✪❦𝐹𝑎𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒❦✪

x

You’re lying on your bed, doom-scrolling through social media while your friends raid your closet for an outfit for tonight. If it were up to you, you’d stay in and binge-watch your favorite show until you fell asleep in the middle of an episode. Instead, you’re being forced to go to a concert regardless of whether you want to go or not.

“Are you feeling shorts or jeans?” Sadie asks.

“I’m feeling pajama pants.”

“You can wear that if you want, but you’re still coming,” Lexie smirks.

“Fuck you, bitch.”

“Go get ready, or we’re going to be late.”

You groan as you slide off your bed. “Because that would be a tragedy.”

They always complain that you don’t go out with them, and while that's true, it’s only because you’re very introverted. You love staying in and being by yourself. Being social takes way too much energy from you. You hate crowds, you’re very shy, and you don’t do well around large groups of people.

You’re going now because you feel bad for rejecting their offers to hang out. If you keep denying them, you know you’ll lose them as friends, and you love them too much to let that happen. For one night, you can let loose.

Sadie, Lexie, and Beverly pick out a skimpy outfit for you to wear. Tonight, their favorite band is playing in some rundown bar, and they made sure to get tickets. The bar normally doesn’t do very well on its own, but with the money coming in from ticket sales, it’s boosting its sales a lot more than they thought it would.

This band usually picks rundown bars to play in to help their sales, and the bar becomes a popular spot for months afterward.

The bar is packed when you arrive, but Lexie’s tickets grant you entry in front of everyone else. There is a long line of people waiting to buy tickets. The bar can hold only so many people, so once people start leaving, the bouncer is allowed to let some people in. They might be let in during the beginning of their set or by the end, but they’ll be loud enough for everyone to hear outside, you’re sure of it.

The instruments are all set up, but the band is backstage getting ready for their set. Lexie pushes past the sea of people to get to the bar and orders several drinks for everyone. Lexie, Sadie, and Bev are social butterflies, so they flirt with the bartender while laughing with each other.

Meanwhile, you’re standing awkwardly behind them, wishing you were anywhere but here. There are too many people here. It’s too hot. A lot of noise and bodies. You take deep breaths to keep yourself from panicking.

“Here, drink this.” Sadie shoves a drink into your hands. “This will help loosen you up.”

You finish the drink in three big gulps and cough from the bitter taste. The alcohol burns on its way down, but it does leave a warmth behind that relaxes your body slightly.

“Alright, Y/N!” Lexie laughs. “Here, have another one.”

The second glass eases your anxiety some more. By the third drink, you’re not even thinking about how many people are here.

The band comes out, and your mouth drops when you get a look at the drummer. Fuck, he’s gorgeous. Light blue eyes, dark hair, and muscles for days. He’s shirtless to keep himself from overheating, and nearly all of the girls scream for him. They scream for all of them. They’re all gorgeous men.

Rock music has never been your thing, but they’re pretty good. Lexie nudges Bev and Sadie, and she flicks her chin in your direction. They snicker at the love-struck gaze in your eyes toward the drummer. You don’t believe in love at first sight, but you wouldn’t mind getting to know him.

“Pick your jaw up off the floor before it gets dirty,” Bev smirks as she nudges you.

“What? I wasn’t staring.”

“Girl, drool is coming out of your mouth. I know he’s hot, but rein it in, girl.”

“Shut up,” you mutter and turn back to the band.

The band finishes three songs before stopping their set suddenly.

“How is everyone doing?” the lead singer asks. Everyone shouts and cheers for him, and he scans the room with a cocky grin. “Alright, for this next song, we need some help.” Cheers erupt before the singer has time to finish speaking. “Who wants to come on stage and help Bucky play our next song?”

Almost every hand shoots to the sky as they scream and beg for the singer to pick them.

“What’s going on?” you ask your friends.

“They always do this bit where they bring one person on stage to help the drummer play the song, if you know what I mean,” Lexie finishes with a smirk.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“She should totally go up there,” Sadie gasps.

“No, I don’t.”

“Yeah! She has the hots for the drummer!” Bev grins.

“No, guys, seriously, no.”

“Over here!” Sadie screams. “We have a volunteer!”

“Sadie!” Lexie and Bev start pushing you toward the stage. “Beverly! Lex!”

Your protests fall on deaf ears as they push you toward the front of the stage. The singer looks at Sadie and chuckles when he sees how eager she is to give up her friend for this bit.

“I see we have an eager volunteer!” The spotlight shines on you, and you freeze. “Come up here, darling.”

Bucky, the drummer, locks eyes with you, and he can see the anxiety swirling in them. He understands the panicking feeling when someone is forced to face their fears. Your friends push you closer so that you’re forced to grab the singer’s hand. He pulls you up onto the stage, and you look around nervously.

“Hey, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Bucky says away from the microphone clipped to his drumset.

Everyone is cheering for you to do this, including your friends. You want to be the kind of girl who is excited about stuff like this. You hate being so introverted and shy. It’s time you step out of your shell and be this new version of yourself.

“Fuck it,” you say. You reach down and snatch Sadie’s drink from her before throwing it back. “Let’s do this!”

“Fuck, yeah!” Lexie screams.

You’re not sure how you’re going to help Bucky play the drums, but you don’t care. With a burst of confidence, you storm over to Bucky and put your hands on his shoulders. You swing your leg over his lap and settle yourself right on top of his lap, facing him.

“See if you can play with me like this.”

Bucky smirks and nods to the lead singer. That’s his cue to start playing the song, and you cling to Bucky’s body as he starts playing the drums. The force of his hits on the drums and the movement of his foot pushing the pedal down is enough to bounce you on his lap.

You’re actually having a lot of fun like this. The alcohol definitely helps. You squeal in laughter when you bounce, and you look at your friends over your shoulder. Your smile falters when you see all three of their phones’ cameras pointing right at you. People in the crowd have their phones on you and the band. This is going to be on the internet for millions, even billions of people to see.

Bucky sees the change in your behavior when you tense up. He looks at your face and then to where you’re looking. He’s gotten used to cameras being pointed at him, but for some people, it’s the end of the world.

“Look at me,” he says. When you don’t answer, he leans in and breathes on your skin. “Darling, look at me.” You snap your eyes over to him when you feel his hot breath. “Just focus on me.”

Bucky’s eyes are so much bluer up close. They’re light with a dark ring of blue around the edges. He continues to play as you continue to bounce lightly on his lap, but the energy crackling between you two is because of the eye contact. Your panic slowly ebbs away, but you’re very much aware of the cameras on you.

“Tell me something.” His voice is soft, but because you’re so close to him, you can hear every word.

“Like what?”

“Anything.”

“I’m not this kind of girl.”

Bucky smiles and says, “I’m not this kind of man.”

The song ends a couple of seconds later, and you grip his shoulders as you climb off him. “Thanks…” Bucky’s eyes bore holes into your back as you walk away from him, but you don’t dare to look back.

“Girl, you crushed that shit!” Sadie squeals.

“That was hot as fuck,” Lexie says.

“How did it feel?” Bev asks.

“Overwhelming,” you say truthfully. You don’t know exactly how you feel, but overwhelming is the biggest truth. At least you did it. You’ve got that going for you.

You spend the rest of their set by the bathrooms since it’s the place with the least amount of people. Even shrouded in the shadows, Bucky still finds you. His gaze is full of fire, and you can feel the warmth from where you are.

The band eventually finishes their set, and most of the people leave the bar. The band is the main reason why people have come out tonight. The rest of the people turn to their own companies and enjoy the rest of their evening.

“Hey, can we go home?” you ask. “I’ve had enough time here.”

“Sure,” Sadie says. “Let me just pay the tab.”

Sadie walks away just as Bucky approaches the group. Lexie and Bev’s eyes widen at seeing the drummer here, but they move away to give you two some time alone.

“Hi,” you say softly.

“What’s your name?”

“Y/N.”

“I’m Bucky.” Like you don’t already know his name. “I don’t think you would have gotten on my lap if you did, but I’m gonna ask anyway. Do you have a boyfriend?”

Your cheeks heat from his question. “Um, no.”

“She never leaves her house enough to have one,” Lexie cuts in from several feet away.

“Shut up,” you grumble at her.

Bucky smirks and chuckles. “Well, I don’t know about you, but this is my first time in this city. Care to be my guide and show me some cool places? We’ll be in town for a while.”

You look at Bucky, then at his bandmates, then back at Bucky. “What about your bandmates?”

“Let me think about that.” Bucky leans against the wall. “Sweaty dudes or a date with the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. You do the math.”

Your cheeks heat even more than the first time. “You think I’m beautiful?”

“Ask me that again at the end of the night. What do you say?”

One of your friends nudges you closer to Bucky because, of course, they’re listening. “Yes.”

A piece of hair falls over your face, and Bucky reaches out to tuck it behind your ear. The motion has you leaning in closer to him. You glance down at his lips, and he purposefully runs the tip of his tongue over his full bottom lip.

“I’m not gonna kiss you.”

You pull back, suddenly embarrassed that you were caught staring. “Oh.”

Before you can be too disappointed, Bucky adds, “I’m not gonna kiss you because you’ll be begging me to by the end of the night, and I kind of want to hear what that sounds like.”

The fucking nerve of this guy. His words inspire confidence to bubble up to the surface. “I think it’ll be you begging me.”

“You’re probably right.” He holds his hand out. “Shall we?”

You take his hand with a grin, and you look at you friends who have big smiles on their faces. “I’ll see you ladies tomorrow.”

“Have fun,” Bev sings.

“Wrap it before you tap it!” Lexie teases.

“Make him work for it!” Sadie giggles.

You can’t help but laugh as Bucky leads you out of the bar through the back door. Bucky, temporary or not, might be the thing missing from your life.

x

A rush of warm summer's air brushed the back of your neck, the bell above the bakery door jingling and alerting you of a new customer.

"I'll be with you in a minute," you exclaimed softly over your shoulder, your hands occupied with wrapping up the order of mixed berry mini tarts for Mrs. Johnson. She had come by the bakery a few days earlier to place a special order for her granddaughters birthday, and made you promise you would bake them and not your father—she swore your baking tasted sweeter than his, that you put in a 'dash of sunshine'.

A deep, raspy voice filled the small bakery. "Take your time, doll. I'm in no rush."

The light yellow ribbon trembled in your grip, your fingers tightening around the fabric for a split second. You swallowed back the annoyed sigh that worked it's way up your throat whenever you heard his voice.

You finished wrapping Mrs. Johnson's order in silence, not bothering with a reply. The less you spoke to him the better your chances were of leaving the bakery in a good mood.

"You're an angel," Mrs. Johnson smiled as you handed her the warm cloth parcel. "Here," she dug into her coin purse and placed a few dimes on the wooden counter between you, "something to thank you for your hard work." She gave you a small wink before making her way to the door, exchanging warm pleasantries with the only other customer in the bakery on her way out.

You grabbed the dimes and put them in the tip jar next to the register, turning back to the small work bench to wipe it down.

"What a big tip, angel. What ya gonna do with all your riches?" Came the deep voice again, layered thick with honey and much closer to you this time.

The sigh finally slipped out of you. "What are you doing here, James?" You asked exasperatedly, keeping your back turned to him.

"What will it take for you to call me Bucky, doll?" You could hear the faux pout in his tone. "I'll get on my hands and knees."

"Your ma didn't place any orders, so I'll ask again: what are you doing here?" You said in response, finally turning to the man who lived to annoy you with his presence.

James was leaning against the counter, his blue eyes bright with a smirk that was quirked to the left—his jaw moving as he chewed on gum.

"I wanted to come say hi to my favourite girl."

You ignored the thrill that his smoky rasp sent down your spine. "I am not your anything," you bit out, crossing your arms over your chest.

His smirk morphed into a shit-eating grin, "who said I was talking 'bout you?" His lips smacked obnoxiously. "Mrs. Johnson's always been a big fan of mine."

You moved from behind the counter, rolling your eyes at his arrogance. You made your way to the display in the window, moving around sweet bags that weren't out of place.

"She know you takin' Dot out dancing tonight?" The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You squeezed your eyes shut, your lips pressing into a thin line. You weren't supposed to know that.

James appeared at your side, nudging your rib with his elbow. "You keepin' tabs on me, doll?" He sounded ecstatic and your heart gave a traitorous flutter.

"No," you scoffed, "she came by yesterday and wouldn't stop gabbin' about it."

The oven timer went off in the kitchen, saving you from James seeing your trembling hands. When did they start shaking?

"Is that jealousy I hear?" He followed behind you, leaning against the small kitchen's doorframe. You busied yourself with taking the bread out of the oven, resisting the urge to look at how his shoulders made the room smaller—since when did he get so broad? "You know I've been askin' you to go dancing for years."

"And what? I just become another bird clinging to the James Buchanan Barnes' arm?" You asked in a sickly sweet, sarcastic tone. "I'd rather pluck my eyes out."

James staggered back dramatically, clutching his chest like he'd been shot. "You wound me, sweetheart. I don't know what I did to deserve this kinda treatment." The big grin on his face contradicted his words—he enjoyed this, whatever it was.

"You know what you did," you mumbled, swatting at his chest with a dish towel. “Now, are ya gonna buy something or continue being a pest?”

His hand shot up quickly, grabbing the end of the towel and pulling abruptly. You stumbled forward a few steps, his strength catching you off balance. You braced a hand on his chest on reflex, trying to stabilise yourself. His body was warm beneath your palm and the contact sent sizzling currents of electricity racing up your arm, travelling through your veins and making your heart beat faster.

His scent wrapped around you—minty freshness from his gum, a lingering hint of tobacco, something masculine and uniquely him. You inhaled instinctively, your mind going hazy. You briefly forgot you were meant to hate him.

"As long as I'm your pest."

All prior teasing and flirtation was gone from his voice, leaving behind a vulnerable sincerity you'd never heard from him before. His free hand came up slowly, resting on top of yours—your eyes latching on his thumb stroking the back of your hand softly. Your nerves lit up under his touch, and your breath hitched at how his hand completely swallowed yours.

You made the mistake of looking up at his face, catching his hooded eyes zeroed in on your lips. His head dipped lower, his minty breath caressing your face. The air around you thickened, your heart stuttering in your chest. You could see a faint scar on his nose, your hand hanging at your side twitching with the urge to trace it.

The service door behind you banged open with a loud force, breaking whatever spell James dragged you under. You jumped away from him like you had been burned, just in time to see your father's head pop out from over a stack of crates.

"Bucky, I'll have to put you on the payroll at this rate! Do ya mind helpin' an old man out?"

James was by your father's side before he even finished his question, lifting two crates off the trolley like they weighed nothing. His eyes met yours for a second, soft and open, before his signature smirk took over and one of his eyes twitched in a flirty wink.

Right. You hated James and his stupid, charming, handsome face.

Fifteen Years Earlier

The first thing you noticed was the air was thicker than your old neighbourhood, a hint of sot laced through the Brooklyn winds. The sidewalk was uneven beneath your shoes; a mix of dirt, harsh gravel, and cracked concrete taking your full attention—the last thing you wanted was to return home with a scraped knee after your ma's warning. Your parents were hesitant to let you wander the neighbourhood alone—they were busy unpacking from the move—but the adventurer in you couldn't sit still.

You rounded the corner, following the tinkling sounds of children's laughter. A smile bloomed across your face when you spotted a couple of kids a few houses down, jumping on the sidewalk as they played hopscotch. They looked to be around your age—a scrawny boy with blonde hair and a girl with dark hair pulled into braids. Your footsteps picked up as you eagerly approached the duo, missing the front door to your right opening and boots stomping down the steps.

Before you could greet the kids playing, your head snapped back—a harsh tug pulling at your pigtail and causing your scalp to flash with pain. The force threw you off balance and you fell to the side, your palms and knee hitting the rough ground—small stones embedding themselves in your flesh. You looked at your palms in shock, tiny dots of red surfacing and heating your skin. Your vision blurred as your eyes filled with tears, a small sniffle escaping you; your ma was going to be so disappointed. There was tiny flecks of blood smearing the hem of your dress where your scraped knee was starting to weep.

"I-I'm—" A small voice started behind you, making you whip your head back to your attacker. He was taller than the blonde boy, with floppy hair that was a matching brown to the girl with braids. His bright blue eyes were widened in panic with his pink mouth slightly agape, his hands hovering uselessly near your head. You would've thought he was cute, if he hadn't just injured you in lieu of a greeting.

Your voice was quiet, though laced with a small fire. "Why did you do that?" A silent tear streaked down your cheek, adding more warmth to the heat flushing your skin. You weren't embarrassed—no, you were something far more dangerous. You were angry.

"James Buchanan!" A woman yelled from the front porch on your right, her dress flowing behind her as she rushed down the wooden steps. "What are you doin' to that poor girl?!"

The scent of lavender engulfed you as she reached you two, her firm hands gripping the boy's—James—shoulders and pulling him away from you. She squatted down next to you with a gentle smile, her brows furrowing as she examined your bloody knee and hands. Long brown hair pinned away from her face and light blue eyes confirmed your suspicion—she was your assailants mother.

"Are you okay, sweetie? Can you stand?" She placed soft hands on your elbows, helping you to stand slowly. She moved a hand to your back, rubbing between your shoulders soothingly. "Let's get you cleaned up, that okay with you?" You responded with a small nod.

"M'sorry, ma. I just wanted to talk to her…" James mumbled guiltily. Your gaze snapped to him with a hardened glare. So he could apologise to his ma but not to you?

"Go play with Becca and Steve, I'll deal with you later." His mom said sternly, leading you away from him and to the porch steps. You kept your gaze on him, narrowing your eyes as he lingered next to the gravel now spotted with your blood.

"I won't forget this, James."

When your father first opened his bakery you and your mother didn't have much hope. It was a small store wedged between an abandoned butcher who had gone out of business and a bookstore that got new releases a year late and had rot lining the bookcases. There was hardly any foot traffic, and for the first few weeks after opening the only customers were dockworkers on their lunch break or tourists who had gotten lost.

One day your father decided to go door to door in your neighbourhood with boxes full of his—and your—baking, and the next day there was a line waiting outside the door before you opened. A month after that, your family's bakery had become the go to for Brooklyn's residents—despite your family being 'transplants'. From then on your life routine consisted of school, the bakery, and then home—sometimes the bakery before school, depending on how many special orders your father had.

It didn't take long for you to figure out that bakeries—like coffee shops—had an atmosphere that invited gossip. Something about the smell of caramelised sugar and freshly baked bread, the golden hues of sunlight that trickled through the large windows, the soft droning from the antique radio in the corner—it made people relax and let their guard down. And it made them forget that you were also there, standing behind the counter trying to tamp down your amused smile as you overheard conversations about overbearing mother-in-laws, school crushes, and illegitimate babies.

Unfortunately for you, that meant you heard the name "Bucky Barnes" fall from more girl's lips than you could count. From your fellow classmates giggling over how much of a 'dreamboat' he was, to the women who were lucky enough to go dancing with him, you heard more about him than you ever wanted to.

"He's a really good dancer," the redhead giggled to her friend, a slice of apple and rhubarb pie sitting between them on the window table.

"Oh, I'm sure," The friend replied in a dreamy voice. "You didn't stop at dancing though, did you?" She asked in a singsong tone, wiggling her eyebrows.

You pressed the roller harder into the flattened dough, rolling your eyes at their conversation. You had twenty minutes left before you needed to close shop, which meant you only had to wait ten more minutes before you could politely usher them out the door.

Dot sighed heavily, "we went back to mine and were necking for a bit, and then he just…stopped."

"I bet he was a good kisser, at least," the friend offered.

"Really good, which is why I'm so cheesed off!" Dot let out a huff. "He was even a gentleman as he turned me down, saying that it's nothin' to do with me—that his heart just 'wasn't in the right place'. That there's some special dame he can't get over."

A snort slipped out of you before you could stop it—James, only having eyes for one girl, really? Your hands froze on the roller as their heads whipped to you standing behind the counter.

Dot's eyes narrowed at you, her head tilting like she was trying to put a name to a face. Then the recognition hit her.

"You know him, don't you? You know Bucky?" She asked you, eagerly leaning over the back of her chair.

"Yeah, I guess. He lives 'round the corner from me," you offered with a small shrug. The last thing you wanted was to talk about James with his latest date.

She looked at you expectantly. "Well? Do you know if there is a special girl?"

Ever since his voice dropped in the seventh grade, James has had a new girl on his arm every week. Each week, he got caught playing footsie with a different girl under the school desks, received high fives from his fellow wolves for heavy petting a dilly at the pictures, and on multiple occasions sported a black eye from his attempts at bird-dogging. He was an incorrigible ladies man; there was nothing special about being his girl.

You rubbed a flour covered hand against your temple. "We don't talk 'bout that kinda stuff," you mumbled. "We're not that close."

Dot hummed, a perfectly plucked eyebrow raising on her forehead. "Really? Isn't he here, like, every day?"

Is that why they were still here? Were they waiting for James to turn up?

"I wouldn't say every day," you replied, wiping your hands on your apron. "His ma likes my focaccia and lemon bars." You started to loudly pack up the register and front counter, hoping they would get the hint to move on.

Dot's friend whispered something low to her, both their eyes trailing from the humid mess that was your hair down to the faded loafers on your feet. Your shoulders inched higher under their scrutinising stares, a string of sarcastic remarks loaded on the back of your tongue.

"Pie was good," was all Dot said, standing from her chair and gathering her bag, her friend following suit. They offered you a brief wave as they opened the door, the chime from the bell announcing their departure. The sound was like music to your ears—your shoulders dropping a fraction and a tired sigh leaving your lips.

What the hell was that?

You turned back to the raspberry tart you were working on, trying to immerse yourself in the new recipe you were testing out while the words "special girl" rang out in your head.

The bell sounded again, the jingle causing a sigh to escape you. You should've made sure to lock the door after them.

"Sorry, we're closed." You called out, your eyes not leaving the sticky red mess beneath your hands.

"Sign on the door says otherwise." Came the husky, low voice that haunted your dreams.

"Speak of the devil," you muttered under your breath. You turned your head over your shoulder, seeing James sauntering towards you with that stupid, roguish grin. "If you're looking for Dot, she left a few minutes ago."

"I know."

You squinted your eyes at him. "Did you wait until they left to come in?"

He shrugged sheepishly, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. "Maybe."

You scoffed, resting a hip against the counter and throwing him a smug look. "Heard that you left her feeling…unsatisfied."

He met your look with an arrogant smile, his eyes flashing with interest."You talkin' about me again, doll?"

"Unwillingly."

He leaned both arms against the wooden counter in front of you, drawing your attention to his exposed forearms. Your eyes followed the line of a vein bulging through his skin, his rolled sleeve cutting off your view of it travelling up his bicep.

"She was just practice."

Your eyes snapped up to his glowing blue eyes, a flush creeping up your spine at being caught staring. The lust searing under your skin churned into disgust at his words. "Practice? That's all these girls are to you?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, "gotta keep my moves fresh for when you finally come to your senses."

You barked out a harsh laugh. "In your dreams, Barnes."

He stood to his full height, rounding the counter and trailing a hand along the wood grain as he stepped closer to you.

He cocked his head to the side. "How'd you know you're all I dream about?"

Your heart leaped into your throat and you scolded your body's reaction, reminding yourself he talks like this to every dame in a thirty mile radius.

"Don't you have anything better to do? Like finding some other girl to harass?" You turned back to the raspberry tart, taking a steadying breath and willing your heartbeat to slow.

"I'm right where I want to be."

His voice was right next to you now, low and raspy in your ear. A hint of smoke clung to his clothes, a smell that normally repulsed you but had you leaning closer to him.

A raspberry burst beneath your pinched fingers, drenching your skin in it's glistening juice.

"Look at the mess you've made, doll."

Before you could grab the rag sitting on the counter, slender fingers wrapped around your wrist. His thumb brushed against your racing pulse, dark eyes meeting yours as he slowly brought your stained fingers towards his mouth. Your breath caught in your throat, all coherent thoughts leaving your brain—everything in your body single-mindedly focused on where his skin was touching yours, on his breath ghosting the tips of your fingers. You watched, entranced, as his tongue peeked out to wet his lips, gliding along the plump flesh. You stepped forward instinctively, your body craving his warmth and your mind clouding with desire.

His lips are so pink.

He pressed a soft kiss to the tips of your fingers, a small gasp leaving you at the contact. A hum sounded from his chest, his lips vibrating faintly under your fingertips. A low buzz started to thrum throughout your body, tingles erupting from where your skin pressed against his soft lips.

"Sweet," he whispered low, heavy.

His eyes lifted to yours again, dilated pupils swallowing blue irises. He flashed you a wink before taking a small step back, his free hand grabbing the rag on the counter. He gently wiped the sticky berry off your fingers, taking more care than necessary for the simple task. He put the rag down, his hand moving from your wrist to clasp your fingers delicately. He brushed a lingering kiss against your knuckles, his fingers squeezing yours before he let go.

James' eyes traced over your face almost intricately, like he was committing your flustered expression to memory. His hand lifted slowly, his thumb brushing against your temple in a barely there touch—a light dusting of flour covering his skin once he pulled his hand away.

"Think I want to place a special order," he drawled, pink lips stretching into a lopsided smirk. "That's if you're on the menu, sweetheart."

He turned on his heel, strolling towards the door—pinching a bag of cookies on his way. "Don't miss me too much!" He hollered over his shoulder, flipping the sign on the door to 'closed' and leaving you with the sinking realisation that maybe it really is a thin line between love and hate.

The heels of your pumps clicked on the concrete sidewalk, the sound echoing through the still night air. The neighbourhood was unusually quiet for a Friday night, the impending storm encouraging your neighbours to stay inside and forgo their usual Friday plans. You envied them—staying inside with a glass of wine and your well worn copy of The Hobbit felt far more appealing than the date you had just left.

Your date was a nice enough guy—the son of one of your mom's friends—but he was…boring. Kind, but shy. A gentleman to a fault. The type of guy you wouldn't look twice at if he came into the bakery. You suppose he felt similarly to you, the date ending with not so much as a cheek kiss goodbye—hell, he let you walk home alone from the restaurant. Sure, it was barely a ten minute walk from your place, but it felt wrong. Was his chivalry just an act that he dropped once he realised the date was going nowhere?

The faint sound of deep, husky laughter interrupted your thoughts as you rounded the corner. Your heart rate picked up in anticipation, sweat starting to prickle your palms. Because there he was, the man whose face kept popping into your head—uninvited—all throughout your date. He was lazily strolling towards you, hands stuffed in his pant pockets and head tilted towards the smaller man next to him. Steve was rambling, his hands waving around energetically as he spoke. James threw his head back with a loud, unfiltered laugh; the sound sending a rush up your spine, even from twenty metres away. It didn't take a genius to know they had been out drinking, their movements languid and carefree.

Steve noticed you first, raising his hand with a wave and calling out your name in greeting. They were closer to your house than you were so there was no avoiding them—something you weren't even sure you wanted to do. You normally tried to limit your time spent interacting with James, but something had shifted—you felt your body, and mind, yearning to be near him.

James' head jerked towards you quickly, his body visibly stalling as he looked at you. You closed the distance, Steve meeting you halfway with a tipsy smile and a quick hug while James stayed a couple feet behind, looking momentarily stunned.

"Hi Steve," you greeted with a soft smile. You made eye contact with James once he reached you two, giving him a curt nod. "James."

"What, no hug for me, doll?" His signature smirk was back, although looking more like a dopey grin with the alcohol flowing through his system. His eyes were slightly glazed over, trailing from your head down your body to your heels—his gaze getting stuck on the formal dress you were wearing. It was a white dress with small, dainty flowers that you had worn only a handful of times—saved for the very rare occasion you had a date.

You gave him a once over, your sight catching on the chest hair peeking out where he had unbuttoned his shirt. Combined with the veins on his forearm you had admired before, you felt an unfamiliar warmth growing in the pit of your stomach.

You snapped your eyes back to his. "And end up smelling like a distillery? No thanks."

"Oh, Jesus," Steve mumbled, shaking his head. "Not this again."

James ignored both Steve and your jab at him. "You been out dancing? Without me?" His eyes wandered over your dress again, his bottom lip jutting in a pout. A shiver raced across your body as you remembered those inviting lips touching your fingers in the bakery.

You crossed your arms over your chest, pushing your chin up in faux confidence. "It's none of your business where I've been."

He took a step closer, tilting his head to the side—his eyes softening under the dim streetlight. You could smell the lingering scent of sweet whiskey and tobacco on him, clouding your head further.

"On the contrary, it is entirely my business." His voice was rough yet smooth, like honey drizzled over gravel.

You scoffed, trying to hide your nerves.

"O-kay," Steve dragged out. "I'm leaving you two to…whatever this is." He brushed past you, walking in the direction of his place—the same path James should be taking.

The both of you ignored him, stuck in a staring match—for what reason, you're not sure of.

You broke contact first, stepping around James and continuing your journey home. He was by your side in a second, humming a tune under his breath as you leisurely walked down the street.

"So, where were you?" All playfulness was gone from his tone, leaving behind genuine curiosity.

"Again, it's none of your business."

"Your safety is my business, doll." He said low, serious. You ignored the way your heart jumped in your chest at his concern.

You sighed, relenting. "If you must know, I was out for dinner."

He stopped abruptly, making you turn to him with raised eyebrows.

"Dinner, as in a date?" He asked, his features pulling down into a frown.

"Shocking, I know," you mumbled, kicking a loose stone with the toe of your shoe.

His head swivelled, looking down the street in the direction you came from. You watched his eyes squint and his jaw clench. "Well, where is he then? Your date?"

You shrugged, turning back to walk towards your place. "I don't know. I walked home from the restaurant."

James jogged to catch up to you, grasping your forearm gently. "Alone? Are you fucking serious?" He seethed through clenched teeth.

You ripped your arm out of his hold, continuing your walk. "Yes. I can take care of myself."

He shook his head at your stubbornness, a humourless laugh escaping him. "I'm pretty sure it's illegal to let a beautiful dame walk home alone at night." You scoffed at him, a flush rising under your skin at him calling you beautiful. "I'm serious, doll. That's no man."

You reached the small path leading to your porch steps, turning to him to say goodnight, finding him already looking at you with a hopeless look in his baby blues. "You're not seeing him again…are you?"

Inexplicably, your heart tugged towards him. Maybe it was due to his tipsy state, but his flirtiness was gone and your usual sass died on your tongue. You told him the truth, for once.

"No, he was boring."

His face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. That dopey grin returned and his shoulders dropped, like he had been holding in a breath. "Good." His eyes flicked down to your dress again, his eyes twinkling.

Suddenly, a large hand palmed your waist and another clasped your hand, lifting it above your head before James clumsily spun you around on the uneven sidewalk.

"James! What are you doing?" You squealed as he continued to try dance with you, your free hand instinctively gripping his shoulder.

He spun you around once more, both hands moving to your upper back as he dipped you low. You let out a gasp, your shocked eyes meeting his shining ones. Even while tipsy and slightly uncoordinated, he really was a good dancer.

"There she is, there's that smile." He muttered softly, quietly, tenderly.

You didn't even realise you were grinning up at him.

Your hands rested on his shoulders as he brought you back up slowly, the two of you standing closer than before. The air went still around you, and you swayed closer to his warmth. His hands stayed on your upper back, gentle pressure holding you steady but not pulling you closer. Even with liquor running through his veins, he was a gentleman—his hands never straying and making you uncomfortable.

This wasn't the Bucky you heard stories of, copping a feel any chance he got. No, this was your James—unashamedly flirty but…respectful. And you hated it—hated the stupid flutter in your chest, hated your brain turning to mush. Hated the hitch in your breath as your eyes fell to his parted lips, hated the overwhelming urge to lean forward and finally get a taste of him.

You hated how despite everything, you wanted him. Badly.

"M'sorry," he mumbled low, whisper quiet. "Couldn't help myself, that dress is perfect for dancin'."

His head dipped lower, warm breath ghosting your lips and erupting tingles along the flesh. You held your breath, your eyelids drooping in anticipation. A soft chuckle escaped him, the whiskey laced exhale brushing your face. His lips settled oh so faintly on your right cheek, a tender touch you were not expecting. Your hands clutched his shoulders tighter, one of his thumbs caressing between your shoulder blades in a soothing motion.

He took a step back and your eyes fluttered open, darting around his face in confusion. His usual arrogance was gone, an expression you could only describe as affectionate taking it's place.

He turned his head towards your house, brows furrowing in an instant.

"Are your parents home?" He asked. You imagined it was a question he had asked girls dozens of times before, but this felt different—he sounded concerned, not suggestive.

You shook your head gently, trying to clear the fog he had clouded your mind with. You took a step back from him as your lungs filled with air again.

"Um—no, they're—they went to visit my aunt in Cape Cod." You replied, your voice small and airy.

He raised his eyebrows, a displeased grunt sounding from his chest. "With the incoming storm?" He shook his head, "they won't be back for days."

You walked up the path towards the porch, your legs feeling unsteady. Your house keys trembled in your hands as you grabbed them from your clutch. James followed closely behind you, a hand hovering over the small of your back as you climbed the steps.

"It's fine, we have supplies stocked up." You said with a shrug.

He let out a deep breath. "That's not what I'm worried about, sweetheart." His head whipped back to the street, his eyes scanning the dark neighbourhood. "You never know what beasts are lurking," he muttered, a tense edge to his voice.

You let out a snort as you put the key in the lock. "Yeah, like you're not the most dangerous thing lurking the streets."

His mouth quirked to the side, "you think I'm dangerous?" He stepped closer, the intoxicating scent of him wrapping around you. "Do I make your heart race, doll? Get your blood pumping, make you hot under the collar?"

You let out a stuttered breath before you could stop it, your body reacting to his proximity exactly as he suggested. You shouldered the door open with more force than necessary, needing an escape from him and his increasingly irresistible face.

James stepped through the door behind you, causing you to turn to him with your eyebrows raised. "…What are you doing?" You dragged out.

"Keeping you safe."

A shocked laugh sounded in your throat. "You can't stay with me, James, that's—people might get the wrong idea." Your hand clutched the door for support, your body half turned towards the man who you wanted to leave, and wanted to kiss until your lips were bruised.

He shrugged, taking a step back onto the porch. "Fine. I'll stay out here then."

"What? Don't be ridiculous, it's about to start pouring down." You could feel a headache forming at your temple—why must everything be so difficult with him?

"Well, I either get hypothermia or," his lips inched into that infuriating smirk, "our neighbours get the wrong idea." He tipped his head towards you, "it's your choice, doll."

A frustrated breath left you. "…Fine. But you're sleeping on the couch."

He gave you a mock salute. "As you wish."

You turned around, walking to your lounge and turning on the lamp in the corner by the couch—soft lamplight illuminating the room. You heard the front door softly click closed, the sound of James' boots scuffing faintly along the hardwood floors. You stood in the middle of the lounge, suddenly feeling awkward and shy in your own home.

"I'll get you a blanket," you mumbled to him, wringing your fingers together nervously. You went to the linen closet in the hallway, grabbing him a clean blanket and pillow. You took a second to breathe, trying not to focus on the fact that he was going to be in your home. With you. Alone.

You walked back into the lounge, seeing him sitting on the couch and untying his boots. You cleared your throat softly, gently placing the bedding on the cushion next to him. He looked up at you, the soft light making him look younger. You dragged your gaze away before you got caught staring at his lips, before you caved in and did something you'd regret.

"The bathroom is down the hall, second door on the left."

His lips lifted into a soft smile. "I know," he said. "I've been here before."

You let out a small, nervous laugh. "Right."

You turned to walk towards the stairs, towards your room. You stopped with a hand on the doorframe. "I'll see you in the morning, James."

"Good night, doll. Sweet dreams."

You woke to the faint smell of coffee trickling under your door and the soft drumming of rain against your window. For a few minutes you basked in that half awake state, where the world didn't exist outside of your warm sheets and you briefly forgot about everything that was waiting for you outside your door.

The sound of clanging pots stirred you from the dreamy in between, making you drag yourself out of bed with a groan. You threw a cardigan over your silk nightgown, your bare feet padding against the floor as you made your way downstairs.

Your brain was only half functioning as you walked into the kitchen, the memories from the night before only rushing back when you were met with the sight that was James' back covered in a white undershirt. You froze in your path, your wide eyes glued to his muscles shifting beneath the soft cotton. Your eyes trailed over the wide expanse of his back and shoulders, watching his biceps flex as he moved pots around on the stove. Heat blazed beneath your skin, simmering in the pit of your gut.

"Enjoying the show, doll?" His voice rasped out, thick and heavy with sleep. The sound alone had your body erupting in goosebumps.

You opened and closed your mouth like fish out of water. You tore your gaze away from his distracting frame to the kitchen counter where two plates of eggs and toast were sitting.

"Did you…make breakfast?" Disbelief dripped from your tone.

"Mhm. Coffee will be ready soon," he turned then, granting you with the sight of his sleep-ridden face. He nodded towards the kitchen table next to the window. "Sit, I'll bring it over."

You followed his instruction with no argument, feeling dazed. Had you hit your head and woken up in an alternate reality?

He brought the plates over, flashing you a soft smile before going to grab the coffee percolator and a couple of mugs. He poured both your cups of coffee, settling in the chair across from you like this was your normal routine. He dug in to his breakfast and you followed suit, albeit hesitantly—you weren't sure if this was real or if you were still dreaming.

"Sleep okay?" He asked before taking a sip of coffee, soft eyes meeting yours over the lip of his cup.

You nodded slowly. "Yeah, fine…you?

He shrugged lightheartedly, "not the worst couch I've slept on."

You both went back to eating before you couldn't hold your question in any longer. Your fork clanged noisily on the porcelain plate. "What are you doing here, James? Why…why did you make breakfast?"

He shrugged again. "'Cause."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer you're going to get," he replied, mouth quirking to the side in barely contained amusement.

You let out an annoyed huff, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms. James mirrored your posture, his eyes roaming across your face. Your eyes flicked down to his arms, thick biceps bulging against his chest.

"You look beautiful in the morning, doll." His tone was soft, borderline reverent—causing butterflies to unleash havoc in your stomach.

You scoffed. "Bet you say that to all the girls."

"I mean it when I say it to you."

You shot up from your chair, collecting the dirty dishes to give your nervous hands something to do. Your chest was feeling too tight, your skin too warm. You felt like you were going to combust under his gentle stare.

"You can go home now—I'm in no imminent danger." Your voice shook, your plates in your hands trembling as you walked towards the sink.

You heard the scrap of James' chair behind you, the creak of the floorboards beneath his feet as he made his way towards you.

He said your name softly. "Look at me, please."

Placing the dishes next to the sink, you turned towards him—against your better judgement. You rested your hands on the counter behind you, gripping it for support. You watched his adam's apple move as he swallowed, an almost hesitant look crossing his face. Was he…nervous?

He let out a breath, rubbing a hand against his day old stubble.

God, he looked unfairly handsome in the morning.

"Are you ever going to give me a chance?"

There was no teasing in his voice, no playful flirtation. He sounded sincere, and as if in despair.

"…What?"

He stepped forward, his eyes searching yours. "You're all I think about, and it's driving me crazy. It's been driving me crazy for the past fifteen years."

A small gasp escaped you, your hands clutching the counter tighter. "You're—you don't mean that."

He took another small step forward. "I do."

You shook your head, refusing to believe the words coming out of his mouth. "No, you don't. You like the chase, you like that I'm something you can't have."

He let out a breathy chuckle. "I'll admit our back and forth is fun, but it's not the sole reason I want you."

You pushed off the counter, darting past him and into the lounge—needing to put distance between you and the insufferable man who has been a thorn in your side for more than half your life. He didn't mean what he was saying, he was just taking advantage of your early morning vulnerability.

He followed behind you, calling your name out softly. You hated how it sounded falling from his lips.

"Just—listen to me."

You whipped back to him, fire blazing in your eyes. "No! I don't believe you!" You threw your hands up. "What about all the girls you've dated, huh? If you couldn't stop thinking about me like you claim, why have a new girl on your arm every week?"

He looked at you with wide eyes, a hand going up to tug his hair in frustration. "What else was I supposed to do? The girl I liked wouldn't give me the time of day!" He put his hands on his hips, his teeth chewing on his bottom lip. "And maybe…maybe I hoped it would make you jealous," he muttered low, sheepish.

You could feel your walls crumbling, your defences falling at the sincerity in his voice and face. In the fifteen years that you had known him, he had never said anything like this to you. Yeah, he was brazenly flirty, but he'd never said something so honest…so vulnerable.

"You never said sorry," you mumbled, staring down at your fidgeting hands.

"What?"

"For hurting me, the day I moved here. You never apologised to me." You hated how meek you sounded, how that day still affected you despite all the time that had passed.

He stepped forward slowly, gently grabbing your hands. You watched, stunned, as he lowered to one knee before you. He looked up at you with soft, pleading eyes. Your heart stumbled in your chest at the sight of him on his knees before you.

