555

The air in the room is heavy as velvet and smelling faintly of cheap tobacco and the wet, rain-soaked asphalt outside the window. You are drowning under a sea of paper, charcoal pencils, and the half-finished ink of a research project that feels entirely pointless while the rest of the world is spinning toward a war.

The desk lamp casts a low glow over your knuckles. You’ve been staring at the same sentence for an hour. It’s an oppressive kind of silence, the kind that makes you want to break something.

Bucky is there on the bed.For the last forty minutes, he’s been sitting on the mattress, idly flipping an unlit cigarette between his knuckles, pretending to be occupied. Slowly, you realize, the rhythmic movement of his hands has stopped. The cigarette slips out of his grip, rolling onto the sheets.

When you steal a glance, you see he isn't paying attention to anything else at all. He is just staring. His eyes are fixed entirely on the back of your neck.His broad shoulders are pulled tight, the muscles in his jaw ticking with a restless tension. He looks at you with an aching concern, waiting for you to notice him.

You deliberately choose not to turn around. The wood of your chair creaks softly under your weight, but you keep your eyes glued to the white pages, forcing your spine to stay rigid. There is a strict rule in this room, a line drawn in this Brooklyn apartment that cannot be crossed: no distractions while studying. The rule is simple, and it has to be followed.

It is a cruel kind of discipline because your boyfriend is dangerously attractive, a boy built out of old leather jackets, and bad habits. He is intimately familiar with you, knowing exactly where to touch you to make you forget your own name, let alone the words on a page. You can still feel his fingers on your skin from earlier. But the boundaries are set. You keep your face turned toward the lamp, your knuckles white against your pen.

He knows the rule just as well as you do, and he is staying in his corner of the dark. He is obeying you, sitting there with his jaw clenched and his broad shoulders are tense.

Bucky Barnes was never good at following simple rules. The rebellious streak that made him a legend on the Brooklyn boardwalks, a restless energy he could never quite contain.

“You've been staring at that exact same paragraph for twenty-three minutes, doll,” he murmurs. His gaze tracks the tense line of your shoulders with a lazy intensity, checking the clock on the wall just to prove his point.

“You’ve been keeping track of the time down to the exact minute, James?” you say softly. You twist your pen between your fingers, keeping your gaze locked onto the blurred text in front of you. “That’s unusually obsessive, even for you.”

A faint smile pulls at the corner of your lips as you keep your eyes fixed on the page, refusing to give him the satisfaction of your full attention just yet.

The mattress groans softly as he gets up from the bed, his leather shoes making no sound against the rug as he crosses the small room. Even as the warmth of his body approaches, your attention remains fixed on the paper, your eyes stubbornly tracking the same black lines of ink.

He steps up behind your chair, a presence that smells of rain, wool, and the sweet scent of his hair pomade. Without a word, he places his hands on your shoulders. His palms are warm, slowly his thumbs begin to press into the tense, tightly coiled muscles of your neck and shoulders.

He kneads the tension away with his large hands. For a boy who spends his days fighting on the streets or training for a war, he is entirely soft under your roof. He keeps his head bowed close to yours, silently waiting to see if you will finally break your own rule for him.

“You’re tight as a piano wire, doll,” he murmurs. “And don't tell me you're too busy for a breath. You've been reading the same line since the streetlamps came on.”

“I’m busy, James,” you insist, forcing your eyes to stay glued to the ink even as his fingers send a melting warmth straight down your spine.

He lets out a bitter chuckle. “Busy,” he repeats, the word tasting sour on his tongue. “Right. Or maybe you’re just avoiding me.”

The sharp accusation finally snaps your discipline. You drop your pen, and you finally turn around in your chair to face him.The defense you had prepared dissolves the second your eyes meet his.

Up close, his appearance completely distracts you. He is dressed in his casual loungewear—a lightweight cotton camp shirt with the top buttons left entirely undone, revealing the skin of his collarbone.Below, he wears a pair of dark high-waisted wool trousers, sitting loosely on his hips without a belt or suspenders. His dark hair is still neatly slicked back with pomade, but a few shiny strands have loosened over his forehead.

But it’s his eyes that lock you in place. They look bruised, dark with exhaustion, revealing that he hasn’t been sleeping well at all. Or, perhaps, that he has been staying awake craving something entirely out of his reach—hungry for a closeness that has been denied from him all night.

“I’m not avoiding you,” you say softly. “I’m just stressed. It’s a twenty-page paper, and the deadline is suffocating me.”

Bucky lets out a soft huff from his chest, his lips twitching into a lazy smirk. He doesn't take his hands off your shoulders, his thumbs smoothing over your collarbone. “Twenty pages?” his gravelly Brooklyn drawl dripping with exhaustion. “Jesus, doll. Sounds incredibly boring. No wonder your neck is stiff.”

“It is not boring,” you say. “The topic is actually interesting. It matters to me.”

Bucky lets out a rough chuckle. He keeps his hands resting firmly on your shoulders, his thumbs resuming their teasing rhythm against your collarbone.

He leans down just a fraction closer, his scent completely clouding your senses. “Is that so?” he whispers. “Tell me then, is that paper really more fascinating than I am?”

His hands slide slowly from your shoulders, before his fingers come to rest gently along your jawline. His touch is incredibly soft, holding your face like you are something fragile.

It is a desperate touch, and you both know why. It has been a full, excruciating week since you had shown him anything more than simple affection—just quick kisses at the door or a distracted squeeze of the hand. During that long week, Bucky had repeatedly tried to get your attention, bringing you cold bottles of Coca-Cola, or casually messing with his lighter just to hear you tell him to stop, practically begging for you to look at him.

Now, he finally has your eyes on him, and the hunger in his face is undeniable. As his thumbs slowly caress your jaw, his grip shifts, his touch becoming deeply intimate. He begins to lean down, his lips parting slightly as he chases the warmth of your skin.

The heat of him is intoxicating, but the sight of the open textbooks snaps you back to reality. Before his lips can find yours, you place your hands against his chest, gently pushing against the soft cotton of his camp shirt to stop him.

“James, stop,” you say softly. You look directly into his tired blue eyes. “There is still a mountain of work left to do on this desk. Look at all of these papers.”

Bucky freezes against your hands. For a second, he stays completely still, his thumbs lingering on your jawline. The cocky smirk vanishes entirely from his face, leaving him looking utterly defeated by your words.

“You always seem to have more work to do,” he complains. He looks down at you. “It’s always another book, another page, another hour.”

You don't let his frustration sway you, keeping your hands steady against his chest. “This is simply how earning a degree works, James,” you reply calmly. “It doesn't just happen. It takes time, and it takes rules.”

Then, unexpectedly, Bucky drops to his knees.The abrupt shift in his height catches you completely off guard. He sinks down right beside your chair. He doesn't say a word as he rests his large hands on your thighs, anchoring himself to you.

“Please,” he says. The word slips from his lips so quietly, that it is barely a breath.

“What are you asking for?” The question hits him visibly. Bucky struggles to answer, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard, his hands tightening their grip on your thighs just enough to show how desperately he is holding onto his composure.

The smooth-talking boy from the neighborhood is completely paralyzed under your gaze, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths as he tries to find the courage to tell you exactly how weak he is for you.

Many girls in Brooklyn would never believe this if they saw it. To the rest of the world, to every girl on the Coney Island boardwalk or in the crowded jazz clubs, Bucky Barnes embodies masculinity. He is the boy who is always confident, and entirely in control of every situation. He is the protector, the soldier, the leader of the pack.

But with you, he has always been like this. He doesn't want to be the leader here; he doesn't want the burden of control. He craves the exact opposite. He wants to beg for your scrap of attention, completely content to lay his pride on your floorboards if it means he gets to belong to you. With you.

Bucky swallows hard, his knuckles turning white against your thighs as he forces the words past his lips.

“Just... touch me,” he whispers. The request seems physically hard for him to make. “Please. It’s been a week, doll...” He trails off, struggling to express the weight of how much the distance has been affecting him.

You look down at him from your chair. “I know exactly how long it’s been, James,” you reply gently.

“It’s driving me crazy,” he confesses. “You not looking at me, not touching me for seven days. It’s driving me completely out of my mind.”

Your hand moves into Bucky’s hair, your fingers tangling into the thick, dark strands. You grip it firmly and pull his head back, forcing his chin up so he has no choice but to look directly into your eyes.

He makes a desperate sound at the sudden constraint. It is the kind of helpless noise that the proud Brooklyn boy would later feel deeply embarrassed about, a total betrayal of the smooth soldier persona he wears on the streets. But here, on his knees, he doesn't have the strength to hide it.

A faint smile plays on your lips as you look down at him.“Only a week without my attention, Jamie,” you murmur. “And you’re already acting this needy. What am I going to do with you?”

The moment the name leaves your lips, Bucky’s entire body goes rigid against your chair. Jamie. Hearing it now, while he is on his knees completely shatters whatever sliver of composure he had left.

“You’re pathetic,” you say.Bucky doesn't flinch, nor does he try to defend his proud reputation. Instead, he closes his eyes for a fraction of a second.

“I know,” He accepts the humiliation like a holy thing, his head bowing slightly under the firm grip of your hand.

“Stand up,” you command.He obeys immediately,rising until he is towering over your seated figure once again. But as he stands before you, you notice how profoundly the situation is affecting him. The confident of his posture is completely gone; his chest is heaving beneath the loose camp shirt.

His hands hover uncertainly at his sides.He is starving to reach out, to wrap his arms around you. Yet, he doesn't dare close the distance.Waiting with a beautiful patience for your permission.

Underneath the unbelted line of his high-waisted wool trousers, you notice the unmistakable outline of his bulge.A dark flush creeps up Bucky’s throat as he catches your gaze.

You slowly stand up from the creaking wooden chair, but your fingers never leave his hair. Using the grip to maintain your control as you slide your body close to his.

“You’ve been distracting me all night, Jamie,” you accuse him. You tilt his head back slightly, forcing his shadowed blue eyes to stay locked onto yours. “Sitting there on the bed, just staring at the back of my neck while I’m trying to work.”

“I couldn’t help it,” he admits. “I couldn't help it, doll... you're right there. You're so close to me all the time, and it's killing me. I need you. I just need you so bad.”

With a sudden movement, you push Bucky backward, catching him completely by surprise. For a boy who spends his days fighting on the rough streets, he offers absolutely no resistance against you; he lets out a breathless gasp as he stumbles over his own feet, falling onto the mattress with a soft groan.

You follow him onto the bed instantly. You position yourself over him, pinning his body down under your weight while keeping that unrelenting grip tangled in his hair. The glossy strands twist around your fingers, locking his head against the pillows as you look down at him from above.

“I'm paying attention to you now, Jamie,” you whisper against his skin. “Tell me... is this the kind of attention you’ve been wanting all week?”

His thighs buck up beneath you. He arches into your weight, his large hands finally coming up to grip the mattress on either side of his head.

“Yes,” he gasps out, the word breaking into a helpless sob. “Yes, doll...thank you.” He repeats it over and over again. He is begging, entirely unmade by your attention.

“Be still,” you command and he freezes instantly. The desperate motion of his hips halts mid-air, and he drops flat against the mattress, just because you told him to. You sit up over him, shifting your weight on his lap, feeling the thick, hard outline of his bulge pressing firmly against you through his trousers.

Slowly, your hands trail down from his hair, your fingertips sliding over the smooth skin of his jaw before resting against his chest. His heart is hammering like a trapped bird beneath your palms.

“Take your shirt off,” you tell him.Bucky’s breath hitches. His hands shake noticeably as he releases his grip on the bedsheets and reaches up to the remaining buttons of his shirt, his movements clumsy and hurried because he is so desperate to please you.

Bucky manages to get his shirt off, he shoves the lightweight cotton fabric off his broad shoulders, leaving it discarded somewhere in the dark corners of the mattress. In the golden fringe of the desk lamp, his bare chest looks striking.

You look down at his exposed skin, a satisfied smile playing on your lips as you slide your palms over the smooth contours of his chest.

“You behaved so well all week, Jamie,” you comment. “Keeping your distance, letting me work. Such a good boy.”

“I tried so hard,” he whispers, his voice thick with honesty. He lets out a defeated whine, his hands flattening against the sheets. “Jesus, I tried so hard to be good for you... it was killing me.”

“I know it was hard,” you murmur back, your hands slowly trail down the rigid lines of his stomach, your fingertips drawing a lazy path until they find the high waistband of his wool trousers.

The moment your thumbs slip just beneath the fabric, brushing against the skin of his hips, Bucky’s entire body goes completely stiff under your weight. His breath catches in his chest, his hips twitching in a tiny buck against your palms.

You slide your thumbs beneath the thick fabric of his wool trousers, your movements agonizingly slow. One by one, you pop the high-waisted buttons of his fly. He arches his back slightly against the mattress, a tortured groan vibrating deep in his chest.

Once the fabric falls open, you don't reach inside to give him the relief he is starving for. Instead, your hand trails back up the sweaty expanse of his stomach, until your fingers find his throat.

You lean in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear while your fingers wrap around his throat. Not enough to cut off air completely, just enough pressure to make him feel it.

Bucky just likes it wild,huh.

“Eyes on me,sweet boy,” you say. Your thumb strokes along his pulse point. “You don't get to come until I say so. You don't move withou my permission.You answer every question I ask, and you use your words. Understand?”

He nods, but you tighten your grip just a fraction, making him gasp. “Words,Jamie.”

“Yes,” he breathes, voice already rough. “I understand.”

Your fingers slip inside the open fly of his trousers, brushing over the damp fabric covering his cock. He twitches under the touch, hips jerking slightly before he forces himself still.

You hook your fingers into his trousers and tug them down his hips, the fabric sliding over his thighs until it pools around his knees. Bucky shifts under you, his breath hitching. Your hand moves next, gripping the edge of his underwear and yanking it down in one motion.The head is already glistening with pre-cum that beads at the tip and starts to drip down the shaft.

You wrap your fingers around his throat again, applying that steady pressure he craves while your other hand points directly at the leaking head. “Look at that,” you say. “Already dripping all over yourself. Such a mess before I've even touched you properly.”

Bucky's cheeks flush deeper, his cock twitching visibly under your gaze. You ease off his lap, sliding back until your feet touch the floor beside the bed. He stays where he is, propped against the pillows, trousers and underwear shoved down to his knees.

You take a deliberate step back and start with your blouse, peeling it up and off in one smooth motion. The fabric drops to the floor. Next come your skirt, unbuttoned and pushed down your hips until they pool at your ankles. You step out of the fabric slowly, letting him see every inch of skin revealed. Your underwear follows last, sliding down your thighs until you're bare in front of him.

Bucky's eyes track every movement, pupils blown wide. His cock jerks hard. “You like this, Jamie?” you ask, voice low and teasing as you stand there naked, letting him look his fill.

He swallows hard, throat working under the faint red mark your hand left earlier. “Yes,” he breathes, voice rough. “Fuck, yes,doll.”

You settle back onto his lap, thighs bracketing his hips as you reach down and wrap your fingers around his cock. The shaft is hot and slick, pre-cum coating your palm the moment you close your fist around him. You give one slow stroke from base to tip, thumb dragging over the swollen head to spread the mess.

Bucky’s breath catches. His eyes stay locked on yours. “please,” he whispers, voice already ragged. “Please… fuck.”

You stroke him again, tighter this time, twisting your wrist on the upstroke. More pre-cum wells up and spills over your knuckles. He twitches hard in your grip, hips jerking once before he forces them still.

“Please,” he says again, almost desperate. “Thank you. Feels so good. Please don’t stop.”

His cock throbs between your fingers, another thick bead of slick leaking out with every pass of your hand. You keep the pace steady, watching the way his stomach tightens and his thighs tense under you. Every time you squeeze near the head he lets out another shaky “please,” the words tumbling out like he’s been trained to say them.

You lean in closer, your bare chest brushing his shirt, and keep stroking him while he repeats the words, voice cracking with need. “You been thinking about this all week, Jamie?”

He swallows, then manages to nod. His hair is stuck to his forehead, dark strands plastered with sweat.That's not nearly enough for you. “Words.“ You command.

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice cracks on the single syllable. He clears his throat, tries again. “Yeah, I — all week. Couldn't think about nothing else.”

You let your palm rest flat on his stomach, feel the muscle jump under your fingers. He's warm and shaking a little.

“I knew you'd be like this,” you say. Conversational. Like you're talking about the weather. “Saw you watching me at my desk all weeks.”

You curl your fingers, drag your nails light across his stomach, and his breath catches. “That's what I mean. I knew you'd be like this. Desperate.Touch-starved. One week without my hands on you, and you're falling apart,sweet boy.”

His brow furrows. Something flickers across his. “You... you knew?”

“Mmhm.” You take him back in your hand, and the sound he makes travels right through your palm and up your arm. His hips tilt into the touch, and you let him have that half-inch of friction before you settle into a rhythm.

His head falls back against the pillow. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, that's...fuck — that's good,sweetheart.”

His cock is slick in your grip, and you use your thumb to spread the wetness down his shaft, and his hand shoots out.His fingers close around your waist,just above your hip.

And then he freezes.You see it the second he realizes what he's done. His eyes go wide, his hand stays where it is.

Your hand stops moving.“Jamie.”

“I know.” It comes out strangled. “I know, I just... I forgot, I didn't mean to, I just—”

“You grabbed me without asking.” He closes his eyes. The hand on your waist is trembling now. “Yes.”

Slowly, you lift your hand from his cock. Let it hover an inch away. Let him feel the absence of it. “No, please,sweetheart.”

His hand slides off your waist and falls to the mattress.“I'm sorry,” he says again, and his voice cracks. “Please. Please don't stop. I'll be good. I'll be so good, just, please, I need, I need your hand on me, I need it so bad, I can't —”

His chest is heaving. His eyes are wet again, but this time they're searching yours, desperate for a sign, for a crack in the wall.“I'll be good,” he whispers. “I promise. I'll be so good for you.”

You place a finger on his lips, and he falls silent immediately, his breath hitching.“Shh,” you murmur. “I know.”

He shudders beneath you, his hips twitching involuntarily. He's hard, aching, the length of him pressing against your thigh. But he doesn't move,he waits. He always waits.

You shift your weight, positioning yourself above him. The head of his cock nudges against your entrance, and he gasps, his hips bucking up instinctively before he catches himself. “Please,” he breathes. “Please, sweetheart, I'll be good. I'll be so good.”

You don't answer. You hold his gaze, watching the fear and want war in his eyes. Then, slowly you sink down onto him.

The sound he makes is broken. A sob and a moan tangled together, torn from the depths of his chest. His eyes roll back, his jaw going slack, and you feel him pulse inside you as you take him inch by inch, filling yourself with him. “Look at me,Jamie.”

His eyes snap to yours, wide and wet. There are tears clinging to his lashes, and his lower lip trembles.

“What happens when you break the rules?”

He swallows hard, his throat bobbing. “I get punished.”

“That's right.” You begin to move, a slow, rolling grind that makes him gasp. His hands clench in the sheets, his knuckles white, his whole body trembling with the effort of staying still.

“You wanted to touch me,” you continue, your voice low as you rock your hips. “So now I'm going to use you. I'm going to ride you until I'm satisfied, and you're going to lie there and take it. You're not going to come until I say so. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he chokes out. “Yes, I understand. I understand.”

You pick up the pace, rising and falling on his cock, your hands braced on his chest. The sound of your bodies meeting fills the room.

He's so beautiful like this. So undone. His hair is splayed across the pillow, dark and disheveled. His eyes are fixed on you, worshipful and desperate. His mouth hangs open, helpless sounds escaping with every thrust.He lies there, taking it, letting you use him exactly as you please.

You lean forward, your breasts brushing his chest, your lips close to his ear. “You're doing so well, Jamie,” you murmur. “Taking me so perfectly. My good boy.”

A sob escapes him, and a tear slips down his cheek. “I love you,” he breathes. “I love you so much. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

“I know.” You kiss the tear away, tasting salt. “I know you are.” You ride him harder, chasing your own pleasure now. His hips twitch beneath you, but he holds still, his restraint absolute. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his eyes never leaving your face.

“Close,” he chokes out. “Sweetheart, I'm close. Please—can I—”

“Not yet.”

He groans, but he nods.You take what you need, moving over him until the tension coils tight in your belly.

You rise slow, almost to the tip, and then sink back down just as slow, letting him feel every inch of your heat, every clench of your inner walls.

Beneath you, Bucky is a study in restraint.His hands are still fisted in the sheets, but his knuckles have gone white, the tendons in his forearms standing out like cords. His chest heaves with each ragged breath, his ribs rising and falling beneath your palms. His eyes are locked on you, wide and glistening, pupils blown so dark there's hardly any blue left.

“Please,” he whispers, not even knowing what he's begging for anymore. “Please, sweetheart, please—”

You ignore him. You take more. “Shh.” You slow your pace, almost stopping, and he whimpers at the loss of friction.

You begin to move again, building the rhythm back up, faster now, harder. His cock slides in and out of you, slick with your combined arousal, and you can feel yourself climbing toward the edge, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly.

You can feel yourself getting close. The coil in your belly is wound tight, ready to snap. You increase your pace, chasing the peak, your breath coming in short, sharp pants. “That's it,” you gasp. “That's it, Jamie. Take it. Take all of me.”

“Let go,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “Let go, sweetheart. I've got you.”

The words break something inside you. The tension snaps, and pleasure crashes through you like a wave, fierce and overwhelming. You cry out, your body convulsing around him, your nails raking down his chest.

He watches you come undone with reverent, tear-filled eyes.When you still, panting, spent, he's still hard inside you, still trembling on the edge.

“Now,” you whisper, giving him the release he's been begging for. “Come for me, Bucky. Fill me up.”

His back arches, his mouth opening in a silent cry, and you feel him spill inside you, hot and deep, his whole body shuddering with the force of his release.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're still straddling him, his seed trickling down your thighs. His chest heaves beneath you, his eyes closed, his face slack with exhaustion and relief.

Then his hands come up to cup your face, so gentle. His thumbs brush away the sweat on your cheeks, and he looks at you with such overwhelming love that it steals your breath.

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you down against his chest, holding you close. His heart hammers beneath your ear. “I love you,” he murmurs into your hair. “More than anything.”

And in the dark, you let yourself be held.

It’s to compensate the fact that you have a deadbeat dad an emotionally unavailable mother.

You didn’t have friends and you didn’t need them.

All you need is for a figure to tell you did a good job and suddenly your whole life feels complete. For a second anyways and then the feeling would disappear and suddenly you are desperate for it again.

You were never a devout christian. You were not even sure if you believe in god. You weren’t one until you were fifteen, but hearing praises from Aunt Clarice and Uncle Jones about what a good christian girl you were was enough to make you feel giddy inside. Fill up the void inside your body.

You were broken and easily manipulated. This led you to become fully committed to a faith your family doesn’t even practise.

Then owen taylor came and everything changed.

He was young, he was good looking, he was nice and respectful.

He was the leader for your youth group.

Doesn’t take long for all the little girls in your group to talk behind your back about how you will bat your eyelashes to him.

But that’s the thing, you didn’t.

You didn’t know why but you just couldn’t look at him. Every time your eyes met with his, you looked away. Every time he came up to you, you’d said yes and would walk away.

He was too intimidating. His height always towering on you, his eyes piercing into your soul and it seems that no word can leave your mouth when he is around you.

The other girls were shocked, for the first time you were not kissing someone’s ass.

“Do you hate me or something?” A voice appeared behind you as you jumped, startled as you thought you were alone in the woods.

You almost dropped all the wood and sticks you collected, and your heart beats fast in your chest. As your mind turned blank and you didn’t know what to do.

“I-no… I’m just collecting fuel for the f-fire” God weren’t on your side and your grasp on the sticks and wood in your hand loosened and some of them fell onto the ground.

Owen bent down, chuckling to himself as he helped you picked up the pieces.

“I’m here to make sure you’re okay, it’s not good out here for a pretty girl like you to be out in the dark” He muttered as he handed you the wood. “You shouldn’t have left alone, anything happens to you, I’m responsible”

“I’m older than everyone there, I’ll be f-fine” You tried to disregard what he just said and move on.

“Are you gonna ignore what I said? You seem to not like me very much. Word goes around saying you’re the nicest girl in this community. Break’s my heart you’re not treating me the same way” In a way, he sounded condescending. You did not know if he was trying to tease you or if he was being genuine. However, the soft smile on his face tells you otherwise.

He steps closer to you, a little too close.

“I’m sorry if I ever did anything to offend you” He muttered sincerely even though he hasn’t done anything bad to you.

For a moment you felt bad.

He didn’t say anything else to you as he turned and walk away with the sticks that he picked up.

You stood there in the dark, as you sighed. You walked back to the campsite with a frown on your face.

When you sat down, owen was already looking at you, giving you a small smile.

For the first time, you smiled back.

.

The next week, you had walked to his house despite it being a 20-30 minute walk, you enjoyed walking. It was a quiet town, everybody was nice to you and everybody knew you. You didn’t feel any danger walking around. However, it would’ve been best if you took your car because now the pie was gonna get cold. You clutched it tightly making sure to not drop it.

You tried knocking on his front door but no answer so your first instinct was to check out his backyard and luckily, he was there.

“Hi” You greeted as owen looked up, raising his brows in confusion, “I’m sorry to barge in on you, but I felt bad about how I acted since you came back. I would like to offer a gift as an apology” You held out your apple pie as he slightly laughed.

“That’s uh… nice, you can put it on top of my porch” He pointed out as you placed the pie carefully on the porch, covering it with the cloth and luckily it was still warm. You walked back towards owen as you just stood there looking at him tending his garden, his clothes were covered in dirt, his shirt clinging onto his body because of his sweat.

He stood up, as he rubbed off his hands on his jeans. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes with a lighter as he placed on between his lips. You watched as his sun-kissed biceps flexed, finding it eerily attractive for him to smoke. It should be a sin to be this good-looking, his muscles flexing without him even trying.

“Got something on my face?” He muttered the cigarettes still in between his lips as he took off his cap and adjusted his hair and put it back on, “You’re staring, sweetheart. Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?”

There it is again, you could never tell if he was flirting, teasing or if he was being serious. What comes out of his mouth was enough to make your stomach flutter but it was also enough to make you anxious as well. One of the reason you can’t stand being around him.

You wished he would just stay working as a missionary.

“I’m s-sorry, I’m just thinking a lot. I mean I always do” Then he does that thing again, where he walks up close to you, looking down on you with so much concern. All you could do is look up at him with fear in your eyes, you didn’t know why. He was not a scary person, nor was he a creep.

“What are you thinking about then?” He challenged, slightly tilting his head, his presence remains demeaning.

“It’s nothing, my mom is going to get worried… I should get home” You stepped away, as you clutched your bag. “It’s getting dark, I hope you enjoy your pie”

“Hmm, how did you get here?” He hummed.

“Uh… I walked?” The statement made his eyes widened.

“You walked?” He exclaimed, shaking his head. the thought of you walking the woody roads in this creepy town. No, he couldn’t imagine it.

“Yeah, I don’t know I enjoy walking to places” He scoffed in disbelief, as he ran inside to grab his car keys.

“Let me send you back home, your momma wouldn’t want a good girl like you to walk alone in the dark now, would she?” Your heart thumped in your chest. You thought about if he knew what he was doing. If he was aware of the words he was saying the effect he had on you. You tried hard to let it off your mind.

However, you had a thing for praises.

This is different. This was much different from your teachers and your townsfolk praising you. When they praised you it made you feel happy, it made you feel whole.

But this? This gives you the feeling that you rarely had. The burning pit in your stomach that travelled down to the most sinful part of your body.

The feeling you try so hard almost every night to get rid of because you knew god was watching.

You didn’t want to argue with him, so you followed him to his car.

.

In the car ride, he was driving slowly. It seemed like he was trying to painfully drag the awkward silence in the air, or maybe he is just being careful.

You could tell he would steal glances at you every now and then.

Until he broke the silence.

“I like your dress” You hummed in surprise as you look down at what you were wearing as if you had forgotten what you put on today. The yellow sundress, it was modest. It covered anything it needed to cover, however owen could still tell the cleavage popping out from your chest. You didn’t need to know that.

“Uh… T-thanks”

And then it was silence again.

However, this time you were the one who kept stealing glances at him. Looking at his hands while he drives as you noticed the engagement ring on his left hand. You wanted to curse yourself for acting this way to a married man.

He had caught you in the act, eyes meeting with each other but this time you didn’t look away.

Your throat ran dry, so did your lips. You instinctively darted your tongue out slightly to wet your lips, owen’s gave fell down to it as his jaw clenched.

Luckily, before he could say anything you arrived at your house.

You said you thanks to him, leaving in a rush as you ran inside your house.

owen’s eyes trailed behind you as he watched you disappear inside your house.

“Fuck” He cursed to himself, as he drove back.

This time it was much faster than before.

.

“Owen needs help cleaning his study, I can’t since I have allergies. Can you cover for me?”

The request felt like something burdening. For the first time in your life. You never turn away tasks and chores. You do them, always. But as you were walking towards his office, you felt the sense of dread and impending doom. As if something bad was about to happen.

You knocked on his door as he yelled out for you to come in. When you walked in, he seemed shocked to see you.

“Leslie had allergies, she asked me to cover for her” You explained as you sighed, looking at the cluttered mess. “Anything I need to know before I start?”

“Uh… nothing much. Just arrange it like how you would clean your room. However, just make sure to tell me where you put stuff” You nodded as you got straight to work.

So far, everything went well. Owen stayed in the other side of the room while you handled your side. He hasn’t said anything to you. Which was great.

There were books that you wanted to place on top of the shelf, however the height was challenging for you. You tried to look for a stool for you to step on but before you did, owen stepped right behind you, taking the book in your arms as he placed it on top of the shelf.

You felt his back pressing on you, his bulge on your hips. Your heart was thumping hard in your chest and you didn’t understand why he didn’t move.

You turned around, as your faces were merely inches apart.

“Owen?” You muttered, your eyes never leaving his. His eyes keeps trailing up and down your eyes and your lips.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?” He grumbled, as his face moved closer to the point where you can feel his hot breath on your face. At this point you felt like you surrendered. You surrendered to all the feelings and temptation deep inside. You closed your eyes, your breath was heavy.

And then you felt it.

His lips against yours, pressed softly at first as he groaned. You whimpered softly, you had never kissed anyone and you couldn’t believe the one that took your first kiss was your youth pastor who was much much older than you.

He pulled away, grabbing your chin “Been wanting to do that since the moment I saw you, who gave you the right to be this pretty hmm?”

"I-I've never kissed anyone before, I'm not good at it" You stammered, feeling the fear an excitement at the same time. It was wrong, you knew it was so wrong but you couldn't help it. If owen was kissing you right now, than that means you were so much better than his wife. It doesn't make you feel less bad, it's just the feeling of being better feels... better.

"Well, now it’s the time that you learn sweetheart. Hmm?” You nodded eagerly as you pressed your lips into his swiftly, “No… no, why don’t you be a good girl and listen to me while I teach you?”

You nodded again.

“Slowly…”

“Now pucker you lips slightly, follow what I’m doing”

“Yes just like that, you’re such a good girl”

“open your mouth”

“glide your tongue against mine softly”

“You’re so good at this now, look at you baby”

“Is this how you kiss someone?” You asked innocently, as his face turned into a scowl.

“No baby, this is how you kiss me. No one else” He pointed out as you shuddered, you clenched your thighs together as the feeling from your core was getting unbearable. You didn’t know what to do. Owen looked down at your clenched thighs as he smirked, “What’s got my baby so worked up? Tell me”

“Y-you” He hummed, his fingers grazing your thighs as you whimpered. His hands slowly trailing from the back of your knee all the way to your inner thighs and when he was about to touch your cunt, your legs closed on his hands.

“Tsk… tsk… be a good girl and open it up for me sweetheart, let me take a look at you” You opened your legs slowly, owen scrunched your dress up to reveal your panties. That was soaked in the centre.

His fingertip found your bulging clit, slowly rubbing it as you whined. A feeling you’ve never felt before. owen decided to put more pressure as you immediately caved in, thrashing around like a slut. His cock was at its limit, it was so hard it could pop out of his pants.

“So responsive… Nobody good enough to get to touch you baby?” He teased, his head buried in your neck, peppering soft kisses on your skin.

“N-no… just y-you”

“That’s what I thought, god made this cunt for it to be mine. You hear that? You were sent down from god to be mine” In a swift motion, he tore off your panties as you squealed. “Now let me take a very good look at your pretty little cunt, sweetheart”

He kneeled down, spreading your pussy lips open as he growled.

“It’s fucking crying for me, you’re so wet baby” Owen stood up, unbuckling his pants as his belt clattered to the floor. “I bet it’s fucking easy to put it in, it’s gonna be so slick because of how wet you are”

“Owen, I’m s-scared… The girls at the church says it hurts and I will b-bleed” Suddenly fear overcame your senses, you started to sob. just the mere thought of the size of him makes you tremble. Owen, wide-eyed and shocked started wiping your tears.

“Hey hey, it’s gonna be okay… don’t cry baby” He shushed you as he embraced you in his arms, “It’s not gonna hurt i promise you, it’s gonna feel so good, I’m gonna make you feel so good baby”

You winced when he started to rub his tip on your throbbing clit, you whined at the feeling as you couldn’t deny how good it feels.

“Look at it baby, it’s hurting you know? It needs to be inside you to feel better. Aren’t you a good girl? do you want me to be hurt?” You shook your head as you sniffled, “Because you’re my best girl right? of course you don’t want me to be in pain”

You nodded, as he wiped your tears again, “How bout this baby, I’ll do it once and if you don’t like it I will never do it again. Okay?

“O-okay…”

Owen wasted no time trying to push his tip into you tight walls, even though you were sopping wet, your virgin cunt had never had something as big as him. Never even had anything inside.

“Fuck you’re so tight, you’re so fucking tight”

“Owen, it h-hurts, go slowly!” You exclaimed as your nails dug into his shoulders

“I know baby but you’re such a strong girl for me” Owen pushed his throbbing cock inside your pussy slowly, stopping every now and then for you to adjust. He would wipe your tears when you were in pain, kissing the top of your forehead. “Fuck it’s so fucking warm, feels so good sweetheart. You’re such a good girl”

Once it was fully inside the pain subsided. It started to make you feel so full, full of him.

Owen started thrusting slowly, letting you enjoy the feeling of his big hard cock rubbing against your tight walls. After that you started seeing stars.

Owen increased his speed, boldly fucking you deeper and deeper until his movements were rough and sloppy.

He felt like cumming but he wanted you to cum first and so he rubbed your clit as he thrusted into you.

“Owen! Owen, somethings happening i feel like p-peeing!” You screamed out, you couldn’t care less about who heard you however knowing how late it was nobody was there.

“Let it out, let it all out baby. You’re gonna feel so good” You had mistaken your first orgasm as something completely different. Your toes curled as you sunk your teeth inside his shoulders to suppress your screams.

“Fuck I’m gonna cum, I can’t take it anymore” In a swift motion he pulled out and shoved you down so you were kneeling. Your knees burned as you looked at him pumping his cock furiously.

Beads of cum showers your face as you whimpered in surprise. Owen had his head tilted back, groaning out of pleasure as he paints your face white with his cum.

Owen grabbed your chin, tilting your head up as he admired his work.

Masterlist.

Notes: Hi! I should really be working on the drafts I have, but this idea just popped into my head and helped me get past a little writer’s block.

You’d been trying to pay attention to Bucky for almost half an hour.

With his usual calm demeanor, he was telling you how that day’s mission with Sam had gone. He talked about a chase that ended sooner than expected, his partner’s constant jokes, and a plan that had gone surprisingly well. You nodded from time to time, even smiled out of sheer habit, but in reality you hadn’t heard half of what he was saying. Your mind was trapped in a single thought that repeated itself over and over, impossible to ignore.

The positive pregnancy test.

The little plastic strip was still tucked away in your sock drawer, as if its mere existence had upset the balance of your entire life. You felt it took up a lot of space, even though it barely took up any at all. Ever since you’d seen it that morning, emotions had swirled inside you in a way that was impossible to sort out: fear, uncertainty, nerves, surprise, and a strange sense of hope that you still didn’t dare to accept.

You had no idea what to do.

During your early dates, the two of you had talked about starting a family. It had been a calm conversation, without arguments or promises. Bucky had admitted that he hadn’t imagined himself as a father and wasn’t even sure he could ever be one; after everything he’d been through, the idea of bringing a child into the world seemed too overwhelming to him. You, for your part, didn’t feel it was the right time either.

And yet, there you were.

Facing a situation neither of you had planned for.

The silence between you began to stretch because you had stopped responding several seconds ago. Bucky finished speaking and waited for a reaction that never came. That was when his senses picked up on what your words weren’t expressing.

Your heart was beating too fast.

The rapid, irregular, and persistent rhythm made him turn his full attention to you. He noticed the slight furrow of your brow, the tension in your jaw, and the way your fingers nervously fiddled with the rim of the cup resting on the table.

His expression changed instantly.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Are you okay?” he asked in a soft voice, full of concern, as he leaned slightly toward you.

His hand sought yours on the table and gently wrapped around it, giving it a light squeeze, as if to remind you he was there.

That simple gesture finally broke down the barrier you’d been maintaining throughout the conversation.

The words slipped from your lips before you could finish turning them over in your head.

“I think I’m pregnant.”

Time seemed to stand still.

A complete silence settled between you, heavy and almost tangible. Bucky’s eyes widened slowly until they were wide with surprise, as the air left his lungs in a held breath. His fingers trembled slightly around yours, unable to hide the impact of the confession.

You lowered your gaze and let out an unsteady sigh, trying to control the lump that had formed in your throat and the anxiety coursing through every corner of your body.

“I took a pregnancy test because my period was later than usual…” you murmured in a low, tense voice, feeling as though every word required an enormous effort. “I thought it would be a false alarm, but… it came back positive.”

