Marzi is in love w Dr Reid

The air in the private villa in Monaco is thick with the scent of expensive perfume, sea salt, and the underlying, sharp hum of tension. Outside, the Mediterranean laps lazily against the rocks, but inside, the atmosphere is anything but calm.

You are hosting a dinner—a small, intimate gathering of your closest friends back from your university days—and Charles is there, draped across the velvet sofa like he belongs to the furniture, his eyes following your every move.

You’ve been with Charles Leclerc for five years. Five years of secret airport departures, of holding his hand under the table at gala dinners, of nights spent listening to him deconstruct a race strategy while he traces patterns on your shoulder.

To the world, he is the Golden Boy of Ferrari, the man with the ice-water veins and the heavy crown of expectation. To you, he is simply the man who knows exactly how you take your coffee and the only person who can make you laugh until your ribs ache in the middle of a stressful race weekend.

But your friends—specifically Chloe and Sarah—haven’t quite grasped the gravity of your tenure. They see the media persona. They see the Instagram edits. They see a "trophy" that they think, with enough wine and enough audacity, they might be able to snatch.

The night is halfway through when the cracks begin to show. You’re in the kitchen, pouring a fresh bottle of vintage red, when Sarah corners you, her voice a little too loud, a little too slurred.

"He’s so intense, isn't he?" she says, eyeing Charles through the doorway. He’s currently talking to a few of the other guys, his face animated as he describes a corner at Spa. "I mean, it must be exhausting dating someone so… public. Don’t you ever feel like you’re just a placeholder? Like he’s waiting for something… more glamorous?"

You feel a flare of heat in your chest, but you force a smile. "I think he’s perfectly happy with me, Sarah."

She laughs, a sharp, brittle sound. "Oh, honey. Everyone needs a little variety. Besides, it’s not like he’s actually committed to just one thing. He lives on the edge, doesn't he?"

You don't answer, mostly because you don't trust yourself to speak without saying something cruel. You walk back into the living room, the wine bottle heavy in your hand. As you enter, you see it—the tableau that has been forming all night.

Chloe is perched on the arm of the sofa, her hand lingering just a second too long on Charles’s shoulder as she bends down to whisper something in his ear that makes the room go quiet.

Charles looks up. His eyes, a piercing, crystalline green, find yours instantly. He doesn't look charmed. He looks bored, his brow slightly furrowed in that way that signals your internal alarm bells—the one that means he’s about to lose his temper, or worse, his patience.

"The wine, darling," you say, your voice perfectly steady, though your heart is hammering against your ribs.

Charles stands up, his movement fluid and feline. He doesn't look at Chloe. He doesn't even acknowledge the space she’s occupying. He walks straight to you, ignoring the room’s sudden shift in focus.

He takes the bottle from your hand, setting it down on a side table with a decisive thud that silences the music.

"You look tired," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that carries across the silence. He reaches out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is grounding, firm, and possessive. "Why are we hosting this again?"

"It’s good to see friends, Charles," you murmur, though you realize how thin the excuse sounds.

"Is it?" he asks, his gaze flicking briefly, dismissively, to where Chloe is standing. She’s trying to regain her composure, her smile fixed and brittle. "Because I feel like I’m at a press conference where the questions are particularly dull."

The room freezes. You can feel the eyes of your friends—the judgment, the jealousy, the utter shock. Sarah looks like she’s been slapped.

Charles doesn't stop there. He turns, his body angling toward the room, but his hand never leaves the small of your back. His grip is firm, a silent declaration that you are his anchor, his territory, his home.

"I’ve spent the better part of my life being analyzed, dissected, and auditioned for," Charles says, his tone cool, professional, and terrifyingly calm.

He looks at Chloe, then at Sarah, his expression devoid of the warmth he usually reserves for the fans. "I think there’s a misunderstanding about who I am. You see the suit, the car, the headlines. You think that’s a game to be played."

"Charles, don't—" you start, but he cuts you off with a soft squeeze of your waist.

"No," he says softly. "Let’s be clear. I have very little time in this world. My life is split into milliseconds. I don't waste them." He looks down at you, and the shift in his expression is instantaneous. The frost melts, replaced by a raw, naked devotion that makes your breath hitch.

"Every decision I make—every lap I take, every risk I weigh—is calculated to get me to the finish line. And you?" He tilts your chin up, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "You are the only thing in my life that isn't a calculation. You are the only person who sees the man, not the driver. And I don’t share that. I don't entertain the idea of 'variety' when I’ve already found the only person who makes the chaos make sense."

He turns back to the room, his eyes turning back into steel. "I think the party is over now. Goodnight."

It is a dismissal so absolute, so devastatingly royal, that no one dares to argue. Within ten minutes, the villa is empty. The silence that follows is deafening, punctuated only by the sound of the waves.

You walk to the balcony, the night air cooling your flushed skin. You feel the presence of him behind you before you hear him. He wraps his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder, his weight pressing into your back.

"You didn't have to do that," you whisper, though you feel a strange, fluttering joy in your chest.

"I did," he murmurs against your neck. "I’m tired of people thinking they have a seat at my table. I only have one chair, and it’s occupied by you."

You turn in his arms, looking up into those eyes that have seen the world at two hundred miles per hour and yet look at you like you’re the only thing worth seeing. He pulls you tight, his forehead resting against yours.

"I don't need the world," he says, his voice barely a breath. "I just need you to know. Always."

In the quiet of the Monaco night, with the moonlight painting the water silver, you realize that for all the fame, the speed, and the noise of his life, this is the only thing that matters: the way he holds you, not as a prize to be displayed, but as the part of himself he will never let go.

And as he kisses you, slow and deep, you know that the rumors of his availability were always just noise—and he has finally, once and for all, silenced the crowd. . . . .

The cottage was a secret between you and the forest. It sat nestled deep within the pines and towering oaks, a small timber-framed thing with a moss covered roof that looked more like a grassy hill then a house.

But, it was your world. Your days were measured not by the ticking of a clock, but by the ripening of berries, the fetching of water pails, and the quiet footfalls of the animals who considered you a friendly neighbor.

It was a life woven from solitude and silence. Mornings began with the scent of dew-damp earth and the soft scratch of a quill and ink on paper as you sketched the cardinals that flitted to your windowsill. 

Afternoons though were for your work: tending to the herb garden, foraging for mushrooms, and keeping the woodpile stocked against the coming chilly wind. 

Evenings were for resting, for reading your father’s worn books by dancing firelight, and for the gentle company with the wild things. The bunnies, with their twitching noses and cotton tails, would gather at your feet as you skipped through the greens. The deer, shy and majestic, would approach the edge of the wooded clearing, their dark doe eyes watching with a profound, unspoken trust. You were their keeper, their quiet guardian.

This morning was no different. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine needles and the promise of a clear autumn day. You knelt by the riverbank, the icy water swirling around your wrists as you washed the sleep from your skin. The river was your lifeline, its constant current— a soothing balm. You were lost in the simple, meditative act, watching a woodpecker tap at an oak, when a flash of unnatural color caught your eye.

Further downstream, tangled in the leaves, lay a shape that did not belong. It was too dark, too rigid to be a fallen log. Your heart gave a sharp, anxious flutter. A poacher or hunter’s prey? A fallen hiker or traveler?

You rose slowly, hands dripping, and moved toward the shape with a caution born of living alone for years now. As you drew closer, the shape resolved into a man. He was face down in the banks mud, half his body limp in the water, the current tugging at him with a harsh jostling motion. He was clad in some sort of dark, form-fitting leather, scuffed in places, even torn in others. An empty holster hung from his hip and thigh, his boots were tied to his shins, heavy, military-grade things, one was missing its lace. His hair, a thick, matted mane of brown, was fanned out in the water like sodden seaweed.

A cold dread, sharper than the river cold, seized you. You stepped in, the current pulling at your dress skirt, and knelt beside him. His skin was frighteningly pale, almost translucent in the morning light, and a dark, ugly gash marred from his temple to his cheek bone. But the most alarming thing was the unnatural stillness of him. He wasn’t breathing. Or was he? You pressed two small, trembling fingers to the side of his neck, searching for a pulse. There it was. A faint, thready beat beneath his skin, a fragile, stubborn spark of life.

"H-hello?" You whispered, voice sounding impossibly loud in the quiet of the forest. "Can you hear me?"

No response. His eyes were closed, lips tinged with blue. He was bleeding, he was freezing, and he was lost.

Fear gave way to a fierce, protective instinct. You couldn't leave him here. Taking a deep breath, you hooked your arms under his shoulders. He was heavier than you could have ever imagined, a dead weight of muscle and bone. Grunting with effort, you dragged him from the river's greedy grasp, his boots leaving deep burrows in the soft mud of the bank.

 You propped him against a large, moss-covered rock, away from the water, and knelt to examine him more closely. The gash on his head was the most pressing, but his skin was burning up. A growing infection, then. A fever.

You gently brushed a wet lock of hair from his forehead. His skin was turning shockingly hot beneath your cool fingertips.

At the contact, his eyes flew open.

They were the color of a stormy sea, wide with a primal, animal terror. He flinched violently, a choked gasp escaping his lips. His body coiled in on itself, muscles tensing as if to spring, but his injuries betrayed him. He slumped back against the rock with a pained groan, his gaze darting around wildly, searching for a threat, an escape.

"Shhh," You soothed, pulling your hands back to show him you meant no harm. You held them up, palms empty, open. "It's alright. You're safe. I'm not going to hurt you."

His wild eyes fixed on you at your voice, distrust and confusion warring in their depths. He tried to push himself up again, his hand clawing for the empty holster at his hip. He found nothing. A flicker of panic, deeper this time, crossed his face.

"You're hurt," you said, voice soft and even, a tone you used for spooked does. "You were in the river. You need my help. My cottage is just through those trees. Theres fire. It's warm. I can help you."

You pointed, and his gaze followed your finger to the faint outline of your home. He looked back at you, expression unreadable. He was a predator, assessing, calculating. But he was also wounded, raw. The fight was slowly draining from him, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion and hurt.

"Come," you said, rising slowly and extending a slow hand. "Let me help you."

For a long moment, he just stared at the gentle gesture, as if it were some alien object. Then, with a shuddering sigh, he reached out. His fingers, calloused and scarred, wrapped around yours. His grip was firm, almost crushing, but you didn't pull away. Together, you made the slow, agonizing journey to the cottage, his arm heavy across your shoulders.

Once inside, you got him settled onto the old, worn armchair by the heat, the one your father used to read in. The leather of his suit creaked and rubbed as he sank into the cushions. He looked enormous and out of place amidst the lacey curtains and the scent of dried lavender from the pick this morning.

"I'm going to get you clean, now" you explained, moving to the small washroom attached to the main living area. You began lighting an oil lamp in there, casting a warm glow on the simple tin tub and the hand-pumped faucet. You turned the knob, making the pipes groan and squeal before a stream of cold water began to fill the basin. "There's a shower in here. You just turn this knob," you looked over your shoulder, demonstrating, "to get hot water. It might take a moment to get warm since it’s by fire. I'll find you some clean clothes and make you something to eat. We'll clean your wounds after."

He watched your every move, his gaze intense, missing nothing. You gestured to the washroom. "Go on. Get out of those wet things. There's a bar of soap on the ledge there."

He stood, a bit unsteadily, and waddled into the small room. He closed the door behind him and you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. 

Your heart was still hammering against your ribs. Who was he? An army soldier, clearly. A fugitive? The empty holster screamed danger, but the vulnerability in his eyes had screamed to you for help.

You busied herself as he washed off, pulling out your father's old clothes from a cedar chest. They would be too small for the man's broad shoulders, but they would have to do. Better than your own sundresses and silk nighties. 

You laid a soft, red, flannel shirt and a pair of sturdy canvas pants on the bed. Then went straight to the kitchen, putting a cast-iron skillet on the stove, pouring some olive oil inside and cracking a few eggs into it, slicing thick pieces of the bread you baked yesterday. The familiar, grounding ritual of cooking helped to settle your nerves.

You had just dropped in the eggs and bread with a fragrant herb oil when a sound from the bathroom made you pause. It was a soft, frustrated thud. Then, silence. 

You waited. 

Another moment passed. Concern began to prickle at you. Had he fallen? Fainted?

You approached the bathroom door, knocking lightly before calling out softly. "Everything alright in there?" 

No answer. You pressed your ear to the wood. Nothing but the dripping of the faucet. "Hello? Are you okay?"

Slowly, the door creaked open.

He stood there, framed in the doorway. Steam billowed out around him, smelling of soap and wet metal. He was completely, utterly nude. Water droplets tracked paths down his broad chest and over the hard planes of his stomach down his thick thighs. The sight of him was breathtaking and deeply shocking. His body was a roadmap of violence—a lacework of pale, silvery scars crisscrossing his torso and up his arms, a brutal scar high on his ribs, the puckered skin of old pink bullet wounds. 

Your breath hitched, cheeks flooding with a scorching heat. Your eyes flew from where they were looking down back up to his face, which was a mask of pure, confusion. 

He was holding the bar of soap in his flesh hand, looking utterly baffled by the knobs of the shower, the concept of the water, of the entire process. He looked like a giant, frightened cub, lost in a world of simple mechanics and normalcy. He made a small, frustrated gesture with his free hand—the metal one you couldn’t stop glancing at, a universal sign for “I don't understand”.

"Oh," you breathed out, voice barely a whisper. "Oh, the... the knobs. Yes. Sorry, I, um... I didn't explain it well, did I?”

You were aware of his nudity, of course, the sheer physical presence of him. But his confusion was so genuine, so innocent, that it cut through the awkwardness you felt flushing within you. He wasn't trying to be shocking; he was simply, earnestly, lost.

Pulling yourself together, you stepped into the steam-filled room heading for the basin immediately. "Here," your voice was steadier now. 

You reached past him, your arm brushing against his, a jolt of warmth shooting through you at the contact. You turned the knob, and the water hissed to life again, raining down from the shower head. "You see? This makes the water come from above. And this one," you turned the other knob, "makes it warm. You just need to find the right balance."

He watched her hands, his gaze flicking between the knobs and her face. He seemed to understand. Kinda. He nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his head.

"Right," you felt your blush deepen remembering the little to no space between you two and the lack of clothing. "I'll... I'll just get you a towel."

You crouch down under the sink and grabbed a large, fluffy towel from the shelf and set it on the closed lid of the toilet. When you turned back, he was still standing there, looking at the spray of water as if it were a miracle. He hadn't moved. He was waiting for you to leave, but he also seemed hesitant to be alone with the strange, noisy contraption.

An idea, wild and reckless, bloomed in your mind. "Do you... need help?" 

His stormy eyes locked on yours. There was no lewdness in them, no expectation. Only a quiet, desperate need for guidance. He gave another, almost imperceptible nod.

The air in the small room grew thick, heavy with steam and unspoken tension. You were very new and unknowing to these feelings. 

You took the soap from his hand, fingers gently ghosting over his. "Okay, let's get you clean."

He slowly stepped in the tub and turned to the wall so his backside was facing you. So, you started with his back, working the soap into a deep rich lather. His skin was hot and slick under your palms. With every circled motion you traced the lines of his scars, each one a story you couldn't read, a testament to a life of pain and abuse. 

He stood perfectly still, head bowed, a low rumble vibrating in his chest that might have been a sigh or a groan. You washed his shoulders, his arms, the powerful muscles of his chest, careful to avoid the gash on his side. He was as tense as a drawn bowstring, but he let you.

When he moved around so his front faced you, you kept your eyes on his face, a hard, effort. You soaped up his chest, your hands sliding over the hard planes, yet avoiding his eyes. He was watching you, his expression unreadable. You could feel the heat radiating from him, could smell the clean scent of the soap mingling with the unique, masculine scent of his wet skin.

You knelt to the floor to wash his legs best. His thighs were like oak trunks, his calves corded and rigid. You scrubbed and scrubbed going up, up, up till you got to his intimate area. While rinsing the suds away with a pail you saw his face contort at the sensitivity there. You quickly finished to keep him as comfortable as you could, while letting him know he was safe with you and you weren’t trying anything at him. 

