ily Marvel

SCROLL DOWN FOR INTRO <3 Here's my S4 index for theories and other random posts which are a bit out of date now. * means the post was written before the release of volume 2.

ST5 theories

Kas theories (Eddie and Max)

Can Vecna see through Max's eyes?

What will happen when Max wakes up?

Quantum Entanglement and ST5

The First Shadow theories

The First Shadow: what is the source of Henry's powers?

The First Shadow: why did Henry kidnap Will?

Two interesting follow up asks: 1, 2 + a small correction

X-Men and Dark Phoenix parallels

Is Henry related to Jane/El

How will S5 play out/end?

Could Mr Clarke return?

Could Kali/008 return?

Could Mike die?

What will Hawkins be like in S5?

Is Holly missing?

Will Byers

What gay Will Byers means to me*

All proof Will is gay (long post for a reason)

What Will Byers having powers might look like

Did Vecna target Will from the start?

Does Vecna want Will dead?

Vecna and Will parallels

Did Will manifest the Upside Down into Hawkins?

Will froze the Upside Down

The psychological bond between Will and Vecna

Does Will have a clone? (Bodygate)

Could Vecna out Will in S5?

Could Lonnie return in S5?

Byler

Gay Mike analysis (volume 2 is not covered)*

Shipping Byler shouldn't be stressful

Mischaracterisation of Will and Mike

Failures in Mike's writing in S3 & S4

Mike outside of romantic relationships

Byler colour coding

The Van Monologue

Why I went off mlvn

Unrequited Byler or no Byler?

Why I started shipping Byler*

Byler headcanons and even more Byler headcanons*

First date headcanons (also includes Steddie, Ronance and Jopper)

Argument for Byler endgame

Is Byler rushed?

Could Byler be Vecna'd in S5?

In defense of bi Mike

Why I like bi Mike

In defense of Byler doubters

Oh god that blew up, so here's my response

A follow up post to the follow up post

Robin Buckley

Highlights of Robin's comic

Platonic Stobin's impact on Robin (long post)

Robin centric headcanons (Ronance)

Robin headcanons pt 2*

Autistic Robin proof*

More autistic Robin content

Robin and camouflaging

No, Robin didn't drastically change personality*

Robin and ableism*

Steve is Robin's comfort person*

Ronance

First date headcanons (also includes Byler, Steddie and Jopper)

Ronance headcanons*

Ronance and overuse of boy drama (follow up post)*

Will Jancy resolve their issues? (goes on about every Nancy ship)

Why Stancy shouldn't be endgame

How would Ronance play out?

Single Nancy vs Ronance

Why I prefer Ronance to Rovickie (a discussion of fandom, canon and headcanon)

Ronance apparently doesn't center Steve enough (debunked)

Bra sharing

Fan art: post 1, post 2, post 3, post 4

General

Unpopular opinions

Eleven's character arc in S4 and hopes for S5

Long Max character analysis*

Which characters might die in ST5?

Panel with actors of Chrissy, Karen and Alexei

Homophobia and queer shipping*

Fandom bullying

Eddie's death is good actually

No, Steve isn't homophobic (to Robin)

Where Steve's character arc went wrong

Characters that I think are autistic and autistic headcanons

On neurodivergent headcanons

Autistic Eleven proof

Nancy and how audiences treat trauma

Eddie's character arc & death

The Duffers planned for more seasons after S1

Ranking of seasons, characters and ships*

Set photos plus short commentary: 1, 2, 3

❤️🧡💛💚🩵💜

Hello fellow Stranger Things fans! This is the index post of my blog, strangertheories, where I make content about Stranger Things! I've been obsessed with Stranger Things for years so I've decided to spare everyone in my life from having to hear me ranting about it and create this blog to share my thoughts. You can also find me on TikTok as forever_ronance and on Letterboxd as crimsonxclover.

I post about Byler, Ronance and most of all, theories (kind of in the name). I try to only post about ST but if I want to post about something else, I'll tag it #not ST related. I regularly answer anons if you are interested in sending me an ask as well!

Chapter 01 | Fire and Blood

As the princess of your kingdom, marriage has always been a mere duty to fulfill. You’re well aware of your impending matrimony to the King of Asgard, so why does the rumor of Sir James Barnes’ betrothal trouble you so?

Chapter 02 | Sword and Ribbons

Following a near escape, you and Sir Barnes must configure a plan of survival, even if it means ignoring the taut tension between the two of you.

Chapter 03 | Dagger and Thread

Your journey continues, though multiple unexpected hindrances force you and Sir Barnes to keep changing course. After one of you finds yourself in trouble, an intimate moment is shared.

Chapter 04 | Candles and Hearth

To be added.

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You've been down here so long your bones have started to match the temperature of the concrete, cold seeping through your jeans where you've been sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a semi-circle of photocopied articles that all essentially say the same nothing in different ways.

3:17 AM according to your phone, which you check compulsively every twenty minutes like maybe time will take pity and skip forward to your deadline. The security guard made his last round two hours ago—Gerald? Gary? Something with a G—his whistling fading up the stairwell along with any pretense that you're not completely alone down here.

Your neck cracks when you roll it, vertebrae protesting the last six hours of hunching over sources that shouldn't be this hard to parse. But your advisor had smiled that sharp little smile when assigning this topic, the one that says let's see if you're really cut out for this, and spite is a hell of a motivator.

Even if your eyes are burning. Even if the coffee tastes like battery acid. Even if your soul bond has been aching since midnight with that peculiar emptiness you've learned to ignore.

The lights flicker—building's older than sin, held together by asbestos and prayer—but the air changes with it. Shifts. Like all the oxygen just remembered it had somewhere else to be.

Your fingers still on the keyboard mid-sentence.

Don't be stupid. It's a basement. In a library. The scariest thing down here is your browser history.

But your body knows things your mind pretends it doesn't. Every hair follicle suddenly awake, skin prickling with the kind of ancient warning that kept humans from being eaten in the dark. Your heartbeat kicks up, stuttering from normal to concerned between one breath and the next.

You turn.

He stands at the edge of the stacks like violence in human form.

Black tactical gear eats the light, makes him look like someone cut a hole in reality and taught it how to hunt. The mask covering the lower half of his face should make him less human, but somehow it's worse—forces you to focus on the eyes that track your movement with the kind of empty precision that makes your hindbrain scream predator predator predator.

"Oh." The sound punches out of you, high and strangled.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. Just moves toward you with the kind of lethal economy that makes you understand, suddenly and completely, why rabbits freeze when hawks circle overhead. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just purpose distilled into muscle and intent.

Your body tries—God, it tries. Scrambling backward, papers scattering, laptop sliding off your thighs to crack against the floor in what feels like slow motion. Three months of work fracturing into digital garbage as you crab-walk backward, palms slipping on photocopies, knee catching on your backpack hard enough to send you sprawling.

He crosses the space between you like it's nothing.

Like you're nothing.

His hand finds your throat before you've even processed standing, leather and pressure sending you backward into the wall hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. Old brick catches your hair, pulls it, but that barely registers against the feeling of being pinned like an insect, specimen for examination before disposal.

Both your hands fly to his wrist, fingernails catching on tactical fabric that won't give, won't move, won't budge. He's not crushing your windpipe—not yet—but the promise is there in the careful placement of his thumb, the calculated pressure that says I could, if I wanted to.

"Please—" It comes out thin, reedy. Your right hand abandons his wrist to push against his chest, trying to create distance that doesn't exist, will never exist. "I don't know what you—I'm nobody, I'm just—"

His head tilts. Minute. Considering. The eyes stay empty, stay cold, but something flickers there—assessment, maybe. Calculation. How long it will take. How quiet you'll be.

Your left hand keeps clawing at his grip while your right slides up his chest, finds the edge of his tactical vest, pushes uselessly at a shoulder that might as well be carved from stone. But the movement makes you stretch, makes your hand slip higher, past the collar of his gear, past the edge of the mask, until—

Your fingertips brush his jaw.

Skin against skin.

The world breaks apart.

Heat races from that point of contact like lightning seeking ground, if lightning could rewrite your DNA as it traveled. Every nerve ending lights up at once, not with pain but with recognition so profound it feels like drowning in reverse. Like every cell in your body suddenly remembers how to breathe.

His entire body locks. The hand at your throat spasms, loosens, and you hear him make a sound—sharp, bitten off, like someone just slid a knife between his ribs. Those empty eyes blow wide, pupils expanding until there's barely any gray left, and his chest heaves against your palm like he's just broken the surface after being underwater too long.

He rips the mask off with his free hand. Tears it away like it's burning him, revealing a face that makes your chest cavity feel too small. Sharp jaw, soft mouth, stubble that catches the shit fluorescent lighting and turns it into shadow. Beautiful in the way broken things can be beautiful, in the way that makes you want to cut yourself on the edges.

The leather glove at your throat disappears—he tears it off with his teeth, movements gone jerky and desperate where they were smooth before. Then his bare hand is cupping your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone with the kind of reverence reserved for holy things, impossible things, things that might disappear if you breathe wrong.

He pulls you forward, or maybe he falls into you—either way, your foreheads meet in the space between one heartbeat and the next. His breath fans across your face, ragged and hot, and you can feel him shaking. This man who moved like death incarnate thirty seconds ago is shaking.

"Oh," he breathes, and his voice—Christ, his voice is nothing like you imagined during those empty nights when the bond ached worst. Rough like he hasn't used it in years. Soft like he's afraid it'll break something. Accent pulling at the vowels in ways that make your chest hurt. "Oh, no. No, not—not like this."

You can't move. Can't think. Can't process anything beyond the electricity still racing through your veins, the place where his thumb traces your cheekbone like he's trying to memorize the architecture of your face through touch alone. Your hands are caught between you, one still fisted in his tactical vest, the other pressed flat against his chest where you can feel his heart hammering out a rhythm that matches yours.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and the devastation in his eyes makes your throat close for reasons that have nothing to do with violence. Gray like winter mornings, like grief, like the moment before the sky breaks open.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, wrecked. His thumb catches the tear you didn't realize was sliding down your cheek, and the tenderness of it makes you want to scream. "I'm so fucking sorry, I didn't—I couldn't—"

"Who are you?" Your voice comes out destroyed, barely recognizable. The soul bond hums between you like a live wire, like coming home to a place that's on fire, and you don't know whether to run toward it or away.

His jaw works, muscles tightening and releasing like he's fighting something immense. When he speaks again, it's careful. Measured. Like each word costs him something irreplaceable.

"Someone who's going to disappear." His forehead presses against yours again, harder this time, desperate. Both hands frame your face now, holding you like something precious, something he's about to lose. "Someone who needs you to run. Now. Before—"

A sound echoes down the stairwell. Footsteps. Multiple sets.

The change in him is instant and terrible. The softness vanishes like it was never there, replaced by the same lethal efficiency that brought him here, but now there's something else in his eyes. Something that looks like anguish.

"Forgive me," he says, and before you can ask for what, his thumb finds a spot behind your jaw.

The world tilts. Your legs go liquid. But he catches you—of course he catches you—lowers you to the ground like you're made of spun glass while your vision tunnels to nothing.

The last thing you feel is his mouth pressed to your forehead, words whispered against your skin in a language you don't recognize but somehow understand.

I'll find you again.

I promise.

I'm sorry.

When security finds you four hours later, you have bruises on your throat that look like purple-black fingerprints, a concussion that makes the world swim, and no memory the EMTs will accept of how you ended up unconscious in a locked basement.

But you remember.

You remember the way his hands shook when he held your face. You remember the devastation in winter-gray eyes. You remember the electricity of recognition, the soul bond snapping into place only to be severed, leaving you with a phantom ache that feels like dying in slow motion.

There's a leather glove clutched in your fist that no one can pry from your fingers.

You tell them you don't remember where it came from.

You lie.

The world had always been divided into two types of people: those who'd found their match and those still waiting.

You'd grown up watching the found ones move through life with that particular brand of settled confidence, like they'd discovered some fundamental truth the rest of you were still stumbling toward.

Your mother used to tell the story at dinner parties, after her second glass of wine made her sentimental. How she'd been twenty-three, working at a bank in downtown Brooklyn, when a man came in to dispute an overdraft fee. Their hands touched when she passed back his paperwork. The bond snapped into place like a rubber band that had been stretched across decades, just waiting to contract.

She'd knocked over her coffee. He'd forgotten his own name for thirty seconds. They'd been married six months later.

"You just know," she'd say, fingers intertwined with your father's across the table. "It's like every cell in your body suddenly remembers what it was made for."

You'd wanted to believe her. Spent your eighteenth birthday waiting for that recognition to hit, for your body to suddenly make sense in a way it never had before.

But days turned to weeks turned to months, and all you felt was the same low-grade emptiness everyone without a bond carried—that constant, quiet ache of incompleteness.

By twenty-one, you'd stopped looking for it in every accidental touch.

By twenty-three, you'd convinced yourself you were one of the statistical anomalies. No bond. No match. Just you and your dissertation and a future that looked exactly like your present, only with better coffee and maybe tenure if you played your cards right.

The bruises have faded to sick yellow-green by the time you make it back to campus. Two weeks of medical leave that you spent staring at your apartment ceiling, trying to make sense of something that refuses to be made sensible. The official report sits in your email, cc'd to your advisor and the department head and probably half the university's legal team: Student found unconscious in library basement. Possible assault. No cameras functioning. Investigation ongoing.

You don't correct them. Don't mention the glove hidden in your nightstand drawer. Don't explain that the bruises on your throat match the exact span of fingers that had held your face like you were something holy, something worth breaking for.

Your body remembers even when your mind tries to forget. The soul bond, severed as quickly as it formed, has left you feeling like someone hollowed out your chest cavity with a melon baller. It's worse than before—before was just absence. This is active loss. This is knowing exactly what you're missing.

The dreams start the first night home from the hospital.

Not nightmares—that would be easier. These are soft things that leave you gasping awake at 3 AM with tears on your face and your hand pressed to your cheek where he'd touched you. Dreams where those gray eyes find yours across impossible distances. Where his hands shake as they frame your face. Where he whispers apologies in languages you don't speak but somehow understand.

Sometimes you dream of snow. Of cold so profound it burns. Of a voice saying his name—names?—until there's nothing left but the mission.

Sometimes you dream of falling. Of a train that screams through mountain passes. Of reaching for something—someone—who's always just beyond your fingertips.

But mostly you dream of that moment. The mask coming off. The devastating gentleness of his forehead against yours. The way he breathed you in like his lungs hadn't recognized oxygen until then, like you were the first real thing he'd touched in decades.

You become an expert in lying about the nightmares. "Trauma response," you tell the university-mandated therapist. "Yes, I'm processing. No, I don't remember details. Yes, I feel safe on campus."

Lies. All lies.

You remember everything. The weight of him. The contrast between violence and tenderness that shouldn't have existed in the same person. The way the soul bond had sung between you for those impossible seconds—not the gentle hum your mother described, but something desperate and raw, like two halves of something broken trying to fuse back together.

The research starts three weeks after the incident. You tell yourself it's academic curiosity. Tell yourself you're not the first person to lose a soulmate before really finding them. There are support groups. Statistics. An entire subset of psychology dedicated to severed bonds and what they do to the human psyche.

Increased rates of depression. Anxiety. Insomnia. Some subjects report physical pain at the site of initial contact. Others experience what researchers call "phantom bond syndrome"—the persistent sensation of a connection that no longer exists.

You check every box. Feel him in every room you enter, just a second too late. Wake up with your hand pressed to your face, trying to hold onto the ghost of leather and gunpowder and something metallic you couldn't place then but can't stop tasting now.

The databases give you nothing. Facial recognition software turns up empty. You sketch what you remember of his face—strong jaw, soft mouth, eyes like winter—but it feels like trying to draw music, like something essential gets lost in translation.

"Maybe he was military," Katrina suggests over coffee that tastes like disappointment. She's trying to help, your best friend since undergrad, but she looks at you with the kind of careful concern reserved for people about to break. "Special ops or something. That would explain the tactical gear."

You don't tell her about the way he moved. Don't mention that special ops soldiers don't usually have metal arms—you'd felt it when he caught you, the strange whir of plates adjusting beneath the fabric. Don't explain that whatever he was, military doesn't quite cover it.

December bleeds into January. You submit your dissertation proposal late, blame the incident, receive an extension wrapped in sympathetic looks. The bruises are long gone but you wear scarves anyway, can't stand the feeling of air against your throat where his thumb had pressed.

Your google search history becomes a testament to obsession:

“severed soul bonds recovery time?” “can soul bonds reconnect?” “military tactical gear supplier identification” “metal prosthetic arm advanced” “soul bond physical pain management”

Nothing. Always nothing.

