I write smut not tragedies

It happens in the blink of an eye. One moment, Percival is cupping the back of Credence's head in the rain, their bodies pressed together. The next, Credence is sliding to his knees, fingers pulling Percival's belt through the loops.

 In the scant few seconds where Percival has a hard time processing what is actually happening, Credence's mouth is already hot and wet against the bulge in his pants.

 Later on, much later on, he realizes that it wasn't really arousal at first, merely a reaction to the cold and the wet and perhaps too long without human contact. But Credence had taken it to mean something else, a demand for reciprocation.

 And how he reciprocated.

 The rain drowns out his gasp and his moan when Credence opens his mouth wide and swallows him down. The boy casts his gaze upwards, searching Percival's face for cues and indications. His mouth is stretched around Percival's girth, pink from where he had bitten it earlier. The raindrops slide down his face, drip off the ends of his long lashes. Percival groans and pulls his coat tighter around them for a little more privacy.

 He should probably stop, he should probably tell the boy that this isn't needed, that he needn't use his mouth in this way but oh Morgana the way the boy curls his tongue around the base, presses the flat into the slit, the hollow of his cheeks when he sucks, the look of pure concentration on his face, Percival gives in to the temptation.

 When Credence takes a deep breath and presses forward, Percival can't help himself. His fingers find the short hairs on the back of Credence's head, holding him steady as he shudders through his climax.

 The whole thing must have only taken ten minutes, at most. Credence sits back on his haunches, rain running down his chin as he quickly tucks Percival away and does his pants back up. He even buckles the belt properly. The young man is soaked completely. His trousers must be uncomfortably wet by now. But Credence doesn't say anything about any of that. His Adams apple bobs up and down once as he swallows deliberately. Then he quickly wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, gaze planted on the cobblestone. He reaches out to the walls of the alleyway and steadies himself as he rises.

 Percival's brain catches up with him as he sinks back down into reality.

 "Credence," and the young man looks worried "Where did you learn that?"

 "Here and there?"

 Credence says it like he's trying to guess the correct answer.

 "How long have you known how?"

 It makes Percival uncomfortable, the way Credence actually looks down and considers his fingers in an attempt to count the years.

 "Before Mother took m-"

 Percival shuts his eyes.

 "Credence, you were ten when you were taken from the orphanage," Percival reminds him gently.

 The young man thinks about it for a minute, then nods slowly.

 "I used to do it for food."

 He says it so guilelessly, like he doesn't understand what's so wrong about his answer.

 "Should I not have done it?" Credence frowns, a troubled expression taking over his youthful features. "Mother caught me once when I was trying to get bread and she said it was deviant. I'm sorry that you're caught in my deviant-ness, Mr. Graves."

 "No!" Percival nearly shouts. He regrets it immediately because Credence flinches away.

 "I mean, you don't just do that for anyone, but at the same time, I -" Percival struggles to find the words. " - I enjoyed it."

 Credence looks relieved.

 He opens his mouth, but whatever he wanted to say next is interrupted by a violent sneeze.

 Percival doesn't think twice about grabbing his arm and apparating.

  ---

  Credence stumbles when they appear in Percival's flat. He straightens in a hurry, taking in his surroundings with the wild look of a cornered animal.

 Then, as quickly as his panic appears, it is reigned in and contained.

 "Go get dry." Percival points to in the direction of the washroom.

 Credence obeys without another word, leaving drops of water in his wake.

 Percival sinks into the nearest chair and cradles his head in his hands.

 Of all the things he expected to happen today, finding out that Credence had been turning tricks since his stay in the orphanage is definitely not on the list. Credence is timid, shy, naïve in many ways. It was hard to think that the same boy willingly sold himself on street corners in exchange for bread.

 Percival has to be honest. He has entertained many thoughts of educating Credence in the pleasures of the body. He has daydreamed about slowly taking the boy apart with his hands and mouth, making him whimper and moan with newly discovered heights.

 There is something alluring about the idea of being his first, being the one to corrupt him and teach him. Slowly tainting his innocence sounds like such a great idea at first.

 But since the orphanage?

 No, there is a line and someone had crossed it too early.

 Some degenerate had not thought to keep their hands off the sweet young man.

 Percival gathers his composure. First things first, dry and feed the kid. Whatever came next, they would deal with it later.

 He goes through the motions of preparing biscuits and tea. Then he puts everything on a tray and heads to the bedroom.

 Percival nearly drops the tray.

 Credence is kneeling naked at the foot of the bed. His hands are planted firmly on the frame and the belt is carefully laid out behind him. It is clear from the welts that litter his back that he expects some form of beating.

 "Credence? Why are you kneeling?"

 "I thought you'd like to hurt me before -" Credence doesn't finish the sentence, he only looks at the bed with a curious expression.

 Percival turns and places the tray down harsher than he means to. The rattle of chinaware makes the young man flinch.

 It wouldn't have been so bad, Percival reflects, if the young man had shown some idea that things weren't supposed to be this way. Rebellion, resignation, all that would indicate that Credence at least knew that things weren't like this for normal people.

 Instead, he seemed to just accept the fact that Percival was probably going to whip him bloody before fucking him on the bed.

