Bucky Barnes Obsessed

At 2:13 a.m., Bucky sat on the couch with the baby in his arms, rocking so slowly he looked like he was in prayer. You sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, one hand on the baby’s back, the other resting on Bucky’s knee.

“She wants to rest so badly,” you whispered.

Bucky nodded, eyes glassy. “She’s so little,” he said, voice catching. “How can two tiny teeth hurt this much?”

The baby’s cries softened to ragged breaths, her body slackened for a moment, exhausted by her own misery. You both leaned in, speaking in the lowest, gentlest tones, like your voices could build a bridge back to sleep.

“It’s okay,” you told her. “It’s going to pass. We’re right here.”

Bucky pressed his cheek to her hair. “We’re not going anywhere,” he murmured. “You can be mad. You can cry. We’ll hold you through it.”

Her eyelids fluttered. She whimpered once, then twice. Your heart clenched, bracing for another wave.

Alpine jumped up onto the couch arm, watching the baby’s face with intent focus. She didn’t purr now. She only blinked slowly, then tucked herself close behind Bucky’s shoulder like she was standing guard, even if she couldn’t fix it.

Finally, the baby’s breathing evened out. Her fists unclenched and her head sank heavier into Bucky’s chest.

You and Bucky didn’t move for a long time after that.

You both knew she’d wake again soon.

And you couldn’t do anything except be there, every hour, until it stopped hurting.

Next:

Alpine’s tail flicked with satisfaction.

You glanced up at her. “Al, stop it. Bob can come say hi.”

Bob didn’t move. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just… I like my eyes.”

Bucky sighed, but there was amusement in it. “She’s not gonna take your eyes, Bob.”

Alpine sneezed from her perch, a small, dismissive sound.

Bob flinched anyway.

You smiled. “That was her way of saying you’re allowed.”

Bucky nodded, deadpan. “You’re on probation, but you’re allowed.”

Bob exhaled shakily, as if he’d been granted a pardon. He crouched near the baby, keeping a respectful distance from the couch. The baby noticed him immediately, eyes brightening, and reached out with grabby enthusiasm.

Bob softened. “Oh,” he whispered, like he’d forgotten how small humans could be. He offered the toy, and the baby snatched it with triumph, gripping it in her tiny fist hard enough to make the crinkle echo through the room.

Alpine watched the exchange with regal approval, ears forward now, her posture relaxed. She did not hiss. She did not move. She only sneezed once more, as if sealing the decision.

Bob looked up at you and Bucky, still nervous. “So… I’m good?”

Bucky glanced at Alpine. “You’re good.”

And Alpine, respected as she believed she should be, settled in like a queen who had decided mercy was appropriate today.

Next:

Alpine blinked, slow, regal, and entirely innocent.

Bucky leaned closer to the couch, lowering his voice like he was sharing state secrets. “Gotta hide that from Mama,” he murmured to Alpine, nodding toward the hallway where you were out of sight. “Or she’ll be crushed.”

Alpine’s tail flicked again, as if she understood perfectly and found it entertaining.

The baby babbled happily, watching Alpine as though waiting for a reply. “Ap, ap, ap,” she repeated, the sound clumsy but unmistakably aimed.

Bucky pressed his lips together, fighting a grin. “Okay, okay,” he whispered, reaching out to tap the baby’s tummy gently. “We’re not making it a thing. Not yet. We’re gonna pretend this never happened.”

The baby squealed and said it again anyway, louder, delighted with her own power.

“AP!”

Bucky shut his eyes for a second, defeated. Then he looked up at Alpine.

Alpine blinked slowly.

And the purr that started in her chest sounded an awful lot like laughter.

Next:

You took one step after her, and the migraine surged, hot, precise, and mean, so hard you had to stop.

Your older daughter’s chair scraped as she stood. “I can get her,” she offered, already moving, helpful in that earnest elder daughter way that made your chest squeeze.

“No, love,” you said quickly. You didn’t wanted her parenting her sister while you stood there pretending you were fine. “It’s okay. I’ve got her.”

You bent and scooped your toddler up mid-wobble. She immediately twisted to look at you, offended at being contained, kicking lightly against your hip and squealing again in protest.

It was thankfully lower in pitch this time, but it was still loud.

You adjusted her weight, tucked her closer, and kept your voice steady. “No cabinet raids. Not tonight, my little love.”

She stared at you with solemn toddler judgment, then stuck the spoon in her mouth.

You turned back to the stove because dinner was happening whether you were in pain or not. The onions needed stirring. The pasta water needed salt. The sauce needed attention. Everything needed you all at once, and you felt pulled in four directions, with the headache as the fifth.

Your eight year old hummed thoughtfully while her pencil scratched across paper. The sound was sandpaper on bone.

You adjusted your daughter on your hip. She smelled like applesauce and baby shampoo. Normally it would have made you smile, but tonight, it was simply one more sensation.

The front door clicked open. You didn’t need to look to know your husband was home. The house shifted when he arrived, as though familial gravity recalibrated around his presence.

“Hello, my girls,” Bucky called, his voice warm yet worn at the edges.

He was still in his suit jacket, tie loosened a fraction like he tugged at it on the walk from his office because he couldn’t stand it tight another second. His hair was slightly rumpled, his jaw shadowed with stubble that suggested a day that felt like a week. He looked like he’d been holding himself together in public the same way you been holding yourself together at home.

You straightened instinctively, smoothing your expression into something you hoped was convincing. You could get through dinner. Just dinner. After that, you could collapse.

He stepped into the kitchen doorway, his gaze finding you first, like always.

But his smile didn’t linger in admiration and love like it usually did. You could tell he was assessing you.

You turned back to the stove before he could study you too closely. “You just got home, sweetheart. Go take off your jacket and relax.” You stirred the sauce, though you couldn’t remember adding salt. Had you added it?

The words sounded smooth, but silence stretched behind you. You felt him step closer.

“Doll,” he said, low and quiet.

You hated that tone. It meant he saw right through you and already made a decision.

“I’m okay,” you insisted without turning around. The kitchen lights pulsed; your stomach rolled. “It’s just a migraine. I took a pill. It’s nothing I haven’t before. Let me finish dinner for you and the girls.”

He moved into your space with gentle certainty, his large hand settling at your waist.

“You’re squinting,” he said. “And you haven’t blinked in about thirty seconds.”

You forced your eyes wider to prove a point. It made everything worse. “I’ve got it handled.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I can see that.”

Your daughter squirmed in your arms, reaching for her father. Bucky’s vibranium hand slid securely beneath her and lifted her from your hip in one seamless motion. The sudden absence of her weight made you sway.

“I can still cook,” you protested. The words come thinner now. “Butterfly needs help with her math, and you just got back from work. You’ve been in meetings all day.”

“And I’m home now,” he said, making it sound simple.

“Dinner’s halfway done—”

Your toddler patted his cheek and babbled something happy. Bucky pressed a distracted kiss to her head without looking away from you.

His voice softened. “Go,” he said quietly. “Please? Let me take care of it.”

The words struck your heart tenderly, because even though he was tired himself from a long day, he was willing to take over and let you rest. Because your well-being was important to him.

You hesitated, because you always did, because you’d trained yourself not to be a burden, because your brain still insisted that handling everything yourself was safer than letting go.

He reached past you and took the wooden spoon.

“Upstairs,” he said gently but firmly. “Dark room. Ice pack. I’ll bring you water.”

“I can’t just—”

“You can just.” He leaned down and pressed a careful, featherlight kiss to your temple. “You don’t get points for suffering through it.”

Your older daughter appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed. “Is Mom okay?”

Bucky shifted the other higher on his hip. “Mom’s got a headache,” he said easily. “So I’m taking over. Think you can be my sous-chef tonight?”

Butterfly straightened immediately, solemn and proud. “Yes, sir.”

You wanted to argue again, to insist on finishing dinner, on being helpful, on being useful, but the room tilted, and the relief of letting someone else carry the evening was so strong it made your eyes sting.

You felt his warm hand settle at the small of your back, guiding you toward the stairs.

Your legs felt heavier than they should have.

Halfway up, guilt clawed its way through the pain. You were supposed to handle this. Other mothers handled worse. You’d handled worse. You hated feeling fragile, hated needing rescuing in your own kitchen.

At the top of the stairs, you turned back. He was still there, watching to make sure you made it the rest of the way. He shoo’d you onward with a tilt of his head.

And so you let the bedroom swallow you: blackout curtains drawn, blessed darkness wrapping around your aching skull.

Downstairs, you heard your toddler’s delighted babble, your oldest’s earnest questions, and cabinet doors opening and closing.

And under it all, Bucky’s steady, capable voice, entirely at ease.

A different kind of quiet settled over the house as you finally closed your eyes.

*****

Bucky stood in the middle of the kitchen for a full three seconds after steering you upstairs, toddler balanced on his left hip, oldest hovering at his right elbow, and simply took inventory.

The onions were soft but threatening to burn. The carrots were half-chopped. The cutting board looked like you’d been mid-motion when he walked in. The pasta water hadn’t quite boiled yet. The sauce was bubbling.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

He fought aliens on battlefields where goats had grazed the day before. He survived HYDRA brainwashing and found love. He’d run for elected office with his shadowy past and won.

This should be easy.

The little one buried her face in his shoulder and gripped his shirt with both fists like she was afraid he might evaporate.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “We’re good. We’re fine.”

The older reached for a wooden spoon before he could stop her.

“Nope,” he said automatically, taking the spoon from her. “Not near the stove.”

“It needs stirring,” she said, offended.

He given her a look. “You are eight.”

“And I know when it’s burning,” she replied with your signature sass, like only someone 8-going-on-18 can, and held up her worksheet. “And I need help.”

He glanced down at the paper like it might bite him.

“Show how you use eight and five to get ten,” she read, tapping the line with her pencil.

Bucky blinked at it.

“Ten?” he repeated. “Eight plus five is thirteen.”

She nodded vigorously. “That’s what I said.”

He felt a surge of completely irrational vindication for something so simple. “Right. So we’re correct.”

“But it says get ten,” she insisted.

He squinted at the worksheet, shifting his daughter higher on his hip when she started to slide. She immediately grabbed his loosened tie and shoved it toward her mouth.

“Absolutely not,” he muttered, gently prying it away. “That tie’s already a long day.”

Butterfly watched the exchange, unimpressed. “Daddy.”

“Right,” he said, dragging his attention back to the page. “Ten.”

He looked at the numbers again. Eight. Five. Get ten.

“What the heck is this?” he muttered.

She brightened like she’d been waiting for that line. “My teacher says it’s ‘New Math,’ but that it’s not ‘new’. It’s just better.”

Bucky furrowed his brown and huffed a quiet laugh. “Better for who?”

He glanced toward the stairs instinctively, like he might call up to you for backup.

“Does your mother understand this?” he asked.

She nodded immediately. “She understands it, but she said she doesn’t like it.”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “If your mother understands it, then it to make sense. Somewhere.”

The pan given a warning hiss.

He turned a “sh—” under his breath into a “shoot” and pivoted, using the wooden spoon and stirring the onions one-handed.

The toddler objected to the angle change by leaning back dramatically, threatening to throw herself out of his arm like a tiny, uncoordinated protester. He tightened his hold without looking, enhanced reflexes compensating for her wobbly rebellion.

“You are clingy tonight,” he told her quietly.

She pressed her face into his shoulder in response, as if that settled it.

Butterfly sighed loudly. “Daddy.”

“Right. Math.”

He turned the heat down and scanned the rest of the counter. Carrots. Pasta. He could do this.

“Okay,” he said, pointing at the numbers on the page. “Maybe it meant you take eight… and needed two more to get to ten.”

She looked at him quizzically. “Okay…”

“So if you have five—” He paused, letting her work it out herself.

Her pencil hovered. “You take two from the five? That makes eight into ten.”

“Yup. Then you have three left,” he said slowly. “Because five minus two is three.”

She started writing. “So it’s ten and three?”

“And ten plus three is thirteen,” he said automatically.

Butterfly looked up at him, brows furrowed. “That’s what we said before.”

“Okay,” he said. “So maybe the point isn’t to get ten as the final answer. Maybe it was to show how you made ten first. Like how you rearranged the numbers to make it easier to do in your head.”

Butterfly’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Ohh… Mrs. Mulligan said something about making ten.”

He pointed at the worksheet with a grin. “There. That’s it, then. You took two from five, added it to eight, that gave you ten. Then you three left. Ten and three made thirteen.”

She slowly smiled. “So they’re teaching me how to do the math I do in my head, but making me do it on paper.”

He’d be damned. The little bugger was right. “Yeah, Butterfly,” he muttered. “That’s school for you.”

He turned back to the stove, juggling one kid on his hip while reaching for the half-chopped carrots. He scraped them into the pan one-handed, missing a few that scattered across the counter. He grabbed them and tossed them in.

The pasta water finally begun to bubble. He dumped salt in, then the noodles, stirring awkwardly while trying to keep the littlest Barnes away from the steam.

“No,” he said firmly, angling her away. “That’s hot.”

She pouted.

He kissed her hair automatically, watching the stove like it was a volatile negotiation.

He could feel the tempo of the kitchen now, the way you must: what needed stirring, what needed lowering, what could wait thirty seconds and what couldn’t.

And beneath it all was the steady pull of two kids needing different things at the same time.

His oldest cleared her throat. “Can I show you the next one?”

“Sure,” he said, not looking away from the pan.

She waited for him.

He sighed and turned, giving her his full attention like he seen you do when you make them feel like the only person in the room even when three things are on fire.

