Sophie!

You are no more than a fool when it comes to Bucky Barnes. The man could captivate the pants off anyone he met. He’s sweetly polite with the mothers, humbly self-deprecating with the fathers, delightfully hilarious with the children, and devilishly tempting to the ladies. 

It’s easy to fall in love with a man like him. 

He knows all the right things to say, even when you know he doesn’t mean them. 

Bucky’s always been a bit of a player. You don’t judge him for it — of course not. Everyone knows how gorgeous the man is, how deliciously addicting his words are. But you also knew Bucky better than most.

Steve is a good judge of character and Bucky has been his friend longer than most people have known what New York tastes like in this decade. If Steve is still friends with him, then that is a testament to his character. The man is confident with a sharp tongue. He keeps Steve on his toes — both in the way he constantly challenges him, but also holding him up, especially when Steve chooses to pick fights with people much, much bigger than him. He defends the little guys as much as Steve does. 

You quickly learn that he is a great friend to anyone he deems one. He walks you home at night after a late movie with the two of them. When he swings by your place as you’re bringing home bags full of groceries, he swiftly takes over, arms around the paper bags as he asks you about your day. It’s an act that comes so naturally, a kindness as easy as breathing.  

But that’s Bucky for you — irresistible and untouchable.

You don’t stand a chance with him. You’ve seen the girls he goes on dates with, the pretty ones. Even the wealthy girls can’t help but swoon over him when he knows exactly how to play their hearts. 

Bucky flirts with you too, romantic little quips that have you ducking your head and Steve scolding him for embarrassing you. He just laughs it off, tells Steve that he likes seeing you shy around him like that.

You figure it’s all a game to him. See how many girls he can woo in a day and you don’t think you can count the number on one hand. Ladies walking down the street are mesmerized by a simple nod of his head in their direction. 

So with Valentine’s Day right around the corner, you realize you’ve doomed yourself to another February spent alone. Another year of pining over Bucky means another year of you eschewing every other man in sight. You hope your mother has stocked up on sweets at home because that’s all you’ll be eating once the day arrives. Alone.

Steve has already decided to spend the day with his mother, treating her to a lovely mother-son day that they haven’t had since he was a teenager. Your parents had plans and so did most of your friends, because they hadn’t been busy chasing after a man they could never get. Not like you. 

“What’re you doin’ for Valentine’s Day?”

The question catches you off guard. It’s one of the rare occasions that Steve isn’t around when Bucky drops by for an impromptu visit. You’re busy mixing together a batch of muffins for your mother’s church fundraiser when you look up to find Bucky peering into the mixture curiously.

You almost think you dreamt up the question until Bucky looks up at you expectantly with those beautiful baby blues.

Opening your mouth, you’re ready to tell him absolutely nothing only to realize that it may be an embarrassing answer to have no plans for a day dedicated to romance. Bucky is probably fully aware of your life in singledom and he himself probably has a date — or two — lined up. You try not to be too disappointed.

Instead, you put on an air of indifference. “Nothing. It’s a silly day. Why would you only have one day to celebrate love? Love should be celebrated all the time. I don’t really believe in a frivolous holiday like that.”

The words sound painfully phony even to your ears. You keep your eyes glued on your batter as you finally set the bowl down. When your eyes finally lift, you find Bucky looking contemplatively at your counter. There’s a pinch between his brows that you have the strong urge to smooth out with the gentle press of your thumb. Your fingers twitch, so you grab hold of your ladle instead. 

“Why?” You clear your throat. “Have any fun plans? A date perhaps?” Or two, you think bitterly.

Bucky smiles at you, but it looks more frail than usual. Feigned joy plagued with concern. You’re about to ask him when he shakes his head. “No, you’re right. That whole day is a joke anyway.” 

For some reason, your heart sinks with his words. A part of you was hoping Bucky would deny your cynicism, that there would be a deeper meaning beneath his question, asking you if you had a plan for that specific day. A part of you was hoping Bucky would ask you to be his Valentine; however, that’s a silly, naive thought. Bucky could ask anyone else, why would he ask you?

“If you’re not doing anythin’ anyway, want to spend the day together? Stevie’s busy with his mom.”

You nearly drop the batter as you pour it into the mold. “Oh, uhm, are you sure? I figured you’d have someone special you would want to spend it with.”

Bucky’s lips quirk up in the corners, like he’s in on a joke you’re not part of. “No plans right now. I’d like to spend it with you if you don’t mind.”

Comfortable silence settles between you as you contemplate his offer for a moment. It doesn’t really make sense to you, why he would want to spend arguably the most romantic time of year with you — someone whose friendship was thrust upon him by association with Steve. But you decide to be brave for once. When else would you get Bucky Barnes all to yourself?

As worried as you are about who he is, you’re also touched that you’re the first person he thought of after Steve to spend time with him.

“I’m interested,” you nod and his face brightens, “what do you have in mind?”

The six o’clock call time should be outlawed. Bucky tells you that he’ll swing by to pick you up and whisk you away into the city. This means that you’ve been up for two hours trying to get yourself ready as best as you can. With him asking you so close to d-day and your closet looking less and less enticing, you simply have to pick out your Sunday best.

In this case, it’s a little pinstriped pale pink dress that your mother has handwashed over and over again, evidenced in the loose threads that have begun to show and the material worn from the stress of chemicals. You quietly nick a belt from your mother’s closet while she’s fast asleep and slip it around your waist for a bit of flair. After wrestling with your face and your hair for a bit, using tools and makeup you aren’t too familiar with, you finally feel you look decently presentable.

Well, as presentable as you can be at this hour.

You had told your mother the previous day that Bucky would be taking you out. She had teased you relentlessly for it but also worried over how early he plans to take you.

“It’s Bucky, Mom. We’ll be fine.”

“That’s the part I’m worried about,” she gave you a look.

She has met Bucky before. In fact, he has helped her with chores around the house countless times. Being the handyman that he is, your mother puts his free and capable labor to work, particularly when things need fixing in your leaky, creaky home.

“I’ll be fine, promise,” you smile, kissing her quickly on the cheek.

She only sighs. Mothers always know and she is more than aware of your ridiculous crush on Bucky. She doesn’t discourage it but you can see the worry and sympathy in her gaze whenever she sees the two of you together.

Steve is none the wiser. That man is too busy being patriotic, keeping track of the news and the war to pay attention to such trivial things like romance. Plus, Bucky is a renowned romancer, so it’s nothing out of the ordinary.

But now, you’re left looking in your mirror in the dim lighting of your bedroom. You don’t look so bad, a far cry from your usual drab attire that blends in with the rest of the city. For once — or for the first time in a while, you feel… pretty.

Bucky doesn’t ring. Instead, when you peek outside at approximately 5:57 to check if he is there, he’s already standing by your door, fidgeting almost anxiously. You watch him for a bit through the peephole, observing as he rocks on the balls of his feet, as he looks up to the ceiling and mutters silent words to himself, as he bites his bottom lip with a glance at the door.

You finally put him out of his misery and swivel the door open. He’s even more gorgeous in full form. With a casual collared shirt and slacks that stretch down his long legs, Bucky looks positively scrumptious. Not to mention, he’s even done his hair a bit, giving it that effortless coif.

“Morning,” you say, a little breathless.

“G’mornin’,” he murmurs, eyes tracking over the length of you. He appraises you so openly. Shamelessly. His lips twist and your heart drops. It must show on your expression because Bucky instantly softens. “You look beautiful. Too beautiful, in fact. Might have to bat off other men today.”

Heat crawls up your neck at his words as you duck your head. “Don’t be silly. That won’t happen.”

“You have no idea,” Bucky mutters.

“No idea about what?”

With a sigh, he simply shakes his head. “Nothing. Shall we?”

He guides you to the subway that takes you all the way to the Brooklyn side of the Brooklyn Bridge. The normally bustling stretch of the bridge is quiet with the sun barely peeking over the horizon. Bucky guides you along the path quietly, the two of you strolling in comfortable silence with the occasional vehicle on the lower road cruising through or the whisper of the wind in your ear.

The two of you pause in the middle to watch as the sun rises, the purplish pink sky melting into hues of orange and yellow. Bucky pops open his bag and pulls out a sketchbook, flipping it open as his pencil begins to scrape over the page. You stand next to him, shoulder to shoulder as you look out into the open waters.

Occasionally, you’d peek to the side to get a glimpse of his drawing, finding him layering lines of lead into a recreation of the bridge and the skyline.

“I didn’t know you drew,” you say quietly, as if speaking any louder would disturb the peace.

Bucky pinks but you can’t tell if it’s the sunrise coloring his cheeks. “I dabble,” he clears his throat.

“Well, you’re very good. Steve does too, have you seen his work?”

A laugh rises from his chest as he flips the book closed. “I taught him how to draw. We started off scribbling on each other’s notebooks growing up until I started sketching a little more seriously. Then I had to teach him because he needed at least one skill to impress the ladies.”

“He drew my portrait for my last birthday,” you smile, thinking to the picture you have pinned up above your desk. It was such a simple gift but one you treasure dearly. Sweet to think that Bucky had something to do with it, even if indirectly.

When you turn to look at Bucky, his mouth is curled into a small, sour frown.

“What?” You ask as Bucky purses his lips. “Why are you making that face?”

“You and Steve,” he starts then trails off, seeming to ponder his next words, “you’re both really close, huh?”

You raise an eyebrow at him in confusion. “We were friends first. We met through Steve, remember?”

“I remember,” he says a little too quickly.

“Is that— I don’t know, a problem? If you’re worried about Steve, I won’t do anything to hurt him. I know he tends to be too trusting.”

Bucky’s irritation thaws into an expression that has his blue eyes catching the sunlight, sparkling like the ocean before the two of you. “I’m not worried about Steve.” He shakes his head. “Forget about it. Come on.”

The two of you make small talk as you complete the walk up the bridge. Bucky leads you past the state’s legal courts, up through Chinatown, winding through small and large streets. Wherever you’re going, he seems to be taking many detours, opting for the long way there.

You don’t mind. It’s more time spent by his side as he tucks in close to you to fight the bristling wind and the crowds. There are occasions in which people bump into you and Bucky keeps a steady arm around your waist. When he lets his grasp fall away, the sense of loss is immediate.

Bucky keeps the conversation flowing without the need for any liquid courage. Sometimes you forget how easy it is to talk to him. While Steve can be overly focused on geopolitics and serious topics, Bucky shares anecdotes from his life, silly stories that have you giggling and snorting. He seems to take pride in making you laugh, lips stretching just an inch wider every time you have to pause to take a breath after a particularly funny story.

The more you laugh, the more animated he becomes. His hands fly around in exaggeration, painting the story in big, bold strokes that threaten to wipe out anyone in his path.

“Bucky Barnes, you did not say that to your high school teacher.”

He holds his hand to his chest. “Scout’s honor.”

“You’ve never been a Boy Scout in your life,” you tease.

“You don’t know that.”

Rolling your eyes, you let a small smile dance on your lips. “I know you.”

“Do you really?”

“‘Course I do,” you challenge right back.

“Tell me about me then.”

That catches you off guard. Your steps falter briefly before you right yourself, exuding an air of feigned confidence. “What do you want to know?”

“My favorite color.”

“Red. You’re going to say something cheesy like it’s the color of a girl’s heart, but it’s really because your mom’s favorite flowers are roses.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to trip over the sidewalk, catching himself before he can fully face-plant. He whips around to face you, eyes wide. “How do you know that?”

“We talked about it once. You said some cheesy line about the color red and Steve corrected you, said it was because of your mom.”

“Steve,” he grunts under his breath.

“Aw, don’t be upset with him,” you coo, “I think it’s very sweet.”

“I’m not sweet. I’m tough,” Bucky slaps on a smug look on his face, puffing out his chest and straightening his shoulders as he walks.

A laugh bubbles up your throat. “You’re sweet through and through, Bucky Barnes. No matter how much you deny it.”

“Alright, since you know me so well, what’s my middle name?”

“That’s too easy! Buchanan.”

“My first?”

“James.”

“Yes?”

You give him a look. He gives you a charming smile, which you’ll never admit has your heart skipping a beat.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I just like hearin’ you say my name.”

“Again, ridiculous,” you roll your eyes but turn away to hide the shameful glee that warms your cheeks.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you have a crush on me.”

You definitely almost trip and destroy your face on the pavement when Bucky catches you before you can do so, hand whipping out to catch you by the waist, the other on your hand to steady you.

“Careful there,” he whispers, soft in your ear.

You don’t realize how close he is until you look up to thank him and find him only inches away from your face. Bucky’s blue eyes appear a little darker up close, the cerulean swallowed up by his dark pupils as his gaze assesses you with genuine concern.

“Thanks,” you cough shyly.

“Now, about that crush on me.”

Quick to snap out of it, you immediately protest, “As if!”

A look flickers across his eyes. “Why? You got a crush on Stevie instead?”

“What?” You sputter, “What makes you say that?”

That doesn’t seem to be the right answer because Bucky’s lips curl downwards again into a displeased pout. “Whatever,” he grumbles, “come on.”

By the time you realize how far the two of you have traveled, you find yourself at a park. A great white arch stands tall in the distance but Bucky intertwines your fingers to tug you towards the open fields. It’s a surprisingly warm day in February and you suddenly feel tall crisp grass tickling your ankles. 

Before you can ask Bucky what the two of you are doing there, he’s pulling out a plaid sheet from his bag and spreading it onto the ground. He gestures for you to sit before the wind can whisk it away. So you kneel onto the cloth and sit with your legs tucked to the side.

Bucky joins you shortly after, pulling out more things from his bag.

“Thought you’d be hungry since it’s lunchtime,” he says. “Mom packed us sandwiches, hope that’s okay.”

You look mildly surprised. “That’s very thoughtful of her. It’s more than okay.”

He splits the two sandwiches in half so you can get a taste of each — egg salad and the other is one with slices of cold cuts and cheese. The two of you nibble on the food silently, enjoying the cool winter-spring breeze weaving through the city.

With it being a nicer day and Valentine’s Day, there are more than a handful of people out and about. Couples speckle the lawn, nuzzling into each other and feeding each other bites like a scene straight out of the big screen. 

Looking at Bucky scarfing down his own sandwich across from you, you can’t help but wonder if that’s how the two of you appear to everyone else. Two more strangers in the crowd. On a date. On Valentine’s Day.

It’s terribly wishful thinking, one created under false pretenses, and you chide yourself internally for surrendering yourself to such far-fetched dreams.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

He couldn’t pay you a thousand dollars to confess. 

“It wouldn’t be worth your money. I was just thinking it’s such a lovely day and I’m glad you invited me out.” The lie comes out smooth, but it’s worth it to see the way he lights up. 

His lips curl into a wide grin as he scooches closer to you. “Yeah? You havin’ a good time, doll?”

Doll? Your eyebrow raises in question but he doesn’t elaborate. 

“Yes, Bucky, I’m having a good time.”

“Good. I aim to please.”

The question that’s been nagging at you since he first asked you continues to tug on your thoughts, begging to be freed. So you let it out.

“Why’d you invite me out today, Bucky?”

“I can’t ask you to hang out with me? I’m hurt.”

You give him a knowing look. “Come on, it’s Valentine’s Day. You’d be the type to have a date, I doubt nobody’s asked you.”

“I am on a date!”

“Bucky,” you whine, and he only chuckles.

“Doll, I think you’re overthinking this.”

Your heart sinks. There’s one answer that rests in the forefront of your mind, one that plagues you with visceral guilt.

“If you feel bad that I was going to spend it alone, I can assure you that you didn’t have to.”

A cloud forms in Bucky’s eyes as his brows pinch lightly. “You think I asked you to spend time with me out of pity?” 

You only manage a shrug. It’s the only logical explanation.

“Is it so hard to believe that I want to spend today with you? Of all days,” he says quietly. 

It’s the most thoughtful you’ve seen Bucky. You’re seeing many sides of him today; your greed consumes you and you can’t help but want more now that you’ve had a taste. 

“I just think your time could’ve been better spent elsewhere,” you pause, “or with someone else.”

“Let me make it clear to you then,” he begins, voice gravely earnest, “I asked you out today because I wanted to spend time with you. Yes, today specifically and yes, with you specifically. It’s not out of pity, I would never even consider that. I’m more selfish than you think.”

His smile is wry when you look up to face him. 

“Would you have preferred someone else ask you to spend time together today?”

Would you? The answer comes easy.

“No,” you murmur, “I’m glad it was you.” 

“Good,” he nods, “can’t believe you’d think that low of me.”

“I felt terrible!” 

“Well, you don’t have to. I’m here because I want to be, alright?”

“Alright.”

“Now, we never really finished our conversation from earlier. You got a crush on anyone?”

Yes, you. It’s always been you. You’re once again at a loss for words; instead of answering, you say, “Oh. Uhm, why are you asking?”

“Curious,” he murmurs but the weight of his gaze seems to betray the forced airiness of his voice. 

You swallow, smoothing out your skirt to avoid his gaze. “What about you?”

“I do.”

That has you jerking back, staring at him with wide eyes. “Oh.” 

Before you can ask who it is, Bucky continues. “I have an idea,” he says with a wicked little twinkle in his eye. You stare at him once again with deep concern. “How about this — we write a letter to them. A simple letter. You can write whatever you want. The only rule is that you have to be honest.”

“Honest?”

He hums in confirmation. “Honest. Whether it’s your feelings or the weather today, you simply have to be truthful. Once you’re done, we just… never send it.”

Your brows kiss in the middle. “What’s the point of doing that?” 

“Dunno. Might be nice to put those feelings to paper. Like a manifestation method.”

For a second, you just stare at him, waiting for him to yell gotcha. But that moment doesn’t come so you do the only thing you always do with Bucky — you give in to him. 

“Alright, fine.” 

Bucky’s smile could light up a town. He grabs his book from his bag and rips out a page, handing it over to you along with a pen. The two of you sit in silence for a while. 

You think about all the words you could say to Bucky. All the things you wish he knew. 

Your hands rough and calloused from the work that wears you down, but toughens you to protect those dearest to you. Bruised knuckles and split skin as evidence of your love.

Your heart that is larger than the world ever taught it to be. Vast enough to shelter those you love, weathering the tumultuous storms until you reach calmer seas. 

Your eyes are the blue of summer skies, the kind that stretch endlessly. The blue of the rivers that kiss the edges of this island, whispering of a world far larger than our own. 

These are all the words you can never say out loud. It’ll be a betrayal of your feelings, ones you wish to keep buried to save your dignity. 

Because Bucky Barnes is a good man, but he is a good man who doesn’t love you the same way you do him. He simply has a heart that was built for love and he doles out that affection generously to those around him. You are another planet — no, perhaps a star — in his orbit. Tiny, insignificant, and incomparable to the rest. 

But you made a promise that you would be honest so you pour your feelings that have simmered and festered in your mind for months. Feelings you never allowed yourself to feel, a denial that persisted strong. Until today. Until Bucky allowed you some room to hope. 

You don’t know how long you sit there, your handwriting growing smaller and smaller as you fill the page with combinations of the alphabet that string together what you think are coherent thoughts. 

You remind yourself that it doesn’t matter if it’s coherent because Bucky will never see this. Like he said, it’s a manifestation. A silent confession to the wind. 

The only thing that gives you comfort is that — it’s perfectly okay that he will never know how you feel because there are enough people out there who will surely love him enough for you. 

When you finally dot that last period on the paper, your fingers aching from its warpath across the page, you look up to find Bucky sneaking glances at you. His hand glides across his book in long strokes.

Strokes that do not look like a letter.

“What are you—”

He cuts you off, “Don’t worry about it.”

Your eyes narrow into slits as you slowly say his name. Bucky only offers a cheeky grin. You lean towards him to get a glimpse but he’s quick to pull the paper back.

“Not doing anything nefarious, doll.”

“Then show me.”

“Nu-uh, it’s mine.”

Huffing, you purse your lips. “Don’t be childish. Come on. Let me see.”

“I’ll show you if you show me your letter.”

A gasp rises from your throat, warmth creeping up your neck. “Bucky Barnes, that is not fair. You said I wouldn’t have to show anyone.”

“Yeah, but it’s me. You trust me, don’t you? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“Bucky,” you whine, “you’re not even writing a letter.”

“I finished my letter. Now I’m doin’ other things.”

“You’re being mean on purpose.”

His smile tips up higher. “Well, it’s the only way I can get more than two words out of you.”

“What’s that supposed to—”

Before you can finish your question, you’re interrupted by a shrill Hey, Bucky! The two of you whip towards the source of the sound. 

Sheryl Jones. 

Sheryl Jones who lives in the nicer part of town where the houses are tall and the fences are white. Sheryl Jones who is the talk of the town as the most eligible bachelorette with the heftiest pockets. Sheryl Jones who has been obsessed with Bucky for as long as you can remember. 

The two of you certainly don’t run in the same social circles, you don’t even think she knows you exist, but you’ve heard of her. If not from whispers around town, then it’s from Bucky who constantly tells Steve how Sheryl’s been showering him with gifts.

The same Sheryl Jones who is now scuttling towards the two of you with two of her friends hot on her heels. 

Sheryl who looks like she came straight out of a magazine with her pristine, bold-colored dress. Flowers are stitched to the length of a fabric that looks more expensive than your entire closet. The clack of her wedges clear against the path before she approaches the two of you seated on the grass. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Sheryl smiles, saccharine sweet. 

“Hey, Sheryl,” Bucky says, flipping his book closed and redirecting that smile towards her instead. 

“You’re not on a date, are you?” She asks, a mockery posed as an innocent question. She doesn’t even spare you a glance. 

You feel yourself shrink again, a built-in response to make yourself smaller and hopefully fade into the background. Unlike Steve, you’re not one to square up when posed with a challenge. You instead make yourself invisible, hoping the threat would disappear. 

Bucky’s eyes flick over to you for a moment, looking almost conflicted before he says tightly, “No, nothin’ like that.”

If it wasn’t confirmation before, it sure is now. 

This is Bucky being a good friend to you. Yes, he wants to be here — but as a friend. You were the one who twisted it all up in your head into something you thought you could have. 

Sheryl’s eyes light up even more as she lifts the bag in her hand. The neat cursive of that new, fancy patisserie down the street printed on the front. “Great! I wanted to give you these chocolates. We sampled some in-store and I picked out my favorites for you.” 

Bucky rises to his feet to accept the gift. “Thank you, Sheryl. That’s very thoughtful of you.” 

“How about you and me get some ice cream? It’s a nice day for it. I know the perfect place.”

If your heart had sunk to your stomach before, it plummets to the ground now. That fearful despair claws at your chest, poking holes in your lungs until you feel as though you can’t breathe. 

You need to go. 

Bucky’s gaze flies to you, as if he’s asking for your permission. Of course, he’d want to spend the day with Sheryl instead. Maybe he was waiting for her to ask. 

Quickly, you fold your letter into a small square before tucking it into your purse. Bucky watches the movement with a frown. You scramble to your feet before plastering on a smile that feels too frail on your lips. 

“You should go, Buck. I should probably head home. It’s been a long day, hasn’t it? Don’t worry, I can find my way back. Thanks for today,” you blurt out. Your eyes are on him but you don’t see him. Not really. Your mind is already far away, tracking down a path on how you could get back to the safety of your home.

The home where you plan to eat all of the sweets your mom has tucked away. Alone. 

“Wait, hold on. No, we’re—”

You’re already moving off the field and onto the sidewalk again, your worn loafers taking you as fast as you can go away from that humiliating situation. You’re a big girl. You can handle rejection. Bucky’s a friend. A good friend. 

Blood is rushing in your ears as you brush past other pedestrians. The faster you get to the subway, the faster you can breathe. As long as you can feel Bucky’s eyes on you, you don’t think—

A hold on your hand. 

Your footsteps halt almost immediately, you nearly toppling over again but a hand steadies you. You look up to find Bucky staring at you with the deepest befuddled sulk on his face. “What— what happened? Where are you going? I still have a few things planned.”

“Oh,” you sheepishly glance past his shoulder to see Sheryl glaring at you before she whirls around and stomps away. 

You realize that don’t actually make it very far. The blanket is crumpled up in Bucky’s arms, bag haphazardly closed in his rush to catch you. 

“I just thought— you and Sheryl,” you mutter. “You don’t have to spend the rest of the day with me, Buck. I’m sure ice cream with her would be fun too. I can find my own way home.”

“There’s nothing going on between me and Sheryl,” Bucky says, sounding almost frustrated, “I promise. Nothing at all, doll. I’m all yours today.”

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” you say with your best attempt not to wince, “you probably want to spend it with, I don’t know, whoever your crush is. Or someone like Sheryl. You don’t have to keep me company all day.”

Bucky licks his lips as he looks up at the sky, a strangely pleading look in his eyes like he’s turning to some higher power for an answer. “Let’s just—” he stops himself with a sigh, “Come on. How about you and me get some ice cream?”

You’re still a little doubtful but Bucky’s already tugging you down the street.

That’s when you realize — he never let go of your hand. 

Down the street, past the shops selling tricks and trinkets, you find a little sweets shop. It’s beautifully decorated with bright blue walls, white countertops holding all sorts of equipment, and red barstools that look like ripe cherries. 

Your eyes roam around the place, you haven’t been to one in a while, your wallet scarcely allows you to treat yourself to such trivial niceties. It’s something you simply cannot afford with your meagre salary as a secretary in a small family office. 

Bucky squeezes your hand. “What do you want, doll? Tell me. Anythin’ you want.” 

“Anything?” You tease, “Playing a dangerous game, Bucky Barnes.”

His eyes soften as the two of you slide onto the stools. The shop isn’t too terribly crowded, so you manage to get seated almost immediately. “How about a banana split?”

You nod eagerly. 

“One banana split, good sir,” Bucky tells the waiter who looks far too tired to be working a joyous day like today. 

The waiter rattles off the price and Bucky begins to count the change in his pocket, paling when he seemingly realizes he doesn’t have enough. His hands busy themselves with digging around his bag for a miracle. 

You instead turn back to the waiter with a polite smile. “Actually, I’m still full from lunch. I don’t think I can finish an entire banana split. Can we just get a scoop of vanilla?” 

Thankfully, the waiter doesn’t seem to give it a second thought before he shares your new total. Bucky’s shoulders slump as he picks up a nickel to give to the waiter. He smiles at you gratefully. 

“Next time,” Bucky promises.

“I make a mean banana split so next time, you can come over and we can share one.” An unidentifiable emotion crosses his eyes and you mistake it for displeasure. Maybe he doesn’t want to just share it with you. “And Steve!” You throw out in panic, “We can make it at home and eat it all together.” 

The brightness of his baby blues appears to dim slightly. “Right, yeah. With Steve too.” 

You don’t have a moment to think about it too much before Bucky entertains you with stories. Stories from work. Stories from his past. Stories about Steve. You find yourself laughing as you spoon the sugar that melts on your tongue. You don’t miss how Bucky takes smaller bites to encourage you to eat more of it. 

Always so thoughtful. 

Your heart is on high when Bucky guides you to the train. Your fingers itch with the urge to hold his hand again, but you don’t think that would be very appropriate. 

This isn’t a date, after all.