 "Credence, I'm not going to hurt you-" Percival starts.

 Credence rises from the foot of the bed and then crawls onto the bed.

 He knows exactly what he's doing. He stretches his body over the sheets, pulls the pillow towards his hips, then coyly looks at Percival from under his lashes.

 Percival remembers that not half an hour ago, he had watched the water drip from those same lashes, and had climaxed down the throat of a young man half his age.

 "Mr. Graves, won't you let me please you?" Credence asks.

 The boy will be the death of him, Percival decides.

 But no, as much as he's tempted by the wide expanse of white skin, marred by red welts; as much as he's tempted to nibble those pink lips and lick into that sweet mouth, or mount the gentle curve of his rounded ass, Percival is still a responsible Maj.

 "Lie down," Percival instructs. Credence complies, closing his eyes. Percival reaches under the bed instead, withdrawing his case. He doesn't keep many things in his household, but every Wizard at least has some Soothing Balm, just in case.

 He spreads the cream generously over Credence's abused back. The young man gasps when the cold touches his back, then when it warms to his skin, Credence lets out a soft moan.

 Percival bites his lip.

 Credence squirms when Percival slides his hands across the welts.

 "Sir?"

 "I don't want you hurting," Percival says quickly. Credence settles down and doesn't say anything else. Percival works quickly and quietly, massaging the concoction into bruised flesh. As the balm takes effect, the young man relaxes completely into the soft mattress, going limp and boneless. Red fades to yellow to white. Purples give way to greens and then disappear.

 Percival pulls his hands away, hastily putting away the container.

 A hand shoots out to stop him from getting off the bed.

 He has no chance to protest before lips are pressed against the corner of his mouth.

 "Let me please you, Mr. Graves, sir."

 A warm hand presses against his groin, dipping under the waistband. It is one of the rare times that Percival's steely will fails him. He cannot stop himself from jerking forwards.

 Credence looks surprised, then the corners of his lips perk up into a tiny smile, his confidence surging to the front. With a deft turn of his hand, he has Percival in a loose grip,

 Would it really be so bad, giving in? After all, Percival has wanted this for some time. So what if the circumstances are a little bit different?

 Credence is willing, or as willing as he can be. He's eager to please as well.

 "You're hard," Credence whispers.

 Percival pulls away long enough to shuck off his pants and shrug his shirt off.

 Credence scoots backwards, positioning himself in the middle of the bed. Percival follows, bracketing the young man with his arms.

 "Are you sure you want this?"

 Credence only nods, hair ruffled by the movement against the pillow.

 Percival kisses him.

 The younger man's mouth is every bit as sweet and as delicious as Percival thought it would have been. He's willing, he's eager, he's enthusiastic about giving pleasure.

 Credence's hands wander down the expanse of Percival's back, tracing patterns as they kiss lazily. His legs spread wide, one hooking around Percival's back to bring him closer. Every roll of his hips brings their hard lengths together, creating a friction that makes Percival's heart pound faster. He can feel Credence's pulse beat a rapid staccato through the thin skin of his wrists.

  Percival groans. He has thought of this moment for a long time. It's different from what he imagined shy, timid, Credence to be, but he'll take what he can get.

 Credence uses his leverage to bring their bodies together again and again.

 "In me, please," Credence pants. Percival reaches for his wand. It's been a long time since he's used any of those spells, but it comes like muscle memory. Credence gasps when slick fingers press into him and open him up.

 He whimpers, eyes squeezed shut, whether from pain or pleasure, Percival cannot tell. He scissors his fingers, coaxing the muscle into relaxing. The other hand wraps around Credence's erection, teasing him to take his mind of the discomfort.

 "Mr. Graves," Credence pleads.

 Percival obliges, sinking himself into the warm and willing body.

 The tight heat draws a groan from him. Credence whines, high and needy. He presses both hands to his face, hiding his flushed expression from Percival's eyes.

 Every single movement of Percival's hips draws another whine, another whimper and gasp.

 Percival commits the sight of the trembling young man to memory. Every moan and soft cry is filed away for later.

 "Good boy, Credence, such a good boy," Percival whispers, rolling his hips with every thrust and pumping the hard length trapped between their bodies.

 "May I cum, Mr. Graves?" Credence pants. One hand is braced on the headboard, the other still covering his own face. The curve of his brow, the part of his lips, Percival would like to see that again and again.

 Percival nods.

 "Cum for me, boy!"

 Credence mewls as he climaxes, shuddering around Percival. The older man slows his movements, taking the time to enjoy the sight of the younger man trembling through his orgasm. Credence looks at him from under hooded eyes, a ghost of a curve on his mouth. His hair has been thoroughly messed up.

 Percival surges forward, captures those lips in a kiss and snaps his hips forward. Credence yelps, over sensitized from his orgasm, but he doesn't protest the rougher treatment. Instead, he pants out a soft litany of 'Yes Mr. Graves, feels good Mr. Graves'!

 There are a million reasons why Percival should have never taken this young man under his wing, or accepted the offer of sex. He can't remember a single one right now.

 "My beautiful boy," he growls.

 "Yours," Credence agrees "Yours, sir."