Ladybug chosen that exact moment to squirm violently.

He adjusted without thinking, tightening his hold, bracing her against his chest.

*****

Dinner was slightly overdone by the time he plated it. The onions were darker than intended, the carrots softer.

He set a plate in front of the oldest, then maneuvered the toddler into her high chair with practiced efficiency. She protested the transition from hip to seat.

“I know,” he placated her. “I know. I’m the worst.”

He spooned pasta onto her tray, blew on it, and popped one elbow noodle into his mouth to test the temperature.

She immediately grabbed a fistful and smeared it across her tray.

He intercepted the second handful mid-air on the way to her hair.

“Food goes in your mouth,” he informed her solemnly.

She grinned at him like he was hilarious.

By the time both plates were mostly empty, Bucky’s tie was speckled with sauce, his sleeve was sticky, and the baby’s face looked like she’d lost a fight with a tomato.

He wiped her down with a damp cloth in swift, precise motions: cheeks, chin, hands, between fingers. It was military efficiency applied to pasta cleanup.

His oldest watched him with open amusement. “You missed a spot,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes. “Where?”

She tapped her own cheek.

He wiped away the imaginary spot of sauce and sealed it with a kiss to her cheek. “There,” he said, “all clean.”

Ladybug leaned forward and pressed a sloppy kiss to his jaw in response, leaving a wet mark behind.

He snorted softly.

Bedtime was mercifully short; pajamas were put on and teeth brushed with minimal argument.

Until his oldest handed him a hair tie.

“Mom does it,” she said, sitting cross-legged on her bed.

He looked at the hair tie and sighed.

“How hard could it be?” he muttered.

Five minutes later, she was staring at her reflection with mild concern.

The ponytail was functional, if slightly to the left and angled. The hair was in the elastic, so he counted it as a win.

“It’s kind of lopsided,” she said.

“It’s fine for bedtime,” he replied defensively.

She studied herself another second, then shrugged. “Okay.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Goodnight, Butterfly.”

“Goodnight, Daddy.”

The toddler had already been half-asleep when he laid her down, thumb tucked into her mouth, hair a mess against her forehead. He was grateful she didn’t need her hair done for bed.

When he finally made it back downstairs, the house was quiet.

The kitchen was a mess, but a manageable one. He moved through it methodically: plates into the dishwasher, counters wiped, backpack checked.

He paused with his hands braced on the counter.

This constant recalibration, tracking heat and hunger and homework and moods, never made the news. It wasn’t flashy. It simply got done. Every single day.

He looked around the kitchen one more time. It was mostly clean. A slightly crooked stack of plates didn’t fit in the dishwasher, a wooden spoon was abandoned in the sink.

He rubbed a hand down his face, exhaustion settling into his bones in a way that felt different from battlefields or Capitol Hill.

“I never thought fighting aliens would be easier than raising two girls,” he muttered to himself.

Then he turned off the kitchen light and headed upstairs.

*****

The bedroom had been dark for hours.

You weren’t sure when the sharp edge of the migraine had dulled into something survivable, only that the room had stopped spinning and the pulse behind your eye had receded to a distant, manageable throb. The curtains were drawn tight, sealing out the streetlights. The air smelled faintly of lavender from the diffuser you’d turned on in desperation.

You were floating somewhere between sleep and awareness when the mattress dipped.

The sheets shifted as Bucky eased himself under them, slow enough that the bed springs barely protested. Even exhausted, he was so careful with you.

You stirred anyway.

Your body knew when he was near.

“Hey,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep and the remnants of pain.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he answered softly.

The fatigue in his tone threaded through you more effectively than any alarm. Your eyes opened to the dark, adjusting just enough to trace the outline of his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” you said immediately.

The words came like muscle memory. “I didn’t mean to just leave everything to you. Dinner and homework and—”

“Stop,” he said. You felt his hand find yours under the covers, squeezing once. “Don’t,” he added, gentler now.

You swallowed. Guilt had been waiting for an opening all evening. “I hate when I can’t just push through.”

He shifted closer, the mattress dipping again as he turned toward you fully. His fingers slid into your hair, slow and careful, like he was untangling your wayward thoughts. His thumb settled at your temple, brushing lightly over the place that had hurt most.

“How’s it now?” he asked.

“Better,” you admitted. “Dull. Manageable.”

He kept his thumb moving in small, steady arcs, not pressing too hard. The pad of it was warm and soothing. You let your eyes close again as his hand continued its slow rhythm through your hair. His other arm slipped around your waist, palm spreading against your back. 

“The girls okay?” you asked.

“Alive,” he replied dryly. “Fed. Clean enough to pass inspection.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth. “How bad was it?”

There was a pause, just long enough for honesty.

“Nothing catastrophic,” he said. “Dinner was a little overdone. Ladybug thinks gravity is a joke. And apparently eight and five make ten before they make thirteen.”

You laughed softly, the sound barely more than breath. “Yes, they do.”

“Yeah, well.” His thumb paused, then resumed. “It took me a minute, but we got there. You know, you are so smart. How do you just understand this new math stuff?”

Even in the dark, you could hear the genuine bewilderment under the teasing.

You opened one eye. “Of course I’m smart,” you said lightly. “I married you. Math is much simpler compared to figuring you out.”

He snorted under his breath, the sound warm against your forehead as he leaned in to press a kiss there.

“That logic feels suspicious,” he murmured.

“It’s airtight.”

His hand slid from your temple down to the curve of your neck, then back into your hair again, slower now.

“You do so much that I don’t even see.” He said, his palm at your back rubbing once in a thoughtful line. You felt something in your chest loosen.

“It’s just… stuff,” you said, though without conviction.

“It’s not just stuff.” He didn’t say it dramatically or turn it into a speech.

You turned your face into his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him: soap, starch, a faint trace of the outside world he carried home every night. His body relaxed into you, matching your own.

“I don’t like sitting out,” you admitted quietly. “It feels like I’m failing.”

His hand stilled at your back, then pressed you closer.

“You going upstairs before you pass out in front of the stove?” he said softly. “That’s not failing.” His thumb brushed once more over your temple. “That’s having a limit and respecting it.”

Down the hall, the house was silent. No small footsteps, no requests for water. Just the low hum of the heater and the steady cadence of his breathing.

“I’ve got it,” he added, quieter now. “When you can’t. I’ve got it.”

You believed him. Not because he was strong or capable or frighteningly competent when he decided to be, though he was all those things.

But because he didn’t keep score. When you couldn’t handle something, he stepped in. When he dropped the ball, you picked it up. You were partners in life and in love. 

Your hand slid up his chest, curling into the fabric of his white undershirt. His heart beat steady beneath your palm. You matched your breathing to it without thinking.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

There was only the warmth of him along your front, his hand resting wide and sure against your back, and his thumb tracing idle patterns through your hair.

The migraine faded further into the background.

After a while so did the guilt.

In the dark, wrapped in the quiet of a house you’d both built and held together in different ways, you let yourself simply rest.

And he stayed awake just long enough to make sure you did.

Not long after, a new squirm started, different this time. The baby’s face pinched, her legs drawing up, a fussy little whimper leaking out.

Yelena pointed triumphantly. “Hungry.”

Ava sighed, almost fond. “Dirty.”

Yelena blinked. “How do you tell?”

Ava nodded at the baby’s legs. “Knees up. Belly’s tight. That’s the ‘get it off me’ squirm.” 

Yelena stared for a beat, then stood, muttering, “Fine. I change tiny human. You and cat supervise.”

The baby made a small sound on the changing table, soft at first, then sharper, a fussy little cry that broke the quiet.

Ava didn’t move. She only tilted her head slightly, listening.

“Now that is hungry,” Yelena declared.

Ava nodded once. “Yes. Hungry cry climbs.”

Yelena smiled, pleased that she was finally correct, and went to pour a bottle, fascinated despite herself. “How did you—”

Ava shrugged. “I pay attention.”

Yelena fed the baby, zipped her in her sleep sack, and placed her in the bassinet. 

The baby gave a final dropping whine. 

Ava reached into the bassinet with careful hands and adjusted the baby’s position, turning her slightly and tucking the blanket tighter around her belly. The crying softened immediately into a grumble, then faded to a few disgruntled hiccups.

Alpine’s ears twitched forward.

Yelena stared. “You are like… baby translator.”

Ava’s shoulders rose and fell in an easy shrug. “It’s not hard.”

Alpine hopped down from the couch and padded closer, silent and deliberate, watching Ava’s hands. Ava didn’t acknowledge her directly, but she didn’t tense either. 

Alpine sat beside Ava as if taking her assigned post, tail loosening into a slow, thoughtful sway.

Ava glanced down at her, expression unchanged. “Yeah,” she murmured, almost too quiet to hear. “I know. You’re in charge.”

Alpine blinked slowly.

Yelena nodded solemnly. “We are very competent team.”

Ava didn’t react, but her gaze stayed on the baby, steady and watchful. Alpine stayed planted at her side like she’d made a decision and didn’t care what anyone thought about it.

You took one step after her, and the migraine surged, hot, precise, and mean, so hard you had to stop.

Your older daughter’s chair scraped as she stood. “I can get her,” she offered, already moving, helpful in that earnest elder daughter way that made your chest squeeze.

“No, love,” you said quickly. You didn’t wanted her parenting her sister while you stood there pretending you were fine. “It’s okay. I’ve got her.”

You bent and scooped your toddler up mid-wobble. She immediately twisted to look at you, offended at being contained, kicking lightly against your hip and squealing again in protest.

It was thankfully lower in pitch this time, but it was still loud.

You adjusted her weight, tucked her closer, and kept your voice steady. “No cabinet raids. Not tonight, my little love.”

She stared at you with solemn toddler judgment, then stuck the spoon in her mouth.

You turned back to the stove because dinner was happening whether you were in pain or not. The onions needed stirring. The pasta water needed salt. The sauce needed attention. Everything needed you all at once, and you felt pulled in four directions, with the headache as the fifth.

Your eight year old hummed thoughtfully while her pencil scratched across paper. The sound was sandpaper on bone.

You adjusted your daughter on your hip. She smelled like applesauce and baby shampoo. Normally it would have made you smile, but tonight, it was simply one more sensation.

The front door clicked open. You didn’t need to look to know your husband was home. The house shifted when he arrived, as though familial gravity recalibrated around his presence.

“Hello, my girls,” Bucky called, his voice warm yet worn at the edges.

He was still in his suit jacket, tie loosened a fraction like he tugged at it on the walk from his office because he couldn’t stand it tight another second. His hair was slightly rumpled, his jaw shadowed with stubble that suggested a day that felt like a week. He looked like he’d been holding himself together in public the same way you been holding yourself together at home.

You straightened instinctively, smoothing your expression into something you hoped was convincing. You could get through dinner. Just dinner. After that, you could collapse.

He stepped into the kitchen doorway, his gaze finding you first, like always.

But his smile didn’t linger in admiration and love like it usually did. You could tell he was assessing you.

You turned back to the stove before he could study you too closely. “You just got home, sweetheart. Go take off your jacket and relax.” You stirred the sauce, though you couldn’t remember adding salt. Had you added it?

The words sounded smooth, but silence stretched behind you. You felt him step closer.

“Doll,” he said, low and quiet.

You hated that tone. It meant he saw right through you and already made a decision.

“I’m okay,” you insisted without turning around. The kitchen lights pulsed; your stomach rolled. “It’s just a migraine. I took a pill. It’s nothing I haven’t before. Let me finish dinner for you and the girls.”

He moved into your space with gentle certainty, his large hand settling at your waist.

“You’re squinting,” he said. “And you haven’t blinked in about thirty seconds.”

You forced your eyes wider to prove a point. It made everything worse. “I’ve got it handled.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I can see that.”

Your daughter squirmed in your arms, reaching for her father. Bucky’s vibranium hand slid securely beneath her and lifted her from your hip in one seamless motion. The sudden absence of her weight made you sway.

“I can still cook,” you protested. The words come thinner now. “Butterfly needs help with her math, and you just got back from work. You’ve been in meetings all day.”

“And I’m home now,” he said, making it sound simple.

“Dinner’s halfway done—”

Your toddler patted his cheek and babbled something happy. Bucky pressed a distracted kiss to her head without looking away from you.

His voice softened. “Go,” he said quietly. “Please? Let me take care of it.”

The words struck your heart tenderly, because even though he was tired himself from a long day, he was willing to take over and let you rest. Because your well-being was important to him.

You hesitated, because you always did, because you’d trained yourself not to be a burden, because your brain still insisted that handling everything yourself was safer than letting go.

He reached past you and took the wooden spoon.

“Upstairs,” he said gently but firmly. “Dark room. Ice pack. I’ll bring you water.”

“I can’t just—”

“You can just.” He leaned down and pressed a careful, featherlight kiss to your temple. “You don’t get points for suffering through it.”

Your older daughter appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed. “Is Mom okay?”

Bucky shifted the other higher on his hip. “Mom’s got a headache,” he said easily. “So I’m taking over. Think you can be my sous-chef tonight?”

Butterfly straightened immediately, solemn and proud. “Yes, sir.”

You wanted to argue again, to insist on finishing dinner, on being helpful, on being useful, but the room tilted, and the relief of letting someone else carry the evening was so strong it made your eyes sting.

You felt his warm hand settle at the small of your back, guiding you toward the stairs.

Your legs felt heavier than they should have.

Halfway up, guilt clawed its way through the pain. You were supposed to handle this. Other mothers handled worse. You’d handled worse. You hated feeling fragile, hated needing rescuing in your own kitchen.