As the train crosses over the bridge, the two of you get a view of the sunset over the water. The river ripples with glimmers of copper and gold. The light casts a warm glow across Bucky’s face as he regards you with the sort of gentleness that could so easily break. 

Bucky asks you more questions on the long ride home, forcing you to speak about yourself more than you have the entire period of time you’ve known him.

“I’m talking too much,” you let slip in embarrassment.

“No, you’re not. I like hearin’ you talk, especially about yourself.”

“That just makes me seem narcissistic,” you laugh. 

Bucky hums with a shake of his head. “No, that makes me curious. Don’t know much about you, doll.”

“There’s not much to know.”

“Proved to me today that that is incredibly untrue.” 

The streets are dark and deserted on your walk home. Cast iron lamps dot the street and bathe the pavement with enough light as your quiet footsteps echo down the street.

“I hope you had a good day today?”

“It was a good day,” you agree with a smile. 

By the time you walk up to your front porch, your heart is itching to say more. The words are practically hanging off the tip of your tongue. The words that could jeopardize this entire friendship. 

You want to tell him that you love him. Tell him that you want him more than anything. Tell him that you want him to stay. 

But you don’t. 

You don’t have the courage to say these words out loud, not so clearly in front of him. Instead, you swallow them down and let them settle somewhere you cannot reach. 

Bucky, with his hands buried in his pockets, searches your eyes for a moment. He’s quiet, a slight, serious pinch to his lips as he looks at you. 

He shovels through his bag again before he pulls out a couple of folded pages, taking your hand and pressing them into it. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, doll.”

Then he is taking a step back, and more steps back, until he is slowly walking down the stairs of your porch and onto the sidewalk.

Your hand still tingles where he touched you. You’re numb, brain buzzing with the kind of white noise that goes nowhere. Your trembling hands slowly unfurl the pages in your hand. The first sight that greets you is… you.

It’s you. Bucky had drawn you. It’s you but you’re… beautiful — beautiful in a way that you never really saw yourself. Beautiful in the way that only someone who adores you would see you. The sketch is simple but leaves you breathless all the same. He captured the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, the twinkle in your eye. This is proof that Bucky sees you. He really sees you. 

The second page contains words. Words that he said he would never send, but he has now hand-delivered to you. Your eyes skip over the paper, greedily taking in each word as if your heart depends on them. You swallow each one, digesting it with great care before your brain can catch up.

And then you’re moving, wind catching in your dress as you rush down the sidewalk. Your skirt billows in the window, swirling behind you as you search for him in the night. His name leaves your lips in countless, breathless pleas. 

Bucky stops and turns right on time to catch you in his arms before you can propel too far forward. “What—”

“You have terribly long legs,” you wheeze out, finding your footing with Bucky’s arms still around you, his frown directed towards you. “I— I didn’t think— I never thought—”

“Deep breaths, doll,” Bucky chuckles low. “I’m here. Not goin’ anywhere.”

“I had… a fantastic time with you today. I just— I was embarrassed to not have plans but I’m glad because that gave me you and you gave me today and today was… amazing.” 

Light flickers across his face as his lips quirk up into a pleased grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you beam and, for the first time in your life, you tell yourself to be brave. Brave in a way you haven’t been before. Brave in a way that only Bucky can make you. “And I love you too.”

The smile wipes off his face in an instant. For a moment, you worry you read his letter wrong. You worry that your mind conjured up words you wanted to see. A hallucination from a drug that you never consumed. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve absolutely, completely humiliated yourself and shattered what little exists between you and Bucky. 

It’s evident in the way you stiffen, your body slowly extracting away from him. Bucky catches you, taking your hand and clasping it against his chest. Even through the layers of clothes, you can feel the firm rhythm beneath your fingertips. An erratic thudding against his ribcage. 

“No, hold on,” he chokes out, “I need you to say it again. Maybe slap me while you’re at it too. Just to make sure I’m not dreaming.”

A giggle bubbles up your throat as you look at him. “You’re being mean now. You’re really going to make me say it again?”

“Say it again. Please, doll. Beggin’ you here.”

“You’re such a pain,” you smile and find more of your courage to lean forward and press your lips against him. You swallow his surprised gasp, feel him wrangle his arms around you to hold you close to him. His arms around your waist as you wrap your own around his neck to tug him towards you. “Love you, Buck.”

Then you’re airborne. His hands on you as he picks you up and twirls you around, laughter spilling from his lips like music to your ears. “You’re not lyin’ to me, are you? This isn’t some kind of prank. Because it’s February, not April, you know.”

“Buck!”

“Best day of my life,” Bucky grins as he sets you back down, kissing you again and again and again until you’re laughing against his lips. 

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration.” You poke him in the chest.

Bucky doesn’t cease his kisses, peppering them across your cheeks, your forehead, your jaw, before dangerously venturing south down your neck. A sinful moan slithers past your lips as he does so. His fingers tighten on your waist. 

With your swollen lips, you peer up at Bucky with a request in your gaze.

“My parents are going to be out late. They have dinner and a show and then dancing. Nobody’s home. If, you know, you wanted to come over…”

It’s the last chance for you to be a bit more dauntless, a bit more reckless. It’s the last dose of courage that you manage to muster up as Bucky holds you close. 

His eyes gloss over with the kind of desire that has your stomach flipping. They drop to your lips again, to the soft, moist spot on your neck, before rising back to meet yours. 

“Doll, I— I wanna treat you right. Take you out on a proper date before we—” he stops his words there, flushing beet red beneath the warm lamps. “I wanna do this right. Do right by you.”

“You already took me on a date, Buck,” you whisper, “let’s be real. Today was one.” You pry his hands from your waist and use them to tug his dazed state down the street back to your house. He’s stumbling after you, looking all sorts of flustered. 

It’s satisfying to see Bucky so affected by you. You always thought he was this smooth and suave man, untouchable to the everyday person. Seeing him like this, pink and shy, trailing after you like an eager pup with those awed blue eyes, you realize that maybe you’re not the everyday person to him. 

You’re you and he’s the sweet loverboy who simply loves you. 

“Don’t get shy on me now, we don’t have time for that,” you tease as you unlock your front door.

His hands land on your hips again as he turns you around to press you up against the surface. His mouth slants over yours, a groan vibrating off his chest. “Don’t worry, I won’t take that long.”

He drinks in your bright laughter as you quickly spin to open and spill through the door. 

With his hand in yours, you guide him up the steps of your quiet house. Your room sits on the far end of the hall and you momentarily panic, wondering if you’ve cleaned. This is the last thing you expected to do from your outing. 

However, before you can think too hard about it, you push open the door. 

Bucky’s gaze flits around the room, absorbing every inch of it with his lips quirked in a small smile. The photos that hang on your wall, ones of your family, ones of you and friends, ones of you and Steve and Bucky. The childish pink sheets that your mom purchased so long ago but you never cared to change. 

Now, you’re starting to think you probably could’ve put in some effort into your room. You just never expected to bring a boy here. 

“Cute,” Bucky murmurs. “It’s very… you.”

“How so?”

“Sweet,” he smiles, settling his hands on your waist again to pull you forward towards him. Bucky leans down to kiss you again, slower this time. His lips move languidly against yours as your hands find purchase on his shoulders. “Taste so good, doll.”

“It’s the ice cream,” you grin.

“Just you,” he replies between kisses. 

He cautiously walks you back against the bed, gently easing you to sit before laying you down along the length of it. He presses you back into the mattress, propping himself up by his forearms as he looks at you with a gaze so tender you could melt. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, trailing his warm lips along your jaw, firm as he kisses each spot on your skin like he’s tracing a path with his mouth. 

He runs his mouth along the column of your tongue, tongue scraping to taset that sweetness of your smooth skin as his teeth temporarily tattoo blooming prints in a trail. His hand cups the back of your neck to tilt your head up to face him. His lips find yours again, soft and steady, as he exhalest moans that match yours. 

“Bucky,” you hum quietly. 

Hesitation clouds his gaze for a moment. 

“Ever been with anyone before?”

You look embarrassed for a second, shifting your gaze away. “Once.” It’s not that you’re ashamed of your inexperience; you just wish you had more to reference to make sure this is as good for Bucky as it will undoubtedly be for you.

Regardless of what he does, you’re almost a hundred percent certain that you’ll be happy — as long as it’s with him. 

“Who?” Bucky grits out. 

The sternness of his voice has you stiffening in surprise. “I-It was just someone from the neighborhood. Summer last year.” 

His jaw clenches, a tick as his hand slides to cup your chin, turning you back to him. “Don’t let him near me, doll. Never want to imagine you with anyone else.”

“You’re one to talk,” you pout right back, “how about you?” 

Bucky’s gaze flickers away for a second before returning to you. A worried tinge to his expression. 

There’s no way— it can’t be. Bucky of all people? 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Bucky flushes. 

“You haven’t— I mean, you’re you.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I just mean, you could have your pick, Bucky. With anyone. I’m just… surprised, I suppose.”

Bucky sighs, leaning his forehead down against yours again. His breath ghosts your skin. “I couldn’t think of anyone else once I met you. Couldn’t even look at anyone else.”

“That’s just silly,” you mutter. 

“Why’s that silly?”

You’ve known Bucky for a couple of years now, starting after high school when Steve first introduced you the summer after graduation, all three of you growing up together into full-fleshed, working adults who barely have time for the better things in life. In that time, you could picture Bucky going on dates, meeting one gal after another who catches his fancy. 

But the two of you have never been more than friends, and even then, the term is a bit of a stretch. While you’re comfortable with Steve, Bucky’s charm has always intimidated you. You don’t how to interact with someone who’s so calm, so confident. You’re a bundle of nervous, jittery energy while Bucky always engages you with such cool charisma. 

“I don’t know, I just— you’ve been out on dates. I assumed you would have… at some point.”

“Didn’t care about those dates, doll. Only went along with it to help a couple of friends. I never thought about those girls.”

“I see how everyone looks at you, you know.”

“Well, I only see you.”

Your heart flutters in your chest, butterflies ripple in your stomach like the first flight of spring. 

“We’ve known each other a while.”

Bucky confirms, “I know.”

“So how long have you— I mean, why haven’t you said anything?”

His eyes trace your face again. 

“You were always so quiet with me. Not like how you are with Stevie. I thought you didn’t like me that much.”

You blink at him, a mix of confusion and astonishment. “I like you, Bucky. Of course, I do.”

“You barely say anything to me most of the time. Even when I come over, you’re always so shy. Like you’re scared of me. When I asked you to go out today, I wanted to throw it out there — it’s the first time Steve’s been busy on this day. I didn’t think you’d agree to come.”

“I wasn’t… scared of you. You’re just out of my league.”

His brows furrow in a deep frown that mars his beautiful face. “Why would you say that?”

“You’re just cool and sweet and you have all the ladies clamoring to be with you. I didn’t think you’d see me in that way, not when you have so many others.”

“No one else. There’s been no one else for me.” 

Your heart slams against your ribs, your lips morphing into a surprised smile. “I should’ve said something too.”

“Glad you came after me today,” Bucky smiles, a little weak. “I was worried you’d tell me — or Stevie — that you never wanted to see me again. Tell me to take a hike.”

You laugh. “That would be crazy.”

“I thought you’d tell me that you’ve had a crush on Stevie all this time.” 

“Me? A crush on Steve?” Bucky nods almost shyly. “He’s just a good friend.”

“He’s a great guy.”

“A great guy more in love with justice and his country than anything else. No, I couldn’t ever see Steve in that light. You, on the other hand…”

Bucky’s lips twitch as he leans forward, kissing your cheek. “What about me?” He whispers.

“You’re everything.”

“God, you’re perfect,” Bucky professes earnestly. “Be patient with me, doll. I’ll learn how to take real good care of you. Promise you I’ll make you feel good.”

You don’t doubt him. 

You can feel the fragile touch of his fingertips on your skin, quivering slightly as a sign of his nerves. For once, with confirmation of his affection, you feel bolder. Stronger. You take his hands and pry them off you. He looks at you with a combination of confusion and wary. He looks as if he’s about to ask you if he’s done something wrong. 

Before he can question you, you nudge him back gently onto his back. Sapphire eyes staring up at you in awed surprise. It’s your turn to duck your head and kiss him firmly on the lips, leaving him dazed and distracted as you slowly work off his shirt buttons one at a time, revealing more of his chest to you. 

His very chiseled chest. 

He’s unbelievable. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you whine. “How are you built like this?”

Bucky flushes, red to his beautiful pecs. “It’s because of work.”

“You’re gorgeous,” you utter with admiration dripping in every syllable. 

“Nothing compared to you.”

“Do you practice these lines with anyone else or do they come naturally?” You tease, finger tracing the lines of his chest and down to his abs. You feel him tighten, shadows deepening as his stomach clenches. 

“I mean every word when it comes to you, doll.”

With a bashful smile, you begin to venture south. Your lips press against his skin, warm and wet as you sketch the shape of him with your tongue. 

“Shit,” Bucky jerks nervously, “sorry. I’ve never— um, I haven’t done this.” 

“Ever or in a while?” The anxious shift of his gaze is answer enough. “Hey, it’s just me, Buck.”

“I know,” he flinches, “I want it to be good for you. You don’t have to do this.”

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you look at him coyly. “Trust me, this is as good for you as it is for me.”

“How—” His words fizzle out as you press your lips against his navel, lowering until you reach that sharp angle that disappears beneath his pants. 

Your fingers are far from stable as they pop open his pants, reaching for the waistband to draw them down. From this angle, with his hooded eyes staring at you, the sight of his sculpted body before you, you can’t help but lick your lips in anticipation. Your mouth is practically salivating, begging to be put on him. 

You tug his briefs down too, leaving him with only his shirt splayed open. He’s beautiful. While you’ve been with another before this, he doesn’t even come close to Bucky. His length stands tall and proud, the head flushed a desperate red as it twitches with need.

The power is almost intoxicating. Knowing how vulnerable Bucky is beneath your fingertips. The tables have turned and now you’re the one who has Bucky glowing bright red. 

You’re on your knees, fully dressed still, as you position yourself before him. Your hand reaches out to grasp him, a gasp immediately ripping out of his chest as he slams his head back against the pillow.

Your thumb brushes over the tip. He jerks again, legs jumping. “So sensitive,” you murmur. 

“Doll, you’re killin’ me,” he pants, sealing the seam of his lips in a firm, determined line. 

“I haven’t done anything yet.”

“That’s the worst part,” he gripes tightly. 

You lean forward with a giggle, the puffs of air from your lips touching his cock leaking with moisture. Bucky’s eyes squeeze shut as you begin slow strokes with your hand, your eyes drinking in how he twists and fruitlessly forces himself to stay still on the bed. 

When you bend even closer, your lips finally close in around the head. You taste a hint of him on your tongue as Bucky heaves a deep breath again. You’ve overheard conversations from other girls before, what makes this a good experience for men. You’re putting your knowledge to the test now. 

Your tongue circles the head as your fingers keep a firm grip around the base. With your other hand, you flatten it against his hip bone to steady him against your mattress. As you begin to dip your head down, taking more of his length into your mouth, he begins to writhe against you.

The weight of his cock is grounding on your tongue, you find yourself laving at his length, trying to find all of the spots that have him releasing those delicious little moans. You drag your tongue along the underside of his cock and earn a guttural groan. You suckle on the tip over and over until he’s arching slightly off the bed in search of more. Your hand moves in tandem with your mouth as you stroke what you cannot swallow, and Bucky slides his hand into your hair. 

Then you feel him yank you back, releasing him with a pop. 

Bucky grips his cock, squeezing it as his face is tinted the same color as those cherry-red stools. He gasps as the vein in his neck pulses. “Shit. Doll, you’re too good— I can’t last like this.” 

“You can cum in my mouth.”

His eyes roll to the back of his head before he lets out another pained groan. “Keep sayin’ things like that and I might cum all over your sheets before you touch me again.” 

You bite back your smile. “Let me take care of you a bit longer.”

“Doll, I need you to feel good too. Need you to finish with me.” 

“I feel good when you feel good,” you say honestly. 

Just seeing Bucky like this — coming apart, undone by your touch — is enough to satisfy that eager little devil inside you. The one that pushes you to relentlessly tease him until he’s whining and spilling those pearls from his cock. 

Bucky shakes his head and pries your hands off him before he flips you over again. His eyes have darkened with hunger, pupils wide as they wolf down your surprise. He holds your hands up above your head as he kisses you again, deep and ravenous. His tongue licks inside your mouth when you gasp, tangling against yours and drawing out those pretty, breathless moans that cling to the back of his mind. 

He’s going to hear you for days. He wants to taste you for days.

As one hand cups your cheek, the other slides down to undo your belt, casting it aside, before moving behind your back to draw down the zipper. It’s delectable how he doesn’t seem so timid anymore, confident in his actions. He mouths down your neck, catching your skin between his teeth with a firmer grip. You whimper as you feel each sting, his attempt to map out constellations that will linger for all to marvel. 

“I’ve been waiting to do this all day.”

“To have your way with me?” You raise an eyebrow. 

“To kiss you,” Bucky grins, “couldn’t stop thinkin’ about it. I wanted to do it when I first saw you in this dress this morning. I wanted to do it when the sun rose upon your face. I wanted to do it when you were giggling at the park. Desperately wanted to do it when I left you on your porch earlier.” 

“You should’ve been bolder, Bucky Barnes.”

His eyes glaze over with a molten look that melts you. “I love the way you say my name.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Hearin’ you say it over and over today, I wanted to kiss you until you can’t think of anythin’ else but me.”

You smile up at him, mellow and soft. “I already think of nothing else but you.”

Bucky shakes his head, looking over you like he can’t believe you’re real. Like he can’t believe he gets to have this. Gets to have you. His lips are back on you as he traces down your neck, as he slips the thick fabric of your dress down to your legs before he pushes it away. Then he’s leaning back, his eyes roaming over you, trailing over the shape of you like he’s committing it to memory.

“I want to draw you someday,” Bucky purrs, “just like this. Open. Vulnerable. For me.”

A shiver snakes up your spine at the thought. Your legs squeezing together. 

“Going to have this picture tucked away with me at all times. Keep you in my wallet. You with your beautiful tits, and these curves,” he mumbles as his hand reaches up to your face again, his thumb dragging along your plump bottom lip. “Whenever I want to jerk off, I’ll have this to remind me of you. A picture of you for me to ruin.”

Your eyes slide shut as a moan crawls its way up your throat. The thought of Bucky at home or at work, his strong hand wrapped around his cock, stroking himself to the sketch of you with your tits out, legs wide open, until he splatters cum that stains the pages and destroys his hard work, has you wet between your legs. 

Then you just have to do it for him all over again. Another pose, another position. Bent over, spread open, or maybe even just your face for him to paint — in more ways than one. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Bucky grins wide, “My perfect, dirty girl.” His other hand slides down between your legs and holds you there, feeling the dampness and humidity of the flimsy fabric. “So wet for me already.” 

“Bucky, please.” 

“I haven’t done anything yet,” he echoes your words mischievously. 

“You’re mean.” You stick your bottom lip out at him. 

He chuckles. “I can see the appeal, why you liked seein’ me feel good. All I can think about is how I can make you feel the same way. How do you want me, doll? Tell me what you like.”

“I-I don’t know. I’ve only done this once before.”

“I can teach you what you’ll like. We’ll learn together. I’ll know for next time how to make you squirm, make you cry, make you moan my name.” 

His fingers begin to rub slow circles over your panties. The pressure has your hips lifting to meet his touch. Bucky’s eyes are fixated on you, glued to the way your expression morphs from incredulity to pleasure to pain. He doesn’t even blink, making sure that he catches every change in your emotion, collecting all of the things that make you tick. 

When his fingers finally slip beneath the fabric and feel the sticky mess between your legs, your hands fly to catch his wrist. 

“You’re leakin’, doll. So messy between these pretty legs. This all for me?”

You’re in utter disbelief at how quickly Bucky has flipped the situation on its head. You can’t believe that Bucky’s never done this before, not with how skillful his fingers are in delivering a divine sort of punishment — or reward. His fingers push between your slick folds, gathering your juices until they glide all the way in. There’s barely any resistance with how wet you are, but his fingers are thick and you can still feel the stretch as he curls them inside you with a cocky grin. 

“So sweet for me. I love seeing you like this, doll. I want your scent on my fingers, want to be able smell you when I’m at work. None of those guys will ever know how beautiful you are like this, wrecked and open for me. I’ll think about how fuckin’ wet you are for me. Drippin’ for me.”

“Bucky, oh god, please. It feels so good.”

“Good girl,” he murmurs, “that’s it. Who’s making you feel good, hm? Who’s got you squirming and leakin’ all over my fingers?”

“You, only you.”

He scissors his fingers open inside you, stroking your walls with a friction that sparks another wave of heat through you. It’s like your brain has melted completely, smoothed out until only one thought remains in your mind. Bucky and his talented hands and his delicious lips. 

With your eyes closed, you miss how Bucky leans forward to capture one of your pebbled nipples into his mouth. The heat engulfs your sensitive bud as his tongue swirls around it, wet and hot. “Taste so good,” Bucky mumbles, his deep timbre resonating through your chest to your core. “Perfect fuckin’ tits on my perfect fuckin’ girl.” 

“Your girl?” You gasp as he nips you gently. 

“You think I’ll share you with anyone else after today?” Bucky laughs, but amusement is the last thing you hear in his voice. “You’re mine. I’ll fight any guy who tries anything with you. Even Stevie, doll.”

Your pussy clenches around his fingers, squeezing his digits at that promise of possession. You hate to admit how much you enjoy the thought of it. How much Bucky wants you, how much he loves you. How selfish he is with you. 

“You’re mine,” Bucky repeats in a growl as he burrows his fingers deeper inside you, drawing out a whimper from your lips. 

“I’m yours,” you nod breathlessly. 

“Good girl,” he hums, pleased. “I want you to cum around my fingers, doll. I want to feel you squeeze me.”

To that, you shake your head as you try to pull him out of you. Bucky’s much stronger though, his biceps flexing as he fights to keep his fingers buried inside. “I want you. Want your cock. Want you inside me.” 

He pales for a second. “Doll, I didn’t bring— I mean, I don’t have… a condom.”

“S’okay,” you moan drunkenly, inebriated from the addicting sound of his voice, the feeling of his fingers, the high of the day. “You can just pull out.”

“Doll.”

“Bucky, please.” 

His eyes betray the war in his mind. You can see the conflict behind those irises, the need to consume you battling against his strong sense of responsibility. His cock and his heart driving his mind in two different directions. 

With him partially preoccupied, you manage to get his fingers out before you’re lifting it to your lips. You run his wet fingers along your lips, his eyes snagging on the sight of the streak. Then you open your mouth and take his fingers onto your tongue. 

If possible, Bucky’s eyes darken even further, the ring of blue swallowed by the desire that devours him. 

You taste yourself and something uniquely him on his fingers. Your eyes stay on him, watching how a lustful fog rolls across his gaze at the sight of you sucking on his fingers. Your tongue slips and slides between his fingers, over his knuckles until they’re clean. 

Then you drag him down to meet your lips, your tongue sliding over his. 

You drink his moans and let them settle deep in your gut. “Fuck, look at you. I can taste you,” Bucky groans. 

“Mmm, will you please fuck me, Bucky? Pretty please,” you bat your eyes at him, a tantalizing look that has his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. 

“You’re going to kill me,” he groans. “S’not safe, doll.”

He is surprisingly resilient, more stubborn than you thought. You should’ve known better than to think you could get Bucky to cave in to your whims with your sexual wiles. What you need is to use his own weakness, his Kryptonite, against him. 

With a sigh, you release your hold on him. “Alright, fine.”

“I’ll still take care of you. Make sure you finish.”

You glance at the door with lips pressed together. “You think Stevie’s done with his mom?”

Bucky freezes. Limbs going stock still as his jaw drops open. “What— you never call him Stevie.”

“Well, maybe I’ll start. Maybe Stevie will give me what I want.”

Bucky growls, baring his teeth as he pins you down on the bed again, wrists above your head. “You tryin’ to piss me off, doll?”

“I’m trying to get fucked, Buck.”

“Then you ask me. You don’t fuckin’ ask — hell, you don’t even think about Steve.”

“I’ve been asking!”

“Such a brat,” Bucky shakes his head, realizing now what you’ve done. His eyes sparkle with that knowing look. “I’m goin’ to pull out. As much as I’d love to knock you up, get you full of my babies, I want to do right by you — and now is not the time.”

You bite the corner of your lip again at the thought of Bucky breeding you. It wouldn’t be so bad. 

“Don’t even think about it,” he mutters, “you devious little minx. If I knew you were this manipulative, I would’ve come prepared.”

A sweet smile up at him, you tilt your head in mock innocence. “You think I wouldn’t slice right through that determination of yours?”

Bucky inhales deeply, breathing out through his nose. “I’m gonna make you pay for this. Just you wait.” He uses his knee to nudge your legs open and you do so easily, knees falling apart automatically to grant him access. 

Sliding off the bed, Bucky drags you to the edge of the mattress and uses one hand to keep you restrained. His palms are large enough to hold them together, grip tight enough for the burn to warm your belly and your pussy squeezing. There’s a damp spot in your panties that has Bucky swallowing thickly before he hooks his fingers on the hem and pulls your underwear down and off you.

He brings the small piece to his nose, breathing in your scent as a grunt makes its way up his throat. Then he’s shoving it into his back pocket. “Mine now.”

Before you can protest the loss of your favorite underwear, he positions his cock at your entrance, testing the head along your lips and letting you leak onto his length. He presses his cock against you, your folds molding around him as he grinds his hips into you. Moans tumble from his lips as he soaks in the feeling of you wet and warm around him. The friction is enough to have you whining — pleasure sinking into your bones while your body begs for more. 

The intensity of this intimacy has you wriggling against him. It’s not enough, yet too much, all at once. His tip brushes over your clit, rubbing that delicate spot over again until you’re mewling into your sheets. 

“God, you feel like a dream, doll. So fuckin’ wet for me. Have you thought about my cock before?”

“Mhmm,” you hum absentmindedly.

“Touched yourself to me?” 

“Mhmm,” you admit again.

Bucky hisses as the thick head of his cock catches onto your gaping cunt. You’re practically begging for him to fuck you at this point, pussy opening up every time his cock comes close. You’re dripping all over him like honey. He tugs it out again with a groan. “Yeah, tell me what you think about.”

His name spills from your lips in protest. You scoot lower in the hopes of getting another feel of his cock inside you. 

“Tell me,” he says as he stills his hips. 

“I-I don’t know. I just think about you and your cock. I imagine myself on my knees as you push your cock into my mouth, as you fuck my throat and tell me to take it like a good girl.”

“Jesus.” Bucky’s hips jerk against you, giving you that mind-numbing traction you so desperately crave. 

Eager now that you’ve seen what your words can do to him, you keep going. “I think about you thrusting into my mouth until my throat is raw. Think about you moaning my name and spilling down my throat. I think about you forcing my jaw open to prove to you that I swallowed every single drop.” 

“Fuck, doll. You’re a goddamn dream come true.” Bucky begins to rut against you again. Sweat beads his forehead, not from the exertion of his effort, but from the force of his self-restraint. “Tell me more. Keep talkin’.”