"Sweetheart, I am truly sorry for hurting you—for causing you pain at any point in your life." He took a breath, his hands squeezing yours. "This doesn't excuse what I did, but—I was so excited," a lovestruck smile took over his lips, "I just really wanted to talk to the new, pretty girl." He let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle. "Guess I came off a bit too strong."

Your eyes grew warm, your vision blurring with tears. This man just kept on surprising you, making you feel things for him you didn't think was possible.

"You don't have to forgive me, but please believe me when I say all I want is you." He stood to his full height, one hand dropping yours to cradle your jaw—his thumb brushing against your cheek tenderly. You looked into his eyes, seconds away from drowning in the pools of blue.

You swallowed through the lump in your throat. "But…Dot said, she said there was a special dame."

"For a smart girl, you can be real thick sometimes." His forehead dropped to yours. "You're the special dame, doll. Always have been."

You had gone speechless, not a single coherent thought running through your head. Your eyes darted across his face, scrutinising every flicker—trying to find any inkling that he was lying. All you could see was sincerity, hopefulness, and something frighteningly close to love.

"Bucky," you whispered, leaning your face into his hand.

His eyes flashed, a harsh exhale leaving his nose. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes.

"You've never called me that before."

Then he was leaning down, his other hand dropping yours to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head back. His lips brushed against yours lightly, giving you the chance to pull away. Your hands came up to his chest, one palm laying flat against his racing heart and the other bunching the fabric of his undershirt. You pulled slightly, encouraging him to press his lips to yours harder.

His lips moved against yours slowly, languidly—like he was trying to savour the moment. He tasted like coffee with a faint hint of mint. You kissed him back eagerly, a small noise vibrating in your throat. The hand cradling your jaw moved down your back before resting on your waist, pulling you closer to his body. The kiss started to grow desperate, his lips sucking your bottom lip with a small nip from this teeth, drawing a gasp from you. You had been kissed before, but never like this—not like you were being consumed whole. His lips were even softer than you imagined.

He tilted his head, running his tongue along your lips. You opened for him willingly, feeling heat build in your core at the first touch of his tongue against yours. A whimper tore from your chest, a hand trailing up from his chest to the back of his head—your fingers tangling in his soft locks. He groaned into your mouth as you gave an experimental tug—the sound sending currents throughout your body. You broke away to gasp for air and his lips travelled along your jaw, his stubble scratching your skin deliciously.

"Kissin' you feels like home."

A breathy moan escaped you as his lips continued their journey, mouthing at your neck and drawing more needy noises from you. He tugged you closer to him, your hips pulled flush against his.

"You sound so sweet, doll." He muttered into your neck, his mouth latching to a spot below your ear and sucking gently. It sent shocks down your body and you gasped at the sensation.

"Taste sweet, too."

Your hips started to roll against his, instinctively seeking friction to quell the desire lighting up from his touch. He responded to your movements eagerly, both hands dripping your hips.

"You…you still owe me for—for the cookies you stole." You gasped out, his mouth on your neck unrelenting.

He pulled back with a wolfish grin, his lips spit slick and glistening. His eyes were dark and hooded as they met yours. "Think I have a few ways I can pay you back."

He spun you quickly, walking backwards until his legs hit the couch and he sat down—pulling you on top of his thighs. Your nightgown bunched around your knees as you straddled his lap, your hands resting atop his shoulders—your fingers digging in to the hard muscle. His mouth met yours again, devouring you like you were his first proper meal in days. His hands on your hips pushed down, encouraging you to settle your weight fully on top of him. His hips bucked up beneath yours, pulling a moan from both your throats.

You slowly rolled your hips back and forth, need clouding your thoughts as you felt a hard bulge press against you. You pulled back from his lips, desperately sucking in air. His head dropped to the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting your skin as moans slipped from his lips. Wetness pooled where your body was rocking against his, and your body started to shake as an unfamiliar pleasure started to build.

James' hands on your hips gripped tighter, stilling your urgent movements. His head lifted to look at you and he looked ruined—eyes glazed over, lips swollen, chest rising and falling rapidly. He pressed a kiss to your lips before moving to your cheek, then nose, then forehead—covering your face in soft pecks that had you giggling in his arms.

"It's 'bout time I took you out dancin', sweetheart."

“I was in the middle of getting myself off.” 

After hearing Steve knock, he watched you shuffle to the door trying to put clothes on, trying to pretend you weren't leaking with him still. 

As he hid in the doorway of your closet, in the dark trying to tuck himself back together, he heard your voice trail off, and bit back a growl in distaste. He didn't like Steve knowing you that intimately. “Like. Fully committed. Lights low. Door locked. Very enthusiastic.”

He heard the silence and then Steve's voice. “Oh.” A few other murmured words, and he heard you again. 

Cleary, this time. “You don’t want to supervise?” The thought of Steve touching you like that in any way, shape, or form, made him want to snap his neck like a twig. 

You.

Steve's shadow and neighbor. Steve's friend.

He remembered your scent first. The strongest sense tied to memory. Peonies and musk and vanilla bypassed his thalamus and landed straight into his hippocampus and amygdala, burrowing deep there. 

As he walked the halls of the exhibit, more and more pieces came back, slow and disjointed, like shards of painted glass scattered across the floor of his mind.

He passed the stand of pictures of him and Steve, the Howling Commandos, and what seemed to be his own fucking funeral. Bits and pieces battled for space in his brain he didn't have yet, giving way to a pounding sensation on the inside of his skull, sudden enough it made his vision blur for a few seconds.

Like some version of him was trying to break out. 

His hand came up instinctively, fingers pressing against his temple as the museum hallway tilted slightly beneath his feet.

The exhibit around him blurred into color and glass and distant voices as another memory tried to surface, clawing its way up through the conditioning Hydra had hammered into his skull.

He staggered sideways, gripping the edge of a display case to steady himself. The metal fingers of his prosthetic curled against the glass with a faint screech that made a nearby tourist glance over.

Bucky pushed away immediately.

The air inside the museum suddenly felt wrong — too clean, too loud, too full of ghosts trying to claw their way back into his head.

He turned sharply and walked toward the side corridor he’d noticed earlier when he came in. A service hallway.

His footsteps echoed off concrete instead of polished marble now, each step sending another dull pulse through his skull. The headache hadn’t eased — if anything, it throbbed harder the farther he moved from the exhibit.

Like his mind was angry at him for walking away before the picture was finished.

He pushed the door under the glowing red "EXIT" sign, and as soon as the sun hit him, the overhead of the exhibit faded away and the busy noise of D.C. filled his ears, he could feel oxygen in his lungs again. 

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

As he breathed deep, he noticed an unmarked black car parked there. All tinted windows. 

Bucky's heart raced again and his body tensed automatically. Predator instincts snapping into place before conscious thought could catch up.

Did they find me? Already? 

His brain was going a million miles a minute and overheating. 

He looked around, planning a getaway, looking for traps, snipers, and before he could get much further than that, the door opened, and out of the car you stepped. 

He didn't recognize you, per se. But his body somehow… knew. 

There was a manila envelope tucked under one arm, thick with papers and creased from being held too tightly. Your clothes were practical — thick, dark leggings, what looked like running shoes, a jacket zipped halfway up over a hoodie, and sunglasses.

Sunglasses that did nothing to hide the purple blooming on the apple of your cheek. 

His fingers flexed as his stomach twisted at the sight, a little part of him knowing that was probably his doing. A small, ugly thought flickered through his mind.

You stopped a few feet from the car, studying him like you’d been doing it for a long time already.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You could see the tension in his body, the uncertainty and distrust flashing in his eyes. 

When he spoke, his voice came out rough, shaking at the beginning of the sentence, from not being used. "Who did that to you?"

The question seemed to surprise him almost as much as it did you.

He studied you for another second, like he was trying to fit you into the fractured spaces in his mind.

“That,” you said quietly, “is a long story.” You walked to the other side of the car, opened the passenger door and threw the envelope on the seat, tuning back to him. "You coming?"

Washington faded in the rearview mirror in slow increments — traffic thinning, buildings lowering, glass and steel turning into brick and then eventually trees. The late afternoon sun filtered through the windshield in long, warm streaks that flickered across the dashboard as the road curved deeper into Virginia.

Bucky.

It felt so weird he had a name now. 

You wondered exactly how much he remembered. You read the files as you gathered them before it all went to shit, you knew whatever twisted version you had of him, it wasn't the same one Steve tried to save. 

Bucky didn’t speak much.

He sat angled slightly toward the window, one arm resting loosely on the door, metal fingers flexing every so often like they had their own restless thoughts. His eyes moved constantly — mirrors, tree lines, passing cars.

You kept the drive steady, hands loose on the wheel, like this was just another quiet afternoon road trip instead of the first time you’d seen him since the causeway.

Eventually the paved highway gave way to a narrow two-lane road, then a gravel path that wound through thick woods. Tall trees leaned overhead, their branches forming a natural tunnel that swallowed the last hints of civilization behind you.

The cabin sat tucked beside a wide, slow river that caught the sunlight like glass. It wasn’t large, but it was well kept — simple wood siding, a small wraparound porch, wide windows facing the water.

You parked the car near the edge of the clearing and turned the engine off.

For a moment neither of you moved.

The sudden silence of the woods settled around the car — water moving gently over rocks, leaves rustling in a breeze that smelled like pine and river mist.

Bucky’s eyes swept the property. He narrowed his gaze at the lack of findings. His jaw tightened, “Too clean,” he muttered under his breath.

You snorted. “Yeah, well,” you said as you opened your door and stepped out onto the gravel, “I vacuum.”

His boots crunched lightly against the gravel when he got out of the car, as he stood beside the door, scanning the cabin again with the same sharp caution he’d had since the alley behind the museum.

As you walked to the trunk to get your duffel bags, one of your belongings and the other of food, you decided you'd be the chatty one. As it's always been. 

You lifted a hand, gesturing vaguely toward the surrounding forest.

“Off grid. No utilities tied to my name. No property record in any government database worth a damn. Bought it under three shell companies and a retired fisherman in Montana who thinks he owns a lake house he’s never seen.”

“Hydra doesn’t know it exists.” You tilted your head slightly. “And neither does SHIELD. That part made his eyes narrow a fraction. You pushed the trunk closed and started toward the cabin steps. “Just me.”

As he followed you in, his eyes took inventory of the inside of the cabin. Warm air spilled out — wood smoke, clean linen, something faintly herbal from the kitchen.

Simple furniture. Neat. A couch near the fireplace. A small table at the center, over a rug. A bookshelf. A kitchen tucked into the back corner with the smallest kitchen island known to man. 

"Bathroom's that way," you nodded your head to your left, dropping the duffel bags in the kitchen by the cabinets. "Bedroom's the door before."

No surveillance. No technology. Just quiet.

You put refrigerated things in the small fridge by the kitchen corner, and grabbed the duffel bag, handing it to him. "I figured you and Steve were the same size." He looked at you puzzled. "Got a few changed of clothes for you, washed away all his star splangled piousness."

Bucky didn't say anything, just stared at you like he was trying to grasp at a thread in his brain that kept slipping away. 

You looked back at him, and nervously chuckled. "Okay, tough crowd."

Bucky’s gaze drifted back toward the table. Toward the envelope. It sat there like it had weight far heavier than paper should.

You followed his line of sight. “Yeah,” you said after a beat, pushing away from the counter. “That.” You fidgeted with the corners of the envelope. “It’s everything I could find.”

He tilted his head, as if spurring you on to keep talking. You stepped back again, folding your arms loosely.

“On Bucky,” you continued. A small pause. “On the Winter Soldier.” Another pause. “On whoever the hell you decide you are when you’re done reading it.”

“HYDRA records. SHIELD files. Soviet archives. Mission logs.” Your mouth tilted faintly. “Some things even Natasha doesn’t know exist.”

The cabin creaked softly as the wind moved through the trees outside.

It took Bucky two full days to feel some semblance that his body belonged to him again. He didn't feel underwater — at least not fully — anymore. 

The envelope stayed unopened.

It sat on the small table near the couch like a quiet third presence in the room, its corners curling slightly from the humidity drifting in through the cracked windows. Every so often Bucky’s eyes would land on it, linger for a moment, and then move away again.

Instead, he watched you.

Not in the way he used to — not from rooftops with the cold focus of a rifle scope — but with a quiet, almost instinctive attention. Like his body had decided something before his mind could catch up.

He followed you without realizing he was doing it.

When you moved around the small kitchen in the morning, he drifted closer under the pretense of getting water. When you stepped outside to the porch with a mug of coffee, he appeared a minute later, leaning against the railing like the river had been calling him there all along.

Sometimes he didn’t even seem aware of it.

You’d turn around and find him standing in the doorway watching you chop vegetables, or sitting on the edge of the couch while you flipped through one of the battered paperbacks on the shelf.

Whatever pieces of Bucky Barnes were trying to claw their way back had nothing stable to attach to yet.

Except you.

Which was… complicated.

You were standing by the kitchen counter when you finally said it.

“I’ve gotta head out tomorrow.”

“You’re leaving.” Not a question.

You grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, twisting the cap off with one hand. “Couple days,” you said casually. “Maybe three.”

His shoulders squared slightly, tension threading through the relaxed posture he’d had moments earlier. “For what?”

You took a sip before answering. “Gotta check on a couple people.” His eyes narrowed a fraction.

“Steve.” You gave a small nod.

“And Nat.” The reaction was tiny. So small most people probably wouldn’t have noticed it.

“Why?”

You shrugged one shoulder. “Because they’re probably looking for both of us.” Another pause. “And because they’re my friends.”

That word hung in the air longer than the rest.

Bucky stood in the doorway for a long time after the sound of the car disappeared, staring out at the quiet river like he was waiting for something to change.

Eventually, he turned back inside, sitting at the table, staring at the envelope like it might catch fire if he didn't. 

He decided that was as good time as any. 

Minutes passed, then hours. Probably more. 

The files inside were organized by date, the only sort of thread he could actually follow. The beginning painted a picture he could barely remember. You even managed to find things that only someone who went digging for his little sister's diary could find, anecdotes of the type of childhood he could imagine he had, pictures of his childhood, his sisters, his parents. 

Then it got… darker. 

The experiment in Azzano, the rescue, his missions with Steve, all the way to his fall of the train. How he survived hypothermia, the operative report when they attached his arm. The first real wiping session. 

HYDRA mission reports.

Redacted SHIELD intel that you somehow got unredacted.

Grainy satellite photos. Black-and-white surveillance stills.

The Winter Soldier. Asset.

Target eliminated. Location secured. Memory wipe required.

Bucky read the words on the paper, old and new, until his eyes ached. The pounding headache came back, too many versions of himself stacked on top of each other, and he decided it was enough for the night. 

He looked through the bookcase, finding stacks of crossword puzzles, sudoku, a deck of cards, all on the second drawer below the books and board games. 

The New York Times wednesday crossword was the lucky one he picked. He laid on the couch with the newspaper in front of him, and by the end, there was only one clue that had him, well, puzzled. 

Ooh, la, la!

What the fuck kind of clue was that?

Four letters. 

He tilted his head one side, then the other, trying to crack his neck, and when he stretched, he buried his face in the cushion. 

It was peonies, and soft musk, and vanilla. It was your sweatshirt that you left over the arm of the couch. 

Before realization hit, a flash went by behind his eyelids, sending his heart straight to the pit of his stomach. 

"Please, you don't have to do this, please, don't!— ah!" It was your voice, distant, far away, but there. Yours. "No! Stop! I- mmmnnghhh!"

He heard himself then. "You can tell me, it'll be our little secret." A rush of heat trickling down his stomach like lava. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

Bucky opened his eyes and sucked in a breath like he had just come out from underwater, scared of his own mind.

He had a blurred visual of what accompaied the words, was that a memory? Was it a dream? Were those his intentions with you? Were you safe with him in this remote cabin?

His thoughts raced with speed one would get a felony charge for, and he looked around to see if he was still alone. He shuffled away from the sweatshirt like it was covered in cactus spines.

His hands dragged over his face, and he decided the coldest shower the safehouse could provide would fix whatever was wrong with his mind. “You’re fine,” he muttered to himself.

He walked to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror for longer than he'd like to admit, trying to find pieces of the James Barnes he read about. 

The shower didn't do much, but it did enough to soothe the tense muscles in his back and ease the throbbing ache in his skull. The instant ramen he made settled okay in his stomach. He settled on the old creaky bed and stared at the ceiling like it held all the answers to his questions until his eyes drifted closed. 

The chair was cold. Metal against his spine. His wrists locked down tight enough that he can feel his pulse fighting against the restraints. The room smells like antiseptic and something burned—wires, maybe, or skin. It’s dark and smells musty. Too old.

He can't move his head. 

He heard the whirring of the wiping machine, heard his own teeth grind together, and then dull footsteps walking in circles around him like a shark circling wounded prey. 

Longing, Rusted, Seventeen, Daybreak, Furnace, Nine, Benign, Homecoming, One, Freight Car.

He felt flashes of memory crumbling down like weak concrete.

And the voice spoke again. 

"Soldat?"

He heard his voice with so little emotion it didn't even feel like him. "Ya gotov otvechat'."

And before he could remember what orders he was given, the nightmare changed. 

"I'll be good! I'll comply!" Suddenly he wasn't in a HYDRA base that smelled of rust and old water, no. He was somewhere much softer, much better taken care of, much more pleasant to be in. 

You. 

He saw himself blurred, almost like he was watching it happen but feeling it all the same, heard himself coax agreement out of you, and heard your voice, broken and wet and needy, say the words. "Ya gotov otvechat'."

Bucky woke up in a cold sweat, breathing like he just choked while running a marathon.

The room was dark, a bedside table clock telling him it was barely past 2am, and when he looked down he groaned in shame at the sight of the tent he was pitching in his pants, aching and leaking enough to wet a spot on the front of his pants.

He decided to toss. And turn. And toss again, trying to go back to sleep. 

He threw the covers off of him, walking to the kitchen and side eyeing the sweatshirt tossed on the couch like it might lunge at him. Tried to mush down the heat in the back of his throat with a glass of water, which proved unsuccessful.

He laid back in bed, covers over his legs and waist, and closed his eyes, wishing, hoping, praying he'd drift away into anywhere his shitty ability to maladaptive daydream would take him. 

Which was right back to you. 

The synapses in his brain just wouldn't stop. 

"You didn't show up for days." Your voice was distant, like a weird doppler effect was happening. You sounded sad, like you felt forgotten about. 

It kept coming to him in flashes, “You disappear,” you said, ticking it off on your fingers. “You come back. You act like nothing happened. Rinse. Repeat.” This time he could almost feel the supple skin of your cheeks under the pads of his fingers. 

His hand twitched on the pillow above his head, and he sighed deeply. Each inch his hand moved lower, the clearer the picture got. 

When it tickled the skin on his stomach, he got a flash of you looking up at him. 

You sucked the digit into your mouth, metallic tang on your tastebuds, as you tugged fabric down just enough so his cock would spring free. Thick, hard, mouth-wateringly big. "Missed my cock that much, mmm, pretty girl?"

Bucky whined, hand going lower over the sweats and palming himself through it. 

He slotted himself between your open thighs and rubbed his length up and down the wetness dripping from you, making you moan at the feeling, "Please…"

He felt dirty, and like he was doing something he shouldn't. But no one would know. He was alone for miles and miles, and you were gone checking on your precious Steve.

He palmed himself harder and sucked in a harsh breath through his nose, his hand coming up slightly to go under the sweats and grip himself, his body jolting at the feeling of skin against skin. 

"Let your pretty girl see you…" Another strangled whine left his lips, like it hurt. Like it hurt to feel what he was feeling and be confused as to why, have no outlet for such emotion, not know what to do with the memories.

You lifted you hips and sank back down slowly, little gasps and moans you tried not to let out, coming out anyway.

“I don’t like it when you’re gone.” The words came out muffled against his hand, his thumb tracing your lip again. 

The moan that escaped his lips when he stroked himself at first was broken, like it knocked the wind out of him. He didn't mean to let it out but the imagery got clearer with each movement. 

"Mne ne khochetsya tebya pokidat'." I don't like leaving you.

He stroked again, each slick sound from him fucking his fist reminding him of how you sounded fucking yourself open onto him. 

"Ya ne khochu, chtoby ty ischezla." I don't want you to disappear.

It hurt. It felt good. Tears rimmed his eyes in confusion and overstimulation of all his emotions hitting him at once. The more the knot in his core tightened at the thought of you, the less oxygen he felt existed. 

He stroked, up and down, swiping his thumb across the leaking tip of him, eyes shut tightly trying to remember the feel of your spongy walls wrapping around him, then clenching. 

He moaned your name and stroked faster, a flash of memory showing him how you begged him to let you be on top, metal hand glinting around your throat. 

He squeezed his hand around himself, and as soon as the image of you biting your lower lip and begging him to cum through teary eyes popped in his head, he was done for.

Like releasing a spring that was coiled too tight, the relief was immediate, making a shudder run through his body as hot spurts of cum painted his stomach and some of the sheets around him. 

The next time it happened, it was the wine.

You had gotten back already, and he was looking for something to drink in the fridge, though maybe a bottle of water and a flavor packet that you called Liquid I.V. would be nice, when he saw the bottle out of the corner of his eye. 

The label seemed familiar, familiar enough for a flash of a syringe and a needle to pass by his mind, no other context or explanation. 

When he took the half-sticking-out cork out, the smell of it flooded his nostrils, and another flash appeared. 

Your kiss. 

It was messy, urgent, nothing like the soft kiss he remembered before. This one he could almost taste, wine, lip balm, and, well, what he imagined you tasted like. 

Your eyes squeezed shut at the eerily familiar feel of his lips on you, kissing you open as he held your thighs apart. “Oh, God—“ 

He licked, and sucked, and bit like the solace for his miserable existence could only be found in the oasis between your legs. Squelching was loud in the room already and it only got worse when he put two fingers inside of you. 

"S'tight, baby." 

He groaned in annoyance, his body responding to the memory faster than he could tell his own brain to repress it. 

He took a deep breath, then two, and when it became clear his dick was winning this one, he turned on the balls of his feet and bee lined for the bedroom, hoping to be done before you got out of the shower. 

He paused, however, by the couch. Looking at your sweatshirt, then the door, then the sweatshirt again, until he decided to stop fucking thinking and just grabbed it. 

This time, he did it with the fabric close to his face, where he could turn around and bury his face in it, feel how soft it was and imagine it was the skin between your breasts, imagine your sweet little whimpers in his ear, your hands tangled in his hair tugging it as he grazed the skin with his teeth. 

"If you keep being good maybe I'll give you my cum. Mm? You'd like that wouldn't you?"

"No, I'm not on— please—"

He built rhythm easier this time, the images weren't fractured glass as much as they were reflections off of a river stream now, flowing and fleeting. 

"Feels... so- oh! Good! Good.. So full."

There wasn't a headache anymore, just a throbbing need behind his ribs and low in his spine, shame and want blended so well together he didn't know which was which. 

"Please, don't stop."

His hand stroked faster, up and down his shaft, until it was weeping with need, precum coating his entire fist. Your voice in his head kept echoing, closer, and closer, bringing him to the edge of a precipice he had all intentions of falling from. 

"Too much." You tried to squirm away, but his grip was too strong.

"Never too much, baby."

He bit his own fist as he spilled onto his hand, trying to muffle any sounds coming out of his mouth, but it wasn't much avail. Blood rushing in his ears, he didn't hear you turn off the shower, or open the bathroom door.

You'd recognize his moans in any environment though.

The timbre of his voice when he was close, almost choking on his own groans trying to keep quiet, not knowing you were outside the door listening to it, unaware he was thinking of you. 

The cards were worn.

Soft at the edges, corners bent from too many hands, too many games that were meant to pass time instead of… whatever this was.

"Ha! That's four," You said, scooping the pair of cards from the coffee table and onto your pile. "Are you even trying? Your memory cannot be that bad."

The rain sounded heavy outside, thick drops of water crashing down on the roof, the wind making them thud against the window in harsh pitter-patter patterns that comforted the loneliest souls. 

He sat across from you, elbows resting on his knees, one hand resting on his chin and the other hanging from his lap, the deep crease between his brows making an appearance. His gaze wasn’t on the cards. 

You raised a brow, taking your glass of wine in your hand to take a sip. "Do I have something on my face?"

"You smelled like vanilla."

It was out of context, almost like he was just thinking out loud and not exactly planning on filling you in on what the conversation was in the first place. 

You raised your forearm to your nose, smelling the skin on your wrist, and furrowed your own brows, a chuckle escaping you. "It's the moisturizer, Bucky, I can—"

"And after it was peonies."

Oh?

Oh.

He… remembers. 

"I remembered those nights." Your blood ran cold, you could see his throat bob like he was swallowing words too thick for his tongue. "I remember—" He shut his eyes, both trying to recall and erase the memory of the very first night you were together. 

"Bucky—" You sat up on your knees, making the motion to get a couple inches closer to him, and he moved away the same distance. 

"You cried— fuck— you begged me to stop and I just—" His hands were up in the air, as if keeping space between you would make whatever he did to you less worse. 

"Bucky, please—"

"Why are you kind to me?" His question was almost demanding. Scolding. "After everything I did to you?" His eyes looked into yours, searching your face for answers to a question he didn't have the words to ask. "After I r—"

"Because I liked it." You blurted out. "A deep, twisted, dark part of me wouldn't let the rest of me hate you for it." You sighed, Bucky tilting his head as if nudging you to elaborate. 

You looked everywhere but him, fidgeting with your hands on your lap. "I didn't even last that first night before I… felt things I couldn't name." You picked at the fabric of your pants. "I woke up the next morning feeling hollow that you left. Every night after that I waited for you to come back."

"Why would y—"

"I don't know." You interrupted him, looking into his eyes. "I can't explain why, but every night you didn't come I felt like jumping off of the tallest building I could find." You looked away again, chuckling at how idiotic you thought you sounded. 

"I sound stupid."

You pulled away to get up and walk away, getting as far as having to step over him to find somewhere to bury your shame. 

Bucky wouldn't let you, though. His hand reached up as you were walking over him, pulling you down.

Your knees hit the rug on each side of him with a soft thud, his hands cradling your face and looking for any sign of protest. 

He didn't find any. Would never find any. Not from you. 

You looked into his eyes, watching him watch you, and leaned in, kissing his lips softly.

So softly he'd have thought it was a dream. 

Your lips moved together as if it was the first kidd you'd shared. And technically, it was, no matter how much muscle memory he had of the Asset and you. 

He deepened the kiss and your hips twiched as his hands fell to rest at your side, grinding yourself onto his pelvis, making him groan into your mouth. 

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling it lightly and sighing into him. "I missed you." You breathed against his mouth before he pulled away to kiss down your neck. "Missed you so much I wanted to—"

"M'here." Muffled against your collarbone, hands going under the hem of your ribbed tank top, gripping your waist with a little more want. He reached up to tug the collar of the shirt to the side, giving him more space to lap and kiss at your clevage.

Your hands found the hem of his shirt and tugged it up, his arms extending upwards to help you take it off for him. 

You touched the scars on his shoulder, and he watched you carefully. The sliver of humanity you saw in the Asset the first night he left you undress him coming out now, in full unadultered awe. 

Your lips kissed each old divot of skin, eyes closing at the memory as your hips ground deeper into him, until you felt his hard length straining against his jeans, the seam of it catching just right into your that you felt a zing straight to your clit. 

His hands travelled up your shirt, bringing the fabric up with them, until it was your turn to let him undress you, hair falling behind your back and over one shoulder. 

He looked at you like a man seeing the sun for the first time. 

His pupils were blown with desire and adrenaline flowing through his veins, mouth coming to claim yours in a kiss again. 

A big hand splayed against your back, his hips tilting so he could lay you down on the rug, your hair fanning out around you as he kissed down your jaw, your neck, your sternum.

His hand came to rest around your ribs, thumb dangerously close to the underside if your breast, and then daring to flick the hardened nipple there. 

"Buck—"

He sighed against your skin as he kissed the skin of your torso lower and lower, kissing down the skin of your stomach, "You don't know what it does to me hearing you say my name like this."

He kissed lower and butterflies bloomed in your stomach when his lips brushed the hem of your shorts, eyes flicking up to yours as if asking for permission, or wanting you to beg, he wasn't sure.

He just wanted to hear the sound of your voice for the rest of his life. 

His fingers hooked into the shorts and pulled them down your legs along with your panties, tossing them over the couch. 

Calloused palms rubbed up your legs, squeezing when he got to the top of your thighs, and you sighed as you let them fall open so he could settle his broad chest between your legs. 

He inhaled deeply when he got to be eye level with your core, memories floosing every groove of his brain. 

His tongue licked a long, flat strip up your core and your breath caught in a moan. "Missed your scent." He kissed your clit. "Missed your taste." He groaned. "Without even knowing I was missing it."

He devoured you like a man starved. 

Like he'd forget you all over again if he stopped lapping at your cunt for even a second. 

And the thought of forgetting your face, your sounds, your smell, your taste, the thought of forgetting you was more painful than anything he had endured. 

Bucky alternated between long, deep licks up your core, and quick flicks of his tongue around your clit before sucking the bundle of nerves into his mouth, while his fingers played with your nipples. 

The feel of your thighs squeezing around his head every time you did that was more comforting than any soothing mechanism he'd ever tried. 

His hands pushed your legs open once again, wider, so he could lean down and thrust his tongue in and out of your drooling pussy, making you whine and buck your hips into his face. 

The temperature of the cabin suddenly was a hundred degrees hotter, a sheen coat of sweat over your bare body making you glisten against the firelight. 

Your hands in his hair tugged, until his glistening face was flush with yours in a hungry kiss that had you tasting yourself.

Deft, manicured fingers worked on the buttons and zipper of his jeans, shoving them down awkwardly as your legs were wrapped around his waist, his cock springing free between the two of you. 

You gasped against his lips when it landed against your folds in a wet slap, leaking precum over your stomach, the patch glistening.

God, you missed him. 

His right hand reached for the length of him, lazily rubbing the tip between your folds, collecting slick, and then pumping it slowly to spread it.

He did that torturously slow, almost as if he was giving you time to back out. Decide you were right in the head and wanted nothing to do with him, actually. 

But instead you waited until his tip was notched by your entrance, and pulled him forward with your legs. his forarms bracing against the floow beside your head as his length impaled you on him, stretching you impossibly wide around his cock to the hilt.

The familiar sting made a loud, lewd moan escape your lips and stumble straight into his mouth, his lips open hovering over yours.

His metal hand cradled the top of your head, eyes locking with yours and noticing tears rim your waterline. 

Panic set in his gut mixing with the heat licking up his ribs, and you noticed the way his body stiffened. "I'm okay." You nodded. "Just—" The words getting caught in your throat as his flesh thumb traced your bottom lip. "Missed you. Need you."

You hand gave his ass cheek a firm squeeze, his eyes narrowing at you as his flesh hand reached to hike your ankle up around his waist higher, and he gave the first tentative thrust, eyes locked with yours. 

He pulled out more, and pushed his hips forward again, hitting the sweet spot inside of you that only he could reach. He leaned down, continuing his movements, and kissed down your chest, pulling a nipple into his mouth, swiling his tongue around it. 

The wet noises coming from where your bodies joined were louder than the rain outside now. Your moans getting gradually more high pitched and his groans getting deeper and deeper, as if it hurt to have you like this again. 

"You feel—" a particularly harsh thrust interrupted you. "oh my God! You feel so good, Bucky, please—"

"Dreamt of you—" Another groan. "Dreamt of you every day."

All of his sentences were punctuated by thrusts, the thick drag of his cock inside of you making your skin feel like it was on fire, sweat from you both dripping down onto the rug. 

"Fuck, Bucky—"

"Thought you were in my head." He confessed. "Until I smelled you again— fuck— on the Causeway—" Harsher thrusts, like he was losing himself in the feel of your cunt strangling him. "Knew you had to be real then." And then a needy, higher pitched moan from him. "Knew it had to be you."

You cupped your hands one each side of his face, making him let go of whatever patch of skin he was sucking on, a purple mark being left behind, and made him look at you.

Blue eyes lost is a black pool of lust and need and want. 

"Don't leave me." You pleaded, as he started thrusting hard enough to slap his pelvis against your clit with each thrust. "Please, don't ever leave me again."

He kissed your palm. "Not gonna." Muffled against your hand. "Never gonna let you go."

He strained his neck to capture your lips in a kiss again, feeling your gummy walls spasm around his length, pulsing like you wanted him to fill you up as your orgasm crashed over you and drowned you in him. 

"G'nna, cu-um…" His hips stuttered. "Need t— fuck—" You nodded against him, locking your legs behind his back, making him groan at the thought that you couldn't bear him gone as much as he couldn't bear to be away.

A symphony of passionate moans from you at the overstimulation of not even being over one orgasm and already feeling the coil in your stomach tighten again threw Bucky over the edge.

Hot, thick ropes of cum filled you, your eyes rolled back at the feeling of it, so much that it dripped out of you. 

He slowly stopped his movements, brushing your hair away from your face, kissing everywhere in your flushed chest and cheeks as he came down from his high. 

You tilted his head towards you again. "No more running."

"No more running." He agreed, kissing your palm in earnest.

me writing that smut scene with wet eyes and a wet pussy as always TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK PLEAK!!!!!

The Winter Soldier doesn't love anyone, he’s got a heart made of Siberian ice and a soul that drowned in the dark waters of his past.A past he can’t even remember, leaving him completely numb to the world.

They built him to be a cold-blooded killer, a weapon wrapped in tactical gear, moving through nights like a phantom. He doesn’t know the touch of a real romance, he doesn't know how to hold a girl's hand without feeling the weight of a trigger.He only understands the darkness.

His metal arm is freezing to the touch, smelling of gun oil, cheap gasoline, and the bitter copper of old blood. It's a flawless piece of Soviet machinery designed to break pulchritudinous things into a million little pieces.

He has seen too many empires fall, too many cities burn, and too many innocent people beg for their lives. There’s no softness left in his damaged mind, no vintage love songs from the quadragenarian years playing in his head. The only sound it the loud static of old military radios and a long list of names he was programmed to erase from the earth without a single spark of pity or regret.

He is a monster masquerading as a god, a beautiful nightmare that you just can't wake up from no matter how hard you scream. When he breathes, it’s just the freezing air of a perpetual winter filling up his hollow chest.

He is not a human, he’s just a ghost trapped in a body of muscle.A hollow shell where a man’s soul used to live before they tore it out and replaced it with wires and Soviet steel. He does not feel, he doesn't know what it’s like to have a warm heart beating against his ribs. He doesn’t feel the sting of the freezing rain on his face, he doesn’t feel the ache of loneliness in the middle of the night, and he certainly doesn’t feel a single drop of guilt when his hands are wrapped around someone’s throat in a dark alleyway.

You could cry right in front of him, you could bleed all over his black leather boots, and those storm-colored eyes wouldn’t even blink, because there is no pity inside him, no tenderness.

So why is it that every time he sees you in your little bookstore, tucked away between the dusty old paperbacks and the soft glow of the lamps, he swears he feels something?—a terrifying little spark that cuts right through his chest?

It’s probably a glitch in his programming...right?An agonizing malfunction that shouldn’t exist in a man like him. Every time he looks at you, the heavy static in his brain suddenly clears, replaced by a strange warmth. It feels like a forgotten memory of a summer sun he hasn't seen in fifty years.

It makes no sense to an asset like him; it scares him more than any bullet ever could, because he doesn't know how to handle the sudden weight of being almost human again.

Because of that terrifying feeling, he’s been stalking you for months now. And he's completely unable to stop himself from drifting toward you. He’s become a permanent fixture in the shadows across the street, parking his motorcycle.

He watches you through the rain-streaked glass of your shop as you dust the shelves, drink your black coffee, and read those sad, romantic books until closing time. He knows the exact time you turn off the radio, he knows the sound of your keys jingling in the front door lock, and he has completely memorized the way your perfume smells when you step out into the night air.An intoxicating mix of expensive vanilla and something he can't name.

He tracks your movements like a predator, knowing which train you take, which street corners you cross, and exactly how long you linger at the flower shop down the avenue.

Pink roses are your favorites,he has learned.

He hates himself for it, he hates that a cold-blooded killer like him is utterly hooked on the simple, mundane sight of a girl who doesn't even know his name. He’s an addict, unable to tear his dead eyes away from you.Because in a world full of blood and white noise, you are the only thing that makes his heart beat against his metal ribs.

He tried to forget you, god knows he tried to wipe the very memory of you from his damaged mind. He went back to the dark streets of foreign cities, trying to forget you. He threw himself into the violence, losing himself in the familiar comfort of high-stakes missions and the sound of gunfire.

He was desperate to let the adrenaline wash away the soft light in your eyes. He stared at the cracked ceilings for days, trying to force his brain back into the icy state of a perfect soldier. But none of it worked, absolutely none of it, because no matter how many miles he put between himself and your shop,it just didn't work.

Mostly, he just can’t get your soft lips out of his mind. It’s a sick obsession that keeps him awake in the dead of night A cold-blooded killer shouldn't know longing, but he craves the thought of your lips more than his next breath, imagining how incredibly soft they would feel against his own unholy mouth.

He imagines the sweetness of you on his tongue even when he’s surrounded by the bitter smell of gunpowder and blood, a torture that makes his metal fists clench in sheer frustration. He is a monster completely ruined by the simple, devastating thought of your lips.

He can’t get the thought of you on your knees for him out of his head.It’s an obscene image that burns behind his eyelids every time he closes them. It's a vision so sharp it makes his breath catch in his hollow throat.

He imagines you there, small and completely surrendered on the cold hardwood floor of your little shop, looking up at him through your eyelashes with that soft innocence. He craves the total submission of it. He wants to look down and see you ruined by him

And your lips. God, your lips on his...

The thought alone is a lethal dose of adrenaline running through his frozen veins. He wants to feel the agonizing contrast of your warmth against his vile mouth. He wants to ruin your neat little world with his heavy, rough hands.

He wants to press his mouth against yours until the taste of blood and gunpowder is completely drowned in your sweetness, leaving him choked on a desire he has no right to feel.

It’s a suffocating hunger. He knows he would break you—but the dark, selfish part of his broken soul doesn't care. He wants to be the one who brings you to your knees, and he wants to be worshipped by your mouth.

He knows that this wrong. Every single cell in his genetically engineered body screams at him that this is a fatal error. A weapon doesn’t crave the softness of a girl’s lips. A soldier doesn’t dream of a submissive angel on her knees in the warm glow of a bookstore.

It’s a betrayal of everything he is. Every time his mind drifts back to the vanilla scent of your skin, a cold sweat breaks out under his tactical gear, a raw panic that he hasn’t felt since they first strapped him into the chair.

Because he knows what happens if Hydra finds out.They will come for you. They would see you not as a girl, but as a contagion. A weakness to be excised with surgical precision. They would hunt you down, shatter the glass of your pretty little shop, and paint those dusty paperbacks with your blood just to prove to him that he belongs to them.

They would make him watch. Or worse, they would re-program him, wipe his mind until his eyes are dead again, and force his own flesh and metal hands around your delicate throat.

The mere thought of Hydra discovering your existence sends a spike of pure terror through his chest. He can already hear the clinical voices of his handlers, the heavy clanking of the laboratory doors, and the terrifying phrase that strips away everything he is: Longing. Seventeen. Daybreak.

He should leave. He should turn the key to his motorcycle, speed into the freezing rain, and never look back at this street corner again. He should let the winter swallow him whole.

It’s Valentine’s Day, but the flashing red and pink neon signs down the avenue don’t mean a damn thing to you. You’re standing inside your little bookstore, surrounded by the comforting scent of old paper and dust, completely detached from the cheap, plastic romance that the rest of the city is buying into tonight.

You haven't cared about this day in years, closing your heart off to the hollow promises of drugstore chocolates and rushed dinners, choosing instead the quiet safety of your own solitude. It’s not that you’re bitter; it’s just that you have these impossibly big, cinematic expectations of what love should be.A grand, dangerous kind of devotion that nobody in this mundane world could ever give you. You have these high standards built from the poetry and romantic novels on your shelves, and you’d rather spend your nights completely alone than settle for a lukewarm boyfriend who doesn't understand the depth of your personality.

You look out the rain-streaked window at the couples rushing past under their umbrellas, knowing that you’re waiting for a different kind of romance.

So it shouldn’t bother you that all of your friends are out tonight with their partners, dressed up in their expensive, velvet clothes, drinking cheap red wine under the dim lights of fancy downtown restaurants. It shouldn't matter that they are whispering sweet, mundane little clichés into each other's ears.

But it does, it really does. You can feel your chest tightening with a heavy ache at the thought of spending another long night entirely alone.

It’s always been like this though. They’ve always had their fun, drifting through the easy phases of normal romance, while you—well, you always stayed behind. A disastrous girl locked away in her own ivory tower of old paper.God,it sounds like you're a character in a Paula Fox novel.