 Percival sinks his teeth into the tender flesh of Credence's shoulder as he climaxes. The solid iron taste of blood slides over his tongue. Credence is gasping, his hand on Percival's neck, pulling him closer.

 Percival pulls away slowly, disengaging from Credence. The young man pouts a little when he has to let go.

 "Never felt that good before," Credence says, completely unbothered by the fact that Percival left a bite on his shoulder. Percival wants to hunt down every single person who dared touch him without giving pleasure in return, and hurt them.

 "It should always feel that good, or better," Percival informs him. Credence looks surprised at his emphatic statement, blush creeping over his cheeks and neck again.

 "I should go," Credence says, rolling onto his side and trying to get up from the bed "I don't want to bother you anymore Mr. Graves."

 Percival catches hold of his arm, then pulls him around so that they're face to face.

 "Stay," Percival says. Credence looks like he wants to protest.

 "Please."

 Credence looks surprised, but he acquiesces, sitting back down and pulling his legs up onto the bed.

 "No one ever asks me to stay," he said quietly.

 "I'm not 'no one', am I?" Percival asks. Credence ducks his head, a shy smile creeping over his face.

 "I guess not."

 He lets himself be drawn into an embrace, falling asleep soon after.

 Percival stares up at the ceiling. There are so many way this could go wrong. But he'll think about them tomorrow.

Reader x Winter Soldier

 Life gets stressful. Your family is miles away, your friends are busy with their own things and frankly, your schedules don't match up all the time. So you do the adult, logical thing to do, and go for a walk.

 You've been going on walks throughout the city for some time now. Usually, you just pick a random direction and start trudging. Tomorrow's a Saturday and they don't need you at work, so tonight you're going to get yourself a little lost. You've got some energy bars in your pocket, your coat is thick, your phone's fully charged, and your wallet has enough petty cash for you to get a cab if you need one.

 The crowds makes you nervous sometimes, so you head to the quieter parts of the city. It's dark, but it's peaceful.

 You like to wander around the older buildings sometimes. You wonder who lived there, or if anyone still does.

 It's getting darker and you walk further still. Your shoes barely make any noise against the pavement. You've long since learned how to walk silently from your younger days, hiding from school bullies.

 People don't often come to this side of town. Most of the buildings are abandoned, slated for demolition. According to the records and rumours, everything will be torn down and rebuilt into a new mall, connected to offices and residences. It will look swanky and upscale in about twenty years time. For now, it's still no more than a dump.

 The sky purples and blackens. In the distance, you see a light flicker briefly in one of the apartments.

 Is someone still living there?

 It's none of your business, but your feet take you closer. Maybe there's a homeless person somewhere.

 You stand across the street and raise your head. There's no more light. Maybe it was a trick of your imagination. You roll your shoulders, stretch your arms, then sigh softly. It's nothing but your mind. For a moment you're disappointed. You don't quite know what you expected, a homeless drunk? A bunch of teen loiterers?

 Your phone buzzes. It's just your manager, telling you that it's all hands on deck tomorrow. You better get a good night's sleep.

 You reluctantly reply in the affirmative, then look back up just in time to catch a shadow slinking away.

 "Hey!" you say.

 There's no reply.

 Someone's here. There's something about the place, and the mood. You wonder if they have enough to eat. Absent-mindedly, you reach into your pocket and pull out your energy bars. You're kind of hungry, but if there's really a person here, they need it more than you. You cross the street, place the bars on the sill, then turn towards home.

        The shadow doesn't plague your thoughts when you're at work, but when you're heading home, it pops up. Work's closer to the derelict buildings, so instead of heading home, you buy some jerky and go to check out the building.

 Again, there's no light, but the energy bars you are gone. That doesn't mean much in the grand scheme of things, because anyone could have taken them. You raise the jerky in it's packaging towards the window, as if offering it to the tenant, then do the same thing you did yesterday.

 Your job doesn't pay well enough for you to do this everyday, but it's enough that you can afford to give whomever is in there some takeout, a bar of chocolate, or at least an apple everyday. Every time, the food is gone, and there's no trace. Even the dust looks like it's been replaced. Artfully replaced, so that it doesn't look like anyone's there.

 You catch a cold after about two weeks. You're sick and dizzy, but you're still intrigued by Shadow, so you head over. When you're leaving the plums on the window sill, you cough. Your chest hurts and it feels like a lung is coming up. You stumble and the ground's coming up fast, but you never hit it.

 There's a strong arm around you, supporting you.

 Through your watering eyes, you make out the silhouette of a long haired man. He's very fit, judging from the hard body currently holding you. Your first thought is that for a homeless guy, he smells pretty good. It's some floral scent of an off brand soap, but it smells nice.

 "Tha-" you cut yourself off with another bout of coughing, and feel yourself being hoisted into a princess carry.

 Shadow brings you into the building. In one of the inner rooms, there's a small heater. Shadow sits you down beside it and hands you a bottle. It's just plain water but it soothes your scratchy itching throat.

 "Thanks," you say it again.

 Shadow just nods. He washes the plum and then takes a bite. He offers it to you.

 "You'll get sick," you protest. He shrugs.