The words flow from your lips so easily. Eagerly. “I think about you fucking me. I think about you making me spread my legs, you making me put my fingers between them to keep my pussy open for you.” A curse falls from his mouth. “I think about you sliding your cock inside me, stretching me out as you tell me how good my cunt feels around you. How my pussy belongs to you.”

His chuckle is deep and devilish as he finally sheathes himself inside you. His cock dragging against your insides as a choked gasp falls from your lips. He’s bigger than you thought, your juices barely easing the ache as he stretches you open. 

“Like that?” He breathes, “Your cunt feels like heaven. Feels like where I’ve always belonged.” 

“Just like that,” you swallow as he slides himself all the way out only to bury himself back in again to the base. 

The movement is unhurried, prolonging the burn as he enters you again. “Pussy was fuckin’ made for me. This cunt is mine, doll. Nobody else is gonna even think about touching you. I’m gonna have you smellin’ like me, imprint myself on you. Gonna leave you with so many hickeys, all the housewives down this fuckin’ block are gonna blush every time they see you. Gonna make sure my fingers bruise your fuckin’ wrists so the men can see that you’re mine. Cuffed to me with my own handprints.”

“Bucky, oh god, please,” you arch off the bed, struggling against his grasp. 

He only laughs, low and dark. “Try all you want, you’re not goin’ anywhere.” He rolls his hips slowly at first, torturing you in methods that are criminal to mankind. His cock fills you up before leaving you gaping, empty, clenching around air again. He pushes back in with emphasis, his length reaching the deepest parts of you until you’re left gasping. 

True to his word, only his name forms on your tongue. Only his name leaves your lips again and again in breathless moans, in wretched whines. 

“Never knew I could feel like this. All those nights, been using my own hand while thinkin’ of you, thinkin’ about your sweet pussy wrapped around my cock, and I could’ve had you.”

“You thought of me?”

“Every night.” His answer is swift and honest. “Every time you wore those pretty little dresses, I’d fuck my fist that night thinkin’ about what it would be like to bend you over a counter somewhere, flippin’ your skirt up, and buryin’ myself in this pretty pussy.” 

“Hnnng, Buck, please. Need you.”

Bucky picks up the pace of his thrusts, jerking his hips harder against you until his balls are slapping against your cunt. The slick sounds of his cock inside you, the smacking of skin against skin bouncing off the four walls of the room. Bucky inhales deeply, smelling the musky scent of sex that wafts through the room. The rousing scent of your desire leaking between your legs, the smell of sweat as he drills into you with a persistence that steals the air from your lungs. 

“Always imagined you needy for me like this. Didn’t matter that I never fucked anyone before. I knew I’d have you, doll. I wasn’t ever going to let anyone else touch you,” he bites out then bitterly adds, “again.” 

“Yours, Buck. I’m yours.”

Bucky grits his teeth as he sinks himself into you again, his hand moving from your hips to your clit as he digs his thumb into the mess of stimulated nerves. You whine and clamp your legs around him, drawing him in closer. 

“That’s my good girl. Do you wanna cum on my cock? Wanna soak my fat cock with your pussy, doll?”

You nod, drool practically dribbling from your lips as your mind fizzles into nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky. 

“I wanna hear you say it.” 

“Yes, Buck. Please.”

“What do you want?”

“I wanna cum on your cock,” you moan, stomach tightening with a desperation that squeezes your chest. 

“You gonna let me cum in you?”

You don’t even have to think twice before you nod. “Yes, yes. Whatever you want.”

“Fuck, doll, you’re such a desperate little slut. You don’t even care if I knock you up, do you? You want my babies, doll? Wanna be pregnant, tits full of milk, and carrying my kids?”

“Yeah, yeah, please. Anything.”

Bucky groans as his movements stutter, knees weakening with your words. Chest heavy with the weight of your desperation, how easily you give in to him. Bucky leans forward to kiss you again, pressing your legs back as he fucks into you, your own hips tilting back like he’s preparing you to take his cum. 

“Good girl, gonna breed you so good, doll.” 

“Please,” you pant. “Please, Bucky.”

“So sweet for me. Beggin’ me like this,” Bucky grunts.

You can feel your pleasure cresting, climbing and climbing until there’s no oxygen left in your lungs. Your legs tighten around him, pussy clamping around his cock. 

All you need is his permission.

“Bucky, please— please let me cum.”

“Cum for me, doll. Cum around my cock.”

And you’re nothing if not obedient. Your orgasm crashes over you in rolling tides, a gasp wrenching from your lips as your fingers dig into your palm. Bucky’s grip secures firmly around your wrists as he watches you come apart underneath him. Your hair now a mess, light streaks of mascara on your cheeks. 

Stunning. 

Bucky growls at the delicious sight of you absolutely wrecked, pumping in and out faster to chase his own climax. When he feels it coming, he quickly pulls himself out of you, chest rising and falling as he paints white across your stomach, your chest. The streaks are an abstract work of art that he registers vaguely through his hazy eyes. 

His hips are still jerking as he spurts the last of his cum across your body. He huffs with a satisfied sort of exhaustion as he looks down at the work he’s created. He releases his hold around your wrists as he ducks his head to kiss you again. 

Slow and sweet. 

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “I don’t know how you’re real, but I’m not about to start questioning God for bringing you into my life.” 

Your embarrassment with his words is swift, warmth creeping up your cheeks. “You’re too sweet with me.” 

“Deserve all of it, doll. Love you. Never said it out loud.”

You giggle against his lips. “Love you too, Buck.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up before—”

The sound of the front door creaking open has both of you stunned. Bucky scrambles off you, searching around for his pants as he buttons up his shirt again. You reach for the napkins on your bedside table and wipe yourself down. 

You hear your parents’ footsteps ascend the stairs. They always, always check on you before they go to sleep.

On cue, just as you’re holding your dress up to cover your body, you hear the knock on your door. “Honey?” Your mom’s voice calls out from the other side.

Your eyes fly to the clock, indicating that it’s much too late for you to be awake anyway. So you bring your finger to your lips to tell Bucky to be quiet. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even breathe. 

“Guess she’s asleep already.” You hear your mom say before their footsteps recede down the hall again. 

You finally let out a deep sigh of relief, letting the dress pool on the floor again. “That would’ve been bad.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Bucky flinches. “This is not how I want to face your mother for the first time as your boyfriend.”

You perk up, lips tugging into a smile. “Boyfriend?”

Bucky’s mouth quirks up in amusement. “Yeah, doll. Boyfriend. I didn’t make that clear enough?” 

“You never asked, Bucky Barnes,” you challenge.

“Feisty,” he grins, hands snapping out to grab you and draw you close. He presses a kiss against your temple. “You’re right. Will you be my girlfriend?”

“Yes,” you brighten. 

Bucky holds you at arm’s length, admiring the sight of you still deliciously naked and sticky. “Should’ve drawn you with my cum all over you earlier,” he murmurs, finger tracing down your stomach where your skin is still damp. 

“Bucky,” you protest shyly. 

“Can I see you tomorrow?”

Your eyes widen in surprise, to which Bucky grins. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

“Good. Let me take you out again. Properly this time. A real date.”

You smile, “You already did, Buck.”

“Mmm, don’t think so. I think tomorrow will be our official first date.”

“You cumming on me doesn’t count?” 

Bucky groans, leaning forward to press your foreheads together. “I wanted to be a gentleman with you,” he grouses, more so to himself.

“Well, you did pull out,” you tease.

“Cute,” he laughs. “I’m serious, doll. About this. About you. Need you to know that.”

“I know.”

His lips twitch again into a smile as he kisses you, light and sweet. “Good. Now, I’m going to climb out the window like a teenager sneaking out of your parents’ home.” 

Laughter rises from your chest again. “Be careful.”

“Always.” 

After kissing you senselessly for a few more minutes — he really is far too easy to distract, Bucky swings over the ledge and hops onto the tree outside. He blows you one last kiss before jogging down the street, glancing back long enough to flash you another smile. 

Maybe — just maybe — you won’t have to spend Valentine’s Day alone ever again. 

bucky is kissing (taglist): @superbassbuck @earthsmightiestbenders @houseofhyde @its-in-the-woods @flockoff-featherface @winterdecember18 @chateaubarnes @54nboo @barnes-babydoll @phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @heldbybarnes @blowingbarnes @stanmarvelous @pinksplace @lunexiax @54nboo @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @esunarint @nikkitabarnes @captain-shannon-becker @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @alli0-0 @amoremarveloustime @avgdestitute @natskisses @sarah1barnes @parker-barnes-af @sarah1barnes @onecojg @iamthatonefangirl @wildflowersandvibranium @stegosaurussims @angelryex @evelynstanmarvel

You stop mid-step. Your brain short-circuits just long enough for the lid of your coffee cup to betray you—a small dribble of liquid lava hits the edge of your hand.

“Shit,” you hiss, wiping it on your lab coat. Not the best look, but frankly, it’s not like he can judge. You have your flaws. He has a kill count.

Captain America’s ex-best friend. The Winter Soldier turned Avenger. The human embodiment of a sealed file. Exactly what your overclocked nervous system needs at seven in the damn morning.

You don’t hate him. That would require too much emotional investment. What you feel is more like… persistent irritation mixed with a healthy dose of distrust. He’s everything you resent about agents: cocky, haunted, prone to unpredictable violence, and somehow still glorified in every agency briefing and classified report.

But more than that—it’s the Budapest symposium.

Two months ago, you were presenting a closed-door session on the ethical implications of biometric surveillance overlays in the field. You’d made a case for data-limited neural interface protocols—no deep emotion-mapping without consent, no unconscious tracking. You had charts. Citations. A damn good argument.

And Bucky Barnes? He was in the back row, arms folded, face unreadable. Before the time even came for questions, he stood up and asked—in front of a dozen international regulators—

“Aren’t you just trying to build a better leash?”

The room had gone quiet. You’d gone cold. Because the worst part was—he hadn’t been wrong.

He walked out before you could answer, leaving you to field the fallout with a thin smile and a throat full of fury. You spent the next week drafting three different sarcastic emails you never sent.

So no, you’re not thrilled to see him outside your lab. Especially not looking like a government-issued mistake you’d almost make twice.

“You’re here,” you say once your voice decides to cooperate. You hold your coffee like a weapon—or a shield. “And scowling. Which I think breaks at least two of our site protocols.”

He turns his head slightly. Those icy blue eyes flick toward you, unreadable behind the scruff and the perpetual shadow of something heavier than war. You’ve read the file. But seeing him again in person is different. Less haunted soldier, more statue carved from tension.

“Security assignment,” he says, voice low and gravel-rough. “I’m with you today.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Protocol says highest-risk assets get an escort during internal breach investigations.”

And by ‘protocol’, he means Val.

You stare at him. “I thought that meant someone like Ava. Or Lena. Not…” You gesture vaguely at all of him. “This whole glowering thing.”

He doesn’t answer. Just steps forward, pushes the door open, and holds it for you with exaggerated politeness—like a gentleman or a prison warden. You’re not sure which is worse.

You walk past him muttering, “I’m not a high-risk asset. I’m a scientist who got stuck in the crossfire of a bureaucratic dick-measuring contest.”

He follows close behind, boots heavy on the linoleum. “You designed a compound that links neural responses across two brains. That’s high-risk by definition.”

You spin on your heel to face him. “It was theoretical. You know what theoretical means, right? No human trials. No deployment. No volunteers. The compound is locked down in cold storage with three redundant containment protocols.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“You sound defensive,” he goads mildly.

Your jaw drops. “I sound correct.”

He raises one eyebrow, expression neutral—which somehow makes it worse. “You always this wound up?”

You glare. “Only when former assassins are breathing down my neck before breakfast.”

He gives the faintest shrug, like it’s not worth arguing. You turn away again, heels clicking faster now as you head for the secure wing, hoping you look more in control than you feel.

God, you haven’t even had time to check your email.

The corridor stretches long and bright and sterile, lined with reinforced doors and retina scanners, every square foot designed to scream classified. You reach the final keypad and punch in your code, a practiced sequence that usually calms you. But this morning it just makes your fingers itch.

The door slides open with a quiet beep—

And the air hits you like a punch to the face.

Your nostrils flare instinctively. Sharp. Acrid. A faint metallic tang riding the edge of the ventilation.

Chemical.

You freeze. One second. Two. Your brain connects the dots a hair too late.

Gas.

“No, no, no—”

You drop your coffee—cup and all—and sprint into the lab. Your eyes lock instantly on the containment cabinet against the far wall. The red emergency light above it pulses in warning, casting the walls in sickly, flickering hues.

The cabinet—where the prototype compound is stored under triple-sealed cryo-containment—is open. Not wide. Just… cracked. A whisper of vapor hisses from its seams like breath from a sleeping monster.

You spin toward the door. “Barnes, get the door sealed—”

But he’s already inside, scanning the room, eyes sharp and military-fast, and it’s too late anyway.

The soft whoomp of emergency ventilation kicks in, the system responding to your alert. You stagger as the remaining aerosolized compound bursts into the air in a rapid pressure release—microscopic particles blooming invisible around you like a deadly fog.

You cough. Once. Twice. The taste hits the back of your throat. And then you feel it.

Not panic. Not exactly. More like a tug just behind your ribs. A subtle wrongness threading through your consciousness like a splinter sliding in the grain.

Not pain. Not fear. Something else. Something other.

You turn—and Bucky Barnes is staring at you like you’ve both just heard the same gunshot.

His pupils are blown. His stance off-kilter. He looks—

Connected. Like he feels it too.

“Oh shit,” you whisper.

Because there’s only one thing in that cabinet capable of inducing a shared neuro-emotive feedback loop between two human brains.

And now it isn’t theoretical anymore. It’s happening.

To you. And him. Together.

—-

You’re ushered into quarantine within six minutes of exposure.

By minute seven, your blood pressure has been taken, your pupils checked, and your ego thoroughly trampled by a flurry of panicked lab techs—and one very smug containment officer who keeps muttering, “Told you this was going to happen,” like your entire life’s work exists solely to vindicate his mediocre career.

By minute ten, you’re sitting on the edge of a cot in Isolation Chamber A, glaring through the reinforced glass at James Buchanan Barnes in Chamber B like you can will his lungs to stop working out of sheer spite.

He, unfortunately, looks fine.

“You don’t look like you’re dying,” he says blandly.

You fold your arms. “Neither do you. Tragic oversight.”

He doesn’t smile. Of course not. He just leans back on his cot with that frustratingly composed, ex-assassin posture. Like stillness is a performance and he’s performing it at an Olympic level.

It makes your teeth itch.

“You feel anything?” he asks, casually. Too casually. As if he’s not currently entangled in a theoretical neural tether that was never supposed to reach human trials, much less him.

You hesitate. “Not really.”

Which isn’t a lie. But it isn’t the whole truth either.

Physically, you feel fine. No nausea. No tremors. No limbic misfires. But there’s something else. A buzz under your skin. Familiar, because you modeled it. Dismissible—until it isn’t.

A quiet frequency, just at the edge of perception. Like pressure. Or breath on the back of your neck.

Mental static. Not yours.

“I feel something,” Bucky says. He frowns—an actual expression—and taps his chest once, distracted. “Not pain. Just… something else.”

You arch a brow. “Let me guess. Low-level irritation and the overwhelming urge to be left alone?”

His eyes flick to yours. “Exactly.”

You scowl. “That’s me, genius.”

He blinks. Then frowns harder. “Shit.”

You groan. “Nope. This cannot be happening. Absolutely not. No thank you.”

You stand up abruptly and start pacing. The cot creaks behind you like it also hates this.

Because this is bad. Not theoretically bad. Functionally. You know what the compound is designed to do—and how unstable it gets at full potency. This isn’t an accident. It’s a worst-case scenario.

The door hisses open.

Dr. Yen, the Chief Medical Officer of your division steps in, tablet already lit, lips pressed thin. You’ve seen that look before. It means the results are in, and you’re not going to like them.

“Vitals are stable,” she says. “No visible cellular breakdown. But limbic scans are confirming cross-resonance.”

You close your eyes. “So it’s real.”

“It’s real,” she confirms. “You’re linked.”

Across the glass, Bucky sighs. “Linked how?”

Yen barely looks up. “Emotionally. Neurologically. The aerosolized bond agent was absorbed via mucosal membranes—eyes, nose, mouth. Maximum contact.”

“You’re saying we’re… what? Reading each other’s minds?”

“Not minds,” you say automatically. “Emotional states. Neural fluctuations. Maybe low-level somatic impulses.”

She nods. “Shared dreams are possible. Mirror physiology. Elevated empathy. Possibly even localized reflex responses.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “So if she stubs her toe, I feel it?”

“Not unless your motor cortex overcompensates. Which is unlikely. For now.”

You sit back down, hard. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Yen gives you a dry look. “No, but your name’s still at the top of the protocol. I believe the phrase you used in your original paper was ‘temporary adaptive tethering of live-state neural patterns via synthetic limbic resonance.’”

You mutter, “God, I hate myself.”

“You invented the scientific version of a psychic handcuff,” Bucky says.

You glare at him. “Trust me, if I could break it off and throw it in a volcano, I would.”

He leans back again, exasperated, like this is just another mission gone sideways. But you see it now—underneath the irritation. Not just annoyance.

Curiosity. Amusement. And something quieter that you can’t place yet.

Dr. Yen taps through her readings. “We’re transferring you to Observation Room One. Together.”

“What? Why?” you ask.

“Because separating you could intensify the neurological drift. The bond is responding to proximity—removing it might trigger feedback escalation.”

You blink. “Escalation?”

“Increased bleed. Emotional volatility. Uncontrolled synching. You remember, the time we tested on mice, one started trying to dig a tunnel with its face when the other was removed.”

You stare.

Bucky sighs. “Great. Can’t wait.”

Dr. Yen continues, already halfway out the door. “I’ll monitor for spike activity. Try not to kill each other.”

The door hisses shut behind her.

You look at Bucky. He looks at you. And just like that, the hum gets louder. Not in the room. In your chest. Like the tension between you has grown teeth.

“Don’t talk to me,” you mutter, grabbing your duffel.

He smirks. “I don’t have to. You’re already broadcasting loud and clear.”

“Then prepare to suffer.”

You follow the guards out of the chamber, still vibrating with dread, loathing, and a pressure you absolutely refuse to call attraction.

He falls in step beside you.

And just before the door closes behind you, you hear him mutter, “Could be worse.”

You don’t look at him.

He finishes anyway. “You could be stuck with Walker.”

—

The room isn’t big. Two cots. One bathroom. A table with bolted-down chairs. A surveillance camera blinking red in the corner like a passive-aggressive metronome. The air’s too cold, the lights too bright, and the fluorescent hum drills straight into the base of your skull.

Everything about the room says safe and neutral. Which really means sterile. A trap.

You sit across from Bucky at the table, arms folded tight across your chest, as if sheer compression might keep your thoughts from bleeding into the air between you.

It doesn’t work.

There’s that tug behind your ribs—low, persistent, off. Not pain. Not even discomfort, really. Just… dissonance. Like your body’s tuned to the wrong frequency and can’t stop resonating. Or, more accurately: someone else is doing the vibrating, and you’re just along for the ride.

Barnes stretches out in his chair like he’s got nowhere better to be, shuffling a deck of cards with infuriating calm. His hands move slow and steady. Like he’s done this before. Like it centers him.

You don’t want to know what he needs centering from.

The silence builds, heavy and electric. Until finally, you crack.

“So,” you say, deadpan. “This is awkward.”

He doesn’t look up. Just keeps shuffling. “You think?”

“You’re taking this very well for someone who just got mentally handcuffed to basically a complete stranger.”

His jaw flexes but he only shrugs. “Not the weirdest thing that’s happened to me.”

There’s no bravado in it. Just tired truth.

You sigh. “God. What a comforting standard.”

He cuts the deck with a flick of his wrist, then holds a card out toward you without even glancing up. You narrow your eyes. Then take it anyway.

Blackjack. Of course.

“Is this how you pass time in high-security quarantine?” you mutter. “Gambling with unwilling civilians?”

“You’re not unwilling,” he replies easily. “You’re just pissed it’s your own fault you’re stuck with me, Doc.”

You open your mouth—then close it again. Because the second he says it, you feel it: a jolt of annoyance. Not just yours. A flicker of his, folded inside something steadier. Something infuriatingly composed.

Your irritation rebounds like a ricochet—hits something calm. Anchored. And softens.

You feel it. His quiet, bone-deep stillness sliding under your skin like heat through a vent. Not comforting. Not invasive. Just there.

You stare at him, breath catching. Then drop the card on the table. “God. This is real.”

He finally meets your eyes. “Yeah. It is.”

“It was just a theory. I never meant for it to get to this… But y’know, Val.”

He jerks out a nod. Your pulse kicks. “You can feel me.”

He nods once. “And you can feel me. Can’t you?”

You don’t answer right away.

Taking stock of what’s resonating through your body. A pressure you want to think is just the room, the strangeness of proximity, the humiliating weight of a containment protocol gone wrong.

But it’s not the room. It’s him.

You can feel his focus when he watches you—that heavy, unblinking heat of attention, like standing too close to a silent engine. You can feel his amusement when you snap at him, like your temper tickles something buried and patient beneath the surface. You can feel the effort it takes for him to stay back—to keep his emotional distance while you’re sitting three feet away. Like he’s building a wall in real time, plank by plank. You can feel him trying not to feel you.

Biting your lip, you take a few deep breaths, trying to calm your rapidly rising pulse. It’s intimate in the worst possible way. The kind that makes privacy a joke and pretending pointless.

Every flicker of discomfort. Of defensiveness. Of attraction—

Wait.

Your stomach flips. That wasn’t yours.

It comes in hot and sharp, a spike of want so visceral it knocks the breath out of you. Frustration tangled with something lower. Needier. You haven’t felt anything like that in months, maybe years.

For one stupid second, you want to crawl out of your skin. And then it’s gone. Or suppressed. Or masked. Or—

“You okay?” he asks.

His voice is lower now. Cautious.

You nod too fast. “Fine.”

You can tell he doesn’t buy it. Doesn’t need to. He probably feels the spike in your chest, the flicker of your pulse when it jumps. You’ve lost your poker face. And not because of the cards. God, you are never going to survive this.

“So we're just stuck here?” you ask, trying to steady your voice. “We just sit here for three days and try not to think about anything incriminating?”

He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That’s not really how brains work. And just a gentle reminder—you’re the one who built this little science fair nightmare.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “I am going to kill Dr. Yen.”

“She said it’s temporary.”

“She also said we might share dreams.”

Bucky makes a face. “Don’t dream much anymore.”

“Well, I do,” you mutter. “And I don’t need you wandering through my subconscious.”

A beat.

“You think I want you in mine?”

That shuts you up. Because no. You don’t think he wants anyone in there. Not even himself.

The silence settles again. But it’s not empty.

You can feel his discomfort now. Quiet and low-grade. But there. Wrapped around something denser. Guilt, maybe. Something that sticks. And underneath it—just barely—curiosity.

You sit back, exhaling. “We need ground rules.”

“Like what?”

“Like no thinking about sex. Or trauma. Or childhood pets.”

He snorts. “In that order?”

“Especially in that order.”

You catch the edge of a smile before he looks down again, resuming his slow, steady shuffle. The cards whisper against each other like they’re in on the joke.

You try not to notice how your chest feels a little less tight. How the noise in your head quiets when his focus drifts. How the hum beneath your skin feels less like static and more like something alive, because you’re feeling him. And—God help you—he’s feeling you.

— 

The lights never fully shut off. They dim, sure, but the surveillance camera stays on, its little red eye blinking in the corner like it’s watching your soul unravel in real time. The overhead fluorescents are on a slow cycle, just soft enough to lull your brain into thinking it can rest—until the second you close your eyes and they flicker again.

You’re not sleeping. And judging by the restless way Bucky shifts on his cot every few minutes—blankets rustling, jaw grinding—he isn’t either.

The silence is loud. Not peaceful. Not companionable. Just dense. Like the air itself is waiting for one of you to say something that will tip the whole room over the edge.

You’ve tried reading. Tried meditating. Tried breathing exercises, even though you usually hate those with a passion reserved for line-cutters and PowerPoint animations.

None of it helps. Because whatever thin emotional boundary once existed between you and Bucky Barnes has long since dissolved.

His emotions creep into you like fog—quiet, heavy, invasive. You don’t get specifics, not clearly, but the mood is unmistakable. Guilt. Anger. A bone-deep ache compressed into something sharp and humming under the surface.

You feel it. And worse—you can tell he’s trying not to let you.

You roll over for the hundredth time, then give up. Sit up. Rub your hands over your face. The room feels like it’s shrinking. Or maybe it’s just the part of your brain still screaming about boundaries.

From across the room, his voice finally cuts through the quiet.

“You feel that too?”

It’s rough. Quiet. Worn raw from disuse.

You blink into the dim. “The… what? The vague, awful sense that I’m about to start crying for no reason?”

A beat.

“Yeah,” he says. “That.”

You press your fingertips to your temples. “God, is that you or me? I can’t even tell anymore.”

“Me,” he says immediately. “Sorry.”

You shake your head, rubbing your hands down your thighs. “Don’t be.”

And you mean it. Sort of.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask, still not looking up. You’re not sure which one of you will flinch harder at the offer.

He’s quiet long enough that you figure it’s a no. A nerve hit. A wall closed.

Then, “No.”

You nod, the cot creaking beneath you. “Fair.”

A breath passes.

“But I might anyway,” he mutters, so low you almost miss it.

That makes you look. He’s sitting now, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might disappear if he looks hard enough. His vibranium fingers twitch—absent, reflexive.

“It’s like…” he starts, then stops. You wait. “When I was the Soldier, there were days I didn’t feel anything. Years, probably. Just… silence. Nothing in my head but orders.”

You stay still. Hold your breath.

“And then it all came back. All at once. Like my brain had been hoarding it in a box and someone finally kicked it open. And I couldn’t breathe under it.”

The weight of it lands between you like ash.

“And this?” He looks up at last. His face isn’t cold. It isn’t angry. It’s just tired. Raw.

“This feels like that. Too much. Too close. Like I can’t shut the door.”

Your throat tightens. Because you feel it too—his overwhelm, his fear of being seen, his instinct to slam every door before someone gets inside. It isn’t unfamiliar.

His jaw ticks. His eyes stay locked on yours. “And now you’re in my head."

“And now I’m in your head,” you echo.

There’s a beat before a low, dark laugh escapes him.

“Well. Fuck me.”

You smile—tiny, reflexive. “Tempting.”

His gaze sharpens at that. And instantly, you regret it—not because of the joke, but because of the response it pulls.

Want.

It hits like a shock to the chest. Sudden. Warm. Unmasked. Not lust. Not crude. Longing.

You flinch. Inhale sharply.

He looks away fast. “Shit. That wasn’t on purpose.”

You shoot to your feet, pulse kicking. “You’re not supposed to broadcast things like that.”

“I wasn’t!” His voice rises—gritty, strained. “I’ve been locking everything down since this started. But apparently your brain’s running on the emotional equivalent of a glass wall.”

