Bloodbath & Beyond

Wind rustles through the leaves. A bird titters somewhere behind you.

The heady, buttery smell of popcorn drifts towards you.

Strange.

Very strange considering it's coming from the gaping, circular mouth of a sewer.

At first, it had started with dreams of floating. Dreams where every other thought dissipated and was replaced with the undulating, throbbing sensation of it. Then, those dreams turned… peculiar. A clown. Bells jingling. Distant, melodic calliope music that grew dissonant the longer you listened. Children singing a nursery rhyme that didn't make sense.

The really unsettling thing was that every time you woke up, you were soaked. You'd rub your legs together for relief, determined to restrain yourself from sliding your fingers between your cunt. But god, you wanted to.

So many Derry children had gone missing. Others made claims of a clown in a sewer. Surely, not your clown.

They were always playing near them — the sewers.

Probably the same sewers where you now stand, in a knee-length dress that flutters with the soft breeze. You take a deep breath of the familiar scent and take one step into the tunnel. Wet pebbles crunch beneath your feet as you step further inside. Amidst the popcorn, there's a distinct damp odor. It's colder without the sunlight.

Afraid of getting lost, you continue straight, avoiding any of the turns and glancing behind you every so often at the bright opening from whence you came.

The tunnel opens up into an expansive area. In the middle of it, a pile of… toys? Junk? Forgotten belongings that wash away into the sewers during the many rains — you pick out bicycle wheels and teddy bears with your eyes. It's impossibly tall, looming up above you.

This must be another dream.

And if it is…

Your footsteps echo as you curve around the mountain of discarded belongings. Something out of place.

A circus wagon with its side panel door open. From the prickling darkness, a tall, slender figure emerges. It smiles, revealing two buck teeth amidst other normal teeth. His eyes are bright blue, but seem to glow in the dim, blue lighting of the sewer. So, the children hadn't been lying. This wasn't some unfounded urban legend.

"Oh my god," you breathe. "It is you."

The thudding of boots thunders across the wooden floor of the caravan, echoing against the walls of the sewer as the clown takes a running leap, effortlessly landing a few inches from you. You lift your head, gazing into the abruptly warm, amber eyes that gaze back. Red lips part, revealing now sharp teeth, more teeth than any human should have. You blink, swallow. Tighten your fingers into a fist.

In any other situation, maybe you'd scream. Run away. But you don't. The clown sees this. After a few seconds, his mouth closes around the pointed, layered teeth. He shivers, and a jingling rings in your ears.

"Ouuh. Ooouh, you're not afraid… but…" The clown suddenly snuffles close to you, his red-tipped nose running along the length of your neck. "Something else."

Yes, you think. Something else.

You hinge slightly at the waist and gather the hem of your dress into your palm. You straighten, bringing the dress to your hip, and with your other hand, you reach into your cotton underwear and collect some of your warm, slick arousal on your fingertips.

You hold them out in front of you, like offering a feral dog some meat.

You can feel the clown bristle above you, elongating. Orange eyes flicker down to your fingers, to your legs. Back to your face. The expression on its face reads one thing — hungry. Big, long arms wrap around your torso, and you feel the jostling steps of the clown as it runs back towards the wagon, taking you with it. For a moment, it almost scares you, but as it always does in your feverish dreams, the arousal takes over when the creature in front of you presses your back against the wood panel of the wagon.

"What do you taste like…." Without warning, lithe, gloved fingers wrap around your wrist. Its crimson lips close around your fingers, the ones that are coated in your wetness. You can feel its mouth pulsing, tongue scrubbing at the pads to remove all traces. With a wet pop, it pulls your fingers from its mouth.

It smells you again. Every inch of you. Open-mouthed inhaling of the scents you give off while gloved hands trail behind its face. When it passes by your mouth, its hands on your neck, you catch its lips in a kiss.

The inside of the clown's mouth tastes unlike anything you've ever experienced. There's no remnants or hints of food, no personal notes, or anything normal. No, instead it's euphoric and dangerous and bright, like licking a battery. You dive back in for more, running your tongue along the other waiting muscle. A tongue that feels too long for its mouth. You moan into the cavern of the clown's throat, and a feral-sounding growl swallows yours.

Your groin presses up against Pennywise's. There's something there, but it's not what you're used to — not what you expected. Your hand drifts down between your bodies, almost apprehensively, to feel more. It takes a moment, digging underneath and between the silk confines of its costume, but eventually, you find it. What it is, you aren't sure. At first, it feels like you do, but larger, a longer slit that's wetter than you could ever get. The soft flesh is covered in a thick, viscous fluid that leaks from between the folds. Your finger trails along the slick edge curiously.

Then, without warning, something slimy and strong slithers from deep within, slithers out to meet your fingers. The tip of it curls around your finger like a serpent, writhing its way up the soft inner flesh of your palm, then your wrist. It's warm and has a strength that could pull your entire hand inside of it, if it wanted. You yank your hand away from between its legs, swallowing hard as you hear a retreating squelch. You don't dare look down.

"What… what are you?"

The once playful voice drops an octave, no longer high-pitched and melodic. The answer is serious and simple: "Everything."

The dull ache of fear presses a single sharp fingernail into your arousal. "No, what does that mean? What did I just touch?"

"Me," it insists plainly. "You want something else?" The question is eager, riddled with capability. You know what it means — a question of forms, of what it can do. It can take any form to frighten you, naturally. In this moment, however, it can take any form to fuck you, to please you.

You watch its eyes, glowing bright amber in the dim lighting, as they watch you. Finally, it speaks again. "You want to say yes… but you don't smell like you want something else... small human is hungry... curious…"

Your cunt aches. Beats hard. Whatever it is, it can smell your arousal as it leaks from you.

"I don't want to run… but even if I did, I can't run fast enough to get away from you."

The clown shakes its head quickly, excitedly.

"You want to play pretend?" you ask.

Another head shake. "Nnnooo… wasting time."

"Fine, then." You lower yourself to your knees, the grain of the old wood digging into the flesh. While maintaining eye contact with the creature, you lean back and drop your legs apart to reveal a pair of soaked underwear, your dress gathering at your waist. Its nostrils flare. The hungry gaze returns, and you notice a specific change in its stature. Pennywise mimics your previous position, on its knees, and shuffles close to you. Not close enough that your hips touch, however.

For a fleeting moment, you're confused.

Pennywise straightens up, almost proudly. From the slit, a glistening tendril slithers out with a wet sound, and you can't help but stare, watching intently as it grows, thickens. The tip of the deep red appendage snakes forward until it bumps into the cotton of your panties and glides upwards like a tongue, leaving a slick trail on the fabric. Then, suddenly, long fingers reach towards the fabric and rip it apart, tearing the shreds away from your legs before you have any time to protest. Not that you would, anyway.

As Pennywise towers over you, crawling its way up your body, the tentacle moves of its own free will, writhing and slithering between your legs. The slick sensation pulls a whimpering, pitiable moan from your lips, your eyes fluttering helplessly at the feeling. You throw your head back and flatten against the floor.

"Please," you beg.

"Pleaasse?" It echoes.

You nod, determined.

When it slips inside, driving its wriggly tendril forward, your jaw drops in a silent scream, pupils dilating. The feeling is all-consuming — it continues to penetrate your insides, writhing and stretching instinctively towards your deepest spots. Longer and thicker than any man you'd been with, it fills you in a way that leaves you breathless and sweating — scooting back to get away from it as the pressure intensifies.

Pennywise's arms are fast on your hips; however, it pulls you back sharply to its groin. The arms feel too long, too strong for its body, and sharp, black talons that have ripped forward from the tips of the white gloves dig into the soft flesh. It finds purchase, and tightens its grip. "Nooooo," It coos, almost mockingly. "You stay right here. You're not going anywheeeere!"

You mewl and clench your inner muscles hard. The creature above you snarls, and you feel the tendril twitch within you. It finds a rhythm with its thrusts. They're hard and meaningful, jolting your body backwards with each one. Internally, you can feel the tentacle as it moves, searches for your innermost spots, or curls back against the spongy flesh that makes you see stars.

Its thrusts are shallow, pulling you back and forth on the girthiest part of the tentacle while the rest of it curls and twitches inside you. You lift your head weakly, watching as it writhes. Above you, the clown is breathing heavily, snarling, and exhaling long breaths. Heavy-lidded, your eyes dart from between the two visuals repeatedly, fueling your release. It comes like a wave, crashing over you. Your toes curl, fingers tighten into fists. A single drop of sweat descends from your hairline, trailing down your neck.

"Fuck, oh my god…!" you cry.

With a sudden buck of its hips, the inhuman cock buries all the way inside you, pelvis pressed tightly against yours. You feel an alien, indescribable pulsing inside you, throbbing hard against your walls as it, too, orgasms. You feel full. And yet, the throbbing continues. The filling continues until it begins to leak out the sides with deep, wet squelches. Its release lasts longer than you think possible, and your body eventually goes limp in his grip, rocking helplessly back and forth with its erratic, slowing motions.

When the creature finally pulls itself away from you, drawing the tentacle back up into its body, a staggering amount of sticky, post-coital liquid seeps from between your legs — you can feel it dripping from your used cunt, which still throbs. It pools beneath you, slimy and warm.

"I can't believe you…"

You lift your head before continuing.

The clown is gone. Sucked back into the darkness from whence it came.

With a quivering breath, you find the torn scraps of your underwear and attempt to clean yourself up. The fabric absorbs little of the mess. You get to your knees first, then gingerly push yourself up onto your feet. Your legs are shaky and feel like they're made of rubber.

You'll come back if he doesn't find you first.

Music was thudding through the walls so hard it felt like the whole house had a pulse.

ΩΒC looked like every bad decision college had ever made rolled into one building. The front rooms were packed shoulder to shoulder, hot and loud and sticky, bass rattling the cheap frames on the walls while somebody in the kitchen yelled over somebody else to move the hell out of the way if they weren’t taking a shot. The whole place smelled like beer, weed, sweat, cologne, and whatever Natasha had spilled on the floor fifteen minutes ago and refused to apologize for.

You were drunk enough for the room to feel pleasantly soft around the edges, but not so far gone you’d crossed into useless. Which, honestly, was worse. Because it meant you were coherent enough to already be dreading tomorrow morning.

Your head was going to split open. Your mouth was going to taste like carpet. And there was at least a seventy percent chance you were going to wake up in Bucky’s room with one earring on and your phone dead under his bed.

“Why are you making that face?” Darcy asked, leaning in so you could hear her over the music.

You blinked at her. “I can feel tomorrow.”

Natasha snorted into her cup. “That’s because you mixed liquor.”

“You handed me half of it.”

“And you accepted it,” she said easily, like that settled the matter.

Across from you, Sam looked deeply unimpressed by the entire conversation. “Every year,” he said, shaking his head. “Same damn party, same damn tragedy.”

“It’s tradition,” you said.

“It’s idiocy.”

“You’re here.”

“I live here.”

Darcy pointed at him with the neck of her bottle. “And yet somehow still the least fun person in the room.”

Sam opened his mouth to answer, then glanced over your shoulder and made a face. “Never mind. Here comes your problem.”

You didn’t even have to turn around to know who he meant.

You felt Bucky before you saw him, that broad warm body sliding in behind you, one hand landing on your hip like he had every right in the world. Which he did. His chest bumped your shoulder, and then his mouth found the side of your head, careless and affectionate and already laughing.