 "I got it for you," you insist.

 Even in the dim light, you can see him frown.

 "You, why do you give me food?" He looks confused.

 Truth be told, you're confused as well. You don't actually know why you're invested in feeding Shadow, aside from the fact that it's fascinating to put food out and then have it disappear later. You cough a couple of times.

 "I don't really know. S'fun I guess?"

 His frown seems to deepen, but seems to accept the answer at face value. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you make out the outline of his strong jaw, the shaggy hair, and his long eye lashes. You cough again and he stands up, returning a moment later with a thick blanket.

 The thick blanket goes over your shoulders. His hands, larger than yours, pat your shoulders gently.

 "Here," he says, digging one knuckle into the vertebra that sits at the base of your neck. You stiffen at first, but the rolling motion feels great, and the itch in your throat instantly disappears. He continues to rub through the blanket.

 "Thank you," you tell him. You wonder why he's alone, why he's here.

 Impulsively, you reach back and still his hands.

 "Do you want to stay with me?" you ask him. He looks startled, but before he can protest, you continue "I mean my place is small but there's enough room for one more, and you don't have to stay here alone with no food."

 You don't tack on the 'And I can come home to you'.

 Suspicion clouds his handsome features.

 "Or you could just stay here and I'll continue feeding you," you quickly add, in hopes that you don't offend him.

 Shadow's lips turn downwards. You wish you could poke them upwards.

 "You should go, it's getting late. Don't come back until you're better."

 It's a dismissal. But it's also an invitation. You can come back when you're better.

      It takes a week for the cold to leave you completely. You decide to celebrate with some cake. You get a couple of slices, blueberry cheese, and you head off to see Shadow.

 His outline is in the window when you arrive, and it descends quickly.

 "I brought cake," you tell him lamely when he stares at you. You manage to get him to sit down and open the box. You hand him a plastic fork and dig in.

 He takes a bite and moans. You choke on your cake.

 Holy shit.

 That's the sort of sound that you hear in your guilty pleasure gay pornos. Is he doing it on purpose? You have no idea.

 He looks at you in concern.

 "I'm fine," you wave him off.

 He doesn't say much, but makes a lot of those moaning noises as he polishes off his slice of cake. You just know that you're going to be thinking of those later tonight when you get home. You try not to look at him in the face when he thanks you.

 This time, he lays a gloved hand on your knee and squeezes.

 He probably doesn't mean it like that.

 You know you're moderately good looking, not enough to turn heads on the street, but enough that people don't mind looking at you. You run a hand through your hair. It's been messed up by the wind and mild drizzle.

 "Here, let me."

 Your breath hitches when Shadow leans over and cards his fingers through your hair. He finger combs it into a side part, neat and orderly, then sits back on his haunches.

 Your faces feels really hot. It doesn't help when he leans closer and squints at you.

 "Are you alright? You're turning red." He pulls off a glove and feels your forehead.

 More blood rushes to your face.

 "I'm f… fine, just tired." The excuse sounds tired, but he believes it. He scowls and you feel like a kid who got caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar.

 You get up when he tugs on your hand and follow him to the mattress in the corner.

 "Take a nap. I'll wake you in a bit." He motions for you to lie down. You hesitate, but then park yourself on the foam and then lie down. You close your eyes and breathe deeply. The mattress smells of his clean soap. It's nice.

 Before you know it, you're out like a light.

        You wake when there's a man shaking your shoulder.

 "We're here."

 You're in an cab, in front of your apartment.

 The man looks at you in concern and then shakes you again.

 "You alright?"

 "Huh, yeah."

 Apparently Shadow got you a cab home and put you inside without waking you. No easy feat when you're 5 feet 10 and have a good amount of muscle on you. You wonder just how strong the man is. You also wonder how he knows your address, and how he paid. If he's too poor to rent a room, he probably can't get a cab from the dilapidated buildings to here, especially since cabs charge a midnight fee for late night pick ups.

 You thank the cabbie and then head inside.

 Your bed's much softer than the lumpy mattress, but it doesn't smell as nice.

           You haven't learned Shadow's name. You're not sure you want to know. He knows yours, or at least you think he does. He probably dug around your wallet to find your driver's license and get your address.

 It's not quite important, or at least you don't think it is.

 The important thing is that you now spend almost every evening hanging out at the buildings. Sometimes, you just drop off the food and head home. Sometimes, Shadow beckons you in and you have takeout together. Sometimes, you find money stuck in your pocket even though you never noticed Shadow putting it there.

 Shadow doesn't say much, and you don't really like to ask much. You just like hanging out with someone who's quiet and sort of interesting. He's quiet, you're quiet, the two of you are quiet together.

 The fact that you're attracted to his chiselled features has little bearing on it. Although, you sort of do wish he was attracted to you.

 During a thunderstorm, the two of you are eating pizza in the smallest room, huddled close to the heater. On the third slice, Shadow takes a long drink from his can of coke, then lets out a long sigh.

 "My name is James," he says. It's a really short sentence, and he doesn't say anything after that, but you sort of feel that it's a big concession, like it's not something you should know.

 "Okay." You slide the last piece of pizza over and finish off your soda.