You try to tell yourself that you’re above it all, that their drugstore version of love could never fulfill a girl with your kind of imagination. But as the hours tick away, the quiet of the bookstore becomes an absolute prison, and the crushing, agonizing realization that you are completely on your own in the dark.

Or...are you?

You glance at the clock on the wall and realize it’s finally time to close up, because the streets have been empty for hours and nobody is going to walk through that door tonight. I mean, who in their right mind would come to a dusty old bookstore on Valentine’s Day anyway?

You start moving through the golden shadows of the shop, your fingers lingering on the spines of the sad poetry books as you prepare to shut it all down.

You turn off the vintage radio, cutting off the melancholic jazz that was keeping you company, and the sudden silence hits your chest like a physical weight. You grab your keys, the metal clinking sharply in the quiet room, ready to lock the door, completely unaware that the only man who has ever truly looked at you is still waiting out there in the dark.

You step out into the freezing night, turning the key in the lock until the bolt clicks firmly into place. You pop open your black umbrella against the pouring rain, pulling your trench coat tight around your chest as you take your first step onto the wet pavement.The wind is howling down the avenue, and you’re walking with your head down, just trying to escape the bitter cold.

You only take three steps before you crash hard into a solid, unyielding wall of muscle and wet leather. A force so heavy it sends a sharp shock straight up your spine and makes your umbrella wobble in your hand.

You stumble back, your breath catching in your throat as you look up through the rain-streaked air, trying to make out the silhouette towering over you.It’s too dark to see his face under the shadows of the street corner, but you can perceive his shoulders and the dark tactical gear strapped tight under his jacket.

Then you look down, and your heart skips a heavy beat.A single, delicate pink rose is lying in the puddle, its soft petals bruised by the cold water. It must have fallen from his hands the moment you collided.

“I'm so sorry,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly in the freezing air as you lean down to gently pick up the flower.You stand back up, holding the bruised pink rose out to him. You wait for him to take it, wait for a curse, a brush-off, or the sound of his voice—anything to break the awkward silence stretching out between you under the pouring rain.

He doesn’t say a word. He just reaches out and takes the pink rose from your hand, his black leather glove brushing against your fingers for a brief second. He tucks the flower into his jacket pocket, turns around, and walks away into the rainy night, leaving you standing alone under your umbrella.

You stay there on the sidewalk for a long time, watching the spot where he disappeared. Your mind is spinning, completely confused by what just happened.

You wonder who this giant of a man was.You touch your fingers to your lips, still tasting the bitter scent of his gasoline and gun oil in the air.

You walk back to your apartment, the freezing rain soaking through your coat, but you can barely feel the cold. You climb the stairs, turn the key to your bedroom, and throw your wet clothes on the floor.You pour yourself a glass of cheap red wine and sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the ceiling.

Your mind is completely hijacked by him. You can’t stop thinking about the dangerous contrast of his body against yours.It’s a haunting image that keeps looping in your head—this silent, terrifying monument of a man, carrying a single pink rose through the storm like a cliché.

You crawl under the blankets, wondering where the stranger was going.

You don't know that outside your window, tucked away in the alley, his motorcycle sits idling in the dark. The Winter Soldier feels so incredibly foolish, a cold-blooded assassin frozen in place by a girl who smells like vanilla and old books.

He looks down at the bruised pink rose resting on the leather seat of his bike. He hadn't planned on any of this. He had only intended to slip into your shop during the closing chaos, to leave that soft, stupid flower on your counter when you weren't looking—a silent, anonymous token from a monster who has no right to feel like this.

But then the brass lock had clicked, you had stepped into the rain, and you had broken right against his chest.He couldn't even speak. A machine that knows how to order an execution in five different languages completely lost his voice the moment your hands brushed his glove.

Oh,he's pathetic.

Maybe it was because, for the very first time, he actually looked at you. Not through the distorted scope of a rifle, not through a rain-streaked windshield, but right there in the blackness of the street corner.

He saw the soft innocence in your eyes, the gentle way you rescued his bruised flower from the puddle. He feels trapped between his violent programming and the terrifying realization that your sweetness has officially conquered something inside him.

He decides it’s better to keep his distance, at least for a little while. He needs to pull back and disappear, if only for a single day, just to analyze the fatal error running wild through his system.

He needs to look at the situation with the calculating precision of the weapon he was built to be, rather than the desperate longing of a man who has lost his mind over a bookstore girl.Yeah..he's pathetic.

Few hours later he sits in a cheap motel room on the edge of the city. The bruised pink rose sits on the nightstand next to his silver handguns and his black tactical knife—a delicate little intruder in his violent world.It's kinda ironic.

He tells himself that one day away from your bookstore will cure this sickness, that twenty-four hours of isolation will put the ice back into his veins and force the vanilla scent out of his head. He promises himself he will stay away, that he won't drive past your street corner, and that he will find a way to become himself again.

And then...the air in the motel room is thick. He sits on the edge of the mattress, his tactical gear half-undone, staring at that pale pink rose on the nightstand until his vision blurs. He tried to think like a soldier, he tried to run the numbers, but the cold analysis completely shatters under the memory of your body breaking against his chest in the pouring rain.

His heavy leather glove hits the floor with a dull thud, and he reaches down with his bare human hand, his fingers trembling with hunger he hasn't felt in a lifetime.Or has he? He knows what he's doing,how to...but why? He knows pieces are missing from his brain.

He closes his eyes, and suddenly he’s not in this rotting room anymore—he’s back in the golden glow of your bookstore, watching your soft lips part, visualizing you shape,your submission as you drop to your knees on the hard wood floor just for him.

He touches himself with a rough slowness, his breath catching sharply in his hollow throat as the image burns behind his eyelids. He visualizes his metal fingers tangled ruthlessly in your hair, holding you down, forcing you to take every inch of him.You look up at him with those innocent eyes,that tear up a bit,and he gets harder at the thought. Every stroke is fueled by adrenaline and a fatal error in his system that makes his muscles lock up and his chest heave as he chases the taste of your skin and your sweet, ruined mouth in the dark.

He groans into the empty room, a low sound that tastes like sins, his hips moving in a punishing rhythm against his own bare hand. He’s completely losing his mind in the red neon light of Valentine's day, hallucinating the friction of your soft thighs against his waist.

He pulls his own hair with his metal hand, wanting the sharp sting of pain to wake him from this wicked dream, but he’s too far gone, too deeply drowned in the fantasy of ruining you. His imagination ahifts from the bookstore.He imagines pinning you down into this mattress, your delicate wrists held captive above your head by his silver fingers.

He is chasing a high he was never meant to know, driving himself closer and closer to the edge with the devastating thought of your lips stretched wide around him.

His muscles lock, veins standing out against his neck as an electric jolt of adrenaline tears through his frozen spine. With one final thrust against his own hand,it hits him like a physical blow, that leaves him completely undone in the bleeding red light of the neon sign.

He gasps, a low sound echoing against the peeling wallpaper. He collapses back onto the damp sheets, his human hand slick and his silver fingers trembling against the mattress, completely paralyzed.

The static in his brain is gone, replaced by a silence that offers no comfort,and terrifying realization that he didn't wash you out of his system at all. He just let you entirely inside,his heartbeat slowly drops back into the freezing dark.

...

Two days. Two whole days of absolute silence.

He managed to stay away from your street corner for forty-eight hours, hiding out in the dark. Trying to cure himself of a wicked addiction. He cleaned his weapons, and tried to pretend that the sweet scent of vanilla had finally faded from his leather jacket.

He told himself that the error in his system was corrected, that the cold-blooded killer was back in control, and that your little bookstore was just a hallucination he had successfully left behind in the rain.

But it was all a lie, a delusion he built just to keep from tearing the city apart. Every single tick of the clock on his nightstand felt like a blow against his ribs. He didn't cure the sickness; he just let it fester in the dark, his hands shaking under his tactical gloves every time he pictured your soft lips.

Two days of playing dead was all his broken soul could take. He needed you.During those two days, you felt a strange mix of disappointment and relief. Part of you wanted the dangerous stranger to reappear out of the rain, to prove that the shock of your bodies colliding wasn't just a figment of your wild imagination. But as the hours dragged on and your shop remained empty, the ache in your chest began to soften into a familiar numbness.

You told yourself it was for the best. You cleaned the shelves, reorganized the poetry section, and drank your black coffee in silence, slowly letting the memory of his heavy leather jacket and the bruised pink rose fade into white noise.You had almost forgotten the whole thing, convinced yourself that he was just a nameless stranger passing through the dark, never to be seen again.

He can't take the distance anymore, and he sure as hell doesn't do polite invitations.So he writes you a letter.It’s not a soft, romantic Valentine's card; it’s a rough piece of paper torn from a tactical notebook, written in aggressive black ink that nearly rips through the page. It’s short, blunt, and so utterly typical of the Winter Soldier that it’s almost funny—a dangerous machine trying to command a girl who smells like vanilla.

Midnight.The old abandoned observatory on the hilltop. Under the broken dome.Don’t make me come fetch you.Be there.

He slips the note straight under the front door of your bookstore right before closing.You find the paper lying on the hardwood floor, your heart doing a dangerous flip against your ribs as you read the crude ultimatum. He isn't asking for a chance,—he is ordering a surrender.

You hold the rough piece of paper in your hands while the cold adrenaline starts to flood your veins. Your mind is racing, honey, frantically trying to piece the puzzle together as you stare at the ldark ink and the aggressive handwriting that feels more like a tactical order than a love note.

You find yourself wondering who could have possibly slipped this under your door. Who even knew you were here...well,you have a lot of costumers. So it could be anybody.

But deep down, in the dark corner of your soul, you already know the answer. Or at least, you desperately hope you do.

You know it’s crazy, you know a smart girl would tear the paper to pieces and lock her bedroom door, but your heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs because the thought of him waiting for you up on that star-lit hilltop is a drug you’re already too weak to refuse.

You spend the next few hours in a fever dream, the minutes ticking away on the wall. You step into your bathroom, the mirror fogging up with warm steam as you try to wash away the mundane exhaustion of the day.

You pick out your clothes. You slide into a soft, dark slip dress that clings to your curves, and pull your heavy leather trench coat over your shoulders to protect you from the freezing night air.

You don't put on much makeup, just a touch of your signature expensive vanilla perfume behind your ears and on your wrists. You stare at your reflection one last time.

The winding mountain road is completely black, swallowed by the suffocating silence of the pines and the cold mist rolling off the hills. You drive up the dark asphalt, while the radio hums a slow melody.

When you finally reach the crest of the hill, the abandoned observatory rises from the darkness. Its massive, rusted dome looks like a fractured skull against the midnight sky, with jagged shards of broken glass catching the brilliant light of the stars above.

You cut the engine.You step out of the car, the gravel crunching beneath your boots.And then, you see it—tucked away beneath an old oak tree, the dark silhouette of his motorcycle sits in the dark, its guttural purr vibrating straight through the ground and up into the soles of your shoes.

He just watches you step closer in your dark slip dress and leather trench coat, his jaw clenched tight as he realizes you actually came.

He cuts the engine, and the sudden silence on the mountaintop hits you both. He swings his leg over the seat, stepping off the motorcycle with a predatory grace that makes your breath catch in your throat. He takes a long step toward you, his massive combat boots crunching against the gravel.

“You came,” he mutters.

“I didn't think you'd actually show up,” you whisper.You try to sound brave, but the slight tremor in your voice betrays every high expectation and desperate hope you've been nursing for the last two hours.

He leans down just a fraction of an inch closer, his hot breath brushing against your cold cheek.“You've been in my sights for a very long time.”

He grabs your wrist—his grip tight but not breaking you—and leads you up the rusted iron steps of the observatory, toward the highest observation ledge right under the open sky.

When you reach the top, the entire world opens up below you. The city is distant, completely insignificant compared to the silver cosmos stretched out over your heads.He walks right to the edge of the stone platform. He sits down, letting his heavy combat boots dangle over the ledge into the empty blackness, and nods once toward the space beside him.

You take a slow breath, your heart hammering against your ribs, and sit down right next to him. The contrast is devastating—you in your delicate black silk, and him wrapped in cold tactical gear and wet leather.

Your bare shoulder brushes against his heavy jacket, and the electric warmth of his body almost makes you shiver. You both look up at the infinite dark, completely isolated from the rest of the living.You sit there on the cold stone ledge, your bare legs dangling into the empty blackness right beside his heavy combat boots.

“Which one is your favorite?” you ask softly. You tilt your head back, your eyes search the silver dust of the Milky Way.

He doesn't look up at the sky. His storm-colored eyes stay fixed on the side of your face, watching the way the starlight hits your cheekbones.

“I don't look at them to admire them,” he grunts. He reaches down with his human hand, his rough fingers tracing a line along the seat of the ledge. “In Hy— where I was trained, the stars just meant we had three hours of navigation left before dawn. They aren't pretty, They're just coordinates”

You let out a soft laugh, turning your head to meet his intense gaze. “I know who you are Bucky.”

The realization that you knew exactly what he was didn’t scare him; it liberated him.He leaned in closer, the scent of rain and old leather completely erasef the sweet vanilla on your skin.

“Good,” he growled. “Then I don't have to pretend anymore.”

“You know what I am,” he stated, his human hand moving from the stone ledge to grip the back of your neck. His fingers were rough, anchoring you in place.“You know what these hands have done. And you still drove up a pitch-black mountain just because I told you to.”

He tilted your head back slightly, forcing your eyes to meet his. His gaze wasn't romantic; it was hungry. It was the look of a predator claiming territory it had been stalking for months. He looked at your mouth, his thumb brushing against your lower lip with just enough pressure to part them. He didn't want a sweet, innocent kiss. He wanted you on your knees, entirely consumed by him, surrendering every piece of yourself to his control. He wanted to ruin you for anyone else.

“Maybe I don't want a softness” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly but holding your ground. “Maybe I wanted exactly this.”

A dangerous silence fell between you. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He didn't say another word. He didn't need to. Your answer was the green light the predator inside him had been waiting months for.

With a single, effortless movement, his human hand tightened on your neck and he hauled you up off the stone ledge. He didn't do polite. He marched you backward into the deeper shadows of the observatory, until your lower back hit the cool, metallic frame of his motorcycle.

You submissively started to sink toward the gravel, your knees going weak as your instincts told you to kneel for him. But before your knees could even touch the ground, his metal hand shot out. His vibranium fingers wrapped firmly around your bicep, arresting your descent with effortless strength and pulling you right back up.

“No,” he growled. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Not tonight. You save that for the next time I command it. Tonight, I want to look into your eyes while I take you.”

He didn't give you a chance to process his words. His flesh-and-blood hand moved down to the hem of your dark slip dress, bunching the soft silk upward in his rough palm. His calloused hand dragged against your bare thigh.

He gripped your hip, lifting you effortlessly and placing you right onto the leather seat of the motorcycle. He stepped his heavy combat boot between your thighs, opening you up and claiming every inch of your space.

“Legs up,” he commanded, his voice dropping into a rough growl.You didn't hesitate. You wrapped your bare legs around his waist, the soft skin of your thighs pressing tightly against the rough canvas of his tactical pants. The position placed you perfectly at eye level with him.

He stepped his heavy combat boots closer, crowding right between your thighs until his massive chest was pressing you back against the handlebars. You were completely trapped between his heavy frame and the cold metal of the bike, your delicate black silk dress bunched up around your waist.

His large human hand slid up your bare thigh, his rough fingers hooking into the delicate elastic of your underwear. He didn't ask for permission. With one deliberate tug, he ripped the lace right down your legs, tossing the ruined fabric onto the gravel below without a second thought.

Your breath caught in your throat at the sudden display of dominance. You were completely exposed to the freezing night air now, shivering against the seat of the motorcycle.

He didn't bother taking off his leather jacket or his tactical gear—he wanted to keep you warm, and honestly, he was too far gone to care about undressing completely. Instead, his human hand moved down to the front of his tactical pants. You watched with wide eyes as his fingers quickly unbuckled his belt and lowered his zipper, aggressively freeing his thick length into the cold air.

“Look at me,” he muttered, his eyes dark with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs. “I want you to remember this.”

He didn't push in yet. Instead, he just pressed his hot length right against you, teasing the entrance while his storm-colored eyes tracked the desperate, shallow breaths escaping your lips.

“Bucky—”

His human hand clenched tighter around your hip, his thumb digging into your skin to anchor you. “Don't call me Bucky.”

You blinked through the darkness, your breath hitching as your hands clutched the rough leather of his jacket. “Then... what do I call you?”

“Soldat,” he growled.

You didn't fully understand what it meant to him, or what dark memories it triggered in his conditioned mind.You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked up into his unyielding eyes.

“Soldat...” you whispered softly, the word tasting strange on your tongue.

His eyes blew out completely black with lust, and without another second of hesitation,he drove all the way inside you.

A breathless scream tore from your throat, as the sudden fullness stretched you completely open. Your legs instantly locked tighter around his waist, your boots digging into his lower back as your fingers clawed blindly through his jacket.

He didn't slow down. The rhythm of his hips remained heavy, each deep thrust making the motorcycle shift slightly beneath you. His combat gear and heavy leather rubbed roughly against your bare skin, a constant reminder of his sheer size and power.

“I watched you for months,” he growled against the skin of your throat, his breath scorching hot as he drove into you again. His metal fingers dug firmly into your hip. “I sat in the dark across the street and counted the minutes until you opened the doors.”

A needy gasp escaped your lips, your body clenching tightly around him. Hearing him confess to the unfiltered depth of his stalking didn't scare you—it sent a violent rush of heat straight to your core, making you tighter and completely undone.

“I know,” you cried out breathlessly. “I knew you were there... I saw the edge of your jacket in the pines. And I liked it, Soldat.”

Bucky’s entire body went dead still for a fraction of a second, his chest heaving violently against yours as your words registered in his mind. The realization that his target hadn't been an innocent victim, but an active participant playing the game right back with him, completely shattered the last of his restraint.

“Fucking whore,” he muttered.His grip on your waist turned entirely feral, lifting your hips higher against the leather seat, and he began to drive into you with a relentless pace.

“You liked it?” he growled. He drove deep, bottoming out inside you until you let out a helpless sob. “You liked knowing a killer was tracking your every move? You're a sick little girl.”

The leather seat of the motorcycle creaked beneath you with every ruthless strike.“Look at you now. Completely stretched out on my bike, taking every inch of me.”

“Soldat... please—” you cried out, your legs tightening around his waist, your fingers clawing deep into the leather of his jacket.

“Please what?” he muttered roughly. “You belong to me now. Say it.”

“I'm yours,Soldat” you gasped.

“Damn right you are,” he growled. He pulled back just enough to drive back in with a heavy thud that made your vision spot. “You don't get to come until I tell you to. You hold it in for me, you hear me? You take every single thrust until I'm ready to give it to you.”

Your fingers clawed desperately into the thick leather of his jacket, your bare legs trembling violently where they were locked around his waist.

“I can't... Soldat,” a helpless sob tore from your throat. Your entire body was trembling violently beneath him, as the agonizingly sharp waves of pleasure threatened to pull you under. “You're... you're too deep. It's driving me crazy, please...”

“I told you to wait. I want to watch your eyes roll back when I finally let you break.” His metal hand slid up to cup your jaw, while his flesh hand held your hip perfectly pinned to the leather seat of the bike.

“Tell me what you want,” he commanded roughly, his face dropping down until his forehead rested against yours.“Beg for it.”

“Please, Soldat... please let me come,” you sobbed out. You arched your back against the cold handlebars of the bike, your trembling thighs squeezing his waist as tightly as you could.“I'll do whatever you want... just let me come. Please.”

“Good girl,” he growled, the rough words vibrating straight against your wet lips.He didn't give you another second of warning. His hand slammed hard against your hip, holding you locked flat against the leather seat, while his left hand anchored the back of your neck. He picked up the pace.

The motorcycle creaked violently beneath the sheer force of his movement. You couldn't even breathe, let alone speak, as he ruthlessly drove you over the edge.

“Take it,” he muttered roughly, his face burying into the crook of your neck, his teeth bruising the soft skin over your collarbone. “Come for me now,sweet thing.”

The command was all it took. Your head fell back, a loud scream escaping your lips into the silent night.Hearing you break completely unraveled the Winter Soldier.

He let out a harsh roar—a sound of pure animalistic release—as his own climax hit him. His jaw locked so tight the veins in his neck strained.At the final moment, he shifted, pulling away to ensure the intensity of the encounter reached its conclusion outside of you.

The thick heat of his climax painted the dark silk of your bunched-up dress and the pale skin of your stomach and chest in long surges.He stood there shivering from the sheer force of the release, his chest heaving violently against yours.

The only sound in the ruined observatory was the frantic rhythm of your shared, breathless recovery and the distant, lonely sigh of the pines below.His thumb remained resting against your skin, tracing a slow line over your thigh as if he were trying to process the physical reality of what had just happened.

For a man who had spent decades living as a ghost— who only left blood behind—the sight of his own messy, unmistakable mark of possession on a living person seemed to completely stun him. He looked entirely trapped somewhere between the efficiency of the Soldat and the stunned awakening of a man who hadn't felt this alive in half a century.

His fingers aggressively pulled his tactical pants back up, tucking himself away before his metal hand yanked the zipper shut with a sharp, metallic clack. He reached for his tactical belt, tightening the buckle with a loud snap.Only when he was fully dressed and locked back into his soldier uniform did he look back up at you.

Was it normal to get aroused again just by looking at him? Probably not.

He reached into one of the side pouches of his tactical belt, pulling out a dark military-grade utility cloth.He didn't ask you to move. His large flesh hand gripped your thigh to hold you steady on the leather seat, while his left arm braced against the frame of the bike. He leaned over you again.

The cloth was dry and rough against your sensitized skin. He wiped the cooling smears of his climax from your stomach and chest with firm strokes. He didn't look into your eyes while he did it; his focus was entirely objective, cleaning your skin with the same detached, methodical thoroughness he would use to maintain a weapon after a heavy firefight. His fingers were rough, but he wasn't trying to hurt you—he was just completely devoid of tenderness.

Once your skin was clear, he shoved the cloth back into his pouch. He reached down, grabbing the hem of your bunched-up dark silk dress, and pulled it back down over your thighs with a single, rough yank to cover you up.

“I need my underwear back,” you said.He looked down at the dark gravel between his combat boots, where the delicate, shredded lace was lying ruined in the dirt. He had ripped them off with zero regard for their survival, and they were completely useless now.He didn't bend down to pick them up. Instead, he looked back up at your face, his expression deadpan and entirely unbothered.

“You're not getting them back,” he grunted. He took a single step closer, crowding your space one last time. “I tore them. They're mine now.”

“Take your coat,” he ordered. “The mist is rolling in. You're going back to the city.”

He had taken your underwear, marked your body, and ordered you back to the city with military authority. He was already pulling away, retreating back behind the icy walls of the Soldat.But you weren't ready to let him go yet.

“Can I kiss you?” you whispered into the dark. Bucky went entirely still, his hand freezing on the handle of his motorcycle. In all his decades of programming, nobody had ever asked for his permission to touch him. Nobody had ever looked at his lips—the lips of an assassin—and wanted a kiss.

He leaned down just a fraction of an inch, his hot breath brushing against your lips, teasing you with the very proximity you were begging for. His thumb pressed hard against your bottom lip, deliberately parting them, but he kept his own mouth just out of reach.

“You want a kiss?” he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly warning that rattled down your spine. “You earn it first. Go back to your shop. Sit bare under that dress all night and think about what we did up here. If you're a good girl, maybe next time I'll give you what you want. Now get in your car.”

Steve’s arm got stuck halfway through the sleeve. The towel around his waist slipped an inch. “The fuck did you just say?”

Bucky leaned back against the lockers in nothing but a towel riding so low it was basically performance art. His hair was still wet, dripping onto his collarbones. The smirk was there, but it looked like it hurt.

“Don't play dumb, Rogers. I was literally balls-deep in her ass last week and you locked eyes with her and dropped a ‘Love you, baby’ like you were about to whip out a ring in the middle of the fucking threesome.”

Steve yanked the hoodie down so hard he almost strangled himself. His face went nuclear. “It slipped, alright? Christ.”

“Slipped,” Bucky echoed, deadpan. He pushed off the lockers and stalked forward until Steve could smell the Irish Spring on him. “You’ve been ‘slipping’ since she explained integrals to you in the library and you got hard over the fundamental theorem of calculus.”

Steve dropped onto the bench like his legs had given up. The wood was cold against his bare thighs. He scrubbed his hands through his hair; water flew everywhere. “Fine. I’m in love with her. Happy now, you absolute dick?”

The smirk died a quick, ugly death.

Bucky dropped onto the bench next to him, hard enough that their shoulders knocked and stayed pressed together, neither of them bothering to shift apart. His hand curled into a tight fist on his thigh, knuckles going bloodless like he was still holding onto something he couldn’t let go.

“I’m not happy,” he muttered. “I’m fucking spiraling.”

Steve twisted to face him. “Buck?”

Bucky stared at the scuffed tile floor like it owed him money. “Because I’m in love with her too. And this? Us? We don’t do this shit, man. We hook up, we ghost, we send each other the memes the next day like nothing happened. We've never kept anyone around longer than a hangover”

Steve’s heart was trying to punch its way out of his ribcage. “So what, we just keep pretending we’re chill splitting her like a Netflix account until one of us snaps and she picks?”

Bucky’s laugh scraped out, half-choke, half-wheeze. “Yeah. Picture Thanksgiving. ‘Hey, Mom, meet Steve. Meet Bucky. They take turns railing me, we're still beta-testing the ‘boyfriend’ title. Where’s the gravy?’

She’d pass out. My Ma’s already got the rosary beads out, praying for my soul. Yours would just hit you with that patented disappointed stare, the one that says ‘I raised you better than sharing a girl like it’s fantasy football.’”

Steve let out a breath that was supposed to be a laugh but landed somewhere exhausted and hollow. “Nah, she’d lead with the veggies lecture, ‘Are you boys getting your greens?’ then pivot straight to the condom talk, like we're fifteen again.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched, the corner lifting in a half-smile that almost felt real. “Point is, we’re not the boyfriend type. We’re the guys moms warn their daughters about. Except I’m done pretending it’s casual when it’s not and yeah, admitting that out loud is fucking terrifying.”

The drip from the shower kept going, counting down to something awful.

Steve swallowed so hard his throat clicked. “If we tell her and she picks one of us-”

“Then the other one’s the loser who fell in love and got traded,” Bucky finished. His voice cracked; he didn’t bother hiding it this time. “And everything gets weird forever. We lose her. We lose each other. I can’t-” He cut himself off, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped.

Steve nodded once, slow. “So we shut up.”

“We shut up,” Bucky agreed, too fast, like he’d been drowning and someone finally threw him a rope made of barbed wire.

They sat there a moment longer, the leaky shower still dripping its relentless countdown in the corner, the fluorescent lights buzzing.

Steve stared at the floor, scrubbing a hand over his face. Bucky leaned forward, elbows on his knees, knuckles white as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

“We are so unbelievably fucked,” Bucky finally muttered, voice hollow.

“Yeah,” Steve rasped. He pushed off the bench, grabbing his jeans from the floor. “Until we figure out how to not nuke everything good in our lives, yeah.”

Bucky rose too. His towel finally surrendered and hit the ground. He didn’t even look down.

“I hate us,” he muttered.

“Same,” Steve said.

They got dressed without talking, moving around each other in the same cramped space they’d shared since freshman year. Elbows bumped, hips knocked, same as always.

Bucky slung his backpack on, paused at the door. “If she ever calls us on the bullshit, why we didn’t say anything…”

Steve met his eyes. They were red-rimmed, exhausted. “We tell her we were scared.”

Bucky’s laugh was barely qualified as sound. “Understatement of the fucking millennium.”

They walked out together, heading back to their dorm, two idiot quarterbacks still too scared to gamble the only thing that had ever felt like home.

It’s been three days since the locker room.

The campus café is a war zone: line to the door, some sophomore crying into a $9 cold brew, barista screaming “MADDY-SIN” like the name personally ran over her dog.

You’re already camped in the shitty corner booth nobody else wants, the one with the ripped red vinyl and the table that wobbles like it’s had one too many. Your iced caramel oat-milk latte is sweating a ring onto your notes, and you’re pretending to give a damn about glycolysis when they walk in.

Steve slides in next to you like he owns the seat, thick thigh slamming against yours. Hoodie sleeves shoved up, hair still wet from practice, smelling like cheap body wash and desperation.

Bucky drops across from you hard enough to make the whole table jump, hand slapping down a crumpled Google Maps directions. Big red circle around some Airbnb cabin that looks like it was built by horny lumberjacks who only owned axes and lube.

He leans in hard, elbows digging into the wobbly table like he’s staking territory, that crooked smirk plastered on but his eyes are blown-out red and running on fumes. He smells like four Red Bulls and bad decisions.

“We’ve been plotting,” he starts, voice rough from not enough sleep, “three-hour drive upstate. Place is in the middle of fucking nowhere, no bars, no roommates blasting Skrillex at four am. Just snow, a fireplace and a hot tub built for three and whatever the hell we didn’t finish last week.”

Steve’s already got your hand under the table, fingers locked tight around yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. His thumb keeps sweeping over your knuckles, slow and shaky, more for him than for you. He leans in close enough that his breath hits your ear, low and wrecked, “Long weekend, baby. No neighbors. No rules. Just us.”

His eyes flick to Bucky for half a second, quick, worried check-in before sliding back to you, all gravel and pleading.

You take a slow sip of your drink, let the ice clink, and raise an eyebrow. “Adorable. Except we locked in terms, remember? Ninety-five or better on chem midterms, or nobody gets to fuck me in a hot tub or anywhere for that matter.”

You lean forward just a touch, lips curving into a wicked little smile. “So, boys… remind me again. How’d those grades turn out?”

They trade a look, Steve pink, Bucky clenching his jaw so hard you hear it.

Steve coughs into his fist. “Ninety-eight. Clean.”

Bucky mutters into his steaming black coffee, the words dragging out like they’re caught on something sharp. “Ninety-four…”

Silence. You let it sit there, heavy and mean.

Then you uncoil a smile, slow, edged like broken glass dipped in honey. “Aw, tragic. But rules are rules: ninety-five from both of you. Guess it’s just me and Stevie peeling out for the pines. You can bunker down here Barnes, drilling polyatomic ions till they sing you to sleep.”

Bucky lets his forehead drop onto the table with a solid thud, the vinyl whining in protest. “You’re literally killing me. This is planned murder with a bonus round of cruelty.”

Steve's fingers clamp down on yours, voice dipping into that wrecked rasp that arrow-straights to your core.

“Please, baby. Cut him a break, just this once. He’ll handle your laundry for the whole semester, I swear. Venmo you two hundred bucks right now. Hell, I’ll even toss him the Jeep keys and let this maniac take the wheel. And those toys... the ones you whispered about wanting to try? He’ll bring every single one, whatever you need, no questions, no hesitation. Come on, sweetheart, say yes, for us?”

“Shut up man- please, just... I’m a damn good driver, I swear,” Bucky mumbles desperately, his words slurring against the scarred wood, face pressed down like he's begging the table for mercy.

His voice cracks with a raw, pleading edge, eyes flicking up toward you with that wide, imploring stare. “And yes, baby every single one, I promise. Whatever you want, I’ll make it happen. Just... give me a chance here?”

A soft, teasing laugh bubbles from your lips as you tilt your head, eyes sparkling with amusement at their desperate antics. “You boys are so cute when my pussy’s on the line,” you murmur, voice laced with playful mockery that hides the thrill racing through you.

You rise slowly, deliberately, your bag slipping onto your shoulder with a casual flick. The vinyl booth clings to the backs of your thighs before releasing with a sharp, sticky rip that echoes in the charged air, drawing their gazes lower.

“You’ve got until tomorrow to turn that 94 into a 95 Barnes,” you say, your tone firm but edged with that knowing challenge, lips curving into a smirk. “I hear Banner curves if you get on your knees and cry pretty enough, maybe you should practice that look right now.”

You’re halfway to the door, the bell above it jingling faintly in anticipation, when Bucky’s voice explodes through the café like a thunderclap, raw and unfiltered, turning every head in the place.

“I’LL SUCK HIS DICK FOR THAT POINT IF I HAVE TO!”

Beside him, Steve chokes violently on his macchiato, the hot liquid spraying from his nose in a messy arc, his eyes watering as he coughs and sputters, caught between horror and helpless laughter, his broad shoulders shaking.

You don’t glance back, not even a peek but the grin splitting your face is downright devilish, wicked and satisfied, as you push through the door into the crisp winter air.

It nips at your flushed cheeks, a sharp contrast to the heat pooling low in your belly, your thighs slick and sticking with every step across the frost-kissed campus paths. Just picturing their panic, the way they’d scramble and beg, has you drenched, aching with anticipation.

They’ll fix it. Oh, they always do especially when the prize is you, wrapped up and waiting like the ultimate reward.

Bucky shoulders through the sex-shop door so hard the bell gives a half-assed ding-dong like it’s personally embarrassed for them.

Place still smells like someone tried to hotbox the latex stench with a Bath & Body Works clearance rack and lost. Neon signs buzz pink and purple overhead, turning Steve’s ears the color of expired ham.

Steve’s got his hood up like he’s on a wanted poster, cap brim so low he’s basically blind. Bucky’s vibrating hard enough to power a small city, hoodie flapping open, pacing the aisle like a caged coyote.

“She’s bluffing,” Steve mutters for the eighth time, thumbing the trigger on a purple rabbit vibrator like he’s checking if a melon’s ripe. Bzzzzt. “She’s just fucking with our heads.”

Bucky snorts, snatches a star-shaped jewel plug off the wall and yeets it into the basket. CLANG.

“Tomorrow, Rogers. That’s fourteen hours to beg for one pity point to bump my 94 to a 95.” He shoots a dry, miserable look. “Otherwise I’m stuck jerking off in my bed while you two send me heart emojis from the hot tub.”

Steve eyes the sparkly star with a raised brow, lips twitching. “Going straight disco ball on her ass now? Bold move, Buck. Jumping from a cute little heart to peak star-spangled patriotism. Very on-brand for you.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky hisses, but he’s already grinning. “It’s for science, alright? Different shapes, different sensations… brand-new ways for her to completely fucking destroy me.”

He snags the next size up, a hefty beast of a plug with ridges that promise sweet torment and waves it like a trophy or a threat. “This look like the face of a man who’s gambling with his dick, Steven?”

Steve bursts out a snort so forceful he nearly fumbles the vibrator, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter. “You're such a drama queen. She thrives on this, watching us spiral like the world's ending.”

Bucky spins, fingers rattling a row of glitter dildos that look like Lisa Frank threw up on a dick. “I’ll deep-throat Banner’s red pen if that’s what it takes. I’ll write the man fucking limericks about titration. I’ll-”

“Batteries first, you poetic bastard,” Steve interrupts, chucking four packs of AAs into the basket with a smirk. “And don't forget that tripod you're claiming is for 'candid nature photography.' We both know better.”

Bucky flips him off, but his grin turns feral, all teeth and promise. “Plan B’s croissants and crocodile tears. I’m versatile.”

They dump the haul on the counter. Raven, purple buzzcut, septum ring, zero fucks left to give, starts scanning.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

She glances at the mountain of chaos, then at the two overgrown football bros sweating like they’re in a lineup. “Y’all good?”

Bucky leans on the counter like a man who’s aged ten years in an hour. “Define good.”

Raven just smirks harder. “$186.42. Bag or campus parade?”

Steve slaps down two hundreds like he’s trying to bribe his way out of hell. “Bag. Black. Opaque. Preferably lead-lined.”

Raven slides the receipt across. “Have fun, weirdos.”

As they stumble back into the freezing air, Bucky’s already muttering under his breath, half-laughing at himself, the bag of toys clinking together like a guilty little parade with every step.

Steve snags the bag from Bucky’s hand, slinging it over his own shoulder like it weighs nothing. The toys inside give another incriminating clink as they settle.

He glances at Bucky with a crooked, knowing grin. “You still think she’s bluffing?”

Bucky keeps his eyes glued to the sidewalk, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “If she’s actually bluffing, fine. If not…” He huffs a laugh that sounds more like surrender. “I’m changing my major to Professional Kneeling.”

Steve almost eats pavement laughing. “Move, clown. Office hours close in fifteen. Go beg for your life.”

The science building after six is a mausoleum: lights flickering like they’re on their last prayer, hallways smelling like scorched coffee and broken dreams. Banner’s office door is cracked open, a single wedge of warm light slicing the gloom like a distress flare for the academically damned.

Bucky doesn’t knock, he just shoves the already-ajar door wide with his boot and barrels in. Steve follows right on his heels.

Banner looks up from the corpse of a freshman lab report, red pen still dripping. One slow blink behind the glasses, then the sigh of a man who has seen every possible flavor of student desperation and is tired of the menu.

“Barnes. Rogers. To what do I-”

Bucky hits the floor. Full dramatic collapse, knees thudding into the carpet hard enough to rattle the periodic-table poster on the wall.

“Dr. Banner, I’m begging. One point. One measly, pathetic point. I’ll tattoo the Henderson-Hasselbalch equation on my ass. I’ll never call stoichiometry ‘math with extra steps’ again. I’ll-”

“You got a 94,” Banner says, flat. “That’s an A minus. Most students would kill for that.”

“It’s a death sentence,” Bucky croaks, voice cracking like he’s thirteen and his balls just dropped. “She’s leaving me behind with nothing but my hand and a tub of lube while he-” he jerks a thumb at Steve, who suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating, “gets the entire weekend in a hot tub.”

Steve clears his throat, steps forward, and gently sets the bag down on the floor. “Professor, any chance for a tiny bit of extra credit? A curve? Hell, even rounding up for good behavior?”

Steve’s voice dips, “He’s got some real… pressing circumstances depending on hitting that 95.”

Banner’s gaze flicks to the bag, then back to the two disasters currently having a joint nervous breakdown in his office. Something that might be pity or maybe just exhaustion flickers across his face.

He leans back, chair creaking like it’s in on the joke. “No curve. But there is an optional make-up practical tomorrow morning. Nine am sharp. One hour. Stoichiometry and acid-base. Nail a perfect score, I bump you to 95. Anything less, this conversation never happened.”

Bucky’s head snaps up so fast his neck pops like a glow stick. “I’ll be here at eight-thirty with a latte and a tie. I’ll wear slacks. I’ll-”

“Nine,” Banner repeats, already turning back to his bloodbath of grading. “And Barnes? Leave the theatrics outside. Just balance the damn equation.”

Steve yanks Bucky up by the hoodie before he can drop again or propose. “Thank you, Doc. Seriously.”

They spill out of the science building into the biting dark, breath fogging, the black bag crackling between them like it’s full of contraband fireworks.

Nat’s gone, some “totally platonic hangout” with the archer chick that’s definitely ending with her skirt around her ankles in a car somewhere, so the dorm is dead silent except for the mini-fridge’s dying wheeze and the lavender diffuser pretending everything’s calm.

You’re hunched over your desk in Bucky’s hoodie and leggings, hair twisted into a frantic knot, surrounded by biology flashcards, a half-colored diagram of glycolysis, and your open textbook bleeding sticky notes. Your final is on Friday, your eyes are burning, caffeine’s fading fast, and every time you try to remember the steps of cellular respiration, your brain just shuts off.

Your phone buzzes, FaceTime, Steve calling.

You answer with a murderous glare, propping the phone against your mug so they get the full view of your frazzled, stressed-out face. “This better be important. I’m trying to not fail bio here.”

“Hey, pretty girl,” Steve says, voice warm and low. “Just checking in. How’s the bio grind?”

“Hell,” you snap, rubbing your temple hard enough to leave a red mark. “I’m one chromosome away from a meltdown.”

Bucky’s smirk widens. He lifts the bag slightly into view, thick, heavy, soft clink inside then pulls it back out of sight. “We’ve got something that might help you… relax.”

You narrow your eyes. “If that bag is full of toys you’re about to tease me with while I’m trying to memorize the Krebs cycle, I will end this call and block both of you until after finals.”

Steve’s mouth twitches, amused, but his eyes soften with sympathy. Bucky, undeterred, leans closer. “Come on, doll. One little surprise. You know you’d feel better.”

“No,” you bite out, voice cracking with exhaustion and irritation. “I need to pass this final, not get off. And you-” you point straight at Bucky through the screen “-maybe worry about your own grades instead of trying to derail mine. Still rocking that 94 Barnes? Because until that’s fixed, you don’t get to play with anything in that bag, least of all me.”

The words come out sharper than you meant, stress turning them into razors. Bucky’s smirk falters completely, eyes widening a fraction.