But late at night, when the world sleeps and you're alone with the ache that lives between your ribs, you pull out the glove. Run your fingers over worn leather that's been softened by use and something else—care, maybe. The kind of attention that comes from having nothing else to focus on.

It smells like winter. Like violence. Like the ghost of cologne that might have been nice once, before it mixed with gunpowder and fear and whatever else clings to people who move through the world like weapons.

You press it to your face and breathe deep, eyes closed, trying to summon those impossible seconds when he'd looked at you like you were salvation and damnation all at once. When his voice had broken on an apology for something you didn't understand. When he'd promised to find you again in words you shouldn't have been able to translate but did.

The bond throbs. Phantom pain for a phantom connection.

You fold the glove carefully. Place it back in the drawer. Go to bed knowing you'll dream of gray eyes and the kind of gentleness that only comes from people who've forgotten they deserve it.

Tomorrow you'll get up. Go to class. Pretend your chest doesn't feel like someone excavated it with rusty tools. Pretend you don't scan every face on campus, looking for winter eyes and a jaw that could cut glass.

But tonight, you let yourself remember. Let yourself feel the echo of his forehead against yours, the desperate press of his mouth to your skin, the way he'd held you like you were worth breaking the world for.

I'll find you again.

You touch your throat, the memory of leather and promise.

I'm waiting.

The asset doesn't fight anymore.

Hasn't for years. Learned the hard way that resistance only makes it worse—more voltage, longer sessions, deeper cuts into whatever remains of the person he might have been.

Better to go limp. Better to let them position him like a doll, open his mouth for the rubber guard, wait for the electricity to wash it all away.

The asset craves it sometimes. The blankness. The nothing. Easier than carrying the weight of what his hands have done.

But Bucky Barnes fights.

Screams himself raw before they get the guard between his teeth. Thrashes against the restraints hard enough to bend the metal table, to make the technicians step back with wide eyes because the asset never does this, hasn't done this in fifteen years, not since they perfected the chair's calibration.

"Hold him!" Pierce's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp with irritation. "Get those restraints tightened before—"

Bucky's metal arm tears through the leather strap like tissue paper. Swings wild, catches a handler across the jaw with a crack that sends him spinning into medical equipment. Two more rush forward and he fights them with everything he has, everything he'd forgotten he could be.

Soft hands on his face. Bright eyes wide with recognition. The soul bond singing between them like coming home—

"No!" The word tears out of him, accent thick with desperation. Russian, English, something older—he doesn't know anymore, doesn't care. "Please—please, I can't—"

A needle finds his neck. Sedative, fast-acting, enough to drop an elephant. His knees buckle but he keeps fighting, keeps reaching for—what? The memory's already going slippery, falling through his fingers like water.

Someone. There was someone. Wasn't there?

"Interesting." Pierce circles him as four handlers wrestle him into the chair, voice clinical. "What happened on the mission? You terminated the target, but something affected you. The timeline's off by forty-three minutes."

Bucky's jaw works around the guard they're shoving between his teeth. Can't tell them. Won't tell them. But what is he protecting? The feeling's there—urgent, desperate, worth dying for—but the shape of it keeps shifting.

A face. Soft mouth parted in shock. The way she'd—

The electricity hits before he can finish the thought.

White-hot agony races through every nerve ending, bows his back against the restraints they've doubled, tripled. The scream locks in his throat, comes out as a sound that doesn't belong to anything human. But underneath the pain, worse than the pain, is the feeling of something essential being carved out of him.

Don't take her, some part of him begs. Take everything else, but not her, not this—

But the machine doesn't care about please. Doesn't care that he's crying—when did he start crying? The asset doesn't cry. The asset doesn't feel. But Bucky Barnes is sobbing, choking on the rubber guard as memories start to fracture and fade.

Her hand against his jaw. The world breaking open. Recognition so profound it rewrote thirty years of programming in seconds—

Another pulse. Stronger. Pierce has turned the dial past safety parameters, past sanity, past anything they've done before.

"Sir," one of the technicians ventures, nervous. "The readings—"

"Continue."

Forehead to forehead. Breathing her in. The apology scraping his throat raw because he'd never wanted to meet her like this, never wanted her to know him as a weapon first and a man second—

Gone. It's gone. He reaches for it, desperate, but there's only white noise where her face should be. Only the echo of something precious he'd held for minutes—hours?—seconds?—he doesn't know anymore.

The machine winds down. Silence except for his ragged breathing, the drip of something (blood? tears?) hitting the concrete floor.

"Asset."

He doesn't respond. Can't. There's something wrong with his chest, like someone reached in and scooped out everything that mattered.

"Asset."

Training kicks in where consciousness fails. His head lifts, eyes focusing with effort on the man in the suit. Pierce. Handler. The one who holds the leash.

"Ready to comply." The words come out broken. Mechanical. But correct.

"Mission report."

"Target eliminated. No witnesses." A pause. Something scratches at the back of his mind, urgent, important. But when he reaches for it there's nothing but static. "Extraction successful."

Pierce studies him, pale eyes narrowed. "And the deviation? You were off-schedule."

The asset blinks. Searches the white noise of his mind for an answer that makes sense. "Unexpected resistance. Handled."

"I see." Pierce doesn't look convinced, but he waves to the technicians. "Run a full cognitive recalibration. I want him stable before the next deployment."

They unstrap him eventually. He doesn't fight. Doesn't do anything but stare at his metal hand, trying to understand why it feels wrong. Why everything feels wrong. There's an ache in his chest that wasn't there before—or was it always there? He can't remember. Can't remember anything but the mission, the chair, the readiness to comply.

But that night, locked in cryo-prep, he dreams.

Fragments. Glimpses. A basement that smells like old paper and fear. Someone pressed against a wall, hands pushing at his chest. The feeling of skin against skin and the world exploding into color he didn't know existed.

He wakes with her ghost on his lips—no name, no face, just the shape of an apology in a language he's not supposed to know.

The asset reports for cryo on schedule. Lies still as they prep the chamber, ice already forming in the tubes that will freeze him until the next time he's needed. But as consciousness fades, as the cold takes him under, one thought persists:

Someone. There was someone. And I've lost them.

The machine hisses. Frost spreads across the glass.

The asset sleeps.

Bucky Barnes screams.

The Starbucks on 42nd doesn't have soul bonds on the menu, but they do have overpriced lattes and witnesses, which is why you're here instead of home, staring at your bedroom ceiling and trying to parse nightmares from memories.

Six months.

Six months of the glove under your pillow losing his scent. Six months of your advisor asking pointed questions about your "lack of focus" and your therapist prescribing sleeping pills that don't work because how do you medicate a severed soul bond?

How do you explain that you're mourning someone you knew for less than five minutes?

You're arguing with yourself about the merits of a fourth shot of espresso when the world explodes.

Glass shatters inward, the windows becoming a thousand diamonds catching afternoon light. Your coffee hits the floor—there goes eight dollars you don't have—as your body moves on instinct, dropping behind the counter with five other people who smell like fear and pumpkin spice.

Screaming. So much screaming. Cars screeching outside, the percussion of something that might be gunfire but sounds too wrong, too close, too real for a Tuesday afternoon in Manhattan.

You peek around the espresso machine and your heart forgets how to beat.

He's standing in the middle of the street like death dressed for winter. Same tactical gear, same casual violence, same way of moving that makes everyone else look like they're traveling through molasses. The mask covers the lower half of his face again, but you'd know those eyes anywhere. Have been seeing them every night for six months, after all.

A cop raises his weapon. The soldier—your soulmate, your ghost, your nightly torment—disarms him with an economy of motion that's almost beautiful. The crack of breaking fingers carries even through the shattered windows.

Get up, your brain screams. Run. Move. Do something that isn't standing here like a deer watching headlights come to claim it.

But your body has other plans. Your treacherous, soul-bonded body that recognizes his even across thirty feet of chaos and broken glass. You're moving before conscious thought catches up, stumbling through the destroyed storefront on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.

This is stupid. Monumentally stupid. The kind of stupid that gets psychology PhD candidates killed in broad daylight. But your hand is already reaching, already grasping, because maybe—

Your fingers close around his wrist.

The barest slip of skin where his sleeve has ridden up, your thumb finding his pulse like it was made for nothing else. The connection slams through you—heat and recognition and yes, finally, yes—

The gun clatters to the asphalt.

His whole body goes rigid, that same terrible stillness from before. You watch his pupils dilate, watch six months of careful nothing shatter in his eyes as a stranger crashes back into existence.

He moves so fast you don't process it. One second you're standing there, thumb on his pulse, the next you're spinning, back slamming into his chest as his metal arm locks across your body. The gun—when did he pick it up?—presses cold against your temple.

You stop breathing.

Around you, cops and civilians alike freeze. Weapons lower incrementally because now there's a hostage situation, now there's a girl who was stupid enough to touch the Winter Soldier and—

"Name." His voice in your ear, so quiet you almost miss it under the sirens. That sound that had haunted your dreams, rougher now, desperate. "Your name. Please."

Your lips barely move, sound threading between heartbeats. You tell him, soft as a whisper.

The gun doesn't waver. To everyone watching, he's perfectly still, a predator considering prey. But his metal thumb moves against your bare arm where your shirt has ridden up. Gentle. Deliberate. Tracing letters maybe, or just feeling, and you wonder if he can—if there are sensors in the metal that let him—

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes." Each word careful, precious, pressed into the space below your ear like a secret. Like a gift. "Bucky. My name is Bucky. I won't remember, so I need you to—you have to remember for me."

James Buchanan Barnes.

It tickles something in your memory. A history class, maybe. Something about World War II, about Captain America, about—

"What have they done to you?" The words slip out, horrified, because the pieces are trying to fit together but the picture they're making can't be right, can't be possible—

"Find me." Urgent now. His realness, his hereness makes your chest ache with completion even as your mind screams danger. "When I—after they—find me. Please. I can't—"

His voice cracks.

The gun leaves your temple.

The crack of the shot makes you flinch, but it's the cop to your left who goes down, clutching his knee, screaming. Bucky shoves you—not hard, but enough to send you stumbling into the crowd as he moves the opposite direction, using the chaos as cover.

You hit the ground hard, knees cracking against asphalt, palms scraped raw. Around you, people scatter like startled birds. Someone's hands on your shoulders, pulling you back, asking if you're hurt, if you need medical attention.

You can't answer. Can't do anything but stare at the place where he'd stood, where he'd held you, where he'd given you his name like it was the only thing he had left to give.

Your arm throbs where his metal thumb had traced patterns. When you look down, you can see the faint red marks—not bruises, just pressure. Just proof.

"Miss? Miss, we need to get you checked out—"

"I'm fine." You're not. You're the opposite of fine. You're shattering in slow motion, held together by adrenaline and the phantom feeling of his chest against your back. "I'm—he didn't hurt me."

The EMT looks skeptical. "He held a gun to your head."

"He didn't hurt me," you repeat, and you're not sure who you're trying to convince.

They take you anyway. St. Luke's emergency room, where you spend four hours being poked and prodded and questioned by people who look at you like you might break or explode. The FBI shows up eventually, two agents in bad suits who ask the same questions fifteen different ways.

"Did he say anything to you?"

My name is James Buchanan Barnes.

"No."

"Are you sure? Even something small could help."

Find me.

"He didn't say anything."

They don't believe you. You can see it in the way they exchange glances, the way their pens hover over notepads. But what are you supposed to tell them? That the most wanted man in America is your soulmate? That he gave you his name like a prayer? That even now, hours later, you can still feel the phantom press of metal against your skin?

They release you near midnight with a card and instructions to call if you remember anything. You take a cab home because the subway feels too exposed, too dangerous, like maybe he'll be there in the shadows between stops.

Your apartment is exactly as you left it. Laptop open on the counter, half a cup of cold coffee growing something ambitious by the sink. Normal. Safe.

Empty.

You sink onto your bed, still fully dressed, and pull out your phone. Your search history is already damning, but what's one more nail in the coffin?

James Buchanan Barnes

The results make your stomach drop.

Born 1917. Best friend of Steve Rogers, Captain America. Sergeant in the 107th Infantry Regiment. Fell from a train in the Alps in 1945. Presumed dead.

Except he's not dead. He's not dead because you touched him today, felt his pulse under your thumb, heard him breathing in your ear as he held you like something breakable and precious all at once.

You dig deeper. Past the official records, past the Wikipedia entries, into the conspiracy forums and leaked documents that only half-load on your shitty wifi.

The Winter Soldier.

HYDRA.

Seventy years of ghost stories.

An assassin who appears and disappears like smoke, leaving bodies in his wake.

Your soulmate is a century-old brainwashed assassin. Your soulmate is Bucky Barnes, who died in 1945. Who didn't die. Who was turned into something else, something violent and beautiful and dangerous.

Who fights back to consciousness every time you touch him only to be dragged under again.

What have they done to you?

You close your laptop. Lie back on your bed, fully clothed, and stare at the water stain on your ceiling that looks like a rabbit if you squint. Your arm still throbs where he touched you. Traced letters, maybe, or just—

You bolt upright.

Grab a pen, try to recreate the pattern from memory on your other arm. It takes three tries before the movements feel right, before the shapes resolve into something recognizable.

Numbers.

He'd traced numbers on your skin. Coordinates.

Find me, he'd said.

Your hands shake as you type them into your phone. A location upstate, middle of nowhere, the kind of place where no one would look twice at an abandoned building or hear the screams from underground.

You should leave it alone. Should forget his name, forget the numbers, forget the feeling of being whole for thirty seconds in the middle of chaos. Should be smart and safe and boring and alive.

Instead, you screenshot the location. Book a rental car for tomorrow. Pack a bag with things that might matter—the glove, pepper spray that won't do shit against a super soldier but makes you feel better, a first aid kit you probably won't get the chance to use.

Find me.

You're going to. God help you, you're going to find James Buchanan Barnes.

Even if it kills you.

(It probably will.)

(You're going anyway.)

The HYDRA facility squats in the pre-dawn darkness like something that crawled out of the Cold War and forgot to die. You're crammed in the back of a tactical van between enough weaponry to level a city block and Captain America's guilt, which somehow takes up more space.

Forty-eight hours. That's all it took from wine-drunk-email-to-vague-Avengers-PR-listing to this—body armor that doesn't fit right, your heart hammering against ceramic plates, and the ghost of coordinates still throbbing on your arm where he'd traced them.

"Two minutes to insertion." Natasha's voice crackles through comms you're not supposed to have. But Steve had insisted, jaw set in that way that apparently nobody argues with. Not even Fury.

Steve Rogers had shown up at your door with Natasha Romanoff and Nick Fury, your roommate had screamed in her towel, and you'd told them everything. About the library. About the way Bucky's entire being had shifted when you touched him, like watching someone break the surface after drowning.

About how he'd held you in that Starbucks, whispered his name against your ear like a secret, like salvation, like the only thing he had left that was his.

Steve had gone very, very still. Then: "We're finding him. We're bringing him home."

Now he's sitting across from you, shield balanced against his knee, and you can see why people follow him into impossible situations. It's not the shoulders or the jaw or the way he fills out tactical gear like he was born to it. It's the way he looks at you—not through you, not around you, but at you. Like you matter. Like your connection to his best friend makes you worth protecting.

"Remember," he says quietly, pitched below the engine noise. "The moment we find him, the moment you make contact—"

"I know." Your fingers won't stop moving, tracing and retracing the numbers Bucky left on your skin. "Skin contact. Bring him back." Don't let go."

What you don't say: What if it doesn't work this time? What if they've wiped him too many times? What if whatever's left isn't enough to—

The van stops.

Everything happens too fast after that. Doors flying open, bodies moving with practiced precision, you stumbling to keep up as Steve's hand on your elbow guides you through pre-dawn shadows toward a concrete mouth that looks like it's waiting to swallow you whole.

The facility is worse inside. All industrial fluorescents and that particular kind of silence that sounds like screaming if you listen too hard. Your soul bond, quiet for months, starts to ache with proximity—a deep, bone-level recognition that makes your teeth chatter.

"Northeast corridor clear." Natasha's voice, clinical.

"Southwest clear." Someone else, call sign you didn't catch.

"Movement in the lower levels." Another voice. "Looks like they're mobilizing—"

A sound cuts through the chatter. Not quite human. Not quite animal. Something between a scream and static that makes your hindbrain light up with warnings to run.

Steve's already moving. "That's him."

You follow because what else can you do? Down stairs that smell like rust and terror, through corridors that branch like diseased arteries. The ache in your chest intensifies with each level down, soul bond pulling taut as piano wire.

Then—

The room opens before you like a wound. Medical equipment that belongs in museums next to things that belong in nightmares. And in the center, strapped to a chair that looks more like an electric chair than anything medical—

"Bucky." Steve's voice breaks on it.