You whispered a quick sorry and filled the pail with water once more flushing away all the grime and blood, revealing the truth of him. He was a weapon, honed and used. But here, in your tiny washroom, he was just a man who didn't know how to work a shower.

When you were finally all done, you rose to your feet, knees aching from the tile. He closed his eyes, a look of profound relief on his face. For the first time since you found him, the tension seemed to drain from his shoulders.

You turned off the water, and the sudden silence was deafening. You handed him the towel. He took it, his movements still stiff and uncertain. He patted himself dry with a strange, methodical awkwardness. You watched for a moment, then, realizing you were staring, you backed out of the room. "I'll... I'll leave the clothes on the bed for you," you stammered, and fled.

By the time he emerged from the bedroom, dressed in your father's old clothes, the awkwardness had receded slightly. The flannel shirt was strained across his chest, the sleeves were an inch too short, and the fabric of the pants were tight in the thighs, but he was warm and covered. His long, damp hair was slicked back, revealing the cuts and lines of his face. The bruise on his temple was blooming a violent purple. You saw now how handsome he actually was,

You set a place for him at the small wooden table in the kitchen. The smell of fried eggs and herbs filled the cottage. He stood in the doorway, gaze sweeping the room, before settling on the plate of food. A flicker of something—hunger, disbelief—crossed his features.

"Sit," you said gently, gesturing to the chair. "Eat. You must be starvin’."

He sat slowly, his movements careful to not break the small wicker chairs. He looked at the gleaming silver fork, then at the plate, as if trying to remember its function. Then, he picked up the bread with his fingers, tore off a piece, and used it to scoop up the eggs, taking a bite.

It wasn't eating; it was a consumption born of absolute starvation. He devoured the first plate in under a minute, his eyes never leaving the food. You wordlessly took the plate and piled it high again with eggs, placing another slice of bread, buttered this time—beside it. 

He demolished that one, too, eating with a focused, almost animalistic intensity. You gave him a third and final plate, and he finished that as well, slower this time, a sliver of humanity returning to his movements. He wiped the plate clean with the last piece of bread, then sat back, looking at his empty hands then to you.

You had prepared earlier a basin of warm water, clean tea cloths, and a jar of your special salve—a concoction of honey, milk, and beeswax that your mother had taught you to make. "Alright, let’s look at your head, okay?”

You led him to the couch, the softest place in the cottage, with the bucket and medicine in one hand, your other cradling his. He sat stiffly, posture rigid and cold. 

You plopped down beside him, close enough to work but careful not to crowd or worry him. You dipped a corner of the cloth in the water and gently began to clean the leaking gash on his temple. He flinched at the first touch, his hand coming up reflexively holding her wrist then settling to your waist, but he let you continue.

"Hold still," you murmured, your touch light and sure. "It's a nasty cut. You must have hit a rock when you fainted."

He didn't respond, just watched your hands with that same intense focus. As you worked, you could feel the raw power holding back in his stillness. The couch creaked under his weight as he shifted.

"What's your name?" You questioned softly, dabbing at the wound again.

He was silent for so long you thought he didn’t hear you. Then, a low, gravelly voice, rusty from disuse, spoke. "Soldat."

The word hung in the air. Soldier. His Russian accent thick. Not a name. A designation.

"Soldat," you repeated. "Is that what you are? Or who you are?"

He looked in your eyes, his own filled with an emptiness. "I don't... remember."

The confession was quiet, heavy with a despair so deep it seemed to suck all the air from the room. He didn't know his name. He didn't know who he was. He was just a soldier, an empty vessel.

Your heart ached for him. "Alright, Soldat," you finished cleaning the wound and began to apply the medicine with the tip of your finger. His skin was warming up under your touch. "No more questions for now. Let's just get you patched up."

You continued to work in silence, cleaning the smaller cuts and scrapes on his arms and hands. His body was a testament to a life of combat, but your touch was healing, soothing. You finished with a clean wrap—a makeshift bandage on his head.

"There," you pulled back looking at your work. "All done. You should rest."

He looked at you, his gaze searching your face for the rest of it. He was looking for a “you can rest, if—“ or a “after you do this”. 

But he found nothing else. He looked exhausted, the adrenaline and the warmth, the food, finally catching up to him all at once. The fear in his eyes had receded, replaced by a bone-deep weariness and a flicker of... something else. Gratitude?

He didn't go to the bed you had offered. Instead, his gaze drifted to the empty space beside you on the couch. He looked back up at you, a silent question in his eyes.

"Go on, then," you smiled softly, patting the cushion.

He shifted, sinking into the worn fabric. The couch groaned in protest. He was still tense, a coiled hard spring. You reached for a thick wool quilt from the back of the couch and draped it over his legs and your own. The simple act seemed to be the final straw. A shudder ran through him, and the tension began to bleed away.

He leaned his head back against the cushions, his eyes closing. He looked so young like this, the harsh lines of his face softened in the flickering firelight. The bandage on his head was stark white against his skin. He was clean, fed, and tended to. Safe.

He wasn't a soldier or a weapon. He was a boy who didn't know his name and had almost died, alone in a freezing river. A wave of fierce tenderness washed over you. He was a stray, just like the bunnies and the deer, only more broken, more lost.

He started to drift, his breathing evening out into the slow, deep rhythm of sleep. But before he fell completely, he moved. His head, heavy with exhaustion, lolled sideways and came to rest in your lap. He didn't stir, just settled there with a soft sigh, as if he had finally found the one place he was meant to be.

You froze, breath catching in your throat. His hair, still damp, spilled across your thighs. You could feel the warmth of his cheek through the fabric of the blanket and your skirt. He was so trusting in his sleep, this giant, dangerous man. 

Your hand hovered over his head, trembling slightly. Then, slowly, carefully, you let it settle on his thick, dark hair. It was clean now, and so soft, smelling of your own rosemary soap you used.

You began to gently run your fingers through it, untangling the last of the snags and tangles. The rhythm was soothing, hypnotic. His breathing deepened. You found a loose strand and began to braid, fingers moving with a practiced ease you had learned from braiding your own hair, from weaving the vines that grew by the river, and the fabric as you sewed. 

You wove another strand, and another, a small, intricate plait forming against his temple. The act was intimate, ancient. A ritual of care, of claiming peace.

You braided his hair as he slept, the fire crackling in the chimney, the forest holding its breath outside. He was a mystery, a danger, a ghost from a world you had left far behind to resign deep in the forest instead. 

But for now, in the quiet of your cottage, with his head in your lap and the scent of clean soap in the air, he was just a man who needed a safe place to sleep. And for now you could give him just that.

-end

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He had his arms crossed, shoulders tense, and jaw clenched as he stared down at the controls like he always did before his flights.

“When is he not in a bad mood?” the other attendant, Ava, scoffed, patting down her uniform.

They both immediately went silent as the man in question stepped out of the cockpit, his black pilot jacket open to reveal his crisp white shirt, his tie slightly loosened like he had half-assed putting it on.

His cold blue eyes scanned the cabin—sharp and dangerous. 

One of the flight attendants, John, was down the row helping a passenger put their bag up. Poor Walker nearly dropped the luggage when Bucky shot him a judgmental glare, muttering under his breath.

“Incompetent,” Bucky said, shaking his head. “This plane’s never leaving the gate.”

Ava and Yelena gave each other a look—fear and the same desperate thought they didn’t say out loud. 

Please, let this be a short flight. 

But before either of them could retreat, the sound of rolling luggage wheels and soft footsteps on the carpet drifted up the aisle.

Bucky turned his head toward the sound instinctively, and just like that, his entire demeanor shifted before anyone could blink. His shoulders relaxed instantly, arms uncrossing as he turned towards the door.

And there you were—his wife—standing in the frame of the open cabin door, a bag slung over one shoulder, your smile warm and bright despite the early hour. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” your voice came out soft and gentle.

The scariest captain in the fleet nearly tripped over his own feet as he stepped forward to reach you. 

“Hey, doll,” he said just as softly, tilting his head down to press a kiss to your temple, not even caring that the whole crew was staring.

Everyone did a double take, their eyes wide as they watched Bucky brush a strand of hair away from your cheek and tuck it behind your ear. He leaned in, nuzzling his nose against your hair.

“I didn’t know you were on this flight, baby,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your temple as his arm snaked around your waist. “You missed me that much?”

Bucky didn’t even look back at the open-mouthed crew as he pulled you close against him—like you were a fragile little thing and he only trusted himself to hold you. 

“Of course I did,” you said softly as you nuzzled against him. 

He let out a quiet chuckle, cupping your cheeks in his hands as he looked at you like you were the only person that mattered. He spoke even softer, the crew barely making out the words. Something like “Long morning?” he asked, and you hummed, resting your head briefly on his shoulder despite the sharp line of his crisp uniform.

One of the attendants gasped. 

If someone so much as brushed against Bucky’s shirt, he would have scolded them alive for wrinkling it.

“Did you eat?” Bucky asked, already steering you toward an empty row at the front of first class. “I told you I’d bring you breakfast.”

You waved him off with a sleepy grin. “You did, but I wanted to be with you. Besides, I brought my own snacks.”

He huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh. 

But Captain Barnes? 

Laughing? 

Bucky turned to the nearest flight attendant, his eyes flicking down to the name tag because he couldn’t be bothered to remember the new hire’s name.

“Bob. Could you get my wife some tea? Chamomile, if you’ve got it.”

He didn’t say please, but the polite tone was clear enough to indicate it—because this was Bucky asking. Not ordering.

“Y-yes, Captain,” Bob sprinted to the galley—practically stumbling over his own feet. 

You settled into the seat Bucky guided you to, and he grabbed your bag, stowing it in the overhead bin in one smooth and easy motion.

“You comfortable?” he asked, voice low and soft, like you two were the only people on the plane.

“I’m perfect, James. Go fly your plane,” you chuckled softly, buckling your seatbelt in. 

Bucky chuckled too, bending down as he leaned in closer, feeling your giggle warm against his lips. “Not until you kiss me.”

Somewhere behind him, the co-pilot cleared his throat loudly. “Captain, we do have a schedule…”

Bucky shot him a look that could have crashed the plane on its own. But you just laughed, tugging him closer by his already messed up tie and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his mouth. When you pulled away, Bucky was the one smiling, the faintest shade of pink brushing the tips of his ears.

He stood and turned to the crew, all of whom had suddenly found very interesting things to look at on their clipboards.

“Take care of her,” Bucky announced, voice back to that demanding cold steel.  “She’s the only thing on this plane I care about more than getting you all there safe.”

“Haha,” Bob let out a nervous chuckle and clapped awkwardly. “Captain Barnes—you’re so funny.” 

Yelena leaned in, giving him a warning look. “He’s not joking, Bob.”

Bucky looked back at you one last time, all warmth again. Soft eyes, softer smile as he brushed his knuckles along your jaw. “Call me if you need anything. Anything, babydoll. Okay?”

You gave him a reassuring smile, taking his hand and pressing a chaste kiss to his knuckles. “Go on, Captain. And don’t crash.”

Bucky let out a soft snort and pressed one last kiss to your head before heading back to the cockpit. Once he disappeared behind the door, the cabin came back to life. Boarding announcements echoed overhead, the sounds of carry-ons ruffled through the overhead bins, and passengers settled in for the flight.

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The crew kept stealing glances at you. 

“Thank God Mrs. Barnes is here,” Ava muttered, peeking her head out to watch you. “Makes our work day so much easier.”

Yelena snorted. “Yeah, right. Captain Barnes will be on our asses, telling us to check on her every five seconds.”

Ava shrugged. “I don’t mind. It keeps the Captain happy,” she added, glancing at you again, “and she’s the nicer Barnes.”

The seat belt sign blinked off, and passengers were already dozing off or flipping through in-flight movies.

Yelena perked up at the sound. She nudged Bob gently in the elbow. “That’s our cue,” she said, nodding her head toward you. “Go check in with her if you want to get on Captain Barnes’ good side.”

Bob stood up straight and nodded eagerly. He slipped down the aisle and stopped by your seat. “Mrs. Barnes?” he asked sheepishly. “Can I get you anything? More tea? A snack?”

You lowered the book you were reading and gave him a soft, easy smile. “I’m okay, thank you, Bob. You’re all taking such good care of me already.”

Bob’s shoulders dropped in relief. “We’re just doing our jobs, ma’am…” 

“You can call me by my first name, you know,” you laughed, warm and gentle. “No one has to ‘ma’am’ me.”

Bob jumped at the sound of Captain Barnes’ muffled voice through the crew interphone. He scrambled to grab the handset hanging by the galley door, nearly dropping it as he pressed it to his ear.

“Bob. Is everything alright up front?” 

“Y-Yes, Captain!”

Bob stammered, voice squeaking a little too loud.

“All good up here. Mrs. Barnes is comfortable and doesn’t need anything right now.”

There was a brief, tense pause on the line. Then Bucky’s voice came low and extremely protective. 

“Good. Keep it that way.” 

Bob swallowed hard, glancing back at you with a nervous smile.

“Of course, Captain. Will do.” 

He carefully placed the handset back in its cradle, then he wiped his clammy hands on his pants. 

Ava peeked around the corner, fighting back a grin.

“Careful, Bob. If she’s not satisfied, he’ll toss you out at 30,000 feet. Here,” she grabbed a tray of snacks, “watch and learn.” 

You barely had time to open your book again before Ava appeared beside you with a warm smile and a tray balanced on her palm.

“Mrs. Barnes,” she smiled warmly, “I know you brought your own, but I also brought you some extra snacks just in case. I didn’t know what you liked, so… I just brought a bit of everything.”

Meanwhile, Yelena was fighting back a chuckle as she and Bob watched at a distance. 

You glanced at the neat rows of crackers, fruit, cookies, and a tiny bowl of mixed nuts. “Oh, Ava, that’s so sweet. You didn’t have to do all that!”

Ava’s eyes darted to the cockpit door and back again. “It’s really no trouble at all,” she said quickly. “If you want anything else, just ring the call button. Or don’t.  We’ll check on you anyway.”

You laughed softly and took a cookie from the tray. “Thank you. You’re all spoiling me.”

Before Ava could answer, a ding rang from the intercom by the galley. Yelena grabbed the handset, pressing it to her ear.

“Flight deck.” 

“Yelena. My wife, how is she?” 

Yelena rolled her eyes, but forced her voice to sound chirpy.

"Yes, Captain. She's fine. She's having a snack right now."

"Perfect. What is she having? Chamo—"

"Yes, Chamomile. She likes the cookies, too. Alright, Captain. Yes, Captain. Goodbye, Captain."

She hung up the phone and turned to Ava with a dramatic sigh. “That’s the third time in an hour. I’m really about to tell him to come check himself if he’s so worried.”

“Does he really call that much?” you asked, half-embarrassed. “I’m sorry if it’s such an inconvenience to you guys—” 

Yelena grinned, shaking her head. “Not at all. The big scary Captain turns into a golden retriever if you’re here. So even though he’s pestering us every ten seconds, it’s actually a good day for the crew.” 

Bob appeared next to you, offering a warm towel in his hands like it was gold. “I brought you a hot towel, Mrs. Barnes,” he said shyly. 

“Oh, Bob, thank you,” you said, taking it and gently pressing it to your face. “You’re all too kind, really.”

Before they could scatter back to work, the intercom crackled again. Yelena snatched the handset before Bob could fumble it again. 

“Captain, again? She’s fine—she’s using the hot towel Bob gave her. Yes, Bob. The new one. He’s doing fine, Captain. Yes, she’s smiling. Okay. Okay. Bye, Captain.”

She slammed the handset back into the cradle and gave you a look. “If he calls one more time, I’m throwing this stupid headset out the window.” 

Ava leaned closer, whispering. “He wants you in the cockpit, you know. If you aren’t in his line of sight, he’ll go crazy.” 

You laughed, trying to hide your grin behind your hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep him in line when we land.”

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚｡⋆

The landing was smooth—smoother than usual, according to Yelena, who nudged Ava and whispered, “He only flies this soft when she’s on board.”