 It's still storming outside. You can't possibly go home without getting seriously soaked. James looks from your face to the window, then back to your face again.

 "You can sleep here." He motions to the mattress again.

 You snort.

 "Where will you sleep?" you ask him.

 He shrugs.

 You were going to wait out the rain, but it doesn't seem to be letting up. You kick off your shoes, shuck off your pants and flop onto the mattress. Tomorrow's a public holiday and you're taking the day off, so you don't need to worry about work. Even if you did, you've worn the same thing to work twice before. At most, you'll just scrub down quickly in the sink before heading off.

 The rustle of plastic means James is putting the trash away. You hear water running, he's washing his hands, then moments later, a warm body curls up beside you.

 Your breath hitches.

 James leaves a couple of inches between the two of you, but his breath is still warm on your neck. He drags the blanket over the two of you, and gruffly tells you to go to sleep.

        You can't help it. You remember his palm, still in the glove, heavy on your hip in the morning. You remember the sleep-dazed eyes that look at you when you slowly push yourself upright. You remember his confused expression the morning light and the subsequent realization in his eyes that you slept with him.

 You remember how he awkwardly removes his hand from your hip and cradles it to his chest.

 "Hey, thanks." You hope it makes things less awkward. The stubble makes him look roguish, but the tiny smile that curls the ends of his mouth makes him look like a kitten.

 You drag your pants and shoes back on, then leave for the day.

 The moment you get back to your apartment, you hop in the shower and grab your cock. The way he groaned while eating the cheesecake, the look of bliss when he eats hot pasta, the surprise when he tastes the new cultivar of bananas, his expression when you were gazing at him tenderly that morning.

 You cum, his name on your lips, white stripes across the cream tiles, and sag against the wall.

 The water's cold, exactly like how you feel inside.

 You're falling in love with someone you barely even know.

       James knows something has changed. You're not one for expressing your feelings, but you can't help but let your gaze linger. He could be asexual for all you know. James always just cocks his head to one side and stares back until you avert your gaze. He's never unnerved when you let your eyes travel over his features, or his body. In the fading light of evening, you admire his silhouette in the window, then lust for his outline in the moonlight.

 "Come out with me, Saturday," you blurt out.

 He looks confused.

 You have no clue what he does for money. He could be a robber, a mafia member. It doesn't seem to matter at the moment.

 "Okay," James says it cautiously, like he's afraid you'll take back the invitation. You nod.

 "Cupcat?" you ask. He frowns a bit, then nods.

 And you just asked a guy out on a date.

 And he said yes.

 And you have no idea whether he knows it's a date or not.

 But you can't be bothered to care.

          Cupcat is a tiny coffee shop. It sits on the border of the invisible line between the so called ghetto and the middle class. People bustle in and out, but no one pays attention to James with his cap pulled low, huddling his hoodie.

 He's like a startled cat all the time, all grace but wary of anyone who might extend a hand his way. Like a neglected pet, he leans into you because he sort of knows you will be good to him, be nice to him.

 You order a coffee, he orders the same. The barista delivers the coffee to your table in the corner. James looks out at the streets, at the people hurrying by and sighs softly.

 "This used to be a ice cream parlour," he says, "Used to come here to see if we could charm a cone out of the cashier."

 "We?" You don't mean to pry, but it's really the first time you've heard him say something about someone else.

 "Steve. We used to be best friends."

 His heavy tone implies that some serious trouble went down.

 "You miss him?"

 "… yeah."

 Your heart clenches. The single syllable holds a quiet sort of grief for things that could have been but weren't. The expression that crosses his face says that 'Steve' was more than a best friend. He's still hung up on Steve. That's the reason that he's not interested in you.

 "I'm sorry," you say softly, for lack of anything else to say.

 He shrugs, then lifts the cup to his face. You do the same, hating yourself for making it awkward.

 When you swallow your mouthful of hot coffee, you look up to see him gazing at you with that tiny smile. Your heart skips a beat and sinks. Does he see you as a replacement?

 You take him to the park, feed the ducks. You brought actual duck feed, and tell him that bread isn't nutritious enough for the birds. He gives you a disbelieving look, but takes the pellets from you anyway and tosses them into the water. The ducks gather around and peck at the food in excitement. When you steal a glance, James looks amused. You're secretly glad.

 James is a bit more talkative during the day. You find out that he had a sister, he won't say what happened, but it was a long time ago. He doesn't seem to know about certain things like smart phones, but he knows a lot about telegrams. His modern knowledge isn't really up to date, but he knows a fair bit of history.

 He doesn't talk about Steve again.

 You spend the day wandering around the city. Somehow, you wander home. You don't realize until you're two streets away, eating the hotdogs from one of the roadside carts.

 "My place is just around the corner." The hotdog in your mouth makes it hard to talk, but James seems to understand. "Do you wanna go there? Or do you want to go home?"

 James scrunches his nose. You feel your heart skip another beat, urgh.

 "Can I?" He looks as if he can't believe it.

 "Sure."

       Your flat is tiny. You feel kind of embarrassed about it. The previous tenant wasn't one for walls and you didn't have the money to do that kind of remodelling, so everything is just out in the open. You put some water on to boil as James gingerly sits on one of the flimsy looking chairs. He looks around curiously. There isn't even enough space for a couch.