At the top of the stairs, you turned back. He was still there, watching to make sure you made it the rest of the way. He shoo’d you onward with a tilt of his head.

And so you let the bedroom swallow you: blackout curtains drawn, blessed darkness wrapping around your aching skull.

Downstairs, you heard your toddler’s delighted babble, your oldest’s earnest questions, and cabinet doors opening and closing.

And under it all, Bucky’s steady, capable voice, entirely at ease.

A different kind of quiet settled over the house as you finally closed your eyes.

*****

Bucky stood in the middle of the kitchen for a full three seconds after steering you upstairs, toddler balanced on his left hip, oldest hovering at his right elbow, and simply took inventory.

The onions were soft but threatening to burn. The carrots were half-chopped. The cutting board looked like you’d been mid-motion when he walked in. The pasta water hadn’t quite boiled yet. The sauce was bubbling.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

He fought aliens on battlefields where goats had grazed the day before. He survived HYDRA brainwashing and found love. He’d run for elected office with his shadowy past and won.

This should be easy.

The little one buried her face in his shoulder and gripped his shirt with both fists like she was afraid he might evaporate.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “We’re good. We’re fine.”

The older reached for a wooden spoon before he could stop her.

“Nope,” he said automatically, taking the spoon from her. “Not near the stove.”

“It needs stirring,” she said, offended.

He given her a look. “You are eight.”

“And I know when it’s burning,” she replied with your signature sass, like only someone 8-going-on-18 can, and held up her worksheet. “And I need help.”

He glanced down at the paper like it might bite him.

“Show how you use eight and five to get ten,” she read, tapping the line with her pencil.

Bucky blinked at it.

“Ten?” he repeated. “Eight plus five is thirteen.”

She nodded vigorously. “That’s what I said.”

He felt a surge of completely irrational vindication for something so simple. “Right. So we’re correct.”

“But it says get ten,” she insisted.

He squinted at the worksheet, shifting his daughter higher on his hip when she started to slide. She immediately grabbed his loosened tie and shoved it toward her mouth.

“Absolutely not,” he muttered, gently prying it away. “That tie’s already a long day.”

Butterfly watched the exchange, unimpressed. “Daddy.”

“Right,” he said, dragging his attention back to the page. “Ten.”

He looked at the numbers again. Eight. Five. Get ten.

“What the heck is this?” he muttered.

She brightened like she’d been waiting for that line. “My teacher says it’s ‘New Math,’ but that it’s not ‘new’. It’s just better.”

Bucky furrowed his brown and huffed a quiet laugh. “Better for who?”

He glanced toward the stairs instinctively, like he might call up to you for backup.

“Does your mother understand this?” he asked.

She nodded immediately. “She understands it, but she said she doesn’t like it.”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “If your mother understands it, then it to make sense. Somewhere.”

The pan given a warning hiss.

He turned a “sh—” under his breath into a “shoot” and pivoted, using the wooden spoon and stirring the onions one-handed.

The toddler objected to the angle change by leaning back dramatically, threatening to throw herself out of his arm like a tiny, uncoordinated protester. He tightened his hold without looking, enhanced reflexes compensating for her wobbly rebellion.

“You are clingy tonight,” he told her quietly.

She pressed her face into his shoulder in response, as if that settled it.

Butterfly sighed loudly. “Daddy.”

“Right. Math.”

He turned the heat down and scanned the rest of the counter. Carrots. Pasta. He could do this.

“Okay,” he said, pointing at the numbers on the page. “Maybe it meant you take eight… and needed two more to get to ten.”

She looked at him quizzically. “Okay…”

“So if you have five—” He paused, letting her work it out herself.

Her pencil hovered. “You take two from the five? That makes eight into ten.”

“Yup. Then you have three left,” he said slowly. “Because five minus two is three.”

She started writing. “So it’s ten and three?”

“And ten plus three is thirteen,” he said automatically.

Butterfly looked up at him, brows furrowed. “That’s what we said before.”

“Okay,” he said. “So maybe the point isn’t to get ten as the final answer. Maybe it was to show how you made ten first. Like how you rearranged the numbers to make it easier to do in your head.”

Butterfly’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Ohh… Mrs. Mulligan said something about making ten.”

He pointed at the worksheet with a grin. “There. That’s it, then. You took two from five, added it to eight, that gave you ten. Then you three left. Ten and three made thirteen.”

She slowly smiled. “So they’re teaching me how to do the math I do in my head, but making me do it on paper.”

He’d be damned. The little bugger was right. “Yeah, Butterfly,” he muttered. “That’s school for you.”

He turned back to the stove, juggling one kid on his hip while reaching for the half-chopped carrots. He scraped them into the pan one-handed, missing a few that scattered across the counter. He grabbed them and tossed them in.

The pasta water finally begun to bubble. He dumped salt in, then the noodles, stirring awkwardly while trying to keep the littlest Barnes away from the steam.

“No,” he said firmly, angling her away. “That’s hot.”

She pouted.

He kissed her hair automatically, watching the stove like it was a volatile negotiation.

He could feel the tempo of the kitchen now, the way you must: what needed stirring, what needed lowering, what could wait thirty seconds and what couldn’t.

And beneath it all was the steady pull of two kids needing different things at the same time.

His oldest cleared her throat. “Can I show you the next one?”

“Sure,” he said, not looking away from the pan.

She waited for him.

He sighed and turned, giving her his full attention like he seen you do when you make them feel like the only person in the room even when three things are on fire.

Ladybug chosen that exact moment to squirm violently.

He adjusted without thinking, tightening his hold, bracing her against his chest.

*****

Dinner was slightly overdone by the time he plated it. The onions were darker than intended, the carrots softer.

He set a plate in front of the oldest, then maneuvered the toddler into her high chair with practiced efficiency. She protested the transition from hip to seat.

“I know,” he placated her. “I know. I’m the worst.”

He spooned pasta onto her tray, blew on it, and popped one elbow noodle into his mouth to test the temperature.

She immediately grabbed a fistful and smeared it across her tray.

He intercepted the second handful mid-air on the way to her hair.

“Food goes in your mouth,” he informed her solemnly.

She grinned at him like he was hilarious.

By the time both plates were mostly empty, Bucky’s tie was speckled with sauce, his sleeve was sticky, and the baby’s face looked like she’d lost a fight with a tomato.

He wiped her down with a damp cloth in swift, precise motions: cheeks, chin, hands, between fingers. It was military efficiency applied to pasta cleanup.

His oldest watched him with open amusement. “You missed a spot,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes. “Where?”

She tapped her own cheek.

He wiped away the imaginary spot of sauce and sealed it with a kiss to her cheek. “There,” he said, “all clean.”

Ladybug leaned forward and pressed a sloppy kiss to his jaw in response, leaving a wet mark behind.

He snorted softly.

Bedtime was mercifully short; pajamas were put on and teeth brushed with minimal argument.

Until his oldest handed him a hair tie.

“Mom does it,” she said, sitting cross-legged on her bed.

He looked at the hair tie and sighed.

“How hard could it be?” he muttered.

Five minutes later, she was staring at her reflection with mild concern.

The ponytail was functional, if slightly to the left and angled. The hair was in the elastic, so he counted it as a win.

“It’s kind of lopsided,” she said.

“It’s fine for bedtime,” he replied defensively.

She studied herself another second, then shrugged. “Okay.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Goodnight, Butterfly.”

“Goodnight, Daddy.”

The toddler had already been half-asleep when he laid her down, thumb tucked into her mouth, hair a mess against her forehead. He was grateful she didn’t need her hair done for bed.

When he finally made it back downstairs, the house was quiet.

The kitchen was a mess, but a manageable one. He moved through it methodically: plates into the dishwasher, counters wiped, backpack checked.

He paused with his hands braced on the counter.

This constant recalibration, tracking heat and hunger and homework and moods, never made the news. It wasn’t flashy. It simply got done. Every single day.

He looked around the kitchen one more time. It was mostly clean. A slightly crooked stack of plates didn’t fit in the dishwasher, a wooden spoon was abandoned in the sink.

He rubbed a hand down his face, exhaustion settling into his bones in a way that felt different from battlefields or Capitol Hill.

“I never thought fighting aliens would be easier than raising two girls,” he muttered to himself.

Then he turned off the kitchen light and headed upstairs.

*****

The bedroom had been dark for hours.

You weren’t sure when the sharp edge of the migraine had dulled into something survivable, only that the room had stopped spinning and the pulse behind your eye had receded to a distant, manageable throb. The curtains were drawn tight, sealing out the streetlights. The air smelled faintly of lavender from the diffuser you’d turned on in desperation.

You were floating somewhere between sleep and awareness when the mattress dipped.

The sheets shifted as Bucky eased himself under them, slow enough that the bed springs barely protested. Even exhausted, he was so careful with you.

You stirred anyway.

Your body knew when he was near.

“Hey,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep and the remnants of pain.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he answered softly.

The fatigue in his tone threaded through you more effectively than any alarm. Your eyes opened to the dark, adjusting just enough to trace the outline of his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” you said immediately.

The words came like muscle memory. “I didn’t mean to just leave everything to you. Dinner and homework and—”

“Stop,” he said. You felt his hand find yours under the covers, squeezing once. “Don’t,” he added, gentler now.

You swallowed. Guilt had been waiting for an opening all evening. “I hate when I can’t just push through.”

He shifted closer, the mattress dipping again as he turned toward you fully. His fingers slid into your hair, slow and careful, like he was untangling your wayward thoughts. His thumb settled at your temple, brushing lightly over the place that had hurt most.

“How’s it now?” he asked.

“Better,” you admitted. “Dull. Manageable.”

He kept his thumb moving in small, steady arcs, not pressing too hard. The pad of it was warm and soothing. You let your eyes close again as his hand continued its slow rhythm through your hair. His other arm slipped around your waist, palm spreading against your back. 

“The girls okay?” you asked.

“Alive,” he replied dryly. “Fed. Clean enough to pass inspection.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth. “How bad was it?”

There was a pause, just long enough for honesty.

“Nothing catastrophic,” he said. “Dinner was a little overdone. Ladybug thinks gravity is a joke. And apparently eight and five make ten before they make thirteen.”

You laughed softly, the sound barely more than breath. “Yes, they do.”

“Yeah, well.” His thumb paused, then resumed. “It took me a minute, but we got there. You know, you are so smart. How do you just understand this new math stuff?”

Even in the dark, you could hear the genuine bewilderment under the teasing.

You opened one eye. “Of course I’m smart,” you said lightly. “I married you. Math is much simpler compared to figuring you out.”

He snorted under his breath, the sound warm against your forehead as he leaned in to press a kiss there.

“That logic feels suspicious,” he murmured.

“It’s airtight.”

His hand slid from your temple down to the curve of your neck, then back into your hair again, slower now.

“You do so much that I don’t even see.” He said, his palm at your back rubbing once in a thoughtful line. You felt something in your chest loosen.

“It’s just… stuff,” you said, though without conviction.

“It’s not just stuff.” He didn’t say it dramatically or turn it into a speech.

You turned your face into his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him: soap, starch, a faint trace of the outside world he carried home every night. His body relaxed into you, matching your own.

“I don’t like sitting out,” you admitted quietly. “It feels like I’m failing.”

His hand stilled at your back, then pressed you closer.

“You going upstairs before you pass out in front of the stove?” he said softly. “That’s not failing.” His thumb brushed once more over your temple. “That’s having a limit and respecting it.”

Down the hall, the house was silent. No small footsteps, no requests for water. Just the low hum of the heater and the steady cadence of his breathing.

“I’ve got it,” he added, quieter now. “When you can’t. I’ve got it.”

You believed him. Not because he was strong or capable or frighteningly competent when he decided to be, though he was all those things.

But because he didn’t keep score. When you couldn’t handle something, he stepped in. When he dropped the ball, you picked it up. You were partners in life and in love. 

Your hand slid up his chest, curling into the fabric of his white undershirt. His heart beat steady beneath your palm. You matched your breathing to it without thinking.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

There was only the warmth of him along your front, his hand resting wide and sure against your back, and his thumb tracing idle patterns through your hair.

The migraine faded further into the background.

After a while so did the guilt.

In the dark, wrapped in the quiet of a house you’d both built and held together in different ways, you let yourself simply rest.

And he stayed awake just long enough to make sure you did.

He couldn’t help his smile.

“My girlfriend got me this for Valentine’s Day,” he told the man conversationally.

The thug blinked. “What?”

The man lunged anyway, as brave as he was stupid.

Bucky stepped in close and dragged the blade in a controlled, precise slash across the guy’s upper arm, shallow enough to avoid anything vital, deep enough to make a point. Fabric split and blood welled.

“Isn’t she great?” Bucky continued calmly, pivoting behind him and nudging him forward with the flat of the blade. “Look at that pattern. Damascus steel. It’s got this perfect balance—”

The thug howled and tried to spin away. Bucky adjusted his grip without looking.

“—weight distribution’s unreal,” he finished, slicing cleanly through the man’s grip on the crushed pipe and sending it clattering across the concrete. “Feels like it wants to land exactly where I put it.”

The guy staggered backward, clutching his arm, staring at the knife instead of the man holding it.

Behind Bucky, Sam landed hard, boots skidding.

“Why are there so many of them?” Sam demanded, breathless.

“Probably a convention,” Bucky said dryly.

The wounded thug made a stupid decision and bolted toward the loading bay door.

Bucky tilted his head slightly as he watched him go.

“Oh,” he told Sam. “You should see how this does at range.”

And he shifted his weight, arm already moving.