You stare at him, heat rushing up your neck. “Jesus, Bucky.”

“You think I want you to know that I—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching hard. Shakes his head like he’s trying to shove the feeling back down his throat.

You cross your arms tightly over your chest. “I don’t want to feel this.”

“Yeah, well, me neither.”

The silence snaps tight. You stand there, two hearts hammering in unison, locked in some terrible emotional feedback loop neither of you asked for. It doesn’t break. It pulses harder.

“I think I need a wall,” you mutter. “A mental one. Like an internal firewall.”

“I tried that already,” he says. “Didn’t hold.”

You look at him. He’s watching you again. Still. And it’s not anger on his face anymore. It’s grief.

“This is a violation of literally every HR protocol in existence,” you mumble, arms still crossed.

“Good thing I don’t work here.”

You snort. It escapes before you can stop it. And you feel it—that flicker of relief from him. Small. Fleeting. But real.

You sit down hard on the edge of your cot. “I’m not good at this.”

“Neither am I.”

“I don’t want you to feel what I’m feeling.”

“I already do.”

You fall quiet. Because, for better or worse, you’re in this together now. You don’t know what’s scarier—that he can feel your loneliness. Or that you can feel his.

—

You’re dreaming.

You know it without knowing how. It’s the stillness that gives it away. Like the air is too weightless, the light too diffuse—nothing casting shadows, nothing fully real. The kind of hush that doesn’t exist in waking life. 

You’re standing in a field you’ve never seen before. It’s not specific. Just green. A meadow with no wind, no scent, no sound. Every color softened at the edges like an unfinished rendering. It doesn’t feel like anything.

And that’s what tells you it’s yours. A liminal space. Peaceful. Barely conscious.

You close your eyes. And that’s when you feel it. A presence. A pulse.

Not in the dream—in you. Tapping against your thoughts like someone knocking softly on the inside of your skull.

Not words. Not movement. Just pressure. Steady. Coiled. Heavy with something unsaid.

Your eyes open. You turn in place, scanning the edges of the field, expecting—Nothing.

But the weight gets stronger. You feel it in your chest. Low. Familiar. Tense.

Bucky.

But you don’t see him. You just know he’s close. Or maybe not even close. Maybe just… bleeding in.

Your dream flickers.

A breeze picks up—impossible in a dream that’s never moved before. The grass ripples once, unnatural and out of sync, like the physics here are starting to break.

Your pulse stutters. And then—

It hits.

The air tears. The color drops. The field vanishes like someone cuts the feed.

And suddenly you’re underground.

A corridor. Narrow. Stained concrete walls. The ceiling is low, the light sharp blue and sterile. The air tastes like iron and rust. You stumble. Your knees scrape. You catch yourself on a wall that shouldn’t be cold, but is. It’s disorienting. Wrong. You know this isn’t your dream.

It’s his.

“Bucky?” you call out.

No answer. But the pressure behind your ribs spikes. You push forward anyway. Each step echoes. Your own, but also—his. Mismatched. Heavy. You turn a corner and see him.

He’s not looking at you. He’s walking in the opposite direction, body rigid, head bowed, like he’s being led. Or dragged.

He’s not dressed like the man you know. No tactical black. No soft tee and boots. Just bare arms and restraints. Fresh bruises. The remnants of blood not his own.

He’s not Bucky. Not here.

You try to speak but your voice fails. He turns the corner ahead. You follow.

The room you enter is stark. Cold. A chair in the center—stripped down and inhuman. Restraints hanging like dead vines. A spotlight fixed directly above it.

He’s standing beside it now, still not looking at you. The air is too still. Too thick. The bond hums so loudly you want to scream. And then he speaks.

“Don’t look.”

You freeze. His voice is quiet. Barely audible. But it’s him.

He still won’t face you.

“Bucky, this isn’t—”

“I said don’t look,” he says again. Sharper this time. A command—not to control you, but to protect himself. To hide. “You don’t want to see this.”

But it’s too late. The dream—his memory—wraps around you like wire. Sharp and invasive. You feel it like it’s your own. Not a picture. Not a scene. A flood.

Pain. Control. The snap of identity stripped away. Screams that echo without sound. The weight of command phrases burned into neural pathways like rot beneath the skin.

You stagger backward. But the bond holds. You feel it all. The moment he gave up trying to remember his name. The moment he forgot why it mattered.

“Please,” he says. He’s still facing away from you. Shoulders tense. Fists clenched.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, tears blurring the edges of the dream.

“This isn’t yours,” he grits out. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You take a step closer anyway. That makes him turn. Not all the way. Just enough for you to see it—his face. Younger. Blank. Terrified.

“I didn’t want you to see,” he gestures to himself. “This.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you say, voice shaking. “I fell asleep and… you pulled me in.”

He winces. Like that makes it worse.

“I tried not to,” he admits. “I’m sorry.”

You reach out, slowly, not to touch him—just to offer your hand. Because right now, you’re in this together. And the bond doesn’t care what either of you want.

His gaze flicks to it. Then to you. His jaw flexes. And he takes it.

The second your fingers touch, the dream shudders. The restraints flicker. The chair vanishes. The floor beneath you cracks—just hairline fractures, like the nightmare is losing hold.

“I’m still here,” you say.

“I know,” he says softly.

And then—

—

You jolt upright in your cot, heart hammering. Breath sharp. Palms sweaty.

Across the room, Bucky sits up just as fast—like something yanked him out of deep water. He’s already breathing hard, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, jaw clenched like it might hold something back if he just bites down hard enough.

You lock eyes. Neither of you speak. Not at first. The air is thick with something raw and invisible. Or the kind of silence that settles after a confession neither of you wanted to make.

He runs a hand over his face. “So. That happened.”

“Yeah,” you rasp.

You don’t say what that was. You don’t need to. You felt it. Lived it. Not as a witness. Not even as a passenger. As a part of him. And now you can’t un-feel it. Can’t shove it into a clean corner labeled ‘his problem’. It’s in you now. In your chest. Threaded through your ribs like something grafted there on instinct.

You shift slightly, fingers curling into the edge of the blanket, grounding yourself in anything that isn’t his memory. But it doesn’t help. The emotional weight is still there, even as the dream fades. A dull ache under your skin. The echo of metal restraints and too-bright lights.

He exhales, rough and low. “I didn’t want you to see that.”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you lie back slowly, eyes on the ceiling. Cold. Pockmarked. Real. And for the first time since this started, you stop trying to block him out. Because the truth is, you don’t want to. Even now, with the weight of what you saw still lodged somewhere between your lungs. You don’t want to pretend you didn’t see him.

“It’s not your fault,” you murmur. “That I saw it.”

“No. But it’s still mine.”

You turn your head. He’s staring at the floor now, hands braced on his knees, elbows sharp beneath the sleeves of his shirt. His metal fingers twitch slightly. Barely a motion, but it radiates with tension. You feel that, too. Of course you do.

“Do you think if we sleep again…” you start, then trail off.

He finishes it. “We’ll go back?”

You nod once.

He shrugs. “Don’t know. I’ve never had to share a nightmare before.”

You breathe in. Then out. Neither of you moves.

The hum of the overhead lights seems louder now. The surveillance camera ticks faintly in the corner. Somewhere, two hearts beat in rhythm without trying.

“I’m not tired,” you say.

He glances up at you. “Me neither.”

It’s a lie, on both ends. You can feel it in your body. The ache. The heaviness. The way your limbs sink just a little deeper into the mattress. But sleep isn’t safe now. Not when it might mean pulling each other into things neither of you are ready to carry, let alone share.

You sit up again. Curl your legs under you. Bucky shifts to do the same. It’s not planned. It just happens.

No one speaks for a while. And then—

“I’m sorry you had to,” he starts, so quietly it barely lands. “Feel that.”

The words linger, fragile but deliberate. They hang in the air like breath held too long.

Bucky doesn’t look at you. Not right away. His shoulders stay tight, his stare pinned to the floor like he’s trying to unsee what he knows you saw. 

You study him. And something shifts in your chest. It’s not sympathy. Not even admiration. It’s deeper than that. Stranger. Something close to awe—and not the clean kind. The complicated kind. The kind that unsettles.

Because now you’ve seen him. Not the soldier. Not the sarcasm and shadow. The person. The fear. The memory. The grief.

And somehow, that makes him feel… real. Not more fragile. Not smaller. Just clearer. You’re seeing him now in a way you hadn’t before. And it’s doing something to you.

Is it the link?

You want to say yes. Want to blame the synaptic bleed, the proximity, the dream. Want to label it as data and side effects and bad timing. But deep down, you’re not sure. Not anymore.

You shift. Your voice, when it comes, is quieter than before.

“Do you have them a lot?”

He stills for a beat too long. Then he exhales, the sound low.  “Used to. Nightly. For years.”

You nod, eyes tracing the seam of your blanket. “But not anymore?”

“Not like that,” he admits.

Something in your chest lifts, but only a little.

“So…” you hesitate, careful not to make it sound like anything more than what it is. 

“Was it easier this time? With me there?”

This time, he looks up. Direct. Steady. No evasion. His voice is quiet. Almost reluctant. “Yeah.”

You blink. It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t land the way it does. But it does. Because it means something. Or it might. Or maybe it only feels like it does because your brain is lit up on synthetic empathy and shared neural architecture. But still. It means something.

You nod, barely. “Okay.”

You don’t say what’s spinning in your chest: I see you now. I don’t want to look away. I don’t know if that’s you or me or both.

You can feel that he doesn’t want to ask either. Not yet. So neither of you does.

You both just sit there, in the dimmed silence. The bond—a quiet, pulsing presence between your ribs. And this time, you don’t try to shut it out. You just let yourself feel it. Feel him.

—

You wake up suddenly—hot, restless, throat dry. Your skin is flushed. Your pulse a little too fast. Your legs tangled in the blanket like you were shifting more than sleeping. It takes you a second to orient. The cot. The hum of the lights. And the slow burn pulsing under your skin.

You press your palms to your eyes. Shit.

You’re not dreaming anymore, but your body hasn’t gotten the message. Everything feels hypersensitive. Like someone turned up the volume on every nerve ending and forgot to turn it back down.

You exhale. Try to steady your breathing. But then your gaze shifts—and you see him.

Bucky’s still sitting where he was when you drifted off. Back against the wall. He looks calm, but there’s a sharpness in the set of his jaw, a tension in his posture.

He never went to sleep. He’s watching you now. Quiet. Steady. Like he already knows what you’re feeling.

You shift upright on the cot, trying to tamp it down—the warmth low in your belly, the ache that has no business being this loud, this early, in a lab-grade holding cell with your unintentional telepathic security detail.

“Did I…” you start, voice scratchy, “did I fall asleep again?”

He nods, slow. “Around four. You didn’t mean to.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Did you…?”

“No. You didn’t dream loud enough this time.”

It’s a joke. You think.

But then he tilts his head a fraction, brows drawing slightly together. “You feel… okay?”

You hesitate. Because yes. You do feel okay. You feel too okay. Your heart is kicking a little faster than it should and you know without looking in a mirror that your pupils are probably dilated.

There’s no fear. No adrenaline. Just— Want. Need. Aching. And you’re not entirely sure where it’s coming from.

“I feel… weird,” you murmur.

He shifts a little. You feel the ripple before you see it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Same.”

You glance at him again and your stomach flips. Because now that you’re paying attention, you can feel it. The thrum. The tension. That low, slow ache in your bloodstream that isn’t just yours anymore.

You clear your throat. “This doesn’t feel…emotional.”

“No,” he agrees. His voice is lower now. Rough. “It feels physical.”

Your breath catches. You both look away at the same time. The air thickens.

And then the door hisses open.

Dr. Yen steps in like a fire alarm, holding her tablet like a shield. “Morning,” she says briskly. “Vitals check.”

You sit still while she scans you. Bucky does too. Her eyes narrow slightly as she reads, her mouth pressing into a thin line.

Then she sighs. “Okay. So. Bit of a development.”

You wince, already bracing for whatever comes next.

“The bond’s progressing faster than expected. Your convergence scores are spiking well ahead of baseline. You’re already presenting signs of full-spectrum neural and somatic reciprocity.”

You blink. “Somatic?”

Yen nods. “Body-based responses. Sympathetic systems syncing. Neurochemical fluctuations. Endocrine bleed.”

You just stare.

Bucky crosses his arms. “Translation?”

“You’re not just feeling each other’s moods anymore,” Yen says. “You’re reacting to each other’s hormones.”

You freeze.

“So this…?” you ask, gesturing vaguely to your whole overheated, vibrating situation.

She nods. “Elevated oxytocin, dopamine, serotonin—both of you. You’re experiencing mutual physiological… arousal.”

You swear under your breath. Bucky exhales through his nose, sharp.

Yen scrolls. “This is accelerating. You may experience projection next. Sensory cross-talk. Physical feedback from imagined stimuli.”

You and Bucky don’t move.

“You mean—” you start.

“Yes,” she says. “If one of you starts thinking about something… the other might feel it.”

You shut your eyes. Hard. Bucky shifts.

Yen closes the tablet. “We’re working on a counter-agent. In the meantime—stay calm. Avoid escalation. Try not to, y’know, spiral.”

She gives you both a tight smile that’s not a smile and ducks out the door.

The moment it hisses shut, silence slams back into place. You don’t look at him. He doesn’t look at you. But you feel each other. Your blood still buzzes, warm and quick, like something is sparking just under the surface.

“I need a cold shower,” you mutter.

“If you’re feeling what I’m feeling,” he says, voice low and tight, “that’s not gonna help.”

Neither of you laughs. Because it’s not funny anymore.

You don’t move and neither does he. You stay on opposite cots, both too still, both too aware. You can feel the bond buzzing like a live wire behind your ribs—no longer subtle, no longer background noise.

Not just his mood. Not just tension or restraint. His thoughts. Vague, half-formed shapes brushing up against your mind like fogged glass. You don’t get detail, not really—but there’s pressure behind it. Focus. Heat.

You swallow. Hard.

He shifts again, one leg stretching out, and your eyes flick to the motion without meaning to. Just his hand. Just his thigh. Just some insane amount of muscle in a pair of extremely not regulation sweatpants. And that’s when it hits you. A spike of awareness.

Low. Sharp. Direct.

Not yours. Yours now, but not originally.

Your breath stutters. Because that wasn’t your thought. That was his. You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help.

Now you can feel it more clearly: the way his thoughts catch on your bare legs, on your neck, on the way you just bit your bottom lip without realizing it.

The image forms before you can stop it. Your body reacting to his body. His gaze. His mind. A flash of heat coils low in your stomach. You shift suddenly. Sharp, fast, like that might reset something. It doesn’t.

He feels the shift in you. You know he does. You feel his whole body tense in response. The link thrums, nearly audible in your skull.

“Stop,” you whisper, breath catching.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, voice hoarse.

You press your palm to your sternum. It’s like trying to press out a heartbeat that isn’t even yours.

“I can feel it when you look at me like that,” you mutter.

“I’m trying not to,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Well, try harder,” you snap—but it’s shaky, breathless.

Your thighs press together unconsciously. And that, he feels. He lets out a breath—low, ragged, like it hurts to hold it.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“Don’t what?” you snap, voice high and tight.

“That. The thing with your legs.”

You go still. And the heat spikes. The thought now forming in your head is yours. It’s real. Immediate. Something to do with him between your knees, his hands on your hips, his mouth at your throat. The sound he’d make if you pulled his shirt off. The look in his eyes when—

He jerks upright like he’s been electrocuted.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.

You slap a hand over your own mouth, mortified. “I didn’t mean to think that.”

“I know,” he growls.

And still—your body pulses. That awful, exquisite feedback loop. Want ricocheting back and forth until you don’t know whose it was to begin with.

You drag your blanket up like its armor. “We can’t do this.”

“No,” he agrees immediately. “We can’t.”

You lock eyes. And don’t look away.

The silence that follows is different now. Charged. Taut. It’s not that the attraction is new. It’s that there’s nowhere left to hide it. No denial. No wall. Just each other. You lie back slowly, exhaling through your nose. Trying to calm your heart. Trying not to think of him. It doesn’t work.

Bucky’s breathing is heavier now. Not dramatic—but deeper. Controlled. You feel it against your own skin. You know—you know—he’s thinking about you too. But neither of you moves. Not yet.

Your heart won’t settle. It keeps pushing against your ribs like it wants to say something first. And then, before you can stop yourself:

“You drive me insane.” The words hang there. Blunt. True.

Bucky shifts slightly on his cot, but doesn’t speak.

“Not in the way you’re thinking, but okay—in that way too.” You pull the blanket tighter around you, trying to hold your voice steady. “You’re cold. Condescending. You don’t say anything unless it’s to poke a hole in something I’ve spent months building.”

His mouth twitches. “You’re a scientist who’s not used to people poking holes?”

“I’m not used to people doing it like you.” You glare at the ceiling. “You just—show up. And stare. And judge. And then disappear before I can even argue back.”

He exhales through his nose. “And you like arguing.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It feels like the point.”

You turn your head and look at him. “You didn’t even stay for the full hearing. Just blew it up and walked out.”

He meets your eyes. “Didn’t need to.”

Your chest tightens. “God. You’re impossible.”

There’s a long pause.

And then he says, quieter: “You were right, though. About the link. About what it could be.”

You blink.

“I didn’t go to that hearing to get in your way,” he says. “I went because what you said scared the hell out of me.”

“Right,” you mutter. “Thanks.”

He shakes his head. “No. I mean—it was good. You were right. You had every angle covered. You didn’t flinch. And the more I thought about it afterward…”

His eyes lift to yours.

“About you.”

Your stomach flips.

He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “So when Val mentioned they needed an internal breach detail at the site—”

“You asked for this assignment,” you state, stunned.

He nods once. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches again—but now it’s different. There’s heat in it. Yes. But also something else. Something real.

Your head falls to your hands in defeat. “I don’t want to like you.”

“Yeah. That’s not working out too well for me either,” Bucky mutters lowly.

You peek up at him through your fingers. “This is a disaster.”

His mouth twitches. “A highly classified, emotionally compromising disaster.”

You stare at him. And he stares right back. Something hums between you, low and molten. Not as sharp as before—but deeper now. Grounded in knowing. Seeing. Feeling. Your eyes flick to his mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough to make it dangerous.

He sees it. Of course he does.

“Don’t,” he says softly.

“Don’t what?”

“That.”

You blink, innocent. “Look at you?”

“Look at me like that.”

You tilt your head, heart pounding. “Like what?”

“Like you want to see what else I’m hiding under these very official sweatpants.”

You suck in a sharp breath. A flush climbs up your neck before you can stop it.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re imagining things.”

“You’re broadcasting things,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges. “Loud.”

You shift on the cot and feel his breath hitch now.

It’s too much. Too close. And it’s not the bond anymore. Not entirely.

“You think about it too,” you say quietly.

He nods, once. “All the time now it seems.”

You don’t know if you want to slap him or kiss him—or let him press you back against the wall and do everything you’ve already imagined and more.

“So what the hell are we supposed to do about it?”

He smiles—just barely. It’s crooked. Dangerous.

“Nothing reckless.”

You lift a brow. “You’re telling me not to be impulsive?”

“I’m telling you not to do anything you’ll regret.”

You lean forward, like you’re settling into something casual. But you know what you’re doing. You can’t help yourself.  You know he can feel it—your heat, your hunger, your restraint wrapped in silk.

“Then maybe stop giving me reasons to want to,” you murmur, voice light. Teasing.

His jaw ticks. His eyes darken. The silence that follows is sharp. Not a pause. Not a delay. A held breath.

You smile, small and smug, and stand up slowly—too slowly.

“Anyway,” you say, heading toward the small attached bathroom, “I’m going to take a cold shower and try to remember I’m a professional with several advanced degrees.”

You stop in the doorway. Look back over your shoulder, just enough to make sure he’s still watching.

He is.

“Try not to think about me while I’m in there,” you add, voice all fake innocence. And then you shut the door behind you.

—-

The water is cold. Brutally so. You step into the spray like it’s punishment—hands braced against the tile, jaw locked, breath held.

Because you’re still trying to wrap your head around the words that just tumbled out of your mouth a minute ago and why the fuck you even said them. The heat in your body needs to burn off or be drowned, and freezing water feels like your last rational defense.

It doesn’t work.

You gasp as it hits your skin—tight, cutting, and sharp. Your nipples pebble instantly. Your muscles tighten. But the cold doesn’t pull you out of it. It sharpenes it.

Every drop feels like a shock, like a wire pulled taut under your skin. Your thighs clench. Your breath trembles. Because Bucky is still out there.

And you can still feel him. Not with your hands. Not with your eyes. But with your mind. Your body. The thread still connects you. Hot under the cold. Deep under the logic. It pulses low in your belly, electric and alive. Dragging your thoughts right back to him.

You try to redirect—try to count the tiles on the wall, name the amino acids in a protein chain, recite your grant proposal backwards.

But your body betrays you. Your hips rock, searching for friction that doesn’t exist. Your hand drags down your chest without permission, sliding over wet skin, slick nipples, the curve of your stomach.

And suddenly he’s there. Not really. Not consciously. But you feel him. Watching. Wanting.

And worse—you want him to.

You bite your lip, hard. Try to shut it down. But your hand keeps moving. Between your thighs now. Water trailing down your skin like a thousand fingertips. The ache blooming sharp and impossible. You press your palm to yourself, just for a moment. Just to quiet it.

But something flares like it’s hungry too.

Your legs almost buckle. Shit. Shit. He felt that. You pant against the tile, eyes squeezed shut.

You can feel his attention spike like a spotlight behind your eyes—his breath, his pulse, the jagged edge of his restraint grinding against yours. You try to pull back. You try. But now you’re imagining it.

The wall behind you pressing into your shoulder blades. His mouth dragging heat up your neck. One hand on your hip—no, both hands. One flesh, one metal, holding you still while he whispers how much he’s been thinking about this.

How he knew you were going to touch yourself in the shower. How he wanted to be the reason you couldn’t help it.

Your breath hitches. A whimper escapes you. Just a sound, high and desperate and real. A surge.

The sensation that hits you is dizzying—like your nerves are suddenly on fire, like your own want is being echoed back tenfold.

You slap the water off fast, heart hammering. Your skin prickles as the cold air licks over it. You lean your forehead against the tile, panting. You’re shaking. Not from the cold. Not from fear. From restraint. From everything you didn’t let yourself do. And everything you know he felt anyway.

You press your hands over your face.

“Fuck.”

You stay like that for a long moment. Trying to breathe. Trying to pull yourself back into your body. Into the present. But even now, with the water off and your hands gripping the edge of the sink, you can feel the bond pulsing low behind your navel like it’s waiting. Like he’s waiting. And worst of all— You’re thinking about opening the door.

You want to know if he’s sitting there as wrecked as you are.

But you don’t yet. You reach for the towel. Wipe your face. Pull it tight around your body like it might hold you together. And you promise yourself you’ll be calm when you step back out there.

You wait a full minute before stepping out of the bathroom. You make sure your skin is mostly dry, your breathing sort of steady, and your towel tightly secured like a barrier that might still mean something. You open the door like you’re composed. You’re not. But it doesn’t matter.

Because the second you step into the room, you know. Bucky’s posture is wrecked. No more monk-like stillness. No more composed soldier routine. He’s pacing. Shoulders tense. Shirt clinging to him in places like he’s been sweating. His jaw is tight. His hands—both of them—are curled into fists like he’s holding back from breaking something. Or doing something.

His head snaps up the second he sees you. And then—he stops moving altogether. Freezes.

You feel it before he says a word: the punch of arousal, the crash of restraint, the friction of denial and desire grinding together behind his ribs like a blade.

His eyes sweep over you. Just once. Slowly.

The towel. The water still glistening along your collarbone. The flush on your cheeks that has nothing to do with temperature.

You feel his restraint falter—just for a breath—and it slams into your chest like a jolt of electricity.

“You…” he says, then stops. Swallows. His voice is hoarse. “That wasn’t fair.”

You blink, playing innocent. “What wasn’t?”

He steps forward once. Not touching. Not even close. But the bond pulls at you like gravity.

“You know what,” he says, voice low. “You know exactly what.”

Your heart pounds.

“So you felt that,” you say lightly, trying not to lose your footing on the slick edge of this moment.

He lets out a sharp breath. “You think I somehow didn’t feel that?”

The tension crackles between you—raw and thick and already past the point of pretending.

“I tried to shut it down,” you murmur.

He laughs. Just once. Bitter and breathless. “Yeah, I could tell ya tried really hard, sweetheart.”

You grip the edge of the towel a little tighter. “So what, you just sat there and…?”

His gaze drops to your mouth. And stays there.

You feel the burn of it behind your knees, in the pit of your stomach, deep between your thighs where the ache hasn’t fully gone away.

Your voice comes out smaller than you mean for it to. “And?”

His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare. You feel him fighting it again—fighting you. But he doesn’t lie.

“I wanted to come in there.”

The breath leaves your lungs in a shudder.

“I wanted to touch you,” he says, stepping closer. His voice drops lower. “Everywhere you were touching yourself.”

You swallow hard.

“But I didn’t,” he adds roughly.

You look up at him. “Why?”

His eyes search yours. Not angry. Not even pleading. Just—holding back.

“Because if I had…” He exhales, jaw tight. “I wouldn’t have stopped.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty. Your body hums. Your fingers dig into the towel like it’s the last shield between you and a decision you might not be ready to unmake. And all you can do is whisper:

“…Okay.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch you. But something shifts in his posture—like he’s caught between instinct and decision, body wired forward even as his mind throws up a stop sign.

You see it all happen. The way his eyes flick to your mouth. The way his breaths become deeper. The way every muscle in him says yes while the rest of him fights to say no.

And then, finally—he steps back. One short, sharp step. Like distance will save either of you.

“Shit,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “We can’t.”

Your heart punches your ribs. “Why not?”

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just shakes his head, pacing once, hands flexing.

“You just came out of the shower like that, thinking what you were thinking, and I—” He stops. “I felt everything. You know that, right?” he repeats yet again.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I know. And that’s the fucking problem.”

You blink. “So what, now you’re mad about it?”

“No,” he snaps. “I’m not mad. I’m trying not to lose my goddamn mind.”

You fold your arms over the towel. “You think this is easy for me?”

“I think our minds are so fried that we can’t tell what’s ours and what’s this,” he bites, gesturing between you two. “And if I touch you right now, I don’t know whose choice I’m making. Yours, mine, or the damn compound’s.”

That stops you. Because he’s right. Because you don’t even know anymore.

His voice drops. Still rough. Still wrecked.

“I’m not gonna take advantage of something that’s most likely not real. Not with you.”

You shift your weight, heartbeat hammering. You want to argue. You want to push. But part of you respects the hell out of it. So you just nod once. Clipped.

“Fine.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like restraint in physical form.

“Fine.”

And that’s it. You don’t close the distance. You don’t say anything else. You just turn away, heart still racing, skin still hot, towel still clutched like armor, and try like hell to pretend your body isn’t already halfway to betraying you again.