 "Shower?" You lift a towel in question. He hesitates. You've never seen him with his shirt off. Never. He's never taken his gloves off either.

 He takes it from you and disappears into your bathroom. You hear the shower go on, and try not to think about him soaping his bare body up with your soap, instead busying yourself with finding something he can wear to bed.

 While you're making some hot chocolate and heating up TV dinners, you hear a thunk and a loud swear.

 "Are you alright?" You knock on the bathroom door. To your surprise, it swings open. James turns, with a deer in headlights expression.

 Oh.

 A silver left arm is definitely not what you're expecting. You feel your eyebrows go up and can't help but stare a bit. You're also slightly thankful that the arm distracts you from staring at other things.

 "Dinner's ready soon. You can wear my shirt."

 You've a big shirt, something you got from the thrift shop that got bigger the more you washed it. It's big on you, but it'll probably be just nice on him.

 James looks surprised at your lack of reaction.

 You grab the shirt, drape it over the sink, then close the door.

 James emerges a few minutes later in your shirt. It's short sleeved so his silver arm is obvious. He looks all fidgety but you're not staring at his arm. Rather, you find your attention drawn to his boxers, that he tugged on while he was still damp. They cling to - um - places. Some - um - very big places. You cough politely and turn around before you can get a boner and embarrass yourself.

 You get in the shower quickly, turning it all the way to cold. You need to get a hold of yourself.

 When you emerge, James is sitting, stiff and blank faced.

 "I'm sorry," he says.

 You look at him, non-plussed.

 "What for?"

 "The arm bothers you," he says quietly, ashamed. You frown.

 "It doesn't." You sit down in front of him and pull your pre-packaged dinner towards you.

 His head shoots up in surprise.

 "You were staring," he sounds accusatory.

 You feel the heat rise to your cheeks again.

 "You're very handsome," you mutter into your chicken breast pasta. Now it's his turn to go red.

 "Oh," he says softly.

 He doesn't refute your admission, doesn't say that you're crazy, or doesn't try to leave. He frowns at his food, then eats it in quiet contemplation. It's better than what usually happens when you try to hit on men.

 After dinner's done, he surprises you by flopping onto your bed. It's the only time you've allowed yourself to splurge and get a nice king sized bed. It barely fits, but it's nice when you want to sprawl out and relax. You clean up the foil and take out the trash.

 When you get back into the flat, James seems to be asleep, curled up on his left arm, breathing deep and even.

 You change into your pyjamas and get into bed, trying not to disturb James.

 Despite your best efforts, he raises his head to look at you. When you lie down on your back, he turns over to face you.

 "Thanks."

 You valiantly try not to think about how close he is and how nice it is to smell your soap on him. His hair is fluffy from the shower and you really wanna tug on it.

 You don't get to think any further because one moment you're staring at his long lashes, the next he's straddling you.

 There's a 'what?' moment where you have no idea what's going on, followed by your libido cheering, because he's kissing you.

 His lips a chapped and his metal fingers are heinously cold when they trail over your stomach. You shiver and moan softly.

 "You always looked at me, I didn’t know what it meant." His breath whispers across your neck.

 "You're very attractive," you manage to say even though it's hard to think when his hips are making round motions against yours. Some part of you is embarrassed that you got caught staring, the other part doesn’t care.

 "You don't have to," you tell him, trying to hold him at bay. What are the odds that the hot guy you've been secretly lusting after decides to have sex with you? Not that you're not good looking, just that he's a bit out of your reach if you're going by normal standards and you don't want to ruin a budding friendship.

 You also can't get the thought of 'Steve' out of your head.

 "I want to," he rasps. His husky voice goes straight to your cock.

 "What about Steve?" you ask. You regret it when he tenses up.

 "What about him?" He sounds a little angry, a little confused.

 Even if you want his hands to keep touching your skin and maybe touch a little lower and maybe have a few orgasms together, you owe it to yourself to not be a replacement.

 "You still love him, don't you?"

 His expression of pain and grief is answer enough. You gently push him away but he holds on to you.

 He doesn't really want sex, not now, you can tell, but he does want to be held.

 You hold him close, pressing your front to his back as he curls up again.

 He sighs and it's full of pain that you wish you could take away. Steve better appreciate what you're doing for him.

 James falls asleep quickly, but it takes you much longer.

           James drops by again on Monday evening. You don't expect it because you think that after that fiasco, he'd stop coming by or tell you to stop visiting, but no, he's waiting outside your door when you get home.

 He's brought some takeout.

 The two of you sit at the table and you tell him about Christy at work who won't shut up about how great her boyfriend is and how he's ruined her for other men. You also tell him about Abdul and his wife who welcomed a baby boy a couple of days ago. You tell James you're thinking of getting some picture books for the baby.

 He nods along, he smiles, he laughs when you mimic Rick who's gone over Myra.

 You smile at him. Everything's back to normal. Or as normal as it can get.