Steve clears his throat, trying to smooth it over. “Baby, we were just-”

But Bucky cuts in, quieter now, almost sheepish. He rubs the back of his neck. “Actually… makeup lab’s tomorrow morning. Nine sharp. Banner’s giving me one shot at a perfect score to bump it to a 95.”

The room feels suddenly smaller. You blink, the fight draining out of you in one breath, replaced by something warmer, softer.

Steve’s smile turns proud. “He’s been cramming all night. Guy’s gonna crush it.”

Bucky meets your eyes through the screen, the cockiness gone, just earnest now. “I’m not gonna let you down baby. Promise.”

You exhale shakily, the tension in your shoulders loosening just a fraction. “You better,” you murmur, voice still rough but no longer sharp. “Because if you get that 95… that bag better make the trip to the cabin.”

Bucky’s grin returns, smaller this time, real. “Count on it.”

Steve leans closer, voice gentle. “Get some sleep after one more chapter, okay?”

You manage a tired half-smile. “Yeah, yeah. Now let me study.”

You hang up.

The screen goes black. The dorm is quiet again.

You drop your forehead to the open textbook with a muffled groan, half frustration, half reluctant heat.

The science building reeks of bleach and desperation. Bucky’s been camped out since 8:15, traded his hoodie for the one decent button-down he owns, hair actually neat for once. He’s gripping a venti oat-milk latte and a cranberry-orange scone like his life depends on it.

He knocks once.

“Come in.”

Banner’s already got the practical set up on the side counter: beakers, burettes, a row of reagents that look innocent and will absolutely fuck you if you blink wrong. The man himself is in the same tragic cardigan, sipping from the latte Bucky handed over like a bribe the second he walked in.

“Morning,” Banner says, not looking up from labeling a flask. “You ready to titrate or are we still in the dramatic begging phase?”

“I left the theatrics in the hallway, doc.” Bucky rolls his sleeves, cracks his neck, and steps up to the desk like it’s a boxing ring.

Banner slides the instructions over. “One hour. Stoichiometry problem set first, then the acid-base practical. 100% or you walk out with the same 94 you came in with. Clock starts… now.”

Bucky doesn’t answer with words. He just starts moving.

He weighs samples like a surgeon, pipettes like his life depends on it (because it literally does), labels every single drop of phenolphthalein turns the flask the perfect faint pink and he doesn’t even flinch, just keeps swirling, calm, steady, perfect.

Banner watches the whole time, arms crossed, occasionally scribbling something on his clipboard. He doesn’t say a word.

Fifty-six minutes later Bucky sets the last burette down, wipes his hands on a paper towel, and finally breathes.

Banner takes the answer sheet, scans it once, twice, then pulls up the gradebook.

Clicks.

94.00 → 95.00

“100% on the practical,” he says, voice flat like he’s reading the weather. “Congratulations, Mr. Barnes.”

Bucky lunges across the desk and full-on bear-hugs him, arms locked around Banner’s neck, face buried in sad cardigan.

“ThankyouthankyouHOLYSHIT-”

Banner makes a strangled noise. “Remove yourself before I dock you back to a 90.”

Bucky’s out the door before the sentence is finished.

Bucky 9:57am

95 baby

Bucky 9:57am

[screenshot of grade]

Bucky 9:58am

🍑🍆💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦💦

He doesn’t wait for your reply.

He’s already sprinting across the quad, button-down half-untucked and flapping open in the wind, yelling “FUCK YES!” at the top of his lungs like he just won the goddamn lottery.

Somewhere in the distance a flock of crows takes off in terror.

Jacuzzi’s waiting.

And this weekend he’s not watching from the fucking kitchen table; he’s gonna be nine inches deep in the only pussy that matters while Steve records it in 4K.

You’re still dead to the world, tangled in the sheets and snoring softly, when Bucky’s SUV roars into the dorm lot around 10 am. Tires chirp on the asphalt as he slams the brakes and kills the engine, the bass thumping low for one last beat before it fades.

He fumbles the spare key you slipped him weeks back, the one for “emergencies only,” but this? This qualifies.

Your room’s still shrouded in morning gray, blinds cracked to let in slivers of winter light. You’re sprawled out in bed, dead to the world, wearing Steve’s old jersey that hangs loose on you like a nightshirt and those tiny cherry-print cotton boy-shorts that ride up just right. Suitcase on the floor half-packed, you’re curled up asleep, mouth parted softly, oblivious.

The door bangs against the wall as Bucky bursts in, no knock, no hesitation. He’s wired, bloodshot eyes gleaming with that manic triumph.

“95, baby,” he rasps, voice raw from exhaustion and victory. You stir awake, blinking groggily in the dim light. “Bucky? It’s barely morning- what the-”

He’s on the bed before you can finish, knees dipping the mattress, hands ripping the comforter away. But you’re not in the mood, not yet. You sit up, rubbing your eyes, taking him in: the wild hair, the desperate glow in his eyes. Pity hits you first, sharp and twisted.

“Oh, Buck,” you murmur, voice dripping with mock sympathy as you tilt your head. “You really begged Banner to fix your grade just for some pussy? That’s... sad. Pathetic, even.”

His face flushes, but he doesn’t back off, hovering there like he’s starving. You can see the bulge in his jeans already straining, and it only makes you smirk. “Look at you, getting hard over a stupid number on a screen. Pathetic little Bucky, so desperate for a win he’ll grovel to a professor.”

You reach out, teasing, trailing a finger down his chest through the shirt, then lower, palming him lightly over the denim. He groans, hips bucking into your hand involuntarily.

“Remember that tutoring lesson? When you ‘accidentally’ spilled water all over my tits, and I was so embarrassed I could’ve died? Who’s the embarrassing one now Buck? Hmm? Begging for scraps like this.”

He’s breathing heavy, eyes darkening with a mix of shame and heat, but he doesn’t pull away. You toy with him a little longer, stroking lazily through his jeans, watching him twitch and harden under your touch.

“So pathetic,” you whisper, leaning in close, lips brushing his ear. “So fucking pathetic, Bucky. Getting this worked up over a grade. Over me dangling pussy like a treat. What would Steve say if he knew how easy you are?”

That does it.

His hand snaps up, fingers clamping around your wrist, stopping your teasing stroke dead. His eyes go dark, dangerous, that switch flipping from pleading to predatory in a heartbeat.

“Steve?” he growls, voice low and rough, yanking you closer until you’re chest-to-chest. “Don’t worry about Steve right now, baby.”

Before you can fire back, he shoves two thick fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, making your words die in a wet little whimper. Your eyes widen, heat flooding your cunt instantly.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, smirking as you instinctively suck, cheeks hollowing. “No more talking about him. Right now this greedy mouth is busy, and this tight little pussy?”

He reaches down with his free hand, cupping you roughly over the cherry shorts, finding you already soaked. “This is all mine.”

He flips you onto your stomach in one smooth move, jersey rucked up to your armpits, shorts yanked off. You hear his zipper, the rustle of denim shoved down just enough, and then he’s dragging the thick head of his cock through your slick folds, coating himself.

You try to say something, Steve’s name, maybe a last little taunt but he thrusts in to the hilt in one brutal stroke, stretching you open, filling you so suddenly your back arches and the only sound you make is a broken, muffled moan around his fingers still in your mouth.

“Fuck,” he hisses, pulling your hips up higher, starting a punishing rhythm, deep, hard, relentless. “Told you not to worry about him. He’s not here. He doesn’t get to hear how fucking wet you are for me right now. How you’re already clenching like you’re gonna come just from me splitting you open.”

He curls his fingers in your mouth, pressing down, making you drool a little as you suck helplessly. His other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, angling you just right so every thrust drags over that spot that makes your eyes roll.

“Thought you could tease me, huh?” he pants against your ear, leaning over you, chest to your back. “Call me pathetic while you’re dripping down my balls? This what you wanted? Wanted me to shut that smart mouth up with my cock?”

You come hard, sudden and shattering, walls fluttering around him, moaning around his fingers like a desperate little thing. He groans, hips stuttering, and follows right after, burying deep, pulsing hot inside you, marking you in long, possessive spurts.

He stays pressed against your back for a long moment, both of you breathing ragged. Slowly, he slides his fingers from your mouth, letting you gasp properly, then presses a surprisingly soft kiss to your shoulder.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice gone soft and low, the sharp edge melted away as he presses a gentle kiss to your temple. “Shower, baby. Grab some breakfast. Your classes start in an hour; we’ll pick Steve up on the way to campus.”

You turn your head on the pillow, still floaty and breathless, lips swollen and tingling. The warmth of him is already slipping away, replaced by a hot, shameful twist of guilt deep in your stomach.

“You’re… not gonna tell him about this?” you whisper, voice barely there, fingers curling nervously into the sheets.

Bucky pauses, jeans half-zipped, shirt dangling from one hand. He looks at you for a long beat, something flickering across his face. Then he crawls back onto the bed, hand warm against your flushed cheek as he cups it.

“Why would I?” he says quietly, thumb stroking your bottom lip. “This was just us. A little morning celebration for my ninety-five.” His mouth quirks, not quite a smirk, but close. “Steve doesn’t need to know every time I make you fall apart before the sun’s even up.”

The guilt spikes harder, sharp and sour.

Bucky leans in, lips brushing yours in a slow, sealing kiss. “Our secret, doll,” he whispers against your mouth. “Makes it hotter, doesn’t it?”

You should argue. You should insist on telling Steve everything, like always. But the words don’t come. Instead you just nod, small and guilty, heart hammering.

He smiles, soft and dangerous, then finally stands. “Shower before you’re late. I’ll make coffee. Act normal when we get Steve; he’s got that 11 am lecture across campus.”

You watch him pull the hoodie on, casual as if he didn’t just come inside you while Steve’s name was still warm on your tongue.

He pauses at the door, glancing back. “Don’t wash me off completely,” he adds, voice low. “I like knowing I’m still dripping out of you while you’re sitting in class.”

The door clicks shut.

You lie there another minute, thighs pressed tight together, his come sticky and warm between them. Guilt burns in your chest, but so does the secret; heavy, electric, intoxicating.

You leave a little of him inside you in the shower. Just enough.

It’s just a normal Wednesday.

Except it isn’t.

It’s Friday afternoon, the day of your finals and after the boys are taking you to the cabin. The cold cuts straight through your coat and burrows into your bones like it’s moving in for the holidays.

Campus is deserted, dorms half-dark, parking lots empty except for frost-rimed stragglers. Everyone’s fled home or to warmer coasts, leaving the rest to claw through finals.

You’ve been holed up in the library since morning, grinding out your last bio exam on a stomach full of Red Bulls and burning eyes. Your brain’s mush. You’re drowning in black leggings, boots, and Bucky’s hoodie, the one that still carries his body wash and detergent, your only armor against the freeze.

You shove through the library doors into a wind that slaps hard, metallic with impending snow and bus fumes. Frozen leaves shatter under your boots.

They’re already at the curb, Steve’s black Jeep running, breath of white exhaust puffing into the air.

Steve leans on the hood in his peacoat, cheeks pink, holding a single red rose with that earnest charm that always works. Bucky’s beside him, phone up, filming your exhausted trudge with a smug grin.

“Wave for the fans, baby,” Bucky calls. “Proof you survived Banner’s final.”

You flip him off, hands numb from cold.

Nat appears like a shadow, smacks your ass sharply through the leggings, and murmurs, “Two days. No flashcards in bed. Safe word only if you mean it. Text if they get weird.” Then she’s gone, red hair swallowed by dusk.

Steve opens the back door like a gentleman. Bucky just hooks an arm around your waist and tosses you onto the warm leather seat. Heat blasts. The world narrows to pine freshener, their colognes and engine rumble.

Your suitcase is already stowed, packed at 3 am in a delirious haze while they spammed the group chat with filthy voice notes.

But beneath the thrill, guilt has been knotting your stomach for days.

It started two mornings ago when Bucky showed up alone, high off a makeup lab grade, eyes blazing. You meant to tease him, but he pinned you against the bed, hands everywhere, mouth desperate. It was fast, raw, him inside you on your unmade bed, calling you his girl while Steve’s absence loomed unspoken.

You told yourself it was just a secret celebration.

No harm.

But the guilt crashed in the moment he left, sour and relentless. You waited for Bucky to confess, for it to surface in the chat, nothing. Then the cabin trip locked in, and the secret grew heavier.

Now you’re in the back seat, sleeves tugged over frozen hands, Bucky’s warmth pressed against you. Steve drives, blond hair glowing under dashboard lights.

You stare at the back of Steve’s head and Bucky’s messy strands, wondering if they feel the weight you’re carrying, this shame like bricks in your chest.

You’ve stayed silent too. Just as guilty.

Steve meets your eyes in the mirror, smiles softly. “Buckled in, baby?”

You nod, force a smile.

Gravel spits as campus fades.

An hour and a half later, night has fallen, mountains black against a bruised sky. Snow drifts in fat flakes. Steve pulls into an empty overlook, pines sagging with fresh powder.

“Bathroom and snacks,” he says, killing the engine. “Five minutes.” Door slams, footsteps crunch away.

The instant Steve’s gone, Bucky turns, crowding you against the leather.

“Still think that 94 was funny?” he growls low, voice rough with leftover triumph and something darker. His hand slides between your thighs over the thick leggings, cupping you possessively, thumb pressing slow, deliberate circles right over your clit through the layers. The pressure is maddening, firm enough to make you squirm, not nearly enough to satisfy.

You try to hold onto the bratty edge, arching a brow even as your hips rock into his touch. “You’re still mad you had to earn your way into my-”

He cuts you off with a dark, filthy chuckle that sends heat flooding straight to your core. “Mad? Baby, I’m replaying the best morning I’ve had in months.”

His tongue flicks out, tracing a hot, wet line along the shell of your ear before dragging down the side of your neck, tasting salt and the faint trace of your perfume. You shiver hard, thighs clenching around his wrist on pure instinct.

“Remember it?” he whispers, teeth grazing your pulse point just sharp enough to sting. His thumb keeps that ruthless rhythm, slow and deliberate.

“I opened the door and there you were, wearing Steve’s old jersey and those tiny cherry shorts, teasing me about begging Banner… acting all high and mighty, like you were gonna make me watch all weekend.”

His free hand slips under the hoodie, palm splaying warm and possessive over your bare stomach, fingers teasing just under the waistband of your leggings but never dipping lower.

“Five minutes later you were on your stomach, face buried in the pillow so the whole floor wouldn’t hear you moaning my name. Spread your legs wider without me even asking, took every inch like you’d been starving for it. Begged me to go harder, to fill you up, voice all sweet and broken, nothing like that bossy little mouth you’re trying to use right now.”

You’re panting, hips rocking shamelessly into his hand, the friction through the layers turning unbearable. He knows exactly what he’s doing, keeping you teetering, reminding you with every stroke how fast you folded for him that morning.

“Where’d all that attitude go, huh?” he taunts, nipping your earlobe before soothing it with his tongue.

“Left it in your dorm along with your glasses? Or did you ditch ‘em on purpose so you could play all tough, when we both know the second I got inside, you went all blurry-eyed and needy, barely able to focus on anything except how good my cock felt.”

You whimper, actually whimper and he laughs low, delighted, the sound rumbling straight through you.

“Shh, baby,” he croons, cruel and sweet. “Don’t want Stevie hearing how fast you fall apart, do you? He still thinks you’re the big bad brat holding all the cards.”

The driver’s door yanks open right then. Cold air floods in, snowflakes swirling. Steve climbs in, shakes white powder from his hair, tosses a bag of snacks onto the passenger seat.

He pauses halfway into starting the engine, catching the scene in the rearview mirror: you flushed and trembling on Bucky’s lap, lips parted, eyes glassy; Bucky’s hand still cupped blatantly between your thighs, lazy grin sharp as sin.

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve mutters, half-laugh, half-exasperated groan as the Jeep rumbles back to life. “We haven’t even hit the cabin yet.”

Bucky shrugs, not moving his hand an inch, thumb giving one last teasing press that makes your hips jerk. “She started running that mouth again.”

You’re still shaking, thighs clenched tight around his wrist, heart racing as Steve pulls onto the snowy road.

Steve meets your eyes in the mirror, blue and amused, no clue about the secret burning between you and Bucky.

“New rule, sweetheart,” Steve says, voice low and rough. “Every time you try that bossy shit between now and Sunday, we make you sit on one of our laps and remember exactly who you belong to.”

Snow falls harder outside, tires crunching over fresh powder. You smile, slow, shaky, filthy, tasting the secret thick on your tongue.

“Then drive faster, Rogers.”

A few miles down the twisting mountain road, the Jeep coughs, dashboard dinging like an alarm clock from hell. Steve’s knuckles whiten on the wheel as the engine dies completely, momentum carrying them onto the snowy shoulder with a crunch of tires on ice.

“Fuck,” he mutters, low and venomous, slamming the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. The horn gives a short, pathetic blurt into the empty dark.

You sit up straighter in the back, still sticky and half-dressed under the hoodie, thighs aching from Bucky’s earlier ambush. “Out of gas?”

Steve doesn’t answer right away, just stares at the glowing low-fuel warning like it personally betrayed him. “Gauge is fucked. We passed a station a couple miles back.”

Bucky exhales a laugh that dies fast when he clocks Steve’s jaw. “Shit. Walking?”

“I need something sweet,” you say, voice edged with that sharp, restless hunger that comes from being wound up tight and left hanging.

Your thighs are still pressed together under the hoodie, the ache between them throbbing in time with your pulse, stomach growling louder than the wind howling outside. “Chocolate. Now. Or someone’s getting murdered.”

Steve kills the headlights, plunges the car into cold blue dark. “We walk. Grab the can.”

The three of you climb out into the whipping snow, flakes stinging your cheeks like tiny needles, wind slicing straight through the hoodie. The air smells like pine sap, exhaust, and the sharp metallic promise of a real storm. Boots crunch on frozen gravel; every breath clouds white and vanishes.

The station appears like a mirage: one lit pump under a sagging awning, neon “OPEN” sign flickering pink against the snow. Inside, the heat is stale and smells like old coffee and fryer grease. The clerk doesn’t look up while Steve pays for gas and you grab a Snickers and a burnt-tasting hot chocolate. Bucky snags gummy worms and another Red Bull.

You’re halfway through the candy bar, chocolate melting too fast on your cold fingers, when the itch shifts. The cold, the tension crackling off Steve, the way Bucky keeps sneaking glances at your mouth, it all collides into something hungry and stupid.

“Bathroom,” you murmur, tilting your head toward the side door. “Outside one.”

Bucky’s eyes flick up, sharp and hungry. Steve hesitates a beat, jaw ticking hard enough you can hear it, but he follows anyway.

Keypad code is still the lazy default 1234. Door groans open into the concrete coffin: cracked mirror, dripping faucet, single bulb flickering like it’s on its last breath. Smells like industrial bleach, stale piss, and the ghosts of a million truck-stop cigarettes. Floor’s slick in patches, somehow colder than the blizzard outside.

Door barely clicks shut before Bucky’s on you, hands rough, impatient, shoving you over the sink. Porcelain bites into your hips; the cold faucet jabs your lower back like punishment.

Steve locks the door, leans against it with arms crossed tight across his chest. “Thought we were done with the bratting bullshit,” he says, voice low and edged with warning.

You bend anyway, palms flat on gritty porcelain, ass out like you’re begging for trouble.

Bucky yanks your leggings and panties down just enough; freezing air slaps bare skin.

Steve steps forward, unzips slow, feeds his cock into your mouth, thick, heavy, deliberate. His fingers thread into your hair, guiding at first, steady and controlled.

Bucky doesn’t wait. Lines up and slams in raw, one brutal thrust that punches a muffled cry around Steve.

They find their rhythm fast: Steve fucking your throat in shallow, measured strokes that make your eyes water; Bucky pounding deep from behind, grip bruising your hips, boots scraping the disgusting tile.

Faucet drips. Skin slaps. Breath fogs. Bulb buzzes.

You’re lost in it, heat, fullness, the way Steve’s fingers tighten like he’s anchoring himself to you.

Then Bucky, too far gone, hips snapping wild, groans it without a filter.

“Fuck… almost as good as this morning when I had you all to myself after that 95-”

Everything stops dead.

Steve goes rigid. Yanks out of your mouth so fast you choke on air, drool stringing messy from your lip to his cock. His hand stays fisted in your hair, but now it’s iron, holding you in place like he doesn’t trust you to stay put.

“Get the fuck out of her,” he says, voice low and venomous, shaking with barely-leashed fury.

Bucky’s hips jerk once on instinct, then freeze. He pulls out slow, the wet slide obscene in the sudden silence. His fingers spasm on your hips, then drop away like you’re contagious.

Steve doesn’t move. Doesn’t zip up yet. Just stares Bucky down over your bent back, eyes blazing.

“You fucked her alone,” he spits, each word sharp enough to draw blood. “That morning. And you both thought you’d just… what? Keep it cute little secret from me?”

Bucky slumps against the opposite wall, cock softening fast under the weight of Steve’s glare. “Steve- it wasn’t some big thing. She was riding me about Banner and it just happened-”

Steve cuts him off with a bitter laugh, zipping up with sharp, angry jerks. “Yeah, I bet it ‘just happened.’ Real convenient.”

You straighten slowly, yanking your clothes up with trembling fingers. Cold rushes in where heat just was; sweat cools clammy on your skin. “I told him not to tell you,” you say quietly. “I didn’t want to mess up the weekend.”

Steve finally looks at you, and the expression on his face is pure acid. Hurt twisted up with petty, ice-cold rage.

“Oh, perfect,” he sneers. “You two had a little side meeting and decided I’m too fragile to handle the truth? Or maybe you just figured I’m the safe idiot who’ll keep showing up no matter what you pull behind my back.”

He scrubs a hand over his jaw, shoulders tight, voice dropping into something small and cutting. “I share everything with you two. Every fucking thing. And you couldn’t even give me the respect of a heads-up that you’re sneaking around like I’m some side character in your story.”

Bucky opens his mouth. “Steve, come on-”

“No,” Steve snaps, pointing a finger at him. “You don’t get to ‘come on’ me. You got your solo round, congratulations. Hope it was worth it.” His eyes flick to you, sharp and accusing.

“And you- teasing him into it, then begging me to follow you in here like nothing happened. Real classy.”

The words land like slaps. Your throat burns.

Steve turns to the door, unlocks it with a vicious twist. Cold wind and snow blast in, swirling across the wet floor. “I’m walking back alone. Don’t want to crowd the happy couple.”

He steps out, gas can banging against his thigh, shoulders hunched against the storm. Doesn’t look back once.

Door swings shut behind him with a hollow thud.

You and Bucky stand there in the bleach-stinking freeze, listening to his boots crunch farther and farther away.

Bucky exhales a shaky, “Well, shit.”

You grab the half-eaten Snickers off the sink. Chocolate’s frozen solid now. Tastes like cardboard and regret.

You push out into the storm after Steve, but you keep your distance, close enough not to lose him in the whiteout, far enough that he doesn’t have to look at either of you.

Bucky trails last, gummy worms bag dragging.

Snow falls thick and relentless, swallowing sound, swallowing footprints.

The silence is louder than any screaming match.

And Steve’s back, straight and furious ahead of you, doesn’t turn around once the entire freezing mile back to the Jeep.

Whatever was whole this afternoon feels pretty goddamn cracked now.

The last hour of the drive feels like three.

Snow’s coming down so thick the headlights barely cut through it, just a swirling white tunnel. The heater’s blasting but it’s still cold in the car, cold from the silence more than anything.

Steve’s gripping the wheel like he’s trying to choke it, jaw locked so tight you can see the muscle jumping even from the back seat.

Bucky’s got his forehead against the window now, watching his own breath fog and disappear, over and over. Nobody’s touched the aux cord. Nobody’s said a word since the gas station.

When the cabin’s porch light finally cuts through the trees, it feels less like relief and more like walking into the principal’s office.

You’re out of the Jeep before Steve’s even got it in park, boots sinking into fresh powder up to your shins. The air’s sharp, pine and woodsmoke. You grab your suitcase from the trunk, mumble something about needing a shower, and bolt inside without waiting.

The cabin’s warm at least, fire already going in the big stone fireplace, the kind of orange glow that makes everything look softer than it is. Smells like cedar and the faint vanilla candle.

Flannel blankets on the couches, string lights along the beams, the whole Pinterest-winter-getaway vibe. It’s perfect. Which makes the knot in your stomach worse.

You dump your suitcase at the foot of the king bed upstairs and lock yourself in the en-suite. The shower’s one of those big rain ones with river stones underfoot. You crank it as hot as it goes and just stand there, letting it burn.

You stay in there forever, washing your hair twice, scrubbing until your skin’s pink, trying to rinse off the gas-station bathroom, the fight, the guilt.

When you finally shut the water off, the mirror’s completely fogged. You wrap yourself in one of the giant towels, wipe a streak clear, and stare at your own blurry reflection until you can’t anymore.

Downstairs, they’ve started.

At first it’s just muffled voices filtering up through the floorboards, Steve’s low, steady rumble cutting against Bucky’s sharper, quicker words. Then the volume climbs, edges sharpening.

You crack the bathroom door, towel knotted tight around you, hair dripping cold trails down your spine. Bare feet silent on the hardwood, you pad to the top of the stairs and sink down onto the top step, knees hugged to your chest. You don’t go down. Just listen.

Steve’s pacing, boots thumping a tight circuit in front of the fireplace, back and forth like a caged animal.

“…so what, you two had a cute little secret and I’m just supposed to be the oblivious third wheel who smiles and drives the Jeep? Real fucking cute, Buck.”

Bucky’s voice is rough, scraped raw. “It wasn’t like that, Steve. It was ten stupid minutes. She opened the door looking like a wet dream and I-”

“Yeah, I get the picture,” Steve interrupts, voice dripping acid. “Spare me the play-by-play. Point is, you finished, zipped up, and decided, ‘Hey, Steve doesn’t need to know his best friend and “his” girl just fucked behind his back.’ Super considerate.”

“I didn’t want to torch the whole weekend!” Bucky shoots back, then catches himself, volume dropping fast.

“We finally had two days with no bullshit, no interruptions, and I panicked. Thought if I told you in the car you’d pull over and deck me. Then by the time we got here it felt too late, and then in that disgusting bathroom it just, slipped out.”

Steve snorts, sharp and ugly. “Oh, bless your heart. What a tragic little accident. Must’ve been so hard carrying around that big, bad secret while I was busy thinking everything was normal.”

Silence stretches, heavy. You hear the fire crackle, wind rattling the windows like it wants in.

Bucky speaks again, quieter, stripped down. “I’m sorry, Stevie. I mean it. I hate that I hurt you. I hate that I made you feel like the odd man out because you’re not. You’ve never been. I just… fucked up. Bad.”

Steve doesn’t answer right away. You hear the fridge door yank open, the clink of glass, the angry twist of a bottle cap. Long pull of beer.

Another.

“Congrats on the apology,” Steve finally says, voice flat and snarky. “Gold star. Really feeling the sincerity while I’m still tasting bleach from that shithole bathroom and wondering how long you two were planning to keep playing me.”

“I wasn’t playing you,” Bucky says, low and earnest. “I swear to God, Steve. It was one dumb, selfish moment and then cowardice. That’s it.”

“Yeah, well, your cowardice feels pretty fucking personal from where I’m standing.” Steve’s boots start pacing again, faster.

“You know what the worst part is? I would’ve been fine. Mad for five minutes, maybe, but fine. Because it’s us. But you didn’t trust me enough to give me the chance. You and her decided for me.”

Bucky’s voice cracks a little. “I know. I know I didn’t trust you with it, and that’s on me. I’m so fucking sorry. You’re my best friend, always have been. I don’t want to lose this. Lose us.”

Another stretch of quiet. A log in the fire shifts and pops, sending sparks up the chimney.

Steve exhales hard. “You remember sophomore year? When I basically lived in your dorm for two months because you were too stubborn to ask for help with that boot?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says softly.

“I didn’t leave when you were a miserable asshole to everyone. I stayed. Because you’re my best friend too, you idiot.” Steve’s voice wavers, anger bleeding into something rawer. “So don’t stand there acting like I’m about to bail over one fight. I’m pissed. I’m allowed to be pissed. But I’m not walking away.”

You hear Bucky’s relief in the shaky breath he lets out. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Steve mutters. “I’m still mad enough to sleep on the couch tonight. I don’t want to be in the same bed as either of you right now. I need… space from the reminder.”

“Steve-”

“It’s not punishment,” Steve cuts in, tired but firm. “It’s self-preservation. I just can’t pretend everything’s peachy while I’m still seeing red. Take the bed. Both of you. I’ll be down here.”

A long beat.

“Okay,” Bucky says finally, quiet and defeated. “Yeah. Okay.”

The couch creaks as someone, probably Bucky, drops onto it heavily. Boots thud off. The fire settles into low, steady pops.

You stay curled on the top step until your toes are numb and the towel’s soaked through from your hair. Then you slip back to the bedroom, crawl under the thick flannel duvet that smells like pine detergent and cold air, and stare at the dark log beams overhead.

Downstairs, the fire burns lower. No footsteps on the stairs.

The cabin feels enormous and suffocating all at once.

You pull the covers over your head, your throat tightening as you fight the tears. College is messy, sure, but no one tells you how much it hurts when the people you care about most are hurting because of you.

And tonight, nobody comes up to fix it.

Eventually the stairs creak softly, Bucky coming up as quiet as his bulk allows. He doesn’t speak, just kicks off his boots, strips to boxers, and slides in on the far edge, leaving a careful, deliberate foot of space between you like he’s waiting for permission.

You don’t let the space stay. You roll toward him, tuck your head against his chest without asking. He exhales like the air’s been trapped in his lungs for hours, arm coming around you slow and careful. His heartbeat thuds fast under your ear.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he whispers into your hair, voice rough with guilt.

“I know,” you whisper back, throat tight.

He kisses your forehead, holds you closer, and you both pretend sleep is coming.

It isn’t.

Eventually your mouth turns to cotton, dehydration from crying in the shower, from the dry heat blasting out of the vents, from the way your heart’s been jackhammering since everything blew up.

You ease out from under Bucky’s heavy arm. He makes a low, unhappy sound in his sleep, brow furrowing, but doesn’t wake. Moonlight stripes silver across his face: stubble dark, lips parted, the scar on his left hand catching the light like a thin white bolt.

Your bare feet hit the wide-plank floor and the cold shoots up your legs like ice water. Goosebumps prickle across your thighs under the oversized shirt you scooped off the floor and yanked on in the dark. You tug the hem down, but it still barely skims mid-thigh, leaving you half-exposed in the chilly room.

The hallway is darker, shadows thick and blue. Every creak sounds like an accusation.

Downstairs, the fire’s burned down to sullen orange coals that pulse low and resentful. The air smells like the faint yeasty ghost of spilled beer. An empty bottle lies on its side on the coffee table, a slow ring of condensation bleeding into the wood.

Steve’s on the couch, blanket kicked to the floor. He’s sitting forward, elbows on knees, head bowed, broad shoulders hunched. His hair’s a wreck, blond strands falling over his forehead like he’s raked his hands through it a hundred times.

He hears you, of course. Lifts his head slow. His eyes are bloodshot, exhaustion carved deep, but they’re sharp, too sharp, glittering with leftover venom.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice scraped raw and dripping sarcasm. “Or did you just come down to make sure the third wheel’s still breathing?”

The words hit like a slap. You stop at the bottom of the stairs, toes curling against the icy floor. “I needed water.”

He watches you cross to the kitchen, eyes tracking the way your shirt brushes your thighs with every step. The fridge light spills harsh white across his face when you open it, highlighting the tight clench of his jaw, the storm still brewing in his eyes. You grab a bottle, twist it open, drink deep. Cold burns all the way down.

He stands when you turn around. Slow. Deliberate. Closes the distance until the heat rolling off him cuts the chill.

“So,” he says, voice low and venom-sweet, arms crossed tight. “You and Bucky have your little post-fuck cuddle fest upstairs? Real cozy, huh? Must be nice knowing exactly who you’re waking up next to tomorrow.”

Your stomach knots. “Steve-”

“Because I’m trying to figure out my role here,” he keeps going, smile thin and razor-sharp. “Am I the driver? The comic relief? The guy who pays for gas while you two sneak quickies? Or just the idiot who thought we were all on the same page?”

The snark lands hard, each word precise, meant to bruise. You can smell faint beer on his breath, woodsmoke in his clothes, cold clinging to his skin. His eyes are glassy with exhaustion and hurt, and it twists something vicious in your chest.

“Stop it,” you say, voice cracking. You step into him, close enough that his heat sears through the shirt. “Just- stop.”

He opens his mouth, more poison clearly loaded, but you don’t let it fire. You fist both hands in the soft fabric of his thermal, push up on your toes, and crash your mouth against his.

It’s messy, angry, teeth clacking, then parting. He tastes like bitter beer, salt, and sleeplessness. For a heartbeat he’s rigid, every muscle locked. Then his hands snap to your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, hauling you flush against him like he’s terrified you’ll vanish.

He kisses back ferocious, all the hurt and frustration pouring out in the way he angles your head, the way his tongue claims yours like he’s reminding himself he still has the right.

You break only when your lungs scream, foreheads pressed together, both of you panting into the tiny space between.

“There’s no choosing,” you whisper, fierce and shaking. “No favorites. No couples inside the three of us. You know that.”

His breath hitches hard. His hands flex on your hips like he’s fighting himself. His eyes squeeze shut.

“I hate feeling like the extra,” he mutters, voice finally cracking wide open, all the snark bleeding away into something raw. “Like I’m the one who wasn’t in on the joke.”

“You’re not,” you say, sliding a hand up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing rough stubble. “You’re not extra. You’re just as in this as we are.”

He leans into your touch for a shaky second, then exhales like the fight’s rushing out of him. You take his hand, cold fingers laced through his warm ones and tug.

He follows.

Up the stairs, quiet and slow. Bucky’s still sprawled in the center of the bed, one arm flung out, sheets tangled low on his hips, breathing deep and even.

You climb in first, slide to the middle, shirt riding up as you settle facing Bucky. Steve pauses at the edge, shadowed, looking down at both of you like he’s still deciding if he belongs here tonight.

You reach out, catch the hem of his thermal. “Get in the bed, Steve.”

He huffs a tired, wet half-laugh that’s mostly surrender and crawls in behind you. The mattress dips deep under his weight.

For a long moment it’s awkward: three bodies negotiating space, the chill of the sheets, the leftover static crackling in the air.

Then Bucky shifts in his sleep, instinctively seeking warmth, arm draping heavy across your waist, face nuzzling into your neck, stubble scratching softly.

Steve hesitates one last beat, then mirrors it. His chest presses to your back, solid and warm, arm sliding over your hip to rest loosely on top of Bucky’s forearm. His fingers curl, not quite holding Bucky’s wrist, but close like muscle memory overriding the mess.

You’re sandwiched tight: Bucky’s steady heartbeat against your front, Steve’s against your spine, legs tangled in flannel and limbs.

The hurt lingers, heavy and unspoken. The anger’s still there, banked low like the embers downstairs. But the bed is warm now, snow muffling the world outside to nothing, and nobody pulls away.

Steve’s lips brush the shell of your ear, barely there, more breath than kiss. Bucky’s nose nudges your collarbone, a sleepy sound rumbling in his chest.

You let your eyes close.

Tomorrow will still be messy. Words will still need saying. Boundaries will still feel bruised.

But tonight, tangled together in the dark, breathing slow and syncing up, the three of you just sleep.

And for the first time since the bathroom, it doesn’t feel like anything’s broken beyond fixing.

Morning light filters through the half-drawn curtains in thin, pale blades, soft winter sun bouncing off the endless snow outside, turning the room golden and quiet. The wind died sometime in the night; the world feels paused, muffled under a thick white blanket.

Bucky wakes first, the way he always does: instant and alert, eyes snapping open like a switch flipped. He’s on his back, arm pinned under your hip, other one still draped loosely over your waist. Steve’s pressed along your back, face tucked into the crook of your neck, slow breaths stirring the fine hairs there.

For a long minute Bucky just stares.

You’re deep under, curled slightly toward him, lips parted in soft, even breaths, one hand fisted loosely in the sheets near your chin. Your has shirt ridden up in the night, exposing the gentle curve of your waist, the long line of your spine.

Your hair’s a wild tangle across the pillow, still faintly damp from the shower. There’s a warm flush on your cheeks from being sandwiched between them, and the tiniest crease between your brows like even sleep can’t fully erase yesterday.

Bucky’s voice is barely audible, rough with sleep and leftover guilt. “Look at her.”

Steve stirs immediately, lifting his head just enough to see over your shoulder. His eyes are puffy, lashes clumped, but they soften the second they land on you.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Christ.”

He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t have to.

Bucky reaches out, slow, careful not to wake you and brushes a stray strand of hair off your forehead with the backs of his knuckles.

“She’s got that little freckle right here,” he murmurs, thumb grazing the bridge of your nose. “Never noticed how much I like it when she’s not using it to look down at me like I’m an idiot.”

Steve’s hand moves too, palm sliding gently over the exposed skin of your hip, tracing idle, reverent circles. “And the way she does that tiny huff on the exhale. Like a pissed-off kitten dreaming about revenge.”

Bucky huffs the softest laugh. “She’d murder us if she heard that.”

“She’d try,” Steve agrees, the corner of his mouth lifting for the first time since the gas station. “We’d have her pinned and begging for mercy in ten seconds flat.”

They fall quiet again, just watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, the occasional twitch of your fingers in sleep.

“She looks… peaceful,” Bucky says after a long moment. Voice low, almost awed. “Like yesterday didn’t follow her in here.”

Steve’s throat works visibly. “We were reckless as hell.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “I was. That morning was on me, lost my head the second she opened the door. And then I kept my mouth shut like a coward because I didn’t want to lose the weekend. I’m sorry, man. For the fuck, for the lie, for all of it.”

Steve’s hand stills on your hip. He meets Bucky’s eyes over your sleeping form. “I’m sorry too. For the way I acted, like a petty asshole with a bruised ego. I turned it into a competition in my head when it never needed to be. You didn’t deserve me icing you out.”

Bucky nods once, slow. “We good?”

Steve exhales, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. “We’re good.”

They lie there a little longer, trading the kind of quiet, sappy observations they’d never say if you were awake.

How your lashes cast long shadows on your cheeks in the morning light.

How soft your mouth gets when there’s no smart remark loaded behind it.

How perfectly you fit between them, like the space was always meant to be filled by you.

Eventually Bucky untangles himself with military precision, sliding out of bed without moving the mattress more than an inch. Steve follows a second later. They trade a look over your still-sleeping body, silent agreement.

Bucky mouths: Breakfast?

Steve nods, already reaching for his sweatpants.

They pad downstairs together, shoulders brushing in the narrow hallway. The fire’s dead, just gray ash and cold stone. Morning light floods through the big windows, turning the snow outside blinding white.

In the kitchen they move like a quiet, practiced team, Bucky starting coffee, strong, black, with the oat milk waiting on the side because he knows you’ll want it, Steve pulling out the cast-iron skillet, eggs, thick-cut bacon, English muffins. There’s even a punnet of fresh berries someone thoughtfully left in the fridge.

They don’t talk much at first, just the soft clink of mugs, the sizzle of bacon hitting hot iron, the low gurgle of the coffee maker. The smells build fast: rich coffee, smoky pork, butter melting in the toaster.

Halfway through, Bucky leans against the counter, watching Steve flip eggs with that intense focus he gets about everything. “We’re really fixing this, right?”

Steve glances up, mouth softening. “Yeah. Starting with feeding her until she can’t stay mad.”

They load up the big wooden tray like it’s a peace offering: fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp bacon arranged in neat rows, toasted English muffins with butter and a drizzle of honey, bright berries in a chipped bowl, coffee fixed exactly right. Steve tucks the single red rose, still perfect, into a water glass and scribbles a note on a torn piece of brown paper bag:

we’re idiots but we’re your idiots eat this and then come yell at us if you want we’ll be waiting – your two favorite assholes

They carry it upstairs together, moving slow so nothing spills. You’re still dead to the world, curled on your side now, shirt twisted around your waist, one knee pulled up, mouth open just enough for the softest little snore.

They set the tray on the nightstand carefully. Bucky kneels on his side, brushes your hair back gently. Steve sits on the edge, hand resting lightly on your bare ankle.

You stir slowly, first the rich smell of coffee hits, then bacon, then warm butter and honey. Your eyes crack open to soft golden light and the loaded tray: eggs golden, bacon perfectly crisp, muffins glistening, bright berries, coffee steaming and perfect. The rose stands proud in its makeshift vase.

“Morning, baby,” Bucky says, voice scratchy and soft. He brushes a knuckle along your cheek. “We made you breakfast. Figured you deserved it after we spent yesterday acting like complete jackasses.”

Steve’s thumb strokes slow circles on your ankle. “Especially me. I was a petty dick about the whole thing. I’m sorry... for the attitude, for the distance, for making you feel like you had to drag me back into bed.”