As you finished your sentence, silence once again enveloped the room with an almost suffocating intensity. The world seemed to have come to a sudden halt. Only the sound of their breathing broke the stillness, along with the rapid beating of your heart, which Bucky could still hear with absolute clarity. Each beat revealed the fear you were trying to hide behind a serene expression. They both remained motionless, realizing that a few words had been enough to completely change the course of their lives.

“When…?” he whispered, almost to himself, his gaze lost somewhere on the table.

The question didn’t seem directed at you, but at his own memories.

He looked down as he mentally reviewed every moment of the past few months, trying to find an explanation. Then he remembered. His expression slowly changed until it twisted into a small grimace filled with recognition and regret.

That night.

The only time they had both completely cast caution aside, convinced that nothing would happen, letting themselves be carried away by desire, closeness, and the heat of the moment.

In her memory, that slip had seemed insignificant. Now she realized that just once had been enough.

Her fingers tensed slightly before slipping from yours.

You parted your lips shyly, ready to say something—anything—to break the silence or calm the growing anxiety that was beginning to settle in your chest. You wanted to explain that you didn’t expect an immediate answer, that you didn’t know how to feel either, that the two of you could work it out together.

But Bucky stood up before you could utter a single word.

The movement was so sudden that the chair slid a few inches backward, making a sharp clatter against the floor.

He ran a hand over his face, breathing heavily as he avoided looking directly at you.

“I need some air…” he said in a low voice, though the weight of those four words fell on you like a slab of stone.

There was no anger in his tone, nor rejection, but there was no calm either. Just a confusion so deep that he seemed unable to stay another second within those four walls.

You watched him walk with hurried steps toward the apartment entrance. He grabbed his jacket from the coat rack almost out of habit, without bothering to put it on properly, and opened the door.

For a moment, you thought he would stop, that he would turn his head to say something else or to reassure you.

It didn’t happen.

The door closed behind him with a sharp click that echoed throughout the room.

You stood motionless, staring at the spot where he had disappeared, as silence once again took hold of the apartment. The pressure in your chest increased immediately, and fear began to make its way through all the thoughts you’d been trying to hold back.

☆

The faint blue glow from the TV was the only light in the room you shared with Bucky. Images flashed one after another across the screen, accompanied by the distant voices of a show you’d been trying to follow for over an hour without success.

You were sitting on the bed, your back against the headboard and your legs drawn up to your chest, wrapping both arms around them as if that small gesture could hold you together while you felt everything else beginning to fall apart.

Your eyes remained fixed on the television, but they didn’t really see what was happening on it.

Your mind kept returning to the same place over and over.

The positive test.

Bucky’s expression when you told him.

The way he’d let go of your hand.

And, above all, the door closing behind him.

It had been almost five hours since he left the apartment.

Five hours without a call.

Five hours without a reply to any of the messages you’d sent him with trembling hands—messages that had gone from a simple “Are you okay?” to a worried “Just tell me where you are.”

The phone lay beside you on the sheets, completely silent.

You were worried about him.

You knew that the idea of becoming a father had never held an important place in his life. After everything he’d been through, the decades that had been stolen from him, and the burden he still carried for acts he hadn’t even committed while in his right mind, starting a family seemed like a dream reserved for other people.

He had never told you he didn’t want children, but he hadn’t said he wanted them either.

And now the decision had gone from being a distant possibility to an unexpected reality.

Yet, as you thought about him, it was also impossible not to think about yourself.

About what that new life growing inside your body meant.

About how it would change your future.

About whether you would be able to handle it.

About whether you would be alone.

A lump formed in your throat as you tried to hold back the tears that threatened to return.

The only sound that managed to snap you out of your thoughts was the unmistakable turn of a key in the front door lock.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Then came the creak of the door as it opened, followed by the soft thud as it closed again.

And finally, the heavy echo of boots echoing through the apartment.

You lay motionless on the bed, your gaze fixed on the bedroom door, listening as those footsteps moved slowly down the hallway. Each one seemed to last an eternity.

The doorknob turned and the door opened slowly.

Bucky stood in the doorway for a few seconds before entering. For the first time since you’d broken the news to him, his eyes met yours.

Silence settled between you once more.

You couldn’t help but notice the state he’d returned in.

His hair was more disheveled than usual, as if he’d run his hand through it countless times. The shadows under his eyes seemed to have deepened, betraying that he hadn’t found peace during those hours either. His jacket was still on, slightly wrinkled, and his shoulders remained tense.

But what caught your attention most was the expression on his face. There was fear and guilt.

His eyes scanned the room until they settled on the only source of light: the television.

He was silent for a few seconds before speaking, in that deep, restrained voice that barely let his true feelings show.

“You’re going to ruin your eyes like that…”

It wasn’t a rebuke; it was the only everyday thing he could think to say.

He walked over to the light switch and turned on the room’s light.

The warm glow instantly filled every corner.

You winced slightly at the sudden change in lighting and turned your face away a little, too late to hide what was obvious.

Your eyes were swollen and red. Dry tear stains remained on your cheeks.

Bucky stood still, his jaw tightening slightly. He looked down for a moment before looking back at you, as if he’d been struck by a silent blow.

He didn’t say “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t someone who found words easily, but the way he took a deep breath and stood motionless was enough to make it clear that he regretted leaving you alone for those hours.

With slow, measured movements, he took off his jacket, draped it over a nearby chair, and walked over to the bed.

The mattress sank slightly as he sat down beside you, leaving just a few inches between you and turning his back to you.

He didn’t try to touch you, but he didn’t move away either. He simply stayed there, his forearms resting on his legs and his hands clasped, staring at the floor as he searched, unsuccessfully, for the right way to sort through everything going through his head.

Silence settled in again, heavy and uncomfortable. Filled with questions neither of you dared to ask.

Several seconds passed before Bucky slowly exhaled.

“I walked down to the pier…” he murmured without looking up. “Then I kept walking. I wasn’t planning on going anywhere… I just needed my head to stop making noise.”

He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and fell silent again.

“I didn’t answer because… I didn’t know what to say.”

The words came out clumsily, forced, as if each one took an enormous effort.

“And because I was afraid of saying the wrong thing.”

You felt a twinge in your heart and could barely manage a shaky exhale as you watched his back.

“I was never good at this.”

He didn’t specify what he meant, and you weren’t sure what he was referring to either. Maybe he meant talking, feeling, imagining a future, or becoming a father. It was probably all of those things at once.

The distance between you was still just a few centimeters, but the real obstacle wasn’t physical.

Your nails dug lightly into your legs before you began crawling toward him to gently take his chin and make him look at you.

He let you do it, and his eyes finally met yours. That blue you loved so much looked different; there was no anger or rejection, only a deep, silent fear mixed with an uncertainty that seemed to have robbed him of his breath.

For a moment, it seemed to you that you were looking at the soldier who had survived a war, not the man who always found a way to protect you.

You traced the rough line of his beard with your thumb.

“What do you want to do?” you asked in a barely audible whisper.

The question hung between you.

Bucky closed his eyes for a second, and his face twisted into an expression that was hard to read—a bitter mix of guilt, vulnerability, and resignation.

He was fully aware that this decision belonged solely to your body and your life. He also knew that he would never try to push you toward a choice that would benefit him over you. Even if he felt terrified, even if the idea of being a father overwhelmed him.

"I'll support you... whatever you decide." His voice was deep and low, almost hoarse.

It was the only certainty he had amid the chaos.

He paused for a moment longer before adding, almost as if he were struggling to get the words out.

"I don't know if I'll do this right... But I won't let you carry this burden alone."

☆

The next day, the uncertainty was still there.

After a nearly sleepless night, you began to convince yourself that maybe that home test had simply been wrong. After all, even pharmacy tests could yield false positives.

It was a possibility, so you clung to it with all your might.

After discussing it briefly over breakfast—if you could even call a cup of coffee you barely touched and the untouched toast on the plate breakfast—you decided to go to the hospital.

An ultrasound could provide answers almost immediately, and you wouldn’t have to endure the endless wait for a blood test.

When they called your name in the waiting room, your stomach turned instantly.

You stood up, your legs trembling, and without even thinking, you reached for Bucky’s hand and gripped it tightly.

He remained seated for another second, motionless, his back stiff and his gaze fixed on the floor. He seemed unable to force himself to walk through that door, not because he wanted to leave, but because he feared what he might find on the other side.

He stood up and walked behind you after you gently took his hand.

The office smelled just like the rest of the hospital: a clean, pungent mix of disinfectant and antiseptic products. However, the atmosphere was different.

The lights were warmer, and the walls were covered with informational posters about conception, birth control methods, fetal development, and drawings showing the approximate size of a baby week by week.

Your eyes lingered for a moment on each one.

Week 4—Poppy seed.

Week 6—Lentil.

Week 7—Chickpea.

Week 8—Cherry.

Week 9—Olive.

And the weeks and illustrations went on.

The illustrations seemed absurdly small for the enormous change they represented.

You swallowed hard as you clung to Bucky’s hand.

Your fingers were cold, and so were his. The slight tremor in his fingers betrayed that he was just as nervous as you were.

He stood beside you with his shoulders slightly hunched, staring at the floor as if he found it impossible to look up at any of those images. His jaw remained tense.

When the specialist told you to lie down on the examination table, you obeyed with slow movements. You lifted the fabric of your clothes just enough to expose your abdomen.

Moments later, the contact of the cold gel on your skin drew a small, involuntary grimace from you. A shiver ran through your entire body.

Without realizing it, you squeezed Bucky’s hand tighter, and he reacted almost reflexively, interlacing his fingers with yours and holding them firmly.

The careful squeeze of his hand was enough to make you understand that, even though he was still emotionally lost and the words remained stuck in some corner of his chest, he had decided to stay with you until he knew the answer.

The room was enveloped in an expectant silence.

The doctor moved the transducer calmly over your abdomen while watching the screen in front of her intently.

To you, that mass of shadows made no sense at all.

To her, every little change seemed to say a lot.

You felt your breathing start to quicken, and Bucky noticed it instantly.

Without taking his eyes off the monitor, his thumb began to slide slowly across the back of your hand—an almost automatic movement that he probably wasn’t even aware he was making.

It was strange and overwhelming for him.

A man who had survived wars, experiments, and decades of violence was completely defenseless in front of an ultrasound screen.

The doctor remained silent for a few more seconds, and your imagination began to fill in the blanks.

Maybe the test had failed after all.

Maybe your period was just coming soon.

Maybe...

“There it is.”

Her voice interrupted the whirlwind of thoughts.

She pointed to a tiny dot on the screen.

“It’s still very early, but we can see the gestational sac.”

You felt the air leave your lungs.

It wasn’t a mistake.

It wasn’t a false positive.

It was real.

Your eyes remained fixed on that tiny image, trying to understand how something so small could change two people’s lives so completely.

Bucky’s hand tightened around yours.

He didn’t say anything and didn’t even blink; he seemed to be holding his breath.

His gaze remained fixed on the monitor, as if trying to memorize every shadow despite not fully understanding them.

The doctor continued explaining a few things about the estimated gestational age, prenatal vitamins, and the tests that would be advisable to perform over the next few weeks.

Her voice reached you like a distant murmur. Neither of you seemed to be processing much; you just nodded.

At one point, the specialist smiled kindly, already accustomed to all kinds of reactions to this news.

“Would you like to hear the heartbeat?”

You turned your head toward Bucky, who remained completely still.

His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, but for the first time since they’d entered the office, he seemed to lose control of his expression.

He looked completely vulnerable.

And, almost imperceptibly, he shook his head before closing his eyes for a moment.

It wasn’t a “no.” It was someone trying to muster enough courage for something he couldn’t bring himself to say because of the weight of the moment and his fear.

“We… We need to talk about this first,” you murmured, your voice strained by the wave of emotions.

The doctor nodded understandingly, printed out some images, and began wiping the gel from your abdomen before walking over to Bucky’s side, where her desk was.

“It seems to be developing as expected for the sixth week,” she explained calmly. “We’ll schedule another checkup in a few weeks and proceed according to your decision.”

You nodded automatically and slowly sat up on the stretcher.

Bucky remained seated where he was, staring at one of the photographs the doctor had just placed on the desk. He seemed unable to take his eyes off that small gray smudge.

Finally, he stood up and slowly let go of your hand to pick up the image between his fingers with an almost absurd delicacy, as if he were afraid of breaking it. He looked at it for a long moment before carefully putting it away in the folder the doctor had given them along with all sorts of recommendations and informational brochures.

He didn't say a word.

He didn't ask any questions.

He just stayed by your side, supporting you when it seemed like the strength in your legs was about to give out.

☆

The days that followed weren't easy.

Both of you tried to cling to a routine that no longer felt entirely your own, as if pretending nothing had changed might delay the moment of facing reality.

You made a conscious effort to carry on with your usual life. You went to work, tidied the apartment, read, replied to messages, and tried to fill every minute with some activity that would keep your mind occupied. There were moments when you even succeeded. For a couple of hours, you forgot the constant fear that had settled in your chest, the uncertainty about the future, and the enormous decision that was still waiting for you.

But those moments of calm never lasted long; something always came along to bring you back to reality, and anxiety would wash over you like a wave.

Things didn’t seem any easier for Bucky either.

He kept taking on missions with Sam, though not as often as before. He started turning down smaller jobs and heading back to the apartment as soon as operations were over.

He didn’t say why—and probably never would—but it was clear he wanted to be close to you, even if he still didn’t know how to be there for you.

Many times he would sit on the couch while you read in silence. Other times you simply shared the same space without exchanging more than a few words, finding a strange sense of calm in each other’s mere presence.

It was his way of saying he was still there.

There were days when the tension seemed to grant you a respite, and you looked like yourselves again.

You’d curl up on the couch under a blanket to watch a movie neither of you paid much attention to, sharing a bowl of popcorn while Bucky complained about the main character and you ended up laughing at his comments.

Other afternoons, you’d cook together. He would chop vegetables with precision while you tried to steal a piece of carrot from him before it made it into the pan, causing him to shake his head and hide a barely perceptible smile before kissing your forehead.

They even resumed their habit of going for walks around the city. They wandered through familiar streets, small cafes, and parks where time seemed to move more slowly.

For a few hours, they managed to forget... Or at least pretend they did.

But the subject of the baby always found a way to come back.

It would surface when you caught yourself imagining how his life would change if you decided to continue with the pregnancy. When you wondered if Bucky could ever feel happy with that possibility. If the two of you could truly become a family.

It also came up during those walks when you passed a pregnant woman absentmindedly stroking her belly, a father pushing a stroller while a baby slept peacefully inside, or a little hand clutching its mother’s tightly as they crossed the street.

Then your steps would slow, your gaze would linger a few seconds longer, and the weight would settle back onto your shoulders.

Bucky never made any comments or asked what you were thinking, but he always noticed the change. He saw how your smile faded little by little, how your fingers unconsciously sought to rest on your abdomen, and how the sparkle in your eyes dimmed.

He could only walk beside you, keeping silent as he felt that familiar tightness settle in his chest.

The words remained trapped inside him.

He had learned to survive without uttering a single word for far too many years, and now, when he needed them most, they wouldn’t come out either.

The nights were the worst.

There were times when the weight of the decision would end up crushing you.

You’d wait until you were sure Bucky was breathing deeply before carefully slipping out of bed, leaving behind the warmth of the sheets and the arms that, even in his sleep, seemed to reach out for you.

Silently, you walked with the folder in your hands to the dining room and opened it once more to reread every brochure and recommendation with obsessive attention.

You read about prenatal vitamins, nutrition, hormonal changes, and medical checkups. Then you turned to the pages that talked about abortion clinics and the procedure.

You set them aside and always ended up doing the same thing: you held the ultrasound photo between your fingers.

The corners were slightly bent, and the paper had lost some of its stiffness from all the times you’d held it in the early hours of the morning.

You slipped out of bed again and again to look at that blurry image where you could barely make out a tiny white dot.

That was all.

A tiny speck.

And yet, it already occupied every corner of your mind.

What you didn’t know was that those worn corners weren’t just your fault.

Many nights, when he woke up and found your spot empty, Bucky would wait a few minutes before getting up and finding you sitting at the table.

He didn’t interrupt.

He simply returned silently to the bedroom, and when you finally fell back asleep, he was the one who left.

He stood in front of the open folder for minutes, sometimes for over an hour, staring at the same photograph without moving, feeling a fear and vulnerability that were completely foreign to him.

A silent terror that no mission, no battlefield, and no enemy had ever managed to awaken in him.

He never told you that he also looked at that ultrasound.

He never confessed that he already had it etched in his memory.

You sighed softly as you held it between your fingers. With the tip of your index finger, you slowly traced the tiny, barely visible figure on the paper.

According to one of the posters in the doctor’s office, when you found out, it was the size of a lentil. Now it was close to the size of a cherry.

It was a tiny difference, and yet, to you, it meant that time was still moving forward.

For days you’d tried to imagine every possible scenario and had made mental lists, thinking about work, money, the future, fear, Bucky, and yourself.

You’d tried to make a decision based solely on reason, but, for the first time since it all began, you stopped trying to convince yourself of an answer and simply listened to the silence.

Slowly, you brought your hand to your belly, which was still flat. Yet you felt a twinge in your chest at the thought of it being empty by your own choice.

You closed your eyes as you realized that the fear was still there, but it was no longer fear that was guiding your thoughts.

It was something else.

A small, fragile, and hard-to-explain feeling that had been growing almost without your noticing over those days.

It was hope.

Your lips trembled before forming a tiny, almost imperceptible smile, and tears slowly rolled down your cheeks.

They weren’t tears of anguish.

Not entirely.

They were the silent relief of someone who, after weeks of doubt, had finally found an answer.

“I want to get to know you…” you whispered, your voice breaking.

The decision was made.

The fear hadn’t disappeared; it had simply stopped being greater than love.

☆

When the first rays of sunlight began to filter through the bedroom curtains, drawing golden lines across the rumpled sheets, you slowly opened your eyes.

The first thing you saw was Bucky, who was already awake.

He lay on his side, his metal arm resting on the mattress and his elbow bent to support his head in the palm of his hand. He’d been watching you in silence for who knows how long, with that almost hypnotic calm and intensity so characteristic of him, as if while you slept he were trying to read all the thoughts you were never able to put into words.

You blinked a couple of times before letting out a sleepy sigh.

The sound snapped him out of his own thoughts, and his lips curved into a faint, discreet smile—so small that anyone could have easily missed it.

“Good morning, sweetheart…” he murmured in his deep, hoarse voice.

He leaned slowly toward you. First he placed a soft kiss on your cheek, then another at the corner of your lips, and finally a slow, gentle kiss on your mouth.

“Good morning, Buck…” you replied, your voice barely audible against his lips.

For a few moments, everything seemed to return to normal.

It was the same tranquility as any Sunday morning. Those mornings when neither of you was in a hurry to get up and you could spend an hour or even two under the sheets, embracing without saying much, stroking each other’s hair, sharing absent-minded kisses, or simply enjoying each other’s warmth while the world kept moving on outside the windows.

A sanctuary that had always belonged only to the two of you.

But something in your expression made him slowly step back to get a full view of your face. His blue eyes scanned every inch of your face, searching for that look he knew so well.

It was the look you had when you’d already made a decision and were gathering the courage to say it.

The faint trace of his smile vanished.

The silence in the bedroom was broken only by the distant traffic beginning to fill the streets and the soft rustle of the sheets as you slowly sat up. Bucky did the same.

“I know what I want to do…” Your voice came out almost as a whisper.

Bucky barely looked up, and there was something in his expression that broke your heart. He looked like a wounded animal trying to stay still so no one would notice how much pain he was in.

Your fingers sought his, and you wanted to intertwine them as you had so many times before, but he remained still, his hand unmoving.

You took a deep breath and spoke.

“I want to continue with the pregnancy.”

Your words came out soft, firm, and without hesitation, and yet they seemed to strike the air with impossible force.

Bucky remained completely still.

He didn’t respond.

He didn’t pull his hand away.

His expression didn’t change.

He simply sat there in front of you, watching you as if he needed several seconds to grasp the meaning of those five words.

Then he slowly lowered his head, and his lips parted slightly as if to say something, but nothing came out. He tried again, and only a muffled sound escaped.

His throat moved with difficulty as he swallowed, and his chest began to rise with deeper breaths than usual.

Fear had suddenly taken hold of his entire body.

It wasn’t fear of the baby or of the decision you’d made. Because during those days, as he walked with you through the city or lay awake staring at the ultrasound in the middle of the night, he’d discovered a truth he’d never wanted to admit.

He wanted to be a father with you and no one else.

He wanted that pregnancy to continue.

He wanted it more than he ever thought possible.

He wanted to meet that little life.

He wanted to hear that tiny heartbeat at the next appointment.

He wanted to be with you as your belly grew little by little.

He wanted to hold your hand during every checkup and for the rest of his life.

He wanted to try to be better for you and for that little boy or girl.

He had even caught himself imagining a messy room with toys on the floor, little footsteps running through the apartment, and a tiny voice calling them “Mom and Dad” while they both laughed as they prepared dinner.

He had allowed himself to imagine a home.

And that was precisely why the fear was unbearable. He had never longed for anything so intensely since regaining his freedom, and he had never felt such terror at the thought of not being up to the task.

The questions began to crowd his mind, giving him no respite.

What if he didn’t know how to be a father?

What if he wasn’t truly free and one day lost control?

What if his past caught up with them?

What if she deserved a simple life, far from someone like him?

What if her children deserved a different father?

He looked down at his own hands—the flesh-and-blood one and the vibranium one—and studied them as if seeing them for the first time.

He remembered the wars, the orders, the HYDRA labs, the lives he had taken, and the names he could never forget.

When his gaze settled on the gleam of the dark, golden metal, all he could think of was the gray metal with the red star. An unbearable shame squeezed his chest.

How could he imagine holding a newborn with hands that had been used to kill for so long?

How could someone who still woke up some nights convinced he was still a weapon promise protection?

The weight of each of his thoughts kept him frozen and unable to speak—that was why he was silent. It wasn’t because he rejected your decision, but because he accepted it so deeply that fear had left him speechless.

He only returned to reality when he felt your trembling hands encircling his face with infinite tenderness. As he looked up, seeing the tears streaming uncontrollably down your cheeks, something inside him snapped, and an unbearable pressure squeezed his chest.

His silence had lasted so long that you began to interpret that absence of words in the worst possible way. You thought he didn’t agree with your decision, that he could never accept that future... That, sooner or later, you would both end up going your separate ways.

That possibility, reflected in the pain in your eyes, was infinitely more terrifying to Bucky than any of the ghosts he carried with him.

For a moment, all the ghosts of his past fell silent.

Now there was only you, crying in front of him, thinking you were going to lose him.

His breath caught.

He raised a hand with obvious hesitation, as if even that gesture cost him an enormous effort, and ended up covering one of yours that you were holding against his cheek.

His fingers held you with desperate strength, as if he feared you were going to pull it away.

He slowly shook his head.

He tried to speak, but his throat kept closing up long before he could utter a single word.

The inability to speak made him feel more helpless than any enemy he had ever faced.

“No…” he finally managed to say, his voice breaking.

He swallowed with difficulty and looked down for just a second before meeting your gaze again.

“Don’t think that.”

His thumb began to absentmindedly stroke the back of your hand. It was a clumsy, instinctive movement, the same one he made every time he tried to calm you down without finding the right words.

“I don’t want… you to leave.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “I want the same thing you do…”

That confession was so quiet it was almost lost amid the noise from outside.

“I’m scared. Really scared.”

He said it plainly, without trying to hide it; it was a brutal honesty that he was finally letting out into the open.

Bucky looked so fragile and vulnerable, until he finally broke down.

His eyes had filled with tears without warning, and a sob welled up from deep within his chest.

His hands wrapped tightly around your waist—but without choking you—as he did his best not to cry like a little child on your shoulder.

You didn’t hesitate for a second to cling to his body as you let yourself cry after all the fear and anxiety that was beginning to dissipate. You could finally feel relief knowing you wouldn’t be alone.

Bucky let out a brief, bitter laugh, filled with disbelief in himself, and shook his head.

“I’ve been imagining it for days,” he confessed, almost ashamed, his voice breaking slightly. “I see you walking around the apartment with the baby in your arms.”

For the first time, a tiny smile appeared on your face through your tears as you heard him.

Bucky looked up fully. His eyes were glistening with small, unshed tears, and there was an obvious, immense fear, but there was also a certainty he was finally ready to voice.

“I want to meet our little one.”

The words hung between you.

Bucky seemed surprised to have said it out loud and without trembling, as if a weight had just been lifted from his shoulders.

“I want to hear his heartbeat at the next appointment.” His lips trembled as a smile full of emotion appeared on his face. “I want to watch him grow…”

His gaze slowly drifted down to your still-flat abdomen, and with reverent slowness, he brought his vibranium hand to rest upon it. The tremor running through his fingers was entirely human.

“And I want to be there when the baby is born.” His voice broke again. “I want to hold him.”

He fell silent for a few seconds to compose himself.

“I still think you deserve better than me.” He admitted in a whisper.

You shook your head quickly. You searched desperately for his gaze as one of your hands reached out to touch his face again, but his metallic fingers gently caught your hand and pressed a kiss against the back of it.

“I’ll probably think that for a while,” he whispered as a tear rolled down his cheek. “But I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to be the man you both deserve.”

You threw yourself at him without thinking, and Bucky barely had time to react before wrapping both arms around you with absolute firmness. You buried your face in his shoulder while he buried his in your hair.

They stayed like that for several long minutes.

Without speaking.

Without moving.

The future remained uncertain, but for the first time since that positive test forgotten in your drawer, the two of you stopped facing it alone.

They would face it together.

Coming home just a couple of days before the summer holidays, the only weight you carried was that of the bag slung over your shoulder; there was nothing to worry about now except the presents you had to buy and the friends you were going to miss.

You felt it as soon as you opened the door, the house lacked the emptiness you had been preparing yourself for. Your father always took a trip during the summer, to Kenya or the Bahamas, frankly he went wherever his girlfriend of the month wanted to go, and you usually held fort in your childhood home, on your own. It was good to be on your own for a couple of days, good to see old acquaintances, good to go out to the bars with nobody waiting for you to come home, to tell you how late you were, how bad drinking was. But that evening, the house was warm, and as you walked through the hallway you could hear the faint hum of the TV, two male voices chatting over it.

You froze in the hallway. You recognized those voices, they were the same voices that told you to wear your shin guards during soccer practice if you didn't want to sprain your ankle again; the same voices that joked about school and summer jobs if you misbehaved, voices of the men that had sewn up countless childhood injuries, laughing lightheartedly at your despair. Voices of adults who hovered at the edges of your childhood like guardrails, never distant enough to forget them.

Hearing them now, after two years, felt strange. Scary, in a very childish way. For a second there you missed your father, you wished he didn't travel during your summer break. If he was there he'd make everything better, less awkward.

Jack was saying something about the game on TV, about a ref who needed glasses. Robby hummed in response, noncommittal, that familiar sound that meant he wasn't really listening. The sound, deep and coarse, slid straight under your skin like it always had.

You stood there longer than necessary, keys still in your hand, coat half-unbuttoned, already starting to sweat. You hoped, stupidly, that the stillness would change something, that you would also hear your father's voice, telling you he hadn't actually left with his girlfriend on vacation, that it was all a ruse, that Jack and Robby were only there for dinner. But you knew better than that.

When you finally stepped forward, the hallway seemed too narrow, like it had shrunk while you were gone. You felt as if, actually, the whole house had shrunk during your absence, as if a semester in college had turned you into Alice and your childhood home into wonderland.

Jack noticed you first, as always. His head snapped up, eyes widening. You'd grown. He let his eyes roam freely, hungrily, before his face rearranged itself into something carefully appropriate. Robby followed a second later, slower, his gaze landing on your legs and lingering just long enough to feel heated before he looked away.

You were acutely aware of how different everything was, how different you were. Alice in wonderland, you thought.

"Hey," Jack said finally, softening his voice like he was approaching something skittish, a fawn or a bunny.

"Hey," you echoed.

You should've felt annoyed at their intrusion, and for a second you almost had, before their eyes landed on you, and you felt a tight, unfamiliar flutter low in your stomach.

"Didn't know you were getting here so soon." Jack said. It was merely an observation, a simple comment, but it made something in you stir uncomfortably.

"Yes, I, uh...had no class, so..." You nodded, lips pressed together in a thin line.

"Right, college schedules." Robby murmured from his place on the couch, barely lifting his eyes to look at you.

You shrugged, suddenly aware of how young you must have sounded, how juvenile, how stupid. Once again feeling like you hadn't caught up to reality yet. You told yourself it was from driving too long, and not from seeing Jack and Robby like this. You were no longer a kid, you told yourself, yet you felt like one beneath their careful eyes.

"I thought the house would be empty", you said finally, because the silence had grown too thick to ignore. Jack’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly, something tightening around his mouth. "Yeah," he said. "About that," before he could go on, Robby stood up, slow and deliberate, his voice cutting in with none of Jack’s earlier cushioning.

"Your dad asked us to be here," he said, slowly, plainly. He spoke as if you already knew you deserved this, as if he were telling you these were simply the consequences of your own actions. "While you’re home."

Just like that, all your hopes—all your expectations for this summer, which had been simmering for so long—vanished. No partying, no late nights bleeding into early mornings, no freedom. You were back to square one, back to the way things had been when you were a teenager. It was infuriating. Sure, you liked to party more than most, and yes, you drank when you went out, but it wasn’t a problem. Maybe, deep down, your father knew—but he was so terribly protective of his little girl, sometimes he forgot you weren't so little anymore.

It had been in the winter, during your holidays, that he'd come to be familiar with your going out routines. The too short skirts, the young men picking you up in their loud cars, the coming back in the morning, clothes on haphazardly and eyes hazy. He had told you then he found your ways embarrassing, no young lady should behave like this! he said. But all of your friends were the same, and your father was old...what did he know, anyway? It made no sense to you. You had believed it was over, there was no shame, no consequences to your actions. You had been so wrong.

"So that’s it?" you said, your voice rising despite yourself. "He decides I’m a problem and sends you two to keep me in line?" You huffed out a humorless laugh. "God, that’s humiliating."

Robby didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked more settled now, like this was the version of the conversation he’d been expecting all along. The only thing giving away his annoyance was the seriousness in his eyes and the tick of his jaw, "He asked us to make sure you don’t do anything stupid again," he said evenly. "He had a reason to worry, kid."

"Wow..." You shot back, anger seeping beneath your eyes, stinging. "You talk to your residents like that? Tell 'em they're stupid?"

Jack stepped in immediately. "Hey—no one’s calling you stupid. That’s not what this is."

"But it is" you said, eyes locked on Robby. "He just did."

Robby’s jaw tightened, his voice raised. "We are here because you’ve given your father a reason to worry."

You felt heat rush to your face, the tears prickle your lash line. "You don’t get to say that! You barely know me, stop acting like you do."

"Oh, but I know enough," he replied. "Late nights. Parties. That call he got last spring at two in the morning—"

"You weren’t there," you snapped. "So don’t act like you know what happened, Michael."

Robby’s eyes narrowed slightly, lingering a second too long on your lips, watching the way you bit them nervously before snapping back up to your eyes, exasperated. The sharpness in your voice, your defiant nature, the furious rise and fall of your chest, all of it hit him somewhere deep and familiar, uncomfortable.

He was supposed to be the bigger person. He was supposed to be looking out for you. But instead, he was acting up. He felt the heat in his chest, the subtle awareness of how close he was standing, the way your perfume invaded his space.

You, for your part, felt it too. The way he lingered close to you, hands twitching angrily at his sides, the tilt of his head as he watched you breathe. It was impossible not to notice him, not as your dad's friend, not as an authority figure, but just as a man. Just as him.

Robby, who had once spoken softly and carefully as he picked a splinter from your palm, hands carefully caressing your skin, murmuring about how brave you were; Robby who had bandaged your sprained ankle, laughing with you about how you should maybe forgo running in stilettos. He had always been so sweet, so welcoming, watching you with wet, wide eyes. But you couldn't think of him like that, no. He was your dad's friend, what would people think? What would he think if he knew? You hated yourself a little bit for it, hated that even as you glared and barked at him, a small, absurd part of you was still drawn in, distracted by the bobbing of his throat when he swallowed, the heat under his gaze.

Robby exhaled through his nose, exasperated and tired. "I'm not here to argue with you, I'm here because a friend of mine asked me to be," he said, his voice colder now. "I'm going to bed. We can talk in the morning, when you've...cooled off." He was already halfway up the stairs when he finished talking.

You scoffed. "Don’t flatter yourself!"

Jack stood up, rubbing his temple, looking suddenly exhausted. "He shouldn’t have said it like that," he said carefully. "He’s not good at...this."

You crossed your arms, heart still pounding. "At what? Treating me like an adult?"

"At remembering you've got perfectly good decision making skills, at not being overbearing with everyone around him...I've gotten used to it." Jack said, softer now, with that same careful edge, like he was trying to protect both of you from the tension that had just exploded.

Jack bent down and picked up your bags like they weighed nothing, ignoring your complaints. "I've got it, don't worry."

He followed you up the stairs, keeping his eyes glued to the floor no matter how much he wanted to trail them up your legs. He noticed the varnish in the stairs, the chipping paint.

It was strange being in your childhood room again, it always was. It served as a bittersweet reminder of the person you had once been, posters on the walls and photographs with people who no longer were in your life.

"Here," Jack grunted as he set the bags on the floor, "now, you should get comfortable, get some sleep...don't mind Robby."

You nodded, hummed in agreement and closed the door behind him. You peeled off your clothes unceremoniously, sick of them sticking to your skin with sweat. You laid in bed, wearing a flimsy tank top and shorts, trying to combat the heat and whatever it was you were feeling. It wasn't anger, not really, it was closer to shame. But you would never let Robby know that.

After rolling around nervously in bed for a bit, hearing the tv from the living room in the background, you mustered up the courage to walk downstairs, deal with whatever uncomfortable conversation the universe threw your way.

You were relieved to find Jack alone, tidying up the kitchen with the television as background noise. He looked up when he heard you, a soft smile spreading on his face. "Couldn't sleep?"

You shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. "Was overthinking."

Jack set the last dish aside, wiping his hands on a towel before leaning against the counter. His eyes softened when they found you. "Want some company?" He noticed your eyes widen and quickly added "I mean, you can talk to me if you want, or we can sit in silence, watch tv if it helps take your mind off things."

A smile tugged at your lips. "I know what you meant. Sure," You said, stepping further into the room, sinking onto the soft cushions of the couch.

Jack sat beside you, throwing a blanket over the two of you. Without thinking, you moved closer, tucked your feet against his thigh, your shoulder brushing his. He didn’t move away. Instead, he leaned a little, adjusting, until his arm curled at your shoulder. When you tensed he just pulled you closer against him, asking you what you wanted to watch. You rested your head lightly on his shoulder, the kind of position that was intimate enough to feel comforting but just casual enough to be innocent. Jack’s hand moved automatically, draping over your waist, careful. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his body against yours, the steady beating of his heart beneath your ear.

The movie Jack had picked played on, but you paid no attention to it, too absorbed in watching the man beside you. The way his jaw set when he focused, the way the corners of his eyes lifted when he laughed at stupid one-liners. His hand rested heavy and warm at your waist, tracing slow paths up and down your arm—movements that could pass as mindless, innocent enough to make you wonder whether you had misread everything, whether it was all in your head.

"Robby was so mean earlier," you whined against Jack's chest, the vibrations making his skin heat up.

"I know, sweetheart. He just...he worries. We both do." Jack's thumb pressed against your side, more to ground himself than you. You felt him breathe, slow and deep; chest rising beneath your cheek. For a second you felt at ease, like your proximity was normal, like you should be there.

You tilted your head just enough to look up at him. "But you were not mean."

Jack tilted his head down to look at you, suddenly becoming aware of how close you were, how perfectly your bodies fit together, how warm your skin was. He told himself it was nothing, that you were anxious and needed the comfort, that he could blame it all on it being a late night, or on Robby's anger.

"I believe the punishment should fit the crime. You're young, you should be getting drunk with your friends, should be going out," he murmured, brushing a soft kiss along your hairline before continuing. "What you should not be doing is risking your health, or your life, for a good time."

You hummed, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt. Jack swallowed, eyes flicking briefly to the staircase before focusing back on the television, which neither of you had been watching for a while.

You shifted slightly, pressing closer against his side. "You sound like my dad."

"I don't—" Jack huffed out a laugh, tilting his head back against the cushion.

"Oh, I’ve been such a bad girl," you teased, your voice low, almost breathless. "Are you going to punish me?"

You expected a laugh, maybe a snort, but all you got was silence. You noticed the way his breath hitched, the faint quickening of his heartbeat beneath your ear. It wasn’t the reaction you expected, not the one you should be getting out of him, but it wasn’t unpleasant, either. Pride bloomed warm in your chest at the thought that you could do this to him, make him flush and falter, just like you.

"It's late, you should go to bed." He cleared his throat and began to untangle his arm from your body.

Shit. You’d misread everything. The joke—which hadn’t even been that funny—had fully gone over his head, mistaken for something flirtatious. You could live with that. He was a good looking man, sensible and gentle too, it wasn't too far fetched to have a sliver of a crush on him. He just happened to be your father's friend, and you couldn't sleep with your father's friends, so you would take your curiosity to the grave.

What you couldn’t live with, however, was Jack being uncomfortable, thinking you’d come on to him like some weirdo. You’d gone too far. The week was going to be awkward and tense, terrible. If he hadn’t been slightly cold earlier, he certainly would be from then on. What kind of man would be okay with a girl half his age coming onto him? What were you even thinking?

You cleared your throat, trying to salvage some of your dignity. "I’m so sorry, Jack," you said, feeling your cheeks burn. "was just messing around—you know, like usual. I—"

"I know, I know. But it's late, and we are both tired. We should go to bed before we do something we regret, okay?" He craned his neck to meet your gaze, hooked two fingers beneath your chin to tilt your face up when you refused to look at him.