The throw wasn’t dramatic, just a smooth extension from the shoulder, a controlled release from his fingers.

The blade spun once, end over end, the warehouse lights flashing along the layered steel, and it hit with a thick, meaty thud.

The thug shrieked mid-stride as the knife buried itself in the back of his shoulder, just below the scapula. Momentum carried him forward another step before he stumbled, crashed into a pallet of boxed auto parts, and collapsed, swearing, in a clatter of cardboard.

Bucky exhaled softly.

“See?” he said, mostly to himself.

Behind him, someone grabbed at his jacket. Bucky pivoted without looking and drove his elbow backward into a sternum. Air whooshed out of lungs. He hooked his boot behind the man’s ankle and dropped him hard to the floor.

Sam flew past in a blur of red and silver, wings snapping out to clothesline two attackers at once. One of them ricocheted into a stack of crates that burst open in a spill of packing foam.

“Focus!” Sam barked.

“I am focused,” Bucky replied evenly.

He stepped over the groaning man at his feet and walked toward the downed runner.

The thug was on his side, clawing uselessly at the knife lodged in his shoulder. Blood seeped around the red resin handle, darkening the shine. The heart-shaped cutout near the base of the blade was visible against his torn jacket.

Bucky crouched beside him.

Up close, he smiled at the precision of the placement. Clean entry, with no unnecessary damage. He felt a quiet, satisfied warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with combat.

“And it works really well as a throwing knife,” he informed the man.

The thug stared at him over his shoulder like he’d lost his mind.

“You—you’re a psycho—”

Bucky wrapped his flesh hand around the handle.

“You know what I love?” he continued, voice calm, almost reflective. “She didn’t even hesitate. Saw it. Said, ‘That’s a Bucky knife, and gave it to me for Valentine’s Day.’”

He braced a hand against the man’s shoulder. The thug made a panicked noise and Bucky pulled the blade free in one smooth motion. The man screamed.

Bucky inspected the steel briefly. The Damascus pattern was unmarred. The edge still clean. He wiped it carefully on the thug’s jacket with deliberate, almost tender attention.

“My girl knows me so well,” he said with pride.

Something whistled past his ear.

Bucky leaned sideways as a crowbar narrowly missed his head and sparked against concrete. He rose fluidly from his crouch, pivoting into the new attacker’s space.

Behind him, Sam groaned.

“Dude,” Sam called out, wing snapping open to deflect a flying wrench. “Again with that knife?”

Bucky didn’t look away from the man advancing on him.

“Of course with this knife,” he said with a smile.

The crowbar came down again.

Bucky stepped inside the swing, too close for leverage, and drove his metal fist into the man’s ribs. He felt something give under the impact. The guy folded with a choked gasp.

Bucky caught him by the collar before he hit the ground and, almost absentmindedly, hooked the blade through the man’s jacket sleeve, slicing fabric to tangle his arms.

“You’re making it weird,” Sam said.

Sam landed beside him hard enough to crack concrete, wings flaring out to shield them both as two men opened fire from the catwalk above. Bullets pinged and screamed against vibranium.

Bucky leaned slightly to peer around one wing.

“It’s not weird,” he replied. “It’s a thoughtful gift.”

He flicked his wrist and sent the knife spinning once in his palm, not flashy, just habit, then lunged forward as Sam retracted his wing.

They moved in a practiced rhythm. Sam vaulted upward, wings out gaining height, while Bucky charged the base of the metal stairs.

A thug tried to block him.

Bucky slashed across the man’s thigh just enough to drop him.

“I’m just saying,” Sam continued from above, voice strained as he grappled with someone on the railing, “you’ve brought it up every single mission since February.”

Bucky mounted the steps two at a time. Another attacker swung a chain at his head. He caught it with his metal hand, yanked the man forward, and drove his forehead into the guy’s nose. Cartilage crunched.

“That’s because,” Bucky said evenly, shoving the reeling man into the stairwell wall, “it continues to be relevant.”

He reached the catwalk level just as Sam kicked one gunman backward over the railing. The man crashed into a stack of crates below in a splintering roar.

Sam stopped for a second, staring at Bucky.

“You stabbed a guy and gave him a product review.”

Bucky advanced on the last shooter. The man’s hands shook. The muzzle wavered.

“It has excellent balance,” Bucky said over his shoulder, stepping closer.

The man fired.

Bucky deflected the gun upward with his metal hand. The shot burst into the ceiling. In the same motion, Bucky drove the knife hand forward and pinned the man’s sleeve to the wooden support beam behind him.

The blade sank deep into the timber.

The shooter froze, breath stuttering, arm trapped.

Bucky leaned in slightly.

“And the grip,” he added, looking at the red resin handle, “is ergonomic.”

Below them, Sam made a strangled noise that was both laugh and despair.

“Dude.”

Bucky twisted the knife free from the wood and stepped back as the man slumped, defeated more by terror than injury.

Sam landed beside him, wings folding in with a metallic shudder.

“Again?” Sam demanded. “We’re doing this again?”

Bucky wiped a smear of blood from the flat of the blade with his thumb, inspecting the steel like a man checking the alignment on a watch.

“Yes,” he said simply.

And across the warehouse floor, two more men hesitated, clearly reconsidering their life choices. One of them charged anyway.

Bucky stepped off the catwalk railing and dropped the ten feet to the concrete below. He landed in a crouch, heels up and knees bending to absorb the impact.

The charging man swung a desperate hook.

Bucky caught the wrist mid-air and twisted, turning the momentum into a sharp pivot. The man yelped as Bucky guided him past, then nudged him down with the heel of his palm between the shoulder blades. The guy sprawled face-first with a slap of skin on concrete.

Behind him, Sam descended in a controlled glide and slammed into the final attacker, driving him back into a stack of barrels. One burst open, rolling across the floor with a hollow clang.

“Listen,” Sam said, grappling the man’s arm behind his back, “I’m happy for you. I am. I like her. She’s great for you. But—”

He grunted as he picked the guy up.

Bucky hauled his own opponent upright by the collar and pressed the flat of the Damascus blade against the man’s throat, not cutting, just in threat. The heart-shaped cutout hovered inches from his skin.

“But what?” Bucky asked.

Sam wrenched his thug’s arm a little higher and the man squealed.

“But this is a tactical operation,” Sam continued. “Not a couples’ showcase.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed in disagreement. “It can be both.”

The man in front of him swallowed hard, mystified, not quite understanding what kind of men would have a conversation like this during a knife-and-gun fight.

Bucky didn’t look away from the knife as he spoke again. “I might not use another knife until I die.”

Sam just stared at him. “That is not normal,” he said flatly.

Bucky considered that for exactly half a second.

“Unless,” he added, casually shifting his grip as the thug tried to inch away, “she gets me another one.”

He tapped the red handle lightly against the man’s collarbone.

“Ooh,” he said, a spark of genuine interest lighting his tone, “if she gets me another, I could have one in each hand.”

There was a pause. Sam looked at him, then at the knife, then back at him.

“You are insufferable,” he declared.

But his mouth betrayed him, the corner twitching upward before he caught it.

Bucky inspected the edge once more, thumb brushing over the Damascus ripples.

“Still sharp,” he smiled, satisfied.

Sam folded his wings with a metallic snap.

“You’re texting her about this later, aren’t you?”

Bucky slid the knife back into its sheath at his hip. “Already drafted it in my head,” he said.

Sam stared at him as Bucky stepped over a groaning thug toward the exit. “You mentally drafted a text mid-fight?”

Bucky adjusted his jacket, expression perfectly calm. “What, you never multitasked before?”

You took one step after her, and the migraine surged, hot, precise, and mean, so hard you had to stop.

Your older daughter’s chair scraped as she stood. “I can get her,” she offered, already moving, helpful in that earnest elder daughter way that made your chest squeeze.

“No, love,” you said quickly. You didn’t wanted her parenting her sister while you stood there pretending you were fine. “It’s okay. I’ve got her.”

You bent and scooped your toddler up mid-wobble. She immediately twisted to look at you, offended at being contained, kicking lightly against your hip and squealing again in protest.

It was thankfully lower in pitch this time, but it was still loud.

You adjusted her weight, tucked her closer, and kept your voice steady. “No cabinet raids. Not tonight, my little love.”

She stared at you with solemn toddler judgment, then stuck the spoon in her mouth.

You turned back to the stove because dinner was happening whether you were in pain or not. The onions needed stirring. The pasta water needed salt. The sauce needed attention. Everything needed you all at once, and you felt pulled in four directions, with the headache as the fifth.

Your eight year old hummed thoughtfully while her pencil scratched across paper. The sound was sandpaper on bone.

You adjusted your daughter on your hip. She smelled like applesauce and baby shampoo. Normally it would have made you smile, but tonight, it was simply one more sensation.

The front door clicked open. You didn’t need to look to know your husband was home. The house shifted when he arrived, as though familial gravity recalibrated around his presence.

“Hello, my girls,” Bucky called, his voice warm yet worn at the edges.

He was still in his suit jacket, tie loosened a fraction like he tugged at it on the walk from his office because he couldn’t stand it tight another second. His hair was slightly rumpled, his jaw shadowed with stubble that suggested a day that felt like a week. He looked like he’d been holding himself together in public the same way you been holding yourself together at home.

You straightened instinctively, smoothing your expression into something you hoped was convincing. You could get through dinner. Just dinner. After that, you could collapse.

He stepped into the kitchen doorway, his gaze finding you first, like always.

But his smile didn’t linger in admiration and love like it usually did. You could tell he was assessing you.

You turned back to the stove before he could study you too closely. “You just got home, sweetheart. Go take off your jacket and relax.” You stirred the sauce, though you couldn’t remember adding salt. Had you added it?

The words sounded smooth, but silence stretched behind you. You felt him step closer.

“Doll,” he said, low and quiet.

You hated that tone. It meant he saw right through you and already made a decision.

“I’m okay,” you insisted without turning around. The kitchen lights pulsed; your stomach rolled. “It’s just a migraine. I took a pill. It’s nothing I haven’t before. Let me finish dinner for you and the girls.”

He moved into your space with gentle certainty, his large hand settling at your waist.

“You’re squinting,” he said. “And you haven’t blinked in about thirty seconds.”

You forced your eyes wider to prove a point. It made everything worse. “I’ve got it handled.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I can see that.”

Your daughter squirmed in your arms, reaching for her father. Bucky’s vibranium hand slid securely beneath her and lifted her from your hip in one seamless motion. The sudden absence of her weight made you sway.

“I can still cook,” you protested. The words come thinner now. “Butterfly needs help with her math, and you just got back from work. You’ve been in meetings all day.”

“And I’m home now,” he said, making it sound simple.

“Dinner’s halfway done—”

Your toddler patted his cheek and babbled something happy. Bucky pressed a distracted kiss to her head without looking away from you.

His voice softened. “Go,” he said quietly. “Please? Let me take care of it.”

The words struck your heart tenderly, because even though he was tired himself from a long day, he was willing to take over and let you rest. Because your well-being was important to him.

You hesitated, because you always did, because you’d trained yourself not to be a burden, because your brain still insisted that handling everything yourself was safer than letting go.

He reached past you and took the wooden spoon.

“Upstairs,” he said gently but firmly. “Dark room. Ice pack. I’ll bring you water.”

“I can’t just—”

“You can just.” He leaned down and pressed a careful, featherlight kiss to your temple. “You don’t get points for suffering through it.”

Your older daughter appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed. “Is Mom okay?”

Bucky shifted the other higher on his hip. “Mom’s got a headache,” he said easily. “So I’m taking over. Think you can be my sous-chef tonight?”

Butterfly straightened immediately, solemn and proud. “Yes, sir.”

You wanted to argue again, to insist on finishing dinner, on being helpful, on being useful, but the room tilted, and the relief of letting someone else carry the evening was so strong it made your eyes sting.

You felt his warm hand settle at the small of your back, guiding you toward the stairs.

Your legs felt heavier than they should have.

Halfway up, guilt clawed its way through the pain. You were supposed to handle this. Other mothers handled worse. You’d handled worse. You hated feeling fragile, hated needing rescuing in your own kitchen.

At the top of the stairs, you turned back. He was still there, watching to make sure you made it the rest of the way. He shoo’d you onward with a tilt of his head.

And so you let the bedroom swallow you: blackout curtains drawn, blessed darkness wrapping around your aching skull.

Downstairs, you heard your toddler’s delighted babble, your oldest’s earnest questions, and cabinet doors opening and closing.

And under it all, Bucky’s steady, capable voice, entirely at ease.

A different kind of quiet settled over the house as you finally closed your eyes.

*****

Bucky stood in the middle of the kitchen for a full three seconds after steering you upstairs, toddler balanced on his left hip, oldest hovering at his right elbow, and simply took inventory.

The onions were soft but threatening to burn. The carrots were half-chopped. The cutting board looked like you’d been mid-motion when he walked in. The pasta water hadn’t quite boiled yet. The sauce was bubbling.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

He fought aliens on battlefields where goats had grazed the day before. He survived HYDRA brainwashing and found love. He’d run for elected office with his shadowy past and won.

This should be easy.

The little one buried her face in his shoulder and gripped his shirt with both fists like she was afraid he might evaporate.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “We’re good. We’re fine.”

The older reached for a wooden spoon before he could stop her.

“Nope,” he said automatically, taking the spoon from her. “Not near the stove.”

“It needs stirring,” she said, offended.

He given her a look. “You are eight.”

“And I know when it’s burning,” she replied with your signature sass, like only someone 8-going-on-18 can, and held up her worksheet. “And I need help.”