—-

Just perfect. Now there’s only a few more hours of pretending you’re not fully horny for the government-assigned menace in the corner.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the cot, earbuds in, blasting white noise loud enough to drown out your own thoughts—and hopefully his. It doesn’t work.

You can still feel him pacing. The slow, deliberate kind, like he’s working something out of his system. Like he’s hunting a problem he can’t solve. You can feel the heat of his attention every time your shirt rides up when you stretch. Every time you shift just a little too far sideways and your thigh brushes bare against cool air.

Every time your breath catches and his does, too. You know what he’s thinking. Or trying not to think.

So you decide to mess with him.

You think louder—sweet and smug, like you’re painting it across the bond on purpose: That shirt looks really good on you, soldier.

He flinches. Physically. And then stops pacing.

You smirk, tug the hem of your shirt down with exaggerated innocence. Small victories.

But then he drops to the floor and starts doing pushups. Which is so not fair.

You glance over and immediately regret it. His shirt stretches across his back like it’s apologizing to no one. Sweat clings at the collar. His arms flex, contract, flex again—slow and steady. Every controlled breath pushes heat through the bond.

You are trying to read a report. You are actively attempting productivity. But it’s hard when every line blurs around the mental image of his hands braced on either side of your head. You close the file. Try again.

He switches to pull-ups on an overhead bar. You throw your tablet at the wall.

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

He doesn’t stop. “Doing what?”

“Weaponizing your arms.”

His mouth twitches. “Maybe I’m just trying to stay in shape.”

You scowl. “This is psychological warfare.”

“You started it.”

You grab a pillow and launch it at his head. He dodges without breaking rhythm.

“Unbelievable.”

Later, you fall asleep. Not on purpose. Just long enough for your body to betray you. The dream is hot. Too hot. Lips at your throat, a mouth on your hipbone, hands everywhere you shouldn’t want them. You wake up gasping, sweat pooling at the base of your spine.

And he’s watching you. Sitting in the corner, arms folded, expression like stone. Except for his eyes. His eyes are a slow burn. He doesn’t say anything. But you feel it. The echo of your dream still pinging between you. Not graphic—just emotional residue. A leftover ache.

And maybe the worst part is: you feel his too.

The loneliness under it. The way he felt it right along with you. The part of him that wanted it to be real. To be his hands. His mouth. His weight on top of you instead of the memory of a shared hallucination. You shift on the cot, heart still pounding.

“Did you…?” you ask.

He doesn’t move. Just nods once. “Yeah.”

You pull your knees to your chest and try not to shake.

Five hours in, you almost lose it.

You’re pretending to read again. You’re biting the inside of your cheek to keep your breathing steady. He’s sitting on the other cot now, towel around his neck, shirt wrung out and tossed somewhere in the corner like it wronged him personally. His skin is flushed. His forearms are braced on his knees. His head is tipped back slightly.

You can feel it through the bond—he’s trying not to think about how your skin looked glistening after the shower. Trying not to remember the sound you made. You try to be good. You really do. But then you snap.

“You have to stop thinking about my mouth.”

You don’t even look up. You don’t have to. There’s a long pause.

“I’m not,” he says.

You glance over. He’s biting his lip. You both groan.

He covers his face with one hand. “Okay, you have to stop doing the thing with your tongue.”

“What thing?”

He waves a hand vaguely. “That thing you do when you’re concentrating. You lick your bottom lip slowly like you’re trying to kill me.”

You throw a blanket at him. He catches it with a smug little grin, but you feel the way his chest tightens under it. The way he’s fighting not to lean into the tether—into the pull of you.

You flop onto your cot face-first. “This is the worst horny hostage situation I’ve ever been in.”

“Been in many?”

You scream a muffled “FUCK” into the mattress.

His chuckle is low. Rough. Warm.

It rolls down your spine like a confession you weren’t ready to hear. And when your hand slips between your thighs a minute later, just to relieve the pressure, just to breathe, you feel his breath hitch in your mind.

“Stop.” His voice cuts through the air, hoarse. Strained. Not angry—pleading.

You freeze. But don’t pull away.

“I can’t,” you whisper.

A pause. Heavy. Loaded.

“You can.”

You roll your head toward him, half-lidded, flushed, and exhale: “Then say it.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Tell me not to touch myself,” you say. “But say it like you mean it.”

You feel his restraint buckle. The desire choking the back of his throat. You move your hand again, slow, under the blanket. The wet slide of your fingers deliberate.

“You already know what I’m thinking,” he grits out.

“Say it anyway.”

He’s still across the room, sitting rigid on the cot, fists clenched on his knees like it’s the only way to stop himself from moving.

You close your eyes and moan—quiet, bitten-off. You can’t help it. 

And that’s when it breaks him.

“God,” he growls. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

“I have some idea,” you tease back and squeeze your eyes shut.

And in your mind, you can feel a switch flip in his.

There’s a sudden metallic crack—a sharp, violent sound that echoes off the walls. Your eyes fly open. The security camera in the corner is shattered—glass fractured, wires exposed, the red recording light extinguished. His chest is heaving, fists clenched like he didn’t even think before moving.

“I want to be over there,” he rushes out hoarsely. “I want to rip that sheet off and watch you fall apart for me.”

Your breath stops but he keeps going, like his tongue is unable to stop.

“I want your legs open. Want your fingers soaked because you were thinking about my mouth.”

He rises, takes one step forward, then stops himself—grabbing the edge of the table like it might anchor him. You whimper.

“I’d put my hand between your thighs,” he says, lower now. Rougher. “Press my fingers into you until you begged me to fuck you.”

Your mind hums, white hot. You feel it in your ribs, your spine, your throat.

“You’d take it, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs. “All of it. My fingers, my cock—”

You cry out softly, thighs twitching, chasing friction.

“I’d have your back arched and your hands in my hair and you wouldn’t even be able to say my name without sobbing.”

You grind down harder now, pulse pounding in your ears. You feel him feeling you—his hips twitching, cock hard and aching, brain flooded with everything you’re giving him.

“Touch your clit,” he commands.

You do. Gasping. The pleasure punches through your body like a current.

“Just like that,” he says, voice shaking. “Rub slow. You don’t need to come yet. I want to hear you say what you want.”

“You already know,” you choke out.

“Tell me, doll,” he says again, dark, wanting. “Tell me how wet you are.”

You almost sob. “So wet—Jesus—Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he says. “Let me hear it. I want every filthy sound you’ve got.”

You move faster, breath catching, the heat coiling tight and hard and close.

“I’d eat you out so slowly you’d scream. Then fuck you with my fingers until you begged for more. You want that?”

“Yes.”

“You want my cock?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to come in you, fill you, make you feel it for hours?”

Your whole body locks—back arching, legs tightening—

And you shatter.

White-hot pleasure rips through you, shattering like glass behind your ribs—louder and deeper than anything you’ve ever felt. It’s not just the orgasm. It’s also his body responding to yours, his want echoing through every nerve ending like a second heartbeat.

You can feel what you’re doing to him. The hunger. The ache. The way his restraint unravels with every sound you make, every twitch of your fingers.

The bond lights up like an explosion—flooding both of you. There’s no separation. No inside or outside. Just youandhimyouandhimyouandhim in one long, gasping pulse of release.

His groan is feral. Raw. Wrecked. You’re still trembling when you open your eyes. And he’s right there.

Closer than he was. Right in front of you. Breathing hard, eyes dark, hands clenched like it took everything in him not to touch you. Not to throw himself into the wreckage and keep going.

He’s about to move. About to drop to his knees. About to make good on every filthy promise he just breathed into your bones—

Then a chime sounds at the door.

You both freeze. A beat. Then Dr. Yen’s voice comes crisply over the intercom.

“Just a heads up—I’ll be entering the room in ten seconds for dampener prep. Try to look less… elevated.”

You let out a strangled noise and yank the blanket over your face, legs still shaking.

The door hisses open. Light spills in. Footsteps. Dr. Yen walks in like she didn’t just catch you mid-meltdown.

“Good evening,” she says, clipboard in hand, eyes respectfully trained downward. “Time for neural dampener administration.”

Bucky turns away like he’s been gut-punched. You lie there in silence, half-covered, half-exposed, pulse still thundering.

Dr. Yen pauses. Looks up.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t just watch both your biometric readings spike like you ran a marathon while getting tased.”

You groan louder.

She sighs. “I’ll return in ten minutes with the equipment. Maybe try some breathing exercises.”

She turns and walks out, boots clicking.

The door shuts, and the silence she leaves behind could crush a mountain. You’re both wrecked. Glowing. Silent.  Not comfortable. Not even heavy. But pressurized. You shift on the cot. Pick at the edge of the blanket, like you’re unthreading a thought. You cough once. Clear your throat.

“So…” you say. Then instantly regret it.

Bucky doesn’t look up from where he’s now sitting, arms braced, jaw tight. His eyes are fixed on some invisible point across the room.

You try again, softer this time. “That was… intense.” Still nothing.

You roll your eyes at yourself. “God, sorry. That sounded like the end of a bad first date.”

Finally, his voice cuts through the silence. Low. Flat.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

You blink. “What, the part where you told me everything you wanted to do to me while I was—?”

He exhales sharply. “Don’t.”

You pause. Watch him. “Why?”

“Because it wasn’t fair,” he mutters. “I didn’t have to make it worse.”

“You didn’t make it worse.”

He glances at you. Briefly.

And you feel it—what he won’t say. The guilt. The self-loathing. The fear that he wanted it more than he should’ve, and the shame that he let himself say so.

You try to keep your voice light. “It hasn’t been all bad, you know. Feeling like this.”

Something flickers in him—shame, maybe. Sadness. But it’s gone before you can name it.

“It’s not real,” he says. “You know that.”

You shift again. “You think I can’t tell the difference?”

“I don’t know, Doc. But you should. You wrote the fucking book on it!” He’s not angry. Just tired. 

“You’re reacting to a synthetic neurochemical tether.” He says it like he’s quoting a file. “It wires your empathy straight into mine and floods your body with cross-sensory feedback. Of course it feels like something.”

“Yeah,” you say. “It feels like you. Like… warm static. I didn’t think I’d get used to it, but I have.”

His jaw clenches.

Something bracing inside him tickles through your bones. Like he’s locking the door before you even finish knocking.

You hesitate, before adding, carefully, “Maybe that’s not so terrible.”

He turns toward you now, finally, and there’s something in his face—tired, closed off, already half gone.

“Look,” he sighs. “In a few hours, you’re going to feel normal again. This’ll wear off, we’ll detox. And you’ll go back to thinking I’m a prick.”

You stare at him. “Is that really what you think I’m going to walk away with?”

“It’s what I’ll walk away with,” he says.

How certain he is bounces back at you. The way he’s already convinced himself this was a mistake. Not just a misstep, but a flaw in his wiring. Something he’s trying to undo before it’s too late and your resolve starts to melt.

His voice softens, but not in a comforting way. In that quiet, beaten-down way that says he’s already written the ending and doesn’t want to hear another version.

“I crossed a line,” he says. “And you’re going to wake up tomorrow and wish I hadn’t.”

You feel it. In your ribs, your throat, your teeth. Not the tension from before—but a dull, hollow echo of finality. He believes this.

You don’t answer. There’s nothing left to say that won’t bounce off the wall he’s putting back up. You nod once. Slowly. Then lie back on the cot and turn your face to the wall. The link hums faintly behind your ribs—tender, uncertain. But you don’t follow it. You just let the silence settle between you again. Thicker than before. Colder. Final.

—

You’re sitting across from him when the door opens. Same cots. Same sterile walls. Same ten feet of silence between you. You haven’t looked at him but you still feel him linked. Quiet, almost gentle now. Like it knows it’s dying. A breath too deep. A flicker of guilt. A spike of regret. It doesn’t matter that he won’t meet your eyes.

Dr. Yen steps into the room with her tablet in one hand and a hard-sided case in the other. She’s in scrubs this time. Hair tied back. Movements clipped and practiced.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

The case opens with a soft click. Two injectors inside, small and sleek. She pulls one out and checks the dosage. 

“Once administered, the dampener will suppress all synthetic limbic resonance. You’ll feel a shift within thirty seconds. Disassociation. Numbness. Maybe a little nausea.”

You exhale through your nose.

“And then?”

She meets your eyes. “Then the link breaks.”

You nod. She walks to you first.

“Roll up your sleeve,” she says gently.

You do. The motion feels surreal—like you’re watching yourself from somewhere outside your body. She presses the injector to the soft skin inside your elbow.

You take a breath, hold it. Click. A whisper of compressed air. Cold floods your arm instantly—icy, clinical, creeping up your bicep like frostbite. It spreads into your shoulder, your neck, your spine.

And then—

Something inside you flickers. The hum. The warmth. Him. It begins to fade. Not all at once. It drains. Like light slipping out of a room. Like someone slowly turning the volume knob on a song you didn’t know you’d memorized. You feel the difference before you can process it. Your thoughts stop echoing. Your heartbeat feels… alone.

Bucky says nothing when it’s his turn. He doesn’t ask what it’ll feel like. He doesn’t hesitate. Just rolls up his sleeve, still pitched forward. Dr. Yen administers his dose with quiet efficiency. Click. Hiss. And then it’s quiet again. Except it’s not the same.

Because now, the silence is dead. No hum. No pulse. No emotional feedback or flicker of awareness. No him. He’s still there, physically. Still sitting across from you. Still wearing the same black T-shirt, the same unreadable expression. But you can’t feel him anymore. And the absence hits harder than you expect.

Dr. Yen checks the readings on her tablet. Taps a few buttons. Then nods.

“That’s it,” she says. “Connection is terminated.”

You nod, slowly. There’s a ringing in your ears that wasn’t there before.

Yen doesn’t linger. She packs up and walks out without another word. The door hisses shut behind her. And that’s it. It’s over.

You look at him. He’s not looking at you. There’s no warmth where your chest used to light up every time he almost met your gaze. Now it’s just empty space. You wait. A beat. Two.

He finally stands. Moves like he’s stiff. Or maybe he’s just trying to control the way his body reacts now that you can’t feel it.

His eyes flick toward you, just once. And then away.

At the door, hand hovering near the panel, he pauses. Just long enough to let hope get in one last swing.

“You’ll feel like yourself again soon.”

You blink. Straighten slightly. But before you can respond, he’s already gone. The door shuts behind him. And this time, you feel nothing at all.

—

Two weeks later and you definitely don’t feel like yourself again. Everyone said you would. That the dampener would work, that your neural pathways would recalibrate, that within a few days you’d forget what it felt like to share your mind with someone else.

They were wrong. The silence is worse than the bond ever was.

It isn’t just quiet—it’s hollow. There are no phantom thoughts, no flickers of static behind your ribs. No heat curling in your stomach when someone else walks in the room. You’re not buzzing anymore. You’re just… still.

You’ve tried to distract yourself. Buried yourself in lab reports. Filed updates. Pretended the whole thing was a chemical anomaly that didn’t matter.

You haven’t heard from him. You haven’t reached out, either.

Mostly because you’re not sure what you’d say—and partly because the last time you saw him, he all but told you that everything you felt was fake. You were still deciding whether to be mad or hurt when Valentina Allegra de Fontaine’s name lit up your encrypted line.

And now here you are. Walking into the new Avengers Tower for a mandatory debriefing.

You strut through the sleek white corridor with polished concrete floors, reinforced glass walls, surveillance cameras tucked into every corner. A place designed to look like freedom and security, while quietly reminding everyone who’s in charge. And Val’s definitely in charge.

You press your thumb to the biometric reader. The door clicks open. And then you’re in the room.

Seven chairs. One long table. Your team’s already there—Dr. Yen, Dr. Deenan, and Dr. Morales, seated stiffly with laptops open and half-expressed concern on their faces. You nod to them, then catch sight of the others.

The New Avengers. Ava’s leaning back with her boots up on the chair next to her, scanning her phone like she’d rather be anywhere else. Yelena twirls a pen in her fingers while whispering something to Bob, who stifles a laugh. Alexei ie eating something from a foil pouch. John Walker’s in full uniform, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he’s waiting to be pissed off.

And at the head of the table—Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. She smiles when she sees you. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Doctor,” she purrs. “Right on time. We were just getting to the fun part.”

You arch an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize this was a party.”

Val gestures to the empty seat across from her. “Take a load off.”

You sit. The chair’s cold. So is the room.

She taps her tablet, and the wall monitor comes to life—schematics, biofeedback logs, simulated overlays of two bodies in sync.

Yours. And his. Your heart gives a tiny, involuntary jolt.

“We’ve reviewed your data,” Val says. “The bonding agent was more successful than projected. Real-time empathic mirroring. Linked adrenaline response. Even synchronized aggression modulation. Fascinating.”

You glance at your team. No one meets your eye.

“Fascinating doesn’t mean safe,” you say.

“No,” Val agrees, tapping to the next slide, “but it does mean viable.”

Your stomach drops.

She keeps going. “We’ve had early conversations with R&D. We think we can refine it. Pull the limbic entanglement into tighter constraints. Give our agents an edge in the field. Total tactical unity. Real-time mental synchronicity in squads of two to five. Imagine it.”

“I’d rather not,” you say flatly.

Val tilts her head. “That’s surprising. You invented it.”

You cross your arms. “I invented a theory. Not a weapon. That compound was never designed for field ops. It was meant to test artificial empathy synthesis in high-stress environments. I never signed off on deployment.”

“You didn’t have to,” she replies, sweet as poison. “You tested it. That’s what matters.”

Your jaw tightens. “What do you want from me?”

Val smiles.

“I want you to stabilize it.”

The room goes quiet.

You don’t answer.

Because your fingers have curled into fists under the table, and the muscle in your jaw is working too hard.

Val’s smile sharpens. “Don’t make that face. You’re not the first brilliant mind to regret what they’ve built. That’s why we’ve brought in oversight.”

You glance around the table, pulse ticking higher. “This is oversight?”

Val gestures lazily toward the door. “Speak of the devil.”

It opens. He walks in. Bucky.

Same stride. Same black tactical pants. Same expression that says he’d rather be anywhere else. But not quite the same. Tighter. Like something inside him is coiled and hasn’t uncoiled since the dampener. You sit straighter without meaning to. He doesn’t look at you. Just nods to the room like it’s a formality. Takes the seat across the table from you, beside Ava, who gives him a quick look. You can feel the space between you stretch like a fault line.

Val keeps going, too casual.

“As most of you know, Sergeant Barnes was one of the two bonded during the prototype incident.”

No one speaks. Ava tilts her head, intrigued. Alexei is still chewing. John looks like he’s waiting to laugh. Bob’s the only one scribbling anything down.

Val turns toward Bucky, her voice silk-wrapped steel. “You submitted a full statement. Care to summarize for the room?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

“It’s not stable.”

“Define ‘not stable.’”

He looks directly at her now. “There’s no shut-off switch.”

Val smiles like she’s waiting for that. “The dampener worked.”

“Eventually.”

You feel a tug in your chest—but not from the bond. Just memory. Just him.

Val leans back. “Let’s talk about the psychological aftermath.”

You freeze. So does he.

“I read your report,” Val continues. “There were some… interesting observations. About your partner.”

You glance at him, breath catching. He doesn’t speak. Val does.

“‘Responsive. Precise. Too quick to hide discomfort behind sarcasm. Wants to be in control but softens under pressure. Harder to ignore than expected.’”

You stare at her. Then at him. He’s not meeting your eyes. His jaw is tight.

Val keeps reading, but her eyes are on you. “‘I think she felt it too. I think we both wanted it to stop, and neither of us wanted it to stop.’”

The room is silent. No one breathes.

She closes the file with a tap and smiles. “Romantic. Almost poetic.”

Bucky shifts in his chair. “That wasn’t meant for discussion.”

Val keeps going, tapping her tablet again. “Of course, Sergeant Barnes wasn’t the only one who filed a report.”

Your eyes narrow. She scrolls casually. “Let’s see here…”

Your team shifts awkwardly. Ava raises an brow. Walker leans back, already skeptical.

“Ah—found it,” Val says, lips twitching. “‘Post-dampener vitals returned to pre-bond baseline within 48 hours. No lingering physical effects. Subject reports successful cognitive decoupling.’” She glances at you. “Very clinical so far.”

You say nothing. Your throat is tight.

Val continues reading, voice just loud enough to carry. “‘Subject notes difficulty adjusting to emotional silence. Persistent phantom resonance. Reports occasional insomnia, sensory misfires, and…’” She slows. “‘…a recurring sense of loss with no identifiable origin.’”

You feel the breath leave your lungs.

Val looks up, smile gone. Her tone shifts—mocking, just slightly. “‘It’s strange. I should be relieved to have myself back. But some part of me feels like it’s still looking for him.’”

The silence in the room shifts. Heavy. Sharp. Bucky turns to look at you. Not subtly. Not just a glance. He looks at you like you’ve just said something dangerous. Like you’ve handed him a key he didn’t know he was allowed to touch.

You look back. And for the first time since the bond broke—you really see him seeing you.

But then his expression shutters. Clean. Cold. Gone. Like he’s pulled the wall back up in one brutal breath.

Val closes the file with a flick of her fingers. 

“Well. This answers my question. If it worked that fast on two unsuspecting individuals—one emotionally distant, the other the one who wrote the damn rules about boundaries—what do we think it’ll do to a trained field team under fire?”

You exhale through your nose. “You’re not trying to refine it. You’re trying to weaponize it.”

Val shrugs. “Tomato, tomahto.”

Your pulse spikes. “You want to use forced bonding as a tactical tool. You want soldiers to feel each other die in real time, feel pain that isn’t theirs, emotions that aren’t theirs—”

“They’ll be trained.”

“They’ll be broken.”

Now the room shifts. Ava sits forward. Yelena’s brow lifts. Even Walker glances sideways at Val.

Val only smiles. “Everyone breaks differently, doctor. That’s the point.”

You can’t help it. You turn to Bucky. He’s looking down. Still silent. Still locked. But you know that posture. You’ve felt it. The way he retreats. The way he steels himself before walking away.

Val’s voice cuts back in. “Final reports are due in forty-eight hours. Including yours, Doctor. Whether you cooperate or not, this is moving forward.”

You don’t answer. She rises. The others begin to move.

But Bucky doesn’t. Not until the last chair scrapes back. Then he stands. And walks out without looking back. This time, you don’t hesitate.

You catch him in the hallway just outside the briefing room.

“Barnes.”

He keeps walking, boots steady on the polished floor like you’re not behind him, like he didn’t just bolt from a public dissection of your most private thoughts. You pick up the pace.

“I said—”

“Don’t,” he mutters without turning. “Not here.”

You follow anyway. Right past the security checkpoint. Into the common area of the residential wing.

Then you hear them. Voices behind you—low, not subtle. Bob. Alexei. You’d bet money Walker’s loitering just out of view, arms crossed and dying for gossip.

“Wow,” Yelena says from behind the coffee bar. “Very dramatic storm-off. Ten out of ten.”

Bucky still doesn’t stop. You catch up beside him, matching his pace. “You’re seriously going to act like none of that meant anything?”

“I’m not doing this in front of an audience,” he snaps, still not looking at you.

You ignore it. “What did you think was going to happen? You walk away and I just go back to being a line item in your report?”

He reaches the end of the hallway. Stops. Jaw locked. Hands at his sides.

“I’m not doing this,” he says again, quieter now. Less sharp. More tired.

You hesitate.  And then you say it—just low enough for him to really hear it.

“Bucky, please.”

His head turns. Slow. Measured. Like he didn’t expect you to use his name. Like it broke through something.

You stare up at him. One beat. Two. And then he grabs your wrist—not rough, not rushed—and pulls you with him through the nearest door.

His quarters. The lock clicks behind you. He doesn’t let go. You’re both breathing too hard for how little either of you has moved. His fingers tighten around your wrist.

“I don’t need a debrief,” he says flatly. “Whatever Val’s hoping you’ll get out of this—”

“Don’t do that,” you say.

His shoulders go rigid. “Do what.”

“Shut me out.”

He finally turns. And the look on his face makes your heart falter.

He’s not angry. He’s gutted.

“I told you, once this wore off—”

“I didn’t say it because of the link,” you snap. “I said it because it’s true.”

He shakes his head. “You think it’s true. Because it’s recent. Because you’re still sorting it out.”

“No,” you say. “I said it because I miss you. Because I can’t sleep. Because the silence feels worse than the noise ever did.”

He goes quiet. You take a step closer.

“And don’t tell me it’s not real. Don’t tell me it’s just feedback. I’ve been through every model of post-synthetic resonance in the literature. This isn’t detox.”

Bucky stares at you like he wants to believe you. Like he’s aching to. But the wall is still up. Tighter than ever.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “You’re going to walk out of here and get over it. And I’m going to remember everything I said. Everything I wanted. And wish I hadn’t said a goddamn word.”

That knocks the air out of you. You feel the urge to step back—but you don’t. You root yourself there.

“I’m not over it,” you say, quietly. “And I don’t want to be.”

He looks at you. Really looks. And something shifts in him. But he still doesn’t move. So you step closer. Not too close. Just enough to make it clear you’re not afraid of the space between you. Not anymore. You don’t touch him. Not yet.

“I’ve spent two weeks trying to shut you out of my head,” you murmur. “Pretending I didn’t miss you. That I wasn’t checking every hallway and every email, wondering if you’d say something.”

He exhales sharply through his nose and looks down.

“And when you didn’t,” you add, voice tighter now, “I told myself you were just being careful. That you were trying to do the right thing.”

A pause. Then, lower.

“But maybe it was just easier for you.”

That hits. You see it—right in his eyes. Still, he doesn’t speak. So you finish it.

“Either you felt what I felt or you didn’t,” you say, chin lifting. “But don’t stand there and act like it was just some side effect. Like all of it—everything between us—was just my body misfiring.”

You take a final step closer to him.

“I know who you are now—not just the version you show, not the file, not the soldier. You. I felt every part you tried to hide. And it only made me want you more. And if that was all fake, I don’t know what the hell is real anymore.”

That’s when he moves.

It’s not gentle. It’s not rehearsed. It’s like something inside him snaps, and before you can take another breath, his hands are in your hair, his mouth crashing against yours like he’s been holding back for years—not weeks.

You stumble into him with a gasp, grabbing the front of his shirt like you need it to stay standing. His kiss is rough, hungry, almost frantic—like he’s trying to erase the silence with his teeth.

He spins you, walks you backwards until your shoulders hit the door, and then he’s bracing one arm beside your head, the other sliding down to your hip like he needs to feel you, all of you, right now.

You kiss him back with everything you’ve been holding in. Anger. Frustration. Hunger. Something dangerously close to relief. He pulls back just long enough to look at you, lips swollen, breathing hard.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says, hoarse.

“Yes,” you whisper, dragging your fingers down the line of his stomach. “I do.”

His mouth reclaims yours. This time, the kiss is slower. Hungrier. Less desperation, more purpose. His tongue traces the shape of your lips, parting them before diving in. His hands move, rough and reverent. Skimming your jaw, down your neck, across your chest. They slide beneath your shirt, palms splayed wide like he’s trying to cover all of you at once, like he can’t decide what to touch first. You feel the heat of him through every inch of fabric, and it lights you up from the inside.