“There you are,” he said into your hair, words just a little slurred.

You turned enough to look at him, and there he was—drunk as hell, pretty as sin, cheeks flushed, hair a mess from people grabbing at him all night, dark T-shirt stretched across his shoulders.

“I have been standing here the whole time,” you said.

“Mhm.” He nodded like he believed you in theory, then leaned in and kissed you anyway.

It wasn’t a polite kiss. It never really was with him after he’d been drinking. His mouth was warm and insistent, his hand spreading wider against your side as the room tilted just enough to make you grin against him.

When he pulled back, he barely made it an inch before going in again, like he’d already forgotten you were in the middle of a conversation. His hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, then lower, fingers pressing in with no shame whatsoever.

You gave him a look. “James.”

“What?” he said, innocent in a way that would’ve been more convincing if his hand wasn’t halfway down your ass.

Sam groaned. “Man, take that somewhere else.”

“You’re in my house,” Bucky said, not even looking at him.

Steve appeared out of nowhere beside Sam, red cup in hand, looking irritatingly sober by comparison. “This is our house and it’s a public space.”

“Oh, don’t start,” you muttered.

Bucky smiled at that, lazy and pleased with himself, then hooked two fingers into one of the back belt loops on your shorts and tugged until you were flush against him. He was all heat and liquor and that stupid familiar smell of soap and skin and whatever he’d sprayed on before the party. Enough to make your body go soft before your brain could catch up.

You tried to keep talking anyway, because you had dignity.

“So like I was saying,” you started, turning back toward your friends while Bucky planted his chin on your shoulder, “if Professor Xavier gives me one more assignment with no actual rubric, I’m going to—”

Bucky kissed the side of your neck.

You stopped.

Natasha’s mouth twitched. “You were saying?”

You pushed at his chest without any real force. “Bucky.”

He hummed against your skin, not sorry in the slightest. “You’re ignoring me.”

“I’m talking.”

“To them.”

“Yes.”

Darcy snorted. Steve looked down into his drink like he did not know any of you. Sam just muttered, “I’m begging y’all,” and walked off.

Bucky’s hand slipped around your waist and under the hem of your top just enough for his palm to brush bare skin. The touch made you suck in a breath before you could help it. He felt that too, because his mouth curved against your jaw.

“There she is,” he said quietly.

You shot him a look that probably would’ve worked better if you weren’t fighting a smile. “You are so annoying.”

His hand moved again and you had to close your eyes for a second because he knew exactly how to touch you in ways that made it hard to remember what you’d been saying. That was part of the problem with Bucky. He had no respect for timing. Or public decency. Or the idea that maybe you should be allowed to finish one conversation without him trying to drag your attention back where he wanted it.

You turned in his arms properly then, one hand catching at the front of his shirt to steady yourself. Up close his pupils were blown wide, his grin softer now, less showy. Just drunk and happy to have you in his hands.

“You good?” you asked.

He nodded once. “M’great.”

“You’re cross-eyed.”

“Baby, I think the room’s moving.”

That made you laugh, and the sound seemed to hit him right in the chest. He got this look sometimes, especially when he was drunk—like he’d just remembered in real time how much he liked you. Not slick, not game-playing. Just open. Almost dopey.

Then, because he was still Bucky, he ruined it by squeezing your ass again.

Your brows went up. “Seriously?”

“What?” he said again.

Steve sighed. “You know one word.”

“It’s a versatile word, punk,” Bucky replied.

Natasha downed the rest of her drink and leaned toward you. “Do you want us to leave, or are you about to get unlawful in front of company?”

You rolled your eyes. “Please go. All of you.”

“Gladly,” Darcy said. “This is getting gross.”

“It was gross ten minutes ago,” Steve said.

“You’re all jealous,” Bucky informed them.

“No,” Natasha said, already stepping back into the crowd, “I just prefer foreplay that doesn’t happen next to a folding table.”

Then they were gone, disappearing into the noise and bodies and lights, leaving you with Bucky in the middle of the living room like that was in any way safer.

He looked smug about it too.

“You did that on purpose,” you said.

“I missed you.”

His hand came up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek in a way that was unexpectedly gentle after all the grabbing and bad behavior. It softened you immediately. That was also part of the problem with him. He could go from frat-house asshole to something sweet enough to make your stomach turn over in under five seconds.

You looked at him for a moment. “How drunk are you, exactly?”

He thought about it. “I lost count after six.”

“Jesus Christ.”

You let out a breath through your nose, shaking your head, and he dipped in to kiss you before you could say anything else. This one lasted longer. Slower. His hand stayed warm at your jaw while the other settled firm on your waist, keeping you tucked in close as people bumped past and music pounded and somebody screamed from upstairs like they’d either won something or broken a limb.

When he pulled back, his forehead knocked lightly against yours.

“Come upstairs with me,” he said.

You laughed a little. “So romantic.”

“M’serious.”

“I can tell.”

“I want my girlfriend.”

The way he said it was not smooth. Not polished. Just low and blunt and wanting, like the thought had crossed his mind and come straight out of his mouth without getting cleaned up first.

Your fingers curled tighter in his shirt. “You’re so clingy.”

“You like that too.”

That, annoyingly, was true.

He could see it on your face too, because his grin turned smug all over again. “Yeah,” he murmured. “C’mon.”

You should’ve made him work harder for it. Probably. At the very least, you should’ve pretended to think about it longer.

Instead you glanced toward the kitchen, where Thor was trying to shotgun a beer while everyone around him was cheering him on for reasons you would ever understand, then back at Bucky.

“If I wake up feeling like death tomorrow,” you said, “I’m blaming you.”

“Honey, you were gonna feel like death anyway.”

“You’re not helping your case.”

“I’m not trying to. I’m trying to get you in my bed.”

You laughed despite yourself, and he took that as the yes it obviously was.

His hand found yours and tugged, weaving you through the packed hallway, past spilled drinks and shouting brothers and a couple making out against the wall like they were in a race. He kept looking back just enough to make sure you were still behind him, thumb rubbing over your knuckles once, twice, like even drunk out of his mind he needed to touch you somewhere.

By the time you got Bucky upstairs, the noise downstairs had turned muffled and ugly through the floorboards, just bass and shouting and somebody losing their mind in the hallway.

His room was a mess in the way only frat boys could manage. Half-open drawers, some stupid flag pinned crooked on the wall, a belt on the floor, clean laundry mixed with dirty like that meant anything. The lamp on his desk was on, throwing the room into that soft yellow light that made everything look warmer than it was.

The second the door shut behind you, Bucky had both hands on you.

His mouth found yours before you’d even turned around fully, one palm pressing into your waist while the other slid over your side and up under your top like he’d been thinking about it for the last hour and finally couldn’t stand it anymore.

He kissed like he was half-starved and half gone, messy with it, breath warm with liquor, stubble rough where his jaw scraped your skin.

You laughed against his mouth, one hand braced on his chest. “Jesus. Slow down.”

He shook his head once like that was ridiculous and kissed you again anyway.

His fingers were already fumbling with the hem of your top, trying to push it higher, trying to get his hands on more of you. He was warm everywhere. Warm hands, warm mouth, warm body pressing you back toward the door.

“Bucky,” you said, catching one of his wrists.

“What?”

He said it low, distracted, eyes already dropping to your mouth again.

“You are drunk as hell.”

“M’fine.”

“You can barely stand up.”

“Still can do a lot.”

That made you snort despite yourself. “Oh really.”

He took your laugh like encouragement, dipping his head to your neck, kissing there open-mouthed and lazy, nosing at the sensitive spot below your ear until your grip on him tightened on instinct.

His hand flattened over your stomach, then moved lower, slow and heavy and familiar, and your breath caught for a second before you pulled it back.

He felt that too. Of course he did.

His mouth curved against your skin. “Yeah,” he murmured. “There she is.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“You’re wet already.”

You slapped a hand over his mouth so fast it made him grin into your palm.

“Shut up,” you muttered, already laughing again because he looked so pleased with himself, so thoroughly convinced he still had game even half-drunk and swaying.

He kissed the inside of your hand once, then bit lightly at the base of your thumb before you snatched it away with a look.

“You’re filthy.”

“And?”

“And I’m not fucking you like this.”

That got his attention.

Not enough to stop touching you, apparently, because his hand was still sliding over your hip, squeezing, wandering, but enough that his eyes came back to your face properly.

For a second he just stared at you, like the sentence had hit a traffic jam on the way through all the alcohol.

Then, very seriously, “Why?”

You stared at him. “Because you’re wasted.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Bucky.”

He blinked once. Twice. Then leaned in, voice dropping like he thought this was the real issue. “Baby, I can still make you feel good.”

You pressed your lips together so you wouldn’t laugh in his face.

He took your silence for doubt and got more earnest, if anything. “No, seriously. C’mere.” His hands went right back to your waist, trying to tug you closer. “I’ll get on my knees. I’ll make you sit right here and—”

You put a hand flat to his chest and shoved.

Not hard. Just enough.

Drunk as he was, and already leaning too much of his weight into you, it worked better than expected. He stumbled backward with a startled look and dropped onto the bed, mattress springs groaning under him.

For a second he just sat there, hair falling over his forehead, shirt riding up a little, staring at you like he couldn’t believe you’d manhandled him in his own room.

Then he spread his knees and looked up at you from the edge of the bed, grinning slow.

“That was hot.”

You rolled your eyes and stepped between his legs.

“You’re done.”

“M’not done.”

“You are.”

He caught at your hips the second you got close enough, palms dragging around to your ass with all the subtlety of a man who had never once in his life known restraint. “You got me all worked up.”

“You came into this room worked up.”

“Because of you.”

“Sure.”

He was still trying to tug you into his lap, burying his face against your stomach when you reached down and caught the back of his neck.

“Sit still,” you said.

He groaned like you’d asked him to do hard labour, but he let you push him back enough to get his shirt over his head.

That part took longer than it should have, because halfway through he got distracted and started kissing at your wrists, your forearm, the inside of your elbow—any patch of skin he could reach while the shirt was still half over his face.

“Bucky.”

“Mm.”

“Arms up.”

He obeyed eventually, and you yanked the shirt the rest of the way off him.

There he was. Flushed skin, broad chest, that stupidly pretty mouth already parted like he was about to say something dirty. You shoved his shoulder lightly when he tried to reach for you again.

“No. You sit there and let me take care of you.”

That softened him for a second. Not fully. He was still drunk and horny and looking at you like he wanted to drag you down on top of him. But there it was—that little shift he always got when you started fussing over him, like some part of him genuinely liked being handled.

You crouched a little to unlace his sneakers.

The room smelled like him now more than anything else. Soap under sweat, old wood, stale smoke drifting in faint from the cracked window, the sharp sweet rot of spilled beer from downstairs. His knee nudged between your thighs while you worked his sneakers off, and his hand landed lazily in your hair.

“You’re too good to me,” he said.

“You say that every time I take your clothes off.”

“Because I mean it every time.”

“You’d think after twenty-one years on earth you’d know how to do it yourself.”

“I do know how.” A beat. “I just like when you do it.”

You looked up at him then, and he was smiling in that dazed, soft way that made him look younger somehow. Less frat prince, more boy.

Then his hand slid from your hair to your cheek, his thumb dragging over your bottom lip.