He glanced down at the paper like it might bite him.

“Show how you use eight and five to get ten,” she read, tapping the line with her pencil.

Bucky blinked at it.

“Ten?” he repeated. “Eight plus five is thirteen.”

She nodded vigorously. “That’s what I said.”

He felt a surge of completely irrational vindication for something so simple. “Right. So we’re correct.”

“But it says get ten,” she insisted.

He squinted at the worksheet, shifting his daughter higher on his hip when she started to slide. She immediately grabbed his loosened tie and shoved it toward her mouth.

“Absolutely not,” he muttered, gently prying it away. “That tie’s already a long day.”

Butterfly watched the exchange, unimpressed. “Daddy.”

“Right,” he said, dragging his attention back to the page. “Ten.”

He looked at the numbers again. Eight. Five. Get ten.

“What the heck is this?” he muttered.

She brightened like she’d been waiting for that line. “My teacher says it’s ‘New Math,’ but that it’s not ‘new’. It’s just better.”

Bucky furrowed his brown and huffed a quiet laugh. “Better for who?”

He glanced toward the stairs instinctively, like he might call up to you for backup.

“Does your mother understand this?” he asked.

She nodded immediately. “She understands it, but she said she doesn’t like it.”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “If your mother understands it, then it to make sense. Somewhere.”

The pan given a warning hiss.

He turned a “sh—” under his breath into a “shoot” and pivoted, using the wooden spoon and stirring the onions one-handed.

The toddler objected to the angle change by leaning back dramatically, threatening to throw herself out of his arm like a tiny, uncoordinated protester. He tightened his hold without looking, enhanced reflexes compensating for her wobbly rebellion.

“You are clingy tonight,” he told her quietly.

She pressed her face into his shoulder in response, as if that settled it.

Butterfly sighed loudly. “Daddy.”

“Right. Math.”

He turned the heat down and scanned the rest of the counter. Carrots. Pasta. He could do this.

“Okay,” he said, pointing at the numbers on the page. “Maybe it meant you take eight… and needed two more to get to ten.”

She looked at him quizzically. “Okay…”

“So if you have five—” He paused, letting her work it out herself.

Her pencil hovered. “You take two from the five? That makes eight into ten.”

“Yup. Then you have three left,” he said slowly. “Because five minus two is three.”

She started writing. “So it’s ten and three?”

“And ten plus three is thirteen,” he said automatically.

Butterfly looked up at him, brows furrowed. “That’s what we said before.”

“Okay,” he said. “So maybe the point isn’t to get ten as the final answer. Maybe it was to show how you made ten first. Like how you rearranged the numbers to make it easier to do in your head.”

Butterfly’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Ohh… Mrs. Mulligan said something about making ten.”

He pointed at the worksheet with a grin. “There. That’s it, then. You took two from five, added it to eight, that gave you ten. Then you three left. Ten and three made thirteen.”

She slowly smiled. “So they’re teaching me how to do the math I do in my head, but making me do it on paper.”

He’d be damned. The little bugger was right. “Yeah, Butterfly,” he muttered. “That’s school for you.”

He turned back to the stove, juggling one kid on his hip while reaching for the half-chopped carrots. He scraped them into the pan one-handed, missing a few that scattered across the counter. He grabbed them and tossed them in.

The pasta water finally begun to bubble. He dumped salt in, then the noodles, stirring awkwardly while trying to keep the littlest Barnes away from the steam.

“No,” he said firmly, angling her away. “That’s hot.”

She pouted.

He kissed her hair automatically, watching the stove like it was a volatile negotiation.

He could feel the tempo of the kitchen now, the way you must: what needed stirring, what needed lowering, what could wait thirty seconds and what couldn’t.

And beneath it all was the steady pull of two kids needing different things at the same time.

His oldest cleared her throat. “Can I show you the next one?”

“Sure,” he said, not looking away from the pan.

She waited for him.

He sighed and turned, giving her his full attention like he seen you do when you make them feel like the only person in the room even when three things are on fire.

Ladybug chosen that exact moment to squirm violently.

He adjusted without thinking, tightening his hold, bracing her against his chest.

*****

Dinner was slightly overdone by the time he plated it. The onions were darker than intended, the carrots softer.

He set a plate in front of the oldest, then maneuvered the toddler into her high chair with practiced efficiency. She protested the transition from hip to seat.

“I know,” he placated her. “I know. I’m the worst.”

He spooned pasta onto her tray, blew on it, and popped one elbow noodle into his mouth to test the temperature.

She immediately grabbed a fistful and smeared it across her tray.

He intercepted the second handful mid-air on the way to her hair.

“Food goes in your mouth,” he informed her solemnly.

She grinned at him like he was hilarious.

By the time both plates were mostly empty, Bucky’s tie was speckled with sauce, his sleeve was sticky, and the baby’s face looked like she’d lost a fight with a tomato.

He wiped her down with a damp cloth in swift, precise motions: cheeks, chin, hands, between fingers. It was military efficiency applied to pasta cleanup.

His oldest watched him with open amusement. “You missed a spot,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes. “Where?”

She tapped her own cheek.

He wiped away the imaginary spot of sauce and sealed it with a kiss to her cheek. “There,” he said, “all clean.”

Ladybug leaned forward and pressed a sloppy kiss to his jaw in response, leaving a wet mark behind.

He snorted softly.

Bedtime was mercifully short; pajamas were put on and teeth brushed with minimal argument.

Until his oldest handed him a hair tie.

“Mom does it,” she said, sitting cross-legged on her bed.

He looked at the hair tie and sighed.

“How hard could it be?” he muttered.

Five minutes later, she was staring at her reflection with mild concern.

The ponytail was functional, if slightly to the left and angled. The hair was in the elastic, so he counted it as a win.

“It’s kind of lopsided,” she said.

“It’s fine for bedtime,” he replied defensively.

She studied herself another second, then shrugged. “Okay.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Goodnight, Butterfly.”

“Goodnight, Daddy.”

The toddler had already been half-asleep when he laid her down, thumb tucked into her mouth, hair a mess against her forehead. He was grateful she didn’t need her hair done for bed.

When he finally made it back downstairs, the house was quiet.

The kitchen was a mess, but a manageable one. He moved through it methodically: plates into the dishwasher, counters wiped, backpack checked.

He paused with his hands braced on the counter.

This constant recalibration, tracking heat and hunger and homework and moods, never made the news. It wasn’t flashy. It simply got done. Every single day.

He looked around the kitchen one more time. It was mostly clean. A slightly crooked stack of plates didn’t fit in the dishwasher, a wooden spoon was abandoned in the sink.

He rubbed a hand down his face, exhaustion settling into his bones in a way that felt different from battlefields or Capitol Hill.

“I never thought fighting aliens would be easier than raising two girls,” he muttered to himself.

Then he turned off the kitchen light and headed upstairs.

*****

The bedroom had been dark for hours.

You weren’t sure when the sharp edge of the migraine had dulled into something survivable, only that the room had stopped spinning and the pulse behind your eye had receded to a distant, manageable throb. The curtains were drawn tight, sealing out the streetlights. The air smelled faintly of lavender from the diffuser you’d turned on in desperation.

You were floating somewhere between sleep and awareness when the mattress dipped.

The sheets shifted as Bucky eased himself under them, slow enough that the bed springs barely protested. Even exhausted, he was so careful with you.

You stirred anyway.

Your body knew when he was near.

“Hey,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep and the remnants of pain.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he answered softly.

The fatigue in his tone threaded through you more effectively than any alarm. Your eyes opened to the dark, adjusting just enough to trace the outline of his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” you said immediately.

The words came like muscle memory. “I didn’t mean to just leave everything to you. Dinner and homework and—”

“Stop,” he said. You felt his hand find yours under the covers, squeezing once. “Don’t,” he added, gentler now.

You swallowed. Guilt had been waiting for an opening all evening. “I hate when I can’t just push through.”

He shifted closer, the mattress dipping again as he turned toward you fully. His fingers slid into your hair, slow and careful, like he was untangling your wayward thoughts. His thumb settled at your temple, brushing lightly over the place that had hurt most.

“How’s it now?” he asked.

“Better,” you admitted. “Dull. Manageable.”

He kept his thumb moving in small, steady arcs, not pressing too hard. The pad of it was warm and soothing. You let your eyes close again as his hand continued its slow rhythm through your hair. His other arm slipped around your waist, palm spreading against your back. 

“The girls okay?” you asked.

“Alive,” he replied dryly. “Fed. Clean enough to pass inspection.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth. “How bad was it?”

There was a pause, just long enough for honesty.

“Nothing catastrophic,” he said. “Dinner was a little overdone. Ladybug thinks gravity is a joke. And apparently eight and five make ten before they make thirteen.”

You laughed softly, the sound barely more than breath. “Yes, they do.”

“Yeah, well.” His thumb paused, then resumed. “It took me a minute, but we got there. You know, you are so smart. How do you just understand this new math stuff?”

Even in the dark, you could hear the genuine bewilderment under the teasing.

You opened one eye. “Of course I’m smart,” you said lightly. “I married you. Math is much simpler compared to figuring you out.”

He snorted under his breath, the sound warm against your forehead as he leaned in to press a kiss there.

“That logic feels suspicious,” he murmured.

“It’s airtight.”

His hand slid from your temple down to the curve of your neck, then back into your hair again, slower now.

“You do so much that I don’t even see.” He said, his palm at your back rubbing once in a thoughtful line. You felt something in your chest loosen.

“It’s just… stuff,” you said, though without conviction.

“It’s not just stuff.” He didn’t say it dramatically or turn it into a speech.

You turned your face into his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of him: soap, starch, a faint trace of the outside world he carried home every night. His body relaxed into you, matching your own.

“I don’t like sitting out,” you admitted quietly. “It feels like I’m failing.”

His hand stilled at your back, then pressed you closer.

“You going upstairs before you pass out in front of the stove?” he said softly. “That’s not failing.” His thumb brushed once more over your temple. “That’s having a limit and respecting it.”

Down the hall, the house was silent. No small footsteps, no requests for water. Just the low hum of the heater and the steady cadence of his breathing.

“I’ve got it,” he added, quieter now. “When you can’t. I’ve got it.”

You believed him. Not because he was strong or capable or frighteningly competent when he decided to be, though he was all those things.

But because he didn’t keep score. When you couldn’t handle something, he stepped in. When he dropped the ball, you picked it up. You were partners in life and in love. 

Your hand slid up his chest, curling into the fabric of his white undershirt. His heart beat steady beneath your palm. You matched your breathing to it without thinking.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

There was only the warmth of him along your front, his hand resting wide and sure against your back, and his thumb tracing idle patterns through your hair.

The migraine faded further into the background.

After a while so did the guilt.

In the dark, wrapped in the quiet of a house you’d both built and held together in different ways, you let yourself simply rest.

And he stayed awake just long enough to make sure you did.

You sat up with a huff and grabbed the nearest tee from the floor. It was thin, worn soft from too many washes, and clung to your still-damp skin when you pulled it down over your head. You didn’t bother with a bra or underwear. Just a pair of loose shorts that rode up a little higher than you remembered, clinging to the curve of your hips. You didn’t care; no one would see you.

The hallway was dark, but familiar underfoot. Cool wood greeted your bare soles as you padded softly through the space. No lights were on, not even the usual common room lamp someone always forgot to switch off. Shadows and moonlight bled in through the blinds.

You exhaled slowly, trying to will the throb in your core to quiet down, but it followed you like a second heartbeat, pulsing low and insistent with every step you took.

You focused on the thought of cold water on your tongue, the weight of the glass in your hand, the chill of it against your palm. It was a simple goal: get to the kitchen. Just breathe. Just stop thinking about the ache, the want… him.

Your eyes flicked to the lounge as you passed.

And landed on Bucky’s leather motorcycle jacket.

It had been carelessly draped over the back of the couch. The same jacket he wore after late missions or on early rides. 

That thick, battle-worn thing that always clung to him like a second skin. It looked softer now, here in the dimness, crumpled casually over the back of the couch, sleeves twisted, collar askew. You should have ignored it. It was just leather and lining. Just a man’s coat. 

You should have kept walking.

Should have gone straight to the kitchen, grabbed your glass of water, maybe even splashed some on your face like a sane person. But your feet betrayed you the moment your eyes landed on his jacket, like it wasn’t a damn weapon all by itself.

But your steps slowed, and then stopped altogether.

Your pulse thudded in your ears, and even harder deep in your core. You glanced around, not just out of guilt, but some deeper animal instinct as well. The compound was still: no creak of floorboards, no cough from down the hall, no flicker of movement from the corner of your eye. It was just you, the dark, and that jacket.

Your fingers moved before you told them to.

You reached out, brushing the collar first. It was softer than it looked, really broken in. You’d seen him wear it a dozen times, maybe more, but touching it like this, alone, was something else entirely. It still held the shape of his shoulders, the fold of his elbows. You knew it would also hold the scent of him.

You pulled it slowly into your arms, careful not to drag it too hard, like someone might hear the whisper of leather shifting. You shouldn't have touched it. It didn’t belong to you; you had no right. You knew that, but it was like a drug, the moment it settled into your hands. 

And then you brought it to your face.

The breath you pulled in shook your lungs. Cedar came first: sharp and woodsy, earthy and grounded. Then sweat: salt and skin, the ghost of exertion. The scent of leather itself was there, of course: masculine and dark and rich. 

But underneath it all was him, a smell you didn’t even know you recognized until it filled your head like smoke, curling through your senses, slipping down your throat and settling low in your gut.