Bucky nods, eyes earnest. “And I’m sorry for that reckless morning fuck. For starting it, for hiding it, for letting it blow up in that nasty bathroom. I should’ve told him right away. No excuses.”

You push up on one elbow, shirt slipping off one shoulder, hair falling in your face. You blow it away and eye the tray like it might be a trap. “You two cooked without burning the cabin down?”

Bucky snorts. “Minor smoke-alarm incident. We contained it.”

“Twice,” Steve corrects, mouth twitching. “But we survived.”

You reach for the coffee first, wrap both hands around the mug, inhale deep. First sip is perfect. You hum, involuntary and pleased, and watch both of them visibly relax.

“Good?” Steve asks, quiet.

“Dangerously,” you mutter. “You’re definitely trying to bribe me.”

Bucky grins, snags a piece of bacon and holds it to your lips. “Is it working?”

You take a bite, salty, smoky perfection and chew slow just to watch him fidget. “Little bit.”

Steve shifts closer, elbow on the mattress. “There’s a note too.” He nods toward the torn paper under the rose.

You fish it out, read it aloud in a flat voice: “‘We’re idiots but we’re your idiots. Eat this and then come yell at us if you want. We’ll be waiting, your two favorite assholes.’”

Bucky winces. “We debated hearts. Chickened out.”

“Smart,” you say, but there’s no heat in it. You pop a berry in your mouth, sweet, bright, perfect. “This doesn’t magically fix everything, you know.”

“We know,” they say at the same time, then glance at each other, almost smiling.

You sigh, set the coffee down, and scoot over, patting the space you’ve made. “Get in here. I’m not eating alone like some lonely queen.”

They move instantly, Bucky sliding in on your left, Steve on your right. The tray ends up balanced on Bucky’s lap; Steve steals a strip of bacon before you can stop him.

You tear an English muffin in half, hand one piece to each of them.

“We’re talking about yesterday,” you say around a mouthful of eggs. “All of it. But not on empty stomachs. And not until I’ve had at least one more sip of coffee.”

Bucky leans his head against yours, voice soft. “Whatever you need, baby.”

Steve’s hand finds yours under the blanket, fingers threading tight. “We’re right here.”

You take another long sip of coffee, let the warmth sink in, and, for the first time since that bleach-stinking bathroom feel something close to steady.

“Pass the honey,” you say.

Bucky hands it over without a word.

It’s going to be a long conversation.

But it’s starting with breakfast in bed, tangled limbs, and two boys who are looking at you like you hung the moon even after everything.

You can definitely work with that.

By evening, the storm softens into steady snowfall, fat flakes drifting past the windows. The fire roars again, warming the living room, the air scented with pine smoke, grilled cheese, and faint eucalyptus.

The day was long and necessary: raw words on the couch, quieter ones bundled on the porch with spiked cocoa, hands finding each other again like testing fragile glass. The air felt lighter, trust bruised but mending, boundaries redrawn with careful fingers. You disappeared upstairs with a sly smile and a murmured “give me twenty,” leaving them with raised eyebrows and cautious hope.

Out on the covered back deck, the jacuzzi waits in the corner, steaming hard against the cold. The jets churn the water into thick foam that hisses and bubbles. Snow dusts the railings and gathers along the roofline, melting into sharp drops wherever the heat reaches. Beneath the surface, blue lights pulse softly, turning the foam turquoise and gold as steam rises in fragrant clouds of eucalyptus and chlorine.

Steve and Bucky are already in, shoulders just breaking the surface, heads tipped back against the padded headrests, steam curling off their skin in thick, wet ribbons that cling to their stubble and lashes. Water beads and drips from their chests, catching the light in glistening trails down hard muscle.

Bucky’s hand rests on the rim, fingers drumming lazily to the low, thumping bass from the outdoor speaker.

Steve’s eyes are half-closed, the last tension finally gone from his jaw, lips parted as he breathes in the hot mist.

The sliding door rumbles open with a groan of wood on wood.

They both turn at the sound, water sloshing.

You step out onto the snow-dusted deck wearing the skimpiest black bikini you packed, two tiny triangles up top straining desperately against your breasts, nipples already hard and visible through the thin fabric, tied with strings so fragile one tug would end them.

The bottoms are a matching low V, ties knotted high on your hips, the fabric barely covering your mound and leaving the full curves of your ass exposed to the biting cold.

Snowflakes land on your warm skin and melt instantly, cool trails racing down your cleavage, your thighs. Goosebumps explode across your body; your hair is loose and wild, lips curved in a slow, deliberate smile that says you know exactly what you’re doing.

“Goddamn,” Bucky breathes, sitting up straighter, water cascading off his chest in hot rivulets. His eyes go pitch-black in a heartbeat, cock visibly thickening under the bubbling surface.

Steve’s gaze drags down your body like a physical lick, slow, burning, possessive. “You’re trying to fucking kill us, baby.”

“Maybe,” you say, voice low and teasing over the relentless rumble of the jets. You pad across the cold wood, bare feet stinging on frozen planks, goosebumps racing up your legs until you’re at the steps. One deliberate tug at each hip and the bottoms drop, pooling at your ankles. Another tug at your neck and back and the top follows, landing in a damp little heap on the deck, nipples tightening harder in the sharp air.

You climb in slow, water rising scalding hot around your calves, thighs, hips, making you hiss through your teeth as the heat shocks your cold skin pink.

The jets slam into you like a thousand vibrating tongues, pulsing hard against your legs, your ass, your clit as you sink deeper. You settle between them, back against the curved wall, water lapping greedily at your collarbones, bubbles clinging to your breasts like obscene decoration.

For a moment it’s just the three of you and the storm: snow falling silently outside the roofline in thick, lazy sheets; steam rising in choking clouds, thick with eucalyptus and the faint chlorine tang; jets churning the surface into constant, violent motion that vibrates through your bones.

Bucky’s arm slides around your waist first, yanking you sideways into his lap with a splash that sends hot water over the edge. Steve shifts closer on your other side, big hand finding your thigh under the water, fingers digging in possessively.

“We good?” Bucky murmurs against your temple, voice rough with steam and raw want, stubble scraping your skin.

You nod, turning to catch his mouth. The kiss starts soft, relief and promise but turns filthy fast, tongues sliding wet and hungry, tasting eucalyptus and leftover whiskey from lunch.

Hands start wandering, rougher now. Bucky’s fingers slip between your legs immediately, parting your slick folds under the water, finding your clit and rubbing hard, deliberate circles that make you jerk. Steve’s palm cups your breast roughly, pinching your nipple until you gasp into Bucky’s mouth.

Then Bucky pulls back with a wicked grin, reaching for the black velvet bag on the deck edge. “Got something new for that greedy little ass.”

He pulls out the star-shaped plug, silver metal with sharp, faceted jewel edges that catch the string lights and throw tiny rainbows across the steam. Bigger than the heart one, thicker flare, the star points promising a vicious, delicious stretch.

Your breath catches, pussy clenching around nothing. “Oh, so we’re switching shapes now, huh?” you tease, voice breathy but playful, trying to hide how much the sight alone is already making you throb.

Steve laughs low, dark, hand sliding between your legs to spread you wider. “Damn right. That heart was cute, but this star? Gonna stretch that tight hole so pretty, make you feel every fucking point while we wreck your cunt.”

But first, Bucky’s eyes glint pure filth. “Turn around, doll. Straddle the big jet. We’ve seen this in porn a hundred times, girls humping jacuzzi jets like desperate little whores till they squirt. Always wanted to watch you do it live.”

Heat floods your face, sharp humiliation twisting hot with arousal but they maneuver you easily, water buoying you weightless. They position you facing the strongest jet, knees on the bench seat, hips tilted forward until the powerful stream slams directly against your clit, relentless, pounding pressure like a thick, vibrating cockhead grinding you mercilessly, bubbles exploding against your pussy lips in hot bursts.

“Oh- fuck- ” You grab the rim, knuckles white, hips bucking involuntarily as the jet batters your swollen clit without mercy. The water’s so hot it burns sweetly; the stream pulses hard enough to make your thighs quake, forcing pleasure through you in brutal waves.

Bucky presses in behind you, mouth on your shoulder, biting hard enough to mark. “Look at you, humping the jet like a needy porn slut. We knew you’d be perfect for this. Bet that greedy cunt’s clenching already, wishing it was our cocks pounding you.”

Steve’s hand tangles in your wet hair, yanking your head back so you’re arched, exposed, tits bouncing with every desperate grind.

“That’s it, ride it harder. Show us how filthy you are, squirting all over the water like those girls in the videos we used to jerk off to. You’re better than them, our desperate little whore, coming on a fucking jet because you can’t wait for real dick.”

The humiliation burns, hot and sharp but it only makes you wetter, hips rolling shamelessly against the jet, chasing the brutal pressure. Water splashes with every grind; your moans echo off the cabin walls, mixing with the hiss of snow hitting hot deck.

You come hard and fast, screaming, thighs clamping, pussy gushing clear streams into the churning water as the jet forces you over without mercy.

They don’t let you recover. Bucky pulls you back into his lap, facing him, legs spread wide over his thighs. Steve hands him the star plug, already slick with lube.

“Hold her open,” Bucky orders Steve, voice wrecked.

Steve’s fingers spread your ass cheeks wide, cool air hitting your hole for a second before Bucky presses the cold metal tip against you. The star points stretch you viciously, each sharp facet popping past your ring with a burn that makes you sob and push back for more.

“Fuck- too big- ” you gasp, but your hips rock anyway.

“That’s our greedy girl,” Steve growls in your ear, thumb rubbing your clit to distract. “Taking that fat star plug like a champ. Gonna feel us both so much deeper now.”

Bucky works it in slow, twist, push, stretch until the wide flare seats flush, the jewel base cool against your skin, points locked inside making every tiny movement electric.

Then Bucky lines his cock up with your pussy, thick head sliding through your soaked folds, sinking in raw with one deep thrust that punches the air from your lungs. The plug makes him feel massive, splitting you open.

Steve moves behind, more lube, careful but insistent, pressing into your ass around the plug? No, he pulls it out slowly and hands it aside, then he takes your ass raw while Bucky stays buried in your pussy.

Full, brutally, perfectly full, both thick cocks stretching you to the limit, the missing plug leaving you gaping and desperate. Water sloshes violently over the edge, steaming on the cold deck.

They fuck you hard, Bucky thrusting up into your pussy, Steve slamming into your ass, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, mouths on your neck biting marks.

The jets pulse against your dangling feet; steam chokes the air; snow hisses where it lands.

You come again, shattering, screaming, pussy and ass milking them relentlessly.

They follow fast, Bucky spilling deep in your cunt with a guttural “fuck, take it”; Steve in your ass seconds later, groaning your name like it hurts.

Water everywhere, deck soaked, steam thick.

They hold you through the aftershocks, kissing soft now, murmuring love and praise into your skin.

You stay tangled a long time, hearts slowing, bodies cooling slowly in the reheated water.

The jacuzzi high fades into a warm, lazy buzz as you all stumble back inside, towels barely clinging, skin still steaming in the cold air that rushes in behind you. The swim trunks and bikini are abandoned on the deck, no one bothers to grab them. Snowflakes melt on your shoulders as you slide the door shut, giggling when Bucky’s towel finally gives up and puddles at his feet.

“Freedom,” he declares, kicking it aside and strutting naked toward the kitchen like a peacock. Steve rolls his eyes but follows suit, towel tossed over the back of a chair.

They'd raided the bar: two bottles of vintage champagne, corks popping with a festive fizz; a tray of tequila shots, lime wedges sour and juicy.

Someone’s playlist is blasting, slow, filthy R&B with bass so low it vibrates in your bones. The heated slate floor is warm under bare feet. You let your towel drop and don’t even think about it, hair dripping, skin flushed and steaming, completely naked and giggling like an idiot.

Nobody can stand still.

Bucky starts the dance-off with the most exaggerated body roll known to man, hips snapping, abs flexing like he’s trying to hypnotize you. Steve counters with some tragic attempt at the robot that’s so off-beat it’s perfect. You jump in the middle, spinning too fast, nearly eating the floor until they both catch you, laughing.

Champagne gets passed mouth-to-mouth, tequila licked off collarbones, whiskey dribbled down stomachs and chased with tongues.

Then it gets filthy.

Steve grabs the champagne bottle, tips it slow and deliberate over your chest. Cold bubbles cascade down between your tits in a fizzy river, rushing over your skin, spilling in glittering trails down your stomach and pooling at your navel. You squeal, half shock from the chill, half giddy because you’re so fucking wasted and both of them drop to their knees instantly, like starving men at a feast.

Steve claims the left side, Bucky the right. Tongues hot and messy, they lap up every drop, sucking champagne from the soft undersides of your breasts, chasing the rivulets that run down your ribs.

Steve’s mouth closes over one nipple, tongue swirling to catch the fizz; Bucky does the same on the other, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp and laugh at once. They fight over the stream dripping toward your belly button, Steve’s tongue diving in, Bucky shoving him aside with a shoulder and licking it clean, both of them groaning against your skin like it’s the best thing they’ve ever tasted.

You’re laughing so hard your legs shake, hands fisted in their hair, head thrown back, barely able to stand.

“My turn- my turnnn!” you slur, snatching the bottle from Steve’s hand. You push him flat on his back on the thick rug, straddling his hips. With a wicked grin, you tip the champagne again, this time right over his abs.

Cold liquid pools in every perfect ridge, drips along that stupid V that disappears into nothing since he’s already hard and naked. You dive face-first, licking slow and greedy from the bottom up, tongue tracing every line of muscle, sucking the bubbles from his skin while he groans and bucks his hips, laughing through it.

“F-fuck- that tickles- wait, no, do it again, don’t stop,” Steve stutters, words tripping over each other.

Bucky kneels beside you, jealous as hell. “My turn too- c’mon baby, share.”

You pour the rest of the bottle over Bucky’s chest in a messy arc; it runs down his pecs, through the dark hair, pooling in the dips of his abs. You lick back and forth between them like a drunk kitten, missing half the time, just dragging your tongue over warm skin and giggling when you overshoot and end up licking a nipple instead.

“You taste like- like bad decisions,” you mumble into Bucky’s abs, then hiccup so hard you nearly fall over.

Bucky laughs, deep and slurred. “More- more, baby, we’re not done.” He grabs a half-full bottle of cinnamon schnapps, eyes glinting. “Spread for us.”

They manhandle you gently, Steve’s hands on your thighs, spreading you wide on the rug while Bucky kneels between your legs. You’re giggling, head spinning, as Bucky tips the bottle slow over your pussy. Warm cinnamon liquid drips down your folds, mixing with how soaked you already are, trickling over your clit and pooling between your lips.

You squeal again, hips jerking at the sudden heat. “Cold- hot- fuck-”

Both of them dive in at once. Steve’s tongue laps the outer folds, slow and thorough; Bucky goes straight for your clit, sucking the schnapps right off it with a filthy moan.

They trade places, tongues sliding against each other over your skin, fighting for every drop, licking and sucking. You’re laughing and moaning, hands in their hair, hips rolling shamelessly into their mouths.

“G-gonna- gonna come from your tongues,” you slur, words a jumbled mess. “Taste so- s’good-”

They keep going, sloppy and drunk and relentless, until the cinnamon burns away and it’s just them tasting you, hot, wet, giggling against your pussy until you’re shaking apart, coming hard with a bright, silly cry that dissolves into more laughter.

The bottle rolls away forgotten, and you collapse back onto the rug, still buzzing, still drunk, still perfect.

They flip you in a sloppy tangle of limbs, still giggling like absolute idiots. A whiskey glass topples somewhere, liquid glugs out, nobody gives a shit.

“W-wanna… wanna be in- inside you,” Bucky slurs against your neck, words tumbling like he’s rolling downhill. “Both- both of us, yeah? Like- like usual but… but way drunker. Drunkier. Drunkest.”

“Y-yeah,” Steve chimes in, aiming for smooth and landing somewhere near cartoon character. “Both is- is b-best. Sci- scien- fuck it, science.”

You’re wheezing with laughter as you all try to line up, total disaster.

“Ow- ow, that’s my knee, dumbass,”

“Wait- where’s the- oh, there, no wait that’s your elbow-”

“Hang- hang onnn, I got it- shit, no I don’t-”

Someone’s hair gets pulled, someone else gets tickled by accident, and you’re all cracking up so hard it takes forever.

Finally, miracle, you sink down onto Steve with a long, wobbly “fuuuuck” that dissolves into giggles when Bucky presses in behind you, muttering “slow- slow- wait, too fast- fuck, perfect-” while his hands slip twice on your hips.

The rhythm is hilariously bad, lazy, uneven, stopping every few seconds because someone hiccups, or a leg cramps, or you all just start laughing again for no reason.

“You’re s-so… s’pretty,” Steve tries, going for romantic and sounding like he’s reading a menu underwater.

“Prettiest,” Bucky corrects, dead serious, then immediately backtracks. “Wait- no, prettiessst. With… with three s’s. Fac- facts only.”

Names are a lost cause. “Steeb” comes out instead of Steve. “Bub- Bubby- no, Buck- Buh-” You can’t even finish, and every failed attempt sends you into fresh hysterics, bodies shaking with laughter while still moving together.

It builds slow and ridiculous, pleasure sneaking up through the drunk fog until you’re all trembling and giggling right on the edge.

Your orgasm hits out of nowhere, sharp, bright, uncontrollable clenching hard around both of them while you half-laugh, half-moan into Steve’s neck, actual tears in your eyes from how stupidly good it feels.

Bucky’s right behind you, hips stuttering as he comes with a garbled, breathless “love you- love you-” buried against your shoulder.

You freeze mid-giggle, brain lagging. “Wh- what was that?”

Bucky goes very still, then mumbles into your skin, voice suddenly casual like he’s commenting on the weather, “Huh? Nothin’. Nothing. You- uh- hearing things.”

Steve, still panting and giggling, doesn’t even notice, he’s too busy slurring “best- best night- everrrr” as he follows right after, fingers tangled tight in your hair, laughing through every pulse.

You collapse sideways in a sweaty, breathless heap, someone’s foot in someone’s face, elbow in ribs, legs everywhere, still wheezing with leftover laughter. Still somehow joined.

Then your phone buzzes, FaceTime, Nat’s name flashing.

Steve reaches over blindly, swipes accept, and flips it immediately to show only the log ceiling.

Nat appears, party lights strobing, music thumping. “WHERE ARE YOU FUCKERS- wait, why is the ceiling spinning? And why do you sound like dying seals?”

Bucky gives one lazy, involuntary thrust; you bite the rug to muffle the moan, fur tickling your lips.

Steve, voice wobbling with laughter, manages, “Cele- celebrating. Very… very quietly.”

Nat squints. “That is NOT quiet. That’s- are you- OH MY GOD-”

You slap the phone face-down, screen black.

Bucky wheezes into your shoulder, “Tell- tell her hi. From- from all three of us.”

The sheer absurdity sends another wave of silent, shaking laughter through you, bodies still joined, still tangled, still absolutely hammered.

Eventually Bucky grabs the phone with one trembling hand, still half inside you, and thumbs out a text:

You 10:45pm

u misssd the best drunk dnace battle in historyyy also wereee very buzyy

Then he tosses it across the rug, kisses the back of your neck, and you all drift in the firelight, naked, ridiculous, slurring sweet nonsense into each other’s skin, and stupidly, perfectly happy.

Bucky’s the first to stir, still wheezing with leftover laughter as he scoops you up from the rug like you’re made of air. Your limp, sweaty body flops over his arms bridal-style, head lolling against his chest.

“Party’s- party’s over,” he slurs into your hair, words all mushy and tangled. “Bedtime for- for drunk princess.”

Steve hauls himself up, swaying hard enough he has to grab the couch for balance, then slaps Bucky’s bare ass with a loud smack as he staggers past. “Careful, Buck. Don’t- don’t drop our girl. She’s- she’s precious.”

“Never,” Bucky declares, super serious, then immediately almost eats the coffee table leg. You all burst into fresh, helpless giggles, yours coming out more like a wheeze since you’re too boneless to even hold your head up.

Steve kills the downstairs lights with a dramatic wave that misses the switch twice, finally smacking it on the third try. The fire’s left to burn itself out, popping lazily as he follows you up the creaky stairs, one hand on the railing, the other planted on Bucky’s back for stability. Every step is a disaster.

“Whoa- easy, watch the- watch the step-”

“Left foot, genius, left-”

“Shit- shit, wall-”

You’re all shushing each other and cracking up louder.

In the bedroom, Bucky lowers you to the middle of the bed with way too much ceremony, like he’s placing something fragile on an altar. You bounce once, flop spread-eagle, and immediately hog every blanket in a sloppy cocoon.

Steve face-plants to your left with a muffled “oomph,” Bucky collapses to the right, and within seconds they’re curled around you like giant, overheated koalas.

Limbs everywhere. Someone’s knee in someone’s stomach. Someone’s hair in someone’s mouth. The sheets smell like smoke, sex, and spilled tequila.

“Night, pretty girl,” Steve mumbles into your neck, already halfway gone.

“Night, baby,” Bucky sighs against your shoulder, voice soft and slurred.

You manage a sleepy, slurred hum and a clumsy pat to whichever warm chest is closest.

The room does one last slow spin, then everything fades to quiet, just three sets of deep, even breathing, the faint crackle of the dying fire downstairs, and snow falling thick and silent outside.

You all crash hard, naked and tangled, absolutely wrecked and perfectly happy.

Sunday morning creeps in slow and golden, sunlight filtering through the half-open curtains and painting warm stripes across the tangled sheets. The cabin’s quiet except for the gentle whistle of wind in the pines outside. Snow’s still piled high, the world muffled and white.

You wake sandwiched between them again, Bucky’s chest to your back, his arm draped heavy over your waist; Steve facing you, one leg hooked over yours, his breath warm against your collarbone. They’re both still asleep, faces slack and boyish in the morning light.

You can feel them against you: Bucky half-hard already, pressed to the curve of your ass; Steve’s morning erection nestled against your stomach. The air smells like sleep-warm skin and faint whiskey.

You shift just a little, testing and Bucky makes a low, sleepy sound, arm tightening instinctively. His hips rock forward once, slow and unconscious. Steve stirs, eyes fluttering open, blue and soft and still heavy-lidded. He doesn’t speak, just watches you for a second, then leans in and kisses you slow, lazy, morning-sweet.

That’s all it takes.

Hands start moving without discussion. Steve’s palm cups your breast, thumb brushing your nipple until it peaks; Bucky’s hand slides lower, fingers slipping between your thighs from behind, finding you already wet. You arch into both touches, a soft whimper muffled against Steve’s mouth.

They take you gently this time, no rush, no teasing. Bucky lifts your leg just enough, guides himself into your pussy from behind in one smooth, sleepy glide. The stretch is perfect, intimate. Steve watches your face the whole time, then shifts lower, mouth closing over your breast, sucking slow while Bucky starts a lazy rhythm, deep, rolling thrusts that rock you forward onto Steve’s waiting cock.

You take Steve in your mouth while Bucky fucks you slow from behind, the three of you moving like a tide, unhurried, sensual, morning-soft. No words, just breath and touch and the wet sounds of bodies. You come first, quiet and shuddering around Bucky; he follows with a low groan against your neck; Steve spills down your throat moments later, fingers gentle in your hair.

After, you stay tangled, kissing lazily, trading soft laughs when someone’s elbow pokes a rib. Eventually hunger wins. You stumble downstairs naked, wrapped in one big blanket like a burrito trio, and make a mess of pancakes and bacon. Syrup ends up in inappropriate places. Cleanup involves mouths.

Lunch is supposed to be grilled cheese by the fire, but it turns into teasing.

You’re on the couch between them, half-dressed in one of Bucky’s flannels and nothing else, when Steve pulls the black velvet bag from under the coffee table like a magician. “Dessert,” he says innocently.

Bucky’s already grinning, pulling out the remote egg and the star plug cleaned, thoughtful as always. They take their time: feeding you bites of sandwich between pressing the egg inside you, turning it on low until you’re squirming. Bucky licks melted cheese off your fingers while Steve works the plug in slow, whispering filthy praise about how pretty you look stuffed and needy.

They film bits of it, one phone propped on the mantle capturing you riding Bucky on the rug while Steve controls the remote egg’s intensity, laughing when you curse them out between moans; another handheld for close-ups of your face when Steve takes you from behind on the couch, the egg buzzing mercilessly. By the time the plates are empty you’re a wreck again, multiple orgasms deep, voice hoarse from begging and laughing.

The cameras get shut off after that, phones tossed onto the coffee table with satisfied grins, the red recording lights finally blinking out. You collapse sideways across the rug, chest heaving, thighs still twitching from the aftershocks, pussy throbbing and slick.

Steve stretches out beside you, head propped on one hand, tracing lazy circles on your hip with his thumb. Bucky sprawls on your other side, hand resting possessively on your stomach, both of them looking smug and sated, cocks still half-hard like they’re ready for more whenever you are.

You’re half-dozing, eyes closed, when Bucky’s voice breaks the quiet, low, playful, with that filthy edge that always makes your stomach flip.

“Hey… I’ve got an idea.”

You crack one eye open. He’s staring at you with that crooked, wicked grin, eyes already darkening again. Steve lifts a brow, curious, hand pausing on your hip.

Bucky props himself up on an elbow, fingers trailing lightly down your side, raising goosebumps.

“I wanna watch you get yourself off. Just you. No help from us. Spread that pretty pussy and fuck yourself with your fingers while we stroke our cocks and tell you exactly how fucking desperate you look.”

Your eyes snap fully open. Heat floods your face instantly, burning, mortified heat that spreads down your chest. You sit up a little, pulling your knees together like that’ll hide anything. “What? No. Absolutely not. That’s- no.”

Steve chuckles, low and warm, but his gaze sharpens with raw interest, hand sliding to your thigh. “Why not, baby? You’ve been coming on our cocks all weekend. Let us see what you do when you’re alone, fingering that greedy little cunt thinking about us stuffing you full.”

Your face is on fire. You bury it in your hands, groaning through your fingers. “Because it’s embarrassing! You two just… staring while I touch myself? I’ll feel like an idiot.”

Bucky’s grin turns downright feral. He sits up fully, legs spread casually, hand already drifting down to wrap around his thickening cock, slow, teasing pulls that make the vein along the underside stand out.

“That’s the point, doll. We wanna see you all flustered and needy, trying to be good for us while you rub that swollen clit. Bet you’re already wet just thinking about it.”

You peek through your fingers, heart racing. Steve’s doing the same now, fist loose around his shaft, stroking lazily, eyes locked on you like he’s starving.

“Come on,” he coaxes, voice velvet-rough. “Spread those legs. Show us how you fuck yourself when you’re in your dorm bed, pretending it’s our cocks stretching you open.”

The embarrassment burns hotter but fuck, so does the arousal. Your thighs clench involuntarily, and you know they see it. You drop your hands slowly, face flaming, but you lean back against the couch arm anyway, knees falling open bit by bit.

“That’s our girl,” Bucky murmurs, fist tightening on his cock, strokes speeding up. “Look at that pretty pussy, already glistening. Touch it. Circle that clit nice and slow for us.”

You do, flustered fingers trailing down your stomach, over your mound, hesitating before parting your slick folds. The first brush against your clit makes you gasp, oversensitive, swollen, wet sounds filling the room as you start slow circles.

“Fuck, yes,” Steve groans, hand flying faster now, precome beading at his tip. “Pinch it, hard, like I do when I’m eating you out. Imagine it’s my tongue flicking that needy little bud.”

You whimper, pinching your clit between thumb and finger, rolling it roughly. Your hips buck. “Oh god-”

Bucky’s breathing ragged, fist slick with precome. “Slide those fingers inside, doll. Two to start. Fuck yourself deep, curl them like Bucky does when he’s got you bent over. Pretend it’s my cock splitting you open while Steve watches.”

You obey, two fingers pushing in slow, the stretch burning sweet, walls fluttering around them. You pump faster, thumb grinding your clit, free hand pinching your nipple hard.

“Look at her,” Steve rasps, abs flexing as he jerks himself rough. “So fucking desperate, pussy sucking those fingers in like it’s starving. Add a third, baby. Stretch that tight hole for us. Imagine it’s both our cocks trying to fit.”

You cry out, adding the third finger, the burn intense and perfect, pumping hard while your thumb rubs frantic circles. Wet sounds echo obscenely; your hips grind against your hand.

Bucky’s close, fist blurring, voice wrecked. “That’s it- fuck yourself like the greedy slut you are. Come all over those fingers while we watch you fall apart. Show us how you squirt when you’re thinking about us filling every hole.”

You shatter, hard, screaming as your pussy clenches and gushes clear around your fingers, soaking your hand, the rug, thighs shaking violently.

They come watching you, Bucky first with a guttural “fuck, doll,” spilling thick across his fist and stomach; Steve right after, groaning deep, ropes painting his abs as he milks every drop.

Silence falls, heavy breathing, fire crackle.

You collapse back, hiding your burning face again with a mortified laugh. “Never. Again.”

They crawl over, kissing your wrists, your cheeks, murmuring praise.

“Liar,” Bucky whispers against your ear. “That was the filthiest, hottest thing we’ve ever seen.”

Steve nuzzles your neck. “And we didn’t even touch you.”

You groan first, shifting on the rug and feeling everything cling, thighs slick, lower back tacky, hair matted to your neck, cum drying in places that make you grimace. “Ugh. I feel gross. Like… actually disgusting. We’re all sticky and filthy and I need a shower or something.”

Bucky laughs, low and satisfied, nuzzling your shoulder. “That’s the mark of a good afternoon, doll.”

Steve kisses your temple, still catching his breath. “Snack run first? Then we clean up properly.”

You nod, too boneless to argue. They haul themselves up, grabbing random sweats and hoodies from the floor and head to the kitchen, raiding the caretaker’s stash: bags of chips, leftover cookies, a couple beers cracked open with that satisfying hiss. You stay on the rug a minute longer, wrapped in the discarded blanket, munching a cookie and scrolling your phone idly until the sugar hits.

But the stickiness wins. You call out, voice whiny and dramatic, “Seriously, guys. I feel like a glazed donut. Bathtub. Now. I’m marinating in us.”

Bucky pokes his head around the corner, smirking with a mouthful of chips. “On it. Big copper one upstairs, plenty of room for three.”

Steve’s already moving, clapping Bucky on the shoulder. “Let’s get it running. She’s right, she’s a mess. Our mess.”

They disappear upstairs you hear footsteps on the creaky wood, the groan of old pipes, water starting to thunder into the tub, steam probably already billowing.

You stay downstairs, curled on the couch under the blanket, crunching chips and half-watching snow fall outside the big windows. The cabin feels quiet without them, too quiet after days of constant touch and noise. You lick salt off your fingers, feeling the dried evidence of everything on your skin, and smile to yourself. Perfect weekend.

Upstairs, out of your earshot, the conversation turns.

Steve leans against the bathroom doorframe, watching water fill the tub, steam fogging the mirror. He’s quiet too long, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Bucky tests the temperature with his hand, adds a splash of eucalyptus oil. “What’s with the face?”

Steve exhales slow, rubbing the back of his neck. “This… it’s too easy. The sex, the laughs, the way she fits, it’s perfect. But it’s not fair to her.”

Bucky stills, water rushing loud behind him. “Not fair how?”

Steve’s voice is low, rough with something heavy. “We’re giving her everything physical, the toys, the tapes, the weekends but nothing real. No label. No commitment. We’re taking all of her and giving back just… this. It feels wrong. Like we’re using her.”

Bucky turns off the tap. Sudden quiet. He stares at the swirling water, hand gripping the tub edge. “You think she wants more?”

“I know she does,” Steve says. “You saw her face when things got deep on Friday. She’s falling. Hard. And we’re letting her fall without catching her properly. She deserves someone who can give her normal dates, a real relationship, one person who doesn’t make her share or wonder.”

Bucky’s quiet a long beat, throat working. “So what are you saying?”

Steve rubs his neck. “When we get back… we give her space. Real space. Pull back a little. Let her breathe. Let her figure out if this is what she really wants without us clouding everything with weekends like this.”

Bucky looks like he’s been punched. “You’re saying end it.”

“I’m saying do right for her,” Steve corrects gently. “Even if it sucks for us short-term. She deserves to know we’re serious, without the pressure of constant sex and getaways making it feel like a fantasy.”

Bucky nods slow, reluctant, devastated. “Yeah. Okay. For her.”

They don’t say they’ll keep it secret for now. They don’t need to. It’s understood: one last perfect night, then distance when you’re home. Time for you to choose without them in your bed every weekend.

They add more hot water, swirl in extra bubbles, light the candles like nothing’s changed.

Downstairs, you’re crunching chips, sticky and happy, thinking the weekend can’t get better.

They come down smiling, masks perfect, and carry you upstairs like a prize, whispering how much they want to wash every inch of you clean.

The water’s hot. The candles are lit.

The three of you fit just barely: you in the middle, back against Steve’s broad chest, legs draped over Bucky’s thighs. Water laps gently at your breasts; bubbles cling and pop. The mood is softer now, lazy, sated, the kind of quiet that usually feels safe after a day spent tangled in each other.

You’re tracing idle circles on Bucky’s knee under the water, trying to lose yourself in the warmth, when the question you’ve been carrying all weekend finally slips out, small, almost swallowed by the soft splash.

“So… what are we?”

The words hang there, fragile in the steam.

Steve’s hand, drawing slow patterns on your stomach, stills completely. Bucky’s fingers, playing with yours, freeze.

Silence stretches, thick, heavy, colder than the snow piling against the window.

Your heart starts pounding so hard you feel it in your throat.

You try again, voice smaller. “After everything- the threesomes, the fights, this whole weekend… what am I to you guys?”

More silence.

The candles flicker. Water cools a degree. Snow taps the frosted glass like it’s trying to warn you.

Your throat tightens until it aches. Tears prick hot and sudden. You duck your head, pretending to watch the bubbles burst, blinking furiously so they don’t see.

Steve clears his throat, starts to speak, voice low and careful. “We… we haven’t really-”

Bucky cuts in, quieter. “We didn’t want to mess it up by saying the wrong thing.”

It’s not enough. It’s nothing.

Something inside you cracks, sharp, painful, final. You nod like you understand, but your chest feels like it’s caving in. You force a tiny, watery laugh that sounds hollow even to you. “Yeah. Cool. Got it.”

You pull away, gently but firmly sliding forward in the tub until their hands fall from your skin. Water sloshes, loud in the silence. You stand, bubbles sliding down your body, steam curling around you like smoke.

Neither of them moves to stop you. No hand reaches out, no voice calls you back. They just sit there, Steve’s arms resting on the tub edge, Bucky’s head tipped back against the rim, watching you with unreadable eyes.

You step out onto the cool tile, water pooling at your feet. Grab a towel, wrap it around yourself like armor. The candles keep burning. The water keeps cooling.

You don’t look back as you walk out, door clicking softly shut behind you.

The quiet that follows you into the bedroom isn’t warm anymore.

It feels like the end of something you’re not ready to name.

The drive back is three hours of pure, suffocating silence.

Steve drives like always, hands steady on the wheel, eyes locked on the snowy highway like it’s the only thing holding him together. Bucky’s in the passenger seat, earbuds in but no music on. Every few seconds he flicks a glance to the rearview mirror, meets your eyes for a split second, then looks away fast.

You’re curled in the middle of the back seat, knees pulled to your chest, wrapped in Bucky’s hoodie that still smells like him and the cabin fireplace. The heater’s on full blast, but you’re freezing. The radio stays off. No one even pretends to reach for the aux cord.

You stare at your phone for a while, lock screen frozen on a blurry selfie Nat sent from the party, her sticking out her tongue, fairy lights haloing her red hair. You don’t open any apps. You don’t text her. You just watch the battery percentage tick down, slow and inevitable.

Halfway through the drive, the tears start.

They’re quiet at first, one slipping down your cheek, then another. You turn your face to the window so they won’t see, press your forehead to the cold glass. It doesn’t help. Your throat aches like you swallowed glass. You bite the sleeve of the hoodie to muffle the first tiny, broken sob, but it shakes your shoulders anyway.

Neither of them says anything.

Steve’s knuckles go white on the wheel. Bucky pulls his earbuds out, lets them dangle, but still doesn’t turn around.

By the time the city skyline appears, ugly and familiar under a dull winter sky you’re cried out. Eyes puffy, nose stuffed, head throbbing. The tears have dried crusty on your cheeks. You haven’t made a sound in hours.

Steve pulls up outside your dorm. Engine idling. Snow flurries swirl under the streetlights.

You grab your suitcase from the trunk without a word. Neither of them gets out to help.

The Jeep pulls away before you even reach the door.

Inside the building it’s warm, too warm, smelling like burnt microwave popcorn and someone’s laundry detergent. Your boots leave wet prints on the tile. The elevator ride is endless.

When Nat opens the door to your shared dorm, she’s in sweats and a messy bun, holding a pint of Ben & Jerry’s like armor.

One look at your face and the spoon clatters to the floor.

“Oh, baby,” she whispers.

That’s all it takes.

You drop your suitcase in the doorway and crumple, knees hitting the cheap carpet, shoulders shaking with sobs that feel like they’ve been dammed up for years. Nat’s on the ground with you in seconds, arms around you tight, pulling you into her lap like you’re something small and breakable.

You cry so hard you can’t breathe, ugly, hiccupping gasps into her hoodie, fists clenched in the fabric. Everything pours out: the perfect weekend, the perfect sex, the perfect making up, and then that one question in the bathtub that turned everything cold and sharp and wrong.

Nat doesn’t ask what happened. She just holds you, rocking slightly, one hand stroking your hair while you fall apart.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs over and over, voice thick. “I’ve got you. You’re home now. I’ve got you.”

You cry until there’s nothing left, just dry heaves and exhaustion. Until your head throbs and your eyes burn and your throat feels shredded.

Eventually she helps you up, leads you to her bed, tucks you under her comforter that smells like her coconut shampoo and safety. She climbs in behind you, spooning you close, arm locked around your waist like she’s anchoring you to the earth.

You fall asleep like that, face swollen, heart raw, Nat’s heartbeat steady against your spine.

Fourteen days of nothing.

Fourteen days that feel like a slow-motion car crash you can’t look away from.

Classes are a blur, professors’ voices droning like white noise, notes you take but don’t read, group projects where you nod along and contribute just enough not to get called out.

You eat because your body demands it, but nothing has taste. The dining hall grilled cheese might as well be cardboard. You smile when friends ask how the cabin was, “amazing, yeah, super relaxing” and the lie sits heavy on your tongue every time.

Nights are the worst. You lie in your narrow dorm bed staring at the ceiling until the glow-in-the-dark stars Nat stuck up freshman year blur from tears.

You replay that bathtub moment on an endless loop: the way the water went from warm to cold in seconds, the way Steve’s hand froze on your skin like he’d been burned, Bucky’s fingers slipping from yours like he couldn’t hold on anymore.

You asked a simple question, what are we? and they looked at you like you’d asked them to solve world hunger. The silence after wasn’t just quiet. It was a wall. And when you got out of the tub, towel clutched like armor, they didn’t stop you. Didn’t reach. Just watched you go.

You keep waiting for a text that never comes. You check your phone too often, heart jumping at every notification, only to feel it sink again when it’s just a meme or a reminder about laundry.

You wear Steve’s gray practice hoodie to bed every night because it still smells faintly like him and you’re pathetic enough to want the comfort, even if it hurts. You haven’t washed it. You’re scared the scent will disappear and take the last piece of them with it.

Nat finds you in the basement laundry room at 2:17 am on a Sunday that’s bleeding into Monday. You’re sitting on a running dryer, knees to chest, the low rumble vibrating through your body like it could shake loose the ache that’s taken up permanent residence in your ribs. The air’s thick with artificial lavender dryer sheets and that faint, perpetual mildew smell. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh and unforgiving.

You’re in Steve’s hoodie again, sleeves past your fingertips, hem brushing your thighs over threadbare sleep shorts and you look exactly like what you are: someone who’s been crying too much and sleeping too little.

Nat storms in like a category-five redhead, door slamming hard enough to rattle the ancient vending machine.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

The words ricochet off the walls. You flinch, hug your knees tighter.

“Two weeks,” she says, voice shaking with fury.

“Two entire weeks of you turning into a goddamn zombie because those two idiots couldn’t answer one simple, human question? After they spent weeks fucking you like you were the only thing that mattered in their universe, calling you ‘baby’ and ‘ours,’ filming hours of footage like they were making a love letter?”

Your throat closes. Tears prick instantly. You open your mouth, nothing comes out.

Nat’s pacing the room now, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. “I saw how they looked at you. I heard them going at it during that call, remember? And then you finally ask for some honesty, just a little clarity, and they freeze? Ghost you for two weeks straight? Make you feel like you imagined the whole damn thing?”

