Guy

Natasha finds herself walking down a grand staircase, or at least, she thinks she does. Everything looks vaguely familiar, in a haunted sort of way, and when she finishes her descent, she’s staring through a window with Madame B. at her side. Other students, younger students, ones still waiting to be broken, perform the same routine, over and over until their feet bleed in their ballet shoes. They’re numb to the pain now.

“You’ll break them,” Natasha murmurs worriedly.

“Only the breakable ones. You are made of marble. We’ll celebrate after the graduation ceremony,” Madame B. replies.

The words echo through her head as she floats away, a sense of detachment that isn’t peaceful taking over.

The world shifts.

She’s holding a gun; she’s shooting. Her aim is precise, perfect as it always has to be as she hits her mark with every bullet.

The target transitions into a man, his head covered. He’s whimpering.

“What if I fail?” Natasha asks.

“You never fail,” Madame B. reminds her.

She doesn’t hesitate. A shot rings out.

Her scenery changes again, and then there’s an arm around her throat. Natasha grunts as she struggles against the grip only to tap out, breathing heavily from exertion.

“Sloppy. Pretending to fail,” Madame B. says, disappointment blatant in her words.

Everything sounds as though it’s muffled, as though Natasha’s hearing it from underwater, or through a thick pane of glass.

“The ceremony is necessary for you to take your place in the world,” Madame B. continues.

“I have no place in the world.”

“Exactly.”

Colors are muted, washed out, desaturated.

Natasha’s being wheeled down a fluorescently lit hallway, the bright lights blinding her as she is forced to remain awake but immobilized, as she’s taken to her final procedure.

It’s okay. They’ll celebrate after.

She’s abruptly jolted out of her thoughts, her dissociation, by your voice, firm and grounding, a tether in the midst of whatever spell the Scarlett Witch cast upon her and tried to drown her in.

“Natasha, tell me five things you can see.”

Her eyes are unfocused at first, blurry and glassy with unshed tears, but at your prompt, she tries her best to glance around the Quinjet, tries to survey her surroundings, to catalogue, but everything feels as though it’s spinning. Her head hurts, her chest is tight, and her breathing begins to turn ragged when she realizes that nothing is making sense. It shudders through her body as panic replaces the now-growing-distant haze of memories.

Her heart feels like it’s slamming against her ribs so hard that her bones ache; her heart rate is spiking too high. She’s well acquainted with panic attacks, but knowing the signs isn’t doing her any good right now to help stop the one she’s currently struggling through.

Your hand moves to gently cup her cheek, trying to center her. “Natasha,” you murmur her name again before repeating your request, “Tell me five things you can see. You can do it.”

It takes a few moments—her throat feels scratchy, like it’s closing in, like she can’t form words—but you’re patient; you don’t pressure her.

“L-lights,” Natasha finally stutters out in between shaky breaths, eventually seeing the blinking coming from the control panels on the ceiling. She looks around again weakly. “Cockpit.” There’s another pause as she searches for anything else whose recognition will break through the continuous pull of disorientation. “Clint, w-window, you.”

“Good,” you praise, “Now, four things you can touch.” Your thumb rubs soothing circles along her cheekbone.

“Th-the seat, the wall, m-my suit, you.”

“Three things you can hear,” you prompt next, wanting to keep her speaking.

Natasha strains to hear, attempting to focus, attempting to listen to anything besides the way her heartbeat is thumping loudly in her ears. It’s hard, but she manages. “Engines, Tony and Steve t-t-talking, you.” Her voice trembles over her words.

You press on. “Two things you can smell.”

She takes in an attempt at a measured breath through her nose, and the action further steadies her uneven breathing, her heaving chest. “Metal,” she mumbles, and when she inhales again, she gets a whiff of your shampoo, soft and subtle, comforting. “You.”

“You’re doing so well,” you respond to her softly, giving her a hopefully reassuring smile. “Last one, Natasha. One thing you can taste.”

She falters. One thing she can taste? There’s no true taste in her mouth. Nothing but…

Her breathing quickens once more as the walls of the jet seem to suddenly be both tilting and creeping closer at the same time. She swears that she can still taste the metallic tang of blood, splattering across her lips, from the different people she'd killed while she was in the Red Room; she’s positive that can still taste the chemical bitterness that the smell of antiseptic layered on her tongue when they rolled her to her procedure. She remembers it all too vividly.

“I can’t-” Natasha whimpers out.

You interrupt her gently. “You can, you can. Breathe, Natasha. What’s one thing you can taste?”

There’s more hesitation from her, more fear and feeling like she’s small and back there again.

Her mind clouds over with desperation. She needs something to take it all away; anything. And you’re the constant—not just right now but always. You’ve always been there for her. You’re the sight, the touch, the sound, the smell… and Natasha can’t help but think that you should be the taste too. Then she’s acting without considering whether or not it’s a good idea.

Her lips are on yours.

You make a surprised noise in the back of your throat at the sudden and unexpected touch before your hand shifts to gently cradle her jaw and hold her to you as you kiss her back.

You pull away after only a brief second, not fully understanding and not wanting to push or make things worse for the woman who you know is crumbling before you, who’s becoming unglued in a way that you hope will still allow for you to help put her back together.

“One…” you trail off, faltering temporarily, still trying to gain your bearings after the kiss. “One thing you can taste,” you try another time.

Bucky lets out a small breath, half sigh as he grabs one of your thighs. "Stay still, I need you to stay still. Can you stay still?"

"I dunno, can I?" You laugh. You don't really know what's funny. He's just too pretty and the cotton pad he's pressing to your cheek is too cold and you're too drunk and oh, he's just… dreamy. Yours. You swoon, a flush warming your face as you tilt your chin up and tug him down, closer, to brush your lips against his.

Soft. The prickle of his stubble sends shivers all over your spine, goosebumps littering your skin. Bucky rubs a soothing hand over them.

"Doll," he murmurs, flush against your mouth, "let me just finish this."

"Why?" You mumble.

"'Cause you'll be real fucking mad at me in the morning if I let you sleep with your makeup on. Come on, it'll just take a second, yeah?"

You huff but close your eyes nonetheless.

"Good girl," he murmurs, "thank you."

Heat bubbles through you. Bucky starts swiping the cotton pad over your eye, gently rubbing off your makeup; a cool brush of metal sweeps absently over your waist, through your clothes. All of it pools in your stomach, a burst of butterflies sweeping through, making you squirm back onto the pillows. You can feel the soft puffs of his breath on your face. 

"You can't be like this," you say lamentingly.

"Like what?"

"Pretty." You sigh. "And polite and perfect and—"

"Wow, that's an alliteration." You can hear the dry smile in his voice. He laughs, and it wafts over your cheekbone. "Impressive. Go on, sweetheart."

Your eyes flutter open, disturbing his work. So close, he's so close. Barely, you manage to stumble out, "P-annoying."

Bucky shakes his head, tiny smile tugging at his mouth. "Now that's a lie," he says, saccharine sweet, drawled low next to your ear. God almighty. You melt.

It's unfair it's unfair it's unfair—

"James," you mumble, half sigh.

He perks up, dog with a bone, always when you say his name. The skin beside his eyes goes wrinkly, crows feet digging in. "Yeah, hon."

"I like you too much."

Your only salvation is his small, shyish smile, a flash of red darting over his cheeks and ears. The color deepens as he ducks his head, and something tumbles in your chest, an aching, aching fondness.

You're a desperately weak human being.

James manages to compose himself. It thrills you more than you can admit; his hand trails up your side, squeezes, then he's back to swiping the makeup off your face. 

You're starting to regret all the glitter.

"I like you too much," he says softly, "so we're in the same boat, I think." You sit in the quiet dark for a little, then: "How much is too much?"

Your lips tug. "Now you're just fishing, Barnes."

"No," he promises, and it's so close to your mouth that he takes it, presses a slow, sweet kiss that has your knees skirting up his sides. He's hard and firm against you, all heat, and you feel like a helpless feather blown away in a breeze. "I'm just trying to figure out if I'm in any danger."

Your fingers tangle in his hair. "I think you are, Sarge," you whisper, matching his tone. His stubble grazes your cheek, and you nuzzle a kiss onto his scruffy jaw. "Think I am, too."

"'S'not so bad, is it?"

His voice rumbles through your skin, low, honey poured over gravel. You tug at the silky strands between your fingers, use them to bring his cheek closer to your lips.

The first thing you noticed, before you had even opened your eyes, was that the mattress beneath you felt wrong. It was firmer than yours, angled differently, and the pillow smelled like cedar and gun oil instead of the vanilla candle you kept burning on your nightstand. You lay there for a long moment trying to piece together why your body felt heavier than it should, why your shoulder ached in a way it never had before, and why, when you finally cracked one eye open, the ceiling above you was unfamiliar in a way that made your stomach drop. This was not your room. The realization crawled through you slowly, the way cold water spreads through fabric, and you pushed yourself upright with a suddenness that made the world tilt. That was when you caught sight of your own hand braced against the sheets, except it was not your hand at all. It was broader, scarred across the knuckles, and where your left arm should have been there was instead a gleaming column of vibranium plates that shifted and clicked as you flexed the fingers in confusion.

You screamed. It came out lower than you expected, rough and unfamiliar, and the sound of your own voice startled you so badly that you scrambled backward off the bed and landed hard on the floor in a tangle of limbs that did not feel like they belonged to you, because they did not. You caught your reflection in the dark screen of a turned-off television mounted on the wall and nearly screamed again, because staring back at you was not your face. It was Bucky's face, pale and wide-eyed and looking every bit as horrified as you felt, and it took several seconds of frantic, disbelieving staring before the truth of the situation settled into your bones with all the grace of a falling piano. You were in Bucky's body. You were in Bucky's room, in Bucky's bed, wearing Bucky's face, and somewhere in this tower your own body was presumably waking up with someone else's consciousness rattling around inside it.

Down the hall, in your room, Bucky was having a considerably worse morning. He had woken up warm and soft and smaller than he was used to, which alone might not have alarmed him on a groggy morning, except that his hair was suddenly long enough to fall into his face in a way that felt distinctly wrong, and his hands, when he lifted them to rub the sleep from his eyes, were not his hands. They were smaller, softer, unscarred, and both of them were flesh, which struck him as so deeply strange that he sat bolt upright and stared at them for a full ten seconds before his brain caught up to what his eyes were telling him. He looked down at himself, taking in the oversized band shirt you always slept in, the unfamiliar shape of a body that was not his own, and felt a wave of nauseated vertigo roll through him so intensely that he had to grip the edge of the mattress to keep from toppling over. He knew immediately, with the kind of instinctive certainty that came from a life spent adapting to impossible things, exactly whose body he was in, and the knowledge did nothing to make the moment any less disorienting.

"Oh, no," he said, and the voice that came out was yours, bright and startled and nothing like the low rasp he usually spoke in, which made the whole situation feel about ten times more surreal. He scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over the hem of the shirt because your legs were shorter than his and his brain had not yet recalibrated to the new proportions, and made his way toward the door on legs that felt borrowed, because they were.

You met in the hallway between your two rooms, both of you frozen in matching expressions of horror, staring at each other with a kind of dawning, mutual dread. Bucky, standing in your body in your oversized sleep shirt with your hair a wild mess around your face, looked at you, standing in his body in nothing but the sweatpants he usually slept in, and for a moment neither of you said anything at all, because there did not seem to be words sufficient to the occasion.

"Please tell me I'm dreaming," you said, and the sound of Bucky's voice coming out of your mouth again made you flinch, because it was deep and rough and utterly bizarre to hear yourself produce.

"If you're dreamin', so am I, and that don't seem likely," Bucky said back, and hearing your own voice say his words, his careful old-fashioned phrasing, was almost worse than hearing his voice come out of you. He dragged a hand through your hair, a gesture so purely his own that it looked strange performed with your fingers, and let out a breath that trembled at the edges. "This is your doing, isn't it. Your powers did this."

"How is this automatically my fault," you said, though even as the words left your mouth you knew, with a sinking certainty, that it probably was. Your abilities had never been predictable things. They had announced themselves eighteen months ago in a burst of energy that had knocked out three city blocks and had been misbehaving in small, unpredictable ways ever since, flaring during nightmares, sparking when you were startled, and apparently now, evidently, swapping your consciousness into your boyfriend's body while you slept. "Okay. Okay, it might be my fault. But I didn't do it on purpose, I don't even know how I did it, and also can we please not stand in the hallway discussing this while you're wearing my face and I'm wearing yours, because Sam already thinks we're weird and this is not going to help."

As if summoned by his own name, Sam Wilson chose that exact moment to round the corner from the kitchen with a mug of coffee in hand, took one look at the two of you standing there in matching states of dishevelment and panic, and stopped so abruptly that coffee sloshed over the rim of his mug and onto his knuckles. He hissed at the heat, set the mug down on the nearest surface without looking, and pointed a finger back and forth between the two of you with the slow, deliberate motion of a man trying to make sense of something his eyes refused to accept.

"Why is Barnes standing there in his pajamas talking like he just walked out of a soap opera," Sam said, gesturing at you, "and why do you," he continued, gesturing now at Bucky, standing there in your shirt with your face doing an expression Sam had genuinely never seen it make before, "look like somebody just told you the sky was falling."

"It's a long story," you said, and your voice, Bucky's voice, came out clipped and irritated in a way that made Sam's eyebrows climb even higher.

"That's the thing," Bucky cut in, using your voice, and gesturing helplessly between the two of you, "he's me. I'm—she's me. I'm her. We switched, Sam, we woke up like this, and I don't know how to explain it any better than that."

Sam stared at the two of you for a long moment, his expression cycling rapidly through confusion, disbelief, and something that looked dangerously close to delight, before he pulled out his phone and started typing without so much as blinking. "Wanda," he said, more to himself than to either of you, "you are gonna want to see this."

Within twenty minutes the common floor of the tower had assembled into something resembling an emergency briefing, though the mood was considerably less tense than most of the briefings that usually took place in that room. Steve stood near the window with his arms crossed, doing an admirable job of keeping a straight face while looking back and forth between you and Bucky. Natasha had claimed the armchair in the corner and was watching the proceedings with the quiet, focused amusement of someone who fully intended to remember every detail for future use. Wanda sat cross-legged on the couch with her hands hovering an inch above the coffee table, red light curling faintly around her fingers as she studied the two of you with genuine scientific interest rather than mockery, which you appreciated more than you could say. Sam had not stopped grinning since he walked in, and had already, to your considerable irritation, taken several photographs on his phone before Steve told him to knock it off.

"Okay," Wanda said, drawing the attention of the room back to her as she let the crimson light fade from her fingertips, "so it is not a spell, and it is not an external interference. Whatever this is, it originates from inside you." She looked at you, sitting stiffly on the edge of the couch in Bucky's body, still visibly unnerved by the extra height and the metal arm you kept accidentally knocking into things. "Your ability reacts to emotional states, yes? Stress, fear, strong feeling."

"Usually, yeah," you admitted, flexing the metal fingers experimentally and wincing at the faint whir of servos that responded, a sound that felt deeply invasive to be hearing from your own hand. "It flares when I'm upset. It's never done anything like this before, though. Usually it just breaks windows or sets off the fire alarm."

"You've been more anxious lately," Bucky said quietly, from where he sat beside you, and it struck you as strange and a little tender to hear him voice that observation using your mouth, your inflection, though the concern underneath it was entirely his own. "About us. About whether you're settlin' in here alright, whether the team really wants you around, whether I'm gonna get spooked and pull away like I do sometimes. You've been carryin' that around for weeks and not sayin' anything."

The room went very quiet, and you felt your face, or rather his face, heat with an embarrassment that had nowhere to hide, because apparently even body-swapped and disoriented, Bucky Barnes was still entirely capable of reading you like an open book and saying so out loud in front of everyone you knew.

"That is not the point right now," you said, aiming for firm and landing somewhere closer to strangled.

"It's exactly the point," Wanda said gently, though there was a knowing softness in her expression that told you she understood precisely how mortifying this conversation was for you. "Powers that respond to emotion often manifest their most dramatic effects during sleep, when the conscious mind isn't there to suppress them. Whatever you were feeling last night, it was strong enough to reach across the hall and pull the two of you together instead of just breaking something."

"Well, that's romantic in a deeply inconvenient way," Natasha said from her armchair, not bothering to hide her amusement, and Sam let out a laugh that he quickly turned into a cough when Steve shot him a look.

"So how do we fix it," Bucky asked, cutting through the commentary with the steady practicality that had kept him alive through decades of far worse situations than this one. "She just needs to calm down, and it reverses itself?"

"In theory," Wanda said, though the caveat in her tone was not lost on any of you. "Emotional-trigger abilities tend to be symmetrical. If distress caused the swap, then resolving that distress should, eventually, cause it to reverse. I cannot promise a timeline. It could be hours. It could be days."

"Days," you repeated, the word coming out flatter and more horrified than you intended, and beside you Bucky went very still in a way you recognized even through the unfamiliar shape of his own face on your body, the particular stillness that meant he was doing everything in his power not to laugh.

"This isn't funny," you told him.

"No, it's not," he agreed, and then immediately ruined the sentiment by grinning, an expression that looked deeply strange stretched across your features, all wrong in the eyes and too wide at the corners, because it was his smile trying to exist on a face that had never learned to make it. "Sorry. It's just—you're really tall right now, and you look real unhappy about it."

"I am extremely unhappy about it," you said, "your center of gravity is completely different from mine, I nearly walked into a wall on the way down here, and this arm keeps twitching whenever I get startled, which, given the morning I've had, has been constantly."

"Yeah, that happens," Bucky said, glancing down at your much smaller, much softer hands with an expression of genuine bemusement. "I keep forgettin' I don't have the arm right now. Tried to catch myself on the doorframe back there and just about ate concrete because I reached for stability that wasn't there."

"You're shorter than I expected it to feel," you admitted, studying him, studying yourself, from across the couch, and there was something surreal and oddly intimate about watching your own face express an emotion that was unmistakably Bucky's, the crooked half-smile he wore when he found something charming despite himself.

"You're heavier than I expected," he shot back, and you swatted at his arm before you both remembered, in the same instant, that the touch landed strangely because neither of you was quite where you expected to be inside your own skin, and the moment dissolved into a fit of laughter that neither of you could entirely explain, except that it felt better than the panic had, and that counted for something.

The rest of the morning unfolded as an extended lesson in the particular chaos of occupying someone else's body while a team of superheroes tried, with varying degrees of helpfulness, to figure out how to reverse the situation. Bucky discovered, with visible dismay, that navigating your body meant navigating reflexes he had never had to think about before, a lower center of balance, a different length of stride, hands that did not carry seventy years of muscle memory built around a metal prosthetic. He knocked over a glass of orange juice within the first hour simply by reaching for it the way he always reached for things, with the confident, weighted certainty of a man who knew exactly how strong his grip needed to be, only to discover that your grip strength was nowhere near what he was used to compensating for.

"This is genuinely humbling," he muttered, mopping up the spill with a dish towel while Sam watched from the kitchen island with poorly concealed delight, "I've fought off a small army with this arm and I can't pour a glass of juice without makin' a mess."

"To be fair, that's not your arm right now," Sam pointed out.

"I'm aware, Sam, thank you," Bucky said, in a tone that was unmistakably his own despite emerging from your mouth, dry and a little put-upon, and Sam laughed so hard he had to set his coffee down again.

Across the room, you were discovering your own set of complications, chief among them the sheer, unrelenting awareness of the metal arm attached to your shoulder, which whirred faintly whenever you moved it and which responded to your thoughts with a fraction of a delay that felt deeply unnerving. You had watched Bucky use that arm a hundred times, had marveled at the easy, practiced grace with which he wielded it, and had never once considered what it might actually feel like to have a machine grafted onto your nervous system, responding to signals your body had never learned to send. You knocked a mug clean off the counter within your first ten minutes of trying to make coffee, catching it half a second too late with reflexes that were faster than yours had ever been but calibrated to a different set of instincts entirely.

"You get used to it," Bucky told you, coming up beside you to help gather the pieces of the broken mug, and there was something gentle in the observation, an old, worn patience that had clearly been earned the hard way. "Took me the better part of a year after Wakanda before I stopped breakin' things. You're doin' better than I did, honestly."

"I highly doubt that," you said, but the comment settled something warm in your chest anyway, and you found yourself looking at him, at yourself, with a fresh kind of appreciation for everything he carried around every single day without complaint.

Steve wandered through around midmorning with the particular expression of a man determined to be supportive while also visibly fighting laughter at every turn, and made the mistake of asking Bucky, still occupying your body, whether he wanted to spar later, a habit so deeply ingrained between the two of them that the question came out before Steve had fully processed who he was talking to.

"Steve, I'm real flattered you think this body could take you in a spar," Bucky said, gesturing down at himself, at your frame, considerably smaller and considerably less enhanced than his own, "but I think you'd break somethin' that ain't mine to break."

"Right," Steve said, looking faintly embarrassed. "Sorry. Force of habit."

"S'okay," Bucky said, and then, because he could not help himself, added, "Though I gotta say, findin' out what her cardio's like on the treadmill this mornin' was an experience. I ran two miles and about died. You've got stamina for days but your legs give out way before your lungs do, doll, you know that?"

"I did not need a full report on my physical fitness," you called from across the room, though you were laughing despite yourself, because there was something endearing about the fact that even trapped in your body, disoriented and off-balance, Bucky had apparently spent part of his morning testing out what your workout routine felt like from the inside.

By early afternoon, Wanda had set up a small monitoring station in the common room, mostly out of scientific curiosity and partly, she admitted, because she found the entire situation genuinely charming and wanted an excuse to keep an eye on it. She had you both sit across from each other at the kitchen table while she studied the faint shimmer of energy that occasionally sparked around your borrowed hands, a visible tell, she explained, of your powers still actively holding the swap in place.

"It's stable," she said, tilting her head as she studied the two of you, "which is good news, in the sense that neither of you is in danger, and bad news, in the sense that it means whatever emotional knot caused this hasn't come undone yet."

"So we just have to talk it out," you said, and felt Bucky's gaze land on you from across the table, steady and searching in a way that made your chest feel tight even filtered through the strange, secondhand experience of watching your own face hold an expression you knew to be entirely his.

"Guess so," Bucky said quietly, and Wanda, with the tact of someone who had clearly decided this was not a conversation she needed to witness, rose from her chair and excused herself from the room without being asked twice.

You ended up on the small balcony off the common floor as the afternoon light softened toward evening, the city stretched out gold and hazy below the tower, and for a long moment neither of you spoke, both still faintly unsettled by the strangeness of watching your own gestures performed by someone else, your own voice carrying words you had not chosen.

"I didn't mean for you to find out like this," you finally said, wrapping Bucky's arms around yourself, a gesture that felt oddly comforting even secondhand, "the stuff about being anxious. I didn't want to make it your problem."

"It's not a problem," Bucky said gently, turning to look at you, "it's just somethin' you're feelin', and I'd rather know about it than have you carry it around alone until it short-circuits your powers and swaps us into each other's bodies." A faint, crooked smile tugged at the corner of your mouth as he said it, an expression that looked so purely like him despite being worn on your face that it made something in your chest ache with fondness. "I know I've got my own baggage about pullin' away when things get too steady, too good. Old habits. I'm workin' on it. But I need you to know that you bein' here, with all of us, with me, isn't somethin' I'm gonna spook over. You don't have to walk on eggshells wonderin' if I'm gonna bolt."

"I know that, logically," you admitted, and it was strange to hear Bucky's low, rough voice say something so vulnerable, though the words were entirely your own, carried across through borrowed vocal cords. "It's just hard to shut the worry off sometimes. Especially with everything that happened this year, the team splitting, you being on the run, all of it. It still feels new, being here, being with you. I keep waiting for the ground to shift again."

"Yeah," Bucky said quietly, "I get that better than almost anybody could." He reached out, his hand, currently yours, small and unscarred, and closed it gently around your borrowed metal fingers, the same gesture you had both performed a hundred times before in your correct bodies, and it landed strange and familiar all at once. "But I ain't goin' anywhere. Not unless you get sick of me first."

"Not likely," you said, and the words came out steadier than you expected, and something in the air between you seemed to loosen, a knot you had not realized you were still holding onto finally beginning to slip free.

You felt it before you saw it, a warm, prickling rush that started at the base of your spine and rolled outward, and Bucky must have felt it too, because his grip on your hand tightened and his eyes, wide and startled in a face that was currently yours, went bright with a familiar shimmer of gold light that had absolutely nothing to do with the sunset. The world tilted, briefly and gently this time, nothing like the disorienting lurch of that morning, and when your vision settled you were looking up instead of across, and the hand wrapped around yours was broad and scarred and metal, and the voice that came out of your own mouth when you gasped was unmistakably, wonderfully, your own.

"Oh, thank god," you said, staring down at your own hands, flesh and blood and entirely familiar, and then up at Bucky, back in his own body, tall and solid and grinning at you with an expression of such open relief that you laughed out loud.

"There she is," Bucky said, reaching up to brush a strand of hair back from your face with his real hand, warm and steady in a way that felt like coming home after a very long, very strange day. "Was startin' to get used to bein' shorter, not gonna lie."

"You complained about it for six straight hours," you reminded him, though you were still laughing, giddy with relief and the simple, uncomplicated joy of being back in your own skin.

"A man's allowed to complain," Bucky said, tugging you gently into his side, and you went willingly, tucking yourself against the solid, familiar warmth of him, feeling the low rumble of his laugh against your ear. "For what it's worth, I meant every word I said out there, even if it came out of your mouth instead of mine. You don't gotta be scared this is gonna fall apart."

"I know," you said, and found, for the first time all day, that you actually believed it.

The two of you made your way back inside just as Sam was rounding the corner with his phone raised for what was very obviously going to be another round of photographic evidence, and he stopped short at the sight of you, back in your correct bodies, tucked into each other's side with matching expressions of exhausted relief.

"Aw, you're back to normal," Sam said, sounding almost disappointed. "I had a whole album goin'."

"Delete it," Bucky and you said, in unison, and the perfect synchronization of it startled a laugh out of both of you, loud and easy, the kind of laugh that came only after a day spent thoroughly, thoroughly weird.

"Absolutely not," Sam said, already backing away toward the elevator, phone clutched protectively to his chest. "This is goin' in the group chat. Steve! You gotta see this, they're back to normal and Barnes still looks personally offended about the whole thing!"

Wanda's voice drifted from the kitchen, warm with amusement. "I told you it would resolve itself. Emotional-trigger abilities. Very predictable, once you understand the pattern."

"Predictable," you repeated, shaking your head as you let Bucky steer you toward the couch, both of you dropping onto it with the particular heaviness of two people who had spent an entire day fighting their own nervous systems for control of unfamiliar bodies. "I woke up as my boyfriend this morning. Nothing about today was predictable."

"Fair point," Bucky murmured, tucking you against his chest, his arm, the real one, settling warm and heavy around your shoulders in a way that felt like the single most normal thing that had happened all day. "Though I will say, for the record, you make a much better version of me than I made of you."

"You were a decent me," you said, tilting your head back to look up at him. "A little dramatic about the running, though."

"Two miles, doll. On legs I've never had before. I think I earned some drama," Bucky said, and pressed a kiss to the top of your head, easy and warm and entirely his, in a body that was, thankfully, entirely his own again.

Note: Each story will have its own set of content warnings, including NSFW — please read thoroughly before proceeding! More fics may be added beyond the dates/songs listed for this current collab in the future <3

▸ You are in Love — @unificsation (August 6)

You, Bucky, and a feeling that doesn't end. — inspired by 'you are in love'

▸ Dirty Little Secret — @blowingbarnes (August 13)

"I'm like Six Flags. I'm a fun ride. Everyone wants their turn, and they move on to the next park. And that's fine by me." You tilted your head at his words, eyes slightly narrowing in his direction like you'd slip through one of the cracks and see the real Bucky. "Is it?" — inspired by 'how you get the girl'

▸ Bad Blood — @tw1sters (August 20)

Interning with your ex-boyfriend’s brother wasn’t how you imagined your summer, but somewhere between the long hours and conversations over late-night takeouts, he’s becoming harder to hate. — inspired by 'bad blood'

▸ Welcome to New York — @epiphanyrogers (August 24)

New York has always been a city of fresh starts. That’s what Bucky Barnes is counting on when he moves back home for the first time in eighty years. except so far he’s only figured out three things: the subway still runs late, Brooklyn has gotten expensive, and he is spectacularly bad at modern dating. Enter, you: an entirely off limits matchmaker who somehow becomes the best part of his life, one terrible first date at a time. Or, Bucky almost gives up on dating until he meets you — inspired by 'welcome to new york'

▸ I Know Places — @pinksplace (August 26)

While the rest of the world searches for Bucky Barnes, the two of you carve out a life in the shadows. Some love stories are written in grand gestures. Yours is written in escape routes. — inspired by 'i know places'

▸ Everything but You — @love-stucky (August 28)

Bucky spent years making sure you never went without, but he never noticed how often you went without him. — inspired by 'all you had to do was stay'

▸ Wild Knights, Wilder Dreams — @houseofhyde (September 6)

War is afoot, blood stains the streets, and by your side stands your husband's sworn knight. With a command to flee the city, you stick close to his side with the blind assumption that he is operating under your husband's orders. But as weeks pass and distance grows between you and the bloodshed, you discover there is something selfish in the protective glares and scowling words Ser Barnes casts your way; a devotion so carnal, the realm shuns it as deadly. — inspired by 'wildest dreams'

▸ Never Out of Style — @stanmarvelous (September 10)

Things with Bucky have always been easy. Late nights and stolen moments became something neither of you felt the need to name—until a wedding, a hotel mix-up, and a weekend surrounded by friends make it impossible to ignore everything you've both been avoiding. — inspired by 'style'

▸ Darling, I'm a Nightmare — @buckybsdoll (TBD)

Bucky breaks up with you when you take things one step too far. And really, you try to be okay with it, you do! But Bucky belongs with you? So you do what any normal person would do to get him back... — inspired by 'blank space'

An ode to old taylor songs from one of our favorite albums! Please look forward to all the stories. If you enjoyed reading it, please be sure to reblog, comment, and like! Every single interaction is very much appreciated and treasured, particularly when you share your lovely thoughts and reactions <3 this masterlist may grow again in the future if the writers choose to add more!

A very big thank you to my friends for agreeing to participate in this lil activity <3 I'm glad we can all suffer through the writing process together while crying to Taylor Swift

Somehow, between the last debrief and the next recon drop, a grill appeared in the Watchtower's rooftop patio, along with several folding chairs, a cooler full of Avengers-branded soda, and one slightly charred volleyball. You suspect Val had something to do with it. Some psychological team-building exercise disguised as a cookout. 

Either way, you’re here.

She’s maybe seven months old, squishy-cheeked and furrow-browed, in a tiny Sentry onesie. Her hair is an indecisive wisp of something light brown, fine and floaty like thistle down, and her eyes—heavy-lidded, contemplative—regard you as though you’re a particularly uninspiring segment of the Discovery Channel.

“She’s—uh,” you say, because your brain’s buffering. “Hi?”

“Hey,” you say again, dumbly.

Next to you, Bucky lowers his beer so slowly it’s like watching a magic trick. He blinks once, then again, like he’s not sure you’re real or the baby is. Possibly both.

“What—why—did you steal a baby?” he asks.

“She was just handed to me.”

You shift, trying to get comfortable. She’s a solid little thing, warm like a fresh loaf of bread, and her hand is currently fisting your collar with alarming purpose. Your shirt stretches under the assault.

Bucky’s still staring. You can feel it—like a sunlamp trained directly at your temple. His mouth is parted slightly. One finger taps against the side of his bottle, rhythmically, unconsciously.

“She’s fine,” you say. “I’m holding her fine, right?”

“Yeah. No, yeah. You look—good.”

You glance at him. His eyes snap up to yours, then away again, like they touched something they weren’t supposed to. The tips of his ears are pink.

You almost say something—tease him, maybe—but the baby chooses that moment to yawn, a full-body, jaw-cracking affair. She snuggles closer into your chest, small cheek pressing into the fabric of your shirt, and suddenly it’s less funny.

Bucky tilts his head, unreadable. “She trusts you already.”

“She’s a baby,” you say, trying to shrug it off. “She trusts anyone with a pulse.”

“No. She knows,” he says, like it’s a settled fact. His gaze lingers on the place where her fingers clutch your shirt, and then—slowly—drifts back to your face.

You feel that look all the way down your spine.

The barbecue hums around you—low, uneven, weirdly domestic for a group like this. Someone’s burned the corn on the grill again (probably Walker, judging by the smoke and the defensive muttering). Yelena’s holding court by the picnic table, sunglasses perched on her head, force-feeding Bob the world’s most questionable potato salad and narrating it like a cooking show. Alexei’s seated in a folding chair two sizes too small, already shirtless and red-faced, beer in hand, yelling something about meat science. Ava is off to the side, calmly reading the nutrition label on a bag of marshmallows like it might be a coded message.

But you and Bucky are caught in this little bubble. A stillness between the beats. The baby, breathing softly. Bucky, watching you like the moment means something more than he’s prepared to admit.

She shifts in your arms. Grunts. You adjust your hold, and Bucky makes a small, strangled noise.

“She good?” you ask.

“She’s—she’s got a strong neck,” he says, as though that’s a compliment. Then, after a second. “You’re really good with her.”

“You’ve seen me hold her for thirty seconds.”

“Still.”

You hold his gaze a beat longer than you should. It’s soft, something unguarded in it. You remember, vaguely, hearing Steve say once that Bucky used to watch people the way most men look at stars. Like there was something miraculous in the simple fact of their existence.

You think maybe you’re beginning to understand what he meant.

“She wants you,” you say, mostly to break the tension. The baby is reaching now, hands grasping toward the collar of Bucky’s henley like she’s on a tiny mission.

He stiffens. “She what?”

“She’s targeting you. Consider it payback for all that glaring you did at the diaper bag earlier.”

“I wasn’t glaring,” he says. “I was…assessing.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Well, she’s assessing you back. Here. Take her.”

You don’t give him a choice. You shift the baby into his arms, and despite all his protesting, he takes her like he’s afraid she’ll break—gently, like someone handed him a fragile truth.

For a moment, he just stands there—awkward, tense, unsure. His left arm, the vibranium one, catches the light in hard, gleaming lines.  But then she sighs, her head lolls toward his shoulder, and his body reacts before his mind does—he cradles her closer, shifts to support her neck, leans in slightly like he’s listening to her breathe.

A hush settles around you.

“She’s warm,” he murmurs.

“That’s a good sign. You’d know if she was cold. Babies are very vocal about injustice.”

His eyes don’t leave the baby’s face. Those eyes—stormcloud blue, too old for his face, always a little wary—are softened now. They flick across her tiny features like he’s reading scripture. Absorbed. He sways just slightly, unconsciously, like some long-dormant instinct is waking up in his bones. “She’s got little eyelashes,” he says, like it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen.

“She’ll grow into them,” you say softly. “It happens.”

He’s silent a long time. The baby squeaks in her sleep and tugs at the collar of his shirt.

“She’s… safe,” he says, the word delicate on his tongue. “You can feel it, can’t you? Like the whole world isn’t so bad. Just—quiet, for once.”

Your chest aches.

He glances at you then, and for a split second, he looks completely vulnerable. Like there’s something perched just behind his teeth that he doesn’t know how to say.

You step closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough for proximity to pass as intimacy.

“Bucky.”

He doesn’t look away from you.

“I think you’d be good at it,” you say quietly. “The whole dad thing.”

You watch the thought settle on him—slow and heavy, like snowfall. He blinks, once. Breathes in, shallow. His jaw shifts, like he might say something and doesn’t. And then—

“I’d want you there,” he says.

It’s not casual. Not joking. Just... real. A plain sentence, stripped of armor.

You freeze. The baby exhales against your collarbone like she’s aware of the moment and giving it space. Bucky, for his part, looks like he’s just handed you something delicate and possibly flammable.

“Oh,” you say, brilliant as ever.

And he nods. That’s it. A small thing. But he looks weirdly shell-shocked by the admission, like he’d surprised himself saying it aloud. Like he hadn’t even meant to. His smile comes after, slow and stunned and slightly lopsided—almost sheepish, as if he's staring straight at the sun and can’t quite believe it’s warm.

Then her parent’s voice breaks through, all cheerful gratitude. “Hey—thanks! I just needed a sec.”

You watch Bucky blink back into the moment, his hands reluctant as they ease from the baby’s back. He doesn’t quite give her up at first. His fingers linger on the edge of her onesie like they’re memorizing the feel of it. When he does let go, it’s too slow to be casual.

Just like that, the baby’s gone. The space she took up in your arms feels heavier now that it’s empty.

You glance sideways. So does he. But you don’t quite meet in the middle.

Instead, you reach for a napkin and hand it over wordlessly. He accepts it like it’s a diplomatic gesture, dabbing at the drool spot on his shoulder with a sort of distraction.

“She liked you,” you offer, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

His lips quirk. A ghost of a grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a silence after that—longer than it needs to be. Not uncomfortable, just... spacious. Like it’s waiting for someone to step into it. Neither of you do.

Then Bucky clears his throat. “Wanna go in on a pack of bibs?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, suddenly preoccupied with smoothing the napkin along his leg. “Just—you know. For next time.”

You almost laugh. You want to. But something in your chest goes soft instead.

“Yeah,” you say. “Sure. Next time.”

.

Everyone else calls you “the new Avengers.” Valentina prefers to call you just "the Avengers," like saying it with enough fake reverence will make people forget it started as a Hail Mary branding ploy and ended with supernatural darkness swallowing half of New York.

You still call it the Thunderbolts in your head. Not out of loyalty. Just because it fits better.

Technically, you weren’t supposed to be on the roster. Neither was Bucky. He was busy playing congressman—pressed suits, policy meetings, public appearances where he looked like he’d rather be fighting a bear. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the job, but it was penance, or progress, or both, depending on who you asked. You’d been benched too, in a less official capacity. Tactical reassignment, they said, which is just HR speak for “we don’t know what to do with you yet.”

But then Bob Reynolds cracked in half like a cosmic wishbone. And everything went sideways.

They needed people who could navigate pocket dimensions without losing their minds. People who wouldn’t balk at the Void whispering their worst memories back to them in surround sound. People who could get in and out of a childhood bedroom that wasn't theirs, and still say the right thing.

You and Bucky, for better or worse, fit the bill.

Yelena vouched for you. You’d worked a few ops together—low-profile, high-risk, the kind of assignments that didn’t end up in press releases. Bucky came with his own résumé, mostly consisting of grim nods and trauma credentials.

So now you’re here. In a Watchtower with folding chairs and lunchboxes with your face on them. With a new badge and a code name you didn’t pick. With Bob, whose grip on sanity is improving in inches. With Ava, who can barely look at light too long without phasing through it. With Alexei, who’s taken to shirtless speeches and the New Avengers merch like a religion. With Walker, who somehow thinks this is a promotion.

And Bucky.

You don’t talk about what you are.

There’s no label. No neat little term to slot yourselves under, no status update or whispered confession over pillowcases. No one’s dared to say the word “relationship,” and yet you’ve brushed your teeth side by side, curled instinctively toward each other in sleep, passed cups of coffee back and forth like currency. You’ve learned each other’s silences. Memorized the geography of old scars. He knows how you like your eggs. You know when his silence means don’t ask and when it means please.

It’s not nothing. It never was.

You’re just not telling the others. Not because you’re ashamed—god, no—but because it’s yours. And because once the world knows something, it stops being sacred. It becomes strategy. Becomes leverage. People like Valentina will smile too wide and call it a liability. Alexei will make a crass joke. Walker will ask for details.

It’s easier this way. Quieter. Unnamed, it can’t be ruined.

And besides—you don’t even know what to call it. What to call him, when it’s three a.m. and he’s tucked behind you in bed, breath warm against your neck, arm slung around your waist like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. 

Bucky’s not a man who rushes things. He moves like he’s learned the cost of wanting too much. And you—you’ve never let someone all the way in without already picturing the exit wound.

But moments like earlier—when he held that baby like she was breakable and looked at you like you were the answer to a question he hadn’t meant to ask—they’re getting harder to ignore.

You don’t think about it. Not actively.

You just… catalog. Silently. Like a squirrel with emotional acorns.

.

It’s past midnight when you find him again in the kitchen.

You knew he’d be here. You always do.

There’s leftover risotto on the stove and a mostly full bottle of red wine on the counter. He’s sitting at the tiny table like it’s a church pew—hunched a little, fork in hand, bare feet braced on the cold tile floor. His hoodie is soft with age, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, and the vibranium arm glints under the light. His hair’s still damp from the shower.

He looks up when you pad in—doesn’t startle, doesn’t flinch. Just finds you with those soft, sleep-starved eyes like he’s been waiting for you. “You’re up.”

“So are you,” you say, sliding into the chair across from him. “Could smell garlic from my room.”

“I put more cheese in it this time,” he says, with the quiet pride of a man who’s learned domesticity through stubborn practice and YouTube videos.

You reach for the wine, pouring yourself half a glass. The silence between you is familiar. Easy. It’s the kind that grows roots.

“Bad dream?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says.

You nod. You don’t ask about it.

Instead, “You always this good at risotto?”

“First one was basically wallpaper paste,” he admits. “Sam said it was fine. His sister actually cried.”

You snort, half-choked on your sip. “Cried?”

“She got emotional. Said she saw God in a grain of arborio.”

You’re still grinning when he pushes the pot toward you with a silent offer. You help yourself, spooning some into a mismatched bowl. It’s warm. Comforting. Rich with butter and—yeah, definitely more cheese.

This—this is your favorite version of him. Not the soldier. Not the team lead or the briefing-room strategist. Just Bucky. Tired and soft-eyed in the kitchen, humming low when he stirs a pot. Still, in a way that feels rare.

You think about the baby again from earlier. About the way he looked at her. How his whole body went still, but his eyes went soft, like he’s seeing something he misses but can’t remember.

You stir your wine with a finger. Casual. Not casual at all.

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, mostly just to fill the space. “Weird day, huh?”

His brow ticks up, a silent question.

“That baby,” you say. “She just… latched on. Like I was made of Velcro.”

There’s a beat.

“She liked you,” he says. Quietly. Not teasing. Just honest.

You huff a small laugh, not quite hearing the undertone. “She drooled on me. That’s practically a proposal.”

But he doesn’t smile.

He’s looking at you the same way he looked at the baby—still, like something cracked open and never quite resealed. You miss it entirely. Instead, you sip your wine and stretch your legs beneath the table, toes brushing his. “But, I mean, you held her like a pro. Natural instincts, huh?”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment more before dropping to his bowl. He stirs it aimlessly, the motion absent.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

That surprises you, but he keeps going.

He smiles a little, faint and crooked. “Back when I was just some punk from Brooklyn. Thought I’d get married. Have a couple kids. A porch swing. You know. The American Dream.”

“What changed?” you ask, voice gentler than you meant.

He shrugs. “Everything. Time. Who I became.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let your chest cave in.

“Rebecca used to say I’d be a good dad,” he adds. “She said I was good with her dolls.”

“Your sister?”

He nods. There’s a glow in his eyes now—faint, faraway. “She was eight years younger. I helped raise her, after my ma got sick. Used to walk her to school, do her hair. She liked braids. I wasn’t good at ‘em, but I tried.”

You try to picture it—Bucky, hair slicked back, hands clumsy with a brush, coaxing bows into place on a giggling child’s head.

Your lips twitch. “Braids?”

“Bad ones.” He finally glances at you, mouth quirking faintly. “She called ‘em ‘buckle braids.’ Said they looked like seatbelts.”

You laugh, unexpected. He ducks his head, a little embarrassed, but you miss the way his eyes stay on you too long.

“She’s still alive, isn’t she?” you ask softly.

He nods. “We talk. It’s… complicated. A lotta years between us now.”

There’s another pause.

You don’t fill it. You just watch him, lit gold by the stovetop light, swirling his water like it’s something stronger. He looks far away in that moment—not guarded, not distracted, just... elsewhere. Like his mind is somewhere quieter, and he’s trying to remember how it felt to live there.

He looks like a man trying to remember a life that feels more like a dream.

You think about the look on his face earlier, when that baby yawned and curled into your chest. How he’d watched like he couldn’t quite breathe. Like he’d seen something he wanted and couldn’t name. And yeah—okay—it tugged at something in you too, sure. But not like it did to him. He’s still in it. Still holding on to the ghost of that moment with both hands, even now.