“And I still want you to sit on my face,” he added.

You rolled your eyes and shoved at his leg. “There he is.”

“Thought I lost him?”

“Was hoping, maybe.”

He smiled wider, pleased you were still here, still touching him, still dealing with him.

You stood and worked at his belt next, mostly because if you left him in jeans all night he’d complain in the morning like it was somehow your fault. The second your fingers touched the buckle, he let his head fall back with a low noise that was entirely too dramatic for a man getting undressed like an overgrown toddler.

“Oh my God,” you said. “Relax.”

“Can’t. You’re taking my pants off.”

“I’m putting you to bed.”

“Looks sexy from here.”

You got the belt loose and started on the button. His hands were back on you immediately, one at your waist, the other smoothing up your thigh, fingers pressing in through the fabric of your shorts.

“You should stay,” he said, voice lower now.

“James.”

“M’serious.”

“You are never serious with your hand up my shirt.”

He ignored that. Or maybe didn’t hear it. Hard to tell.

The jeans were a struggle because he kept lifting his hips at the wrong time, then laughing at himself, then trying to pull you down between his legs when you got too close. But eventually you got them down enough for him to kick them off with minimal dignity.

He looked unfairly good sprawled back against his pillows in his boxers, hair a mess, chest bare, eyes glassy and hot on you.

And still, somehow, he looked like he thought he had a chance.

You knew the exact second he realized he didn’t.

It was small. Just a change in his face. That smug little look eased off. He watched you straighten your own top back down, watched you step away instead of climbing into bed with him, and something in him recalibrated.

He sat up on one elbow. “Wait.”

You folded his shirt over the desk chair because if you looked at him too long you were going to cave on something you shouldn’t.

“What?”

“You’re leaving?”

“I’m getting you water first.”

“No, I mean after.”

You glanced at him. “Yes.”

“Don’t.”

You found the half-full water bottle on his desk and sniffed it suspiciously before deciding it was probably fine.

“I have early rehearsal,” you said.

“I know.”

“So I’m not sleeping in a frat house that smells like bong water and armpits.”

“It doesn’t smell like armpits.”

You gave him a look.

He thought about it. “Okay, little bit.”

You handed him the bottle. He took a long drink, eyes still fixed on you over the rim like this was all part of some negotiation.

Then he set it down and held a hand out.

“C’mere.”

You should’ve said no.

Instead you went, because you always did.

The second you were close enough he caught your wrist and pulled you in between his legs again, gentler this time. No grabbing now. Just his hands settling around your waist, forehead pressing briefly to your stomach before he looked up at you.

“You can just sleep here,” he said. “That’s all. I’ll behave.”

You laughed under your breath. “You are such a liar.”

“I swear.”

“You said ten minutes ago you’d get on your knees if I let you.”

“That was then.” He shrugged a shoulder. “People grow.”

You smiled despite yourself, and he saw it and pressed on.

“Stay.” His thumbs rubbed slow circles into your sides. “We don’t gotta do anything. Just stay. I’ll shut up and go to sleep.”

“You will not shut up.”

“I can.” A pause. “Probably.”

You raised a brow.

He looked offended you didn’t believe him, which was rich considering the evidence.

Then his mouth softened. He tugged you a little closer and tipped his head back enough to kiss you.

This one was different than the ones by the door.

Slower. Drunker, yes, but softer too. His lips were warm and heavy on yours, lingering there before moving properly, a little lazy with it, like he wanted to keep you in place more than he wanted to win. His hand slid from your waist to the back of your thigh, not squeezing now, just resting there.

You kissed him back because of course you did.

His mouth parted against yours with a quiet sigh, and for a second the whole room seemed to narrow to that—his bare skin under your hand, the rough drag of his stubble, the faint taste of liquor and mint and him.

He kissed like he always meant it. Even drunk. Even being trouble five minutes ago. There was always that undercurrent with Bucky, that sincerity sitting underneath all the filth and grabby hands and stupid mouth.

When you pulled away, he chased you an inch, eyes still closed.

You kissed him again before he could start talking.

You put a hand on his jaw and took your time with it, brushing your mouth over his once, twice, then deeper, letting him have something to settle him. His grip tightened low on your thigh. He made this low, hungry sound into your mouth that almost made you change your mind.

Almost.

You drew back enough to press one last kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another to his cheek, then his forehead because he looked so unfairly sweet sitting there half-undressed and staring at you like a dog about to be left at the shelter.

“Go to bed,” you murmured.

He exhaled hard through his nose. “Stay.”

“I have rehearsal at eight.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“You will be dead until noon.”

“I’ll set an alarm.”

“You’ll sleep through it.”

“I’ll set, like, six.”

That made you smile again.

He saw it and leaned into it immediately. “See? You’re smiling. That means yes.”

“That means you’re cute when you’re begging.”

He reached for you again, slower now, fingertips catching on the hem of your top like he couldn’t quite stop himself. “Baby.”

There it was. The sweet-talking voice. Lower. Softer. Not less manipulative, just prettier.

“Don’t make me stay in this house and sleep in this bed alone,” he said. “That’s evil.”

“You live here.”

“Still.”

You stared at him.

He stared back, like he knew exactly how shameless he was being.

Then, quieter, “C’mon. Sleep here.”

For a second you almost said yes just because of the way he was looking at you. Open and sleepy and a little pathetic. But then you pictured your guitar case, your sheet music, the walk of shame out of ΩΒC at seven-thirty in the morning, and the decision made itself.

You leaned in and kissed him one last time. Soft. Brief. Enough to make his eyes close.

“Goodnight, James.”

His face tightened a little at that, like he knew he lost.

“You’re heartless.”

“You’ll live.”

You slipped out of his hands before he could try again, reaching for the lamp.

“Don’t turn it off,” he said immediately.

You looked back at him.

He was already lying down, one arm thrown over his stomach, the other bent behind his head. Hair all over the place. Mouth still pink from kissing you. He looked wrecked and warm and deeply, deeply unsatisfied.

“Why,” you asked.

“So when you miss me in five minutes, you can still see where you’re going,” he said.

You snorted, shaking your head, and left the desk lamp on.

When you bent to pick up your bag, he was already watching you with that low, lazy look again.

“Walk away any slower and I’m gonna think you’re doing that shit on purpose.”

You didn’t even turn around. Just slung your bag over your shoulder and headed for the door.

“Go sleep.”

Behind you, his voice came rough and amused and filthy all at once.

“You’re lucky I’m drunk, sweetheart. Tomorrow I’m getting your mouth on me for this.”

You paused with your hand on the knob, smiling despite yourself. Then you glanced back over your shoulder, gave him a look, and pulled the door open.

“Goodnight, baby.”

He groaned like a man being sentenced as you shut the door behind you.

By the time you got back to campus, the night had that thin, weird quiet it always got after a party—like the city was still loud somewhere else, but your little stretch of NYU had started exhaling.

Your phone buzzed in your hand as you walked, screen too bright, your eyes too tired for it. You didn’t even read it. You just shoved it back in your pocket and kept going, moving on muscle memory and stubbornness, the world tilting slightly with every step.

Your breath tasted like cheap liquor and somebody’s fruity gum. Your stomach felt… suspicious. Not bad-bad yet. Just warning you. The kind of warning you should’ve listened to an hour ago.

The dorm lobby was fluorescent and rude. A couple of people were still coming in—heels in hand, laughing too loudly, hair sticking to their faces. The security guard barely looked up as you flashed your ID and pushed into the elevator.

When you finally got to your floor, the hallway smelled like laundry detergent and someone’s late-night ramen. Your keys took a second too long to find. You fumbled them once, swore under your breath, then got the door open and stepped inside—

—and froze.

There was a girl sitting in your living room.

Just sitting on the couch with her hands folded in her lap, a duffel on the floor by her feet, like she’d been there for a while and didn’t know what to do with her body.

Your brain did not immediately catch up. All it registered was; stranger in your dorm.

“What the fuck,” you blurted, voice sharper than you meant. “Who are you?”

The girl looked up like you’d yanked a string. Wide eyes, pale light catching in them. She startled so hard you saw her shoulders jump.

“I—” she started, then stopped. Swallowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

That didn’t answer the question.

You stood there with your keys still in your hand like a weapon, heart beating too fast for how tired you were. The alcohol made everything feel a half-second delayed, like your body was reacting before your mind could assign labels.

The girl’s gaze flicked to your face, then away, then back again. Like she didn’t want to stare, but couldn’t help it. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear with a nervous little motion.

“I’m… your new roommate,” she said, quieter this time. “Wanda.”

You stared at her.

Nothing. Just static.

Then your memory dragged itself out of the fog like it had to climb a wall to reach you.

New transfer. Email from housing. A name you’d skimmed while half-asleep between rehearsals. Something about the move-in date being “late” because of paperwork.

“Oh.” Your voice dropped instantly, heat rushing up your neck as embarrassment caught up. “Oh my God. Right.”

Wanda nodded like she’d been waiting for you to remember the same thing.

Up close, she really was pretty. She had that quiet, sweet face that made you instinctively want to be nicer than you were being.

And you had just opened with who the fuck are you.

You ran a hand over your mouth, blinking hard like you could clear your head by force. “Sorry. I— I thought you were, like… I don’t know. Somebody’s random.”

“It’s okay,” Wanda said quickly, like she meant it. Like she didn’t want you to feel bad. “It’s late. I should’ve— I didn’t know if you’d be home. They told me the key would work.”

“It’s fine,” you said, then immediately regretted how stiff it sounded and tried again. “No, seriously. It’s fine. I’m just— I’m drunk.”

Wanda’s lips parted like she might smile, then she seemed to think better of it. “Party?”

“Yeah.” You exhaled through your nose. “Welcome to NYU.”

She glanced at your shoes, your bag half sliding off your shoulder, the state of you. Not judgmental. Just taking in information. “I didn’t know if you’d be… like, mad.”

“I’m not mad,” you said, already forcing your voice into something warmer. Your ma’s voice lived in your head when you got like this. Be nice. Be normal. Don’t be the asshole. “I just got startled. Hi. I’m—”

You almost said your name, then stopped yourself, suddenly aware of your tongue feeling thick and your stomach giving another small, ominous roll.

Wanda waited, patient.

You pointed vaguely at yourself, murmuring your name. “Me. Your roommate. Sorry. I’m gonna be better in the morning.”

“I’m an art major,” she offered, still meek, still polite. “Photography.”

“Okay,” you said, nodding too hard like the motion might settle your insides. “That’s cool. I’m music.”

Wanda’s gaze flicked briefly to the corner where your stuff was—your case, the little signs of your life. It wasn’t invasive. Not yet. Just curious.

“Nice,” she said.

You took one step further into the apartment, and your stomach chose that exact moment to turn into a live wire.

Heat surged up your throat. Your mouth watered instantly.

Oh, no.

Your body did that awful thing where it gave you five seconds of warning and then started counting down like you had any say in the matter.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, eyes widening. “Sorry— I’m—”

Wanda’s posture shifted, concern flashing over her face. “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” you lied, already backing away. “I just— I need— give me one second.”

You turned toward the bathroom like your life depended on it, keys clinking in your fist, and you heard Wanda move like she might stand, like she might follow.

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, without turning back. “I’m okay. Just— I’ll be right back.”