She stops in front of you, eyes blazing but wet too. “You’ve barely eaten. You flinch every time your phone buzzes. And you cry in your sleep, I hear you through the pillows.”

She sighs. “Fourteen nights. That’s enough.”

You finally manage a cracked whisper. “They didn’t know what to say.”

“Bullshit.” Her voice cracks too. “They knew exactly what to say when they were inside you. They just didn’t know how to say it when it mattered.”

Her anger deflates into something sadder. “You deserve answers. You deserve to not feel like a disposable weekend.”

Then she’s gone, door banging shut, leaving you with the dryer’s thump and the weight of everything.

An hour later your phone buzzes.

Unknown Number 3:12am

open your door. now.

Your heart slams so hard it hurts. You stare at the screen until it dims, hands shaking.

You open the door anyway.

Steve and Bucky are in the hallway looking like hell dragged them here personally. Hoodies rumpled, eyes bloodshot and sunken, hair messy from frantic hands. Steve’s beard is scruffy, tired; Bucky’s hand flexes like it’s itching for something to hold. They smell like cold night air, cheap diner coffee, and regret.

Before you can decide whether to slam the door or collapse, Nat appears like she’s been waiting in the shadows. She shoves past you, a furious red blur in her oversized sleep shirt.

She doesn’t raise her voice. She goes lethal-quiet.

“You have exactly ten seconds to explain to me why the girl who turned you both into absolute lovesick puppies, who took your cocks, your toys, your hearts, your filthy weekends, your everything has been crying herself empty for two weeks because you were too chickenshit to answer one simple question.”

Her finger jabs Steve’s chest. Then Bucky’s. They don’t move.

“You don’t get to whisper ‘love you, baby’ while you’re coming inside her, make her feel like the center of your universe, film a whole damn documentary series of it, and then vanish into thin air because feelings got scary. You don’t get to leave her thinking she was just a fun experiment you both passed and forgot.”

Steve opens his mouth, closes it. His eyes are glassy.

Bucky’s voice is gravel and regret. “We fucked up. Bad.”

“Yeah,” Nat snarls, stepping closer until she’s right in their space.

“You really fucking did. And if you’re too dumb to fix this yourselves, I swear to God I will fix it for you. I will drag you both to couples therapy. I will tattoo ‘COMMUNICATE’ on your foreheads. I will make your lives hell until you get it right.”

You finally speak, voice small, cracked from crying earlier. “You… didn’t text at all. For two weeks.”

Steve flinches like the words are physical blows. Bucky’s head drops, hair falling over his eyes, shoulders curling in.

“We thought…” Steve starts, voice hoarse.

He swallows hard. “We thought if we gave you space, you’d realize you deserve someone normal. Someone who doesn’t… share. Someone who can give you all of them without complicating everything. We thought we were being noble, letting you go before we dragged you down with us.”

Bucky lifts his head, eyes red-rimmed. “We’re idiots. Complete fucking idiots. We were scared that if we said it out loud, if we admitted we’re both stupidly, hopelessly in love with you, you’d run. Because who wants this? Who wants two guys who can’t even figure out how to say it right?”

Nat throws her hands up. “Oh my God, you absolute morons. She’s been miserable without you. Fix this before I fix it for you and trust me, my version involves a lot more pain.”

She shoulders past them, pauses at your side, cups your cheek gently, kisses your temple. “Make them grovel, babe. They’ve earned it.”

Silence crashes in, heavy and absolute, the kind that rings in your ears.

You’re shaking, anger, relief, exhaustion, two weeks of grief all colliding at once. Tears spill before you can stop them, hot and unstoppable, sliding down your cheeks in silent streams.

They move at the same time.

Steve steps forward first, arms wrapping around you like he’s terrified you’ll dissolve if he doesn’t hold tight enough.

Bucky right behind, pressing in from the back, face buried in the crook of your neck, breath ragged against your skin.

They surround you completely, warm, solid, trembling just as hard as you are, holding you so close you can feel both their heartbeats hammering against you.

“I’m so sorry,” Steve whispers into your hair, voice cracking open, raw and broken. “God, baby, we’re so fucking sorry. We hurt you. We left you alone with it. I hate myself for that.”

Bucky’s hand fists in the hoodie at your waist, knuckles white, like he’s anchoring himself to you.

“We love you,” he rasps against your shoulder, words muffled and thick with tears you can feel soaking through the fabric.

“We love you so much it scares the shit out of us. We thought… we thought if we said it out loud, you’d see how messed up this is, two of us, always two and you’d run. We thought staying quiet was protecting you. But we were just protecting ourselves. And we broke you instead.”

You sob, deep, wrenching, the kind that comes from the bottom of your chest and rips everything open. It’s ugly and loud and unstoppable, weeks of pain pouring out all at once. They hold you through every shake, every gasp, never loosening their grip.

Steve’s hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. “We’re never doing that again,” he says fiercely, voice trembling but sure. “Never shutting you out. Never making you wonder. You’re everything to us. Everything.”

Bucky presses closer, lips brushing your neck, your jaw, your temple, soft, desperate kisses that taste like salt and regret.

“You’re our girl,” he whispers, voice breaking on every word. “Ours. For real. Forever if you’ll have us. We’ll spend every day proving it. We’ll scream it from the fucking rooftops. Whatever you need. Just… please don’t give up on us.”

You cling to them, fingers twisting in Steve’s hoodie, reaching back to grip Bucky’s sleeve, crying harder because it hurts and because it’s healing at the same time. The tears are relief now, overwhelming and cleansing, washing away the loneliness that’s lived in your chest for fourteen endless nights.

“I missed you,” you manage between sobs, voice small and cracked. “I missed you so much I didn’t know how to breathe.”

Steve makes a wounded sound, pulls you even tighter. “We missed you every second. We were dying without you.”

Bucky’s fingers find yours, lacing carefully, reverently. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away tears that keep falling. “We love you,” he says again, like a vow. “We’re in love with you. Both of us. Completely. Stupidly. Forever.”

You laugh through the tears, wet, hiccupping, but real. The sound breaks something open in all three of you.

Eventually you end up on your tiny dorm bed, fully clothed for once, just tangled together under the covers like three survivors of a shipwreck clinging to the same piece of driftwood.

The mattress is too small for all of you, but no one complains. Steve pulls you into his chest first, arms locked around you like he’s afraid the moment will slip away if he loosens even a fraction.

Bucky curls in behind you, chest to your back, arm draped over your waist so his hand can rest over Steve’s heart, three heartbeats finding the same rhythm again, slow and steady and real.

They kiss away the last of your tears, soft, lingering presses to your wet cheeks, your swollen eyelids, the corners of your mouth that still tremble.

Steve’s lips brush your temple, murmuring “I’ve got you” like a promise he’ll never break again. Bucky’s mouth finds the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he’s relearning your scent after too long apart.

You’re crying still quiet, happy tears now that feel like rain after a drought. The kind that wash everything clean. They don’t try to stop them. They just hold you through it, letting the storm pass.

“I thought I’d lost you,” you whisper into Steve’s chest, voice small and cracked from all the crying. “Both of you. I thought the weekend was… just a weekend.”

Steve’s arms tighten, voice thick. “Never. Not for a second. You’re our home. You’re the thing we were too scared to believe we could keep.”

“We were idiots,” Bucky says softly. “Terrified idiots who thought love this big had to come with an expiration date. But it doesn’t. You’re it for us. The end of the search. The person we want to come home to every single night.”

You laugh through the tears, wet and hiccupping and perfect. “You’re stuck with me now. No take-backs.”

“Never want any,” Steve murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours.

Bucky kisses the back of your neck, voice muffled against your skin. “We love you. So much it’s stupid. We’ll spend every day making sure you never doubt it again.”

You fall asleep with Steve’s heartbeat under your cheek and Bucky’s arm anchoring you close.

And for the first time in fourteen days, the world feels whole again.

You’re theirs. They’re yours. And nothing, nothing, will take that away again.

© 𝓼𝓵𝓾𝓽𝓭𝓲𝓮𝓻 2025 (do not copy, translate or repost)

you shrug. “i keep reaching for my phone. like i forgot.”

“that’s normal,” he says gently. “your brain’s just on autopilot.”

you sigh, leaning back until your head knocks lightly against his shoulder. he stills for half a second—then relaxes, tilting his head so it rests against yours like it belongs there.

“you don’t have to be okay right now,” bucky adds. “you can just… exist.”

you huff out a laugh. “i’m really bad at that.”

“yeah,” he grins. “i’ve noticed.”

the two of you sit there in comfortable quiet, sharing fries, your legs tangled without either of you commenting on it. bucky absentmindedly rubs circles into your arm.

after a while, you mumble, “i feel weird. like i’m not sad enough. or too sad. but it’s there, i feel it… i just—i don’t know.”

bucky hums thoughtfully. “breakups don’t come with instructions.” you turn your head to look at him. “you’re really good at this.”

“what, munching on fries?”

“comforting.”

his smile softens. “i’ve had a lot of practice. plus, you’re my favorite person to look after.”

you glance at his face, ready to joke around like you both usually do but he looks at you with seriousness in his eyes.

“you deserve someone who actually sees you,” he says casually, like it doesn’t mean everything. “someone who notices the little stuff. like how you always steal the crispiest fry and pretend it wasn’t on purpose.”

you gasp. “that’s a lie.”

“bold of you to lie to my face again.”

you laugh—really laugh this time—and without thinking, you curl into his side, arms wrapping around his waist. bucky freezes for exactly one second before his arms come around you, warm and secure.

“hey,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “i’ve got you. okay?”

you nod against his chest. “yeah.”

his chin rests on the top of your head. “good. ‘cause i’m not going anywhere.” and he means it—more than he’s ready to say out loud.

bucky’s the first one to move.

not away—just enough to look at you properly, like the moment deserves his full attention. the room feels warmer somehow, like everything has narrowed down to the space between your faces.

“you got a little—” he starts, lifting his hand.

his thumb brushes your lip, barely there, wiping away a crumb you didn’t know existed. the touch lingers. too long to be casual but not long enough to be brave.

you both still.

your breath hitches, and bucky notices—of course he does. his eyes drop to your mouth before he can stop himself. the distance between you shrinks without either of you meaning for it to.

“buck,” you murmur.

“yeah?” his voice is lower now, unsure.

for a split second, it feels like it might happen. like all he has to do is lean in just a little more—

he pulls back abruptly, hand dropping to his lap.

“sorry,” he blurts. “i—i shouldn’t. you just got out of something and i don’t want to be that guy.”

you blink, a little breathless. “that guy?”

“the one who takes advantage,” he says quickly. “you deserve time. space. not… pressure.”

you stare at him, heart doing something reckless in your chest. “bucky, you weren’t—”

“i’ve loved you.”

the words fall out before he can stop them.

he freezes.

the realization hits him all at once, and his eyes widen like he wants to rewind time. “—i mean. i didn’t— i wasn’t supposed to—”

you sit up a little, searching his face. “you’ve… loved me?”

his shoulders sag, like there’s no point pretending anymore. he lets out a shaky laugh. “wow. okay. yeah. guess i said it.”

he rubs the back of his neck, cheeks faintly pink. “for a while now—since we were kids, i guess—i just… never thought it was fair to tell you. especially not now.”

you reach for his metal hand before you even think about it. he stills when your fingers lace with his.

“bucky,” you say softly, “you’re the only person who’s made me feel safe since everything ended.” he looks at you then. hope and restraint warring in his eyes.

“i’m not asking for anything,” he says quietly. “i swear. i just needed you to know how i feel. even if nothing comes of it.”

your thumb brushes over his knuckles, grounding. “what if… something does?” his breath catches. “yeah?”

you lean in again, slow this time, giving him every chance to stop you. his forehead rests against yours, noses brushing.

“just not tonight,” you whisper. “but soon.”

bucky smiles—the kind that’s all relief and fondness. he presses a soft kiss to your forehead instead.

“soon,” he agrees. “i can wait.”

and somehow, that feels even better than the kiss would have.

© dolcesaints ✮ ‘25 all rights reserved.

though, bucky didn’t mind. the title fit him the way an old sweater does: worn in, comfortable, and not worth replacing. he liked quiet mornings, predictable evenings, and the kind of solitude that didn’t demand anything from him. in fact, he enjoys his lonesome solitude which people couldn’t believe was possible—“no man is an island” as they say.

so when sam asks, “you’re seriously not gonna celebrate christmas?” bucky hardly reacts. he sits on a bar stool in sam’s kitchen, sipping beer straight from the bottle, watching sam clean the aftermath of his housewarming party. there are half-eaten cookies on the counter, a pile of mismatched cups, and what bucky’s pretty sure is someone’s earring stuck to the floor. the place looks like a small tornado passed through, got bored, and left mid-disaster.

bucky shakes his head with a slow certainty. “not gonna.” sam pauses with a handful of trash, staring at him like he’s waiting for bucky to crack.

bucky just raises the bottle to his lips again, calm as ever. he’s used to this—the disbelief, the attempts to coax him out of his cave, the heartfelt speeches about “human connection” and “holiday spirit.” none of it works. never has.

“man, just spend the day with us.” sam says, tossing a crumpled napkin into the bag. he tries to sound casual, but there’s hope tucked into his voice. “sarah’s cooking and bringing the kids, the neighbors are coming. you know—normal christmas chaos.”

before sam can finish painting the scene, bucky cuts in with practiced ease. “nah, i’m good all alone.”

he says it so simply you’d think he was turning down a free sample at the grocery store. sam, however, looks at him with full judgment—brows up and lips pressed together.

“just think about it.” sam insists. “come by. door’s always open for you, grump.”he says as he ties up the trash bag with a dramatic yank and moves on to sweeping glitter that definitely wasn’t there before the party. bucky watches him, taking another slow sip, letting the silence settle between them.

for the first time tonight, bucky feels something shift—not a revelation, not a sudden urge to hold hands and carol under the moonlight—just a small, quiet thought. a maybe.

maybe, being alone on christmas isn’t as comforting as he keeps telling himself it is. his beer tastes a little different after that. not bad. just different.

۶ৎ˙⋆✮ ⊹₊

unbeknownst to either of them, an elf is perched at the window, watching the man everyone calls “the grinch.” except there’s nothing green or smug about him. instead, he’s… broad. absurdly broad. his blue henley looks like it’s holding on for dear life, stretched across shoulders that could probably bench-press all of santa’s reindeers. his muscles flex without his permission, unconsciously at that, and his eyes—sharp, glacial blue—carry both the temperature and the temperament of a mid-december storm.

you sit there, thoroughly intrigued. this is the part of your job you secretly love: the dramatic tug-of-war between holiday magic and pure human stubbornness. but when santa handed you your assignment and you saw his name and how he doesn’t believe in christmas, you actually muttered “unbelievable!” right there in the workshop.

because bucky barnes does not believe in santa—or christmas, or joy, or anything that sparkles, for that matter. according to him, the holiday season is “a capitalist scam wrapped in tinsel.” which, frankly, makes your job as his assigned scout elf feel like a cosmic prank. you’re supposed to observe and report back to the big man, claus.

and yet, as you watch him—this stormcloud of a man who refuses to see any sort of magic—you can’t help thinking that maybe santa assigned you to him for a reason.

… or maybe your boss just wanted to laugh. both are equally possible.

۶ৎ˙⋆✮ ⊹₊

“i mean, that’s just unbelievable, wanda.” you grumble, stomping across the snow beside your fellow scout elf as the two of you head toward the reindeer sled. tiny flakes crunch under your boots, and the whole path glows with that warm north pole shimmer that should’ve comforted you—except you’re too busy spiraling over your assignment.

wanda barely reacts. she just lifts a shoulder, effortlessly unbothered. “some people just don’t believe in christmas. what can i say?” she hops into the sled with the elegance of someone who has absolutely no appointment with a six-foot wall of muscle who thinks the holiday season is a tax scheme.

you climb in after her, sitting on the cushioned edge while other elves scurry around, loading the magical vehicle with bags of glittering stardust and peppermint fuel. the sled hums faintly, warming up for the long journey to where your assigned mission was.

“easy for you to say,” you mutter. “you got a kid—i got a whole grown man.”

then you hear natasha snorts so loudly that dasher, the reindeer nearest her, flicks an ear at her in judgment. she’s wiping away a tear of laughter by the time she calms down, and you resist the urge to shove her off the sled.

once she collects herself, she leans in with that knowing look she gets when she’s about to say something annoyingly practical. “i suggest you turn into your human form. convince him that way… unless you want to be tossed in the trash while he assumes you’re some random decoration someone stuck in his house.”

you groan because she’s right. annoyingly right.

you nod slowly, letting the idea settle. because there is more to scout elves than humans ever guessed. sure, they got a few things right: don’t touch an elf or the magic fizzles, or every night you fly back to the north pole to report to santa, and yes—elves are playful, a little mischievous, occasionally troublesome, but never mean. and of course, the classic “new hiding spot every morning.” adorable.

but what humans don’t know is the part that matters most now: you’re not limited to that tiny, smiling, motionless form. you can mimic them perfectly—speech, movement, appearance. you can walk among them, talk to them, blend in like you belong—but only when it’s winter, of course.

you don’t just perch on shelves and silently observe. you can be seen if you wish to be.

and for bucky barnes—your stubborn, musclebound, holiday-resistant assignment—you’re starting to think that might be the only way you have a chance.

۶ৎ˙⋆✮ ⊹₊

which brings you here, standing in the corner alley, shifting back into your human form for the first time in a long time as the reindeers vanish down the magical passage, leaving you at bucky’s neighborhood.

you stroll casually, glancing both ways, taking in the scene. kids throwing snowballs at each other, their parents peering from windows or porches with steaming mugs in hand. a small smile tugs at your lips. everyone seemed to enjoy christmas… everyone, that is, except him.

your gaze settles on his door, more of a glare than a stare. four days of watching, and you still weren’t sure why it fascinated you so much. nothing strange really—he spent most of the time drinking himself into oblivion, shuffling between the tv, the shower, and reheating some sad little packet in his microwave. yet, even in that monotony, you’d learned enough to know his habits.

you raise your hand to knock, hesitating just a moment. not expecting much.

knock, knock, knock.

and then a voice emerges from the inside—“go away. i won’t buy anything from you.”

he answered. he actually answered. but at what cost?

your smile falters, hesitation freezing your hand just above the door. you shake it off, straighten your shoulders, and knock again—this time firm like you were inserting dominance in your own way. for a heartbeat, nothing. and then—

the door swings open.

before you, a shirtless and sweaty figure appears. every muscle outlined like it’s been hand-painted for maximum effect. as if he had just been doing some intense workout specifically to make sure you noticed. your brain immediately rebels: your eyes stayed watching his abs as they unconsciously flex as he breathes, that sweat the drips from his chest down to his—claus, why is your brain like this? why are your eyes traitorous little devils?

focus. not the abs. focus.

you jerk your eyes back up. he’s staring. eyebrows raised. that perfect arched expression that questions your presence on his doorstep.

to tell the truth: you have zero explanation. magically appearing on someone’s doorstep with no explanation? not great. not believable. especially not when said someone happens to be… well, him.

so you do what any improvising adult would do—you fake it. “oh, claus, sorry. i thought this was my sister’s house… i’m home for the holidays—“

he cuts you off, sharp as ever, not missing a beat. “peggy carter’s house is that way.” he points like it’s a public service announcement, towards some random woman’s house you couldn’t care less about.

you blink, flustered, and nod like it’s the most normal thing in the world—for humans, maybe. for your kind, not really. “thank you–thank you so much!” you say, forcing a smile bright enough to blind someone.

he doesn’t even flinch. of course not. he just shuts the door, leaving you blinking in the cold, your heartbeat doing little somersaults, and your dignity… well, somewhere on the doorstep.

as you pivot, pretending to march toward peggy carter’s house, your mind races. okay, so note to self: never let your brain wander to abs again. or sweat. or… basically never think about him at all. yeah, that’ll go well.

and somehow, as much as you hate to admit it, the way he had stood there, arms slightly flexed, chest glistening, and expression perfectly unimpressed… yeah. it stayed with you. every step toward the wrong house, your thoughts betray you, and you can’t help but wonder if he noticed. he probably did. great. perfect.

welcome to christmas with claus—your personal nightmare, and simultaneously… a little too interesting to forget.

۶ৎ˙⋆✮ ⊹₊

it had been a week since you’d been assigned to monitor him. no real progress had been made, and the constant back-and-forth from the north pole to this tiny suburban town, it was… exhausting. especially since you were relying on your magic double extra to maintain a human form while lurking around his favorite haunts in this tiny, sleepy neighborhood.

right now, you sat perched on a bar stool, trying to look casual while nursing a glass of something bitter, the name of which you couldn’t even remember. someone had mentioned it the night before, and apparently, tonight, that made it your drink of choice. it burned as it slid down your throat, but you told yourself to endure it. after all, you were the only scout elf in the north pole with zero failed missions—and you weren’t about to start tonight.

your eyes scanned the room like a hawk. he came here once a week, weekends only. predictable. if only he knew how carefully you tracked him. you shifted slightly, adjusting your posture to look utterly unremarkable, as if you weren’t sitting here for hours, silently plotting the moment to nudge him toward the christmas spirit.

and then, inevitably, he appeared.

he strode up to the counter with that casual confidence, completely unaware—or maybe very aware—of the mayhem he was about to unleash in your carefully constructed elf plan.

you jerked your head back to face the bar, trying to appear natural. totally natural. like you hadn’t been counting every step he took. like you hadn’t been rehearsing this exact moment in your head for three days straight.

he settled into the only seat left beside you, the safest option. everywhere else was occupied by either belligerent drunks ready to swing at a stray elbow or a couple wrapped around each other like they owned the place.

you stole a glance. he caught it. because of course he did. your eyes locked, and you felt your heartbeat skip a beat. seconds stretched—long, awkward seconds. finally, you forced a smile and broke the silence.

“oh hey, it’s patty’s neighbor.” you said, casually. greeting him with your welcoming smile.

he raised a questioning brow. “peggy carter?” right. the faux sister’s name. how could you forget?

“i call her patty. it’s an inside joke, sorry…” the words stumbled out, and you took a desperate sip of your bitter drink. grimacing, you hoped he didn’t notice the hesitation, or the fact that you were lying through your teeth.

and yet… he noticed.

or maybe he didn’t notice, but he was intrigued enough to act anyway. he caught the bartender’s attention with two fingers held up together, signaling he’s about to order and—before you could even process it—he tells the man: “scotch and a martini for the lady.”

you nearly choked. this was completely unprecedented. by all your observations, he had never done this for anyone. ever. and now somehow… you were the recipient.

your mind scrambled. okay, elf, stay composed. act casual. do not trip over your own magic or your own heartbeat.

but as he settled back, the faint curl of his lips hinting at a smirk you were not allowed to see properly, you realized… this mission was going to be far more complicated than anyone at the north pole had warned you about.

and, if you were being honest with yourself—something elves aren’t supposed to do—this complication was also kind of… thrilling.

“i see ‘ya don’t like bourbon.”

so that’s what it was. no, actually, you preferred hot chocolate—but telling him that would make you sound childish, so you didn’t. instead, you smiled. a small, tight-lipped smile. the awkwardness between you coiled itself slowly, like a living thing, and you could feel it pressing against your chest.

“my first time… drinking.” you hesitantly admitted. it was honest. it really was your first time, considering santa’s menu mostly consisted of milk, cocoa, and the occasional eggnog if you were lucky—and, somehow, none of that had prepared you for this burning sensation whenever you swallow.

“just turned 21?” he asked, his voice casual. his eyes slowly descended from your face to your body as if he's unashamedly checking you out. he clicks his tongue before his eyes ascends back to meet your gaze.

“checks out. ‘ya look pretty young.” you weren’t entirely sure what he meant, but you nodded anyway, hoping that passing as a clueless human worked in your favor.

“damn, i’m older than you.”

your mind screamed internally: “doubt that.” but with your current, slightly shaky human form, arguing would be… complicated. instead, you tried to keep the conversation moving. “by how many years?” you asked, a little too quickly.

before he could answer, the bartender slid your drinks across the counter with a soft clink. your glass nearly wobbled in your hands, a little too light for comfort. he adjusted the towel draped over his shoulder and moved toward a loud group calling his attention.

bucky took a slow, deliberate sip of his scotch. you mimicked the motion, lifting your glass with as much dignity as you could muster. it wasn’t great—far from it—but it was slightly less atrocious than the nightmare of a drink you had earlier.

he set his glass back down and turned to face you. “22 years apart.” he simply answered.

you hummed in understanding, nodding politely. you took another sip, more for courage than taste, and decided to push the conversation forward. “so… uh… what’s your favorite drink?” you asked, trying to sound like a casual, conversational human.

internally, you were screaming. you’re completely improvising. just don’t die. don’t choke. don’t embarrass yourself. breathe.

bucky’s brow quirked again, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips, and he leaned back just slightly, arms resting casually on the counter. “depends,” he said. “but bourbon’s not usually my first choice either.”

you sipped again, grimacing a little less this time. maybe you were… adjusting? gaining some human composure? maybe. maybe not. one thing was for sure: your mission suddenly felt a lot more complicated. the more he spoke, the more your carefully constructed plan to nudge him toward christmas teetered on the edge of chaos.

and yet, strangely… it was kind of fun.

۶ৎ˙⋆✮ ⊹₊

after one too many drinks, you found yourself laughing at everything he said, even the parts that weren’t remotely funny. the sound of your own laughter made him glance at you, and for a brief moment, a small, almost shy smile tugged at his lips. it was subtle, but it made the corner of his mouth lift in a way that drew your attention—and kept it there. he tries to hide it by sipping more of his bitter drink.

“i live in this very big mansion. it’s super nice. i gotta take you there sometime!” you hiccuped, the words spilling out unfiltered, drunk as the next person who’d passed out at the bar.

“so what brings you back here?” bucky asked, his voice just tipsy enough to carry a warmth in it, steady yet playful. as he spoke, his hand moved slowly, almost deliberately, inching closer to yours.

you caught the motion out of the corner of your eye and immediately raised your glass of martini, carefully blocking him without breaking the conversation. the drinks made your fingers tingle, your grip slightly unsteady, but you kept laughing, trying to make your words sound casual.

“work stuff.” you murmured, shrugging as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

“work? in this small town when you have a mansion?” his smirk grew, curling at the corner of his lips. one brow rose, his expression teasing yet sharp, sharp enough to make your heartbeat pick up. “‘m startin’ to think ‘ya ain’t got a mansion, sweetheart.

you shake your head, denying his suspicion. “no, i—i really do,” you stammer, your words slightly slurred from the drinks. “it’s an igloo, too.”

bucky snorts, the sound low and amused, and you can’t help but smile at how ridiculous you must sound.

“an igloo?” you nod, dead serious, though he might think you’re joking. “swear to claus, it’s really real.”

he snorts again—this time louder—and for the first time in what feels like forever, the grumpy man behind the bar actually laughs. the regulars, who only know him as grumpy barnes, glance at each other in disbelief, muttering quietly as they try to figure out what’s gotten into him. maybe it’s the christmas spirit that possessed his body.

“well, ‘ya gotta take me there someday.” he says, leaning back slightly, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

you nod, finally standing, ready to return to the north pole. mission slightly accomplished—you’d made enough progress to report back to santa.

and then it happens. your foot catches on the uneven floor, and you stumble forward. instinctively, bucky’s hands shoot to your shoulders, steadying you before you can hit the floor. his grips on it tightly before his hands trails from your shoulders to your hand, squeezing on it for your comfort.

bam!

the moment his hands touch your skin—your hands to be specific, a strange, surging warmth rushes through your body, and you feel it immediately—your magic slipping, draining away faster than you ever imagined.

the weakness hits like a physical weight. your knees wobble, your body sagging against him. you remember what the other elves had said: if your magic completely fades, it could take up to twelve hours to fully recover.

twelve hours of feeling weak, exposed, and unable to access the energy that usually keeps you sharp.

this is your first time losing your magic, and the sensation is overwhelming, leaving you suddenly fragile in ways you’re not used to. thankfully, you’re still in human form, so you can move, even mimic human mannerisms, but it’s a struggle just to stay upright right now.

bucky’s hands don’t falter. his grip is firm, sure, and his eyes flick down at you with concern. “are you okay?” he asks, voice low but steady. you want to answer, want to reassure him, but the words catch somewhere in your chest. you’re too weak, and yet your mind races.

your vision blurs as the background noise slowly fades. but you briefly hear the bartender ask “what’s wrong” and bucky answers with “she’s blacked out drunk, don’t worry. i’ll take her back to peggy carter’s house.”

before you can wobble any further, he shifts, lifting you entirely—bridal style—your body feels almost weightless in his arms, though your heart pounds so hard it nearly drowns out everything else.

your legs dangle, knees bending slightly, but his hold is unshakable. every careful step he takes echoes against the bar floor, and the world around you blurs—the other patrons, the bartender, the clinking of glasses—all fading into the background.

your fingers press lightly against his shoulders for balance, and you feel the faint pulse of energy in his arms, in his chest, in the warmth radiating off him.

even as your magic drains, your senses feel sharper, every detail magnified. the smell of his jacket, the subtle rhythm of his steps, the faint brush of his hair against his forehead—it all sends your mind spinning with thoughts, possibilities, and an anxious excitement you can’t quite name.

۶ৎ˙⋆✮ ⊹₊

the next morning, you wake to a softness you’re not used to—the warmth of a blanket pulled up to your chest, the faint scent of detergent clinging to cotton, the hush of a house settling under the early sun.

your eyelashes flutter open. the ceiling above you is unfamiliar, a shade of off-white that doesn’t exist anywhere in santa’s mansion. sunlight drapes itself across the floor in long golden stripes, slipping past the curtain and laying over your legs like a quiet reminder that you’re not home—not even close.

you push yourself upright slowly, every muscle stiff, every limb weighed down by the absence of magic. the world feels heavier without it, as if gravity is suddenly allowed to win. your feet touch the floor, cold against your skin, and you take a moment to breathe before padding toward the bedroom door.

when you twist the knob and ease it open, the air changes—cooler, sharper, carrying the scent of pine-scented detergent and something warm, faintly masculine.

then you see him.

bucky barnes.

in the center of the living room, shirtless and mid-exercise. his body moves with precision, muscles tightening and releasing with every controlled push-up. sweat traces paths down his chest, catching the early sun, making him look almost carved from the light pooling through the window.

the sight pulls you into a quiet pause—your breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat. it’s the same view you had the first time you ever knocked on his door, except now you’re seeing it from inside his home, from the threshold of his bedroom, wearing a shirt far too big to be yours.

he notices you instantly.

his head lifts. his eyes meet yours.

he pauses his workout, pulls out an airpod, and stands. his chest rises and falls with the aftermath of effort, and you watch—helplessly—as he reaches for a towel draped over the back of a chair, wiping the sweat from his jaw.

you don’t even realize you’re staring until he stands directly in front of you.

“good morning.” he says, his voice warm but still touched with sleep, that perfect blend of gravel and gentleness.

you blink—slow, dazed—and snap your gaze away from his abs, heat pooling embarrassingly in your cheeks.

he continues, drying his hair with the towel. “figured you got too drunk last night. i tried knocking on peggy’s house but she didn’t answer. must’ve been pretty late, huh?”

you internally thank peggy for her impeccable timing. the disaster that would’ve followed if she opened that door… you don’t even want to imagine it.

but then another thought crashes over you—last night. his hands catching you, the sudden collapse of magic rushing out of your veins like someone ripped the stars from inside you.

your fingers tighten in the hem of the shirt you’re wearing.

“how long has it been?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intend.

his brows knit slightly. “since what?”

you swallow. “since i passed out.”

he glances at his watch, tilting it so the sunlight grazes the metal. “well… we got here around 3 am.” he lifts his wrist again. “and now it’s… 11.”

eight hours.

eight hours with no magic.

eight hours of borrowed strength and uneasy breath.

four more hours to go.

where will you stay in the next four hours? surely, you’ll die of hypothermia if you stay in the freezing cold snow with nothing but these thin clothes you have on while you let time pass. especially considering since there’s no magic flowing through your veins to keep yourself warm—doubt this peggy woman would also invite a stranger posing as her sister to her house.

“would it be…” you pause, clearing your throat because your nerves are staging a full revolt. “would it be okay with you if i just stay here?” your fingers tangle with each other, twisting and untwisting as you keep your gaze locked anywhere except on him.

without your magic, every feeling hits you sharper than winter wind. confidence? gone. mischief? barely hanging on by a thread. emotions? unfortunately thriving.

bucky’s brows pinch together, his expression somewhere between confused and mildly alarmed. the man looks like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that came without instructions. you, thankfully, still have enough of your old tricks left to pull out a clean white lie.

“peggy and i…” you start, letting your shoulders slump just a little as you inhale shakily. your voice comes out soft, almost trembling. “we had a huge fight last night, which explains why i ended up drinking.”

you finally lift your eyes, letting them gloss a little as you hit him with the same pitiful doe-eyed look vixen—santa’s reindeer—once used on him to get extra sugar cubes. it works frighteningly well on humans, too.

bucky freezes, blinking once… twice… the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s trying to piece your story together with whatever social skills he’s managed to preserve through years of self-inflicted solitude. then, with a small exhale, he nods.

“sure, i guess… i can uh—i can make you breakfast?” he offers, his voice stilted like he’s reciting instructions from a manual he definitely didn’t read. he scratches the back of his neck, forcing an awkward smile that looks both polite and deeply accidental.

to be fair, the last time he had someone over was probably before wi-fi even existed—except steve and sam, of course. he spent so many years cultivating his peaceful, hermit-like existence that the concept of hosting now feels like a foreign language. somewhere in the back of his head, he hears sam’s voice saying, “man, just learn how to act normal when someone’s in your house.”

he ignored it then. he regrets it now.

“no thanks.” you say quickly. your stomach feels too tight for food anyway.

bucky shifts his weight from one foot to the other, still standing directly in front of you like he’s waiting for a prompt. the silence stretches, both of you caught in this strangely fragile moment—him unsure how to function with another person in his space, and you unsure how to function at all without your magic.

the air thickens with mutual awkwardness, so heavy you swear it has its own gravity. both of you just… stand there. breathing. blinking.

۶ৎ˙⋆✮ ⊹₊

you spent the next four hours stiff on bucky’s couch, hands folded neatly in your lap like you were attending a very tense church service. bucky, meanwhile, clicked through netflix with the emotional weight of a man choosing his last meal. the constant flicking of the remote echoed through the quiet living room, mixing with the soft hum of the heater and the distant sound of someone shoveling snow outside.

he glanced at you once—just once—to offer you the remote. you immediately refused. you barely understood the difference between “continue watching” and “recommended for you” so choosing a full show? absolutely not. you were not about to embarrass yourself more than you already had.

he shrugged and picked a movie on his own. a horror movie. IT chapter one (2017). of course he did.

internally, you launched straight into christmas-level profanity, “halloween is over, you unseasoned fuckin’ meatball!” externally, though, you only rolled your eyes—subtle, practically saintly. he didn’t even catch it.

halloween ≠ christmas

bucky took the far end of the couch, sinking into the cushion with his long legs stretched out, attention locked onto the screen like he actually enjoyed being terrified by clowns. the faint glow of the tv softened the edges of his face, highlighting the little furrow between his brows, the one that made him look permanently annoyed.

when stanley uris says “best feelings ever!” to which richie tozier responded by delivering his iconic “oh yeah? try tickling your pickle for the first time” line, bucky let out a quiet snort—so quick you almost missed it. but you didn’t. you saw the corner of his mouth lift, slow and unguarded, revealing the first real smile you’d ever seen on him—excluding the night prior which was influenced to him by intoxication. this smile felt real, genuine.

you looked away before he could catch you staring, and your gaze landed on the clock sitting on the shelf. 2:57. your heart lurched so sharply you stood up without warning, right as a jumpscare hit the screen. bucky flinched, nearly dropping the remote.

his eyes snapped to you, one brow raised. you gave him a tight-lipped apologetic smile—the kind that looks polite but hides pure chaos. “sorry… i just… uh, remembered i needed to go home.”

“i’ll walk ‘ya out,” he said, his voice low and rough, carrying that subtle edge of morning gravel that made him sound both annoyed and concerned at the same time.

you nodded, careful to keep your expression neutral, though your chest fluttered like a bird trapped in a cage.

he rose from the couch, pausing the movie with a soft click. pennywise froze mid-creep on the screen, the dim glow of the television washing over the room in muted, shifting blues and grays. you followed closely behind him, stepping lightly on the wooden floorboards, the echo of your boots swallowed by the hum of the heater and the faint creaks of the old house.

your eyes traced the lines of his back through his red henley as he moved—broad shoulders rolling smoothly, muscles shifting beneath his t-shirt, taut and controlled. the curve of his spine led down to his waist, the lean strength in each motion hypnotic.

then your gaze drifted to his metal arm, catching the lamp light in faint glints. polished plates interlocked perfectly.

you couldn’t help but wonder. if he touched you with that arm, would your magic flicker again? it’s not a human touch, is it? though, surely, it would take longer to return if your magic falters again.

your stomach twisted at the thought. twelve hours without magic had been unbearable once—how long would it take if you lost it a second time? you pressed your hands together instinctively, trying to ignore the flutter of fear and curiosity.

bucky reached the door first. the cold seeped in as he opened it, brushing against your skin with a biting insistence. he held the door, eyes scanning you carefully, alert but not hostile. there was something almost cautious in his posture, a tension in his shoulders that made you feel both safe and on edge.

you stepped outside, the snow crunching softly under your boots. cold air seeped through your jacket, curling around your neck and gnawing at your fingers. you murmured a goodbye, and he returned it with a stiff smile—forced, polite, eyes unreadable.

“fuckin’ grinch.” you scolded silently, tugging your coat tighter around yourself. you forced your steps toward peggy carter’s house, slow and deliberate, imagining that he might be watching from a window, judging.

once you were far enough, you veered to the side yard, pressing yourself into the shadow of the house. untouched snow lay thick and crisp. you rubbed your hands together, fingers red and numb, trying to pull warmth from friction alone. the air bit your cheeks, and each breath felt icy in your lungs. without your magic, every movement was heavier, every second slower.

your pulse thudded unevenly, muscles tense, breath shallow. the cold seemed to weigh on your bones, pressing into your joints, creeping up your spine. your fingers were stiff. and then—

a spark.

a small, warm pulse blooming inside your chest, delicate and fragile. another spark followed, threading through your veins. warmth spread slowly at first, curling around your lungs, your shoulders, your arms, settling in your fingertips. it was soft, like sunlight brushing your skin after weeks of darkness.

then it surged.

your magic returned in waves, fast and insistent, filling your body with a humming energy, sharp and electric. the cold recoiled. the weight lifted. your limbs tingled with power, the sensation both exhilarating and grounding.

without hesitation, your human form shimmered and shifted. the transformation was smooth, fluid—your true scout elf self snapping into place. your energy sharpened, your strength returned, your presence glowing softly in the snow. your scarf fluttered in the wind, boots pressing into the fresh powder, leaving perfect prints behind you.

you froze for a heartbeat, taking a deep, steadying breath, letting the return of your magic wash over every nerve, every muscle. then your gaze flicked toward bucky’s house.

and with a sudden surge, you launched yourself into the sky, wings of frost trailing behind you, racing across the snow-swollen night toward the north pole. your mind was already cataloging every detail—progress, setbacks, the human who had almost ruined your magic but had unknowingly helped in his own grumpy, awkward way.

you didn’t waste a second. the night sky blurred around you, the cold whipping past, wind tangling in your hair. magic thrummed in your veins, alive and bright, as you soared toward home, ready to report, ready to rest, ready to plan for the next time a human might get under your skin—or touch your magic.