You look at him—soft in a hoodie and bathed in golden light, cheeks pink from wine and warmth and maybe something else—and your chest twists with something slow and awful. The kind of ache that leaves no bruise.

And still. You push your bowl toward him and say, “Okay, fine. I’ll admit it. This is good.”

He snorts, low. “Told you. Not totally helpless.”

“Mm,” you hum. “Jury’s still out.”

But your smile lingers, even as your heart doesn’t know where to settle.

You don’t talk about babies again. Not directly.

But when you both stand to rinse the dishes, you brush past him and say, “For the record… I bet you’d nail braids now.”

And his ears go pink.

You pretend not to see. Because if you do—if you look too closely—you might not be able to keep pretending you don’t know what all of this means.

.

“I want ten of my babies. Obviously.” Ava dips a fry into mustard with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for defusing bombs. “Different thing.”

You’re all at the diner again. It started as a joke—something Walker demanded once after a particularly grim mission, swearing by the restorative power of bacon and drip coffee—and somehow, it stuck. Now it’s tradition: post-debrief pancakes, a rotating cast of bruises and black eyes crowding into a corner booth that’s definitely too small. No one’s sure when it became sacred, but no one skips it, either.

The baby talk started again—somehow inevitably—because of the mission. 

A standard evac turned sideways. Smoke, rubble, a collapsed stairwell. Someone heard crying. Alexei went full Terminator through a wall. And when the dust cleared, there he was—coughing soot and holding a six-month-old like it was a live grenade. The baby didn’t even cry. Just blinked and drooled and grabbed Alexei’s nose like he owed him money.

It should’ve been a footnote in the mission report. It turned into a full-on debate about parental instincts, fight-or-flight hormones, and who would actually survive trying to raise a baby while doing this job.

From there, it was only a matter of time before Ava declared her hypothetical soccer team of spawn with a kind of detached confidence that suggested she’d already drawn up the chore wheel.

You nod in reluctant agreement, as if that’s a normal sentence to hear over diner food at 9 a.m. on a Thursday. “Different thing,” you echo, like that explains anything.

There’s a pause filled only with the faint sizzle of a kitchen grill and the shriek of someone’s child two booths over. You’re content to let the silence stretch, to keep spooning eggs into your mouth like a sane person, until John leans back. His arm stretches across the vinyl booth with the exaggerated flair of a man who thinks he’s charming. He tilts his head toward you like he’s about to ask for a kiss, and then drops the bomb.

“What about you? Ever think about having kids?”

Your fork pauses mid-scramble. You blink. Once, then again, slower. The question isn’t new—it’s just never been aimed quite so directly at your throat before.

And somewhere in your mind, like a coin dropping into a well, you hear Bucky’s voice again.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

The memory curls in your chest like a secret.

“Sure,” you say finally, and it comes out like a shrug in sentence form. “Sounds like fun. You know. In a nightmarish, identity-altering kind of way.”

John grins like you’ve handed him a gift. “Hey, I know a guy if you’re interested.”

“Oh?" you deadpan, already regretting it.

“Banked some before deployment, real clean record, full medical—”

There’s a sound beside you. Ceramic on laminate. Not a crash—more of a punctuation mark. You glance over.

Bucky’s hand rests on his coffee cup like he’s trying to stop it from shivering apart. The cup’s rim taps against the table once, sharp and accidental. His face doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at you, or at John. He stares into the coffee like it’s a black hole that might finally suck him in, if he just glares hard enough.

Walker doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to, which is maybe worse.

You shift slightly, angle your body just enough to catch Bucky’s profile. Not his eyes—he’s not giving you that. But you see the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his thumb presses against the handle like it’s either that or throwing the cup against the wall. He breathes, chest pounding and heavy, like he’s counting to ten. Like ten isn’t enough.

And you—idiot that you are—you feel it too. That low, aching pull at the thought of him with that baby. How natural he’d been. How soft his voice had gone. And how, for one weird, echoing second, you’d let yourself imagine it. Not just him with a child. But him with yours.

(It’s a thought you shouldn't let live, but it does anyway—burrows in, sharp and hungry. He’d be such a good father. Steady hands, steady voice, a tenderness in him that most people never get to see. You’d watched it spark to life like muscle memory, something old and unforgotten. 

And then, because your brain is a traitor, the thought tilts—what it would feel like to give him that. To give him that child. Not some hypothetical future, not a vague maybe someday. You. Him. 

That kind of closeness. That kind of permanence. 

The weight of him over you, inside you, something rough and completely undoing. It knocks the air from your lungs before you can even feel it coming. 

You imagine his voice rough and low—you’d look so fuckin’ good like this, he’d murmur, hands spreading over your stomach, already possessive. Full of me. Mine. You imagine his mouth, soft stubble between your thighs, saying let me make you a mom, like it’s the last sane thought in his head.

And you—well, now you're sitting in a diner booth trying to pretend you didn’t just think the words “let me make you a mom” while someone’s child screams three feet away. You’re not proud. You are, in fact, actively praying for death. Or coffee. Whichever comes first.

So you do what you do best. You pivot.)

“Anyway,” you say, louder now, aiming your voice like a dart at Walker’s oblivious skull. Making sure your voice is light enough to convey that there isn't a world that it would ever happen with him. “Let me know if your guy offers a bulk discount. I’ll take two or three. Maybe four if they come pre-housebroken.”

John laughs. “First five are free. They just start billing you in sleep and soul erosion.”

Bucky finally moves. Not much. Just enough to slide the cup an inch back toward the middle of his placemat, like maybe now it’s safe. Like maybe no one noticed.

You’d like to kick John under the table. Just enough to shut him up. Just enough to let Bucky breathe.

Instead, you swirl your fork through yolk and wait for someone else to speak. Hope to someone out there that this whole baby thing will be put to rest.

.

But that day was just the start.

You don’t know if something cracked open in the universe or if Bucky secretly bartered a piece of his soul to a baby-loving deity in exchange for emotional clarity, but suddenly—it’s like the planet has been overrun. Babies. Everywhere. Strollers, carriers, those ridiculous kangaroo pouches. Toddlers with juice mustaches and light-up shoes. Infants in tiny sunglasses.

Worse, you’re always with him when it happens.

It starts innocently enough. You’re on stakeout. The intel turns out to be garbage—no targets, no movement, just an empty building and a guy who might’ve been Hydra or might’ve just been bad at directions. You’re about to call it when Bucky… stops walking.

No explanation. Just freezes on the sidewalk.

You turn, squinting. “What? You see something?”

And then you hear it. A laugh. Tiny. High-pitched. Pure. You scan the street and there it is: a baby in a stroller, arms flailing with chaotic joy, pink beanie slipping sideways on her round little head. Her mom is pushing her like it’s just a Tuesday. But Bucky—he crouches. Hands on his knees. Watching like he’s stumbled across the Ark of the Covenant.

“That’s a good laugh,” he mutters, almost worshipful. “That’s… like a top-tier laugh.”

You blink. “You ranking baby laughs now?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps watching. Like the baby might do it again. Like he’s rooting for her.

You nudge him with your elbow. “Want me to get you a ringtone?”

He says nothing. His silence is telling.

Then it escalates.

Buenos Aires. Late afternoon. The heat’s syrupy, everything sunstruck and slightly too bright. You’re waiting for the decryption key to finish running—loitering under a chipped awning while the team fans out down the block, pretending to be tourists. You’re halfway through a warm soda and reading something in Spanish when Bucky drifts up beside you.

You don’t look at him. You’ve learned not to. He does this thing sometimes—leans in close enough for his shoulder to brush yours, says nothing at all, and just exists like a slow-burn fire you’re pretending not to feel.

This time, it’s worse. He gestures toward a store window. Shoes. Not just any shoes—tiny tactical boots, scaled down like someone was kitting out the junior division of the Avengers. Rugged soles, reinforced stitching, little laces that look too delicate for real fieldwork but too precise to be anything but serious gear. They’re absurd. They’re perfect.

“You think they make those in toddler size 5?”

You turn. Slowly. Give him the full weight of your skepticism. “Planning to outfit your own baby militia?”

He shrugs. Casual. Easy. Too easy. “Just wondering. Hypothetically.”

But then his eyes flick toward you—just for a beat. Like he’s measuring something. Like he’s waiting for a reaction you don’t know you’re giving.

You keep walking. Pretend not to feel your heart skip unevenly.

And it becomes a pattern. A weird, creeping, almost endearing pattern. You’re raiding safehouses, rerouting encrypted intel, shaking a tail in Prague, and somehow Bucky is the one lingering in front of vending machines, pointing at squeezable yogurt pouches like they’re alien tech.

“These have the little resealable caps,” he says, deadpan. “For babies, I think. Smart.”

You blink. “You want one?”

“No,” he says, looking thoughtful. “Just—clever design. Kid-friendly.”

You stare. He shrugs. Again. It’s becoming suspicious. Too real.

.

Later, it’s dark. Safehouse. Everyone asleep or pretending to be. You and Bucky are curled in the guest room that’s technically yours but hasn’t been solo occupancy in weeks. 

He’s already touching you before your brain catches up. Warm fingers ghosting under your shirt, calloused and rough, sliding over your ribs like he’s taking inventory of your soft places. You’re breathing shallowly before he even kisses you, your body already recognizing this as surrender.

There was a time when you thought Bucky would be a gentleman.

Reserved. Polite. Old-world chivalry repackaged in tactical black. You’d imagined he was probably hesitant in bed, at first. The type to ask twice, maybe three times, before putting his hands anywhere remotely close to where you’d actually want them. You thought he’d kiss softly. Whisper his affections like prayer. You thought—foolishly—that his stillness was quiet.

It’s not.

It’s restraint. Caged hunger. A man constantly one flick away from wrecking you completely.

Because Bucky doesn’t fuck like a soldier. Or a hero. He fucks like a man starved. Like he’s spent entire decades in lockdown with nothing but the memory of heat, and you’re the only warmth he’s ever wanted. He’s filthy in the way that makes your ears ring. Filthy in the way he moans your name when he’s too far gone to realize he’s saying it out loud.

Filthy in the way he says please.

That’s the worst part. The please.

Please kiss me, sweetheart. Please, let me stay in a little longer. Please, don’t stop. Please, I’ll be good. Please, have my ki—You gasp. He hasn't said that last part. You can't entertain that.

“Remember that time in Bolivia?” he murmurs, more statement than question, voice a gruff rasp against your throat. “When I fucked you against the wall and I had to put my hand against your mouth, because—Jesus—because you were being too loud?”

You tried to open your mouth. You usually have some sort of witty remark. But tonight his hand is trembling a little, and your chest’s too full of ache to joke.

"We can't do that here, sweetheart. I need you to stay quiet for me. Can you do that without my help?"

It’s always like this—a little desperate, a little unhinged. Like you both know it can’t mean what it means and keep doing it anyway. A nightly game of chicken with the truth.

Your legs spread, obscene, filthy, and soaked—giving him just the right view. He ducks down underneath in a flash, tongue swiping out before he does so, the pink flesh needy and hungry. The flutter of his eyelashes as he takes you in and wraps your legs around his face.

And when he pushes his tongue inside you, it’s slow. Not teasing. Not lazy. Like he’s trying to stay—inside you, with you, in the moment.

Your hands are in his hair, your legs wrapped tight around his head, and then—midway through a breath, a moan, a whisper of his name—his hand slides up.

Spreads across your stomach.

Not rough. Not possessive.

Settled.

Just—there.

Like he’s holding a thought.

His thumb traces one slow arc across your skin. Then another. Circling your navel like he’s drawing a map. Or casting a spell. You don’t even register it until his breath stutters.

You freeze—just for a second—but he doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t stop looking at you, either. You look down and his eyes are dark, wide, wrecked. Like he’s trying to rein it in. Like he’s already failing.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, half-strangled, pulling away from your cunt long enough for you to see the long, shimmering streak that connects his mouth to you. “You’d—fuck, you’d look so perfect like this.”

You blink down at him, too far gone to process. “Like what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you—like he wants to say it. Like the words are climbing up his throat and he’s fighting to keep them down. He presses a kiss to your thigh instead, then to your core, mouth hot and desperate.

“Sorry,” he breathes. “I just—”

You’re not stupid.

But you are, maybe, willfully stupid. Denial’s easier than everything else. Safer. You pull his head closer instead, scratch at his hair, drag him deeper into your legs feels like you're trying to climb out of your own skin.

Come inside me, come inside me, the thought, intrusive and loud and irrational, echoes in your head, even as he wrenches your first orgasm of the night from you. You watch as he licks up the remnants from between your legs, then the way his tongue darts out to catch the streaks around his stubble.

And you think, with a sense of finality, that you're fucking doomed.

.

It doesn’t help that the rest of the team is starting to notice. Yelena’s not subtle—she’s taken to raising her brows whenever you and Bucky so much as walk in the same direction. Alexei hums under his breath sometimes, low and vaguely ominous, usually something about “strong bloodlines” or “resilient genetics,” just loud enough to make your skin prickle. Even Val, smug and sharp-eyed, had that moment last week where she looked between the two of you, then at the empty supply room, and muttered, “Better not be rearranging furniture in there.”

The thing is—you and him have always been subtle. Always toeing the line but never stepping over.

Except now, lately, that subtlety is starting to unravel. Not in big ways, but in increments. A slip of tone. A lingering look. The way he doesn’t bother disguising the softness in his voice when he says your name. It’s like he’s decided—quietly, firmly, permanently—that you’re it. And he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

It’s in the little things.

He starts carrying gum in his pocket “in case someone’s kid gets antsy on a flight.” He asks if the noise-canceling headphones in your shared gear bag might work for toddlers. He watches you when you pick up a fallen pacifier at a rest stop, eyes going all soft at your hands, like he’s imprinting something in his head he doesn’t quite understand.

Then, during a recon op, he nudges you awake after you dozed off in the back of a surveillance van. “You sleep like a baby,” he says quietly.

You think he means it as a compliment, but your heart flips and your brain short-circuits, and you spend the rest of the mission wondering if he’s trying to tell you something or if you’re going insane.

(You do not, in fact, sleep like a baby. You drooled on the armrest. He said nothing.)

Weeks pass. Missions blur. The baby sightings continue like clockwork. You start to brace for them. For Bucky’s inevitable sighs. For the way his expression slips into something almost wistful.

You’re trained to read microexpressions. He should know this. You see it—the way his jaw softens, the way his shoulders fall just enough to say I want this. Not now, maybe. But someday.

And more terrifying: the way he keeps looking at you. Like you’re part of that someday.

And God—how could he?

How could he look at you like that?

You’re good at the quiet things. The watching, the stitching-up. The banter. The fight, when you have to. But you’ve never known what it means to build something that doesn’t involve exit strategies or a go-bag tucked under the bed.

Bucky… he deserves someone solid. Someone who’s not half a shadow. Who’d instinctively know how to hold a baby without second-guessing. Who’d have a laugh that sounded like Sunday mornings, and hands that were always warm. Someone who could braid a child’s hair without worrying they’d pull too hard. Someone kind. Someone permanent.

Not someone like you.

You’re not sure if he even sees the difference. You’re not sure if he knows he’s dreaming with his eyes open when he looks at you like that.

But you do.

You just pretend it doesn’t mean anything. Because if it does—if he’s looking at you like he already knows, like he’s already chosen—

Well.

You’re not ready for that kind of fallout.

Not yet.

.

The worst—by far—is the petting zoo in Nebraska.

You’re there under completely fabricated cover identities. Something about an eco-terrorist cell operating out of an adjacent farm-to-table cheese shop. You’ve both got sunglasses and fake names and those little earwig communicators that make you feel like you’re in Mission Impossible. You’re trying to be inconspicuous.

But then you pass the small animal enclosure.

There’s a toddler up ahead, perched on her dad’s shoulders like a giggling parrot. She squeals—delighted—at the sight of the baby goats, then gets lowered gently down so she can feed them through the fence. Her little fingers curl around the bars, one of the goats licks her hand, and she lets out a laugh so pure and shrill and untouched by the horrors of modern living that it actually makes your chest hurt.

You don’t even register it at first—just the absence of footsteps beside you. Then you glance back.

He’s standing there, completely still, like he’s been struck by divine intervention. Like that baby goat and that toddler just rewired something deep in his old brain. His expression is unguarded in a way that makes your stomach tilt. Soft and stunned.

He doesn't even pretend to be focused on the mission anymore.

And then—then—he turns to you. The most serious he's ever been. Eyes locked on yours.

“Do you think ours would like goats?”

You nearly choke on your lemonade. Actually choke. You cough once, twice, like your lungs are trying to escape your body. “What?”

And it’s not just the question—it’s the way he says it. Our kid. Not flippant. Not ironic. Not followed by a wink or a smirk or even a shy smile. Just fact. 

“I said,” he repeats, casually, clearly, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, “hypothetically, would our kid be into goats.”

You just stare at him. You’ve stopped trying to be cool about this. The number of times he’s said our baby with absolute, unsettling conviction has reached what can only be described as a statistically significant trend.

“I don’t know, Bucky,” you say, rubbing your temples. “I think most hypothetical babies are goat neutral until proven otherwise.”

He hums. Actually hums, like he’s storing that away. “Makes sense. We'll have to test it early. Build a baseline.”

“Stop,” you say, pointing a finger at him like that might restore order to the universe. “You’re not serious.”

His eyes flick to yours. And there’s no twinkle there. No smile. Just this steady, almost stubborn kind of affection—so open it knocks the wind out of you.

"You said I’d be good at it,” he says, voice low, so only you can hear. “The whole dad thing.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again like a very confused fish. Because you remember saying it. You remember the patio, the way the baby curled into his chest. The kitchen, the risotto, the late hour and the way he’d talked about braiding Rebecca’s hair. You remember the quiet ache in your chest, the one that’s back now, curling tighter.

And you don’t know what the hell to say. You really don’t. Because he’s looking at you like he’s already imagined the whole damn life and decided it was worth every scar. Like he’s already picked out the parts of himself he wants to give a kid—the kindness, the patience, the rebuilt softness—and buried the rest.

So you make a joke. Mask it. Swallow the quake in your throat and reach for levity like it’s body armor.

“Well, if the goat thing doesn’t work out, we can always try hamsters,” you say. “Low stakes. Contained mess. Give Yelena's little guy a friend.”

The goat bleats behind you. Bucky doesn’t flinch. Just watches you like he's still waiting for an answer—a real answer—that you're not sure how to give.

You move on. .

It finally breaks in a Target.

Of course it does.

You’re on a supply run for the team. Technically, this is all mission prep and there's assistants for things like this—med supplies, energy bars, razors, weird thermal socks Yelena swears by—but somehow, somewhere between the bottled water and the electrolyte tablets, you and Bucky wander into the wrong aisle.

Not wrong like “accidental.” Wrong like fate’s playing dirty.

Now you’re standing in front of an endcap display you definitely didn’t mean to find, and there it is. Tucked between pastel swaddles and soft-textured washcloths, like a landmine in the wrong aisle—a tiny cotton baby hat, pale blue with little stitched ears.

It’s nothing. Just a hat.

But Bucky’s staring at it like it cracked his ribs open.

“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just reaches out and picks it up. Turns it over in his hands slowly, like it’s something fragile. Like it might vanish if he isn’t cautious enough. His thumb brushes over the tag. He squints at it like he’s trying to make sense of the fibers. His jaw’s set hard, but there’s something in the line of his shoulders—something tired.

“Bucky,” you say again, gentler this time.

He doesn’t look at you. “Did you know their heads are soft?” His voice is quiet. “Babies. Their skulls don’t even come together for a while. You have to be real careful.”

You blink. “Have you… been reading about this?”

He swallows, shrugs. “I don't know. I just—I see stuff. I look it up.” He sets the hat down too fast. It doesn’t bounce. It just flattens there on the shelf like it’s watching him back.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. You just stand there for a second, like the air’s been drained from the aisle.

There’s a baby crying somewhere in another aisle—high-pitched and sputtering. A lull, then a hiccuping wail. A mother murmurs something gentle in response. The sound floats over the shelves and then disappears.

Eventually, you both walk.

Wordless. Past rows of seasonal candy wrapped in rustling orange plastic. Discount school supplies. Travel-sized deodorant and decorative lint rollers. Your cart is still half full, but you don’t look at it. Your eyes keep tracking him instead. His steps are slower than usual, like each one is being dragged out of him. His shoulders slope in that particular way you’ve started to recognize—like he’s still holding that hat in his mind, apprehensive and afraid.

The automatic doors swish open and spill you into the afternoon like you’ve been exiled.

Outside, the parking lot’s too bright. The sun glares off windshields and the pavement radiates that late-summer kind of heat—baked rubber and exhaust fumes and burnt asphalt. A shopping cart wheel squeals in the distance, sharp and whiny. The plastic Target bags crackle like they’re judging you.

You lean against the car. It’s hot through your shirt. The silence settles again—heavier now. Thicker. Like it’s pressing into your ribcage and asking for something neither of you are sure you’re ready to give.

You look at him. Not just glance—look.

He’s standing with his back half-turned, metal hand flexing and unflexing at his side, like he’s trying to let something out but doesn’t trust what’ll happen if he does. His vibranium arm glints in the sunlight—charcoal black veined with gold, all matte finish and unforgiving elegance. It doesn’t belong here, not really. Not in this mundane little parking lot, not against a backdrop of SUVs and clearance bins.

But neither does he.

You let the silence stretch a little longer. Let the heat sweat on your back, the wind tousle your hair, the tension between you wind tighter like thread pulled taut.

Then, finally, like you’re testing a live wire. “What’re you thinking about?”

He breathes in slow. Shaky.

And then, finally, he speaks—voice soft, too soft for someone built to survive war. “Do you have any guesses?”

That’s new.

You blink. Look down at your shoes. Your reflection warps in the car door.

“I don’t want to guess wrong,” you say. Even though you know fully well.

He huffs something between a sigh and a laugh. It’s not bitter. Just… tired. Then he gestures loosely, not at anything in particular. Just out. Broadly. Helplessly.

“We keep running into this,” he says, quieter now. “Not just here. Everywhere. At the grocery store. On recon. That billboard downtown with the giggling baby and the diaper brand we’ll never have enough time to run and grab from the store. That kid last week with the tiny shoes, remember that one?”

You do. You remember too well.

“There was this moment,” he continues, voice cracking, not looking at you yet, “when I saw that kid—and I thought, he’s going to walk into your arms someday. And I realized—I already want that."

He’s pacing now, one hand on his hip, the other dragging through his hair like he’s trying to pull something out of his skull. The sleeve of his hoodie is shoved up to the elbow. His dog tags are visible. His metal hand flexes open and closed like he needs something to grab onto.

“I just couldn't stop thinking about it.” He laughs, breathless and small. “Which is stupid, right? I mean—look at me. Who the hell am I to want something like that?”

“Bucky…” You trail off. Because he deserves it. He deserved all of it and you want to give him everything.

“But this? You?” he says again, shaking his head like he still can’t believe he has to say it out loud. “This isn’t hollow. This is wanting. Real wanting. Not some half-dead echo of need or distraction or—God—forgiveness. I don’t want you because I think you’re gonna fix something in me. Or because I think this’ll be easy. I want you because it’s you.”

His eyes find yours again—steady, burning.

“Because when I think about a future without you in it, it feels wrong. Like my bones know it. Like every damn instinct I’ve got wants to drag me back to wherever you are and just—stay.”

Your throat tightens. He presses on.

“And don’t get it twisted—I see you. I see the way you move through missions. The way you think six steps ahead, the way you take hits like they’re nothing and still check on everyone else first. You’re not some fragile thing I wanna put behind glass. You’re steel. You’re tougher than half the people I’ve fought beside. You don’t need anyone. Hell, you don’t need me.”

He steps forward. Lowers his voice.

“But I want to be needed by you. I want to be the guy who gets to hold you when the world’s too loud. I want us. A home. A baby—maybe two. One of ‘em likes goats. I don't know. Maybe we argue about preschool names and you yell at me for lettin’ them eat cereal off the floor. You're the person I want to be a disaster in front of at 3 a.m. because our hypothetical child won’t sleep unless you sing that dumb Fleetwood Mac song—” 

“Fleetwood Mac isn’t dumb.” 

“See? That’s exactly the tone you’d use,” he says, as if that proves a point. 

You blink hard. Your chest aches in that quiet, painful way reserved for things that are almost too good to believe.

“And I’ve been trying to be subtle,” he says, a rough laugh in his throat. “Pointing at strollers like a moron. Buying those damn pouches with the resealable caps. I kept hopin’ maybe you’d see it. Maybe you’d say somethin’ first. I didn’t wanna scare you off. I know what we’ve been through. What you’ve been through.”

He looks down for a second, then back at you—gentle now, gentler than you’ve ever seen him.

“But I’ll wait. As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere. And if you’re scared? Good. Me too. Means we’re not makin’ this decision with our eyes closed. But don’t pretend it’s not real. Don’t tell me I’m imagining this, because I know what this feels like. I’ve spent too long not feeling anything to mistake this for anything else.”

His vibranium hand curls into a loose fist at his side. Not clenched. Just steady. Anchored.

“I want this. With you. All of it. Even the hard parts. Especially those. I want the missions and the night shifts and the baby who won’t stop crying and the mess and the fear and the way you look at me like I might still be good. I want all of that, and I want it with you.”

And there it is again—that feeling like your ribs are about to crack open from the pressure of it all. From the weight of being seen this clearly. This completely.

You step closer, close enough now that the heat from him leaks into your skin. You stare up at him, eyes burning.

“You really want all that with me?”

He nods. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

“And you’re really not afraid I’ll mess it up?”

His smile is small, pained—like he’s trying to hold it together with fraying thread. “You’ll mess it up. So will I. We’ll accidentally teach them to swear. Maybe we let Alexei babysit and they come back speaking fluent Russian and craving vodka. I’ll still want you. Even when we’re sleep-deprived and overwhelmed and knee-deep in goldfish crackers. Especially then.”

Your voice cracks open without warning. Raw. Bare.

“Bucky—what the hell am I supposed to say to top that?”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says softly, hand cupping your cheek with the kind of conviction that makes your knees go weak. “Just… don’t walk away. Don’t—God, please—don’t say no. Not to this. Not to me.”

You nuzzle closer into his hand. Your voice, when it comes, is paper thin. “You really think I’d say no to goat-loving, minivan driving Bucky Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. “You making fun of me?”

You smile. You’re shaking a little. “Only a little.”

He laughs, and it’s a real one—wet around the edges, but honest.

And that—God. That lands like a sucker punch.

You take a breath. Step closer. Your heart is a drumbeat in your ears but your voice—your voice is iron and sunrise. “Okay. Let’s say, hypothetically, we make our first one now. What then?”

Bucky’s entire body stills.

Like he’s been hit center mass—not by a bullet, but by possibility. Like your words cracked open a vault somewhere deep in him and he’s still trying to process what came out. His breath hitches. His brows lift just slightly. You can almost see it—each implication of what you just said unfurling in real time: first one, meaning more than one. Meaning permanence. Meaning forever.

His eyes go wide—like, really wide. Like he’s just been handed the Infinity Gauntlet and told to babysit it. His mouth opens, then closes again. Then opens. A soft, stunned “Now?” escapes.

You nod, never been more sure of anything in your life. “Yes. Now.”

And it’s like a switch flips. Whatever gears were turning in his head just snap into place, and then he’s grabbing you—gently, desperately—and kissing you like he hasn't kissed you thousands of times before. It’s all hands and breath and something that tastes like joy, wild and uncontainable. You laugh into it, half-giddy, half-overwhelmed, and then someone leans out of a passing minivan and honks.

You both jump. Bucky flips the guy off without looking. “Keep driving, asshole!”

You’re laughing so hard your ribs hurt, and you have to clutch his arm just to stay upright. He looks at you like you’ve personally realigned his entire future.

Then it’s a race. You barely make it through the parking lot without tripping over yourselves, bumping shoulders and brushing hands and laughing like lunatics. Bucky opens the car door for you like he’s being timed for a rescue op, and the moment your ass hits the passenger seat, his hand is on your thigh—firm, possessive, fingers warm even through the denim.

He doesn’t even pretend to drive normally. The car peels out like you’re being chased, tires screeching as he swerves onto the freeway with all the caution of a man on fire.

His other hand clenches the wheel, knuckles pale. “You sure you’re not gonna regret it?” he asks, voice low, like it’s been scraped out of him. Like he’s terrified this is a dream and one wrong word will wake him up.

You glance over. He’s flushed down to his collar, eyes flicking from the road to your face and back like he can’t decide which is more dangerous. You’re smiling so wide it hurts your cheeks.

“If you keep asking questions like that,” you murmur, “I might pull you over and climb on top of you right here.”

He chokes. Visibly swerves. “You—you’re not joking.”

“I am, Bucky. We're at a fucking Target.”

He lets out a groan like it physically pains him. “You’re evil.”

You lean your head back against the seat, breathless with laughter. But then you glance sideways and—yeah. That look on his face? That’s love. That’s a man about to commit several felonies in your name.

“I’m gonna treat you so fuckin’ good,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Gonna make you feel safe and spoiled and full of me. Gonna worship you every damn night. You don’t even know.”

“Oh, I know,” you say, suddenly a little breathless. His grip on your thigh tightens, just for a second.

His foot presses harder on the gas.

The car hums like it’s picking up on the tension. Bucky’s jaw is set, eyes dark, every red light a personal affront to his timeline. At one point he actually mutters “no” at a yellow light and runs it anyway. Another person flips both of you off until they squint and see who's in the car. Bucky doesn’t blink.

When the Watchtower finally comes into view, he exhales like he’s just crossed a finish line. The tires screech again as he parks, but you barely register it. Because the second the engine cuts, he turns to you, all flushed cheeks and unholy devotion, and whispers, “Upstairs. Now.”

And then—

He lifts you like it’s muscle memory, like your body belongs there, bracketed against him. Your legs wrap around his waist. Somehow, some way, he finds the bedroom with barely a glance, kicks the door shut behind him, and lays you down like you’re breakable.

Not fragile. Important.

He hovers above you for a beat, breath uneven, gaze raking over your face like it’s the first time he’s really let himself look. Like he’s memorizing this—just in case the world tilts sideways again.

He bends down, his voice rasping against your mouth. “You still sure about this?”

You pull him back to you by the waistband of his jeans. “I said I wanted all of it.  The house. The minivans. The goats. I meant it.”

Something in him loosens. Not all the way, not yet—but enough to soften his edges. He exhales through his nose and kisses you like it’s a vow, mouth warm and open and aching. His hands find your thighs, settle there like they’ve always known the shape of you. Thumbs brushing slow circles like he’s grounding himself on your skin.

You kiss him back with everything you’ve got, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt—and when you tug, it’s not subtle.

And you tug at his shirt again. “Bucky—”

“No, just—let me—” He peels it off over his head in one fluid motion, and fuck. You’ve seen him shirtless before. Dozens of times. Training sessions. Medical checks. Casual Sundays in sweatpants.

But not with the full breadth of him laid bare, chest heaving, dog tags glinting faintly in the low light. Thick, ropey muscle, that deep ridge where his hip cuts in and disappears under the waistband of his jeans. He’s massive. Bigger than you can ever brace for. Every inch of him looks carved from the kind of strength that short-circuits your higher brain function.

And it hits you, all at once, how strong he really is.

Not just tactical, not just capable—but superhuman. The kind of strength that could lift a car or crush a man’s throat or pick you up like you weigh nothing. You’ve felt it before—in combat, in sparring, in those accidental brushes where he’d catch your wrist or hoist you clear of an explosion.

You’re trying to keep it together—you are—but then he grins. That slow, crooked, devastating thing like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice gone husky with amusement.

You shoot back, “So are you.”

“Yeah,” he says, and steps in, close enough that his chest brushes yours, heat radiating off him like a furnace. “Difference is, I’m about to do something about it.”

Your mouth goes dry. Your brain attempts a witty reply and fails spectacularly. So you shove at his shoulder with mock offense, and he grabs your wrists—gently, easily—and pins them to the mattress above your head.

Oh.

It’s nothing. No pressure, no real force. But it reminds you. Reminds you exactly what he’s capable of. How easily he could break you. How he never has.

“Could hold you like this forever,” he murmurs. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

You squirm beneath him, flushed and wrecked and undone.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he breathes, dragging his nose down your throat. “I could carry you around all day. Pick you up, fuck you against a wall, against a table, hell, the fridge, if I wanted.”

You gasp, and his grip tightens—just enough to feel it.

"I need to get you ready first," He pulls back slightly, meets your eyes. “That okay?”

You nod. Hard. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

His stubble rubs along your neck, your collarbones, until he pauses at your chest, nuzzling one of your nipples with his eyes closed. His tongue darts out, sucking and pulling at the sensitive muscle, more for his sake than for yours. 

There's a graze of his teeth—then, his other hand comes to meet your other breast, ever the multi-tasker. He murmurs your name, once, twice, the sound vibrating low against your skin.

You don't know how long he stays like that, in that blissful purgatory, his leg, between your legs, just barely giving you the stimulation you need, until his mouth, his beautiful, beautiful mouth, gets faster, more greedy, and the leg you're grinding against pushes deeper against you—

"Come for me, sweetheart."

It's like fucking fireworks. You cum with a groan, eyes closed shut, whining low and deep and overwhelmed.

When you come to, vision returning to you in hazes, you look at him through fluttering lashes, the way he strokes his cock in front of you. Painfully hard, red, and weeping, but it's his words that make you short-circuit next.

“You’re gonna let me put a baby in you, huh?”

Your breath catches.

He kisses you before you can answer—deep and consuming and hungry—and when he pulls back, there’s a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Something molten. Something fierce.

“Been thinkin’ about something else too,” he confesses, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You, round with my kid. All soft and happy. Maybe bossin’ me around with that look you get when you’re pretending not to care.”

The words stick—and it's all the warning you get before he's slotting his cock in between your cunt, slipping inside of you.

His hand settles on your stomach, low and possessive. He presses his palm there like he’s already claiming it. Like he’s asking permission to fill it. You can feel it, the pressure delicious, as his thrusts get messier, less controlled. The room's filled with the sound of it, groaning and snapping and skin slapping together.

“I’ll be good,” he says, voice cracking. “I’ll be so good. You’ll never have to lift a finger. I’ll make breakfast. I’ll learn lullabies. I’ll paint the damn nursery if you want me to.”

You moan, high and helpless. “Keep talking.”

He thrusts—deep, slow, intentional. “I’ll hold your hand through the appointments. Rub your back when it hurts. Run to the store at 3 a.m. for pickles, or chocolate, or whatever the hell you need—”

Then, his hand–the metal one—moves between you, lower and lower until his thumb's hovering right over your clit, pinching and squeezing and rolling it, and you have to fight every cell inside of you not to cum right then and there, even while he's looking at you and saying everything so, so goddamn perfectly.

You clench around him, once, twice, like a vice grip that's desperate for him to feel just the way he makes you feel.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re so—fuck, I just wanna—” He shakes his head, then mutters against your collarbone, “Don't do that, not yet, I'll cum."

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you whisper. "I just wanna–oh god—show you how thankful I am."

His hips rock against yours. 

“You wanna thank me?” he pants, jaw trembling as he fights to hold on. “Then do it with an ultrasound. Let me hear it. Let me see it.”

You whimper, wrecked by the words alone.

“Say it,” he demands, but softer now. Frantic and obsessed. “Tell me you want it too. Tell me you want to keep me forever.”

“I do,” you gasp. “I do—God, Bucky, I do—”

Then he shifts, pushing himself deeper inside, and one brutal thrust later, raking his hands across your abdomen, you gasp. Shuddering, shaking like a leaf, finishing in his arms so hard that you nearly twist out of his grasp.

Seconds later, Bucky spills into you, and you can feel the precise moment he throbs inside you, warmth filling you up, up, up, and you can fill the drip of his cum spilling out from the sheer volume of it. You've never felt so full.

When you try to get up, he stops you with a gentle pull against your waist. He buries his face in your neck. “Need you to stay still,” he growls, words slurred, “make sure it takes.”

And who were you to say no to that?

You're tangled up in him, hours later. Or maybe minutes. Time’s a blur. The sheets are kicked halfway down the bed, your leg slung over his hip, the air still thick with heat and something heavier. Sweeter. Like gravity finally decided to show up and drag you straight into the future.

Bucky’s arm is around your waist, metal plates cool against your damp skin, the weight of him grounding. He’s curled slightly, head bowed like he can’t stop looking at you. His fingers draw mindless, absent circles on your belly—like the thought never left him. Like it’s only just beginning.

Neither of you says anything for a long time.

And then, quietly, “You okay?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. Your heart’s still hammering like a warning bell and a love song. “You?”

He huffs a laugh into your shoulder. Presses a kiss there. Then another, softer. His voice is hoarse when he finally answers. “I’ve never been this okay.”

There’s a pause. You don’t fill it. You just watch as his thumb drags slow and soft across your stomach again, like he’s memorizing the shape of possibility.

“I can see it,” he murmurs. “Not just a kid. Our kid. One that frowns like you and kicks like me. One who’s smart, and stubborn, and throws food at Walker's head during holidays.”

You snort softly. “You think we’d raise a kid that obnoxious?”

His grin is lazy and real, eyes bright with something so big it makes your chest ache. “I hope so.”

You stare at the ceiling for a beat. Let the words sink in. Let the idea grow legs.

Then you roll closer, press your palm over the hand that’s still stroking your belly.

You whisper it this time. Fragile. Hopeful. “You think this’ll do it?”

Bucky shudders—actually shudders—and shifts to kiss your jaw, your cheek, your mouth like it’s a prayer.

Somehow, between the last debrief and the next recon drop, a grill appeared in the Watchtower's rooftop patio, along with several folding chairs, a cooler full of Avengers-branded soda, and one slightly charred volleyball. You suspect Val had something to do with it. Some psychological team-building exercise disguised as a cookout. 

Either way, you’re here.

She’s maybe seven months old, squishy-cheeked and furrow-browed, in a tiny Sentry onesie. Her hair is an indecisive wisp of something light brown, fine and floaty like thistle down, and her eyes—heavy-lidded, contemplative—regard you as though you’re a particularly uninspiring segment of the Discovery Channel.

“She’s—uh,” you say, because your brain’s buffering. “Hi?”

“Hey,” you say again, dumbly.

Next to you, Bucky lowers his beer so slowly it’s like watching a magic trick. He blinks once, then again, like he’s not sure you’re real or the baby is. Possibly both.

“What—why—did you steal a baby?” he asks.

“She was just handed to me.”

You shift, trying to get comfortable. She’s a solid little thing, warm like a fresh loaf of bread, and her hand is currently fisting your collar with alarming purpose. Your shirt stretches under the assault.

Bucky’s still staring. You can feel it—like a sunlamp trained directly at your temple. His mouth is parted slightly. One finger taps against the side of his bottle, rhythmically, unconsciously.

“She’s fine,” you say. “I’m holding her fine, right?”

“Yeah. No, yeah. You look—good.”

You glance at him. His eyes snap up to yours, then away again, like they touched something they weren’t supposed to. The tips of his ears are pink.

You almost say something—tease him, maybe—but the baby chooses that moment to yawn, a full-body, jaw-cracking affair. She snuggles closer into your chest, small cheek pressing into the fabric of your shirt, and suddenly it’s less funny.

Bucky tilts his head, unreadable. “She trusts you already.”

“She’s a baby,” you say, trying to shrug it off. “She trusts anyone with a pulse.”

“No. She knows,” he says, like it’s a settled fact. His gaze lingers on the place where her fingers clutch your shirt, and then—slowly—drifts back to your face.

You feel that look all the way down your spine.

The barbecue hums around you—low, uneven, weirdly domestic for a group like this. Someone’s burned the corn on the grill again (probably Walker, judging by the smoke and the defensive muttering). Yelena’s holding court by the picnic table, sunglasses perched on her head, force-feeding Bob the world’s most questionable potato salad and narrating it like a cooking show. Alexei’s seated in a folding chair two sizes too small, already shirtless and red-faced, beer in hand, yelling something about meat science. Ava is off to the side, calmly reading the nutrition label on a bag of marshmallows like it might be a coded message.

But you and Bucky are caught in this little bubble. A stillness between the beats. The baby, breathing softly. Bucky, watching you like the moment means something more than he’s prepared to admit.

She shifts in your arms. Grunts. You adjust your hold, and Bucky makes a small, strangled noise.

“She good?” you ask.

“She’s—she’s got a strong neck,” he says, as though that’s a compliment. Then, after a second. “You’re really good with her.”

“You’ve seen me hold her for thirty seconds.”

“Still.”

You hold his gaze a beat longer than you should. It’s soft, something unguarded in it. You remember, vaguely, hearing Steve say once that Bucky used to watch people the way most men look at stars. Like there was something miraculous in the simple fact of their existence.

You think maybe you’re beginning to understand what he meant.

“She wants you,” you say, mostly to break the tension. The baby is reaching now, hands grasping toward the collar of Bucky’s henley like she’s on a tiny mission.

He stiffens. “She what?”

“She’s targeting you. Consider it payback for all that glaring you did at the diaper bag earlier.”

“I wasn’t glaring,” he says. “I was…assessing.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Well, she’s assessing you back. Here. Take her.”

You don’t give him a choice. You shift the baby into his arms, and despite all his protesting, he takes her like he’s afraid she’ll break—gently, like someone handed him a fragile truth.

For a moment, he just stands there—awkward, tense, unsure. His left arm, the vibranium one, catches the light in hard, gleaming lines.  But then she sighs, her head lolls toward his shoulder, and his body reacts before his mind does—he cradles her closer, shifts to support her neck, leans in slightly like he’s listening to her breathe.

A hush settles around you.

“She’s warm,” he murmurs.

“That’s a good sign. You’d know if she was cold. Babies are very vocal about injustice.”

His eyes don’t leave the baby’s face. Those eyes—stormcloud blue, too old for his face, always a little wary—are softened now. They flick across her tiny features like he’s reading scripture. Absorbed. He sways just slightly, unconsciously, like some long-dormant instinct is waking up in his bones. “She’s got little eyelashes,” he says, like it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen.

“She’ll grow into them,” you say softly. “It happens.”

He’s silent a long time. The baby squeaks in her sleep and tugs at the collar of his shirt.

“She’s… safe,” he says, the word delicate on his tongue. “You can feel it, can’t you? Like the whole world isn’t so bad. Just—quiet, for once.”

Your chest aches.

He glances at you then, and for a split second, he looks completely vulnerable. Like there’s something perched just behind his teeth that he doesn’t know how to say.

You step closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough for proximity to pass as intimacy.

“Bucky.”

He doesn’t look away from you.

“I think you’d be good at it,” you say quietly. “The whole dad thing.”

You watch the thought settle on him—slow and heavy, like snowfall. He blinks, once. Breathes in, shallow. His jaw shifts, like he might say something and doesn’t. And then—

“I’d want you there,” he says.

It’s not casual. Not joking. Just... real. A plain sentence, stripped of armor.

You freeze. The baby exhales against your collarbone like she’s aware of the moment and giving it space. Bucky, for his part, looks like he’s just handed you something delicate and possibly flammable.

“Oh,” you say, brilliant as ever.

And he nods. That’s it. A small thing. But he looks weirdly shell-shocked by the admission, like he’d surprised himself saying it aloud. Like he hadn’t even meant to. His smile comes after, slow and stunned and slightly lopsided—almost sheepish, as if he's staring straight at the sun and can’t quite believe it’s warm.

Then her parent’s voice breaks through, all cheerful gratitude. “Hey—thanks! I just needed a sec.”

You watch Bucky blink back into the moment, his hands reluctant as they ease from the baby’s back. He doesn’t quite give her up at first. His fingers linger on the edge of her onesie like they’re memorizing the feel of it. When he does let go, it’s too slow to be casual.

Just like that, the baby’s gone. The space she took up in your arms feels heavier now that it’s empty.

You glance sideways. So does he. But you don’t quite meet in the middle.

Instead, you reach for a napkin and hand it over wordlessly. He accepts it like it’s a diplomatic gesture, dabbing at the drool spot on his shoulder with a sort of distraction.

“She liked you,” you offer, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

His lips quirk. A ghost of a grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a silence after that—longer than it needs to be. Not uncomfortable, just... spacious. Like it’s waiting for someone to step into it. Neither of you do.