When you finally looked up at him, with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, you were shocked to find Jack smirking at you, his eyes narrowed with amusement. His thumb traced your bottom lip, his gaze still glued to your eyes. Shit, he had asked you a question. You nodded, mouth slightly agape.

"Yeah? You're not even listening anymore, are you, baby?" He cooed, mocking you.

You shook your head, no. Your pulse hammered when his fingers brushed your throat.

His gaze dropped to your lips, his thumb still tracing their curve. Without thinking, you sucked it into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you held his gaze. He was so close, invading all of your senses, turning your already tired brain into mush.

Jack’s eyes darkened, his breathing turning labored as he watched your mouth glide along his thumb, your tongue curling at the tip. The sight made his gut twist, all the frustration and desire he’d been keeping under lock and key rising to the surface.

His thumb slipped free from your lips with a wet pop, and before you could even gasp for air, you kissed him. Jack’s lips were chapped, and they tasted faintly of beer, which you only noticed when you deepened the kiss, allowing him to slip his tongue into your mouth.

You felt his fingertips trail down the sides of your waist, felt the palm of one of his hands press against your stomach and push your shirt up, the other graze the waistband of your shorts, right below your navel. His touches were teasing as he licked inside your mouth.

You pushed yourself up on your elbows and moved to straddle him, your thighs straddling his much thicker ones. His hands cupped your breasts as he kissed a path down your neck, stopping to lick at your sternum. Your fingers tangled in his curls when he took one of your nipples into his mouth and tugged when his teeth grazed your sensitive skin.

Jack's hands moved down from your breasts to play with the waistband of your pants again, fingers barely dipping below it.

"Jack-" You whined, grinding your hips against his hand, trying to chase whatever friction you could, and he let you, dipping a finger between your folds tentatively.

He pumped two thick fingers in and out of you, slick dripping from them down to his palm, your thighs, the couch cushions. Neither of you seemed to care about the mess, or the noise, or the fact Robby was upstairs and could have heard it all. You had no energy to think about that then, all you could focus on was his touch, or his lips on yours quieting your cries.

You came quickly, your orgasm washed over you like a tidal wave. It must have been from the exhaustion, you thought as you cuddled up to Jack's side. He grinned, taking his drenched fingers and sucking them into his mouth.

"You okay, honey?" He drawled.

You just hummed, nodding your head in agreement. You weren't sure what kind of noises would have come out if you attempted to speak then, probably high pitched and whiny blabbering.

"You should go talk to Robby," He pressed a kiss to your hairline, "at least just to say good night, hm?"

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

The walk upstairs was treacherous when your legs felt like a fawn's, but you ignored the ache and put one foot in front of the other until you reached the room where Robby was staying. You knocked on it twice, softly.

"Hey, uhm...it's me. I don't know if you're asleep yet, but I wanted to—" You didn't have time to finish the sentence before the door swung open.

The sight you were met with was nothing short of striking. Robby leaned against the doorframe, arms over his head, his sleep shirt riding up just enough to catch a glimpse of his happy trail.

"Apologize?" He finished your sentence for you, smiling. You could never tell if he was joking or laughing at you, it was infuriating, it made blood rush to your cheeks and arousal pool in your stomach.

"No. I wanted to say goodnight," you sighed before continuing, "and ask you if I could maybe come in to talk. I don't like arguing with you, uncle Robby...it's just..." You stopped yourself with a shallow breath.

He let you in shortly after that, led you to sit on the bed with a hand at the small of your back, dipping beneath your shirt. You felt awkward then, sitting all alone in such a big room. You were pretty sure Robby had heard you and Jack, but he wasn't saying anything, all he did was sit beside you and place a hand atop your thigh.

You avoided his gaze like the plague, suddenly interested in the guest bedroom in your childhood home, as if you hadn't seen it enough times. You noticed the paint chipping, the sun setting outside the window, the yellowish tint on the lampshade, all before he uttered a word.

"You know why we're here," He spoke matter-of-factly, "and you know it's for your own good, so what's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter, Robby." You muttered, your gaze fixed on the ground.

"Can't you have fun with Jack and I, hm?" He tilted your face upward slightly, not to force eye contact but to see the embarrassment in your face. He was practically confessing he had heard you, practically begging for a taste.

"I guess I can, yeah."

"Okay, so then we have fun." He flashed you a sleazy smile and, before you knew it, you were sat atop his thighs, grinding your clothed cunt against his leg, whining against his neck.

His hands gripped your waist with enough force to bruise as he moved you on his lap, his cock hardening beneath you. He kissed you with force, tongue sliding across your lips, licking into your mouth. Your fingers gripped at the hairs at the nape of his neck pulling slightly when the buildup in your core became noticeable.

"You had your fun with Jack already, did you?" He spoke between labored breaths.

You just nodded your head in response, your movements never faltering.

"It's only fair I get a turn now." He spoke before flipping you over and pinning you to the bed.

He quickly stripped you of your pajamas, your sweat soaked shirt and arousal drenched shorts ended up discarded in a corner of the room, shortly after joined by his own clothes.

He was big, bigger than you'd expected. It wasn't like you had thought about it a lot, but he was an attractive man, and so commanding, you sometimes wondered what it would be like to work for him, to call him doctor. You wondered what he would look like in scrubs, groaning during a procedure, and you wondered what he'd look like out of them, groaning in bed with you, fucking you deep against the mattress.

Your days of imagining and wondering were now over. He was lining his cock up with your entrance, his eyes seeking yours for approval, a hand caressing your cheek. "You okay?"

"Michael, if you don't fuck me right now I will—" Your words were cut off with a loud moan when you felt him thrust all the way inside you. A hand wrapped around your throat, with enough pressure to make your breathing labored, your vision blurred.

"Watch your tone, little girl." Robby's voice was loud, dripping in feigned anger. Or maybe it was real, and he was actually mad at you, and he cared about you enough to be angry and prove it to you, liked you enough to do it by fucking you.

"'m so-sorry," you gasped, wide eyed with your pupils blown, drool pooling at the sides of your mouth, dripping down your chin with every harsh thrust. "But you were mean earlier...so unfair."

Robby dipped two of his fingers in your mouth, they pushed against the back of your tongue, making you gag around them. You were so argumentative, so talkative, he couldn't even shut you up by choking you.

"I wasn't mean, baby, I was worried. Worried you would end up dead in an alley with some drunk." Robby panted, his thick cock sliding in and out of you. He was practically yelling at you, his free hand gripped your waist with so much force he would bruise you.

You gargled around his fingers, a choked complaint, an attempt to argue. You could hear faint footsteps in the hallway, heavy and uneven— Jack's, but laying right there beneath Robby you couldn't bring yourself to care.

Two knocks on the door and an "everything okay?" from Jack were not enough to snap either of you from your daze. You kept panting, biting at his fingers, attempting to argue.

He opened the door with urgency, expecting to break up an argument, expecting to have to put some distance between you, to have to carry you to bed, but the sight he was met with made him stop in his tracks.

You were spread out on the bed, bare skin glowing with sweat and drool, slick coating your thighs. Robby laid on top of you, one of his hands at your hip, the other in your mouth. He watched as you sucked on his fingers, he watched Robby's flushed cock go in and out of you.

"Jackie?" You called for him, whiny and high pitched, reaching a hand out for him, seeking comfort.

He ignored your pleas, walking over to the side of the bed, arms crossed over his broad chest. "What the fuck, brother?" He drawled, cocking his head to the side.

Robby slowed down his thrusts, his fingers leaving your mouth to grip the sides of your face as he looked up at the other man, a smug grin on his face.

"You’re free to join if you want, man.” He drawled out, picking up his pace, thick fingers trailing down your face to wrap around your throat, the pressure was enough to make you moan with pleasure.

He didn't need to be told twice, his cock already straining against his pants, hot and leaking. He made quick work of pulling down his pants, jerking himself twice over your face. You leaned over to your side, mouth open for him, panting.

Your tongue slipped out almost unconsciously, soft lips wrapping around his pink tip. You licked a bold stripe down his shaft before taking him in your mouth as far back as you could. Jack's hands moved to grip your hair, not to push you but to steady himself. "fuck" he breathed out, voice low and raspy.

You moaned around him as you took him deeper, drool spilling from the corners of your mouth every time you gagged. Robby slowed his rhythm to watch you and Jack, focused on the way you moaned around him, on the way your tits bounced when you moved. He trailed his hand up to your chest, squeezing one of your tits, making you keen around Jack's shaft.

Robby’s grip on your hips tightened as he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses down your chest. His cock throbbed inside you, buried to the hilt as he rocked shallowly, letting you adjust around him. "Fuck, you take me so well," he growled, voice rough with want. "Like you were made for this."

Robby felt your walls tighten around him, felt your breathing pick up and heard your moans get louder. You gave up sucking on Jack's cock as you got closer to your peak, your orgasm making your vision blur. You were not quite sure who's hands were on you anymore, as they lifted you up and set you on the bed on all fours, gripping at your waist to keep your wobbly legs from giving up on you. You heard them speak behind you, heard the rustling of bedsheets.

Jack chuckled from above you, his fingers brushing your waist. "Bet she could take us both at once," he mused, watching the way your legs shook, the way you shuddered and arched your back at his touch. "You wanna try that, baby? Show us how good you can be?"

You gasped when Jack’s palm landed sharp on your ass, the sting making you arch. "Please—"

"Please what?" Robby’s breath was hot against your ear as he leaned over you, Jack stood beside him, his hands gripping at your thighs. "Use your words, baby. Tell us exactly what you want."

You whined with embarrassment. "Both of you—fuck— want both of you to fuck me."

Jack groaned, his forehead dropping against your shoulder. "Greedy fucking girl." But his hands were already guiding his cock to your sopping hole, sinking in slowly, inch by inch until he bottomed out. Not long after, Robby’s fingers dug into your waist as he pressed in beside him, filling you completely. The stretch burned, overwhelming, their cocks pressed together inside you, making your vision blur.

Tears pricked at your lash line when they began to move, not really thrusting, more like grinding inside you. Strong hands pressed you to the mattress.

Your breath came in shattered little gasps as they moved, slowly, every inch of them against your oversensitive walls. Robby’s groan was ragged in your ear, his teeth sinking into your shoulder to muffle it as Jack cursed above you, his fingers twisting in your hair to keep your head angled back.

You could feel both of them—the way Robby’s cock twitched against Jack’s inside you, the way Jack’s thighs trembled where they pressed against yours, both of them fighting to keep the pace slow and steady.

"Fuck, she’s—" Jack’s voice cracked, his hips stuttering forward instinctively before he forced himself back to that grinding rhythm. "Robby, move—"

Robby’s response was a dark chuckle, his hand sliding down to rub tight circles over your clit as they finally, finally picked up speed. The stretch burned so good, their thrusts now uneven, desperate—Jack driving deep while Robby pulled nearly all the way out just to slam back in, over and over until the only thing you knew was that you were full and tired, tears streaking your cheeks as pleasure coiled tighter in your stomach.

Jack's rhythm stuttered, hips jerking erratically as his fingers tightened in your hair, tight, stinging. The bite of pain sharpening the pleasure coiling low in your belly. "Fuck—" His voice was raw, gutted, as he buried himself to the hilt and held there, pulsing inside you, spilling with a groan that sounded almost pained.

Robby wasn’t far behind. His thrusts turned punishing, the slick slap of skin deafening as he chased his own release. "Look at her," he snarled—at Jack, at you, you weren’t sure. That was your undoing; your walls clenched around them both, dragging a ragged curse from Robby as he came, his cock twitching against Jack’s inside you, both of their hands dug bruises into your skin, bruises you would surely love to see in the morning, standing in front of the bathroom mirror with a sleepy smile.

For a heartbeat, the room was nothing but panting breaths and the drip of cum and sweat onto the sheets beneath you.

Then Robby’s grip eased, his palm smoothing over the marks he’d left as he murmured, "see? I knew you could behave." against your spine.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

Steve froze, his mouth opening and closing like he was trying to find the words to explain the absurdity of the situation. "Pole dancing workout classes? Try it out in your own time, not the mission —"

"— I want to recreate that scene from Sin City," you interrupted, grinning, entirely too pleased with yourself. "Ooh, I hope they give me a prop. I want a whip."

Steve looked like he was contemplating immediate retirement. He pressed two fingers to his temple, closing his eyes tightly and taking a slow, shaky breath to regain his composure. He was the Captain; he was the leader; he was currently losing the battle of wits against his own team. He looked like a man trying to solve a complex equation while someone threw glitter at him.

Bucky sat in the corner of the van, hands resting on his thighs. He didn't speak, but his fingers drummed a steady, rhythmic beat against his pant legs. He watched the bickering with a faint, unreadable expression.

He didn’t know what Sin City was — it sounded like some post-war film he’d missed out on, something loud and sharp — but he noted the title away in his mind. If you were talking about it fondly, it was worth remembering later. He kept his gaze fixed on you, silent and watchful, just waiting for the green light to move.

"Fine," Steve finally bit out, his voice strained. "Keep your earpiece in. And for heaven's sake, keep your eyes on the VIP booth."

The music inside the club had teeth. It was low, heavy, and rhythmic, the bass moving through the floorboards and up into Bucky’s boots. He stood at the edge of the crowd with a drink he wasn't touching, trying his best to look like someone who belonged in a place where people actually enjoyed themselves.

He knew he didn't belong here. The lighting was garish — pulsing reds and deep, synthetic blues — and the noise was chaotic. The crowd moved in a fluid, loose language he’d only half-learned since coming back from the dead — elbows brushing, nobody clocking the exits, bodies swaying in a way that made him itch.

Bucky, however, was still clocking every exit, every shadow, and every shift in the air pressure. He was a creature of habit, and his habit was survival.

But then the stage lights shifted, and the air in the room seemed to pull toward the center.

He hadn’t meant to look. He tried to keep his gaze on the VIP booth where their target was currently sweating through a silk shirt, but his eyes betrayed him.

You didn't just walk onto the stage; you claimed it with each step. You caught the pole with one hand, a seamless transition into a slow, deliberate spin that sent your hair fanning out like a dark halo. You were moving like the music was a language you spoke fluently.

You twisted, climbing the chrome with fluid, disciplined strength, your muscles bunching and releasing beneath your skin. At the peak, you arched your back, hooking a leg around the pole before dropping into a controlled, breath-taking slide that had the entire room holding its breath.

You were twirling, rotating with a centrifugal grace that made the physics of the pole look effortless. You were putting on a show for the room — confident, a little showy, completely in control of what you were offering — and Bucky stood there feeling something loosen in his chest that he hadn't noticed was tight.

He knew this. Not this exactly — not the chrome pole or the particular cut of your outfit — but the shape of the moment.

Before the war, Brooklyn had its dancers.

There had been a girl at the Ritz who could hold a room still just by walking across it, and he and Steve used to sit in the back, nursing watered-down beers, watching the flappers move and feeling like kings just for being allowed in the room. Burlesque theatres downtown, where the performers were deliberate and bright, and the audience understood they were watching a craft.

You were doing exactly that.

It wasn't the way he sometimes felt around people now: that low-level hum of threat assessment that ran underneath every interaction. It wasn't the other thing, either — not the heat or the sudden spike of want that usually came with club settings — but something older and quieter.

It felt less like Bucky Barnes, the asset, the ex-assassin who was still learning how to exist in a room without cataloguing the exits, and more like James. Just James. Twenty-two years old, leaning against a wall with a drink in his hand, watching a girl who knew exactly how powerful she was.

He hadn't felt like James in a long time.

The weight of the mission — the extraction, the intel, the target in the VIP booth — felt miles away. He watched the way the light caught your skin, the way you threw your head back, the way you seemed to thrive in the centre of the chaos. You were magnetic.

Bucky felt a flicker of something almost possessive, a sharp, sudden desire to clear the room, to walk up there and pull you off the stage just so you’d stop looking at everyone else.

He didn't, of course. He just stood there, mesmerised.

You caught his eye while mid-spin, flashing him a grin that was bright and smug. Bucky’s mouth did something involuntary at the corners. He looked away, embarrassed by his own reaction, then immediately looked back. The mission was entirely off his radar and had been for approximately four minutes.

In the corner near the bar, Steve had both hands pressed over his face.

His earpiece was on. He could hear, faintly, the thumping bass of the club. He could not hear any mission-relevant information because neither of his operatives was doing anything mission-relevant.

He’d paired them together because Bucky had made a friend. His first real one since coming back. Steve had been quietly, carefully glad about it — the way you talked to Bucky like he was just a person, the way Bucky had started showing up to things he used to avoid, hovering near doorways less and sitting down more.

He had thought: This is good. They work well together. I'll put them on the next op.

He had not thought: And then she’ll do this, and he’ll make that face.

Steve took his hands off his face and looked at the stage. Then he looked at Bucky, who was standing at the edge of the crowd, stock-still and completely obvious, watching you with the focused, reverent attention of someone trying to memorise a masterpiece.

The contrast between Bucky’s usual guarded stance and his current, unguarded softness was so stark it made Steve’s chest ache.

He put his hands back over his face.

They were not getting any intel tonight. He already knew this. He was going to write a debrief that said 'situation assessed, no actionable intelligence gathered.'

Sam was going to read it and ask questions Steve didn't want to answer. Nat was going to smile at him from across the room in that way she had, and Bucky was going to be fine. Actually, a little more than fine.

Steve exhaled, his shoulders finally dropping an inch. He flagged the bartender down and ordered something that wasn't water.

He could tolerate one night of uselessness. He supposed, watching Bucky finally take a sip of his drink while refusing to take his eyes off you, that the mission had been a success in every way that mattered. The intel could wait for another night.

Right now, seeing the tension drain out of Bucky’s frame, seeing him look less like a weapon and more like a man, was worth the failure of the extraction.

He leaned against the bar, nursing his drink, and let himself watch, too. If Bucky was going to be distracted, Steve figured he might as well enjoy the show.

You turn up to pole-dance core workouts, but not his scheduled training schemes?!

$ tag @twentytomidnight @froggibus

You could feel the way he breathed against you that something was eating away at him.

"Clark?" You tilted your head toward his. "You've gone quiet on me."

You expected the usual from him. Maybe a lazy joke, a hum in your ear, a quick brush-off he gave when he was too full of love to make it into words. Instead, a deep sigh left him, and what followed was nothing you were prepared for tonight.

"Do you think I’d be a good father?"

The question sliced through the air like it had been waiting inside him for quite a long time.

It wasn't an 'if'.

It was a 'would'.

Freezing, you didn't answer. At least not right away. Not because you didn’t know, of course you knew, but from the sincerity of his worry.

The fact that this man who gave everything, who held the world together with two hands and a heart too big for his broad chest, could still doubt he’d be good at something as natural as love.

He hadn’t moved beneath you as you thought. As if any rustle of the sheets might scare you from answering. Like maybe he regretted saying this sliver of insecurity aloud.

Finally, you shifted until you were propped up on your elbow across his chest. His hand slipped from your waist in the movement, fingers brushing down your thigh to hold you still. The moonlight caught the planes of his face—cheekbones faintly flushed, jaw shadowed in softness, lashes low.

"Baby, what brought that on?" you asked softly.

Your fingers found his cheek, your thumb brushing warm skin and stubble until he turned into it slightly.

He blinked, summer sky blues flicking to yours for a second before sliding away again.

"There was this rescue earlier today. Apartment fire. Young family. The dad didn’t even hesitate to run straight back in for his son."

You nodded, remained silent.

"I got them out. They’re okay," he added quickly, because he knew that would be your first concern. "But later, I kept thinking: I won’t always be there. Not for everyone."

Sighing, you attempted to save him from his thoughts. "Oh, babe—"

"Then I thought: what if that was me. What if I’m out there handling something halfway across the planet, and you’re home alone, raising our child, managing everything. What if I’m chasing after another emergency that can’t wait? That's not fair to you and them."

"Baby—" you cut in softly again, aching for him, but he kept going, needing to let it out.

"I keep wondering if I’m being selfish," he went on, louder now, voice cracking slightly. "Wanting you. Wanting a family, knowing what I am. What I bring. What could follow me home and hurt you. What might happen if I fail to protect."

"Clark Joseph."

He looked at you then, full-on. Eyes a little wet, layered with doubt he never let anyone else see. Not even Lois. Not even the Justice Gang. But he’d let you in. He always had.

"You're an incredible husband, I married you knowing everything that came with the symbol," you started without flourish. "You'd also make an incredible father. Our child will grow up feeling safe with you, not just provided for."

His brow furrowed, just faintly, ready to counter.

"They would," you repeated, firmer now. "You care so deeply. You listen. You see everyone, even the ones that don't deserve it. You treat children like they matter. Like they’re already whole, not waiting to be useful."

You traced the worried wrinkles between his brows. Then his temple. The warm shell of his ear.

"I’ve seen how you hold the neighbors’ babies like they’re made of gold. How you stop to play peekaboo when you think no one’s looking. How you kneel in the street to speak to kids after disasters—always eye-level. Always kind."

You leaned forward slowly and kissed his forehead, then the corner of his mouth, then the spot where his pulse beat beneath his jaw.

"You already give everything you have, Clark. You hold the world together because you care so deeply. And the fact that you’re even thinking about this—worrying about how to protect our child that doesn’t even exist yet—that is exactly why you’d be a damn good father."

You moved your hand to his chest, right over where his heart beat strongest. He kept listening.

"I trust you and know you’d never leave us without making sure we were safe first. You’d never put the people you love second if you could help it. That’s not who you are. That’s never been who you are. You have more love in you than anyone I’ve ever met. You just have to trust that, too."

For a moment, neither of you moved. The quiet stretched between your words like acceptance sinking in, letting the weight of your assurance settle behind his sternum where your hand rested.

Then slowly, his hand rose, fingertips brushing along the nape of your neck, coaxing you higher and closer. 

When he kissed you, it was slow and fully laced with an answer that didn’t need language. One that said he was still afraid, but less so now. Not with you by his side.

Not with your words still echoing in his ears. Not with your faith.

The quiet that followed was a better kind than before.

Your chest felt looser. His grip around you had softened. Moonlight angled lower across the room now, shifting against the floorboards, and one of your feet brushed his calf beneath the blanket, and he didn’t pull away.

"Are you still thinking about it?" you murmured, cheek pressed to the firm stretch of his chest.

A hum rolled through him, vibrating against you. "Just… letting it settle."

"Settle…" you echoed, your fingers across the crease where the sheet had bunched between your torso. You played with the fabric idly. "Good settling or anxious spiraling?"

"Bit of both," he admitted, staying thoughtful, fingers grazing your hip. "Still don’t know if I’d be any good at the discipline part."

That made you lift your head, expression twisted in disbelief.

"Excuse me, what?"

Completely unbothered, he spared a side glance at you. "What? I’m serious."

"So you think I’m going to be the strict parent?"

His mouth twitched like he wanted to laugh again. "You get that voice when I don’t separate the whites!"

"Well, you know better!" You swatted his shoulder. "But which one of us gives stern, disappointed dad lectures to supervillains mid-fight on live-TV? On the daily?"

That made him laugh. Full-bodied, caught off guard. It rocked through his chest beneath your palms, made your stomach flip from the sheer sound of it.

"What? No, I don’t—"

"You do!" you shot back. "You used your Superman voice to stop a toddler tossing gravel at the ducks last week."

"Hon, she was chucking rocks! Those animals were defenseless!"

You shifted higher on his chest, kissed just below his jaw, smug.

"Face it, baby. You have The Voice and righteous authority act down. Even misbehaved toddlers flinch."

He rolled his eyes. "Didn’t know being a decent person and saving ducks from being stoned counted as parenting."

"Oh, it does." You kissed him again, slower this time. "Honestly, it kind of turns me on."

That caught him off-guard.

Clark blinked, slow and confused. "Wait, turns you on?"

Brows lifting, you shrugged with faux-casual ease, biting your lip. "It’s so hot when you talk like that."

Still propped on your elbows, one hand coasted the center of his chest, featherlight, feeling the way his muscles tensed and twitched under your palm. You let your nails scrape lightly on the way back up, and he swallowed hard.

"That voice," you drawled, closing your eyes and moaning a bit almost in pain. "The one you use when giving orders. Clearing buildings. Protecting people. The one that makes everyone shut up and listen."

Clark stayed quiet, his free hand tightening slightly on the sheets. He was more aware now. Watching. Listening. Humor had faded from his expression entirely.

"You know the one," you added, tone light, but your body already reacting to the memory of it. Your eyes flicked to his mouth, then lower, then back to his eyes.

"Every time I hear it, I squeeze my thighs together."

That earned you a sharp breath from him—a low, barely-there groan like he’d tried to swallow it too late.

"It’s not just the tone, " you went on, shameless. "It’s the confidence. The command. It does things to me. Gets under my skin."

You felt heat and slick bloom between your thighs even now, just talking about it. His hand had stopped moving entirely.

Your voice dropped lower, soft and teasing. "It’s not like I want to be turned on when you’re dealing with, like, a four-alarm fire, or telling Gardner to shut up and fall in line. But it’s like clockwork. The second you take command like that…"

Shifting a little to swing one leg over his, you made sure he felt the evidence of your body’s response. You weren’t trying to be coy anymore.

"I get so wet. My nipples get painfully tight. My cunt clenches around nothing, wishing you were already inside me," you rambled it like you were commenting on the weather.

Clark exhaled through his nose, sharp and shaky, and gripped the back of your thigh with one hand. You leaned forward on your elbows again, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then his jaw. His breath hitched when you bit lightly at his earlobe.

"When the time comes, when we have our first baby? You'll officially earn 'Hot Dad' status," you whispered gleefully against his skin. "Especially when you talk like that."

He frowned slightly, brain fogged. "What—what does that even mean?"

"It means you’d be a DILF, Clark."

"Again, what does that even mean?"

"D-I-L-F," you spelled it slowly, savoring it. "Dad I’d Like to Fuck."

The sound he made was somewhere between a sputter and a loud, exasperated groan. His hand slid from your thigh to your waist like he didn’t know whether to steady you or flip you.

"Jesus, honey—" he mumbled, flush climbing up his neck and spreading fast.

"Oh no, we’re not praying now!"

"That’s not real. People don’t think that's—"

"No, it's true," you tilted your head, smug now, fully sprawled across his body. "You’re already halfway there. Incredibly hot, stern, heroic. Sexy public-facing voice. You do know women out there think about you, right? Superman?"

His mouth opened like he was about to deny it, then closed again when he clearly couldn’t.

"Used to bother me when they'd go gaga over you, but then I started thinking," you tapped his chin, mischief evident in your gaze. "That I’m the one you come home to. I’m the one who gets that voice in my ear, in this bed, in me. "

Bedsheets rustled in the corner of your vision, and you caught the obvious tenting between his thighs. You bit your lip, holding back a delighted coo.

"Ohhh, I’ve thought about it so often," you confessed with more enthusiasm, trailing your nails down his chest again. "What it would be like to hear you talk like that in the bedroom. Not in the suit. Not saving the world. Just here," you leaned closer, lips brushing his cheekbone.

You kissed just beneath his ear, whispered, "Commanding me."

His cock twitched beneath the sheets.

"You want me to use it in here?" he whispered back, eyes gone half-lidded. "Really?"

Nodding enthusiastically with a grin, you parted your lips and thighs in tandem like you were already waiting for the next order.

He looked into your eyes for a while. Something in his gaze shifted, unspoken. It wasn’t fully playful anymore. Sure, it was still gentle, still him, but sharper. Focused.

It was a married look in the quietest, most ruinous way.

A warm, broad hand slid to the back of your neck. The other gripped your hip harder.

When Clark spoke again, it wasn’t the register he used in everyday conversation. It was the one reserved for when lives were on the line, when something big needed to obey, now.

"Come here."

Hearing it aimed at you made heat bloom fast and sharp through your body, straight to the places that already felt too awake.

Your response was immediate.

Crawling into his lap, knees bracketing his hips, the cotton sheets twisted beneath you with every frantic shift of weight. You hovered just above him, close enough to feel the heat of his straining cock between your legs, but not touching yet. You braced your palms against his chest, heart pounding, eyes on his mouth, ready for what came next.

Sitting up a little more, Clark rested his hands lightly on your thighs.

"Take your clothes off."

Oohhh, the way he said it. Your skin prickled.

You stripped fast, fingers slipping under your hem and beneath your waistband. You peeled your clothes and tossed it aside, baring yourself fully in the moonlight. The air in the room hit your nipples before his eyes did, and he reached out, brushing a thumb across the swell of one breast. You gasped at the contact.

"Do you like that?"

You nodded, breath shaky, back curving toward him to give him more purchase.

"Use your words, sweetheart," he coaxed, low and patient. "I want to hear it from your pretty mouth. Your pretty voice."

The pet name fell differently in that register. You squirmed in his lap, cunt tightened hard, already dripping.

"Yes," you whispered. "God, yes. I love it when you talk like that."

His free hand reached out, thumb grazed your lip, coaxing your mouth open, and you kissed it without thinking. That look was still in his eyes, cataloging reactions.

"More, please," you breathed, already trembling.

Clark’s grip on your hips tightened as he pulled you forward. Your knees slid closer, bracketing his ribs, and your thighs burned from holding yourself up, but you didn’t stop. You wanted the ache. You wanted to be good.

"Keep your legs open for me."

You spread wider with a desperate, impatient sigh, hips instinctively tipping forward. Your cunt throbbed, swollen and aching with how close and untouched you still were.

"That's my girl," he praised easily. "Stay just like that."

The words hit harder than anything else. Your head lolled with a whine, torso folding forward as if his attention alone was enough to pull you apart.

Clark leaned up on his elbows, soft lips brushing the swell of your breast before he took one nipple into his wet mouth, tongue dragging slowly over the peak while his hand cupped the other firmly, deliberate, circling the areola until your back arched and you couldn't help but rock once.

"Hey," he warned, pulling back just enough to speak. "Stay still. Let me take my time with you."

So you froze, arms shaking, knees burning, breath coming shallow and broken. Soft sounds spilled from your mouth as you hovered there for him, aching, needy, obedient.

His hand slid between your thighs, palm hot as his fingers spread you open with a few firm strokes.

"Oh—wow," he breathed, openly pleased. "She’s already soaking for me. Just like you said. She's so eager, sweetheart."

Two fingers pressed into your cunt to the last knuckle. You choked on a raspy gasp as the stretch made your walls clamp down hard.

"Easy," he hissed, "she's a little tense. Pretty girl needed this bad, huh?"

You sobbed out something that was meant to be his name and failed.

"Come on now," he hissed, thrusting deeper. "Let me hear you again. I know she’s got something to say."

"C-Clark!" you whimpered his name. Stuttering and soft at first. Then again, louder and bolder as he thrusted faster. "F-fu—hmm–Ah!Yes!"

He fucked you with his fingers with patient, ruthless precision, curling them up into the spongy spot that made your whole body tense and your head fall back.

"Look at that," he said, in awe. "She’s talking, hon. I want to hear her sing for me."

The squelch of your cunt grew louder, wetter, messier, the harder he pressed. You trembled above him, trying not to move, but your hips twitched with every delicious thrust.

"She missed me, huh?" he panted, dragging his mouth along your chest. "She missed this."

"She—she needs you," you gasped, near tears. "God, damn it Clark—she’s so fucking empty—"

"I know," he soothed, kissing your breastbone, curling his fingers harder. "I’ll take care of her soon. Always do."

Your pussy clenched again at the promise, fluttering around him, leaking down onto his wrist. It was shamefully loud and filthy the way your cunt slicked his hand, weeping for more.

"Mmm—fuck—yes—she’s yours, baby—she’s so yours—"

"That’s my good girl," he praised again, firmer.

"I—I'm close!" you choked out, voice high and panicked as your hands pawed his wrist and forearm. "So close—please—fuck!"

He thrust his fingers a little harder, then eased them out without warning, watching your face as your cunt grieved the sudden neglect. You nearly sobbed at your collapsing pleasure.

Clark quickly shifted beneath you, just enough to slide his hands down, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. You sat back slightly, breath caught, watching as he eased them down over his thighs, lifting just enough to slip them off completely.

His cock sprang free—heavy, flushed, already wet at the tip from how long he’d been holding back. It rested against his stomach, thick and full and twitching faintly.

You moaned under your breath, hips twitching toward him.

He wrapped his hand around himself slowly, thick fingers closing at the base, stroking once, long, steady, letting you see every inch slide through his grip. Pre-cum smeared across his thumb, shining.

"I want you to look," he commanded, voice still low. "Look at what you do to me."

You did. God, you did. And when you reached for him without thinking, he caught your wrist gently. Not stopping you, but guiding. He pressed your palm to his cock, wrapped your fingers where he wanted them, made you feel how hard he was, how hot.

"Now do this nice and slow," he murmured. "Stroke me, sweetheart. Just like you always do."

You obeyed, using one trembling hand to slid up and down his length, feeling him throb against your palm. You watched the way his pretty eyes fluttered close and his hips flexed just barely as you pumped him again, slower this time, thumb circling the head, smearing the slick there.

"That’s it," he praised, his voice shifting now, more breathless. "That's my girl. J-just like that."

Once he was fully slick with your touch, he pulled your hand away, kissed your knuckles one by one. You were still soaked. Still shaking.

"Feel this first," he breathed, gripping the base of him. "Just close your eyes and feel."

Eyelids fluttering shut, you felt the blunt head of his cock glide through your swollen folds, feeling it drag up and down your sopping cunt, letting it circle your clit, to then tease your entrance.

It was so close, so hot, so hard. You whined, hips tipping forward, desperate to sink down on him.

"Easy," he reminded, hand firm at your waist. "Not yet. Stay right there."

You rocked just a fraction, clit brushing the underside of him, sparks shooting through your body.

"Oh—G-god—!" Your breath caught in your throat.

"Do that again," he grunted, voice gone thick. "S-stay right there for me."

Your resolve shattered.

Your hips began to move in small frantic rolls, just your clit against his cock, chasing friction, chasing release, teasing your entrance every few strokes.

"Shit," you whimpered, thighs shaking. "I’m close, I’m close, I'm so close—"

"That’s—it," he urged, Superman’s assertiveness through and through. "Let go f’me, hon. Don't hold back. I’ve got you."

"Okay, yeahyeahyeah—Ohhh fuck, baby—I love you—fuck—love you—"

Your orgasm broke like a high fever—violent, helpless, pulled from the weight of his voice, the molten heat of his cock gliding along your soaked folds, the way he made you hold still and listen. You shattered with a cry of his name, body trembling as each wave dragged you under, hips jerking forward on instinct, slick pouring down your thighs like a confession you couldn’t hold back.

It was messy, overwhelming, too much and not enough. Pleasure blurred the edges of your vision. He groaned deep in his throat, hands gripping your ass with bruising certainty, anchoring you to him as if afraid you might fall apart completely if he let go.

Even then, he didn’t take you.

Not yet.

You collapsed against him, forehead pressed to his neck, panting, lips chapped against his skin. His hands smoothed over your sweaty back, slow and calming, grounding you through the aftershocks.

When you lifted your head again, hair mussed, eyes glassy, you begged.

"Please," you gasped, strained. "Inside. Want you, need you—"

You weren’t playing anymore. This wasn’t part of the game.

"I’ll be good, I swear," you urged, frantic. "Please—please— fill me–"

Lifting you just enough, he sank you down onto him, slow and steady, letting you take every thick inch until your hips were pressed flush and your whole body was full.

You gasped with every slight push in, mouth falling wide open in a series of broken moans.

"Gosh, sweetheart," he groaned, eyes squeezing shut as his voice faltered a beat. "You feel—so good—So perfect for me."

Panting, your cunt gripped around him, stretching, fluttering, adjusting to his size, greedily pulling him in deeper.

One broad palm settled against your ass. "You wanna ride me?" he asked, a little breathless. "Or you want me to do the work?"

Mouth agape, you just blinked at him, too dazed, brain-fogged to make a decision.

Clark bit the inside of his cheek to tame an amused chuckle threatening to spill. His hips flexed up once. Sharp, deep, enough for the head of his cock to brush against your cervix.

You cried out, head thrown back, hands clawing at his abs, your answer clearly shaking loose, dressed up in your pretty voice.

And Clark grinned, still breathless, already starting to move.

.

Afterward, the room stayed hot.

The summer breeze and mind-blowing-knee-breaking sex worked against your body, struggling to calm down. Your skin still tingled and itched with leftover adrenaline, and your limbs felt like you’d sprinted uphill in a dream you weren’t ready to wake from.

You were boneless, breathless, and babbling, cheek pressed to Clark’s sweaty chest again, your mouth working faster than your lungs could keep up.

"Holy shit, baby. We—you—we have to do that again. Like in an hour! You were fucking incredible."

His chest shook beneath you, his fingers dragged in slow, absentminded circles along the base of your spine. His lips found your temple.

"I didn’t really do much?"

You shifted a little, one hand smoothing over the firm plane of his stomach, the other nudging his bicep.

"Liar! You did plenty! You said a lot. Give yourself more credit!"

Tilting your head up, you smiled smug and sleepy and in love in the way that made everything feel light again. He looked flushed, satisfied, but not nearly as flustered as he should be.

So you went on, intending to rectify that: "When you said, ‘keep your legs open for me’, and 'stay still' in The Voice, I just! Argh! Can't explain it!"

Clark groaned softly, covering his face with one hand. "Hon, you kept moving! I had to say something."

"It was so hot. So serious. I could barely think straight. You called my pussy ‘pretty girl', and I almost came right there!"

Pushing yourself upright, you ran your fingers through his damp curls, kissed his cheek, then his jaw, and kept going:

"I’m just saying, if you talked to me like that during any argument, we’d never finish one. You could say ‘sit down’ and I’d just fold. I’d sit. I'd beg. I'd probably get on my knees. Ohh, I know you'd like to see that."

Clark threw a forearm over his eyes with a dramatic sigh. "You’re unbelievable."

"You’re unbelievable," you shot back, grinning. "Big, bossy, DILF energy. You’re gonna be such a hot dad. Like... aggressively hot, with—"

"Stop—"

"—the stern voice, the control, the discipline—"

"Fine, fine!" he relented, dragging a hand down his face. "I get it! No need to circle back!"