        Over the course of two weeks, you notice that James has left a couple of shirts in your flat. There's underwear and a baseball cap there too. He doesn't like to show his face in public. He doesn't talk much about what happened, but you're guessing that he's a veteran, sent home from war, suffering from ptsd.

 He has nightmares. Sometimes he wakes with a shout. More often, he wakes shaking violently, flesh hand stuffed into his mouth to keep from crying out.

 You hush him each time, stroke his hair until he quiets.

 Some nights, he goes back to sleep. Some nights, he gets up and sits at your table until daybreak. Some nights, he turns around and tells you things.

 "When I woke up, they were cutting it off."

 "It took me ages to get used to it."

 "I still hear the gunshots."

 "I blew up a town once."

 "I think I killed someone important."

 "There are five ways to kill someone with a paper clip."

 "They made me hurt people."

 You never know what to say, so you nod and kiss his temple as you rub his shoulders. Your quiet acceptance of the things he confesses in the dark seem to reassure him. You tell him things of your own.

 "I think I killed the neighbour's dog by accident with a chocolate bar."

 "I cheated on the midterm."

 "I don't go home often enough."

 "They tied me to the flagpole."

 "He broke my heart, I slashed his tires."

 They pale in comparison, but James takes them as equivalents, and nods accordingly. He laces his fingers with yours, sighs into the space between the two of you.

 It's contentment that he breathes out, not exhaustion.

 Somehow, that makes you love him more.

 But you know this won't last.

        "Didn't you hear? There was a bombing. Everyone's on the lookout for the Winter Soldier." Christy sips at her soda as she chats with Ricky. You drift closer as Christy pulls out her phone and shows the picture of the wanted man's face.

 Your heart stops.

 A bombing? That wasn't possible because James spent the day in your house. You wonder if anyone will believe you if you tell them. You think they won’t.

 When you return home, James has already packed everything.

 His expression is morose.

 "I have to leave," he says.

 "You didn't do it," you insist because you know he didn't. He gives you a wry smile.

 "But they don't know that," he grabs your wrist and tugs you into a hard kiss.

 When he pulls away, he cards his metal fingers through your hair.

 "I'll come back to you," he promises.

 You don't think he will, but you hope he does anyway.

  You're not one for gossip or viral news, but you follow the updates and trending hashtags obsessively. James was sighted in the city. James was involved in a car chase, James was this, James was that.

 Captain America defends James. You laugh at yourself in the privacy of your flat later because of course you never stood a chance if the other guy was Captain freaking America, Steve Rogers.

 Captain America gets declared a fugitive. Everyone disappears. The world holds their breath, but nothing else surfaces.

 You regret all the times you never took selfies. You regret not taking him up on that offer. You regret not confessing that you like him for more than his body. You regret not kissing away his nightmares. You regret moving away when he touched you.

 You regret not telling him you love him.

 The news dies down. The city enters some sort of weird post-Captain limbo where people get into shouting matches about who was in the right and who was in the wrong. You get into one yourself. There's a brief scuffle at work, and then you get a warning. Of course, everything gets hushed up eventually, but nothing ever dies on the Internet.

 One week. You find the same generic brand soap he uses and put it in your flat. It lies an unopened bar on the soap dish, taking up space in your already cramped bathroom.

 Two weeks. You buy the I <3 NY cap on a whim, restock the fridge with fruit. You eat all the apples and the bananas but the plums rot.

 Three weeks. Sleek gloves, long sleeved shirts, a giant hoodie all make their way into your closet. You tuck them into the corner where he used to keep his shirts. On a whim, you add boxers with stars and stripes.

 You're not sure what you're waiting for, if you're waiting for anyone or anything. Everyday feels like another step on a tightrope, a precarious balancing act where one wrong breath will send you toppling forty stories without a net.

 You work, you come home, you wait, you sleep.

        The phone rings. Opening your eyes to find it is too much of an effort, but you manage to swipe at the green button.

 "Hello?"

 You're snap awake.

 "James?"

 There's a bit of heavy breathing on the other side, followed by a soft 'yeah'.

 "I miss you," he whispers.

 You want to ask if he's okay, but you won't. Thinking about it means thinking about how he fought on the highway, how he ran and how he was pursued. If you ask, he will tell you the truth and you might not be able to handle it if he isn't alright.

 "When are you coming back?" you ask instead, holding your breath. Tears are threatening to spill but you refuse to let them come. If you start, you might not stop. You can imagine his tired, exhausted face. You can imagine the downturn of his mouth, the darkness under his eyes.

 James huffs a tired little laugh.

 "I will." He doesn't say when, just that he will. It doesn't bode well. He won't be coming back for a long time.

 "Can I see you?" Your voice trembles a bit too much for your liking.

 You hear the silence, the soft hitch in his breath.

 "I have to go," he says instead, a voice full of regret. You wonder if Steve can calm his nightmares, you wonder if he feeds James enough. You wonder if James is happy with Steve now.

 There's and audible click.

 Your cheeks are wet.

         There's a man in a hoodie waiting in the alley when you emerge from your workplace. You don't usually pay attention to your surroundings, but you notice the man because the hoodie looks a lot like the one James wore when you first met him. It looks like his cap too.

 You cautiously take a few steps towards the alley.