Then Bucky clears his throat. “Wanna go in on a pack of bibs?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, suddenly preoccupied with smoothing the napkin along his leg. “Just—you know. For next time.”

You almost laugh. You want to. But something in your chest goes soft instead.

“Yeah,” you say. “Sure. Next time.”

.

Everyone else calls you “the new Avengers.” Valentina prefers to call you just "the Avengers," like saying it with enough fake reverence will make people forget it started as a Hail Mary branding ploy and ended with supernatural darkness swallowing half of New York.

You still call it the Thunderbolts in your head. Not out of loyalty. Just because it fits better.

Technically, you weren’t supposed to be on the roster. Neither was Bucky. He was busy playing congressman—pressed suits, policy meetings, public appearances where he looked like he’d rather be fighting a bear. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the job, but it was penance, or progress, or both, depending on who you asked. You’d been benched too, in a less official capacity. Tactical reassignment, they said, which is just HR speak for “we don’t know what to do with you yet.”

But then Bob Reynolds cracked in half like a cosmic wishbone. And everything went sideways.

They needed people who could navigate pocket dimensions without losing their minds. People who wouldn’t balk at the Void whispering their worst memories back to them in surround sound. People who could get in and out of a childhood bedroom that wasn't theirs, and still say the right thing.

You and Bucky, for better or worse, fit the bill.

Yelena vouched for you. You’d worked a few ops together—low-profile, high-risk, the kind of assignments that didn’t end up in press releases. Bucky came with his own résumé, mostly consisting of grim nods and trauma credentials.

So now you’re here. In a Watchtower with folding chairs and lunchboxes with your face on them. With a new badge and a code name you didn’t pick. With Bob, whose grip on sanity is improving in inches. With Ava, who can barely look at light too long without phasing through it. With Alexei, who’s taken to shirtless speeches and the New Avengers merch like a religion. With Walker, who somehow thinks this is a promotion.

And Bucky.

You don’t talk about what you are.

There’s no label. No neat little term to slot yourselves under, no status update or whispered confession over pillowcases. No one’s dared to say the word “relationship,” and yet you’ve brushed your teeth side by side, curled instinctively toward each other in sleep, passed cups of coffee back and forth like currency. You’ve learned each other’s silences. Memorized the geography of old scars. He knows how you like your eggs. You know when his silence means don’t ask and when it means please.

It’s not nothing. It never was.

You’re just not telling the others. Not because you’re ashamed—god, no—but because it’s yours. And because once the world knows something, it stops being sacred. It becomes strategy. Becomes leverage. People like Valentina will smile too wide and call it a liability. Alexei will make a crass joke. Walker will ask for details.

It’s easier this way. Quieter. Unnamed, it can’t be ruined.

And besides—you don’t even know what to call it. What to call him, when it’s three a.m. and he’s tucked behind you in bed, breath warm against your neck, arm slung around your waist like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. 

Bucky’s not a man who rushes things. He moves like he’s learned the cost of wanting too much. And you—you’ve never let someone all the way in without already picturing the exit wound.

But moments like earlier—when he held that baby like she was breakable and looked at you like you were the answer to a question he hadn’t meant to ask—they’re getting harder to ignore.

You don’t think about it. Not actively.

You just… catalog. Silently. Like a squirrel with emotional acorns.

.

It’s past midnight when you find him again in the kitchen.

You knew he’d be here. You always do.

There’s leftover risotto on the stove and a mostly full bottle of red wine on the counter. He’s sitting at the tiny table like it’s a church pew—hunched a little, fork in hand, bare feet braced on the cold tile floor. His hoodie is soft with age, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, and the vibranium arm glints under the light. His hair’s still damp from the shower.

He looks up when you pad in—doesn’t startle, doesn’t flinch. Just finds you with those soft, sleep-starved eyes like he’s been waiting for you. “You’re up.”

“So are you,” you say, sliding into the chair across from him. “Could smell garlic from my room.”

“I put more cheese in it this time,” he says, with the quiet pride of a man who’s learned domesticity through stubborn practice and YouTube videos.

You reach for the wine, pouring yourself half a glass. The silence between you is familiar. Easy. It’s the kind that grows roots.

“Bad dream?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says.

You nod. You don’t ask about it.

Instead, “You always this good at risotto?”

“First one was basically wallpaper paste,” he admits. “Sam said it was fine. His sister actually cried.”

You snort, half-choked on your sip. “Cried?”

“She got emotional. Said she saw God in a grain of arborio.”

You’re still grinning when he pushes the pot toward you with a silent offer. You help yourself, spooning some into a mismatched bowl. It’s warm. Comforting. Rich with butter and—yeah, definitely more cheese.

This—this is your favorite version of him. Not the soldier. Not the team lead or the briefing-room strategist. Just Bucky. Tired and soft-eyed in the kitchen, humming low when he stirs a pot. Still, in a way that feels rare.

You think about the baby again from earlier. About the way he looked at her. How his whole body went still, but his eyes went soft, like he’s seeing something he misses but can’t remember.

You stir your wine with a finger. Casual. Not casual at all.

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, mostly just to fill the space. “Weird day, huh?”

His brow ticks up, a silent question.

“That baby,” you say. “She just… latched on. Like I was made of Velcro.”

There’s a beat.

“She liked you,” he says. Quietly. Not teasing. Just honest.

You huff a small laugh, not quite hearing the undertone. “She drooled on me. That’s practically a proposal.”

But he doesn’t smile.

He’s looking at you the same way he looked at the baby—still, like something cracked open and never quite resealed. You miss it entirely. Instead, you sip your wine and stretch your legs beneath the table, toes brushing his. “But, I mean, you held her like a pro. Natural instincts, huh?”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment more before dropping to his bowl. He stirs it aimlessly, the motion absent.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

That surprises you, but he keeps going.

He smiles a little, faint and crooked. “Back when I was just some punk from Brooklyn. Thought I’d get married. Have a couple kids. A porch swing. You know. The American Dream.”

“What changed?” you ask, voice gentler than you meant.

He shrugs. “Everything. Time. Who I became.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let your chest cave in.

“Rebecca used to say I’d be a good dad,” he adds. “She said I was good with her dolls.”

“Your sister?”

He nods. There’s a glow in his eyes now—faint, faraway. “She was eight years younger. I helped raise her, after my ma got sick. Used to walk her to school, do her hair. She liked braids. I wasn’t good at ‘em, but I tried.”

You try to picture it—Bucky, hair slicked back, hands clumsy with a brush, coaxing bows into place on a giggling child’s head.

Your lips twitch. “Braids?”

“Bad ones.” He finally glances at you, mouth quirking faintly. “She called ‘em ‘buckle braids.’ Said they looked like seatbelts.”

You laugh, unexpected. He ducks his head, a little embarrassed, but you miss the way his eyes stay on you too long.

“She’s still alive, isn’t she?” you ask softly.

He nods. “We talk. It’s… complicated. A lotta years between us now.”

There’s another pause.

You don’t fill it. You just watch him, lit gold by the stovetop light, swirling his water like it’s something stronger. He looks far away in that moment—not guarded, not distracted, just... elsewhere. Like his mind is somewhere quieter, and he’s trying to remember how it felt to live there.

He looks like a man trying to remember a life that feels more like a dream.

You think about the look on his face earlier, when that baby yawned and curled into your chest. How he’d watched like he couldn’t quite breathe. Like he’d seen something he wanted and couldn’t name. And yeah—okay—it tugged at something in you too, sure. But not like it did to him. He’s still in it. Still holding on to the ghost of that moment with both hands, even now.

You look at him—soft in a hoodie and bathed in golden light, cheeks pink from wine and warmth and maybe something else—and your chest twists with something slow and awful. The kind of ache that leaves no bruise.

And still. You push your bowl toward him and say, “Okay, fine. I’ll admit it. This is good.”

He snorts, low. “Told you. Not totally helpless.”

“Mm,” you hum. “Jury’s still out.”

But your smile lingers, even as your heart doesn’t know where to settle.

You don’t talk about babies again. Not directly.

But when you both stand to rinse the dishes, you brush past him and say, “For the record… I bet you’d nail braids now.”

And his ears go pink.

You pretend not to see. Because if you do—if you look too closely—you might not be able to keep pretending you don’t know what all of this means.

.

“I want ten of my babies. Obviously.” Ava dips a fry into mustard with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for defusing bombs. “Different thing.”

You’re all at the diner again. It started as a joke—something Walker demanded once after a particularly grim mission, swearing by the restorative power of bacon and drip coffee—and somehow, it stuck. Now it’s tradition: post-debrief pancakes, a rotating cast of bruises and black eyes crowding into a corner booth that’s definitely too small. No one’s sure when it became sacred, but no one skips it, either.

The baby talk started again—somehow inevitably—because of the mission. 

A standard evac turned sideways. Smoke, rubble, a collapsed stairwell. Someone heard crying. Alexei went full Terminator through a wall. And when the dust cleared, there he was—coughing soot and holding a six-month-old like it was a live grenade. The baby didn’t even cry. Just blinked and drooled and grabbed Alexei’s nose like he owed him money.

It should’ve been a footnote in the mission report. It turned into a full-on debate about parental instincts, fight-or-flight hormones, and who would actually survive trying to raise a baby while doing this job.

From there, it was only a matter of time before Ava declared her hypothetical soccer team of spawn with a kind of detached confidence that suggested she’d already drawn up the chore wheel.

You nod in reluctant agreement, as if that’s a normal sentence to hear over diner food at 9 a.m. on a Thursday. “Different thing,” you echo, like that explains anything.

There’s a pause filled only with the faint sizzle of a kitchen grill and the shriek of someone’s child two booths over. You’re content to let the silence stretch, to keep spooning eggs into your mouth like a sane person, until John leans back. His arm stretches across the vinyl booth with the exaggerated flair of a man who thinks he’s charming. He tilts his head toward you like he’s about to ask for a kiss, and then drops the bomb.

“What about you? Ever think about having kids?”

Your fork pauses mid-scramble. You blink. Once, then again, slower. The question isn’t new—it’s just never been aimed quite so directly at your throat before.

And somewhere in your mind, like a coin dropping into a well, you hear Bucky’s voice again.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

The memory curls in your chest like a secret.

“Sure,” you say finally, and it comes out like a shrug in sentence form. “Sounds like fun. You know. In a nightmarish, identity-altering kind of way.”

John grins like you’ve handed him a gift. “Hey, I know a guy if you’re interested.”

“Oh?" you deadpan, already regretting it.

“Banked some before deployment, real clean record, full medical—”

There’s a sound beside you. Ceramic on laminate. Not a crash—more of a punctuation mark. You glance over.

Bucky’s hand rests on his coffee cup like he’s trying to stop it from shivering apart. The cup’s rim taps against the table once, sharp and accidental. His face doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at you, or at John. He stares into the coffee like it’s a black hole that might finally suck him in, if he just glares hard enough.

Walker doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to, which is maybe worse.

You shift slightly, angle your body just enough to catch Bucky’s profile. Not his eyes—he’s not giving you that. But you see the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his thumb presses against the handle like it’s either that or throwing the cup against the wall. He breathes, chest pounding and heavy, like he’s counting to ten. Like ten isn’t enough.

And you—idiot that you are—you feel it too. That low, aching pull at the thought of him with that baby. How natural he’d been. How soft his voice had gone. And how, for one weird, echoing second, you’d let yourself imagine it. Not just him with a child. But him with yours.

(It’s a thought you shouldn't let live, but it does anyway—burrows in, sharp and hungry. He’d be such a good father. Steady hands, steady voice, a tenderness in him that most people never get to see. You’d watched it spark to life like muscle memory, something old and unforgotten. 

And then, because your brain is a traitor, the thought tilts—what it would feel like to give him that. To give him that child. Not some hypothetical future, not a vague maybe someday. You. Him. 

That kind of closeness. That kind of permanence. 

The weight of him over you, inside you, something rough and completely undoing. It knocks the air from your lungs before you can even feel it coming. 

You imagine his voice rough and low—you’d look so fuckin’ good like this, he’d murmur, hands spreading over your stomach, already possessive. Full of me. Mine. You imagine his mouth, soft stubble between your thighs, saying let me make you a mom, like it’s the last sane thought in his head.

And you—well, now you're sitting in a diner booth trying to pretend you didn’t just think the words “let me make you a mom” while someone’s child screams three feet away. You’re not proud. You are, in fact, actively praying for death. Or coffee. Whichever comes first.

So you do what you do best. You pivot.)

“Anyway,” you say, louder now, aiming your voice like a dart at Walker’s oblivious skull. Making sure your voice is light enough to convey that there isn't a world that it would ever happen with him. “Let me know if your guy offers a bulk discount. I’ll take two or three. Maybe four if they come pre-housebroken.”

John laughs. “First five are free. They just start billing you in sleep and soul erosion.”

Bucky finally moves. Not much. Just enough to slide the cup an inch back toward the middle of his placemat, like maybe now it’s safe. Like maybe no one noticed.

You’d like to kick John under the table. Just enough to shut him up. Just enough to let Bucky breathe.

Instead, you swirl your fork through yolk and wait for someone else to speak. Hope to someone out there that this whole baby thing will be put to rest.

.

But that day was just the start.

You don’t know if something cracked open in the universe or if Bucky secretly bartered a piece of his soul to a baby-loving deity in exchange for emotional clarity, but suddenly—it’s like the planet has been overrun. Babies. Everywhere. Strollers, carriers, those ridiculous kangaroo pouches. Toddlers with juice mustaches and light-up shoes. Infants in tiny sunglasses.

Worse, you’re always with him when it happens.

It starts innocently enough. You’re on stakeout. The intel turns out to be garbage—no targets, no movement, just an empty building and a guy who might’ve been Hydra or might’ve just been bad at directions. You’re about to call it when Bucky… stops walking.

No explanation. Just freezes on the sidewalk.

You turn, squinting. “What? You see something?”

And then you hear it. A laugh. Tiny. High-pitched. Pure. You scan the street and there it is: a baby in a stroller, arms flailing with chaotic joy, pink beanie slipping sideways on her round little head. Her mom is pushing her like it’s just a Tuesday. But Bucky—he crouches. Hands on his knees. Watching like he’s stumbled across the Ark of the Covenant.

“That’s a good laugh,” he mutters, almost worshipful. “That’s… like a top-tier laugh.”

You blink. “You ranking baby laughs now?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps watching. Like the baby might do it again. Like he’s rooting for her.

You nudge him with your elbow. “Want me to get you a ringtone?”

He says nothing. His silence is telling.

Then it escalates.

Buenos Aires. Late afternoon. The heat’s syrupy, everything sunstruck and slightly too bright. You’re waiting for the decryption key to finish running—loitering under a chipped awning while the team fans out down the block, pretending to be tourists. You’re halfway through a warm soda and reading something in Spanish when Bucky drifts up beside you.

You don’t look at him. You’ve learned not to. He does this thing sometimes—leans in close enough for his shoulder to brush yours, says nothing at all, and just exists like a slow-burn fire you’re pretending not to feel.

This time, it’s worse. He gestures toward a store window. Shoes. Not just any shoes—tiny tactical boots, scaled down like someone was kitting out the junior division of the Avengers. Rugged soles, reinforced stitching, little laces that look too delicate for real fieldwork but too precise to be anything but serious gear. They’re absurd. They’re perfect.

“You think they make those in toddler size 5?”

You turn. Slowly. Give him the full weight of your skepticism. “Planning to outfit your own baby militia?”

He shrugs. Casual. Easy. Too easy. “Just wondering. Hypothetically.”

But then his eyes flick toward you—just for a beat. Like he’s measuring something. Like he’s waiting for a reaction you don’t know you’re giving.

You keep walking. Pretend not to feel your heart skip unevenly.

And it becomes a pattern. A weird, creeping, almost endearing pattern. You’re raiding safehouses, rerouting encrypted intel, shaking a tail in Prague, and somehow Bucky is the one lingering in front of vending machines, pointing at squeezable yogurt pouches like they’re alien tech.

“These have the little resealable caps,” he says, deadpan. “For babies, I think. Smart.”

You blink. “You want one?”

“No,” he says, looking thoughtful. “Just—clever design. Kid-friendly.”

You stare. He shrugs. Again. It’s becoming suspicious. Too real.

.

Later, it’s dark. Safehouse. Everyone asleep or pretending to be. You and Bucky are curled in the guest room that’s technically yours but hasn’t been solo occupancy in weeks. 

He’s already touching you before your brain catches up. Warm fingers ghosting under your shirt, calloused and rough, sliding over your ribs like he’s taking inventory of your soft places. You’re breathing shallowly before he even kisses you, your body already recognizing this as surrender.

There was a time when you thought Bucky would be a gentleman.

Reserved. Polite. Old-world chivalry repackaged in tactical black. You’d imagined he was probably hesitant in bed, at first. The type to ask twice, maybe three times, before putting his hands anywhere remotely close to where you’d actually want them. You thought he’d kiss softly. Whisper his affections like prayer. You thought—foolishly—that his stillness was quiet.

It’s not.

It’s restraint. Caged hunger. A man constantly one flick away from wrecking you completely.

Because Bucky doesn’t fuck like a soldier. Or a hero. He fucks like a man starved. Like he’s spent entire decades in lockdown with nothing but the memory of heat, and you’re the only warmth he’s ever wanted. He’s filthy in the way that makes your ears ring. Filthy in the way he moans your name when he’s too far gone to realize he’s saying it out loud.

Filthy in the way he says please.

That’s the worst part. The please.

Please kiss me, sweetheart. Please, let me stay in a little longer. Please, don’t stop. Please, I’ll be good. Please, have my ki—You gasp. He hasn't said that last part. You can't entertain that.

“Remember that time in Bolivia?” he murmurs, more statement than question, voice a gruff rasp against your throat. “When I fucked you against the wall and I had to put my hand against your mouth, because—Jesus—because you were being too loud?”

You tried to open your mouth. You usually have some sort of witty remark. But tonight his hand is trembling a little, and your chest’s too full of ache to joke.

"We can't do that here, sweetheart. I need you to stay quiet for me. Can you do that without my help?"

It’s always like this—a little desperate, a little unhinged. Like you both know it can’t mean what it means and keep doing it anyway. A nightly game of chicken with the truth.

Your legs spread, obscene, filthy, and soaked—giving him just the right view. He ducks down underneath in a flash, tongue swiping out before he does so, the pink flesh needy and hungry. The flutter of his eyelashes as he takes you in and wraps your legs around his face.

And when he pushes his tongue inside you, it’s slow. Not teasing. Not lazy. Like he’s trying to stay—inside you, with you, in the moment.

Your hands are in his hair, your legs wrapped tight around his head, and then—midway through a breath, a moan, a whisper of his name—his hand slides up.

Spreads across your stomach.

Not rough. Not possessive.

Settled.

Just—there.

Like he’s holding a thought.

His thumb traces one slow arc across your skin. Then another. Circling your navel like he’s drawing a map. Or casting a spell. You don’t even register it until his breath stutters.

You freeze—just for a second—but he doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t stop looking at you, either. You look down and his eyes are dark, wide, wrecked. Like he’s trying to rein it in. Like he’s already failing.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, half-strangled, pulling away from your cunt long enough for you to see the long, shimmering streak that connects his mouth to you. “You’d—fuck, you’d look so perfect like this.”

You blink down at him, too far gone to process. “Like what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you—like he wants to say it. Like the words are climbing up his throat and he’s fighting to keep them down. He presses a kiss to your thigh instead, then to your core, mouth hot and desperate.

“Sorry,” he breathes. “I just—”

You’re not stupid.

But you are, maybe, willfully stupid. Denial’s easier than everything else. Safer. You pull his head closer instead, scratch at his hair, drag him deeper into your legs feels like you're trying to climb out of your own skin.

Come inside me, come inside me, the thought, intrusive and loud and irrational, echoes in your head, even as he wrenches your first orgasm of the night from you. You watch as he licks up the remnants from between your legs, then the way his tongue darts out to catch the streaks around his stubble.

And you think, with a sense of finality, that you're fucking doomed.

.

It doesn’t help that the rest of the team is starting to notice. Yelena’s not subtle—she’s taken to raising her brows whenever you and Bucky so much as walk in the same direction. Alexei hums under his breath sometimes, low and vaguely ominous, usually something about “strong bloodlines” or “resilient genetics,” just loud enough to make your skin prickle. Even Val, smug and sharp-eyed, had that moment last week where she looked between the two of you, then at the empty supply room, and muttered, “Better not be rearranging furniture in there.”

The thing is—you and him have always been subtle. Always toeing the line but never stepping over.

Except now, lately, that subtlety is starting to unravel. Not in big ways, but in increments. A slip of tone. A lingering look. The way he doesn’t bother disguising the softness in his voice when he says your name. It’s like he’s decided—quietly, firmly, permanently—that you’re it. And he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

It’s in the little things.

He starts carrying gum in his pocket “in case someone’s kid gets antsy on a flight.” He asks if the noise-canceling headphones in your shared gear bag might work for toddlers. He watches you when you pick up a fallen pacifier at a rest stop, eyes going all soft at your hands, like he’s imprinting something in his head he doesn’t quite understand.

Then, during a recon op, he nudges you awake after you dozed off in the back of a surveillance van. “You sleep like a baby,” he says quietly.

You think he means it as a compliment, but your heart flips and your brain short-circuits, and you spend the rest of the mission wondering if he’s trying to tell you something or if you’re going insane.

(You do not, in fact, sleep like a baby. You drooled on the armrest. He said nothing.)

Weeks pass. Missions blur. The baby sightings continue like clockwork. You start to brace for them. For Bucky’s inevitable sighs. For the way his expression slips into something almost wistful.

You’re trained to read microexpressions. He should know this. You see it—the way his jaw softens, the way his shoulders fall just enough to say I want this. Not now, maybe. But someday.

And more terrifying: the way he keeps looking at you. Like you’re part of that someday.

And God—how could he?

How could he look at you like that?

You’re good at the quiet things. The watching, the stitching-up. The banter. The fight, when you have to. But you’ve never known what it means to build something that doesn’t involve exit strategies or a go-bag tucked under the bed.

Bucky… he deserves someone solid. Someone who’s not half a shadow. Who’d instinctively know how to hold a baby without second-guessing. Who’d have a laugh that sounded like Sunday mornings, and hands that were always warm. Someone who could braid a child’s hair without worrying they’d pull too hard. Someone kind. Someone permanent.

Not someone like you.

You’re not sure if he even sees the difference. You’re not sure if he knows he’s dreaming with his eyes open when he looks at you like that.

But you do.

You just pretend it doesn’t mean anything. Because if it does—if he’s looking at you like he already knows, like he’s already chosen—

Well.

You’re not ready for that kind of fallout.

Not yet.

.

The worst—by far—is the petting zoo in Nebraska.

You’re there under completely fabricated cover identities. Something about an eco-terrorist cell operating out of an adjacent farm-to-table cheese shop. You’ve both got sunglasses and fake names and those little earwig communicators that make you feel like you’re in Mission Impossible. You’re trying to be inconspicuous.

But then you pass the small animal enclosure.

There’s a toddler up ahead, perched on her dad’s shoulders like a giggling parrot. She squeals—delighted—at the sight of the baby goats, then gets lowered gently down so she can feed them through the fence. Her little fingers curl around the bars, one of the goats licks her hand, and she lets out a laugh so pure and shrill and untouched by the horrors of modern living that it actually makes your chest hurt.

You don’t even register it at first—just the absence of footsteps beside you. Then you glance back.

He’s standing there, completely still, like he’s been struck by divine intervention. Like that baby goat and that toddler just rewired something deep in his old brain. His expression is unguarded in a way that makes your stomach tilt. Soft and stunned.

He doesn't even pretend to be focused on the mission anymore.

And then—then—he turns to you. The most serious he's ever been. Eyes locked on yours.

“Do you think ours would like goats?”

You nearly choke on your lemonade. Actually choke. You cough once, twice, like your lungs are trying to escape your body. “What?”

And it’s not just the question—it’s the way he says it. Our kid. Not flippant. Not ironic. Not followed by a wink or a smirk or even a shy smile. Just fact. 

“I said,” he repeats, casually, clearly, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, “hypothetically, would our kid be into goats.”

You just stare at him. You’ve stopped trying to be cool about this. The number of times he’s said our baby with absolute, unsettling conviction has reached what can only be described as a statistically significant trend.

“I don’t know, Bucky,” you say, rubbing your temples. “I think most hypothetical babies are goat neutral until proven otherwise.”

He hums. Actually hums, like he’s storing that away. “Makes sense. We'll have to test it early. Build a baseline.”

“Stop,” you say, pointing a finger at him like that might restore order to the universe. “You’re not serious.”

His eyes flick to yours. And there’s no twinkle there. No smile. Just this steady, almost stubborn kind of affection—so open it knocks the wind out of you.

"You said I’d be good at it,” he says, voice low, so only you can hear. “The whole dad thing.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again like a very confused fish. Because you remember saying it. You remember the patio, the way the baby curled into his chest. The kitchen, the risotto, the late hour and the way he’d talked about braiding Rebecca’s hair. You remember the quiet ache in your chest, the one that’s back now, curling tighter.

And you don’t know what the hell to say. You really don’t. Because he’s looking at you like he’s already imagined the whole damn life and decided it was worth every scar. Like he’s already picked out the parts of himself he wants to give a kid—the kindness, the patience, the rebuilt softness—and buried the rest.

So you make a joke. Mask it. Swallow the quake in your throat and reach for levity like it’s body armor.

“Well, if the goat thing doesn’t work out, we can always try hamsters,” you say. “Low stakes. Contained mess. Give Yelena's little guy a friend.”

The goat bleats behind you. Bucky doesn’t flinch. Just watches you like he's still waiting for an answer—a real answer—that you're not sure how to give.

You move on. .

It finally breaks in a Target.

Of course it does.

You’re on a supply run for the team. Technically, this is all mission prep and there's assistants for things like this—med supplies, energy bars, razors, weird thermal socks Yelena swears by—but somehow, somewhere between the bottled water and the electrolyte tablets, you and Bucky wander into the wrong aisle.

Not wrong like “accidental.” Wrong like fate’s playing dirty.

Now you’re standing in front of an endcap display you definitely didn’t mean to find, and there it is. Tucked between pastel swaddles and soft-textured washcloths, like a landmine in the wrong aisle—a tiny cotton baby hat, pale blue with little stitched ears.

It’s nothing. Just a hat.

But Bucky’s staring at it like it cracked his ribs open.

“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just reaches out and picks it up. Turns it over in his hands slowly, like it’s something fragile. Like it might vanish if he isn’t cautious enough. His thumb brushes over the tag. He squints at it like he’s trying to make sense of the fibers. His jaw’s set hard, but there’s something in the line of his shoulders—something tired.

“Bucky,” you say again, gentler this time.

He doesn’t look at you. “Did you know their heads are soft?” His voice is quiet. “Babies. Their skulls don’t even come together for a while. You have to be real careful.”

You blink. “Have you… been reading about this?”

He swallows, shrugs. “I don't know. I just—I see stuff. I look it up.” He sets the hat down too fast. It doesn’t bounce. It just flattens there on the shelf like it’s watching him back.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. You just stand there for a second, like the air’s been drained from the aisle.

There’s a baby crying somewhere in another aisle—high-pitched and sputtering. A lull, then a hiccuping wail. A mother murmurs something gentle in response. The sound floats over the shelves and then disappears.

Eventually, you both walk.

Wordless. Past rows of seasonal candy wrapped in rustling orange plastic. Discount school supplies. Travel-sized deodorant and decorative lint rollers. Your cart is still half full, but you don’t look at it. Your eyes keep tracking him instead. His steps are slower than usual, like each one is being dragged out of him. His shoulders slope in that particular way you’ve started to recognize—like he’s still holding that hat in his mind, apprehensive and afraid.

The automatic doors swish open and spill you into the afternoon like you’ve been exiled.

Outside, the parking lot’s too bright. The sun glares off windshields and the pavement radiates that late-summer kind of heat—baked rubber and exhaust fumes and burnt asphalt. A shopping cart wheel squeals in the distance, sharp and whiny. The plastic Target bags crackle like they’re judging you.

You lean against the car. It’s hot through your shirt. The silence settles again—heavier now. Thicker. Like it’s pressing into your ribcage and asking for something neither of you are sure you’re ready to give.

You look at him. Not just glance—look.

He’s standing with his back half-turned, metal hand flexing and unflexing at his side, like he’s trying to let something out but doesn’t trust what’ll happen if he does. His vibranium arm glints in the sunlight—charcoal black veined with gold, all matte finish and unforgiving elegance. It doesn’t belong here, not really. Not in this mundane little parking lot, not against a backdrop of SUVs and clearance bins.

But neither does he.

You let the silence stretch a little longer. Let the heat sweat on your back, the wind tousle your hair, the tension between you wind tighter like thread pulled taut.

Then, finally, like you’re testing a live wire. “What’re you thinking about?”

He breathes in slow. Shaky.

And then, finally, he speaks—voice soft, too soft for someone built to survive war. “Do you have any guesses?”

That’s new.

You blink. Look down at your shoes. Your reflection warps in the car door.

“I don’t want to guess wrong,” you say. Even though you know fully well.

He huffs something between a sigh and a laugh. It’s not bitter. Just… tired. Then he gestures loosely, not at anything in particular. Just out. Broadly. Helplessly.

“We keep running into this,” he says, quieter now. “Not just here. Everywhere. At the grocery store. On recon. That billboard downtown with the giggling baby and the diaper brand we’ll never have enough time to run and grab from the store. That kid last week with the tiny shoes, remember that one?”

You do. You remember too well.

“There was this moment,” he continues, voice cracking, not looking at you yet, “when I saw that kid—and I thought, he’s going to walk into your arms someday. And I realized—I already want that."

He’s pacing now, one hand on his hip, the other dragging through his hair like he’s trying to pull something out of his skull. The sleeve of his hoodie is shoved up to the elbow. His dog tags are visible. His metal hand flexes open and closed like he needs something to grab onto.

“I just couldn't stop thinking about it.” He laughs, breathless and small. “Which is stupid, right? I mean—look at me. Who the hell am I to want something like that?”

“Bucky…” You trail off. Because he deserves it. He deserved all of it and you want to give him everything.

“But this? You?” he says again, shaking his head like he still can’t believe he has to say it out loud. “This isn’t hollow. This is wanting. Real wanting. Not some half-dead echo of need or distraction or—God—forgiveness. I don’t want you because I think you’re gonna fix something in me. Or because I think this’ll be easy. I want you because it’s you.”

His eyes find yours again—steady, burning.

“Because when I think about a future without you in it, it feels wrong. Like my bones know it. Like every damn instinct I’ve got wants to drag me back to wherever you are and just—stay.”

Your throat tightens. He presses on.

“And don’t get it twisted—I see you. I see the way you move through missions. The way you think six steps ahead, the way you take hits like they’re nothing and still check on everyone else first. You’re not some fragile thing I wanna put behind glass. You’re steel. You’re tougher than half the people I’ve fought beside. You don’t need anyone. Hell, you don’t need me.”

He steps forward. Lowers his voice.

“But I want to be needed by you. I want to be the guy who gets to hold you when the world’s too loud. I want us. A home. A baby—maybe two. One of ‘em likes goats. I don't know. Maybe we argue about preschool names and you yell at me for lettin’ them eat cereal off the floor. You're the person I want to be a disaster in front of at 3 a.m. because our hypothetical child won’t sleep unless you sing that dumb Fleetwood Mac song—” 

“Fleetwood Mac isn’t dumb.” 

“See? That’s exactly the tone you’d use,” he says, as if that proves a point. 

You blink hard. Your chest aches in that quiet, painful way reserved for things that are almost too good to believe.

“And I’ve been trying to be subtle,” he says, a rough laugh in his throat. “Pointing at strollers like a moron. Buying those damn pouches with the resealable caps. I kept hopin’ maybe you’d see it. Maybe you’d say somethin’ first. I didn’t wanna scare you off. I know what we’ve been through. What you’ve been through.”

He looks down for a second, then back at you—gentle now, gentler than you’ve ever seen him.

“But I’ll wait. As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere. And if you’re scared? Good. Me too. Means we’re not makin’ this decision with our eyes closed. But don’t pretend it’s not real. Don’t tell me I’m imagining this, because I know what this feels like. I’ve spent too long not feeling anything to mistake this for anything else.”

His vibranium hand curls into a loose fist at his side. Not clenched. Just steady. Anchored.

“I want this. With you. All of it. Even the hard parts. Especially those. I want the missions and the night shifts and the baby who won’t stop crying and the mess and the fear and the way you look at me like I might still be good. I want all of that, and I want it with you.”

And there it is again—that feeling like your ribs are about to crack open from the pressure of it all. From the weight of being seen this clearly. This completely.

You step closer, close enough now that the heat from him leaks into your skin. You stare up at him, eyes burning.

“You really want all that with me?”

He nods. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

“And you’re really not afraid I’ll mess it up?”

His smile is small, pained—like he’s trying to hold it together with fraying thread. “You’ll mess it up. So will I. We’ll accidentally teach them to swear. Maybe we let Alexei babysit and they come back speaking fluent Russian and craving vodka. I’ll still want you. Even when we’re sleep-deprived and overwhelmed and knee-deep in goldfish crackers. Especially then.”

Your voice cracks open without warning. Raw. Bare.

“Bucky—what the hell am I supposed to say to top that?”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says softly, hand cupping your cheek with the kind of conviction that makes your knees go weak. “Just… don’t walk away. Don’t—God, please—don’t say no. Not to this. Not to me.”

You nuzzle closer into his hand. Your voice, when it comes, is paper thin. “You really think I’d say no to goat-loving, minivan driving Bucky Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. “You making fun of me?”

You smile. You’re shaking a little. “Only a little.”

He laughs, and it’s a real one—wet around the edges, but honest.

And that—God. That lands like a sucker punch.

You take a breath. Step closer. Your heart is a drumbeat in your ears but your voice—your voice is iron and sunrise. “Okay. Let’s say, hypothetically, we make our first one now. What then?”

Bucky’s entire body stills.

Like he’s been hit center mass—not by a bullet, but by possibility. Like your words cracked open a vault somewhere deep in him and he’s still trying to process what came out. His breath hitches. His brows lift just slightly. You can almost see it—each implication of what you just said unfurling in real time: first one, meaning more than one. Meaning permanence. Meaning forever.

His eyes go wide—like, really wide. Like he’s just been handed the Infinity Gauntlet and told to babysit it. His mouth opens, then closes again. Then opens. A soft, stunned “Now?” escapes.

You nod, never been more sure of anything in your life. “Yes. Now.”

And it’s like a switch flips. Whatever gears were turning in his head just snap into place, and then he’s grabbing you—gently, desperately—and kissing you like he hasn't kissed you thousands of times before. It’s all hands and breath and something that tastes like joy, wild and uncontainable. You laugh into it, half-giddy, half-overwhelmed, and then someone leans out of a passing minivan and honks.

You both jump. Bucky flips the guy off without looking. “Keep driving, asshole!”

You’re laughing so hard your ribs hurt, and you have to clutch his arm just to stay upright. He looks at you like you’ve personally realigned his entire future.

Then it’s a race. You barely make it through the parking lot without tripping over yourselves, bumping shoulders and brushing hands and laughing like lunatics. Bucky opens the car door for you like he’s being timed for a rescue op, and the moment your ass hits the passenger seat, his hand is on your thigh—firm, possessive, fingers warm even through the denim.

He doesn’t even pretend to drive normally. The car peels out like you’re being chased, tires screeching as he swerves onto the freeway with all the caution of a man on fire.

His other hand clenches the wheel, knuckles pale. “You sure you’re not gonna regret it?” he asks, voice low, like it’s been scraped out of him. Like he’s terrified this is a dream and one wrong word will wake him up.

You glance over. He’s flushed down to his collar, eyes flicking from the road to your face and back like he can’t decide which is more dangerous. You’re smiling so wide it hurts your cheeks.

“If you keep asking questions like that,” you murmur, “I might pull you over and climb on top of you right here.”

He chokes. Visibly swerves. “You—you’re not joking.”

“I am, Bucky. We're at a fucking Target.”

He lets out a groan like it physically pains him. “You’re evil.”

You lean your head back against the seat, breathless with laughter. But then you glance sideways and—yeah. That look on his face? That’s love. That’s a man about to commit several felonies in your name.

“I’m gonna treat you so fuckin’ good,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Gonna make you feel safe and spoiled and full of me. Gonna worship you every damn night. You don’t even know.”

“Oh, I know,” you say, suddenly a little breathless. His grip on your thigh tightens, just for a second.

His foot presses harder on the gas.

The car hums like it’s picking up on the tension. Bucky’s jaw is set, eyes dark, every red light a personal affront to his timeline. At one point he actually mutters “no” at a yellow light and runs it anyway. Another person flips both of you off until they squint and see who's in the car. Bucky doesn’t blink.

When the Watchtower finally comes into view, he exhales like he’s just crossed a finish line. The tires screech again as he parks, but you barely register it. Because the second the engine cuts, he turns to you, all flushed cheeks and unholy devotion, and whispers, “Upstairs. Now.”

And then—

He lifts you like it’s muscle memory, like your body belongs there, bracketed against him. Your legs wrap around his waist. Somehow, some way, he finds the bedroom with barely a glance, kicks the door shut behind him, and lays you down like you’re breakable.

Not fragile. Important.

He hovers above you for a beat, breath uneven, gaze raking over your face like it’s the first time he’s really let himself look. Like he’s memorizing this—just in case the world tilts sideways again.

He bends down, his voice rasping against your mouth. “You still sure about this?”

You pull him back to you by the waistband of his jeans. “I said I wanted all of it.  The house. The minivans. The goats. I meant it.”

Something in him loosens. Not all the way, not yet—but enough to soften his edges. He exhales through his nose and kisses you like it’s a vow, mouth warm and open and aching. His hands find your thighs, settle there like they’ve always known the shape of you. Thumbs brushing slow circles like he’s grounding himself on your skin.

You kiss him back with everything you’ve got, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt—and when you tug, it’s not subtle.

And you tug at his shirt again. “Bucky—”

“No, just—let me—” He peels it off over his head in one fluid motion, and fuck. You’ve seen him shirtless before. Dozens of times. Training sessions. Medical checks. Casual Sundays in sweatpants.

But not with the full breadth of him laid bare, chest heaving, dog tags glinting faintly in the low light. Thick, ropey muscle, that deep ridge where his hip cuts in and disappears under the waistband of his jeans. He’s massive. Bigger than you can ever brace for. Every inch of him looks carved from the kind of strength that short-circuits your higher brain function.

And it hits you, all at once, how strong he really is.

Not just tactical, not just capable—but superhuman. The kind of strength that could lift a car or crush a man’s throat or pick you up like you weigh nothing. You’ve felt it before—in combat, in sparring, in those accidental brushes where he’d catch your wrist or hoist you clear of an explosion.

You’re trying to keep it together—you are—but then he grins. That slow, crooked, devastating thing like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice gone husky with amusement.

You shoot back, “So are you.”

“Yeah,” he says, and steps in, close enough that his chest brushes yours, heat radiating off him like a furnace. “Difference is, I’m about to do something about it.”

Your mouth goes dry. Your brain attempts a witty reply and fails spectacularly. So you shove at his shoulder with mock offense, and he grabs your wrists—gently, easily—and pins them to the mattress above your head.

Oh.

It’s nothing. No pressure, no real force. But it reminds you. Reminds you exactly what he’s capable of. How easily he could break you. How he never has.

“Could hold you like this forever,” he murmurs. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

You squirm beneath him, flushed and wrecked and undone.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he breathes, dragging his nose down your throat. “I could carry you around all day. Pick you up, fuck you against a wall, against a table, hell, the fridge, if I wanted.”

You gasp, and his grip tightens—just enough to feel it.

"I need to get you ready first," He pulls back slightly, meets your eyes. “That okay?”

You nod. Hard. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

His stubble rubs along your neck, your collarbones, until he pauses at your chest, nuzzling one of your nipples with his eyes closed. His tongue darts out, sucking and pulling at the sensitive muscle, more for his sake than for yours. 

There's a graze of his teeth—then, his other hand comes to meet your other breast, ever the multi-tasker. He murmurs your name, once, twice, the sound vibrating low against your skin.

You don't know how long he stays like that, in that blissful purgatory, his leg, between your legs, just barely giving you the stimulation you need, until his mouth, his beautiful, beautiful mouth, gets faster, more greedy, and the leg you're grinding against pushes deeper against you—

"Come for me, sweetheart."

It's like fucking fireworks. You cum with a groan, eyes closed shut, whining low and deep and overwhelmed.

When you come to, vision returning to you in hazes, you look at him through fluttering lashes, the way he strokes his cock in front of you. Painfully hard, red, and weeping, but it's his words that make you short-circuit next.

“You’re gonna let me put a baby in you, huh?”

Your breath catches.

He kisses you before you can answer—deep and consuming and hungry—and when he pulls back, there’s a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Something molten. Something fierce.

“Been thinkin’ about something else too,” he confesses, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You, round with my kid. All soft and happy. Maybe bossin’ me around with that look you get when you’re pretending not to care.”

The words stick—and it's all the warning you get before he's slotting his cock in between your cunt, slipping inside of you.

His hand settles on your stomach, low and possessive. He presses his palm there like he’s already claiming it. Like he’s asking permission to fill it. You can feel it, the pressure delicious, as his thrusts get messier, less controlled. The room's filled with the sound of it, groaning and snapping and skin slapping together.

“I’ll be good,” he says, voice cracking. “I’ll be so good. You’ll never have to lift a finger. I’ll make breakfast. I’ll learn lullabies. I’ll paint the damn nursery if you want me to.”

You moan, high and helpless. “Keep talking.”

He thrusts—deep, slow, intentional. “I’ll hold your hand through the appointments. Rub your back when it hurts. Run to the store at 3 a.m. for pickles, or chocolate, or whatever the hell you need—”

Then, his hand–the metal one—moves between you, lower and lower until his thumb's hovering right over your clit, pinching and squeezing and rolling it, and you have to fight every cell inside of you not to cum right then and there, even while he's looking at you and saying everything so, so goddamn perfectly.

You clench around him, once, twice, like a vice grip that's desperate for him to feel just the way he makes you feel.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re so—fuck, I just wanna—” He shakes his head, then mutters against your collarbone, “Don't do that, not yet, I'll cum."

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you whisper. "I just wanna–oh god—show you how thankful I am."

His hips rock against yours. 

“You wanna thank me?” he pants, jaw trembling as he fights to hold on. “Then do it with an ultrasound. Let me hear it. Let me see it.”

You whimper, wrecked by the words alone.

“Say it,” he demands, but softer now. Frantic and obsessed. “Tell me you want it too. Tell me you want to keep me forever.”

“I do,” you gasp. “I do—God, Bucky, I do—”

Then he shifts, pushing himself deeper inside, and one brutal thrust later, raking his hands across your abdomen, you gasp. Shuddering, shaking like a leaf, finishing in his arms so hard that you nearly twist out of his grasp.

Seconds later, Bucky spills into you, and you can feel the precise moment he throbs inside you, warmth filling you up, up, up, and you can fill the drip of his cum spilling out from the sheer volume of it. You've never felt so full.

When you try to get up, he stops you with a gentle pull against your waist. He buries his face in your neck. “Need you to stay still,” he growls, words slurred, “make sure it takes.”

And who were you to say no to that?

You're tangled up in him, hours later. Or maybe minutes. Time’s a blur. The sheets are kicked halfway down the bed, your leg slung over his hip, the air still thick with heat and something heavier. Sweeter. Like gravity finally decided to show up and drag you straight into the future.

Bucky’s arm is around your waist, metal plates cool against your damp skin, the weight of him grounding. He’s curled slightly, head bowed like he can’t stop looking at you. His fingers draw mindless, absent circles on your belly—like the thought never left him. Like it’s only just beginning.

Neither of you says anything for a long time.

And then, quietly, “You okay?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. Your heart’s still hammering like a warning bell and a love song. “You?”

He huffs a laugh into your shoulder. Presses a kiss there. Then another, softer. His voice is hoarse when he finally answers. “I’ve never been this okay.”

There’s a pause. You don’t fill it. You just watch as his thumb drags slow and soft across your stomach again, like he’s memorizing the shape of possibility.

“I can see it,” he murmurs. “Not just a kid. Our kid. One that frowns like you and kicks like me. One who’s smart, and stubborn, and throws food at Walker's head during holidays.”

You snort softly. “You think we’d raise a kid that obnoxious?”