Passengers were already filing out, and when you finally reached the front of the plane, your bag slung over your shoulder, Bucky immediately bolted to you and pulled you into him. One big hand cradled the back of your head as he pressed a deep kiss to your lips, a kiss that went on way too long for it to be considered appropriate in a workplace.

Behind him, the flight attendants froze mid-task. Bob nearly dropped a stack of folded blankets. Ava turned away dramatically, pretending to check the overhead bins. Yelena made a gagging sound that she didn’t bother to hide.

Bucky pulled back slightly to brush his nose against yours. “Did they take good care of you, doll?” he murmured, thumb stroking your cheek.

You giggled softly, your hands resting in the front of his uniform shirt.

“They did. They were perfect. Almost as good as you.”

He huffed a quiet laugh against your lips.

“Almost? Don't worry. I'll show you how good I can take care of you tonight,” he leaned in and kissed you again, this time more possessively, his hands cupping your jaw. "You ready to go home, sweetheart?"

At a distance, Bob whispered to Yelena, “Should we… clap or something?”

Yelena elbowed him. “Don’t you dare. Just… get your bag and let's get the hell out of here.”

And as the crew bustled around you, rolling their eyes or pretending not to peek, Bucky pressed one last kiss to your temple, and despite him being exhausted from his long day, he took your bag off your shoulder without asking and slung it over his own. He laced his fingers through yours, ignoring the way the crew pretended to gag behind him.

"Hey! James! Over here!" Rebecca’s voice can be heard from somewhere in the distance, pulling Bucky from his thoughts. The airport was bustling with activity, people rushing to catch their flights or make it home. Bucky maneuvers through the crowd, his suitcase in tow, scanning faces at the arrivals bay until he finally spots his sister. Only half a year has gone by since he's last seen her, and yet she looks different, more grown up if that's even possible. It makes his chest squeeze slightly with the uncomfortable reality of this being one of many things he misses while he's gone.

"Hey Becs," his greeting comes in the form of a smothering hug, the kind only big brother's know how to give. She whines dramatically about him ruining the sign she made for him, pushing at his chest. He looks down at the piece of poster paper squished between them and chuckles. It's a small cheesy welcome home sign, clearly written in haste as most of the letters are wonky and the glitter thrown at it looks half-assed. He pulls away, grabbing it from her hands and smoothening it out before giving it back, "See, all better." She rolls her eyes, slapping at his arm and grumbling under her breath, "You big buffoon, learn to be more careful." Bucky barks out a laugh in response that only serves to annoy his sister more. Oh, how he's missed this.

He ignores her protests as he slings an arm around her shoulders, pushing them past the crowd of people in the direction of the elevators. "Folks didn't come?" He asks her as they get in and she shakes her head, pressing the button labeled L2, "Ma wanted to stay home and cook you up something nice for tonight. She's driving us all crazy making sure everything's perfect for you." Bucky frowns, and Becca looks at him like she's said too much, "Everything?"

The elevator doors open and they step out. "Yeah, you know how Ma gets about her cooking," Rebecca replies, waving her hand in the air like it's no big deal. He decides it's best not to press the issue, it's just dinner after all.

The conversation changes as they make their way to her car. Rebecca catches his up on her life post graduation. She talks about her new job in the city over, the apartment she's renting with a couple roommates, the coworker she doesn't get along with, how she still visits their parents on the weekends and oh, how can she forget to mention how ridiculously in love her roommates are with his teammate and friend, Steve Rogers.

"You have to get me tickets when you go back. I don't think they'll forgive me if I don't give them a chance to meet him," she mentions, and he hums in response, not fully paying attention as he places his suitcase in the backseat. But it's not like she has anything to worry about, her little sister privileges always win over Bucky in the end.

"Let me drive," he offers, closing the backseat door. Rebecca looks at him like he just asked her something atrocious. "Absolutely not. My car, I drive. Now get in," she orders, not hearing him out at all and getting into the driver's seat. Bucky is too tired to argue, so he heads over to the passenger seat and reluctantly buckles in. But as she's pulling out of the parking lot he realizes, there's something, no, someone she hasn't mentioned at all.

Bucky says your name out loud, pretty as always, but foreign on his tongue as he hasn't heard it anywhere, but in his head for years. Rebecca's body goes rigid, and he doesn't notice at first as he asks, "How's she doing?" He knows he has no right to ask. He knows he has no right to pry into your life or know anything about you now, but he can't help it. He needs to know. Maybe if he knows that insistent thrum beneath his ribcage will finally go away.

Rebecca stares straight ahead at the traffic on the road like it's the most interesting thing she's seen in a long time, exhaling apprehensively, "I don't know."

Well that's shocking.

"You don't know?" Bucky echoes, face pulling in a frown of disbelief. Rebecca's hold on the steering tightens ever so slightly, clearly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation being you. "Yeah, I don't know. We haven't been friends for years. Why would I keep up with her?" At that revelation, Bucky can practically feel the way his eyes bulge out of their sockets, a dreadful feeling creeping in to his system.

"Wait—hold on. You haven't been friends with her for years? When did that happen?" He's trying his best to wrap his head around it all. His brain picking out every memory from the last few years, holidays and birthdays he attended and not once did anyone mention you and his sister no longer being friends. Well, no one mentioned you at all, and your absence was felt, but he thought your absence had to do with what happened between you and him, not what apparently happened between you and Becca.

"Years ago," she replies simply.

"Becca."

"What? You asked, I answered."

Bucky stays silent, staring at his sister expectantly. She glances at him briefly, biting the inside of her lip knowing her brother is too stubborn to not keep pushing for more answers. "We stopped being friends after our first year of college. Things were already rocky when we started, but… I don't know we drifted apart—things happened." Her response was vague, like it took effort to reach into the past and look for a proper explanation.

"Things?" He couldn't help, but keep pushing.

Rebecca sighs, "Yeah, things. New friends, boyfriends, different schedules—look, it was a lot of things, but mainly she changed. A lot."

"What do you mean she changed?"

She rolls her eyes, Bucky evidently having pushed her too much, "God, what's with all the questions? Why do you even care?"

The truth is on the tip of his tongue, but he's too much of a coward to let it out. "I don't know, maybe because the three of us were best friends from the moment you two were put in the same kindergarten class. Because we were basically like family to each other."

"Yeah, well, that's in the past now."

The sadness in her voice tugs at Bucky's heart, watching her slump in her seat. It's obvious she wants the conversation to end, retreating into herself the way that she is. Whatever happened between you still weighs heavy on her heart. Whatever Bucky hoped to learn about you upon his return will have to wait. He thought his sister would be the one to give him answers, but all she managed to do was raise more questions.

Bucky turns to face the window, deciding it's best to not bring you up anymore. Rebecca's shoulders relax at that, reaching over to turn on the radio so the music can fill the tense silence. He closes his eyes, trying to focus on the music, but nothing can stop his thoughts from drifting to things he's been avoiding.

When he first decided to take a longer break than he usually gives himself, it was to give himself a chance to figure out what comes next. Racing professionally had always been his dream, but once he achieved it, he felt lost on the after. His racing career took off when he was young, too young to understand when something takes off so fast and bigger than himself, some people get left behind in the dust.

For years, his racing career was overwhelming in the best way. Making a name for himself, proving he was good enough, was all he strived for. His parents and sister had always been supportive, even when certain family members gave their unwanted opinions on how he'd never make it, certain he'd fail. And even though they only got to see him during the holidays or when he flew them out to one of his competitions, his parents and Rebecca cheered him on every step of the way. Promotions, sponsorships, media events, touring—it took up all his time for over half a decade.

But when he finally has made a name for himself, when he finally has the fame, the recognition, when he always wins… what's the next big thing he has to look forward to?

That question brought him back here, back home. Feeling lost on his purpose and fulfillment in life made him come back to where it all started. But being back here brings him back to you. And back to the biggest regret of his entire life.

Beyond the window of the car, the streets stretch out into something more familiar. They pass his old high school, the local bakery his mother used to send him to get fresh bread every week, the street that leads to his father's office, the corner store where your first boyfriend used to work, a sleazy guy he remembers punching the hell out of in that very corner for breaking your heart. They pass a park that's been here for ages, the rusty almost rundown playground evidence of its lack of maintenance, but all the years of usage. He remembers taking you and Becca there all the time when you were kids. Chasing you two with his friends around the playground, or pushing you on the wings just a little harder every time to hear you laugh harder. Every inch of this town were where his roots were founded on and surely it must have the answers to what he's looking for.

It takes another fifteen minutes before Becca pulls into the driveway of their childhood home, a cozy light blue two story building with his mother's meticulously cared for flower beds with blue and pink hydrangeas proudly displayed in the front. There's more cars on the street than he last remembered, but he guesses the number neighbors must have grown since the last time he's been here. It wouldn't be the only thing that's changed since then.

Bucky steps out of the car, wondering if maybe he has a chance to take a nap before dinner. He vaguely listens to his sister ramble on about their mother's plans for tonight as he opens the backseat door to get his suitcase. Becca is whining about how they'll probably have to play Yahtzee for the millionth time, when he gathers his things and follows behind her.

His sister walks to the side of the house, confusing Bucky until she explains. "Gotta use the side door, the front's stuck again." Right. At least that's another thing that stayed consistent. No matter how many times his father or Bucky put in the effort to fix the door, it somehow always managed to get stuck. And his father was always too stubborn to replace it no matter how many time his mother asked him to. Stubbornness seems to run in the family.

They step into the backyard, and Bucky was halfway through making an amused comment about his father not fixing that damn door when a loud cacophony of the word surprise startles him. When Becca had mentioned the word everything earlier, when it came to what their parents had prepared for him, what she meant was a welcome party. Various family members and friends of the family were all gathered to welcome him home at least forty people. Tables were set up in neat rows decorated with blue race car table covers to match the balloons tied to each ends. Blue pennant banners were strewn from tree to tree, and whatever his parents were cooking at the grill had his stomach growling like he hadn't eaten in weeks.

So much for hoping to take a nap.

Bucky is touched by the effort his family put in to welcome him home. Although, from the moment he stepped into the backyard he isn't left alone. His mother comes over to engulf him in a hug that is larger than life itself. His father gives him a welcoming hug too before insisting he needs to sit down and eat. Bucky lost count on how many cousins, uncles, aunts, family friends, and others came up to him to welcome him home, hugging him, patting him on the back, and passing him around from greeting to greeting. Once he finally gets a moment to sit down his parents pile up enough cheeseburgers on his plate to stuff him full for a whole week.

The celebrations are enough to keep his mind off of other things for awhile. Between savoring some home cooked food, sharing stories and catching up his cousins on his adventures, and being pulled into a game of dodgeball, he barely has time to think of anything else. And yet, every so often, his eyes drift to different sections of the party as if they were searching for something. He could lie to himself about not what, but who he was searching for. Someone he foolishly hoped would be hear despite what he was told.

By the time the sun starts to set in the sky, Bucky can feel his energy deplete to a point where he can no longer hide it. It's an exhaustion that goes beyond having to evade dodgeballs to the face. Things have started to settle and everyone's migrated to their own corner of the yard depending on whether they wanted to keep playing games, relax by the bonfire, or eat leftovers. He spots his mother at the grill heating up leftovers and he makes his way over to her.

"Need some help, Ma?" He asks, grabbing one of the tongs not waiting for her answer. His mother shakes her head, "I got it, hun. You go back to having fun." She tries to get him back to the party, but at that Bucky shakes his head, scrunching his face up with a clear I don't want to look. His mother laughs at his expression and then instructs him to help out with the burger patties. She starts asking him about his travel here and how he's been liking his party, little things and start conversation. Bucky's giving her simple answers when he looks out at the guests one more time, biting on his bottom lip absentmindedly. His mother can tell he's distracted, and more than that. It seems like she knows exactly what's going on in his head.

"She wasn't invited," she starts, causing Bucky to whip his head in her direction, eyes wide like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't have been doing as she continues, "It's not like your dad and I didn't want to, but your sister was against it."

"What?" Bucky sounds and looks dumbfounded, and his mother can only respond with a short exhale. She says your name, and Bucky's heart races and breaks all in one. "How did you—?"

"You can't hide things from your mother, James," his mother interjects as if it were obvious. He gaze locks with his mother's for a moment, and there's something close to pity in them. She's right. He was never one to lie to his mother, much less be able to.

A defeated sigh slips past his lips, "Is it stupid I thought she'd be here?" His mother prepares another leftover plate as she responds, "No, not at all," she hands the plate to one of his younger cousins who scurries off with it. "She wouldn't have come if she had been invited anyway."

Bucky clears his throat, suddenly feeling like there's something stuck in it. "Why not?" His mother gives him a look, like she has something to say, but no explanation for it. "I talk to her mom every so often, maybe once a month. She's told me they barely have any contact with her. No one really knows where she is."

"What? And no one's gone looking for her?" Bucky can't believe what he's hearing. His question has no short of worry in it, and he doesn't bother to hide it. The thought of you being out there somewhere and no one knowing—no one even bothering to look—it didn't sit right with him. It settles within him as well as poison would.

His mother's lips draw into a thin line, a somber look in her eyes. "I'm sure they've tried. I know her parents have, but it's not easy when your kids shut you out. Especially when they're in trouble." Bucky's heart sinks, "Trouble? What trouble?" His mother starts preparing another plate, like she needs something to do, "I'm not sure, hun. Her parents don't know and even your sister hasn't been forthcoming with the way things ended between them. All I know is she got mixed in with the wrong crowd and ended up dropping out of college. The last time I saw her was when Becca found out and they had a screaming match over it. I don't think I've ever seen your sister so angry…"

Out of all the thing Bucky could have been preparing himself to hear about you from his mother, none of this would have ever come close. There's something sickly brewing in his stomach and he thinks if he hears another word of your apparent disappearance, he'll spill his dinner all over the grill.

His mother can tell something is off, so she promptly sends him to bed. He wants to protest until he realizes he burned the burger patty he had been reheating and agrees some rest would be for the best. His mother gives him a goodnight hug and he presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head. Everyone at the gathering is still preoccupied with their own things, so Bucky forgoes any farewells and instead slips inside the house without anyone noticing. Every step up the stairs and toward his childhood bedroom feels heavier than the last.

When he enters his room, there's an appreciative smile that appears on his face when he realizes not much has changed in here either. He can tell his mother has changed the sheets and installed one of those little air freshener devices in preparation for his coming home. And besides his suitcase in the corner, which he still has to thank his father for bringing it up for him, everything else is exactly the same. Which isn't saying much since he's always kept his room simple the older he got. A few racing posters on his walls, shelves decorated with knickknacks, a bookcase filled with books he has yet to revisit, there's not much besides that.

He strips out of his clothes lazily just wanting to get into bed already, when his eyes stray to his desk. He knows why they did. He knows what he'll find when he looks. And yet, he walks over to it anyway, feeling the lump in his throat grow when he sees it's been left untouched. Above his desk on the wall there's a bulletin board frozen in time to the last time he ever used it. He has pictures pinned all across it, happy memories from his childhood with you with him in almost all of them. Every birthday card and letter you ever wrote him is pinned on the board too. Anything you ever gave him he saved and treasured down to the smallest thing. Even to the four leaf clover you once found, gently tucking it between tape for safe keeping. Giving it to him as a good luck charm, promising him it would help him win every race he ever dreamed up as long as he kept it close.

He keeps it in his wallet to this day.

Bucky blinks away the tears he can feel forming in the corner of his eyes. He finds himself more than upset now, maybe even bordering on an anxious frustration as he wills himself to look away. He hastily strips out of his clothes and climbs into his bed, hoping that his mind can quiet once he's bundled up in it. But of course that's not the case. All he can think about now is you. Why would you disappear? Why would you leave and tell no one? Why does no one know where you are? Why did you and Becca get into a big fight and stop being friends?

And why does he feel like it's all his fault?

As he drifts off into a restless slumber, there's a final image that haunts him. It's you. Holding back tears as you look at him with the kind of ire he deserved, but never excepted he would ever have caused you.