۶ৎ˙⋆✮ ⊹₊

you stayed hidden on bucky’s shelf, tucked between a dusty snow globe and an old polaroid frame, watching him move around his living room with that quiet, solitary rhythm you were starting to memorize.

in your scout elf form, everything felt bigger. the world stretching around you like a stage you weren’t meant to be seen on.

bucky twists open a bottle of beer with his metal hand, the same hand you’ve spent hours wondering about, if your magic would falter if he ever touches you with it. the soft click of the cap falling to the floor echoes louder in your tiny ears.

you watch, spellbound and wary, as the cold metal glints under the lamp. would it drain you again? take your magic the moment it brushed your skin? the question sits heavy in your chest.

he takes a long sip, throat bobbing, before dropping himself onto the couch with the weight of someone who carries more than he admits. netflix glows on the tv again, washing his face in shifting colors as he scrolls—left, right, up, down—with zero interest. he’s restless, you realize. bored in a way that feels deeper than the usual “nothing to watch” frustration.

another sip. he sets the bottle down, water droplets collecting and rolling down the glass. he wipes the condensation off his fingers against his sweats before tapping at the remote again, his movements growing more impatient.

the man looks as if he’s one bad recommendation away from throwing the whole tv out the window.

when nothing catches his eye, he exhales a frustrated groan, low and rough. he pushes himself off the couch and disappears into his bedroom.

you move the moment he’s gone—a tiny streak of faint, twinkling glitter trailing behind you like a whisper of light. careful. silent. observing. it’s your job, after all, to monitor, to understand, to report. santa needed these details, and bucky barnes was proving to be… complicated.

you slip into his room just as he sits on the edge of his bed, shoulders slumped, phone glowing dimly in his hand. doomscrolling—classic lonely man behavior.

you settle onto another shelf, far enough to stay hidden yet close enough to see the slight twitch in his brows, the exhausted sigh he breathes out, the way his thumb lazily drags across the screen.

note for santa: bucky barnes isn’t naughty. he’s just tired.

but then he leans back against the headboard, sinking into the pillows with a soft, exhausted grunt. the room’s warm lamplight washes over him, outlining the stubble on his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the faint shadows under his eyes. he shifts, readjusts, then lazily drags his phone closer to his chest.

and that’s when it happens.

without thinking, he switches the phone from his right hand to his left—the metal one—the one gleaming faintly under the bedside lamp. your tiny heart drops. your glitter almost sputters.

no. nope. absolutely not.

revised note for santa: maybe he is naughty.

his palms reach down under, fiddling with the knot he tied earlier. his hands disappeared under his gray sweatpants as he lets out a groan, the kind as if he’s been deprived of this moment for so long. and you knew you should look away, move to another shelf, fly back to the north pole to finally tell santa which list bucky’s on but you just couldn’t.

you couldn’t peel your eyes away from his muscular physique as his fingers types something on his phone. his muscles unintentionally flexing as his fingers swipes through the small block of electricity.

the vibranium fingers curl perfectly around his phone like it’s second nature, like it’s always belonged there. he starts to palm himself through his pants, attempting to give himself some sort of pleasure from the friction but his sighs grew exasperated.

so, in result, bucky then pulls his length out, freeing his shaft from the tight surroundings of his boxers. he kicks his sweatpants off, irritatedly.

his thumb wastes no second as it smears the leaking pre-cum from the tip of his cock as is it’s lubricant. his head falls back to the headboard as ecstasy takes over his whole body.

he mutters out a small, “fuck” when he feels his pulse rises in anticipation for a release. his right hand continues to fist his needy cock up and down while a video plays on his left hand, though he pays no attention to it.

his eyes closed shut, the moans of the female actress fades into a mere background noise as bucky fastens his pace. a slightly audible groan escapes his chest before something else completely catches you off your guard.

he moans out your name while he continues to jerk off his cock. you pinch yourself, hoping the sting will prove you wrong, that you just misheard him, that maybe the floorboards creaked weird or the wind pressed against the window. but then your name slips out of his mouth again, low and careless, like he’s said it a hundred times before.

this time, you’re definitely sure.

his brows are knitted together in mild concentration, thumb grazing lazily on his tip as he—unbeknownst to you—imagines it’s your tongue that’s working on his thick cock instead of his stupid hand.

your name escapes his chest again, the sound of it hangs in the air—warm, familiar, way too gentle for someone who acts like human interaction is a chore.

bucky was unsure when his little “crush” on you even developed—if he could even call it that. it felt too sudden, considering the two of you had only interacted twice. but something about those brief moments lingered in him long after you’d left his doorway.

he hadn’t realized it at first, not until the quiet in his house felt a little different. he’d spent years wrapped in his own solitude, convinced he preferred it, that silence was easier than company… but now he caught himself listening for the faintest trace of your voice, replaying the way you said simple things, the way you stood there like you were trying not to take up space.

maybe it wasn’t you, not entirely. maybe it was the way your presence fit into his quiet without disrupting it. the way you didn’t force conversation.

he didn’t know when it started.

but he knew that after years of living alone with nothing but his thoughts and an old tv remote, something in him had softened—just enough to crave the possibility of someone who might enjoy his quiet the way he did.

someone like you.

the pace of his hands moves faster, chasing for his high, as if he didn’t just speak your name out loud in an empty room at almost three in the morning. his thick cock twitches in his palm before he lets out a grunt, followed by a thick warm sensation that’s spread all over his hands, abs, and possibly on his bedsheets, too.

that’s when you finally manage to tear your appalled gaze away from him, your entire body going rigid. your eyes widen in a sharp, instinctive jolt of shock—late, delayed—like your mind is only now catching up to what you’d just witnessed and heard.

bucky’s chest rises and falls in fast, heavy pulls, each breath dragging through him as if he’d sprinted a full 5k in the span of a heartbeat. the faint sheen of sweat across his collarbone glints under the warm bedroom light, and his metal hand remains frozen midair, still half-curled around his phone as if the words slipped out before he could trap them back inside.

the room feels too small. too still. too dangerously intimate for a scout elf on duty.

you hold yourself steady for one suspended moment—long enough to memorize the sight of him, breathless and unaware he’d just confessed to the air.

then, with every ounce of strength you have left, you let your magic pull through your limbs. a shimmer of soft light flickers off your form as you push away from the shelf, wings beating fast, leaving behind a faint trail of glitter that dissolves before it reaches the floor.

and without giving the scene another glance—without daring to—you launch yourself out of the house, into the cold night, and speed your way back toward the north pole.

۶ৎ˙⋆✮ ⊹₊

one thing about scout elves—something santa pretends not to know—is that you’re mischievous by design. sneaky, playful, selective with the truth when the situation calls for it. so when you returned to the north pole that night, glitter still flaking off your wings and bucky’s accidental confession echoing in your ears, you didn’t breathe a word of it to santa.

you reported everything else: the slow progress, the bar visit, the partial breakthrough, even the temporary loss of your magic. all clean, all correct.

but the part where the grump of the town—or more fittedly, the grinch—uttered your name like a secret? that stayed tucked safely behind your back like a stolen cookie from mrs. claus’ cooling rack.

because if santa found out bucky barnes was supposed to be on the naughty list—if he got even a hint that the metal-armed recluse wasn’t technically eligible for your assignment—he would yank you out of that mission faster than a reindeer spotting mistletoe.

and santa, being santa, would say it in the most devastatingly gentle way possible: “no need to make him believe in christmas, dear. he’s not even on the nice list.”

which is exactly why you kept your mouth shut.

because grumpy or not, closed-off or not, bucky barnes was the first human in decades to have piqued your interest. and you weren’t ready to lose that mission. not yet.

so, you find yourself in this predicament—wedged between two very muscular men like some sort of decorative holiday garnish, forcing out a polite little smile as you pretend you’re following their conversation. in reality, you only understand about ten percent of whatever they’re talking about.

“dude, we should totally get jägermeister!” sam wilson declares, already reaching for another shot like the night is a race he plans to win.

steve, who’s camped on your other side, nods with the enthusiasm of someone who has never once considered consequences. he copies sam, knocks the shot back clean, then lets out a satisfied exhale like he’s in a commercial.

you, on the other hand, just sit there clutching your red plastic cup like a civilian in a war zone.

you’d told santa you needed a few days on the field—meaning a few days lurking in this quiet little suburban town instead of warping back and forth to the north pole every night—and, shockingly, he understood. he even handed you a slip of enchanted paper you could cash for human money so you could, quote, “find a place to stay and avoid suspicious commuting patterns.” very corporate of him.

so you strategized.

day one: create the perfect plan—befriend sam wilson, use his social butterfly tendencies as leverage, and somehow use that to orbit closer to bucky barnes.

the end goal? get bucky on the nice list. or, at the very least, make him acknowledge that christmas spirit exists and isn’t just a marketing scam created to sell peppermint.

day two was a complete success. befriending sam is easy; he’s charismatic, funny, and the kind of man who will adopt a stranger into his friend group if they laugh at his jokes twice. by day’s end, you’re practically in a group chat you didn’t ask to join.

day three: sam introduces you to his other best friend—steve rogers, human golden retriever with biceps. he invites you to a party, and you agree instantly. partly because sam said there would be free alcohol, partly because bucky was supposedly going to show up.

and now here you are, sandwiched between men who themselves captain america and falcon—which you weren’t quite sure why they do—nodding like a bobblehead while the room spins with loud music, cheap lights, and the faint hope that the grump you’re actually here for will walk through that door any second.

and maybe—just maybe—you’ll have something real to report back to santa that isn’t censored by your own mischief.

your timing couldn’t have been worse—you take a sip of your drink at the exact second bucky barnes walks into the party, shoulders broad, jaw sharp, eyes scanning the room like he’s allergic to social interaction. the shock hits you so fast you choke on your drink, coughing into your sleeve while sam pats your back like you’re dying.

thankful for the layers of clothing that serves as a barrier from his human touch. “you good?” sam asks, half-laughing.

you nod, barely, eyes glued to bucky as he spots your booth. he walks over with that slow, unhurried stride—like he’s got all the time in the world and absolutely no interest in being here.

your spine stiffens, breath catching, because all you can think about is the night you watched him whisper your name—moan it, really—into the dark. the memory hits you so sharply it’s like someone opened a window inside your chest and let winter in.

sam and steve are still talking, oblivious, arguing about which alcohol tastes least like regret. but you? you’re frozen. trapped between wanting to melt into the floorboards and wanting to jump straight out the nearest window.

bucky finally reaches your booth. he stops at the edge of the table, hands in his pockets, eyes cutting to you with that unreadable expression he wears like armor.

and you swear your heart forgets how to exist for a full three seconds.

steve stands up the second bucky reaches your booth, greeting him with a loud “there he is!” before dabbing him up and pulling him into one of those bro-hugs that look borderline violent. steve pats his back hard enough to knock the wind out of a small horse, but bucky barely reacts—just stands there, stiff, wearing that signature grumpy expression that could curdle milk.

but even through the purple neon lights flickering over the table, you catch it—his eyes widening. not by much, not dramatically, but enough for you to know he definitely saw you. definitely recognized you. definitely remembered something.

you lift a hand, giving him a tiny wave—awkward, unsure, almost shy. bucky blinks, the movement barely noticeable, before steve pulls away from the hug and gestures to the empty seat beside you.

“sit here, man. i’m gonna help sam with the drinks.” steve says, already halfway gone as sam yells something about losing his wallet again.

and just like that, steve abandons you. sam abandons you. the entire universe abandons you.

leaving you alone with bucky barnes.

he slides into the booth beside you, keeping a respectable distance but still close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. his metal arm glints under the lights, catching your attention before you force your eyes back to his face.

you clear your throat, trying to act normal. “how have you been?”

bucky attempts a smile—tries so hard—but it comes out more like a grimace, tight-lipped and unsure, like someone told him smiling was illegal and he’s testing the waters.

“good. i’m good.” his voice is low, quiet, awkward. he shifts in his seat, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket, then his hands, then his posture—as if he can’t decide where any of his limbs are supposed to go. he keeps darting glances toward the bar, silently begging for steve and sam to return.

“that’s… that’s great,” you answer, and the awkward tension settles between the two of you like fog.

bucky picks at the label of a beer bottle someone left on the table. you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear even though it doesn’t need tucking. neither of you look at each other for a solid ten seconds.

claus, how can one man make a simple conversation feel like a hostage situation?

still, despite the awkwardness, there’s something in the air—you feel it when he steals a quick glance at you, the kind that lingers half a second too long before he looks away.

like he’s not just nervous… but flustered. and he’s trying really, really hard not to show it.

۶ৎ˙⋆✮ ⊹₊

the night dragged on in that warm, buzzing way parties tend to stretch time. between the neon lights, the thrum of music, and the clink of glasses, the four of you slowly worked your way through an embarrassing amount of alcohol. whatever awkward tension had been strangling you and bucky earlier began to loosen—unwinding thread by thread as the burn of each drink softened both your edges.

steve was the first to tap out. he stood from the booth with a dramatic sigh, rubbing a hand down his face. “i swear, if i’m late for work again, my boss is gonna staple me to the wall.” he joked, shoulders slumped but eyes fond. he patted bucky’s back, squeezed your shoulder gently, then wove his way out of the bar and into the cold night.

after that, the trio turned into a lopsided duo—sam loudly insisting on “one last round of shots” and disappearing toward the bar with the determination of a man about to win olympic gold.

you and bucky waited.

and waited.

until finally, sam returned—not with shots, but with a girl on his arm, grinning like the devil himself. her lipstick was smudged, her hair a little tangled, and sam’s shirt was suspiciously wrinkled for a man gone only four minutes.

he shot you a suggestive wink before sliding the same wink to bucky, who visibly stiffened, as if sam had spoken ancient curses at him.

you felt your face warm, not from the alcohol this time, but from the implication.

sam didn’t bother sitting. “you two behave.” he sing-sang, already walking backward with the girl still glued to his side. “i’ll leave the booth to the lovebirds—i mean—uhh—friends.”

you groaned under your breath and bucky muttered, “asshole,” voice dipped low but unmistakably flustered.

it was just the two of you again.

alone at the booth, drinks half-finished, the table littered with empties, the air warm and spinning just enough to blur the edges in the softest, most reckless way.

“i think i’ll just go home now.” you announce, abruptly standing and brushing off the invisible dust on your dress. your heels click softly against the wooden floor as you make your way toward the exit.

bucky’s eyebrow shoots up at your sudden decision. “i’ll drive you back home. peggy’s my neighbor, after all.” he offers, voice low and steady, like he’s trying to sound casual but just a little concerned.

you shake your head quickly, a nervous laugh escaping your lips. “uh… i’m not staying there anymore. me and peggy… we aren’t on speaking terms…” the words feel foreign, but you push them out, crafting the perfect little white lie about your faux sisterly feud.

he tilts his head, curiosity flickering across his face—subtle, restrained—but he doesn’t press. the questions are there, all over his brow, in the way his eyes narrow slightly, but he simply nods, respecting your unspoken boundary.

“so, where ‘ya staying now?” he asks, standing up from the booth. the leather jacket he had draped beside him is lifted from the seat, sliding over his shoulders with a familiar ease.

“a hotel.” you answer simply, letting the truth slip this time, and he nods again, as if he already understands.

“i’ll drive ‘ya, it’s still late and you’re… tipsy.” he adds, voice careful, hinting at both concern and a subtle sense of responsibility. you realize your head has already nodded almost unconsciously, agreeing before your mind catches up.

you follow him closely, each step falling in rhythm with his as you leave the warm buzz of the party behind. the night air hits you sharply, crisp and cool, making you pull your jacket tighter around your shoulders. the neon glow from the bar flickers behind you, painting the parking lot in hues of purple and pink as you approach his car, waiting patiently, keys dangling in his hand.

the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable—it’s quiet, observant, weighted with the unspoken awareness of the night you’ve both just shared, the proximity, and the small, inexplicable pull that lingers in the space between.

۶ৎ˙⋆✮ ⊹₊

you weren’t exactly sure how you ended up here—hotel room, dim lamplight, faint scent of peppermint lingering from the mini bar—but somehow, somewhere between the alcohol and the haze of the night, you had invited bucky over.

he settles onto the small couch the room offers, posture stiff yet somehow casual, one arm draped along the backrest while the other rests loosely on his knee. you move to the tiny kitchenette, setting a kettle to boil as you fumble slightly with the tea bags.

the steam rises quickly, curling into soft tendrils that fog the room in warmth. you pour the hot water into the cups, dropping the tea bags gently, letting the color bloom slowly as the aroma begins to fill the space.

bucky watches silently, hands folded together, eyes occasionally flicking up to yours. when you finally hand him his cup, a quiet “thank you” slips past his lips.

you move to put the kettle back in its place, the tiny clink of porcelain echoing in the otherwise still room. then, taking a breath, you slide into the chair across from him. your legs cross, and you try to ignore the faint heat creeping up your neck as your eyes meet his.

the room feels small, cozy, and somehow intimate. the hum of the heater, the soft clink of the cups, the muted city lights filtering through the window—they all conspire to make the silence between you heavy, the space charged with something you can’t quite name.

and for a moment, all the awkwardness of the night, all the strange, tipsy conversations, all the lingering tension—it hangs there, suspended in the warm steam of tea, waiting for one of you to break it.

and so you did. “i heard some of the kids in the neighborhood call you the grinch.” you joke, voice light, trying to dissolve the tension that’s been quietly simmering between you since he arrived at the bar. you take a slow sip of your tea, letting the warmth of the flavored water slide down your throat, grounding you in the moment.

“they call me that, huh?” he lets out a low, amused laugh, that sounds rough but genuine. “i think it’s just because i don’t let anybody in… i do, just rarely.” he explains, shrugging with that casual stiffness he always carries.

“am i already in?” you ask, voice soft, tinged with hopeful curiosity.

he tilts his head, raising one teasing brow, the corner of his mouth lifting into a small, almost shy smile. “what do you think?” he replies, leaving the answer for you to figure out. your lips curve into an unconscious smile, the warmth of the tea in your hands now mingling with a different kind of heat in your chest.

“i think…” you trail off, taking another careful sip, watching him mirror the motion, “…i’m already floating in your orbit.”

he nods once. “damn right.” he mutters, voice edged with amusement. silence falls upon the both of you, the kind that feels comfortable instead of the awkward tension that’s been lingering between you since the moment you met each other.

bucky takes another sip of his tea, sets the cup down with a soft clink, and then—out of nowhere—breaks the silence that had settled between you like a warm blanket.

“what about me?” he asks.

you blink. “what about you?”

he leans back slightly, metal fingers tapping once against his knee. “am i already in?”

the answer slips out of your mouth before your brain even opens the file folder labeled think first: “you’re in me.”

bucky’s brows shoot up so fast you almost hear the sound effect. then, just as quickly, they settle back into his usual unbothered expression, the grumpy one or as how the kids call it, the rbf. (resting BITCH face)—except for the very obvious suggestive wink and the slow curl of a smirk tugging at his lips.

your delayed realization hits like a truck. “mine!” you blurt, eyes widening to their absolute maximum capacity. “i meant—you’re in mine—my orbit. mine.” you try to clarify.

he nods, that teasing glint in his eyes fading into something softer, as if he’s graciously sparing you from further humiliation.

you clear your throat—dramatically, for good measure. “mine.” you repeat, quieter now, as if the universe needs to double-check your clarification.

bucky’s gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than necessary, warm and slightly amused. the air shifts—lighter, but somehow charged, like you’ve both crossed into a new gravity without meaning to.

“i mean… i wouldn’t complain.” bucky murmurs, low and almost shy, quiet enough that the words blur with the soft hum of the kettle. but you still hear it—barely, but clearly.

as much as you’d love to follow where that line could lead, reality pushes back. he needs to know. it’s time. the truth has been sitting in your chest all night, and if you don’t say it now, it’s going to choke you later.

“i have a confession.” you say, clearing your throat even though it doesn’t help. it only makes your voice tighter. he looks up from his tea, eyes steady on you, waiting. “i’m a scout elf. sent by santa to monitor you.”

you don’t sugarcoat it. you don’t ease into it. you just drop it on the table between the two of you like a fragile ornament you hope he won’t step on.

bucky freezes for half a second.

then he laughs—loud at first, then softer when he realizes you aren’t laughing with him. he straightens in his seat, smile lingering as confusion settling in behind it. he’s looking at you like you’re adorable and unhinged and maybe two shots past sane.

“you’re serious?” he asks, still half-laughing as he rubs the back of his neck.

“very.” you reply, nothing but deadpan.

he tries to swallow the laugh, but his shoulders shake anyway. because to him, this has to sound insane—him, sitting in a cheap hotel room with the prettiest woman he’s ever laid his eyes on, only for her to tell him she’s been spying on him for santa claus. yeah. it’s a lot.

so you explain, sitting up straighter as the words speed out, “that night at the bar—when you grabbed me so i wouldn’t fall? i lost all my magic.” you gesture to yourself. “i shouldn’t even look like this right now. elves aren’t supposed to be touched by humans. it interferes with our magic. it… practically resets us.”

bucky blinks, the humor in his expression wobbling but not falling away.

and you can tell—he’s trying. he’s really trying to categorize what part of your confession is a joke and what part is a story and what part is actually terrifyingly sincere.

“so,” he says slowly, leaning back in the small hotel chair, “i touched you… and that made you lose your magic?”

“yes.”

“and you’re… stuck like this?”

“no. i was stuck like this.”

bucky lets out a long breath, dragging his thumb across his lower lip as if grounding himself. the steam from the tea curls between you like a veil, warming the air, smoothing the edges of the tension.

his gaze drifts over you—not objectifying, just quietly stunned—like he’s trying to piece together the impossible with the only evidence he has: you, sitting there, looking too real to be fictional.

a muscle in his jaw flexes. “i’m… honestly trying to believe you,” he admits, voice dropping, sincerity threading in, “but do you hear yourself? you’re telling me santa sent you to check off his naughty list and i broke your magic by touching you.”

the words sound ridiculous out loud, even to you—but you hold his gaze anyway.

“i know how it sounds,” you say softly. “but i’m not lying.”

he stares at you for a long, quiet beat—too long—until the corner of his mouth twitches, betraying a smirk. “so you’re saying that because i touched you… you’ll be stuck looking like this?”

his gaze sweeps over you—appreciative in a way that makes your breath hitch.

you nod. “basically, yes.”

he lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “i mean… if losing your magic makes you look like that, then i definitely wouldn’t complain.”

you glare at him, which only makes his smirk deepen.

“bucky.” you warn.

“what?” he shrugs, raising his hands in surrender. “you’re the one telling me santa sent a… what was it? ‘scout elf’… to keep tabs on me because i don’t like christmas lights and inflatable reindeers.”

“it’s a very serious assignment!” you insist, crossing your arms.

“sure it is.” he murmurs, eyes flicking down to your lips for the briefest second before they return to yours. “and you seriously expect me to believe all that?”

your silence is answer enough.

bucky breathes out a laugh, softer this time, almost gentle—because now he’s starting to feel it. that pull. that weird, magnetic thing he’s been trying to ignore since he met you. “doll… i’m trying. really. but if this is your way of telling me you don’t want me to flirt back, you can just say so.”

his teasing is light, but his voice drops just slightly—enough for the warmth in your stomach to stir. you can tell he doesn’t fully believe you, but he’s listening. he’s trying.

you lean forward, placing your elbows on your knees as you say more quietly, “bucky, i’m not joking. i’m here because santa told me to restore your faith in christmas. to get you off the naughty list. i’m supposed to make sure you still believe.”

his brows lift, but he doesn’t laugh this time. not immediately. he studies you as if searching for a crack in your expression, a sign you’re about to break and admit it’s all a joke.

but you don’t.

and something in him shifts—just slightly.

“okay,” he says slowly. “let’s say i humor this. let’s say i believe you.” he tilts his head, voice dipping lower. “what happens now?”

the air thickens between you—charged in that way that makes the back of your neck tingle.

“whatever you want.”

and slowly, you can see the curve of his mouth form a smirk. “i want you.” he confesses, “not just physically, but emotionally, too. i want you—i want your company.”

۶ৎ˙⋆✮ ⊹₊

for a few days, you stayed with him—both of you orbiting this strange companionship neither of you knew how to name yet. bucky moved through his routine like he suddenly had to be aware of another heartbeat inside his apartment. and you… well, you just tried not to lose your magic again every time he absentmindedly brushed past you.

you warned him, over and over, that you weren’t lying. he listened, nodded, squinted, tried to believe, tried to not believe—caught somewhere between “this is insane” and “but her eyes are too serious for this to be a joke.”

and then you finally showed him.

you exhaled, let the magic unfurl under your skin, and in a soft shimmer of gold dust and sparkles, your body shifted—shrinking, glowing, your little scout elf form appearing where your human one stood a blink ago.

bucky’s reaction was immediate.

“HOLY—HOLY FUCKING SHIT!” he yelled, stumbling back so hard he hit the wall with his shoulder. one hand clutched his chest like he was having a heart attack; the other pointed at you like you were a grenade about to explode.

you blinked up at him, tiny, glittery, mildly offended.

“WHAT THE—WHAT THE FUCK, SHIT!” he shouted again, voice cracking like a teenager. “NO—NO, NO, NO, NO—WHAT IS—WHAT ARE—WHAT THE HELL?!”

you crossed your miniature arms. “i told you.”

he kept staring, jaw hanging, pupils blown wide in raw disbelief, like his brain had just been tossed into a blender. “you—you—YOU SHRANK!”

“technically, this is my real form.”

bucky dragged a hand down his face, pacing back and forth with the manic energy of a man watching his worldview burn. “i need—i need a drink. no, i need more than a drink. i need a therapist. i need—i don’t know—security clearance.”

you floated up slightly, wings of magic dust keeping you level with his line of sight. “do you believe me now?”

he stopped pacing. inhaled. exhaled. stared at your floating three-foot-tall elf self like he just discovered he lives in a sci-fi christmas paradox.

finally, he muttered—defeated, overwhelmed, and absolutely convinced—“…yeah. yeah, i fucking believe you.

that all happened days ago—bucky’s meltdown, the screaming, the pacing. now the two of you had reached a kind of… treaty. a truce for his sanity.

you agreed to stay in your human form unless absolutely necessary. bucky claimed it was because he “needed consistency.” but the way he refused to look at your tiny elf self told you he was one more transformation away from passing out on the carpet.

too weird.

you also tested the metal arm theory—him sitting on the edge of the bed, tense as a wire, while you carefully placed your palm on the cool vibranium. nothing happened. no magic drain, no spark, no weakness rolling under your skin.

just cold metal, and then the softest exhale of relief from him.

۶ৎ˙⋆✮ ⊹₊

so now here you were.

cuddled together on his couch, wrapped in the thickest winter layers he could find. sweaters, gloves, blankets—an entire barricade of fabric to keep his skin from brushing yours. bucky took the rules seriously; you respected that. one accidental graze and you’d be powerless for hours again. those twelve hours were torture enough for you.

but even with all the layers, even with all the caution, he held you close.

his metal fingers kept stroking your hair, slow and steady, but something about the way he moved changed. the rhythm faltered for a beat, then resumed, softer this time. almost careful. almost… nervous.

you didn’t look up. you didn’t have to. you could feel him thinking.

bucky shifted behind you, his body leaning forward just enough that his breath warmed the side of your neck through your scarf. “can i… ask you something?” he murmured.

your heart climbed into your throat, but you hummed in response, keeping your eyes on the faint snowfall outside his window.

“these past few days,” he starts, voice lower than usual, “you—being here… letting me in… all of this.” he pauses, searching for the right words. that alone already scares you—bucky barnes actually choosing his words instead of grunting through sentences like usual.

“and i’m not tryin’ to make this weird.” his hand stops moving in your hair; his palm settles gently on the back of your head, warm even through the glove. “but i need to know if i’m imagining you wanting me around… or if you actually do.”

you finally look up at him.

his eyes meet yours instantly—blue, uncertain, hopeful in a way you’ve never seen on him. not once. not even during that drunken night or when he said your name into the dark room.

he swallows once, throat shifting, jaw tightening like he thinks he’s about to hear something that’ll break him.

“just tell me,” he says quietly, “do you want this? us? whatever the hell this is turning into?”

your breath catches.

because now your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he can feel it through the layers. and when you don’t answer right away, bucky leans in—not touching you, but close, like he’s trying to read your silence.

your fingers curl into the fabric of his sweater.

“i do,” you whisper. “i want this.”

something in his expression breaks—softens, deepens. his gloved hand cups the side of your jaw, thumb resting at the hinge gently, as if memorizing the shape of you through the barrier of fabric.

“then sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice dropping to something warm and unmistakably intent, “you gotta tell me how careful i need to be if i’m gonna kiss you.”

your breath stutters and the room goes quiet.

and bucky waits—eyes on you, lips parted, chest rising and falling like he’s bracing for whatever answer you give him.

fuck the twelve hours.

you lean in before he can overthink it, catching his lips with yours. the moment you kiss him, you feel your magic flicker—like a candle fighting the wind. it drains you just a little, a soft tug inside your chest, but you ignore it. bucky matters more than whatever power is slipping through your fingers.

his eyes widen in shock, body going stiff for a heartbeat… then he melts. it’s subtle at first—his shoulders dropping, his breath hitching—until he’s kissing you back with this desperate surrender, stopping wasn’t even an option.

when you finally pull away for air, he follows you by an inch, lips flushed and parted, as if the world tilted without your mouth on his. his gaze drops to your lips before dragging up to your eyes, confusion and desire tangled together.

“what was… what?” he stutters, the tips of his ears turning red.

you can’t help but smile at his nervousness. “we’ve got twelve hours… maybe more,” you murmur, brushing a thumb along his jaw. “might as well make use of it, huh?”

bucky’s smirk blooms slow and full of ideas you can practically feel crawling up your spine. “oh, i’ve got a few.”

your body reacts on instinct, legs shifting as your thigh parted just enough to draw a chuckle from him, low and rough as he grinds against you from behind.

a moan of his name escapes your chest. “b-bucky… please.” you plead, begging for something you don’t even know what.

and before you can speak again, his hand that was once wrapped around you dips lower to where your panties lays. he pushed it aside, fingers teasing your folds as he smears your wetness around. another moan falls from your lip, this time, you manage to utter out a sentence.

“i… i’ve never done this before,” you stammer, words trembling against the tension building between you.

bucky groans low in response, a sound that rumbles through his chest and presses against yours.

“fuck… not ever?” he murmurs, voice rough and incredulous.

you shake your head, unable to meet his gaze for more than a heartbeat, the heat between you crackling like fire under thin ice.

“i’ll try to be gentle.” he whispers against your ear before pressing a soft, gentle kiss on your shoulders as his metal hand slowly descends from the crown of your skull down to part your thighs.

his flesh hand slips in your hole without a warning, earning him another beautiful melody. “fuck, princess, you’re so warm.”

you let out a soft, breathy chuckle, the tension easing just a little. “it’s the layers of clothing, barnes.” you tease, trying to lighten the moment even though your chest feels tight and your pulse is racing.

bucky lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low and rough, before his gaze sharpens again, returning to that intense, hungry look that makes your stomach flip and your thoughts scatter.

without wasting any second, both you and bucky tear each other’s clothes away from each other. you shiver under the thick, cool air—feeling exposed to the world. he notices and gives you a reassuring look as he cups your face. “don’t worry, doll.”

you lay there naked in his bed—beneath him as his togue busies itself taking turns in kissing, licking, and sucking on your breasts, painting a red mark that is promised to be darker as the time passes.

you take your palm as they softly press against his skull, your fingers tangling together with his hair as if they’re one. unconsciously, as if on reflex, you start to pull on his locks but your mouth utters the words "don't stop… please.”

and then, without much thought, you reach your flesh hand toward the metallic one that’s resting in your upper thigh, your fingers brush against the cold, smooth surface of his hand, casual on the outside, but electric all the same.

you trace small, careful circles along his knuckles, feeling the weight and texture of the metal beneath your skin. then, you start to drag it to where your heat lies, desperate for friction.

he obeys, his vibranium finger pushes inside your hole, stretching you out. a loud, audible moan escapes your lips. he then adds another, stretching your walls fully. he presses his lips upon yours, swallowing your moans as if it’s his meal.

suddenly, the sharp bite of winter cuts through you, and without your magic to shield you, a sneeze escapes uncontrollably.

bucky’s eyes immediately soften, the hard edge in his gaze melting into something warm. his vibranium fingers leaves your tight walls as he softly expresses his concern for you.

“you cold, baby?” he murmurs, voice low and gentle, reaching to adjust the blanket around your shoulders.

the unexpected care in his tone makes your chest flutter, and for a moment, all the tension, heat, and desire between you feels wrapped in something sweeter, something impossibly close to… comfort.

you nod, assuring him that it’s nothing and he gives you a look—a comforting look before diving back to your collarbone to paint his red marks all over your sternum.

“don’t think it’s over, honey.” he says, reaching down to pull his boxers off, then kicking them away to claus knows where. his cock sprung out, his tip coated with pre-cum dripping out of the slit of his shaft.

he lets out a groan as he stroked it up and down while looking deep into your soul. "baby let me feel your warmth too" he didn't let you think further as he held your thighs and parted it.

adjusting the duvet above you both, he groans as he slowly, inch by inch, thrust himself inside you. he goes by your pace, how your body adjusts to his length and when you tapped on his biceps, signaling him to eventually go faster, he instantly follows.

it started slow and deliberate until his thrust gets deeper and rougher leaving you a whining mess. his tip touches your g-spot making you arch your back in pleasure as you shut your eyes due to the intense amount of rapture bucky’s feeding you.

“mggghhh… slow… slower, bucky…” you murmur softly, burying your face into the pillow, words tumbling out in a breathless, half-coherent jumble.

bucky leans closer, catching every sound, every tremble in your voice, and somehow, he understands exactly what you mean.

“if that’s what my baby wants.” bucky’s thrust slows his pace down as the bed slowly creaks beneath you. he presses a gentle peck on your lips as a comforting gesture.

you can't help but notice how gentle bucky is—every movement careful, every touch measured, like he’s more worried about your comfort than his own.

the way he leans in, waits for your cues, listens to every soft murmur you make—it’s enough to make your chest ache in the sweetest way, your heart softening completely under the weight of how much he seems to care.

your hands slide over his back, drawing him closer, nails digging on his back as his cock presses just right against your spot, making a sharp, breathy sound escape your lips.

"fuck, baby, m-make those sounds. tell me you want it." bucky murmurs, breath heavy, voice low and pleading, more desperate than commanding.

your moans ran through his ears like the most blissful sound he could have ever heard. greediness took over, bucky wanted to hear more of your moans. so he did, by increasing his pace as if it could go even faster, making your eyes widen as your lips grow apart.

your legs starts to tremble, eyes teary, his vibranium hand holds your legs open when you try to close it. "you're enjoying this right?"

you nod, instinctively. "fuckkkk… yes... so much, bucky." your voice breaks as you parted your legs to let him go deeper. chasing for your high as he did with his.

"i’ll fill the insides of this tight pussy" you felt so vulnerable, defeated under his dark gaze. you nod again, allowing him to release his orgasm inside you.

his words enchanted his dominant side to you. the sound of skin slapping roaming like a tune in the humid room.

the duvet rolled up as he threw it and held your legs while thrusting faster. your body jerked off as he shot his sperm all inside your cunt as you felt so filled up.

you’re curled up against him on the bed, blankets tangled around both of you, the room glowing softly from the lamp in the corner. his metal arm rests across your shoulders, fingers idly tracing patterns on your upper arm. each stroke is slow, deliberate.

“you okay?” he murmurs, voice low, a little rough from earlier. you nod, leaning further into his warmth, letting your head rest against his chest.

“i’m fine… just… tired.” you whisper, eyes half-lidded.

bucky hums softly, a sound that vibrates through you and makes the last bits of tension ease from your shoulders. he tilts his head down, brushing a stray hair behind your ear, thumb lingering lightly on your temple. “good… stay like this.” he murmurs.

you peek up at him, cheeks warm, and he gives a small, teasing smirk, brushing your hair again. “don’t make me look bad, baby.” he says softly, half joking, your lips twitch into a quiet laugh.

“look bad?” you tease back, voice playful but soft.

“yeah… like, all cute and vulnerable.” he murmurs, nuzzling the top of your head with the side of his face. “i’m supposed to be the tough guy here.”

you snort softly, pressing a little closer, “you are tough, barnes… just… not when it matters, huh?”

he chuckles low, a deep, warm sound that fills the room, then settles again, stroking your hair in lazy, careful circles. his hand trails down your arm, fingertips barely brushing your palm. “i’ve got you, okay?” he says quietly, voice steady, reassuring. “always got you.”

you hum against his chest, wrapping a hand over his, squeezing gently. “i know.” you reply, letting the quiet intimacy sink in. your heart is still racing, but in a good way.

he leans back slightly, just enough to look at you, eyes soft and teasing. “you know… you make me forget i’m supposed to be the grinch.” he murmurs, voice low and flirty.

you laugh softly, brushing your fingers over his jawline. “yeah, well, that was my job.” you counter, voice light but filled with affection.

he smirks, leaning down just enough to press a gentle kiss to your temple. “touché, baby.” he murmurs, letting you nestle closer into him again.

and for the rest of the evening, you stay like that—wrapped up, whispered words, soft touches, playful teasing, quiet hums and little laughs filling the space. no pressure, no rush, just the warmth of each other.

outside, snow falls lazily, but inside, the world has shrunk to the two of you, and for once, everything feels just right.

۶ৎ˙⋆✮ ⊹₊

soon, the 25th arrived. every elf was expected to return, mission complete or not. you hadn’t told bucky yet—but soon, you would have to.

it was the morning of christmas, and though you were scheduled to leave today, you had pushed your departure to the very last moment—until 11:59. just one minute left.

every second felt precious, and you held on, savoring the last moments with him, memorizing the warmth of his presence, the steady rhythm of his breathing, knowing that soon, it would all be gone.

“morning, gorgeous.” bucky greets, glancing over his shoulder at you before turning back to the pancakes sizzling in the pan.

you rub your eyes, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep, even though you’d already washed your face and brushed your teeth. sliding onto a kitchen stool, you watch him with quiet amusement, waiting as he finishes cooking.

carefully, he lifts a pancake from the pan and places it on a plate before setting it in front of you. it’s shaped like a christmas tree, and a soft smile tugs at your lips at the small, thoughtful detail.

when you first met him, he had been a brooding, grumpy lump of a grinch—but now, standing there with the widest grin you’ve ever seen on him, he looks entirely different.

“mission successful,” he says, voice teasing but soft. “i believe in the christmas spirit.”

he moves behind you, slipping his arms around your waist, warmth pressing against you. soft, gentle kisses trail across your cheek, and you can’t help but lean back slightly into him, heart fluttering at the unexpected tenderness.

and somehow, you just couldn’t bring yourself to tell him about your departure. not now—not when he was like this, so warm, so… present, making it impossible to ruin the moment with words that would pull it all away.

the kitchen was quiet now, the plates cleared except for the small stack of pancakes you hadn’t finished. the sunlight streamed through the window. bucky leaned casually against the counter, sipping the last of his coffee, eyes on you as you fidgeted with your fork.

“bucky…” you began, voice softer than usual. he looked up, attentive, eyebrows slightly raised. “i… i need to tell you something.”

he tilted his head, a small smile tugging at his lips, and gave you his full attention. “yeah?”

you took a deep breath, glancing down at the plate in front of you, tracing the edge with your fingertip. “i… i have to go back,” you admitted quietly. “my mission… i’m supposed to return to the north pole today.”

bucky’s brow furrowed slightly, the casual warmth in his gaze flickering into something more—concern, confusion, maybe even a little disappointment. he set his coffee down, taking a careful step closer. “today?”

you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “yeah. i… i pushed it until after breakfast to tell you, just to have a little more time with you. but… i can’t stay any longer.”

he ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly, then looked at you with a softness you hadn’t seen before. “so… you’re leaving me after this?”

“i have to,” you said, finally meeting his eyes. “but i… i’m really glad i got to spend this time with you. more than i expected.”

bucky’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment he just stared at you, weighing the words, the weight of the coming goodbye hanging between you. finally, he reached out, his metal hand hovering for a moment before brushing gently over your shoulder. “well… at least we’ve got this morning,” he murmured, voice low but steady. “i’ll take what i can get.”

you offered a small, bittersweet smile, leaning slightly into his touch. “me too.” you whispered. and for a few quiet minutes, you just sat there together, savoring the warmth, and the moments you knew would linger in your memory long after you had to leave.

after that quiet breakfast, the two of you spent the day together. you walked through the town, shoulders brushing, occasionally laughing at some small joke or clumsy passerby.

the winter sun was gentle, soft on your face, and for once, the world felt suspended just for the two of you.

bucky led you through the little shops, letting you pick small trinkets, smiling at how excited you got over the tiniest things. he even let you choose the toppings at a local bakery, pretending to grumble the whole time but secretly enjoying how animated you became.

by afternoon, you found yourselves sitting on a quiet park bench, hands brushing occasionally, the cold nipping at your cheeks.

snowflakes fell lazily around you, but the warmth of your shared presence made it easy to ignore the chill. for a moment, neither of you spoke, just letting the silence settle comfortably between heartbeats and quiet breaths.

because that’s exactly what bucky had always wanted—someone to share his quiet with.

then, the sudden knock at the door of bucky’s house broke the calm. you both turned, startled. he opened it to find a small, neatly wrapped package sitting on the doorstep, adorned with a bright red bow.

the tag had your name, written in looping, familiar handwriting: “for my favorite scout elf—santa.” bucky reads.

your eyes widened as you picked it up. “santa?” you whispered, incredulous.

bucky leaned over your shoulder, peering at the package. “well… that’s not suspicious at all.” he muttered. you carefully untied the ribbon and opened the box. inside was a small, glowing ornament and a note:

“you have done well, little elf. your mission is complete. now you have a choice: continue your life as a scout elf, returning to the north pole, or stay human and share a life with the one you’ve come to care for.”

you froze, the weight of the words sinking in. your gaze instinctively went to bucky, who was staring at you with a mixture of awe, curiosity.