His grin is lazy and real, eyes bright with something so big it makes your chest ache. “I hope so.”

You stare at the ceiling for a beat. Let the words sink in. Let the idea grow legs.

Then you roll closer, press your palm over the hand that’s still stroking your belly.

You whisper it this time. Fragile. Hopeful. “You think this’ll do it?”

Bucky shudders—actually shudders—and shifts to kiss your jaw, your cheek, your mouth like it’s a prayer.

The first time you saw Bucky Barnes in that red Henley, you nearly tripped over a stack of Steve’s sketchbooks left carelessly on the common room floor.

It was a deep rich cranberry red. Soft, worn thin at the collar and hugging his thick arms and broad chest but just low enough, right around his waist, it stretched with a soft forgiving yield over the slight, comfortable curve of his stomach.

You knew what the rest of his body was made of, hardened through decades of war and trauma and relentless training even brutal survival. Yet somehow, that tiny soft detail underneath the faded cotton made him feel human.

Real. Grounded. Lovable in a way that made your throat tight.

You’d always been a bit bigger than the average S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.

Not slow nor soft but strong in a way that didn’t carve itself into sharp, visible muscle definition. Your strength was forged through stubbornness, pure physical endurance and careful precision. You were tall enough that you weren’t usually dwarfed by the people around you.

Except by Bucky.

Bucky made everyone look small.

He towered over you even when he was slouching against the kitchen counter at 6:00 AM, arms crossed over his chest and a cocky little grin hidden behind his steaming coffee mug. When he leaned against the wall just behind you in the narrow hallway, close enough that you could feel the radiant furnace like heat from his chest through your hoodie, you felt tiny.

He loved to joke about it, too. He’d use that low, gravelly Brooklyn voice that had never quite shed the winter chill or the rhythm of the 1940s.

“Careful, doll, I might step on ya.”

“You sure you can handle that whole sandwich on your own? Need me to cut it up for ya?”

“Need me to carry you upstairs? You look like a strong gust of wind might blow you right out the window.”

You always rolled your eyes, scoffing amd calling him an arrogant ass. But inside? You melted into a puddle every single time.

And Bucky? He didn’t say it out loud, but he savored every annoyed scoff, every time you smacked his metal forearm with a hand that didn’t hurt him at all. Every time you narrowed your eyes at him with a poorly hidden smirk.

You were fire and gentleness all wrapped up in a package he had convinced himself he’d never deserve. Not after Hydra. Not after decades of blood, terror and icy silence. He had long given up on the idea that someone would laugh with him again. He certainly didn’t think someone like you would quietly sneak into his thoughts at night, curling up in the dark cracks of his heart like you had always belonged there.

You caught him that morning stretched out on the living room sofa, his long legs spread wide, his red henley rumpled and riding up just enough to expose a sliver of skin above the waist of his dark sweatpants. He was leaning back against the cushions, metal and flesh fingers lazily tapping against the worn dog tags resting on his sternum.

The morning sunlight caught the gleaming plates of his left arm, but your eyes didn’t track the chrome. You looked right at his waist. At the soft subtle swell of his stomach, rising and falling in deep, peaceful rhythm. He looked like a man who was finally, for the first time in eighty years, safe enough to rest.

You were staring.

You couldn’t help it.

“I can feel your eyes on me, y’know,” Bucky drawled without bother to open his own. He sounded half-asleep, entirely smug. “What’s the matter, doll? Never seen a man relax before?”

You flushed instantly, your gaze snapping violently toward the wall. “Just wondering how you haven’t busted the seams of that shirt yet,” you shot back, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

He cracked one blue eye open, glancing down at the stretched red fabric covering his ribs and belly. A lazy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Guess it just likes me.”

“I like you too,” you muttered under your breath before your brain could filter the words.

His dark eyebrow arched up toward his hairline. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

He chuckled, sitting up slowly. The movement made the hem of the shirt rise even higher, revealing the dark line of hair trailing down his stomach into his sweatpants. You looked away again, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“You always get so shy when I’m wearing this shirt,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, low and heavy with teasing promise.

You didn’t deny it. You couldn’t.

It was Sam’s idea.

A heavy sparring session in the gym to get your reflexes back up to speed after a short mission hiatus. You hadn’t been thrilled about it to begin with, but you were even less thrilled when Sam got called away for a briefing halfway through, leaving Bucky to step onto the mat to fill in.

“You sure?” You asked, hands on your hips, eyeing his massive frame. He was wearing his usual black tactical tank top, shoulders gleaming with sweat. “I don’t want to break you, Barnes.”

That earned you a real grin toothy, sharp, and entirely playful. “I’m quaking in my boots, sweetheart,” he said. He reached down, grabbed the faded red Henley hanging over the gym bench, and pulled it over his head.

Of course.

You sparred.

He teased.

You lost the first round when he swept your legs out from under you.

You won the second by catching him off balance with a elbow to his kidney but during the third round, he caught both of your wrists in one smooth, sweeping motion, driving you back into the soft matting.

He pinned you effortlessly.

Your wrists were trapped over your head beneath the solid weight of his metal hand. He hovered directly over you, his chest heaving against yours, strands of dark hair falling into his eyes. His body was heavy and dense, a solid metal and muscle, but he controlled every ounce of his weight so precisely that he didn’t hurt you.

He just grounded you. Locked you in place beneath him.

Your breath hitched. Your heart thundered in your ears like a war drum.

Bucky looked down at you for a beat too long. The smirk faded from his face, replaced by a dark, intense heat that made your blood burn. “You’re dangerous,” he whispered, his heavy chest pressing down against yours with every intake of air.

“So are you,” you managed to reply, your voice barely audible over the hum of the gym’s ventilation.

He stared at your lips for three agonizing seconds before rolling off you, landing flat on his back beside you on the mat. He stared up at the high ceiling, his chest rising and falling with something that had nothing to do with physical exertion.

The Avengers compound was completely silent late at night, lit only by the low hum of the refrigerator and the pale blue moonlight pouring through the kitchen floor to ceiling windows. You were standing by the counter in your shorts and an oversized tee, waiting for a mug of chamomile tea to steep, lost in your own head.

Bare feet padded softly against the hardwood behind you.

You turned.

It was Bucky.

In the red henley.

Again.

“Seriously,” you said, leaning back against the counter and trying to ignore the sudden wave of warmth crawling up your neck and pooling in your low belly. “How many of those shirts do you actually own?”

“Just one,” he said softly, leaning against the opposite counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “I wear it when I need to feel… safe.”

That gave you pause. You lowered your mug, really looking at him. His eyes weren’t teasing now. They were soft, clear blue, completely bare and vulnerable in a way he almost never allowed himself to be around anyone else.

“It smells like home,” he added, his voice dropping into a quiet confession meant only for the quiet kitchen. “Or… like you.”

You blinked, frozen. “Wait... what?”

He looked sheepish, reaching up with his right hand to rub the back of his neck. “You borrowed it once. Remember? After that nightmare mission in Norway. You were soaked to the bone, freezing, and looking like you’d punch Steve in the mouth if he tried to make you wear anything tactical again. I gave you this shirt.”

You remembered. You hadn’t even realized it was that shirt.

“Even after washing it, it seems to keep your scent,” he said, his eyes fixing on yours with intense sincerity. “I just… I liked it better that way. Started wearing it whenever I felt the winter coming back into my head.”

Your throat felt tight. “Bucky…”

“I know you think I just tease you for fun,” he said quickly, stepping forward. The distance between you closed in three slow, deliberate strides until he was standing right in your space. “And I do... don’t get me wrong... but it’s not just a game... not for me.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“I like you,” Bucky said, his voice thick with unsaid years. “Hell, I know I love you. I didn’t think I could feel something like that again. I sure as hell didn’t think I’d ever say it out loud but there it is.”

You stared at the man who had been broken by the world, torn apart and pieced back together, standing in front of you in a worn red shirt offering you every piece of himself he had managed to reclaim.

You set your mug down on the counter behind you with a small clink. You reached up, placing your palms against his warm jaw.

“I thought I was the only one,” you whispered, pulling him down just a fraction. “Crushing. Falling. Losing my mind over you.”

Bucky exhaled a sharp, shuddering breath, his eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of your skin against his. “You’re not,” he choked out. “You never were, doll.”

You pulled his face down and kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t desperate.

It was deep, warm and full of every unspoken thought that had lingered between you in hallways, kitchens and gym mats for months. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling your hips flush against his. He held you like you were precious, even though he knew you were strong enough to take on the world. You gripped the soft cotton of his red shirt, tugging him closer, holding him like he was fragile even though you knew he was made of steel.

His tongue slid slowly past your lips, tasting you deeply. Alow rumble echoing in his chest when you let out a soft sigh against his mouth. His metal hand found the small of your back, pressing firmly, lifting you up slightly so you had to wrap your legs around his waist.

He didn’t break the kiss as he carried you effortlessly out of the kitchen, down the dim corridor, and into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

The room was dark, illuminated only by the city lights outside his window. Bucky set you down on the edge of his bed, but he didn’t pull away. His hands moved to the hem of your shirt, raising his eyebrows in silent request. You nodded, breathing heavily and he pulled the shirt over your head, dropping it to the floor.

His eyes swept over you, over every curve and every inch of smooth skin. The look in his eyes wasn’t just desire, it was reverence.

“You are so beautiful,” he rasped, his metal fingers tracing a light, agonizingly hot trail down your side, lingering over the swell of your hip. “So fucking strong. Perfect.”

He grabbed the bottom of the red henley and pulled it off, tossing it aside.

Without the barrier of the worn cotton, your hands immediately found his chest, sliding over the hard muscle of his pecs, down over his ribs, and resting on the soft warm curve of his stomach. Bucky tensed for a split second, an old instinct like an urge to pull back, but as your thumb gently stroked his skin, he let out a long breath and sank into your touch, melting under your hands.

“I love this,” you whispered, leaning up to kiss the center of his chest, then down to his ribs, then planting a soft kiss right over his lower belly.

Bucky groaned, his fingers tangling in your hair. “Doll… you’re gonna drive me out of my mind.”

He nudged you back onto the mattress, sliding his heavy body over yours. The heat off him was intoxicating. He kissed you until your breath came in shallow, desperate gasps, his hands exploring every part of you kneading your thighs, tracing your waist and thumbing your nipples into tight peaks until you were writhing underneath him.

When he reached down to strip away the rest of your clothes and his own, there was no hesitation left. He pushed your knees apart, settling himself between your thighs. His thick shaft brushed against your core, slick and hot, making you arch your back with a soft whimper.

“Look at me,” Bucky commanded softly, his voice thick with raw need.

You opened your eyes, meeting his intense, dark blue gaze.

“Get up.” He ordered you. You stood automatically. He took the red shirt he threw on the bed. The fabric soft between his fingers. “Wear it…”

You immediately stretched your arm, taking the henley. The soft material slid on your skin and his scent, still on the fabric, intoxicated your senses.

He sat better on the edge of the bed, opening his legs. He pinched the shirt and pulled you against him. His metal hand smoothed against your tight.

“You’re a vision with my shirt on…” his finger trailed the legs until reaching your ass. He gave you a loud smack and then slid his finger inside your core, already warm and welcoming.

You perched forward, bending on his shoulder. He gripped your waist with his flesh hand while the metal fingers made their way in and out of your pussy.

As you felt the pleasure rising, your core clenched. He removed his fingers.

“What?”

He picked you up without talking and put you on his lap. You trembling tights around his hips and the tip of his cock peaking out between you.

He took his length in his hand and pumped a little, then he slid into you in one smooth, agonizingly slow push.

You gasped, your fingers digging into the firm muscle of his shoulders as he filled you completely. The stretch was intense, heavy, and overwhelmingly good. He stayed still for a long moment, letting you adjust, his chest pressing against yours, his metal hand coming up to cup your cheek tenderly.

“You okay?” He whispered, his thumb stroking your cheekbone.

“More than okay,” you whimpered, tilting your hips up to meet him. “Bucky, please…”

He began to move.

His pace was unhurried at first. Deep, heavy thrusts that targeted every sensitive nerve inside you, driving a low continuous moan from your throat. He wasn’t rushing to finish, he was taking his time claiming every inch of you and listening to every hitch in your breath. The friction was incredible, his weight against your body as you rode him. He moved his hips with precision, as your pleasure was his only purpose in life. He gave you deep and firm thrust from below. His hands grabbed better your body. The henley between you as the only layers separating your skins.

As the pace picked up, the soft sound of skin slapping against his and your breathless cries filled the dark bedroom. Bucky’s rhythm grew faster, harder. His jaw clench, sweat glistening on his chest and foreheads. He locked his fingers with your left hand, pinning it behind your back, while his metal arm slid beneath your hips, lifting you higher to drive himself even deeper into you.

“Bucky... fuck...” you gasped, your toes curling as a tight coil of tension began to snap in your lower stomach.

“I’m right here, doll. I got you,” he growled near your ear, his breath hot against your neck. He struck a spot deep inside that made your vision flash white. “Give it to me. Let go.”

The pleasure broke over you like a wave. You cried out his name as your walls clamped down hard around him, pulsing in a deep agonizingly sweet release. Hearing your voice crack, feeling you shatter around him, pushed Bucky over the edge. With a harsh guttural groan, he slammed into you one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go.

His whole body shuddering as he came inside you.

Later, much later, the room had cooled down.

You were curled on your side on the couch in his bedroom, your back against his chest, his arms wrapped securely around your waist. The red henley still hung loosely off your shoulders, smelling of cedar and sweat and Bucky’s distinct scent.

Your fingers reached down, tracing slow, aimless circles over his stomach where the red fabric stretched over him as he lay beside you.

“You really do love this shirt, don’t you?” he murmured sleepily into your hair, his voice heavy with satisfaction.

“I like what’s in the shirt,” you corrected softly, turning your head to smile up at him.

He huffed a warm laugh against the back of your neck. “You’re terrible, doll.”

“I know.”

He was silent for a long moment. The rhythm of his heart beat steadily against your shoulder blades, calm and measured.

“Don’t ever leave, okay?” He whispered, the quiet vulnerability returning to his voice, stripped of all bravado. “Don’t go back to your own quarters. Stay here.”

You shifted, turning in his arms until you were facing him. You leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw, right over the pulsing vein in his neck.

“Not even if you ask me to,” you promised.

Bucky smiled. A soft, beautiful and completely unburdened smile. He pulled the blanket up over both of your shoulders, tucked your head under his chin, and closed his eyes.

And in the quiet dark of the room, wrapped up in you, Bucky Barnes knew he was finally home.

You had taken great care to be less intense over the past week. This was the first time Bucky had been in your apartment since that day, and that hadn’t been without struggle. He asked to come over several times, even showing up and knocking on the door while you pretended to be asleep. It all felt very juvenile—the ignoring and avoiding and missing calls. But you didn’t know how else to respond. 

You loved Bucky. You loved him and it felt intense, but, apparently, things had moved too fast for him. A few months of dating were not enough. You were too much.

You had told him you loved him for the first time just days before you overheard his confession, so connecting the dots hadn’t been very hard.

You were too much. 

Avoiding him had been made easier by your intense work schedule. You stayed overtime and texted brief excuses. That had worked for a time. But last night, Bucky showed up at your office with a bag of takeout and an uncomfortably furrowed brow, and you knew it was probably time to face this. 

You gave him space for a week, and now it was time to practice being less intense in person. You couldn’t avoid him forever. And it hurt—being away from him for too long. Not that you would admit that. Not now. 

“I don’t know how good this is going to be,” you huffed out a laugh, ladling noodles into two bowls. “It’s a new recipe, and I’m kinda low on groceries.” 

When you glanced up at Bucky sitting on the couch, his smile looked strained. “‘M sure it’ll be great.” 

You replied with a short smile, glancing down at the bowls as you joined him in the living room. You sat far enough away for it to make sense—one cushion over, not halfway in his lap like you used to. The television created a soft backdrop of some show you weren’t paying attention to, but the meal was otherwise silent. 

You missed kissing him.

When he came in, you gave him one quick press of your lips and then darted back to the kitchen, ignoring the feel of his hands on your waist as they rushed to grab you. He was only doing all of that to appease you—the calls and trips to your office and the affection. 

If you let him do what he didn’t want to do, you would lose him. 

“Well,” you prompted, your teasing smile almost wobbling over the bowl. “How is it?” 

Bucky caught your eye from the other side of the small couch. His expression narrowed on your mouth, and then he winced, almost imperceptibly. 

Something dropped in your gut. 

“It’s good, sweetheart.” 

You kept up your smile, but as you turned back to your meal and pretended to watch TV, everything felt final. Your jaw was stiff as you took your next bite, the food tasting like nothing and curdling in your stomach. You hadn’t done enough. You hadn’t given him enough space. He had been so adamant about coming over because this was the end. 

You left your bowl half-filled when you placed it on the coffee table, the smell of it nauseating. The inside of your cheek was bleeding from where you bit into it. 

“Done already?” Bucky asked. He had finished a few minutes before you, his dish next to yours, and his arm looped back behind the couch. He wasn’t touching you. Almost, but not. 

“Yeah,” you replied. The single word sounded unstable, and you cursed your throat for feeling so thick with anxiety. You looked at Bucky from the corner of your eye, only to find his eyes closed and his expression pinched. 

Your lips parted. Were you going to beg? That would only make it worse, surely. Too intense, too much. 

Maybe this would be for the best. Some time for a break would—

“Please, tell me how to fix this.” 

You blinked at the TV, and then you blinked over towards Bucky, lips still parted but no words escaping them. 

A pause as breath was caught in the heaviness of your chest, and then, “What?” 

Bucky moved his tongue to his cheek, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees. He was wearing a hoodie today, and it felt so uncharacteristic that you had almost been distracted at the door. 

“I can’t… I can’t lose you, okay? I don’t know what I did, but you gotta tell me or I’m—” his hands came up to run over his head and fall at the nape of his neck. “—just tell me what I did, sweetheart. Please.” 

He turned to look at you then, only a foot of space between you but the distance almost stifling. Your hands clenched atop your knees, and he watched them, eyes flickering to any movement you made. He tracked your unsteady breath, the way your gaze couldn’t stay rooted in one place, and each minute shift in your features. 

“I don’t—I don’t understand,” you offered, because it was the truth. 

Bucky’s jaw rocked to the side. “You barely said three words to me this week. You didn’t want me over—didn’t want to see me. I fought through your building security to bring you dinner, and you looked… Baby, I walked through the door and looked about ready to cry. I mean, you didn’t even—you barely even kissed me today.” 

Your gentle sigh weighed down your chest. You dropped your gaze down to the couch, unaware that Bucky was desperately trying to find himself there, leaning his head down to no avail. This didn’t make any sense. You really couldn’t do anything right, it seemed. 

“It’s just—baby, I thought you said—” Bucky started, speaking in such disjointed sentences you looked up to try and parse them out. His shoulders untensed as you did, but then he said, “Thought you loved me, is that still true?” and the confusing swirl of emotions turned to devastation. 

“I do,” you fervently replied, shaking your head as if that made sense. “Of course I do, Bucky, but you…” 

“I what?” Bucky rushed to get clarification, the vulnerability so clear on his face it made you ache. 

“I thought I was too much for you. I was trying to give you space. I thought you were going to end things tonight.” 

“Why in the hell would you think that?” he exasperated, the words harsh but his delivery of them so gentle. 

You bit into your bottom lip and let out another breath, the pressure on your chest looming down into your ribs. The fists on your knees moved to pick at a loose thread on the couch. 

“I came by on Saturday—to your apartment, I mean. You left your jacket in my car, and I knew you were going to be out late with Sam.” 

“But I didn’t—” 

“I never actually got inside your apartment,” you revealed, knocking your head to the side, still unable to fully meet his gaze. 

A tick of silence passed. 

“You heard me.” 

This was the worst part. It made you seem immature, eavesdropping from the hall of his building. It made you seem immature, and you were also petty because you avoided him for a week. You fought the urge to allow the couch to swallow you whole.

“I didn’t mean to hear you,” you stressed, pulling and tugging at the loose corner of your cushion. “I left pretty quickly. I didn’t—” 

“Hey,” Bucky interrupted. He placed fingers under your chin, forcing your gaze up to his. The concern in his features masked lingering hurt, and you moved your hands into your lap to squeeze them together instead. “What did you hear, baby?”

You flickered your gaze between his eyes. “I’m not mad at you. I understand, you know? I wouldn’t want—” 

“Y/n. What did you hear?”

“That you think I’m too intense. That this—us—is too much, maybe.” 

Bucky kept you in his hold, but he closed his eyes. The hurt melted from his face only to be replaced with something akin to regret. He shook his head slightly, jutted out his jaw, and then he looked at you once again, his features strained. 

“Damn,” he whispered. The fingers under your chin moved to cup your cheek, rubbing soothing shapes there. “Thought you were leaving me, did you know that? Whole time this has been my own fault. God.” 

Bucky shifted forward on the couch until your legs were pressed close. You untucked yours to accommodate him, greedy for the contact despite your confusion, and he only got closer. When his forehead touched yours, you gave in to the burn in your waterline, vision blurrier than it had been. 

“I love you so goddamn much,” Bucky began, moving back only an inch to find your watery gaze. “When I said you were intense, I meant that this is the most I’ve ever felt for someone. That the intensity was mutual. That maybe, at the rate we’re going, it would be too much for you. I was asking Sam for advice—seeing if he thought I should back off.” 

“You?” you asked, the word crackling in your throat. 

“Yeah, me, sweetheart. Not you. I was afraid you were gonna bolt one of these days. I’m not exactly the easiest to get along with, according to quite a few people, and I know that loving you means that I’m probably the worst around you.”

The muscle at the corner of your mouth twitched, and along with it went the stress that had settled in every nerve ending in your body. The tension in your jaw released, your chest began to ease, and the only remaining negative was the sadness at Bucky’s confession—at his fronted vulnerability. 

You reached up to catch his wrist in your grip, and he responded by bringing his other hand up to hold you fully.

“I love you,” you affirmed. Bucky’s own smile was sad. “I’ve never thought about ‘bolting.’ I spent this entire week sad and lonely because I was afraid you were going to leave me. I was trying to show you that I could be… chill, I guess.” 

“Chill?” Bucky repeated with a scoff-like laugh, brows shooting up as he brushed his thumbs along the dampness of your cheeks. “I drove past your apartment every night this week. I used that shampoo you left in my shower just to make my bed smell like you again. I wrote…God, I wrote you this letter because I figured maybe if you got something in the mail—” 

“You sent me mail?” you interrupted. 

Bucky’s face blushed a bashful pink, his mouth open in a defensive smile. “We can forget about the mail, okay? Now that we’re talking it out.” 

“Right. I’m going to check my mail when you leave.” 

“Hey,” he demanded, his playful, pointed look reorienting you to the reason behind the tears now drying on your face. When you settled back into his gaze, Bucky readjusted you in his hands, bringing your head into his shoulder until you were fully in his arms. “I love you, you got that? I’m sorry you heard what you did and thought—thought that wasn’t true. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I never want to feel like that again—like I’m losing you.” 

You tightened your fingers into the material of Bucky’s hoodie, taking a moment to relish in his arms around you. You nodded against him, hoping that would suffice, and it did. He kissed the side of your head and leaned back against the couch, bringing you with him. 

Living in a small town, far from the city bustle you once called home, was a change that required a slow and steady adjustment for most people.

You were accustomed to walking across massive city blocks with a shopping center on every corner. You were used to breezy dresses and high heels, always meticulously grooming yourself nicely before ever stepping out of your apartment.

Now, the clean, organized world you knew has been replaced by dirt, soil, and animals.

Heels have given way to cowboy boots. The apartment with the skyline view has been traded for a modest cottage, its windows looking out over the silent and empty farmhouse next door.

Surprisingly, the change in scenery didn’t take long to adjust to. Since moving here, you’ve carved out a life in a quiet corner of town, tucked away from the rest of the townsfolk. With the vast, unoccupied land stretching out beside you, you often find yourself lounging in the grass to sunbathe or wandering out with your camera to capture the blooming apricot trees in the spring. 

It is comfortable, quiet, and— much to your surprise—doesn’t feel like a downgrade from city life at all.

Until one day, you woke with a start to the sound of chickens squawking uncontrollably right outside your door.

Are Marnie’s chickens running loose again?

With a tired groan, you pushed yourself out of bed—your hair poking out in every direction and your eyes heavy with deep, dark circles. You shoved the curtains aside, letting a bright, burning ray of sunshine through the glass to hit you square in the face.

Wincing, you blinked several times to adjust, but it didn’t take long for your eyelids to fly wide open at what you saw just beyond your window.

The once empty farmhouse next door was now cluttered with boxes and crates. Animals that belonged on Marnie’s ranch were roaming freely over the fresh grass where you used to lay out a towel to sunbathe.

Now, it was likely being littered with pig shit.

And in the center of the chaos stood a man you didn’t recognize. 

Sweat dampened his dark hair, sending loose strands draping over his face. He had his back to you—his white tank top and jeans stained dark from dirt and a hard day’s work.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. 

Was someone actually moving in? 

Or had Marnie run out of space and decided to rent this spot out, ruining the peace and quiet you relished in this corner of town?

To make matters worse, he revved the engine of a lawnmower and got to work, polluting the air with noise.

Grabbing your slippers and hastily throwing on a cardigan to cover your nightgown, you stomped out of your cottage and marched over to the farmhouse fence.

“Hello!” you called out, pulling the cardigan tight across your chest. “What’s going on here—?”

The lawn mower’s engine roared even louder, drowning out your voice completely. The man continued to guide the machine in a slow, methodical line, his back still turned to you. The smell of freshly cut grass and gasoline filled the air, mingling with the… less pleasant scent of the roaming livestock.

“Excuse me!”

Nothing.

You stepped closer to the fence, cupping your hands around your mouth. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”

He reached the end of a row and made a sharp turn, but he didn’t look up. His eyes stayed on the ground. From your spot by the fence, you watched the sun dance across his muscles as he maneuvered the heavy machine, sweat glistening on his forearms.

You waited until he drifted closer to the fence line before shouting again.

“Hey! Farmer boy!”

The mower sputtered and stalled, and finally, your voice pierced through the noise. 

He glanced up, pushing sweaty strands of hair out of his face. You stood just a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over your cardigan—the hem of your nightslip riding up ridiculously high on your thigh, your hair a mess of bed tangles and your face twisted grumpily. 

The breath left Bucky’s lungs—and it wasn’t because of the blistering sun burning his skin, or the morning’s hard labor.

It was because he had a beautiful woman standing right in front of him — a woman who was a total sight for sore eyes. 

Bucky let go of the mower, wiping his grimy hands on his stained jeans as he sauntered toward you. Meeting you at the fence, he flashed a charming smile, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling as he reached out a hand.

“Hi there, beautiful,” he greeted smoothly. “I’m Bucky.” 

You didn’t move. Your eyes followed his face, to the dirt caked between his fingers and underneath his nails, and then back at his face. 

“Beautiful?” you repeated, scrunching your face in what appears to be disgust. 

Bucky’s brows furrowed just slightly, but he didn’t let the rejection deter him. He slowly lowered his hand. 

Since he arrived early in the morning—well before the sun even rose—everyone in Pelican Town had been so kind and welcoming. Several of the folks had come by to help haul his luggage and boxes, even helping him get the chicken coop set up and the livestock moved in.

When Bucky inherited his parents’ old farm after they passed, he’d had his reservations about returning. But after those initial interactions with the townspeople, he started to think that maybe life out here wouldn’t be so bad after all.

His parents, Winnie and George, had always told him that the town they grew up in was filled with the most kindhearted people you would ever meet—a place where neighbors looked out for one another and never hesitated to lend a hand.

But now, here you were, and you wouldn’t even meet him halfway for a simple handshake.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Bucky huffed with that southern drawl he inherited from his parents. “Just callin’ it how I see it. Just as you called me ‘farmer boy.’”

You returned his petty jab with a roll of your eyes. 

“What is going on here?” you motioned to the mess surrounding him. “Is there some big renovation being done? Are you turning the farmhouse into a ranch or something? This is private land, you know.”

Bucky couldn’t help but smile at the way your voice rose in anger just from his mere presence alone.

He rested both palms on his hips. “Why do you care?” He nodded his head toward you, prompting an answer.

You hiked a thumb over your shoulder. “Because I live right there, and all the noise you’re producing is going to be a problem.”

He glanced over your shoulder, letting out a soft hum. “Oh, so you’re my neighbor? How cute.” He looked back at you, a playful gleam dancing in his blue eyes. “You’re also the woman who’s been crossing the fence—snappin’ pictures of my trees and layin’ in my grass to sunbathe on my private land. Ain’t that right?”

Your shoulders tensed.

You didn’t know a thing about this man—yet he knew exactly what you had been up to before he took over the farm. You shifted on your feet awkwardly and defensively. 

“H-how do you know that—?”

“It’s a small town, darlin’. And Marnie was tellin’ me all about it while she was helpin’ me with the chickens.” Bucky crossed his arms, his grin widening once he realized he’d won this little back and forth with you. “Wasn’t too happy when I first heard about it—but after findin’ out it was a pretty girl trespassin’, well, I don’t mind it one bit.”

Bucky watched as you purposefully avoided eye contact, your face scrunching in either embarrassment or pride—he couldn’t quite tell which.

“The people who owned this farmhouse left several years ago, even before I moved here. Their names were Winnie and George—”

“My parents,” Bucky interrupted, pointing a thumb at his chest. “I’m their son.”

Your eyes widened. 

Living in a small town, you heard plenty of stories about the people who lived here now and those who had long ago. It hadn’t taken long for you to learn about Winnie and George—the married couple who once called Pelican Town home. They had a massive arrangement of animals and livestock, always hosting parties and events on their land.

When Winnie got pregnant, they had moved across the country to give their son a “better life.”

But apparently, that country charm couldn't keep them away forever, because their son was back. And based on the looks of it, he was here to stay for good. 

You blinked, the name finally clicking. “Y-you’re James?”

“Sounds pretty comin’ off your lips.”

Agitation boiled in your blood as you stared back at his handsomely smug face. You couldn’t believe this was who you had to deal with now.

“Wow,” you drawled sarcastically, glaring him down. “Are you always this charming?”

“For you? I can be.” Bucky motioned to the rest of the farm with a sweeping gesture. “And you better get used to it—because I’m goin’ to be livin’ here from now on, right next to that cute little cottage of yours.”

Your jaw hung once his words registered in your mind.

Living here? That meant you had to deal with all the animals, the loud lawn mower, and that awful stench. 

That also meant no more sunbathing in the wide, open grass. No more pictures of the trees and flowers that grew in Winnie and George’s yard—the ones you were planning on making a scrapbook of.

“Any way you can keep the noise down to a minimum?” you huffed, trying to smooth over your agitation.

Bucky saw right through you, and his grin only grew wider because of it. “What? A little noise is already ruinin’ your beauty sleep?”

And most importantly, it meant dealing with a dirty, farm boy neighbor who didn’t seem to care at all about being neighborly, or your own well being.

You were about to snap something snarky back, but he was already revving the mower's engine, not even looking your way anymore.

“Look, princess,” he shouted over the noise. “If you want to keep takin’ your silly pictures for your social media or sunbathin’ on my lawn, by all means.”

Social media? 

What kind of woman did this man think you were? 

He finally looked up at you again, flashing another one of those charming smiles.

“Just be careful not to step in pig shit.”

Since then, you and Bucky had been stuck in a constant back and forth. 

Every morning, you woke to the sound of chickens squawking at the top of their lungs, followed immediately by the pungent scent of pig shit drifting through your window.

You complained to Bucky several times, but he always just wiped the sweat from his forehead and shrugged. “Guess I’ve gotten used to the smell. Doesn’t bother me none. Just light some incense and call it a day, would ya?”

On weekends, you would hang your damp laundry to dry in the sun, only for Bucky to decide that was the perfect time to leaf blow his gravel path. He would send a cloud of dust, dried hay, and dirt straight into your damp, clean dresses.

When you stomped out of the house in a rage, Bucky would just grin, nodding toward your laundry line and the pink lace that were strung up on it.

“Cute panties.”

Then out of sheer embarrassment, you would retreat back into your cottage without uttering a single word in defeat. 

The breaking point came one evening when you were walking home from an errand run in town. One of Bucky’s goddamn cows had drifted astray and was currently munching on the sunflowers poking through your fences. You could put up with a lot of things, sure, but your precious flowers were where you drew the line.

You dropped your grocery bags on the porch and marched to the fence, your blood pressure spiking with every petal that vanished into that cow’s mouth.

“Hey, stop that! Shoo!” You flapped your arms wildly, trying to look as intimidating as possible. “Go on! Get back to your own side!”

The cow didn’t react. She simply blinked her long lashes at you, a half eaten sunflower stem hanging out of her mouth like a cigar. When you stepped closer to give her a firm nudge, she didn’t retreat. The cow let out a hum of what sounds like appreciation, leaning her massive head into your shoulder and nearly knocking you backward.

She wasn’t scared of you at all. 

She was smitten. 

“No! No cuddles! You’re a trespasser!” you hissed, trying to shove the heavy beast back toward the fence.

The cow responded by letting out a long, wet lick that started at your wrist and ended at your elbow. You shivered at the contact—you had just showered!

A low, gravelly chuckle erupted from the farmhouse porch, a sound you hadn’t heard over your own frantic shooing. 

Bucky was leaning against the railing with a half peeled orange in his hand, a smug little smile tugging at his lips. He was enjoying this.

“Well, look at that,” he called out, his grin reaching his eyes. “Seems like my Bessie’s got a taste of my neighbor. I’m jealous.”

“Bucky, get your cow!” you shouted, trying to wipe the cow slobber off your arm. “She’s eating my sunflowers! These were for the festival!”

Rather than rushing to your rescue, Bucky took a bite of the citrus, juices spilling over his lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as his dirty boots stomped down the wooden steps, until he finally met you at the fence.

“Bessie ain’t doin’ any harm. She’s a good girl, ain’t she?” He smiled mid chew, his hand coming up to pet Bessie’s head as he started talking to the cow instead of you. “You got a good lick outta’ her, right? Is she as sweet as she looks?”

Your eyes went wide at the blatant comment. You scoffed, trying to ignore the sudden, drastic spike in your heartbeat.

“You need to take better care of your damn animals, Bucky.” 

Bucky exagerrated a frown, tilting his head as he played stupid. “I take plenty of care over my sweet Bessie.” 

You crossed your arms, glaring him down. “I mean keeping your animals on your property and leaving mine alone.” 

“But Bessie didn’t even cross your fence.” 

“She’s eating my sunflowers!” you reminded him, motioning dramatically toward your mangled plants.

Bucky snickered at your little outburst. He didn’t know what it was, but seeing you riled up over something as small as sunflowers was far too entertaining. Maybe it was the constant scent of soil and manure messing with his head, but his short yet frequent interactions with you had been more interesting than anything else in town since he had moved in.

“Alright, Bessie,” Bucky cooed to the cow. 

He kept one hand on her head, gently urging her away from your garden. He gestured toward the mangled stems. “What’s this festival you’re savin’ these flowers for, anyway?”

“The Flower Dance,” you said, your brows furrowed as if he already should have known the answer.

“Explain it to me, princess.”

You ignored the pet name. “Every year in the spring, the town hosts a dance in the center of the square. The whole place is decorated with colorful banners and flowers, and Gus sets up a buffet spread of homemade food.”

Bucky rubbed his chin, looking amused. “And there’s dancin’, I presume?”

“Lots of it,” you continued. “People partner up for a waltz. The girls show up in nice dresses and flower crowns.”

“And what about the men?”

Your eyes raked over Bucky—taking in the dirt caked on his boots and the fresh scuffs on his jeans. “Still average looking, at best.”

It seemed no matter how many insults you hurled at him, he remained entirely unfazed. His smile only grew wider as he stepped closer, leaning over the fence until you were nearly nose to nose.

“So,” he drawled, voice growing deeper. “Do you have a partner?”

You blinked, thrown off guard by the question. “Excuse me?”

Bucky’s posture shifted slightly. He looked down, dragging a calloused finger along the top rail of your fence, tracing the grain of the wood as he searched for the right words. From where you stood, you could tell he was trying to maintain that ‘cool guy’ exterior, but his faint, boyish smile gave him away.

He shrugged casually, though he still didn’t meet your eyes.

“Well... I was just wonderin’...” he started. “Since I’m new in town and all, maybe you could show me the ropes of this ‘flower dance’ thing. Seems like a lot for a guy to take in on his own.”

You cocked an eyebrow at him suspiciously.

“Sounds like you already got it all figured out,” he said, finally looking up. That smug smile returned to the corners of his mouth. “And a guy like me... well, it’d be a dream to take a woman like you.”

You let out a short, scoffing laugh. 

He had been taunting and poking fun at you since the day he moved in—and now he was inviting you to be his partner for the Flower Dance?

Was he pulling your leg?

Instead of entertaining him, you just rolled your eyes and turned back toward your house. 

“Very funny.” 

As you gathered the groceries from your steps, you added without looking over your shoulder, “Control your animals, Barnes.”

It was like Bucky was trying to get back at you for rejecting his invitation to the Flower Dance—because from that day onward, he had been nothing but an aggravating pest lingering just outside your cottage.

Instead of being a slighty annoying and impractical neighbor, Bucky took your rejection with a tip of his hat and a doubled effort to be the most inconvenient man alive. 

He started a ‘fence repair’ project that involved loud hammering at six in the morning—shirtless. When you stomped out of your house in a rage, he only grinned. 

“Sorry, sweets. But the world doesn’t stop movin’ just ‘cause a pretty girl wants to get some sleep.”

You retaliated by accidentally spraying your hose at his freshly painted fence before it had a chance to dry, followed by a fake giggle and a chirpy “oops!”

This relentless back and forth went on and on, until you found yourself pinned beneath your grandmother’s heirloom vanity on an unfortunate Friday afternoon—the day right before the Flower Dance festival.

This vanity was the one piece of furniture that had survived the move to Pelican Town, and the one thing you were trying to preserve. 

While you were trying to shimmy it away from a leaky pipe in the wall, the antique wood groaned. With a suspicious sounding crack that made your heart drop, the back leg snapped, and the entire heavy structure tilted, the vanity’s ornate mirror swinging dangerously toward the floor.

You caught it just in time, wincing as your shoulder braced roughly against the heavy wood, but you were pinned. 

If you moved, the mirror would shatter and the delicate wood would splinter beyond repair.

In that moment, you didn’t know what was worse—being pinned beneath a very heavy, very important vanity, or the fact that your window was propped open and the only man in sight who could help you was none other than Bucky fucking Barnes.

“Bucky!” you shouted toward the window.

He heard you—you knew it—because as he closed the mailbox, he gave a subtle glance over his shoulder before pretending he hadn’t heard a thing. He went right back to sorting through his mail.

“Bills, bills, bills,” Bucky clicked his tongue, loud enough for you to hear. He shook his head. “More bills.”

“Bucky, get over here!” you shouted louder, trying to shift your feet, but the movement only made the vanity creak ominously. “I need your help!”

Bucky finally turned around, that stupid, smug smile tugging at his lips at the sight of your struggle.

“You sure about that?” he taunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know—you look pretty strong to me. I didn’t expect that kind of muscle out of a girl like you.”

“I’m being serious, Bucky—!” you gasped, the wood sliding through your sweaty palms. You tried adjusting your feet again, but your sandals gave little to no traction against the wooden floor. “It’s going to—it’s slipping!”

As you scrambled to fix your grip, the vanity slipped straight through your fingers. You shrieked, jumping to the side just in time to avoid having your feet crushed as the heavy furniture crashed to the ground.

The impact made the entire house shake. Shards of glass exploded, skidding across the floor like ice as pieces of the wood on the vanity splintered off.

Bucky, who had been taunting you just seconds ago, was already moving toward your door before you could even notice.

“Shit, shit,” he cursed under his breath. He shoved the front door open, barging through and tossing his mail aside.

“Fuck—are you okay?” Bucky rushed to your side, crouching beside you. His warm hands found your shoulders as he gently pried you away from the broken glass.

The worried tone in his voice went in one of your ears and out the other. All you could do was stare at the wreckage before you, the glass scattered everywhere a clear testament to how shattered you felt inside.

“That… that was my grandmother’s,” you said with a shaky breath. “It’s the last thing I have of hers.”

Bucky stood beside you, sensing the tension in your shoulders as his teeth caught his bottom lip. You could feel the guilt coming off him for not helping you sooner.

Slowly, you lifted your head to look at him, your eyes wide in disbelief. Bucky looked like he was bracing himself for a round of yelling—a smart move on his part.

“I asked you for help,” you started, voice trembling as the rage began to boil in your blood. “I asked you for help, Bucky! And all you did was stand there and watch me struggle!”

You stepped closer, the soles of your sandals crunching against the glass as you shoved a finger into his chest. “You’re an asshole, Bucky. You’ve been a pest and a jerk since the second you moved in, and now the one thing that’s actually important to me is broken because you wanted to play some stupid game!”

Bucky could only stare at you completely wide eyed, as the angry shakiness in your voice softened into something more broken and small. 

Your face—once scrunched in a pissed off snarl—gave way to a slight wobble in your bottom lip that Bucky caught immediately.

Maybe he should’ve retorted. He should’ve told you it wasn’t entirely his fault. But the way the tears started to prick at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over any second, made his heart ache in ways he didn’t want to admit.

Before you could shove him a second time, his large, calloused hands came up, gently catching your wrist.

“Hey,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “Stop. Don’t move. You’re gonna cut your feet,” he warned, looking down at your sandals.

“What—?”

“Here.” Bucky’s hands nudged your shoulders, guiding you to the edge of your bed slowly and carefully. “Just stay here, okay?” he murmured, crouching in front of you until he was at eye level. His eyes bored into yours, a small attempt to soothe your panic. “Don’t move an inch until I get the glass up. I’m goin’ to get my kit. I have the tools to fix this.”

“You can’t fix this, Bucky,” you choked out, wiping a tear away with the back of your hand. “The wood snapped. The mirror is in a million pieces.”

Bucky reached out, his thumb catching the tear that you missed to wipe. 

“I can,” he said, and for once, there wasn’t a trace of smugness in his tone. “I’ve got some aged mahogany in the barn that’ll match this grain near perfect. And I know a guy in town who can cut a new glass plate by morning.”

He stood up, looking down at the broken glass and then back at you. “I’m sorry, princess. I really am. I’ll make it right. Just stay put.”

For the first time, princess didn’t sound like a condescending, backhanded compliment. 

So, you obeyed. 

You sat on the edge of your mattress, sandals discarded on the floor and bare feet tucked safely away from the danger zone as you watched Bucky go to work. He was meticulous, sweeping your broom across the wood to make sure not a single drop of glass was left behind on the floorboards.

Once the floor was clear, he kept his focus on the broken leg and the empty, ragged frame where the mirror used to be.

“This vanity must be important to you, huh?”

You kept your eyes down, picking at the fabric of your quilt. “I’m not really in the mood for your taunts, Barnes.”

“Hey,” he huffed, glancing up at you. “I’m not tryin’ to play at you, darlin’. I promise.” He frowned, his tone softening as he took in the saddened expression on your face. 

“I know what it’s like, tryin’ to preserve an heirloom. My parents—” he swallowed hard, keeping a brave face just for you, “a lot of the stuff they gave me didn’t make the move back to Pelican Town. Which is ironic, ‘cause this was their home from the very beginning, you know? It could’ve been just fine if they kept their stuff here.”

You blinked, sniffling as you looked at him. Aside from that slight glimpse of vulnerability when he’d asked you to the festival, this was the most he had ever shared about himself.

“I’m so sorry,” you said sympathetically, not really knowing what else to offer him in a moment like this.

Bucky offered a small, weary smile. 

“Don’t be,” he groaned slightly as he knelt back down, opening the drawers of the vanity to carefully remove your belongings so he could get started on the repairs. “What’s all this?”

He started pulling out various bottles and products—makeup brushes and perfumes that looked far too expensive and meticulous for a girl to be bothered with in a town like this.

“Well, look at that,” Bucky let out a low whistle, turning a tube of designer lipstick over in his calloused palm. “What is this? Chanel? Dior?” He glanced up at you, that same spark returning to his eyes, though it was softer now—less of a bite and more of a tease. “Always wondered how a farm girl kept lookin’ like she just stepped off a runway in Zuzu City.”