He looked at you like he was praying silently. You softened a little, smiling into the corner of his mouth, then kissed the space behind his ear. Quieter now, but still playful.

"Seriously though, you’re going to be an incredible father, babe. You already carry the world in your hands. You’ll carry our kid the same way. When that happens for us. I can't imagine sharing this kind of life with anyone else."

The way his eyes softened, so delicate and tender, told you he believed it now. Whatever doubt he’d carried into the question had been worn down by your body, your voice, your trust.

There was no fear left in the space between you. Only peace. Only possibility.

Reaching under the blanket, Clark found your hand beneath it, and laced your fingers with his. He brought them both to rest over your stomach.

Nothing existed there yet. No child. No heartbeat. Just breath and skin and the maybe of it all. But his palm stayed, still and warm, as if promising he’d be ready. As if anchoring hope in flesh.

"Then I’ll do my best," he vowed, with more conviction than you thought possible. "Every day."

You leaned in and kissed the hollow just under his jaw, then the soft patch of his chest where you liked to rest your head. A whisper pressed into the skin just right over his heart.

"I know you will. You already are."

The silence that followed was softer. Weightless. Content.

...Until you ruined it.

Entirely too casual, you started, tipping your head up:

"So. Just checking: you've heard of DILF... would you hate it if I, like, maybe tried calling you daddy sometime?"

Clark blinked once. Then lifted his head very slowly to stare down at you, mouth agape. Eventually:

"Absolutely not."

You cackled at his firmness. "'Come on! Just a test run—"

"Nope."

"Okay, fine, I’ll workshop it," you conceded, poking his chest dramatically. "We’ll start with sir, ease into it. I’ll get that knee to bend eventually."

He ran a hand up your back and squeezed you, words muffled against your temple.

"Sweetheart, the only thing bending is you, if you keep talking like that."

"...Can you say that again, but in The Voice?"

.

Thank you for reading! Please don't forget to leave reblog or comment! Any of these are forever appreciated, and keep fics like this alive and writers motivated!

.

It was to be a small affair, but it did naught to stop the unsettled feeling in your stomach.

You gaze into the mirror, the shoulder-less black velvet hanging from your body, the bodice covered in little white pearls. There were no gloves, no veil. Just a dress, some jewellery and an up do so tight you suspected you’d regret it later

It is what you’d agreed to. No church, no large event and no white dress.

That is what came with marrying a mob boss.

You had been hinting that you wanted to be tied to him for months, he’d done nothing, he was content with how things were.

Until he wasn’t.

It started when a barista gave you a warm smile. His jaw had clenched, and remained that way until you were back in his penthouse.

He left hickeys on your neck that night, an attempt to mark you as only his.

Then it happened again, this time at a gala. A businessman had been talking to you as you’d sat alone at the bar.

He noticed. He always noticed. He ended up stalking over, strong, silent footsteps, and putting his arm possessively around your shoulders in a clear display.

You were his.

He didn’t blame you. He confessed that he was no different, after all he’d desired your attention from the moment he’d met you also.

The next day had been when you’d found the little velvet box on the bed, where he had been, with a note.

Wear this.

Inside had been the engagement ring. A gold band embedded with diamonds, with a larger diamond in the centre. A blatant display that you were someone’s.

There has been no proposal, no sweeping romantic gesture. Just a box and a ring in his place.

It had taken three months for him to quietly admit that there was going to be a wedding.

He’d apologised then. Telling you he couldn’t give you a big wedding with lots of family and friends, not someone in his position.

It had to be quiet, discreet. In the back of a church rather than at the altar.

The person presiding was a mobster, his former mentor - the closest he’d now had to a father. There was to only be the two of you, Sam and Steve.

You hear a tap on the door.

“Come in,” your voice is quiet, thick with nerves.

“Hey, we’ll be heading down in a few,” Sam entered, already tailored in his dark suit. His reflection in the mirror smiled. “Aren’t you a pretty picture?”

You scoff, and turn away from the mirror to face him.

“Thanks,” you brush down the skirt, lips twitching.

“Hey, hey,” he reached over, placing a hand on your arm. “It’s just a short ceremony, fifteen minutes tops. Then you and Bucky can make your escape to whatever exotic honeymoon resort he has planned.”

Sam chuckles as you roll your eyes at him.

“It’s not a resort, it’s a villa,” you say. “You really think he’d allow us to have our honeymoon in the public eye?”

“Good point,” he nods sagely. “I’m sure you both want this over with. You finally get some time alone without interruption.”

“It’s not about that,” you murmur. “He’s doing this so no one else can have me.”

“He loves you,” Sam supplied, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I know it seems like he's doing this just to keep other men away, but you know how he feels. He wouldn’t be doing this if he didn’t, he certainly never did with any other girl he’s been with.”

You sigh, acrylic nails tapping against each other.

“Let’s get this over with,” you step forward.

“Alright,” Sam offers his arm. “Sure you’re ready for this?”

“To marry a mob boss? No,” you shake your head. “But, I want to marry Bucky. I love him, Sam.”

Sam’s lips twitch. “You really have come into your own. You don’t roll over for him any more.”

“Sometimes he needs taming,” you shrug.

He laughs, throwing head back. “Yes, yes he does. I am glad he found you.”

“Even though you killed my ex?” You raise an eyebrow, amused.

“I did us all a favour with that,” his tone was dismissive. “No one misses that motherfucker.”

“Mm, true,” you smile then. “Thanks,” you nudge him with your shoulder. “I always give Bucky the credit, but you pulled the trigger that freed me. So, thanks.”

“Anytime, girl,” he pats the hand on his arm. “You know we’d all kill to keep you safe, and not just because you are the boss’s girl. The boys all like you, you've earned their respect and admiration. Hell, if Buck ever hurt you they’d probably mutiny.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” you smirk.

“Maybe, but worth it to see you smile,” he grins. “Come on, girl. Let’s get you hitched before your man comes looking.”

The backroom isn’t what you expected. It was small, stone floors and walls with light flooding through a large strained glass window.

You freeze for a moment, taking in the sight before you.

Steve stood to the right, at the back was the man presiding over the whole thing, and near the front was a Bucky himself.

His arms were behind his back. You could see his attire was nearly all black, blazer, waist jacket, trousers, socks and shoes. His shirt was a dark blue and tie shades of grey with silver. The only colour was the gold of his tie clip and cuff links, cuff links that were studded with diamonds - matching your own engagement ring.

The light through the window directly behind him, making him appear as if he was glowing.

Sam guided you forward gently, and Bucky’s eyes met yours. You catch a glimpse of his lips twitching up, close to a smile.

Once you were close enough, you let go of Sam’s arm, allowing him to drift to the left.

You reach out, taking Bucky’s hands into yours.

“What do you think?” He asks.

“It’s pretty,” you breathe.

“I can’t give you a big fancy wedding, but I want it to be memorable,” he squeezes your hands. “I want this to mean something.”

You don’t speak, lost for words - you’d assumed all these plans were to keep you at his side.

“Shall we proceed?” The man presiding.

Bucky nods. “This is William Fairbairn. My old mentor.”

Mr Fairbairn nods, expression serious whilst his eyes appear curious.

“I will begin,” he starts, all business. “Rogers, Wilson, you have the rings?”

“I have them,” Steve responds, reaching into his jacket, and keeps his fist clenched as if fearing of losing what was in his palm.

“Good,” he nods. “Let’s begin.”

Mr Fairbairn’s announcement to kiss almost fell upon deaf ears. You’d kept your eyes on Bucky the whole time, fingers interlocked with his holding you secure. There was something about Mr Fairbairn that put you on edge, and you could not fathom the reason for it.

Bucky let go of your hand, reaching to cup your cheek and gently pull you forward to press his mouth to yours.

The kiss was gentle, soft and not at all like usual. You hear Sam and Steve cheering as he moves his lips against yours for a moment longer before parting.

His hand glides down to hold your waist. The blue of his eyes are sharp, eyes unblinking as they remain on your face. He wordlessly begins to guide you out of the room, his face expressionless as you walk down the corridor onto the side street behind the church.

“Bucky?” You whisper.

“Yeah, baby?”

“You okay?” You chew your cheek in worry.

“Yeah,” his lips twitch into a half smile. “I wanted out of there.”

“Was it that bad?” You whisper.

He pauses in front of a dark car, one your recognise as being from one from his own personal collection. Eyes flicker across your face, and the back of his hand runs along your cheek before opening the passenger door.

“Get in,” his voice is quiet. “We can talk inside.”

You obey him, buckling your seatbelt as he shuts the door, walks around and enters.

He is quick to fasten himself in and get the car moving, his breath is heavy in the silence for several minutes until you are miles away from the church.

“I wanted this,” his voice is quiet, as if in confession. “I wanted to marry you, to tie you to me in every way I could. But, you deserve better.”

You twitch, realising Bucky had been feeling as you had — he’d wanted more from the wedding too.

“It wasn’t safe, I know,” you say softly.

“Mm,” his tongue clicks. “You were uncomfortable, I could sense it.”

Your eyes flicker out of the side window.

“Hey,” a hand reaches over to tilt your chin to look at him. “Talk to me, baby? Did I do something wrong?”

You shake your head.

“Then what? Your hands were shaking the entire ceremony,” he presses.

“I don’t want to upset you,”

“There is nothing you can do to upset me, baby,” he promises. “Nothing.”

You take in his face, his eyes, the softness of his lips.

“Mr Fairbairn was… terrifying. He looked at me like—” you frown. “Like I don’t deserve you.”

“Ah,” he sighs, and face twitches. “It’s nothing like that, sweetheart.”

“Then why..?”

“You remember when you had a mark on you when we met?” Bucky interrupts.

You nod. “How could I forget?”

He licks his bottom lip, for the first time he seemed anxious. “Fairbairn was one of the Mob Bosses looking for you.”

You make a noise that sounded like choking.

“As I told you then, Thomas owed a lot of people,” his eyes stayed on the road. “Fairbairn was one of them. He was more than willing to take you as payment.”

“And you were okay with that?” Surprise coloured your tone.

“Fuck no,” his jaw tightened. “We got into a fight over it. He wasn’t willing to wait to legally acquire Thomas’s possessions. He took a broken jaw and several cracked ribs when he threatened you.”

You suppress a smile, and the unease began to fade.

Bucky chuckles when he notices your expression.

“We made up after he got his share,” he admits, his voice thick with bitterness. “I gave up my share in exchange for him leaving you alone.”

“You did that for me?”

“I’d fucking burn down half of New York for you, baby,” his hands tightened on the wheel. “Fairbairn wasn’t the only one who threatened you, and he won’t be the last.”

“Yet you treat him as a friend?”

“I have no friends,” his voice is cold. “Not amongst the other bosses. We are all selfish arseholes who double cross one another for cash. None of them can be trusted.”

“I only allowed Fairbairn to preside over the wedding out of respect for his friendship with my father,” he continues. “I should have bribed a priest instead.”

“It’s over,” you murmur. “You have me now.”

“Yes I do,” he agrees with a smile. “Though I always did.”

His fingers brush your jaw, drawing a soft blush to your cheeks.

“My girl,” he pauses. “My wife.”

“My Bucky,” you take his lingering hand and press a kiss to it.

You awoke to the feel of cotton pressing against your cheek, the thrum of engines in the background.

Bucky was leaning back in the seat with you half perched on him, his right arm casually slung around you to hold you in place and left metal hand holding a book to allow himself to read in comfort.

“Hmm,” his head turns down and you shift slightly. “Sweetheart?”

You grumble slightly against his chest, pressing your face where the buttons had been undone and inhaling the smell of his cologne.

He chuckles, a quiet sound that rumbles from his chest and places his book aside, near the round window.

Metal fingers press brush through your hair, holding you in place.

“Could get used to this,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

You tilt your head up slightly to glance at him. “Cuddling?”

“No, the quiet,” he squeezes your waist. “It’s just the two of us, like our movie nights, but there are no phone calls or last minute meetings. Just us.”

You smile lazily, still hazy with sleep as you kiss his jaw.

Moments like this were the Mob Boss’s weakness. Not the sex, or the fancy dinners. This. Simple domestic moments that he would never have had without you.

It was what had turned his simple lust to love. Watching you in his penthouse, making dinner, cleaning, doing regular household jobs as though he didn’t have people to do it for him.

Over time it bloomed. He caught you standing on chairs wrapping lights around the bannister of the spiral staircase at Christmas. You’d been putting plants in corners, and flowers in vases on tables.

On his birthday you’d practically covered the floor in balloons, he’d had to hide his frustration at first, until he’d used his switch knife to pop one - you’d giggled in pure joy. It had melted his heart, just enough, he’d forgiven you and spent two hours competing with you to see who could pop the most.

“We will be landing in less than an hour,” he broke the silence.

“And from there?”

“A short drive up the mountainside,” the cool metal of his thumb brushes your chin.

“Mountainside?” You repeat. “I thought we were going to a villa?”

He smirks. “You thought we were going somewhere hot?”

You shrug. “Traditionally, it’s what people do.”

“I don’t do tradition, you know that,” his lips brush your forehead. “We’re going to a place I own in the Alps, it’s quiet, secluded. The locals don’t know me as a mob boss. We can walk down to the village, ski, and visit the hot springs.”

“That sounds really nice,” you admit. “But there’s a problem.”

His eyes widen. “Oh?”

“I can’t ski, James,” you say nonchalantly.

Bucky laughs, his head falling back against the headrest. “I can teach you.”

You snort. “I didn’t expect we’d leave the house much, in truth.”

His lips twitch, still amused.

“For the first day or so,” he agreed. “But, you might need a break from it.”

“Mm,” you make a soft contented noise, fingers reach to twist into the dark hair at his neck. “I’m surprised you've held out this long.”

“I don’t always want that,” he shrugs loosely. “It’ll be more fun this way. I’m sure you can feel it, the tension, the desire,” his eyes drooped slightly. “It means you’ll be desperate for me by the time we reach the bedroom.”

You shiver slightly, eyes falling away from his face as you buried your face into his shoulder.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“Won’t that make things worse?” You mutter. “In the past, it has meant that we both finish far too early.”

“You’re assuming I’m aiming for one round,” his fingers brush through your hair, and your eyes flicker to meet his. “I don’t plan on letting you out of bed until we have thoroughly consummated our marriage.”

You bite your lip. You’d heard that tone before, the dark firm one that was thick with desire. Usually it was kept only for when you were in the bedroom, where he had absolute control — even when you were on top.

“There’s plenty we haven’t tried yet,” he continues. “We can go slow if you’d like, take rests between each round. You can sit on my face whilst you fill your mouth with my cock. I can finally get you over my knee for every time you've been a brat.”

Your lips part, face going red.

“There’ll be plenty of toys to use. I’ll make sure all your holes are filled. Hell, I might even let you put a strap on and fuck me for once,” he gives you a tight grin.

“Bucky,” your face is crimson. You’d done some dirty things with him in the past, a lot of it involved cum play — his favourite, or being performative — him watching you pleasure yourself over and over before filling you, leaving you sobbing from the intensity of multiple orgasms. But, the idea of letting you wear a strap, and fill him. You never thought you’d see the day.

He laughs. “Did you forget who I am?” He raises an eyebrow. “I own multiple brothels, baby. I’ve done things that you’ll have never imagined.”

“I know,” you murmur. “But,” you struggle to say the words. “A strap?”

He smirks, knowingly. “Don’t you like the idea?”

“I didn’t expect it from you,” you admit.

“That’s because I’ve kept our sexual encounters fairly vanilla,” he shrugs. “I’ve kept my hands on the reins.”

“Then why let go now?” You wonder, allowing yourself to lean back enough to look at him. “This,” you hold up your hand to show your wedding band. “Doesn’t change anything.”

“No it doesn’t,” he agrees. “But, last night was the first night I didn’t sleep beside you in months. It’s been over a year since we met, and in that time I have continued to fear your departure.”

Bucky sighs.

“When I laid there, alone, I didn’t find myself consumed with thoughts that you’d never lay next to me again, but rather of when I’d see you again,” his eyes drifted away from you. “As you know I don’t trust people. Yet in that moment the trust had replaced the fear.”

His eyes return to you. “I love you. I trust you. I believe you’re the only one I can loosen my grasp with.”

You blink, suppressing tears. He shakes his head.

“I’m making you cry, already?” He teases.

“I’ll pay you back for it,” you joke weakly.

“Oh, please do,” his lips brush yours again. “I’ve been enjoying seeing you, finally, take some control for yourself.”

“Gotten tired of the effort you put in?” Your voice was taunting, and you knew you might pay for it later.

“No,” he voice went low. “I just enjoy seeing my girl come into her own. You don’t hide in the Penthouse any more, you’ve accepted that you are mine and owned it. You made yourself into the wife of a Mob Boss before I even give you a ring.”

“I wasn’t really trying,” you admit.

“It’s your natural charm,” he smirks. “You’re honest and genuine. Everything we aren’t. Yet, you make those around you feel valued. They are incentivised through respect not fear.”

He is quiet for a moment.

“Buck?” You whisper, and he blinks for a moment.

“It can scare me,” his voice is quiet. “How you are the opposite of what I am. Some days I return home and expect you to be gone.”

His face smoothed. “That’s why I left you the ring. I was not afraid of someone taking you from me. I was afraid of you choosing to leave.”

The plane hummed, a sign of its descent.

“You could have just told me,” you brush tuck his hair behind his ear.

“I’m not good at talking about emotions, doll,” his voice was soft. “It’s not something I permit myself to do.”

“Mob boss,” you sigh.

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“Well,” you shift slightly. “This honeymoon is the perfect opportunity for you to let go, be honest with yourself.”

His eyebrows come together as he considers this.

“As for whether I leave,” you softly press a kiss to his cheek. “Do you remember what I said about how you made me feel when we first met?”

His eyes go distant for a moment. “You said I made you feel warm and safe.”

“That hasn’t changed,” you promise. “I’m not afraid of a mobster grabbing me any more, but right now—”

You nudge him playfully, and his eyebrows raise amused.

“I feel safe, even when I know you have a 9mm holstered under your jacket,” you smirk and he chuckles. “When you're with me, I know I don’t have to be afraid. Not when you introduced me to your men, or when you showed me around your favourite club. I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t.”

“Crazy woman,” he murmurs fondly, kissing your forehead.

The car moved uncharacteristically slow, Bucky kept the speed slow whilst making the steep climb, taking care for black ice.

You kick your feet, looking out of the window to the stunning view of the mountains.

“Like it?” He asks.

“It’s beautiful,” you admit. “Better than a tropical beach.”

Your mind is filled with ideas. Bucky had spoken of hot springs and skiing, but you thought of long walks and picnics with a view.

“I’m glad,” his eyes return to the road. “I didn’t wish to disappoint you.”

“You could never disappoint me,” your head turned to look at him.

“Mm,” he murmurs.

You watch him for the next few minutes, feeling the tension of the moment. Crawling ever closer to the house.

“Here we are,” he announces, the car turns up a small side road to a white building set against the mountainside.

You blink, then squint to take in its size. “It’s huge.”

He laughs. “Not all my houses are little apartments.”

“The Penthouse is not little,” you defend.

Bucky grins. “You adore the Penthouse more than you should.”

You shrug.

“You’re going to have to let it go, baby,” his voice was soft yet had an undercurrent of warning.

He opens the his door.

“What does that mean?” You ask, the only response being the quiet slam of his door.

He walks around, opening your door for you.

Your eyes widen, but you exit the car, pulling your coat around you to defend against the cold.

“I’ve made arrangements for us to move,” he admits, closing your door. “I have a Mansion on the Gold Coast of Long Island.”

You reach to take his arm, letting him guide you inside.

“If you have a Mansion then why did you live in the Penthouse?” You ask.

“It was more convenient. I was always in Brooklyn, and a stone’s throw from Manhattan,” he shrugs and opens the door softly into the living room.

It was open plan, yet warm. A log fire burned in one corner. The entry led to the living area, to a dining area to a kitchen at the back.

“Why move now?” You ask. “I’m happy in the penthouse, we don’t have to move if it makes it hard for you to work.”

He chuckles, taking your face in his hands.

“It’s a rather large building,” he steps close. “Lots of room to fill.”

Your lips part, heat rising in your cheeks.

“You—” you stammer. “You never mentioned you wanted that.”

“I’d never considered such things,” he pauses, inhaling softly. “But this—” he gestures between the two of you. “Us. I want it to be permanent. I want to be able to sit in the garden with you thirty years from now with our grandchildren playing.”

“I’d like a son to wrestle with me, and a daughter to spoil like a princess,” his thumbs brushed over your cheekbones. “And when they are old enough, I can retire and spend the rest of my days showering you with everything you deserve.”

“Bucky,” your voice is quiet.

“But for now,” his mouth is practically on top of yours. “I want you. I’ll take you slowly, delicately…”

His mouth brushed yours, tempting you. Without even thinking you push forward against his lips.

He chuckles, using his grasp on you to tilt your face to kiss you softly, his lips moving across your own before pulling your bottom lip between his teeth.

“Think we can make it to the bedroom?” He murmurs.

“Shouldn’t we unpack?”

He shakes his head. “It can wait.”

Bucky bends over picking you up with a quiet grunt that makes you giggle, and takes large strides to the stairs.

“The coats were a mistake,” he mutters, hands tightening against the padding you were wearing.

It only takes a few more strides before you are in the bedroom, and he lowers you to your feet. He flicks his fingers as he speaks.

“Clothes off,” his voice is low, already ripping his own coat from his body.

You start to remove your clothes, stealing quick glances at him as he did the same. You stop, taking a moment to glance at the cream lace of the bodysuit you’d chosen. It was transparent, allowing a view of your skin.

You allow yourself a glance up, to see him bare, irises wide but head slightly tilted.

“Your clothes aren’t off,” he stalks toward you, hands landing on your waist, rubbing against the material.

“I wanted you to see this,” you tilt your head up, allowing him to see the pleading in your eyes.

“I like it,” his voice is gruff. “But, I can’t appreciate it properly. Get it off, before I tear it off.”

You knew from his tone that it wasn’t a threat, just a warning. He was telling you to try again another time.

“Here,” you guide his hands to the zip on the back. “You try.”

He makes a noise akin to a growl at your teasing, metal fingers tugging the zip down urgently. His hands move to your shoulders, hooking under the straps and pulling the lace down until it landed on the floor.

“Better?” You ask.

“Starting to,” he steps forward, you automatically step back. He continues to pursue you until the backs of your knees knock against the bed.

You sit on the back and slide yourself backward across the sheets until you are perched against the headboard let’s spread slightly

Bucky chuckles slightly, enjoying the momentary chase, to crawl up to join you.

His lips met yours, his hands holding onto your hips, thumbs brushing softly against your skin — just as he said.

“My wife,” he murmurs. “My beautiful girl.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, keeping him close.

“My mob boss,” your lips twitch teasingly.

Bucky grins, his metal fingers roaming forward between your thighs, gently brushing against your folds.

“All yours, baby,” he promises, the right hand that bore his ring reaching and entangling with your left.

His lips are gentle, brushing yours over and over, taunting you whilst his metal fingers continue to gently brush against you, never quite touching where you needed them.

You squirm. “Stop teasing.”

He chuckles. “I told you, I’m going slow tonight.”

Something tugs in you, incessant, urgent. You reach up taking his face in your hands, pulling him down against you, kissing him with force.

The chuckle deepens into a moan.

“Fuck,” his mouth moves over your cheek to your neck, leaving a trail of saliva in his wake. His fingers curl now teasing your entrance with their cold before pushing two fingers in.

Your body arches off the bed, body tingling at finally achieving some relief. His fingers begin to move, pushing in and out, dragging slowly against your walls

A groan tumbles from your lips. “Bucky, please.”

“No, baby,” he whispers by your ear. “We’re going slow.”

You whine, feeling him withdraw his fingers before easing them back in.

If you didn’t know better, you’d believe that he was torturing you. Giving you enough pleasure to crave more, but not enough to reach the peak. Time seemed to become endless, each moment dragging into the next and never quite being enough.

It was only when you let out a choked sob as he moved, one hand next to your head, watching as the tears fell sideways down your cheeks.

“Beautiful,” he presses a peck to your mouth.

A cold thumb then ran itself over your clit, eliciting a cry from you.

“There,” he whispers. “It’s so much isn’t it?”

“Please,” you begged. “Please.”

He grins. “You’ve been a good girl. You’ve earned this.”

His fingers began to move faster, tilting their angle to reach that spot that made your eyes roll. Soft moans were replaced with shouts, cries for more.

A soft slap filled the air, the ball of his hand landing on your clit, your body trembling in response.

“Come on, doll,” he encouraged. “Lemme hear it.”

His hand came down again, harder this time. You let out a noise that is something between a moan and a scream.

“I’m close,” you choke when his hand lands a third time.

“Let it out,” he says, eyes fixed on your face. “Cum for me.”

His hand lands again, the fingers of his metal hand pushing insistently inside and you fall. Your eyes roll, legs shake and you allow yourself a loud moan as you hit your high.

A minute passes before you feel coherent enough to notice Bucky still hovering over you, his hard length now pressing against you.

“Shush,” his palms run over your cheeks, gently moving down to hold your legs open, fingers pressing softly against your skin.

“I love you,” his nose brushes yours. “Don’t ever doubt that.”

He pushes forward, moving steadily until he is fully seated. He lets out a relieved groan as you sigh.

“I love you too,” you whisper back. “So much it hurts sometimes.”

He starts to move, hips moving back and forth almost casually as you continue to talk.

“I get scared sometimes, that one day Steve will come in and tell me you’re not coming back,” you were babbling now. “That’ll wake up to find you stabbed or shot or…”

Tears begin to fall again. He is quiet, focused on adjusting your thighs further up his body, allowing him to hit deeper.

You cry out.

“There,” his voice is low. “You think I’d ever want out of this?”

His hips snap faster, forcing cries from you with each thrust.

“You think I’d ever allow myself to die knowing I have this?” He grits his teeth in concentration, grinding himself deeper. “Knowing you wait for me every night?”

“Nothing can pull me away from this,” he thrusts again, so hard the bed smacks against the wall. “From you. So don’t ever believe you will lose me, because I simply won’t allow it.”

His face lowers, and pressing his mouth to yours to suppress your scream when the wave of pleasure hits. The bed thuds against the wall one more time before you feel warm liquid deep into you, and exhale softly through your nose melting into another kiss.

The air is still, filled only with both of your heavy breathing. He remains inside you, even as your aching legs slide down onto the sheets.

“No towels?” You tease quietly.

“I’m not finished yet,” he rumbles. “I told you I plan to thoroughly consummate our marriage.”

Your cheeks begin to burn.

“Going shy on me?” He smirks. “You weren’t so quiet a minute ago..”

“Only because you love edging me,” you respond.

“I do,” he agrees, now pressing soft kisses to your cheeks. “It’s more enjoyable when you fall apart when you’ve been stuck at the precipice. For both of us.”

“Mm,” you agree, eyes closing gently.

“Don’t you dare fall asleep on me now,” he taps your cheek.

“I wasn’t,” you respond weakly. “Just wanted to feel you.”

“You can feel me on your hands and knees,” his voice was taunting, and he leaned down to press hot wet kisses over your chest.

“Already?” You ask.

“Yes,” his voice was firm. “Roll over, baby.”

You willed your tired muscles to shift you onto your front, and lift your legs to hold yourself up for him.

“Relax,” he murmurs.

You feel him press up behind you, hands move to your shoulders, kneading them gently, then moving down your back.

“Bucky,” you sigh softly.

“Good?”

You close your eyes. “Yeah.”

You hear him chuckle quietly. “I expect the same in return.”

“A massage?” You murmur.

“Yes,” his thumbs press into your spine and you gasp slightly — feeling tingles run along your neck.

“Tomorrow,” you promise.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he allows his fingers to slide down to your backside.

His fingers trace your hips, holding you in place as you feel his hardening length pressing against you.

“I’ll go slow,” he promises. “You’ll feel every inch.”

The head of him pushes against you, sinking in at an agonisingly slow pace.

You hear him groan, pushing forward further until he is fully seated.

“Still tight,” he grits his teeth for a moment.

“Bucky,” you pant against the pillow.

“I’ve got you, baby,” his voice is soothing.

His thrusts were slow, gentle. Both of you still overstimulated from the previous round.

“Going to go all night,” his voice was low. “Keep going until it takes.”

He thrusts harder, hitting deep. You let out a choked noise as he grabs your hair, twisting it in his fingers and pulling your head back.

“Shit,” you gasp, your eyes begin to sting.

“I can’t—” he pants. “Gonna—”

He begins to move faster, hitting just where you need it. Your hand grasps the bed frame, which now rocked in time to your bodies.

His free hand reaches around to rub against your clit.

“Let me feel it,” he growls.

Your eyes roll, sensation narrowing to his hand in your hair, fingers on your clit and the friction against your walls.

You wail as your legs begin to shake, fresh tears falling down your cheeks.

The bed rocks once, twice then he allows himself a moan as you feel warm liquid seep into you again.

Your body slumps onto the mattress, his own following suit to lay on top of you for a moment.

His arms wrap around your waist pulling you onto your side, keeping him buried in your warmth.

“Going to keep me warm all night?” He whispers into your ear. You allow a soft moan in response.

“Going to need it in this cold, baby,” he continues before grinding into you, desperate for more.

The sun seemed brighter here than in Brooklyn, or perhaps it was the lack of buildings. Regardless it shone unabated through the mountains into the room.

Your squint slightly at the sun, aware that Bucky is pressed against your back, metal arm around your waist and flesh one thrown casually over side.

A tiny shift in your body is enough to stir him. His arm tightens around you to keep you pressed against him.

You hear him breathe slowly before you feel his lips in your hair.

“Morning,” he murmurs.

“Hi,” you whisper, turning your head to try and see him better. His right hand moves to your hips, thumb brushing soothing half circles into your skin.

“You okay? Not too sore?” His eyes flicker over you in concern.

You nod. “A little. Taking a break for a bath was a smart idea.”

He chuckles. “The hot tub is open anytime for you, baby, if it’s what you need.”

You roll, shifting to face him.

“Are you okay?” You wonder, your fingers reaching to brush along his jaw.

“Yeah?” His eyebrows come together. “Why’d you ask?”

“We did go—” you pause, unable to recall how many times you’d consummated the marriage. “It was a lot. You always check on me, but I never do the same for you.”

He silently chuckles, his frame shaking slightly.

“I can feel it a bit,” he admits. “And I’ll be sensitive for a while.”

You press your lips together in concern.

“There’s nothing to worry your pretty head over,” he brushes hair from your face. “We’ve done this many times before.”

“Yeah but not—” your face scrunches together as you recall.

“Six times?” He finishes. “I did warn you I’d be thorough.”

“You did,” you admit. “I didn’t expect it though. We usually stop after three or four.”

“That’s why we took a break for a bath,” he shrugged.

“You really thought it through,” you shake your head in disbelief.

“Mob boss,” he emphasised. “I think through everything.”

“Even our wedding night,” you tease.

“I did plan to have our belongings inside first,” he admits.

You giggle for a moment then remember. “Our stuff is still in the car!”

“No, they are not,” he rubs your back. “I got the housekeeper to come and do it whilst we were sleeping. Our clothes have been placed in the next room.”

“Oh,” you relax. “We don’t have to trudge in the snow then?”

“We don’t have to leave this building if you don’t want to,” he promises. “Whatever you want, baby. You can have it.”

You give him a wicked grin. “You’d buy me a new car then?”

“Take your pick,” he baits back. “I know you’d never use it. You enjoy being driven around too much.”

You playfully pout at him. “It is one of the positives of being with you.”

“Just one?” He pulls you close, pressed against him.

“Mhm,” you murmur. “Shall we get up?”

Bucky nuzzled into your neck. “I’d like a moment longer.”

You wrap your arms around him tightly, a leg lifting to lay next to his.

“Let’s stay here forever,” he murmurs. “I’ll run my mob remotely.”

You giggle. “It’s only been one night.”

“And it’s not enough,” he leans back, taking your face in his hands. “It’ll never be enough.”

“James,” you use his first name carefully.

“Yeah, baby?”

“You told me you want children,” you remind him. “This isn’t ideal for them.”

He blinks a moment. “I suppose not. It’s perfect for us, though.”

His eyes go distant for a moment.

“We could… make it a regular occurrence,” his tone was thoughtful. “If you like it here. We could visit every anniversary, just have a week of just us.”

“Just us?” You repeat.

“Yeah, just us,” he promises.

“That’s all I’ve wanted,” you admit. “To have you to myself, even for a day.”

“You can have more than that,” his thumbs brush your cheeks. “I’d keep you in this bed for the rest of our lives if I could.”

You shake your head in disbelief, and cannot contain the smile on your face.

“Stay,” he whispers.

“Breakfast,” you whisper back.

“That’s what the housekeeper is for,” he leans forward, pressing his lips against yours.

You pull away. “You’ll complain it’s not my food.”

He pauses his pursuit, considering. “That’s true. You’ve domesticated me, I need your food in the morning — nothing else will do.”

You giggle. “Remember when you had brunch at that hotel in Chicago?”

Bucky pulls a face. “Never again. I’m bringing you next time.”

“To a mob conference?” You tease, pulling yourself up.

“You’re my wife,” he sits up and stretches, flexing the muscles of his arm and back. “I would like to show you off.”

You raise an eyebrow as you pull on a silk gown.

“Show me off?” You repeat.

He walks over to you, pulling on a cotton gown. His flesh hand reaches over to brush your hair over your shoulder.

“You’re my wife now,” his eyes gaze into yours. “I can’t keep you hidden any longer. You’ll have to play the part.”

You reach to his hand, threading your fingers with his and beginning to walk through the house to the kitchen.

“You want me to pretend to be a woman who spends her husband’s money, and is only with him for that?” You joke.

He chuckles. “No, be yourself. Just don’t let anyone intimidate you, if they do you get two choices. Handle it yourself, how you see fit - I will support you regardless. Or come to me, and I will handle it.”

“Mmm,” now in the kitchen you roam around to start cooking. Bucky sits himself on a stool at the breakfast bar, eyes remaining on you.

“You have nothing to fear from them,” he promises. “In fact, they will be envious of you. That they do not have the loyalty and love of their wives.”

You spend a few minutes in silence as you work, until the pan sizzled, and you pour the mixture in.

“Is there something wrong with me loving you?” You wonder.

“No, baby,” he promises. “Everything is right with you loving me.”

“Most mob bosses marry for political alliances, there is no love in it,” he sighs. “It’s about money, sex and having an heir to hand their empires over to.”

“You don’t care for the money,” he continues as you serve up the first pancake, moving onto the second. “But, you are as insatiable in bed as I am, and you love me. Most of the princesses that these bosses marry want the money, don’t care for sex and have no emotional attachment to their husbands.”

You push the pile of pancakes toward him, then start on your own.

“Mmm, this is almost better than the sex,” he groans as he filled his mouth with pancake.

“Almost?” You taunt him.

“Mhm,” you barely hear him over his chewing, he then grins watching as you pop yourself next to him.

You start to eat, suppressing a smile as he watches from the corner of his eyes.

“What would you like to do today?” He asks, getting to his feet to take his plate to the dishwasher, then opens the fridge and fills two glasses with juice.

“I, uh,” your lips twitch. “You are the one who plans everything.

He chuckles, pushing over a glass carefully to you. “Drink.”

You pick up the glass, the sight of the liquid makes you realise your throat tingles — sore from the night before. You tip it back, draining half the glasses with ease.

“Good girl,” he leans over the counter.

“I promised you a massage,” you say thoughtfully.

“You did,” he agrees. “Anything else?”

“We could go in the hot tub?” Your voice is uncertain and he begins to chuckle. “Don’t laugh! You’re always the one who tells me what we are doing.”

“I know,” he agrees. “I spend every day in control. If I am to loosen the reins, I would like to be your choice. For us to do things you enjoy.”

You blink. “I don’t know how to do that.” Your voice is quiet. “I’ve grown used to following your lead… keeping you happy.”

His lips part for a moment. “Fuck,” he murmurs. “Sometimes I forget how fucked up this is.”

“Bucky?” Blood drains from your face.

He steps around the counter, not stopping until he is in front of you. His hands gently wrap around yours.

“I wanted you even though I stole you from your home,” he sighs. “And I kept you. I let you fall for me. If I were good or decent, I would have never allowed things to go so far.”

You squeeze his hands. It was clear to you he was not looking for pity or sympathy, but in his way showing how he valued you - that you chose him, despite it all.

“I don’t want that, I want you,” you land on your feet, shuffling close to him to press yourself against him. “I want you to hold me.”

He lets go of your hands, putting his arms gently around you.

“Like this?” He whispers.

You nod.

“Anything else?” He adds.

“Could you… kiss me on the head?”

Bucky smiles, leaning over his lips softly brushing over your forehead. The feel of them sends soft tingles across your body.

“Just tell me what you would like,” his face inches closer to yours. “We don’t need to plan anything.”

“You planned last night,” you point out.

“I told you, I wished to consummate properly,” he shrugs. “Now we can do whatever we please.”

“So you don’t want to go back to bed?” You tease.

“If you want to,” he licks his bottom lip.

“Mmm,” you lean in, pecking him on the lips and then stepping back.

Bucky’s blue eyes widen, the pupils brown wide.

“You fucking tease,” he growls.

You giggle softly. “I’d like to just lay down,” you admit. “Then we could spend time in the hot tub, and I’ll give you that massage I promised.”

His face softens. “That’s it? You don’t want anything else?”

You allow your hands to fall, and give him a shy shrug.

“All I want is peace and you,” your voice cracks slightly. “I don’t want anything else.”

“I can’t promise you peace,” Bucky speaks carefully, his fingers lingering on your back. “I can swear to be with you, always.”

You dip yourself forward, leaning into him entirely and allowing him to catch you with a quiet gasp.

“That’s all I want.”

Woe finds you on a Tuesday at the staffroom lunch table. 