He's shirtless, sweat-slick and shaking, with enough electricity running through him to light up half of Brooklyn. His hair hangs limp around his face, and even from here you can see the way his muscles lock and release in waves as current pulses through the chair. Fresh burn marks lattice across his chest where the nodes attach, and there's blood—so much blood—dripping from where he's fought against the restraints.

There are bodies on the floor. Technicians, by their white coats. The blood is fresh enough to still be spreading.

"Stay back." Natasha has her weapon trained on him, all business. "He's still the Winter—"

Bucky's head snaps up.

His eyes find yours across twenty feet of blood and machinery.

Time stops.

Those aren't the empty eyes from the library. Aren't the desperate clarity from the coffee shop. These are something else entirely—feral and frightened and so fucking broken under all that damage. He looks like something that's been torn apart and reassembled wrong, like an animal that's been in a cage so long it's forgotten what sky looks like.

You're moving before conscious thought catches up. Dodging Steve's reaching hand, slipping past Natasha's outstretched arm. Your feet slip in blood—whose blood? His? Theirs?—but you don't stop. Can't stop. The soul bond is screaming, every cell in your body reaching for its other half.

"Don't—" Someone shouts. Might be Steve. Might be God himself. Doesn't matter.

Because Bucky's watching you approach with the kind of stillness that precedes violence. His metal arm—and this close you can see how it's grafted to flesh, red and raw and infected at the edges—flexes against the restraints. The leather creaks. His chest heaves with each breath, and there's a wild look in his eyes like he can't decide if you're real or another torture.

You collapse on the arm of the chair. His breathing is ragged, chest heaving, and this close you can see old scars layered on new ones, a roadmap of decades of damage. Seventy years of this. Seventy years of being unmade and remade into something sharp and wrong.

Your hand reaches up, slow as you'd approach a wounded animal.

He flinches.

Actually flinches, this assassin who's probably felt every kind of pain there is. A sound escapes him—small, wounded, barely human. But when your fingertips brush his cheek—skin to skin, that electric recognition—his whole body convulses.

"Oh," you breathe, and it's inadequate, it's nothing, it's everything. Because the bond slots into place like coming home if home was a person who'd been carved hollow and filled with ghosts.

His eyes clear incrementally. Pupil contraction, focus sharpening, and then—

The noise that tears out of him is inhuman. Seventy years of grief and rage and desperate loneliness condensed into a single sound that makes your bones ache. His metal hand shatters the restraint like tissue paper, then the flesh one, and before you can process the movement he's dragging you up, up, into his lap, crushing you against his chest with desperate strength.

"You," he's saying, over and over, voice wrecked beyond recognition. "You, you, you—real, you're real, you're—"

His hands are everywhere at once. Metal fingers tangling in your hair, flesh hand splayed across your back hard enough to bruise, holding you like you might dissolve if he loosens his grip for even a second. He buries his face in the curve of your neck and the sob that escapes him is pure agony, seventy years of touch starvation hitting him all at once.

You can feel him shaking—no, not shaking, convulsing, like his body doesn't know how to process gentle touch anymore. Doesn't know what to do with softness after decades of nothing but pain.

"I'm here," you whisper against his temple, your own tears falling freely. "I'm real. I found you. I've got you."

His response is to hold you tighter, tight enough that breathing becomes difficult, but you don't care. Can't care when he's falling apart in your arms like this. The metal hand fists in your tactical vest and you hear fabric tear, but he doesn't seem to notice. He's pressing his face harder into your throat, breathing you in like you're air and he's been suffocating for seventy years.

"Thought I dreamed you." The words come out destroyed, muffled against your skin. "They said—they said I made you up. That the pain was making me see things. But you smell real. You feel—" His flesh hand slides up to cup the back of your head, holding you in place. "Please be real. Please, please be real."

"I'm real." You press your lips to his temple, just a brief touch of comfort. "James Buchanan Barnes, you're real and I'm real and I found you."

His breath hitches at his full name, and suddenly he's pulling back just enough to look at you. This close, you can see everything—the burst blood vessels in his eyes, the way his pupils can't quite focus, the decades of accumulated scars. He looks ancient. He looks young. He looks absolutely shattered.

"Don't know who that is anymore." Raw honesty, delivered while his thumbs trace your cheekbones with desperate reverence. "Don't know who I am when I'm not killing. When they're not—" He breaks off, jaw working. "I've been empty for so long. So fucking long. And then you touched me and I remembered what it felt like to be human and they took it away—"

"They can't take it away again." You frame his face with your hands, forcing him to meet your eyes. "We're leaving. Right now. Together."

"You don't understand." He's crying openly now, no shame in it, just pure emotional overflow. "Seventy years. Seventy fucking years of this chair, this room, these walls. They put me in the dark and take me out to kill and put me back and I can't—when they say the words, I disappear. Everything disappears."

"Then we don't let them say the words."

"I've killed so many people." He presses his forehead to yours hard enough to hurt, but the contact seems to calm something in him. "Children. Civilians. Good people. Bad people. So many I lost count. The things they made me do—the things I did—"

"I don't care."

"You should." His metal hand comes up to wrap around your throat, gentle but present. "This hand has strangled innocent people. These fingers have pulled triggers that ended lives. I'm not—I'm not good. I'm not worth—"

"Stop." You turn your head to press your lips to his metal palm, and the sound he makes is pure agony. "You're worth everything. You're my soulmate. You're—"

He makes a broken noise and crushes you against him again, like he's trying to crawl inside your skin. His whole body trembles with the effort of holding you close enough, like no amount of contact will ever be sufficient after seventy years of nothing.

"They're gonna wipe me again." Matter-of-fact. Resigned. "Soon as they realize what happened here. They always do. And I'll forget you again. Forget this. And next time—" His voice breaks. "Next time they'll make sure I can't touch you. They'll find ways to hurt you through me. They'll make me—"

"No." Your hands tighten on his face. "No, they won't. We're leaving. Steve's here. Natasha. We're getting you out."

"Stevie?" For the first time, his eyes flicker past you, landing on his best friend. The confusion there is heartbreaking. "But you're—you're supposed to be—"

"Hey, Buck." Steve's voice is thick with emotion. "It's me. It's really me. We're taking you home."

But Bucky's already looking back at you, like he can't bear to look away for more than seconds. His flesh hand hasn't stopped moving—tracing your face, your neck, tangling in your hair like he's trying to memorize you through touch alone.

"I don't want to forget again." It comes out small, broken. "Please. I can't do it again. Can't lose you again. It'll kill me. It'll—"

"You won't forget." You shift in his lap, wrap your arms around his neck, and he makes a sound like you've given him salvation. "I won't let them take you. I won't let them hurt you anymore. I promise."

"We need to move." Natasha's voice, soft but urgent. "Security response in two minutes."

Steve's at your side instantly, but when he reaches for Bucky, the soldier flinches back violently, metal arm coming up in defense. The only thing that keeps him from lashing out is your hand on his chest, your voice in his ear.

"It's okay. It's Steve. He's safe. He's here to help."

"Can you walk?" Steve asks, careful to keep his distance.

Bucky nods against your shoulder, but when you try to move off his lap, his arms lock around you with desperate strength.

"No." Panicked. "No, please. Need to—need to touch—"

"I'm not going anywhere." You run your fingers through his hair, and he leans into it like a cat. "We're walking out of here together. But you have to let me stand up."

It takes visible effort for him to loosen his grip. When you stand, he follows immediately, swaying slightly. He towers over you even hunched with exhaustion, and when his hand finds yours, it's with the grip of a drowning man finding driftwood.

You start moving as a unit, but Bucky can't stop touching you. His free hand keeps finding your face, your hair, your shoulder, like he needs constant confirmation you're real. At one point he stops entirely, pulls you back against his chest, and just breathes you in for several seconds while Steve and Natasha stand guard.

"Left," he says suddenly as you reach a junction, pulling you down a side corridor. "Service tunnel. I've—I've tried before. Three times. No. Four? They always—" His free hand comes up to his head, pressing against his temple.

"Hey." You squeeze his hand. "Doesn't matter. Which way?"

The service tunnel is narrow and dark. Bucky pulls you through it like muscle memory, but halfway through he stops, pressing you against the wall. His hands frame your face in the darkness.

"What if this isn't real?" Desperate. "What if I'm still in the chair? What if this is just another way they're breaking me?"

You reach up to cradle his face in return, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "Does this feel like a dream?"

"No." He breathes the word against your mouth. "No, it feels—it feels like waking up."

The exit spills you out into pre-dawn forest. The quinjet looms out of the darkness, and for the first time in seventy years, Bucky Barnes runs toward freedom instead of away from it.

But even on the jet, even safe, he can't stop holding you. He pulls you into his lap on the bench seats, ignoring the medical team, ignoring everyone, and just holds on. His face stays buried in your neck during takeoff, his arms locked around you like prison bars in reverse—keeping the world out instead of keeping him in.

"You're free," you whisper, over and over, like a prayer. "You're free. You're safe. You're mine."

"Yours," he agrees, and finally, finally, his death grip loosens just enough for you to breathe. "Yours. Always yours. Even when I couldn't remember. Even in the dark. Somehow I was always yours."

The sun breaks the horizon as you fly toward home, and for the first time in seventy years, Bucky Barnes believes he might actually make it there.

The first time Bucky Barnes calls you at 3 AM, your body knows it's him before your mind catches up.

The phone vibrates against your nightstand, and your hand's already reaching, heart already racing—not with fear but with recognition. That soul-deep pull that's been your compass for three months now.

"Bucky?" Your voice comes out sleep-rough, concerned.

Just breathing on the other end. Ragged, like he's been running. Or fighting. The sound makes your chest tight.

"Can't—" His voice cracks like splintered wood. "Can't remember if the blood on my hands is from yesterday or a decade ago."

You're already moving, sheets tangling around your legs as you hunt for clothes in the dark. "Where are you?"

"Steve's. The Tower. I'm—" A shaky exhale that you feel in your own lungs. "I'm safe. Everyone's safe. Just needed—"

"Me." Not a question. The bond thrums with his distress, a phantom ache under your ribs. "I'm coming."

"You don't have to—"

"I'm coming."

Twenty minutes later, Happy's pulling up to the Tower's private entrance. You're wearing the first things your hands found—pajama shorts with snowflakes on them that you stole from your roommate, one of Bucky's hoodies that still smells like him (cedar and gunpowder and something indefinably him).

The elevator ride feels eternal. Your skin prickles with proximity, the bond pulling taut as you rise through the floors. By the time JARVIS deposits you on the residential level, your hands are shaking with the need to touch him, to soothe whatever's tearing him apart.

You find him on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest like he's trying to make himself smaller. His metal hand is clenched so tight you can hear the recalibration whirs, flesh hand buried in his hair. Steve hovers nearby, hands opening and closing like he wants to help but doesn't know how.

"Buck," you breathe.

His head snaps up, and oh—his eyes are winter-wild, pupils blown with panic, caught in some liminal space between then and now. You watch him catalog you in pieces: face, voice, the way you're already moving toward him like gravity's reversed its pull.

You don't speak. Don't need to. Just fold yourself onto the couch beside him, close enough that the line of your body presses against his from shoulder to hip. His flesh hand finds yours immediately, desperate, fingers lacing between yours like maybe if he holds tight enough he won't drift away.

The effect is immediate—a full-body shudder, his breathing starting to sync with yours. The bond hums, warm honey spreading through your veins. Steve makes a sound—relief wrapped in something more complicated—and quietly retreats.

"Sorry," Bucky murmurs after a moment. His thumb finds your pulse point, traces it like he's counting heartbeats. "Shouldn't have woken you."

"Yes, you should have." No reproach, just fact. "That's what this is."

He turns to look at you then, really look, and you watch him surface by degrees. His metal hand comes up without conscious thought, fingertips ghosting along your jaw with impossible gentleness. The cool metal makes you shiver, but you lean into it, letting him map the reality of you.

"There you are," he whispers.

Something fractures inside you. He pulls you in—careful, always so careful with you—until your foreheads touch. His breathing ghosts across your lips, and you stay suspended in that space, sharing air and warmth and the indescribable thing that ties soul to soul.

It becomes your new normal.

The calls come at all hours. Sometimes Steve's the one calling, voice carefully controlled: "Can you come? He's asking for you." Sometimes it's Natasha, brusque but not unkind: "Barnes needs you." Once, memorably, it's Tony: "Your touch-starved assassin is having a moment. Also, he may have broken my espresso machine."

You always go.

The team adapts to your presence like you're a new piece of furniture—necessary, functional, occasionally in the way. You learn to read Bucky's tells from across a room: the way his eyes go distant when memory bleeds through, the micro-flinches when sound becomes too much, the careful way he holds himself when he's fragmenting.

But more than that, you learn the language his body speaks when it's seeking yours.

He's always careful at first, tentative as a feral cat learning to accept kindness. A brush of fingers, testing. The barest press of his palm to yours. But once that first contact is made, something in him unravels.

He touches you like he's mapping a new world.

It starts innocuous enough—fingers tangled together during movie nights, his thumb painting absent patterns on your wrist. His hand finds the small of your back when you walk, not possessive but anchoring, like he needs proof you're real. He pulls you between his knees when he's sitting, arms banding around your waist, chin notching over your shoulder while you chat with Sam about nothing important.

But as weeks become months, the touches grow bolder. Hungrier.

"Does it bother you?" he asks one afternoon.

He's had a brutal therapy session—three hours of guided recall that left him shaking and grey-faced. You'd spent the past hour with his head in your lap, your fingers carding through his hair while he pieced himself back together. His flesh hand has found its way under your shirt, palm spread wide over your ribs, and his metal fingers trace delicate patterns on the inside of your wrist.

"Does what bother me?"

"This." He gestures vaguely at the negative space between you that stopped existing weeks ago. "How much I need—" He stops. Swallows. Tries again. "How I can't stop touching you."

The question deserves honesty, so you give it consideration. Think about how your life has restructured itself around these points of contact. How you've started wearing layers just so there's always fabric to push aside, skin to find. How your body anticipates his touch now, turns toward him without conscious thought.

"No," you say finally. "It doesn't bother me."

He studies your face with those searching eyes, looking for the polite lie. You let him look, keeping your expression open.

"I've been thinking," you continue, adjusting so you can see him better. His hand immediately shifts, fingers splaying wider across your ribs like he needs more contact to make up for the movement. "About touch. About deprivation."

A muscle in his jaw ticks.

"Seventy years," you say softly. "Seventy years where touch meant pain. Programming. Violence. Where hands on you meant—"

"Stop." Rough. His hand presses harder against your ribs, feeling your heartbeat.

"—so is it any wonder you're hungry for something else? Something good?"

His exhale shudders out of him. "The doctors say it's codependence."

"The doctors haven't had their souls systematically unmade and remade." You cover his flesh hand with yours, pressing it more firmly against your skin. "You're not codependent, Bucky. You're human. You're healing. And if touch helps—"

"It's not just that it helps." The words come out jagged, confessional. "I want—" His metal hand comes up, traces the line of your throat with one careful finger. "I want to touch you all the time. Want to know the texture of every inch of your skin. Want to map you like territory, like—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

Heat pools low in your stomach, but you keep your voice steady. "Like what?"

"Like you're mine." Barely audible. His eyes won't meet yours. "Like I have any right to—"

"You do." You turn into him more fully, catch his face between your palms. His eyes flutter closed, and he leans into the touch like a man starved. "You have every right. We're soulmates, Bucky. That means something."

"What if I never get better?" Raw, honest. "What if I always need this? Need you?"

"Then you'll always have me."

His eyes snap open, winter-blue and desperate. "You can't promise that."

"Watch me."

The trial is excruciating. You watch from designated seating as Bucky sits statue-still, hair pulled back severe, wearing a suit that makes him look like someone else entirely. They read names, show photographs, detail missions that exist in his memory like shattered glass—some pieces clear, others reflecting nothing but blood.

The days he testifies, he comes to you after.

Never speaks about it. Just shows up at your door looking hollowed out, and you let him in without questions. He wraps himself around you like you're the only solid thing in a tilting world, face buried in the curve of your neck, breathing you in like oxygen.

These are the times his hands grow bold.

Not inappropriate—never that. But searching. He maps you like a cartographer charting new territory. Palms skimming your sides, memorizing the curve of waist to hip. Fingers tracing the ladder of your ribs through thin fabric. Metal thumb finding the hollow of your throat where your pulse flutters hummingbird-quick.

"I need—" he'll say against your skin, words muffled and desperate.

"I know," you always answer. "Take what you need."

So he does. His flesh hand slips under your shirt, finds the warm plane of your stomach, spreads wide like he's trying to absorb your steadiness through osmosis. His metal fingers trace patterns on whatever skin he can find—the inside of your wrist, the nape of your neck, the sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you shiver.