“What’s wrong with a girl wanting to look her best?” you scoffed, feeling a little embarrassed. 

Bucky grinned at the sound of you finally getting your spark back.

He reached back into the vanity, pulling out a small scrapbook. As he moved it, a handful of photographs slipped from between the pages and fluttered onto the floor.

Your eyes flew wide as the photographs hit the floor—some of them landing face up, while others landed face down.

You scrambled off the bed, trying to snatch the photos, but Bucky was already sweeping them up. He stood, holding them high and well out of your reach.

“Wait—don’t!”

“Oh?” Bucky’s brow arched, as he playfully tilted his head at you. “What do we have here?”

“Bucky, stop playing around! Give them to me—!”

Bucky’s arm stayed locked high above his head, a deep chuckle vibrating in his chest as he flipped through the pages. The first few were random blurbs—bits of a poetry phase you had gone through that had lasted all of a week.

“Roses are red, violets are blue—? You write poetry?” he questioned, making your face burn with embarrassment.

“It was a phase! Just shut up and hand it over—”

He ignored you, continuing to flip through the book until his expression suddenly softened. His thumb brushed over the edge of a Polaroid taped to one of the pages with pink, polka-dotted washi tape.

“This is…” he breathed, his voice trailing off as he took in the photo of the apricot tree on his own lawn. He stared at the way the sun peaked through the branches, highlighting the orangey-pink fruit. “The tree on my lawn—my mom’s apricot tree. She grew that from a sapling.”

He continued flipping through the pages, his blue eyes trailing over each one carefully. He took in the way you arranged the different prints—candid shots of the townsfolk, the horses at Marnie’s farm, colorful cocktails from Gus’s saloon, and flowers. Lots of them. Flowers he recognized from both your lawn and his.

“You know… when the people in town mentioned you were a photographer, I just assumed you were an influencer,” he admitted. He gave you a lopsided grin, his gaze dropping back to the book. “Some… social media vermin.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms and raising a brow. “A vermin?”

Bucky grinned. “Yeah—I mean, you’re a good lookin’ woman, with all your fancy designer clothes and stuff—” he waved his free hand while the other held the book aloft. “I figured you’d be into all the selfies and modelin’ crap.”

“Well,” you huffed, trying to mask your bashfulness. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Disappointment is the farthest thing from what I’m feelin’, little doll,” he mused. He took in the photographs and the various little doodles of flowers in the corners of the pages, tucked neatly around the polaroids. “These are beautiful.”

You boasted about plenty of things—the clothes you wore, the bags you carried, the way you styled your hair. But photography and scrapbooking were more personal. It was the hobby that had helped you during the transition from the city to the farm. Some might deem it corny, but away from the expectations of social media—where strangers were updated through sugar-coated photos on a digital screen—you had turned photography into something private. Something more you.

“I…” you started, struggling to handle the look of adoration on Bucky’s face. “Thank you, Bucky. That’s very sweet of you.”

After taking in every page, he closed the scrapbook and handed it back. His attention shifted to the glossy prints dangling from his fingers, and he began sorting through them with a boyish grin.

“And these are the photos you’re goin’ to add to the book later, I take it—?”

Bucky stopped short the second his eyes landed on the next shot. Most were the same snaps of trees and the town, but there was one that made his breath hitch and his pants suddenly tight.

“It’s a little project I’m working on,” you explained, completely clueless and still a bit bashful. “A page dedicated to the different seasons. The trees are always changing, and the town looks completely different from spring to winter.”

Bucky stayed quiet, his shoulders tensing as his eyes remained glued to the photograph. He cleared his throat, his adam’s apple bobbing.

“I… see,” he said, his voice suddenly low and raspy.

Your brows furrowed. You couldn’t understand why he was so focused on that photo specifically. Curiosity getting the best of you, you tilted your head to peek at what he was looking at—and your heart dropped into your stomach.

Staring back at you was a selfie you had taken on your instant camera. You were sprawled across your bed, hair fanned out across the pillows. Your chest was exposed bare, one arm draped over your breasts, though if someone looked close enough, they could see the shaded curve of an areola peeking just past your forearm. Your body was angled to accentuate your curves, revealing the soft skin of your thighs and hips in nothing but a pair of lace panties.

Face burning a million degrees, you snatched the photo out of Bucky’s hands. 

“Don’t look at that!” you shrieked, spinning away from him.

All Bucky could do was stand there—frozen, bewildered, and hard as fuck. 

He could hear your frantic heartbeat from where he stood. And with your back turned, it was painfully obvious you didn’t want to talk about it.

“Right. Sorry,” he cleared his throat again, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. He turned toward the door. “I’m gonna—uh, grab my tools and start workin’ on this vanity, okay? I’ll be back!”

Before you could say a word, his boots were already rushing out the door. 

He eventually returned with his tools and set to work on the vanity. While he worked, you tried to keep yourself busy, maintaining a respectful distance at all times.

From your open bedroom door, where he was crouched on the floor, Bucky still had a clear view of you in the kitchen making lemonade. You told him it was your way of saying “thank you,” but he knew the truth. 

You were just trying to put as much space between you as possible after that photo.

But right now, the last thing he wanted was for you to be far away.

That image of you was scorched into the back of his mind, taking up permanent residence. Laid completely bare, hair fanned out, wearing nothing but those lace panties and an expression that screamed, “fuck me, Bucky!” — it was enough to drive him crazy.

As he watched you move around the kitchen in the little sundress that had made his mouth water the first day he laid eyes on you, a million thoughts raced through his mind just as fast as the blood was rushing to his dick. 

Why had you taken a picture like that? 

Who was it for? 

Was there someone you were dating—someone you were sending those prints to?

Suddenly, a bitter spike of jealousy flared in his gut. The idea of you taking photos like that just to mail them off to some soft handed city boy prick made him want to burn the whole town down. His movements grew jerky and annoyed as he worked. The wood felt awkward in his grip, and his tools kept slipping.

“Shit,” he cursed, grabbing your attention. 

You glanced over your shoulder, a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in your hand. “Everything okay? Need any help?”

“Just peachy,” Bucky mumbled.

As he heard your footsteps drawing closer, he tried to adjust himself, willing away the erection that was vulgarly pressing through his pants.

“Why don’t you take a break and have some lemonade, then?” You held the glass out to him, a small smile tugging at your glossy lips—a view that didn’t help Bucky’s situation in the slightest. “Before the ice melts.”

Bucky’s gaze traveled from your lips down to your hands. They were pretty—small and soft as they curled around the tall glass. Even your fingertips were perfectly manicured.

You were being far too kind, offering him a drink while he crouched there on your floor, his mind dark and filthy as he imagined how those fingers would look slicked with his cum instead of condensation.

“Sure,” Bucky grunted, straining as he stood up. “A lemonade sounds good.” 

The two of you stepped out onto the front porch for some fresh air, taking in the way the sun poked through the branches. Next door, the chickens were squawking and the birds chirping, but the domestic sounds did nothing to help the awkward silence between you.

You kept your gaze straight ahead on the grass and flowers, but you could feel Bucky’s stare lingering on the side of your face.

“So…” he started, and you mentally braced yourself for whatever was coming next. “That photo—”

“Oh, God,” you sighed, squeezing your eyes shut out of embarrassment. “Don’t start.”

Bucky raised his glass, letting out a huff of a laugh—though it didn’t sound humorous at all. It was just filler noise to cover his nerves.

“Well—it’s, uh... it’s a good picture,” he mumbled, staring at the ice cubes melting in his glass. “You look good in it.”

You felt like you wanted to shrivel up and let the wind carry you away. You avoided his gaze, turning your head to hide your burning cheeks. “You’re such an idiot.”

“All I’m sayin’ is,” he continued, mumbling even quieter as that jealousy bled through his voice,“whoever is gettin’ those kind of photos from you is a lucky man.”

You blinked, finally glancing at him. 

“Lucky man?” You noticed the way his cheeks were flushed pink. “There is no man.”

Bucky froze with the glass halfway to his lips, his blue eyes snapping to yours. “No man?” he repeated, like he needed the reassurance.

“No,” you shrugged casually, giving him a small smile. “I just take those photos for myself. I spent years worried about how other people perceived me. When I moved here, I wanted to see myself for me. It makes me feel confident. Seeing myself like that is kind of empowering, you know? It’s for my eyes only.”

You let out a shaky breath, the embarrassment still very much there—but no longer because you were seen half naked. Now, it was because of how corny your explanation sounded out loud. 

You glanced at Bucky out of the corner of your eye, trying to gauge his reaction, but he looked so deep in thought that you couldn’t make out a single one.

“For your eyes only, huh?” Bucky hummed.

When you gave him that little nod, Bucky knew he was doomed.

The jealousy that had been sitting like a pit in his stomach was drowned out in a damned instant the minute you said ‘no man.’ That meant he was the only one who saw that photo of you—that sweet, vulnerable side where you laid bare, warm and inviting. Bucky loved the fact that there was no man, and no one else after you.

To him, that just meant you were already his.

“Go to the Flower Dance with me,” he asked suddenly.

You huffed a lighthearted laugh. “This again?”

Bucky turned to face you fully now, eyes boring into yours so intently it was like he was giving you a silent warning not to even bother looking away. 

“Let me take you to the Flower Dance. Let me be your partner. Let me dance with you.”

“Bucky, you can’t be serious—”

“I was serious the first time I asked you, and I’m even more so now,” he said, his brows furrowing as his voice deepened. “Dance with me.”

You bit your lip, hesitating.

When he noticed your silence, he stepped closer, standing over you until he was looking down at you completely.

“Consider it a thank you for fixin’ up your vanity.”

“Thank you? You made me struggle and didn’t help me the first time!” you countered, but Bucky didn’t budge. He didn’t fight back or laugh.

He was dead serious.

He wanted you to go to the Flower Dance with him as your date—and you had a very strong feeling he wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer.

“Fine,” you reluctantly agreed, despite a smile tugging at your lips. “But just remember—it’s a thank you for fixing my vanity.”

Bucky grinned, finding himself very, very happy with your response.

To you, agreeing to the Flower Dance was just a fair trade—a thank you for his labor and a way to settle the score over your grandmother’s vanity.

But as Bucky watched you walk back into the house, his hand drifted to his pocket, letting his fingers brush gently against the glossy edge of the photograph—your photograph— tucked deep inside. 

Having that naked, intimate piece of you hidden away against his thigh—a secret kept just for him—was a reward far better than anything else you could have given him.

He knew he was being greedy by stealing the photo and taking you to the Flower Dance, but he didn’t care. The photo was enough to drive him crazy tonight, but dancing with you tomorrow was the cherry on top.

It was Saturday morning—the day of the Flower Dance—and Bucky had been restless since dawn, and even more so the night before.

He lost track of how many times he had jerked off since he stole that photo. One time was right after he finished fixing your vanity. He had retreated to his farmhouse, slammed the door shut, and before he even kicked off his boots, he had his pants unzipped and cock in hand.

Another time was in the shower, then again right before he fell asleep, and… once or twice more as the clock ticked closer to the start of the festival.

It was shameless, almost pathetic, but when you were dealing with animals and manual labor all day, you had to relieve the stress somehow. And nothing relieved it quite like the memory of you sprawled across those pillows with those sweet tits pressed together.

As you made your way to the town square, you found yourself walking with a pep in your step. Your heels clicked against the pavement, and your sundress swayed at your hips with every stride.

You had taken lots of care to look better than usual today. You had woken up early just to have enough time for your hair and makeup, trying on three different dresses just to see which one made you look the best. You even found yourself wondering what Bucky was wearing—hoping, subconsciously, that your dress might actually match his outfit.

Fuck.

You were actually looking forward to see him and dance with him.

Your heart was beating far too fast for your chest. You could already imagine it—Bucky, finally rid of his grimy farm clothes and wearing a proper outfit, or his heavy boots stepping all over your sandals because he didn’t have a clue how to dance.

You found yourself grinning to yourself up until you made it to the bustle of the community square. Gus had his food spread out on a table beneath a canopy, potted flowers that were grown by the townsfolk were scattered about, and colorful banners were decorated across the lightpoles.

“What’s got you smilin’ to yourself for?” a familiar, deep gravelly voice interrupted you, stopping you in your tracks.

It was Bucky, wearing a nicely ironed button up tucked into his khaki pants that were held up by a nice, brown leather belt. Your smile faltered slightly—not because he looked terrible, but because he looked good.

Too fucking good.

He tilted his head, hands tucked deep into his pockets. “Hey, where did that smile go?”

“I… nothing,” you cleared your throat, hands primly behind your back as you took him in. “You look… good.”

You suddenly felt small as you watched Bucky’s eyes trace over you—taking in the way you did your hair and your makeup, down to the short hem of your dress. You watched as he caught his bottom lip between his teeth.

“That might’ve been the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he joked before nodding to you. “You look beautiful.” He glanced around before taking a step closer, leaning down so only you could hear. “Kind of makes me a bit jealous knowin’ other people can see how pretty you are.”

Your face warmed, and Bucky expected you to back away from his boldness—but you stepped closer, batting your lashes at him in a way that drove him fucking crazy.

“Yeah, but they’re not the ones dancing with me, are they?”

With all the pent up frustration building inside him, that little taunt of yours felt like an open invitation to grab you and do whatever he wanted.

But instead, his tongue ran over his teeth as he grinned, amused by your comment. He extended a hand toward you.

“The dance is ’bouta start soon. Come on.”

Despite this being his first time ever experiencing a Flower Dance, he took initiative as if he had been doing this longer than you had. The live band propped up on the stage began to play, the acoustic guitars picking the same catchy tune you knew by heart from all the years you had attended before. 

Women and men gathered hand in hand to get into position. Bucky led you to the very center of the crowd, standing tall in front of you. He guided your hand to his shoulder before resting his own large palm firmly against your hip. 

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his sudden burst of confidence. “Wow, Bucky Barnes. Don’t tell me you actually know how to dance?”

“Course I do,” he huffed. “Just ‘cause I’m covered in dirt all day doesn’t mean I don’t know how to take a lady for a dance. Don’t sound so surprised.”

He pulled you in closer, and you looked up at him, your eyes wide and soft with a sheepish smile to match.

“You wouldn’t let me fall, right?” you teased, your voice barely sounding over the guitars.

“Never,” he promised, his grip on your waist tightening to prove it to you. “Not a single speck of dirt on that pretty little head of yours. I’ve got you.”

The music started, and as you two danced, you noticed how Bucky was pulling you closer and closer with each step. 

His hand stayed tight at your waist before moving to your lower back, then back to your hips with a small, firm squeeze. The hand that held yours gripped tighter, reeling you in even more with every move.

As he spun you back into his chest, you felt the hitch in his breathing. You leaned back slightly, looking up at him. 

“You okay, Bucky?” you teased with a smile. “You’re looking a little... stiff.”

God, those eyes and those glossy fucking lips.

Bucky let out a visible shudder before forcing a nod. “Dancin’ with a very pretty girl in my arms—it’s natural for me to be a little nervous, isn’t it?”

He spun you again, your short sundress flaring out like a ballerina—and he caught a quick glimpse of your bare thigh. Just barely. He wanted more.

He drew you in until your forehead was resting against his collarbone. He leaned his head down, his nose grazing the skin of your temple as he took a deep, shaky inhale of your scent—shampoo, vanilla, and the warmth of your skin from the sunlight. You smelled so good, and each inhale was doing serious damage to his self-control.

From his height, his gaze fell directly into the neckline of your dress. He had a direct, unobstructed view of the swell of your breasts, the fabric of your sundress moving against your curves with every breath you took. 

It was the photograph come to life, only now he could actually touch you… just not in the complete ways he wanted to. 

His hand on your back slid lower, his palms suddenly clammy as he pressed your hips tight against his. You gasped softly, your step faltering for a split second as you felt him.

A thick, heavy, warm bulge was straining against his khakis, pressing right into the notch of your thighs.

Bucky’s jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful, his eyes were somewhere over your shoulder as he tried to maintain a shred of dignity. He thought he was being subtle—that you were too caught up in the festival to notice how inappropriately turned on he was.

He was wrong.

Deciding to play a much dirtier game, you took matters into your own hands. He spun you around again, but instead of facing him, you tucked yourself right back into the curve of his body. 

Your back hit his chest, and your ass ground firmly against his cock.

Bucky let out a shuddering groan that tickled against the back of your neck as he felt the curve of your ass press harder into his bulge. 

Before he could even think about pulling away to save face, you reached over and grabbed his hands. Your fingers slid over his knuckles, guiding his large, calloused palms down until they were over your hips. You kept your hands over his, forcing him to feel the way your curves fit perfectly against his body.

“Shit,” he cursed, and you grinned.

Everyone else was too preoccupied with their own dancing to even notice Bucky’s predicament, so you continued swaying your hips against him to the music. 

Every rub of your ass against his cock was like adding oil to the flames. Bucky’s nose nuzzled the side of your head, and you could hear his breathing get more labored the more you ground against him.

“Still nervous you’re dancing with a pretty girl?” you taunted. You felt him twitch against you in response.

He groaned, his lips so close to your ear that you could feel his hot breath. “You know exactly what you’re doin’.” 

“And what exactly am I doing, Bucky?”

“You’re bein’ a goddamn tease.”

Your smile grew wider. “But you’re not exactly pushing me away, are you?”

His grip on your hips tightened enough to bunch the fabric of your dress around your waist. He hiked the skirt up higher, his hot palms gliding just beneath the hem to tickle your outer thighs — then higher, towards the sensitive skin of your inner leg.

You gasped softly when you felt his thumb graze against your clothed cunt. 

“Keep tauntin’ me,” he growled against your ear, “and I’m goin’ to flip up this tiny skirt and fuck you right here in the middle of the square—where everyone can see.”

Your eyes traced over the crowd. Everyone was all smiles, too caught up in the joy of the festival to even notice the two perverts feeling each other up in the middle of it all.

“Then do it,” you challenged.

“You goddamn slut.” Bucky huffed a laugh against the back of your neck— no humor in it at all. “No. I’m too jealous for that. I wouldn’t want anyone else seein’ my girl like that.”

Your breath hitched. His girl?

“That’s funny.” You looked up over your shoulder at him, your eyes wide as you faked your innocence. “I don’t remember ever being your girl.”

Bucky’s cock twitched hard against your ass, and you knew right then that you won.

“Not my girl?” Bucky scoffed, spinning you around so you were forced to look him in the eye.

“You’ve been my girl from the minute I stepped foot back in Pelican Town. From the moment I laid eyes on you—I’d already decided you were mine. And you agreeing to dance with me today just confirmed it all.”

He ground his hips against yours, letting you feel his heavy bulge press against your inner thigh.

“If you don’t believe you’re my girl, then I’m just gonna have to prove it to you.”

You weren’t able to get a single word in as Bucky’s hand wrapped tight around yours. 

He led you away from the crowd, pushing through with polite and gentle ‘excuse me’s that went completely against how roughly he was holding you.

He took you towards the shadows at the side of the saloon.

It was a narrow, unassuming alley, hidden from the main square by overgrown shrubbery and stacked wooden crates.

“Bucky,” you looked around breathlessly and no one was near, “what are you doing?” 

He didn’t answer.

He shoved you back against the cool brick wall. He didn’t wait, and he didn’t waste his time asking, either. 

His hands were already at the hem of your sundress, bunching the fabric in his fists and hiking it up until the cool spring air hit your hips.

Your eyes went wide, your heart fighting against your chest as you watched him fall to his knees.

You knew you should’ve stopped him.

You should’ve told him this was inappropriate—that anyone could walk in on you two right now.

But as he knelt there, his eyes boring hungrily into your thighs and his tongue darting out to lick his lips the second his fingertips found the waistband of your panties, you couldn’t find the breath to argue. 

How could you possibly deny a predator his well-earned prey?

Bucky tugged your panties down your thighs and past your legs, tossing them aside. His hand rubbed up and down your thigh before hiking your leg over his shoulder, his hot touch making you shudder and grow even wetter as he stared at you intimately.

“God, look at you,” he groaned, palming himself. “What a fucking sight. All the men you danced with before I moved back into town didn’t get to see this side of you, did they?”

You only stared at him. When you didn’t answer, he gripped your ankle, making you wince.

“Answer me.”

“No,” you shook your head, swallowing hard. “Only you.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he hummed, pleased. He leaned in, trailing soft, wet kisses along your inner thigh. “Dancin’ like a saint in front of the mayor, in front of all the townsfolk, just to be drippin’ wet for me like a goddamn whore.”

He leaned in, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive folds, making you hitch a breath. 

He looked up at you from between your legs, and you swore you could’ve melted right there at the sight of him. His eyes were completely blown out, staring at you in ways that should’ve made you afraid.

“I'm gonna taste every fuckin’ drop you made for me while you were rubbin’ that pretty ass against my cock. I’m gonna eat you until you’re beggin’ me to stop, and even then, I ain’t stoppin’.”

“Bucky… —ah!” your hand flew over your mouth once Bucky buried his face between your legs.

With your short dress bunched messily around your waist, Bucky’s tongue—hot and wet—swiped upward against your cunt, making you moan against your palm. He kept flicking his tongue up and down against the sensitive skin, and your fingers tangled into his hair, giving it a firm tug that made him groan against you.

“S-someone might... walk in on us—” a whimper broke from your lips as Bucky tilted his head, his tongue moving against your weeping cunt.

His hands slid up past your thighs to grab your ass, kneading and squeezing as he ate you out behind the saloon.

The mention of someone catching you only made his cock harder in his pants. He moaned against your slit, his tongue lapping at your juices as he licked and suckled on your sensitive pussy. The tip of his tongue found your clit again, flicking at it and leaving vulgar suckling noises in the quiet alley. 

His finger poked at your wet and vulnerable entrance, sliding in easily as he fucked your clit with his tongue.

“Oh my god, Bucky—!” you cried out.

You were shaking, your back scraping against the brick as Bucky ate you out shamelessly.

As his tongue danced on your most sensitive spots and his finger fucked you in rhythm with his mouth, your hips began to buck uncontrollably against his face, and Bucky let out a muffled growl.

“S-slow down—fuck, I’m gonna cum—” you whimpered behind your hand.

He hummed in satisfaction, the vibration making your pussy tingle as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your ass to hold you steady while he licked every last drop of you. Your back arched off the wall and you tried to squirm away to save face, but Bucky wouldn’t let you.

One hand stayed tight on your thigh and the other squeezed your ass, all while his face was tucked deep against your pussy, soaking in everything you had to give him.

“Fu—fuck, Bucky…” you whimpered as he slowly released your leg from his shoulder.

He leaned back on his heels, looking up at you, and the sight made your breath hitch. Bucky gave you a devilish little grin, his chin and lips gleaming with the wet sheen of your juices. 

Between his legs, his bulge was straining against his khakis—a damp spot darkening his lap where his pre-cum had soaked right through.

You looked around frantically—coast still clear—before tugging your skirt down and adjusting the straps on your shoulders. “We… we should go. The rest of the town’ll be looking for us—”

Bucky pushed himself up from the ground, his large body blocking your path as his hands went to his waist. He began to tug at the fastenings of his belt.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” he rasped in a low growl. “I’m not even close to done with you.”

You swallowed hard, staring up at him as you caught your breath from your release. “Bucky, we can’t. Someone will catch us—”

“No,” Bucky hissed, unzipping his pants and tugging them down. “Not until I get to cum—you’re not goin’ anywhere.”

He stepped closer, nudging his leg between your thighs as his hands found the hem of your skirt again. His hand trailed up, dragging the fabric up around your waist as he pinned you back against the wall. 

Bucky’s hand wrapped around his shaft, and as your eyes trailed down—you let out a soft gasp.

He was big, thick, and pulsing in his hand. His tip caressed your clit, and he began jerking himself off against your warmth. He let out jagged breaths, his hand trailing down your thigh before hiking it up and over his hip.

“Ah—Bucky!” you cried out, holding onto his shoulders for support.

“Stay right here,” he commanded, his hands gripping your ass to hoist you higher against the wall. “Wrap those legs tighter.”

His cock dragged across your slit, his tip catching your entrance and making you gasp. He nudged his tip against your opening, testing the tension, and let out a shaky, ragged breath.

“So tight...” he rasped, the words sounding almost painful. “But you’re so wet for me, sweetheart. I could just slip right in.”

“Bucky, wait—you’re too big,” you whispered, your hands bracing against his shoulders.

You could already feel him stretching you, even just at the entrance. “I don’t think it’s gonna fit—and we can’t do this in public, someone is going to—”

Before you could finish, Bucky’s palm clamped firmly over your mouth to silence you. His eyes were dark, focused entirely on where your pussy hugged his tip.

“Shut up,” he hissed, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I can’t wait. The sooner I fuck you, the sooner we can get outta here.”

With a slow tilt of his hips, he began sinking himself inside you. 

You let out a muffled, pitchy moan against his palm, your eyes rolling back as the sensation of him filling you made you see stars.

He was stretching you apart, claiming every inch of your body as he pushed deeper and deeper, until his hips finally pressed against yours.

He stayed there for a moment, buried to the hilt, his forehead dropping to rest against the crook of your neck as he let out a groan. “Fuuck, shit—”

He was so deep, his cock stretching your walls as his body pinned you so firmly to the brick that you couldn’t move even if you wanted to.

“There,” he growled against your skin, his hand still tight over your mouth as he watched the pleasure wash over your face. “Fits perfectly.”

Despite his words, his face was twisted and his jaw was clenched from how tightly your body was squeezing him.

As he started rocking his hips, his cock sliding in and out of your wet cunt, it took everything in him not to fuck you hard against the wall right then and there.

He knew you were still trying to adjust to his size, watching the way your face twisted as you tried to be a good girl for him.

He couldn’t believe it—the girl of his dreams, the girl from the very photograph he’d jerked off to from the night before until now—you were actually right here, taking his big cock inside your tight little pussy.

“A-are you okay?” he managed to muster, his voice rough as he stared at you with lustful, hazy eyes.

You whimpered before giving him a small, frantic nod. 

He took that as his invitation to fuck you harder.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ tight—can barely move.”

He started to move faster, his cock sinking deep into your pussy and pulling out before slamming back in. His grip on your thigh was tight as he held you up.

“So goddamn wet too, sweetheart.”

“B-bucky… ahh—we can’t.”

“Can’t?”

He kept folding your leg over, trying to adjust you so he could sink even deeper, but the tension in your body wouldn’t let him. The angle was awkward. The wall was too cold, and he couldn’t get deep enough to satisfy the ache in his balls.

He wanted more. 

He wanted to break you.

With a frustrated snarl, he pulled out of you roughly—the sudden loss of him making you cry out.

Before you could even catch your breath, Bucky grabbed your hips and spun you around, slamming your chest and face back against the cool brick.

“Hands on the wall,” he commanded cruely.

He bunched your sundress up around your waist, baring your ass to the cool air of the alley. He stepped back into you, his cock heavy and sprung, and grabbed your hair, tugging your head back so he could whisper against your skin.

“Since you’re so worried about someone walkin’ in,” he hissed, his hands gripping your hips so hard his fingers left marks, “I’m gonna make sure they get a real good view if they do.”

He lined himself up with your entrance again—his hot tip making you gasp.

Your cunt was still gaping from his fucking earlier, allowing him to slide in easily without much resistance this time.

As he sheathed himself inside you in one thrust, you let out a muffled cry, your fingers scraping against the wall to hold yourself up while he began to fuck you hard from behind.

“Fuck—love it when you’re screamin’ for me,” he groaned in pleasure.

Every wet slap of his balls against your ass echoed in the narrow alley. 

He reached around, one hand squeezing your breast through your dress while the other stayed buried in your hair, keeping you pinned in place.

His eyes took in the way your ass bounced against his cock, the soft flesh jiggling with every move. He lifted the hem of your skirt higher to get a better view of your smooth skin rocking against his hips.

“You know, maybe you should just come live with me,” he rasped, his breath hot against your ear as he slammed into you again.

The thought seemed to fuel him, his thrusts getting deeper and harder. “It’d be so damn cute seein’ you walk around the house all barefoot and bred.”

What was he saying?

His filthy words felt more intense than the rough movements of his cock. He groaned, his teeth grazing your shoulder.

“That old farmhouse is big and lonely, sweetheart. Way too quiet,” he whispered. “It was my parents’ dream for me to start a family there. To have a house full of kids runnin’ around the farm, tendin’ to the animals.”

He pulled back nearly all the way out before thrusting back all the way in, making your knees buckle. 

“I think you’d look real good carryin’ the Barnes name. Real good with a belly full of my babies while I work the fields. What do you think? Think you could handle being a farm wife?”

“B-Bucky,” you huffed a nervous laugh as his cock filled you completely. “What are you saying? Don’t be—hmpf—ridiculous...”

“Oh, come on, don’t be shy now,” he teased. “You can sunbathe on my lawn and take all the pretty pictures of the trees and animals for your scrapbook.”

His tongue darted out to lick the shell of your ear, his heavy balls continuing to slap against you as his cock hit your sweet spot over and over.

“And I’ll buy you all the lingerie so you can pose all cute in front of your little camera again,” he delivered a hard thrust that made you whimper and cry. “Take those sexy photographs that I can keep—maybe you can make a scrapbook out of those, too. Just for me.”

Your face burned with humiliation.

Here you were, being treated like a total slut by Bucky Barnes out in the open, and yet the thing that made you too flustered to even form a sentence was him bringing up your photograph.

“G-god...” you stammered. “Don’t bring that up!” you hissed, overcome with embarrassment.

Bucky just chuckled. “I have that picture, you know?”

Your pussy fluttered and clenched around his cock at his words—the tightness making him groan. You snapped your head around, face flustered. 

“W-what!” you choked out. “You stole it?”

He could feel how much the idea turned you on, your body betraying your embarrassment by becoming even wetter and tighter as you realized he’d liked that photo enough to steal it for himself.

“Don’t exaggerate, doll,” he rasped, his hand tightening in your hair to pull your head back so he could see the shame written on your face. “I’ve spent all night staring at it. Staring at the way you were lookin’ at the camera, imaginin’ you were looking at me instead.”

His hips pushed against yours, forcing you to take another deep inch of his cock.

“I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve sat on the edge of my bed, jerkin’ myself off until I was shaking, just thinkin’ about what it would feel like to have the real thing under me.” 

He groaned, his pace becoming more uneven and frantic as the dirty confessions spilled from his lips.

“Every time I closed my eyes, I was picturin’ you—my own fucking neighbor—just like this. Bent over, taking every inch of me while you cried my name.”

The way you were whimpering and fluttering around his cock meant that you were enjoying every sinful confession he was blurting out.

You had already came, your body sensitive and weak, but Bucky was fucking you right through it. 

“B-Buck… I can’t—I’m sensitive—” you whined, knees wobbly. 

He tossed his head back, feeling his balls drawing tight as your pussy milked him.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, kneading your hips. “I want to cum inside. Wanna make my ma and pa proud—”

Bucky leaned down until his breath was tickling your ear again. “Please? Will you let me cum inside, sweetheart?” He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “I promise you—I’ll give you the good life, I’ll give it to you reaally good.”

You felt your breath get stuck in your throat. 

He was asking for permission?

Your body tightened beneath him.

You were so close from cumming beneath him a second time, and the way his hips stuttered against yours was a sign that he was just mere seconds away from filling you up.

“Been dreamin’ of fillin’ you up with my seed since I saw that dirty little picture of you. Please, sweetheart. Just give me what I want.” 

Footsteps crunching the grass sounded near you—too close—and the thrill of getting caught despite yourself made you finally let go. 

“Bucky, fuck—I’m cumming—!” you cried out, but Bucky’s hand clamped over your mouth, stifling your moans as you rocked your hips back against his cock.

You rode the orgasm out while Bucky’s face twisted in a pleasure so intense—it was damn near painful.

“Fuck. Fuck. Please, baby, I can’t—” he gasped, stilling his hips to keep from breeding you. “Please—let me cum inside—”

You couldn’t believe that for all the filthy words he was spouting earlier, how in control and dominant he was, he was still asking for permission.

“Please, fuck—can’t hold it in. You feel too good—”

“Just cum inside, Bucky!”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Bucky cried out a broken moan against the side of your neck, his hips twitching as he buried himself so deep it made your eyes roll back.

The first hot jet of his seed hit your womb, filling you so deep it made your toes curl in your heels. He gripped you tight, his whole body turning stiff as he pumped himself empty inside you.

He groaned, a long, broken sound that tickled your spine as he fought for his breath.

“God… like that—just like that… every last drop ‘til I’m empty, sweetheart.”

The footsteps outside the alley grew louder, then faded as the stranger passed by, oblivious to the vulgar scene unfolding just a few feet away.

Bucky stayed exactly where he was for a moment, his chest rising and falling against your back as he breathed your scent in. He was still twitching inside you, his cock heavy and pulsing as it leaked into your womb.

“There we go” he soothed, pushing the sweaty strands of hair away from your temples to look at you. “Lookin’ every bit of my girl.”

He kissed the temple of your forehead before slowly pulling out, the sudden loss of his warmth leaving you feeling cold and empty.

“Keep your legs together,” he murmured possessively, bringing the hem of your skirt back down to cover your slick thighs. “Not a single drop goes to waste. Keep it there ‘til it takes.”

He reached out gently, smoothing your hair and straightening the strap of your sundress until you looked at least somewhat presentable again. 

He brushed the dust from the brick off your shoulders, his eyes softening at the sight of your debaunched face. The makeup you spent so much time working on this morning was now a smeared mess of his doing. 

And somehow, to him, you looked even prettier. 

“There,” he said, wiping the stray lipstick on your chin. “Let’s get back and enjoy the rest of the festival.”

He turned to fix himself, tucking himself back in as he adjusted his jeans and buckled his belt. 

You watched him, still a little dazed and shaky legged, until he bent down to pick up your lace panties from the dirty floor of the alley. You reached out, expecting him to hand them back to you, but he didn’t.

“Lace?” he huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You were askin’ for it.” 

He folded them neatly and tucked them into his back pocket. He caught your confused look and flashed a boyish, almost innocent looking grin that looked far different from how he looked at you earlier. 

“Bucky?” 

“Right next to that precious photo I ‘stole,’” he intertwined your fingers with his, pressing a soft kiss to your lips as he led you out of the alleyway. 

“For my growing collection.”

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There were a few things you could respect Steve Rogers for.

He always seemed to know what was best for the team, he had a good head on his shoulders, and he always tried to find a way to resolve conflict with the least amount of bloodshed possible. He was a respectable man—respectable enough for people like you to follow him into hell.

But there were also plenty of things you disliked about him.

Namely, once he had a plan, he stuck to it whether the people around him agreed or not. Unfortunately for you, his current plan involved you babysitting the world’s most wanted Hydra assassin.

And that was the Winter Soldier.

“What!” you barked in disbelief, throwing your hands in the air. “No! I am not watching him. I’m coming with you—”

Steve was already gearing up—wearing the suit he stole from the Smithsonian and strapping on his shield last.

“No,” he replied, sharp and firm. “Trust me, it’s better if you stay put. If I show up with Buck by my side, it’s not gonna look good.”

Steve motioned towards Bucky, who just stood there looking about as useful and clueless as a bag of bricks.

The kicked puppy look on his face almost made you feel bad for him. Almost. Because if it weren’t for him, and your own stubborn loyalty to Steve, nobody would be in this mess in the first place.

“Look, you’re going to talk to Stark, right? Nat’s with him. Let me come. I can talk to her while you work things out with Stark, and maybe we can figure out a better solution—”

“We shouldn’t even consider talking to Nat. She’s in deep with Tony and the Accords. And besides, I don’t trust—” Steve cut himself off, his lips pressing into a thin line as his eyes flickered between you and Bucky. “Never mind.”

You crossed your arms and narrowed your eyes. “Don’t trust what?”

The tension in the parking garage turned uncomfortable really fast.

No one dared speak or move—it felt like a bunch of kids walking in on Mom and Dad arguing and refusing to pick sides. Even though you already knew what he was going to say, you kept your eyes fixed on Steve with a silent threat for him to continue.

Steve sighed and stepped forward, mentally cursing himself for letting the words slip.

“You Widows—they’re known to be deceptive,” Steve explained as calmly and gently as he could, though it didn’t help.

“I just… can’t risk you talking to Natasha. It’s too dangerous.”

Offended wasn’t even the right word for it.

Everyone in this line of work—including you, especially you — knew about the Black Widows and their reputation. You were a group of young girls broken down and rebuilt into perfect chameleons. Widows were trained to whisper sweet nothings into a victim’s ear, only to hold a blade to their throat, slit it without remorse, and go about the rest of their day as if nothing had happened.

Steve wasn’t wrong, but the hypocrisy of his logic made you feel sour.

He didn’t trust your background, yet in the very same breath, he was willing to leave you entirely alone with Bucky—his best friend, and the only piece of his past he had left. If you were truly so deceptive, so inherently untrustworthy, what was stopping you from turning Bucky over to Stark the second Steve cleared this garage?

You wanted to cry. You had been loyal to Steve, standing by his side while the rest of the team split up and tore at each other’s throats—and this was how he repaid you? By humiliating you in front of everyone?

But you’d die before you let a single tear fall in front of Steve, or anyone else for that matter.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you tightened your jaw until your teeth hurt and forced your gaze away.

“Fine.”

You were going to protect his precious best friend—not out of submission, but to shove his own prejudice right back down his throat. You would prove to him, definitively, that you could be trusted.

“I’ll watch over him,” you added, trying to keep cool. “I’ll keep my comms open, too—just in case you want to pop in and check if he’s still alive.”

Steve returned your sarcasm with a relieved exhale. “Thank you—”

“Don’t mention it,” you cut him off, waving a hand dismissively as you walked past Bucky—who was standing there looking like a child of divorce. You headed for your motorcycle.

“Are you coming, Barnes?”

Before joining you at the bike, Bucky walked over to Steve with a fond look in his eyes. They shared the same brotherly hug they'd been exchanging since they reunited. Steve mumbled something into his shoulder—probably reassurance that everything was going to be okay—before finally sending him off to you.

You rolled your eyes, slipping your helmet on to block them out.

As everyone else cleared out of the garage, Bucky walked over to your bike. You handed him a helmet, and he started strapping it on.

“Should I drive?” He asked.

You blinked at him, your face going blank despite him not being able to see it.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ve been hiding in Bucharest for a while,” Bucky explained. “I know some discreet spots where they won’t find us.”

Even though neither of you could see the other’s expression, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Bucky was testing your competence—and on top of everything that had led to this moment, especially that little conversation with Steve, your patience was wearing dangerously thin.

“Barnes, I assure you that whatever spot you’re thinking of, a SWAT team is already sweeping it.” You revved the engine. “Get on.”

Bucky muffled a deep sigh inside his helmet. Based on his stiff posture, you thought he might argue, but he finally conceded, swinging his long leg over the back of the seat.

As you gripped the handlebars, you waited for him to hold on, but nothing happened.

Glancing at your side mirrors, you saw him awkwardly plant his hands at the edge of his seat, leaning back as far away from you as the space would allow.

“I’m gonna need you to hold on,” you ordered without looking back.

Bucky hesitated, not moving an inch.

Annoyed, you killed the revving engine for a second and glared at him over your shoulder. “Do you want to fall off?”

Bucky still didn’t budge. He kept his posture uncomfortably stiff, his eyes boring down at the empty space between his hips and the arch of your back.

“I’ll be fine right here.”

You couldn’t believe the gall of this guy. You had been tasked with something that was supposed to be so simple—tedious, sure, but easy enough—yet he was making your job twice as difficult. You glared at him through your visor, your voice strict even through the muffle of your headgear.

“Steve entrusted me to look after you. If he finds out on the evening news that his most wanted best friend fell off the back of my motorcycle and got captured by the government, then he’s never going to talk to me again. And everyone who is risking their lives for you did it all for nothing because you chose to be stubborn. Now, I am not going to repeat myself. Hold. On. To. Me.”

You couldn’t make out his expression, but slowly and reluctantly, he leaned forward and wrapped his thick arms around your waist.

“Tighter,” you commanded.

From the short time Bucky had known you, he already knew there was no point in arguing.

He let out a sigh into his helmet and wrapped his arms around you just a little tighter than before—but still kept his hold loose and, well… as respectful as he could manage.

“Bucky, I need you to hold me tighter,” you urged again.

It had already been a good five minutes since everyone left—and here you were, stuck with the man who, if caught, could risk your life and your position, all because he refused to hold onto you properly.

To you, this was nothing but a nuisance.

But for Bucky…

Bucky was holding onto every thread and reminder left from the forties of what it meant to be a respectful man. Especially since it had been so long since he’d not only been this close to a woman, but held one.

“Tighter!” you shrieked, patience finally snapping.

“Fuck, you know what? Fine!” he snapped back, adjusting his hips so that his chest was pressed up right against your back, wrapping his strong arms around you tightly enough to make you gasp.

“Is that tight enough for you?”

“Perfect,” you croaked sarcastically.

Without giving him another second to respond, you kicked the bike into gear and finally steered it out of the garage.

You were determined to keep your pride intact. His broad chest was pressed up against your back, trapping your body heat until your leather jacket felt burning hot against your skin. His metal arm was a hard band across your midsection, while his flesh arm gripped you still.

You were so small compared to him. He could easily take over—yet here he was, being your obedient puppy.

“Where are you taking me?” Bucky shouted over the rush of wind as the two of you whipped through the busy streets of Bucharest.

“To an amusement park,” you shouted back. “Don’t you want to ride a roller coaster?”

Bucky let out a tired sigh.

You managed to find sanctuary at an abandoned, overgrown rooftop greenhouse. Located on the very outskirts of Bucharest, it was far enough from the city center to avoid suspicion, but still close enough to keep your comms within range of Steve.

You paced the rooftop, feeling restless as your mind overworked with what Steve and the rest of the team could be doing right now.

Were they already fighting? Would Stark actually listen to reason and put all of this to rest?

Letting out a defeated sigh, you kicked a stray pebble, watching it skid across the concrete of the rooftop.

“This is ridiculous,” you mumbled to yourself. “Stuck on babysitting duty when I should be out there.”

Lifting your head, your eyes locked onto Bucky. He was standing dangerously close to the edge of the roof, peering down at the distant streets below.

“Hey!” you barked, pointing a finger at him like a mother scolding a child. “Step away from the edge! You’re going to fall.”

“I’m just keeping a lookout,” Bucky mumbled, his back still facing you as he refused to step away from the edge.

“You’re just making my job harder than it already is,” you argued, throwing your hands up in exasperation.

You pointed aggressively to the dusty wooden crate tucked against the brick wall.

“Just go sit over there or something.”

Bucky’s brow twitched the same time his patience snapped. He turned around to finally face you, his jaw clenched so tight his molars were crying for help.

“Would you stop talking to me like I’m a child?” he snapped, stepping away from the edge—not because you had ordered him to, but to match your hostile stance as he stalked toward you. “I’m sorry you got stuck with the shitty job of watching over me, but I can handle myself just fine, thanks.”

His defensive outburst made you raise a brow.

“Oh, really? You can handle yourself just fine?” you crossed your arms and scoffed. “Is that why the entire global government is hunting you down right now? Is that why Steve had to throw away his entire reputation just to keep you out of a cage? Because you’ve got it all handled?”

Bucky’s chest heaved, his fingers curling into tight fists at his sides.

The mention of Steve’s sacrifice definitely hit a nerve, you could see the guilt in his eyes.

A part of you wished you hadn’t said it at all, and you were just about ready swallow your pride and apologize, until…

“You’re from the Red Room,” he said, stepping closer. An involuntary shudder went down your spine. “You’ve done terrible things in the past—just as I have. You know exactly what it’s like to have someone like Steve bend over backwards for lowlifes like us.”

You didn’t realize just how close he was standing until his hot breath hit your face, only shortening your temper.

“We don’t ask for the help, yet they do it for us anyway,” Bucky’s voice graveled into a whisper. “Don’t talk down to me like you don’t know what it’s like. When in fact, you’re worse—”

You were already seeing red before he could even finish his sentence.

You quickly unsheathed a pocket knife from your belt and lunged at him, aiming straight for his throat just as a threat to silence him.

“You don’t know a damn thing about me!”

But Bucky was faster.

He brought his metal forearm up just in time to block the blade, making an ugly scraping sound. He twisted his wrist to disarm you, but your grip on the knife was tight. While one arm was held captive by his, you used your other to try and deliver a punch—which he also dodged.