Picking apart the leftovers of a miserable thrown together attempt of fried rice that came to be after realising there were no better dinner options with the ingredients you had in the fridge two days ago and the determination to not get take out more than once a week that would surely fade come February. Alas, it is still January and all those new year resolutions are still sticking like cheap adhesive hooks that will eventually be weighed down enough to slip as time ticks on. 

Eat take out once a week, maximum. Read one book a month, minimum. Sleep more. Stop turning down social invites

The last one is what leaves you particularly perturbed, as your lunch goes lukewarm and your thumb flicks about on the social media profile.

“I just… I can’t say no.” You lament. “It would be weird.”

“Weirder than going?” Margot asks, pulling her own container of lunch from the oven. It’s also leftovers, but slices of impeccably cooked roast with what looks to be red wine sauce and vegetables- no doubt made by her smokeshow of a house husband (he just works from home, she insists. You’re pretty sure the pair are sitting on a lofty investment profile because no man ‘works from home’ cooks roasts bi-weekly and buys his wife diamond earrings for her birthday).

“I don’t know. Maybe.” You manage, the next bite of fired rice tasting like loneliness packed into an over-salted flavour profile. 

“What’s weird?” Ryland asks, sitting down in the chair across from you.

The staff room of E-Block is near abandoned. Of the ten-odd teachers with rooms in the little block of aging brick, most tended to eat in their classrooms. Save for you, Margot and Ryland. Occasionally there will be another visitor, but most days, it is just the three of you. 

“Wedding.” Margot supplies, sitting down and shuffling her chair in with a sense of poise so rarely found in Middle-Schools. She’s older, somewhere in her early fifties, and still manages to approach the job with the same level of discipline as before ipads made their invasion into the classroom. 

Ryland frowns. “You’re already married.”

He’s… well, Ryland's… actually you’re not sure how to put him into words, which is saying a lot considering the literature degree collecting mildew in the filing cabinet of your apartment. 

He’s in the same boat as you in terms of finding yourselves with a teaching career. Studied something else first, got your passion and love for it soured by morons and went back to college for a second round, dishing out more cash for a masters in teaching that has you trying to tame fourteen year olds all day. Delightful, truly. Although, Ryland had certainly lasted a lot longer with that first degree than you had. A doctorate. He hates the kids knowing that though. A handful of them had called him ‘Doctor Grace’ last year, after digging about online and getting their grubby fingers on his linkedin profile. 

‘Mr Grace’ as he is now known, is awkward. A little socially inept at times, but not enough to come across as anything other than endearing. Now is one such time, as he looks over the frames of his glasses at Margo, the stack of pop quizzes he’d brought to mark and keep himself occupied momentarily forgotten. His eyes darted from her face to the ring on her finger. 

“Mm mm.” She hums, shaking her head as she chews, then levels her fork to point in your direction.

“You’re not getting married.” Ryland states when he turns to look at you, like it’s a scientific fact, one he’s so assured of. 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr Grace.” You reply, still sort of wallowing at the photos on your phone. 

His gaze flickers, a little less sure as the corner of his lips fall and, like he had with Margot, settles his eyes on your hands. Your lack of a ring. “You aren’t, are you?”

“No. My ex is, though.” You sigh, despondent. The reminder glares back at you from the overly-bright phone screen. 

“Oh. That sucks.” He manages, clicking open a red pen to start circling and ticking the first sheet on his pile. “Happens to the best of us.”

The kettle rumbles away on the tiny kitchenette. You look at him for a long moment. The best of us. Like it’s happened to him. Ryland’s not one to discuss relationships beyond the occasional quip about quitting to be a house husband like Margot’s. He’s never mentioned past romances, you don’t think he’s been in a relationship in the three years since he started at Grover Cleveland Middle. It’s such a bizarre glimpse at his life, that he doesn't even seem to register what he's revealed, marking as he waits for the boiling water to cook another lunch of instant ramen. 

You sit up a little straighter in your chair, weary of knocking your shoes against where his long legs sprawl under the small table. The staff room is meant for ten but is cramped even with the three of you, nothing more than a little kitchenette and big whiteboard in the corner. There’s a shelf against one wall, just far enough away from the doorframe that the door doesn't crash into it when pushed open. There’s a long window the length of the wall on the door’s other side, a good view of the eighth-grade outdoor lunch area. The other staff call it the fishbowl, it’s why they opt to eat in their classrooms, not keen on the kids' eyes on them when it is supposed to be one of the fleeting breaks during their day.

Thank god the door is closed- if the kids heard you whining about this, a wedding, they’d never let up. “I’m considering the pros and cons of skipping it.”

“You were invited?” He baulks, dropping his pen.

You try not to smile, focusing on your self pity instead of the three shoddy attempts Ryland takes to catch his pen from dropping out of his hand, rolling off the stack of paper then off the table. “I already said I’d go too.”

“Why?” Ryland sounds appalled, like that one time you’d caught him trying to explain that the five second rule is not an effective barrier against bacteria to a student. 

“It’s complicated.” You say, biting at your cheek. 

“Bullshit.” Margot aptly calls. Looking over with the same expression she used to call students on their bullshit. You're not a big fan of having it directed at you. 

“We went out for maybe two months in college.” You sigh, setting your phone on the table face-down to stare at your lunch, contemplative. “He’s engaged to one of the girls from my sorority. We’re… friends.”

Margot watches. “With your ex or the sorority girl?”

“Sorority girl. Daisy.” That's the better option of the two at least. You think it is, not that there is much left to save you from the impending train wreck of discussing the relationship woes of your late teens and early twenties with the only two coworkers who care to eat lunch in a communal space. The company is nice, Ryalnd had said once, when you’d asked, gets me out of the classroom. 

Margot screws her face up for a second, muttering it again under her breath as if the name offends her. 

“You were in a sorority?" Ryland asks, face a little blank as he looks at you from across the table. 

It makes you falter, the way his thoughts seem to be buffering like the school's slow wifi. “I… Yeah? That’s the interesting part?”

He shakes his head, looking down at his marking sheets and pushes his glasses up from where they’re slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose. “No, I just can’t picture it.”

You purse your lips, consider pulling up some photos from your sorority days, then remember the kind of outfits the lot of you wore and think better of it. “Well Daisy and I were roommates for a year and a half. She’s nice. Works in PR now.”

“But she’s marrying your ex?” Ryland asks, still kind of baffled. 

You dismiss it with a lazy hand wave. “I mean, she asked before they went out and everything. I just think it’s a little weird. I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s going to be embarrassing.”

Margot tuts twice, done with her lovingly made lunch that symbolises how successful she has been in the department of marriage when you have all but failed so far. “Why is it embarrassing? Two months is nothing.”

“I was a little head over heels for this guy.” You admit, sheepish. 

Ryland stands up, clears his throat as he turns away. “Yeah? How so?”

His back is to you, as he peels the lid off his cup ramen and wrestles with the flavour packet. You come to the conclusion it’s easier to confess this sort of stuff with only one set of eyes on you. “I was sort of convinced he was my soulmate. He was doing pre-law, witty too.”

“Hot?” Margot asks, always straightforward.

You feel a blush rise on your cheeks as you remember the early days of your sorority experience, flopped back on the bed as you made little love sick sighs at your ceiling. “God, his jawline. And his hair- it was so… ugh!” 

The thud is dull when your forehead lands on the table, to the right of your now abandoned lunch. “I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s dumb.”

You hate how you sound- petulant like the kids you prod for not searching for better words in their assignments, moping like your world is ending over something so trivial. It’s not even the new years resolution that has you mulling this over so intently.  You’d agreed to go months ago- six months ago- and said yes to the offered plus one, adamant to yourself that you’d have someone by then, a partner or something. Someone of importance. 

Attending alone is going to be even worse than if you had just RSVP’d for yourself in the first place. It’s one thing to watch your college friend and ex-sort-of-boyfriend exchange vows alone, and a whole other monster to do it with a pointed empty seat beside you. 

All of it tumbles out your lips in a hurried hurl of word vomit, followed by a few moments of silence that has you cautiously raising your head to peek over the wall of your forearms. Ryland is staring at you, cup noodles steaming in his hands where it hovers over the sink, like he’d been about to pour out the excess water. Margot is looking at you with a frown, the same one she wears when teaching senior mathematics and the children have drawn up an equation for her to solve with the foolish belief they could stump her for more than ten seconds. 

And just as in class, Margot is not phased for more than a handful of moments. “Then find someone with a better jawline and better hair to go with you. You can borrow mine.”

You blink at her, mulling the words over before asking, “Are you trying to pimp your husband out to me?”

“Only for aesthetic reasons, of course. It’d be nice to have the house to myself for once. Not like you have better options.”

It would sting more if it wasn’t so true. There were very few options and with the wedding only two weeks away, that was certainly not enough time to squeeze in enough dates with someone to justify taking them to a damn wedding. 

“I mean, how good is his jawline?” Ryland finally says, walking over with his little cutlery box, plastic chopsticks he washes and reuses almost everyday, to set his lunch down on the table and settle back in across from you. “Are we aiming high?”

There is no way to un-dig this hole, not now that they’ve both decided to put their two cents in. You concede with another sigh and reach for your phone, arms and chin still on the table as you fish about Instagram for a photo. It’s the one that had reminded you of this awful upcoming event, posted by Daisy. You all but toss your phone on the table between your coworkers, sinking a little lower into your folded arms, awaiting judgement. 

The photos must be from a walk though of the venue, the pair of them posed together between some old marble arch where they were having the ceremony at. She was laughing, hand on his chest, showing off the ring on her finger while he looked at her, besotted. The caption made it worse. Only two weeks left till I get to marry my man on these very steps.

You like them both, you really do, but the thought of showing up by yourself, as the lonely friend who’d never found ‘it’, your own version of the love they were celebrating, well it was just nauseating.

Margot looks the photo over critically before humming in a sort of so-so tone. “You can do better.”

Ryland looks kind of at a loss. “This is your type?”

As if to emphasise the point, he lifts the phone up and turns it around to show you the image you were already being haunted by. “This is the hair that had you all…”

He doesn't find the words, just waves the hand with his chopsticks around in a messy motion, looks at you critically over the rims of his glasses.

“He slicks it back now. It used to be… I donno. Messy? Fluffy? Good to run my fingers though.” He scoffs a little to himself, dissatisfied maybe with your excuse.

The only forgiving factor is that the photo does highlight the sharp cut of his jaw, which even Ryland concedes to. “He does have a good jawline...”

Yours is better, you want to say. Immediate and impulsive, because it kind of is. Especially when the shadow of his stubble stretches a few extra days between shaves. Your ex is clean shaven- you used to think that was sexy, at least sexier than the patchy beards boys in college had back then. Now you’re kind of obsessed with the so-called ‘5-o’clock shadow’ Ryland sports on Fridays. 

It’s not something you’re likely to tell him though, especially not when you glance at the clock and realise you have a duty across campus in three minutes. Saved by the bell maybe, either way you’re able to liberate your phone from the pair of them and their conspiratory whispers, bin the scraps of your lunch and haul ass out of there. 

By the end of the school day, you have reached the conclusion that you will blame it on work. That some mandatory day of ‘professional development’ as it is called nowadays, has come up and you will just have to miss the wedding, truly you’re devastated about it all. 

Then Ryland corners you in your classroom. The bell’s long gone, as are the students. He’s dressed like he’s on his way out, his green backpack tossed over one shoulder and bike helmet hanging by the strap in one hand. You’re halfway through explaining your plan and the wording you’re going to use in the tragic text message to Daisy when he cuts you off. 

“I’ll go with you.”

He’s a little breathless with it, like he’d been saving up all his oxygen to get the words out, leaving him in one big rush as they topple though the doorway of your classroom and splatter onto the linoleum floor between you both. 

“I know that I’m not Margot’s husband with a ‘better jawline and better hair’ but we can go and eat nice wedding food- If he’s a lawyer it’s gotta be fancy, right? And we can make fun of his stupid slicked back hair together and you don’t have to be alone or make an excuse and feel guilty about it.” Ryland’s big speech is as flawed as it is heartwarming

Because he does have a better jawline and better hair. And Margot looks between you both during lunch hours and staff meetings like you’re her personal romance drama, there to occupy her during the day. 

But the wedding food will be good, your ex will shill out for the best and Daisy has always had a taste for the finer things in life. Ryland is the best company you can think of to have by your side and he knows you well enough to understand how guilty lying about something makes you feel, how it churns your gut. 

“Yeah. Okay.” You smile, something warm and fuzzy in your chest. 

His eyes don’t move, maybe widen a little before he speaks again, still a little breathless. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

It isn’t a hard thought to come around to, taking Ryland to a wedding. As a date is something that goes unsaid between the pair of you, not sure whether it could be classed as such for real, or if this is simply a favour between friends-slash-coworkers. It is certainly a date for show, to the many college friends you’re about to reunite with after a few years, for your Ex, Jack who’s obsessed with his wife, for Daisy who you’d told years ago to ‘go for it, he’s a nice guy’ working under the assumption that she’d only last a few months by his side too. 

You’re not sure which answer you’d prefer, honestly; a date or a favour. 

He texts you a lot- after school, on the weekend- asking about what he should wear, what you’re going to wear, how he should prepare for this sort of thing. It’s sweet, cute in a way that has little butterflies flapping around in your stomach. 

“Okay, I’ll show you. Wait, hold on.” You placate, setting your phone down on the bed, screen up. 

“It’s a lovely ceiling fan, but I doubt it fits the dress code.” Ryland drawls, and you can hear the smile there. 

“Ha ha.” You reply, a little echo-y as you lean into your closet to pull the dress out. 

He’s up in arms about what to wear, says he needs to know what you’re wearing too so he can match. The invite’s dress code called for formal attire in ‘dark colours’. On the facebook page she’d made for the event, Daisy had a full post going into more detail, about how she’d love any and all dark tones- forestry green, navy, even burgundy was fine. You had taken a firm stance against burgundy considering there’s some old wedding traditions that state wearing red indicated you’d slept with the groom. Which you had, but you were not about to advertise that. 

So navy it was. 

You’d sent Ryland a picture of the invite, where it was stuck to your fridge with letter magnets spelling out ‘woe’- it had felt fitting when you’d stuck it up there- and several screenshots of the lengthy dress-code post Daisy had made that went into excruciating detail. He wasn’t satisfied though. 

Even your attempts to describe the dress you’d bought didn’t work well enough.

“I mean it! you expect me to know what any of those words apart from ‘floor length' means?” he bemoans from your phone speakers, face time call crackling. “I need all the data.”

“Oh listen to you, Mr. Science,” You drawl with a smile, pulling the dress out. It’s too long to hang from a door knob so you have to stretch up on your tip toes to hang the coat hook over the curtain rod of your bedroom window. 

“I was thinking of changing my name. Very to the point, don’t you think?” He replies, still smiling as you collect your phone. His eyes are sparkling with something cheeky when you appear back in frame. 

Ryland’s dressed down, in one of those dumb science t-shirts he wears on ‘Casual Fridays’ as it is called in staff meetings. This one’s dark blue and has the periodic table on it in worn down white transfer ink. You’ve seen it enough to know the punch line sprawled over his lower stomach even though it’s not in frame. I wear this shirt periodically. He finds an extra layer in humor that the shirt is factually correct as well, that he does in fact, wear the shirt in regular intervals as he’d explained to you during a free-period on one of those casual Fridays. 

He’s at his kitchen bench, phone propped up against something, while he taps away at his laptop. You’ve not actually been to Ryland’s apartment before, but it sorta feels like you have, the cramped studio always on display in the back of video calls like this one. 

It’s just one long rectangle. Kitchen by the front door, a bench, a gap that is probably intended for a kitchen table but he’s stuck a desk there instead, his bed that’s almost always unmade with a tv wall mounted across from it, and a balcony. Like this, you can see the expanse of it behind him. The stacks of paper piled up on his desk, the extra monitors and little trinkets gifted from students, the sage green sheets of his bed, peeled back on one side, sun shining in through his big glass balcony doors. Honesty, you kind of want to see the view from his apartment in person, he’s a little higher up than you are, in a better part of the city too. 

Ryland’s not brushed his hair, it’s all spiked up in different directions and you wonder if the mug he’s been sipping from, periodically, is his morning cup even though it’s just past ten. He’s blinking slow behind his glasses, sitting a little too still for his brain to be fully functional yet. 

“I’m sure the kids will love it. Harder to spell on their assessment sheets, though.” You can imagine it, the staff badge, the name on his board in fun bubble writing where it would stay untouched for a whole school term. 

You flip the camera, showing him the dress he’s been complaining about not understanding for the last half hour over text before he gave up and called you. 

It’s cute, how his head tilts and he leans towards his phone for a second before just picking it up and holding it close enough so his eyes and forehead are just about all that is in frame. “Is that velvet?”

“It’s fake satin. I think.”

“Fake satin?” He repeats, confused.

The dress was one you already owned, bought a year or so ago for another friend’s wedding that you had attended alone but not felt crappy about, even if it did seem like everyone your age was getting married nowadays. It’s got a fitted bodice, but there fabric is a little drapey, looks like it pools over the chest and down towards the fluid skirt. "Wasn't expensive enough to be real satin.”

“Okay, I know what you mean by delicate straps now.” That had been his main hang up, whining about, What do you mean delicate straps? Like they’re about to break?, swearing that the shit he was googling was just not helping the mental image considering there were about six different results for everything.  

“Yeah, and here, the lace up back.” You say, stepping up to twist the dress away from where it sat flush against the curtains to show the corset style back, with thin cord lace just a little thinner than the straps. 

“Isn’t that going to be a nightmare to put on?” He asks, squinting still.

“There’s a zip.” You say, dragging the little hidden zipper down, showing him how the dress fabric parts and slips open. “So it’s fairly easy to get on. The cords are about as tight as they should be anyway, it isn't hard to pull to fit.”

You fumble a little trying to get the zip back up but eventually just conceded to leave out like that until you put the dress away. When you glance down at your phone, Ryland has moved, no longer sitting down and if you had to guess, is now walking the length of his apartment instead. He looks a little distressed. 

“Come on, you’ve got the easy part.” You try, a little concerned he’s about to say he shouldn’t go. “You just have to put on a suit.”

“I can’t just ‘put on a suit’.” He whines, flopping down onto his bed like the world is ending. “I’m supposed to be like, your big ‘fuck you’ to the girl who got with your ex. I’m supposed to look good with you. I don’t know if I have a suit nice enough for that dress.”

“Ryland. It’s not about saying ‘fuck you’ to Daisy, or pulling some revenge stunt. I just didn’t want to go alone like a loser when I said I was bringing someone.” You can’t really help the little breathy laugh that weaves its way though his name, because he sounds like you did four days ago acting like the world was about to end, face down on the lunch table. “You don’t have to come.”

“No, I’m coming. I just need to go through my wardrobe.” He’s cute, you decide, in a round-about sort of way. The determination to play this self elected role well, to perfect it and give it his all, like he does with everything else in his life. The whole situation was elevating your ‘aesthetic appreciation’ of Ryland that you’d been attempting to suppress, to a new sort of level. 

You flop down on your own bed, roll over on your side and let him derail the conversation towards lesson planning, listen to him talk about the plans he has for the next weeks worth of classes, a couple of activities he’s got in the works. All while you consider the pros and cons of having him beside you instead. 

Ryland was probably the teacher you got on best with at work, despite being from two very different teaching areas. When he’d first arrived, you’d assumed he would be a little pretentious, with his Phd and professional experience beyond the classroom. You weren't expecting him to be so awkward. The children took to him so quickly, and Ryland had told you time and time again that he doesn't understand why they think he’s cool. 

Over the years you’ve found that he can be cocky, in certain bouts of confidence seemingly appearing via divine-intervention. A local bar had run trivia nights for some six odd months, and it had unleashed a beast within him.

On Monday afternoon he sent you a photo. A little black bag with a logo you’d googled, realising it was a menswear store before the second photo had come though. A tie, sleek navy like your dress, rolled up neatly with a matching pocket square beside it, both nestled in a box that screamed expensive. You’d sent back a random string of praise, imagining him lulling it over in the store. It was nearly five in the afternoon, he’d left work pretty much on the final bell. You wonder how long he spent comparing the seemingly endless ties the shop’s online store offered, considering what would match best to your dress.

It makes you a little giddy, to be honest, has you dreaming of a situation where you’d asked him to come to the wedding, or where you’d already been together long enough that it was simply a given when the invitation turned up in your mail box. 

Neither of you mention it during school hours, not keen on the kids hearing whispers of you and Ryland doing anything outside work hours- students will take anything and run with it.

But he messages you about it constantly. Makes a plan; he’d come to your apartment and you would uber from there to the venue, it was a sunset ceremony and evening reception. He lived close enough that it was a brisk walk or quick bus trip. He pointedly mentions that he would not be cycling- ‘In a suit? God, never’- and makes sure you know that the uber would also drop you both back to your flat and he’d walk home or take another separate uber. 

There’s talk about your ‘backstory’, which he takes as seriously as he does exam periods. You tell him it’s not super necessary, that saying you met at work is more than enough exposition for the gaggle of college friends you’d not seen in years. But he was never one to do things in halves. 

“We obviously would have met at school.” He says, like it’s a given. Ryland is laid out on the reading rug at the back of your classroom, staring at the ceiling. And the fake clouds that are actually just a hobby-fill glue gunned to paper and taped to the ceiling, he’d turned the fairy lights that are threaded though them on before he’d decided the floor was his resting place. “Maybe trivia is where it happened. We liked trivia.”

“We did like trivia.” You agree, pointedly. 

It’s almost impossible to not just sit there and watch him, the student folders that you’re sorting worksheets into acting as a very inefficient distraction. 

He’s got a button down on, some pale blue that looks nice under his grey wool blazer. The pale wash jeans and white converse are a bit more casual, but he wears the combination well. Too well. Laid out like this, with one knee up, he looks far too attractive for you to swallow. Glasses pulled down to hang off his jaw, sitting there catching the afternoon light as it came through the windows, casting rainbow refractions onto the back wall. 

“Maybe trivia was a date. What would you have done?”

“If you’d asked me to trivia as a date?” You glance up. He’s already looking at you, head tipped to the side, something soft, tentative there in his eyes.

“Yeah.” You can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, how his chest rises with each breath. 

Ryland sounds… nervous, in a way that does remind you of the first trivia night you’d gone to. He’d been dressed similarly there, you remember thinking he looked nice, polished up a little more than he did in the school day with dress shoes and what smelt like cologne. Handsome where he waited by the entrance, backlit by the bar’s warm lighting. He’d been a little twitchy for the first hour or so, but settled into himself by round two. 

With the way he’s looking at you, now as he plans out the false scenario that’s beginning to sound a lot more like a confession, you’re starting to get the idea that trivia could have been a date. If either of you had put it into words. 

“Enjoyed it, probably.”

“Really?” He looks shy, a bit of a flush working its way up his cheeks. 

You smile at him, thinking about how nice it would have been to kiss him in that bar with a sweet cocktail on your lips, dizzy from his flattery about your trivia skills. You hum, nodding a little as you look at the folders and sheets spread out over your desk, feeling a flush rise to your own cheeks.

He knocks when you’re halfway through lacing up the back of your dress, holding the cords with one hand as you open the door. Ryland’s not been to your apartment before, something you’d failed to realise until he called you and asked during his walk over, if you’d have to buzz him in. 

He was appalled to find out the front door to your building was sporting a broken lock and had been tied back with a length of rope for the last two months while the landlords procrastinated fixing it. 

“See,” You say, opening the door for him, keeping it propped open with your foot as he shuffles in. “My door locks.”

“Still one less lock that you’re supposed to have.” he grumbles, stepping out of his very nice dress shoes. They look expensive- black leather shined up propper. 

Actually, Ryland looks expensive. 

“You look nice,” he says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that. 

“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly. 

Holy fuck he looks good in a suit. It’s the only thought spinning around your head. It’s a proper one, tailor made no doubt. Blazer, slacks and undershirt, all three of them a deep inky black. The navy tie he’d sent you a photo of is done up around his neck in a knot neater than you’ve ever seen him wear to work. The pocket square is folded too, fluffed up with a little volume that suggests he did so intentionally. 

Suddenly you’re reminded of all those times he’d complained about all the formal conferences and charity gala’s he’d attended during his days in academia. You realise you have made a grave error. 

There have always been little parts about Ryland that oozed wealth, the glasses he wore for one, that he told you were antique when you’d asked. The watch on his wrist that you thought looked like some practical sporty thing but found out was actually worth three months rent when you’d googled it out of curiosity. These little things fall out of the spotlight and become footnotes that are often ignored when he’s in his classroom, or tiny apartment. 

Dressed in such a nice suit, here in you apartment definitely wearing cologne- the same from that very first trivia night, something a little warm, woodsy like oaky bourbon, sharp and contrary to the fresh nothingness he smelt like at work- Ryland seemed so far beyond you. 

“You look good.” You manage, letting the door slip shut and dropping the lace of your dress, it loses its tension a little but stays in the same spot for the most part, to run a hand over the lapel of his blazer. “How long have you had this?”

“Ages. Dug it out of the back of my closet. A little tighter than when I last wore it, but it will do the trick. Right?” He tacks that last bit on, like he’s waiting with baited breath for your approval. 

“I’ll say.” You slide your hand down the lapel a little bit, down over the press of his chest. The tightness just shows the subtlety of his build, lean muscle that comes from idle exercise and good diet, maybe even a splash of genetics. He’s tidied his facial hair up a little, slid the electric razor over all of it to make sure it’s the same length, no doubt. Ryalnd’s still got his glasses on, you were a little worried he might have opted for contacts and are very relieved you get to see this outfit complete with the lenses that frame his face so well. 

With a realisation you might be getting a little lost in your head, you drop your hand, turning to walk further into your apartment, towards the couch where your shoes for the night sat on the floor. “Right, we'll, I'm nearly ready. The uber will be here soon.”

“Do you need a hand?” Ryland asks, and you’re about to turn, ask him, ‘with what’ when you feel his fingertips against the small of your back. It sends a jolt though your skin, he’s cold. From the outside air, where as you’ve been nice and cosy with the heat on while you’d done your hair and make up. 

Goosebumps rise under his hands as they gather the ties for the back of your dress. Something low swoops in your gut, like the dip of a roller coaster, free falling as he chuckles a little behind you. “Sorry, cold fingers.”

You swallow. “It’s.. it’s okay.”

“How tight?” He asks, giving the strings a gentle tug. You almost sway with the moment, feeling a little swept off your feet already. 

“Bit tighter.” You manage, as he presses a flat palm against the small of your back, over the criss-crossing cord, and gathers both ties in one hand to pull slow and firm. It tugs you back into his hand, a steadier hold than you’d expected. 

“There?” He questions when the dress is pulled in to sit flush with your skin but not dig in. You get the feeling he might have done some research, when he plucks at each string to even them out and make sure none of them are too tight, on how these dresses are supposed to sit. 

“Yeah, perfect.” It leaves you like a sigh, as his palm dips, brushes where the zipper sits before pulling back to tie a neat bow, tugging the cords out carefully so both loops are even. 

All of it has you lightheaded, directing more effort than necessary to get yourself to the couch and pull your heels on, black mary janes that are comfortable enough to walk in. As you fiddle with the buckles, you eye him. 

Ryland’s hair is tousled, intentionally a little messy, not combed or slicked back. Looks like it would be nice to run your fingers though, and you find yourself wondering if that’s why he’d opted for the style, if he’s here, dressed up as the guy with ‘better hair and a better jawline’ that Margot had pitched, unaware that he already was exactly who he’s trying to be. 

He holds an arm out for you to loop yours though, walking down the stairs in steady but slowed steps. You smile. “Wow, full gentleman experience.”

“I told you, I can't just ‘put on a suit’. It’s more than that.” He chides jokingly, and you pity the version of you that didn’t realise this was an option. 

He opens the door for you- the car door, the door into the building door tied back by a rope (he glares at it when you pass it)- then rounds the back of the little toyota that’s polished up to try and seem fancier than it was. You don’t talk much on your way to the venue, comfortable silence that the driver thankfully settles into. 

It’s nearing sundown when you pull into the driveway, a big circular road that’s already crammed with other cars and guests climbing out.

“You can just let us out here.” Ryland says to the uber driver, unbuckling his seatbelt to hop out, then rounding the car again to open your door, hand held out like it’s necessary, when the car is nowhere near low or high enough to warrant such assistance. 

You place your palm in his anyway, letting him pull you from the car, no more temperature disparity in your hands since you’ve both been in the car for fifteen minutes, but it still makes your skin tingle. He’s got cufflinks, the same pale gold as his glasses, in the shape of atoms. You flick one lightly. “I like these.”

He smiles, something a little smothered like he’s trying to stamp it down from a grin as he threads his arm though yours again, beginning the small walk to the venue's front steps. “Well I like your dress, so I think we’re even.”

It’s a ballroom, with these big stained glass windows in the room they hold ceremonies in, you’d seen some lovely shots on the venue’s website of sunset light streaming through them. Imagining Ryland in the warm sunlight has you in a good mood, he’s always suited it, even if the city’s never had much to offer. 

“Not too much for our first date?” You tease.

Something like a laugh tumbles out of his lips, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “First date was trivia- and you were underdressed. Keep up.”

You flush, crowding a little closer to his side to make it through the entryway without shoulder checking anyone. Had you been? It was so long ago you could hardly remember anything other than jeans, tight ones that dug into your waist when you sat down- tight jeans hardly felt like being underdressed, they probably meant you wanted him to stare at your ass. Either way you let him have the win, as minute as it is. 

Doesn't really matter what you wore back then when you’ve got him like this now. 

Together you sit about halfway down on the bride’s side, the pew’s nearly empty, only someone on the other end you don’t know but looks vaguely enough like Daisy, that's you’d guess extended family. 

“So why’d you like this guy so much?” Ryland asks, quiet enough for it to just stay between the two of you. He’s glancing around, but his eyes keep bouncing back to Jack at the front of the venue, where he’s talking to gaggle of similarly dressed guys, his groomsmen. 

“What?”

“Him,” Ryland says, tipping his head a little to gesture at Jack. “What had you talking about soulmates? Couldn't just be the hair, tons of guys have good hair.”

“They do.” You answer, raising a hand to tangle one of the longer stands where it’s dangling over his forehead around your pointer finger and give it a light tug. Ryland’s eyes settle on you, like there’s nothing else to look at. “He made me feel like the only girl in the world.”

“That’s a cliche.” He refutes. “And a song lyric.”

You smile. “I’m serious. He’s like that with every girl he went out with. He’s like it with Daisy. He just loses sight of every other woman, so attentive.”

Ryland stays silent for a moment, eyes searching for something in yours. Maybe permission, or a want, for him to keep digging, it’s almost as if he’s scared what he might find. “What'd he do? To make you feel like that?”

It’s cute, how nervous he is, despite the fact it feels as though all week, the pair of you have been laying this ground work, a path to follow that will lead you somewhere inevitable, like a trivia date, or the messy sprawled sage green sheets or Ryland’s bed. You smile at him, wondering if he’s thought about you in them. You wonder if he knows how easily you could be, that you might just follow him to the edge of the universe. 

Still, you answer his question, offering a peek into your brain, the way you used to operate when teenage giddiness was closer than adult yearning. "Took me dancing. Kissed me slowly, cared about how I wanted things to go. It was like he just couldn’t stop looking at me, for me. It was intoxicating.”

“I can’t.” Ryland blurts out, all reckless abandon, and he’s looking at you like you’ve already kissed him breathless just by being here. You let your leg shift to press the length of your thigh against his, warm even through the layers of fabric. 

You breathe in deep through your nose, the scent of his cologne sticking dizzyingly to the air, a scent you think is enough to get drunk on even without the assistance of wedding champagne. "Can't what?”

“Stop looking at you.” He clarifies, eyes darting down to your lips. “I can do the other things though.”

A flutter knocks about your chest, unsteady and uncoordinated. “Yeah, you like dancing Doctor Grace?”

“If it’s with you.” He amends. 

“And slow kissing? You like that too?”

“Yeah I do.” He’s not even trying to hide it now, gaze settled on the dusty pink line of your lips, his own a little slick with spit when he darts his tongue out to trace one quick line along them. 

You almost asked him to prove it, but in your peripherals, down the aisle and pausing at the sight of you, was Macey, another one of your college friends, smiling. So you place a hand on Ryland's thigh, just above his knee. “Good. Really good.”

Ryland looks dizzy with the praise, like it’s all rushed straight to his head. 

“Hey Macey, good to see you.” You greet, using your hand on Ryland's knee to tip his legs towards you, making room for Macey to shuffle into the pew. 

“Oh my god, good to see you too! It's been awhile, hasn’t it?” She leans down a little awkwardly to wrap you in a hug as you half stand, and it’s good to see someone after so long, to look at them and remember times when things were simpler and you were allowed to be a little stupid, a little dangerous. It’s nice to see her here, for her to sit next to you- Macey’s always encouraged you to be a little wild, and with the way Ryland’s been looking at you all night, you might need her ego-bosting tonight. 

“I’m Macey, nice to meet you.” She extends a hand to Ryland over your lap and he shakes it curtly, offering his own introduction. 

There’s a big rock on her finger, and you remember seeing it on an instagram post, some dreamy forest scenery with a ‘coming soon to a theatre near you’ caption under it. 

“I suppose it will be your wedding next then,” You tease, “Where’s Jamie?”

“Oh she had a work trip, couldn't avoid it. She wanted to come though.” Macey waves off. Her and her fiance met on some film set, both camera operators, at the time, although you faintly recall reading something about Jamie’s name working its way up to director for some upcoming project, amongst the throws of social media posts from people who once knew everything about you and now you only see once every few years. 

“So Ryland,” Macey starts with a glimmer in her eyes, something evil and mischievous that throws you back to seeing her in the living room with a bottle of tequila and monopoly board. “How’d you two meet?”

“We teach at the same school,” He grins, a hand sliding to your knee, just along the inside of it, where your dress fabric hangs low with slack, enough for his palm to press there, thumb drawing slow lines back and forth. “A little cliche but I don’t mind.”

Macey smiles, fans her face a little like that’s just soooo romantic. “What do you teach?”

“Science, opposites attract I guess.”

“Please tell me you used that line.” She practically swoons. 

Ryland huffs a little laugh. “No, the kids threw that one at me actually.”

“Really?” You question, a raised eyebrow because that was not part of the backstory he’d been cooking up all week.

“Oh yeah. You should hear them. “Mr. Grace, you and Miss are ,like perfect for each other. You should ask her to the spring dance. They’re relentless, I swear.”

He pitches his voice a little, lazy tones and improper grammar leaking out in the way it did when he did impressions of your students and you can’t help but giggle a little. 

“Their heads might explode when they find out.” Macey laughs too, then like a stroke of inspiration, slaps her hand against your arm a few times in pure, unrestrained excitement. “God- remember when we found out Professor Morisaki and Professor Collins were married? Holy shit it was like our heads exploded.” 

You bark a laugh, muffling it under your hand considering the rather low level of idle chatter in the venue. “Oh my god, I forgot about that.”

“Professors of yours?” Ryland asks, this soft smile spread across his lips still.

“Yeah, we were doing a car-wash fundraiser! They were kissing in the background of one of our photos!” Macey still whispers gossip like she did in college, like your students do now. 

Ryland looks a little red in the face when he asks. “A car wash fundraiser?” 

Macey smirks, always too good at picking things up from others' words and you kind of want to stomp your heel over her toes to tell her off before you remember how this evening had been going so far. “Oh? Don’t you know? We were a little wild in college.”

You scoff. “A little?”

“Okay, a lot.” She corrects. “The car wash was an annual thing. White tshirts, bikinis. There’s definitely pictures. I have pictures.”

“Macey.” You scold, mostly joking. 

She shrugs, straightens up and sits to face the fronts, pointedly not looking at you with a smirk on her face. “Hey- I’m just reminiscing on good times. Don’t you remember the kissing booth we ran? Of course you do you were the most requested-”

Now you stomp your foot onto hers, although she doesn’t do anything but laugh to herself. 

Ryland is back to that dazed look, like he’s on some far off planet in his mind, when he murmurs, "Kissing booth?”

You glare at Macey, for a sharp moment. Before patting one hand on Ryland’s chest, leaning in close when you say, loud enough for Macey to hear. “Tell you about it later, handsome.”

He ducks his head a little close to you, a tiny little movement that stops as soon as it starts. His cheeks are the reddest you’d ever seen, looking a lot like he’s about to kiss you now, when there’s a music cue somewhere further up the aisle and a hush falls over everyone. He doesn't look away at first, eyes glued to yours for a long second before he bites his lower lip, to stop himself saying something and reaches a hand up to lace his fingers together with yours over his chest. He pulls it gently to his lap, smothering it in between his warm palms, fiddling with your fingers as the ceremony starts. 

It’s beautiful, truly. The light lowered through the stained glass windows, reflecting and casting colour across the whole room, gentle music and teary vows. Picturesque really, and it reminded you of that time you’d all made ‘vision boards’ as a bonding activity, and Daisy had a little corner on hers that outlined the life she’d like to live, from a small sunset ceremony to the little white picket fence outside a cottage. You’re happy she’s finally arrived there, that she has a man who’s willing to give her everything she’d dreamed of. 

You tell her as much, when you catch the pair of them in the reception hall. A warm hug for each of them and a firm hand shake between Jack and Ryland. It’s a lot less daunting than you had thought it would be, seeing them with the knot tied, no bad blood lingering or awkwardness about what once was. Just contentedness, with where your lives had led you each. 

The food is good and the atmosphere is better, seeing people from a previous life chapter all reunited, laughing and catching up. The reception is held in a ball room, with gorgeous polished hard wood floors and lovely low lighting that hangs from the ceiling in delicate chandeliers. There’s a classical band, a memento board for people to take polaroids and write well wishes on them, a corner with photos from Both Daisy and Jack’s lives, in albums and tacked up on walls, showing where they meet and things bleed together into their future. All of it’s beautiful. 

It’s heading into the later part of the night, when some people have excused themselves and cake has been cut, a hefty supply of the champagne depleted, that a nice slow song comes on.

