirking with mischief. The same hint of trouble he saw that very first night. 

As if you know, you lift on hand, using it to crawl your finger in a slow 'come hither' movement. Then you turned, breaking the spell and leaving Bucky to stare at your back as you fell back into the music. 

"Don't think I need to translate that one." Sam cracks, letting out a low whistle as your hips began to sway even harder than before. 

"No." Bucky grunts, "You don't." 

By the time Bucky makes it to you, he already knows he won't last long. 

He comes up from behind, and the smile you throw him over your shoulder nails his coffin.

It's three songs, maybe four. 

Three songs of your body pressed so tight to his Bucky's not sure where you end and he begins.

Three songs of the curve of your ass rolling against his cargoes until he's fighting at his zipper. 

Three songs of your arm stretched above your head, hand curled around the back of Bucky's neck. 

Three songs of your lips brushing over his skin. The seam of his jaw, the hollow of his collar bone, just over the thump of his jugular. 

Three songs of Bucky realizing he's been paying too much attention to talk.

You say plenty without ever even opening your mouth. 

His hand closes over your hip and your body answers with a sway, your weight leaning back into his chest. 

He finds the courage to bring his other hand to your front, splaying it protectively over your stomach. You return it in ten fold, pushing onto your toes and leaning your head onto his shoulder. 

He can't hear the noise you make but he feels it vibrate through your chest, a low rumble echoing through every part of you he can feel. 

For the first time Bucky's able to hear what you've been trying to tell him. Finally, it's a language he can speak. 

Mercifully, he's fluent. 

His hands spin you around slow, pulling until you're face to face. The lean down is just as tortuous, bending until you're all but nose to nose. 

The noise of the club around you acts like a curtain, drawing closed around your bodies until he forgets anyone is there at all. 

Your eyes dance from his own down to his lips, lashes fluttering with the movement and dusting your cheeks. There's glitter on your nose, Bucky's torn between wanting to know where you got it, and licking it off. 

He definitely wants to find out if there's more.

"Vas-tu enfin m'embrasser?" It can't be louder than a whisper, Bucky's ears so finely attuned to your voice he's sure he could pick it out of any room. 

He feels his cock throb, responding to your words despite not even knowing what they mean. You could have been reciting the the Itsy Bitsy Spider and Bucky wouldn't have cared. 

It was never about what you said, or what language you spoke it in, it was always about how you said it. Bucky answers with the only thing he can make sense of. 

"I don't know what that means but it turns me on." 

Your hand snakes a path down Bucky's chest, sliding between the space where your bodies are pressed together so you can palm his bulge. 

"Ça se voit." You purr, thumb pressing into his zipper. 

Bucky's dick jumps under your touch, all his want pooling under your hand. 

"That's not fair." He groans, his grip tightening on your hips, enough to make the fabric of your dress bunch between his fingers. "All my cards are on the table."

You pull back, pushing up onto your toes again as you stretch towards him. "Je vous dirai tout ce que vous voulez savoir. Il suffit de demander."

"Okay it's even less fair when you do that." He crumbles, meeting you halfway and pressing his forehead into yours. "I'm already caught you can stop with the siren song." 

You laugh, low and soft and mercifully real. "Demande , Bucky."

He doesn't find the words he was looking for, no grand speech or sweeping music. Just the weight of his better judgment finally giving out on itself. 

His lips find yours with a sigh of relief, the tension between you finally releasing with a palpable burst. 

Your soft against him, nose turning ever so slightly to slot against his. 

It's gentle at first, soft, exploratory. A test of pressure, the shock of feeling you so close against him.

Then it turns, pressure grows, each of you pushing harder into the other. Hands take on lives of their own, grabbing at any inch of exposed skin they can find. Yours are everywhere, his neck, his arms, his jaw and at the sliver of skin at his waist. You leave fire burning in your wake, mouth slanted against him as you swallow every sound that escapes. 

Maybe you weren't joking about eating him.

The tension that existed before comes back tenfold, growing into something malicious and untenable. It burns even brighter now, like the first puff a cigarette. His body is already craving more and you're still on his lips.

When the need for air finally wins out, your bodies are so entangled Bucky is sure half of the dance floor is giving you a dirty look. 

Bucky can't hear your breathing but he can feel it, the rapid rise and fall of your chest against his. The way your lips are parted, the skin around them irritated from his scruff. It strike a white hot pulse of possession. 

You look wrecked and Bucky can't get enough of the fact that he's the one who did it. 

When you speak it's at the same time, two gravely voices begging the same question. 

"Ramène- à ta maison?"

"Can I take you home?"

Both of you are answered with another kiss.