You resorted to your legs, bucking them up to deliver hard kicks to his stomach. He grunted after each hit your leg managed to put out, but his hands moved quickly to grab the collar of your jacket and hurl you backwards to the nearest wall.

You cried out, face scrunching into a wince as your back slammed into hard brick.

The impact made you drop your knife. Bucky pressed his heavy body right against yours, aggressively tucking his legs between your thighs so you couldn’t use the space to swing your knees at him again.

“I can’t believe this is who Steve decided to trust me with,” he hissed in your face.

“Get off of me!” you yelled, squirming beneath his body.

“You drew your knife at me,” Bucky roared back. “Maybe Steve was right. All you Widows have a tendency to break your vows whenever things go even remotely south for you—”

You weren’t going to sit there and take his insults. Gritting your teeth with a brace, you pulled your head back and slammed your forehead directly into his face.

Bucky groaned out in pain, his grip on you loosening as he stumbled back with a hand to his face. Seizing the small window of opportunity, you shoved his chest away and dove towards the floor, reaching for the dropped pocket knife.

Before your fingers could even brush the hilt, his large hands grabbed you from behind and slammed you right back into the brick wall again.

You let out a breathless gasp as your face was forcefully squished up against the brick.

Bucky’s flesh hand came to the back of your head, pushing your skull firmly against the wall to keep your vision pinned away from him. At the same time, his metal hand gathered both your wrists behind your back, locking your two arms prone.

“Let go of me!”

You started to violently squirm and writhe, trying to buck your back against him—to tire him out, but Bucky moved his entire lower body to seal the space. His hips pressed tightly up against your bottom, his chest to your back, pinning you completely helpless as you were left trapped between him and the wall.

“No. I don’t care if you’re Steve’s friend, or if Steve respects you,” Bucky hissed, his breath right at your ear. “If I find my life in danger—after finally being free from Hydra, I’ll kill anyone who gets in my way. Even you.”

Bucky’s chest was heaving against your back.

He was angry.

He hated how much a woman like you could get under his skin with just a few sarcastic words and petty jabs.

One moment he was flustered just holding onto your waist during the bike ride, and now, he had you pinned up against the wall, your life completely in his hands.

You grit your teeth. “Dammit, Barnes—”

“—do you hear me? Hello? Anyone copy?”

You and Bucky froze. His eyes went wide as he leaned his head down toward the earpiece tucked just behind your earlobe where Steve’s voice was emitting. You glared at Bucky through the corner of your eye.

“Steve’s calling for me. I can’t answer it unless you let me go.”

“Status check. Code Blue-Alpha. Repeat, Code Blue-Alpha. Do you copy?”

Bucky was hesitant.

He didn’t want to let you go—afraid that you might actually threaten his life again the second he backed off.

Instead of releasing you, his metal hand kept the tight grip on both your wrists, while his flesh hand finally let your head free. Shifting his body closer, his finger reached around to press the button on your earpiece, activating the channel and allowing you to speak.

“Steve,” you breathed, catching your breath. “I’m here.”

“There you are!” Steve let out a relieved, staticky sigh through the comms. “How are things over there? Are you two alright?”

You and Bucky side eyed each other.

The situation was ridiculous—the two of you were still tangled in each other’s limbs, bodies pressed tight against one another, chests heaving in sync as the adrenaline from the fight slowly began to die down.

“We’re fine,” you lied. “Your boyfriend’s still alive.”

Bucky huffed a disbelieving laugh right against your ear. He didn’t say it out loud, but you could already hear his thoughts. This fucking woman.

Steve wasn’t laughing, however. His voice was serious.

“Listen to me carefully. We just got word that there are traps set up around the highest points of Bucharest. They’re wired to release an airborne toxin—specifically meant to target the biology of a super soldier.”

You watched Bucky’s eyes. His brows furrowed, concentrating on Steve’s voice as his grip on your wrists loosened slightly.

“They’re trying to smoke him out,” you reasoned. “What about the regular civilians? Will it affect them?”

“No. Just us. I’m already wearing a rebreather mask on my end,” Steve continued with a rasp. It sounded like he was running from something. “But Bucky doesn’t have one. You need to keep him inside and be extremely careful.”

There was a cold knot forming in the pit of your stomach.

Steve was thinking about Bucky, and Bucky was thinking about himself, but neither of them knew your full medical history—how could they?

During your time in the Red Room, they had pumped your veins full of a biochemical serum. It wasn’t the exact super soldier formula that created Captain America, but it was a heavily modified variation meant to enhance your physical abilities, speed up your healing, and maximize your strength.

It was what made you into a Widow. And right now, you had no idea if that same chemical footprint was enough to trigger the airborne toxin.

“Steve,” you swallowed hard, your voice shaking with worry. “How is Natasha doing? Is she with you?”

If Natasha was fine, then maybe you would be, too.

Behind you, Bucky must have sensed the sudden spike of panic in your posture. He took a step back and finally released his tight grip on your wrists—relinquishing his hold over your body.

He inhaled a deep breath to steady himself, but stopped midway, choking as if something had gotten stuck in his lungs. His chest hitched. He sniffed the air again, letting out a harsh, hacking cough in return.

“Fuck—” Bucky choked out, his hand flying to his throat.

You spun around, catching the way Bucky stumbled blindly against a wooden crate. Your heart started to race in a panic.

“Steve?” you called into the earpiece, your eyes scanning the rooftop for any signs of the trap he had just mentioned over comms. “Steve, do you copy?”

There was no answer.

The static on the other end had cut out completely. Steve had already ended the line to focus on his own escape—either that, or his comms had been jammed. You tapped the button behind your earlobe again desperately, but there was nothing.

“Steve! Respond!”

Bucky called your name from where he held himself against the crate—a sound that was broken, small, and almost whiny.

“Bucky!” you cried out, abandoning the comm line completely and focusing entirely on the man you were tasked to protect. “Are you okay?”

“Hot,” he winced, letting out a deep groan. “It feels... hot.”

You knelt by his side, the palm of your hand flying to his forehead to check his temperature. Your eyes widened at how warm he had suddenly become. He wasn’t nearly this hot when he had you pressed up against the wall just mere seconds ago.

“Fuck. Did the toxins get to you already? But how! We’re on the outskirts—”

Bucky lazily raised a finger just past your head. You whipped your head around, squinting past the sunlight that pierced the clouds.

There, you saw a hazy, almost pollen like fog beginning to drift from across the rooftop building far from you.

“Shit,” you cursed, wrapping your arm around his waist and positioning his heavy arm over your shoulders to help him up.

“Come on, we’ve gotta hide you somewhere. You’re too weak to run if you get caught.”

You tried lifting him up, but he was too heavy to carry just on your own. You groaned beneath him, using every bit of your strength to try and keep him steady.

While you struggled, Bucky’s breathing grew heavier. His eyes were half lidded and unfocused—he could barely keep them open.

“Stay with me, Bucky,” you murmured against him with a grunt, dragging your feet to get him inside the greenhouse.

It was a glass enclosure, but the walls were muddied with dirt and the plants were overgrown enough to provide decent cover. It wasn’t as indoors as you’d like, but it was the closest place you could take him with your current strength.

Bucky’s eyes fluttered down to you, letting out a heavy sigh.

“I think… I need to sit.”

Suddenly, he felt like he was suffocating in his own clothes. The breeze in Bucharest was cool, but his body felt like it was burning up from the inside. What was even worse was your touch—having your body pressed up against his made him react in ways he never thought he would.

Or at least, not anytime soon.

You stumbled over an overgrown branch, losing your balance and your grip on Bucky.

“Shit—I’m sorry,” you mumbled.

Bucky lay on the ground, adjusting his body so that he was flat on his back. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest, the organ trying to tear its way out. His vision and mind went hazy, and his flesh hand was clammy.

The tension was even worse whenever he looked at you. His pupils would dilate the second his eyes landed on your body, his breath getting stuck in his throat.

You knelt down, trying to get your hands under his arms to haul him back up, but Bucky flinched away with a sharp hiss.

“No,” he rasped. “Don’t… don’t touch me.”

You furrowed your brows. You had no idea what kind of side effects the airborne toxins had been released—Steve hadn’t specified. But right now, you couldn’t afford to stand around and ponder it. You groaned, trying to lift him up one more time, but your body suddenly felt even weaker than before.

Your knees buckled as a strange aroma began to drift into your nose. It was a musky, almost tangy smell filling the deep pockets of your lungs.

“W-what the hell…?”

Bucky’s chest rose and fell heavily from where he lay on the floor, his dark, half lidded eyes meeting yours. “Do you feel it, too?”

Meeting Bucky’s eyes in this state was the worst thing you could have possibly done.

Suddenly, the greenhouse felt smaller—a glass enclosure closing in on the two of you. Your body felt molten, and you wanted nothing more than to strip your clothes off.

Grunting, you began to pull down the zipper of your jacket, and Bucky inhaled sharply.

“Hey—what… what are you doing?”

“It’s hot,” you breathed, your head spinning. “Need to take my jacket off.”

The heat inside your own skin was hurting, but for Bucky, it was absolute torture.

The super soldier serum in his veins processed the toxin at an accelerated rate, making his flesh feel like it was working overtime. His blood was rushing—hot and heavy—pooling lower until he was completely and unapologetically hard under his pants.

He wanted to rip his own clothes off. He just hoped you wouldn’t notice the tent poking between his legs—or maybe a dark part of him did, and he wanted you to offer to take care of it.

Fuck. What was he thinking?

But it wasn’t like you were thinking straight, either. Abandoning your jacket, you were left in just a tank top that clung tightly to your chest, offering Bucky a full view of your tits. You knelt right back down beside him, your hands clumsily reaching for his shoulders to lift him up again.

This was going bad for Bucky.

Too close.

Too close. Too close. Too close.

Bucky caught your scent—a natural floral and feminine smell mixed with an underlying musk of sweat that made his head spin with an overwhelmingly dangerous amount of desire.

“Stop,” Bucky choked out, his voice dropping deep and dangerous.

His right hand shot out, wrapping tightly around your bare wrist, while his metal hand gripped your hip to keep you from leaning any closer.

“Don’t... don’t do this. Get away from me right now.”

“Bucky,” you panted. “I need you to get up for me.”

“I can’t,” he groaned, letting his head fall back against the floor. “I mean it. Move away… or I swear to God, I won’t be able to control myself—”

Your gaze drifted down his body, your eyes widening at the prominent bulge waiting for you between his large, strong legs.

It throbbed and twitched beneath his pants, growing harder and more unbearable by the second.

This position was too compromising—too vulnerable, and far too dangerous for you both.

Bucky had no strength to get up on his own, and you could feel your own body betraying you by the second. You would have to relieve this for him now, or it would be doom for you both.

“Goddammit,” you cursed, bracing yourself mentally.

You moved to cradle Bucky between your thighs, mounting his lap while he was pinned weak to the floor.

His eyelids flew open, and he used all the strength left in his body to lift his head and stare up at you, bewildered and off guard.

“What the hell are you doing—!”

“We need to take care of this,” you muttered, grinding your hips tight and firm against his, making him let out a groan.

“We need to fix your problem before they find us. They set up that trap not too far from this building. There’s a chance they’re already scouting it out. It’s only a matter of time—”

Bucky’s eyes were filled with hungry lust as he stared at the point where your hips were rubbing against his. He was so hard it fucking hurt. He didn’t dare touch you—because if his hands made contact with your waist, with that warm, smooth skin just beneath your tank top that was begging to be licked, he would probably embarrass himself and cum in his pants right then and there.

“Shit—wait. Hold on. I—fuck.”

You reached for his zipper, tugging it down, and the sudden movement made his hips buck up against yours.

“Now’s not the time to talk, Barnes,” you panted, the toxin blurring your thoughts. “We need to take care of this now, or we’ll be in deep trouble. And Steve’ll have my head—”

“Fuck, shit. Wait—! I’ve never…”

You were losing your patience. You stopped your hands, glaring down at him. “Never what, Barnes?”

His face burned an embarrassing shade of red. He refused to look at you, his eyes suddenly far more interested in the overgrown plants next to him than your face.

“I’ve never had… sex,” he admitted quietly, swallowing hard.

Oh.

Oh.

Bucky was a virgin?

“Oh my god,” you whispered.

You felt incredibly foolish straddling him with your hands still hovering over his open zipper.

You felt shameful—you felt like a harlot, throwing yourself onto him and thinking you could resolve this entire crisis just by getting him off with a few strokes. You felt dirty, humiliated, and deeply guilty.

“I’m so sorry,” you stammered, quickly scrambling off his lap.

Your legs felt like jelly—a testament to the toxin fully taking hold of your own system.

“Shit. I’m so sorry, Bucky. I didn’t know. I mean, that doesn’t excuse it, but—”

“No,” Bucky rasped, his hand catching your wrist before you could back away entirely.

His grip on you was so tight and dominant, it felt like a pickaxe slowly chipping away at your remaining resolve.

“Don’t go,” he broke out, his voice a desperate, tortured rasp. “Please. Keep going. It hurts. I need you to relieve it.”

If he had said that to reassure you, you felt anything but. In fact, you felt even guiltier because of how broken and desperate he sounded.

“Bucky, I can’t.”

His brows knitted together tightly, his face twisting unpleasantly—he was upset.

“Why the hell not?”

“Because—”

“Because what!” he barked back, rolling onto his side to give you his full attention. You tried really hard not to look at the outline of his hard cock pressing against his pants. “You threw yourself onto me. You promised Steve you’d take care of me—so you’re going to come back here and finish it.”

“Bucky, I’m not going to be your first!” you yelled out, and that finally stunned him into silence.

Your chest was heaving with a frustration you didn’t even know how to name.

With confusion and a flash of embarrassment taking over his gaze, his fingers finally loosened, releasing your wrist reluctantly.

“I’m sorry,” you said, much softer this time. “I’m sorry. Just… if you need a minute to take care of it yourself, I’ll be over there—” you pointed to the far end of the greenhouse “—I’ll keep watch.”

“And what about you?” he asked, his dark eyes trailing down your body in a way that did absolutely nothing to help your situation. “Don’t you need to take care of yourself, too? You feel it, don’t you? That… primal need.”

You pressed your lips tight and tore your gaze away, not trusting yourself to look at his pained, desperate expression. You couldn’t look at the way his body was open and inviting you back in, or the way his voice went so coarse when he said the word need.

“I’ll be fine.”

You were not fine. And Bucky certainly wasn’t, either.

You tried to keep your concentration focused outside the greenhouse, forcing your hazy eyes to stare through the glass panes to keep watch. But your gaze kept betraying you, drifting right back to the corner to watch Bucky where he sat propped up against a wooden crate, his legs spread wide.

His chest was still rising and falling heavily, his long hair damp with sweat and falling over his darkened eyes.

You had told him to take care of his business, but he hadn’t made a single move since you stepped away from him. Your own urges were becoming impossible to control, too. You found yourself squeezing your thighs tightly together, trying to find any form of friction, any relief from the ache that had been building up ever since the toxin first wafted into your lungs.

It didn’t help that you could feel Bucky’s eyes on you, watching you from behind, tracing your silhouette.

It felt telepathic—as if his silent gaze was speaking directly to your body, knowing you wanted exactly what he was desperately craving too.

No. You couldn’t go to him.

If you walked up to him right now, neither of you would have any control left, and you would both submit to the drug completely.

He was a virgin. You couldn’t take something so precious from him. He had already been through a lifetime of torture and lost autonomy. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you took his first time over a stupid, weaponized toxin.

Sex was meant to be reserved for someone special—and you were far from it.

“Bucky,” you finally called out, still refusing to turn around and look at him. “Are you okay back there?”

“…No,” he muttered with a thick rasp. “Come here.”

You sucked in a breath.

Every instinct in your brain was telling you stay exactly where you were, but your body was entirely out of your control now.

Your feet dragged you across the dirty floor until you were standing over him again.

You dropped to your knees in front of him with a sigh. Trying to frame it as purely medical check, you lifted a hand and pressed your palm flat against his forehead to check his temperature once more.

He was still burning up, but the fever felt even worse.

Every hot breath he exhaled hit your exposed collarbones, and the way he was sitting—legs spread wide with you kneeling directly between them—made you feel like a mouse being lured into a trap.

Realizing just how dangerous this proximity was, you swallowed hard and began to pull your hand away. But Bucky didn’t let you. His fingers wrapped tightly around your wrist to hold you back. He let his heavy eyelids flutter shut and slowly leaned his head into your touch, rubbing his stubbled cheek right against your warm, open palm.

“Stay,” Bucky pleaded as he his metal hand came to hold your hip. “Stay here. I need you.”

A breathless groan rumbled warmly into your palm. You froze, your eyes locked onto him as you watched the lethal super soldier—the very man who had pinned you up against the wall just minutes ago—unravel helplessly right in front of you.

As he held you there, you felt an unbearable heat trickle between your legs.

Your cunt pulsed, and you squeezed your thighs tightly together to soothe the desperate ache spreading through your lower body.

The friction was a temporary fix, but the tight grind of your thighs only made you ache for more.

Bucky nuzzled his face deeper into your palm, inhaling your scent like a dying man catching a breath of fresh air.

Then, his parted lips pressed a soft, wet kiss against the center of your hand. And another one. Then another, right against the inner skin of your wrist.

“Bucky… what are you—”

“Please,” Bucky whispered against your skin, looking up at you through his dark, thick lashes.

His eyes were dilated, the blue completely washed out by a lust that made you burn from the inside out.

“I need you.”

“You… You don’t know what you’re saying,” you muttered, shaking your head in a desperate attempt to find your reason.

Bucky held your hand tighter, refusing to give you any chance to escape.

“Please, don’t go. Fuck—I need you so bad, it hurts,” he choked out. “This ache won’t go away until you help me take care of it.”

His eyes never left yours. Under normal circumstances, every confession leaving his lips should have left him feeling deeply ashamed or embarrassed. But right now, he didn’t care. His body was on fire, and your touch was only stroking each and every flame.

“I know I’m a virgin, but I don’t care—and you shouldn’t, either,” Bucky rasped.

His large hand covered yours, forcing your palm down his chest—slick and damp with sweat—until he guided your hand directly over the heavy erection waiting for you beneath his pants.

“I can make you feel so good. I can fix this for both of us. Please.” He begged.

You let out a shudder as his large hand swallowed yours, guiding your palm to slide up and down against the length of his cock. Even through the denim, you could feel him throb and harden rapidly beneath your touch, his breathing turning incredibly shallow and fast.

“It hurts so bad,” he groaned, his eyes unhinged by the toxin. “Doesn’t it hurt you, too?”

You looked down, biting your lip hard at the sight of Bucky’s thick bulge pressing directly against your fingers. He twitched beneath your touch.

There was nothing you wanted more than to finish the job you had started earlier—to finish unzipping his pants, sink right down onto him, and show him exactly what it felt like to be inside a woman for the very first time.

But you couldn’t.

Not like this.

“Bucky, I can’t—” you whispered so softly, it sounded like a whine. “I can’t be your first.”

Bucky trembled a sigh, his head falling back against the wooden crate. But he didn’t let go of your wrist. He began to subtly shift his weight, rocking his hips up in a tilt that forced his thick length to slide right against your captive palm.

“Why not?” he murmured, deep and gravelly. “You don’t think… you don’t think I’d do a good job?”

His question was so innocent, though the very thing he was doing wasn’t. He kept grinding his clothed cock into your hand—seeking pleasure from just your palm—and you felt yourself going insane.

“No, it’s not that,” you tried to pull your hand back, but he held you tight, using your trapped hand for his own pleasure. “Sex is supposed to be something that you save. And your virginity is something you give away to someone special. Not… not a casual teammate—not someone like me—”

Bucky interrupted you with a groan, his hips bucking up higher against your palm. All of your words went in one ear and out the other. The only thing he could process right now was how good your hand felt—and how much better it would feel if he sunk into something tight, wet, and warm.

Like your mouth… or your…

“I don’t care about any of that,” he choked out.

His hips rolled into your palm with a needy jerk.

“I need this. I need you. I’d be more than happy to give it to you. Fuck—I’ll give it to you so good. You’re the one I want. I need you—”

Bucky’s mouth dropped into an o shape, a sharp hiss of breath filling his lungs as his hips bucked uncontrollably. His eyes never left yours as he suddenly started spilling in his pants. A warm, thick liquid began to seep through his jeans, leaving your fingers sticky with his seed and musk.

You couldn’t believe it.

Bucky had just finished right in his pants.

“Bucky…”

His face was unreadable.

His head was tilted back against the crate, his eyes boring into yours through heavy lids and long lashes. He was breathing heavily, trying to catch his breath while letting his cum shamelessly pool in the tight space of his pants.

You figured he’d pull your hand away any second now—that finally releasing all that pent up frustration would make him feel well enough to move to a safer location.

You tried not to point it out to save him from the embarrassment. And most importantly, you tried not to give in to the intense sensation of his warm spunk right beneath your fingertips.

“You should be feeling better now, right? We should keep moving—”

With his grip on your wrist tightening, he hauled you forward until you collapsed back to the ground. Two strong arms wrapped completely around your body, caging you flush against his chest.

Your knees—already so weak—forced you to straddle his lap. Your hands flew to his broad shoulders for balance as you found yourself perched directly over his ruined pants.

“Hey—what are you—!”

Bucky nuzzled his face straight into the crook of your neck, his hot, erratic breaths turning into open mouthed kisses against your skin.

“More,” he begged, the deep vibration of his voice tickling you. “S’not enough. I need more.”

Your breath hitched when his hands started to roam over your body. His fingers tickled beneath the hem of your tank top, the metal fingers cooling your skin and making you gasp out loud from the sudden cold.

No.

I won’t let this happen.

I refuse to be Bucky’s first.

But despite your emotional turmoil, you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. Not with the way his hands were roaming around your body, claiming every inch of you as his through touch alone. Not with the way he was looking at you, his mouth parted with desperation.

And especially not when he had just let himself spill in his jeans from nothing but your touch and closeness.

“I know you feel it too,” Bucky rasped against your neck. “I know you’re wet down there, begging to be touched. Begging to be filled. I can fix you, baby. Just let me take care of you, please.”

He pulled back slightly, looking up at you with wide puppy blue eyes that made your heart ache and your pussy clench.

“Can I kiss you?”

You searched his gaze, breathless. “You want to kiss me?”

His metal hand left your waist, slowly crawling up your spine until his fingers tangled firmly in the hair at the back of your head, keeping your eyes pinned to his. His pupils were completely blown out, his gaze demanding an answer right now.

You should have said no. You should have pushed his chest, reminded him of the drug, and scrambled away to safety.

He was a virgin, sure. But with the way he was looking at you while holding you tight—you felt like you were going to be ravaged.

But your resolve was already a fragile thing. And with the way he was looking at you, you knew you were in too deep. Your body was hurting—aching for him in the exact same ways he was aching for you. The only way you two could fix it was each other.

You pressed your lips hard against his, and Bucky let out a rough, needy sound into your mouth.

His grip tightened in your hair, pulling you deeper into the kiss.

The fever burned through your veins, and the way his tongue danced with yours only made the fire burn hotter. He was tasting you, broken whimpers tearing from his lips with every slick slide of his tongue. Saliva mixed together, leaving you both completely breathless, your lips and limbs tangled.

You rolled your hips back, grinding yourself deeper against Bucky’s pelvis.

His cock twitched inside his jeans, poking hard against you. You didn’t know how—but he felt even bigger and harder than he had before.

“I can’t take it anymore,” he panted against your mouth. “Fuck, I can’t—I need to feel you. Need to be inside you.”

His hands scrambled down to your waist, his fingers fumbling with the button of your pants. He popped it open with a rough tug—threatening to break the button itself—as his knuckles brushed against your hot skin.

Bucky groaned at the sight.

The lace of your panties was poking through the opening, damp with sweat and your scent. He inhaled deeply, and you wondered just how much his heightened senses were actually taking you in.

When he let out a satisfied sigh, you knew he could smell everything.

“Look at you,” he praised, his eyes tracing the curves of your body. “You’re so beautiful. It makes me want to ruin you.”

You chuckled—a sound that came out raspy and sultry without your intention, making Bucky’s cock twitch beneath you.

“Quite a bold statement for someone who’s never had sex before,” you teased, your hands trailing slowly down his chest.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. He accepted your challenge, gripping the waistband of your unzipped pants and yanking them down your thighs.

The moment your bare skin was exposed to the cool air, Bucky wasted no time traveling his eyes down the expanse of your legs. Catching his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from drooling like a madman, his gaze raked over the inner and outer curves of your thighs. His mouth went dry at the sight of the little wet spot that had collected near your clit.

His large hands slid up your thighs and behind you, squeezing your ass firmly in his rough palms.

“So fucking beautiful,” he growled, his thumb swiping over your clit, smearing your own juice all over the lace.

“Fuck—you’ve been dripping all this time. You need this just as bad as I do, and you’ve been holding back?”

You swallowed hard. “It’s not too late. We don’t have to—oh!”

You cried out once his fingers slipped past the hem of your panties. His fingers dipped between your folds, collecting your arousal with embarrassing wet noises as he tried to rub at your clit.

“No, Bucky… it’s right here—” You grabbed his forearm, guiding him to the right spot, and arched your back with a sharp cry when he started rubbing deep circles against the sensitive bud.

“Oh my god,” you gasped.

This was the pleasure you were looking for—but it wasn’t nearly enough.

There was an empty ache deep inside you that was begging to be filled. But you weren’t going to demand that of him just yet, in case he changed his mind.

A lazy, boyish smile tugged at his lips as he watched you come undone from his fingers.

“Yeah?” he huffed out a breath. “That feel good, baby?”

“Yes—don’t stop, please,” you cried helplessly.

His other hand lifted your tank top up and over your head, quickly unhooking your bra to fully reveal your tits. With a low grunt, he leaned forward, capturing one of your perky nipples into the wet warmth of his mouth.

You moaned loudly, your hand flying to the back of his head and giving his hair a hard, desperate tug. He liked that a lot, moaning against your skin in pleasure.

Bucky’s tongue swirled around your nipple, licking and sucking until you were arching off his lap at his mercy.

He was making a beautiful mess of you, switching between both buds and letting his mouth worship your body. His rough stubble tickled your chest while his fingers continued their clumsy work down below, sliding through your slick folds and rubbing messy circles right against your clit.

The wet, squelching sounds of his fingers moving against your soaking flesh filled the greenhouse—the filth of it only making you wetter and causing the toxin to course even harder.

He suddenly pulled his mouth away from your chest, a string of saliva connecting his lips to your skin, and finally looked up at you.

His lips and chin were slick and shining from giving your breasts such sloppy, adoring kisses.

“I need to be inside you,” he pleaded. “Please… I need to put it in. I need to stuff you so full of me, baby. Please, let me fuck you.”

Your eyes searched Bucky’s.

He looked like an even bigger mess than before. He looked and sounded utterly helpless, his chest rising and falling heavily, his face tight with an expression that made it look like he was physically hurting.

Even though he had just come in his pants moments ago, he needed so much more.

You knew that once you gave in to him completely, there would be no holding back for either of you. He would have to live with the fact that you would be his first.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Bucky slowly slipped his hand out of your panties, bringing his fingers up to his lips and licking the juices clean. “You’re scared, but I’m not. I know what I want, and what I want right now is you.”

Bucky gripped your waist, raising you off his lap and pinning you flat against the ground.

He slipped his large body directly between your legs, his strong thighs forcing yours wide open as he covered your frame with his.

Your hair was messy across the dirt floor, framing your face as you laid beneath him breathless. The toxin was taking over control of your body—every single nerve demanding to be touched by the man between your legs.

You felt like you were in heat, consumed by a fever that only Bucky could cure.

His eyes fell over your body, tracing your tits and stomach, his gaze locking onto the way your panties—already a soaked mess—looked like they were begging to be torn away by his teeth.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his hands making quick work of your underwear.

With a harsh tug and a sharp tearing sound, the fabric gave away.

“I’m so sorry for what I’m about to do to you.”

Your panties didn’t even make it past your knees before tearing clean off your thighs. You winced slightly.

It was dizzying to think about how you had found the strength to fight Bucky earlier, only to now be reduced to a breathless, aching mess over a piece of torn fabric.

Bucky leaned back on his heels, unbuckling his belt and shoving open his unzipped, stained denim jeans.

The moment he pulled his cock free, it sprang forward then back—the tip slapping against his abdomen.

He was thick, his cock fully engorged and begging to be wrapped in something tight and warm. Pre-cum glistened at the tip, trailing down his shaft and mixing with the creamy white essence from his earlier release.

His eyes were glued to your soaking center, legs spread wide and inviting. His jaw slacked as he lazily pumped himself at the shaft, prepping his cock for your warm embrace.

He claimed he was a virgin, but the way he was looking at you with such a hungry look in his eyes made you think otherwise.

“Bucky,” you breathed, heart racing. “Are you sure you want to do this? With… me?”

Bucky leaned over your body, using his metal elbow to prop himself up while he slapped the tip of his cock against your entrance.

You weren’t sure where he learned that from, but the dirty act left you clenching around nothing.

“The more you ask, the harder it is for me to stay in control,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “I’m just gonna have to stuff you full of my cock just to prove how much I want you.”

You craned your neck, watching Bucky rub his tip up and down your folds—smearing his pre-cum while coating his shaft in your own slick juice.

When he positioned himself right at your opening and poked gently, testing your stretch, your folds immediately parted for him. You were so wet and pliable from the toxin that you were sure he would slip right in without a fight, despite how big he was.

“Just… just enough to get rid of the side effects, okay?” you muttered, though it sounded like you were trying to convince yourself more than him.

Bucky either didn’t hear you, or maybe he did and he just chose to ignore it.

With a clench of his jaw, he slowly pushed his hips forward, his eyes glued to the spot where your cunt wrapped around the head of his cock.

The sensation was delicious. Your body was burning hot, tight, and dangerously wet. He had only sunk the tip in, but it was already the greatest thing he had ever felt in his life. His eyes rolled back as a deep groan tore in his chest.

“Ohhh…”

Despite the toxin making your body more accommodating, you were still tighter than either of you expected.

You were being stretched completely and fully as Bucky kept going, relentlessly sinking his cock all the way inside until his dark, hairy base pressed flush against your folds. He was so big, and a part of you was grateful that he had already come once before this—because right now, his entire body was shaking with an uncontrollable need.

“So goddamn tight,” he cursed, his face twisting that looked almost like pain. “I never… fuck, I never expected pussy to feel this good… Christ.”

He stilled inside you, letting your body adjust to his size. But in reality, he was the one who needed time to adjust to your tightness.

You paced your breathing. Being stretched full by him made you want to scream at him to hurry up and move, to fuck you right into the dirt floor of the greenhouse—but you couldn’t make that kind of demand of a virgin.

Since it was his first time, despite the unfortunate circumstances, you were going to guide him gently.

“Hold me here,” you murmured, taking his hands and guiding them back to your thighs. “Feel me. It’s soft, isn’t it?”

Bucky breathed hard, nodding as he held you.

“When you’re ready, just move your hips nice and slow. Take your time.”

His face fell into a tight scowl, as if displeased with that order.

Every single one of his base instincts was screaming at him to fuck you hard and fast—to claim every surface of your pussy with his cock.

“F—fine,” he reluctantly agreed, his voice strained. He gripped your thighs tightly, spreading you open as he began rocking his hips back and forth.

His eyes were glossy with desire, transfixed by the sight of his cock disappearing in and out of your body.

A thick, creamy white ring was forming around the base of his shaft, staining the unruly dark curls that sat at his pelvis.

Every time he pulled out, he made sure to sink back in even deeper, rolling his hips forward until the tip of his cock kissed your cervix.

Your eyes rolled back, your hands clutching his broad shoulders as he buried himself inside you.

“Fuck… just like that,” you moaned. “Keep going.”

“Does… does that feel good?” He swallowed hard, fingers digging deeper into your thigh.

You nodded fast. “So good—I don’t want you to stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Your breathless plea made him scowl , a frustrated snarl leaving his lips.

“This is torture.” He groaned.

You furrowed your brows, looking at his angry expression in concern. Torture? That wasn’t what sex was supposed to feel like. The last thing you wanted to do was hurt him.

“Bucky,” you said, pressing your hand against his sweating chest. “If this is hurting you, we need to stop right now. Pull out of me—”

You gasped as his metal hand circled tight around your wrist, prying it away from his chest and pinning it over your head. He slammed you back to the floor, his large body shadowing yours as his face hovered.

His dark eyes bored deeply into yours—and you felt like if you so much as looked away, he might take it as a threat.

“No, I can’t—I can’t do slow,” he growled. “The drug in my veins, it’s like it's yelling at me to take what I want. And what I want is to fuck you until you cry.”

Your breath left your lungs as Bucky slammed his hips forward, burying himself inside you.

He pulled out halfway before fucking right back in, a broken gasp leaving your lips as you arched your back against the floor from the pleasure. You hadn’t expected him to fuck you this hard—being a virgin and all—but you couldn’t complain.

You had been craving to be taken like this since the moment the drug first entered your system.

“Oh my god—!” You cried out, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.

“Ah—fuck, you’re so tight,” Bucky cried out.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breath scalding against your skin as he relentlessly pumped his hips in and out of you, using your vulnerable body like his own personal sex toy.

“It feels too good, fuck, baby. Everything feels too good—I can’t stop,” he moaned.

Your moans blended together into a dirty symphony.

The toxin was amplifying every single touch, his thick shaft stretching you out completely—turning your usually strong and poised body into mush with every thrust.

Your wet walls clenched down on him every time he threatened to pull out, as if sucking him right back in. Bucky was entirely lost, his mind short circuiting from the pleasure.

Every time he buried himself deep, your swollen pussy tightened around him like your body was trying to milk him dry. You whimpered with every single thrust he gave you, your teary eyes meeting his in a lustful haze as you wrapped your legs tight around his hips for support.

“Fuck—my god, don’t do that—” He sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re squeezing me so tight. God—if this is what sex feels like, I never want to stop.”

He tilted his head down, his sweaty strands of hair tickling your hot face as he stared back down at the exact point where his hips got lost with yours.

Every stroke of his cock inside your tight body came with a hot wave of pleasure, amplified by the toxin coursing through your blood.

The sensation was addicting.

Bucky had never felt a pleasure like this before. He’d jerked off a few times in his apartment just to quickly relieve some stress, but that was always by himself.

He was a curious boy back in the forties, but he had never been close to getting any action like this.

To him, this was like a dream come true.

But he needed to go deeper. These regular, sloppy thrusts weren’t enough. He needed to feel more.

With a snarl, he leaned back to grip the backs of your thighs and shoved your knees up towards your chest, folding you into a tight mating press.

Before you could adjust to the new position, he pressed his hips against yours to lock you in place and sank down even deeper than he had before.

Your eyes flew wide, nearly bulging from their sockets as a sharp gasp ripped from your throat. His cock was stretching you at an impossible angle, burying himself so deep you could’ve sworn you saw stars.

Because you were already so sensitive from the toxin, having him bottom out so hard against your cervix made your core shudder uncontrollably, causing your legs to shake. Your head fell back against the floor, your toes curling in the air as your vision went hazy.

“Oh my god!” you cried out in a mix of pain and pleasure. “It’s too much—I can’t… you’re gonna make me cum!”

You felt your walls start to hyperventilate around his length. You knew he felt it, too, because he immediately doubled his pace.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, but it didn’t sound sincere. “Fuck—I’m so sorry. It just feels too good—fuck, I—”

His voice broke into a pained moan the moment your pussy tightened. You came hard around him without warning, your neck arching as a loud moan strained your vocal cords.

Bucky’s entire body tensed, his face twisting in a grimace from how your climax was squeezing him.

The feeling was exquisite, and fuck, he wasn’t going to last another second when he was buried this deep inside of you.

He knew your body was sensitive and overworked, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop moving. His balls had never felt this full, this heavy. He was close, so fucking close, and the more your pussy fluttered around his shaft, the more desperate he became to chase that same release.

“Shit. M’gonna cum,” he cursed, his hips stuttering as he hilted himself deep inside.

His cock twitched—he had never came inside a girl before, but he was determined to do so now.

He was going to make sure he filled you, to stuff your tight hole to the brim with his backed up super soldier seed.

“Gonna cum inside,” he warned, his metal hand sliding beneath your lower back and lifting your hips up to meet his thrusts. “I’m gonna cum inside—fuck, I hope that’s okay. I’m sorry. I can’t—I can’t control myself.”

You couldn’t muster a single coherent word. Only muffles and teary whimpers escaped you, but it didn’t matter what you said while Bucky was in this state. He had no intention of stopping.

His blue eyes were crazed, rolled back so far in his sockets you could see the white. He grit his teeth, meeting your hips with sloppy and wet thrusts. A litany of curses mumbled in broken strings under his breath, until finally…

“Oh my god—I’m cumming. Take it, baby. Take every single drop of me. Don’t let it go to waste. Please, I need this. I need this so fucking bad—”

With a firm grip on your thigh, he pinned you down and pushed his hips against yours.

His tip kissed your cervix, pulsing twice before his body gave way to your tightness. You were being filled by the thick, heavy pumping of his seed. You could feel his cock twitching relentlessly against your walls, determined to flood every inch of your pussy.

He buried his face in your neck, his chest heaving violently as he stuffed you so completely full that your lower belly felt heavy.

“I’m so sorry,” he pleaded brokenly.

Bucky trembled from head to toe, and despite his mumbled apologies, he kept your hips pinned securely so that not a single drop of his release could escape. He was spent, breathing in shaky and ragged gasps against your skin. He didn’t want to pull out yet, still savoring the feeling of your pulsing walls squeezing the very last drops from.

The two of you lay on the floor, tangled and sweaty in each other’s limbs. Once you finally caught your breath, your hands gently caressed his broad back, a comforting gesture that caught even you off guard.

“How… how are you feeling?” you finally mumbled.

Your body tensed as you braced yourself for an answer.

Now that the side effects of the toxin seemed to be wearing off, dread started trickling in.

You were terrified that everything you had just done with Bucky would be something he’d immediately regret. A part of you tried to tell yourself that you didn’t care—that he had despised you before this, and he would simply go back to hating you again.

But after being his first, there was an undeniable connection in the way you felt beneath him.

If he was already starting to feel regret... well, you weren’t sure how you would handle it. Guilt? Probably. The longer he stayed silent, the more the worry gnawed at you.

He eventually huffed a breath, but he didn’t pull away.

“If you’re wondering if I’m going to regret this,” Bucky began, his voice so raspy and tired that it sent a shiver down your spine. “The answer is no.”

You sucked in a breath, expecting a but to follow.

Bucky attempted to lift himself up slightly so he wasn’t crushing you, but he was still so sensitive that the movement made him wince sharply. He couldn’t bring himself to pull out yet, so he collapsed right back against you with a soft huff.

“I wish I could just stay like this,” he muttered, wrapping both arms around you while resting his head against your sweaty chest.

He looked so small and vulnerable in that moment, and it made your heart ache for him.

“Just holding you,” he whispered, hugging you tighter as his voice grew quieter. “Instead of constantly running, fearing for my life, or being taken away. I just want to stay like this. Holding a pretty girl.”

The tension was starting to become too much for you to handle. Your face burned, unsure of how to process the sudden compliment. Trying to break the tension, you huffed a soft laugh and continued to rub your hand up and down his broad back. He seemed to like your touch very much.

“I’m sorry you lost your virginity this way.” you tried to joke.

Bucky chuckled against your chest. “The man I was in the forties probably would’ve done a much better job.”

“Well, this wasn’t bad at all—I’ll tell you that much.”

The two of you lay there, chuckling softly in each other’s arms, until the loud, sudden static of your earpiece made you both jolt.

“Do you copy? Report in.”

You both froze, your hearts beating rapidly for an entirely different reason now.

Bucky cleared his throat as he reluctantly tried lifting himself up. The friction of his slick and semi-hard cock sliding out of you made you let out an involuntary whimper.

“Status update,” Steve pressed, his tone anxious. “Are you two safe, or are you compromised?”

Compromised, sure. But definitely not in the way Steve meant.

Suppressing a giggle, you tapped your earpiece with a bright smile, catching Bucky's eye.

“Glad to hear your comms didn’t break, Steve.”

A relieved sigh came from the other end. “Give me a status report. How are you two? How’s Bucky?”

You watched as Bucky began to pull his clothes back on, his face an embarrassing shade of red as he tried to compose himself. You chuckled softly.

“We’re fine.”

halfway through proofreading this i lowk realized this was slop. i thought i had a good idea and then lost the plot. if you actually liked this please consider leaving a like and hit that subscribe button *epic outro music*

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No one ever saw it coming, but Bucky Barnes was the picture of a perfect partner. Everyone around him knew better than to get between him and his girlfriend. To say he was in love with you was an understatement—no.

He was hopelessly devoted to you. Utterly and completely.

Despite the rough glares, the deep voice, the intimidating stature, and the whole ex-brainwashed-assassin thing, he was a total softie when it came to you. It was like taking a big, brooding Bucky Barnes, tossing him into a blender, and turning him into pure, warm mush you could drink right up.

He was clingy in the sweetest way possible. He was always close, always there for you when you needed him. He gave you the softest kisses known to mankind. He spoiled you endlessly, told you every day how beautiful you were, and made sure you never once forgot how special you were to him.

Bucky loved you. You knew that for a fact. He was good at showing it.

Except there was one problem.

Aside from all the kisses and cuddles, he never took things any further. You both had been together for a few good months now, and not once had the two of you had sex.

There were moments—more than a few—when his body gave him away with a hard-on. When you were tangled up in bed, or curled together on the couch, you felt the way his body reacted to you. When you would try to slip your hand lower, thinking maybe it’ll get somewhere, he would gently catch your wrist and say “No, sweetheart. Not yet.”

After that, you stopped making the first move. You let him set the pace for his comfort. But as the weeks stretched into months, the harder it became to ignore the feeling of insecurity creeping in.

It wasn’t like he never gave you signals. He had bought you lingerie and suggestive pajamas to wear to bed more than once. And every time you slipped them on, you told yourself, “this is it. Tonight’s the night!”

But then… it never was.

You respected his boundaries—of course you did. You loved Bucky, deeply. And you would never push him into something he wasn’t ready for. You told yourself over and over that love wasn’t measured by sex, and that what you had was still something beautiful and real.

But that didn’t make the selfish, insecure ache go away.

Because sometimes, when the lights were out and Bucky was sound asleep beside you, those stubborn thoughts crept in anyway. Ugly, unwelcomed whispers that made you wonder if maybe… you weren’t what he wanted in that way.

That perhaps, you weren’t enough to make him want you like that.

You tried to shove the feeling down, to remind yourself that the way he held you, looked at you, and loved you meant more than anything else. But it was hard to silence that insecure part of you that just wanted to feel desired—not just loved, but wanted.

Eventually, you realized you couldn’t keep pretending the feeling wasn’t there. The weight of the feeling was too damn heavy on your chest, only growing heavier each night he refuses to touch you.

You loved Bucky. God, you loved him more more than anything. And you trusted him enough to know this wasn’t something you could just bury and let fester. You’d done your research—most couples fall apart over financial strain or intimacy issues. For you, it wasn’t just about sex. It was about the self-esteem that came with it.

You didn’t understand. How could he be so loving, affectionate, and clingy, with clear physical signs of being aroused by you, yet still refuse to take things any further? There had to be something deeper he wasn’t telling you.

So, you made the rational choice to talk to him—because communication was vital in a relationship.

The two of you were curled up together on the couch, your legs draped over his, his arm lazily wrapped around your waist. His thumb drew soft circles against your skin, and for a second, you almost lost your nerve—because there it was.

That damn erection pressing subtly against your thigh, the one he always deliberately ignored.

“Bucky,” you said softly.

He hummed in response, turning his head slightly toward you. That gentle, half-asleep smile of his nearly made you want to drop the idea of confrontation all together.

But you persevered. “Can we talk about something?”

That got his attention.

He straightened slightly, blinking the sleepiness from his eyes. “Yeah. ‘Course. What’s goin’ on?”

Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, heart beating a little too fast. “I don’t want you to think I’m upset with you,” you began carefully. “I love you. And I respect your boundaries. Always.”

His brows furrowed together, just a little—as if he already knew where this was headed but didn’t like it.

“But,” you continued softly, “I need to be honest with you. It’s getting a little hard for me. Not because I want to pressure you—never that—but because…” you hesitated, teeth catching your bottom lip. “Because sometimes it makes me feel like I’m not wanted. At least not… in a sexual way.”