He hesitates Just a little. Like it costs him something to stop. A breath caught in his throat. Fingers curling into fists where they’d just been on your ribs. Everything is vibrating with want. No bond. No compound tether. Just this. Just him. And he’s shaking. Not visibly. But you feel it in his breath. In the way his hands flex when they grip your hips. Like he’s holding back with every ounce of control he has left.

“You sure?” he rasps, low and wrecked.

You nod. He doesn’t move. So you press your mouth to his ear. 

“Bucky,” you whisper. “I’ve been sure since I looked you in the eye and told you not to think about sex.”

He exhales, a bit shaky, but lifts you, guiding you backward toward the bed. Walking you slow and blind, like he’s memorized every inch of you and he’s finally getting to touch what he learned.

You hit the mattress. He’s on you a second later, crowding you down with the weight of his body, the strength of his stare.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your cheek. “I want to see you.”

Your heart stutters as he starts to undress you. Slow at first, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. Fingers dragging over skin with intention. Mouth kissing every new inch he uncovers.

“You’re fuckin’ beautiful, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You whimper, hands reaching, but he pins your wrists lightly to the bed.

“Let me,” he says. “You’ve had your hands on yourself enough, haven’t you?”

Your face burns but your thighs twitch. He clocks it.

“Oh, you liked that,” he murmurs, voice like velvet. “Liked making me feel it. Every fuckin’ second.”

“Bucky—”

“You wanna know what it did to me?” he asks, trailing his fingers down your stomach, your hip, your thigh. “The way you touched yourself? Knowing I couldn’t stop you. Couldn’t help you. Couldn’t taste you.”

Your breath hitches as his lips graze your inner thigh.

“I almost lost it, doll.”

He groans as he spreads you open, thumb teasing, mouth following. He’s slow at first. Too slow. Licking soft circles like he’s memorizing the shape of your pleasure.

And then he dives in.

Moans into you like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Holds your thighs apart, firm and unrelenting, while his tongue works in perfect rhythm. Watching you. Murmuring praise between licks and gasps. Your hips twitch, a whimper slipping through your clenched teeth.

“Already?” he murmurs, breath hot against you. “You that close, sweetheart?”

You try to answer, but it’s useless.

“God, look at you,” he groans. “So fucking wet.”

You arch up in response, gasping.

“Needy little thing,” he laughs, brushing his fingers through your folds. “Bet this is all you’ve been thinking about the past two weeks, huh?”

He plunges a finger inside of you and curls, as do your toes while you rasp out.

“Bucky, please!”

“You gonna fall apart for me, doll?” he murmurs against you, the words so filthy and tender they almost make you cry. “I want it. Want to feel you shake. Want to taste every bit of it.”

He flicks his tongue in tight circles, then flattens it low and slow. Adding another finger to your weeping core. Your hips start to shake, lifting off the bed. He feels it and grips you tighter.

“Don’t fight it,” he gasps into you. “Don’t you fucking dare. That’s mine.”

He sucks hard—just once—and your vision whites out. You try to warn him. A gasp, a stuttered breath, a twist of your hips. But it’s already too late. You come with a cry, fists clutching the sheets, legs locked around his shoulders, everything inside you unraveling at once.

It’s too much. Too sharp. Too good. And he groans into you like he’s the one coming. You’re limp, gasping, still shaking—and he’s still there, mouth wet, fingers brushing your hip.

“Shit,” you breathe. “That was…”

He kisses the inside of your thigh. Then again, a little higher.

“You’re not done yet,” he says, voice thick with hunger. “Not even close.”

He keeps going, softer now—just enough to draw the aftershocks out of you, murmuring things you can barely hear over your own heartbeat.

“So perfect. So fuckin’ sweet”

You blink through the stars behind your eyes, chest rising in fast, uneven bursts.

“Bucky—”

He finally comes up for air, his eyes are darker with something deeper than just heat as his gaze locks on yours. And for a second, neither of you moves.

You’re still panting, still wrecked from his mouth and fingers, but there’s something in the way he looks at you now. Like he’s trying to memorize you, even as his restraint starts to crack again.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

You nod, breath caught in your throat.

“Good,” he says, fingers sliding up your sides. “Because I’m not done learning how you fall apart.”

You whine when he pulls away. But when his own shirt comes off, followed by the rest, your breath stutters—because even now, with the link broken, you’re still wrecked by your need for him.

Not like before. Not a shared mind or emotion. But like muscle memory. Like your skin knows him now. His mouth tilts up—barely a smile, more like relief bleeding through restraint.

Then he climbs your body like he owns it, skin dragging over skin. Not rushing. Savoring. Like he’s been starving for you and doesn’t want to miss a single fucking bite. His chest brushes yours—bare, flushed—and you both exhale hard, the contact so electric it knocks the air from your lungs.

You reach for him, aching, but he catches your wrists—not to stop you. To feel you. To anchor himself. His thumbs press into your palms, grounding hard.

“You still want this?” he murmurs.

You nod. But that’s not enough. Not for either of you.

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you.”

He kisses you like he means to brand it into you, deep and claiming. His whole body comes down over yours, pinning you into the mattress with his weight like he’s trying to fuck the memory of him into your bones.

His hand trails down your side, over your hip, gripping your thigh with purpose. Holding you there, keeping you open for him.

“You feel that?” he whispers against your jaw, slowly dragging his cock against your sensitive heat. “That’s real. Not chemicals. Not the compound.”

You nod again, blinking up at him.

“I felt you before, doll,” he murmurs, pressing the head against your entrance. “But now? Now I get to have you.”

Then he pushes in slowly. Inch by inch as it steals the air from your lungs, not realizing how you could ever feel this full. He’s everywhere. It’s not artificial. It’s just him. Just this. And it’s overwhelming in a completely different way.

“God, you feel so fuckin’ good,” he groans, as his hips finally meet yours. “Like you were made for me.”

He moves slow at first, watching your face, chasing every gasp, every arch of your body. Letting you relax into the stretch as he drags himself in and out of you. Your body answers him before your mouth can. Nails digging into his shoulder. The pressure already building, faster this time, hotter. And he feels it, responding with a low, rough growl in your ear.

“Got used to feeling everything,” he murmurs. “Now I’ve gotta earn it. Every sound. Every twitch of those perfect fuckin’ hips.”

You can’t even speak. You moan, hips tilting up, greedy for more.

“That’s right,” he breathes, rougher now. “Show me.”

He rocks into you again, harder this time. You gasp, cry out softly against his shoulder. 

“Bucky—please—”

“You begging already?” he groans, continuing to pound you deeper into the mattress. “Thought I was just a side effect.”

“You weren’t.”

He freezes, just for a moment. Kisses you again, softer now, but more desperate.

“Say it again.” His forehead presses to yours.

You touch his face, thumb brushing the hard line of his jaw. “You weren’t.”

He exhales like it hurts.

“You gonna come for me again, sweetheart?”

You whimper, helpless as your walls begin to flutter around him.

“Yeah, you are,” he breathes. “I can feel it. So tight around me already.”

And the way he looks at you—wrecked and reverent and just this side of feral—makes your whole body stutter. You want it. Want to be ruined by him. Claimed by him.

You tighten around him again, and his hips snap harder. His hand slips between your bodies. Finds your clit. Zeroes in without mercy.

“Give it to me,” he whispers into your throat. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

It hits like a freight train—loud and messy and devastating. Your back arches, your breath catches, and you cry out his name like it’s the only word you’ve got left.

He fucks you through it—long, dragging thrusts that keep you trembling. Your body’s oversensitive now, every nerve frayed, but he doesn’t stop. Keeps going, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“Bucky,” you moan, hand in his hair, nails dragging over his scalp.

He breaths into your mouth—kissing you like he’s starving.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he pants. “You know that?”

You whimper, thighs shaking.

“I tried to keep it together,” he growls, voice ragged. “I tried—”

Every thrust is brutal now. Precise. Shattering.

“Fuck,” he breaths. “When you were—”

“Buck—”

He kisses you again, biting your lip. His hand moves between you again, thumb rubbing fast and perfect.

“God, baby—” His voice cracks. “You’re gonna make me fuckin’ lose it.”

“Then lose it,” you whisper. “I want you to.”

He growls your name, broken and wrecked, hips jerking once, twice—And you shatter. It slams through you—raw, loud, everything burning at the edges. Your body seizes, clenching around him, sobbing his name as you fall apart in his arms.

He buries himself inside you. You feel the heat. The flood. The way he tries to hold himself together and can’t. He’s trembling over you, muscles locked tight, jaw clenched as he pulses deep in you, riding it out with a low, wrecked moan.

You’re both gasping now. Shaking. Tangled up and clinging. And still—he doesn’t pull away. He stays. Forehead to yours, still buried deep, arms wrapped around you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I’ve never thought—” he starts, voice ragged. “That wasn’t just—”

You touch his face, soft now. “I know.”

Because you do. This wasn’t adrenaline. Wasn’t science. Wasn’t the bond. It was him. It was you. He lifts his head slowly. Looks at you like he’s still afraid to believe it. So you cup his face, kiss his temple, and whisper, “Don’t you dare vanish on me now.”

His throat works, jaw clenches. But he doesn’t run.

He stays right where he is. Wrapped around you.

—-

The room is warm. Quiet. You’re lying on your back, one leg tangled with his, the sheets kicked halfway off the bed. Bucky’s fingers skim slow circles over your hip, like he hasn’t figured out how to stop touching you yet. Or doesn’t want to. You stare at the ceiling.

“Tell me again how this wasn’t a terrible idea,” you murmur.

He huffs out a laugh. “It was a terrible idea.”

“Oh, good,” you say. “So we’re on the same page.”

He shifts, rolling just enough to look at you. His hair is a mess, his chest still rising a little fast, like he hasn’t fully come down. There’s a smudge of dried sweat at his temple and your teeth marks fading on his neck, and you have the completely inappropriate urge to kiss both.

“Can’t believe I got to sleep with the woman who called me a glorified blunt object,” he says dryly.

You smirk. “Wasn’t planning to sleep with the guy who implied my life’s work was an emotional leash.”

“Touché.”

You sigh. Close your eyes for a second. The weight of it all—what came before, what you just crossed into—settles somewhere behind your ribs. He’s still watching you when you open them again.

“I’ll deal with Val,” he says suddenly. “If she tries to pull anything with the compound, I’ll shut it down.”

You blink. “You’re serious.”

“I usually am.”

You study him for a beat. “You don’t have to fight my battles, Barnes.”

“No,” he says. “But I want to.”

Something about the way he says it. Casual and quiet, like it isn’t a big deal, makes your stomach tighten. He’s not pushing. Not performing. He just means it. You shift closer, resting your chin on his chest. “You know, if you’d told me two weeks ago I’d end up in your bed—”

“You would’ve laughed in my face.”

“I did laugh in your face.”

“You told me I looked like a government-issued mistake.”

You snort. “Well. You kind of did.”

He smirks, fingers brushing a line along your spine. “Still think I’m a mistake?”

You glance up at him. He’s smiling, but it’s tentative. Like he’s not sure if you’ll dodge or hit back. So you lean up, kiss him—soft, but real. Honest.

“Maybe not a mistake,” you whisper against his mouth. “Maybe just… statistically improbable.”

He laughs against your lips. You both fall back into the pillows, tangled up and far too warm, but neither of you moves.

Eventually he murmurs, “This thing between us—whatever it is—it’s real now, right?”

You stretch a leg over his, sighing. “I mean, if it’s not, then I’m still having incredibly vivid sex dreams while awake.”

“That’s flattering.”

“That’s science.”

He kisses your forehead and mumbles, “Then let’s see what happens without science.”

You let that settle. No neurobond. No link. No forced proximity. Just choice. You curl in closer. And this time, when you breathe him in, you don’t feel afraid.

Slow. Deep. Possessive.

"Fuck- joel-"

"Shh. Shh, baby. I know."

His voice is all gravel and heat, right at your ear as he presses his palmdown over your belly. "Just one. Just need one."

But it's never just one with him.

He drives in again. And again.

Thick and hard and dripping wet, dragging the mess of himself lit of you, only to bury it back in with a bruising slap of skin. You're so full, streched wide and trembling as he fucks his cum deeper and deeper inside. "So fuckin' tight," Joel grits out, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your shouler. "You feel that, sweetheart? That's all me. All that mess dripping down your thighs. Fuckin- look at you." He fists your hair and makes you lift your head just enough to see the bulge in your stomach, his cock, thick and swollen, pushing up against the swell in your belly as he pistons inside you.

"Milkslut," He growls.

"That what you wanted? That why you were beggin' earlier, grindin' all needy on meoke some dumb little bitch in heat?"

You whimper, tears spilling. It's too much- but you crave every second of it. "Uh-huh," He smirks, breathing hot filth into your skin.

"You like being red, don't you? Like gettin' filled up, leaking all over the fuckin' sheets like a messy little whore." His voice drops, darker now. The pace is brutal. The sound of your soaked pussy clapping against his hips is loud in the room,arched only by your stuttering moans.

"Mine"

A hard thrust.

"Mine"

Another.

"Say it."

You can't even form the word, not when he's gripping your throat, not when your brain's short circuited from the pleasure, your cunt spasming around him from the fourth orgasm he's wrung our of you in the last hour.

He doesn't care.

"Say it."

"Y-Yours, Joel- oh fuck, I'm yours-"

"That's right, baby."

He slaps your ass, watching it jiggle. Watching you take it.

"Good fuckin' girl, such a good little cum dump for me. Gonna fuck a baby into you, keep you swollen all the fuckin' time."

You clench.

That breaks him.

His thrusts go sloppy as he empties into you again, groaning loud, hips grinding into the mess between your thighs, making sure mome of it leaks out. "Goddamn - take it, sweetheart. Don't spill a drop. You hear me?" Your thighs are shaking. His seed is leaking. And Joel just laughs, low and mean.