That image takes him back to where it all ended.

It happened at his parent's lake house, the summer after his sophomore year of college concluded. The summer you and Becca graduated high school, and had to adjust transitioning into adulthood and newfound independence. Your families had thrown a big graduation party for the two of you, but it was a little too family friendly for Bucky's liking. So without telling his parents, a couple weeks later, he threw a massive party at his parent's lake house in celebration of you two.

You had always held a special place in Bucky's heart, there was no denying that. Whether you or Bucky acknowledged it was another thing entirely. Your friendship with Bucky was just as deeply bonded as yours and Rebecca's, but it was different in its own way. Somehow you found yourself being more vulnerable with Bucky about your fears of the future, about school and life. There were times you wanted to appear strong or dependable to Becca when she was going through a rough patch, and yet Bucky was always able to crumble down your walls almost as if those walls didn't exist when it came to him. From patching up a cut on your knee you'd gotten when you were six while playing hopscotch, to holding you close and soothing you when you cried over your first boyfriend breaking your heart—Bucky had always been there for you. The trust between you ran deep, deep in a way that felt rooted in something tied to your souls.

Perhaps that's what always frightened him about acting on his feelings. If he ever told you how he truly felt, that he loved you in ways that went far beyond just friends, and you didn't feel the same or it didn't work out—he'd lose you for good. And the thought of that, he couldn't even imagine it. Not having you in his life. He honestly thought he'd never survive that.

Nothing was supposed to happen that night. He kept his drinks to a minimum, not wanting to get drunk so he could watch over the party guests. He threw it without his parents knowledge or permission, the last thing he needed was to have an accident happen that he couldn't explain away. You hadn't been drinking much, if at all, either. Mingling throughout the party a little lost since Becca had been hanging out with her boyfriend at the time. Bucky shouldn't have gone over to you when you were standing in the corner by yourself, but he did. He shouldn't have invited you to dance, but he wanted to so badly, so he did.

But he should've known things would end in more than a dance. Having you so close, your body pressed against his, touching him, all over him—it drove him crazy. Careful touches at your hips and waist turned into greedy handfuls that couldn't be satisfied despite the lack of distance. It lead to you two kissing for the first time, desperate and inevitable. And that one kiss led to two then three, until the two of you stumbled up the stairs, not being able to keep your hands or lips off of each other as you made your way to Bucky's bedroom. It led to Bucky caging you underneath him on his bed, kissing you senselessly until the heat between you became too much and you slept together for the first time.

The next morning, you were tucked into his side with his arms wrapped around you, holding you tight to his chest like it would hurt him to let you go. You looked so peaceful in your sleep, beautiful as the morning sunlight blanketed your form. Bucky didn't want to get up, but he knew he had to survey whatever potential damage was leftover from the party and possibly kick out anyone who overstayed their welcome. He kissed your forehead, whispering a promise of not taking too long before slipping on a pair of sweatpants. He groaned inwardly as he made his way downstairs, hoping the damage wasn't too bad. But a quick survey of the house settled his worry. Every room was trashed, but at least nothing seemed broken or irreparably stained. When Bucky made his way back to the living room he noticed Sam, his closest friend, stirring awake on the crouch.

"You crashed on the couch?" Bucky eyed his friend weirdly, he hated sleeping on couches. Sam yawned, stretching dramatically, "Yeah, figured you'd need help cleaning up."

"Aw, aren't you sweet."

"Shut up."

Sam threw a pillow at Bucky's head, which he dodged at the last second. Sam sat up on the couch, scratching the back of his head like he was still trying to come to, "Saw you two go up to your room last night. Congrats on finally getting the guts to make a move—thought you'd never do it. I can hear the bells already," Sam teased, humming out the tune for 'here comes the bride' while wiggling his brows at Bucky suggestively. Bucky can't remember why, can't understand why, but he panicked in that moment. The image of you in a wedding dress and saying I do freaked him out so badly because for the first time it dawned on him that's something that he wanted. But you were both still so young, with so much life and experiences to love ahead of you. He knew he was getting ahead of himself. He didn't even know if you liked him like he loved you.

Fuck, he's in love with you.

Bucky tried to play it cool. Tried to ignore the way his heart squeezed uncomfortably with the truth. He shook his head, playing it down, "Nah, it… it was just an itch I had to scratch. Nothing more. Just something I needed to get out of my system…" Sam was not amused by his lies, painfully seeing through them, "Bullshit. You and I both know you're hopelessly in love with that girl." Bucky's mouth opened to deny it, but another hard look from Sam had him crumbling.

"I know I know. And I think I messed everything up." Bucky slumped on the couch next to Sam, a devastated look on his face. Sam definitely was judging him. "You did not mess anything up, Buck."

"No I did. I wanted to do this the right way, ask her out on a date. Treat her right, like she deserves to be. Show her what she means to me—" A couch pillow hit Bucky square in the face, stopping him mid sentence. "Buck, you're spiraling, stop it. You didn't mess anything up. Trust me, just go up there and tell her how you feel."

Bucky rubbed at his face, soothing it from the hit, "But what if she doesn't feel the same?" Sam looked like he was two seconds from throwing another pillow, "I'm starting to think those engine fumes have caused you to go stupid or blind. Buck, that girl is so in love with you."

For a brief moment, Bucky dared to hope that Sam was right. That you do feel the same. That you'd want it to work out between you as much as he does. But then the image of you in a wedding dress flashed across his mind again, and that unrelenting voice in his head made him doubt everything once more. A voice that strangely sounded like his uncles. His father's brothers who constantly let him know how his racing career would never work out. How he'll never make good enough money and he'll just disappoint his parents. How he should just play it safe, smart. Become an accountant like his father and get rid of those silly childhood dreams because his parents didn't give up everything for him just to go "play racer." Scolding him like a child to stop being so ungrateful with his parents and get a proper job so he can take care of them like they took care of him. Voices of people who were supposed to love and encourage him and instead reminded him everyday that he wasn't good enough to ever achieve his dreams.

And if he wasn't good enough for his dreams, then he certainly wasn't good enough for you.

"Even if she is," Bucky swallowed hard, the words feeling bitter on his tongue, "even if we are, she deserves so much more than what I can give her right now."

"Buck."

"No, I mean it. Her life's just starting Sam. She's going to her dream college, finally getting away from this town like she's always wanted to," Bucky shook his head, like admitting his fears cost him something, "I'm pursuing something I don't even know will work out. And if it doesn't… I don't want to drag her into that. I don't want to drag her into my failures."

Sam sighed, feeling for his friend, "You're not going to fail, Buck. And even if you do—loves so much more than the good times. It's being there despite what happens, despite the obstacles." Bucky mulls over his friend's words knowing there's some truth to them. But, unfortunately, the voice in the back of his mind refused to let him go.

"Yeah, but loves also about walking away when the timing isn't right."

"Not when, if. You don't know which one it is yet."

With those last words, Bucky managed to find the courage to go back up those steps and back to you. With his heart on his sleeve, his hopes in the palm of your hands, and his blood pumping a mile a minute. But when he opened the door to his room, you were already making your way out of it. Eyes wide and teary when they narrowed on him.

"Hey, baby, hey," he reached out to cup your face, "What's wrong?" You flinched back from his hold like his hands were made of ice, his heart stopped. "Nothing. I'm fine," you bite out, clearly holding back. He stood his ground, "You know you've never been able to lie to me, come on tell me what's wrong." He pleaded, feeling distressed at your change in attitude.

"Nothing is wrong, just let me through already," you tried pushing past him, but his arm shot out between you and the doorway. "No. Not until we talk. Not until you tells me what's going on." He tried to get you to look at him, but your eyes were on everything but him.

"Bucky—" He cut you off by saying your name in a way that sounded somewhere between utter devotion and utter devastation. You sighed, broken and like you had something caught in your throat. "There's nothing we have to talk about, nothing important anyway."

Now that stung. Bucky would have preferred you slapping him across the face instead.

"What? So did last night mean nothing to you?" Bucky didn't stop the anger that was seeping through his hurt. You looked like you didn't know what to say or did and just didn't want to, "That's not what I said. And it doesn't matter what I think of it anyway. You got what you wanted." Bucky stared at you, scoffing in offense, "I got what I wanted? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You know what I mean," you said with a finality that caused him to panic. You tried evading his arm by ducking below it. But he was faster than you and stopped you from getting past him. He was frustrated by your vagueness and confused on what you tried telling him without really telling him anything. This was a complete switch up from last night and he didn't know how to handle it.

"Look, I don't know where this is coming from, but just listen to me, sweetheart. I know I can't… I know I'm not," He ran his free hand through his hair, frustrated that he couldn't put his vulnerabilities into words, "My career's just starting. There's big opportunities ahead of me and I know I'm not guaranteed success. I'm not thinking of…I don't want to make any mistakes—" That last word, he should've never used that word. Because you didn't even let him finish when something between a cynical laugh and broken sob came out of you. "I get it. I was a mistake."

Bucky was quick in his attempt to shut that accusation down, "No! No! Absolutely not, that is not what I said," you tried to squeeze past him again, but this time he held onto your arm, "Would you please just listen to me?" You pushed at his chest, hard enough to hurt, the ire in your eyes and tone made his blood run cold. "Don't touch me." There was something close to hatred in your voice and that had him stunned, frozen in place. He was so stunned he could only watch you walk away to the guest bedroom. By the time he came to on what happened, he ran to chase after you only to have you slam the door right in his face. And no matter how hard he knocked, how long he waited, how much he pleaded into the wooden oak for you to talk to him, you never responded.

He was heartbroken beyond what you could every imagine. He couldn't understand where everything went wrong and why you were so upset. He wanted to talk to you, but he also knew he needed to give you space to cool down. He figured at some point in the day he'd be able to get you aside for a private conversation and clear things up.

He was wrong.

That small glimpse of you before the door slammed in his face was the last time he saw you for the next six whole years.

Reliving that moment in his dream was so vivid it startles him awake. Chest heaving, and face covered in sweat as the memory of that regretful morning resurfaces. Thinking back to the way you looked at him, to the way you spoke to him—it's enough to rip his heart to pieces all over again.

Even after all these years he still doesn't understand what happened back then, what had you so upset. At first he thought it was over his slip up and using that damn word, mistake. But thinking back on that moment throughout the years, he realized you had been upset before that. Something happened between falling asleep that night and him going up those stairs the next morning to confess to you that had set you off. And to this day he hasn't figured out what it was. The absence of you in his life, the hollow cavity losing you left in his chest—that's all he's really come to understand.

Bucky is surrounded by the darkness of his room, the crescent moon in the sky not providing much light to filter in through the window. His room suddenly feels stuffy, and the ache in his chest seems like it's going nowhere any time soon, so he gets up and decides to take a hot shower. Hoping maybe that can help him relax. He's in and out before he knows it, careful to not make too much noise in the hallway as to not wake his parents or his sister in case she stayed for the night. Thankfully, the bathroom's right across the hall from him, so there's not much noise he can make anyway.

By the time Bucky's back in his room he catches the screen on his phone light up. He reaches for it where it lies on his nightstand, seeing he's gotten a couple recent messages. He frowns when he looks at the time, it's just past midnight. Who could be texting him at this hour?

Mini Falcon: Heard you're back in town! You do not want to miss this.

Mini Falcon: [Attachment: 1 movie]

Bucky has an idea of what he's going to find when he opens the video from his old street racing friend. When he clicks on the video, sure enough it's Joaquin showing off a car meet he's at. There's a crowd of people already forming, showing off their cars and probably figuring out who's going to race tonight. He plays the video a few times, reminiscing on his street racing days, and a little envious at how nice some of the cars have gotten. God, there's no amount of money he wouldn't have bet to get a chance to race against some of those machines.

On one of his rewinds, he spots someone in the background that catches his eye. No, not someone, not just anyone.

It's you.

Bucky's jaw drop comically, pausing the video and hating how pixelated it looks when he zooms in, but even through the blurriness he swears that's you. An older you for sure, but it's still you nonetheless. He's recognize you anywhere. You're laughing with a brunette and a blonde, he thinks maybe they're you're friends.

But what the hell are you doing there? Since when are you involved in the street racing scene?

Bucky's mind is working a mile a minute, but if that is you—which he sure it is—he can't miss this opportunity to see you. Especially not after finding out no one knows where you are. If he's found you, then he's taking the chance to bring you home.

Bucky texts Joaquin back asking for the location of the car meet. He's scrambling to look decent, throwing open his suitcase and putting on the first outfit he finds, a matching pair of black sweatpants and hoodie, topping it off with a jean jacket and cap for good measure.

When he looks at his phone again Joaquin's sent him the location of the car meet, and when he puts it in his phone's maps it shows it's being held at an abandoned industrial complex in the next town, over thirty minutes away. With his skills he knows he can get there in half the time, so he wastes no more in getting ready and heading out the door. Extremely grateful that his father kept up with the maintence of his first car, a modified Honda Civic, and he has something of his own to get him there.

Just as he thought, he's able to get to the meet in half the expected time. He vaguely remembers racing here once or twice, which means he also remembers how it's one of the easier spots to get caught at because of the parameters of the race. He decides to park his car a few blocks away, hidden and tucked into a parking lot, a large patch of overgrown foliage and trees obstructing the view of it to anyone passing by. He makes his way over to the car meet on foot, locating it by the booming music echoing throughout the abandoned walls of the complex.

And yet, despite the music and all the engine revving getting louder as he approaches, he can still hear Joaquin's laugh above all that.

When Joaquin spots Bucky, he excitedly waves him over to where he's resting on the hood of what Bucky assumes is his car. "Bucky, man you made it!" They greet each other with one of those hand clasping, one armed embraces that guys do. "Yeah, after seeing the video you sent I knew I couldn't miss it." Bucky responds, making Joaquin grin, "Told you," he points to the guy next to him, "This is my friend Bob. Bob this is Bucky thee legendary Bullet." The man standing next to Joaquin turns to Bucky impressed, his doe eyes wide in awe as they greet each other. Bucky shakes his head, side eyeing Joaquin as if saying 'he's exaggerating'.

"He used to win all the races back in the day, he set all the records," Joaquin adds.

Bucky was going to say something when Bob beat him to it, "All the records Blitz beat?"

"Blitz?" Bucky inquires, not remembering that name in the roster of racers he knew back when he was racing here. Joaquin nods to the car positioned in the middle of the lineup race, a gorgeous blue Nissan GT-R Bucky's sure has been tuned up like hell. "That's what they call her. She's part of Rumlow's crew."

That catches Bucky's attention, "Rumlow's got a crew now?"

Joaquin hums in confirmation, "A few years back he got into a nasty car wreck. Car went up in flames and fucked up his body. He can't race now, so he got a crew to do that and his dirty work for him."

"Dirty work?"

Joaquin shrugs, "Don't know much about it. I just know he imports illegal parts from overseas to modify his cars, but I stay out of whatever they got going on."Bucky makes a clicking noise with his tongue, feeling sorry for any unlucky bastard that got stuck working for Rumlow.

"His crew hard to beat?" Bucky can't help but ask, reminiscing on all the times he beat Rumlow in a race. If his crews anything like him, then they're probably not that good. Bob is the one who answers his question, "Nope. Blitz is the best racer he's got. When he wants a certified win he has her race." Bucky takes that information in. If at any point he wanted to relive his street racing days, then it seems Blitz is the one to beat.

The three of them chat for another while. Bucky learns that Bob races too—for a team called the Thunderbolts—although he's still pretty new at it, so there's much he has to learn. Bucky offers to teach Bob a few things while he's in town and Bob seems more than eager to learn from him. Joaquin and Bob try to catch Bucky up on all the new faces in the racing scene, but it's too many names at once for him to really take anything in. Once the race starts, Bucky excuses himself from them, pretending like he saw someone he wanted to go catch up with so he could step away.

In reality, he's going back to concentrate on what he really came for. To find you.