There was a quiet pause, and every second that ticked by felt like it was crushing your lungs. You didn’t even want to meet his eyes—too scared of what might come out of his mouth.

The silence drowned you. Would he finally admit that he just didn’t find you attractive enough?

“What? Baby, no,” Bucky said finally, shaking his head hard. “That’s not—”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard like he was trying to compose himself. “I don’t want you to ever think that. You’re everything to me.”

But his voice was shaky, his gaze flicking away from you for a second too long. All little things, but enough to make you anxious.

“Then why…” you trailed off, trying to steady your own voice. “Why does it feel like you don’t want me?”

His jaw clenched, and you could feel his hand squeeze slightly against your arms before softening again. “It’s not like that. I just—” he let out a small, forced awkward laugh that didn’t meet his eyes. “Can we not do this right now?”

Your heart squeezed a little. Not because he was being mean, but because you could see the way he was retreating—like a door slowly closing before you could get a foot in.

“Bucky,” you pushed. “I need you to be honest with me. I’m not trying to push you into anything. But I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t affect me. I… I just want to understand.”

He still wouldn’t look at you.

“Why don’t you want to have sex with me?” you asked bluntly—not as an accusation, but as a plea for the truth.

Bucky’s breath hitched. He finally looked up, lips parting like he wanted to speak, but no words came out.

“I…” he faltered, his hands flexing against your waist before falling away completely. “It’s not that I don’t want to.” He let out a shaky breath. “It’s the opposite, actually.”

You tilted your head slightly, confused.

He dragged a hand down his face, and you could practically see the gears turning in his head as he struggled to put his feelings into words. Finally, in a hoarse whisper, he admitted softly.

“I’m scared I won’t be able to control myself.”

His gaze dropped to the floor, shoulders tense and jaw tight. “You don’t get it,” he continued, voice so low it was like he was talking more to himself than to you. “When it comes to you, it’s… different. It’s not just wanting you—it’s needing you. I mean, just look at you—”

His eyes flicked up, skimming over your face, down your body, then back to your eyes with a raw honesty that made your breath catch. “You’re this soft, fragile little thing. If I make love to you, I wouldn’t want to hold back.”

Bucky looked into your eyes like he was pleading you to understand—and you did. You did understand. But under the weight of his confession, a spark stirred in your chest. A stubborn, competitive fire. Because you loved Bucky—all of him. Which meant you wanted to take… all of him, even the parts he thought you couldn’t handle.

You inhaled slowly, scooting a little closer to him. “Then… what if we set a boundary?”

He gave you a questioning look. “What?”

“A safe word,” you explained carefully. “Something that we can use if it gets too intense—if either of us wants to stop.”

You thought it was a good idea, and expected Bucky to be on the same page. But he sucked in a breath, his brows furrowing together in that familiar expression—one you knew meant he wasn’t fond of the suggestion.

“I’m serious,” you said, gently reaching for his hand. He didn’t pull away, but his fingers twitched against yours, still unsure. “I trust you, Bucky. More than anyone. And I want you to trust yourself, too. We can set the pace, we can stop whenever you want. If you feel like it’s too much—just say the word, and it’s over. No guilt. No pressure.”

He bit his bottom lip, his silence making you more anxious.

“You think it’s that easy?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t think it’s easy,” you shrugged, trailing your hand down to his, giving it a soft, reassuring squeeze. “I think it’s a start.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, the sound rough. He looked down at your joined hands with a small pout that made your chest ache. “I don’t know if I can follow that,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I don’t know if I can trust myself to stop once I start.”

You stared at him for a moment, processing his words, before finally asking, “But… is having sex with me something you want?”

Bucky’s gaze softened, a mix of frustration and longing. He didn’t need to think about it before answering, his voice rough but honest as he looked you square in the eye. “More than anything.”

Despite everything, you believed him. There was nothing more to say, so you let it go.

Since that night, though, you couldn't help but tease him. You knew it wasn’t exactly fair, but you needed to feel something—that spark, that connection, that heat between you. So, you started to frequently wear those slutty pajamas he bought you—lingerie so barely there you might as well have been naked. You would purposefully linger just a little too long when your hand brushed against his leg, letting your fingers trail down his thigh, knowing full well what it did to him.

You would snuggle closer on the couch, wiggling so your body pressed up against his, feeling his muscles tense as you did. And when you bent over—whether to pick something up or just move around—your hips would sway a little too much, your body just a little too close to his.

The little acts were almost unconscious—more instinct than strategy, really. But they were all worked without fail. You could feel that tension from him more than ever. His body would stiffen up, his usually bright puppy eyes would darken with slightly, and his jaw would clench in a sexually frustrated away.

As the days dragged on, you had noticed how much more on edge he seemed recently. Usually when you climbed into bed in your slutty pajamas, he'd welcome you and shower you in compliments. But tonight, his blanket was pulled up to his nose, his back turned squarely toward you.

“Are you calling it an early night?” you frowned, crawling onto the mattress beside him.

He mumbled something under the covers that you couldn’t quite make out. You lifted the blanket, slid underneath beside him, and felt him instantly tense up. With a soft, sleepy sigh, you wrapped your arms around his waist, settling your hands on his lower stomach as you spooned him from behind.

He immediately shuddered at your touch.

“Are you okay, baby?” you asked softly, nose pressed into his shirt, inhaling his scent.

“F-fine,” he grunted.

The contrast between your usually soft and puppy-eyed boyfriend and this pent-up, grumpy mess was amusing. Your hands subtly trailed lower, brushing the crotch of his sweatpants. He shuddered again, but didn’t pull away—he never did.

“Don’t you want to see what I’m wearing? I'm wearing one of the little night slips you bought me,” you asked softly and innocently from behind.

He sucked in a sharp breath. “Baby…”

Your hands trailed lower, your fingertips barely grazing the straining bulge beneath his sweatpants. God, he was rock hard, just the small graze of your fingertips made his hips buck and his cock twitch instinctively.

A low groan rumbled from his chest, and his eyes fluttered shut. “Sweetheart,” he whispered. “If we were to set a safe word, what should it be?”

You couldn't help the small smile that curved your lips as you gave his clothed cock a subtle squeeze that made him gasp. “Well, if we’re speaking in theoretics, it should be ‘Brooklyn.’”

Your hands hovered just above him, expecting him to use the word, but he remained silent.

Instead, he took in a deep, shaky inhale. “Okay.”

Your hands slowly dropped back onto his cock, and he immediately twitched and throbbed beneath your touch. Your thumb grazed the outline of his head, and as you moved your fingertips, you felt something cool and slick.

He was leaking.

You grinned, though he couldn’t see it. “How was your day, baby?” you asked innocently, the question sounding almost taunting.

“G-good,” he muttered, subtly rocking his hips into your hand. “So... good.”

“That’s good,” you murmured, keeping your palm heavy and still against his cock. “I missed you today. I just stayed home and cleaned. I was wearing this night slip you got me. It’s so comfortable, it feels like I’m wearing nothing.”

His breath hitched. He could already picture it—you bending over to clean and pick up items, looking domestic yet tempting in that skimpy little dress. He could picture it clearly because you had been doing exactly that these past few days—purposefully teasing, purposefully taunting. Now, with your palm still against him, you were testing the last of his patience. His hips began to rock more suddenly and deeply, his cock aching for friction. He told himself he wasn’t going to lose control. He tried to convince himself that this act alone was enough for him.

As long as he didn't turn around and look at you—wearing that flimsy dress with your perky chest visible, your ass exposed—then he was safe.

All he had to do was not look at you.

“Fuck,” he swallowed hard. “Did you now?” he questioned, clearly trying to distract himself from your touch.

His cock was growing heavy and hot beneath your touch, and with the aggressive way his hips were rocking into your palm, you couldn't help but increase the pressure. “Mhm,” you drawled. “I was being very good today.”

His jaw clenched as he tried to compose himself, his back shuddering as your hand worked him greedily. “Yeah?” he breathed, straining the word out. “You were being a good girl?”

You let out a soft little whine at the nickname, your legs clenching together to soothe the warmth creeping between your thighs. Then, you lifted your leg, draping it lazily over his, pressing yourself impossibly closer so that your breast pushed against his broad back.

You peeked over his shoulder, his hands were fisted in the sheets. You knew you were being selfish, taunting him like this—but you couldn't help it. You wanted to see him break, and the cracks were becoming more and more visible.

“Bucky,” you whined, your free hand coming up to caress the soft strands of his hair. “Why won’t you look at me?”

The stark contrast between your soft, gentle caress on his hair and your greedy hand working his erection made it impossible for him to think. His mind was spinning with one thing only: to take you.

But he wasn't going to look at you. He made sure of it.

“Don’t you want to see how I look?” you pouted, squeezing your legs more tightly against his.

He took in a deep, steady breath before responding. “I’m sure you look beautiful, baby.”

“How do you know if you haven’t even looked at me?”

“Baby,” Bucky warned, his voice rough and demanding. “Don’t test me right now. I’m trying so hard to be a good, respectful man, but I—oh, fuck!” He moaned as your palm worked faster on his cock, giving it a subtle squeeze as you pumped him through his sweatpants. “Shit, baby. You better fucking stop right now or I’ll—”

“Stop what?” you cooed innocently, your head resting on his shoulder as you stroked him from behind. “I’m not doing anything bad, am I?”

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “Don’t push it, honey. I mean it.” But despite his warnings, he had yet to say the established safe word. “Fuck—stop.”

You gasped softly, your teasing posture deflating a little with a dramatic sigh. “Oh, you mean it? Okay, okay. If my good, respectful boyfriend is feeling threatened by my hand, I definitely wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You deliberately pulled your hand away, leaving his heavy, throbbing erection alone in the confines of his sweatpants. You even slid your draped leg off his, and the absence of your warmth made his hips spasm once, sharp and frustrated.

You paused, waiting to see if he would finally give in. When his shoulders remained tense and his body stayed still, you let out a long, disappointed exhale. Without another word, you turned back around so that both your backs faced each other.

Even though he hadn’t said ‘Brooklyn,’ you still didn’t want to risk pushing him further. You had never reached this point in your relationship where he sounded genuinely frustrated and pent up. You couldn't tell if his reaction was solely sexual frustration, or if he was actually upset.

Either way, you didn't want to gamble with the possibility of upsetting him.

You had tried. You had been trying for days, and now, you were done. Suddenly, the skimpy night slip felt like an insult to your pride and self-esteem. You pulled the blanket over your body with a shuddering sigh—a sound Bucky definitely heard.

A long, tense silence stretched between you. Both of you were completely still and neither of you dared to move. You wanted to speak up, maybe ask if you had gone too far—but Bucky was so damn quiet, you convinced yourself he had already fallen asleep.

Then, he spoke up first.

“Are you okay?”

You snuggled deeper into the mattress, trying to hide yourself even though he wasn't looking at you. “I’m okay.”

There was another pause, and you thought that would be the end of it. Then, you heard shuffling behind you. Suddenly, strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you into soft fabric and a wall of muscle. Bucky’s warm arm curled tightly around your body and pulled you flush against him.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered into your ear. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Despite the sincerity and softness in his voice, you immediately felt his erection press against you underneath the blankets. You swallowed hard.

“You didn’t upset me, Bucky,” you explained softly, keeping your body still. “I just... I don’t want to push you or force you into something you’re not ready for. But I can’t lie and say it doesn't hurt, you know?”

You felt him stiffen behind you, his arms tightening around you just slightly. “It’s not that I’m not ready,” he explained gruffly, his voice deep and raspy. “I can take you right here, fuck. I want to take you right here—but I won’t, because I know you’re not ready.”

His hand rested heavily on your hip, his thumb circling slow patterns over the fabric of the gown as he spoke. You knitted your brows, glancing over your shoulder at him with a confused look. “What do you mean I’m not ready? I’ve been ready for a long time now.”

“I’m saying, if I pulled the blankets off you and saw you right now—wearing that slutty little dress—I’d flip that gown up and fuck you right through the mattress,” his grip on your hip tightened, his voice a low growl. “I want to, baby. I want you so badly, but I can’t. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Bucky,” you whispered, turning completely around to face him. He had to clench his jaw to compose himself. “I’ve told you this before. You can’t hurt me.”

“Jesus, baby. You’re not understanding me,” he grunted, his hungry eyes slowly wandering down your throat to your collarbone. “You’ll be a crying mess. You’ll be begging me to slow down, and I won’t be able to stop.”

His warnings should have scared you, but they only made you shamelessly wetter.

You bit your bottom lip, and you felt his cock twitch against your leg at the sight of your face. “Well… it’s a good thing we established a safe word, right?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I told you. Safe words are unreliable—”

But before he could finish his sentence, his words died in his throat as you slowly lifted the blanket, finally revealing yourself to him. The sight of the thin night slip clinging onto your curves, the strap falling down your bare shoulder, and the curve of your breasts poking through the fabric made his throat go completely dry.

“Fuck,” he grunted quietly—the word slipping out before he could stop it.

“Bucky, please. I can take it,” you reassured, holding his gaze. “I want to feel you make love to me. I want to feel every inch of you. I don’t want you to hold back. I can take it. Please.”

He let out a shaky exhale as his eyes fluttered shut, forcing himself to look away. You could tell it was taking everything in him to keep it together—but you also knew that just one more push could break him open completely.

So, you grabbed his hand and placed it back onto your hip, scooting even closer and batting your eyelashes up at him.

“I need you, Bucky,” you whined. “I need you so badly—it hurts. Please give yourself to me.”

His eyes fluttered open, and it was like something in him snapped. His eyes lost that usual soft, puppy-eyed glow and were replaced with something darker, hungrier. His gaze wandered down your body with a shaky breath, and as his eyes took in your whole form—vulnerable and inviting right in front of him—he couldn't hold back anymore.

He sat up abruptly, gripping the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers and yanking them down past his hips. His cock sprang free, heavy and hard, slapping against his stomach.

“I’ve been trying to be a good man—a good partner for you,” he snarled, his eyes burning with desire.

His free hand wrapped around his erection, pumping himself slowly and deeply. You watched, completely captivated, as his thumb rubbed the head of his cock, smearing the pre-cum.

“I’ve been doing so fucking good—holding out for months, trying to resist you. But fuck, you’re testing my patience, baby girl.”

“You asked for it,” he didn't ask or plead—he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly sound you barely recognized. His hand pushed the hem of your night slip up past your hip. “You told me not to hold back. Fine. I won’t.”

His lustful eyes wandered down your body, where your bare thighs lay exposed and the night slip was bunched messily around your waist. His gaze took you in completely—and you felt small and defenseless beneath his heavy presence. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, a low groan slipping from his throat as he admired you.

“Damn, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick. “I was right. You look fucking beautiful in this tiny dress.”

His fingertips caught the waistband of your panties, pulling them down in one swift tug past your legs and tossing them carelessly onto the floor. With rough hands, he gripped your legs and spread them wide—baring your wet slit to his ravenous eyes.

Despite being together for a few months, this was the first time you two saw each other completely bare, intimate, and vulnerable. All you could do was lay there mesmerized by the sheer size of him. He was big and hard in a way that should have scared you, and maybe he was right, maybe you wouldn't be able to handle him. But with your man hovering above you, practically panting at the sight of you—radiating an overwhelming need to claim you—you were determined to take every inch of him.

Bucky must have noticed your hesitation, because a smug grin tugged at his lips. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he taunted, fisting his cock in his hands. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”

His grip on your thigh tightened as he positioned his cock against your entrance, rubbing his tip up and down against your wet folds. You shuddered as he coated himself with your arousal, and you let out a shocked gasp as the tip of his cock probed and caught against your entrance before he pulled it back to rub against your slit again.

“Christ, baby…” he groaned, his cock purposefully catching on your entrance again before retreating. “You’re so damn wet. It would be so easy to just slip it in... to slam all the way in.”

Your legs instinctively tightened around his waist, gripping the bedsheets as if bracing yourself. “I-I’m ready, Bucky…”

A mocking and almost cruel laugh escaped his lips. He shook his head, probing his tip at your entrance again. “You’re not ready,” he rasped. “You’ll never be ready to take me—but it’s okay. I’m still a good man, a good boyfriend for you, aren’t I? I’m so good, I’ll even help you…” he slowly pushed the tip past your entrance, “… ease into it.”

A small whine escaped your lips as you felt his tip slip inside you. It was only the head of his cock, but it was enough to make your walls flutter tightly around him, subconsciously trying to invite him even deeper.

“Oh, fuck,” he moaned, eyes fluttering shut with all the restraint left in the world as he stilled his hips. “You’re so fucking tight, and that’s just the tip, baby…”

“Please…” you whined, “give me more.”

Bucky groaned—almost in frustration—as his hips slowly began to rock back and forth, fucking you with just the tip of his cock. You moaned beneath him, your back arching as you tried to subtly move your hips against his, attempting to push yourself deeper onto him.

“Oh, fuck, Bucky…!” you let out another moan as you pushed onto him, pulling more of his thick cock to stretch you out. It was more than just the tip, and not nearly halfway up his shaft, but it was enough to make your legs shake.

“Fuck… you greedy little slut,” he groaned, his hands finding your hips and tightening to keep you still. “You’re so fucking greedy, trying to take all of me already.”

His hips started to move as he held you still, fucking you with only what was already inside you and refusing to slam all the way in. The stretch burned, but it felt way too damn good. He was so big, stretching you full, and this wasn't even all of him.

Bucky gritted his teeth as he watched you whimper and whine beneath him. You were so tight your walls were clamping down on him, making it hard for him to move. He knew his size was hurting you, but how could he pull away when you were writhing beneath him so cutely?

Pleading for more when you could barely take what he had given you so far?

“What’s wrong, baby?” he cooed, leaning down to wipe a stray tear from your cheek. “You wanted this, didn’t you?”

“Y-yes…” you shuddered. “I wanted this… I can take it—oh, fuck!”

You squeezed your eyes shut as he began to push in deeper. Your wetness only made it easier for him to slide in. A low, raspy groan rumbled from his chest as he tossed his head back in pleasure, finally feeling your tight walls stretching around his cock.

He paused just before he hit the base. “Fuck, baby! God, you’re so fucking tight…” he breathed. “I need to put it all in, okay?”

Just as he was about to move his hips, he saw your eyes squeeze shut again as you braced yourself. “No,” he snarled, his voice dropping low as one hand cupped your face, shaking your head lightly. “Don’t you dare close your eyes, baby. You’re going to keep them open while I stuff the rest of my cock in your pussy. You wanted this, doll. So you’re going to get it.”

Your eyelids fluttered open, eyes glossy from tears. You looked up, and your once gentle, loving boyfriend was staring down at you like you were his prey. It was a dark, hungry gaze, as if the only thing he wanted to do was claim you, ruin you until your body was branded as his.

“I… I can take it,” you sniffled.

He smiled, a dark, wicked curve of his lips. He drew his hips back until only the tip remained inside you. He then lifted your thighs slightly, spreading you even wider for him, before he slammed forward until the base of his cock was buried deep inside you.

“Ohhh… fuck!” he groaned, letting himself be fully buried before immediately grounding his hips, rocking himself slowly against you.

Your back arched off the bed, eyes instinctively squeezing shut as he shoved the rest of his thick cock deep inside. As his hips rocked, you felt every pulsing ridge of him, and your walls clamped down on him, struggling to accommodate his large size. To say it didn't hurt was an understatement, but you were fiercely determined to take him. You wanted to prove to your boyfriend that you could be a good girl and take every last inch like you said you would.

“... Bucky!” you gasped. “T-too much… be slow, okay?”

He snarled as he leaned over you, the heavy weight of his body completely pressing down on yours. His flesh hand slid through the strands of your hair, giving it a rough tug. You winced, your eyes shooting open.

“That’s it. Look at me,” he demanded, grounding his hips against yours.

He moaned softly as he fucked himself into you. His vibranium fingers rested coolly on your hip, and you shivered at the touch despite the warmth of his body pressing down on yours. You let out a cry as he gave you one sharp, sudden thrust, your head tossing back before his grip on your hair went tighter, forcing your gaze to steady on his.

“I-I said to slow down…” you swallowed. “Y-you’re too—”

“Too big, am I?” he smiled, and it wasn’t the usual soft smile he’d give you. No. This smile was mocking, almost condescending. “I know I’m too big. But I warned you, baby. I told you you were this small little thing…” another sharp thrust that made you gasp, “... so small you can’t even take all of me.”

You tried wiggling around, attempting to make yourself comfortable—though it was futile. And the slight shifts and movements only made his cock throb harder inside you, each friction-filled rub making his shaft twitch with pleasure.

“Fuck… so… s-so small, so tiny and tight,” he grunted, his hips moving faster, the sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the room as he continued to belittle you. “Thinkin’ you can take all of me… but look at you—you’re a crying, whimpering little mess.”

Bucky had never spoken to you this way. He always showered you with praise and soft words, but the sheer condescension in his voice now only made you wetter, driving an undeniable craving for more.

“M-more,” you begged despite your weak voice and legs trembling around his waist. “More… please—”

“Yeah?” he laughed, the sound sharp and disbelieving. “You want more?”

Before you could reply, his grip on your hair and waist tightened. His body fully enveloped yours, and he began pounding into you, hard and fast. You cried out, your hands desperately clutching his back as you cursed and babbled his name—but he didn't slow down for a second.

“Fuck—so fucking good, baby girl,” he groaned. “You don’t know how bad I wanted to do this…” He tilted his head down, pressing soft kisses to your neck that starkly contrasted the brutal, relentless pounding of his hips. “To grab you from behind every time you’re cleaning…” another kiss, “...throw you down on the floor and fuck you until you cry, until your throat’s raw from screaming my name.”

You were doing exactly that.

Tears welled in your eyes as he fucked you hard and deep. “Bucky!”

“Yes,” he breathed heavily. “Scream my name.”

“B-Bucky, oh my god—it’s too—I…”

“Shit, what a babbling little mess you are.”

He nuzzled his face in your neck, eagerly sucking, leaving filthy, bruising marks along your sensitive column. He was fucking you so hard and deep, mumbling dirty words into your neck—sounds you could barely distinguish over the frantic slap of skin, your own desperate moans, and the creaking of the bed beneath his assault.

Your head spun with overwhelming desire, and the moment his hand released your hair and trailed down between your bodies, his fingers finding your sensitive clit, you knew it was over. Your eyes widened at the overwhelming sensation, and your walls clenched down on his cock, tighter than ever, as you felt yourself coming undone.

“B-baby!” you gasped, clinging to him desperately. “I’m gonna—”

“You’re gonna cum, baby? Already?” he taunted, though his fingers never faltered in their relentless, merciless movement.

“Bucky… please, fuck, I’m going to come—it feels too good. Oh my god!” you gasped.

He sat up, his arms sweeping under your thighs, lifting them and folding you nearly in half. Your legs trembled, suspended in the air, while he slammed into you—deeper than before—in that punishing position.

You cried out his name, “Bucky! Oh my god—please, I can’t—”

“You can,” he grunted, his voice commanding, “and you will.”

He fucked into you, harder and deeper, indecent noises and rough words spilling from his lips in a relentless litany of lust. You felt him throb and pulse deep inside. Even through the haze, you knew he was close, too, but he wouldn’t let himself go. Not until you did.

“Fuck—come for me, baby. Now,” he demanded, the words hard and mean. “What the hell are you waiting for, sweetheart? Trying to hold out for me?”

“N-no, I…” you blubbered, his cruel, deprecating words sending an agonizing jolt of lust through your entire body.

His words alone were the final push. Your legs trembled, your eyes still wet with tears of pleasure and pain as you screamed his name. You clamped down on him, hard enough to wrench a loud groan from his chest, and came all over his cock.

“Fuck! Jesus, baby…” he snarled.

Bucky’s hips tried to continue their relentless rhythm, but he was forced to still because your inner walls were so unbearably tight. You panted and sniffled beneath him, trying to close and relax your legs, but he held them rigidly in place.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“… tired,” you whimpered.

“Yeah?” he smiled again, and this time it was with a softer adoration—his grin almost boyish. “You’re sleepy?”

You nodded.

He tilted his head, that soft admiration gleaming in his eyes. “But I haven't come yet, baby.” His free hand gently trailed to your cheek, wiping the tears away. “You’re not going to leave your boyfriend high and dry now, are you?”

“B-but…” you panted, your legs shaking uncontrollably. “I don’t think I can—”

His fingers cupped your cheeks, squeezing them to silence you. “Baby,” he warned, “I told you I couldn’t hold myself back once I started.” He then pulled his cock out slowly, the loud, wet sound of your arousal filling your ears as your face instantly warmed with embarrassment.

Before you could protest, he grabbed your hips with strong hands, hauling and flipping your body until your stomach hit the mattress with a soft thud. You yelped as his hands gripped your waist, hiking your hips and presenting your backside bare for him.

“We’re not done,” he grunted from behind you, grabbing his cock and positioning the head at your entrance for round two. “Not until I come.”

“Bucky, I—” your words died in your throat as he drove into you again in one fluid motion, filling you completely.

The stretch burned even more than before, and your cunt, overwhelmingly sensitive, forced you to bury your face into the pillows. Your hands squeezed the fabric as you arched your back, taking every painful inch of him again.

“Oh my god! T-too much…”

“But it feels so good, doesn’t it?” he moaned, fucking you deep. “Tell me how good it feels, baby…”

You were a babbling, drooling mess, barely able to form words, staining the pillows with your tears.

Bucky let out a disapproving sound from behind. His hand slunk around your waist, his finger pressing against your clit and rubbing it in rough, merciless circles. Your whole body convulsed at the sensation, utterly overstimulated as you shook and trembled. Bucky’s vibranium arm circled around your body, the metallic coolness making you tense up as he pulled your hips back and forced you to hold still.

“Tell me, baby,” he demanded, his voice raspy.

You tried to answer, you truly did, but only a ragged gasp escaped. Your eyes were fluttering, and your body trembled violently in his hold. He held you tighter, leaning down to bite softly on your bare shoulder.

“Fuck... I’m gonna cum, baby,” he moaned, his movements growing sloppy and desperate, losing all rhythm. “Christ, it feels so good, doesn’t it? You can’t even say anything because you’re so—fuck, so drunk on my cock... can’t even think straight either, can you?”

Your inner walls clenched and pulsed around his cock at his taunts, and the sensation shattered what little control Bucky had left. He gave you one final, rough thrust, his cock burying deep inside you as he let himself come undone, making your whole body jerk. Even as he held you impossibly full, his fingers never stopped their merciless pacing.

You were so stuffed with him, unable to form a single coherent thought. You weren’t sure how much you could take. He began to rock his hips again, a slow, agonizing grind against your overstimulated flesh.

“Yes, yes—you’re taking me so well, baby girl. Fuck, my cum is buried so deep—”

“...B-brook…”

His hips stilled.

His hands paused.

He held his breath, his face still pressed against your shoulder.

“W-what was that?” he rasped, waiting.

“... Brooklyn.”

The word broke him instantly.

Bucky snatched his hand from your clit and yanked his throbbing cock out in one urgent motion. A small, vulnerable whimper escaped you at the sudden, aching loss. His vibranium arm was quick and soft, turning you over. In the next moment, he had pulled you flush against his chest, both large arms wrapping tightly around your trembling body.

“Fuck, baby. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice dry and thick with remorse.

He looked down to see your tear-streaked face and felt a sharp clench in his heart. His eyes drifted to your neck, the soft skin now riddled with dark, bruising marks left in his wake. He let out a shuddering breath, overwhelmed by the sight of you—utterly ruined by his intensity.

“Fuck,” he muttered, the curse directed only at himself. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I didn't mean to go that far. Are you okay? Shit…”

Your body shook, and your heart clenched at the sound of his distress.

You knew Bucky would never hurt you intentionally, but the overwhelming sensations left you physically weak. And truthfully, despite the intensity, it was the most mind-blowing sex you'd ever had.

“That was… good,” you managed quietly, your voice shaky and breathless.

He frowned down at you. “Good? Baby, how can you say that?” his voice wavered. “I… I hurt you…”

His thumb brushed the corner of your eye, wiping the wetness away. With a trembling arm, you lifted your hand, gently wrapping it around his wrist as you looked up at him.

“No… it was good,” you repeated with a breathless laugh, realizing how unconvincing you sounded. “It was good, Bucky, it was just… a lot for me, that’s all.”

His eyes softened, dropping to your hand wrapped around his wrist. He continued to soothe your cheek with his thumb. “I told you we shouldn’t have…” his voice broke, and he swallowed hard. “We shouldn’t have done this. I’m so sorry.”

“Bucky, stop apologizing,” you cooed gently, tilting your head up to press a messy, sluggish kiss to his lips. “It’s okay. You didn't hurt me.”

“Honey, look at you. You’re covered in…” he made a face, ashamed of himself. “… hickeys. And your hair’s a mess.” He raised his hand, trying to smooth the strands down.

“Bucky,” you said firmly, grabbing his hand and meeting his gaze. “Stop. I’m okay, baby.”

You gently moved his hands away from your hair and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles. He let out a ragged sigh at the feel of your lips. “It was good. Really good,” you continued, your voice shaky but sincere. “And I want to do it again, and again, and again. More times than I can count. I just needed a little break, okay?”

He pursed his lips, clearly wanting to argue, but he held back. He looked deep into your eyes before nodding quietly. “Okay,” he repeated, but the word was strained, as if he were trying to ground himself. “Okay. I understand.”

A long pause followed—a silent moment where you two simply stared into each other’s eyes. He occasionally leaned in to press a soft kiss to your cheek, his finger dragging over your face reassuringly and gently, as if you were the most fragile thing in the world, and he hadn’t completely ruined you just moments ago.

“I know you said it was okay,” he whispered. “But I still feel like shit for losing control.”

You gave him a tired smile, your hands rising to cup his cheek. “But you listened to the safe word,” you pointed out. “You stopped the minute I muttered it, and you were just over here telling me that safe words were ‘unreliable.’”

He exhaled, breath shaky. “I know. As good as it felt, I didn’t want to hurt you. God. That’s the last thing I want to do.”

You leaned in, pressing a soft, slightly wet kiss directly to his lips—a gesture that held none of the rough lovemaking and only pure, quiet affection. “I know that, Bucky. I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

He looked down at the state of the night slip, now messily bunched around your waist with the strap falling loose from your shoulder. Your hair was disheveled, your neck was marked with bruises from his lips—and yet, to Bucky, you were the most beautiful and precious thing he had ever laid eyes on.

“This…” his fingertips fiddled lightly with the lace hem. “This dress is very dangerous.”

You smiled. “You were the one that bought it for me.”

Bucky huffed a laugh.

“I know. And all I had to do was not look at you.”

thank you for reading <3

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He always loiters whenever he’s bored — which is almost always — because he claims they have better snacks, a better couch, a better aura (whatever that means, you sometimes think he says shit like that just to hear the sound of his own voice). Whenever you stop by, Bucky’s either in the kitchen cooking with food that isn’t his, which is usually what Natasha makes him do since he hangs around so much, or sprawled out audaciously on their love seat couch watching a show you’ve never heard of, or interrupting their movie night by asking too many questions and guessing the ending in the first five minutes.

Granted, you interrupt them too, but that’s because you get invited along with Natasha’s other girlfriends. Bucky just shows up most of the time.

Sometimes you think he has a tracker embedded in your skin somewhere, because he’s always conveniently here whenever you are. Or he has some sort of sixth sense that he can predict when you’re stopping by, and beats you here first.

Your eyes instantly roll when he’s the first person you spot in an apartment that doesn't even belong to him, an autopilot gesture that he’s grown used to seeing. Bucky’s leaning against the kitchen island, phone to his ear and, uncharacteristically, looks agitated. Nervous. Especially as he picks anxiously at his nail beds.

Setting the container full of soup down on the counter (rest in peace to Natasha’s sinuses), you quirk a brow at his stature. Normally Bucky’s all talk, because the first course of action on his agenda whenever he sees you is some lewd comment, a disastrously stupid joke, or anything under the sun to annoy you. It’s almost like bothering you is his day job. Sometimes it's yanking the ends of your hair or throwing a dish towel at you.

Contrary to right now, because he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else right now.

But, of course, that doesn't stop him from giving you a once over, blue eyes raking up and down your body as he takes in your outfit, your pretty shoes up to what hairstyle you've gone with today. Shameless, really, he's not even trying to hide it. Morning, noon, and night he's thinking about getting some, because handling something serious over the phone doesn't mean that he's stopped being a prick. No, that's his default setting.

"Yeah, Ma, I hear ya," he says monotonously into the phone.

You snort. He's lamented before about getting stuck on the phone with his mother more times than you can count, knowing he's probably at a breaking point with his patience. He claims he loves the woman dearly, but sometimes she just doesn't let up about anything, especially about her precious baby boy.

His words, not yours, because precious is not the word you'd use to describe Bucky Barnes.

Faux pouting at him, you saunter into his space as he shoos you away, trying to listen to the half-nonsense his mother is spewing over the phone (but how can he? Especially when you look like this in that godforsaken top that trips him up every time you wear it) and half-trying not to verbally crash out with you. At least you're quiet, but the teasing look on your face and the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip forces him to look away.

When he shakes his head at you, annoyed, you jab a finger into his ribcage upon passing him. Hard.

"Stop it," he mouths low to you, not in the mood for playing.

You respond by doing it again.

"Ow," Bucky hisses as your name falls from his lips, this time audible. Then, his brows pinch as he sighs in irritation. "No, yeah, fine, that's just...uh..."

His mother says something on the other line that makes him freeze, his bright blue eyes slowly morphing from annoyance to indifference.

Bucky stares at you. He really stares at you, as if the gears are turning in his head about something you can't know to be good. And you just... stand there, your next move of attack on hold simply because you're frozen as he looks at you. No smirk. No lewd comment. No cocky expression. Just...Bucky. Thinking. Which is never a good sign, because he never takes the time to simply think of anything. He doesn't even think before he speaks half the time, let alone ponder anything outside of which girl he's going to make a move on at the bar.

Then, his expression turns into something you can't recognize, as if he has a bright idea, a revelation, an epiphany, because a slow grin etches on his pretty lips, showcasing dimples as he shifts his gaze between your eyes. You frown. Immediately. That's not good. Not at all.

All of a sudden, you're squeamish under his stare. Why is he looking at you like that? Smiling like he has something to prove? A grin that should come with a warning?

You tense when he says your name, loud and clear.

"Yeah," he continues slowly, eyes not leaving you. "My girlfriend."

If you eyes haven't popped out of the sockets before, they have now.

Instantly, you're lunging forward, reaching for the phone to end this godforsaken call. But the attempt to end the call is fruitless, because Bucky simply laughs into the ringer as if he has all the time in the world, low and easy and too nonchalant for your rising blood pressure. He defends against your grabby-hands easily, too strong for his own good, pawing your hands away as you frantically try and snatch his phone.

When you get close and your fingers brush the metal, he easily hums and puts the phone on speaker, proceeding to raise his arm as high as he can so that there's no way you're reaching it now with his freakishly tall stature. And, oh, he peers down at you so fucking smug that you want to slap it off. Immediately. Especially when he barely flinches when you shove at his chest, try and hit his armpit to get him to lower his arm (spoiler, he's not ticklish), as you hear his mother's chirpy tone on the other end.

"—nderful, James!" His mother beams through the speaker, unknowing to the way you're practically fighting her son right now. "Please tell me you're bringing her to the lake this weekend."

"N—!"

Bucky immediately covers your mouth with his palm, something that shouldn't have been as easy as he just did so. "She is, she can't stop talking about how excited she is."

When you lick his palm as an attempt to get his hand off, he barely flinches. Instead, he presses harder.

"I can't wait to meet her," she chirps happily. "This is good, James. Very good. It's time for you to show everyone what a respectable young man you are."

"Respectable?" You reiterate incredulously under his palm, but instead it comes out muffled as if you're underwater.

Bucky rolls his eyes, either at the respectable comment or the way you treat that as a joke, or at both. Regardless, you swear you see the tips of his ears burn pink, almost sheepish at his mother's words and how you're witness to it.

She doesn't hear you. Of course.

"When you get in," she adds nonchalantly, bubbling with excitement, "Pa can take you to that jeweler on the other side of the lake. You know the one? Where he got my engagement ring—"

"Okay!" Bucky interrupts hurriedly, wincing when you stomp on his foot. "Ow— Yeah, sure, Ma. Gotta skate, talk later, love you bye!"

Bucky barely lets his mother respond before he's hanging up the phone, tossing it carelessly on the granite counter before removing his hand from your mouth, which is definitely the wrong course of action, because the first thing you do is—

"What the fuck?"

"Okay," Bucky mediates immediately, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Before you freak—"

"I am freaking."

"Hear me out." His tone is calmer than you've ever heard him.

"Absolutely not."

"I didn't even pitch it to you."

"I actually couldn't give less of a fuck."

Bucky sighs your name, as if this whole ordeal that he started is one, big inconvenience.

But you're not letting him off the hook that easy. "Nope. Not doing it."

"You don't even know what it is." His hands flex at his sides.

"I didn't think I needed to?"

Cautiously, he takes a step towards you, eyes low with intent, as he says your name gently. When you don't back up, or when you don't stand down from this discussion, he takes it as a sign to take another step closer, until he's suddenly right in front of you, hands hovering over your biceps with an expression so serious it gives you whiplash, especially when he looks fucking exhausted. No witty comment on the back burner. No bribe that gets you to raise a brow and kick his groin. No nonsense that you're so used to from him.

Just Bucky. Raw. Unfiltered... Nervous?

"It's two days," he says eventually, voice calm even though you swear you can see his heart beating through his t-shirt. "Just one night, really. Forty-eight hours of pretending to like me in front of my family."

You hate how quiet his tone is. How understanding, like he's already preparing for you to say no, to head to his family function empty handed with empty promises so they can uphold their disappointed image of him, as if he's used to it. Another year of being single, another year of refusing to settle down, another year of reaffirming everything his family already thinks of him. Reckless. Unlovable. Difficult.

"Why should I?" You ask equally as quiet.

Bucky thinks for a second, eyes darting to your collarbone for one, two seconds before coming back up to meet yours.

"It could be fun."

"Are you kidding?"

"Easy," he muses, a smile ghosting his lips, but not that lopsided smirk that you absolutely can't stand, a genuine smile, as if he's amused. "I'm standing right here."

"Yeah," you snort. "A little too close, might I add."

This is when he grins, lopsided and easy (and too fucking handsome for you to even comprehend right now) as his palms have gently braced on your shoulders, one hot and the other cool, as if he knows he's overstepping boundaries and figured to get them all out of the way now while your guard is down, while you're allowing him to be this close. Last time he got this close to you — he went in for a hug on New Year's — you panicked and knocked him into the bar.

"Haven't pushed me away yet."

Immediately, your hands are bracing on his chest and shoving him away, ignoring the way your heart races at his low laugh and how you allowed him to even get that close to you without some heinous comment (also avoiding how you never noticed his hands on your shoulder, how natural they felt, and how much you hate your sudden complicity). It's one thing to let your guard down to a guy, but to a guy like Bucky Barnes? Consider yourself a dead woman the day that actually happens.

So, to combat the weird growing feeling bubbling in your gut, you put on a sneer and wear it like a badge of honor.

"How am I supposed to convince anyone I like you?"

Bucky cocks his head to the side, unfazed. "Uh, I dunno, by acting?"

Deadpan stare.

He laughs boyishly, throwing his hands up lazily. "What? Scared you can't handle it?"

Your brows skyrocket, patience wearing thin.

"You don't think I can't handle it?" You reiterate incredulously, offended. "Handle you?"

"No," Bucky says immediately, never sure of anything else in his life. "I know you can. That's why I said your name and no one else's."

The words settle in the air like a thick, suffocating fog, because you hate how certain he sounds, like what he just said isn't making your heart convulse inside your ribcage. Because you know that deep down, he really means that, no matter how much your brain wants you to think otherwise. It's not like you can't trust the guy, for fuck's sake he's been a part of your friend group for years (even though you avoid him as much as you want for reasons you don't want to get into right now), he's going to be Steve's Best Man next fall and Natasha treats him like a big, annoying older brother. They vouch for him. They love him, damn it.

Say what you want about him, but you know for a fact that Bucky Barnes isn't a liar, at least not a very good one. Sure, he's more annoying than a twelve year old school boy and has the emotional capacities of a brick wall, he's always said it as it is. No sugarcoating, no dancing around the subject, just straight forward and to the point. That's the difficult thing that you juggle in this very moment, that no matter how pissed off you are and more revolted by the fact that the Prince Prick of All Pricks is asking — no, begging — for your help, you know it's truthful.

You sigh. Long and deep and guttural.

He literally couldn't have said any other name? Not the girl you saw him chatting with two nights ago at the bar down the street? Not the pretty barista that always writes a heart on his cup and shoots you death glares whenever you go in? Not any other girl who looks him up and down on the street to give his mom the impression that he's tied down? Did it have to be you? The girl he can never have?

Suddenly, you remember a conversation you accidentally overheard between him and Steve a few months ago. It was right after Christmas, since that's when your friend group celebrates their own version of the holiday, more so as an excuse to get together and drink and hang out. You walked into Steve's bedroom, looking for him to help Nat with the furnace, only to discover the fire escape window open with Bucky and Steve's back to you, sharing a joint in the cold.

"You're not this monster they're making you out to be," Steve said sincerely. "You know that, right?"

It was a tone so low that you froze, knowing you weren't supposed to be hearing this, something so private that you clearly were interrupting. But part of you stayed in curiosity, because Bucky had been uncharacteristically quiet all night and dodging all opportunities to poke fun at your Christmas sweater, so you automatically knew something was wrong. Not that you ever had the heart to ask, because you knew there was no way he'd open up to someone like you, regardless if you actually cared.

And you never forgot Bucky's next words. "They'll never see me as anything worth caring about."

You had left before you could hear anything else, telling Natasha you couldn't find them.

But you sometimes think of that moment, how upset Bucky sounded, as if the opinions of his family — and even his extended family that he says he doesn't care about — really matter to him, make a mark on his soul, make him feel less of an obligation and more of a person who's wanted. Loved. Cared for. Not some mouthy fuck-boy who has nothing more to his name than a reputation. A bad one, at that.

So now, as you look at him, really look at him, you're reminded of the Bucky sitting broken on that fire escape, where all he wants is his family's approval. You can't say you blame him. But you can't let him off that easily.

"What do I get in return?" You say eventually.

Stunned, Bucky blinks at you once, twice stupidly, certainly not expecting that from you.

"If I do this for you," you add pointedly, steadily. "It's not for nothing."

He clears his throat almost immediately, desperately. "Anything you want."

You narrow your eyes at him, studying his expression as you ponder your course of action. Sure, you could make him do your laundry for a month. Or clean your apartment head to toe, yet how much of his cleaning skills are up to par? Where's the fun in that? The sense of desperation? Buy your meals for the next month? Hm, too expensive. Be your personal chauffeur? Bleh, the thought of spending confined time in a car with him, no thanks. Makeshift masseuse? Scratch that, he'd definitely be too into that.

Then you grin. It makes his brows skyrocket.

"I want Alpine."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Okay, anything besides that."

"You just said whatever I wanted."

His lips twitch. "Sweet girl, that's my cat."

Oh, you hate the way your heart skips at the name. "So? And don't call me that."

"Gotta practice somehow."

"Haven't said yes yet," you snap pointedly.

Yet Bucky just beams. "Yet?"

You groan, feigning annoyance when your blood pressure is skyrocketing to regions so unknown, a primary care doctor would faint at the numbers. How he manages to do this every time you interact with him is beyond you, sending your bodily functions into panic mode as well as kickstarting migraines like a light switch as if he was put on this earth to do so. He knows what he's doing, he knows what buttons to push, how to prolong all of your interactions to get the most reactions out of you. He's relentless.

"Fine, deal's off," you say amidst his laughter, spinning heel and beelining for the door to refrain from actually throwing a pot or something at his head.

But, of course, he's not letting you go that easily.

"Wait!" Bucky pleads behind you, boyish laughter simmering down as he catches your wrist between his fingers, pads of the tips pressing against your raging pulse point as he spins you around to face him. "Just— Fuck— Wait a second."

God, he's so close, smiling so beautiful it makes you reel. No, you think immediately, not beautiful. Not at all. Not his hair threatening to fall over his eyes, those pretty ceruleans and those dimples on a smile that seems to be reserved just for you. It fucking sucks that he's handsome, as it would make this whole turning him down to save my dignity thing much easier than it is now, because you're fucking struggling.