You whimpered before you could stop the sound.

It tumbled out against the collar, small and pathetic and desperate. You didn’t even register your knees buckling. You caught yourself with one hand on the arm of the couch, the other clutching the jacket to your chest like you could bury yourself in it. Your forehead pressed against the collar, breath hot where it hit the leather.

And then your hips moved. It wasn’t conscious, just a shift of weight that became a slow grind, then a roll forward and back again. You felt the pressure against your clit through the thin cotton of your shorts, your tank top sticking to your damp skin, nipples already hard and aching. The couch arm dug in just enough to make you gasp softly.

You didn’t stop, not now that relief might finally be within reach.

Your body took over, chasing a high that had evaded you all night. You rocked your hips, dragging your pussy against the edge of the couch, grinding the jacket between your body and the cushion like it might give you more than your own fingers had. You moaned into the collar, soft and breathy, the scent of him overwhelming the air, your thoughts, and your shame.

One hand clutched the jacket tight to your mouth while your free hand found your breast through the tank top, squeezing, rubbing over your nipple in slow circles. The thin cotton was no barrier. Every nerve in your chest lit up and you rocked harder.

You were close, but it was still not enough.

It was maddening, how you could be soaked, panting, trembling, and still so fucking unsatisfied. But your hips kept grinding. Your thighs were tight, muscles clenching with every pass over the couch arm. And with the friction and the scent, a fantasy burned behind your eyes: of Bucky, below you, watching you lose your mind as you ground down on his hard cock.

You were a mess. A whimpering, moaning, humping mess. And still, you needed more.

*****

Sleep wasn’t happening that night for Bucky. Not an uncommon thing; nights like this came and went with no real reason. Sometimes it was the buzz of adrenaline in his blood, left over from fights, or dreams that turned into nightmares before he got any real rest. Other times, like tonight, it was just the weight of silence pressing in too hard. 

He tugged on a pair of sweatpants, gray, low-slung, and soft, and didn’t bother with a shirt. The tower was warm enough, and the lounge had that broken couch he liked sinking into when his thoughts got too heavy. He figured he would watch some mindless late-night TV as a distraction. That’s all he’d wanted.

He didn’t expect to find you, and especially not like that. 

He rounded the corner in perfect quiet, the way he always moved without thinking: barefoot, trained, invisible in the dark. But the second he stepped into the lounge, the air caught in his lungs.

He saw you there instantly, bent forward slightly, one knee up on the couch, your body moving in slow, deliberate rolls against the armrest. 

And then he saw his jacket clutched in your arms.

And your face, half-buried in it.

Your soft, broken moans barely reached his ears, but the low needy note in them hit him like a punch to the gut. 

You didn’t know he was there.

Your back was to him, your tank top and shorts clinging to the curves of your body like second skin, every shift of your hips sending a ripple through his bloodstream. He could see the tension in your thighs and the desperate way you moved.

And his jacket was wrapped in your arms like you couldn’t get close enough.

He didn’t breathe.

His cock stirred beneath his sweats before he had a chance to process what he was feeling. His hand twitched toward it, more reflex than decision, palming himself with a slow curl of his fingers as heat surged in his gut. His jaw locked tight.

He could see exactly what your body was doing and how close you were. He knew you must be completely out of your head to do this in the middle of the damn common room. And it should’ve been enough to make him look away and turn back, to give you the privacy you deserved.

But all he could think was: That should be me.

You should be pouring those pretty little moans into his skin, not his collar.

His mouth went dry.

And then, very slowly, he let the corner of his mouth curl into a smirk.

His voice came low and dark from the shadows, roughened by the gravel of arousal barely held in check.

"I don’t think that’s yours, doll.”

*****

Your whole body snapped tight at the sound of his voice.

It rippled through you, dark, low, and too close. Your hand clenched around the jacket instinctively, as if you could hide it or hide behind it, you weren’t sure. 

But the moment you twisted toward the hallway and saw Bucky standing there, your stomach dropped.

He was half in shadow, half washed by the faint spill of moonlight from the window. Black tee, sweatpants slung indecently low on his hips. His expression was unreadable at first, except for two details that hit you like a one-two punch:

He had been watching you. And his hand was on his cock.

Heat tore up your spine so fast your knees nearly buckled.

You lurched upright, fast and clumsy, almost tripping over the couch arm as you scrambled to stand, still clutching the jacket like it might save your life. It didn’t; if anything, it made everything worse.

“I—I’m sorry—” you stammered, breath catching. Your mind spun, thoughts slipping out of reach like you were trying to grab handfuls of smoke. “I didn’t mean—your jacket—I’ll wash it, I swear, I wasn’t—this isn’t—”

You couldn’t even finish a sentence, much less a thought.

Your voice cracked and every inch of your skin burned. You stepped back without thinking, some old instinct telling you to retreat, to put distance between you and the humiliation clawing at your ribs.

But Bucky stepped forward with a an eerie calm, like he knew exactly how the moment was going to unfold. Confidence rolled off him in waves, quiet, steady, and impossible to look away from.

“Don’t,” he murmured.

You stopped moving, stopped speaking; you may have even stopped breathing.

He the faint scent of his body reached you before he did, clean man, metal, and something darker wrapped around you. He lifted his flesh hand, brushing two fingers beneath your chin with an aching gentleness.

Your eyes dropped instinctively, but he tipped your head up until you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

And those eyes held you.

The deep blue, sharp even in the dark, was focused entirely on you. They made the room shrink until it was just the two of you and the wild, electric thrum between your bodies.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice rough around the edges. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

Your throat closed up.

His thumb brushed your jaw, slow and deliberate, and heat shot through you so abruptly a tiny embarrassing sound escaped you before you could stop it.

When Bucky heard it he went very still. The corner of his mouth ticked up just slightly, less a smile than a quiet, devastating confirmation that he understood exactly what that sound meant.

Your thighs pressed together before you realized you were doing it.

His gaze dropped, only for a moment, following the motion, catching the tension in your legs, the way you clutched his jacket like you needed it to stay upright. When his eyes lifted again, they were darker and held a certainty that made your pulse collide against your ribs.

His low, warm chuckle slid beneath your skin.

He stepped back and dropped lazily onto the couch. His arms stretched across the backrest, muscles shifting beneath his skin, legs spread a little wider than necessary. 

You tried not to look.

You failed.

Your gaze followed the line of his torso down his broad chest, sculpted stomach, the soft fabric of his sweatpants pulled tight over the unmistakable outline beneath. He was hard and heavy and impossible to ignore.

You tore your gaze away so fast it almost hurt.

He didn’t let you look away for long. 

“Sit with me,” he prompted. 

You didn’t know if it was a request or a demand, but you sat all the same.

“So.” His warm voice slid through the quiet. “What exactly were you thinking about just now… grinding like that?”

Your stomach dropped. Heat flooded your cheeks. Your mouth opened, closed, and opened again. “I—Bucky, I…”

He didn’t rush you. He just lifted a hand and curled two fingers under your chin again, guiding your gaze back to his.

“Don’t look away,” he murmured.

You swallowed hard. Your lips parted on a shaky breath.

“I was thinking about…” You hesitated. The words lodged in your throat, too humiliating to say aloud.

His thumb skimmed the edge of your jaw, both coaxing and warning.

“Me?” he asked, quiet and knowing. “You were thinking about me.”

You nodded before your mind caught up. “Yes.”

His expression sharpened as something dark and deeply male slipping into the set of his mouth and the weight of his gaze.

“Couldn’t get off in your room, huh?” he asked softly.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“No.” The admission scraped out of you in a whisper, humiliating and oddly liberating at the same time. “I… I kept trying, but I couldn’t. I just kept thinking about you.”

A breath shivered out of him, controlled and deliberate, and yet not quite steady. A hunger and satisfaction flickered across his face. 

His voice dropped an octave. “Do you need something more?”

“Yes.”

His fingers slid from your chin to your cheek, barely touching you.

“Tell me what you need.”

The answer left you on a breath, “You.”

His hands came to your hips, big, steady, and sure, and he pulled you onto his lap in one smooth, unhurried motion. You gasped as your body settled above his, heat flushing through you so fast it made you lightheaded.

You were suddenly, undeniably aware of how solid and warm he was beneath you. He was impossibly close now, his breath brushing your throat. His hands held you firmly in place, thumbs stroking slow arcs along the curve of your waist.

He murmured, “Then move. Show me what you need.”

Your breath shuttered on release. Your body reacted before thought could intervene, following some instinct older than embarrassment. You moved, slow and tentative, testing that he meant it. Every inch of you felt too sensitive, too aware of him.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

His mouth brushed your ear, barely a whisper of contact. “Tell me what you think about when you touch yourself.”

A tremor of anticipation rolled through you. 

You gathered air, courage, and heat, and whispered, “You. I think about you.”

His hands tightened ever so slightly on your hips.

“But not just you,” you added, breath catching. “I think about you on your bike.”

He stilled beneath you.

Your voice grew softer, more breathy, and more certain. You could feel him listening, every word sinking into him.

“I imagine being on it with you,” you whispered. “Straddling it. With nothing between me and the seat. Feeling every rumble of the engine when you rev it.”

Your pulse thundered. His grip on you changed, subtle, but urging you to move more, to use him and grind down harder. You did. 

“I imagine the whole machine vibrating beneath me,” you murmured, eyes now closed. “And you’re there, watching. The engine growling, my body…” You swallowed. “My whole body responding to it.”

Your breath trembled.

“And I imagine…” You hesitated, heat flaring up your chest, your throat, your ears. “I imagine the way it would feel if you kept revving it. Pushing it. Making the whole bike shake beneath me while you just… watched me fall apart.”

You were almost afraid of the silence, but his hard length beneath you gave you the courage to finally open your eyes. When you did, Bucky was staring at you like he’d never seen anything like you in his life. 

His eyes were blown wide, blue swallowed by black, every muscle in him drawn sharp with a tension you could feel radiating through his thighs, his abdomen, and his hold on you.

He looked like a man fighting not to pounce, and losing the battle.

You barely had time to inhale before his grip shifted decisively. His fingers slid possessively around your waist, metal hand up the line of your spine, dragging you closer until your chests met and there wasn’t a millimeter left between you. You weren’t grinding anymore, but you didn’t mind. His cock pressed up beneath you, so large and so hard, sending a shockwave through your entire body.

Your gasp was instant and his response was immediate.

A low, feral sound rumbled out of him, somewhere between a groan and a growl, and his mouth found the side of your throat. Not kissing or biting, just there, breathing you in, like he needed to memorize the exact shape of your pulse beneath his lips.

“Jesus…” he whispered against your skin, voice barely holding itself together. “You’re going to kill me.”

Your whole body went molten.

You tried to speak, tried to say his name or anything at all, but all that came out was a broken breath.

“What else do you think about,” he murmured, “when I’m not there to stop you?”

You swallowed hard, pulse wild and unsteady.

“I—” You hesitated. Heat burned up your neck. “I think about… how you’d touch me… how the difference would feel between your hands. How you’d look at me like—like you know exactly what I want before I say anything.”

You felt a muscle tick in his jaw. His hold tightened again, sending a shiver through you he absolutely felt.

“You think I don’t?” he asked quietly.

Your breath hitched. You pulled back just enough to look down at him and you could see that behind his eyes all control, patience, and distance were gone.

He slid his hands up your back, slow and claiming, pulling you flush against his chest. The heat of him was overwhelming, his breath falling ragged against your cheek.

“Careful,” he warned softly. “You keep saying things like that… I’m not gonna let you walk away tonight.”

Your voice was barely audible. “I don’t want to.”

His exhale broke. “Fuck…”

He looked gorgeous and wrecked and dangerous. He looked like a man who had been holding himself back for a long, long time and had suddenly discovered he didn’t have to.

He tipped your chin up with a single finger, not soft or tender, but commanding.

“Say it again.”

You didn’t even blink. “I don’t want to walk away.”

His eyes darkened completely and his restraint shattered.

Bucky’s mouth crashed against yours.

It wasn’t a polite kiss or a testing one. It was heat and hunger and a sound came from deep inside his chest that vibrated through you, stealing every thought you had left. His hands were in your hair, gripping and pulling, angling your head so he could take more, deepen the kiss, swallow every stunned, breathless noise you made.

You clung to him because there was nothing else in the world to hold on to.

He broke the kiss only long enough to breathe against your lips, voice rough enough to shake you. 

“You want to know what I think about?” His forehead pressed to yours, heavy and urgent. “This. Exactly this. You on me. Losing your mind. Saying my name like you can’t fucking help it.”

Your fingers fisted in the hair at the back of his neck and he groaned, sharp and guttural.

“And now that I’ve got you here?” His hand slid down your spine, slow, firm, and possessive. “I’m not stopping.”

You felt the world tilt as he stood in one fluid movement, lifting you with him like you weighed nothing. Your arms flew around his shoulders, instinctual, hanging on for dear life against the broad expanse of him.

He held you there, pinned against his chest, breathing hard: dominant, uncontrolled, and completely undone.

“Last chance,” he murmured, voice wrecked, “to tell me to stop.”

You met his dark, hungry eyes and shook your head.

“Bucky,” you whispered, “don’t you dare.”

His answering sound was not human.

And then he carried you out of the room.

*****

Bucky didn’t bother with lights.

He carried you through the dark corridors of the compound like he’d mapped every inch of the route in his sleep, which he probably had. Your legs stayed locked around his waist, arms looped tight around his neck, face buried against the warm crook of his shoulder. Every step jolted you against the thick ridge of his cock still trapped in his sweats, and the friction dragged soft, involuntary whimpers out of you. He didn’t comment. He just tightened his grip on your ass, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and kept moving.