You made it to the bathroom just in time, one hand braced on the sink, the other gripping the edge of the counter as the room swayed gently around you.

You woke up at seven on the dot like your body hated you on principle.

Your head felt packed with cotton. Your mouth was dry in that sour way that made you immediately regret every drink you could half-remember. You lay there for a second, staring at the ceiling, listening to the dorm breathe—pipes clicking, someone’s shower running down the hall, a door slamming two rooms over.

You swallowed, winced, then forced yourself upright.

The living room was tiny in daylight. It always was. At night it felt like a little pocket of safety; in the morning it was just a cramped space with mismatched furniture and textbooks stacked like someone had tried to build a wall and given up. A weak stripe of sunlight cut across the carpet through the blinds.

Wanda was already awake.

She was sitting on the couch with a mug in both hands, shoulders tucked in, hair loose and slightly messy like she’d slept light. She looked up when you came out, that same wide-eyed caution from last night, like she wasn’t sure what version of you she was getting this morning.

You paused, suddenly aware of how aggressively you’d greeted her seven hours ago.

“Hey,” you said, voice rough. “Morning.”

“Good morning,” Wanda answered softly.

You rubbed your forehead, then tried again, warmer. “I’m sorry about last night. I was… clearly a lot.”

“It’s okay,” she said quickly, “You were tired.”

“Drunk,” you corrected, walking toward the kitchenette. “I was drunk. There’s a difference.”

Wanda’s mouth twitched, almost a smile.

You opened a cabinet, realized you had no clean cups, stared at it like it had personally betrayed you, then grabbed a bottle of water instead. You took a long drink, eyes closed, and tried to reboot your brain.

When you looked back over, Wanda was still watching you.

“So,” you said, leaning against the counter. “Proper welcome. I’m happy you’re here. Dorms are… terrible, but at least it’s not lonely.”

Wanda’s fingers tightened slightly around her mug. “Thank you.”

You nodded, then added, “Also, if you ever see me stumbling in at midnight again, you have permission to ignore me.”

Her smile came properly this time, small but real. “Okay.”

You liked that about her—quiet, but not cold. Shy, but not stiff. It was kind of sweet.

You checked your phone. A notification from your rehearsal group. Another from Darcy with a dumb thumbs-up emoji and “u alive?” The brightness made you squint.

“I’ve got rehearsal in a bit,” you said. “But after, if you want, I can show you around. Like, actually show you around. Not the useless ‘here’s the library’ tour.”

Wanda’s posture changed at that. She lifted her head, eyes brightening a little. “Really?”

“Yeah. You just got here. You shouldn’t be stuck in this shoebox all day.” You hesitated, then added, “And it’ll make me feel less guilty for scaring the shit out of you last night.”

She let out a quiet laugh, like she hadn’t expected you to be funny.

“I’d like that,” she said.

“Good.” You pointed toward her mug. “Coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. After rehearsal, we’ll do the whole thing. Food, buildings, whatever. You tell me what you need.”

Wanda nodded, then after a beat, asked softly, “Where are you from?”

You shrugged. “Queens.” Then you tilted your head at her. “What about you? Your accent—where’s it from?”

Wanda’s eyes flicked down for a second, then back up. “Sokovia.”

“Sokovia,” you repeated, like you knew exactly where that was.

You didn’t.

But you weren’t going to make her feel weird about it, so you just nodded like it was the most normal answer in the world. “That’s cool.”

You grabbed your bag off the chair and slung it over your shoulder, already feeling the clock in your chest. “Alright. If you’re serious about that tour—meet me at the music building around, like, ten-thirty? I’ll be there anyway.”

Wanda’s face lit up just a little. “Okay.”

“And Wanda?”

“Yes?”

You paused, then gave her a quick, honest smile. “Welcome. For real.”

She held your gaze for a second, then nodded, quiet again. “Thank you.”

By the time you met Wanda out of the dorm and in the middle of campus, the day had warmed up a little.

The city was doing what it always did—crowded sidewalks, bikes cutting too close, people rushing with coffee in one hand and their whole life in the other. Washington Square was busy without looking like it was trying. Music somewhere in the distance. Somebody skateboarding badly. A guy with a clipboard already bothering people before noon.

You walked a little ahead, then beside her, then ahead again whenever the sidewalk narrowed, talking the whole time in that easy, loose way you had when you were comfortable. Pointing things out without making it feel like a tour.

“That building looks nicer on the outside than it is,” you said, jerking your chin toward one of the stone facades. “Inside smells like wet paper and stress.”

Wanda glanced up, camera hanging from her neck. “Stress has a smell?”

“You’ll learn it.”

That got a small smile out of her.

She was still quiet, still careful, but not as frozen as she’d been this morning. Every so often she lifted her camera and took a picture—corners of buildings, light hitting the pavement, a girl smoking on a bench, two guys arguing over a cigarette like it was a moral issue. She never made a big production of it. Just saw something, raised the camera, clicked.

You noticed she was good at doing it fast.

Riri from one of your theory classes passed and pointed at you. “You alive?”

“Barely,” you called back.

She laughed and kept walking.

A few steps later, one of Bucky’s frat brothers, Luke came the opposite way giving you a nod and a “Hey, mama,” without breaking stride.

Wanda looked at you. “A lot of people know you.”

You shrugged. “Not really. I just know a lotta people.”

Then, after a beat, “Also a lot of people know my boyfriend, so it kind of spreads.”

“Your boyfriend?” she asked, trying to sound casual and not quite managing it.

You smiled a little. “Yeah. Bucky Barnes.”

You said his name like it explained something, then realized it didn’t.

“He’s in Omega Beta Centurion,” you added. “Loud, annoying, everywhere all the time. So people clock me by association.”

Wanda glanced at you. “You say that like you aren’t fond of him.”

“I’m very fond of him,” you said. “He’s just a lot.”

That made her smile again, smaller this time.

You took her past the student center, then toward the art buildings. “So what got you into photography?”

Wanda’s fingers moved over the camera strap. “I liked that I could keep things,” she said after a second. “A face. A moment. The way light looked somewhere. Before it changes.”

You looked at her. “That very… deep.”

She gave you a shy look, unsure if you were making fun of her.

You bumped her shoulder lightly with yours. “No, I’m serious. That was good.”

Her posture eased a little.

“And here I am,” you said, spreading a hand vaguely around at the street, “majoring in music because apparently I enjoy suffering publicly.”

Wanda let out a soft laugh.

“There we go,” you said. “That’s the most life I’ve seen in you all day.”

You were smiling when the camera clicked.

You blinked. “Did you just take a picture of me?”

Wanda had already lowered the camera, looking almost guilty. “I’m sorry—” She stepped closer and turned the screen toward you. “I hope that’s okay.”

You looked.

It was you mid-laugh, head slightly turned, sunlight cutting across your face, your expression open and unguarded in a way you never noticed in real time.

“Huh,” you said.

Wanda watched your face carefully. “Is it bad?”

“No.” You glanced at her, then back at the photo. “It’s actually… really nice.”

Something about that seemed to brighten her whole face.

“You’re good,” you said, starting to walk again.

The café was half a block off campus, small and always too full, with fogged-up windows and chipped little tables jammed too close together. It smelled like burnt espresso and sugar. Everybody ended up there eventually.

You pushed the door open for Wanda and nodded inside. “This is the spot. You need coffee, you come here. You need to cry over a paper, you come here. You need to see three people you were hoping to avoid, definitely come here.”

Wanda smiled faintly, eyes moving around the room.

You were in the middle of pointing out the back corner, where people camped for hours pretending to study, when an arm suddenly wrapped around your shoulders.

Your whole body gave the smallest start before you rolled your eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

Bucky just laughed against the side of your head, warm and very pleased with himself. “Hi, baby.”

You turned enough to look at him. Hair a mess, sunglasses pushed up on his head, gray sweatshirt hanging off him like he’d thrown it on five minutes ago and called it a day. He looked unfairly good for somebody who should’ve been face-down until mid-afternoon.

“I thought you’d be awake at, like, two,” you said. “This is very unsettling behavior.”

His arm stayed where they were, loose around your shoulders. Wanda had gone quiet beside you, shoulders drawing in a little.

You nudged Bucky with your elbow. “This is Wanda. My new roommate.”

That got him to glance over.

He gave her a quick nod. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Wanda said softly.

And that was it. No real warmth to it. No effort. His attention was already back on you.

“I was looking for you,” he said. “So… Stark’s having people up at his parents’ lake house this weekend.”

You made a face immediately. “No.”

He kept going like you hadn’t spoken. “Friday night into Saturday. Steve said he can drive, Sam’s coming, Nat too, whole thing.”

“No.”

“C’mon.”

“No.” You folded your arms. “I already know what that’s gonna be. Loud music, people getting high in Tony’s daddy’s kitchen, and me walking into a room by accident and seeing somebody getting fucked against a wall.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Or maybe that could be us.”

You looked at him. “Can you not be disgusting for one minute?”

He just grinned, lazy and unbothered.

You were already shaking your head when he sighed and let his gaze slide to Wanda.

“Well, you’ve got responsibilities now anyway,” he said. “Can’t be selfish. Gotta show your roommate a good time.”

The second the attention landed on her, Wanda looked caught off guard.

Bucky leaned one shoulder against the counter, all easy confidence and charm. “You wanna go, right?”

Wanda blinked. “I—”

“It’s nice up there,” he said, talking right over her hesitation. “Lake, bonfire, people, food. Better than sitting in that dorm all weekend.”

You frowned at him. “Bucky.”

But he was still looking at her, smiling in that persuasive, mildly douchey way that worked on too many people.

Wanda glanced at you first, then back at him. “It sounds… nice.”

There it was.

You let out a slow breath through your nose. Bucky looked smug instantly.

“You’re such a jackass,” you muttered.

“Love you too,” he said, already dropping a kiss against your cheek.

Beside you, Wanda stayed quiet, but you could feel the shift in her—the way she’d pulled back the second he appeared, and the way she’d still agreed anyway.

When you got back to the dorm, the day had finally started catching up to you.

Your feet hurt. Your head still felt a little off from last night, though not enough to stop you functioning. The hallway outside your dorm was louder than it should’ve been for a Tuesday—somebody arguing over a charger, somebody else laughing too hard, a door opening and slamming again.

Inside, it was quiet.

Wanda had kicked off her shoes by the couch and tucked her legs up under herself, camera sitting beside her. The lamp was on, throwing that same soft yellow light over the room, making the whole place feel smaller and calmer than it was.

You dropped your bag by the chair and let out a breath. “Okay. I need to formally apologize for Bucky.”

Wanda looked up from where she’d been flipping through something on her camera. “You don’t have to.”

“No, I do.” You pointed toward her with two fingers. “Because he absolutely came in there acting like an ass.”

Her mouth twitched. “A little.”

“A little,” you repeated, then snorted and shook your head. “Most of the time he’s not like that.”

You paused.

Then you tipped your head, reconsidering.

“Okay. That’s not true. Most of the time he is kind of like that.” You glanced down, rubbing at the back of your neck. “But he’s harmless.”

Wanda watched you quietly.

You shrugged, moving toward the kitchenette for water. “He just has this… boy disease where he thinks if he says something with enough confidence, it stops being obnoxious.”

That got a small laugh out of her.

You looked over your shoulder. “See? You get it.”