He weaves through the crowds of people gathered, being careful not to bump into any of the showcase vehicles. As much as his eyes want to stray to admire them, he keeps his mind focused on you. He pays close attention to every single face he passes, hope blooming and then dying in his chest when he walks past someone that looks like you. When he circles back to where he started he's distraught at the realization that he might've missed you.

He goes back to Joaquin feeling dejected and like he has to start all over again with something he never really started. Bob is no longer standing with Joaquin, and Bucky barely catches the finish of the race. As expected by what he was told, Blitz comes in first with Yelena, one of Bob's teammates he pointed out to Bucky earlier, coming in a close second. He can't remember the names of the other races and quite frankly he doesn't care. They're not why he came here.

Although, even though Bucky only got a glimpse of how the race finished and a bit of the start, he's seen enough to know that whoever is racing for Rumlow is good—really good. Blitz drives like the car she's in is an extension of her body and she knows how to get it to do exactly what she wants it to. She's got the kind of control he's only seen with a handful of drivers. Him being one of them.

He finds it impressive.

Blitz's car door opens, and there's a small part of him that's anticipating putting a face to the name. And when Blitz steps out of the car, he finds himself receiving the shock of a lifetime for the second time that night.

You are the one to step out of the car.

You are Blitz.

That means, you're the one who's part of Rumlow's crew.

Shit.

What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

Bucky is convinced this has to be a dream, he's rubbing the hell out of his eyes in hopes that it is. But it's not. You're standing by your car with a self-satisfied smile on your face as you're handed the winnings of the race. Yelena steps out of her car and heads toward you with a giant grin, congratulating you on your win. It's clear you two are friends. You look every part of belonging here and he doesn't know what to do with that.

Bucky clears his throat, bumping Joaquin's shoulder, "Hey, is that..?" He can't even finish the sentence, but Joaquin doesn't need him to as he follows the direction Bucky is looking in. "Blitz? Yeah, that's her." Joaquin's confirmation only makes the pit in Bucky's stomach grow. "And you said she's part of Rumlow's crew?"

Joaquin nods, not understanding the weight of what Bucky is asking. "Yeah, I don't know much about what else she does for him, but she's his main racer. Any time he wants a guaranteed win he sends her." Bucky's scared to know, but he has to ask, "And when you mention that Rumlow's got some shady business going on, how shady are we talking?"

"Class B felonies dude," Joaquin says it like it's gossip and not the worst news he could've possibly given Bucky. At his silence, Joaquin gives Bucky a look over. "Are you good? Bro, you look like you're about to spill your guts—literally." Joaquin steps back a bit just in case Bucky does.

"I know her."

"Who?"

"Blitz." He says your real name after. The name he knows you by, the name he knew you by.

"Oh shit." Joaquin doesn't know what to say. Not with Bucky looking like he's seen a ghost. "Look, dude, she's friends with Yelena and Kate, they're good friends of mine and I know they're always looking out for her. I'm sure she's okay. Maybe Rumlow's only got her racing, not in his other shit." Joaquin attempts to comfort Bucky, but it doesn't seem like what he said did at all.

"Yeah, maybe…"

"Are you gonna go talk to her or just stare at her with your mouth open?" Joaquin teases, trying to lighten the mood. Bucky shuts his mouth and glares at Joaquin causing him to laugh. Bucky roles his eyes at him, Joaquin might've grown up, but he's still like that annoying little brother he remembers. He won't tell him, but Bucky is a grateful to have that unchanged connection to his old friend.

Joaquin's words might've not done much to comfort Bucky, but his teasing was enough to give Bucky the push to walk away from him and toward you. Joaquin whistles to cheer Bucky on, throwing some words his way that resemble good luck. Bucky shakes his head, wondering how crazy you're going to think he is for finding you here.

Every step closer Bucky is to you throws his nerves into high gear. You've already gotten your car and yourself away from the concrete race track. Somewhere over by the corner where a cluster of smaller buildings and a smaller group of people were in. He really doesn't know what to expect once he finally reaches you, or what he'll say, but he knows he can't leave without trying.

The moment you spot him approaching time seems to freeze, your eyes widening and your lips parting like you can't believe what your eyes are seeing. But just as fast as the shock hits your face, you mask it with indifference, but the iciness in your gaze is something he feels penetrate down to his bones.

He sees the door slamming in his face again. The look you gave him the last time he saw you, staring at him through the closing door like he had reached into your chest and snatched your heart right out of its cavity. And now? Now, you were glowering at him like you would put a bullet through his head and not bat an eye. Eyes looking at him with such a disdain it makes him feel physically ill.

When he finally reaches you, Bucky can only come up with one word, "Hey." He says lamely, quietly like there's an obstruction in his throat. You blink at him, crossing your arms as your friends at your side give him wary glances.

"You." Is all you say back, the word coming out almost like an accusation. Bucky grimaces, but he knows he deserves that so he tries to stay calm. He doesn't say anything else, but he glances at Yelena and who he guesses is Kate next to you, before his eyes find yours again, feeling a bit awkward at involving anyone else in your conversation.

You sigh, taking the hint, turning to your friends to ask them for a bit of space. The girls don't look happy about it, but they listen to you. Kate doesn't spare him another glance while Yelena makes sure to give him one hard glare, acting like she'd break his arm if you asked her to.

He really hopes you don't.

"Please, don't look at me like that," he finds himself saying, to which you barely react to. There's clearly a wall you've built between you, one he doesn't know how to lower for the first time in his life.

"Like what."

"Like I'm the last person you'd wanna see here."

"Well," you shrug like that's enough of an answer. Bucky takes a tentative step closer to you, making you tense up. Your reaction makes something break inside him. He steps back, feeling too many emotions all at once. A frustration at you running away, fear at you working for Rumlow, disheartened at the way you're acting like he's a stranger—confusion over everything that has and hasn't happened in the last six years. It all accumulates the second he has you this close again.

"What the hell are you even doing here?" He didn't mean for the question to come out as harsh as it did. "Excuse me? What the hell are you doing here?" You throw the question back at him with bit of venom in your tone. He elects to ignore it.

"Looking for you," he replies honestly. And that catches you off guard, he can see it written all over your face. "A friend invited me to come watch the race, sent me a video and everything. I saw you in the background of it and I thought I was seeing things. But I had to come see for myself only to find out that not only are you a racer, but you're racing for fucking Rumlow of all people. What the hell is that about?"

You wave him off, "It's none of your concern." He says your name like you're testing his patience. "It's not," you reiterate, rolling your eyes and leaning on the hood of your car, “It’s not even that big of a deal.” 

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Bucky growls out with something deeper than frustration, debating on whether or not he should just drag your ass back home instead of trying to reason with you. You stare at him like you could bite his head off. "I haven't seen you in years and all of a sudden you want to show up here and act like you're looking out for me? Fuck off, Bucky," you raise your voice at him, your own anger increasing by the minute. Bucky's arms shoot out in exasperation, tired of you twisting his actions and words into something negative, "I am looking out for you! I did all my life and that care doesn't just go away because I left for some time."

"Six years," you correct him, the heaviness of all the time apart settling between you like a wound that hasn't healed. He swallows hard, letting out a shaky breath, "Doesn't matter, sweetheart. I thought about you all the damn time during those years. I cared about you then, and I care about you now."

You don't believe him, scoffing, "I'm sure you do." He doesn't know how to get through to you. Feeling as though his efforts are going nowhere. "I'm serious. I've been thinking about you all damn day since I got here—its been driving me crazy. Especially after Becca told me you two stopped being friends. What happened there?"

"It's none of your business," you're quick to say—too quick.

He says your name again, but this time in a plea, but you're done talking. "I'm serious, Bucky, fuck off. None of this is of your concern, none of this is your business. Leave me alone."

"No."

Before you can even start ripping him a new one, the music is cut off. Someone's voice can be heard yelling, warning everyone to get the hell out as the cops are on their way. Bucky doesn't hesitate, having through this same scenario many times before. You don't even see it coming, how fast he swipes the keys from your hand, rushing over to the driver's side of your car.

"Get in the car," he urges, and you're smart enough not to argue with him over this. He can tell you're biting your tongue as you get in the passenger's side of the car, not at all happy with him being the driver. Bucky turns on the ignition and speeds out of the industrial complex while others still scramble to get into their cars and do the same. He doesn't drive in the same direction as everyone else. Making a swift u-turn in the opposite direction everyone else is going. He ignores your protests directing him on which way to go and drives the car in the direction he left his. You don't know what he's doing until he ends up back in the secluded parking lot, parking right next to his car. There's no doubt you recognize it, having been in it more times than he can count. He shuts off the engine, making everything go quiet. There's only one streetlight working, the light flickering every so often making it even harder to see the cars past the foliage. If anyone were to drive by at this time of night, there's absolutely no chance you'd be seen.

The tension in the car is palpable, thick with everything left there is to say between you. Bucky's holding his breath like even his breathing could set you off at any moment.

"You can get out now," you say after a painfully long silence. "Not until we talk," Bucky sees the way the word spark that anger in you again. "I don't want to talk." Bucky shrugs, leaning back in the seat like he's got at all night to go back and forth, "That's too damn bad, 'cause I'm not leaving until we do." He pockets your keys in the chest pocket of his jacket, not giving you a chance to take them back.

"You're fucking unbelievable," you growl out, getting out of the car and slamming the door closed. You practically stomp your way to the other side, yanking the driver door open. "Get out," you grind out through gritted teeth.

"Don't want to."

"James."

You used his first name, clearly he's pushing you past your limits, and truthfully he doesn't want that. He just wants you to talk to him, that's all he wants. He wants to get to the bottom of whats going on with you in hopes he can help you in some way. So he gets out of the car, slower than you'd like him to, stepping to the side to give you enough room to look inside and notice your keys are missing.

"Barnes, give me my keys."

"Not until we talk."

"Are you serious?

"Deadly."

You let the door shut, before holding out your hand expectantly, ignoring his request. "Bucky give me back the keys, the car isn't mine. I have to take it back to Rumlow." Bucky's worry only grows at your words, "Why are you working for him? How did you get involved with him?"

"It's a long story."

"I got time."

"Well I don't."

You're at a stand still, neither of you willing to budge. But in the interest of moving things along, you're the first to break. "My ex got me into this mess alright? Now I gotta get myself out of it. It's that simple," you explain, but Bucky isn't satisfied with just that. "What mess?"

You take a deep breath before confessing, eyes lowering to the ground, "I dated Rumlow's cousin for about a year. I didn't know they were cousins back then, and I didn't know about the family business. He swiped some money from Rumlow and then disappeared. Since I was the girlfriend, Rumlow made me responsible for paying off the money my ex stole." At the revelation of your predicament, of you being taken advantage of, Bucky has to take a deep breath and reign in his anger before he takes his car over to Rumlow's and finishes off what the car wreck didn't.

"How much?" He's apprehensive to ask, but he needs to know. You shrug, "I don't know the exact amount. I just know it's in the six figures." Bucky's heart drops, blood running cold with dread, "Fuck, sweetheart," a beat passes as his head wraps around the amount of debt Rumlow's put you in, "How much do you have left to pay off?" You shrug again, "I don't know, Rumlow adds interest every time I race with one of his cars or some other bullshit reason. I don't think he's gonna let me go any time soon." His jaw clenches so tight, you'd think he's about to break a tooth.

"Let me go with you, let me talk to him," he says it not like he's asking you, but like he's letting you know in advance you're not doing this alone. You shake your head, refusing, "No, absolutely not."

"He knows me. I used to race against him all the time. Stop being so goddamn stubborn and let me help you." They weren't friends by any means, but there had always been a mutual respect between them.

"I don't want your help. I don't need your help." You deny, but Bucky isn't having any of that. "Yes you do. Look at you. You run away from home, you drop out of college, no one knows where you are, and Rumlow's got you racing and doing his dirty work." You bristle at being reminded of your situation. Like if it were the first time anyone's said it out loud and addressed it head on with you.

"And why do you give a fuck? I'm not your responsibility, Bucky," you spit out, making Bucky feel like he's back to square one with you. But this time, you've ran through the last of his patience. "Fuck, this isn't about that! I give a fuck because I care! I give a fuck because despite all these years you still mean everything to me! Because the thought of anything happening to you would actually kill me." His admission causes you to lock eyes with him and within yours he can see something is cracking, he's getting through to you.

"Shut up, and go," you whisper out the words weakly, but he shakes his head, "No. I'm not leaving you. Not again," he cups your face, brushing away a stray tear from your cheek, "I don't fully understand why you ran, although I can take a pretty good guess its got to do with that piece of shit…," a horrifying thought strikes him, "Is he threatening you?"

You tense in his hold, "Bucky drop it."

"He is, isn't he?"

Your silence is the only confirmation he needs.

A few things finally start connecting for him, "That's why your parents don't know where you are, why you barley contact them. Is he also why you and Becca stopped being friends?" The mention of Becca has you stepping out of grasp, his hands falling reluctantly to his sides, "Becca and I stopped being friends before that. So you don't have to worry about her being mixed up in this mess."

"So why did you? Is it because of us? Because of what happened between us?" He doesn't think he's ready for the answer. But he should know better by now that answers from you don't come easily.

"Nothing happened between us."

"No, don't brush it off like it meant nothing."

"Well I wouldn't be the first to do that."

There you go again being vague and cryptic—and sounding accusatory toward him when he doesn't even know what he did. "Are you saying that because of the whole mistake thing? You don't even know what I was actually going to say. You didn't even let me finish what I wanted to say back then. Not before you stormed out of my room and slammed that door in my face. Before you blocked me on everything and I couldn't even reach out to talk to you."

His grievances don't seem to move you, "Seems like you still haven't gotten the hint." Bucky doesn't know how many more of your dismissals he can take, so he decides to leave it all out in the open once and for all. "No I haven't, and I won't because I was so hopelessly in love with you and you left my room like what happened between us meant nothing to you. You left and took my heart with you. And now that I have it back I have some things I want to say to you."

His confession throws you off balance, stumbling over your own footing as you take a step back. But he's not letting you get away this time, he's saying his peace like it's the last time you two might ever speak. "That night scared the absolute shit out of me. Because it was the first time in my life I felt as alive as I do when I'm behind the wheel. The thought of you feeling the same way I did brought that out in me and I didn't know how to handle it, and that's on me."

"Bucky, please stop."

He doesn't.

"That morning, I was trying to tell you that deep down I knew I wasn't good enough for you. I was still getting my shit together, still trying to prove myself to people who didn't give a damn about me. But on the off chance that you felt the same way, I would've dropped everything for you. I would've pursued something that would've had me better off, something close to home, close to you. I would've done what I could to help you pursue your dreams and—" this time you don't cut him off with words, but with your lips crashing against his, hard and with purpose. Knocking the cap right off his head. He's taken by surprise, but when your lips press harder, insistent on not being ignored, he kiss you back. His hands landing at your waist to keep him grounded to you.

You pull away slightly out of breath, "I just wanted you to shut up," you tease, and Bucky takes in a shaky breath staring down at your lips like he wants another taste, "You wanna shut me up again?" You don't hesitate to take the invitation, kissing him again with a passion bordering on hunger. You're stumbling backwards, pulling him in as he's crashing full force into you, lips parting to let him fully in. You're making out, your back pressed against his car, as you pull sounds out from each other that echo in the night air. He takes a moment to tell you this conversation isn't over, but you quickly shush him with another kiss. The heat between you is growing quickly, and it's no surprise when you find yourselves stumbling into the backseat of his car to take things further.

The door shuts behind you with a soft click, his body hovering over yours. One of his knees slots between your legs, deliberately pressing on your core causing you to whine. You can feel the way you've soaked through your panties and tights already. He helps you take off your leather jacket and matching shorts, and he can't help himself as he tears away at your tights, making you gasp. "Bucky, what the—" He kisses you, mumbling into your lips, "I'll buy you as many new pairs as you want, sweetheart." His answer seems to quell your annoyance for now.