You aren’t really paying that much attention to it, until you see Ryland shift beside you, rising and holding out one hand, palm up, towards you. “Care to dance?”

Something warm spreads over your face, a flush probably, as you lay a hand in his and he ever so gently pulls you to your feet, right in close to him. He leans down again, lips pressing feather-light to your temple before he leads you towards the dance floor. 

It’s littered with other couples, celebrating the love they have for each other as well as the bride and groom. 

All of it has you a little dizzy, settling a hand on Ryland’s shoulder as his palm slides around your waist, fingers slowing around the lace up back of your dress, pressing into your skin with gentle intent. He’s warm, firm against you, breath fanning across your cheek as you look up at him. “I know this isn’t the kind of dancing you meant, but it’s the best I can do for now.”

You humm, feet shifting in time with his, a slow waltz you weren’t even aware he knew. “I think I prefer this kind of dancing nowadays.”

Ryland’s lips tick up into a smile. “Yeah?”

He looks as good in the warm lamp light as he does in sunlight, kissing across his tanned skin and stubble, showing off the highlights of his hair. You want to run your hands through it, press a kiss to the scruff of his jaw. You settle on talking instead, worried he’s not one for such public displays of affection. “Left my wild nights behind in college.”

He sighs, like this is a devastating blow, hanging his head slightly, glasses slipping a smidge down his nose. “A shame. I was looking forwards to an appearance.”

You purse your lips, lifting the hand from his shoulder to cup his jaw, tilting his head back up a little, the pad of your thumb pressing his glasses back up to where they're supposed to sit. “Might do a private showing. Just for you.”

“You going to wash my car?” He asks, teasing. Eyes following the movement of your hand as it slips back down into place on his shoulder. 

Your forehead falls, pressing against his collar bone as a furious blush blooms over your face, the worst it has been all night, murmuring, “You don’t have a car.”

He must have known what you were going to say, or some semblance of it because you certainly weren’t speaking loud enough for him to catch all of it, but he still sighs, a little dramatic. “Guess we’ll have to go with the kissing booth then.”

You lift your head a little, to look up at him where he’s smiling down, mirth dancing about in his eyes. “Oh, what a shame.”

The drawl has him crack a grin, cheeks flushed as he looks away. Fingers dancing slowly along the skin of your back, between the cords he’d tied up so perfectly for you. 

For you, all of it. His nice suit he’d dug out from the back of his closet, the smart shoes nudging against yours with every step of the waltz. Ryland would do a lot for you, the realisation comes a little late, considering everything. You lean forwards a little, resting your cheek on his chest, as the song slows right down, indulgent. 

“You got plans after this?” You ask, and it sounds so cheesy, so bland once it’s left your lips. 

Still, when he answers, the smile is audible in Ryland’s voice. “Thought I was getting a private show. Is that offer off the table?”

“Think I can manage it,” You murmur, listening to the final few chords echo about the ball room, basking in the way his voice had rippled and rumbled through his chest, low against your cheek.

He lingers for a few seconds in the quiet, holding you close against his chest. You wonder if he, too, is basking in it. The closeness, the idea of having something that you’ve both been pretending couldn’t happen, wasn’t there in the air of exhaled breaths and weighted stares. 

When he pulls back, there is nothing but adoration in his eyes, hand that holds yours falling low, but not releasing it, palm soft against your waist, almost as if he doesn't want to let you go just yet. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Bit forward, Ryland,” You tease, “we’ve not even taken photos yet.”

His eyes follow yours to the polaroid board in the corner, considers it for a moment before he’s pulling you gently by the grasp of his hand around yours, towards it. 

The polaroid camera is a little hand held thing, there’s a stand for it, and poster board instructions on how to set a timer delay. 

Ryland insists on taking one of just you, and while you’re grinning, trying to convince him to join you against the black fabric backdrop, the shutter goes off. 

He rolls his eyes, but lets you drag him in beside you for the next photo. The timer is set, and just as you’re preparing to smile, something a little sweet and knowing, he gets one hand around the small of your back, knocks one of those very smart shoes against your heel and tilts you into a dip. It leaves you a little breathless, as he smiles, nose almost touching yours, shutter flashing off to the side. 

He lets you choose which photo goes on the memo board. “Whichever one you don’t put up there, I’m keeping.”

You look a little silly in both, at least you think as much, caught off guard, and laughing a little out of breath. Ryland insists you look amazing in both. Something a bit selfish pulls at your gut, as you apprise both photos, and eventually, hand the one of you and Ryland to him- liking the idea of getting to see it again, of having a physical reminder of the night you two have spent together. 

He grins like he’s won something, pulling his wallet out from his jacket pocket- a crisp brown leather that looks worn but well cared for- and to your mortification, tucks the photo into the clear slot. The one most people put their licences, or photos of loved ones, like heart-shaped lockets back in the old days. Ryland says nothing on the matter and he folds his wallet back up and slides it back into his pocket, waiting for you to write your message on the other polaroid’s back. 

You scrawl some comment about happy endings and humble crazy beginnings, Signing your name on the bottom under the image of your laughter, and tack it up on the board next to the one Macey’s left. 

Ryland’s got his arm out, hooked there for you to loop yours through again. 

You manage to catch Daisy by the bar on your way out, and give her a tight hug, telling her again how beautiful the wedding has been, how happy you were for her. 

The night air is crisp and the second you’re outside, waiting for the uber that’s just a few minutes away, Ryland strips off his suit jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a lack of hesitation that makes it seems as if he’s been waiting to do it all night. 

You look at him and raise a brow, but don’t say anything when you catch sight of his pleased smile. It’s almost devastating to realise he looks even better in just the black button down and tie than he did in the full suit. 

Again, the drive is mostly silent, but you notice pointedly, that you’re not going back to your apartment. And when you tilt Ryalnd’s phone and tap the screen awake, you recognise his street name in the trip’s destination. 

“Presumptious.” You smile.

He grins back, lets a warm palm wander to the curve of your knee, fingers curling around it then venturing to settle a little higher around your thigh. “How are you going to wash my car if we don’t go to my place?”

“You don’t have a car.” You repeat, curious where all this teasing confidence has come from, if perhaps your very clear signals have finally given Ryland the means to throw out all of that unnecessary nervousness and doubt. 

“Right,” He hisses, patting his other hand on his leg, as if to say ‘drat, there goes that plan’. Then he leans in close, whispers to you, “What was the back up plan again?”

“You are much bolder after a few glasses of champagne.”

He hums, a considering sort of sound that rumbles in the minimal air between you. “More so when I know I'm right.”

“And what, pray tell, are you right about?”

“That you like-like me.” He teases, like a child on the playground and if you were a little less level-headed, you might have kissed him right there, leant across the middle seat to lock lips with him in an uber. 

But you don’t want the first time you kiss him to be viewed through a rear view mirror by a driver who looks very unimpressed by the conversation happening in the back seat. “You gonna prove that hypothesis in your apartment?”

“That’s very forwards of you.” He teases, head tipping down like he is going to kiss you.

Expect you turn your head, and his lips brush against your cheek, as you tut. “All scientists say experiments are supposed to be conducted in controlled environments.”

He leans back, still close enough for his warm breath to fan across your face. “You’ve been seeing other scientists? I’m heartbroken.”

“Give yourself some credit, your classes are very interesting.”

“Earsdropping, huh? Didn’t think you were the type.” He looks far too pleased by the idea that you’ve listened to him teach, like he doesn't know that when you come for something during class hours that you linger by the door and wait for him to finish whatever he’s saying, as if you could look at anything else when he was so captivating.

“I’ll Tell you exactly what type I am in,” You glance down to tap his phone awake, checking the ride estimate. “four minutes.”

He nods and you wonder if he’d get that head-rush distant expression on his face if you praised him for the patience. It’s something you want to save for later, you decide, for private. Just for you.

Ryland manages to wait, even keep his hands to himself, once you’re both out of the car, leading you though his building with a sort of reverent silence, that you get the impression wouldn’t return once broken. You stand across from each other in the elevator. With both his hands braced on the bar at hip height, Ryland fixes you with a look that echoes in the space, though the mirrors surrounding you and over the idle hum of machinery. You’re still wearing his jacket, over your shoulders, a slight barrier between the handrail and the curve of your back, as you stand with your arms crossed smiling at him. 

The giddiness that bubbles up and about inside you, as you huddle in close behind him through the hallway, as he unlocks his door and lets you squeeze in past him, is something you’ve not felt in a long time. There’s not much room for childish excitement in the modern dating landscape, it feels as though everyone is in a rush, trying to get where they want to be with a relationship before it’s too late. 

Ryland though, he’s here. You watch him latch the door, before he turns, standing there to let his eyes run up you again. 

“Soooo,” He says, pursing his lips and tangling his hands together in front of him, like he’s suddenly nervous. 

“So?” You ask, taking a few steps forwards to run your hand down the plane of his chest again, feeling it under your palm just like you did when he’d turned up at your apartment that afternoon. 

“It’s been four minutes.” He swallows, and this close you can see how his adams apple bobs. Your other hand reaches up to scratch feather light against the stubble of his jaw, hand on his chest catching on the silky soft fabric of his tie, the one he’d picked out just for you. 

Rylands hands are slow, one moves to the dip of your waist, landing where it had during your waltz, if not a little more firm as it presses you close against him. He catches his jacket by the collar, lets it slide back off your shoulders and hang from his grip as it slides to settle on the curve of your hip.

“It has.” You lick your lips. 

Tuggin on his tie was not supposed to be a demanding thing, more so a gentle tease like you have been doing all night, stepping around that first move like it was a pitfall trap you’d never make it out of. Expect he pitches forwards much easier than you expected and Ryland's lips are pressed against yours. 

Soft and still a little honeyed by the champagne, he moves slowly against you. He takes one step back, then another, pulling you with him and not letting his lips leave yours as he backs himself up against his apartment door. 

Your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and a sharp inhale escapes him, almost a gasp, before he melts into the wood at his back, parting his lips and slipping his tongue up against yours. 

It’s slow kissing, it’s dizzying and it’s want. Everything he’d promised you hours ago, in the afternoon sun of that venue, looking like a dream come true. 

For what could be hours, you stay there, pressed up against him, kissing at his skin, until he shifts his legs, just slightly, enough to press one somewhere between yours, a soft presence halted by the fabric of your dress. 

Breathless, you break the kiss and he lays a sweet peck against your temple, an echo of earlier, before he begins to nose at the line of your jaw, your neck. Kissing then sucking at the divot along your collar while you pant. “Ryland,”

He says your name, just as breathless against your skin, his hand dropping the jacket to pull at the chord of your dress. 

“Is your doorway where you take all the girls?”

“There are no other girls.” He murmurs like a confession, far more earnest than you’d been prepared for. 

“Just me?”

He pulls back, pupils blow wide and face flushed blotchy and red. “Yeah.”

Ryland leans forwards, crowds impossibly close until your feet begin to shuffle, back, back, back into his studio apartment. It passes in a blur as he presses in to kiss your lips again, glued to them until he deems it’s been enough backwards paces and presses another kiss to your jaw. Using his grip on your sides, Ryland turns you around, folds in around behind you. 

His bed’s unmade, messy sheets splayed out in front of you, a pile of sage green cotton that feels like a promise, a sight you’ve dreamed about far too many times.

There’s pressure there, against your ass, a hard length that’s tight against his slacks and it makes your stomach swoop to know he’s so turned on by the slow kissing you’d been thinking about all night. His shuddering breath rushes like wind by your ear, as his fingers pull at the bow he’d tied himself. “Been thinking about this for too long.”

“Yeah?” You shudder when his lips find their place against your neck, sucking and biting at the skin there in a way that will probably result in a lasting reminder. “Since you laced it up?”

“Since you showed me this zipper." He pulls at it and the fabric gives, parting to sit low on your hips. Ryland kisses at the juncture of your throat, biting, and nipping. 

The dress doesn’t fall, not with the straps still hanging loosely from your shoulders, but it’s a damn near thing. One of Ryland’s hands winds around your waist, dragging you back against him as he presses up with one slow grind that has him choking on a groan. His cock, still trapped in his slacks, drags between the zip and against your underwear in a tease that’s maddening with far too much still left to your imagination. 

You try to turn but he’s got you wrapped up so firmly in his arms that it’s not plausible, so instead you reach a hand back, over your shoulder to tug at the knot of his tie, fingers slipping against the silky marital, catching in the bulk to it to tug. A particularly hard tug has him whining. 

“Okay,” You huff out as he sucks a little harder just under your jaw that will definitely result in a hickey if you let him continue for much longer. “Come on, don’t you wanna fuck me?”

You punctuate this by groping around between you both until you get a hand over his cock, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

“Need to remember this bit.” He mumbles, hand around your waist retreating to slip inside your dress from behind, curving back around so his fingers can skate over the soft skin of your stomach, tips slipping just under the waistband of your panties. 

It has you clenching down on nothing and you become actually aware of how uncomfortably wet you’re beginning to get. You squeeze your thighs together, squirming in his grasp. 

“Next time, Ry-” He splays his hand over your stomach, using it to press you back into him. “Ryland, come on. Need you.”

It tumbles out in a breathy whine, and it’s like you’ve said the magic words. He’s turning you around in his grasp, hands reaching up to slip the straps off your shoulders and marvel at the sight. 

He swallows as you reach for his tie again, loosening it gently now you can get your fingers into the knot properly. Ryland’s hands hover nervously before settling against your rib cage, fingers brushing anxiously against the underside of your breasts. 

Your dress was not one that lent itself to a bra, so you’d gone without. You had assumed that he’d figured that one out, given how he’d both laced and un-laced the back of it, but now that it’s out of the way, he’s looking at your chest like he hadn’t expected to see it so quickly. 

“You mean it?” He manages, sounding all tongue tied as you pry the tie off, letting it fall onto the floor, blending into the puddle of your dress- a perfect shade match. “I.. I get a next time?”

“Yeah.” You breathe, working on his shirt buttons, one after the other, coming apart as easily as Ryland did under your gaze. “As many as you want.”

When you get to the bottom of his shirt and reach for the belt buckle, Ryland’s hands move from where they’ve been gently nudging your breasts, to your wrists, snagging them gently as he pulls them back. His shoes nudged against yours, another one of those silent signals to step back that you didn’t know you understood so well until tonight. 

“Let me.” He says, one hand coming to your hip to push you gently back and down onto his bed. 

You land softly, mattress springing underneath you as you shuffle back, leaning on your elbows to gaze up at him as he toes off his shoes and pulls off his socks, a little off balance like the whole path from the door has altered his centre of gravity. 

Ryland is a sight, heaven-sent. 

His hair’s spiked out in six different directions, and you want to scratch at his scalp and pull at the strands all over again. He slides his glasses down his nose and sets them on the nightstand. The skin of his chest is just as tanned as his arms, a wide expanse that’s begging to be marked up with your teeth and nails. 

The belt buckle clinks softly in the empty air as he slips it open, unbuttoning his slacks before he shrugs the black dress shirt off. God, you want to bite his shoulders. 

Your teeth clamp down on your tongue at the thought, kind of wishing the tie was in the picture so you could pull him down on top of you. Just when you’re about to reach up, aiming for his shoulder or maybe even his cheek, Ryland surprises you by taking a knee. 

His fingers are a little clumsy as they wrap around the heel of your left shoe, pulling it up onto his bent knee as he fumbles with the buckle. He’s gentle with it, more careful than he was with his own shoes that are certainly worth more than your cheap pair, right shoe, then the left.

Still, it has your stomach tied up in knots to witness with just how much reverence he’s treating you. And the sight of Ryland between your legs is certainly one you could get used to. 

He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee before blinking up at you. “Are you… Can I-”

Ryland cuts himself off and that same unwarranted nervousness from before takes over his face, fingers curling tightly around your ankle, as if to ground himself. You smile at him, something that feels a little too giddy and a little too much like your 20 year-old self from college, fumbling and laughing your way to bed. “What is it Ry? You’ve already got me on your bed, no need to be shy.”

He bites his bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth as he considers the words. “If you say so.”

Then he gently leads your leg, by the ankle that’s still gripped tightly in his palm, off his propped leg as he drops it to kneel, and hooks it over his shoulder. Ryland kisses a path up your calf and along the inside of your leg and with an overwhelming flood of realisation, you fall back against the bed, bracing for the moment where he presses a soft kiss on your clit, through the fabric of your underwear. 

Despite his earlier hesitance, Ryland does not dilly-dally. Once he hears your shuddering breath that sounds more like a moan than anything else, he hooks a thumb though the crotch of your panties, pulls them to the side and presses another slow kiss against you. 

It’s maddening, has you gasping out his name as he licks a stripe up your cunt, sighing into it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He’s been teasing you long enough that when he presses two fingers along your folds, teasing the resistance of it, they sink in easily. He hooks them up, pressing up against the spongy wall and pulls another moan from your lips. 

You're not sure how long Ryland spends between your legs with your hands in his hair and name on your lips, but it’s got you dizzy, clenching around his fingers as he strokes them inside you, languid and slow as he lays gentle kisses over your clit. His stubble scratches against your thighs in a way you’d expected to hate, but are getting rather fond of. 

It’s a slow build that crests with you moaning his name and clenching around his fingers as his tongue slows, your hips twitching a little with overstimulation post-orgasm. He moves his kisses to the inside of your thigh, the one not hooked over his shoulder as you catch your breath and it’s highly plausible that he’s leaving another hickey there.

When he does pull back, Ryland is just as breathless as you. Cheeks flushed and chest stuttering as he licked his lips clean. His pupils are blown wide, so much so you can hardly see the blue as he gazes up at you. “You said I could fuck you, right?”

“Yeah,” you swallow, throat scratchy and dry. “You can.”

With your head still spinning from the attention and care he’s taking with you, it’s a moment before you realise his hands are back at your hips as he shuffles you around the bed, up until he can fit his palm behind your head and lift it onto a pillow that smells like him. 

Ryland’s above you, propped up on one elbow and a knee to keep his weight off your body. You can feel each heavy exhale on your cheek. “Like this?”

“Just like this.” You say, nodding hand reaching up for his cheek to pull him down into another slow, languid kiss. 

He leans in close, whining against your mouth as you part your legs for him to set his between and get a hand on the small of his back, pressing until he gets the hint and grinds downs. It has you both moaning and panting against each other. 

You’re getting impatient, and while he must have ditched the pants somewhere between eating you out and repositioning you right side up on the mattress, he’s still got his briefs on and you’re still wearing your underwear. 

“Off,” You grunt, hand pulling at the waistband of his briefs. 

Ryland’s head drops to the space beside yours, just above your shoulder as he reaches a hand down to pull his underwear down over his cock and down his legs, kicking them off somewhere at the end of the bed. 

He gasps, a shaky exhale hitting your skin as you wrap your hand around the length of him. 

Warm and heavy in your palm, he’s bigger than you’d expected. When you slide your hand up, swiping a thumb over the head of his dick, there’s so much precum that it pools on your thumb pad. You give him a slow pump, slide eased by the wetness. 

Ryland mouths at the skin of your shoulder, and the hand he’s not using to keep himself above you finds its way to your hip, slipping under your panties, pulling at them. 

“Condoms. I need-” He cuts himself off with another groan, biting into your skin then kissing it softly like an apology. “I need a condom.” 

His hand slips out from your underwear and he gets his knees up either side of your hips to reach over, straining for the nightstand. You take the moment to kiss along his collarbone, using the hand that’s not wrapped around him to tug your panties down, wriggling them off and down your legs. 

It doesn’t go unnoticed, and he drops the condom wrapper somewhere beside your head as his gaze whips back to your face. “I was going to do that.”

He sounds a little bit thrown, like he’d really been looking forwards to pulling your panties off. 

“You were also going to fuck me.” You prod, giving his cock another languid stroke, watching his face contort with pleasure as he groans. He eases himself back over you, legs between yours and his weight pressing down in a way that has you sighing in contentment. 

“Not fair.” He pants, forehead dropping against yours. A hand, so gentle and far too tender comes up to brush the hair by your temple, away from your eyes. “Next time, you let me take my time, okay?”

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “We’ll take turns.” 

The condom wrapper crinkles in your fingers and you pinch the edge of it between your teeth and rip the corner off, splitting it open with your thumb. Ryland whines, louder and needier than you’d heard him all night, when you roll it over his dick, hips bucking into your hand and cock bumping against your stomach. 

He gets his hand down between your bodies, runs three of his fingers through your folds, making your breath hitch. Then he nudges your hand out of the way and runs his cock though them next. You whine, high pitched and stuttered. 

It’s a slow steady push when he slips inside you, one that draws out a long moan from your lips. Ryland moans your name, panting and kissing at your throat.

“God,” he pants. “You feel so good, baby.”

A broken whine sneaks past your lips, one hand reaching up to slide around the back of his neck, to lead his face back to yours so you can kiss him all over again. 

This type of slow kissing might have been your new favorite, Ryland’s tongue teasing the seam of your lips before you slip them apart, tracing the line of his teeth with your own tongue. He rolls his hips, grinding down in a slow motion. The curve of his cock drags along your walls, along that spongy spot before bumping so deep inside that it must hit your cervix. 

You hook a leg up around his waist and it has his stomach pressing up against your clit when he moves again. Moaning into his mouth, you see stars. “Fuck, that’s perfect- so good.”

Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling in a way that earns you a whine and a jerky thrust of his hips. “Y-yeah?”

“Yeah Ry- perfect. Feel so full.” The praise kicks him into gear and his slow occasional grinds turn into a building pace, hips pushing against yours and he buries himself to the hilt with every thrust. 

You kiss at the line of his jaw, mouthing and biting at the stubble there. He moans, sharp exhale hitting your cheek. “‘M not gonna last much longer, sw-swetheart.”

“S’okay. Let go, baby.” You murmur by his ear, free hand slipping down to press against your clit. 

The pressure alone is almost enough to tip you over the edge, pussy spasming around him. Ryland groans, loud and unrestrained, his rhythm falling apart as you do. 

When he does come, he manages a couple more thrusts, shallow as they nudge up against that perfect spot inside you. Ryland whines, shaking a little with over stimulation. 

“Couple more.” You moan, fingers winding tight little circles over your clit. “Almost there.”

Your spine goes stiff and a drawn-out whine slips out as you cum, clenching around the weight of him. Ryland stills inside, buried deep as he pants. 

Slowly, he eases himself down over you, the gentle pressure of his weight relaxing. Ryland only takes a few moments there though, before sliding an arm under you and around your waist, slowly rolling you both, so he’s sprawled out with his back on those sage green sheets with you draped over him. 

He kisses your temple, mumbling your name like a prayer. “‘S a good kissing booth. Might be a repeat customer.”

You push up a little to look at him, hands either side of his chest, and a hitched breath sputters out of his lips as you shift, his cock still inside you. “Might? What happened to ‘next time’?”

He smiles at you, hands reaching for your hips as he draws slow lines up and down your skin with his thumbs. “Well, I don’t wanna push my luck.”

“You’re not pushing anything.” You murmur, leaning back down to kiss him proper. 

Once the aftershocks of your orgasm have faded and the idea of being empty no longer pulls painfully at your chest, you raise your hips up and let Ryland’s now soft cock slip out. He exhales heavily, and you lay beside him, eyes on the slow spinning ceiling fan.  

He sits himself up not long after, slips the condom off and wanders off to the tiny door that you now know is his bathroom. He comes back with a damp cloth, smiling at you shyly as he cleans you up, gentle swipes over your core and along the inside of your thighs. 

Ryland walks over and pulls some boxers on, then returns to the bed to slide a pair over your hips too. “You want a shirt?”

You bite your bottom lip in a poor attempt to smother a grin. “Only if it’s one of your nerdy ones.”

He kisses the smile off your lips and wanders back over to his wardrobe, throws a shirt in your general direction then goes about fixing the sheets. 

You admire the sight. It had never occurred to you how nice his arms were, you want them around you again. He pulls the sheets straight, then up over you before he crawls in beside you. 

“This okay?” He asks, pulling you over to lay up against him. 

“More than okay.” You snuggle closer, cheek pressed against the warm plane of his chest. “Been thinking about this.” 

The confession slips out in a rush of endorphins, like you’re so happy to be wrapped up in his arms and sheets, smelling like him, that you just can’t help but let him know. 

You can hear the confusion in his voice when he speaks. “Having sex with me?”

No. You almost say, even though you had. It wasn’t where you were trying to go with this though. “Sleeping in your bed. With you.”

The rise and fall of his chest, of a heavy exhale, moves beneath you. “Oh.”

“I think our next date should be trivia.” You declare, a quiet sort of smile on your lips as his fingers trace slow little circles on your back between the waistband of your borrowed boxers and the ridden up hem of the shirt. “So we can get it right this time.”

“Deal.”

[ Masterlist ]

A/N: at this point I guess grumpy lonely old man!bucky being obsessed with reader has become my trademark 😭 jokes aside, this was posted a while ago and tbh, it’s one of those stories that I had trouble finishing because... well, yk... 🥵 sorry for any typo and for the “unpolished” smut but I’m really tired and studying for my uni exams. hope you’ll enjoy it 💋

The small neighborhood sits just far enough from the main road to be quiet at all hours, with rows of modest houses and well-kept lawns. Unfortunately, this also means that it’s the type of place where people wave too much and chat for way too long.

Bucky Barnes doesn’t wave, nor does he chat. He tolerates.

He’s in his late forties and time has etched itself into him in ways that make him seem older at first glance: deep lines permanently drawn between his brows, too many grey hairs in his stubble, and a heaviness in his posture that comes from countless years of keeping the world at arm’s length. He is tall, broad in a way that makes doorframes feel narrow and sidewalks feel smaller when he walks down them. His body is solid, built by labor rather than vanity, with thick arms, powerful shoulders, and rough hands scattered in scars and used to grease. There is also a softness at his middle now, a slight curve beneath worn flannels and old t-shirts, the quiet evidence of comfort.

This only makes him more noticeable.

He is attractive and single, the combination of his size, his silence, and that perpetual scowl working in his favor far more than he likes to admit. There is something about a man who doesn’t chase attention that makes people want to offer it freely. Yet the lingering looks at the grocery store are rudely ignored, just like the awkward attempts at conversation at the garage he owns. The notes shamelessly slipped under his windshield wiper promptly end up in the first trashcan he sees—invitations and phone numbers he never glances at twice.

He had done the whole thing once already: the commitment, the shared space, the careful navigation of someone else’s expectations. It had not suited him then, and it certainly doesn’t suit him now. Whatever desire he had for that kind of life had burned out years ago.

His marriage had not even lasted that long. Too many arguments that circled the same problems, too many sharp words that lingered longer than they should have. His ex-wife cared too much about how things looked; he never cared enough. In the end, there was nothing left to fix that didn’t require one of them becoming someone else.

See, Bucky likes his mornings quiet and his evenings untouched by obligation. He enjoys eating alone, fixing things by himself, existing without explanation. Loneliness is just something other people have projected onto him while he built a life where no one asks questions and no one expects answers. Bucky likes it this way, it has become obvious to anyone who lives within a three-house radius of him.

As a matter of fact, the neighborhood knows him as the burly, intimidating man at the end of the street. The one who never smiles, never stops for coffee, never shows up at barbecues or block parties. If he feels gracious enough, he would reply with either a grunt or a curt nod. Kids are warned to not bother him and adults learned quickly that small talk died on his doorstep.

He calls the cops when the rich couple on his left throws backyard parties that stretch past ten. Not because he’s trying to be petty, he simply doesn’t understand why anyone needs music that loud or laughter that forced. He always waits for the patrol car’s lights to flash briefly across his living room wall, jaw set and arms crossed, before going back to his book the second the noise dies down.

He files complaints when someone’s dog won’t stop barking. He once told a door-to-door salesman to fuck off his property without even opening the door. When Murray Hall, the self-proclaimed leader of the street, came knocking to convince Bucky to hang seasonal decorations and was completely ignored, he taped a passive-aggressive, handwritten note to his mailbox about “participation” and “neighborly effort.”

Bucky took it down, folded it once, and dropped it straight into the trash without removing his blue eyes from the older man staring him down across the street.

He has never decorated after that, out of spite. The house stays dark every year, a silent protest no one dares to challenge directly.

His neighbors also learn to not park in front of his driveway, and to not ask him for favors unless it’s an emergency. They don’t expect pleasantries or smiles anymore, because Bucky exists like a locked door—solid, immovable, uninterested in what’s on the other side.

And it works. Until your arrival.

The moving truck is still there when he gets home from work that afternoon, its engine idling too loud since this morning. He stares from his porch as boxes are unloaded, one after the other, boots still on and shoulders tight from a long day under hoods and engines. He frowns, already planning how long he’ll give them before complaining about the noise.

Then you step into view.

You’re carrying a box that looks too heavy for you, arms wrapped around it awkwardly, and someone—a friend, maybe—reaches out to help. You laugh, shake your head and stubbornly keep going. It’s an easy sound, unforced, and it carries down the street like it already belongs there.

Bucky’s frown deepens.

You’re younger than most people who can afford a house in this part of the town, and pretty in a way that feels unfair—soft, bright, lively. You’re wearing worn jeans and a loose shirt, and you look… happy, comfortable.

The neighbors are immediately captivated by your charming presence.

Mrs. Collins from the corner house is already hovering, offering help, smiling too wide. The rich couple—fresh off their last noise complaint—wave enthusiastically from their driveway. Linda Whitman—the same woman who never misses a chance to peer through her curtains—shows up with lemonade to cool off, and right on her heels is Mark Donnelly, still convinced Bucky doesn’t sort his recycling “correctly.” 

He just observes, and that’s when you notice him.

Your gaze lifts absently and finds him standing stiff on his doorstep, arms crossed over his chest and expression carved into permanent disapproval. For a split second, something akin to surprise flickers across your face, but then you smile. Not the polite kind people give out of obligation. A real one.

You lift your hand and wave.

“Hi!” You call warmly.

Bucky doesn’t wave back. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t say a word. He just stares at you for a beat too long, then turns and goes inside, shutting the door with more force than necessary.

From behind the safety of his walls, he tells himself you’re just another neighbor, another disruption… another reason the street won’t be as quiet as it used to be.

Bucky starts to realize there is no such thing as mere coincidence in this fucking town.

The first run-in with you happens at the mailbox. He’s just gotten home, tired from the long day at work and as he flips through bills, footsteps echo behind him. He rolls his eyes.

“Oh, hi!”

Your voice again, familiar already, and that alone annoys him. He glances over his shoulder briefly, enough to see you standing a few feet away, clutching your own stack of mail and smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn’t completely ignore you the first time you tried to introduce yourself.

He grunts in response. Not unfriendly, just… noise.

“I’m your new neighbor.” You continue anyway, as if that wasn’t painfully obvious, and you point at the house right beside his. Then, you tell him your name but he just nods imperceptibly.

You hesitate, clearly waiting for something else, his name maybe, a comment about the neighborhood… anything.

However, you are brutally plunged into an awkward silence.

“Okay.” You draw softly, but recover quickly. “Well, nice to meet you.”

You wait another second yet his gaze doesn’t move from the pile of envelopes in his large hands. When Bucky finally turns to walk away, he can feel your eyes burning through his back, curious rather than offended.

That somehow makes it worse.

The next few times, he tells himself it’s just bad timing.

He’s leaving for work when you’re coming out of your house, keys in hand, sunlight catching prettily in your hair. Of course, you pause when you see him, smiling like it’s reflexive.

“Morning.”

He hums, adjusts his jacket, and walks to his truck without breaking stride. 

Two days later, he’s unloading groceries when you’re struggling with a bag that splits at the bottom of your driveway. Peaches roll everywhere, bright and ridiculous against the gray concrete.

“Shit.” You mutter, crouching to gather them. The movement causes your skirt to ride up your thighs without you noticing, fabric bunching dangerously high as you balance on the balls of your feet.

Bucky looks away too late, his heart giving a series of uncomfortable, fast thuds in his chest. Swallowing thickly, his jaw tightens as he forces the fleeting image of your soft asscheeks snuggled in a pair of pastel green panties out of his mind. 

He hesitates long enough to be annoyed at himself for it. By the time he unconsciously steps forward, you’ve already scooped most of them up. He grabs the last one anyway and hands it to you without a word.

“Thank you.” You gasp, smiling too brightly to someone that did the bare minimum of human decency.

Bucky nods once and leaves before you can say anything else, the violent blush still sitting high on his cheeks has him feeling utterly humiliated.

You don’t stop greeting him after that.

At the gas station, of all places, you spot him across the lot and lift your hand in a small wave. He pretends not to see it. Later, he realizes he knows exactly what your car looks like now, right down to the faint scratch along the rear bumper.

On trash day it’s like you’re waiting by the window for him to walk out, because you’re always there. Sometimes you’re early, sometimes late, but you never fail to find a reason to linger: adjusting the lid, brushing dirt off your hands, commenting about how warm it is these days.

“Hey.” You greet him softly one evening.

He doesn’t answer.

“You don’t talk much.” You add eventually, not accusatory. 

He stiffens, only to drag his bin to the curb harder than necessary.

“Sorry,” you rush out. “I didn’t mean—”

He’s already walking away.

That interaction bothers him more than it should.

The next time you meet there, it’s early morning, the air still crisp, and Bucky’s barely awake to deal with existence. He’s dragging his bin to the curb when he sees you already there, kneeling beside yours and struggling with a torn bag that’s almost spilling onto the pavement.

He stops without meaning to.

You look up when you hear his heavy footsteps, relief lighting up your face at once.

“Oh! Good morning—sorry, I think this thing hates me.” You chuckle quietly, embarrassed, still fighting to close it.

He observes you for a second too long, letting his eyes calmly trace the wrinkle between your furrowed eyebrows, before falling on your bottom lip trapped between your teeth.

With a tired sigh, Bucky steps forward. He grabs the bag, ties it off in one quick motion, and lifts it like it weighs nothing.

Your eyes widen. “Thank you! I really appreciated that.”

Bucky shrugs, already turning away.

“Have a nice day!” You call after him.

He doesn’t answer, but this time, he doesn’t feel as justified about it.

By the end of the second week, everyone is talking about you. It doesn’t take long before your name is pronounced with affection and pride, with the same tone people use when they feel incredibly fond of someone.

Mrs. Reeves can’t stop gushing about you often helping her carry groceries inside, and the rich couple brags—loudly—about you offering to water their plants while they were away on their umpteenth cruise. Murray mentions you bake delicious lemon bars, while Mrs. Johnson praised your kind nature after you volunteered to help clean up at the end of the last neighborhood meeting.

Bucky is forced to hear it all: at the local store, at the garage, over the fence when he’s trying to enjoy a quiet evening in his backyard... and he grits his teeth every damn time.

“She’s exactly what this neighborhood needed.” 

Bucky’s nostrils flare.

How can you make time for everyone, always seem present, listening, patient? How can you never complain about the noise, the interruptions, the way these leeches just take, take and take? You are so open, so willing to be involved, and God—your lips are constantly twisted into this bright, welcoming smile. How the fuck are you always so jolly? So damn... real.

And worst of all, you treat him like everyone else. Still polite, still warm. You beam at him like he hasn’t ignored you a dozen times over.

Irritation bubbles sharply in his chest every time his mind lingers too much on that thought.

Bucky is used to being judged and ignored, he knows how to live with it, how to justify it. But this quiet, persistent generosity doesn’t fit anywhere he has known until now.

On one of the rare summer dusks when the street is unusually still, Bucky is in his driveway, hood of his truck open, sleeves rolled up and forearms smeared with grease. He’s been chasing the same problem for an hour, the wrinkle between his brows deepening as his frustration grows. 

He doesn’t look up when he hears footsteps approaching, already huffing in annoyance.

“Hi.” 

His hands freeze.

You’re standing at the edge of his property, far enough to be respectful, hands clasped loosely in front of you. You look unsure for once, like you’re bracing yourself for rejection but trying anyway.

Bucky straightens slowly, wiping his hands on the rag he keeps on his shoulder. His eyes flick to you, then back to the engine.

“What do you want?” He asks flatly.

You don’t flinch, and that surprises him.

“I just...” You hesitate, then let out a small breath. “I wanted to ask if I did something wrong.”

That gets his attention.

He looks at you then, really looks at you. Your expression is genuinely distressed, your eyebrows pulled together slightly like this has been bothering you for a while.

“You don’t like me,” you continue softly. “And that’s fine, you don’t have to. I just—” You sigh, dejected. “I’d like to know if there is a reason, since... you know, we are neighbors, and I want to apologize if I’ve ever done or said something to offend you.”

His jaw tightens.

“You didn’t do anything.” He mutters reluctantly.

You tilt your head, studying him. “Then why won’t you talk to me?”

The silence stretches. A car passes at the far end of the street; somewhere, a lawn sprinkler clicks on. He can feel the weight of your patience like a boulder pressing on his chest.

“Everyone says you like to be left alone,” you go on carefully. “I respect that, I really do. But I thought maybe saying hello wasn’t crossing a line.”

“It was.” He replies sternly, too quickly to be considered a mere slip-up.

You blink, clearly taken aback. A hint of hurt flickers across your face before you school it away very efficiently, as if you are used to regulating your emotions in situations that require neutrality.

You nod once. “Okay.”

Your eyes drop to the ground.

“Well, I’m sorry.” Your answer is no louder than a mumble. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

That word makes his stomach churn, but before his brain can elaborate anything useful, Bucky is watching you walk away with his jaw clenched.

That night, as he lies in bed, he stares at the ceiling longer than usual.

The sound of your voice replays in his head without his consent. The way you didn’t push, didn’t accuse, didn’t demand anything from him. You just wanted clarity, already apologizing without even knowing what you did wrong.

Bucky tells himself he did the right thing. This is how he keeps his peace intact. But why, for the first time since you moved in, the quiet doesn’t feel as satisfying as it used to?

It’s later than Bucky’s usual bedtime, the house dark except for the warm lamp on his nightstand. He’s standing in his bedroom, tugging his shirt over his head, muscles sore and heavy after indulging too much at the bar with his friends. The air is still, window and curtains half-open to let in what little breeze this summer decided to grant them this year.