Wanda lowered her eyes a little, still smiling. There was something almost girlish about the way she did that—like she wasn’t used to laughing openly yet.

You unscrewed the bottle and took a drink. “Anyway. You do not have to go to that party if you don’t want to. Seriously. Don’t let him talk you into anything.”

Wanda’s fingers traced lightly over the edge of the camera in her lap. “Are you going?”

You leaned against the counter, thinking about it.

You lifted one shoulder. “Most of my friends are going, so I’ll probably have to.”

“Have to?” Wanda echoed softly.

You smiled. “You know what I mean.”

She nodded.

Then, after a second, “I wouldn’t mind going. If I was with you.”

You looked at her properly then.

The way she said it wasn’t odd. It was shy, almost careful, like she was already braced for you to think she was being weird. But it just came off kind of sweet. A little nervous. New girl in a new city not wanting to get stranded at some giant party with a bunch of strangers and drunk idiots.

You laughed lightly, not at her, just at how earnest it sounded.

“Wanda,” you said, softer now, “I promise I won’t let you out of my sight.”

Something in her face eased at that.

“Okay,” she said.

You nodded, then pushed off the counter and reached for your phone. “Good. Then your first lesson starts then.”

Wanda blinked. “What lesson?”

You looked at her over your shoulder. “How to survive college kids near open water without dying of secondhand embarrassment.”

That made her laugh again, a little more this time.

Friday night came in with that low, restless kind of energy that made everything feel a little charged.

Your room was a mess from getting ready, makeup spread across the desk in that controlled mess you always swore you’d clean up later. You’d gone with a black dress almost on instinct—short, soft, thin straps, the kind that skimmed your body instead of hugging it too tight. Just enough skin to make Bucky stare and act stupid. The heeled boots finished it off.

You were leaning in close to the mirror, fixing the corner of your lip, when you heard Wanda moving around in the other room.

“Almost done,” you called, reaching for your gloss.

When you came back out, phone in one hand, you stopped.

Wanda stood near the couch looking unsure of herself in a plain top and jeans, like she’d gotten dressed for class and then tried to convince herself it counted. She looked pretty anyway. She just didn’t look like she was going to a lake-house party full of drunk idiots.

You caught yourself before your face could do anything rude.

Wanda noticed your pause immediately. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said too fast, then shook your head. “No, come here.”

She looked wary. “Why.”

“Because I’m fixing this.”

Her brows pulled together just slightly. “It’s that bad?”

“It’s not bad,” you said, already moving toward your closet. “It’s just not party. There’s a difference.”

You dug through hangers, then pulled out a dress you knew would work—dark, soft, a little clingy without trying too hard.

“Here,” you said, handing it to her. “Try this.”

Wanda looked at it, then at you. “I can’t wear your clothes.”

“You literally can. I’m handing them to you.” You softened your voice. “Borrow whatever you want, okay? I mean that.”

Something in her face shifted at that. Smaller. Quieter.

“Okay,” she said.

A few minutes later she came back out in the dress, and you looked up from your makeup bag and smiled before you could help it.

“There,” you said. “See?”

Wanda stood there awkwardly, one hand brushing over the fabric at her waist. “It feels strange.”

“It looks good.”

She glanced at you through the mirror. “You think so?”

“I know so. Sit.”

You pulled the desk chair out and patted it. Wanda sat, slow and obedient, and you stepped between her knees without thinking much of it, tipping her chin gently with two fingers so you could get a better look at her face.

This close, she was all soft skin and wide eyes, her perfume faint and clean, something powdery under it. You brushed a thumb under one eye.

“You don’t need much,” you murmured.

Her lashes lowered. “I don’t really wear makeup.”

“That’s fine.” You reached for the blush. “I do. So now you do too.”

That got a little smile out of her.

You worked slowly, steadying her face with one hand while the other moved. A brush over her cheekbone. Your fingertips at her jaw. The light touch of your thumb smoothing something near the corner of her mouth. Wanda stayed very still for you. You could feel her breathing every time you leaned in.

“There,” you said after a minute, reaching for mascara. “Look up.”

She did.

Your face was close enough now that you could see the different greens in her eyes.

“You’re very calm,” you said.

“I’m trying not to blink.”

You laughed softly. “That too.”

Your phone buzzed on the bed.

You glanced over without thinking and saw Bucky’s name bright on the screen.

u ready yet?

You smiled to yourself, just a little, and reached for it.

You didn’t see the way Wanda’s mouth tightened when your attention left her. Only for a second. Gone by the time you looked back.

“Sorry,” you said, typing quickly. “Bucky’s already being annoying.”

Wanda’s expression had smoothed out again, quiet as ever.

“Is he waiting?” she asked.

“Basically always,” you said.

Then you set the phone down and turned back to her, lifting the lipstick. “Don’t move.”

The lake house was exactly as obnoxious as you knew it would be.

Too big, too lit up, too many expensive cars lined up out front like a dealership for rich kids with bad judgment. Music spilled out over the lawn in waves, mixed with shouting, laughter, the sharp crack of somebody opening another beer. The whole place smelled like lake water, weed, charcoal, perfume, and whatever Stark’s catering guy had tried to class up before the brothers got to it.

You kept a hand on Wanda’s wrist as you led her through the side yard.

“Rule one,” you said, leaning closer so she could hear you over the music, “if somebody says ‘this edible ain’t shit,’ do not listen to them.”

Wanda looked over at you, half amused. “Okay.”

“Rule two, if you see a room with the door closed, keep walking.”

Her mouth twitched. “You’re not joking.”

“Never about that.”

The back deck was packed. People pressed around coolers and folding tables, girls in short skirts and heels, boys already too drunk in polos and backwards caps. Across the yard, a few people had wandered down closer to the water, where Thor was somehow louder than the speakers.

You pointed with your cup. “Okay. That’s Thor. Foreign student. Really nice, but if he asks if you want to do a shot with him, say no unless you hate yourself.”

Wanda followed your gaze.

Thor had one foot on a deck chair, shirt half unbuttoned, yelling something triumphant while Clint Barton recorded him on a camcorder like this was history worth preserving.

Wanda laughed under her breath.

“Exactly,” you said. “And over there—Sam. He’s the only one here with sense.”

Sam was by the grill, drink in hand, already looking tired of everybody. He saw you, lifted his chin in greeting, then looked at the girl beside you and gave her a warmer nod.

“Who’s this?” he asked when you got close enough.

“My new roommate, Wanda.”

“Sam,” he said. “I apologize in advance for whatever you’re about to witness tonight.”

A burst of shouting came from the dock. You looked over just in time to see John Walker trying to balance on the railing with a beer in one hand while MJ yelled at him to jump if he was going to jump already.

You winced. “And that is exactly the kind of thing I mean.”

Wanda watched, wide-eyed. “Does he do that often?”

“Too often. He thinks being from Georgia makes him immortal.”

You kept moving, weaving her through the crowd, leaning in now and then to murmur names and warnings.

“Natasha’s the pretty redhead pretending she doesn’t know anybody.” “Darcy’s the one with big boobs and talking with both hands.” “If Pepper gives you a look, ignore it, she does that to everyone.” “And if you see Peter Parker anywhere near hard liquor, inform someone immediately.”

Wanda stayed close, listening to you with that quiet focus she always had. Every so often someone would stop you—classmate, friend, one of Bucky’s people—and you’d introduce her gently, keeping her at your side the whole time like you promised.

At one point she looked at you and asked, almost softly, “Do you know everyone?”

You smiled and shook your head. “No. It just looks like I do.”

Then you tipped your drink toward the house, where someone had started screaming along to a Ke$ha song from inside.

“Come on,” you said. “You haven’t even seen the worst of it yet.”

You’d managed, somehow, to get Wanda laughing.

She’d loosened up after a drink and an hour of watching other people embarrass themselves. You were standing off to the side of the deck, shoulder to shoulder, while she quietly pointed out a guy near the speakers who had been dancing with the confidence of somebody far more coordinated than he actually was.

“He’s been doing the same move for five minutes,” she said.

You looked over, snorted, and nearly spilled your drink. “That’s Scott Lang for you.”

Wanda smiled into her cup, pleased with herself.

That was when you felt it—warm hands landing on your hips from behind, familiar and shameless. You just rolled your eyes and let your head fall back a little. “There you are.”

Bucky’s mouth brushed the side of your neck, quick and lazy. He was shirtless for reasons known only to him and whatever bad decisions had already happened in the last hour, skin warm from the bonfire, hair messy, a little flushed, smelling like lake water, smoke, and alcohol.

“C’mon,” he said against your ear. “Wanna show you something.”

You turned enough to look at him. “No, you don’t.”

His brows lifted. “Yeah, I do.”

“You want to get me alone.”

He didn’t even bother denying it. Just gave you that look.

Behind your shoulder, Wanda had gone quiet again.

You caught that immediately and put a hand over Bucky’s where it rested on your waist. “I can’t leave her alone.”

Bucky looked past you then, finally giving Wanda more than a passing glance. His jaw shifted.

“She’s not a kid,” he said. Then, at you, with that impatient edge he got when he wanted something and hated waiting for it, “She doesn’t need a babysitter.”

You gave him a flat look. “Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not being a dick.”

“You are exactly being a dick.”

He exhaled, already annoyed, fingers tightening once on your hip before he let up. “I’m saying she’ll live for a few minutes.”

You looked at Wanda. She was standing with both hands around her cup, expression small but composed.

“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “Really.”

You hesitated.

Then you touched her arm lightly. “I’ll be gone, like, ten minutes. Max.”

Wanda nodded.

“If anything gets too crazy,” you added, “go stand by Natasha. She acts mean, but she likes being needed.”

That got the tiniest smile out of her. “Okay.”

You looked at her another second just to be sure, then pointed once toward Nat across the yard. “Seriously. Hover.”

“I will.”

Only then did you let Bucky pull you in properly.

He took your hand and started leading you off the deck with zero patience, weaving through bodies like he’d already waited long enough. You stumbled once in your boots and caught his shoulder.

“Jesus, slow down.”

He looked back, smirking a little. “Thought you said we only had ten minutes.”

You rolled your eyes, but your grip tightened on his hand anyway.

The noise dropped off the second you stepped past the last line of trees.

It didn’t disappear—it just dulled. The music turned into a low, distant thump, voices blurred into something indistinct, like the party had been pushed underwater. Out here it smelled different too. Damp earth, leaves, a trace of smoke carried on the air.

Bucky didn’t slow down until he had you far enough in that the house lights barely reached.

“Okay,” you said, breath catching a little as you looked around. “This is already suspicious.”

He turned back to you, one hand still wrapped around yours, that crooked, familiar smile already pulling at his mouth. “Relax.”

“Anytime you say that, I get more concerned.”

“Yeah?” he said, stepping closer. “You don’t look concerned.”

You didn’t.

Your body had already caught up to where you were. The quiet, the way he was looking at you, the fact that you both knew exactly why he’d dragged you out here—it made something in your chest go light and sharp at the same time.

You shook your head a little. “You’re not getting what you think you’re getting.”

He huffed a laugh, low, like he’d heard that before.

“C’mon,” he murmured, and then he was kissing you.

His hands found your waist immediately, pulling you into him like he’d been waiting all night to get you alone. Your back hit the rough bark of a tree, the texture grounding you just enough to make everything else feel sharper—the warmth of his body, the way his mouth moved against yours, insistent and a little messy with it.