"Better get used to this, darlin'. 'Cause I ain't pullin' out ever again."

~~~

You've already lost count.

Maybe it was the third time he came- maybe the fifth. It's impossible to know anymore with how long he's kept you pinned, stuffed full of his cock, held there like a ragdoll while he fucks you into the mattress. His chest is slick with sweat, body heavy and burning against your back as he thrusts up into you, rutting slow and deep. Every movement makes your cunt squelch loud, messy, soaked in his cum and slick and spit and who the fuck knows what else.

"You hear that?"

Joel bites your earlobe as he pushes in to the hilt.

"You fucking hear that, baby? That's me pourin' into you again"

And he is.

You feel it.

Another thick gush floods you as he groans, hips grinding in tight, desperate circles, pumping rope after rope of heat so deep it makes your eyes flutter back. The pressure builds in your belly, a warmth that spreads slow, growing fuller, heavier, deeper.

"Shit- fuck," You whimper, voice shaking. "Its- joel- it's too much, I can't-"

"You can, sweetheart. You will."

He smirks into your neck, teeth grazing skin. "This cunt's made to take it. My messy little milkslut."

Your belly's swollen now, soft and rounded where his cock bulges up through your skin. His hand spreads wide over it, pressing down just enough to feel himself from the inside. "Fuckin' look at this," Be growls, voice dropping filth.

"Can feel my cock through your tummy. You're so fuckin' full, babygirl. Stuffed to the brim and still takin' it. "

He pulls back just an inch only to ram in again.

A squirt of cum spills from between your thighs. It's not the first time. Wont be the last.

"There it is. Can't even hold it anymore."

He watches it leak down your ass, pooling beneath you on the sheets.

"Made my own little cumdump. Look at that mess. So greedy for it. "

Another thrust. You sob into the pillow, overstimulated and burning. Your thighs are shaking, soaked with slick and sweat and his endless release.

"Gotta keep fuckin' it back in"

He shoves deeper, groaning.

"I ain't done. Not 'till I plug you ful. 'till there's no room left in that little pussy of yours."

You're whimpering, clawing weakly at the sheets.

"Say it," He grits out, slapping your plump red ass.

"Say what you are."

"I'm- I'm your- your milkslut," You gasp, breath hitching.

"Fuck Joel- I'm your filthy little milkslut-"

"Good fuckin' girl."

Another load floods you. Thick, hot, endless. Your belly streches a little more beneath his hand and Joel moans sl deep it rumbles against your back. "That's it. Take it. Take every last fuckin' drop." When he finally stops moving, cock still twitching inside you, you feel it. The sheer weight of him isndid. How soaked you are, how ruined.

But Joel just keeps you there. Plugged full, your cunt fluttering weakly around him.

You're shaking.

He laughs softly and strokes your belly.

You're not sure how much different it'd be after only a couple years away, but still. Something in you had expected it to feel even smaller—like the way old t-shirts shrink in the wash when you’re not paying attention.

The air felt the same when you first stepped out of your beat up Chevy, heavy and humid like a wet mouth. The pavement in front of your house still burned the bottom of your shoes, and the cicadas were buzzing in the dry grass like they never stopped.

You left for college thinking you’d never come back. And yet, here you are. Spending summer back in your hometown, a little more than half a degree under your belt, flat broke, and bored to death.

Your room’s the same, maybe just a little smaller now that you’ve lived other places, slept in other beds. All the posters are still up, faded from the sun and curling at the corners. Your mom left your old tennis trophies on your dresser, like maybe she thought you’d want to see them. You don’t, not really. You appreciate the effort anyway, at least she didn’t turn it into a yoga room or a place to keep extra boxes and Christmas decorations.

You try not to spend too much time at home, even though you technically don’t have anywhere else to go. You kill time with long drives down the streets you memorized years ago, past beat up gas stations with sun bleached lotto signs and eighteen wheelers parked in the back.

You try your hand at some half-hearted job hunting at a few different places that promise to call but never do. And you sit in the back booth of an old diner where you and your friends used to sneak fries from abandoned tables and smoke paper wrapped joints in the alley out back.

Every place you go feels like a ghost town version of what you remember. Familiar, but all hollowed out.

“You know who might be looking for help?” Your mom says one morning, standing at the stove fussing over a pan of bacon. “Joel Miller, you remember him don’t you?”

You pause, your fork stuck hovering just above the plate. “Sarah’s dad?”

“Mhm. I ran into him at the market a couple weeks ago and we got to catching up. He’s needing to pick up some extra work, and it’s just him, you know. Sarah’s starting high school in the fall but he’s still not wanting to leave her on her own. He looked stressed, poor thing.”

You hum warily, pushing your eggs around your plate to distract from the way your stomach flutters.

Joel Miller.

You haven’t heard that name in years. Not since you stopped babysitting Sarah, not since you left. It has something low and guilty stirring somewhere deep inside you.

You shouldn’t be surprised that it’s floating back into your life like cigarette smoke—all pungent and sour and impossible to ignore. In a town of less than two thousand people, you were bound to circle around some old memories sooner or later. And Joel Miller was a big one.

Mr. Miller was a few years older than your mom, a single dad that lived with his daughter in the trailer park a few miles past the city limit. You met him when you were seventeen and trying to save as much as you could for college, when your puny part time job flipping burgers and serving ice cream cones wasn’t cutting it. 

He needed someone to pick up Sarah from school and watch her until he got home from work, you needed the extra money. It seemed like a perfect fit.

But Joel was always…different. He scooped you up off the gravel and carried you into his living room to bandage up your knee when you took a bad fall outside his trailer. He never ratted you out when he caught you smoking one of his Marlboros in his backyard after you put Sarah to bed one night. He drove you home when you got too drunk at a field party and couldn’t stomach the thought of calling your mom. 

You can still remember the way his truck smelled—gasoline, sunbaked leather, sawdust. 

He didn’t say much, just kept his gaze trained on the road as you watched him through glassy eyes while Johnny Cash floated through the cab. He looked back once, slow and quiet, like he was really thinking something over. 

It’s been a long time since you thought about that night, but the reminder of it resurfaces sharp and sudden, like a thumb pressed into a bruise.

Now, your mom’s pouring more coffee into your cup and saying his name like it’s no big deal, like she didn’t just drop a live wire into your lap. Like he didn’t take up way too much room in your seventeen year old imagination.

“You should go down there and talk to him sometime,” she says, casual. “It might be a good way to make some money while you look around for something else.”

You bite back a grimace, conflicted. “Isn’t Sarah old enough to stay home alone by now?”

Your mom shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “Maybe, but like I said Joel’s always been a little…anxious about leaving her on her own too many nights. She’s at that age, you know—boys, phones, lord knows what else.”

You frown, stabbing at your eggs. You only remember Sarah as the sweet little girl who’d beg to stay up and watch Disney with you, who was more interested in her Barbie dolls than any screen. You used to braid her hair while she did her times tables, let her wear some of your lip gloss when she begged.

You take a sip of coffee, the burn of it trickles down from your throat to settle somewhere deep in your chest. “You really think he’d hire me again?” 

Your mom shrugs again, plating the bacon. “I don’t see why not. Sarah always loved you, Joel too. He’s asked about you once or twice, said you were a real good girl. Very responsible and all that.”

You try not to laugh at that. 

Good girl. Responsible. Right.

You nod vaguely, standing to clear your plate into the trash even though it’s still half full. “Maybe,” you mutter. “I’ll think about it.”

Later that night, alone in your room, you find yourself scrolling through Facebook like an angsty teenager. 

You kicked your sheets off a while ago, cracked your window open to let in the cool breeze swirling outside. Crickets sing quietly in the background, only drowned out every once in a while by the sound of cars passing your street.

Joel’s profile is still public, but it’s sparsely updated. A new truck photo here, a blurry picture of Sarah’s eighth grade promotion there. She looks the same, maybe a little older. Her hair’s longer, but still curly as ever.

There’s no recent pictures of Joel anywhere. Not posted by him or any of his friends. You can’t tell if the feeling that blooms inside of you is disappointment or something else entirely.

You’re about to exit the app when finally, a tagged post catches your eye.

A post by an account with the name Henry B. attached to it. It’s just a grainy photo of someone’s backyard littered with wood pallets and stray tools, Joel standing in the middle of it all with a few other people you don’t recognize.

His account is tagged in the caption underneath. Big thanks to my buddy Joel Miller for the extra set of hands tonight. Saved our ass! It’s dated June 13, 2023.

You pause, your thumb hovering over the screen. So he’s still handy, you think distantly, chewing on your bottom lip.

You remember that much. There were always new projects cluttering the yard in front of his trailer. A crib for the expecting couple a few doors down, a rocking chair with ornate vines and flowers carved into the armrests, a soccer goal for Sarah to practice with when she started getting serious about it in the fifth grade.

You zoom in on the picture, just a little.

The angle’s weird and it’s overexposed as shit. Joel’s face is half shadowed by an old Longhorns baseball cap, but even still—there’s that jaw. That mouth. That same broad width of his shoulders you used to trace with your eyes when he’d lean on the doorframe after he got home from work. 

It’s still an older picture, and you can’t help but wonder how much he’s changed since.

You breathe through your nose, one long uninterrupted breath before you close the app and toss your phone face down on the mattress.

Joel Miller was handsome when you were in high school and stupid and still biting your nails. 

He was a late forty-something, tired around the eyes. Always in pair of ratty, stained jeans and those soft, worn down flannels with the sleeves rolled up. Sarah’s dad. The hot one, according to the girls at school. The divorced one, according to the snooty moms at the PTA. He was tall and strong, thick arms with dark hair dusted along veiny muscle. Big hands that were calloused and rough to the touch when he slipped you a couple folded twenties at the end of every night. 

You haven’t seen him since the summer after you graduated, but sometimes you still think about the way he used to look at you.

Like he shouldn’t.

Like he knew he shouldn’t, and did it anyway. 

You can still feel it. That heat, that weight. The way his eyes always lingered a little too long when you bent down to grab your homework off the coffee table. The way his voice got low and syrupy when he asked what you were doing that weekend.

You were young then, but now?

Now you’re not sure who you are, not entirely—but you know you’re not that same girl. You’ve lived. You’ve done things he couldn’t even guess at.

You’ve grown up. And you wonder if Joel would notice too.

You don’t plan on going. Not really.

The next day, your mom leaves a note taped to the fridge that says she’s out running errands and won’t be back until later. You stare at it for a while, then glance at the clock.

It’s barely noon.

You have nothing to do. No plans. No job. So you get into your boiling hot car, roll the windows down, and drive.

You’re not sure what makes you do it. 

Maybe it’s the antsy feeling that’s been worming around under your skin since you got here. Maybe it’s the way Joel’s name has been bouncing off all the corners of your mind like a moth against glass ever since your mom said it.

Either way, you find yourself veering onto a familiar exit off the highway, tires crunching under gravel until it turns to dirt when you pull into the same trailer park on the edge of town. The same one you spent most nights back in high school.

You sit in your car for a little longer than necessary, keys still in the ignition, engine ticking quietly as it cools.

The place hasn’t changed much either. Same sloped roof, same white paneling, same wind chimes clinking together on the porch. There’s a pair of muddy work boots by the steps, and your stomach knots.

You didn’t bother calling ahead. You don’t even know if he has the same number. You’re regretting that now.

You should leave. You really should. But you’re already pulling the car door open and stepping into the dry afternoon heat. The air’s thick again, the sun sitting high and mean in the sky. Your shirt sticks to the sweaty skin along your spine as you walk through the gate and up the short gravel path.

You hesitate at the foot of the stairs, clenching and unclenching your fists a couple times like that’ll magically relive all your nerves. You wonder, and almost hope, if Sarah will be the one to open the door. If she’ll even remember you.

Then, the screen door cracks open before you can knock.

Joel’s standing there. He looks the same as the last time you saw him.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he mutters, opening the door wider. He’s in jeans, barefoot, nothing but a tank top clinging to his chest, a dark patch blooming at the collar where it’s damp with sweat. “Look at you.” 

No, not the same.

Older. Broader, somehow. More worn in, like a favorite jacket that’s been well loved. His hair’s longer than you remember, messier. His beard is thicker too, dusted with more gray, and there’s a little more weight around his middle. But his eyes are just the same—dark, steady, and sharp in a way that makes you feel instantly, achingly seventeen again.

He looks you over once. Not quick. Real slow. Real deliberate. A single drag of his eyes from your flip flops to the shorts you maybe shouldn’t have worn. His gaze sticks when it reaches your chest, lingers there a beat too long before flicking back up to your mouth. And then, finally, your eyes.

You shift your weight, offering a small smile. “Hey, Mr. Miller.”

His eyes narrow, and there’s the ghost of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “Don’t start with that ‘Mr. Miller’ bullshit. You’re grown now.”

Your stomach tightens.

“I, uh...my mom said you might be looking for help,” you say, fighting the urge to squirm where you stand. “With Sarah, I mean.”

He leans against the doorframe, one hand gripping the wood above his head. The movement lifts his shirt just enough to show a strip of his stomach, a trail of dark hair disappearing under the waistband of his sweats. “She did, huh?”

You nod, still frozen in place at the bottom of the steps.

Joel lets the silence hang in the air, heavy and charged. Then he huffs a quiet breath through his nose—half amusement, half something else—and steps aside. “You comin’ in or what?” he asks, jerking his head impatiently, giving you another long, lazy once over. “Ain’t polite to keep an old man waitin’, kid.”

Your heart beats wildly against your ribcage, and with one last quick, steadying breath you hope Joel doesn’t notice, you climb the stairs.

Joel hadn’t expected to see you again. At the very least like this, showing up at his place in the middle of the day—standing at the bottom of his porch like a mirage in the heat, older and more grown in all the places a man like him shouldn’t be noticing. 

And sure as hell not in those shorts.

He watches you walk past him into the living room, slow and uncertain, that little sway in your hips you maybe don’t even mean to have. Or maybe you do.

Either way, it’s a goddamn sight.

Joel closes the door with a soft click, dragging a hand over his mouth like that’ll help wipe the look off his face. It doesn’t. The look of you—bare legged and smiling, sun kissed and back in his house after all this time—sticks to the inside of his skull like syrup. 

You look around the room with a small smile, eyes scanning the familiar furniture. Some of it’s new, some of it’s the same. Joel’s never been much for decorating. You pause in front of the bookshelf he built a few years back, Sarah’s old school pictures still sit in a few mismatched frames next to a couple of paperbacks.

He clears his throat, scratching at his beard so he has something to do with his hands as he walks to the kitchen. “You want somethin’ to drink? Water, iced tea? I think I got Coke in the fridge somewhere.”

“I’m good, thanks.” You follow slowly, looking younger somehow in the kitchen light. You rest your hip against the doorway, eyes watching him as he walks to the fridge. “I won’t stay long. I just figured I’d stop by real quick and see if you still needed some help.”

Joel pulls the fridge open anyway, grabbing a beer from the half empty six pack. He cracks the tab with a soft hiss and leans back against the counter. “Sarah’s mostly independent now. She don’t need a sitter like she used to, but I still get caught up workin’ late. Don’t like the idea of her bein’ here by herself too often. 'Specially not with some of the boys sniffin’ around lately.”

You laugh, soft and bright. “Well, I’ve got time,” you say, toying with a loose thread on your cutoffs. “I don’t know how much help you actually need, but my schedule’s pretty much open. I can do evenings, weekends, whatever you want.”

Joel has to bite back a grin. Whatever he wants. 

If you only knew the half of what he really wants.

Joel shifts his weight against the counter. “It wouldn’t be every night,” he says, shaking his head. “Just the evenings I pick up extra hours, or if I get called out for a job.”

You nod. “I can help. You don’t have to worry about paying me a whole lot. I’ll just be happy to keep busy.”

His mouth pulls into something that might be a smile. “I’ll pay you,” he says, almost gruff. “You’re doin’ me a favor.”

The silence that follows feels familiar. Not awkward—just full. A little tight around the edges. 

He’s always known how to talk to you, but now there’s something different to it. You’re not seventeen anymore. Not biting your lip and looking away when he catches your eye. You’re standing there calm as you please, looking straight at him, like you already know he’s thinking things he shouldn’t.

Joel watches you from across the kitchen, beer can sweating against his palm. The ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, stirring warm air that doesn’t help much with the heat climbing under his skin. You’re standing there across the way from him like nothing’s changed, like you never left. Like no time has passed at all.

Except that it has. And it shows.

“You still in school?” he asks, voice rougher than he means it to be.

You blink, head tilting to the left. “Yeah. I’m up in Chicago now, Northwestern.”

“Big shot,” Joel whistles low, nodding appreciatively. “That’s a ways away from here.”

You shake your head, smile small and bashful. “It is. It’s expensive as hell too, my scholarship’s the only reason I’m there.”

He makes a soft sound in his throat, impressed. “Smart girl.”

“I try.” You shrug, but there’s pride under it. “I’ve got one year left, usually I stay for the summer to try and make as much as I can in the city. I—I just needed a breather, I guess. Some time to figure shit out, you know?”

There’s something soft in your tone when you say it, an openness he didn’t expect, and maybe shouldn’t pry into. But part of him wants to. Always has.

“You don’t seem like the type that needs figurin’ out,” Joel says, voice a little quieter now. “Always thought you had your head on straight.”

Your smile flickers into something crooked, something secret. “That’s because you didn’t really know me.”

He chuckles, deep and rough. “No, sweetheart. I think I knew you just fine.”

Your eyes lock for a second too long after that, thick enough with heat and history to make the air feel heavier than it already is.

You look away first, your eyes flicking to the living room. “I, uh–sorry, do you mind if I use the bathroom?”

Joel gestures vaguely with his free hand. “Go ahead, you remember where it is.”

You push off the doorway with one last grateful smile and duck down the hallway, footsteps silent against the linoleum. Joel watches until you disappear around the corner, his gaze dipping low without shame.

He waits until he hears the click of the bathroom door shutting behind you to exhale a slow breath, setting his beer down on the counter harder than he has to.

Jesus Christ.

She’s not a girl anymore, he thinks to himself. And you’re not, you’re far fucking from it.

But that feeling, that ugly one churning deep down in Joel’s gut, it’s still there. It feels just as dangerous as it used to, maybe even worse now. All because of you. 

The look of your glossy lips forming around the words whatever he wants. The shape of your thighs, those damn shorts clinging to you like a second skin. The way you were looking at him, eyes all wide and shiny under his shitty kitchen light. 

Joel can’t help himself, he thinks back to a few years ago. You, curled up on his couch every night when he got home from a long build, looking so soft in the hazy glow of the TV. Barefoot and sleepy, blinking up at him in those skimpy little after school clothes you’d always throw on.

It was a vision, something to settle his aching bones.

He thinks about how he started looking forward to it, coming home to you. It was sick, he knew that much, the fucked up little game of house he played, projected onto you. An old man like him leering at you, thinking of you long after you’d left, waving sweetly from the window of your moms car.

Joel should’ve known better. Should’ve done better. But that never stopped him before, not when it came to you.

A knock at the door pulls him from his thoughts. Two quick raps, followed by a heavy creak.

“Joel?” Tommy’s voice fills the trailer before he can even move, loud in the quiet. “You home?”

Joel sighs, brows pinching together as he pushes off the counter. He didn’t even hear the damn truck pull up.

Tommy rounds the corner, sweaty and covered in dirt. He’s got a ratty bandanna hanging from his jean pocket, sleeves pulled up around his shoulders and a pair of aviators covering his eyes.

“You ever heard of callin’ before you just barge in on someone?” Joel doesn’t try to hide the annoyance in his tone, brow arched as he stares at his brother.

“Hello to you too, jackass.” Tommy just walks past him like he owns the place, opening up one of the cabinets above the sink. “You gettin’ memory loss already, old man? You said Saturday.”

“Yeah, well now ain’t a good time, Tommy.” Joel cuts his eyes to the hall, to the light bleeding out from under the bathroom door.

Tommy just snorts, still rifling through the cabinet. “Yeah right, you got a woman over or somethin’?”

Joel doesn’t answer, eyes still fixed on that thin sliver of light glowing under the bathroom door like it might give him away.

Tommy catches on, turns slow with a shit-eating grin already stretching across his face. “You do have someone here.”

Joel gives him a hard look, one that should tell him to shut the hell up—but Tommy only laughs, knowing.

“C’mon,” he drawls. “Didn’t know you were even seein’ anybody. You been holdin’ out on me?”

“It ain’t like that,” Joel mutters, too fast, too defensive.

Tommy tilts his head, chewing on that like a dog with a bone. “Huh. So she’s not yours then?”

Joel doesn’t get the chance to answer. Before he can shoot back with something mean enough to shut him up. From down the hall, the bathroom door opens with a quiet click, and then—

Then you're back, smoothing your hands down your thighs as you reappear around the corner, voice drifting back into the space.

“Jesus, that sink is still running freezing cold water? I nearly put my-oh…” You’re clearly caught off guard, your eyes catching on where Tommy stands in front of the sink. “Tommy?”

Joel watches it click in real time—your eyes lighting up with recognition, mouth parting into a surprised smile like you’ve just stumbled on an old friend. Which, in a way, you have. Tommy was around a lot back then. Backyard beers, watching football on the TV, leaning against Joel’s truck while you wrangled Sarah inside for dinner.

“Well shit,” Tommy says, slow and low, pulling his sunglasses down. “That isn’t the little babysitter, is it?”

You smile, sheepish and sweet, and Joel feels something sour twist in his gut. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah.” Joel watches Tommy take a good long look at you just like the one he did, eyes wide as his gaze rakes from your head down to the bare skin of your legs and back up all over again. “No kiddin’.”

It makes the space behind Joel’s ribs burn with something hot and ugly, Tommy’s eyes on you. Shameless and obvious as all hell. He might just be the biggest hypocrite in the country for it, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

“I didn’t know you were back in town,” Tommy goes on, leaning in like he can’t help himself. “You home for the summer?”

“Yeah, just for the summer,” you say brightly. “I thought I’d see if Joel needed help with Sarah again.”

“Oh, I bet he does,” Tommy says, and Joel’s had about enough of this.

“We were just finishing up,” Joel cuts in, his voice sharp enough to slice through the air. “She was about to head out.”

You don’t seem to notice the tension, if you do, you ignore it with grace that makes it worse somehow.

Your eyes flick to him, and for a second, Joel thinks maybe you notice something’s off. But your smile is still easy. “Yeah, I should probably get going.”

Joel gives a short nod and steps toward you before Tommy can open his mouth again. “I’ll walk you out, honey.”

You look between the two brothers for a second longer, then nod and head back into the living room, Joel right behind you. The sound of Tommy’s boots are hot on his heels, following.

You bend down to swipe your keys off the coffee table, not by much, just enough for your shirt to ride up and your shorts to dip low. Joel nearly swallows his tongue at the sight of lace. Bright pink, thin. A pathetic little scrap of fabric clinging to either side of your hips.

Joel’s throat goes dry, heat rolling under his skin like a slow burn, thick and unrelenting. You straighten back up, smooth the hem of your shirt down, but the damage is done. He feels that familiar ache stirring low in his belly, his cock twitching with interest in his sweats.

He doesn’t look at Tommy, he doesn’t need to. The quiet crunch of a beer can bending under a tight grip is all he needs to know that he isn’t the only one taking that lace peeking out from under those damn shorts as a neon sign flashing all the wrong kinds of welcome.

Joel barely has enough wherewithal to drag his eyes up to your face when you turn back around—that sweet, oblivious smile still pulling at your lips.

“Okay.” Your fingers toy with your keys, the metal soft and jangling in your palm. “Ready.”

Joel gives you a short nod, jaw tight. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Tommy, of course, steps in the silence, voice syrupy. “Hey, don’t be a stranger, alright? Good seein’ you again, sweetheart.”

You glance over your shoulder, lips parting into a lazy little grin. “You too, Tommy.”

Joel holds the door open for you, watching the way the light hits your shoulders, the back of your thighs, the little shadow that dips right at the curve of your spine.

The cicadas are buzzing, your car parked half crooked along the curb. You walk slow, gravel crunching under your sandals. Joel stays beside you, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The sun’s lower now, soft gold spilling across the lawn.

You open the car door, pausing with your hand on it. “That was…fun.”

Joel nods, biting back a frown. “Yeah, sorry about him. Tommy hasn’t got much of a filter.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s okay, I missed you guys.”

Joel’s heart kicks hard in his chest. He’s not sure what to do with that. 

“You know where to find us,” he says finally.

You nod, climbing into the car. The engine kicks up and the window rolls down.

“Thanks for the talk,” you say. “And the job, I’ll call you?”

Joel leans down a little, arms resting on the open window frame. You’re so close like this. Too close. He can smell the sweet perfume mixing with the bright tang of sweat on your skin.

“Of course,” he says, eyes flicking down to your lips. “I’ll be waiting.”

You smile. “It was nice seeing you, Joel.”

Joel watches you drive off, his reflection shrinking in your side mirror until he’s nothing but a speck in the dust your tires kick up.

He lets out another long breath, turning to walk up to steps. When he comes back inside, Tommy’s on the couch now, feet kicked up on Joel’s coffee table.

Joel shuts the door a little too hard behind him.

He lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”

“I told you,” Joel says, low and firm. “Now ain’t the time.”

Tommy’s grinning. “No shit it ain’t the time. Jesus, Joel. She’s what—twenty? Twenty one?”

“Somethin’ like that.” Joel says, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Oh, well never mind then, that makes it fine,” Tommy says, laughing. He cracks open the beer in his hand, taking a slow sip. “You’re outta your fuckin’ mind, you know that?”

Joel clenches his jaw, not bothering with an answer. His heavy silence speaks louder than any words could.

Tommy watches Joel closely, taking his silence for what it is and grinning wide enough to show off the sharp point of his canines. “She filled out real nice though, didn’t she?”

Joel shoots him a warning look, brows pinched together. “Don’t.”

Tommy holds his free hand up in surrender, but he’s still smirking. “All I’m sayin’ is—I remember when she was this pretty little thing runnin’ around here. Now—” He makes a vague gesture at his own chest. “—jailbait’s a whole lotta grown.”

Joel takes a step forward, hands clenched into fists at his side. “Watch your goddamn mouth.”

Tommy raises a brow, and the air goes real still between them for a beat. Joel knows his little brother—knows he’s testing the waters, seeing just how deep the river runs.

Joel shakes his eyes off him, walks to the kitchen and snatches his forgotten beer off the counter.

He hears Tommy chuckle again, more to himself than anything, his voice is louder so Joel can hear him. “You better watch yourself, man. That one? She’s trouble.”

Joel downs the rest of his beer in one long, bitter swallow, eyes peering out the window—locked on the road your car disappeared down. His voice, when it comes, is low and final.

“You got no idea.”

It’s almost too easy, falling back into the routine of it.

A few nights a week, just like before. Joel calls. You come over. The knock on the door doesn’t even feel necessary anymore, since Sarah already knows it’s you when she yanks it open and launches into talking before you’ve even stepped inside. 

You know where the snacks are. The remote. You know how to work the tricky thermostat and still have all the emergency contacts scrawled on a paper tacked to the fridge memorized.

It all comes back like muscle memory—like no time has passed at all. 

Sarah’s older now, a little more sarcastic. Witty and bolder in a way that surprises you sometimes, just enough edge in the way she talks to you that reminds you how much time has passed since you used to sit on the same couch and color. She’s brimming with the kind of secrets she’s aching to spill to someone she knows won’t tell her dad.

You’re still not quite a “grown-up” in her eyes, but you’re not a kid anymore either. You’re in that sweet spot—a cool older girl with her own car who lets her say things like shit and dickweed when Joel’s not around.

You’re not supposed to let her stay up this late, but you both pretend not to notice the clock. She’s curled up next to you on the couch, draped over the armrest only half watching the reruns you turned on with her chin propped on her palm.  

"Can I ask you something?” Sarah says suddenly, grinning. 

You narrow your eyes at her, mock suspicious. “You can, but I’m not promising I’ll answer.”

She laughs, kicking you gently with a socked foot. “Did you ever, like, sneak around when you were my age? Steal beer? Hook up with anyone?”

“Jesus, Sarah.” You raise your eyebrows, but she’s too amused to be embarrassed. You toss a throw pillow her way lazily. “You know your dad would kill me for answering that, right? He’d think I’m giving you ideas or something.”

“That’s not a no,” she sings, smirking.

“No comment.” You shake your head, smiling in spite of yourself. “I don’t need to give you any blackmail material to use on me later if I piss you off.”

“Please,” she huffs with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “I’d never narc on you like that. Besides, Dad still thinks I’m eight, I don’t even think he knows that I know what “hooking up” means.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you turn your attention back to the TV. “You’re his baby.” You shrug as a new episode of Daria starts. “It makes sense that he’s treating you like one.”

“Gross,” Sarah huffs again, letting her head fall back against the cushion to stare up at the ceiling. “He’s just so overprotective sometimes. I mean, I guess I get it but, come on? I’m basically in high school now, I’m not really a baby anymore.”

You glance over at her, and she isn’t. Not really. Not the gap toothed little girl who used to fall asleep on your shoulder watching Finding Nemo. She’s growing up in the kind of terrifying, beautiful way that makes your chest ache a little—already too smart for her own good.

She cracks her eyes open a bit, peering across the way at you. “Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently.”

You blink. It’s not the words that shake you—it’s the timing. The way they hit, low and close to the bone. 

Because yeah, you did notice. You still do. Especially now. Especially here.

Before you can say anything, the alarm you set on your phone blares loudly, cutting through the quiet.

“Alright!” You push her feet off your lap and stand, happy for the distraction as you clap your hands together. “That’s curfew.”

Sarah groans, but she rolls off the couch with no argument and starts down the hall. 

You busy yourself with tidying up the living room as she brushes her teeth, pointedly ignoring the growing pit in your stomach. Her words ring in your ears like church bells, her voice tolling a little too close to something you’ve pointedly ignored since you got back. Something half buried and dangerous.

Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently…

You breathe out slowly, shutting off the TV and dropping the remote onto the couch a little harder than necessary. You shouldn’t read into it. She didn’t mean anything by it. Just a kid mouthing off, reaching for connection, for understanding. 

But it rattles you more than you want to admit, especially here—especially in his house.

You swallow hard, clearing the dirty dishes off the coffee table and walking into the kitchen. You just won’t think about it anymore, it’s that easy.

You're just being ridiculous. Paranoid. That's all.

A little while later, you’re still tidying up.

The dishes are all done, washed and drying in the rack next to the sink. The living room looks better than when you got here. It’s damn near pristine. 

Sarah went to bed almost half an hour ago. You crane your head down the hallway as you fold an old blanket, her door is cracked open enough that you can see the light from her alarm clock shining in the dark. The soft sounds of waves drone quietly from her noise machine.

You smile, a warm fondness blooming in your chest.

That fuzzy feeling doesn’t last long, not when your eyes drift almost on their own, landing on Joel’s door. 

Joel’s room.

It’s cracked open too, just like Sarah’s, but there’s no light shining from inside. You keep folding the blanket, distracted. It’s not like you haven’t been in Joel’s room before, you have. Passing through it with clean loads of laundry or sneaking his phone charger from the plug near his nightstand when your phone died.

But you’d never gone in alone, and you’d never stayed long. Sarah was always hot on your heels, catching your wrist in her tiny hand to drag you back out—following you around like an overexcited puppy. Not to mention it was always in the light of day, never at a time like this. When the moon is shining high in the sky and the stars are scattered across vast velvety darkness like spilled sugar.

You drape the folded blanket along the arm of the couch, eyes still glued to the door. The cogs in your mind turn and turn, spitting out an idea that has your stomach clenching with something you can’t quite put your finger on.

You gnaw on your bottom lip anxiously, eyes cutting to the clock above the door.

11:53

Joel told he’d be a while tonight, before he left. He said they’d be short a man, that the job would drag on because of it.

That’s not an excuse, you know that.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.

Your feet are moving before your brain can catch up to how bad of an idea this really is.

Your steps are silent on the linoleum, barefeet not making a sound. The wood of his door is dark and shiny, cool against your hand when you lay your palm over it. You give Sarah’s room another sideways glance, you can see the shape of her beneath the covers. Sound asleep.

The door creaks when you push it open, just barely. The sound isn’t enough to scare you off, and you step inside. The carpet is plush under you, it silences your steps even more as you walk to the nightstand and flick the light on.

Your heart pounds against your ribs as you take it in. The messy, unmade state of Joel’s bed. The covers are thrown back, there’s a dip in the pillow where his head rests. The nightstand has a paperback open and laying face down, a pair of wiry reading glasses resting next to it.

The room smells like him. 

That scent that used to cling to you by accident when you were younger—clean cotton and cedar, a little motor oil and sweat, and whatever body wash he’s been using for years. It hits you all at once.

It has something stirring in your core, the familiarity of it. You look around some more, greedy eyes taking in every tiny detail you can. There’s a few paintings and framed pictures littering the walls. Pictures of Sarah, of Tommy, all kinds of different Texas landscapes. 

An old guitar rests on the wall across from you, you can see that it’s a little beat up even from where you’re standing. The glossy wood chipped and well loved.

Then your eyes land on the dresser.

It’s old, stained a light brown. You wonder distantly if he built it himself.

Your gaze catches on the top drawer, the pull handle worn with use.

Again, you know it’s wrong. That you’ve already crossed every line imaginable by just being in here, but you seem full to bursting with bad ideas tonight. 

You’re across the room with your fingers resting gently on the handle before you can even blink. Slowly, like something’s pulling you on a leash, you slide it open.

Socks. Boxers. Old, ratty belts. It’s nothing special, but heat climbs up the back of your neck all the same.