Sometimes you'll find his hand at your sternum, metal fingers splayed over your heartbeat like he's using it to calibrate his own. Sometimes he'll trace the boundary where clothing meets skin, fingertips ghosting under hems and necklines but never pushing further, just needing to know there's softness underneath, that not everything in the world has sharp edges.

"Is this okay?" he asks every time, even as his touch grows more familiar, more certain.

"Yes," you answer every time, even as your skin heats and your breath catches and you want—

You want.

"So are you two fucking yet?"

You choke on your coffee, hot liquid searing your throat. Across the kitchen, Bucky's shoulders go rigid where he's making eggs with the kind of focus usually reserved for defusing explosives.

"Tony," Steve says, warning clear in his voice.

"What? It's a legitimate question. All that touching, the eye-fucking across every room, the way Barnes goes feral if anyone else so much as—"

"We're not." Your face burns. "That's not—we haven't—"

Tony's eyebrows achieve escape velocity. "You're telling me you've been playing the world's most intense game of grabass for three months and haven't—"

"Stark." Bucky's voice is winter-quiet, dangerous in the way that makes smart people reevaluate their life choices.

But Tony's never been accused of survival instincts. "I'm just saying, that level of sexual tension could power—"

The plate in Bucky's metal hand shatters.

Silence rings out, broken only by the drip of egg yolk hitting tile.

"I'll just." Tony backs toward the door, hands raised. "Workshop. Important things. Very important things."

He's gone before anyone can blink, leaving you, Bucky, and Steve in a kitchen that suddenly feels airless. Bucky stares at the ceramic shards in his hand like they've personally betrayed him.

"Buck—" Steve starts.

"I need air."

He's out the door before you can process the movement, leaving you with cooling eggs and Tony's words hanging in the air like smoke.

Steve sighs, the sound of a man who's aged a century in the last minute. "He's an idiot. Tony, I mean. Though Buck's also—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "This is none of my business."

"But?"

"But." Steve fixes you with those earnest eyes that probably ended wars. "He thinks he's protecting you. From himself. From what he's done. He doesn't think he deserves—" A gesture encompasses you, the kitchen, the entire situation.

"That's not his decision to make."

"No," Steve agrees. "But when has that ever stopped him?"

You find Bucky on the roof because of course that's where he goes. He's sitting on the edge, legs dangling over nothing, and your heart does something complicated in your chest.

"Most people have their existential crises at ground level," you say, settling beside him carefully.

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "Most people haven't fallen off a train."

"Fair point."

The city spreads below like a circuit board, all light and movement and life. Without looking, his hand finds yours, fingers interlacing with the ease of long practice. The bond settles, that constant thrum of rightness that comes with skin meeting skin.

"Tony's not wrong," he says eventually.

You wait, let him find the words in his own time.

"I think about it." His voice is carefully controlled, but you can feel the tremor in his hand. "Touching you. Not just—not just to ground myself. Not for the bond. I think about touching you because I want to. Because you're—"

He stops. His throat works, and when he speaks again, his voice is rougher. "Because you're beautiful. And kind. And you laugh at my terrible jokes even when they're not funny. You come when I call at 3 AM. You let me put my hands on you even though these same hands have—"

"Bucky—"

"I dream about it." The confession comes out raw. "Dream about kissing you. About how you'd taste. How you'd feel. Wake up with your name in my mouth and my hands reaching for you, and it's not about the bond, it's about—" He turns to look at you then, eyes dark with something that makes your breath catch. "It's about how much I want you. How much I want things I have no right to want."

"What if," you say, voice steadier than your pulse, "I want those same things?"

His breathing stutters. "You don't. You can't."

"Don't tell me what I want." You turn toward him fully, free hand coming up to his jaw. He leans into it helplessly, eyes falling closed. "I know exactly what I want. Who I want."

"I'm held together with duct tape and trauma," he says, but his resolve is crumbling. You can see it in the way he presses harder into your palm. "I can't take you on normal dates. Can't promise I won't have panic attacks. Can't even sleep through the night without—"

"I don't want normal." Your thumb traces his cheekbone, feels him shudder. "I want you. Every piece, every edge, every nightmare and bad day. I want the man who hums old songs when he thinks no one's listening. Who makes terrible eggs but keeps trying. Who touches me like I'm something precious and looks at me like I'm a miracle."

"You are," he breathes. "You're—"

You kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you.

Maybe you meet in the middle, drawn together by forces older than choice.

The first press of lips is tentative, a question asked and answered in the same breath. His flesh hand comes up to cradle your face, and the tenderness of it makes your chest ache. But then you make a sound—small, needy—and something in him breaks.

Or maybe something in him finally fixes itself.

His metal arm bands around your waist, pulls you against him with desperate strength. The kiss deepens, and oh, you understand now why people write symphonies and wage wars. Because Bucky Barnes kisses like he's drowning and you're air, like he's been starving for seventy years and you're sustenance, like maybe the universe knew exactly what it was doing when it tied your souls together.

He kisses you like he's trying to crawl inside your skin.

His tongue traces the seam of your lips and you open for him without thought, and the sound he makes—broken, grateful—sends heat racing down your spine. He tastes like coffee and something indefinably him, and you chase that taste deeper, hands fisting in his shirt.

He doesn't surface for air. Doesn't pause. Just tilts his head to find a better angle and kisses you deeper, harder, like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the texture of your sighs. His metal hand spans your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer, while his flesh hand maps your face, thumb stroking your cheek even as his mouth devastates you.

You're half in his lap now, twisted awkwardly on the ledge, and you don't care. Can't care about anything beyond the heat of his mouth, the way he groans when you nip at his lower lip, the way his hands shake where they hold you.

"Wanted this," he gasps against your mouth, not pulling back enough to actually stop kissing you. "Wanted you. Before I even knew you. So long, so fucking long—"

You answer by sliding your hands into his hair, nails scraping his scalp, and he shudders against you, kiss going a little sloppy and desperate. He's not cold, not controlled, not careful. He's burning, pressing against you like he wants to fuse at the molecular level, like the soul bond isn't enough and never could be.

When you finally break apart—only because oxygen is apparently necessary—you're both wrecked. His lips are swollen, eyes dark and dazed. You probably look the same. His forehead drops to yours, and you can feel him trembling against you, all that careful control finally, beautifully shattered.

"Okay?" His voice is destroyed, rough like he's been screaming.

"So far past okay," you manage. "Though your timing—we're on a roof, Barnes."

He laughs, the sound surprised out of him, and presses kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, the corner of your mouth like he can't quite stop now that he's started. "Sorry. I'll plan better next time."

"Next time?" You're going for teasing but it comes out breathless, hopeful.

His eyes find yours, and the intensity there steals any words you might have had. "Every time. Any time. All the time, if you'll—if you want—"

You press your mouth to his again, swallowing whatever self-deprecating thing he was about to say. He makes a noise of pure relief and hauls you closer, and you think maybe Tony Stark has exactly one good point in his entire existence.

Not that you'll ever tell him.

** The science had been clinical, sterile words on a page that you'd skimmed in college while nursing a hangover and trying to make sense of your Behavioral Psych reading.

Enhanced neural connectivity. Synchronized endorphin response. Heightened sensory feedback between bonded pairs.

Academic language that utterly failed to capture this—Bucky's mouth hot and slick and desperate against your throat while his hands relearn territory they've been mapping under cotton and denim for months, each touch sending electricity racing down your spine like lightning seeking ground.

"Fucking finally," he growls against your pulse point, and you feel the words more than hear them, vibrating through skin into bone, into the very marrow of you. His metal hand spans your ribs, each individual plate recalibrating against your skin with tiny whirs and clicks, like even the machinery of him is trying to get closer.

"You know what it's been like? Having you close enough to smell, to taste in the air, but not—Christ, the way you tremble each time I touch you, like you're starving for it—"

You try to form words but he's already peeling your shirt away with hands that shake despite their practiced efficiency, and the first full press of his bare chest to yours—scarred skin against soft, furnace heat against cool air—whites out anything resembling higher thought.

The soul bond doesn't just sing—it screams, every nerve ending recognizing its other half and lighting up like a constellation, like a neural map catching fire.

"Oh," you gasp, and it's inadequate, it's nothing, but Bucky goes rigid above you like you've shot electricity straight through his spine.

"Yeah," he agrees, voice absolutely wrecked. His forehead drops to your shoulder, dog tags dragging cold metal across your overheated chest as he pants against your skin, each exhale making you shiver. "Yeah, that's—fuck, is it always gonna feel like this? Like touching a live wire, just—"

"More," you manage, arching into him until there's no space left between your bodies, and you feel his control splinter like ice under pressure.

His mouth finds yours again, hungry and graceless, all that careful restraint from months of chaste touches finally, blessedly gone. His tongue slides against yours and you taste coffee and something metallic—blood maybe, from where he's been biting his lip. When you nip at his bottom lip he makes a sound like something wounded, something primal, hips rolling into yours with zero finesse, just pure need, his cock hard and insistent through too many layers of fabric.

"Sensitive," he warns against your mouth, but it comes out more like a plea, like he's begging you to understand. "Everything's dialed up to eleven, I can—I can hear your blood moving in your veins. Can feel every place you're warm and wet and—fuck—" His whole body shudders when you rake your nails down his back.

Your fingers find the scarred terrain of his back and he actually whimpers, muscles rolling under your touch like water, like something liquid and desperate. That's when the second revelation hits: whatever you're feeling, he's feeling it magnified. Seventy years of sensory deprivation plus enhanced everything plus a soul bond that's been stretched taut for months—

"Gonna lose my mind," he mutters, mouthing at your jaw, your throat, anywhere he can reach, leaving wet trails that cool in the air and make you shiver. His stubble scrapes against sensitive skin and you gasp, hips bucking up involuntarily. "Already lost it. Lost it the second you touched me in that library. Do you know? Do you have any fucking idea what it's like, having someone reach inside your skull and turn all the lights on? Like going from black and white to color, like—Jesus—"

His flesh hand fumbles with your pants, clumsy with urgency, while his metal hand grips your hip hard enough to leave marks—and god, you hope it does, hope you wear his fingerprints for days. The button pops free and he makes a victorious sound that might be funny if you weren't so desperate, if you weren't already so wet you can feel it soaking through your underwear.

His hand slides lower, fingers slipping beneath elastic, and when he finds you soaked and swollen, the noise that punches out of him is pure animal—a growl that starts in his chest and rumbles through both your bodies where they're pressed together.

"Christ." His fingers slip through wetness, exploratory and reverent, and you can feel the tremor in his hand. "This is—this is for me? You get like this just from—" He circles your clit with his thumb and you cry out, hips jerking. "Fuck, you're dripping. Can feel your pulse in your cunt, baby. So swollen, so ready—"

"From you," you gasp, grinding down against his hand as he slides two fingers inside without warning. The stretch makes you moan, makes your walls clench around him immediately. "Always from you. Only from you."

Something fractures in his expression—something raw and possessive and desperately vulnerable all at once. He hooks his fingers, finding that spot that makes your vision white out, and watches your face like he's cataloging miracles, like he's mapping the geography of your pleasure. "Say that again."

"Only you." It comes out breathless, edged with desperation as he finds a rhythm that has your thighs shaking, has wet sounds filling the air between you. "Only ever you, Bucky, please—"

"No." His thumb finds your clit and circles with devastating precision, pressure just the right side of too much. "Not yet. Not when I've been imagining this for—do you know how many times I've jerked off in the shower thinking about this? About how you'd sound when you're desperate? How you'd taste?" He adds a third finger, stretching you wider, and grins dark and feral when you sob. "Bet you thought about it too. Bet you touched yourself thinking about me, didn't you? Tell me."

"Yes," you admit, face burning, and his pupils blow even wider.

He drops to his knees between your thighs suddenly, metal hand holding you open like something precious, like an offering. The first swipe of his tongue has you jackknifing off the bed, but he just pins you down with his metal arm across your hips and does it again, slower, a long drag from entrance to clit that has you seeing stars.

"Fuckin' knew it," he groans against you, and the vibration of his voice makes you clench around nothing. "Knew you'd taste like heaven. Like mine. Knew you'd shake for me just like this." He spreads you wider with his fingers, looking at you with dark eyes. "So pretty. So perfect." He spits on your cunt, watching it mix with your wetness, and the filthy intimacy of it makes you moan. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else. Gonna make it so you can't come without thinking of my mouth, my fingers, my cock."

His words dissolve into action, mouth working you over with single-minded focus. He eats you out like he's starving, like he's dying, all lips and tongue and just the edge of teeth. The soul bond makes it devastating—you don't just feel the physical sensation, you feel his hunger, his satisfaction at finally being allowed to give pleasure instead of pain. His metal fingers dig into your thigh hard enough to bruise and you hope they do, hope you wear his marks for days, hope everyone who sees them knows exactly who put them there.

"Close," you warn, though he probably knows—can probably taste it in the way your cunt's clenching, feel it in the bond that's gone molten between you. Your thighs are shaking, muscles pulled so tight they hurt, and there's a sound filling the room that you distantly realize is you, making noises you've never made before.

He pulls back just enough to speak, lips glossy with your wetness, chin soaked, eyes wild. "Yeah? You gonna come on my tongue? Gonna let me taste it?" He slides three fingers in, curling with devastating intent, and your back arches off the bed. "Come on, sweetheart. Give it up. Let me have it, don't be greedy."

You shatter with a sound that might be his name, might be pure noise. The orgasm rolls through you in waves, each crest higher than the last, and he works you through it mercilessly, not letting up even when you try to squirm away from oversensitivity. Through the bond you feel his echoing pleasure—not physical, not yet, but something bone-deep and satisfied and proud.

"Atta girl," he murmurs against your inner thigh, pressing kisses to sweat-slick skin while his fingers still move lazily inside you, drawing out aftershocks. "So fucking beautiful. Look at you, all fucked out and soft and mine. Could do this for hours. Will do this for hours. Keep you here, coming apart on my hands, my mouth, until you're so sensitive you cry, until you forget there was ever a time we weren't—"

"Bucky." You tug at his hair, need making your voice rough despite the orgasm still sparking through your nerves. "Get up here. Need you inside me. Need—"

He's moving before you finish, shucking his pants with graceless efficiency. The first glimpse of his cock—thick and long and leaking steadily—makes your mouth water and your cunt clench with fresh want. When you reach for him he catches your wrist, gentle but firm.

"Next time," he promises, reading your intent with unnerving accuracy. His voice is strained, like he's hanging on by a thread. "Let you taste me next time. Let you choke on it, fuck that pretty mouth until you're drooling, until—" He cuts himself off with visible effort, chest heaving. "But right now I need—if I don't get inside you in the next ten seconds I'm gonna fucking die—"

"So do it." You spread your legs wider, shameless, showing him how wet and open you are, how ready. "Come on, sergeant. Follow through."

His control snaps audibly. He's on you between one breath and the next, pinning you down with his weight, cock nudging at your entrance. The head catches on your rim and you both groan, but he stops there, trembling with effort, forehead pressed to yours.

"Look at me." It's not a request—it's a command, rough and desperate. You force your eyes open, meet his gaze—winter blue swallowed by black, raw and vulnerable and fierce. "Need to see you when I—need to know you're here, that you're real, that this is—"

"Real," you confirm, wrapping your legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass to urge him forward. "I'm real. You're real. This is—oh fuck—"

He pushes inside in one long, devastating slide, and the world reconstitutes itself around this moment. Around the stretch and burn and perfect fullness of him, around the broken sound he makes against your throat—half sob, half growl—around the soul bond lighting up like a supernova, like every nerve ending suddenly discovering what it was made for.

"Fuck." His metal hand grips the headboard hard enough to crack wood, splinters raining down. "Fuck, you're—tight. So fucking tight. Hot. Perfect. Can feel—God fucking damn, I can feel everything. Can feel how good it is for you, can feel how your cunt's trying to pull me deeper—" He shifts his hips and hits something devastating inside you, makes you clench around him involuntarily. He laughs, breathless. "Yeah, right there. That's it, isn't it, baby? Right fucking there."

He moves experimentally, just a slow roll of hips, and you both moan at the drag of him inside you, at how your bodies fit together like they were made for this, only this. The angle is perfect—he's reading your body's responses in real-time, adjusting until every thrust has you climbing higher, until you're making noises that would embarrass you if you could think.

"Not gonna last," he warns, rhythm already getting ragged, desperate. Sweat drips from his forehead onto your chest, mixing with the sheen already there. "Not this time. Too much, too long waiting, too—the way you feel—" His flesh hand finds your throat, rests there warm and possessive, thumb pressing just enough to make your pulse flutter. "Like velvet. Like coming home. Like I could fuck you forever and it would never be enough—"

"Don't care." You pull his head down, bite at his jaw hard enough to leave marks just to feel him shudder, to watch his control fracture further. "Just want you. Just need—"

"Tell me." His grip on your throat tightens fractionally, not enough to restrict breathing but enough to make you aware, to make you feel it. "Tell me what you need. Want to give you everything. Want to be so good for you, sweetheart. Want to make up for every night you went to bed empty when you should've been—"

"Full of you," you finish, and his hips stutter, lose rhythm entirely for a moment.