You kissed him back without hesitation.

His mouth opened against yours, and you felt the shift—deeper now, slower for half a second before it picked up again, his tongue tangling with yours, tasting like liquor and something sweet. You made a quiet sound into his mouth before you could stop it, your hands coming up to grip at his shoulders.

“Bucky—” you tried.

He didn’t really let you finish. Just dragged his mouth down your jaw, back up, then back to your lips like he couldn’t decide where he wanted you most. One of his hands slid lower, fingers pressing into your thigh through the fabric of your dress.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” he said against your mouth.

“You’re always crazy,” you breathed.

“Not like this.”

His mouth was on yours again before you could answer, and it was easier not to. You leaned into him, let him pull you closer, let your fingers curl into his hair when he tilted your head just right.

Then his hand pressed higher on your thigh, urging, and you caught his wrist.

“We’re not fucking in the woods,” you said, breathless but firm.

He laughed against your lips, the sound low and warm. “I know.”

“You say that like you don’t believe it.”

“I’m choosing to believe I can change your mind.”

“You’re not.”

“Mm.” He shifted his weight, then without warning lifted your leg up around his waist, your body jolting closer to his. “We’ll see.”

“Bucky—”

But it came out thinner than you meant it to, because now you were balanced against him, his body solid between your legs, his hands holding you there like it was nothing. His mouth dipped back to yours, slower this time, almost coaxing.

“You don’t gotta think about anything,” he murmured. “Just stay right here with me for a minute.”

You exhaled through your nose, trying to stay annoyed, trying to hold onto whatever point you were making.

It slipped a little.

His mouth moved against yours again, not as rushed now. Intentional. He kissed you like he had time, like he wasn’t trying to get somewhere, just keep you right where you were. His thumb brushed over your thigh where it hooked around him, absentminded, grounding.

“See,” he said quietly, lips grazing yours. “You’re fine.”

“You are so—”

He kissed you again, cutting you off, and this time you didn’t try to finish the sentence.

For a moment, everything narrowed to just that—the weight of him, the press of his mouth, the quiet around you, the faint pulse of music far off like it belonged to another world.

You didn’t notice anything else.

Not the shift of something deeper in the trees. Not the stillness. Not the faint, almost delicate sound—

a soft click.

Gone as quickly as it came.

Your leg hooked carefully over the back of his, keeping close without pinning him, mindful of old instincts. You’d learned the exact balance of weight he loved, enough pressure that he could feel you, not enough to feel trapped.

His breath was slow and steady, face turned into his pillow, hair a dark, messy halo. That little furrow between his brows had finally smoothed out, the one that showed up when the world felt like too much. It was replaced by something soft and peaceful that made your chest ache.

You leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of his spine.

He hummed in his sleep, a deep, content little sound that vibrated under your lips.

“Hi,” you whispered against his skin, even though he was only half-awake at best. “You still pretending to be asleep, big guy?”

His shoulders lifted on a slow inhale. “M’not pretendin’,” he mumbled, voice rough and syrup-thick with sleep. “M’just comfortable.”

You smiled, nose brushing his shoulder as you spoke. “Comfortable, huh?”

“Mmhm.” His hand flexed against the sheet. “Got my girl on my back. Hard to complain.”

Heat curled low in your belly at that, at the easy, unthinking way he said my girl. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like it was a fact, not a miracle.

You shifted a little closer, chest pressing more firmly to him, arm tightening around his waist. Your fingers splayed over his stomach, feeling the firm give of muscle beneath his skin as you held him.

“You’re very warm,” you murmured.

“That’s ‘cause you turned me into a human space heater,” he said drowsily. “Like a big, overgrown weighted blanket. Custom-made, just for you.”

You laughed softly against him. “Mm, my favorite purchase.”

He snorted into the pillow, but his ears flushed pink.

You let your fingertips drift lazily over his ribs, tracing invisible shapes, the curve of old scars softened by time. He shivered once, a tiny, helpless twitch that made you grin.

“Sorry,” you whispered, absolutely not sorry at all. “Am I tickling you, Sergeant?”

“Sunshine,” he warned, voice thick, though there was no real warning in it. “You know what that does to me.”

“Oh, do I?” you asked sweetly, letting your nails drag lightly down the length of his spine.

He groaned then, the sound low and rough, buried into the pillow as his back arched just a fraction into your touch. The reaction shot straight through you, thrilling and tender all at once.

That was the thing about Bucky, about this big, tough, broad shouldered soldier who could pick you up like you weighed nothing and bench press a small car if he really wanted to…

He melted like butter the second you laid a gentle hand on him.

You dipped forward, unable to resist, and pressed another kiss between his shoulder blades. Then another. And another. Slow, careful, reverent kisses following the line of his spine, tasting sleep-warm skin and the faint salt of dried sweat from the night.

His breathing deepened, not quite sleep heavy anymore. More… aware.

“Darlin’…” His voice sounded different now, lower, smoke curling at the edges. “What are you doin’ back there?”

You smiled against his skin. “Admiring the view.”

“Yeah?” He shifted just enough that you could see the side of his face, lashes still lowered but mouth curved in a lazy, pleased grin. “Think it needs improvin’?”

“I think,” you murmured, your lips brushing along the top of his shoulder, “that this is perfect.”

You felt the way his body stilled under you for a heartbeat, like he didn’t quite know what to do with that word: perfect.

So you kept going.

You kissed along the slope of his shoulder, soft, lingering presses of your mouth over old, faded scars and the thick muscle there, your thumb rubbing soothing circles into his side.

“You know,” you said quietly between kisses, “I love your back.”

“Yeah?” His voice was softer now, that rough edge turned inward. “That so?”

“Mhm.” Another kiss, just beneath his neck. “It’s very… dependable.”

He huffed out a surprised little laugh. “Dependable.”

“Mmhm. Big. Warm. Shows up when I’m cold. Great for naps.” You smiled against him. “Top-tier back, Barnes. A ten out of ten, would recommend.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, but his grin had gone shy and his hand started to search for yours.

You slid your palm down his chest until he could tangle your fingers with his. His much larger hand swallowed yours up instantly, holding on tight like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

He never said that out loud, but you knew.

You gave his hand a small squeeze and pressed your mouth to the nape of his neck.

He shuddered at that, a full body ripple that made the mattress tremble. His fingers tightened on yours, knuckles going white.

“Sunshine,” he rasped. “Careful.”

“I’m just kissing you,” you whispered, lips brushing along the fine hairs at his hairline. “My sweet, overcooked weighted blanket.”

“You keep doin’ it like that,” he said, voice hoarse, “and m’gonna stop bein’ a gentleman real fast.”

The words sent a pleasant little spark through you. You shifted closer, letting your chest fit snugly to his back, your leg sliding more firmly over his, cocooning him in your warmth.

“That a promise?” you teased.

He turned his head just enough that one blue eye cracked open, heavy-lidded and molten. “You fishin’ for trouble, doll?”

“Maybe.” Your teeth grazed the curve where his neck met his shoulder, just barely. “Maybe I like my trouble six foot something and way too handsome for his own good.”

He groaned again, burying his face in the crook of his arm like he could hide from the heat crawling up his neck.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mumbled into the pillow. “Big, scary super-soldier, brought down by one tiny menace in fuzzy socks.”

You glanced down at your toes and wiggled them, the little pastel socks rubbing against his calf. “You love my socks.”

“I love you,” he said, so easily it made your breath catch, “the socks are just collateral damage.”

Warmth bloomed in your chest, spreading outward until it filled your entire body.

You leaned in close, pressing your lips right beneath his ear. “Say it again.”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Love you,” he murmured, voice so low it vibrated through the bones of his back and straight into your heart. “Love when you hold me like this. Love when you kiss on me. Love wakin’ up with your breath on my skin.”

You closed your eyes, letting the weight of the words settle over you like a second blanket.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not planning on stopping.”

You trailed your mouth down the side of his neck, pressing slow, unhurried kisses along the strong column of his throat, feeling his pulse jump under your lips. His hand squeezed yours again, the grip shifting from sleepy to needy.

“Turn over for me?” you asked softly against his skin.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, old wiring, old habits, then he exhaled and nodded. “Yeah. ‘Course, sunshine.”

He rolled carefully onto his back, shifting his arm so he didn’t accidentally elbow you. You moved with him, nimble and familiar, adjusting your leg until you ended up half draped over his torso, your chest resting against his ribs, one knee hooked over his hip.

The sheet slipped lower, and suddenly you had his entire chest in front of you, broad, solid, dusted with hair, dog tags glinting faintly where they’d fallen to the side on the pillow.

He looked up at you, hair a mess, cheeks faintly flushed, blue eyes soft and open in a way they never were with anyone else.

“Hi,” he said, a little breathless.

“Hi,” you echoed, your fingers spreading over his sternum. His heart beat strong and steady beneath your palm.

“Y’know,” he said, trying for light and almost managing it, “pretty sure it’s my job to worship you in bed, not the other way ‘round.”

“Mmm.” You bent down to kiss the center of his chest, right over his heart. “We can take turns.”

His throat bobbed.

You let your mouth wander, slow and careful, mapping him like you had his back. The curve of his collarbone. The warm, solid swell of his shoulder. The scarred dip near his ribs that always made him twitch.

Every time your lips found a mark he used to hate, you pressed a gentler kiss there, like you could rewrite the memory from the outside in.

His breathing went shallow, hand sliding up from the sheets to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair with aching tenderness.

“You don’t have to do that, y’know,” he murmured. “All the… sweet stuff. You don’t gotta pretend I’m somethin’ pretty.”

You lifted your head, brows knitting. “I’m not pretending anything, James.”

His eyes flicked to yours, something vulnerable and raw in them at the sound of his full name.

“You’re beautiful,” you said simply. No coyness, no teasing. Just truth. “Every inch of you. Outside, inside, all of it. You think I’m kissing you just because you’re conveniently within range?”

He tried for a smirk and only managed a shaky half-smile. “Maybe.”

You leaned down until your forehead touched his, noses brushing. “No. I’m kissing you because I’m obsessed with you. Slight difference.”

His hand tightened in your hair, metal fingers flexing gently against your waist in counterpoint. “You’re gonna make me fall even harder, sunshine.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Fall with me.”

You kissed him then.

It started soft, like it always did, with your lips brushing his once, twice, a warm hello shared on a shared breath. Then his mouth parted on a quiet sigh, and you deepened the kiss, tilting your head to slot against him more fully.

He tasted like sleep and warmth, familiar and addictive. His free hand slid up your side, spanning your ribs, thumb stroking the edge of your shirt like he was memorizing the feel of the fabric over your skin.

He kissed you the way he always did when he finally let a little restraint slip, like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked, yet determined to savor every second you were here. Slow at first. Gentle. Then hungrier, his lips moving with a growing urgency you felt all the way down your spine.

Your fingers slid into his hair at the nape of his neck, tugging just enough to pull a low, helpless sound from his chest. The noise sparked through you, and the breath you exhaled against his mouth came out as a soft, involuntary gasp.

“Sunshine,” he breathed, pulling back an inch, eyes blown wide. “If we keep goin’ like this… I’m not gonna be able to stop.”

You brushed your thumb along the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the rasp of stubble tickle your skin. “Did I say anything about stopping?”