His hand reaches down to rub you through your panties, finding out just how soaked you are for him. He grins wolfishly into the kiss, "Fuck, baby. Didn't know fighting with me would turn you on so much." His tease is met with a slap to his bicep, which only makes him press harder along your slit making you cry out. He kisses your lips one last time, trailing featherlight kisses to cheek and jaw, all the way down to your neck where he nips at the skin. His fingers brush upwards toward your sensitive bundle of nerves to continue his ministrations there.

You only let him have his way for a few more seconds before you're pushing impatiently at his chest. He's already dazed by just a few kisses from you, so when you tell him to sit back he listens without putting up a fight. He sits back in the seat, watching you with something close to devotion as you go to straddle his lap, bracketing his thick thighs with your legs. You strip him of his jean jacket and hoodie, throwing it on the car floor somewhere, raking your nails down his chest with just enough pressure to make him bite down on his lip, looking like he's moments away from coming undone.

You start to grind on him, making a mess of his sweatpants, but he doesn't care, it feels too good to care. His cock twitches beneath you and with the way you smirk at him he knows you felt it. You're making him go crazy, drunk on you, and you're living for every second of it.

One hand snakes it's way beneath your white tee to palm at your breasts, while the other grips your hip to press you down on him harder. A deep groan leaves his chest, and it mingles with your own as you crash your lips to his again, biting down on his bottom lip hard enough to make him whine. Your hips continue their grinding motion, leaving you both breathing heavily enough to start fogging up the windows of the car. One of your hands finds the back of his head and tugs at his hair, pulling his attention long enough to slip your other hands into his sweats, giving him a teasing squeeze that his seems stars with how hard he's holding back from coming undone so embarrassingly soon.

"Oh, fuck," a deep groan rumbles with his chest when you squeeze him again, "Wait, baby, I can't. I don't got a condom on me," he grabs your wrist to stop you, "Just let me make you feel good okay? Let tonight be all about you." He tries to coax you, his hand leaving your wrist to bring the attention back to your cunt when you swat his hand away. He pouts, confused as he watches you pull your white tee off and reach into your bra to grab a condom out it.

His eyes narrow at you, "Why the hell do you have that there?"

You huff, the jealousy in his tone not getting past you, "Don't ask what you don't wanna know, Barnes."

Whether or not he wants to pry into that detail, you don't let him. Making his breath catch in his throat as you tear the condom wrapper with your teeth—an action he found incredibly hot.

He takes himself out of his sweats, squeezing the base of his cock to get himself under control. He's already leaking as you hastily roll the condom down his length. You're getting yourself into position when he stops you. Your gazes meet, a questioning look in your eyes. "You sure about this? We can stop if you're not. It's okay." He assures you, needing you to confirm you really want this. When you realize what he's asking, you smile at him. Taking his lips in a softer kiss, one that conveys how sure you are of this happening. "I'm sure, Bucky. I want this."

That's all Bucky needed to hear.

He rubs your folds through your panties a few more times before his fingers hook into the fabric of your panties and push them to the side. He helps guide himself inside you as you lower yourself down on him, inch by inch. "Baby, you're squeezing the hell outta me—fuck," he curses under his breath, urging you to take it slow. He hasn't told you, but it's been a long time since it's been anything other than his hand and him. And he feels every bit of that longing as your walls squeeze him tighter the more of him you take.

"Sweetheart, you gotta give me a minute. I can't. I don't want this to end so soon," he's pleading with you, breathing heavily as the need to thrust up into you gets harder to restrain. You cup his face, making sure he's staring right into your eyes as you lower yourself completely. His breath his hot against your mouth as he gasps, the sound turn into a moan the second you start riding him. Not giving him any time to adjust as if this were your way of getting payback for the way he pushed your buttons all night.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he grits out, guiding your hips with his hands to move you in ways that have you both moaning out for each other. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him in for a makeout that's all tongue and teeth—messy and passionate all in one. Breathing each other in like the only source of air you need can be found within each other. And that's when Bucky feels it again, his heart soaring with how right this feels, just like the first time you slept together.

"I missed you, I—" he mumbles into your lips, but when you pick up your pace, he forgets what he was going to say. You've got him pussy drunk and wrapped around your finger—right where he wants to be.

He can tell he won't last much longer at this pace, and he needs you to come before he does. His hand goes to where you're connected, pressing circles onto your clit in the way he knows you like, making you mewl. "That's it baby, you're doing so good for me, pretty girl." His other hand grips you tighter, keeping you steady as he starts fucking up into you, meeting your hips. You whine at how deep he's going, one of your hands shooting out to the fogged up glass like that'll help anchor you. He can feel how close you are, so he doubles down, fucking up into you harder and increasing the pressure on your clit. "Come on, baby, give it to me. Let go, sweetheart, I got you," he whispers affectionately and wrecked, bringing you in for another kiss that undoes you. You come hard, crying out his name, and he follows suit, coming harder than he has in years. You got him seeing stars with the way your cunt squeezes him for all he's got.

You're both panting in the aftermath, his head resting against the backseat as he tries to catch his breath. Your head drops onto his shoulder, his hand gently rubbing at your back to help you with the aftershocks of your coupling. He kisses your temple reverently, whispering soft praises and sweet nothings as you both come down from your highs. For a few minutes, the car is quiet with a tranquility Bucky wasn't sure you two would ever get to again.

Your head rises from his shoulder, moments later, a dopey smile on your face. He laughs fondly, his hand rising to stroke your cheek affectionately, "You're so beautiful." He doesn't know if it's what he says or the way he said it, but your smile no longer reaches your eyes. It makes his heart squeeze in his chest uncomfortably.

"Everything okay?" He's looking you over to make sure you're okay, fearing he might've been a little rough with you. You clear your throat, wincing, "Yeah, it's just—I'm feeling a bit sure already." His eyes widen at that and he apologizes right away, helping you gently off of him as you both wince, sensitive at the disconnection.

You start redressing yourself, confusing him, but he didn't question you. He had hoped you two could stay together a little longer in the backseat, talk a few things out and just enjoy this pocket of happiness you had granted each other. But whatever spell you two were under seemed to be broken. And faster than Bucky could process it, you were already dressed and getting out of his car. He scrambled to clean himself up with what he had at his disposal, tucking himself back in his sweats and hastily slipping on his hoodie just as he heard the engine to your car turn on.

He gets out of his car, rushing over to you and knocking on the window for you to lower it. You do, staring at him in a way that he can't read, but it makes him uneasy nonetheless.

"You're leaving already?" Bucky can't hide the disappointment in his tone. You sigh, picking at a nonexistent thread on your jacket to keep your eyes somewhere that isn't on him. "I told you I have to return the car to Rumlow, it's not mine. He's got trackers on all his cars, so I have to return it before he comes looking for it."

"I can go with—"

"No, you'd only make things worse for me, okay? It's best if you just stay out of this."

He can't accept that, leaving you to deal with this on your own. Especially after being the only one who knows exactly how much trouble you're in. "I dont know how to help you, but I want to. Maybe I can't help, but maybe I can find someone who can."

"No, Bucky, just drop it," your tone made it clear you weren't budging from this. And maybe he couldn't make you budge on this now, but later, later he could fully convince you to let him help. "Fine, I will—for now. But, there's still some stuff I want to talk about," you give him a look and he's quick to dispel your apprehension, "Not now, I know you have to go. But later I'd like to have a proper talk. About us."

Something about you changes in this moment. Bucky can almost see it in the way you straighten up in the driver's seat, in the way your eyes glaze over with something deeply broken crawling it's way to the surface. Something meant to hurt him just as badly as he once hurt you.

"Us? Bucky, there is no us. Tonight… you were just an itch I had to scratch. Something I had to get out of my system, so thanks for that," your voice doesn't sound like your own when you say that. It sounds distant and cold, like you're trying your best to keep yourself together. However, the way in which you said certain things rings alarms bells inside his head. He's barley able to stutter out a reply when you pull back and drive off, leaving him in the dust of the engine fumes.

Those words. He's heard them before, but not from you, no, from his own mouth. He's replayed those words time and time again in his mind for the last six years. The things he once said to Sam way back then when he stupidly was trying to deny how he felt about you. You used those exact words against him tonight. It dawns on him, horrifically, that you heard him say that back then. Your anger and frustration—the heartbreak of that morning. It came from you thinking you weren't anything, but a one night stand for him.

And now youd done the same thing to him, as if trying to make things even. Maybe you had.

Bucky slumps against his car, sliding down it until he hits the floor. Pieces of a puzzle he could never solve slowly start clicking together until he gets a better picture of what happened. He had messed everything up like he feared he would. And it wasn't something he had done, it was something he had said. He wanted to kick himself for ever saying those things. If you were still angry at him all these years later, then you must have not heard the rest of the conversation. You only heard the part that broke your heart and made you hate him all this time.

Was there ever a possibility you would forgive him?

Could you forgive him?

Bucky doesn't know the answers to those questions, but what he does know is that he won't find out unless he tries to earn it.

a/n Well my darling barbies, you now have a choice to make. If you decide to not forgive Bucky, then your story ends here. If you decide to give him a second chance, then you're in luck! A part two is already in the works. Once again, comments and reblogs are so appreciated! ♡♡♡

When the holiday season came around, your families would celebrate together - and it would be so for years and years - bringing you two even closer. It always made your stomach flutter when you got to see them, especially James. Always the sweet gentleman, complimenting you unexpectedly, offering help, and making small talk feel like the most interesting thing ever.

You got close to the Barnes girl, Rebecca. She was outgoing and friendly, and your parents encouraged the friendship - you needed to be around people of your age more. Visiting her was ever the best excuse to see her brother too, whom you admired in secret. In the rare and lucky encounters you two had in your street, he always made you smile and promised to take you on a walk through the city someday.

You’d always give the excuse that your father would never let you go alone with him, so the promises would never come true. You’d love to spend the day with him, get to know even more about him, but you were happy with the small conversations and little things you two had grown to share over the last years.

Of course, your father would never allow you to date before turning 18, even though your birthday was just a couple of months away. Not that you’d think that James looked at you like that, like the way you looked at him. He was very good-looking and had a natural charm that attracted ladies anywhere he went. He could pick any girl he ever wanted, why would he choose you? You knew he had other friends and that you were just the girl next door.

As the years passed, you two kept getting closer - your parents trusted James enough to let you go out on the weekends with the Barnes siblings and their friends, after promising you’d get home safe and at a respectful hour. Bucky showed you his favorite places in town, took you to where would become your favorite ice cream parlor, and when the circus arrived - just in time for your 19th birthday - he was eager to take you there too.

Your parents trusted him because they saw no threat from the young man, your families were pretty close after these years, they saw a friend in James. You saw more, you wished you could have more, but kept these feelings buried in your heart. If anything other than a friend, he probably saw you as a little sister.

Little did you know that his feelings were the purest, and his fondness for you was sincere. At first, you were the pretty girl that had just moved in, the neighbor who spent the holidays with his family and made it all so much more pleasant. Then, you became his sister’s best friend, and he enjoyed seeing you around his house so often. But when you started hanging out with him, his feelings were too strong to be mistaken for anything else. He adored you.

The first time he lied to your parents was on your 20th birthday, when he had asked them to take you out for lunch to celebrate with Rebecca. To your surprise, he had the whole day planned out - and there was no third wheel from his sister in his plans.

As the sun was setting and you two watched it walking through the park, he seemed nervous about something. With both hands in his pockets, he looked at your face for a while, then dropped his gaze to the ground. When he repeated it for the third time, you stopped walking and touched his arm.

“What’s going on, Bucky?” You had been enjoying the day with him, cherishing every moment and every little thing he did for you. The visit to the bookstore, to the ice cream parlor you adored, everything. But as the day passed and he got awkward about something you couldn’t figure out, you thought it was your fault. “You didn’t have to take me out just for pity.”

His eyes widened, surprised by your words. “What? I didn’t… No, that’s not what this is.” You watched as he sighed and fidgeted with something he had taken out of his pockets. “I just have so much I wish I could tell you, I don’t wanna make a fool of myself.”

You chuckled at his unusual insecurity. “A fool? You don’t need to open your mouth for that.” You playfully teased him and scrunched your nose. He thought it was the most adorable thing in this world. It eased his worries, giving him the courage to open up about whatever troubled him.

“Darling, you’re something else.” He started, making your brows furrow slightly. But before you asked what he meant, he continued. “I’m going to miss you like crazy.” His words only puzzled you even more.

“Miss me? And why’s that?” You put one hand on your hip, leaning your head slightly to the side. Something in the way he looked at you made your heart jump almost painfully in your chest.

“I’m going overseas. The war, you know.” He looked down at his hands, still fumbling with something in his fingers. “In two days. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I didn’t have the guts until now.”

Your heart sank. You remembered the day he joined the military, all proud. Everyone in both of your families was proud too, even you, despite the worry that weighted painfully. That feeling had been almost forgotten, until this very moment. “You… you can’t leave.” You mumbled, feeling stupid for it right after the words escaped your mouth.

He gulped, guilty for making you feel that way. He saw in your face the pain he shared in his chest. Bucky parted his lips a few times, before finally saying something. “I can’t leave without telling you the truth.” He stepped closer to you.

Your surprised eyes met his gaze, heavy with anticipation for something you couldn’t put a name on. “The truth about what?” You managed to ask.

“About how I feel. About what I see when I look at you. About how I never thought I’d have to part ways from you, ever since you came into my life.” His hand grazed your face with such delicacy that you felt you would melt under his touch. “I’m only telling you this now because I might never get the chance again. And I would never forgive myself if I’d never let you know that I love you.”

His words stole the breath from your lungs. Tears prickled in your eyes against your will, your lips parting to let out a whispered “wow”. He didn’t make a fool of himself, you thought, not for a second. But still, you were the one who felt like one.

“And you’re telling me this before you leave for the war. God, this is cruel.” You chuckled, a single tear rolling down your cheek. “I love you too, silly. I’ve been in love with you all this time.”

He took in your confession and opened a gorgeous grin. “Guess that makes us a pair of fools, doesn’t it?” You nodded, and he licked his lips before leaning in to give you a chaste kiss. It was filled with passion, nonetheless.

His hands grabbed your own, and he put something between them. As he pulled away just slightly, you looked down to check what it could be. A golden delicate chain with a heart locket for a pendant. You opened it to find a photo of him inside. A low gasp escaped your lips, and he caught you for another kiss - a deeper one this time.

Before pulling away, Bucky made sure to leave many kisses all over your face. On your cheeks, over your eyes, on your nose, on your chin. He showered you with love. For a moment, everything was alright. Everything was perfect and you wanted that moment to last forever. Then you turned around for him to put the necklace on you, and he placed another kiss on your neck, sending shivers all over your body.

Penelope is already bouncing in Kelly’s arms when you and Charles arrive at the apartment, Leo trotting proudly at your feet like he’s been hired as official security detail. Max looks… suspiciously relieved to see you both.

“Thank you,” Kelly says, kissing Penelope’s cheek. “Really. She’s been in a clingy mood today.”

Max nods, already halfway out the door. “If she asks for a Red Bull, don’t give it to her.”

“Max,” Kelly sighs.

“What? She’s three. She’s persuasive.”

Charles laughs, scooping Penelope into his arms. “We’ll be fine. Go. Enjoy your day.”

The door shuts behind them, and suddenly it’s just the three of you… well, four, counting Leo, who is sniffing Penelope’s shoes with deep suspicion.

Penelope beams at him. “Doggie!”

Leo’s tail wags so hard his whole body wiggles.

You grin. “Okay, I think we’re off to a good start.”

---

1. The Chaos Begins

It starts innocently enough.

Penelope wants to draw.

Charles insists he is “very artistic.”

You know this is a lie.

Within ten minutes, Penelope has drawn a surprisingly accurate portrait of Leo, and Charles has drawn something that looks like a potato with wheels.

Penelope squints at it. “What’s that?”

Charles looks personally offended. “It’s a car.”

You pat his shoulder. “Sure, baby.”

Penelope giggles, delighted by the teasing. She reaches for you next, tugging your sleeve. “You draw.”

You sit beside her, sketching a little cartoon of her holding Leo. She gasps like you’ve performed a miracle.

“Cha-cha, look!”