That’s when a light flicks on across the street.

He freezes mid-motion, shirt clenched in his fist.

At first, it doesn’t register as anything more than irritation; Bucky glances toward the window, already scowling. His face falls the moment he realizes that’s your bedroom. The angle is wrong in a way that makes his stomach drop: same height, same alignment. It allows him a clear, unobstructed view straight into the room across from his.

Straight into your world.

You’re lounging on your bed with your laptop on your lap, the lamp beside you casting a golden glow over the framed photos on the walls and a light blanket he recognizes from the day you moved in.

Bucky definitely believes his optometrist was just trying to squeeze more money out of him when he told him he needed glasses, because from here, he can clearly see your nipples poke through the thin fabric of your camisole.

An old, unfamiliar heat stirs low in his belly. He doesn’t remember ever seeing shorts that minuscule.

He shouldn’t be watching.

The thought makes Bucky turn away at once, like he’s been burned, heart thudding harder than it has any right to. He drops the shirt onto the chair and drags a hand down his face.

Jesus Christ, Barnes. Get a grip.

When he risks another glance, just to make sure the angle isn’t worse than he thought, you’re holding your phone, laughing quietly at something on the screen. Your houses are too distant for the sound to reach him, but it’s not hard to pretend. He’s heard it before anyway—that soft, high melody that never fails to carry a note of genuineness.  

Forcing himself to step back, Bucky pulls his own curtains shut with more force than necessary. The room feels suddenly too small, too warm.

He goes to bed furious with himself, ignoring the sweat gathering on his forehead and the uncomfortable tightening of his boxers.

The following night, Bucky is more careful. He changes in the bathroom, keeps the lights low, tells himself he won’t look.

He looks anyway.

Your window is lit once again and you’re stretched out on the bed, laptop open by your side this time. You look utterly absorbed in whatever it’s playing on the screen, completely unaware of the grumpy creep spying you from his window.

His body leans sideways against the wall without realizing it.

It’s almost… fascinating, being able to witness the quiet intimacy of someone alone in their own space.

And you are even more beautiful lying there, unguarded and completely relaxed.

The thought comes uninvited and unwelcome.

Bucky swallows as his eyes narrow like he can intimidate the word into leaving his mind. There is no need to make a big deal out of this, he just happens to be here and without much urgency to sleep, that’s all.

He doesn’t move until your movie ends and your light goes out.

Some nights your blinds are already drawn, golden light filtering through the slats. Disappointment makes him frown in disgruntlement, keeping him from falling asleep right away. Those are the same nights he spends wondering if you are getting ready for bed or if you have already fallen asleep with another movie on, the sleeves of your camisole delicately slipping down your shoulders and exposing the swell of your breasts for his gaze to feast upon.

When he does catch you, you’re on your bed, similar to the very first time he saw you, laptop placed in your lap or off to the side. Each time, you also check your phone with a small grin, too often to be a coincidence. 

Who is making you smile this much at that hour of the night?

Days go by with Bucky sticking to the same nightly routine, until he eventually comes to the uncomfortable realization that he could watch you for hours and never tire of it. He learns your small habits without meaning to, like the way you pace your room while on the phone, stopping at the window every so often as if you’ve forgotten something; or the way you stretch your arms over your head when you stand up, slow and uncaring of who might see you from the window that you always leave open. 

When you’re thinking hard, you chew on your bottom lip without realizing it, gaze drifting into nothingness. Sometimes you sit on the edge of your bed for a moment in the morning, shoulders slumping as if the day is slowly assembling itself around you.

When you laugh, you always tilt your head back just slightly, eyes closing as though you don’t want to miss the feeling.

Background noise is your best companion: a TV show you’ve already seen, music playing low from your phone, a YouTube video from your favorite gossip channels that help you empty your mind... anything to fill the silence while you move through your space. You never wander barefoot, nudging things back into place with your slippers. And when you finally settle, you curl in on yourself, drawing your knees up, hand tucked beneath your chin. It’s a posture of comfort, one you only take when you think no one’s watching.

It’s summer, and that means you dress for it, much to his poor heart.

You are constantly wearing clothes that cling dangerously tight to your luscious body: lewd shorts, soft tanks, fitted t-shirts that show how your beautiful curves leisurely bounce whenever you move. The way you’re always warm, always shedding layers, tugging fabric down absentmindedly or pushing it back up makes his head spin.

You like cold drinks during these warm nights, condensation beading down the glass as you carry it back to bed. Sitting cross-legged on the mattress, or lying on your stomach with your feet kicking lazily in the air, you keep scrolling on your phone almost absently. When you’re tired, you turn off the light right away, rolling onto your side and leaving the glass on your nightstand—something to busy yourself with first thing in the morning.

Bucky hates how much he notices, how these seemingly stupid details carve themselves into his mind against his will. They feel earned, even though they aren’t.

Tonight, you are definitely not home.

Bucky furrows his brow, eyes flying to the clock on his kitchen wall again as if he didn’t check it merely two minutes ago. It’s past midnight, and your house has been dark since the moment you got out this morning for work. He tries not to let it bother him, because you are a grown woman with a career and it’s a Friday night. Maybe you are still at work, doing something that he hasn’t quite put a finger on yet, or maybe out with friends at a dingy bar downtown.

This doesn’t stop him from perking up like a dog at his owner’s arrival the moment he finally sees your car park in your driveway, his frown immediately deepening as a pair of headlights promptly follows close behind.

You’re not alone. 

Damn this neighborhood and its poor lighting. It’s almost impossible to discern your figure, much less one of someone he doesn’t know. It’s only when he reaches his bedroom after spending ten long minutes behind the curtains in his kitchen in complete darkness, trying to catch sight of you, that Bucky finally registers the mysterious companion’s face.

It’s a man, unrecognizable, only his arms visible as you’re half-naked on your bed, your bra tight against your breasts but your legs bare and parted. Your hand is curled in the man’s hair as his head works under your eager guidance.

Bucky watches you toss your head back and giggle, features crumpled in bliss. 

He rubs his eyes, certain the late hour must be playing tricks on him. Because there is no way his lovely, apparently innocent neighbor is getting her pussy eaten out with her window wide open.

The faint moans from your room inevitably filter into his ears, the shadow of the curtains and his dark room keeping him hidden as his blue eyes hungrily devour the sight. 

Still, an itch burns deep in his chest—an ugly, vengeful beast trying to claw its way out.

Your whimpers and breathy giggles haunt him long after your room has gone dark.

The worst part is that Bucky doesn’t stop there. Maybe he has become a masochist in his old age? Because he truly doesn’t know how to explain how he finds himself so enraptured by you, yet he can’t stop watching as each weekend a new man finds his way into your bed. At this rate, he’d need to make a dentist appointment just to make sure his jaw is still working. It feels permanently clenched these days, every muscle locked tight from the effort of keeping himself under control.

In theory, there isn’t anything wrong with what he’s doing, right? You leave your window open even while getting railed, you keep the lights on, you moan loud enough to attract his attention. And that makes him eventually cave, stroking his cock and coming all over his sweatpants when you’re riding your date of the week, your beautiful breasts bouncing with you as you chase your coveted orgasm.

The worst is that Bucky likes to pretend—in some deeply disturbed part of his mind—that you know he’s there, that you want him to hear. It’s not rare for him to wish your eyes would lock on his cock while you kneel on your bed to allow stranger after stranger to take you from behind.

What a miserable, old man. It’s so pathetic that at his age he’s been reduced to a lonely pervert spying his pretty neighbor while she fucks other men. It’s humiliating enough that he yearns to be in their place.

As much as Bucky enjoys the little shows you put on every weekend, though, the fact that you keep going on dates with random assholes is unbearable. He barely knows you yet he wants to punch in the face every single one of those bastards. Just hard enough to make their smug grin disappear, at least.

That intrusive thought, barreling towards the forefront of his mind before he even realizes it, leaves him with a bitter taste on his tongue. It’s unreasonable, he knows that. You’ve been living in this town for almost two months now and you’ve never exchanged a single word since the day he basically implied you make him uncomfortable with your little hello’s and good mornings’.

But these boys don’t know that you like to curl one leg up beneath you when you sit at your desk, squirming in the chair with a cute little frown until you’re balanced just right. They don’t see the way you pause every night before bed to straighten the trinkets on your nightstand, fingers lingering for a second too long on the framed picture placed there before you turn off the lamp.

They don’t know that when you get home from work you drop your bag by the door and go straight to your couch, stretching out flat on your back to stare at the ceiling. No phone, no music, no TV. Just breathing, like you need those fifteen quiet minutes to reset before the world can touch you again.

Bucky knows because these are the moments no one else stays long enough to notice. That realization sits heavy in his chest, equal parts guilt and something dangerously close to tenderness. 

And yet here he is, three months of unfamiliar men pulling up in cars he doesn’t recognize, of you stepping out onto your porch in the evenings dressed just a little differently than usual—shorter hems, softer fabrics, perfume he can’t smell but somehow knows is there. Of watching you laugh with them, lean in close, disappear inside your house while his stays dark and silent.

The possessiveness settles into him like an old injury: dull most days, sharp when he least expects it. He starts resenting how these assholes get to touch you in the most intimate of ways, how they look at you only to disappear before the sun has fully raised over the horizon. As if they have the right to use you and then run away like fucking thieves.

The first time he talks to you after his fiasco it’s late afternoon, the sky colored with shades of pink and orange, and cicadas buzzing loud enough to make his head ache.

Your lawn mower coughs and dies for the third time in a row. Bucky notices because he’s already outside, wiping sweat from his neck, pretending to not see you wrestle with the big device. You’re wearing shorts that keep riding up your thighs and a fitted top, skin warm and gleaming with what he assumes it’s coconut sunscreen.

Every failed pull of the cord makes your frustration more visible.

“C’mon.” You mutter, releasing a sharp exhale.

Bucky sighs, sharp and annoyed—at the mower, at himself, at the way his eyes have been fixed on your ass for too long.

He cuts his own engine and gets closer.

“That mower’s flooded.” He comments offhandedly.

You startle, turning abruptly to face him. You didn’t hear him approach, that’s obvious in the way your hand flies to your chest.

“Sorry,” you mumble quickly, then hesitate. “I didn’t know you were—”

“Pulling it like that won’t help.” He adds, softer this time, like he realizes how harsh he had sounded the first time.

You step back immediately, giving him room without being asked. 

You sigh. “I don’t really know much about engines.”

He crouches beside the device. “Most people don’t.”

There’s a pause in which you frown at his back, your lips pressed in a thin line. 

“You don’t have to—” You start.

“I can fix it,” he interrupts, then winces slightly, clearing his throat. “If you want.”

You study him for a moment with a crease between your brows, like you’re trying to understand if he’s either onto some cruel joke, or if he’s going to make you pay real money for it.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you.” Your bashful tone lands wrong in his chest.

“It’s fine.” He mutters.

Bucky works in silence, fingers confident, movements fast but professional. You watch from a safe distance to not suffocate him, arms folded loosely across your chest, your weight shifting from one foot to the other. He’s acutely aware of your uncertainty, of the way the last sun rays gently caress the naked curve of your shoulders, and your teeth worry over your glossy bottom lip.

When he’s done, he stands and nods toward the handle. “Try it now.”

You pull once, and the engine starts immediately, without stuttering.

Your face lights up. “Thank you so much.”

He shrugs, suddenly very aware of how close you are. Too close.

Or maybe not close enough.

“Um,” you say, then smile sheepishly. “This is kind of embarrassing, but… I don’t actually know your name.”

His body stills completely.

“I mean,” you fret. “Everyone just calls you Barnes, and I didn’t want to assume—”

“James.” The word comes out before he can stop himself.

You blink, both your eyebrows raised in surprise. “James.”

He nods once, sharply. His ears burn at the way his name rolls softly on your tongue.

“Most people call me Bucky, though. My friends.”

Your smile turns into something less polite and more personal.

“Alright. Well, it’s nice to finally know.”

There’s another pause, a brief moment in which you simply look up at him with the same pretty eyes he has imagined full of tears as his cock sits heavy in your throat.

“You can call me whatever you want,” he adds quickly. “James or Bucky. Doesn’t matter.”

Your smile grows and the unfamiliar warmth of a blush starts spreading across his cheeks. His eyes jump away first.

“Thank you, Bucky.” You answer gently.

After that, it becomes a pattern: you need help? Bucky pops out of nowhere ready to resolve your current predicament.

Like the day your car won’t start. Your hood is popped open as you pace your driveway while on the phone with a mechanic, the guy from the night before leaning against the car door looking useless as he waits for his uber, because the bastard doesn’t own a car.

And neither a wallet since you had to pay the entire check by yourself at a rooftop restaurant that he chose because he apparently knew the owner.

Bucky observes from his kitchen window, jaw tight and arms crossed against his chest. He doesn’t like the way the guy talks over you, especially as you fold your arms, shrinking back slightly.

Bucky is there before he fully registers the decision.

“Move.” He grunts.

The guy steps aside, startled. You look stunned.

“Bucky, hi. What—”

“I’ll take care of it.” He mutters simply.

He fixes it in less than ten minutes, and the guy claps him on the shoulder like they’re longtime buddies. Bucky shrugs him off and stares him down like a rabid dog until the other man clears his throat, awkwardly kissing your cheek before stuttering about his uber waiting for him at the end of the street.

Your eyes don’t stray away from your neighbor.

“I really appreciated it.” You quip. “You keep saving me.”

He lightly shakes his head, shrugging uncomfortably. “I’m just good at fixing things.”

Sometimes it’s a loose nail on your porch steps. Sometimes a shelf that won’t stay level. Then it becomes a heavy package you can’t lift on your own, and too many shopping bags that you shouldn’t carry by yourself. Bucky always shows up like it’s coincidence, as if he wasn’t stalking you from his window five minutes earlier.

He never talks much, just grunts, nods, and mumbled greetings. But you don’t complain; not when you get to have a free front-row seat for his bulging arms as the fabric of his t-shirts fights for its life.

There are moments when you start doubting your own sanity. You swear you catch him looking at you. Not openly, or boldly like some of the guys who hit on you during your girls night at the local bar. Just quick glances that carry an unusual amount of intensity. Well, it shouldn’t come as shocking since your neighbor is indeed intense.

Whenever your eyes meet, however, he promptly looks away, cheeks turning a light pink shade and shoulders tense like he’s been caught doing something illegal.

You notice, but still, you keep your distance. You don’t hover, you just thank him, smile, and step back when he’s done. You don’t invite him to stay longer, nor do you push conversation. And Bucky realizes too late that this distance? He deserved it from the very beginning.

Bucky heaves a sigh of relief when he notices you are already tucked in bed tonight, covers pulled up to your waist and phone in your hand. The lamp on your nightstand casts a soft, golden glow that smooths your features. Even from this distance, he can see the sleepy droop of your eyes, and the way you stifle a yawn with the back of your hand before blinking at the screen.

He was out with Steve, Sam and Natasha for a rare night of beers and meaningless chat, the low hum of the local crowded bar wrapping around them like a familiar blanket. He listened more than talked, like always, nodded at the right moments and let the conversation wash over him.

Still, his knee didn’t stop bouncing under the booth.

Steve noticed first, ever the observant, and reached over at one point to press his palm on Bucky’s thigh to stop the frantic movement, his eyebrows lifting in a silent question.

He stilled for exactly ten seconds.

Natasha watched him over the rim of her glass, amused. “You got somewhere to be, Barnes?”

He grunted. “No.”

It’s a blatant lie, and they all knew it.

The truth was, the clock felt too loud tonight. Every minute stretched, every laugh from the table next to them grated on his ears. He checked his phone more than he should have, though there’s nothing on it—no messages, no missed calls. Just time ticking forward, daring him to miss it.

Because if he stayed out too long, he might not see you before going to bed.

Bucky finally made his excuses and left earlier than planned, ignoring Sam’s pointed remark, “You sure you’re okay, Barnes?” and Natasha’s knowing smirk.

The drive home was fast, his knuckles turning white at the tight hold he kept on the steering wheel.

It’s been a week. Seven days since he’s seen you with anyone. And the fear—that sharp, ugly thing moving in his chest—hasn’t still gone away. It’s just been waiting.

The moment he turned onto his street, his eyes went straight to your driveway.

Empty, except for your car.

Relief hit him so hard his chest hurt for a whole minute.

Still, he didn’t trust it. He knew better than to rely on that alone. One of the first guys hadn’t even had a car and had the nerve to force you to drive him home the morning after, like he had any right to ask such a thing. The memory made Bucky’s hands close into two fists, disgust curling hot in his gut. You shouldn’t have to play chauffeur for idiots who don’t know how to behave in front of a goddess like you.

He parked, cut the engine, and didn’t linger. Inside, he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the couch, kicked his boots off without lining them up like he usually does, and took the stairs two at a time. His heart was beating faster than it should have for a man who claims he cares about himself alone.

Your light is on, and there you are.

No one else in your room, just you—alone, safe, winding down.

Bucky exhales, the sound slow and heavy, as if it waited all day trapped in his lungs. His shoulders loosen, and the tight knot in his ribcage eases just a little. He can tell that you are probably going to fall asleep in the next ten minutes, so he decides to look for the sweats and the old t-shirt he uses as pajamas in the meantime.

He’s in his boxers with his broad, hairy torso fully on display, when he commits the grave mistake of glancing out his window, a meaningless check that ends up punching the air out of his lungs.

The covers have been thrown back and your phone now lies forgotten on the mattress by your side because your hands are too busy fondling your breast through that stupidly thin camisole. Your panties are snuggled between the folds of your pussy, the fabric tight and wet. Your eyes soon squeeze close as your index fingers quickly flick over your nipples, making you flinch at every electrifying jolt of pleasure.

He’s seen you have sex plenty of times, but never succumb to your own insatiable need enough to play with yourself.

You pull your nipples harshly, your back arching up to follow your cruel fingers, before you start playing with them through the fabric of your top. As his boxers grow tighter and his breath labored, he wonders if you are pretending it’s someone else’s toying with your turgid peaks.

Bucky lets out a shaky exhale, his hands limp at his sides clenching into two perfect fists that turn his knuckles white. He could take care of your breasts: kiss the soft flesh until you are begging him to make the ache go away, and then spend the rest of the night worshipping your nipples with his mouth and the light scrape of his teeth. He could suckle on those pretty nubs and then flick them with his warm tongue until you gush in your panties, your tits numb and your pussy clenching around nothing.

What prompted this? Were you watching something on your phone and craved the same release you looked for after every date? Or were you sexting with the guy lucky enough to earn your attention these days?

Your chest heaves as both your hands trace their way down your sides, before hooking into the hem of your panties and throwing the fabric somewhere on the floor.

He wishes he could be there with you, letting his big, experienced hands work your curves. He wishes he could take the same panties you just discarded and bring them home with him, your unique scent still clinging onto the delicate fabric. Bucky would risk it all and bring them to the garage just to lock himself into the restroom whenever he misses you and jerk himself off with them wrapped around his cock. He would suck on the gusset and let your taste on his tongue and your scent on his stubble tease him throughout his shift, just to keep his half-hard cock in a taunting limbo of pain and bliss until he can come home and finally slide back into your wet warmth.

“Fucking hell.” He mutters, gasping as he palms his painful erection.

A low groan claws out of his throat as his hand meets wet fabric, precum steadily leaking from the tip and knees embarrassingly buckling.

Bucky watches in awe as you lift the hem of your camisole up until your collarbones, your eyelids fluttering shut in relief as your hands can finally feel your tits without barriers. He must look so pathetic as he strains his ears in hope to catch one of your sweet mewls.

Your fingers glisten after you touch your aching pussy. Your mouth forms a perfect circle when you play with your folds, biting your bottom lip as you inevitably end up stroking your throbbing clit.

Bucky can’t help it anymore as he shoves his boxers mid-thigh, allowing his fingers to wrap around his imposing length. His teeth draw blood from his bottom lip as he tries to muffle a loud groan when he falls into the rhythm of lazily strokes.

When your digits finally plunge inside, Bucky shivers with you. Fire burns in his belly wild and uncontrollable as he imagines splitting you open himself and watching you swallow up his long fingers. His eyes momentarily close at the thought of your folds under his tongue and the softness of your skin under his calloused hands.

When his eyelids flutter open again, you are sitting up. His teeth grind as his dark eyes follow the length of your gorgeous body. Then, you turn around, back to the window... and kneel.

His eyes trail the curve of your ass in awe, before a strangled moan almost makes him choke when you bend over, finally giving a clear view of your soaking folds from behind.

His breath hitches, lips parting when your knees spread until there is nothing else to hide. Bucky is one thread of self-control away from running to your door and begging you to let him kiss and lick your pretty pussy the way it deserves. He would nurse on your clit and guide your hips to grind on his face until you suffocate him with your thighs. His cock twitches at the sole thought of playing with you so good you end up squirting all over his face.

He would pay to live between your thighs and for you to use his body whenever, wherever and however you want.

His eyes eagerly follow the movement of your fingers as they are lightly dragged through your wet folds, his tongue lazily licking his lips as he notices your slick lewdly clinging to your skin. From this position, he can clearly see your thighs tensing as you dip your fingers back inside, your other hand snapping back up to grab one of your tits. Your fingers cruelly tug and flick your hard nipple, causing you to squirm at the double stimulation.

Bucky wonders if you would trash around just as much with his cock stretching you out. If your hips would fidget so cutely from how restless and cock-drunk you are; if you would like for his rough hands to press you into the mattress, forcing you to stay put and just take it.

His hand instantly matches your pace as you start to enthusiastically finger yourself, precum sticking to his palm as he uses it to make the glide smoother. It feels so good he wants to close his eyes and savor it. But he can’t, not when you alternate strong thrusts with harsh slap to your clit, almost to the point of pain, whining and gasping as you work yourself up.

Bucky licks his lips again, panting like a dog at the thought of having you on his bed for him to lick you everywhere. You’d be so fucking wet for him as he pounds into you, deep and hard just like he knows you need to be fucked. His ears would be blessed with your little, breathy whines and your nails would dig into his skin as he roughly throws your legs over his shoulders, leaving him to bear the visible marks of your wild love-making.

They would burn every time water hits them, a living reminder of your tight pussy.

Suddenly, you are squirming harder, and Bucky imagines your features go slack. Or maybe your eyes are rolling back as your lips part around a filthy moan muffled by those fucking sheets. He senses the pressure in his abdomen threatening to burst at the thought of how good you must feel right now, utterly lost in the throbbing of your pussy and the cruel thrusts of your own fingers. So engrossed that you couldn’t care less about exposing your bare, wet core to your open window, disregarding the fact that anyone walking by could accidentally look up and see your little debauched show.

Did you do that on purpose? Are you so desperate that you hope someone might see you and touch themself to you playing with your sweet pussy?

Bucky growls out a curse.

He can tell you are close by the way your hips keep jerking helplessly to meet your ruthless fingers.

When you finally come, it’s completely different from the previous times with your dates: your torso heaves dangerously fast and your body shudders and shakes as the electrifying climax claims you entirely. You end up gushing all over the sheets, crying out as your squirt sprays all over your hand, the inner skin of your thighs, the bed... It’s a complete mess and Bucky wants to punch a hole through the wall.

With a trembling breath, the pressure snaps for him as well. He comes with a deep groan, thighs shaking as hot spurts of cum coat his hand—some even land on the wall by the window. He doesn’t stop stroking yet, not when you are still kneeling on your bed, face pressed against the mattress as your fingers lazily tease your wet folds, your poor hole helplessly clenching around nothing.

When he can think clearly again, Bucky notices his sight is a little foggy. The intense release leaves his head spinning, and one of his hands has to shoot forward to balance himself against the windowsill. Yet he refuses to move from his favorite place until you sluggishly straighten up on your shaky arms. His breath hitches again at the weak, content smile on your face as you suck your fingers clean.

Tonight, he reflects with his eyes still hungrily staring at your naked breasts, his need for you has been sated. But Bucky knows this will never be enough.

That Sunday morning you hear on the news that it’s going to rain all day. The sun is out when you check on your flowers by the porch, still, you choose to not water them for now, glancing every few minutes toward the horizon where dark clouds have been slowly swallowing the bright blue sky.

By lunch, the air feels thick and humid against your skin, the familiar chirps of the birds going strangely quiet.

You are rinsing a plate in the sink when the first crack of thunder rolls across the neighborhood. It’s not close enough to be alarming, but you pause anyway.

A second rumble follows several minutes later.

Then a third.

And rain starts shortly after.

At first the sound of the fat drops tapping against the windows is kind of relaxing. You expected it to pass within twenty minutes, just like any other summer storm. Except the wind starts picking up, causing the trees behind your house to sway dangerously strong. Thunders grow louder and closer, and by the time you wander into the living room to look outside, rain is battering sideways against the glass violently enough to blur the entire street.

The power goes out merely five minutes after. One second the living room is faintly illuminated by the warm glow of your rose gold lamp and the flickering light of the television, the next everything vanishes beneath a blanket of darkness.

You have just finished lighting a candle when a deafening crack echoes somewhere outside, followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of wood splintering. The noise is so sudden and so loud that it tears a startled gasp from your throat before you can stop it, leaving you motionless in the middle of your living room with your pulse racing.

It’s the sharp sound of a knock that makes you flinch all over again.

For a brief, embarrassing moment you simply stare at the entryway, your imagination unhelpfully supplying every possible horror movie scenario before common sense finally reasserts itself. Nobody is wandering around suburban neighborhoods during a thunderstorm unless they have a very good reason.

The second knock comes almost immediately afterward, so you finally cross the room to open the door.

The sight of your grumpy neighbor is unexpectedly reassuring, even if he is the last person you expected to find standing on your porch.

Even if Bucky Barnes has slowly become a more regular presence in your life than either of you would probably admit, there is an abysmal difference between him helping when a problem presents itself, and him showing up at your front door in the middle of a downpour.

Rain has dampened the shoulders of his dark t-shirt and left small droplets clinging to his long hair, but he looks otherwise unaffected by the weather. His gaze lands on your face and remains there for a second longer than necessary, his expression carefully neutral despite the obvious scrutiny.

“Are you alright?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question. “Hi, Bucky.”

His mouth tightens slightly, and instead of returning the greeting, he asks again. “Are you alright?”

There is a note of urgency in his voice that immediately makes you straighten.

“Yeah,” you reply, clearing your throat to get rid of that hint of surprise. “Yes, I’m alright.”

His eyes briefly scan your face as though he’s verifying the answer for himself.

“Did the branch hit the house?” The question comes so quickly it almost overlaps your response.

“What?”

“The one that fell in your backyard.”

Your eyes widen. “What the hell?”

A small frown appears between his brows. “Didn’t you hear the noise? A tree branch came down a few seconds after the power went out.”

“Oh.”

That’s what that noise was.

“Did it hit anything?”

Your eyes land back on his solemn expression. “I don’t think so...?”

One of his eyebrows lifts. “You don’t think so?”

Despite yourself, a smile tugs at your lips. “Well, I haven’t exactly gone outside to conduct a thorough inspection. The weather’s been making that a tad difficult.”

For a moment he simply observes you in silence, before giving a short nod. The movement is subtle, but it carries an unmistakable sense of relief, and for reasons you can’t quite explain, that realization warms your chest.

Before you can ask if he needs anything else, a particularly violent crack of thunder splits the air. The sound is so loud it seems to shake the entire street, rattling the windows hard enough to make you flinch.

Bucky’s blue eyes instinctively drop to your shoulders, registering your reaction.

“My electricity’s still on.” He blurts out, the words almost sound as though they’ve escaped by accident.

You blink. “Okay?”

His gaze flicks briefly on your lips before returning to your eyes.

“If you want,” he starts, oddly careful. “You could come over until they fix it.”

Behind him, lightning illuminates the grey sky in a flash of white. You watch him shift awkwardly where he stands, and it occurs to you that he looks strangely tense, though not in the irritated way you’ve grown accustomed to over the past months.

If anything, he seems uncomfortable.

It’s such an unfamiliar look on the mean, old Scrooge of the neighborhood that it takes your brain a moment to fully accept it. In all the months you’ve known Bucky, you’ve seen him annoyed, impatient, guarded, even awkward on occasion... but you’ve never seen him hesitant.

The uncertainty beneath all that careful composure is unexpectedly endearing.

For the first time since you’ve moved in this small town, Bucky doesn’t look like a man trying to keep everyone at arm’s length.

He looks like a man hoping you won’t say no.

Bucky disappears into the kitchen with a muttered comment about making coffee, some of the tension that had accompanied the walk through the storm finally beginning to ease from your shoulders. The sound of running water drifts from the other room as you wander farther into the living room.

You have spent weeks wondering what his house looked like on the inside.

The answer, it turns out, is exactly what you should have expected.

Nothing about the room feels designed to impress anyone. There are no decorative pieces chosen because they match a color palette, no trendy furniture purchased from a catalog, no signs that he has ever stood in a home goods store and wondered whether a particular lamp would tie the room together. Everything appears to have been selected because it serves a purpose.

The couch is large and comfortable, upholstered in a dark fabric that would probably survive a natural disaster. The coffee table is solid wood, bearing enough small imperfections to suggest it was built by hand rather than purchased. A folded blanket rests neatly over one arm of the couch, and even from several feet away you can tell it has been folded the exact same way a hundred times before.

The room is clean but there are signs of life everywhere you look, none of them accidental, though. A mug sits on a side table beside an armchair. A motorcycle magazine has been left on the corner of the coffee table. A set of keys rests inside a ceramic bowl near the front door.

Every object appears to have a place, and every place appears to have been carefully chosen.

Your attention eventually settles on the bookshelf occupying most of the wall where the TV is located.

“Well,” you murmur to yourself, moving closer. “This feels promising.”

The shelves are packed tightly enough that some books have been stacked horizontally on top of others. Most of the collection is exactly what you would expect from someone like Bucky: history books dominate the upper shelves, many of them thick enough to qualify as blunt-force weapons; there are biographies, military histories, books about espionage, intelligence operations, and wars that lasted years. Lower shelves contain books about engineering, restoration projects, woodworking, mechanics, and enough technical manuals to make you wonder whether he has ever encountered a machine he wasn’t determined to dismantle.

The psychology section catches you by surprise.

At first you notice one or two titles.

Then five turn to ten.

Soon you’re standing in front of an entire shelf dedicated to trauma, memory, relationships, attachment theory, behavioral science, and enough books about human interaction to make you laugh quietly under your breath.

Your eyes continue scanning titles with a subtle admiration for the older man, until a pink cover makes you stop.

“No.” A grin immediately spreads across your face, because wedged between two thick books about obsessions sits a romance novel.

You pull it from the shelf and examine the cover, where a broad-shouldered man glares possessively while holding a woman against his chest.

“Oh, Bucky.”

You cover your giggle with your hand, sliding the book back into place only to discover other romance novels not too far away.

The revelation is so unexpected and so delightfully embarrassing that your hopes for this rainy afternoon have been restored.

You reach for one of them, intending to inspect the cover more closely, and that’s when something slips free from behind it.

The object hits the hardwood floor with a heavy thud.

Your smile falters, prompting you to briefly glance over your shoulder, but Bucky seems to be too busy to notice the noise.

Crouching down, you quickly reach for what seems to be a black journal that has inevitably fallen open.

You only glance at the page because you’re trying to close it, until your limbs freeze, because that’s your name written inside.

The handwriting is unmistakably Bucky’s—or well, it must be. Unless there is some roommate hidden somewhere who only comes out at night.

The page begins with a date, followed by a paragraph... about you.

You read the first few lines without fully understanding what you’re looking at, shaking your head in astonishment as your eyes go back to the beginning.

She spent most of the afternoon in her backyard in a red bikini pretending to read. I don’t think she made it through more than ten pages before she fell asleep. The book slid off her lap eventually and startled her awake. She looked around immediately afterward to make sure nobody had seen it happen. Looks adorable when her eyes widen in surprise.

As you turn the pages, confusion gives way to a sharp realization.

Every entry is about you.

Every. Single. Day.

Some are short, others span several pages, yet each one is carefully dated, documenting something from your life.

She came home later than usual tonight and sat in her car for eleven minutes before going inside. I don’t like to see her exhausted. Whatever happened at work must have been bad because she didn’t even stop to check the mail as usual.

As usual?

How many times has your neighbor watched you to take on your little unconscious habit?

Your eyes move lower.

I almost walked over and punched that asshole in his teeth. Didn’t. She probably wouldn’t appreciate that.

The entries continue. Page after page after page.

The yellow sweater again. I still think it’s her favorite. Is yellow her favorite color?

She talks to her flowers when she thinks nobody is listening.

Murray spent twenty minutes talking to her today. I couldn’t hear the conversation and I hated that more than I should have.

You swallow thickly, your breath hitching at what comes next.

Another date tonight. He arrived late and she apologized to him for being too early. I still don’t understand why she lets people walk all over her.

Your eyes momentarily look away with a sigh. 

It’s been weeks from your last date, and though it’s not that long, it still feels strange, noticeable in a way you don’t quite know how to explain.

You haven’t heard back from anyone. Not the guy from the wine bar who made you laugh until your cheeks hurt, not the one who talked about books like they were old friends. A few polite follow-up texts went unanswered, a couple never even shown as read. One morning, you realized that someone had blocked your number altogether.

You know dating is messy, and chemistry isn’t guaranteed. Honestly, you never truly clicked with most of them. There was always something missing—an ease that never quite settled, a spark that fizzled before it could catch.

Still, it stings. Because they appeared charming, funny, attentive. They looked at you like they wanted to stay, like the night spent together between your sheets meant something more than a couple of pleasantries the day after, at best. And then they were gone by morning, disappearing completely from your life. You still had fun, sure, but it left you wondering if you’d imagined the connection at all. Until you’d started to wonder if the problem was you.

You swallow, shaking your head lightly as you go back to the next page.

She came home smiling, but it wasn’t real. I know the difference.

You gasp at the next paragraphs.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I did it. I went over to that asshole and told him to not come back. He ran away. Filthy coward.

I threatened two other guys. I know she would probably hate me for this, but they never wait for her to wake up, and my girl deserves better.

His girl?

The farther you read, the more obvious it becomes that these aren’t mere records of an unstable, bored neighbor.

She bought a new sundress. Nothing too different from the others, but this one is a shade lighter of blue. Like the one covered in small daisies (the same one who hugs her prefect cleavage tightly). Nobody else would notice the difference. I did.

I heard the sound of her laugh from my room yesterday night. I never slept so well.

This morning I caught a whiff of her hair as she greeted me before going to work. Did she change shampoo?

There is something painfully intimate about the way Bucky writes about you, as though every insignificant moment has been carefully preserved and revisited later. He notices things your friends probably don’t register until you are the one telling them. Things you don’t notice about yourself but that completely make sense.

This notebook is not a simple log. It reads like devotion twisted into something unhealthy.

Your fingers tighten around the cover as you turn another page.

I should stop looking for her every night.

The handwriting grows slightly messier beneath that sentence.

I should stop wondering who she’s with when she doesn’t come home until late. I should stop thinking about her when I’m trying to work. I should stop imagining conversations that never will happen. I should stop watching her when she comes out of the shower.

I should stop. But I don’t want to.

By the time you hear footsteps approaching from the kitchen, your pulse is hammering hard enough to echo in your throat.

When you lift your head, you find Bucky standing in the doorway holding two mugs of coffee.

The moment his eyes land on the notebook, every trace of color drains from his face.

“James.”

This mountain of a man actually flinches, his eyes wide on the object in your hands. His jaw tightens when he notices your expression—furious, eyes blazing.

“What is this?” Your voice comes out far quieter than you intended. Still, your hands snap the journal close with a sharp thud.

That seems to unsettle him more than if you had shouted.

Bucky carefully sets the mugs down on the nearest surface before dragging a hand over his jaw.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.” He replies tiredly.

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s what you have to say right now? Seriously?”

His expression tightens. “No.”

“You’ve been literally documenting my entire life like I’m some kind of lab project.”

His jaw tightens. “It’s not—”

“Don’t,” you cut in sharply. “Don’t start minimizing it.”

He swallows thickly.

“You…” Your voice shakes. “You’ve been watching me like this the entire time? Every day?”

“I didn’t—” Bucky starts, then stops again, as if he can’t find a version of that sentence that could help him. “I wasn’t—”

“You weren’t what?” You laugh, caustic and humorless. “Do you have any idea of how I feel right now? It’s fucking insane to find out that the same man who ignored me for months and barely acknowledged I existed, has written pages upon pages describing my fucking perfume and confessing to threaten the people I bring home.”

His gaze drops again as he steps back half a pace, visibly restraining himself. You can see it in the way his hands flex, the way his shoulders rise and fall with controlled breaths.

“Do you do this with everyone?” You press, words coming faster now, sharper. “Is this some kind of fucked up hobby of yours? Being a shitty neighbor until you decide to start… what, cataloguing people?”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You are so fucking confusing.” You continue, voice rising. “One minute you won’t even look at me, and the next you’re mowing my lawn, carrying my groceries like it’s your job—”

“I just wanted to help you.”

“—and for fuck’s sake, you were threatening my dates!” You shriek. “What do you want from me, Bucky?”

The room is plunged into an uncomfortable silence, the only noise being the gentle pitter-patter of the rain from the opened window in the kitchen.

Bucky takes that moment to let his eyes wander over you. Your chest is heaving with distress, your eyes shining slightly… and still, you look fucking gorgeous, wearing one of your stupidly short sundresses that leave everything and nothing to the imagination. His gaze flicks away like the sight burned his pupils, then comes back on your face, darker.

“I just want you safe.” He states roughly, like it costs to say it out loud.

You scoff. “From what? Dating?”

“From them.” He growls, frustration finally cracking through the composed, grouchy facade. “From men who don’t deserve you.”

You blink astonished. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“They take what you give them and then run away,” he shoots back. “They leave before morning like you’re something they’re ashamed of. Like you’re disposable.” His voice lowers, growling with conviction.

You look momentarily taken aback by the abrupt change in his behavior, yet you refuse to back down.