His chest rose a little faster beneath your palm. Muscles jumped under his skin. “I just—” His voice faltered. “I don’t ever wanna push you. You start somethin’, I’m right behind you, but if you tell me to slow down or—”

You silenced him with another kiss, softer this time, your heart squeezing at how earnestly he meant it. At how even now, half undone and clinging to his composure, his first instinct was to check in.

“I know,” you whispered against his lips. “And I trust you. Always.”

That did something to him.

You felt it, the subtle collapse of tension in his shoulders, the way his breath caught like he’d been holding it for years. His hand slid up to cradle your face, thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness so steady it made your eyes sting.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Okay, sweetheart.”

You shifted your weight forward, closer, letting your torso settle fully against his. His reaction was immediate, his breath stuttered, hips nudged up instinctively, fingers tightening at your waist as if to ground himself.

“Breathe,” you teased, your smile brushing his mouth. “You’re staring.”

“Can’t help it,” he said, voice rough but honest. “You’re… you.”

You laughed softly and pressed a quick kiss to the tip of his nose before finding his lips again. This time, the moment your mouth touched his, the kiss deepened on its own, lips parting, breaths mixing, his hand gliding down your back in slow, possessive sweeps that made heat coil low in your belly.

The room felt smaller now, quieter. Just the soft rasp of skin, the creak of the mattress, the intimate little noises you pulled from each other with every shift and sigh.

You rolled your hips closer without thinking, chasing more warmth, more contact, more of him. His breath hitched sharply, and his hand flew to your waist, holding you there as if one more inch might ruin him completely.

“Sunshine,” he groaned, eyes closing for a heartbeat as his control slipped. “You’re killin’ me. I’m tryin’ to take my time, but you keep…”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then down to that soft spot under his ear that always made him unravel. You felt him twitch, felt the way he clutched your hip like you were the only stable thing in the room.

“Who says going slow and making you lose your mind can’t happen at the same time?” you murmured against his skin.

His laugh was breathless, almost pained, turning into a low exhale when your lips lingered there a beat too long.

“You’re trouble,” he whispered, needy, adoring, undone. “My favorite kind.”

You smiled, mouth brushing his ear. “Yours, huh?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Always.”

You pulled back enough to see his face again, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead. He looked at you like you’d handed him the stars and told him they were his.

“You know I’m not letting you go today, right?” he said quietly. “World can knock, yell, explode for all I care. They don’t get you. Not today.”

Warmth bloomed through you, slow and sweet and deep.

“Well,” you murmured, slowly kissing him again. “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

His smile against your mouth was soft and stunned and so full of love it made your chest ache.

“Then c’mere, sunshine,” he whispered, voice dipping low and warm as he gently rolled you beneath him, pulling you deeper into his arms. “Let me hold onto you for a while.”

You went willingly, tangling yourself around him until your bodies fit together perfectly, his weight settling over you just enough to feel safe, wanted, enveloped.

The kiss he gave you then was different, slow, warm, unhurried, but the moment your fingers slipped into his hair again and tugged gently?

Something inside him snapped like overstretched thread.

His breath hitched.

His hips lifted.

And his hand slid down your spine to grip your ass, squeezing with a reverence that made your pulse stumble.

“Sunshine,” he murmured against your mouth, voice already frayed with need, “you keep touchin’ me like that, I’m gonna lose every last bit of control I’ve got.”

You rocked your hips up to meet his, slow and subtle, perfectly aligned.

He groaned, a low, broken sound, and any remaining restraint he’d been fighting didn’t stand a chance.

“Fuck—don’t do that,” he rasped. “I’m tryin’ to be good. I’m tryin’ real hard.”

You kissed along his jaw, your breath ghosting over his skin.

“What if I don’t want you to be good?” you whispered.

His hand paused on your hip. His pupils blew wide. For a second he just… looked at you. Like you’d said something holy.

“Sunshine…” It was half a plea, half a warning.

You kissed down his neck, letting your lips drag, letting your teeth graze, and felt the shiver rip through his big, warm body. He was fully awake now—every muscle in him pulled taut, every breath uneven.

You slid your leg higher over his hip.

He sucked in a sharp breath when your thigh brushed the hard line straining beneath the sheet.

“Jesus,” he whispered, eyes squeezing shut as he clenched the sheets with his metal hand. “You’re so fuckin’ soft. You’re gonna drive me insane.”

You moved again, slow and deliberate, rolling your hips so your body pressed perfectly into his.

This time, his hips pushed up to meet you. Instinct. Need. Pure, uncontrollable desire.

His hand flew to your waist, fingers digging in, not to stop you, god, Bucky never stopped you, but to steady himself.

“You feel that, baby?” you murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Look how hard you are already.”

He whimpered, actually whimpered, and the sound went straight to your core.

“You’re killin’ me,” he said, voice choked and wrecked. “I woke up wantin’ cuddles and kisses and now I—fuck, sunshine, I need you. I need you so bad.”

You dragged your lips down his neck again, slower this time, leaving a wet trail that made him tremble. 

“Then tell me,” you whispered. “Use your words.”

His chest rose fast. His metal hand slid up your back, over your spine, cradling the back of your neck with impossible gentleness.

“I want you,” he breathed, voice cracking. “I want you wrapped around me, your legs around my waist, your body under mine so I can feel you everywhere.”

Heat pooled low in your belly, sharp and sweet.

You shifted your hips again, letting your body press fully into the thick, hard length of him. 

Bucky choked on a moan, hand tightening in your hair.

“Sunshine—please.”

You smiled softly, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Roll your hips for me.”

He did, instinctively lifting his hips into yours, grinding up with a need so raw it punched a sound from your throat.

“Ohhh—god—Bucky—”

That did it. His eyes snapped open, dark with hunger and awe.

“You like that?” he rasped. “Shit, you sound so pretty—do it again, c’mere—”

His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you down against him as he thrust up again, slower this time, deliberate, dragging every inch of him against you through the thin layers between you.

Your head fell forward with a breathless gasp.

“Bucky—”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he growled softly against your mouth. “Say my name like that. Ride me through the fuckin’ sheets—just like that, sunshine, just like that—”

You moved with him, both of you finding a rhythm that was maddeningly slow and unbearably intense. Friction building, heat curling low in your core, your breath stuttering every time his hips rolled just right.

He was breathing hard now, jaw clenched, sweat beginning to bead at his temples.

“I’m gonna lose my damn mind,” he whispered, forehead pressing to yours. “You’re so warm—feel so good—fuck, sunshine, I need to be inside you.”

“Then take me,” you whispered.

His whole body stilled.

Blue eyes locked onto yours, blown wide.

“…say that again,” he said, voice breaking.

You cupped his jaw, kissed him slow and deep.

“Take me,” you murmured against his lips. “I want you inside me.”

A sound tore from his chest, half growl, half prayer, and then his hands were on your hips, guiding, lifting, his control hanging by a single frayed thread.

“Sunshine,” he panted, “I’m gonna make you feel so good—gonna have you comin’ on my cock before the sheets cool—”

“Then don’t make me wait.”

He flipped you gently but urgently onto your back, settling between your thighs with a reverent, starving kind of hunger, his big body caging yours without an ounce of pressure, nothing but warmth and wanting.

His lips were on your throat immediately, kissing, nipping, worshipping down the line of your neck as his hands traced up your sides under your shirt, palms warm and greedy.

“You’re shakin’,” he murmured against your skin.

“So are you,” you breathed.

He laughed softly, wrecked, breathless, already barely composed.

“Yeah,” he admitted, kissing down the center of your chest. “’Cause I’ve been dreamin’ about this my whole life. Wakin’ up to you. Havin’ you under me, soft and needy and mine.”

Your breath caught at the word. Mine.

His eyes flicked up, dark and molten.

“You like that,” he said quietly, knowingly. “You like when I tell you you’re mine.”

You nodded, heat shooting through you so fast it made your toes curl.

He groaned. Groaned.

“Sunshine, I’ll say it all mornin’. You’re mine—mine to touch, mine to kiss, mine to make come—”

His metal hand slid between your thighs.

Your breath shattered.

“And I’m yours,” he whispered, kissing below your ear. “Every fuckin’ inch of me.”

Bucky’s fingers brushed the inside of your thigh, barely a touch, more a question than a demand, and your breath hitched hard enough that he felt it.

His eyes lifted to yours.

“Yeah,” he whispered, thumb stroking the sensitive skin once, slow. “That’s it. Open up for me, sunshine.”

You did, immediately. Instinctively.

Like your body had been waiting for that exact tone from him.

He settled between your thighs, heavy and warm, his hips lowering just enough that you felt the thick press of him against your core even through the last thin layer of clothing. Your back arched involuntarily.

“God, you’re needy,” he murmured, sounding somewhere between awed and undone. “Didn’t even have to touch you yet.”

“Bucky—”

His hand slid up, cupping you through your panties, metal fingers curved perfectly to your heat. The cold vibranium contrasted with warm skin, sending a shocked moan tumbling out of your mouth.

“Ohhh—fuck—”

He smirked, slow and sinful.

“That’s it, baby. I love that sound. Gonna get a lot more of those outta you.”

He pressed just a little harder, enough that you felt his fingertips through the damp fabric.

“You’re soaked,” he breathed, thumb brushing your clit through the cotton in a slow, purposeful circle. “All this for me?”

Your hips jerked. Your breath broke. And Bucky smiled like he’d just been handed a sunrise.

“Tell me,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss along your jaw. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you,” you gasped, your fingers curling in his hair as you pushed helplessly into his touch. “I want all of you—please—”

His breath stuttered.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I love when you beg.”

He hooked one finger in the fabric of your panties and dragged them down, slow and deliberate, his eyes locked on you the entire time.

“Look at you,” he murmured, almost reverent. “Pretty little thing, drippin’ for me.”

His finger slid through your slick and your entire body arched. You grabbed at his shoulders, nails sinking in, but he only chuckled softly and kissed your cheek.

“Easy, sunshine. Lemme take care of you.”

He dipped his finger into you just to the first knuckle.

Your breath crumbled.

“Bucky—oh my god—”

“Shhh, I got you,” he murmured, kissing your temple, his voice low and steady even as his hips ground into the mattress for relief. “You’re so tight already… you’re gonna ruin me.”

He pushed deeper, stretching you with a tenderness that contrasted brutally with the way he was panting against your neck.

“Always so fuckin’ tight for me,” he whispered. “Squeezin’ me like you’re already around my cock.”

You moaned, hips rocking helplessly toward him. Your hand found his wrist, not to stop him but to urge him deeper.

He obeyed instantly.

A second finger slid in beside the first, and your back arched so sharply that your chest pressed to his.

“There you go,” he murmured, kissing your throat as his fingers scissored gently. “Open up for me. Let me feel you.”

You could barely breathe.

You could barely think.

All you could do was cling to him as he fucked you slowly with his fingers, deep, curling strokes that hit a spot inside you that made your vision blur at the edges.

His forehead pressed to yours, his breath mingling with yours.

“Sunshine,” he rasped, “look at me.”

You forced your eyes open and what you found nearly undid you.

Bucky was flushed, pupils blown, hair messy from your grip, completely gone for you.

“You look so good when I’m inside you,” he whispered, thumb brushing your clit in a slow stroke that made your hips buck. “So pretty when you take me.”

Your whimper was immediate and broken.