"Yeah?" His thumb presses against your pulse, feeling how fast your heart's racing. "That what you need? Need me to fill you up? Keep you full and fucked out and dripping with my come? Make sure everyone knows you're mine, that I'm the only one who gets to—"

"Yes." You're beyond shame, beyond anything but the building pressure where he's driving into you harder now, each thrust shoving you up the bed. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting fill the room, obscene and perfect. "Yes, Bucky, please—"

"Say my name again." He's fucking you harder now, chasing his release with single-minded intensity. The bed frame creaks ominously with each thrust. "Want to hear it when you come. Want to feel it when you—fuck, you're clenching around me, baby. You close? You gonna come on my cock? Gonna be good for me?"

You nod frantically, words lost to the slide of him inside you, the relentless pressure against that perfect spot, the way his pubic bone grinds against your clit with each thrust. His metal fingers find your clit, cold against overheated flesh, and the contrast makes you scream.

"That's it," he growls, working your clit in tight circles while maintaining that punishing rhythm. "Come for me. Come on my cock like a good girl. Let me feel it, let me—fuck, there it is, I can feel it starting, you're getting so tight—"

You come with his name on your lips, back arching off the bed so hard you think you might snap in half. The orgasm slams through you like a freight train, like dying and being reborn, every muscle locking up as pleasure whites out your vision. The bond makes it circular—your pleasure slamming into him and reflecting back, amplified, until you're both shaking with it, until you can't tell where you end and he begins.

"Oh fuck—" His rhythm breaks entirely, becomes something desperate and animal. "Fuck, I'm gonna—gonna fill you up, gonna—"

"Inside." You dig your nails into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood, hold him deep even as oversensitivity makes you want to squirm away. "Want to feel it. Want all of it."

He comes with a sound that's half your name, half prayer, half roar, hips grinding deep as he spills inside you. You feel it all—not just the physical sensation of his cock pulsing, filling you with warmth, but the emotional avalanche through the bond. Relief and want and mine mine mine and something that feels dangerously close to devotion, to worship, to complete and utter belonging.

He fucks you through it, shallow little thrusts like he can't help himself, like his body won't stop even though he's already given you everything. Each movement makes more come leak out around his cock, makes wet sounds that have you hiding your face in his shoulder, embarrassed and aroused in equal measure.

The aftershocks last forever, little sparks of shared pleasure that have you both gasping, twitching, clutching at each other like lifelines. When he finally stills, he doesn't pull out, just shifts enough that his weight isn't crushing you, keeping you plugged full of him.

"Stay," he mumbles into your neck, words slurred like he's drunk. "Just—stay exactly like this. Please. Need to—need to keep you full. Need to know you're here, that this is real, that I get to—"

"Not going anywhere." You card your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, feel him shiver at the gentle touch after all that intensity. "Never going anywhere. You're stuck with me, Barnes."

His arms tighten around you, and you can feel his smile against your skin, feel the way his cock twitches inside you with renewed interest. "Good. Because now that I know what this feels like, what you feel like—" He rocks his hips experimentally, and you both groan as you feel his come shift inside you, feel how wet and open you are. "We're not leaving this bed for a week. Gonna fuck you in every position I've imagined. Gonna map every inch of your body with my mouth. Gonna find out exactly how many times I can make you come before you beg me to stop—"

"What about—"

He kisses you quiet, slow and thorough and filthy, tongue fucking into your mouth in a pale imitation of what his cock just did. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with promise and his cock is fully hard inside you again, enhanced recovery time making itself known.

"Nothing else matters," he says simply, starting to move again, slow and deep and devastating. You're so sensitive it borders on too much, but the soul bond floods you with his pleasure, his desperate need, and suddenly you're right there with him again. "Just this. Just us. Just how many times I can make you come before sunrise. How full I can keep you. How loud I can make you scream."

You clench around him involuntarily and his eyes flutter closed, hips stuttering.

"Gonna kill me," he mutters, picking up speed, the wet sounds even more obscene now with his come easing the way. "Seventy years of nothing and now—" A particularly deep thrust has you seeing stars. "Now I've got a soulmate who looks at me like I'm worth something, who touches me like I'm not a weapon, who lets me use her however I need—"

"Who loves you," you interrupt, watching his face crumble and rebuild itself, watching him fight back what looks suspiciously like tears.

"Yeah?" Barely a whisper, so vulnerable it makes your chest ache.

"Yeah." You pull him down for another kiss, pouring everything you can't say into the contact, letting him feel it through the bond. "So much. So long. Even before I knew you, I think I loved you. Think I was waiting for you."

He makes a broken sound and starts fucking you in earnest, like a man possessed, like he's trying to climb inside you and never leave. "Say it again."

"I love you."

"Again." Harder now, each thrust shoving you up the bed.

"I love you, Bucky Barnes."

He fucks you like a promise, like a prayer, like maybe if he does it right the universe will let him keep this. You come apart under him again and again, until time becomes meaningless, until the only reality is where you're joined, where the soul bond burns brightest, where his come leaks out of you with each thrust only to be fucked back in, marking you inside and out as his.

When exhaustion finally claims you both, he's still inside you, still hard, wrapped around you like armor and apology all at once. You're going to be sore tomorrow—hell, you're sore now—but you wouldn't move for anything.

The last thing you feel before sleep takes you is his lips against your temple, his voice rough with wonder and satisfaction:

"Love you too, sweetheart. More than I've got words for. More than I probably should. Gonna spend the rest of my life showing you, if you'll let me. Gonna take such good care of you. My girl. My soulmate. Mine."

"Yours," you mumble, already drifting, clenching around him one last time just to feel him shudder.

His arms tighten, and you feel his smile against your skin, feel the way his cock twitches inside you with interest despite everything.

"Forever," he promises.

"Forever."

Outside, Brooklyn wakes to another morning, unaware that two souls have finally, fully, found their way home.

"comms are live. hello, can you hear me?"

a pause.

there's a static crackling that rings through your headset before bucky's voice comes in, low and gruff, "yeah, unfortunately."

"good morning to you too, barnes." you smirk as you lean back in your chair, the screens in front of you flickering to life one-by-one. "it's nice to hear that your sunshine and optimism lived to see another day."

"play nice, you two." sam warns, "we haven't even gotten inside."

"i am playing nice." you retort, "that was me being sweet."

"define sweet..." bucky grumbles. you're not sure whether he's forgotten you can hear everything he's saying or if he's doing it just to spite you— but you let it slide.

you glance over to a screen where you can see joaquin's boots— and only his boots— thanks to his poorly angled body cam. it's shaking like he's struggling with something.

"joaquin, you there? i think your mic's off."

"yeah, he's here. he just can't figure out his ear piece." sam sighs. you watch him step into joaquin's screen and grab something from his hands, "you just have to click the button, man. it's not that hard—"

there's an awful screeching noise that pulses through your headset. it sounds like someone had just murdered a sentient robot and then fed its screams through a megaphone.

you pull it off in a hurry, waiting until it goes silent, and then place it back onto your headset with a huff. "everybody just... stop touching things."

another screen immediately catches your eye. blotches of red and orange pop out amongst a deep blue background— heat signatures patrolling the perimeter of the building that sam, bucky, and joaquin are in. you watch as a handful of them enter the warehouse.

"we've got movement." you still up in your chair, zooming in as the thermal overlay focuses, "there's about four patrolling the west perimeter. there's five— no— seven of them have just entered through the east side of the first floor."

sam peaks around the corner, but he can't see much unless he wants to compromise their position. he pulls back, "super soldiers?"

"i can't tell. they move like it, but nothing’s confirmed." you narrow your eyes. your eyes flicker to a smaller screen and a controller that sits beside it, "i'm sending scout. incoming!"

from somewhere in the sky, a grey blur cuts across the roof of the warehouse. bucky rolls his eyes as he watches it zoom past.

on your screen, scout's POV snaps into focus— clear, high-res, infrared, and absolutely glorious. it’s practically your child. you guide the bot with a simple flick of your wrist.

a small drone no bigger than a tennis ball and stamped with a white 'S' on its side zips through the air like a wasp on a mission. it's virtually silent, zipping low as it peaks around the corner of the east wall.

"okay, they aren't armed, but—" you pause as you rotate scout, "wait, there's a truck pulling up on the east loading dock."

sam furrows his brows. they didn't plan for anything other than a simple surveillance and a couple catch and arrests. "can you see what's inside?"

you turn to another screen— a thermal drone that's zoomed into the truck. "one driver and one passenger. there's a few crates in the back, but i can't see what's in them. they must have some sort of cooling system because they're freezing."

joaquin glances between sam and bucky, "that has to be the serum, right?"

"this must be one of the meeting points for their buyers." sam says, "they're gonna be here any second."

"don't worry. i've got eyes on them." you cut in, fingers flicking across your keyboard as another feed pops up, "i'm guessing it's the four black range rovers approaching from the south along franklin street."

there's a pause, then bucky asks, "what's our game plan?"

he's not looking at sam or joaquin. he hasn't moved a muscle. his voice is low and steady, his eyes fixed straight ahead— like he's waiting for your voice to tell him what to do next.

and you don't hesitate.

"we need to seperate them from the buyers. if this is an exchange, they're going to have bodyguards. we can't have thirty armed criminals in one warehouse. can you handle that, torres?"

joaquin nods, "loud and clear."

without another word, he takes a running step off of the warehouse's broken wall. his wings snap out from his jet pack with a hiss, catching the wind as he flies south along franklin street. you watch his tracker blip across another screen, already zeroing in on the buyers.

"and you two have to take these guys out." you continue, focus turned on sam and bucky, "there's five on the perimeter, all armed. there's two that have just wandered off towards you guys. pick them off."

sam's voice crackles in, "i'll take the guys with the guns."

there's a pause—

"we can take the guys with the guns." he corrects himself a moment later— probably after a look from bucky.

"they're unloading the crates now. the truck is electric, so i think can stall it long enough for you guys to get close— maybe cut off their exit entirely. we still don't know if they're enhanced, so be careful and don't be stupid."

you watch sam's body cam as bucky turns to him, his voice flat through the comms, "yeah, sam."

sam scoffs and waved him off as he readjusts his shield, "i think she means you, man."

"i was just throwing it out there." you roll your eyes, fingers flying across your keyboard as you send joaquin backup, "torres has already contained the buyers, so you're up— go."

bucky's already moving before you can even finish your sentence, heavy boots almost silent against the concrete floor. sam vaults the barrier to his left, moving fast and low.

sam closes in. a pacing guard turns just a moment too late— sam drives his fist into the side of his face. he drives into another guard, sending him tumbling into a wall with a dull thud. another one spins around with a gasp. he fumbles for his weapon—

crack.

a metal fist drops him before he can even point it. bucky steps over the guy, barely slowing his pace or breaking a sweat. but then another guard rounds the corner— one who doesn't fumble with his gun— and shoots.

you look over to another screen. the thermal camera shows more figures closing in on sam and bucky, clearly on high alert. the tension in their movements show that they're panicked. the four crates that had been unloaded were now being covered back up.

"you've got six of them heading your way, and fast." you scramble. the truck's screen is visible on your screen, but your software is still trying to figure out the password, "they're unarmed, but be careful."

sam's wing fans out in a practiced motion and shields them both from the bullets. the shots ping right off of the reinforced metal. his wing retreats, and the guard looks terrified. he tries to reload the gun, but he's struggling.

sam's voice comes through, dry but amused, "i guess we're past the stealth phase."

"i didnt like that phase anyways." bucky grunts as he shoves the guard against a wall. he makes a point by grabbing his gun and snapping it in half like a twig, tossing it out reach. he knocks the guy out with one swift punch to the jaw.

they're doing good— clearing the path with ease and making sure to be vigilant— but then they walk into the main area of the warehouse. it's wide open and humming with the sound of the truck and trailers shoving the crates back into the back, and there's at least a handful of masked figures standing there.

the six figures you had seen nearing sam and bucky are already stepping into the light of the warehouses main floor— calm, coordinated, and slightly intimidating.

each one is broad-shouldered and looks battle-worn. their body temperatures come up significantly warmer than both sam and bucky's, and you can tell something is wrong.

"you think they've taken the serum?" bucky shifts his stance, fists already clenched.

you watch as one of the men lurches forwards— blindingly fast— and throws sam across the room, far too fast for sam to catch himself. he hits a pillar, sliding down it with a groan.

"shit." you inhale.

"i think so!" sam yells, voice strained.

the rest of them charge. bucky's the first to meet them head-on. he lands a solid punch to one of their jaws— and it should've dropped him— but the guy just snarls, barely flinching, and drives his knee into bucky's stomach.

sam's back up, his shield snapping into place just quick enough to block a hit. he's fighting hard and moving fast, wings flicking around for balance and defence, but for every hit he dodges, there's another one right after.

you're watching the fight from a drone overhead like a game you can't control. youre working on trying to stall the truck, but it's difficult when youre also watching your friends get their asses beat.

sam takes out one guy with a swing of his wing and a nasty uppercut, but two more corner him. bucky slams a guy through a metal beam— literally through it— but it only buys him a second before another super soldier grabs him by his jacket and tosses him across the room, back slamming into a shelving unit.

then— like a miracle— a screen on your right starts beeping. a red dot farts across the radar, closing in on the warehouse. you spin in your chair to check the corresponding feed just as a figure cuts through the sky.

you grin, "torres incoming!"

not even a second later, joaquin bursts through one of the warehouse windows, wings flaring wide. his visor glints as he absolutely bodies two super soldiers like bowling pins just as one of them winds up to hit bucky again.

he lands with a thud, wings retracting quickly as he jogs up to sam. bucky is close behind, but he's still fighting off two super soldiers.

"about damn time." sam huffs.

bucky wipes the blood leaking from his nose, taking a moment to catch his breath, "what the hell took you so long?"

"traffic." he grins and holds his hand out for sam, who's literally holding on by a thread, trying to prop himself up with his shield, "was getting your asses kicked a part of the plan?"

sam groans as joaquin pulls him up, "don't push it, joaquin."

you're still watching the fight through various monitors. the comms are full of grunts and sharp breathes, but now that joaquin's there, they're struggling a little less.

and then there's a beep— a small, sad beep— and a window that says 'OVERRIDE FAILED' in big red letters. you freeze.

"they've locked me out of the truck's system. they're overriding my remote access." you scramble to restart the process, but it doesn't let you.

you glance at another screen. the camera feed confirms your worst fear— they're escaping. one of the super soldiers is climbing into the driver's seat, the rear doors slamming shut as the engine hums to life.

"they're taking off—" you panic as you watch the truck pull out of the warehouse driveway, "shit, someone stop that truck!"

before anyone can respond, bucky takes off in a full sprint— no hesitation, no plan, and clearly no intention of letting that truck get away or waiting for anyone. his boots pound against the asphalt as he trails it.

"barnes—" you call through the comms, stressed out of your mind.

you hadn't expected him to chase after it. he was the only one without wings or a jet pack, yet you watched him run after that truck like he was chasing all he's ever wanted. the panic in your voice doesn't help. if anything, it only pushes bucky harder.

he barrels out onto the street, only a few metres from the truck. you send a drone up ahead, the camera feed glitching as it races to keep up. you're trying to calculate every route the truck could take to evade capture— until your eyes land on a large clearing.

there's a river glittering under the sun, splitting the city in half. a large drawbridge stretches over it, connecting the two sides of land. just next to it, there's an enormous cargo ship waiting to cross— and your heart stops when you notice the bridge is already at a 70 degree angle.

"they're gonna jump the bridge, barnes." you quickly warn, "if they make it across before the split—"

"they're gone." he finishes, breathless but ready. you can hear his sharp breathes through your headset, "i'm not letting it get away. 'gonna jump it."

"fall back, barnes, you're not going to make it." you bark through the comms, trying to keep your voice steady. you watch as he speeds up, running faster than you've ever seen him run.