The elevator ride down to the garage was torture.

He backed you against the wall the second the doors closed, mouth on your throat again, open and wet. Not biting yet, just sucking slow, deliberate marks, claiming the territory that was your skin. Your head tipped back against the cool metal, thighs squeezing his hips, hips rolling shamelessly against him because you couldn’t stop or even think straight. 

When the doors slid open, cool air hit your overheated skin like a slap. The garage smelled of oil, rubber, and metal. Bucky still didn’t set you down. He walked straight to his bike.

The black beast of a machine sat under a single overhead bulb, chrome glinting coldly. He’d parked it at an angle, rear wheel slightly cocked. 

He finally lowered you, slow, controlled, letting your body slide down the front of his until your bare feet hit the concrete. The chill shocked you awake for half a second, then his hands were on you again, spinning you so your back pressed to his chest and his hard cock nestled between the cheeks of your ass. One arm banded across your stomach, metal fingers splayed wide and possessive over your ribs. The other hand slid up to cup your jaw, tilting your head so you had to look at the bike.

“You still want it?” he rasped against your ear, voice gone gravelly. “Want to feel what you’ve been dreaming about?”

Your cunt clenched so hard you gasped. “Yes.”

He let growled out a low, approving sound and released you just long enough to swing a leg over the seat. The leather creaked under his weight. He settled, thighs spread, cock straining obscenely against the gray fabric, then patted the space in front of him.

“Get on.”

Your legs shook as you stepped forward. You hesitated for only a heartbeat, then hooked one knee over the wide leather seat and straddled it facing him, just like you’d imagined. The moment your nearly-bare pussy made contact with the cool, smooth leather, you moaned, loud, broken, and unashamed. It was colder than you expected, and the seam of the seat pressed right up against your swollen clit like it had been waiting for you.

Bucky watched you with hooded eyes, jaw tight, chest rising and falling too fast.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at you.”

You couldn’t look anywhere else but at him. Your hands braced on his thighs in front of you, hips already rocking in tiny, helpless circles because the vibration hadn’t even started and you were already drowning.

He reached past you, fingers brushing your stomach as he turned the key. The engine caught with a low, throaty rumble that vibrated straight up through the seat and into your core.

You cried out, sharp, surprised, and needy.

He didn’t rev it yet. He let it idle, watching that deep, steady purr roll through your body in slow, relentless waves. Your thighs trembled on either side of the seat. Your nipples ached under the thin tank top, hard enough to hurt. Slick coated the leather beneath you; you could feel it pooling, making every tiny shift wetter and hotter.

Bucky’s flesh hand settled on your hip, thumb stroking the sensitive skin just above your shorts. 

“Are you ready?” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You couldn’t speak, only franticly nod.

He twisted the throttle and the engine roared.

The vibration slammed into you like a fist.

Your whole body seized, back bowing, head falling back against his shoulder, mouth open on a silent scream that turned into a long, shattered moan the second air found its way back into your lungs. The seat thrummed beneath you, relentless, merciless, every pulse of the engine vibrating your clit over the leather in perfect, punishing rhythm. You ground down hard without thinking, chasing it, riding it, hips rolling in desperate circles.

Bucky’s grip tightened. His mouth found the side of your neck again, teeth grazing now, not quite biting but promising. “That’s it,” he growled against your skin. “Ride it. Let it fuck you.”

You were already gone.

The world narrowed to the growl of the engine, the slick slide of leather against your soaked folds, the iron-hard press of his cock against your ass. Every rev sent fresh shocks through you, deeper, harder, and faster. Your thighs shook violently. Your fingers scrabbled at the bars for purchase. Sweat beaded on your skin, dripping down your spine.

He revved it again, longer this time, holding the throttle open until the roar filled the garage and your body felt like it was coming apart at the seams.

The orgasm hit you like a freight train, sudden, brutal, and blinding. Your cry echoed off the concrete walls, raw and wrecked. Your hips jerked uncontrollably, grinding down so hard the leather creaked. Wave after wave ripped through you, cunt spasming around nothing, clit throbbing against the vibrating seat until you were sobbing with it, tears streaking your cheeks, body shaking so violently Bucky had to hold you upright.

He didn’t let off the throttle until the aftershocks started to fade, until your cries turned soft and hiccuping, until your thighs gave out completely and you slumped back against his chest, boneless, trembling, and wrecked.

Only then did he ease the engine down to a low idle again.

The sudden quiet was deafening.

You were panting, chest heaving, skin flushed and slick with sweat. His arms stayed locked around you, one metal hand splayed protectively over your stomach, the other stroking slow, soothing lines up and down your thigh.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, soft and almost reverent.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “So fucking good.”

You shivered at the praise, another weak aftershock fluttering through you.

He killed the engine completely.

Silence settled, broken only by your uneven breathing and the faint tick of cooling metal.

Bucky shifted behind you, lips brushing your ear again.

“That everything you imagined?” he asked quietly.

You raised your head just enough to meet his eyes, dark, still hungry, but softer now. Satisfied in a way that made your heart stutter.

You swallowed, voice wrecked. “Almost.”

His brows lifted, a slow, filthy smile curling his mouth.

“Almost?”

You nodded, shaky. “You still haven’t been inside me.”

His laugh was low, dangerous, and full of promise. “Then we’re not done,” he said. “Not even close.”

*****

The second your wrecked whisper hit the air something primal snapped loose in his chest. He’d been holding the reins all night, playing the slow burn, letting you unravel piece by piece because he wanted to savor it. But thatquiet, desperate admission burned the last thread of patience he had left.

He stopped mid-step, boots scuffing concrete. You were still cradled against him, legs wrapped around his waist, face flushed and eyes glassy from the orgasm that had just torn through you. Your cunt was still pulsing faintly against his stomach, slick soaking through your shorts and onto his skin. He could smell you, sweet, sharp arousal mixed with the faint leather-and-oil scent of the garage, and it made his cock throb so hard it hurt.

He was done waiting.

He pressed you backwards until you were laying back on the seat, your head between the handlebars. Perfect. That was exactly how he wanted you.

He reached with both hands down the front of your shorts. He didn’t tease. He just hooked two fingers from each hand onto the thin cotton gusset and yanked it apart.

The fabric tore with a sharp, satisfying rip.

You gasped, high and startled, and your eyes widened as your shoulders curled up, but he pressed his palm between your breasts, keeping you in place. Your ass lifted, thighs spreading just enough. The torn shorts hung open now, useless, your bare pussy glistening in the dim overhead light. You were swollen and dripping and ready.

“Fuck,” he growled low in his throat. The sight of you like this, splayed over his bike, legs trembling, cunt exposed and clenching around nothing, sent a fresh surge of heat straight to his balls.

He shoved his sweatpants down just far enough. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the head already slick with precome. He fisted himself, spreading it, then lined up. The blunt tip nudged your entrance, parting your slick folds, and you whimpered, needy and broken, lifting your hips like you couldn’t wait another second.

He didn’t make you wait.

One hard thrust and he buried himself to the hilt.

You cried out, loud and raw, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. Your walls clamped down around him like a vise, hot, wet, and fluttering, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from coming right then. Christ, you were so fucking tight. And so wet he could feel it dripping down his balls already.

He pulled back slow, deliberate, letting you feel every inch drag against your sensitive walls, then slammed back in hard and deep. The bike rocked slightly under the force, leather creaking.

Your head lolled back over the bars, your pussy taking every brutal thrust and wanting more. He watched himself disappear into you again and again, your pussy stretched wide around his cock, slick coating him, glistening in the low light. The torn fabric of your shorts framed it all obscenely.

“Goddamn, doll,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Look at you. Takin’ me so fuckin’ good.”

You moaned, thighs twitching over his to try to meet him stroke for stroke, greedy little movements that made his control fray even more. He gripped your hips with both hands now, fingers digging into soft flesh, and fucked you harder and faster. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the garage, obscene and rhythmic.

Every thrust jolted you forward, your nipples dragging against the tank top still clinging to your sweat-slick skin. He could see the way your back arched, the way your thighs shook, the way your fingers scrabbled at his forearms for purchase.

He leaned over you, chest to chest, mouth at your ear.

“You feel that?” he growled, hips snapping forward so deep you sobbed. “That’s what you’ve been aching for all night. Me. Filling you up. Fuckin’ you raw on my bike.”

You nodded frantically, words dissolving into whimpers. “Bucky—please—don’t stop—”

He wouldn’t dream of it.

He shifted his angle just enough, tilted his hips so the thick ridge of his cock dragged over that perfect spot inside you with every pass. Your whole body seized and a high, keening sound tore out of you. Your cunt spasmed, fluttering wildly around him, and he knew you were already close again.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice rough with strain. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it. Let me feel you soak me.”

One more hard thrust, deep and punishing, and you shattered.

Your cry was muffled against his shoulder, body convulsing, walls pulsing so tight around him it dragged him right to the edge. Slick gushed around his cock, dripping down his thighs, coating the leather beneath you. He fucked you through it, relentless, chasing his own release now.

“Fuck—fuck—” His rhythm stuttered and his balls drew up tight. Heat coiled low and vicious in his gut.

He slammed in one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go, and came with a guttural groan that rattled through his chest. Pulse after pulse flooded you, hot and thick, spilling out around his cock because there was no room left inside. You whimpered at the feel of it, hips twitching, milking him dry.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

There was just ragged breathing, the faint tick of the cooling engine, and the drip of come and slick onto the concrete below.

He stayed buried inside you, softening slowly, reluctant to pull out. His metal arm slid around your back, gentle now, holding you steady so you didn’t fall off the bike entirely. His flesh hand stroked slow, soothing lines up your thigh.

He pressed a slow kiss to your lips and trailed more soft lingering kisses down your jaw and your neck.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice hoarse.

You nodded, shaky, a small, wrecked laugh escaping you. “Better than okay.”

He smiled against your skin, something warm and possessive curling in his chest.

“Good.”

He finally eased out, slow and careful, watching the way his come leaked from you, thick and white, mixing with your own slick. The sight made his spent cock twitch despite himself.

He tugged what was left of your shorts back into place, pointless, really, since the gusset was shredded, and scooped you up again, metal arm behind your back and flesh under your knees, cradling you against his chest.

He headed for the elevator without hesitation.

“Shower,” he said quietly, lips brushing your temple. “Then my bed. And if you’re still aching after that…” His voice dropped, dark with promise. “We’ll see what else that bike can do.”

You shivered in his arms, already pressing closer.

He smiled.

Yeah. He was nowhere near done with you.

But then he leaned in, too close, and said low, under his breath: “Bet you’ve got more cushion than the couch at home.”

The glass in your hand froze midway to your lips. You blinked. Surely, he didn’t just say what you thought he said?

But then you heard a scrape of wood. The squeal of a chair sliding sharply against the floor.

And suddenly, Bucky was there.

His flesh hand landed firm and possessive on your waist, fingers pressing into your side. The black and gold vibrainium one was clenched at his side.

His jaw was tight. His voice, low and guttural, made the air chill.

“Say that again. I dare you.”

The guy blinked, confused, then smirked. “Whoa, man. Just a compliment.”

“That was not a compliment,” Bucky growled. “Apologize. Right now.”

The man’s bravado crumbled fast. He took one look at Bucky, shoulders squared, metal hand flexing, and raised both palms in surrender.

“Shit. Alright. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Not to me. To her!”

“Sorry, lady” the guy mumbled, backing off like a kicked dog.

Bucky didn’t move until he’d disappeared into the crowd. Then he turned toward you, eyes scanning your face with a mixture of concern and something deeper, darker.

“You okay?” he asked, his hand still on your waist.

You nodded, heart pounding, not from the confrontation, but from the fact that he was still touching you, still holding on like he didn’t trust the world not to come for you again.

“Bucky,” you whispered, not sure what you were about to say. Thank you? Let go? Kiss me?

But he was already pulling back, jaw clenched, eyes flicking toward the door.

“Let’s get out of here.”

You didn’t argue. You didn’t even say goodbye to the others.

You just followed him out into the night, the silence between you seething with all the things you weren’t saying.

*****

The night air wrapped around you, humid and heavy, nothing like the ice forming in your stomach from the way Bucky hadn’t said a single word since storming out of the bar.

Your heels clicked down the cracked pavement, each step bringing you closer to your apartment and the confrontation you weren’t sure you were ready for. His strides were long and stiff, his jaw ticking like he was chewing on a thousand unsaid things.

When you finally reached your front steps, you turned abruptly, blocking his path.

"Okay. What the hell was that?"

He stopped short, closer than he usually got. His eyes flicked up from your mouth to your eyes like he’d just realized how near he was.

"You shouldn’t let guys talk to you like that," he muttered, voice low and sharp.

You blinked. "I wasn’t. You just took care of it before I could even speak."

"Yeah. Because if I’d waited for him to speak again, I might’ve ripped his fucking throat out," he said, looking away.

You didn’t move. "Why, Bucky? You gonna fight every guy who looks at me sideways?"

His jaw clenched again. He looked like he wanted to walk away. Maybe he would have, but you pressed him again.

"Why does it matter so much to you?"

His eyes flickered. That sharp blue, glowing under the streetlamp like it burned with something unsaid.

"You really don’t know?"

He said it like a confession, like a sin.

"No," you whispered, breath caught.

He stepped forward, until your back hit the brick wall next to your front door. He placed one hand beside your head, the other ghosting down to your waist, fingers twitching just shy of your hip.