He swallowed it with a kiss, deep and hungry and wet. His tongue brushed yours, lazy and possessive.

His fingers curled inside you.

You cried out into his mouth, thighs trembling.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned against your lips. “Ride my hand—come on, sunshine, fuck yourself on my fingers.”

You did.

Your hips moved on instinct, grinding down into his palm, chasing the pressure and the heat and the delicious burn building low and fast.

“Good girl,” he whispered into your mouth. “My good girl. You’re gettin’ close, aren’t you?”

“Y-yes—oh god—Bucky—”

His thumb circled your clit with devastating precision.

“Come on my fingers,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your trembling mouth. “Come for me, sunshine.”

It hit so fast it stole the air from your lungs.

Your body tightened, shaking, clenching around him in rhythmic waves that dragged a rough, desperate groan out of his chest.

“Ohhh fuck, yeah—that’s it,” he rasped, watching your face like he was memorizing every detail. “That’s my girl. That’s my perfect fuckin’ girl.”

You trembled through the aftershocks, unable to catch your breath. Bucky didn’t pull away, not yet. He kept his fingers inside you, slow and gentle now, grounding you, helping you ride it out.

His free hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking tenderly.

“You with me?” he whispered, kissing your forehead. “You okay, baby?”

You nodded, still shaking. “Y-yes. Just… holy shit.”

He laughed softly, sweet, breathless, affectionate as hell.

“You’re somethin’ else, sunshine.”

He pulled his fingers from you slowly, watching the way you gasped at the sensitivity.

Then he brought his fingers to his mouth… and sucked them clean.

Your entire body jolted.

His eyes locked on yours as he did it, tongue dragging between his fingers, savoring every bit of you.

“Mmm,” he hummed, low and sinful. “Taste even better first thing in the morning.”

“Bucky—”

“Yeah, baby?” he said, settling between your thighs again, his cock heavy and swollen between you now, nudging your slick entrance.

“I need you inside me.”

His eyes darkened to midnight.

Everything in him went soft and wrecked at the same time.

“You got me, sunshine,” he whispered, lowering himself carefully. “You always fuckin’ got me.”

And with one slow, perfect thrust, Bucky sank into you, like he was trying to memorize every millimeter of the way you opened around him. The stretch burned in the best way, a sweet ache blooming deep in your belly as his thick cock pushed past your entrance and filled you inch by devastating inch.

Your breath caught, high and desperate, and your nails dug into his shoulders without conscious thought.

“Oh—God—Bucky—”

He groaned your name into your neck, the sound raw and shaky, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding still. His breath hit your skin in hot, uneven bursts.

“Sunshine,” he panted, voice shredded. “You feel—shit—you feel unreal.”

When he bottomed out, hips flush with yours, your back arched off the bed. The fullness, the heat, the pressure—it was all-consuming. You felt stretched around him, filled to the edge, claimed from the inside out.

He stayed like that for a long moment, buried deep, chest pressed to yours, his pulse rabbiting hard against your skin.

His voice shook when he whispered, “Every damn time… you take me so perfect. So warm. So tight around me… fuck, sunshine, you’re gonna ruin me.”

Your thighs trembled around him, instinctively tightening. The move squeezed around his thick length and a strangled growl tore out of him, muffled against your throat.

“Don’t—” His hand tightened on your hip. “Don’t squeeze like that—baby, I’m beggin’—I’ll come right now.”

“Maybe I want that,” you breathed into his ear, your lips brushing the sensitive shell, your breath hot and deliberate. “Maybe I want you to lose it.”

His hips jerked, helpless, involuntary.

His control frayed to threads.

He lifted his head, eyes blown wide and dark, chest heaving.

“You say shit like that,” he rasped, “and I swear to god, sunshine, I won’t make it five minutes.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, slow and teasing.

“Then don’t last.”

Whatever was holding him together snapped.

He withdrew an inch, just enough that you felt the sudden emptiness, then pushed back into you with one deep, heavy thrust that knocked a sharp cry out of your mouth.

Your hands flew to his back, dragging down the hard lines of muscle, feeling him flex beneath your fingers.

He set a pace that wasn’t fast, but deep. Long strokes that dragged the blunt head of his cock against the softest, most devastating spots inside you. Each thrust pushed a whimper from your lips, each retreat made your body chase him, try to keep him.

His forehead dropped to yours, his hair brushing your cheeks in soft, messy strands.

“Look at me,” he whispered, nudging your nose with his. “Wanna see your face when I fuck you.”

You forced your eyes open and Bucky was staring down at you like the sight of your pleasure was the most beautiful, holy thing he’d ever witnessed.

He kissed you then, slow at first, lips molding to yours, tongue brushing the seam, tasting your gasps. Then deeper, hungrier, like he needed your mouth as much as he needed your body.

His metal hand slid beneath your waist, lifting you into him as he thrust again, deeper this time, angled perfectly to make your vision blur.

“B-Bucky—oh god—right there—”

He groaned against your lips, his breath shuddering.

“There?” he rasped, thrusting again in the same devastating angle. “That the spot, sunshine?”

“Yes—yes—oh fuck—”

His hand on your thigh tightened, pulling you wider open, giving him more space to thrust deeper, harder, until you could feel him pressing into a place inside you that made your toes curl and your lungs stop working.

You clamped around him without meaning to, walls pulsing in rhythm with each slow, bruising thrust.

His head snapped back with a loud, helpless groan.

“Fuck—don’t do that—don’t—oh god, sunshine—”

You dragged your nails down his back again, something wild and needy unraveling inside you.

“Come for me,” you whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I want you to. Fill me.”

He froze mid-thrust, every muscle seizing.

His cock twitched violently inside you.

“You—you can’t say that,” he stuttered, voice dropping into something feral, primal. “Baby—don’t—if you say that—”

You cupped his cheek and whispered it again, slow and pleading.

“Come inside me, Bucky.”

He made a sound you’d never heard before, half moan, half growl, and buried his face in your neck like he couldn’t bear the intensity of it.

“Ohhh fuck—oh fuck—sunshine—fuck—”

His hips began to snap into you, fast and uneven now, instinct taking over, desperation unraveling what was left of his restraint. You felt him losing control, felt the raw hunger in every thrust.

Your body tightened around him again and he swore, deep, shaky, guttural.

“You’re squeezin’ me so hard—oh god—baby, you’re gonna make me—”

His hand found your clit, thumb circling with a perfect, devastating pressure that sent a lightning bolt through your entire body.

“Come for me,” he begged, voice cracking. “Please—please sunshine—need to feel you come before I do—need to feel it—”

Your orgasm hit like a wave breaking over a cliff.

Your back arched so sharply you nearly lifted off the bed, your body clamping tight around him, pulsing in desperate, rhythmic waves as sounds you couldn’t control broke from your throat.

“Yes—yes—oh fuck—Bucky—”

Your orgasm dragged him with you.

He thrust once, twice, then yelled into your neck as he came hard, hips stuttering, cock twitching violently inside you as he spilled deep, hot and thick, filling you in long, pulsing bursts that made you gasp all over again.

His whole body trembled with it, shoulders shaking, breath shattering, hands gripping you like you were the only solid thing in the world.

He stayed inside you, chest pressed to yours, breath slowing against your throat. His hips gave one final, involuntary little pulse that made you both gasp softly.

“Jesus…” he whispered, kissing your jaw with a trembling mouth. “I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard in my damn life.”

You smiled, stroking the back of his neck. “Good.”

He let out a quiet, breathless laugh, nuzzling into your cheek like a sleepy oversized dog who wanted affection and praise at the same time.

“‘Good,’ she says…” He kissed you again, slower this time. “You’re gonna kill me.”

His softening cock slipped a bit, and you let out a tiny sound, half sensitivity, half the warm, messy reality of him still inside you.

His eyes snapped to yours, soft and earnest.

“You okay?”

“More than okay,” you murmured. “Just… full.”

That soft wrecked look he got, the one that said you have me completely, spread across his face.

He kissed you.

Slow.

Lingering.

So tender it made your stomach flip.

“My sunshine,” he whispered against your mouth. “My perfect girl. My everything.”

But then he shifted his hips just slightly, unintentionally, and the warm spill of him inside you shifted with it.

You gasped.

His brows flew together in a mix of concern and sudden hunger.

“Ohhh… sweetheart…” he breathed. “Did you feel that?”

You nodded, cheeks warming.

He dropped another kiss to your lips, then your cheek, then your chin, murmuring between each press.

“Let me take care of you…”

He slid out of you carefully, slow so he wouldn’t hurt you, and the movement drew a soft, broken whimper from both of you. The warm spill of him followed the retreat, and you felt it begin to slip down your thigh.

Bucky saw it.

His breath stuttered.

And then he was gone only for a second, reaching for tissues from the nightstand with frantic tenderness, and was immediately back between your thighs.

“Sunshine,” he whispered, voice low and affectionate. “Look how messy you are…”

You flushed hot, thighs trying to close on instinct.

He gently pushed one hand to the inside of your knee.

“No,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh. “Don’t hide from me. Lemme clean you.”

And he did, dabbing carefully first, then using his warm palm to keep your legs relaxed as he wiped the slow, warm trickle of him from your skin.

His voice stayed low, intimate, soothing.

“Hold still for me, baby… yeah, that’s it… god, you look so pretty like this… all relaxed and fucked-out…”

His words made you melt instead of tense.

He cleaned you with such care, such gentleness, that your chest ached.

When he was done, he pressed the softest kiss to your inner thigh.

Something possessive.

Something worshipful.

Then he crawled up your body, bracing himself carefully so he wouldn’t crush you, and cupped your cheek.

“You feel okay?” he asked, brushing his thumb over your lips. “Anything hurt? Too much?”

“You were perfect,” you whispered, leaning into his touch.

The look on his face, soft, overwhelmed, and so in love to the point of pain, made your heart flip.

He kissed you again, slow and lingering, then nudged your nose with his.

“C’mere,” he murmured. “I wanna hold you.”

Before you could even adjust, he pulled you into his chest and rolled onto his back, bringing you with him so you were draped over his torso.

Your leg fell across his waist.

Your hand spread over the center of his chest, feeling his heartbeat, slow, warm, and steady.

His arms wrapped around you like he was locking you into place.

“Perfect,” he breathed, kissing the top of your head. “Just like this.”

You murmured into his skin, “You’re warm.”

“Mmh.” He smiled into your hair. “Told you, I’m your human space heater.”

You snorted softly, nuzzling closer. “Overgrown weighted blanket.”

“Damn right,” he said, rubbing slow circles into your back. “And I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

He shifted a little beneath you, tugging the blanket over both of you with his metal arm, then burying his nose in your hair with a quiet, content sigh.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“You know… I love this part the most.”

You lifted your head. “Which part?”

His eyes softened, thumb brushing your lower lip, voice low and earnest.

“Holdin’ you after. When you’re all soft and warm and still shakin’ a little… feels like I got the whole world in my arms.”

Your breath caught.

Then you kissed him, slow, deep, with the softness that filth can’t touch, and he melted under you, a big, heavy, happy sigh leaving his chest.

“Bucky?” you murmured, curling deeper into him.

“Yeah, sunshine?”

“Don’t let go yet.”

He tightened his arms instantly, protectively, affection spilling from him like heat.

“Never,” he whispered into your hair. “You’re stayin’ right here.”