The next drawer has shirts, old band tees and fancier button downs that really should be hung up. You press your hand against one of them, feeling the starchy fabric beneath your skin.

The third drawer sticks a little, enough that you need to yank on it harder than the last two. It slides open with a dull thud. You wince, your eyes flicking to the door like Joel could be standing there, catching you rifling through his underwear like a sick little perv. 

The darkness of the hallway is all that greets you. Quiet, empty.

You take a steadying breath, but your hands don’t stop trembling as you tug it the rest of the way open.

You’re not sure exactly what you’re looking for, but then, you see it.

There, tucked toward the back under a couple old flannels, a small stack of magazines. 

Playboys. A couple Hustlers. From the look of them, they're mostly 90s, maybe early 2000s. It’s so vintage, so Joel. The covers are glossy, edges curled and worn. 

Your breath hitches. The heat between your legs is instant, sharp and impossible to ignore.

You pull one out, heart hammering, and flip it open carefully. Your eyes skim over picture after picture, some of the pages sticking together as you thumb through them. The scent of paper and dust and something faintly musky drifts up, and the centerfold you finally land on is obscene—posed, yes, but raw in a way that makes your thighs press together. 

Legs spread wide on a bearskin rug, pink mouth parted, full bush and glossy nipples.

She’s brunette, hair poofy and curled up to Jesus like they used those big old school rollers. Her eyes are the same color as yours, half lidded and covered in a sparkly blue shadow.

You glance down at the caption under her photo. 

“Turn-ons: Older men. The kind that know how to use their hands.”

A shiver rolls down your spine.

You should be laughing. Maybe grossed out. But instead—

Instead you imagine Joel, sitting in this room, flipping through these pages alone. Hand between his legs. That rough, big, calloused hand. Not fast, not frantic. No, you imagine him slow.

Measured.

Probably gritting his teeth, because he seems like the type who doesn’t let himself sound desperate even when he is. Grunting softly. Breathing hard. Coming into a tissue or his palm or maybe just letting it land on his stomach. Because there’s no one here to see. No one to touch him. Just him and the sound of paper turning.

You shut the magazine too fast. Slide it back in place, heart pounding.

Before you can push the drawer closed, your eyes catch on one of the flannels that covered Joel’s little secret.

It’s an old one—soft looking, broken in, a faded green and black. You should put it back, lay it down exactly where you found it so there’s nothing even hinting at you digging around in places you shouldn’t.

Instead, your hand closes around it, and without letting yourself think too long, you hold it up to your nose.

God. It smells like him. Like his detergent, like summer sweat and wood and something faintly smokey. Warm and safe and so damn inappropriate in every possible way.

It’s too much, it’s not enough. It’s obscene.

You can’t help yourself, you push the rest of the flannels back over the magazines, but the one in your hand gets tucked under your arm.

You don’t even try to justify it. You don’t even look back.

You don’t touch yourself right away.

You wait. You ride the buzz all the way home. Eat a popsicle standing barefoot in your kitchen, flannel in a heap on the counter like a loaded gun. You pretend to forget about it. You go about your night like normal. Shower. Brush your teeth.

Then you’re in bed and it’s just there. Laying on your mattress.

You unfold it. Run your fingers over the soft, worn fabric. You should feel guilty. You do, but that doesn’t stop you from pressing it to your nose and inhaling a deep lungful. You crawl into bed, tearing your shirt off and kicking your shorts down your legs all at once.

You lay back against your sheets, flannel still clutched in your hands. You rub it along your chest, over your peaked nipples, down your stomach. Rubbing Joel’s scent into your skin like it’s your own personal brand.

Your free hand slides down your body, down the lacy fabric of your panties. You’re already wet. You’ve been wet since the minute you opened that drawer.

You close your eyes, fingertips teasing along the wet expanse of your pussy as you let your mind go there—

To the thought of Joel finding you like this.

His flannel draped over your face. Your hand between your thighs.

Would he be mad? Would he punish you for it?

Would he take it back? Rip it out of your hands?

Or would he make you put it on—just so he could see you wear it while he ruined you?

You want to come like this. Wrapped up in something of his. Want to ruin yourself in it. You dip your fingers into your underwear and finally—finally—brush them over your clit.

The gasp you let out is sharp.

It’s not just his cologne. It’s his scent. That hot-skin smell that clings to the inside of his hats and his truck and his work boots. It’s Joel, soaked into the fabric like he’s holding you down.

You rub slow circles over your clit, hips twitching. You can’t stop picturing him. Not just his face, but the sounds he’d make. The weight of his body over yours. The way his voice would rasp against your ear if he caught you doing this.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl, so desperate you’re gettin’ off with my dirty laundry?”

You slide two fingers inside yourself and gasp, mouth falling open. You imagine his hands instead. Rough, thick, calloused. Bigger than yours. Slower. Crueler.

“Oh fuck, Joel—” you whisper without thinking, the name catching on your teeth like a sin.

You come hard, pressing the flannel to your face, thighs trembling, biting down on soft cotton as you ride it out. It rolls through you in hot waves. Shame, lust, guilt, need—all tangled up.

When it’s over, you lie there panting, the room silent except for your heartbeat in your ears. You relax your jaw, the flannel falling from between your lips, fabric soaked with your spit.

You drift off with it clutched to your chest. Still wet between your legs. Still aching. Still imagining what he’d do if he ever found out.

And you sleep better than you have in weeks.

You don’t think anything of it when you see Joel’s truck parked in front of the trailer. It’s not out of the ordinary, he’s almost always there to make sure you get in safe before he leaves.

You climb the creaky steps and knock like usual. Three little raps, your knuckles against the thin aluminum of Joel’s door, already shifting your weight to the side as you wait for Sarah to yank it open and start catching you up on all the latest gossip from her last summer soccer practice.

Only—it doesn't swing open. Not right away.

You frown, Sarah’s usually opened the door before you can even raise your fist to knock again. It’s only then that you notice how quiet it is. 

No music thumping out from her window, no light flicked on in her room. No hum of the TV playing. No voice yelling “Just a second!” from down the hall. Just the light hanging above your head buzzing faintly and the dull thud of your knuckles against the door.

You knock for a fourth time, less sure.

A few more seconds go by. One, two, three, four. 

You count all the way to ten before the door creaks open, the screen with it. Joel fills the frame, one shoulder leaning against it. The light floods out from behind him, a warm yellow glow spilling into the dark and haloing around his broad shoulders. 

He’s not dressed in work clothes, just an old grey short sleeve and a pair of jeans that ride dangerously low on his hips—a beer bottle held loosely in his left hand. He doesn’t even have shoes on.

You’re hit with a violent wash of déjà vu, your traitorous mind thinking back to the first day you saw him again. 

“Hey,” you say as casually as you can, shifting on your feet. You peer around him into the living room. Empty. “Where’s Sarah?”

Joel doesn’t move, head tilting as he watches you. “She’s stayin’ over at a friends.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” The corner of Joel’s mouth raises slightly, it’s not quite a smirk, but it’s close. “I texted. You didn’t check your phone?”

You shake your head slowly, but you can’t help the way your brows furrow. You had checked it, right before you left your house, like you awake do. No calls. No texts.

“I must’ve missed it.”

Joel gives you a lazy once over, eyes dragging down your front like a slow lick. “Huh,” he says, but it’s far away. “Guess you might as well come in anyway, wouldn’t want you to waste your time comin’ out here for nothin’.” 

He steps aside, holding the door open expectantly. 

“It’s fine, really.” You laugh, but it’s awkward. “I can just go—”

“Come inside.”

He says it low. Not a suggestion.

You hesitate for half a second, nerves suddenly scraping just beneath your skin. But you step in anyway, brushing past him into the cool dimness of the trailer, the familiar scent of cedar, beer, and Joel hitting your nose all at once. 

The door shuts behind you with a heavy click.

Joel walks past you, sets his beer down on the coffee table before his eyes find yours again. You can see his face better in the light of the living room, his eyes are hard. Dark in a way you haven’t seen in a long time. It has your stomach clenching tightly, the sour edge of alarm churning with arousal inside you.

“It’s good you’re here. We oughta talk.”

You open your mouth, then shut it. His tone is strange—off—but not angry. Amused, almost. You wring your hands behind your back anxiously. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, rough, “I been meanin’ to ask you somethin’. Just been waitin’ for the right time.”

You frown. “Ask me what?”

Joel drags the silence out. He watches you try not to squirm, mouth tilted in another half smirk. 

"You go through my shit, baby?"

Your heart trips three times over in your chest, stomach dropping down to your feet. “I—what?”

Joel huffs hard out his nose, that smug smirk spreads. It’s all teeth now, feral and amused. “Did I stutter?”

You’re shaking now, hands trembling in time with the frantic beat of your pulse. “I just thought—I didn’t think you—”

Joel clicks his tongue, cutting you off. “Yeah that’s the problem, ain’t it? You didn’t think.” He takes one slow step toward you, eyes locked on yours, heavy and dark and hot enough to burn.

“It’s real funny,” he says offhandedly, too casual—like you’re talking about this week’s forecast. “There’s only a few people who’ve been in and outta here lately. And I know Tommy ain’t the one riflin’ through my drawers, takin’ shit that doesn't belong to him. I ain’t dumb, baby.”

Your mouth opens and closes desperately, mind racing to say anything. To lie, to defend yourself, to beg for forgiveness. Nothing comes out. Your throat works around nothing, and your hands are clenched so tightly behind your back they’re going numb.

Joel just hums. A low, throaty sound that vibrates down your spine. His fingers curl under the hem of your shirt, lifting it slightly, just enough to show the little strip of skin above your shorts. “You touch yourself in it?”

The question punches the air from your lungs. You don’t need to ask him what it is.

“I—Joel—”

“Don’t try lyin’ to me.”

Your face burns. You can’t bring yourself to nod, let alone speak. You don’t have to. 

Joel laughs—dark and low, like he already knows the answer. He trails his hand along the skin of your stomach, his touch featherlight. You can’t hide the shiver that wracks through you, goosebumps pebbling along your skin.

His hand falls away, only so he can drop down onto the couch behind him. Legs wide, thighs spread, jeans tugging tight across them as he leans back like he’s settling in for a show. His voice is pure gravel. “Go on, then. Show me what you did.”

You just stand there. Eyes wide. “What?” 

Your voice shakes, quiet and small in the tension. 

Joel shakes his head, sighing like he’s dealing with a stubborn child. He hooks one finger in the waistband of your shorts, tugging. You move without thinking, stepping into the space between his spread thighs.

“See, I don’t wanna have to ask you again, baby. So, are you gonna show me?” he says slowly, his touch dipping low enough to brush over the lacy edge of your panties. “Or am I gonna have to make you?”

Your breath catches in your throat, heat flooding your body in less than a second. “Joel—”

He cocks a brow. “What’s wrong, sweet thing? You were bold enough to sneak into my room, go through my drawers, take what don’t belong to you. Don’t get shy now.”

You feel it then—that impossible to ignore, deep, slick throb between your legs. Shame and heat twisting up your insides. Your whole being pulses with heat, phantom flames lapping over your skin.

You don’t know if you’re more humiliated or turned on—your body doesn’t seem to care either way. Joel hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

There’s no way out of this. And you’re not even sure if you want one.

You bite your lip, cheeks burning as your fingers trail down your belly, under your shorts and down between your thighs. Already wet. Slick with the shame of it, slick with how bad you want him watching you.

Joel swats your hip, not hard enough to sting. Just enough to make you feel it. “No ma’am, none of that shit. Shorts off.”

You freeze, your hand still buried under the waistband, your pulse thudding in your ears like a war drum. Apparently, you don’t move fast enough, not for him, and Joel’s already leaning forward, hands on your hips as he yanks them down himself—your shorts and panties in one brutal tug.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he mutters, almost to himself, dragging the fabric down your thighs and letting it pool at your ankles.

Your breath hitches as he sits back again, arms draped lazily over the back of the couch, dark eyes fixed on the wet heat between your thighs like he’s starving.

You step out of your clothes, naked from the waist down, cheeks burning, heart beating so hard it’s making you lightheaded.

Joel tips his chin toward the floor. “Go on.”

Your stomach flips. You’re sure he can see it, the way your chest heaves, nipples pressing hard into the thin fabric of your top. Your hand drifts between your legs again, slow and shaky. Joel’s eyes follow every motion. Every tremble.

Your middle finger dips down and slides through your folds, slow. You let out a shaky breath. You brush over your clit, and twitch, hips jerking without meaning to.

“That’s it.” Joel nods, his hands clenched into fists. “See how easy it was, sugar? Feel’s good, doesn't it?”

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice threadbare. You’re rubbing yourself faster now, pressure building fast. “It feels so good, Joel.”

Joel groans at his name falling from your lips. “I bet it does. Bet you fucked your fingers into that tight little cunt while smellin’ me on the collar of that damn shirt. You nasty little thing.”

You nod, barely, lips parted as you circle your clit again, breath hitching on contact.

“I should spank your ass red for that,” he growls. “Should bend you over my lap like a fuckin’ child. You need discipline, don’t you?”

Your knees nearly give. “Joel. Please—”

He cuts you off again, gesturing lazily to where your hand disappears between your thighs. “Open her up. Let me see.”

You press two fingers between your folds, spreading them apart so he can see your glistening pussy, sticky and swollen from just a few strokes.

“Goddamn,” Joel groans, reaching down to adjust the thick shape of his cock hard under his jeans. “She’s fuckin’ drippin’. That for me, baby?”

You nod, lips slack as your thighs tremble.

“Yeah,” he drawls, stretching the word like out taffy between his teeth. “That’s real pretty.”

You moan at that. Loud and desperate. Your touch dip that much lower to push one finger inside. Then another, like you just can’t help yourself. You’re so wet there’s no resistance, your pussy welcoming them in like it’s done this a hundred times thinking of him. Slick drips down your thighs, shining under the light of the lamp.

Joel licks his lips slowly, deliberately. “Look at that.” He leans forward, pupils wide and dark as an oil spill. “Just a little rub like that, a little stretch and you’re already makin’ a mess.”

You whimper, hips rocking against your hand. “Joel, I—”

“Give yourself another finger. Show me how you take it”

You grind down onto your own fingers, mouth slack with soft moans that breathe to life before you can muffle them. You press in a third finger. The stretch burns, but you don’t stop. You’re panting now, skin dewy, hips jerking forward to meet your hand. Joel watches like a man starved.

He grins, smug and handsome and infuriating. “Yeah, three feels nice don’t it, honey?” He reaches out, his hand sliding up your thigh in one slow motion, lazy and unhurried through the slick. “Bet you could take my whole fuckin’ fist if you wanted it real bad.”

A pathetic little whine fills the air, more of a mewl than anything. It takes you a second to realize you’re the one making the noise, so desperate and gone from the tiniest amount of touch. It makes your walls clamp down harder around your fingers.

Joel sees. Joel knows.

And it’s all he needs to finally break.

“Come here,” he growls suddenly, jerking his head impatiently.

You scramble over, straddling him, bare thighs spread over his denim clad ones. Joel undoes his belt with one hand, the clink of the metal making your pulse trip. He pulls himself out of his soaked boxers, hard and straining, the rosy head drooling precome onto his shirt when it slaps up to rest against his stomach.

Your mouth falls open at the sight of it, flushed and big. Bigger than you’ve ever seen, outside of guilty late night porn searches. 

Joel chuckles darkly, taking himself in his hand. He strokes himself slowly, twisting his wrist over the head. “You think you can take all this?” he taunts meanly, dragging the tip through your folds, wetting himself with your slick. “You’re just a baby, sweetheart. You think you can handle this dick?”

You moan as he rubs himself over your sensitive clit, warm and wet. Your hips twitch down, desperate for more. Your pussy clenches around nothing, overwhelmingly empty.

He slaps your ass, hard. He kneads the tender skin in his rough hand after, dragging out the sting. “How old am I? Tell me, honey. Say it.”

You gasp, eyes screwing shut in embarrassment. “Fifty–ah! Fifty three,” you breathe, not looking Joel in the eye as you say it.

You can’t, not with the humiliation coursing through your veins like pure kerosine. It’s white hot, burning so bright, but it’s still not enough to stop your pussy from dripping sticky all over his cock like a broken faucet.

“Damn right,” he growls. “Old enough to be your fuckin’ daddy.”

Joel thrusts into you in one brutal push.

You scream. Your nails dig into his shoulders hard enough that you feel the thin material of his shirt straining under it. The stretch feels like it’s tearing you in two, like your fingers didn’t do anything to prepare you for his cock carving a place for itself inside you.

Joel kisses you, sucks the noise right off your tongue. He tastes like beer, like sweat and salt and something that’s only him. You moan into his mouth, your fingers threading into the soft hair curling at the nape of his neck.

He pulls back, a string of spit connecting your lips until it bends and breaks under the weight of gravity. “Come on, darlin’.” He slaps your ass again—once, twice—and you squeal, the burn sharp and perfect. “You wanted to fuck me so bad you couldn’t keep those thievin’ hands to yourself, huh? Well now’s your chance. Fuck me, give it to me good.”

You don’t ease into it, too worked to even think about starting slow.

You bounce on his lap like you’re possessed, thighs slapping, slick drenching his jeans. Joel groans with every roll of your hips, low and drawn out. He lets his head fall back against the couch, the tan column of his throat on display.

“Been waitin’ for this,” he pants. “Since the day you showed back up. Actin’ all grown. Look at you now. Cryin’ on my cock.”

You’re drooling. Dizzy. Brain turned to static as you ride him, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you’ll bruise.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” he growls, raising his head to watch you. “This pussy wasn’t made for boys your age. Needs a man to stretch it out. To ruin it.”

You whine, your pussy tightening around the throbbing length of his cock. Joel notices, of course he does.

His hands grip your ass, urging your hips up and down faster. “You like that, sweet thing? You like lettin’ an old man fuck you raw like this?”

“Yes,” you whine, tears burning at your water line. “I love it, want you to come inside me so bad Joel, fuck-”

“I know, baby.” Joel kisses your cheek, softly. Too soft, too tender. “You ain’t ever gonna want some college boy after this. You’re gonna be thinkin’ about how Mr. Miller fucked you open better than they could.”

Your moan is muffled by his fingers pushing between your slack lips, filling your mouth. You whine at the taste of yourself coating his skin, sucking obediently as he presses them down on your tongue.

“Gonna make you mine,” he pants. “Mine. No more sneakin’ around, no more stealin’ my shit—you want something, you ask for it like a big girl, and I’ll fuckin’ give it to you.”

You shake your head, babbling around his fingers. “Yes—yes, only you. I’m yours—”

You can feel your orgasm building deep in your belly, the coil of pleasure tightening and tightening until it threatens to snap.

Joel rips his fingers from your mouth with a dark growl, reaching back down to grip your ass again. He spreads you open, the cool air making you gasp. One finger, wet with your own spit, rubs over your rim. 

He doesn’t push in—just teases, circling, pressing, tugging—enough to make you clench and cry out as he starts pounding up into you. His hips lifting off the couch and filling the room with the loud noise of skin on skin as his balls slap against your ass with every thrust. Your pussy squelching around him with dirty, wet noises would make your ears burn if you weren’t so far gone already.

“You gonna let me play with this too?” he murmurs, lips brushing against your. “You lettin’ me train this hole next?”

That’s it. It’s all you can take.

You shatter with a scream, pussy squeezing so tight it makes Joel snarl and buck wildly up into you. He grabs your ass, choking out a strained string of  “fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He curses, pulls you down hard onto his cock one last time as he spills inside you, so deep you swear you feel it behind your ribs. His head drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as he comes and comes. 

It feels endless, spurt after spurt of hot spend flooding your walls until it’s forced to leak back out along the fever hot skin of his cock, slipping down his balls to drip onto the couch.

It’s filthy.

It’s obscene.

It’s exactly what you wanted.

You both lean into each other, breathless and spent as you come down. Sweat drips down your back, rolling down your spine as your hands stay buried in his hair.

Joel strokes your thigh lazily, still inside you, watching the mess drip down where you’re spread open around him.

“You’re stayin’ the night,” he says simply.

You can’t fight the tiny, secret smile you press against the sweaty skin of his throat as you nod wordlessly, thighs still shaking violently around his hips.

You’d never make it to the door anyway.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: what's so funny to me about this is that i didn't realize how much i actually missed writing for joel until i took a little mini break to work on my other frankie and harry fics like it’s so dramatic truly, but baby we’re so back! back and hopefully pissing off the joel age gap haters!

shoutouts to baby rylea for giving me the flannel idea cause this fic might have been lost without it. it was rescued from being just another abandoned wip and instead turned into a literal monster which was never supposed to happen but uh that's chill i guess…two fics over 10k words in one month? that’s literally unheard of over here. ALSO my first venture into ass play to spite @ebodebo and @yuenity sooo that’s fun. i love them both really LMAO

once again it's four a.m because i just can't function like a normal person. thank you to femme bot by charli xcx, pink red bull, and ofc my geeky bar for letting me power through and finish this mess. okay i'm done now sorry for talking so much, i just love yapping to you guys :(( thank you so much for reading, love you!

Relaxed, completely.

Propped up against the headboard of your bed, a pillow behind his back and his legs stretched under the quilt you finally finished up last year.

The copy of Lonesome Dove Ellie found a few weeks before his birthday rests open in one hand, the other slipped up under the hem of an old shirt you stole from him to absently stroke over the skin of your back.

You lay with your head on his chest, legs tangled with his as you count the beats of his heart against your cheek. It soothes you in a way nothing else can, listening to the slow turn of the pages and the occasional rumbling hum in his throat when he comes across a line he likes.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been curled up next to him, quietly watching the tiny shifts in his expression.

Letting your eyes glide along the side of his face bathed in the warm orange glow of his bedside lamp, the messy silver curls of his hair catching the light enough to almost shine. You’re tempted to reach out and run your fingers through the strands, even more than you did earlier tonight, to feel just how soft it is.

Your gaze traces down the slope of his forehead, the caress of his lashes fanning out over his cheeks, the arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips and all the way back up to do it over again.

However long it’s been still isn’t enough. You could watch Joel for hours without getting bored, just a silent spectator drifting in the warmth of his presence. 

There’s always something. A new project, patrol shifts, repairs. New everyday things you get to experience with him here in Jackson that you do love, but that keep him just out of your reach for longer than you like.

That’s why moments like these feel so special. There’s no crisis, no issues or problems to keep him out of your bed. 

You don’t say much. You don’t need to.

You just…you have him tonight. And that’s enough.

Well, it's almost enough.

You’re in his t-shirt for Christ’s sake, wearing it like a brand. In his t-shirt and just your panties. And he’s so warm beneath you, big and solid, the kind of comfort you ache for. In more ways than you could even think of naming.

You shift your hips slowly. One tiny move that has his thigh pressing between your legs a little more firmly than before. Testing.

Joel’s hand pauses on your back. The subtle drag of his thumb stutters where it was gliding just beneath the hem of your shirt before it starts up again, slower than before. He doesn’t look at you right away. Doesn’t say anything either. Just flicks his eyes further down the page and keeps reading.

You try not to smile.

You do it again. Another slow drag of your hips—like it’s an accident. Like you’re just getting comfortable.

But Joel knows you too well. He knows every part of you now—the tiniest hitch of your breath, the way you go quiet when you want something, the shift in your touch dragging over his chest. Knows that the heat blooming between your legs has nothing to do with the cozy warmth of the blanket.

“Somethin’ on your mind, kid?” Joel drawls without looking up from his book, but his hand slides a bit lower, the tips of his fingers brushing over the hem of your panties.

You hum noncommittally, shift again, letting your hips roll forward with a little more intent. You feel the twitch of his thigh, the stutter of his exhale. “I’m just getting comfortable.”

The flick of a page, his fingers drag a little lower. “That so?”

“Mhm,” you murmur, all mock innocence as you press in closer, lifting your leg just enough to drape it over his hips. You’re practically straddling him now, your bare thigh flush to the soft cotton of his sleep pants.

“Doesn’t look it.” Joel’s tone is bland, uninterested. You know it’s just for show, part of the game. It’s always better when he fights you for it. “Looks like you’re tryin’ to take advantage of me.”

You muffle a laugh in his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of pine and skin and musk. Your hand trails down his chest, down his stomach until you can toy with the drawstrings of his bottoms. “Maybe…are you offering?”

Joel peers at you over the edge of his readers, skeptical. It’s the first time he’s looked at you since he opened up his book. You try not to preen under his gaze. “I’m too old to be grindin’ like a damn teenager.”

“It’ll be good, promise. Just let me…” You sit up, swinging your leg over him to straddle his hips properly. “Let me rub on it a little, Joel. Please? I just wanna feel it.”

Your voice is all sugar, and Joel’s a sucker for it.

His cock softly jerks to life in his bottoms, lazily hardening under you. It tattles on him, gives away how he really feels seeing you perched on top of him. Your hips are moving before you can even think, rocking down against the rigid plane of heat. 

You fit together perfectly, and Joel’s cock slipping between your soaked cunt has your mouth going slack, a soft moan passing through your lips.

"Jesus." His book snaps shut and lands somewhere by the lamp. His hands find your hips, not to stop you, not really—just to hold. You meet his heavy gaze, the blown pupils of his eyes shine like an oil slick under the dim light. He squeezes you hard, holding you in place as he huffs a dry laugh. “I ain’t dry humped since high school.”

You grind down again, fighting his grip. “Then I’d say you’re due.”

You roll your hips again and again. Back and forth in slow and deliberate motions, dragging that damp cotton across the length of him. You know he feels it—feels the heat of you, the slick mess you're making. You're working your clit right along the swell of him, jaw slack as your rhythm picks up.

And Joel is just watching, head tipped back against the headboard. Letting you use him. Eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted.

There’s been days where it’s harder for him to really roll around in the sheets with you, especially in the last couple months. Joel’s age catching up with him, hitting fast and slow all at once.

Joel hates it, not that he'd ever tell you that. He doesn’t have too, you know. Of course you know, you’re not stupid. You knew how old he was when you met him, and it never made you second guess that you wanted anyone else in your bed. 

You’d never let Joel’s recent struggle to get it up ruin all that you have. You were more than content to find other ways to be intimate with someone you love, maybe a little excited even.

That’s not the case tonight.

Joel’s cock is fat and hard under you, twitching up through the soft cotton of his pants like it’s straining to get to you. The thick ridge of it bumps perfectly against your clit every time you roll your hips, dragging against the soaked crotch of your panties. The fabric clings to you, flimsy and so drenched with arousal that it’s barely even there.

“You’re soaked through, pumpkin.” Joel’s grip on your hips tightens until his fingers dimple your skin. His thumbs run over the edge of your panties, pressing hard enough that you know it’ll leave behind lacy imprints in your skin when this is all over. “Gettin’ my pants all wet and I ain’t laid a finger on you.”

Your brow arches, lips tugged into a smug grin that you can’t hide. “Is that a complaint?”

Joel squeezes your hips once, hard. A light warning, don’t be a smartass. “Don’t sound like I’m complainin’, do I?”

“I don’t know.” You hum, coy as your fingers dance over the hem of your shirt—his shirt—bunching it up around your hips, the dip of your waist visible in the lamplight. “You sure were talking a whole lot of smack earlier.”

You sneak your hand down the front of his pants before he can respond. His cock jerks when your fingers brush against it, his hips twitching up off the mattress and into your loose grip. You tsk softly, shaking your head as you lay it flat over his stomach, trapping him between the waistband and the coarse gray hair of his happy trail.

Joel hisses through his teeth, hands tightening around your hips. “Shit–”

“Don’t get too excited, Miller.” Your tone is teasing, even when your cunt clenches weakly at the sight. The rosy tip of his cock oozes pre-come onto his shirt, wetting the fabric enough that a dark patch blooms across the thin blue cotton. You want to press your lips to it, to trace the ridge with your tongue so you can taste him—salty, musky, and heady. “I just wanted a better view.”

Joel grunts like he doesn’t believe you, like he knows you’re full of shit, but his hips are shifting under you anyway. His cock nudging up into the hot mess between your thighs, seeking friction, contact—you. 

His hands curl around your thighs, pulling you down harder against the heavy bulge in his pants. He’s soaked through too now, the front of his sleep pants dark with it, sticky and wet where you’ve been grinding down. 

And his cock—god, his cock is leaking. Fat beads of precome drool out from the tip, smearing slick over the dark hair of his happy trail and dripping down between your folds. You can feel it every time your hips circle down.

“Dirty fuckin’ thing,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “You look so pretty like this, baby. Just like this.”

Your eyes flutter shut on a breathy moan, your hands falling to rest on his chest as your hips rock and rock. 

There’s a spot, right where his cock curves, that keeps catching against your clit every time you rock forward. You keep grinding into it, chasing that pressure, whimpering with every pass of it.

Joel notices. Of course he fucking notices.

“There,” he grunts, holding you in place and angling his hips up. “Right there, huh? That’s it, baby? That’s the spot.”

You whimper, nodding so fast it’s dizzying. “Feels so good, Joel. I can’t—I can’t stop, you feel so good—”

Your hands drag up his chest, lingering on the tan column of his throat. You run your nails over the thin skin, stretching over the coarse hair he must’ve missed cleaning up his beard. Your thumb rests just over his pulse, right where you can feel the beat of his heart pounding like a hammer on a nail.

Your hand slides up before you can stop yourself, cupping the side of his face like you’ve got the whole world cradled in your palm. Your thumb glides along his bottom lip now, wet with spit. Your nail presses into the fat of it, firm enough to drain the color before you lift up and do it again. 

Joel can’t swallow down his noises like this, with the way you’re forcing his lips to part. Deep grunts and groans ring out from around your finger. His eyes never stray from yours as he closes his lips around the tip of your thumb, watching you through the steamy glass of his readers.

You let out a pathetically broken moan, pushing your thumb deeper into the wet heat of his mouth. “Fuck, Joel…”

He doesn’t hesitate. Just parts his lips and sucks it into the heat of his mouth, deep and greedy. His tongue curls around your thumb, wet and filthy, moaning low in his throat like he’s starved. His brows pinch like he’s feeling it somewhere deep, deeper than he’s letting on.

You rock your hips while he sucks your fingers like he’d suck your clit—like it’s nothing to him, just muscle memory now. Your cunt clenches weakly with every pass of his tongue, fire shooting up your spine as your rhythm starts to falter. 

Joel feels it, the shift. The way you start to get messy with it, desperate. He knows you’re close.

He groans around your thumb and lets it go with a slick pop. “Go on, girly. Mess up those pretty panties. Rub that sweet cunt all over me—fuck yourself on it. That’s it.”

Your nails dig back into his chest as your stomach clenches with the first signs of your orgasm sneaking up on you. You rock faster, chasing it, slick soaking through the thin cotton. The shape of his cock is so perfect under you—thick and wide and right—even through your clothes.

You whimper something broken, grinding down hard, over and over, as pleasure builds sharp in your belly.

Joel grits his teeth. “You gonna come for me like this?”

“Yes.” You nod again, frantic. “Joel—I’m gonna—god, I’m gonna—”

Your thighs seize and your body jolts against him as you come, trembling in his lap, cunt spasming against soaked fabric. 

Joel groans like it’s killing him, watching you fall apart. His voice breaks as he groans your name, “Keep goin’, baby, just like that—fuck, fuck, you’re gonna make me—”

Your eyes are locked on the drooling tip of his cock, you don’t think anything could tear your attention away from it. Not even gunfire. Your hips don’t stop moving, even when your clit pulses with overstimulation each time it bumps up against him. 

But you can’t stop. You won’t stop, not when Joel asks you so nicely.

His grip on you tightens, his hips twitch up off the bed. Once, twice, three times. “Fuck–” 

You watch as he comes, mesmerized. His cock jerks against his stomach, painting the front of his shirt with rope after rope of thick come. 

Joel groans, loud, from deep in the chest. An intoxicating, raw sound, like it’s being pulled out of him with a tight fist. His head knocks against the headboard, jaw clenched, eyes screwed shut like the pleasure hurts.

“Jesus—shit, baby,” he grits out to the ceiling, voice wrecked. His hands are basically doing all the work now, shifting your hips back and forth, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “That’s it, ride it out of me—goddamn.”

He just keeps coming, shooting up high, nearly hitting his chest with it. A slow, filthy mess oozing out of the flushed head of his cock. The shirt’s a lost cause, but you could care less when his come drips down the sides of his stomach as it clenches deliciously.

You stare, panting as the last sparks of your high fizzle out. You want to taste it, to smear it around and dirty him up even more.

By the time he slumps back against the pillows, he’s panting like he just ran ten miles. His chest is heaving, the front of his pants an absolute wreck, and he’s still twitching under you like he hasn’t fully come down.

You lean down, nose brushing his. “Still think you’re too old for dry humping?”

Joel gives a weak chuckle, hands smoothing up and down your sides. “You’re laughin’ now, bet you’ll be singin’ a different tune when you’re the one nursin’ my bad back tomorrow.”

You grin, pressing a kiss on his chin. “Worth it.”

And then you rock your hips once more, dragging your soaked cunt over his softening, come slicked cock.

He groans, his hands twitching over your hips. “You just don’t know when to quit, huh?”

“Probably not. Guess you better read faster next time,” you murmur, mouth against his ear. “Because at this rate? You’re never finishing up that chapter.”

The swat on your ass stings, but you knew it was coming. It’s not enough to hide the low rumble of laughter ringing out over your head, and that’s all that really matters anyway.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: this got waaay fluffier than i thought it would when i started it. it’s probably the fluffiest thing i've written in a while. this isn't what i planned on posting, but it's hot and my knee hurts and i can't sleep...and this was basically done so i finished it up as a distraction from my chronic pain :))) and insomnia :))) yay me! yes the title is a lonesome dove quote because i’m texas trash and so is joel miller.

to the anon who sent me an actual banger of an ask, i am working on it! don’t worry babe, i almost cried tears of joy when i saw it in my notifs…i’m just on the struggle bus rn and the ideas are suffering…

thank you so much for reading, love you!