 "Hey," you start to say, but you get dragged into the darkened corner and yanked onto a bike.

 Under the cap, brilliant blue eyes and a steely expression. You swallow hard.

 "James insisted I come get you," Captain America says. He smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes.

 Words fail you, so you nod instead. You should probably grab a change of clothes, or tell your manager you're taking a few days or something, but this definitely takes precedence.

 "Where is he?" You hear yourself ask.

 "Safe." Steve Rogers glances around, then revs the engine. You hold on tight as he pulls out of the alleyway and zooms through the traffic.

 From the bike, to the ship. From the ship to a boat. From the boat to a tiny island. From the island, into a private jet and to another country.

 You huddle into your coat as you sit opposite Captain America, unable to admire the scenery.

 "He says you helped him," Rogers says, offhand, as if he doesn't care. But of course he cares.

 You're not usually shy, but you find that words have seemed to abandoned you. All you can do is nod.

 "Why?"

 You shrug. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

 All of a sudden, there's an arm against your throat and a weight bearing down. You look up, blood draining from your face.

 "If you hurt him." He doesn't need to finish the sentence. You understand perfectly.

 Rogers withdraws and sits back down. He pointedly doesn't look at you the rest of the journey.

         James 'Bucky' Barnes is kept in a facility where he will be 'deprogrammed'. You have no idea what that means because that's obviously spy talk and you have no experience with spy stuff.

 You are allowed to see him, only because James keeps insisting. Apparently, he stole the phone he used to call you. He's not supposed to have any outside contact.

 When you see him, you stop breathing for a bit. He looks small and tired, dressed only in a pair of white scrubs. His silver arm is cut off at the bicep, only a stump.

 Before you know it, you've crossed the room and have draped your coat over his shoulders.

 "You're here!" He sounds surprised and relieved.

 You pull him into a hug then press your forehead to his and take a deep breath. He smells like hospital disinfectant, it pierces your nose. He melts into your embrace for a moment, then pushes you away.

 "I'm dangerous," he says.

 "I punched Bob," you admit.

 James looks surprised and taken aback.

 "He said you were a criminal so I punched him," you explained.

 It startles a laugh out of James. He sucks in a breath, his eyes crinkle and the chuckle just punches out of his chest.

 He's always the first to confess something. This time it's your turn.

 "I think I love you."

 There's a gasp in the deafening silence. The peanut gallery of doctors, nurses, security, Steve Rogers, and the apparent King of Wakanda pretend like they're not listening to your conversation.

 James goes wide-eyed for a bit, then the corners of his mouth start to curl.

 "I think I love you too."

 Then his mouth is on yours and you're sighing your relief into his lungs.

    You're pretty sure that your hair is a mess from how hard James is gripping it. You're also pretty sure Captain America's going to glare you into non-existence. Right now you don't quite care if James is just saying it to make you happy, you want what you can get and you're willing to take what he's offering.

 Even just for a moment, you want James for yourself.

 James takes your hand and leads you to his quarters. It's a simple room, a small cot that's barely enough for him, but he sits you down on it and kisses you again. He straddles you, grinds down on your hardening cock and whimpers your name. You pant out his name in return.

 "Please please," you hear yourself say. He lets you up long enough for you to get your pants off, then his flesh hand is wrapped around your cock, tugging gently. It's too dry to be comfortable but you can't really care because he's okay, he's alive, and he wants this as well.

 He stops jerking you off to get his pants off. You take the opportunity to push him down on the bed and get your mouth on his cock. It's huge and it barely fits, but you try your best to take it all, looking up at him to make sure he's into it. James looks down at you wide-eyed, as if he can't believe you're sucking his cock. His openness, his reaction to what you're doing to him is a huge turn on. You're achingly hard just from watching him. You swirl your tongue on the tip, dip into the slit. He groans low in his throat and grabs the sheets to prevent himself from bucking upwards.

 "M'gonna," he rasps out. You take a deep breath and go as deep as you can.

 You feel warm cum flood your mouth as he cries out. He tries to tug you away, but you hold onto his hips and continue to suck until he's done. Only then, do you sit up. You lock your gaze with him, then deliberately swallow.

 He makes a strangled noise.

 It's your turn to straddle him. You spit in your hand and grind down lightly as you tug on your own erection. James is staring it with unabashed lust. His tongue darts out briefly, wetting his lips. You would love to slide into his hot mouth. Maybe later, but not now. Now, you just want to show him how good it can be.

 You throw back your head, moan for his benefit. He makes another strangled noise and sits up. He pulls you towards him, trapping your cock between the two of you. He pulls you into another kiss, seemingly uncaring of the lingering taste of cum.

 His hand knocks yours away and it's his hand on your hard length, pulling and twisting.

 It doesn't take long for you to cum. James catches most of it with his hand, then licks it off his fingers, making you swallow hard. There needs to be lube and condoms soon, you think to yourself as you rest your forehead against his.

 The cot is tiny, but the two of you make it work, curling around each other and clinging as tightly as you can.

 "I'm not a good person," James whispers when you're lying together.

 You brush the hair out of his eyes and nod.

 "I'm in love with a fugitive," you whisper back.