Charles leans over your shoulder, eyes softening. “You’re very talented, amour.”

Penelope nods vigorously. “She’s the best.”

Charles presses a kiss to your temple. “I know.”

You pretend not to melt.

---

2. Snack Time (aka: Leo’s Big Moment)

You set Penelope up at the kitchen island with apple slices and peanut butter. Leo sits beneath her chair, staring up with the intensity of a man plotting a heist.

“Leo,” you warn.

He blinks innocently.

Penelope giggles and drops a slice “accidentally on purpose.”

Leo inhales it like a vacuum.

Charles gasps dramatically. “Penelope! You are corrupting him.”

She covers her mouth, eyes sparkling. “Noooo.”

Leo wags his tail, fully complicit.

You shake your head. “You’re both terrible influences.”

Charles leans against the counter, watching you help Penelope wipe peanut butter off her hands. There’s a softness in his eyes you’ve seen more and more lately — something warm, something future-shaped.

You feel it too.

But you don’t say anything.

Not yet.

---

3. Nap Time (aka: Charles’ Heart Breaks)

Penelope fights her nap like she’s in a championship battle.

“No sleep,” she declares, arms crossed.

Charles kneels in front of her. “But if you nap, we can go to the park after.”

She narrows her eyes. “Promise?”

“Promise,” he says, holding out his pinky.

She links hers with his, satisfied.

You watch them, something tugging deep in your chest.

Charles carries her to the guest room, humming softly — the same tune he hums when he’s nervous, or when he’s trying to soothe Leo during thunderstorms. You lean against the doorframe, watching him tuck her in, smoothing her hair back gently.

She falls asleep within minutes.

Charles stands there a moment longer, just looking at her.

When he finally steps out, he closes the door quietly and exhales.

“She’s so small,” he whispers.

You smile. “She’s three.”

“I know, but… she’s so small.”

You slip your hand into his. “You’re good with her.”

He blushes, looking down. “I like her. She’s funny.”

“And stubborn.”

He grins. “Like someone I know.”

You elbow him, and he catches you around the waist, pulling you close.

His voice drops. “You look good with her.”

Your heart stutters.

But before you can respond, Leo barks — loudly — because he has just discovered his reflection in the oven door.

The moment breaks, but the warmth lingers.

---

4. The Park (aka: Charles Leclerc, Human Jungle Gym)

Penelope wakes up energized, as if she’s been plugged into a charger.

At the park, she immediately drags Charles toward the playground.

“Cha-cha, swing!”

He obeys.

“Cha-cha, higher!”

He obeys.

“Cha-cha, slide with me!”

He hesitates. “I don’t think—”

She grabs his hand. “Come!”

He obeys.

You laugh so hard you nearly drop your phone as Charles, Formula 1 driver, Monaco royalty, international heartthrob, goes down a bright yellow slide with a three-year-old on his lap.

Leo barks at them like he’s cheering.

Charles stands up, hair sticking up in all directions, dignity in shambles.

Penelope claps. “Again!”

He sighs dramatically. “I am being bullied.”

You kiss his cheek. “You love it.”

He smiles, defeated. “I do.”

---

5. The Moment Everything Changes

Back at the apartment, Penelope curls up on the couch with Leo, who has decided she is his new best friend. She strokes his ears gently, humming to herself.

Charles watches them, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

You join him, resting your head on his shoulder.

“She’s really good with him,” you whisper.

“She’s good with everything,” he murmurs. “Even me.”

You laugh softly. “That’s a challenge.”

He nudges you. “Hey.”

But then he grows quiet.

Really quiet.

You tilt your head up. “What’s going on?”

He hesitates, searching your face. “Do you ever think about it?”

Your heart thumps. “About what?”

He nods toward Penelope and Leo, curled up together like a painting of domestic bliss.

“About… us. One day. Having something like that.”

Your breath catches.

Because yes.

Yes, you’ve thought about it.

More than once.

You swallow. “Do you?”

He nods, cheeks pink. “More lately. Especially today. You’re… incredible with her. And I keep thinking—” He stops, voice softening. “I want that with you.”

Your chest tightens, full and warm and overwhelming.

You take his hand. “I want that too.”

His eyes widen, hopeful and bright. “Really?”

“Really.”

He kisses you then — slow, tender, full of promise.

When you pull back, Penelope is staring at you both with the unimpressed expression of a toddler who has seen too much.

“Ew,” she declares.

You burst out laughing.

Charles groans. “We are being judged.”

Penelope points at Leo. “Doggie wants cuddles.”

Leo, traitor that he is, trots over to her immediately.

Charles sighs. “Even my dog prefers her.”

You wrap your arms around him from behind. “You’re still my favorite.”

He melts instantly.

---

6. The End of the Day (aka: The Beginning of Something New)

When Max and Kelly return, Penelope runs to them excitedly, babbling about swings and drawings and Leo.

Kelly smiles at you. “Looks like she had fun.”

“She was perfect,” you say.

Max raises a brow. “Really?”

Charles nods. “She’s amazing.”

Max squints. “You two look… weirdly emotional.”

Charles blushes. “We’re fine.”

You squeeze his hand. “Just tired.”

Max shrugs. “Parenthood will do that.”

You and Charles exchange a look — a look that says maybe one day.

As they leave, Penelope waves. “Bye! Bye doggie!”

Leo barks goodbye, tail wagging.

The door closes, and the apartment feels suddenly quiet.

Charles slips his arms around your waist. “So…”

“So,” you echo.

He kisses your forehead. “One day.”

You smile, leaning into him. “One day.”

Leo barks, as if in agreement.

And for the first time, the idea doesn’t feel scary.

Charles had been planning it for months.

Not the race win — though he’d taken that just as seriously — but this. The proposal. The moment he’d finally ask the woman he adored to marry him. The ring had been hidden in his apartment behind a stack of old helmets, tucked into a box labeled “random cables” because he knew you’d never willingly open that.

Everyone knew.

Literally everyone.

The drivers.

The WAGs.

The mechanics.

Fred.

Even the social media intern who’d accidentally walked in on Charles practicing his speech in the Ferrari motorhome bathroom mirror.

Everyone except you.

And somehow, miraculously, it had stayed a secret.

Well… almost.

---

The Almost-Disaster

It happened on a Thursday, Monaco GP weekend, the paddock buzzing with its usual mix of glamour and chaos. You were standing with Lando and Oscar, waiting for Charles to finish an interview, when Lando — who should never be trusted with sensitive information — opened his mouth.

“So, are you excited for—”

Oscar’s eyes widened.

Lando froze.

You blinked. “For what?”

Oscar elbowed him so hard he nearly dropped his phone.

“For… for… the… uh… the yacht party tonight,” Lando blurted, voice cracking like a teenager caught sneaking in past curfew.

You frowned. “What yacht party?”

Oscar looked like he was praying for divine intervention.

Lando, panicking, doubled down. “The… the one… that… Max is hosting!”

“Max doesn’t host parties,” you said flatly.

“Exactly!” Lando said, triumphant. “That’s why it’s exciting.”

Oscar buried his face in his hands.

Before you could question it further, Charles appeared, slid an arm around your waist, kissed your cheek, and said, “Ready to go, amour?”

Lando nodded so aggressively it looked like his head might fall off. “YES. GO. LEAVE. NOW.”

You stared at him, suspicious. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Oscar muttered.

“Yes,” Lando insisted.

Charles just smiled politely, but the second he turned away, he shot Lando a look that said I will kill you with kindness and then hide your body in the Ferrari garage.

Somehow, you didn’t put the pieces together.

---

The Build-Up

The whole paddock watched Charles that weekend like he was a man possessed.

He was focused.

Sharp.

Calm in a way that made even Max raise an eyebrow.

And every time he looked at you, something softened in him — something everyone else could see.

Carmen nudged George. “He’s going to cry when he proposes.”

George nodded. “He’s going to cry before he proposes.”

Pierre whispered to Kika, “I bet he does it on the podium.”

Kika shook her head. “No, he’ll want it private. Romantic. He’s a soft boy.”

Lando, still traumatized, muttered, “He’ll kill me before he proposes.”

---

The Race

Monaco was brutal.

It always was.

But Charles… Charles drove like the streets belonged to him. Like he’d been born for this exact day. Every lap, every corner, every millimeter of track — perfect.

You watched from the Ferrari garage, heart in your throat, hands shaking. You’d seen him win before, but this was different. This was home. This was everything he’d ever wanted.

And when he crossed the finish line, the world exploded.

The garage erupted. Mechanics screamed. Fred hugged anyone within reach. Fans roared so loudly the ground vibrated.

Charles’ voice cracked over the radio.

“Merci, merci… this means everything.”

You felt tears spill before you even realized you were crying.

---

The Podium

He looked radiant.

Golden.

Completely overwhelmed.

And when he spotted you below the podium, his entire face lit up like the sun had chosen him personally.

He held your gaze through the champagne spray, through the anthem, through every second of celebration.

Everyone around you knew what was coming.

You didn’t.

---

The Proposal

After the podium, after the interviews, after the endless swarm of cameras, Charles finally found you. He didn’t say anything at first — just pulled you into him, burying his face in your neck, breathing you in like he needed you to stay alive.

“You did it,” you whispered, hands in his hair. “You finally did it.”

He pulled back, eyes glassy. “I couldn’t have done any of it without you.”

You smiled, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “Charles, you’re the one who drove the car.”

“Yes,” he said softly, “but you’re the one who keeps me standing.”

Before you could respond, he took your hands.

And suddenly… he was dropping to one knee.

Your breath caught.

The world stopped.

Somewhere behind you, Lando squeaked.

Charles looked up at you with the most vulnerable, hopeful expression you’d ever seen.

“Mon amour,” he said, voice trembling, “you have been my home long before I ever won here. You make me better. You make me braver. You make me… me. And I want to spend the rest of my life proving how much I love you.”

He opened the box.

The ring sparkled like the Monaco lights.

“Will you marry me?”

You didn’t even realize you were crying until you saw the tears hit his hands.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes, of course I will.”

He surged up, kissed you like the world was ending, and the entire paddock erupted behind you — cheering, clapping, screaming, crying.

Lando yelled, “I DIDN’T RUIN IT!”

Max muttered, “For once.”

Carmen wiped her eyes. “I told you he’d cry.”

George sniffed. “I’m not crying, you’re crying.”

And Charles held you like he’d just won something even bigger than Monaco.

---

After

Later, when the celebrations died down and the two of you were finally alone on the balcony of his apartment overlooking the harbor, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“For what?”

“For believing in me. For loving me. For saying yes.”

You smiled, brushing your nose against his. “There was never going to be any other answer.”

He kissed you again — slow, soft, full of everything he couldn’t put into words.

Below you, Monaco sparkled.

But nothing shone brighter than him.

“Tell daddy what you want, peach,” Bucky rumbled, rising up on his knees between your parted thighs and staring down at you. “Tell daddy what you need.” 

Your eyes blinked slowly up at him, glazed over from the hour he’d spent eating you out and making you cum over and over again. He could see your pleasure-drunk brain trying to process his request and it made warm pride bloom in his chest.

Bucky swiped an arm over his mouth, wiping your juices from his lips and chin. He loved seeing you like this, so dazed and dumb, your body loose and warm from all the orgasms he’d wrung from you. But if he knew you like he thought he did, you were nowhere near satisfied. And he was right.

“Wan cum,” you mumbled in a soft, sweet voice, your lips too swollen from crying your pleasure to speak properly and dulling the words until they were gentle little sounds. You blinked your eyes a little harder, like you were trying to get them to focus but couldn’t make them cooperate. “Wan your cum, daddyyy,” you whined, giving up on your efforts of sounding normal, letting the pleasure and need overwhelm your mind. 

Bucky’s cock throbbed at the sight of you, so needy and dumb and still begging for his cum. He couldn’t help but torture you a little. “Where d’you want daddy’s cum, peach, tell daddy,” Bucky urged. When it took you too long to answer, he went on. “Want daddy to cum in your mouth?” he asked, trailing his fingers over your lower lip before slipping them inside.

You hummed happily, your eyes sliding closed as you sucked on Bucky’s fingers, your tongue lapping at his skin and tasting your own arousal. When he pulled them from your mouth with an audible pop, you whined, pouting your pretty lips. It almost made Bucky want to give up the original plan for the night and bury his cock in your mouth until he shot his load in the back of your throat—but he wouldn’t be distracted so easily.

“D’you want daddy’s cum on your tits, peach?” Bucky asked in a low gravelly voice as he dragged his hands down to your chest. He groped your soft flesh, pinching your nipples and making you cry out, your back arching off the bed. 

Your head thrashed back and forth. “Nooo, daddy, not there!” you cried. When you opened your eyes, Bucky could tell you were a little more lucid and he grinned down at you, an answering smile appearing on your face. The glazed look in your eye was slowly being replaced by happiness and Bucky knew you were enjoying his teasing. 

He let go of your tits and he put his hands on his hips in exaggerated exasperation. “Well, peach, you’re gonna have to tell me where, then,” he said, looking down at you with teasing affection written all over his face.

Smiling wider, so much so Bucky knew it was probably hurting your cheeks a little, you walked two fingers down your chest until they hovered over your lower belly. “Here, daddy,” you murmured shyly. Bucky loved how you could be so shy even as you were naked and spread open for him, even after cumming on his face so many times already. 

Bucky’s own face hurt from grinning as he batted your hand away and placed his big hand on your lower belly. His palm was warm against your skin and he couldn’t help pushing down on you, making you squirm beneath him. “You want me to cum inside you, peach?” he asked, his eyes hooding as he stared down at you. Lust transformed your face before his eyes, turning your expression into that of a wanton, needy girl. “Want daddy to put a baby in you?” 

“Yesss, daddy,” you whined, writhing on the bed beneath his hand, like you couldn’t wait any longer to be fucked and filled up. “Knock me up, daddy, please!”

Bucky’s cock throbbed painfully, and he had to reach his free hand down to circle the base, gripping himself tightly to stop himself from cumming just from the sight of you begging for him. You and him had talked about it at length and you’d gone off your birth control, but it was the first time you were really trying and Bucky wanted to make sure it was special. He wanted to draw it out as long as he could and make it a night you’d never forget, even if it didn’t end up taking. And that meant he couldn’t cum—not yet. 

So instead of sliding inside your wet, waiting cunt like he desperately wanted, he flopped down on his back beside you. When you let out an indignant, confused sound, he sunk his fingers into the hair at the back of your head, towing you up and down his body, pushing your face toward his cock. You were still so loose and compliant from your multiple orgasms, you went easily.

Bucky still had a vise grip around the base of his dick, but he pushed your face down until your nose nudged his balls. “Suck my balls, peach,” he ordered in a low rumble as you pressed your face to his sac without the help of his hand. “Be nice to ‘em and they’ll fill you up good—put a baby in that belly, just like you want.”

You made a happy little sound in the back of your throat as your tongue licked out and swirled over his balls, moaning when you tasted him. You worshipped Bucky’s balls like you had all the time in the world, your lips wrapping around one heavy sac and suckling on it before letting it fall heavily from your lips and moving on to the other. You licked and sucked on him until his balls were wet and dripping for you. 

All the while, Bucky kept his hand fisted around his cock, holding himself back from blowing his load at the way you were playing with his balls like you adored them. He groaned like he was in pain—and he was, his grip was so tight on his dick—but you were making him feel so good, he didn’t want you to stop. His free hand petted your hair, encouraging you as you fondled his sac with your tongue. Until it was too much. 

“Peach,” he crooned, and your eyes flicked lazily up his body, though your mouth didn’t move from where you were still sucking on his balls. He pushed your hair back from your face so he could look at you properly. “You did so good, got my balls all nice and wet and ready to pump you full of cum,” he praised in his deep voice. “I think it’s time.”

Your head popped up eagerly, your eyes bright and excited as you looked up at him. A happy grin spread across your face.

Bucky groaned at the sight of you so keen, reminding him he wasn’t the only one enthused by what you’d both planned for the night. “Get on your back, peach,” he said gruffly, already rising up from where he’d lay down. You clambered to follow his order, rolling onto your back in the middle of the bed. 