"you better listen to the lady, bucky." sam adds, wings slicing through the air as he tries to catch up.

you watch as the truck barrels forwards, climbing up the incline of the rising drawbridge like it's easy work. bucky's close— too close to stop. he digs his feet into the ground harder as he launches himself up the incline.

you can see it all through a drone— the truck about to leap, bucky on its tail, the bridge yawning wide open underneath them, and the water far below shining like teeth. the cargo ship blares its horn as it draws closer to the bridge, wary of what's happening.

it happens too fast—

the truck leaps across the gap. its front wheels leave the ground for just a split second before the back wheels follow, and then its airborne. behind it, bucky jumps too.

you're on your feet now, eyes locked onto the drone feed. your hands are braced on either side of the desk and your knuckles have gone bone-white. you're not breathing or thinking. you're not even sure if your heart is beating.

for a moment, he's airborne. then just as quickly, he's falling straight through the gap and into open air. the wind catches in his jacket, gravity yanking him down towards the water and the cargo ship below.

just before he hits the ship deck, a blur of red, white, and blue zips past— sam.

his wings flare as he dives, hooking one arm around bucky with precision, the two of them twisting mid-air as the momentum nearly sends them spiralling. they hover under the bridge for a moment before sam takes off towards solid ground.

you collapse in your chair and yank the joystick for scout, who zooms towards bucky and sam. its camera focuses, cutting through the haze of the sun to check on them.

"jesus christ, buck, are you okay?" you panic into your mic, already trying to see if he needs medical attention.

"i've caught the princess, he's safe." sam replies, smug as ever.

you lean in closer to the screen as scout zips around him, "are you injured? you might need to take your vest off so i can assess it and let medical know."

"take me to dinner first." he doesn't look thrilled about the rescue. he brushes off his jacket with a clenched jaw, then narrows in on scout, who's circling him. he flings his hand at it like a fly, "and get that stupid drone out of my face. it's ugly."

"rude." you frown, "he just risked his tiny propellor life to check up on you."

"yeah?" bucky asks flatly.

you narrow your eyes, "yeah."

bucky gives scout a fake smile and says an insincere 'thanks buddy'. then— without hesitation— bucky grabs scout mid-hover. you barely have time to shout at him before he launches scout straight up into the sky, spinning wildly and almost vanishing.

the feed spins out of control as the stabilisers struggle to compensate with the speed it'd been hurled at.

sam clicks his tongue and shakes his head, "ooooh, she's gonna kill you."

bucky shrugs, utterly unfazed, but there's a shadow of a smile sitting on his lips, "i didn't like the way it was looking at me."

"you better pray he still works when you get back or else i'll murder you in your sleep." there's a lowness in your voice that should be intimidating, but bucky doesn't falter.

"i'd like to see you try." he retorts, his tone bordering amused.

"you've never seen me." you reply matter-of-factly, "you wouldn't even see me coming.”

"oh, trust me, the moment i hear nasally breathing, i'd know exactly who was about about to beat my ass."

"that sounded like a compliment, barnes." you roll your eyes, ignoring the insult and simply smirk, putting on your best mock-sultry tone, "are you complimenting me?"

"don't flatter yourself. i've just taken too many hits to the head."

he hears you scoff, and it makes his grin widen. he can almost imagine you in your little computer room at the base, sitting in front of your set-up with an unimpressed look on your face, or even pacing back and forth muttering about how annoying he is.

it's weird how he knows so much about you, but still can't really picture what you look like. he's tried, but it's mostly just a blur— almost like a familiar face from a dream.

sam stops walking and turns to bucky with his hands on his hands, "are you guys done flirting or do you want me to circle back in a couple of hours?"

"you should've just let him fall into the river, sam." you grumble through the comms.

"hey guys?" joaquin's voice comes in clear and troubled.

sam pauses, his eyebrow furrowing, "what's up, torres?"

"you might wanna come and check this out."

it's later in the day. the team had gathered back at the base to debrief, worn out and trying to gather themselves after the failed mission.

sam is slouched on a chair, eyeing the information on the screen to figure out what went wrong, bucky's leaning against the wall with a towel around his neck and a band-aid above his brow, and joaquin's icing his shoulder and holding up his phone, where your voice comes through the speaker.

"so youre telling me that they just abandoned two entire crates full of super soldier serum and then just dipped?" you spoke— sharp and unmistakably done with everything.

"uhhhhhhhh... yeah." joaquin blinks, then tilts his head in confusion, "i thought you were already caught up with this?"

"do i sound caught up, joaquin?" you roll your eyes and take a deep breath, "it just doesn't make any sense. they went through all that effort to keep up busy, only to leave the serum behind like its nothing?"

"you think it was a decoy?" joaquin asks.

"i don't know." you half-shrug, "they've barely touched it, and i just got a message that they want me to check it out before they log it and send it into evidence."

sam straightens in his chair, "you want backup?"

"it's sitting in the middle of an air-force base, sam. if someone pops out, they've got bigger things to worry about than me— like the twenty armed guards surrounding it or the drone that's been circling it for the past hour."

"you're actually leaving your cave?" bucky jokes.

"yeah, barnes, i am." you deadpan, hand already on your 'caves' door handle, "since you threw scout into orbit, i'll have to use my eyes like a normal person. he's fine, by the way. just a bit of whiplash."

sam huffs out a laugh, but his shoulders are still visibly tense, "hey, just be careful, okay?"

"always. i'll call back in ten." you say, more to yourself than anyone else, then hang up.

the room is silent for a few seconds. the low him from computer monitors fills the space, punctuated by the slow ticking of a clock nearby.

joaquin sighs, then mutters, "can't believe they left the crates behind." he shifts the ice pack on his shoulder, "feels... off."

sam leans back in his chair with a tired sigh, "if anyone's gonna spot something we missed, it's her."

then another moment of silence stretches through the team. outside the window, the airfield lights burn against the dusk. the base is usually quiet at this time of day.

bucky stares out of the window. then he asks, "is she always like that when she's out in the field?" he doesn't clarify what he means by that, but the others seem to understand what he means.

"what, annoyingly confident?" sam lets a small smile wander onto his face as he thinks about you, "she's about ten times worse when she's not behind those screens. but it's good. she doesn't miss much. and when she's got a gut feeling..."

sam doesn't finish his sentence. he doesn't need to.

"you should see her during intel briefings." joaquin adds with a goofy grin, "she'll shred a guy's whole thesis with like... three words. it's brutal."

"and that weird 'incoming' thing she does?" bucky frowns, like he's genuinely confused, "what is that?"

joaquin laughs under his breath, "she's been doing that since we were recruited. it's like... her thing."

bucky's quiet for a moment. his eyes glance at joaquin's phone where your voice had just crackled through not even a minute ago. it sat idly on the table. there's a weird feeling in his chest— almost embarrassment. he'd known you for two years and was only just now asking questions.

"is she tall?" bucky blurts out.

joaquin blinks, caught off guard, "what?"

there's another beat of silence. sam turns his head away slowly from the monitor, clearly unimpressed, and gestures vaguely to bucky. he deadpans, "he's never seen her."

"seriously?" joaquin raises his brows, "you've been working with her for two years, and you've never ever seen her face?"

bucky runs his tongue against the inside of his cheek. he wants to just get over the subject, but he's brought it onto himself. he shrugs like it's nothing as he pulls the towel from around his neck, but the pink tips of his ears say the opposite.

"she's always behind a screen or..." bucky runs his hand over his face, exhaling like he already regrets having this conversation, "or on encrypted phone calls, or in a control room in some random part of this place. she's not exactly the easiest person to bump into."

"you've never looked her up? never seen a photo?" joaquin still looks utterly amused, inching ever so slightly across the table, "you haven't even stalked her, just a little bit?"

bucky looks at him like he's spewed gibberish, "no."

"she was standing right next to you last week." joaquin exclaims incredulously, "at the debrief? she was standing next to you with her arms crossed? we could go check out to the crates right now. she'd be there."

bucky furrows his brows, completely silent.

sam leans back with a knowing smirk, "trust me, if he'd seen her, he'd remember her."

"what's that supposed to mean?" bucky frowns, unsure if he should be offended or if he actually has a point to make.

"it means she's memorable, man." sam says like it's the most obvious thing in the world, "voice like that? brain like that? you think the looks don't match? she’d have you thinking about her 24/7.”

joaquin raises his brows in agreement, "he's got a point."

bucky doesn't respond, and his silence says more than any smartass comeback ever could. he's just sitting there, absentmindedly playing with the towel in his hands and staring at nothing in particular, his gaze far off— maybe trying to picture you again. maybe trying to figure out if he should go out and see you— but it feels wrong.

sam watches him for barely a second and has already read him like a book. he rolls his eyes and leans forwards with intent, like he's seen this before. and he has. "don't go getting all obsessed, buck."

that snaps bucky out of his head. he scoffs, "i'm not—"

"she called you buck and you didn't say anything about it."

joaquin watches the exchange like its an intense tennis match.

"i've known you for, like... ten years. i called you buck last year and you didn't like it." sam points out, gesturing emphatically, "and you just asked if she was tall like you were filling out your dating profile preferences."

"it was a question." bucky defends.

"a weird question." sam retorts.

"oh, give me a break." bucky clenches his jaw, "you're telling me that if you there was a voice in your ear 24/7 for two years, you wouldn't be going insane?"

and he meant insane. you were everywhere. in his ear during missions, on his phone when you need to let him know important intel at ungodly hours, in briefing folders where half of the intel had come straight from you, and even in conversations he overhears whenever he walks through the base.

you— the genius air-force captain who works directly for the new captain america.

no one really knew how you ended up running tactical for sam, but no one had questioned it either. you were just good. scary good. the kind of smart that made people shut up and listen, and the kind of precise that made bucky trust your voice more than his own gut.

bucky had fought his entire life— in wars, for and against hydra, stared down gods and aliens and wizards— but somehow, it was you, the staticky voice in his ear, that kept him on edge.

how can someone be everywhere, but nowhere to be seen?

but then there's a loud bang— loud enough to jolt sam and joaquin out of their chairs. its sharp and feels wrong in their guts, the kind of sound that doesn't belong in a secure military base.

"what the hell was that?" sam shouts.

an alarm starts blaring in the main sector of the air base— where you are.

the three of them were already sprinting down the hallway before they had even registered that they'd moved. the smell of smoke hits their noses before they even make it out of the doors— acrid, bitter, and smelling off chemicals.

outside, the air is thick of it. it sticks low to the ground, a handful of military personnel already corralling debris and shouting orders at each other amongst the wreckage. something had definitely exploded.

"jesus—" sam mutters with his mouth shielding his face from the smoke, "isn't that where the crates were?"

bucky's jaw tightens. there's a crunch under his boot, and when he lifts it, a tiny vial with blue liquid stares back at him. his eyes sweep through the smoke, but he's not sure he could even recognise you. a figure in fatigues passes by and bucky's wastes no time in stomping towards them.

"hey—" he calls, voice rough with urgency. your name slips from his mouth, "was she here? was she hurt?"

the figure turns and points to the other side of the base, "they took her to medical." they quickly reply.

joaquin wastes no time and bolts in your direction, not bothering to ask any questions or where you are— he'd find you.

sam is already stepping over the debris to try to figure out what had happened. when they'd transported it back to the base, there had been no signs that anything was wrong. and now, after hours of silence, one had detonated after you had checked on it.

"she said she felt something was off." sam stiffens, "and she was right."

bucky rounds the edge of the blast zone, his eyes scanning the ground. bits of scorched wood and metal are strewn everywhere with dark smoke still curling upwards like it's taunting them. his boot kicks something small and metallic, half buried in the dust.

"sam." he calls, crouching down.

sam looks over. his eyes narrow as bucky reaches for a small warped disc. it's blackened, but not completely unrecognisable— a thin casing, circuit etching, and what looks like melted adhesive around the edges.

"they were never gonna come back for it." bucky turns over the deflated bomb, "wanted to cause serious damage to whoever took it."

"yeah, and it worked. they've put our man in the chair in hospital."

bucky rips off a flailing piece of plastic from the bomb. underneath, there's writing writing in minuscule block letters and unintelligible to him at first glance. its not english or in any language he recognises.

he squints, turning it slightly, "you seeing this?"

sam leans over and brushes soot off of the surface, "some kind of... manufacturing tag?"

"could be a location." bucky matters, pointing at a short line of text half-buried under the sticky residue, "this part here looks like latitude and longitude."

sam exchanges a stumped look with bucky, "so what, they booby-trap the crates, nearly kill our comms specialist, and then give us a return address?"

"looks like it."

they both fall silent. there's still a hum of chaos and confusion in the air with military personnel running back and forth to figure out what's happening, and joaquin's still in medical trying to find you. sam's jaw ticks.

"you thinking what i'm thinking?" he asks.

bucky nods once, "yeah. time to pay 'em a visit."

the moon hangs heavy over the towering complex. the building hangs on the edge of a tree line, swallowed by both nature and time. what used to be a lavish apartment complex in the 70s was now home to spiders, rats, and bird nests, the crumbling skeleton of concrete and steel forgotten, but not untouched.

joaquin frowns, craning his neck just to look up at the building, "you guys sure this is the place?"

before he can even finish his sentence, a slow gust of wind passes through. it whistles through the exposed windows and cracked walls, groaning like its alive. the metal structure groans under its own weight and it sways.

"that cannot be good." sam audibly winces.

they shake it off, moving without speaking. joaquin checks his wings and weapons, bucky is staring up at the windows like he's trying to see something through them, and sam is trying to get redwing to scout the area— a poor substitute for the tech they had gotten used to.

there's a silence surrounding them that crawls under their skin. no crackling in their ear pieces, no humming from drones zipping around in the air, and certainly no voice in their ears telling them what to do next. all that accompanies them is the sound of wind and the thud of concrete as chunks occasionally fall from the building.

then joaquin exhales through his nose and shifts uncomfortably like your lack of presence is physically effecting him, "yeah, this feels weird."

"right?" sam lets out a relieved laugh like he's been thinking the same exact thing, "it's almost too quiet. i dont know what to do with myself without someone yappin' in my ear."

he glances sideways at bucky, who looks like he's thinking the same, but is keeping his mouth shut about it. "you miss her too, don't you, buck?"

bucky pauses like he's about to say something witty that'll get sam off of his back, but he lets out a small breath in amusement and nods once instead, "yeah. i guess i got used to her bossing us around all day."

then, as if summoned by pure magic, there's a crackle that hits all three of their ear pieces.

"you guys can't get rid of me that easily." your voice slips in, smug and unhurried— like you'd been listening the whole time and were just waiting for the perfect moment to turn your mic on.

sam jumps so high that he nearly flies redwing straight into a power line, "jesus christ—"

bucky's head snaps straight up. his hand flies to his ear piece like he can't believe that your voice is actually there. "what the hell are you doing on comms?" he asks sharply, but he can't hide the hint of relief he feels.

"it's nice to hear you too, barnes." your roll your eyes, amused.

"they cleared her." joaquin laughs, answering the question before they could ask.

"yup." you nod and gesture to your face as if they can see you, "i'm a little burnt and they had to remove a piece of metal from my cheek, but other than that, i'm fit as a fiddle."

your monitor flickers to life. in one of them, you can see the tips of bucky's fingers pressing against the lens of the small camera he usually wears on missions.

"what are you doing, barnes?" you deadpan as you watch one of your screen flip back and forth.

"i'm trying to put—" bucky sighs as he tries to jam the camera into a small hole in his vest, but it twists and turns and wont stick. "this camera's broken."

"it isn't broken. you're just putting it in upside down."

"... didnt the nurse tell you to stop talking?" bucky grumbles as he messes with the small camera. he flips it around and scoffs when it sticks on with ease, "y'know, to preserve your vocal chords and prevent any more damage or whatever?"

"a bomb exploded in my face, barnes, not in my throat." you roll your eyes, "and look— it's in now. see what listening to me does?"

"i thought i was... zooming in."

joaquin snorts, "dude's out here trying to fight super soldiers with the tech literacy of a toaster."

"i've killed people with a toaster—"

"love the attitude today, guys. very inspiring." sam grumbles. redwing flies back into their radius and clicks back into sam's pack, "now that you're here, you mind checking out the perimeter?

"whatever. scout is in—"

"incoming." the three of them chime in unison, perfectly timed and perfectly familiar. there's a silence before you laugh.

"wow, you guys." you sigh with dramatic flair, a mix of both sarcasm and genuine amusement, "i've babied you guys for so long that you're finally taking after me. wanna call me mama next?"

you can hear joaquin snicker loud and clear through the mic, and you watch through sam's body cam as bucky scoffs, rolling his eyes like he's annoyed with your antics.

sam gives the camera a flat look, knowing that you were probably laughing at their faces, "this is what happens when they let her out of medical early."

scout zips into the scene, a quiet mechanical sound whirring past the team. it flies high up into the abandoned apartment complex, small enough to squeeze into the cracks of broken windows and rusted beams like a bird, scanning the surroundings and mapping them out on sam's tablet.

"scout's in." you announce, weaving scout through dusty cloth and abandoned furniture.

from outside, the guys glance up, watching as scout disappears for a moment before darting back inside.

"i'll never get used to how fast that thing moves." sam mutters as he watches scout zip through the top floor.