“you… you can stay?” he asked, voice low, almost breathless.

you nodded slowly, the ornament warm in your hands. the choice was yours, but looking at him, feeling his hand brush lightly against yours, you knew exactly what your heart wanted.

the snow continued to fall outside, quiet and peaceful, as the two of you sat there, the world suddenly full of possibility.

main masterlist ⊹ ࣪ ˖ winter masterlist

© dolcesaints ✮ ‘25 all rights reserved.

⟡˙˖ ıl. lovie's gossip. completely unrelated but my ex just unblocked me and texted to ask me if i’m gonna greet him a happy birthday ?:’?/(/?; bitch please.

⊹༘. ✦ . / general taglist . ! @wint3rbarnes @swimmingnightcolor @literallyjustuhgirl @wifeofbarnes @evvilgf @buckybunni @colettebarnes @slutdier @kkwanvince @soupiemeowmeow @thewinterswift @cherie-fawn @starstruck-cowgirl @yourmomoclockit @daddysbitchybaby @jamesbarnesrealwife @lewatinria @darlingdenise @chipotleburritobowl @daydreamin1220 @eah-marvel-trolls @yvesjgk @lovesreality @buckysslut @herejustforbuckybarnes @buggy14 @lanaunrealesed @okaytrashpanda @werewolfgirl1995 @buckysbunny

Alexei was slouched back in his chair, arms folded, halfway into a pout and 100% still bitter he couldn’t wear his suit to the meeting.

Yelena was eating out of a bag of off-brand popcorn. Loudly.

Walker sat with both arms on the table, chin lifted just enough to pretend he wasn’t being judged.

Ava was in the farthest corner, half-faded, watching everything and nothing.

And Bucky? Bucky looked like he was calculating how fast he could jump out the window.

At the head of the table stood Valentina Allegra de Fontaine—heels clicking, posture stiff, holding a coffee she clearly didn’t like and an attitude sharp enough to slice glass.

Her assistant, Mel, stood beside her. Silent. Tall. Holding a tablet and radiating the vibe of someone who’s seen five too many NDA breaches.

Val tapped the screen behind her.

The monitor flashed up a still from the yesterday’s press conference: Alexei blocking a camera lens with his massive hand while Yelena flipped someone off in the background.

“Let me be clear,” she began, voice sugar-coated poison. “This—this is what the American public now associates with the term ‘Avengers.’”

“Iconic,” Yelena said around a mouthful of popcorn.

“Disastrous,” Valentina snapped.

Mel cleared her throat gently and read, without inflection, “Social media sentiment is currently down 83% across all demos under 35. Trending tags include: #WalmartAvengers, #BudgetCrisis, #YikesTeam, and #WhoEvenIsThat.”

Walker perked up. “Well at least they’re talking—”

“About how pathetic you look,” Val interjected smoothly.

She turned on him. “John, you smile like a campaign ad for expired cereal. You can’t speak without sounding like you’re reading from a teleprompter in hell.”

He blinked.

“Do you even like the team?”

“I—”

“Exactly.”

She pivoted.

“Alexei. I don’t even know where to start with you.”

“I was protecting camera woman!” he protested.

“You were about to throw her into traffic because she got too close.”

“Is not my fault she was squishy.”

Mel, without missing a beat, “Three civil suits pending.”

Val turned.

“Yelena. You flipped off a priest.”

“He was filming me,” she said blandly. “And staring at my chest.”

Val nodded slowly. “And you said, quote, ‘God gave you two hands—use one to hold your phone and the other to go f—’”

“I’m sorry, is there a point?” Bucky interrupted.

Bad move.

Val beamed.

“Oh. Bucky.”

The room got real quiet.

“You were an actual a congressman,” she said sweetly, venom practically dripping. “A congressman. You were on the floor of the House of Representatives, and you still don’t know how to string a sentence together for press.”

He scowled. “I’m not here to charm people.”

“No,” she agreed, sipping her awful coffee. “You’re here to grunt monosyllabically in public like you’re allergic to communication.”

Mel clicked through another slide. “The phrase ‘Is Bucky okay?’ has been trending for 48 hours. Also ‘blink twice if you’re in trouble.’”

Val took another sip of her coffee. Winced. Put it down like it had personally offended her.

“I’m going to be honest—because none of you seem to grasp reality,” she said, stepping closer to the table like a headmistress about to assign detention to six grown adults.

“I don’t know how this team came together. Seriously. You’re all walking liabilities with shiny backstories and anger management issues.”

Alexei raised a hand. “I have good management—”

“You threw a vending machine at a janitor.”

“He insulted Mother Russia.”

Yelena rolled her eyes, slouching deeper in her chair. “You act like you didn’t cause this disaster,” she said. “You sent every mercenary you’ve ever hired to the same mountain and told them to kill each other. That was our team bonding exercise.”

Val didn’t blink. “Great point, but wrong,” she chirped.

Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “How.”

“Because I didn’t send all of my mercenaries.”

She straightened, like she’d been waiting to say this.

“In fact,” Val continued, spinning slightly to pace, “there’s one I kept in my back pocket. A… contingency. Someone smart. Refined. Lethal—but good for optics.”

“Sounds fake,” Walker muttered.

“Sounds expensive,” Bob whispered.

“Oh, God, please let it not be another American," Ava added under her breath.

Val ignored all of them. Her eyes lit up like a stage light had just turned on.

“You see, unlike the rest of you drama magnets, this one knows how to handle a camera and a kill order. This one knows how to wear leather without looking like a sex cultist. This one, ladies and gentlemen…”

She turned toward the doors, gesturing with a graceful, almost dramatic sweep.

“…might actually be beneficial to the New Avengers brand.”

Yelena snorted. “God, what a speech.”

Walker leaned back. “I’m gonna throw up.”

Val didn’t miss a beat.

“I would’ve sent her to that little mountain retreat with the rest of you,” she said, voice low, satisfied. “But I didn’t. Because I knew she’d be the only one to walk out of it alive.”

Silence.

Mel glanced at the door, tapped something into her tablet, and said flatly, “ETA: thirty seconds.”

Val smiled.

“Time to meet your upgrade.”

The door opened.

And the entire room fell silent.

You stepped inside like you owned the place—not loudly, not theatrically. Just… completely. Like the room had always been yours and the rest of them were lucky to be invited.

A black suit dress, cut sharp as a razor and cinched at the waist with a leather belt, hugged your frame like it had been tailored by regret itself. Legs for miles beneath it. Heels that made actual noise. The kind of confident click that didn’t just announce you—it warned people.

Hair perfect. Expression unreadable.

You looked like you’d walked off the cover of a Vogue magazine, stopped to kill someone on the way, and still arrived early.

Valentina grinned like a mother presenting her favorite child at a beauty pageant-slash-funeral.

“Everyone,” she said, clearly savoring the effect, as she introduced you.

You smiled. Not a grin. Not a smirk. An award-winning, dazzling, dangerously pretty smile.

And that’s when the team snapped out of it—sort of.

Yelena sat up straighter in her chair and shoved her popcorn aside, her gaze narrowing like she wasn’t sure whether to fawn over you or interrogate you.

Walker’s jaw did something unfortunate.

Bob knocked over his water.

Ava blinked—once, sharp, observant.

Alexei just exhaled, reverent, like he’d seen a vision.

Only Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But his eyes?

They didn’t leave you. Not for a second.

Valentina clapped her hands once, sharp and smug.

“Well, don’t all drool at once.”

Yelena leaned forward first, elbow on the table, eyes sharp. “So what—did we order you out of a catalog or something?”

You gave her a half-smile, sultry and lazy. “Would’ve been a premium subscription.”

Walker raised a brow, trying to reclaim some footing. “What exactly is it that you… do?”

You tilted your head slightly. “You mean besides everything you can do, but better?”

He blinked.

“Excellent start,” Val said brightly.

Ava crossed her arms. “She’s too polished. What’s the angle?”

You turned to her without hesitation. “Polished is what you call it when someone doesn’t announce their trauma within thirty seconds of arrival.”

Alexei let out a choked laugh. “I like her.”

“Of course you do,” Yelena muttered.

Bob finally found his voice, though it was somewhere between a whisper and a sigh. “You, uh… you have a codename?”

“Nox,” you said, still smiling. “Like the night.”

Valentina beamed. “See? Magnetic and discreet.”

Ava’s eyes narrowed again. “So you’re here to do what, exactly?”

Before Val could answer, you did. Voice smooth. Impossibly calm.

“Damage control.”

The room went tense.

Bucky’s voice cut through it, low and even. “Whose damage?”

You looked at him then. Met his stare with one of your own. Held it. And smiled—just a little.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

────────────────────────

Service Corridor, Just Before Midnight [3 Months In]

He caught you between meetings.

Not planned. Not really. But Bucky had gotten good at learning your patterns—how you moved through the Watchtower with that unbothered grace, all silence and purpose and elegance wrapped in something almost dangerous.

You didn’t flinch when he stepped into your path. Just looked at him. Calm. Composed. Head slightly tilted like he might be a puzzle piece out of place.

“James,” you said. Voice even. Smooth.

A pause.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Everyone’s already obsessed with you, you know.”

You raised a brow. “And you’re not?”

That threw him. Just a little.

He gave you a half-shrug, like he couldn’t help himself. “I don’t trust you.”

“Good,” you replied. “Means you’re not stupid.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

“Funny,” you said, stepping closer—not threatening, not dramatic. Just enough. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe right.

“Everyone thinks you’re the reformed soldier,” you continued. “Quiet. Broody. Tragic. But I don’t buy that. You don’t keep looking over your shoulder like that unless you think someone’s still coming for you.”

He swallowed once. Hard. “And what—are you?”

“Am I coming for you?”

You smiled.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

The space between you shrank by inches, thick with something sharp and burning. You smelled like danger and something softer—something expensive and clean. And the way you were looking at him?

Like he was a locked file you’d already memorized.

Then, softer—just for him, “You’re different than the others.”

“How?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You stepped even closer, eyes flicking over him like a readout. “Because you know what it’s like to be used. Bent. Broken. Rebuilt.”

You said it without pity. Without fear. Like it didn’t phase you at all.

He looked at you then—really looked. And there was something in his chest that twisted hard.

You leaned in. Close enough for your breath to hit the edge of his jaw.

“But you’re still here.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t dare to touch you.

And then—like it never happened—you stepped away.

Back to your perfect posture. Back to composure. Back to safety.

“Good talk, Sergeant,” you said with a wink.

And you walked away.

Leaving Bucky in the hallway, staring after you, already desperate for another interaction.

────────────────────────

4 Months Ago

The office was dim, filtered in violet and amber light from frosted glass and a skyline too expensive to care about. You stood across from her desk in silence—hands folded neatly, eyes unreadable, your silhouette painted against the city like an omen.

Valentina didn’t look up right away. She was typing. Slowly. Carefully.

Then, without ceremony, she said, “I have a job for you.”

You blinked. “That so?”

She looked up now. Chin high. Lipstick perfect.

“The New Avengers.”

You tilted your head slightly. “The ones you recently just named on live television?”

She gave a humorless smile. “Yes, those ones.”

There was a beat. A pause that settled between you like a blade waiting to be drawn.

“You want me to kill them?” you said flatly.

“I want you to handle them.”

“‘Handle’ as in seduce? Sabotage? Slit throats?”

Val smirked. “Dealer’s choice.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Why?”

She leaned back in her chair, folded her hands over her knee. “Because they’re liabilities. All of them. Unstable, unmarketable, emotionally broken liabilities. Half of them have kill orders from former employers. One of them’s a war criminal. Another literally fades in and out of visibility depending on how she’s feeling.”

“And you made them the face of American heroism?”

“PR move. Politics. Theater. I needed the chaos to stop. Now I need it… cleaned.”

You arched a brow. “So you created your own monster and now you want me to put it down.”

Val’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t be dramatic. I tested them. Now I’m correcting the curve.”

“And why me?”

She stood now. Walked around the desk. Her heels were quiet, but deliberate.

“Because I trust you,” she said. “Because you’re efficient. Elegant. Indisposable.”

You met her eyes.

“And because I know you,” she added, voice low. “You don’t get attached. You finish what you start.”

You didn’t answer right away.

You just let the silence hang.

Then you said, dry as bone, “You really think I can take them all out?”

“I don’t think, sweetheart. I know.”

Another pause.

You glanced at the manila folder on her desk—labeled with the team’s photos. A cross-section of broken people and barely-contained chaos.

You nodded once. “Fine.”

Val smiled. “I knew I kept you for a reason.”

────────────────────────

The Watchtower – Living Quarters, Late Afternoon [5 Months In]

They were spread out across the common room like children too exhausted to cause more trouble. The air was warm. Dimmed light poured in through the angled windows, golden against the muted steel of the Watchtower’s architecture. For the first time in weeks, they weren’t training. Weren’t fighting. Weren’t trying.

And so you watched.

Not because you had to.

Because you couldn’t not.

Yelena was curled sideways across one of the oversized chairs, legs draped over the armrest, eating a half-melted popsicle from a coffee mug like it was a normal thing to do. She was laughing at something Bob said—sharp, bright, uninhibited.

She kept trying to hide her warmth. But it spilled out anyway.

Ava sat opposite her, perched on the floor with a half-disassembled gadget in her lap, fingers working silently. She hadn’t looked up once in twenty minutes. But you could tell she was listening—tracking every conversation, every breath. Her gift wasn’t just stealth. It was restraint. Self-control wrapped in bitterness.

If Yelena burned like a firecracker, Ava was a cold fuse waiting for permission.

Bob had taken the corner of the sectional, crisscrossed like a teenager, a tablet balanced on one knee, a half-eaten sandwich dangling from one hand. He spoke too much. Said too little. But he was sweet. In a world that didn’t reward softness, he still had it. Still offered it.

Which made him the most dangerous one in the room... besides the fact he was a walking bipolar superhuman.

Walker was slouched back with his boots on the table,remote in hand, flipping through channels without watching a single frame. Restless. Bored. Trying too hard not to feel inferior. You knew his kind. Soldiers trained to think they were legends before they ever earned the scars. His righteousness would rot him from the inside eventually.

But you weren’t sure whether he’d burn the world down out of pride—or loneliness.

Alexei had commandeered the entire loveseat and was loudly, badly retelling the story of how he once arm-wrestled a mutant in a Siberian prison. Again.

He told it differently every time.

Today, there were two mutants. And a polar bear.

He was a relic, a fossil with fists, but the strange thing was—he never lied to impress. He believed his stories. Like they were sacred. Mythic. And somehow, that made it easier to let him speak.

You sat on the edge of it all. Legs crossed, drink untouched, eyes half-lidded.

…And then there was him.

James Buchanan Barnes.

The soldier-turned-congressman-turned-reluctant superhero.

He wasn’t like the others. Never loud. Never performative. Always lurking just outside the center of the chaos, like he wasn’t sure if he belonged or if he even wanted to.

You watched him now—seated on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, watching Alexei lie through his teeth for the fiftieth time. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t roll his eyes. Just… watched.

Observant. Withdrawn. Dangerous in the way old scars are—quiet and unflinching.

His face had been sculpted by war, but it hadn’t dulled the beauty. The high, sharp cheekbones. The straight line of his nose. The furrow carved into his brow like regret lived there rent-free. And those eyes—God, those eyes—sad and blue like a glacier swallowing itself.

But it was his mouth that always caught you off guard.

Unnaturally pink. Like it didn’t belong on a man so grave. So heavy with history. Like softness had been stitched into his mouth as a joke.

You weren’t sure what to do with him.

He didn’t speak to you unless he had to. But when he did, it was always measured. Calculated. Like he was searching for something in you he couldn’t name.

There was something pulling about him. Like gravity in reverse.

You didn’t know if you wanted to stab him or fuck him.

Maybe both. Maybe at the same time.

And that unsettled you more than any mission brief ever had.

────────────────────────

Rooftop in Prague.

The rain came down in sheets. You stood at the edge, scope aimed dead-center on Alexei's exposed silhouette as he darted through a broken alley, backlit by gunfire. The kill shot was lined up. He’d never even feel it.

You lowered the rifle.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t fire.

“Target repositioned,” you muttered into the comm.

Your finger never touched the trigger.

────────────────────────

Warehouse In Marrakesh.

Yelena was bleeding from the side, back to a concrete pillar, breath ragged as the wall exploded beside her. You could’ve let her fall. Easy. Clean. Too much noise, not enough cover. Her odds were terrible.

You moved anyway.

Tossed a flash. Dragged her out by the collar. She laughed through a mouthful of blood, saying, “I was handling it.”

“Sure,” you replied, voice flat, pulse louder than the bombs.

You never explained why you’d done it.

────────────────────────

Helicopter Extraction Above Bangkok.

Walker was hanging off the side of the landing rail, barely gripping the bar. The metal was slipping in the rain. Bucky was piloting. Ava was too far. You were closest.

You watched him dangle.

Then grabbed his wrist and hauled him up with a grunt.

He looked at you like you’d grown a second head. “Thought you didn’t like me.”

“I don’t,” you replied. “You’re heavy.”

He never brought it up again.

────────────────────────

The Watchtower – Your Bedroom

The dossier was spread out on your desk.

Pages torn. Notes scribbled. Photos frayed.

Each marked with opportunities.

Moments you could’ve taken.

Didn’t.

You stared at them in silence. Lips parted slightly. A strange pressure blooming beneath your ribs—one you couldn’t quite place.

Not guilt. Not fear.

Something worse.

Attachment.

You shut the folder. Locked it back inside the drawer.

And told yourself the same lie you always did:

It’s not over yet.

────────────────────────

Somewhere in Eastern Europe, Nightfall

The city burned behind you. Smoke coiled through the rain-slick streets, orange glow flickering against soaked concrete. Gunfire had finally stopped, but the echoes still rang in your ears like the ghosts of enemies who didn’t get out fast enough.

You and Bucky moved as one.

Shoulder to shoulder. No orders. No plan.

Just instinct.

You’d both bled for this one—him from a deep graze on his thigh, you from a cut along your temple—but you hadn’t stopped moving. You never did.

It was the alley, two blocks from the evac point, where it finally snapped.

You pressed your back to the wall, pulse hammering in your throat, blood trickling past your eyebrow. Bucky stood across from you, chest heaving, eyes wild and locked only on you.

No words passed. Just tension. Just truth.

And then he moved.

Fast. Certain.

His hand hit the side of your face, pulling you to him, and his mouth crashed into yours like something that had waited too long to be allowed.

No warning. No hesitation. Just heat.

And instead of reaching for the knife at your thigh—

Instead of taking advantage of the distraction like you'd trained your whole life to do—

You grabbed him by the collar. Fisted the fabric. And devoured his mouth like you’d been starving.

The kiss turned sharp—teeth and breath and need—his metal hand on your waist, the other in your hair, your back hitting the alley wall like it had been waiting for this moment, too.

The blood didn’t matter. The bruises didn’t matter.

Only the way he kissed you. Like he didn’t know if he’d ever get to again.

And the way you kissed him back? Like maybe you wouldn’t let him stop.

────────────────────────

Late Night — Days After the Kiss [7 Months In]

It was never supposed to go this far.

You weren’t supposed to let it.

You’d trained your whole life for control—for the cold clarity of distance, of mission, of orders. You didn’t get attached. You didn’t get close.

And yet—

His hands were on your hips, bruising and reverent all at once, as you moved above him like the war inside you was the only truth left. Your thighs clenched around his waist, slick heat swallowing him again and again, his name bitten off your tongue like something sacred and forbidden.

Bucky.

You weren’t supposed to crave him.

You weren’t supposed to know what it felt like to be wanted like this—devoured like this. His lips had trailed down your collarbone, your chest, worshipped the slope of your neck like he was memorizing a language only your body spoke. He said your name like it was the only word he remembered.

And now he lay beneath you, naked and sweat-slicked, muscles straining, head tilted back in awe as you rocked your hips harder, chasing your release on top of him.

“You weren’t supposed to be this,” you whispered, breathless, the confession splitting you open.

His hands gripped your ass, guiding your pace, mouth parted with a groan that made your spine arch.

“I don’t care,” he rasped. “I don’t fucking care.”

He looked at you like he’d give anything—everything—just to keep you here.

And that was the most terrifying part.

Because you felt it, too.

The break. The fracture. The pull of him inside you—not just physically, but the way his presence cracked something in you you’d spent a lifetime keeping sealed.

Your fingers tangled in his hair. Your hips met his again, harder, faster, like if you just kept moving you wouldn’t have to think. Wouldn’t have to feel.

But you did.

You felt him everywhere.

And the conflict that had haunted you for days—the guilt, the mission, the lie—faded to static when his hands slid up your spine, pulling you down to him, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss so desperate, so hungry, you could’ve drowned in it.

“You ruin me,” he murmured, voice low, trembling.

You didn’t respond. You just kept moving.

Because if you stopped—if you let the silence in—then you’d have to admit the truth,

You weren’t a weapon anymore.

You were his. Even if only for tonight.

Your breath hitched as he thrust up into you again, your hips slamming down to meet him—harsh, unrelenting, perfect. The headboard rattled behind him, a soft percussion against the wall, drowned out by the slick, obscene sounds of your bodies crashing together again and again.

Bucky’s hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your waist, dragging his fingers over the curve of your breasts like he didn’t know what to touch first. His lips were parted, flushed, pupils blown wide as he looked up at you like you were something he was praying to and falling apart under all at once.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head tipping back. “You feel so good—God, you—”

You cut him off with a kiss, crushing your mouth to his, swallowing every ragged sound like it would keep you from shattering. His tongue met yours with the same hunger you were trying to deny, messy and wet and real, your teeth grazing his bottom lip as you rocked harder, faster, chasing the rush that had nothing to do with control and everything to do with him.

He met every grind of your hips with thrusts so deep, so precise, they had you moaning into his mouth, your fingers digging into his chest hard enough to leave half-moons in his skin. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Look at me,” he said suddenly, voice wrecked, one hand curling around the back of your neck to keep you there, close. “Please, baby, look at me—”

You did.

And that was your end.

The way he looked at you—like you were the last thing in the world worth bleeding for—sent a white-hot spike down your spine.

Your body trembled as you fell over the edge, your orgasm tearing through you like a current, your thighs shaking around him, a broken gasp ripped from your throat as you came—hard, clenched tight around him.

Bucky cursed, bucking up into you, desperate and lost.

“I’m not gonna last,” he choked, voice raw as he held your hips down, driving into you faster, deeper, chasing his own high. “I—fuck, I’m—”

“Do it,” you whispered, still breathless, your lips brushing his ear. “Come in me.”

That shattered him.

With a guttural groan, he spilled inside you, hands fisting in the sheets as his hips stuttered beneath yours, jaw clenched, body taut like a drawn bowstring.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing like survivors. His hand cradled the back of your head. Your heartbeat thundered against his ribcage.

And for a moment—just one quiet, burning moment—you let yourself stay there.

In the ruin. In him.

────────────────────────

The light outside was a soft gray, bleeding through the curtains like regret. The room was still. Still humid with the afterglow, your bodies tangled in a quiet that should’ve been peaceful. Should’ve felt like a victory.

Instead, it sat like a blade in your throat.

You lay on his chest—skin to skin, heart to heartbeat—listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his breath. He was asleep. One arm loosely slung around your waist, the other resting against the sheets, fingers curled gently inward like he’d been dreaming.

His head tilted slightly down, as if instinctively drawn to you even in unconsciousness. His brow, usually furrowed, had smoothed. And his lips—those soft, ridiculous, obscenely pink lips—were parted just barely, like a secret trying to escape.

You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop watching him. And that was the problem.

Because he looked so human like this. So real. So unguarded.

You could kill him.

Right now.

Your knife was in the drawer next to the bed. Seven inches of forged steel. You could reach it in half a second. Press the blade to his throat in one. End it all before he even stirred.

And he wouldn’t fight back.

Not like this. Not with the way he held you.

He trusted you.

Fool.

Your chest tightened.

What were you doing?

You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be with him. This wasn’t affection. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

You were the contingency plan. You were the weapon Val sent to finish the job.

And here you were—laying on the man you should’ve gutted by now. Letting his breath warm your hair. Letting his heartbeat lull you into a sleep you didn’t deserve.

This wasn’t mercy. This was weakness.

You clenched your jaw. Blinked slowly.

His arm tightened slightly around you in his sleep, like his body knew you were thinking of leaving. Like it would pull you back in even if his mind couldn’t.

And the worst part? You didn’t move. You didn’t reach for the blade.

You just stayed. Hating yourself for it. Hating that you didn’t know why.

His chest rose and fell beneath you, steady as ever. Unaware. Unafraid.

And that only made it worse.

You closed your eyes—but the darkness behind them felt louder than the room. Thoughts crashing like gunfire, one after another.

You were supposed to kill them.

That was the job. That was always the job.

Every decision Val made, every lie you echoed—it all came down to this: infiltration, then execution. Simple. Cold. Efficient.

And they’d made it so easy. They trusted you. All of them.

Bob with his stammering kindness. Ava with her guarded nods. Yelena, teasing you with every spar but pulling you closer with every glance.

Even Walker—dumb, righteous Walker—looked at you like maybe you were the one person who didn’t pity him.

And Alexei… the fool. He already had your name etched in some bizarre corner of his broken heart.

You could end it tonight. Slit throats. Slip poison. Vanish before sunrise.

And yet—

You couldn’t.

Not to them. Not now.

Especially not to him.

You looked up again—his face still soft in sleep, lips slightly parted. Hair tousled across his brow.

The man who should’ve been your first target. The one whose past was wrapped in so much pain, you recognized it in yourself.

You were never supposed to touch him.

But now you knew how he tasted. How he whispered your name. How he looked at you like you weren’t a weapon, or an operative, or a mask.

Like you were worth saving. You could never hurt him.

But you already had.

Every kiss, every touch, every breath you took beside him—a lie.

If he found out—if he ever knew why you were sent here—he’d never forgive you.

And you couldn’t blame him.

It was a no-win scenario. There was no exit that didn’t leave something broken behind.

Tell the truth? He’d turn on you.

Run? He’d never understand why.

Either way, it would end the same—

In ruin.

Because you weren’t built for happy endings. You were built to destroy them.

And he’d never see it coming.

Unless you stopped this now. Unless you left. But you stayed.

Even when every cell in your body screamed to run, to vanish, to disappear before the sun came up and this all became something real.

You stayed.

Because there was no happy ending for people like you—not with him. Not with anyone.

But God, you wanted it. You wanted him.

And that need burned louder than the guilt.

So you shifted—slowly, carefully—until you were hovering above him again, chest brushing his, hair falling forward around your face like a veil of shadows.

His arm was still around you, limp in sleep. His face turned toward you, jaw soft, lashes fluttering against his cheek. He looked younger like this. Human.

Yours. And it hurt.

Your lips brushed his jaw first—light, tentative. Then his cheek. His temple. And finally—finally—his mouth.

A soft kiss. Then another.

He stirred beneath you, lashes fluttering, lips parting as he blinked himself awake.

“…hmm?”

He was groggy. Beautiful. Confused.

You kissed him again—firmer this time, lips trembling now, your hand resting on his chest like it was the only thing holding you together.

And against his lips, you whispered—

“I need you again.”

He blinked, still caught in the haze. “You—what?”

Your hands slid to his shoulders as you straddled him, slipping fully over his waist, grinding down slowly, purposefully. “I just—need you,” you repeated, breath catching. “Don’t ask why. Just… have me.”

His hands found your hips, warm and grounding. His voice was still rough with sleep, but the way he looked up at you—that gaze—it was like you could ask for anything in this world, and he'd be willing to give it.

And you leaned down—pressing your mouth to his again—like it was the only thing keeping you from breaking completely.

Because it was. Because he was.

And even if it would all burn down soon, for now, you could pretend there was something here worth saving.

Bucky was still half-asleep, blinking up at you with those soft, dazed eyes, his voice low and rasped with confusion.

“You okay?” he asked, hands instinctively anchoring at your hips, warm and callused and so steady it nearly undid you.

You didn’t answer.

You just rocked against him once—slow and deep—and watched his lips part with a breathless gasp as your heat slid over him again. Not teasing. Not playful.

Just aching.

“Shit,” he whispered, his brow furrowing, but his hands didn’t stop—they gripped tighter, like he was scared you’d disappear. “What’s wrong, baby?”

You kissed him instead of answering. Pressed your lips to his jaw. His cheek. His mouth. Each one slower, deeper, needier. You weren’t trying to get him hard. You were trying to feel him—to burn every inch of him into your skin like it would somehow keep you from unraveling.

He was already thick and aching beneath you, body reacting to you even if his mind hadn’t caught up.

But it didn’t matter.

You reached between you, lined him up, and sank down slowly—so slowly—with a broken breath that scraped the back of your throat. His hands shot to your thighs, mouth falling open in a groan as your walls fluttered around him.

“Fuck—oh shit—” he hissed, jaw clenched as you took him inch by inch, your nails digging into his chest for balance. “What is this—why now?”

“Don’t talk,” you whispered, voice barely there.

He didn’t. He just watched you. Let you move. Let you set the pace.

And God, you moved like it was the last time you’d ever get to—hips slow and deep, rolling in a rhythm carved from sorrow and want and a need to forget everything else.

Bucky’s hands roamed—your hips, your thighs, your waist. He kissed your sternum. Your ribs. Over your heart. He whispered your name like it was a prayer, trying to read you, trying to understand.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

And still—he gave you everything.

He thrust up just enough to meet you, not rough, not rushed. Just there. With you. Matching your rhythm, matching your breath, letting you take and take and take.

Until your head dropped to his shoulder and your body trembled against his, thighs quivering, your moan caught between a sob and a plea.

His arms locked around you.

Holding you as you shattered again, pulsing around him in a slow, aching climax.

And still—he didn’t ask.

He just kissed your temple. And held you tighter.

Like that would be enough.

────────────────────────

Weeks Later

You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Not just what you did, but how it felt.

And that was the problem. Because it wasn’t just sex.

It was him.

Bucky.

The way he held you. The way he whispered your name like he knew you. The way he looked at you with that stupid, open-eyed devotion, like you hadn’t spent every hour of your life perfecting the art of being unlovable.

And now… you hated yourself for how easily you let him in.

Your unbreakable mask—gone. Your hardened shell—disarmed.

That perfect, glacial facade you built with blood and bone and discipline was slipping more every time he touched you.

And he touched you a lot.

Not just in bed, but everywhere.

His hand brushing yours in passing. That lazy, half-smile he wore only for you. The way his arms curled around your waist at night like he couldn’t sleep without anchoring to you.

It was addicting. And it made you sick.

Because every time you let yourself melt into his warmth—his breath against your throat, his lips pressed to the curve of your shoulder, your bodies tangled beneath sheets—you felt less like a weapon and more like a lie.

He trusted you. And you couldn’t even look at yourself in the mirror.

You were supposed to be stronger than this. Sharper. Smarter.

But now all it took was his voice in the dark and his fingers on your skin to make you forget that this was all a fucking trap.

That you weren’t supposed to feel this way. Want this.

Crave this.

────────────────────────

Late Night [10 Months In]

The sheets were a mess. Twisted low on your hips, warm with the heat of two bodies tangled together and wrecked by want.

Bucky’s chest rose beneath your cheek, slow and steady. His arm was wrapped around your back, fingers tracing idle shapes along your spine, like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried.

The room was quiet.

But not empty.

He broke the silence first.

“Can I ask you something?”

You didn’t lift your head. “You already are.”

His chest shook with a soft chuckle. “You’ve been on this team for ten months,” he said, voice low, rough with exhaustion but laced with something… earnest. “And I still don’t know anything about you.”

You stayed still, heart tightening.

“I mean—” he continued, “I know you. I’ve fought beside you. Slept beside you.” His hand slid up your back, palm warm. “But I don’t know where you’re from. Or how you got to this point. Or what made you… you.”

You exhaled through your nose. Still didn’t lift your head. “That’s three questions, James.”

“I’m serious.”

“I can tell.”

He sighed. You could feel the frustration in his chest. Not anger—just that same yearning that always bled into his voice when it came to you.

And maybe it was the dark. Maybe it was the warmth of his skin. Maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t slept in days without him beside you, because of the team's last mission.

But something in you cracked just enough.

“My favorite color’s blue,” you said softly.

Bucky blinked. “Blue?”

“Mhm.”

He smiled at the ceiling. “Okay… blue. What else?”

“I like summer.”

“Yeah?”

“And I’ve always wanted to go to Fiji.”

That made him laugh—soft and surprised, mouth curved against the crown of your head. “Fiji? Seriously?”

“I said I wanted to. Doesn’t mean I ever will.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“You just…” he started, then stopped. His voice was lower now, honest in a way that made your skin itch. “You say things like they don’t matter.”

“They don’t.”

“They do.”

You finally lifted your head.

Looked at him.

And the weight of that gaze—so open, so damn earnest—made your chest tighten in ways you hated.

“I don’t do sentimental,” you said flatly.

He nodded slowly. “Then don’t. Just… let me know you.”

The silence returned. That soft, almost sacred hush that filled the space between your breaths. His fingertips brushed slow circles over your lower back, his heart steady beneath your hand.

Then, softly—almost like it didn’t want to be heard—you whispered, “If I told you all my secrets… you’d probably hate me.”

His hand stilled.

The words hung heavy in the air, and you swore you could hear his heartbeat stutter once. Then,

“I could never hate you.”

He said it so firmly. So damn sure. Like it wasn’t even up for debate.

Like he didn’t care what you were hiding. Like he’d already decided you were still worth loving. And that was too much.

And it hit you square in the chest.

Too deep. Too close.

You couldn’t let it linger.

So you leaned in—lips brushing his, then pressing harder, swallowing whatever else he might’ve said. Your kiss was slow at first, soft and searching—then it shifted. Changed. Turned sharp and demanding.

A distraction.

The best kind.

You kissed him again, your tongue slipping against his as your hand slid down his chest, and then you shifted—swinging a leg over and settling into his hips, your thighs bracketing his waist.

Bucky pulled back with a breathless laugh, still half-caught in the tangle of sleep and heat. “Already?” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, that familiar hunger blooming in his gaze.

“Shut up,” you whispered against his mouth.

And you kissed him again.

Harder this time.

Grinding down slowly, deliberately, feeling him already hard beneath you.

He let out a small grunt, fingers gripping your hips like he couldn’t decide whether to slow you down or help you go faster.

You rolled your hips again, chasing that friction, burying the ache in your chest beneath the ache in your body.

Because this—this—you could control.

This, you understood.

You kissed him again. And again.

Until the words you didn’t say disappeared into the dark.

────────────────────────

A Few Weeks Later

It was quiet again.

That kind of stillness only the early hours knew—when the world outside was asleep and nothing dared to move. The room was cloaked in shadow, the only light spilling from the streetlamps outside, soft and gold against the sheets.

Bucky slept beside you.

One arm wrapped around your waist, his body pressed close, legs tangled in yours like he was trying to become a part of you.

He held you like you were home.

And it broke you.

You watched him, barely blinking, your eyes tracing every line of his face like they were sacred. The furrow in his brow. The faintest scar near his temple. Those lips—soft and parted in sleep, exhaling slow, even breaths.

You wanted to remember him like this.

Wanted to keep him like this.

But that was a fantasy.

And you didn’t get fantasies.

You got orders.

And you’d failed them.

Worse—you’d betrayed them.

And now everything was coming to a head. Every secret. Every night. Every lie you fed into his mouth while he kissed yours like it was salvation.

So you made your decision.

The coward’s way out.

Not a confession. Not a fight. Just… disappearing.

Slowly, carefully, you shifted.

His arm around you was heavy—solid, warm, safe. You held your breath as you lifted it just enough to slip free, your chest clenching at the soft noise he made in his sleep.

His brow furrowed, his body shifting toward yours, almost instinctively trying to pull you back.

You froze.

Waited.

Watched him settle again.

His hand landed on your side, reaching for you like he could sense your absence even in sleep.

You closed your eyes.

Bit your lip.

And pulled away anyway.

Each movement felt like a sin. Your feet hit the cold floor like a finality. You turned, standing there in the dark, watching him one last time.

And for a second, you almost climbed back in.

Almost said fuck it. Almost stayed.

But instead—

You walked out.

And didn’t look back.

────────────────────────

The Next Morning

The first thing Bucky felt was the cold.

A strange emptiness across his chest where there had, without fail, been warmth. Soft, steady breath against his skin. A thigh draped lazily over his own. Fingers curled into his shirt like they belonged there.

But not this morning.

This morning, there was only space.

He blinked awake slowly, groggy and disoriented, the light through the window pale and early. He ran a hand over the sheets, expecting to feel your skin, your warmth, the familiar curve of you still curled against him.

Instead—just linen. Cool. Still.

His brow furrowed.

He sat up slowly, glancing around the room. Your clothes weren’t there. The chair where you always dropped your heels was empty. The bathroom door was open.

He rubbed a hand down his face, jaw tight.

She probably went back to her room.

That’s what he told himself. Logical. Reasonable. No need for alarm.

He slid out of bed, standing slowly, cracking his neck as he moved to the bathroom. The shower hissed on—he stepped under the spray, the water beating against his shoulders, grounding him.

She had an early start. Maybe she had to prep something for Val. Maybe she’s just avoiding feelings again.

He pushed down the gnawing feeling at the back of his mind.

That sense that something was… off.

That you never left without kissing his jaw. That your heels were still gone. That your scent wasn’t lingering the way it usually did.

He shook it off.

Don’t spiral, Bucky.

You were probably fine. Probably just fucking with him. Playing aloof like you always did after things got too soft between you.

He stepped out of the shower, drying off quickly. Dressed. Pulled on his boots.

Still—

That feeling didn’t leave.

That cold in his chest stayed.

But he forced it down. Forced a breath into his lungs.

He stepped into the kitchen, toweling off his damp hair, still trying to shake the unease from his bones.

The room was already buzzing.

Yelena sat on the counter, eating cereal straight from the box like it was an art. Walker leaned back on the couch, boots on the coffee table, scrolling through his phone. Ava sat curled in an armchair, sharp eyes flicking toward Bucky as he entered. Alexei was… well, loudly chewing something questionable. And Bob was somewhere behind the fridge door, mumbling to himself.

Bucky grunted a quiet greeting, opened the cabinet, pulled a mug from the shelf.

“Anyone seen… her?” he asked, voice low, neutral. Too casual to be casual.

Yelena looked up first. “Probably passed out in your bed,” she said around a mouthful of cereal. “Or under you. You know, standard Tuesday.”

Bucky froze mid-pour.

Walker snorted. “Took long enough, honestly.”

Alexei thumped his fist on the table. “I knew there was something! You always look at her like she’s the last shot of vodka in the room.”

Bucky turned slightly. “What are you all talking about?”

Ava didn’t even glance up from her tablet. “You’re not subtle, Barnes. The way you stare at her? Please.”

Bob peeked around the fridge door, cheeks already red. “Yeah… you uh… you hover. A lot.”

Yelena grinned, sharp and smug. “I am jealous you didn’t let me ride your motorcycle first.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. “You’re all insufferable.”

“Hmm.” Ava finally looked up. “Sounds like deflection.”

He muttered something under his breath, jaw tight, the discomfort turning into quiet agitation. His eyes flicked toward the hallway. “Forget I asked.”

He set the mug down—untouched—and turned on his heel, heading straight for your room.

Bucky reached your door, knuckles lifting halfway to knock—

But something stopped him.

A feeling. A chill.

He frowned, then pushed the door open. The room was… still. Not quiet. Still. Like no one had moved in it for days.

And that was the first red flag.

He stepped inside slowly, his boots too loud on the floor. The bed was perfectly made. Not military-perfect, but untouched. Not slept in.

He blinked.

The chair in the corner—empty. No discarded jacket. No shoes. No weapons.

He moved toward the dresser, a cold weight forming in his stomach.

The top was bare. No hair ties. No mug. No trace of your usual chaos. And then he pulled open the drawers.

Empty.

He turned to the closet. Swung it open. Gone. Everything. Your clothes. Your gear. Your dresses. Your coat. Even the scent of you—faint, fading.

His stomach dropped.

Hard.

The realization hit like a punch to the ribs. Sudden. Brutal.

You were gone.

Not just left-for-the-morning gone. Not “I’ll be back later” gone.

Gone gone.

Completely erased. As if you’d never been there at all.

Bucky stood there, frozen. His hands at his sides. His breath shallow. His jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

The room blurred. His throat burned. And somewhere, under all of that…

A voice whispered, She left you.

Bucky stood frozen in the center of the room, the emptiness of it clawing at his chest—

When something caught his eye.

A folder. Sitting alone on the dresser. Plain. Unassuming. Perfectly placed. Like it was meant to be found.

He stepped toward it slowly, his breath shallow. His fingers brushed the cover.

A small note sat on top. Folded once.

He flipped it open. Four words.