Bucky pushed your thighs up and wide, folding you in half until your wet little slit was presented to him. You were still soaked and dripping and Bucky had to stop himself from tasting you again. “So perfect, peach,” he murmured reverently, dragging his fingers through your slick folds and spreading you open.

“Daddy,” you whined, your hands gripping your legs behind your knees, holding yourself in position for Bucky. “Need you.”

“I know, peach, I know,” Bucky soothed you, meeting your gaze with hooded eyes. He loved seeing the neediness in your expression, the way your lips were pushed out in a pretty little pout and your eyes swam with desperation. He could get drunk on that look, but he shook himself lightly and refocused on what he was doing. “Ready, peach?” he asked, his voice low and hungry as he raised an eyebrow in question. “Ready for daddy to breed you until there’s no doubt left that you’re knocked up with my baby?” 

You were nodding your head before Bucky even finished his question, your eyes never leaving his. “Yes, daddy,” you answered firmly, unable to stop yourself from continuing. “Wanna feel you cum deep in my unprotected pussy, pushing against my cervix and filling my womb with your seed.” 

Bucky watched as your face softened, your eyes drifting away and your voice gentling as you spoke. It made him impossibly harder seeing you drive yourself back to that dumb and dazed state.

“Wan you to claim me, daddy,” you mumbled, a hitch of a whine in your tone as you squirmed for Bucky on the bed. “Wan you to breed me.” 

Those words, said in your soft, sweet voice, set Bucky off. He growled low in the back of his throat and wasted no more time teasing you and drawing it out. He lined the head of his cock up with your entrance and plunged inside, burying himself in your warm, slick cunt with one thrust. 

A sharp cry fell from your mouth and Bucky watched as your eyes rolled back in your head. It only spurred him on. He planted his arms on either side of your head, covering your body with his own, and began pounding into your pussy with all his strength. 

“Feel so fucking good, peach,” Bucky muttered, pressing kisses to your lips, your cheeks, where ever he could reach. “So fucking tight and warm and perfect.” He groaned loud in your ear when he drove his cock deep in your pussy, hammering against your cervix and making you clench deliciously around his hard length. “Fuck, ‘m not gonna last—I gotta cum, peach.”

“Yess, fill me up, daddy,” you begged on a sob of pleasure. Your fingers held tightly onto your legs, keeping your thighs spread open so Bucky could fuck you as deep as possible. 

Wanting you to cum with him, Bucky’s fingers found your clit and he rubbed, greedy for your release. You were so worked up by sucking his balls and all the dirty talk that you came like a shot, screaming as Bucky sent you hurtling over the edge of pleasure. Your whole body clenched tight, your pussy gripping Bucky’s cock tighter than a vise until he nearly blacked out. 

Your release triggered Bucky’s and he moaned loudly into your neck, burying his cock in your pussy, the tip hitting deep as he pumped rope after rope of cum in your hole. He held his hips flush against your thighs, his balls against your ass, as his dick twitched inside your cunt. You rode out your orgasms as one, your bodies writhing against each other, never moving enough to dislodge Bucky’s cock while you reveled in your pleasure together.

Once Bucky was spent, he collapsed on top of you, though he was careful not to crush you with his weight. “Such a good girl, peach, so good for daddy,” he murmured, his lips trailing over your cheek until he found your mouth. He kissed you softly, enjoying the plumpness of your lips.

“Thank you, daddy,” you whispered when he pulled away, your fingers running through his soft brown hair. Bucky’s big body had you pinned to the bed still folded in half, his cock wedged deep in your pussy, plugging you full. 

You squirmed, like you were trying to get comfortable or because you wanted more—Bucky couldn’t be sure, but he groaned. “Give me a minute, peach,” he mumbled into your hair, his face half buried in the blanket next to your head. When he felt your pussy clench down on his cock, he knew you were teasing him purposefully. “Daddy needs a little break and then I’ll fill you with cum until I’ve drained my balls dry—sound good?”

With a happy little sigh, you settled back against the bed, your nails scratching lightly against Bucky’s scalp and drawing a sound from him that was almost a purr. “Yes, daddy, that sounds perfect,” you said in a sweet voice.

“So good for me, peach,” Bucky murmured. With a heavy exhale, he relaxed further on top of you, even as his cock stayed half-hard inside you. “Can’t wait to make a mommy out of you.”

Bucky drifted into a light sleep for a short while, until the warmth of your pussy still surrounding his cock had his length stiffening again. He roused, his hips already grinding against yours, breathy little moans falling from your lips. Bucky nudged your cheek and you turned your head, meeting his lips for a kiss. 

Love bloomed warm and heady in Bucky’s chest as he sunk into the kiss, feeling you melt for him. He couldn’t be happier that you’d agreed to have his child—and not only agreed, but were excited. He couldn’t wait to grow your little family and spend the rest of his life with you surrounded by everyone you both loved.

The second round was slower than the first, your bodies working together in languid movements as you writhed together and found pleasure in each other. You were both quiet, too, no more words left in either of your brains. You’d been reduced to nothing more than rutting bodies and beating hearts with only one goal—breeding.

Bucky breathed harshly as he fucked you in long, slow strokes, and you gasped every time he hit the end of you, your hands clinging to his shoulders, his arms, anything that felt solid enough to ground you amidst the overwhelming pleasure. Bucky grinned against your throat, his teeth pressed to your neck as he inhaled your sweet scent. He was drunk on you, he thought, and he couldn’t have been happier.

Your orgasm was a slow build, until you suddenly hit your peak. Your pussy fluttering around Bucky’s cock was his only warning. A breathless sob wrenched from your mouth and your cunt gripped him hard as you came. He followed you over the edge, pressing inside and spilling his seed deep against your cervix, your walls milking him dry. 

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned as he finished. He dropped his forehead to yours, nudging your nose with his before he captured your lips in a kiss. Emotion poured into the connection, Bucky’s love and devotion for you clear in the way he kissed you so reverently. From you, he felt your love and sincerity. 

With gentle hands, Bucky held you as he rolled onto his back, taking you with him until you were sprawled across his broad chest. He smoothed his hand over your hair. “Rest now,” he murmured, pulling a blanket over your bodies and tucking your head in against his neck. “I love you, peach.”

“Love you, too,” you mumbled, already half asleep, safe and cozy in Bucky’s arms. 

Bucky lay awake a little while longer, unable to keep the smile off his face. He was sated and content, holding your body against his, so close he could feel your hearts beating the same rhythm. Finally, Bucky fell asleep, feeling the happiest he’d ever felt in his life, all because of you.

Cautiously, you made your way over to the table in the corner after dropping off your empty glasses at the bar, watching the hooded figure out of the corner of your eye all the while. When you stepped up to the table, you gave it a wide berth, not getting close enough for the man to reach out and grab you if he’d wanted. Not that you knew if he had any such intention, but you’d worked in the tavern long enough to prefer being safe.

“Can I get you something, sir?” you asked, holding your tray against your chest like a shield. Something about the man unsettled you, and when you recognized the garb of a ranger, you suspected that was why. Rangers were a shifty folk, you’d long been told, and were not to be trusted. Their only redeeming quality was that they passed on quickly, staying only for a night, if that. “A cold refill?” you asked, nodding to the pint of ale on the table that had gone warm. 

When the ranger tipped his head back to look at you, you caught sight of his eyes. They were a bright, shining blue, like the pure waters of a flowing river. You only got a brief impression of his face—a sharp jaw, rough stubble, soft lips, and those gleaming eyes—but you sucked in a gasp at how handsome the ranger was beneath his hood. He was handsome enough to make your knees go a little weak. 

“I’m alright, miss,” the ranger rumbled in a low, raspy growl that settled deep in your core. Your body trembled with another shiver, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. So distracted by the effect his voice had on you, you almost missed the coin he dropped on the edge of the table. “Thank you.” 

Without another word, you nodded and snatched up the coin, turning quickly with a swish of your skirts. You recognized when you’d been dismissed, and you were only too happy to leave the ranger and his intense gaze to the corner of the tavern as you headed back into the fray of patrons. You went about your business, delivering drinks and dodging drunken, groping hands, and tried to pretend like it was any normal night. But as the hours trickled by, you felt the ranger’s eyes on you all the while, never wavering as he watched you move about the tavern. 

You tried not to think about the brief glimpse you’d gotten of his handsome face, but it kept popping into your mind unbidden, a shiver skating down your spine when you remembered the effect his voice had on you. It was unnerving, to have the undivided attention of such a man as the ranger. You’d never known any personally, only heard stories from those that came into the tavern, but it was enough to leave you feeling a little worried by his attention.

Still, when Tom the barkeep closed up and offered to walk you home, you deferred. You lived in the small apartment above the bakeshop only a few minutes walk from the tavern, and the ranger had left shortly before you’d kicked out the last of the drunken patrons. You believed yourself to be safe. 

That is, until you felt the cold awareness of being watched wash down your back again. 

You’d only taken a few steps down the lane from the tavern when you felt it, the hair-raising sensation of being watched. You paused and whipped around, but found nothing, even in the shadows of the other buildings lining the road in town. For long minutes, you scrutinized the darkness to make sure no one was there. You were so spooked, you nearly went back inside the tavern and took Tom up on his offer, but when you looked to the building, you saw he’d already snuffed out the last of the candles and you suspected he’d headed to bed in his room off the bar.

Gathering your courage, you set off again, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, especially as it expanded into the certainty you were being followed. Though you didn’t hear any footsteps, you felt someone following you and thought immediately of the ranger. You walked quickly, glancing over your shoulder every few seconds, but never spotted any sign of the ranger from the tavern. Your ears strained, but you could hear nothing save for your short, panicked breaths and the swishing of your skirts as your pace quickened to nearly a run.

The short walk felt like hours, but you finally made it home, unlocking the door around the back of the bakeshop, then locking it behind you before climbing the stairs to your apartment. You didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until there were two locked doors between you and the night. You gave yourself a moment to slump against the door and, once again, the bright blue eyes of the ranger came to mind.

In the safety of your own home, you wondered if you’d felt someone following you because you’d wanted to feel the sensation of the ranger’s eyes on you. Though his focus had rattled you at first, it had settled into a low-level awareness throughout the night that had created a pleasurable thrum in your veins. You suspected the excitement of his attention and the knowledge that you shouldn’t enjoy a ranger’s attention had spooked you on your walk home. 

But since you were safe, you let yourself indulge for the moment, thinking of how it’d feel to have those gleaming eyes trail over your body without anyone else around. They’d been so intense, the ranger’s eyes, and you wondered if they’d grow even more so in a more private situation. Your thoughts then naturally wandered to imagining what it’d feel like to have his hands on you, reaching beneath your skirts, his rough palms sliding against your bare skin. A soft heat unfurled in your belly, spreading slowly through your limbs, but when you noticed it, you forced yourself to beat it back.

Shaking your head at yourself for thinking such thoughts about a ranger, you pushed away from the door and lit a candle before setting about getting ready for bed. You undressed, peeling off your dress and chemise that smelled of ale and smoke, and washed the grime of the night from your skin. Finally, you settled down beneath your blankets, the ranger’s face coming to mind as you sighed softly in the comfort of your bed. Only then, on the edge of sleep, did you allow yourself to feel sad that the ranger had likely passed on, going to the next town and the next tavern, finding another barmaid to watch with his eerily stunning eyes.

If you’d only glanced out your window as you were preparing for bed, you might’ve seen the ranger that haunted your thoughts standing across the lane from the bakeshop, watching your window for any glimpse of you. He’d followed you home, staying hidden in the shadows where you couldn’t see him. He’d been unable to pull himself from the thrall your beauty had put him in, and ensured you were safely inside before he’d circled around to the front, watching as your candle’s light flickered through the window. 

He hadn’t meant to catch a glimpse of your bare shoulders or your soft, supple skin as you’d undressed—but he hadn’t looked away either. From his place on the road below, he hadn’t seen much, but he’d seen enough for his trousers to become restrictive. The ranger gripped himself, and watched as you snuffed out your candle, imagining your beautiful body slipping between the sheets of your bed, so soft and warm and welcoming.

The ranger warred with himself, a large part of him wanting to slink back to the room he’d rented at the inn and take care of himself in the privacy it offered. He knew he’d think of you in your bed, and felt no shame in that knowledge. 

But an even larger part of the stranger wanted to make sure you remained safe and undisturbed. He didn’t know your town but he hadn’t liked the way men grabbed for you through the night, even if none of them had seemed to put you on edge as much as him. 

It was his protective instinct that won out, and the ranger stayed in the shadows until the sun began to rise, peeking over the distant hills. The early risers of the town began to wake and the ranger knew if he didn’t leave, he’d be discovered.

The stranger suspected you wouldn’t be up for many hours, and he finally moved from his post, heading back to the inn to get some sleep. Before he went up to his room, though, he stopped at the innkeeper’s desk and paid for the next week. The man had looked surprised, but hadn’t said anything and the ranger hadn’t offered any kind of explanation. He knew what many thought of rangers, how they were glad when rangers moved on swiftly, but he’d found something in your town worth staying for. 

When the ranger was finally alone in his room, he wasted no time before he took his hardness in hand. He stroked himself to the thought of you, naked and bared and so soft in the sheets of your bed. He imagined how you would feel, the tight, warmth of your body welcoming him into your depths. He thought of the pleasured sounds you’d make, soft whimpers and keening whines, your lips forming the words to beg him for more.

“Fuck, I missed this,” Bucky groaned, sliding his thick cock into your tight hole, both of you savoring the feel of him breaching your slick pussy.

Your hands were gripping the edge of the porcelain sink, your breath fogging the grimy mirror your cheek was pressed against. He felt too good inside you, his perfect cock stretching you open.

Bucky held you pinned in place, his stubbled jaw rasping over your cheek while his hand wrapped around your throat, choking you enough to make you clench around him. “Who does this perfect cunt belong to?”

This really couldn’t keep happening. You couldn’t keep fucking your ex-boyfriend’s domineering best friend in back alleys and bar bathrooms, not if you wanted to excise your ex from your life.

“C’mon, doll, say it,” Bucky purred in your ear, flexing his hips to fuck you in teasingly shallow strokes. “Say this perfect cunt belongs to me—I know you wanna.”

God help you, you did want to. There was something more than spite spurring you on to give in, something you didn’t want to examine too closely. Not yet.

“It’s yours—I’m yours, Bucky,” you gasped, turning your head so he could taste the admission on your lips. 

“That’s fucking right,” Bucky growled, fucking you like he owned you. “And don’t you forget it—this perfect cunt is all mine.”

What Bucky Barnes didn’t say, but you’d come to learn, was that his perfect cock was all yours.

Not when Bucky’s cock felt so big and thick sliding into your tight pussy, his hips slapping against your ass, his bicep bulging as it wrapped around your throat. Not when you were so close to coming.

"Tell me you’re mine.” Bucky’s possessive words were growled in your ear, punctuated with a rough thrust that had him shoving deep, making you see stars in the brick wall.

“Bu-Bucky,” you whimpered, nails digging into his arm as you clung to him. You couldn’t say it—not because you were too fucked out, but because it was too wrong.

He pressed forward, until your cheek was to the rough wall, your spine arching into an almost impossible curve. He pounded into you, relentless. 

“Tell me this cunt is mine, doll, or you’re gonna walk back into the bar with my cum dripping down your thighs…”

It was on the tip of your tongue to tell him you knew that was gonna happen anyway, but he continued.

“Without getting to cum first.”

A sob of desperation wrenched free from your lips, Bucky’s arm squeezing your throat turning it into a pitiful sound. You knew you shouldn’t say it, shouldn’t give Bucky reason to think this was more than revenge. But…

“I’m yours,” you gasped, catching Bucky’s eye over your shoulder. “My cunt is yours.”

He grinned. “Good girl.” Then he smacked your clit until you came with a choked cry, emptying his balls in you. 

When you went back inside, no one was the wiser that you were leaking your ex-boyfriend’s best friend’s cum. It was wrong—and that’s why you loved it.