"he's faster than redwing." you simply reply, but sam doesn't miss the slight edge of challenge in your voice.

"excuse me?" he scoffs, glancing at bucky's body cam like it's you and you're actually there, "trust me— if your tiny little tennis ball goes down, you're gonna be begging to use redwing."

"i'm not touching your freaky little robot bird. i have standards."

"hey, i met your ex. don't you talk to me about standards—"

there's a sharp bark of laughter from joaquin, but bucky cuts in before you and sam's banter can escalate. "can we focus?"

you roll your eyes, but narrow in on scout's POV.

"something moved on the fifth floor. it could've been the wind and some tarps, but it could've also been— woah."

that gets their attention.

"what is it?" bucky asks, immediately alert.

you zoom in slowly. "there's... something big in here. looks like machinery— lots of it. the whole setup looks old, but it doesn't look abandoned."

"what kind of machinery?" sam asks.

"hang on." scout scoots a little closer, and your eyes widen. "it's a production lab— specialised injectors, gene sequencers, stabilisers— i think this is where they were were making the serum."

joaquin narrowed his eyes in confusion, "they used this place as a super soldier factory?"

you shook your head, "no, not anymore. looks like it's been stripped clean, but the setup's still here. they didn't even bother hiding what it was and just left it to... rot. scout's picking up residual heat signatures, so whoever was here cleared out recently— maybe a few hours ago, maybe less. it should be safe."

“should be." sam mutters under his breath, but he's already pulling his shield to his chest and heading towards the door, "never feels comforting when you say that."

the team fans out as they enter the apartment building— or what's left of it.

sam sticks to the lower floors, descending down stairs leading to a basement. the flashlight on his vest isn't bright enough to cut through the vastness of it.

bucky decides to check out the machinery to see if they left anything of importance behind. he mutters something about it smelling like a meth lab as he heads upstairs.

joaquin jets to the rooftop. he wants elevation, to see the layout of the place and the potential leads that could find the group behind this— but he also wants to avoid being on the ground floor if the building decides to give way.

"scout's overhead if you need backup. keep your comms clear and open. let me know if you find anything." you tell them before turning your microphone off.

"wouldn't dream of ignoring you." joaquin teases.

and then you're alone in the silence of your command room. you lean closer to your monitors, hands intertwined against your mouth as you watch your boys disappear one by one into the dingy bowels of the apartment complex.

it's dark, and even with scout's night vision, you can barely see ahead. the hallways look more like underground tunnels, and you can only imagine how cramped it must feel. the camera stutters with static as scout floats ahead, probably from the lack of service. you're almost afraid you might lose contact with them.

scout rounds a corner. you dont necessarily know where you've guided him— it's too dark to see— but you know you're somewhere down below. you're half-focused, watching bucky's body cam and keeping tabs on joaquin's feed— until something jolts scout off course.

the small drone clips the corner of a wall and bumps into sam's shoulder, startling him.

"what the hell?" he whips around, staring down at scout like he'd just punched sam in the face, "don't sneak up on me like that."

you click your mic on with an apologetic smile, "sorry. wasn't looking where i was going."

sam rolls his eyes and turns back to the basement. it's almost a labyrinth with how many empty boxes and crates are stuffed down there, and it smells of mold and rot. sam scans the room, and you do too. there's an old supply crate shoved into the corner of a hallway, covered by a measly and moth-eaten tarp.

"hang on..." sam mutters as he nears it.

"sam, wait, don't touch it—" you warn, but it's too late. sam nudges the tarp aside, and what's underneath sends your stomach plummeting.

"it's a bomb." you breathe, "get out, sam, now—"

"sh—"

the comms explode with static— not just sam's, but bucky's and joaquin's too. there's a high pitched ringing noise piercing through your headset and sam's screen goes white, then black.

your hands fly to your keyboard, pulling up scout's emergency override system. he's still functional— wobbly and a bit glitchy, but functional— and through his lens, you see smoke and chunks of plaster. there's a section of collapsed ceiling sitting beside scout's whirring body.

before the smoke even clears, another explosion rings out— louder and closer, and then there's another. for a split second, all you can see is light, your screens showering you in a horrible, horrible feeling of dread. for a second, you think you've lost all of them.

"sam!" you yell, "sam, can you hear me? sam?"

there's movement— and then there's a groan.

"still alive." he coughs through the dust, his voice strained, "think i caught the edge of it. damn shield saved me."

"okay. you're okay—" you let out a horribly shaky breath, "just... hold still. i still need to— joaquin? bucky? someone, come in."

there's nothing but static, and then one of your screens flashes back to life. it's joaquin's, who's outside and on flat ground.

"i'm fine— jesus, i barely made it out of there." joaquin pants, doubled-over with his hands on his knees, "the roof's collapsed. i managed to fly out just before it gave out."

you close your eyes for a split second, relief washing over you— but then it's gone just as fast as it came. you whip your head towards the last monitor, the screen still static and your heart clawing in your throat.

"what the hell happened?" sam grunts as he pushes a chunk of concrete off of his chest.

"i don't know, man." joaquin replies, still catching his breath, "i was heading down and there was a POP, and then the whole building blew up like a chain reaction."

"it was a chain reaction. they must've known we were coming." your voice is low, urgent, "one in the basement near sam, one on the roof, and—" you pause as you glance at bucky's feed, "one near the lab."

sam presses his hand to his ear, trying to filter out the crumbling concrete from the static in this ear piece, "bucky, do you copy?"

"barnes?" you call again, leaning over your console like it'll bring you any closer to him, "barnes, can you hear me?"

"come on, buck, say something." sam mutters, pacing through the wreckage, "try bouncing the signal again."

"i am." you snap, more out of fear than anger, "i've already rerouted twice. there's just— there's nothing." then, more quietly you add, "he was right by the lab. that blast radius—" you swallow hard.

"i'm going after him." sam says immediately, already pushing his way out of his entrapment.

"no— no, wait, sam. the buildings not stable. i have to run a structural integrity scan before you can move." you pause, frantically typing, "follow scout— he'll find a way out. i'll find barnes."

sam clenches his jaw, but he listens.

"i'm going to try switching stations. maybe in the explosion he accidentally hit a button. maybe he just lost signal— a tech issue, maybe. either way, i can fix it."

you try reasoning out loud— trying to stay calm— but you're not convincing anyone, least of all yourself.

from the middle floor, bucky lets out a wrangled sound— half-cough, half-groan.

he doesnt know where he is. everything's dark and dusty, choking him every time he takes a breath. his ears are ringing, and the ground is cold and damp beneath him, and it even takes him a moment to register that he’s on the ground.

and there's a throbbing pain in his leg— dull at first, but then sharp, like someone lit a fire in the muscle just below his knee. he tries to shift it, but the pressure doesn't give.

"shit.."

its hard to focus. he can't remember where he was or how he had gotten there. he blinks, once, then twice. it's silent, and he's alone. he can tell before the thought even forms, and a deep unsettling feeling forms in his stomach.

there's no chatter or humming of a drone. there's no voice telling him where to go or what to do— there's no you.

bucky clenches his jaw as he pulls himself up on one elbow. he grits his teeth as he shifts, enough to look down. there's a large metal beam pinning him down just across his shin. he exhales, trying not to move too much— trying not to panic.

he reaches up to his ear, pressing against it just to see if there was anything at all. his fingers press the buttons, trying to switch the dials— anything to get a hold of someone— but there's static.

"sam?” he rasps, "sam, come in.”

a shifting groan in the walls answers him.

"torres?" his voice cracks, "joaq— joaquin, come on. hey—"

the metal beam pinning him down just creaks under pressure.

panic starts to creep into his minds, replacing all logic. the pressure on his leg is sharp now, his side aches, and the silence is starting to weigh on him.

and then— barely a whisper— your name slips from his mouth. once, twice, and then once more, calling for you like you'd appear and rip the rubble from off of his body yourself.

"c'mon, talk to me." he pants, "tell me that i'm holding the camera upside down, or... or that scout's incoming. anything— just— say something."

he waits, and waits, and waits, but only static answers.

bucky doesn't know what to do. if he moves, he's afraid the rubble around him will crush him. if he doesn't, he'll never get out.

he squeezes his eyes shut, his forehead pressing against the dusty concrete as his breath stutters. his heart is pounding in his chest and he can hear it in his ears, unsure if it's from fear or the lack of oxygen.

he doesnt want to die. at least not like this. not alone.

a sharp, dry laugh escapes him— bitter and breathless.

"shouldve told you i missed your voice before i got crushed by a goddamn support beam." he mutters to no one, "that would've been smart."

his hand slips from his ear and falls to the floor. he's tired.

then—

"barnes? barnes?"

his earpiece glitches as he turns his head, looking around like the voice might be there. there's a sputter, and another glitch— but the voice in his ear is unmistakably you.

"bucky, can you hear me?"

your voice cuts through the static like a blade of light in the dark. youre clearer now, sharper— desperate.

and bucky laughs. its all he can do. a soft, disbelieving laugh into the stagnant air, his chest stuttering with pure, aching relief. its the sound of someone trying not to fall apart.

"you—" he coughs, dragging a shaky breath into his lungs, "you dont know how happy i am to hear your voice. where's sam and joaquin?"

he can hear a loud breathy laugh and then a thud, almost like you just collapsed at your desk from sheer joy, "they're fine. they're out. you just... you scared the hell out of me, barnes—"

"call me bucky’."

there's a silence on your end— like you're letting his words find their way into your brain. like maybe you needed to hear that.

then softer, you smile. "okay. bucky."

he closes his eyes again. he lets the sound of his name in your voice carry him through the weight pressing down on your leg.

"can you move? are you bleeding? are you—"

"i'm trapped." he cuts you off. he knows you're stressing yourself out far too much, "there's a support beam pinning my leg down, but otherwise, i think i'm fine. i can't get a hold of sam or joaquin, so... you're all i've got now."

"good. i've got you all to myself now." you try to joke— trying to keep bucky from panicking— but he can hear the quiver in your voice and the way your words wobble just enough to betray you.

"hey." he softens, "you don't need to worry. i'm okay. i'm alive."

"right. sorry, i'm just—" you swallow, eyes boring holes into bucky's monitor, "i was scared."

there's a silence, and for a moment, you're afraid bucky's been knocked out— but then he laughs. with his usual calm certainty you're so used to now—

"takes a little more than bombing a building to get rid of me."

you smile— watery and breathless— even if he can't see it. but he can hear you, and that helps with his pain. bucky huffs out a soft laugh, but it catches in his throat when the rubble around him shifts against his chest.

you catch the sound immediately. "what was that?"

"i'm under five hundred pounds of concrete and steel." bucky grunts under his breath, "i don't think it likes me moving."

"okay, okay. hold on. i'm pulling up scout's last scan of your level." you're already typing, eyes darting between monitors. "there's a structural weakness about two feet to your left. if you can push against it, i think i can guide you out."

"you think?" he mutters.

"barnes—"

"bucky."

you sigh, "i'm going to get you out, bucky. just.. trust me."

"i do." he says without hesitation.

you breathe in. "alright— now lean over and try to pull out your leg out from under that beam. it's cracked and scout thinks you can snap it. from there, you should be able to push some of the concrete away on your left and climb out."

"i'll try."

there's a deep rumbling sound coming from bucky's mic, and it was now more than ever that you wished his body cam had worked. there's a sharp grunt from bucky, and then—

there's a metallic groan, and then a cracking noise.

"bucky?"

"i'm out."

"jesus christ, bucky, don't ever do that again. i thought you broke your leg or something."

"you just told me to do it."

"that's not the point. i just—" you stop yourself and place a restless hand against your forehead like you can scrub the panic away, "i'm re-routing scout to find you. sam and joaquin are moving to help you from the outside.

there's a pause— just the low hum of your tech and the faint hiss of static in bucky's ear.

"you're doing great." bucky says gently as he pulls away a handful of debris, "seriously. you've got me halfway out already."

"halfway doesn't count." you mutter. youre focused on scout's monitor as it zooms up multiple levels towards bucky. you're barely blinking, and you're thumbnail is torn up from where you've been nervously chewing on it.

he smiles faintly— dusty, tired, but honest. "it counts to me."

scout clears the floors— each level scanned and discarded— and then, like a light in the dark, you can spot the unmistakable glimmer of bucky's vibranium arm under the rubble.

you switch back to sam and joaquin's channel, your voice breaking through the comms, "bucky's on the sixth level's east corridor. he's trapped, but he's okay."

"copy that!" joaquin responds instantly.

before long, bucky can hear two pairs of boots thudding against the ground. he blinks slowly as a flashlight burns into his face. he turns his head just enough to see them through the haze— sam on the left and joaquin on the right.

"took you long enough." bucky jokes as he shoves another piece of debris out of the way.

"oh, he's alive." joaquin exhales as he grabs at chunks of metals, "i thought we were gonna be digging out a corpse."

bucky rolls his eyes, holding out an arm, "love the optimism."

sam practically leaps forwards, crouching beside him, "you're a damn cockroach, you know that? an explosion, six floors of concrete, and you're still alive." he says, grabbing bucky's arm and slinging it over his shoulder, "can you walk?"

"i'll manage." bucky leans on sam and joaquin more than he wants, but at least he's upright.

as they make it out, scout trails behind them like a loyal shadow.  your voice crackles through, but not in their ear pieces— through scout. "you've got a clear past east. the stairwell's stable, but don't waste time."

bucky glances up, and although he can't see you, there's a softness in his expression as he limps down the hallway, "still with me?"

you smile, "still with you."

joaquin glances awkwardly at sam, then rolls his eyes, "alright, you can flirt later. let's just get out of here."

the hangar is dim, lit only by overhead lights that flicker slightly and the occasional sensors that turn on when a janitor walks by. sam, bucky, and joaquin stand in a semi-circle staring down at atleast ten full crates of super soldier serum, the lids pried open and the vials staring— almost mockingly— back at them.

no one speaks for a while.

"so you're telling me..." sam pauses as he holds his hand to his mouth, trying to make sense of the unbelievable situation in front of him, "we almost died... and the serum was in john walker's hands?"

joaquin tilts his head, "hell of a sentence."

bucky leans over and plucks a vial from it's foam confine. it's heavier than he expected. he tilts the vial, watching the blue liquid slink to its side, an inkling of suspicion growing in his chest.

"who's to say this isn't a trap?" he places it back into the crate and crosses his arms against his chest, "walker drops off ten crates of serum and walks off, no questions asked? i mean... how'd he even manage to take these guys down? he doesn't have the shield or the government's support."

sam turns around and shakes his head, too stressed out of his mind to even think about it anymore, "i don't even wanna know, man."

behind them, a door opens with the familiar hiss of hydraulics. and then there's footsteps— soft, but certain.

"what are you guys looking at?"

bucky freezes.

it hits him like a punch in the chest— he knows that voice. he hears it in his sleep. in the quiet between missions. in the static of a dead ear piece. and now it’s just here— fast approaching.

it’s you. he knows it’s you.

he doesnt want to turn around— not yet— because turning around would make it real, and if it’s not— if its just his mind trying to comfort him with something familiar in a world that keeps pulling itself from under his feet— then he’s not sure he can handle it.

but then—

“why do you all look like someone died?”

and something breaks lose in him. bucky turns— he can’t stop himself— and there you are. you’re walking towards them, headset around your neck and your sleeves rolled up, clearly just finished with reports, debriefing and damage control. you look tired, but so alive that it almost knocks the air out of his lungs.

he doesnt know what he expected, but you look better than anything he could have possibly conjured up in his mind.

it’s instant, like something short circuits in him. you’re safe. you’re here. there’s no more static through a headset, no dust, and no explosions. you’re real and you’re standing ten feet away, completely unaware of the fact that he hasn’t stopped thinking about you since you said his name over comms.

you walk closer, hands on your hips as you peer into one of the crates. you speak, but bucky barely hears you over the roaring in his ears.

she’s fine. she’s fine. she’s fine.

he swallows hard. his metal hand twitches. you feel his stare before you see it. you glance over.

there's dust still smudged along the side of his jaw, and a faint scrape just above his eyebrow. but he's standing there and breathing, watching you like he can't believe you're real.

“hi, bucky.” the corner of your mouth twists up into a warm smile as you give him a proper once-over, “you look good.”

you say it like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

as you walk up to them, your shoulder brushes his for a fraction of a second. you just stand beside him like it's nothing— like this isn't some world-shattering event for bucky and that you weren’t a disembodied voice talking in his ear less than an hour ago.

even sam and joaquin are surprised, side-eyeing each other over the crates with identical expressions of is this really happening right now? and why is he just staring?

he's trying to play it cool, but he can't— he just can't keep his eyes off of you.