“That still doesn’t make it right for you to meddle in my personal life.”

“I know,” he stresses, stepping closer despite himself. “But watching you give your time so easily to guys who don’t even have the decency to say goodbye before disappearing like fucking criminals—who can’t see how lucky they are for you to spare them even one second of your attention… sweetheart, it drives me fucking insane.”

You can feel a certain wetness spread across your panties at his growl, but your brows furrow in irritation. “You don’t even know them.”

“I know enough.” Bucky answers fiercely. “I know none of them are good enough for you.”

Silence slams down between you, his words hanging in the air like a challenge.

“I didn’t ask for... whatever you are doing.” You whisper eventually.

“I know.”

“Then stop deciding things for me!” You bark. “Stop acting like you know me when you never even bothered to introduce yourself in the first place!”

Bucky steps closer again. Now you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell oil and soap and something unmistakably him. Your anger is still there, hot and bright, but there’s something far too dangerous curling underneath it.

His eyes drop to your mouth, and his nostrils flare.

“Every time you bring home someone,” he starts quietly. “I tell myself it’s none of my business. Every damn time.”

“And yet.” You mock ironically.

“And yet,” he admits through gritted teeth. “I lose my fucking mind.”

Your heart stutters. “You don’t get to be jealous.” Swallowing, you try to steady yourself, though your voice wavers toward the end.

“You don’t get to act like this when you’ve never given me anything back.”

His hand lifts, hesitating before your wrist, then drops again at his side like it’s taking all his restraint to not touch you.

“I’m trying,” he hisses. “I swear to God, I am.”

“Trying what?” Your jaw clenches.

“To stay away from you.”

You take a step forward, chest nearly brushing his. “Then why are you still standing here making excuses?” You provoke, slightly tilting your head.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

Bucky’s brain is screaming at him to step back, to put space between you, to remember every reason this is a bad idea—your anger, his obsession, the line he’s already crossed a dozen times without touching you once.

But all he can think about is the way your eyes are bright with fury and something almost playful, daring, that makes heat coil low in his gut. He’s spent months watching you from a distance, telling himself proximity is dangerous, and now you’re right here, beautiful and fierce, challenging him.

His jaw tightens as he fights the urge to close the last thread of distance between you. His hands curl into fists at his sides, nails leaving behind crescent shapes like that would be enough to hold himself back. His ears are ringing, completely drowning out reason, his heart pounding with the knowledge that one wrong move will ruin everything—or change it beyond repair.

God, he wants you so bad.

He wants to grab, to pull, to prove that this isn’t just mere jealousy or some twisted sense of protection. That it’s been you, all along, settling into his bones without his permission.

He dips his head just enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth, his hands reaching for you like it’s instinct, like gravity has finally won. One hand cups your jaw, coarse and warm, his thumb lovingly stroking your cheek.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, and that’s when you really notice how close he is to losing control. 

His chest rises too fast, too deep, just like yours; his fingers sport a faint tremble that reflects weeks of barely contained desire—it’s so intense that you can feel him everywhere without him completely touching you. The weight of his attention has a sudden warmth creeping up your neck, his blue eyes flicking to your mouth like this is the most beautiful mistake he’s about to make.

Bucky’s been fighting this longer than you have, and every step he’s taken toward you these last months has cost him something precious.

His sanity.

And instead of frightening you, it makes your breath hitch.

Because you need this.

You want the man who’s been watching from the sidelines, holding himself back, burning quiet holes into the space between you. You want the restraint to snap, be the thing he finally stops denying himself.

Your hands are aching to touch him, to guide his palms everywhere and see what happens when he finally understands that you’ve been craving him just as much. Yet you stay exactly where you are, refusing to give him the out he’s begging for.

The journal is long forgotten on the ground by the time hunger flashes across his eyes, and Bucky finally makes you his.

The kiss is exactly what you imagined before falling asleep every night: pent-up and desperate and full of everything he’s been swallowing down for months. His mouth claims yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, more teeth and tongue than lips. You moan quietly at the feeling of his hands moving frantically and certain—one still gripping your jaw while the other fists the fabric at your waist like he needs to anchor himself. 

It’s rough, urgent... too much and still not enough.

You gasp against his lips, the sound swallowed at once when he deepens the kiss. Delicately tilting your head back, he looms over you as his arm tightens around your torso with a low groan. 

Your hands come up without thinking, clutching his shirt as you kiss him back just as hard, just as recklessly, anger and longing blurring together until there’s nothing but your mouths moving against each other and the frenzied pull of your clothes.

Bucky breaks away just enough to press his forehead to yours, breathing heavily while his hand cups your cheek like he needs to make sure you’re real.

“Shit.” He mutters, wrecked. His lips are on yours again, slower this time but no less intense, as though he’s trying to memorize the shape with bruising urgency.

His hands wander everywhere they shouldn’t like he can’t decide what to hold onto first, a low sound out tearing out of his chest when he squeezes the flesh of your ass.

“You know how hard it was watching that?” He speaks against your lips.

You blink dumbly and he laughs once, short and bitter, like the sound hurt him. His grip tightens. 

“You have no idea, do you? I had to stay put and watch them have you. Watch you smile at them, touch them...” His jaw flexes. “Do things I could only live in my wildest dreams.”

You press a hand to his chest, firmly. “Bucky.”

For a moment, he looks like he might shut down completely. His shoulders tense, eyes flicking away before forcing themselves back to yours when that rare pink blush appears high on his cheeks. 

“I started that journal because I thought it could keep me sane.” He swallows. “I didn’t mean to watch you at first. It just… happened one night. And then I couldn’t stop.” His voice drops, raw and shaky. “Every night. I knew your routines, when you were alone... when you weren’t.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and you gulp before peering up at him through your eyelashes. “I know.” You admit softly.

“I apologize for how you had to find out but not for doing it—” He stills, eyes widening slightly. “What did you just say?”

“I hoped you would.” Your voice is steady, even as your pulse races. “Every time I took them home, I wondered if you were there.”

Bucky surges forward before he realizes it, kissing you roughly as his arms squeeze your waist, pressing you firmly against his chest. Beneath your hands, he feels warm and strong in the most reassuring way. His body carries the strength of someone who has spent a lifetime working with his arms, thick muscle hidden beneath a layer of softness that only makes him feel impossibly solid.

“What was that little act you put up here just now, huh sweetheart?” He pants against your mouth. “All this time I’ve been beating myself up over it.” His lips move on your neck, making you gasp. 

“An old, dirty creep jerking off to his pretty younger neighbor fucking other guys, imagining I was the one driving my cock into her sweet pussy.” You shiver as his palm spreads over your asscheek again, squeezing until it leaves a light sting behind. 

“But you are just as filthy as me, baby.” 

Your heart is desperately trying to get out of your chest, excitement and anticipation swirling wildly in your belly at his rougher treatment. 

His other hand grips your jaw sternly to force you to meet his eyes. “Am I right?”

Your fury is now reduced to a distant, fading hum. You don’t stop him when his hand ends up under the short hem of your dress, encouraging you to spread your legs a little. 

“Bucky.” You moan as the tips of his fingers tease your inner thigh. “S—Someone might see.” You protest weakly.

He briefly glances around, noticing the sun is finally out again and you are both standing in the middle of his living room, right before the window overlooking the main street and the sliding ones leading to his backyard, directly attached to the rich couple’s house. 

“Better stay quiet then.” 

And his fingers slide in your panties to play with your folds, his other hand still fondling your ass. 

Your back arches when he circles your clit with slow yet firm pressure. 

“There we go, sweetheart.”

You tilt your hips into his hand in a silent plea for more, and Bucky obliges with a low snicker. 

“How were they?” He mumbles against your collarbone, surprisingly put together as he lowers your panties until they fall, pooling at your ankles. “Did they know how to touch you? Did they make you feel this good?”

You shake your head, eyes squeezing shut as two fingers spread you open without warning. His other palm comes down on your ass, heavy and unforgiving, making you whimper.

“Answer me.” 

“Not—not like you.” You admit, head falling forward with a gasp as his thumb works over your throbbing nub, rubbing it with a steady rhythm. “Oh my God.” 

“Good girl, right answer.” He growls out, attacking the slope of your neck with kisses and bites. “That’s why you put on a show for me every weekend. Those bastards weren’t satisfying you, so you needed your grumpy ol’ neighbor to touch you in front of the whole neighborhood.”

Your fingers dig into his forearms as you feel your climax approaching, raw and electric.

“Don’t be so full of yourself.” You manage, voice shaking and face still hidden against his shoulder.

“Hm, I’ve indeed a thing full just for you, doll.” He smirks, his unoccupied fingers curling around your wrist to yank it on his jeans-cladded crotch, the heat of his cock pressing insistently against your palm. Your eyes go wide at the imposing shape.

Your fingers twitch, squeezing his bulge as his tip leaks under the fabric, eliciting a low noise out of his throat that surprises you. 

“What? Cat got your tongue now?” His hot whisper tickles your ear. “That’s right, feel it sweetheart. That’s all for you, look what you do to me.” He grits out.

His fingers pressing rough and insistent on your sweet spot make you whine, a high-pitched sound that he immediately silences with his lips. 

“Quiet. The kitchen window is open, and that asshole Murray could come out any minute.” He murmurs against your mouth. “Unless you want him to see you like this.”

You can’t elaborate a logical answer, even if you want to scream that no, you only want Bucky’s attention, though the possibility of being caught with him fingering you right in the middle of his living room only makes you clench harder around his digits. The bastard has the nerve to grin at that, curling inside you in perfect tandem with the dizzying friction of his thumb on your clit.

“C’mon, doll.” He pushes, panting as your fingers keep toying with his erection. “Come prettily around my fingers and I’ll let you touch it.”

Your thighs tremble under his relentless pace. “I—fuck!” You moan, tossing your head back as your orgasm finally hits you, your eyes squeezed shut and your hips desperately following his hands as Bucky keeps thrusting into you, until you slump forward exhausted, forehead colliding with his firm pec.

“This is what you wanted?” Bucky murmurs on the top of your head, voice cocky as his fingers slide out gently, leaving you empty but tingling.

He barely puts effort into hiding his smug smile, leisurely looking out of the window for any nosy pair of eyes while he adjusts your dress with such nonchalance. As if he didn’t just make you come on a random Sunday afternoon.

You shake your head, and when you glance back up at him, Bucky’s breath hitches at the sight of your bitten-raw lips and hazy eyes. 

“Need more.”

He makes sure to keep your jaw in place as he thrusts his tongue in your mouth, just like he promised he would do with your pussy. A whimper escapes your throat at the depraved action before Bucky pulls back to study your features, a string of saliva connecting your shiny lips.

“Stay put.” He commands, gently guiding you back until you are bending over the windowsill. 

His muscled arm comes over you and opens the window, leaving your torso exposed to the driveway. 

“Such a messy girl.” He mutters to himself. It sends little shivers down your spine, your face hot as he parts your folds with his thumbs. 

He promised he would let you touch it. 

“Don’t whine. I have to make sure she’s ready for it, sweetheart. How else is my fat cock gonna fit in this tight little pussy?” 

You nod dumbly, biting your bottom lip when the gentle breeze caresses your face, a brutal reminder of your debauched position. You can’t believe you’re really here, bent over his open window for anyone to see. It’d be pretty obvious to anyone walking by what’s going on, since you are literally in Bucky Barnes’ house—the same person who would prefer listening to a chainsaw go off all night rather than say hi to a fellow human being—and your lips keep parting around shameless moans.

It could take anything to make your neighbors across the street look out of their window and see you.

“Bet our dear neighbors would die of heart attack if they could see you crying for a grumpy, old man’s dick.” He taunts, spreading your legs apart as he kneels behind you, softly kissing the inside of your thighs. “Such an adorable angel, so innocent and polite... who likes getting her pussy pounded by mean, cranky Barnes for everyone to hear.” 

His fingers spread through your folds, exposing your core to the humid air to take a tentative lick. “I knew you’d taste fucking delicious.”

“Careful, old man.” You pant shakily, eager to see him lose control. “At your age you can’t go that hard. Heart attacks, herniated disks, cramps... anything can—Bucky!”

Two of his fingers slide inside your hole at once, leaving you gasping and holding onto the windowsill for dear life as your legs tremble embarrassingly hard.

“Ah.” He chuckles, feeling your body gradually melt under his hands. “You just need to have something inside you to shut the fuck up, right sweet girl?”

You nod whimpering, resting your cheek on your crossed arms. It’s incredible how well he knows where to touch, when to tease, what to say to turn your brain into pure mush.

His hands are relentless on your poor body, kneading the flesh of your thighs as your hips literally hump his face. 

“She’s so pretty.” Bucky pants, thumb circling your clit while he watches your slick soil your inner thigh. “Look at your puffy clit, babygirl, throbbing for my attention.”

You squirm a little at his quiet, filthy words, heat already rising violently on your cheeks.

“Perfect pussy,” he breathes out, giving your nub another little lick. “Perfect ass. Perfect tits.” He squeezes your butt. “You’re perfect everywhere, doll.”

A quiet moan falls from your lips as Bucky leaves soft kisses along your core, his salt-and-pepper stubble scratching slightly at your sensitive folds, but the sensation only makes your hole clench desperately around his motionless fingers.

Finally, his mouth closes around your nub, suckling on it gently.

“She’s all sticky and messy because she loves when I play with her, right baby?”

You nod even if he can’t see you, sniffling but still trying to hide your face against your arms resting on the windowsill. It’s only then that your eyes snap open at the sudden loss, hearing Bucky standing up with a little, pained groan. 

He fumbles with the button of his jeans, crudely leaving them and his boxers hanging mid-thigh. His cock stands hard and heavy against his belly, the tip flushed and leaking. Relief washes over him as he strokes it a few times, while his other hand parts one of your asscheeks to expose your core. It would be so easy for him to come all over your ass and your pretty dress, to mark your skin with his cum. He could literally empty his balls over and over again by simply watching you like this: bent over his open window, shameless and needy.

“Did they fuck you raw?” He rasps out, the storm inside him instantly calming down as you eagerly shake your head.

“Good girl.” Your eyes roll back at the praise, shivering when the fat head glides through your swollen folds. “‘M gonna ruin you for anyone else, pretty girl.”

The tip catches on your hole, and your body instantly goes rigid.

“Big.” You gasp out with your eyes squeezed shut. 

Bucky simply chortles, cooing at your shaky breathing.

His hands soothe your hips, trailing up and down your sides absently as his eyes stay locked on your entrance perfectly stretching around his girth.

“You can take it.”

Bucky’s breath hitches as he forces himself to nudge his length gradually in, letting you savor every vein dragging along your sensitive walls, and allowing your body to adjust to the burning stretch. Your toes curl in bliss when you decide to focus on the sensation of being stuffed full, quietly taking a deep breath as his cock twitches softly inside you.

“Look how well you accepted me.” He grunts, a layer of presumption in his words as he draws back gently, fingers gripping the bunched up fabric at your waist to push back inside, his tip now bullying directly your sweet spot. 

You clench around him with a little whimper, relieved that Bucky uses his hands to keep you pinned on the windowsill as he gradually builds a steady rhythm with his hips. He fills you so wonderfully, burying his cock deep enough to make your vision blur. 

However, the sharp sound of your hand smacking against your mouth to stop the squeaks and moans from spilling out is a severe reminder of the unusual silent afternoon.

“It’d be enough for our neighbors to take a peek outside of their window, and they’d catch you like this, whimpering around a fat cock like the little slut that you are.”

You gasp, flinching when his fingers start working over your clit, firmly but not too fast—just how you like it.

“Some of them could be watching right now.” He taunts you in your ear, his other hand harshly squeezing your breast, before yanking the front of your dress down as if the fabric just offended him and his whole family. 

Your pussy makes a squelching, humiliating sound as more slick gushes out at his teases, promptly met by his mocking laugh. “Yeah? You like that? I knew my sweet girl likes to be watched.”

You nod again, drooling at the way his abraded fingers tug and flick your nipples, the stimulation so different from your smooth hands. Bucky’s palms are weathered and callused from his job—he’s always been a little gruff, so there’s nothing gentle about the way he cups your tits while thrusting into your pussy.

It’s primal and fast, overwhelming enough that you sob, loud and breathless and so, so close.

“Feeling good, hm?” His voice drops to a low rasp, chest heaving as fast as yours, even if he keeps up his arrogant facade. “My pretty dirty slut who likes to show everyone how good I make her feel. Jus’ need a thick cock inside her and she’s gushing like a little fountain.” He snickers.

Your entire body locks in at his dirty words, spine arching and hips rolling back, frantic and needy and utterly soaked. You’re pretty sure the mix of soppy sounds of his cock fucking you, and the slapping of your flesh meeting resonates loud and clear across his front lawn.

“Yes yes yes!” You mumble deliriously into your arms. “Right there, Bucky.”

He groans against your neck, sucking and nibbling the sensitive skin.

“Gonna come, oh God, please please don’t stop.” You whimper.

“Fucking hell.” He chokes at a particular hard thrust that makes you tighten. “Sweetheart, if you keep clenching like that I’ll make you leak for days—”

“Please!” You blabber louder, completely forgetting about the fact that you’re getting fucked raw for anyone to see. 

Your eyes roll into oblivion as your climax washes over you, violent and endless. You shatter with a cry of his name, body trembling as each wave of bliss has your hips desperately twitch in his hold.

“That’s it,” he draws out. “That’s it, she’s tightening so good around me. Now it’s my turn, gonna fill you up so good you’re gonna feel me for days.” His fingers are insistent on your clit, making sure to prolong your climax.

“You’ve been so fucking good for me. Keeping your curtains open so I could empty my balls to the sight of these pretty tits…” He keeps rambling, panting against your cheek.

“She’s all full now, hm?” He grits through clenched teeth as you nod eagerly. “But I wanna see her drool, my dumb baby too full of me to keep it inside.”

“Bucky…” You mumble lightheaded. “Gonna come again.”

“Yeah?” His smile is depraved. “Creaming my cock once wasn’t enough? Need to mark what’s yours, babygirl?”

“Yes!” You wail out, falling over the edge for a third time. Your eyes cross as you sob out a string of breathy whines, still clenching, still gushing around him.

This particular orgasm is so powerful that your head starts spinning.

“I’m coming too, baby. Shit—” He groans, loud and broken. His cock throbs, spurting rope after rope of warm cum, his fingers digging into the skin of your waist painfully as he keeps thrusting into your warmth until he is flinching out of sensitivity.

You are grateful for his possessive hold on your body since your legs seem to be too weak to fully support you. Meanwhile, Bucky is still trying to catch his breath against your nape, careful to not put all his weight on you, even if his muscles are starting to hurt because of the strain.

Maybe you were right…. maybe he really did get a cramp.

When Bucky slides out, you let out a pitiful whimper at the loss, pulling a chuckle full of mirth out of him as he carefully helps you in an upright position. Who knows how long you’ve been bent over, too lost in his touch, his words, his cock, to acknowledge your sore joints.

A sharp sting prickles, indeed, your lower back, yet you couldn’t be more satisfied—another reminder of how thoroughly you just got fucked.

“Took me so well, sweetheart.” He mutters, turning you around and letting you collapse against him despite his own exhaustion.

He hums into the soft kiss on your forehead, before his fingers gently cup your chin to press a peck on your lips. Sighing content, his eyes close, allowing his lips to gently ghost over your temple.

“Finally mine.”

The months of stolen glances and burning, unspoken desire have finally paid off. Now it’s just you, Bucky, and no stupid dating app in between.

Still... sometimes you sit right in front of your window, legs spread and eyes fixed on him while your boyfriend sits in his own chair as he strokes his cock to your fingers fucking your pussy. Occasionally, it’s some hefty dildo, or a small vibrator pressed against your clit that is powerful enough to make your eyes roll back.

And although this little game of yours never fails to end with Bucky almost ramming your front door to get to you, his pants shamelessly unbuttoned as he crosses his driveway... Well, it’s not nearly as satisfying as doing it together.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🩶 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

Shoutout to all strong and capable women.

Being the daughter of a bounty hunter was no easy thing. Let alone being the daughter of Din Djarin -- the Mandalorian, whose name made criminals tremble across the Outer Rim. He was the kind of man who never removed his helmet for anyone, yet whose gaze behind the visor was as cold as ice.

The man who taught you to shoot before he taught you to read, who left you alone in cheap motel rooms while he carried out contracts, and who only grunted whenever you tried to ask him about your mother.

The one who would glance at you out of the corner of his eye when he thought you weren't looking, as if, for just a moment, he forgot that you had to grow up in his shadow. The one who, when he spoke to you, kept it short and straight to the point, because in his world, words were worthless and actions were everything.

And... the one who believed he could protect you from ever being used as a bargaining chip.

That last part had held true until... a couple of days ago.

As any good bounty hunter would, Din had enemies, many, too many. And some of them were twisted enough to go after the one thing that mattered most to him. You.

Because in this galaxy, revenge was everything to a great many people, and there was one person in particular who hated your father with an intensity that went beyond reason.

It could have been a former client he'd left hanging, or a rival in the bounty hunters' guild nursing a wounded ego. Maybe even a mercenary he'd robbed of a fortune. But it didn't matter either way, because you weren't sure.

The only thing that mattered was that whoever it was, he had found you.

He took you when your guard was down. You had been walking through a market on Coruscant, feeling the sun brush softly against your face, taking in the music drifting in the background, the voices of creatures and citizens all around you, haggling over prices, arguing, complaining about the unbearable heat. But you were simply enjoying the feeling of being surrounded by ordinary people for one day. A day where nobody knew who you were, where nobody cared in the slightest.

Your father had strictly ordered you to stay aboard his ship while he worked-- yes, he had. But you'd left anyway, because you were young and you were done doing as you were told. You needed fresh air, you needed something resembling a normal life.

You needed, just for a little while, to do whatever the hell you wanted.

It had seemed perfectly logical at the time, you'd felt good, free, but now you were sitting in a cold cell, somewhere lost in the galaxy, listening to the hum of engines belonging to a ship you didn't recognise.

You knew your father would come -- everyone knew Din Djarin never abandoned his own -- but you also knew that whoever had you wasn't looking to negotiate. They wanted to hurt him; they wanted him to suffer.

You knew this because the bastard had made it perfectly clear to you roughly a hundred times since you'd been there. And yes, you regretted your little walk now, but how were you supposed to know they'd been following you? How were you supposed to know that the eyes of that filthy man and his crew had been fixed on you for quite some time?

You knocked your head against your hand over and over, as if that was somehow going to change anything about your situation. Stupid, stupid, stupid... You're so stupid...

But now you had no choice but to wait, try not to die of boredom, and also try not to fall asleep if that man came to talk to you, because getting shot by his blaster wasn't exactly your ideal way to go.

You heard noise. Someone approaching down the corridor, their boots echoing against the metal floor, though these footsteps were softer, more deliberate, less arrogant.

You sat up on the tiny, impossibly hard bed that felt more like a slab of stone, rubbing your aching back. They'd probably sent someone else to bring you food today, which you were grateful for, because you were absolutely starving.

Or maybe not that much after all, you needed to try something first; you had nothing to lose.

You got up and moved to stand beside the door, pressing yourself against the wall. You were set on waiting for whoever walked in so you could throw yourself at them and at least find out where the hell this ship was taking you.

The door began to slide open, and without a second's hesitation, you launched yourself at the hooded figure in the doorway, your fist raised and aimed at his face, but it didn't move. Your body simply refused to obey you, and within seconds, the figure was no longer beneath you on the floor; he was standing upright, calmly smoothing out his clothes as if nothing had happened.

"What did you do to me? Why the hell can't I move?" you demanded, panicked and furious.

"Calm down. I came here to--" he said, his voice unhurried and composed. But you were livid, and you weren't about to let him finish.

"Calm down?! I'm locked up in here because of you people!" If you could have moved, you wouldn't have hesitated to throw yourself at him again -- and this time, with any luck, you'd manage to get your hands on one of his weapons.

"My name is Luke, and I'm here to help you. There's no need to panic," he said, pulling back his hood to reveal a composed, striking face. He was handsome-- his hair a warm shade somewhere between chestnut and blonde, slightly tousled, and his eyes were a pale, clear blue unlike any you had ever seen.

Then, just as suddenly, you felt the invisible grip release you. Your hand drifted up to rub the back of your neck, a little embarrassed, and then it clicked. "Luke... Luke Skywalker?"

You'd heard the name before; your father had mentioned something about knowing him, some loose version of a friendship, though you'd never paid much attention and had certainly never pictured him like this. You'd expected someone... older.

He nodded and extended his gloved hand to help you up. It was cool to the touch. "I see your father has told you about me."

"Uh... yeah... You could say that... he's mentioned you, a bit." An awkward silence settled between you for a moment. Your eyes drifted over him. He was dressed entirely in black, and at his hip hung... was that a lightsaber?

"Wait, are you actually a Jedi?" Luke smiled and gave a small nod. You'd never seen one in person. You'd always half-assumed your father made them up just to get you to listen to his stories. You thought they'd all died out years ago.

"Come on. We can't afford to waste time."

Reality snapped back into focus. You were still on that unfamiliar ship, in an unknown location, surrounded by strangers who, now that you thought about it, you hadn't heard a single sound from -- and now you were standing next to... what exactly? A new acquaintance?

You fell into step behind him as he led you through the ship toward the hangar bay, where his vessel was docked. It was a standard X-wing.

"Where is everybody? I could have sworn--" But he cut you off, there was no time for questions right now.

"I've taken care of that -- but not for long. Come on, get in." You climbed aboard and settled into the co-pilot's seat. It wasn't your first time in one of these, but you weren't exactly familiar with them either; your father always flew his N-1 Naboo Starfighter, which you had always thought had a far more elegant design.

Suddenly, you began to hear voices, and you understood exactly what Luke had meant.

"Over here!!" The thunder of boots against the metal floor was getting closer by the second.

"How could you let her escape, you useless idiots!"

"But sir, it was a Jedi, he-"

"I don't want excuses! Get them -- both of them -- right now!"

Within seconds, roughly ten people came rushing into view, weapons drawn, some already firing. Luke was up and in his seat in an instant, and the ship roared to life beneath you. In moments, you were tearing away from that place and into open space.

"Maker!" You laughed, buzzing with adrenaline, but Luke stayed fixed ahead, eyes locked on the stars. "That was insane."

As the rush began to fade, you turned your attention to the interior of the ship. It was almost immaculate; you could tell he was someone who liked things done properly. Your eyes wandered across the controls, trying to figure out what each button did. Ships had never particularly interested you, if you were honest, but with nothing else to do, you figured you might as well try.

Once you'd put enough distance between yourselves and that place, you finally felt like talking again. You glanced over at him; his gaze was still fixed on the expanse of space ahead.

You cleared your throat and propped your feet up on the seat. "So... thanks for the rescue and everything... But what exactly are we supposed to do now? They're probably going to come after us, no pressure or anything-- I'd just really prefer not to get our asses blown up."

He looked over at you, caught slightly off guard, but quickly let his expression settle and stayed quiet for a moment. He seemed unused to being spoken to with such casual familiarity -- or maybe you were just a little foul-mouthed.

"Alright... The original plan was to meet your father back on Tatooine, but the main route still has Imperial remnants along it, so we'll have to take a longer way around. It'll add about a day."

With that, Luke set the ship on course for the desert planet. As he'd said, it was a long journey, so you had no choice but to try and keep some kind of conversation going, fill the space between you with something.

"I've never actually seen a real Jedi before... Do you actually have powers?"

"Mm... kind of." He wasn't much of a talker, that much was clear, but you had a feeling that with a little effort, you could get him to open up. There had to be more going on behind those blue eyes than he let on.

Getting people around you to feel at ease had always come naturally to you, somehow. One of your greatest gifts was knowing how to talk to people.

Time passed, and you kept at it -- asking questions, feeding your curiosity -- and with each one, his answers grew a little longer, a little less clipped. He seemed to be slowly enjoying the novelty of talking to someone without any agenda behind it, without anything at stake.

Somewhere along the way, you'd also managed to eat something, finally.

"Hey."

"Hm?"

"Do you know why the scarecrow got a promotion?"

"..."

"Because he was outstanding in his field."

"..."

"Come on... that was funny."

"That is the worst joke I have ever heard in my life."

You laughed softly. "Alright... let me try another one."

"I'm so tired of people making jokes about the apocalypse... It's like there's no tomorrow."

You went quiet, watching him from the corner of your eye, barely holding back your own stupid grin, and for the first time all day, you saw something genuine break across his face. A real laugh.

"Alright... that one was better."

"You're boring, Jedi Skywalker."

---

When Luke noticed your eyes closing on their own and that you'd finally run out of things to say, he brought the ship down on the nearest planet and, careful not to draw attention, the two of you made your way to the first open motel you could find and asked for two rooms.

The friendly Twi'lek at the front desk handed over the keys, and you headed up the stairs to the guest floor. The place had seen better days; it was worn down by time in the way only old buildings can be, but it was warm and oddly welcoming despite it all.

When you reached your room, you looked at each other one last time.

"Goodnight," you said, stifling a yawn.

Luke gave a small nod. "If you need anything, come find me. I'm in room 340, one floor up."

You shut the door and, exhausted, peeled off your clothes down to your underwear, washed your face at the small sink, and slipped under the sheets of the surprisingly spacious bed. You turned off the light, and sleep took you almost instantly, the tension that had been coiled tight inside you for days finally letting go, your mind sinking into silence.

---

A strange noise pulled you out of a deep sleep. It was the window; maybe something had been thrown at it, or a bird had flown into the glass. Still half-asleep, you opened your eyes and sat up to see what was going on.

The drowsiness evaporated fast when you felt something cold press against your temple. A weapon, aimed directly at you. The room was lit only by the faint glow filtering through the window, and you could barely make out the figure standing over you.

"Try to scream and I'll blow your head off."

You nodded, much as it pained you to, but you weren't ready to die today.

He pulled the weapon back slowly and reached for a rope at his belt. "Get up," he said, grabbing your arm roughly.

"Can I at least get dressed first?" You tilted your head slightly, hoping whatever expression you were pulling might get through to him. A few seconds of silence stretched between you, then you felt him step back just enough.

"Make it quick."

You moved slowly toward your clothes and began to dress, feeling uncomfortably exposed. For once, you were grateful the lights were off.

You were almost certain he was one of the henchmen working for whoever had taken you the first time; something about his voice was familiar, like you'd heard it before.

You were far too vulnerable to fight back; you had no weapon of any kind, and that left you with one option.

Run.

You didn't even stop for your shoes. In the blink of an eye, you threw the door open and bolted down the long corridor, sprinting toward the staircase, toward the floor where Luke was sleeping -- but the bastard fired.

Pain, pure, white-hot pain. You'd never been shot before, and you were absolutely certain you never wanted it to happen again. From the sound, you knew it was a blaster -- and it had gone clean through your shoulder. You hit the floor and looked up at him with pure hatred. If you were going to die, at least it would be with some dignity.

"I'm done with you," he said flatly, and you watched the barrel of his blaster swing toward your head. You were done for. You squeezed your eyes shut, clutching your shoulder with a trembling hand.

Maybe this was the galaxy's way of getting even with you, for being so insufferably reckless sometimes, for disobeying your father, among the many other things you'd managed to do across your not particularly long life.

A loud sound tore through the air, and you braced yourself, but nothing came. When you opened your eyes, Luke was crouching in front of you. The other man was on the floor. No longer a threat... No longer anything.

Luke was speaking to you, but you couldn't make out the words. He moved carefully to lift you into his arms, but the pain was too much, too overwhelming. Bit by bit, your vision blurred at the edges and... everything went dark.

---

Consciousness crept back to you slowly. You were lying on something soft -- no longer on the floor. You opened your eyes, blinking until the blur gave way to clarity.

You took a slow breath when you confirmed all your limbs were still where they were supposed to be. Then you tried to sit up, and a sharp, searing pain tore through your shoulder. You winced, and it all came rushing back.

You didn't recognise the room. A medical droid stood beside you, arranging instruments with quiet efficiency, so you assumed you were in some kind of medical facility.

"You should not be getting up," the droid said. "You are recovering from a serious wound. You need to rest." A moment later, the 2-1B unit turned and left the room.

You ignored it entirely and tried to sit up again, this time successfully, managing to pull yourself into a decent upright position.

The door opened again, and this time the face was one you knew better than any other. Your father. The first thing he did when he stepped inside was remove his helmet, revealing a face full of relief and lingering worry.

He crossed the room and sat down beside you.

"Dad."

"Hey." You felt his eyes move over you carefully, making sure you were real, making sure you were whole. "Thank the Maker..."

You gave a small smile. "It wasn't that bad. I'm fine." You didn't want the moment to feel too heavy; it made you uncomfortable. You had always hated the idea of people seeing you at your lowest, so you had long made a habit of keeping that sort of thing to yourself.

"Come here," Din said quietly, opening his arms. You sighed and gave in, resting your head against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him; metal and leather and something that had always just meant home.

"Where exactly are we?" you murmured, and he pulled back slowly, hands resting on your shoulders.

"Ossus. This is Skywalker's Jedi temple."

"And... why are we here instead of Tatooine?" You frowned. Knowing him, this couldn't be straightforward.

He held your gaze and spoke plainly. "I have some unfinished business to take care of." He didn't need to say more, you already knew what that meant -- but you tried anyway.

"Right. Fine. Then let's go," you said, scanning the room for your things. There was nothing, just a few empty cots and some scattered medical equipment.

"Absolutely not. You're staying here and recovering."

"But-"

"No buts. You're in no shape to go anywhere with me. You'll only end up worse."

"So you're just going to leave me here, on an unknown planet, with someone I barely know? Brilliant, Din." You were irritated, and it felt entirely justified.

"Luke is the person I trust most right now, especially for what needs to be done. So that's how it is. I need someone to keep an eye on you, and I know he'll do it right."

"But-"

"I said no. You know I'll come back for you when the job is done. And besides, you need to learn to handle yourself better. There's no better teacher than a Jedi."

"Are you calling me weak?"

"I'm saying you have room to improve."

"Are you aware that everything I know, you taught me?"

"...I should get going."

You looked down and said nothing, pressing back the tears that were quietly threatening to spill; you refused to let him see that.

Knowing better than to push when you got like this, he stood and looked at you one last time. "You'll thank me for this. And I will come back for you -- I've already told you that."

"I hate you."

"Take care of yourself. And do me a favour -- listen to Luke."

"I'm not ten."

With that, he walked out the door and left you sitting there, as if a blaster bolt hadn't torn through your body, and you hadn't spent two days as someone's captive. But deep down, you wouldn't have him any other way.

You listened to the N-1 lift off and fade into the sky, and felt a deep, quiet pang of envy. You'd give anything to fly away from everything sometimes -- just you, and no one else.

After a few minutes of grumbling quietly to yourself, you finally got up. There were clothes folded on the small chest by the wall; you dressed carefully, wincing at the pull of the wound with each careful movement. The clothes were nothing like what you were used to. Simpler, more formal in feel, not unlike what you remembered Luke wearing, but more understated. You didn't feel quite like yourself in them.

You took a couple of slow, steadying breaths and stepped outside. The room opened directly onto the outdoors, and the structure was built from timber and sat along a wide mountain ridge. Wonderful, you were stranded in a valley, which was almost certainly in the middle of nowhere.

You walked for a little while, listening to the birds and the wind moving through the trees. The nature around you was lush -- deeply green and alive in a way you weren't used to. You had to admit, grudgingly, that there was something genuinely peaceful about it. Far removed from the chaos that had made up most of your life.

If this was what you were in for, it could be worse.

You kept walking and spotted a figure sitting some distance ahead. No question who it was.

"Hey," you called out -- then immediately felt a small pang of guilt, realising you were probably interrupting something.

You approached quietly, trying not to make much noise. He was sitting with his eyes closed. Was he meditating? Curiosity got the better of you and you sat down across from him, studying the calm of his face. More accurately, you stared for quite a while before he finally opened his eyes and found yours.

You looked away quickly, pretending you hadn't been watching, but it wasn't convincing in the least, so you did the only sensible thing and started talking.

"Do I have to do that too?" you asked, with genuine uncertainty in your voice. He gave a slight smile and shook his head.

"It's not required."

You smiled back, your fingers brushing idly through the grass beside you. It was damp. "I didn't know you taught as well. Where are your students? Are they children? I didn't see anyone on the way here."

You noticed the question landed somewhere tender, though he was very good at keeping his reactions contained. "You're the first person I've had here. I haven't been running things for long."

"But I'm not even one of you!"

"That doesn't matter to me. I'd just appreciate some company around the place. There's plenty I can teach you that has nothing to do with being a Jedi."

"I am not being your guinea pig."

"I'm not asking you to be."

"And I'm not calling you 'Master' or anything like that either."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

You cleared your throat. "Right... and in all seriousness...thank you. For the other day. If you hadn't shown up when you did, that man would have put a blaster bolt through my skull."

It didn't come easily, admitting that you'd needed help, but the least you could do was acknowledge what Luke had done for you. He hadn't been obligated to do any of it -- he'd done it because he'd chosen to.

"It's nothing, looking out for others is what I'm here for."

A brief silence settled between you before he spoke again.

"I owe you an apology, though. For not being able to prevent what happened." His eyes dropped briefly to your shoulder, then back to your face. "I'm sorry I wasn't fast enough."

"That's not on you. You'd already done more than enough."

"...How are you feeling? Does it hurt much?"

"It hurts. But it's manageable."

"If you need me to, I can take a look at it."

"I'm alright, but thank you." You'd rather avoid the awkwardness of that particular situation.

He nodded. "Don't worry -- 2-1B will have you back on your feet quickly. It's a good unit."

"I hope so." You exhaled with a small smile, then added, "Well, I don't want to keep you. Would it be alright if I went and had a look around?"

"Of course. Make yourself at home... As for quarters, pick whichever one you like; they're all the same. I'll bring you clothes and anything else you need later on."

You weren't sure how someone could be that naturally generous without seeming like they were trying, but you found that you liked it.

"Thank you," you said, getting to your feet.