"I don’t wanna just be your friend," he said, voice a low, gritted growl. "I haven’t for a long time."

You blinked up at him, lips parted, heart thundering. His gaze dropped and lingered.

"You walked into that bar looking like that—" his eyes raked over you, "and I could barely fucking breathe. Do you even know what you do to me?"

Your breath hitched. “Bucky…”

He stepped even closer. Your bodies brushed, electricity crackling between you.

"You think I don’t see the way guys look at you?" His voice was almost a whisper now, like it hurt to say it. "Knowing they probably touch themselves to the thought of you?"

His fingers finally landed on your waist, pulling you into the heat of him.

"But they don’t get to touch you. Nobody gets to touch you but me."

The tether between you snapped in an instant. Your mouth collided with his, hands gripping the front of his shirt, dragging him closer. His kiss was feral, all teeth and tongue and desperation. He groaned into your mouth like he’d been starving for this, for you.

You opened the door behind you without looking and stumbled backward into the dark of your apartment. Bucky followed without letting go, slamming the door shut with his foot, never breaking the kiss.

Your back hit the wall again, and his hands roamed your waist, your hips, and your thighs. Big, rough palms that gripped you like he needed to feel every curve, every dip, every inch of you under his hands.

"Been thinking about this," he muttered against your lips, "for so long."

You moaned, arching into him. His thigh slid between yours instinctively, pinning you there.

“I dream about touching you here—" His hand slid down over your ass, squeezing hard. "—and here." His fingers skimmed between your thighs. You gasped.

"Bucky—"

“Say my name again like that,” he whispered darkly. “Say it like you want me.”

You whimpered his name again, breathless, and he lost all semblance of control, lifting you up without warning. Your legs wrapped around his waist, his mouth found your neck, and he groaned when he felt the skin there tremble under his tongue.

“I want to worship you,” he growled. “I want to ruin every thought you’ve ever had of another man.”

You pulled his face up to yours. "Then do it."

He carried you through the apartment like he was on a mission, lips never leaving yours except to whisper breathless, filthy things into your mouth between kisses.

“So fucking soft… I’ve dreamed of this body under mine. Every night.”

He laid you down on the couch like he meant every word.

Bucky straightened, eyes roaming over you with the reverence of a man who had waited far too long.

You tried to sit up, say something, anything, but he shook his head, kneeling between your legs and planting his metal hand flat on your belly to keep you still.

“Let me look at you.”

His hands moved like they’d been waiting years to do this—dragging up your thighs, your hips, over the dips and curves that made you you. He touched you like every inch mattered.

“Jesus,” he murmured. “You don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”

His eyes locked on your chest, the way your dress pushed against your skin from how hard you were breathing.

“I’ve fucked my hand to the thought of you more times than I can count.”

Your breath caught.

“Dreamed about how you'd feel. How you'd taste.”

He leaned forward, mouth dragging down your collarbone, biting gently, his stubble scraping just enough to make your toes curl.

You gasped when he tugged the straps of your dress down, exposing your bra, and when his tongue trailed along the edge of the cup, you nearly came undone right there.

“You think these curves should be hidden?” he growled. “Fuck no. These are mine.”

He peeled the rest of your dress off slowly, deliberately, his hands roaming your stomach, your hips, your thighs again like he was memorizing every contour.

“This is what my woman looks like. Christ, you’re everything I’ve wanted.”

Once you were stripped bare before him, nothing but bra and panties and nerves and desire, he stood and pulled you up into his arms again.

He carried you to your bedroom, kicked the door shut, and spun you to face the full-length mirror by your dresser. You opened your mouth to speak, but his hand slid up, gently wrapping around your throat, not choking, just holding you.

“Eyes up,” he said. “I want you to see what I see.”

You did. You saw your curves, your flushed cheeks, your kiss-swollen lips, and your trembling thighs.

And you saw Bucky behind you, eyes dark, chest heaving, hand on your throat like he owned you.

“You see that?” he whispered into your ear. “You make me insane.”

His metal hand moved over your stomach, down between your thighs, slow and firm.

“I’m gonna make you come like this. Watching yourself fall apart for me.”

Your head fell back slightly, and he squeezed your throat gently, just to make your body jolt and your breath catch.

“No, baby. Keep your eyes on the mirror. Watch how fucking beautiful you look when you come for me.”

His metal hand moved between your legs, fingers slipping past the damp lace, and you cried out, bracing yourself against the dresser. He kept whispering.

“That’s it. Moan for me. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

His fingers circled slow and deliberate, not rushing, not teasing too cruelly, and using just enough pressure to make your hips twitch forward, chasing more. The metal was cool against your overheated skin at first, then warmed quickly from how slick you already were, how desperately your body responded to him.

“Look at yourself,” Bucky rasped, voice gravel-rough against the shell of your ear. His other hand, warm fleah, slid down from your neck to cup your breast, thumb brushing over the stiff peak through the thin lace still clinging there. “Look how your thighs shake. Look how wet you are for me already.”

You tried to obey, but the sight was almost too much: your lips parted on shallow pants, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling fast under his palm. And he was tall and broad and dark-eyed behind you, jaw locked like he was holding himself back from devouring you whole.

His fingers dipped lower, parting you, sliding through the slick heat until he found your clit and pressed, firm and perfect, and your knees buckled.

He caught you instantly, arm banding around your waist, metal forearm like an iron bar across your stomach.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured, lips brushing the sensitive spot behind your ear. “I’ve got you. Not letting you fall until I’ve wrung every sound out of you.”

Then he started moving his fingers again, slow, filthy circles that made your hips roll helplessly against his hand. Every pass sent sparks racing up your spine. 

Your reflection showed everything: your mouth fell open wider, your back arched, pressing your ass back against the hard length straining behind his jeans.

“You feel that?” he growled, grinding forward so you could feel exactly how hard he was. “That’s what you do to me. Every time you walk past me in those tight little shorts. Every time you laugh at something stupid Sam says and your whole body lights up. I’ve been hard for you for months.”

A broken moan tore out of you. His fingers sped up just a little, still controlled, still precise, still torturing you in the best way.

“Tell me,” he demanded softly. “Tell me you’ve thought about this too.”

“I—I have,” you gasped, voice cracking. “So many times. In the shower… in bed… thinking about your hands… your mouth…”

His growl vibrated through your back. “Good girl.”

The praise hit you like a drug. Your thighs trembled harder; you were so close already, embarrassingly close, and he knew it.

“Don’t hold back,” he ordered, voice dropping lower. “I want to feel you come all over my fingers. I want to watch your face when you do. Want to see those pretty eyes roll back while you say my name.”

His thumb replaced his fingers on your clit with steady relentless pressure, while two metal digits slid inside you, thick and unyielding, curling just right.

“So goddamn tight. You’re dripping. You want me inside you this bad?”

“Yes,” you replied, breathless and close. “I want you,” you gasped. “I need you—Bucky—”

The stretch, the cool-warm contrast, the way he knew exactly where to press, shattered you.

“That’s it,” he breathed, lips against your neck, teeth grazing. “Give it to me. Let go, baby. Come for me. Right here. Right now. Watching yourself fall apart on my hand.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. “Bucky—” Your voice broke on his name, high and desperate.

The orgasm hit hard and sudden, ripping through you like wildfire. Your back bowed, head tipping back against his shoulder, mouth open in a silent scream that quickly turned into his name, over and over, broken and pleading. Your walls clenched around his fingers, pulsing, slick running down his hand as your legs shook violently.

He didn’t stop moving. He worked you through it, slow and deep, drawing it out until you were whimpering, until every nerve felt raw and electric.

When the last tremor finally eased, he eased his fingers out gently, brought them to his mouth, and sucked them clean with a low, satisfied groan that made fresh heat coil in your belly.

Then he turned you in his arms, slow and careful, like you were something precious.

His eyes were molten, pupils so wide the blue was almost gone.

He kissed you, slow this time, deep and claiming, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

When he pulled back to speak, his voice was wrecked.

“We’re not done.”

He lifted you again, effortlessly, legs wrapping around his waist like they’d found their new home.

“I’m gonna lay you down on that bed,” he promised against your lips, already walking you toward it, “and I’m gonna lick you until you’re crying for me to let you come again.”

He dropped you gently onto the mattress and stripped quickly, shirt first, then belt and pants. When you saw the hunger in his eyes and the ache on his face, you knew this was going to be a long night. When he was finally naked, hard length on full display, he followed you down onto the bed, caging you with his body.

He reached one hand behind your back and unclasped your bra with annoying ease. 

His mouth found your breast first, hot, open-mouthed, and with no hesitation.

He sucked the peak between his lips with a low, greedy sound that vibrated straight down to your core. The flat of his tongue dragged over your nipple in slow, deliberate circles before he pulled harder, teeth grazing just enough to make your back bow off the mattress. Your fingers twisted in his hair, holding him there, urging him on.

“God, these,” he rasped against your skin, voice muffled as he moved to the other side. “Been staring at them for months under every damn shirt you own. Wanted my mouth on them so bad it hurt.”

He latched on again, sucking deep, tongue flicking relentlessly until the sensation blurred into something sharp and electric. Your hips rolled up instinctively, seeking friction, but he pinned you down with one heavy forearm across your stomach, metal cool against your overheated skin.

“Stay still, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing wetly over the swell of your breast. “Let me take my time. I’ve waited too long to rush tasting every inch of you.”

He kissed lower, slow, open-mouthed trails down the curve of your stomach, nipping at the soft flesh there, groaning like the taste of your skin alone was enough to unravel him. When he reached the apex of your thighs, he didn’t tease long; he simply pulled your panties down your legs, spread you wider with both hands and buried his face between your thighs.

The first long, slow lick made your whole body jolt.

He groaned into you, the sound vibrating through your clit as his tongue flattened and dragged up again, savoring. Then he focused, circling, flicking, sucking gently, until your thighs clamped around his head and your hands fisted the sheets so hard your knuckles ached.

“Bucky—please—”

He pulled back just enough to speak, lips glistening, eyes wild. “You taste like heaven. You taste like you’re mine.”

Then he dove back in, relentless, until the second orgasm crashed over you, harder than the first, thighs shaking, back arching off the bed, his name torn from your throat in a sob.

He didn’t give you time to come down.

He crawled back up your body, kissing every mark he’d left, collarbone, breasts, the sensitive spot under your jaw, until his mouth found yours again. You could taste yourself on his tongue, salty and musky, and it only made you hungrier.

He settled between your thighs, thick and heavy against your entrance, but he didn’t push in yet. Instead he rocked slowly, sliding the length of him through your slick folds, coating himself, teasing your oversensitive clit with every pass until you were whimpering into his mouth.

“Look at me,” he ordered softly.

Your eyes fluttered open. His were dark, reverent, almost pained with how much he wanted you.

“I need to see your face when I’m finally inside you.”

You nodded, breathless.

He reached between you, notched himself at your entrance, and pushed in, slow, inch by devastating inch.

The stretch was exquisite, thick, hot, and perfect. Your walls fluttered around him, still pulsing from the aftershocks, and he hissed through clenched teeth, forehead dropping to yours.

He bottomed out with a low groan that rumbled through both of you, hips flush to yours, holding there for a long moment like he needed to feel every heartbeat wrapped around him.

“Say it again.”

You gasped, confused for half a second, then realized what reassurance he needed to hear, “I want you,” you breathed. “Only you. Always you.”

Then he started to move.

Deep, rolling thrusts, slow at first, letting you feel every ridge, every vein, every drag as he pulled almost all the way out and sank back in. The friction was maddening; the angle perfect, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

“Fuck… so tight. So wet. You feel better than I dreamed.”

Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper. He obliged, pace building, hips snapping harder, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room along with your shared moans.

“Feel that?” he growled against your ear, one hand sliding under your ass to lift you higher, changing the angle so he drove even deeper. “That’s me claiming every fucking part of you.”

You could only gasp his name, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails he’d wear like badges of honor tomorrow.

He shifted again, hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you wider, and the new depth made you cry out.

“Right there,” he rasped, watching your face with something close to obsession. “Right fucking there. You’re gonna come again—gonna come all over my cock while I watch.”

His metal hand found your clit, thumb circling in time with his thrusts, firm, steady, and merciless.

The pressure built fast, coiling tight and hot in your belly.

“Bucky—I’m—”

“I know, doll. I can feel you squeezing me. Come for me. Let me feel it.”

The orgasm ripped through you like a storm, white-hot, blinding, your whole body locking around him as you pulsed and clenched and sobbed his name. Your vision tunneled; all you could feel was him, thick and relentless, still driving into you through the waves, drawing it out until tears slipped down your temples.

He followed seconds later.

His rhythm stuttered, hips slamming deep one last time as he buried himself to the hilt and came with a broken groan, hot pulses filling you, his whole body trembling against yours.

He collapsed over you, careful not to crush you, face buried in your neck, breathing ragged.

For long minutes neither of you moved, there was just the sound of your hearts hammering, skin slick with sweat, his softening length still inside you like he couldn’t bear to leave.

Finally he lifted his head, brushed damp hair from your face, and kissed you slow and soft and a little tender.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, voice wrecked and reverent. “No more pretending. No more watching from across the room.”

You smiled against his lips, boneless and blissed-out.

“About damn time, Bucky.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, then rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his chest, legs tangled, his hand splayed possessively over the curve of your hip.

“Get used to it,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple. “I’m not letting you go.”

And as his heartbeat steadied under your cheek, warm and steady, you knew he meant every word.