Especially when his hand is warm and he smells intoxicating, like everything you're into trapped in a cologne bottle. You hate how you like him close, close enough to feel like you're the only person in the room (you are) and the only girl he will ever has eyes on (you aren't). It's horrible, feeling like you're wanted by a guy like him, knowing he probably said your name as a matter of convenience, since you walked right into the room as the topic came up. You guarantee if it was any other girl, he would've said her name.

Christ. You can't debate the semantics. You'll go fucking crazy if you do.

"Okay," he bargains slow, unknowing to your internal battle between self pity and self deprecation. "You can have Alpine for a month."

You quirk a brow.

He rolls his eyes. "Fine. Two. And unlimited visitation rights after."

For a second, you actually consider it. Because despite how much you can't stand him nor can stand to be in his apartment because that means he's there, you adore that cat. You love her like she's your own, and it's unfortunate she has such an annoying owner because you'd be over there much more than you already are simply to hang out with her.

The hardest part is that she loves you, too. You watch her when he's away and you take her out in your bag into the city (safely, of course). She lays on your chest and purrs like a motor about to takeoff and head to space. On the off chance he FaceTimes you about something irrelevant or if he's on with Steve and you're in the room, you make him put her on the phone. It's ridiculous, you know, but the fact that she's sweet on you and practically hates his other friends makes you feel special, like you've got a cosmic connection to a damned cat.

You sigh deeply.

"Three," you counter-argue.

"Done," he says easily. "See? Told you we could work it out."

You refrain from head-butting him. "You never said that."

He still hasn't let go of your wrist.

"Must've said it in my head." He shrugs and you roll your eyes. Prick.

And as if life couldn't get any worse, Natasha decides to emerge from her cocoon of a bedroom, sniffling with a red nose and sunken eyes looking like death reincarnated. A blanket is wrapped around her small frame, swallowing her whole, as Steve walks in behind her and nearly running into her back given the way she freezes in the doorway, staring at you and Bucky a little too close for comfort like you've grown three heads. Four. Five. Si—

"Did I...miss something?" She croaks, blinking blearily.

As you open your mouth to respond, Bucky beats you to it, throwing a lanky arm around your shoulders and pulling you taut to his body to which you immediately grimace. His grin is light, easy, so fucking smug and pleased with himself that you wish you could take it alllllll back, wishing you weren't a good friend who drops off soup for your sick friend in the first place.

"You didn't hear?" Bucky says amusedly. "We're dating."

You should've said no.

Christ, you should've laughed in his face for coming up with such a stupid idea. You should've shoved him as hard as humanly possible and slapped him upside the head for even bringing you into this mess. You should've packed and left town before he could drag you into his car and drive you all the way to the (admittedly stunning) lake house in the middle of nowhere.

Because here you are: tucked under his arm like it's your god-given right and forcing a smile so bright it almost hurts.

When the two of you pulled onto the street, you admittedly had no idea what to expect as you'd practically been thrust into this one-sided agreement. But the house sitting before you is no home, more like a mansion with beautiful stone and an exterior build that's something straight out of a magazine. Or an architect's wet dream. It's no doubt the biggest house you've ever seen, a three car garage with plenty of cars parked in the driveway which makes you think they'd need more than three garages, perhaps a dozen.

The front lawn is long and flat, outstretching a perfect green up until a short rock wall that separates the property from the water. Literally right on the water, as gentle waves lap up against the rock wall with a pontoon and speed boat adorning the long L-shaped dock. Right by the shore, there's a fire-pit along with about twelve chairs encompassing around it, along with a cabana next to the dock that looks like there's a bar inside.

Holy fuck. Holy trust fund. Holy Christ.

The words escape you. Truly. You know you're fucked when you had to pause mid-insult to Bucky as soon as you pulled up, too stunned to even speak.

But instead of flaunting or making your reaction the butt of a joke, Bucky simply shrugs, puts the car in park, and pats the back of your hand once, twice, before exiting the car.

Now you're here. Meeting his family whilst simultaneously trying not to catch flies in your mouth.

(And also really, really trying to ignore how good his cologne smells and how he's holding you in a way that makes you think he's enjoying this.)

Especially when his mother stands in front of said-mansion and beams at you, thoroughly pleased at the thought of her son having the capacities to settle down with someone who's remotely normal (loose term, the less she knows, the better). She doesn't even let you get a word in before she's rushing forward, the white wine in her glass sloshing precariously.

"James!" His mother scolds with a look of disbelief. "You didn't mention how beautiful she is!"

Bucky's hand squeezes your waist, whether he means to or not, but it makes you shudder all the same.

Shrugging the feeling off almost immediately, you stick your hand out and muster a smile that hopefully doesn't let her know how much you want to murder her son in sixteen different ways.

"You're too kind, Mrs. Barnes," you greet politely. "It's nice to meet you."

She takes your hand instantly, encasing it gingerly with a warmth that makes Bucky's fingers twitch against your waist. Her nails are filed and freshly manicured, skin smooth as if she just got back from the salon. Makes sense, given the almost perfect shimmer of her nail beds.

"Oh, please, Mrs. Barnes is his grandmother," she says with a playful scoff and a tone that makes it seem like she didn't like said-grandmother very much. "Call me Winnie. None of those formalities around me, honey. James has already told me so much about you, no need to be so proper."

You stifle a snort as you peer up at Bucky in faux-shock, noticing the tips of his ears burning red.

"Oh, did he?"

Winnie drops your hand as she laughs, and two things are obvious by the way her eyes crinkle and her smile widens: she loves her son and she loves her wine.

"Plenty," she muses, lunging forward to place a ginger kiss on Bucky's hot cheek. "Oh, don't give me that look. Everyone is just so excited that you’re becoming a young man."

He shakes off her welcoming gesture, squeezing your waist once more. You can practically feel the heat radiating off his cheeks, flushed with embarrassment that you of all people are hearing this right now. At this point, you think it's a coping mechanism for him.

"Dad didn't want to be a part of the welcoming committee?" He asks coolly, switching the subject as he looks beyond Winnie towards the house, waiting for a person who is probably never going to come greet them.

You shove that assumption way, way, way down.

Whether Winnie can see the nerves coming from her son, she doesn't comment on it, instead ignoring it altogether. "Don't start with that, James. He's grilling in the back with Mr. Townes."

Bucky snaps his gaze to his mother. "What?"

You brows furrow at the sudden tone shift.

His mother doesn't notice, instead moving towards the house. "Come inside, Izzy's making tequila sunrises."

If possible, Bucky stiffens even more. At this point, he could be as rigid as a board.

"Izzy's here?" He asks incredulously, almost...angry?

Not noticing her son's clear apprehension, Winnie nods and takes another hearty sip of her wine, still smiling bright as can be as she ushers the two of you inside. If the moment wasn't so full of tension, you'd take the time to admire the sunset. The smell of a cookout. The sound of the waves lapping against the rocks with the cadence of a lullaby.

"Yes, yes." Winnie interrupts your feel of the senses cheerfully. "She's here for the night to see the fireworks. The Townes are staying at the Clearwater's next door. Now come! Everyone wants to meet your girlfriend, honey.”

Before anyone can elaborate further or escalate the conversation, Winnie is turning tail and waving you two inside once again, this time sauntering back into the mansion as her shoes crunch under the soft gravel of the driveway, humming a common tune to herself and clearly giddy as can be. She’s unknowing to the chaos she just inadvertently caused, unknowing to the way her son practically seized up at the mere mention of someone. You assume it’s detrimental, given the iron grip on your waist and the way he hasn’t breathed in what feels like a minute.

The silence becomes palpable as you can practically see the steam coming out of his ears.

Swallowing thickly, you step away from him to grab your bag (in the process of doing so, his hand leaves your waist and you try to ignore how much you hate not having it there), slinging it over your shoulder as you ponder for a moment, eyeing his duffle. Feeling gracious for a second, you grab his as well and you slam the car door shut.

The sound seems to jolt him from his internal self-inflicted pity party, blinking his blue eyes once, twice, before shaking his head, taking his bag from your extended hand and tightening his grip around the straps and muttering something incoherent under his breath.

"We've been here for two minutes and you're already grumbling," you joke lightly as you try and clear the thick air. "Personally, I would've bet on five."

Bucky takes a long, deep breath. One from the soul. One that is obviously an attempt to avoid a crash-out mere minutes into the weekend. For a moment, you almost want to immediately apologize for the ill-timed comment as you feel your face get hot.

Fucking idiot, you think, who are you to comment on that?

But instead of snapping at you or defaulting to his asshole nature, he simply takes another deep breath.

"Izzy's my ex," he says eventually. Low and calm.

Your heart sinks. Great. Perfect. Another one of Bucky's past flings coming back to haunt you. Again. (Don't ask about the again. You had a pretty black and blue shiner to the cheekbone last Christmas when his winter situationship thought you two were seeing each other when you obviously weren't. You learned very quickly in that moment that these women do not play about Bucky Barnes. Not at all.)

"She's..." Bucky continues steadily, looking up the sky for a mere moment as he tries to find the words. "...territorial."

You roll your eyes. "Great. Am I gonna have to fight this one, too?"

Bucky's lips twitch barely. Just barely. But there. A crack in his horrible mood. It makes your pride swell slightly.

"Careful, baby." He draws out smoothly. "Startin' to sound a little jealous."

Aaaaaand your pride is extinguished. Gone with the wind. Dissipated into thin air. You're halfway to the house after the pet name, hating the way your heart thumps as you hear his jovial laughter behind you as he follows you in the house.

His hand doesn't leave you the entire time you're introduced to his family.

You have every single urge to shove him off, because it seems like the fucker is enjoying this. Enjoying the feel of your smooth skin under his hand, charting territories that have been off limits for the entire duration of your friendship (god, how long has it been now?) and taking full advantage of being able to cart you around and show you off to his family. That's what he wanted, isn't it? To practically flaunt you as living proof he's not what they make him out to be?

Bucky talks about you to his aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and neighbors like you've hung the stars yourself, showcasing your career accomplishments and hobbies that you didn't even know he knew.

When you pulled him aside after the third fun fact, he simply shrugged as he fixed your hair.

"Did my research," is all he says, before putting on that million dollar smirk and moving onto the next introduction.

And he does not leave your side. Not once. Not physically. At all.

Meeting his chirpy aunt with glimmering earrings and a bright red lip? Bucky's fingers are playing with the ends of your hair. Chatting up his second cousin about the nuances of implementing more solar energy? His thumb is rubbing circles on your shoulder. Being introduced to his father and the ring of grown man crowding around the grill as if they're all waiting for their turn to be grill-master? A palm is pressed firmly to the small of your back, grounding and steady almost as a coping mechanism himself because his father does not seem to have an ounce of the warmth his mother does.

Mr. Barnes is stern. Stoic. Giving Bucky a simply once over before politely introducing himself to you. Then returning to his conversation with the rest of the guys at the grill.

Bucky takes that as his cue to steer you away, and you pretend not to notice the way his fingers tremble against your back.

And now here you are: seeking refuge in the (giant) empty kitchen, where the leftover appetizers are sitting idly on the counter while the main course, burgers and hot dogs, are about to be served outside on the back patio. From here, you can hear the faint chatter and laughter, no doubt a rich sound, but from your little corner of solace, the sound acts as a buffer between the two of you and the stuffy atmosphere.

You and Bucky lean on counters opposite each other, sipping on tequila sunrises as you carefully study his body language. Closed off. Quiet. Already in his head. Sometimes you hate being empathetic, because why do you have the urge to cheer him up? To push the hair away from his eyes? To grab his hand and tell him that it'll be alright?

Frankly, you can’t even begin to understand the dynamic Bucky has with his father. He’s never spoken highly of the man, and you’ve only heard few rumblings about him in your years of friendship (if you can call it that) with the man standing in front of you. Yet you’re no idiot, you can assume it’s nothing pleasant or warm given the constant drive Bucky has to please him, whether he outright says it or not, because despite the anger and resentment he has towards his father, you can tell there’s a still a part of him that is a boy simply wanting his father’s approval, his father’s love, his father’s respect. You can’t necessarily blame him for that. You don’t understand it, perhaps you never will, but you still hate the insinuation that he doesn’t feel like he’s enough just because his father thinks so.

"Hey," you say quietly, nudging your foot against his ankle as he peers up at you with distant eyes. "How long you think your cousin's been cheating on that old jizzbag she married last year?"

Bucky's lips twitch just barely.

"Because she's been making fuck-me eyes towards that one guy," you add pointedly. "Quite obviously, might I add, that I'm starting to get a little turned on from it. Fuck, what's his name? I think he's the neighbor, uh..."

"Dan," Bucky responds quietly, but a small smile ghosts his lips. "And at least three months. Since spring break."

You gasp dramatically. "Scandalous. You think he knows?"

"The— Christ, what'd you call him? The old jizzbag?"

Nodding animatedly, Bucky chuckles gently and shakes his head at you, slowly starting to thaw from the slump he'd been in ever since the run in with his father and returning back to the person you know.

"No shot. Or he's pretending not to notice."

"Oh?" You hum curiously. "That adds a twist. I can already smell the headline: Billionaire fossil makes shocking discovery of his lifetime, his trophy wife half his age is getting devious back shots from the stud of a neighbor, doesn't reveal their secret so long as they set up a cuck chair for him in the corner. Got a nice ring to it, no?"

Bucky laughs boyishly, and god if the noise doesn't do something weird to your gut.

(Especially when his smile is so fucking pretty it almost hurts.)

He clutches his abdomen, nudging your ankle to mirror your action from before. "I think you missed your calling. TMZ would kill to have someone like you."

"Someone like me?" You challenge, feigning offense. "You mean someone so creative and talented and—"

"There you are!"

An unknown third voice interrupts you, both you and Bucky whipping your heads to the kitchen entrance to see... probably the most beautiful woman you've ever seen in your life standing there.

Her long blonde hair is braided neatly and folded over her shoulder, accompanied with a silk ribbon tying the pieces together. Bright green eyes blink between the two of you, along with a wide (almost forced) pearly smile as she takes in the scene before her. She's genuinely one of the most stunning people you've ever seen, and with the way her eyes keep lingering on him, your heart stills. Is that..? No, you don't think that's—

"Izzy," Bucky breathes out evenly, almost pained. "Hey."

Izzy steps into the room like she owns it.

"So this is where you've been hiding out? Can't really say I blame you. It's a snooze-fest out there." Suddenly she's right here. In your bubble, sliding next to the counter and bumping your shoulder as if she's been your pal all your life. God, she even smells good. "Seems like way more fun in here."

You hum casually, remembering Bucky's thoughtfully in-depth description of her. Territorial.

Yeah. Sure. You can be territorial, too. You can totally sink your talons into him, stake your claim, assert your dominance. It's not like you're a stranger to people trying to one-up you, you're practically a professional asshole. Hopefully you won't have to use any of that side of you. But. It's there. Even if it's dormant.

"If by fun you mean raiding the liquor cabinet, then sure," you muse.

Izzy chuckles sweetly at you, then lulling her head forward to eye Bucky up and down. "I like her."

"Didn't think I needed your approval," he shoots back jokingly, but half of you thinks he was partially being serious.

Slightly, just slightly, Izzy stiffens next to you. But it lingers for less than a second, because her pretty smile is back up as she brings her cocktail up to her glossy lips.

"Just being friendly, Jamie," she murmurs into her glass, taking a sip before ahhing graciously.

Bucky's brows pinch at the nickname.

Christ, you can feel his irritation from here. He should start calling you a modern day Superman given the way you've been cutting corners at the expense of his well-being (and his blood pressure).

"You're the mixologist of the night, right?" You converse casually, lifting your glass to your lips.

Izzy's gaze lingers on Bucky (or Jamie?) for one, two beats before turning to you, eyes drifting down to your cocktail and then back up to meet yours. Her expression holds no indication of a vendetta, so trying to stay in her good graces couldn't hurt. You hope. Especially when Bucky looks at you incredulously, almost trying to warn you with his eyes not to engage.

After a moment, she nods and flashes that sweet smile once again.

No wonder Bucky fell for her, Christ. She could sway battalions by simply asking nicely.

A faint buzzing gains everyone's attention, filling the gaping silence and nearly making Bucky jump three feet in the air.

"Shit," Bucky curses all of a sudden, digging his phone out of his pocket and wincing at the caller ID. "Uh, it's Sam. He's watching Alpine, probably scratched his eye out or something."

He pauses, gaze darting between you and Izzy with skepticism.

But you're an adult. At least you try to be.

So you nod towards the other room. "We're good. Let me know if his eye's still in tact."

His blue eyes settle on you, a wordless question. And you respond with yours, smiling gently and giving him all the reassurance he needs to leave you here. With his ex. Alone. The supposed territorial girl who broke up with him so detrimentally horrific last year he lost twenty pounds. No biggie. The call can't be too long anyway, right? Sam's probably calling to send a proof of life. Five minutes, tops.

Then, Bucky does something you never expect.

The fucker leans forward, places a chaste kiss on your cheek, and promptly leaves the room.

He just— Okay. Yeah. No, totally. He just kissed you. Literally no big deal. Actually, it can't be a big deal, because you're his girlfriend. Loving, doting, caring girlfriend. Sitting next to his ex-girlfriend, who's no doubt watching your reaction like a hawk, gaging your dynamic, your vibe, your...everything. That's an everyday act for people who are dating. It's actually pretty prude-ish for people who are together. Normally it's the lips. The forehead. The back of the hand. Below the belt—

Christ. Stop. Stop. Stop.

You still have a job to do. A role to play. You can't be hung up on the semantics. You can curse him out later, you pointedly decide. That'll make you feel better. For sure.

You lift your glass in a feeble attempt to regain half your brain back. "Nice work. I'll have to ask for some pointers."

"Trick is a pinch of lemon juice," she whispers playfully. "Not that you really care, anyway."

Any ounce of formalities dissipate into thin air, rising and dying in your throat. Your head snaps up, looking into her green eyes with utter confusion, partially at the sudden tonal shift but also at the fucking audacity. Once you realize that she's not joking around, your heart skips a beat at the anticipation of a confrontation.

You... heard her correct, right? You're not just making things up based on the preconceptions you already have of her, right? She didn't just completely flip a switch and confirm all the previous suspicions you had of her, right? Right?

"Pardon?" You ask calmly.

Izzy smiles again, but this time it's nothing nice. It's calculated. Cold.

"I know what you're doing," she says gently, but the tone carries the backbone. "Trying to be my friend when you're frankly the opposite."

Oh. No mistake here. Your intuition was correct. You weren't hearing things or making scary stories up to tell in the dark. She's being fucking serious, and she's looking at you like you're her next meal, her next target, a canary to a cat. The conversation she struck up wasn't to be friendly, it was to get Bucky's guard down, to let him feel comfortable enough to leave you two in a room together with the naive belief his ex has changed.

Doesn't seem like it, though.

But two can play this game. She wants Bucky back? Too fucking bad, bitch, you think bitterly. If you weren't selling the fuck out of the girlfriend role earlier to his family, you're about to seal the deal right here, right now, starting with her.

"I think the term you're searching for is common decency," you deadpan. "A general misconception, though, so don't feel too bad."

The blonde snorts at that. Fuck, even that's a pretty sound.

"You're witty, I'll give you that. Jamie always liked the mouthy ones," she purrs, practically bleeding green.

"You think that's you?"

Izzy swirls her drink around as if she has all the time in the world to do so, bumping your shoulder with the gesture with little to no regard for your personal space. You're three seconds away from shoving her off, as you've gotten your fair fucking share of being touched tonight.

She sighs dreamily as if the whole conversation is already beneath her. "You know, if you weren't with him, I feel like we could've been friends."

Your response is immediate. "I normally don't pick up hitchhikers."

The deadpan makes her laugh, a genuine laugh, as if she's pleased with the way she's grinding your gears, as if that was the goal all along, as if your words do nothing to pierce her thick skin.

"And Jamie normally doesn't go for..." Izzy pauses, taking a long moment to look you up and down in a way that instantly pisses you off. "...girls like you."

Your brow quirks.

"But I guess it looks like everyone's changing," she adds innocently, clinking your glass with hers in a way that isn't ceremonial in the slightest, pushing herself off the counter and slowly sauntering towards the exit.

Yet you don't falter. You don't let her get to you.

Instead, you send her a warm smile that she definitely doesn't deserve as you tip your glass politely towards her.

"Don't worry," you respond coolly. "You still have time."

Izzy's grin slips, giving you another detrimentally judge-mental once over before turning heel and slipping out of the kitchen without another word, blonde braid swiveling with the abrupt movement as the scent of her pretty perfume slowly wafts out of your sphere.

Once you know she's out of sight and out of mind, you let out a long, deep sigh before downing the rest of your drink.

Conveniently, that's when Bucky decides to return, unknowing to the previous altercation.

"Well, good news is that he has both eyes," he says casually, sliding back in the spot he occupied earlier. "Bad news is that he now has the scratches to prove—"

Bucky trails off immediately when he notices your expression, your body language, how you're just about ready to throw hands at the next person who sparks up a conversation with you, clutching onto the cocktail glass as if it had done something to personally offend you. All conveniently without Izzy in sight, and he's no idiot to put two and two together in an instant.

He bites cautiously. "You alright?"

You quirk a brow. "Peachy."

Bucky carefully plucks the glass out of your hands and sets it on the counter, his hands moving back to encase yours. His fingers are cool against your flaming skin, but admittedly it calms you down in more ways than one — not that you'd ever tell him that. Not even if the world depended on it. Even though he can probably tell from the way your shoulders instantly relax.

"You look like you're seconds from snapping my neck, which is normal for you. But..." He winces, already knowing. "What'd she say?"

"Enough," you say curtly, shaking your head. "She's about to have the worst fucking weekend of her life."

His head tilts in confusion, and you're still pretending not to notice that his hands are still holding yours.

"Christ," he murmurs after a moment, brows pinched in worry. "You're not gonna kill her, are you?"

Sighing, you roll your eyes. "No. But I'm gonna remind her that she's the one who left you. That's all."

God, you hate the way he instantly grins, squeezing your hands as if it's his right to do so in the first place and suddenly occupying the space right in front of you, showing little to no fear of the giant chance you shove him where he stands. He's so close, blue eyes shining with a sense of pride that makes you want to slap the smug expression right off his pretty face.

No. Nope. His normal face. His perfectly adequate and average looking face. Nothing more. Nothing less.

It isn't until he ducks down, faces inches from yours, where your fight or flight instincts both fail you, because you just fucking freeze. Stationary. Still as a board as he holds you here, knowing damn well this is a win for him given how you haven't kneed him in the balls yet. And he grins like he knows it, wears it like a badge of honor, and you're so fucking close, closer than you've ever been. Encompassed by his broad stature and the intoxicating scent of his cologne, with a faint lingering of tequila.

His voice is low, laced with a honey cadence that almost, almost, distracts you from what he actually says.

"You're pretty hot when you're jealous."

Aaaand that's when you shove him off. He doesn't even flinch, not when the base of his spine smacks against the island counter from the force, not from the scowl on your face, not from anything. Because he won.

Bucky rides that high all night.

Especially you two sit thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder on an outside patio couch, getting absolutely hounded by a round-up rodeo of tipsy aunts and cousins who have nothing better to do than to learn the nuances of your supposed love life over way-too-strong cocktails and insultingly bland pasta salad.

"She's phenomenal at taking care of people," Bucky beams through a bite of a burger, saying it too nonchalant to be considered casual. This is probably the seventh question they've asked him about keen characteristics of yours, and the one that makes you quirk your brow. "She's got, like, a magic touch or something. Healed Steve when he was sick with a 104 fever."

You snort into your second (third?) cocktail glass. Yeah, you put a cool rag on Steve's forehead when he was enduring the worst hangover of his life after New Year's last year, forced him to pull-trig when he kept pushing it off, made sure he drank water and had small doses of food throughout the day (that he could stomach, which wasn't much). Your friends started coming to you after that when they were facing hangovers worse than death. Not really the same as a fever, but you'll take it.

His aunts eat it up, though, awwing at the anecdote.

"Such a sweet girl," his aunt Margaret coos endearingly.

God, you wish the world would swallow you whole.

Especially when you feel the pad of Bucky's thumb swipe the corner of your mouth with such eased nonchalance that you don't have time to register it, nearly swatting his hand away and cursing his bloodline into next Tuesday, but you remember your audience, and remain still as a statue. Because if you can't use your spitting words or hands to shove him off, then... what else can you do besides sit here like an idiot and take it? And, oh, he knows how badly you want to smack that grin right off his face, and it only spurs him in further.

"Mhm," Bucky hums low, eyes lingering on your bottom lip for a second too long before flashing a charming grin back to his family. "My sweet girl," he repeats low, certain. "But such a messy eater."

The smile on your face probably looks more like a grimace.

But whether his aunt or anyone in this little meet-cute circle notices, no one lets on.

Instead, Aunt Margaret beams as she darts her gaze between the two of you, looking like she’s about to simultaneously combust or erupt in a fit of awws, which you don’t think you can take much more of. She holds onto a printed napkin from some chain department store as if it’s an emotional tether to her soul, manicured nails digging into the soft fabric.

“It’s so nice to see you like this with someone again, James,” she says earnestly. “It’s heartwarming to know she’s making you better.”

Her words make your stomach do a weird flip. They’re simple. Kind. Nothing out of the ordinary. But the kettlebell in your gut would defer otherwise, plagued with a phantom ache that you can quite pinpoint on what emotion you’re feeling. Prideful? Guilty? Fraudulent (if that’s a state of being?) or downright evil for making these people believe something that isn’t true.

He isn’t…being real. He’s being Bucky. Charming. Playful. Playing his strengths to woo a crowd and get them to believe one thing. He’s acting. Being a (fake) doting boyfriend, doing acts that will get the people to get off his back, to believe he’s capable of moving on and functioning like a normal adult. That’s all. Nothing more.

But why’d Margaret say again?

You wonder. What the fuck did Izzy do to him all that time ago to warrant such a sudden character flip? What did she do to his brain to make him the epitome of a womanizer, to make him never trust an emotional connection that crosses the line of friendship? What emotional damage did she do to make his own family lose interest in caring for him? To make them believe he’s this awful person who will never find love again? And if what she did to him was so detrimental to his once-jovial character, why the fuck was she invited here?

You know you’re here to prove that Bucky has the capabilities to move on. You know that. Truly. You’re here as his friend, as a favor, that’s all. There’s nothing more you need to do than what you’ve already been doing.

But just because he has a supposed “girlfriend” doesn’t make him any less of a person, and fuck these people for making him believe that’s the case.

All Bucky does is hum, smile faltering only slightly to which no one notices.

But you do.

Fuck. You notice.

And your heart just… breaks.

How do they not know what a wonderful person he is? How selfless he is? How he constantly puts everyone over himself, catering to the needs of his beloved friends and even strangers before even considering his own well being? How many times have you seen Bucky carry groceries for his elderly neighbor who doesn’t do well with stairs? How many seats has he given up for others on the subway and how many visits did he make when Sam was in the hospital for a week? How many times has he saved you the last (and best) bite of a meal he made you? How can they not know the person he is? How can they only his worth as having a partner?

Don’t say anything to make it worse, you repeat to yourself over and over and over.

“Yes, honey,” his cousin Gemma pipes up. “Having such a wonderful girl is so respectable. She makes you look great.”

Fuck. Don’t say anything. Not your place.

Margaret hums in agreement. “You’re on a good path now. We can already tell. Thanks to this one!”

She nods in your direction, a warm smile adorning her cheeks.

But it only breaks the dam.

God damn it.

“Actually,” you say before you can stop yourself, gentle yet firm. “If anyone should be getting praise, it’s Bucky.”

Bucky says your name softly, almost in warning to not even bother with it.

But you brush him off, because what? You’re not going to sit here and let these people have one misconception about him running amuck in the mud. They don’t even know him, know an ounce of the person he truly is. How can they even think he’s not remotely enough? Physically? Emotionally? As a fucking human being? As someone who’s more than a partner, a boyfriend, a prop?

You know you butt heads with him. You know he drives you up the wall with every opportunity he gets, and you know he knows it makes you crazy. But at the end of the day, he’s your friend. A good one, at that. Contrary to popular belief, he cares a lot and he loves deep and he’s one of the best people on the godforsaken planet to have in your corner. Even though he grinds your gears. Even though he relishes in your irritation. Even though he's chatty and bold and boisterous.

Before the aunts and cousins can protest and stammer to get back in your good graces, you continue.

"He's the one who made me better." Well, there's no stopping it now. "When we met, I was going through a rough patch. Not sleeping, eating, taking care of myself, the whole nine yards." Not partially a lie unless you count meeting him a week within the worst breakup of your life, then yeah. "Bucky's the one who brought me out of that hole. Even though I wanted to smack him upside the head most of the time." Meaning he distracted you from your sorrows with his natural wit and charm so detrimentally that your ex was a lingering forethought in a quick matter of time. Sure, let's go with that.

Bucky's hand somehow finds yours. Aunt Margaret chuckles nervously.

“I’m sure you weren’t implying that he’s less of a person when single,” you add pointedly. Then, “Right?”

The stammering is immediate.

“No!” Margaret defends quickly, eyes wide and panicked. “Of course not. James, that’s not what we meant at all. We just—“

“That’s good,” you interrupt sweetly, frankly not interested in the half-assed apologies but also not trying to get in a tousle with people who you don’t even know like that. “I just wanted to make sure.”

“Of course,” Gemma parrots her aunt, blinking with wide eyes to try and scramble. “We love you, James, we just want you to be happy.”

And Bucky?

His hand is encasing the back of yours, fingers wrapped tight over your knuckles.

"All good," he says smoothly, as if being belittled by his family is a normal instance he's used to at this point. "I'm happy. Very much so. She's protective, 's all."

Gemma takes a particularly large gulp of her drink. "Yes, we see that. You know, James, your cousins started a bonfire by the water, why don't you join them?"

You nearly snort. That's gotta be some polite suburban code for get this girl out of my face before she tries to humiliate me further. Or something like that. Frankly, you definitely could've given them more grief, but with the way everyones faces are burning a bright crimson leads you to think that your words were the beginning of someone standing up for Bucky. Part of you hates that you're probably the first to do so given the panicked response from your defense of him, the other part of you would do it all again in a heartbeat. Regardless of the secondhand embarrassment.

Yet instead of escalating and having more choice words for his so-called family, you smile sweetly, putting the little hiccup behind you as you upturn your palm in Bucky's grasp, lacing your fingers with his so gingerly that you see him whip his head towards yours in your peripheral. He's been the catalyst of touch all night, as you've kept your paws relatively to yourself for the duration of him showing you off. But now... You're reciprocating. Leaning into the bit. Fueling the fire. And with the way he squeezes your hand in return, it's a wordless promise. I got you.

"I could go for a s'more." Your tone is light, sweet. Like a flavored creamer. You turn to Bucky, whose bright blue eyes search yours incredulously. "You?"

He takes a beat. Registering your words.

Then, he nods. "Read my mind."

You're standing before you know it, Bucky in tow, as you toss your empty plate in the trash bag lying underneath the table. Grabbing your drink and throwing one more sweet smile to his bewildered family members, you give a once-over of the mini-crowd before you.

"It was nice meeting you all," is all you simply say, before turning heel and walking towards the water.

Bucky's hand is hot against yours, burning bright and prominent as yours stays cool. You have half a mind to pull away now that you've given some distance between you and the people you're supposed to be convincing, but he doesn't allow that as he falls into step with you, bumping your shoulder in Bucky-like-fashion and giving you a gentle squeeze, a form of a thank you he can't formulate into words. The act makes your heart thrum all the same, and there's this nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you how nice it is to feel his touch, to be in his vicinity without having to worry about the next time you're scheduled to push him away.

It's... achingly comfortable.

God, you shake that thought away. Immediately.

The two of you are halfway to the bonfire when he speaks up.

"You could've gone easy on 'em," Bucky muses low and playfully, avoiding the real reason for your intervention. "You nearly scared them out of their Tory Burch dresses."

You frown instantly. "...That was me going easy on them."

He laughs boyishly, swinging your conjoined hands back and forth, clearly relishing in the way you haven't pushed him off. For once, you don't really see the urge to shove him away just yet, and that revelation nearly stuns you, but it aches in familiarity, as if you could get used to it. Especially when you see a familiar blonde sitting in one of the bonfire chairs up ahead that makes your chest burn with a fire you didn't know ignited.

"Sweet girl," he says in warning. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were seconds from throttling a sixty year old woman. I think that's considered elder abuse."

"I'm just about ready to throttle everyone here."

His hand squeezes yours once, twice. You pretend to ignore the way your heart lurches at the gesture. "Being a knight in shining armor looks hot on you."

"And now I'm seconds away from throttling you."

"Yet you're still holding my hand." You don't have to look at him to know he's grinning. "Christ, you'd be sexy in steel."

"Bucky."

"Like my own personal Joan of Arc. Oh my god."

"Do you ever think before you speak?"

"Never with you, my sweet, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, almost sounding genuine.

You eyes roll so far back the whites are showing.

But the next quip rises and dies in your throat as you approach the bonfire, an expensive stone pit with burning embers flying high in the air surrounded by all of his cousins and family friends in similar age, who all laugh at a previous anecdote that fills the air with a warm buzz. The sun setting behind the tree-line across the lake is almost picturesque, letting the real glow of the flames cast a shadow over everyone's face, including Izzy roasting a perfect golden marshmallow.

...Sitting next to the only vacant seat.

When you and Bucky emerge to the group, all heads pick up, including the blonde's, who hums innocently inviting with that killer of a smile. But you're not fooled by a second, nor will you ever forget the absolutely audacity she had towards you in the kitchen earlier.

"Hey guys," she says cooly, blowing off the small flame of her marshmallow as she looks you dead in the eye. "Sorry, maybe there's another chair in the garage?"

The group goes quiet for a moment, holding their breaths and waiting. It's no secret Izzy's been attempting to sink her talons into her ex-boyfriend all night, stealing glances across the yard and talking him up to his family behind his back to stay in their good graces. She probably wasn't expecting you to show up this weekend, someone who will definitely put up a fight, a threat, a challenge to her endgame to get her Jamie back once and for all. There's no doubt everyone sitting in this circle knows that, especially when they all look between you and her with the anticipation of something snarky.

But you shrug nonchalantly. "No biggie."

When you peer up at Bucky and nod towards the chair, he blinks at you once, twice, before getting the hint and sitting down without much prompting, manspreading deliciously wide and audacious in a way you'd normally scold him for — as you've done so many times in the past.

This time, however, you simply let him get comfortable before settling in his lap.

...And Bucky fucking freezes.

Thankfully, almost instantly one of his cousins, a shaggy-haired late-teen who definitely shouldn't be nursing a beer, kickstarts the previous conversation with little to no regard for the clear tension between you and the person sitting one chair away, and you nearly sigh in relief at the subject change and let yourself slowly lean back until your back his brushing his broad chest.

He's not breathing. You can feel that he's not breathing because his chest doesn't rise and fall against your body, still as a board as you settle in casually. On his lap. Perched pretty on his lap. Flush to his chest. While sitting on his lap. Practically a second skin to him. Was it mentioned that you're on his lap?

The hands that have been wandering uncharted territories on your body all night are conveniently stiff on the arms of the chair, not sure whether or not they're suppose to stay politely off or if they can heighten the experience all the more. You can practically hear him thinking behind you, and you don't even need to turn around to know that or read his facial expression.

It makes you stifle a grin.

"Someone's a little quiet." You start innocently, practically cheek to cheek with him as you both stare at the burning embers. "What happened to all that sweet talk?"

You hear and feel his breath falter, as if he's just remembered how to breathe.

Bucky lets out a small huff of air, half annoyed and half amused that you're finding his internal crisis entertaining. More importantly still computing the fact that you're sitting in his lap. Willingly. Practically brushing cheeks. No big deal. Not at all. Not in the slightest. Not something he's been dreaming about for what feels like years now. Totally chill. Platonic, one may say.

"You seemed eager," he manages to get out, trying to act normal. "Still denying your feelings for me?"

You scoff. Cute of him to think he's in control here. Two can play that game.

You shift your hips barely. Just barely. A minute sliver to the left.

His hands immediately grip your waist, stilling your movements, both of you inherently shocked at the bold moves on each side but not putting a stop to the escalation, either. It's...thrilling. Especially surrounded by other people, unknowing to your objectively monumental moment. Especially sitting two feet from his raging bitch of an ex-girlfriend, whose eyes have been glued to the two of you finagling the whole time.

There's an odd sense of pride — perhaps dormant cave-woman primal instincts beginning to thaw — that instantly make you lean into the bit in response to seeing Izzy staring at you in your peripheral. You're shifting your body to splay sideways in his lap, as if he's about to pick you up bridal style and march you back into the house, splaying a hand in his hair as one of his palms remains a little too low on the base of your spine and the other resting on your bare thigh, a little too high than what friends would normally do. However, that excuse is completely out the window now, so why not run with it?

And... You're on cloud nine. Even more so when you meet Izzy's envious green eyes, smiling so sweetly it'll make your tooth rot.

Bucky hums at the sensation of your fingers in his hair whether he means to or not. "Remind me why we don't do this often?"

"Uh, probably because I can't stand you," you say as if it's law.

"Debatable."

"Is it?"

"You tell me, sweet girl." Your faces are inches apart. Have his eyes always been this blue? "You're the one sitting pretty in my lap."

"For show," you add pointedly.

Bucky grins boyishly (it's so beautiful). "Nah, I think you're doing it for the love of the game."

"That's presumptuous."

"Is it?" He mirrors your question from earlier.

God, he's so close. "Mhm. I'm simply helping a friend."

Bucky pauses at your words, eyes darting between yours almost in disbelief. The silence only lasts a few seconds, but it's palpable all the same, as those seconds feel like eons as he stares hard and deep into your eyes, practically into your soul. His grin morphs into something smaller, softer, steering away from the jovial playfulness you're familiar with and leaning into something deeper, something more serious. It makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck.

"That's what we're calling this? Friends?" He muses low, dangerous, calculated.

Your brows pinch slightly.

"Because I don't think friends do this," Bucky continues in the same tone, and you almost miss the way his thumb slips under your shirt, tracing over the lower bones of your vertebrae in admiration, curiosity, need. "I don't think friends feel like this."

It takes you a moment to find your words, still trying to hold your ground. "And what kind of feeling is that?"

His lips twitch. "I think you know, sweet girl."

"Do I?"

"Mhm." His response is immediate. "You're smart. Think about it."

...You do.

You think about what it would be like to wake up in the morning next to him, hair tousled and pretty blues bleary with sleep, reaching for you through half-lidded eyes and pulling you taut to him to get an extra few minutes of peace and quiet, or pulling you close for entirely different reasons. Would he fuck you slow and deliberate or fast and rough? Would he roll you onto your side and sink in deep with his chest against your back? Or would he crawl under the covers and bury his head between your thighs until the sun truly rises?

You think about holding his hand in public, dragging him through crowds of farmer's markets or sitting next to him on the subway. Touching him at all possible times. Him touching you at all possible times. Hands together. A hand on your thigh, on the small of your back, on the back of your neck. Endless places. Constantly. Protective. Possessive.

You think about his words. You've grown accustomed to the normal vulgarities that spill from his pretty puffed lips, but what about his true feelings? Is right now — this very moment — a glimpse of that reality? A shroud of seriousness? Would he confess through the implications his actions or would he actually find the words? Would he tell you how much you mean to him or would he show you? Would the flirting cease or tenfold if you truly told him your thoughts and feelings? How would he react to your greatest fears and nightmares, with sweet nothings or a comforting hug? Would he talk you through having sex? Tell you how pretty you are and how well you're taking him?

"You're thinking about it."

Blinking, you snap out of your disassociation to discover him still staring intently, a smile tugging the ends of his lips no matter how hard he tries not to let it slip.

"I wasn't," you defend bitterly, a weak attempt at remaining indifferent.

He truly doesn't buy it. "You totally are. It'd be a nice life, no?"

"Bucky."

"You and me. Me and you. Cooking together. Going out. Christening every room—"

"You're insufferable."

His smile is infectious, voice saccharine. "Yet you're still thinking about it, aren't you?"

Your scowl is prominent, face flushing a temperature comparable to the pits of hell. "Nope."

"Oh, Natasha's gonna love this."

"If you even consider telling Natasha, I'll cut your eyes out."

"Hot."

"Bucky."

"What?" He asks incredulously. "You can't expect me to be chill about this."

You roll your eyes. "I can, and I am. So chill." Can he feel your heart beating?

Probably, given the way his grin hasn't faltered the entire exchange, clearly soaking this up like a greedy sponge. The pads of his fingertips dig into your flesh like a staked claim, a reckless promise that doesn't need words to fill the gaps of what he truly means, what he truly wants. It's obvious, painfully so, and you're starting to slip. You wonder if he knows, if he can see the way you're subtly inching closer, if he can feel the thrum of your heartbeat in anticipation, if he can skim past your dismissive words and look into your eyes to understand your true intentions.

Fuuuuuuuuuck. You're in deep. Shit. God fucking damn it. Has he always been this pretty or is he emitting some toxic scent that makes people's brains all fuzzy and discombobulated? It must be the latter. It has to be the latter. Because absolutely no fucking way you're falling for—

God, you can't even say it. Falling for—

"Bucky!"

The shaggy-haired cousin pipes up from across the bonfire, breaking you both from your little moment and popping the bubble of unrelieved tension and rising blood pressure. Your neck twists to meet the gaze of his cousin, unknowingly continuing without a shroud of concern for interrupting the fact that you almost just kissed Bucky Barnes. On the lips. Willingly. Without a gun to your head or not from a dare. Did you mention willingly?

"Remember that burly dude who stole my skateboard in middle school?" He prompts nasally. "And ya bet him to a halfpipe competition to get it back?"

Bucky's grip on your waist and thigh are iron. "Yeah, man."

"And then he said..." Shaggy trails off, looking up into the air momentarily as if that'll help him remember the rest of the anecdote. "Fuck, I don't remember. Can you tell the story? Jason's never heard it, apparently."

While Bucky — quite reluctantly — recounts the story for the crowd, you sit idly on his lap. Thinking about it. All of it.

And you're absolutely, irrevocably, without a doubt fucked.

When the embers start to die and the people gradually trudge back to the house, you realize how late it's gotten.

Fireworks went off ages ago, illuminating the sky in hues of yellow, orange, red, sprinkles of blue and white to celebrate the holiday. Though your mind is elsewhere the whole time, solely focused on the man beneath you as he pulls you a fraction closer at the light show, cheeks brushing as you try to ignore the rapid thumping of your heart, using the fireworks as an excuse not to turn an inch to look at him. When it’s all done and over, conversations resume around the fire, more s’mores are eaten, more drinks are opened.

The half moon rises high in the sky on a cloudless night, shimmering gently over the waves on the water and pushing and pulling the soft tide. The quiet chatter from the last few people around the fire echos across the lake, the idea of s'mores long forgotten as everyone now takes the remaining sips of their drinks, bids a farewell, and disappears into the house or walks down the street to their respective homes.

Once she realized you weren't moving from his lap, Izzy packed up camp a little while ago, loudly announcing her departure to earn a few polite goodbyes and weaving into the night. It feels like a breath of fresh air when she's no longer watching your every move, but when you also feel no inclination to move off his lap (despite having nothing to prove anymore), your heart settles like a kettlebell in your gut, knowing the reason is deeper than just simply being too lazy to get up and take your own seat.

Bucky's fingers have been tracing up and down your spine for the past twenty minutes, slow and deliberate while he casually converses with his cousin. You sit still as a statue, relishing in the sensation but also not wanting to make it seem like you're enjoying this. But he knows. Because he knows you would've shrugged his touch off if you didn't want it.

It isn't until you're the last two remaining where you rediscover your motor functions.

Carefully slipping off his lap and standing on wobbly legs, your eyes drift down to his sitting figure, still manspreading so godforsaken arrogant as he peers up at you, head cocked to the side and blue eyes twinkling with pride. It's almost criminal how good he looks like this, unguarded and domestic with his hair slightly mussed and his plain white tee sitting snugly across his chest and around his biceps. His demeanor drips in smugness, absolutely eating up the way you're shamelessly staring down at him, and for a moment you brace for one of his incessant flirt tactics or forward one liners.