"holy shit, is that—" your jaw almost goes slack as you peer into the crates, eyes glazing over the glass vials in their foam casings, "where the hell did these come from?"

joaquin lets out an exasperated laugh, "you'll never guess."

you blink, "john walker?”

sam snorts, “okay, maybe you’ll guess.”

"i heard you say his name before i came in, i just didn’t think he was the one who dropped these off." you exclaim. you’re sort of impressed, "are you kidding me? how'd he even manage to get in here?”

your voice pitches with incredulity, the question half-rhetorical, half pure disbelief. you’re already running through possibilities in your head, and none of them are good.

you’re still peering into the crates, but bucky’s barely processed a single word since you walked in. his brain short circuits a little, and he speaks before he can stop himself.

“you’ve got… pen on your cheek.”

you blink, caught off guard, “what?”

bucky gestures vaguely to his own face, like his hand can explain for him, “right there. blue. it’s… smudged under your eye. must’ve been from the, uh… debrief reports or something.”

there’s a pause.

"seriously?” sam turns to face bucky’s, his brows raised so high that they’re practically part of his hairline, “you see the lady's face for the first time and that's what you say?

joaquin chokes on a laugh. you stare at bucky with an amused grin. he looks absolutely mortified.

“wh— it was distracting.” bucky waves sam off, trying to get him off of his back.

but you only laugh as you watch bucky scoff, "two years and you still don't know how to greet me. you could at least tell me i look good.”

he furrows his brows, caught somewhere between embarrassed and flustered “that’s a bit egotistical, don’t you think?”

you shrug, “oh, my bad. i forgot that you were the only one who’s allowed to be a little full of yourself around here.”

joaquin sucks in a breath through his teeth, “she’s got you there, man.”

bucky rolls his eyes and sighs. he opens his mouth, then closes it, and then he just shrugs, “you look good. really good.”

its awkward and a little stiff, but something about the way he says it makes it feel real— a little vulnerable— like he means it more than he knows how to physically express it.

you soften, just a little, “thanks, bucky.”

a short silence passes again, more comfortable now.

“okay, but seriously, what the hell are we gonna do with these?” you nod towards the crates, nudging one with the toe of your shoe.

sam blows out a breath, “i don’t know, but i do know one thing.”

you, bucky, and joaquin all look at him as he claps his hands together like he’s had a brilliant idea.

“i think we deserve a drink— y’know, to celebrate not dying.”

joaquin raises his hand, “i second that.”

“best idea you’ve had all day, sammy.” you grin, “i’ll go grab the good stuff.”

bucky watches as you turn and leave, something unreadable in his eyes. he stays frozen as he watches you disappear behind a door.

once you’re out of earshot, sam turns to bucky and pats him firmly on the shoulder—

“don’t worry.” he says with a knowing grin, “i’ll make sure you get another chance to say something better.”

Your hair had been shoved into a bun since dawn, already loosened by the heat radiating off the pastry case. You moved nonstop, dodging customers and slinging paper bags filled with brownies, marble loaves, and chocolate croissants to neighborhood regulars. The cookies, especially the chocolate chip, were gone before noon, and you'd slipped a few warm ones to the kids who lived across the street, ignoring their mother's frazzled protests. Kids needed sweetness in a city like this.

You leaned against the counter for the first time in hours, arms dusted with flour and sugar, the faint hum of a delivery truck idling outside. You took a quick sip of water, your lips still tasting faintly of cinnamon. Then came the bell, ding-a-ling, that delicate sound above the door. You glanced up and froze in amused recognition. Ben Grimm stood in the doorway, trying (and failing) to disguise his massive, craggy frame beneath a trench coat that strained at the seams.

His fedora sat low, shadowing his unmistakable orange brow, but you’d recognize that stance anywhere. A few folks glanced up, but New Yorkers were practiced in the art of pretending not to notice things that didn’t concern them. “There’s my favorite customer!” You grinned, the weariness melting from your voice as you waved him in. Ben chuckled low in his throat, the sound gravelly and warm. “The usual, a dozen black and white cookies, fresh outta the oven.”

You beamed, already holding out the brown paper bag before he could part his lips. Ben’s rocky features relaxed into a rare, boyish grin. The warmth in his eyes was unmistakable, even beneath the shadow of his hat. “You spoil us way too much, Y/N.” He murmured, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat with those thick, stone-like fingers. Before he could fish out his wallet, you gently laid your hand against his arm. “Nah,” You whispered, your eyes crinkling. “It’s the least I can do. You keep our city from crumbling, literally.”

He hesitated, then chuckled softly, the corners of his mouth pulling into something half-sheepish, half-grateful. The coat shifted slightly as he straightened up, careful not to knock over the tiny table near the window. Outside, the city kept humming, taxis honking, a dog barking somewhere down the block, steam curling from a grate on the corner like clockwork. Ever since that mission to space, the one that turned the four of them into something the world had never seen, they'd been more than just heroes.

Earth-828 called them protectors. Some folks whispered “miracles,” others muttered “monsters,” but to you, they were still people. People who liked black and white cookies warm and still a little gooey in the middle. Ben tucked the bag under one arm with reverence, like he was holding something precious instead of simply just cookies. “Reed says carbs’ll slow me down,” He grunted, already lifting one to his mouth. “But he doesn’t know what he’s missin’.”

You laughed, the sound light above the soft vinyl music playing from the back. The overhead light flickered briefly, a flaw in the old wiring you never bothered fixing, casting a golden glow across the glass counter and catching the powdered sugar still clinging to your forearms. “Anything else I can get for you?” You asked, tilting your head as Ben scanned the pastry display. “Will you let me pay for it this time?” You shrugged with a playful glint in your eye watching as he shook his head in disapproval.

“Just the cookies today. I’ll take the offer next time, though.” Ben grunted, approval or defeat, it was hard to tell, and adjusted his coat. “Fair enough,” You smiled, raising your hands in mock surrender. “Tell everyone their favorite baker said hello.” You added, wiping your hands on your apron. As if summoned, the front door jingled again, and in blew a gust of hot air and unmistakable cologne. “Ben! What a coincidence!” Johnny Storm strolled in like he owned the block, hair windswept, a grin already loaded and ready to fire.

He clapped a hand on Ben’s shoulder, more for show than anything, before swiveling toward you like a sunflower toward the sun. “Why hello, gorgeous.” He purred, leaning casually against the counter, elbows propped like it was a bar and not a bakery. His blue eyes flicked over you, every detail catalogued in a glance that burned hotter than anything the ovens could crank out. You didn’t flinch. You’d seen this act before. “Johnny.” You replied, arms crossed more for protection than posture.

It didn’t stop your heart from racing, not with him standing there, all charm and endearing smile. He’d been flirting ever since the first time Ben sent him to pick up cookies, weeks ago now, throwing one-liners your way. It had become routine, really. Every day around noon, Johnny would stroll through the doors of Maisie’s Delicatessen, sometimes in uniform, sometimes in civilian charm, like clockwork.

He’d order the same cherry danish or lemon tart he never finished, pick at a croissant he claimed was “too flaky,” or simply ask for something sweet and then spend twenty minutes leaning on the counter and making small talk. You’d never seen him eat more than a bite. The truth? He didn’t like pastries. You knew. You noticed the way he’d discreetly leave half of them on the plate, or slide one into a napkin and “forget” it on the windowsill. But he came back anyway.

Every. Single. Day.

Only unlike all the women in New York City, you’d brushed him off. You always did. The whole city knew Johnny Storm’s reputation. He was the Human Torch, flashy, unpredictable, and impossible not to look at. Blonde hair like sunlight, eyes blue enough to drown in. You weren’t naive. You just weren’t stupid enough to fall for him and get your heart broken. At first, you assumed it was just Johnny being Johnny, chasing a pretty face with his signature swagger and a smirk that could melt through steel.

His flirtation had seemed harmless. But lately… something about him felt different. He asked questions that had nothing to do with your looks. Asked about your favorite books, your childhood dog, whether you liked jazz or doo-wop better. He once brought you a bouquet of tiger lillies because “you looked like someone who deserved a Wednesday pick-me up.” He listened. Really listened. And yet, you still didn’t let yourself believe it. Because he was Johnny Storm.

Famous. Reckless. Traveled to space. And you? You baked cookies on 3rd and Grand and slipped extras to neighborhood kids. So when he leaned in across the counter today, eyes locked on yours like you were the only person in Manhattan, it made your stomach twist. Because you couldn’t tell if it was all just part of the game, or if maybe, just maybe, he meant it. Still, you reminded yourself to breathe, burying the stupid crush on the blonde-haired, blue-eyed heartbreaker as far down as it would go.

You’d dug that hole weeks ago, right around the time he started showing up for pastries he didn’t eat, and you’d kept digging ever since. “Surprised you’re not at the Baxter Building,” You teased, grabbing a nearby rag to wipe a nonexistent smudge on the counter. “Don’t you have a world to save?” He grinned, eyes glinting. “Figured I’d start with yours.” You almost choked on your own breath. Ben rolled his eyes so hard you could almost hear them click.

“Flamebrain, pick up your danish and let the woman work.” But Johnny didn’t move. He leaned in further, elbow resting against the counter like he had all the time in the world. “Aw, come on, Y/N.” He drawled with a smirk so effortless it should’ve been criminal. That wink, practiced, perfect, probably had women lining up around the block. You huffed a laugh despite yourself, because dammit, he was impossible not to smile at. Shaking your head, you turned your back to him, pretending to be very, very busy with the new tray of croissants still warm from the oven.

You didn’t need to see his face to know he was still watching you, you could feel it. You grabbed the pineapple danish, the one he always claimed was his favorite, though you were 99% sure he hated pineapple, and placed it gently on the counter between you. “Have a nice day, Johnny.” It was meant to be the end of it. A line drawn in powdered sugar. But the way he lit up when you said his name made your chest tighten in a way that was wildly inconvenient.

His whole face softened, the cocky veneer still there, but something genuine flickering behind it. The corners of his mouth curved, his blue eyes twinkling like he'd just won something. He pulled out his wallet, soft leather, edges worn, and slid a crisp $10 bill across the counter without breaking eye contact. “See you next time, beautiful.” That should’ve been it. Any normal person would’ve taken their pastry and left. But Johnny Storm wasn’t normal. Before you could even blink, he leaned in again, this time reaching for you.

Reflex made you freeze, lips parting on instinct as his hand came up to your face. His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, slow and deliberate. Your breath hitched. Your skin went electric beneath his touch. “Gotcha.” He whispered with a smug grin, dusting flour off your cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world. And then, like some cinematic fever dream, he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, slow, gentle, and let his fingers linger just a second too long.

You couldn’t even look at him. Not directly. Not with that smile. Not with the way his cologne curled through the air, something warm, woodsy, and undeniably him. Not with his broad shoulders in your peripheral, framed by the soft golden light of the storefront window. Your heart was pounding like the city outside, and you hated how easily he could turn you to absolute mush. With one last cheeky wink, he straightened up and strolled past Ben toward the exit like he hadn’t just short-circuited your brain.

You stood frozen, still gripping the edge of the counter as the bell above the door chimed again. Ben lingered for just a second longer, eyeing you with something between amusement and pity. “He’s trouble, kid.” You managed a breathless laugh, cheeks still burning. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He gave you one last tip of his hat before he was out the door. Through the foggy window, you watched Ben shove Johnny as they walked down the street, his expression deadpan as Johnny laughed, head tilted back, beaming.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop the stupid smile tugging at your lips. The rest of the evening passed like a worn-out record, quiet, predictable, and just a little too slow. No more superhero drop-ins, no flirtatious banter, just the comforting rhythm of clinking coffee cups, parents herding sugar-hyped kids, and the usual faces grabbing day-old rye for half price. You moved on autopilot, smiling when necessary, nodding when expected, but your thoughts weren’t behind the counter anymore.

They were still caught somewhere between Johnny Storm’s hand brushing your cheek and the lingering scent of him that had somehow stuck to the sleeves of your apron. At four o’clock sharp, you finally peeled off the fabric, folding it with practiced hands. You greeted your coworker with a tired wave, slung your bag over one shoulder, and grabbed the small box of pastries you’d stashed for yourself, your ritual comfort after long shifts. With a practiced motion, you nudged open the back door and stepped into the fading amber of early evening.

It was cooler now, a soft breeze threading through your sleeves, but it didn’t soothe the heat still smoldering beneath your skin. You leaned against the brick wall beside the shop, juggling the box and your bag awkwardly as you searched for your keys. Of course, they’d sunken to the bottom. Because today was that kind of day. “Geez, Y/N! Don’t you know it’s not safe out here?” You jumped slightly, box nearly tipping. But then the voice registered, cocky and warm like always, laced with amusement.

You glanced up, and there he was. Johnny Storm, leaning casually against the wall beside you, hands in the pockets of his jeans, wearing a fitted maroon tee that left nothing to the imagination. His eyes sparkled under the streetlamp like he knew exactly the effect he was having on you. You didn’t even bother hiding your eye-roll this time. “Don’t you know it’s rude to sneak up on a woman when it’s nearly dark?” He laughed, that rich, golden sound that always felt like it was meant just for you.

“Walking a beautiful girl to her car after a long shift? That’s not rude, sweetheart. That’s practically chivalry.” You hated the way your heart fluttered. “I might even ask her out to dinner, if she doesn’t already have plans.” He added, stepping a little closer. “You never quit, do you?” Your voice was breathier than you intended, your composure already fraying. The city seemed to fall away, no cars, no lights, no sound, just the heavy press of his presence and the impossible closeness of him.

He took one more step, caging you. His arms bracketed the space like a promise. His eyes were softer now, but blazing all the same. “When it comes to you? I don’t.” You looked up at him, and you felt it, that dangerous pull. Like you were standing on the edge of something steep, and he was gravity. For one brief, selfish second, you wanted to fall. His gaze searched yours, blue eyes impossibly sincere, and you felt your whole body lock up. You didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or lean in.

It was too much, all at once, the heat, the closeness, the way his words curled inside your chest and ignited everything you’d been trying to bury. “Johnny—” You started, just as quick reality struck. “Johnny! Johnny! Can we get a picture?” A chorus of high-pitched voices broke through the quiet. You both turned. Across the street, three girls, all wide smiles, glossy hair, and miniskirts, were waving excitedly. “Please! We love you!” His shoulders stiffened. For once, he was speechless, gaze flickering between you and them.

And that’s when it hit you.

Of course girls like that followed him. Of course they screamed his name and got his smile and maybe more. Girls who were everything you weren’t, glamorous, shiny, effortless. You felt plain in comparison, dusty from work, apron-wrinkled, flour on your jeans, your lipstick smudged from hours behind the counter and sneaking coffee during your breaks. You felt your throat tighten, breath catching behind clenched teeth.

He looked at you, torn, visibly. You saw the guilt, the hesitation. But you couldn’t handle it. Not the look. Not the choice. You beat him to it. “Go,” You whispered, voice thick. “Take pictures. Sign autographs. Don't let me stop you.” His head whipped back to you. “Y/N—” But you were already slipping. Already falling back into the walls you had spent so long building. Don’t get attached. Don’t believe him. Don’t be a fool. “I’ll see you around, Johnny.” Your smile was brittle.

A cracked-glass version of the one you used to give him. You turned before he could speak, before he could reach for you, because you knew, if he said the right thing, if he looked at you that way again, you’d stay. And you couldn’t. You clutched the pastry box like it was armor and speed-walked to your car, fumbling with the keys as your eyes blurred. You slammed the door shut behind you, hands gripping the steering wheel hard enough to make your knuckles pale.

You let out one shaky breath, but it didn’t help, your chest still felt like it was caving in. The first tear slipped down your cheek, and you swiped at it with the back of your hand. You blinked hard, biting down on the inside of your cheek to keep from sobbing, swallowing the thick lump that refused to go away. Through the windshield, you could still see him, standing there, not moving. Not chasing after you. Of course not. He was Johnny Storm. And you? You were just the girl who made the cookies.

It had been two days. Two painfully long, quiet days. Ben had still come in like clockwork, trench coat tight around his frame, tipping his hat with a low grunt and walking out with his usual dozen black and white cookies. Business carried on, regulars filtered in and out, the register chimed, the espresso hissed, and the world, somehow, didn’t stop turning just because Johnny Storm hadn’t walked through your door. But you noticed.

You hated how your heart leapt every time the bell over the door jingled, hated how your eyes darted up from the pastry case expecting him, golden hair tousled like he’d just stepped off a beach, sunglasses halfway down his nose, wearing that crooked grin that always seemed a little too proud to be real. But it was never him. An old man wanting lemon bars. A tired mother with her toddler. A delivery guy. Anyone but Johnny.

By the second afternoon, you were scolding yourself. You’re fine. You don’t care. It didn’t mean anything. It never meant anything. But even that was starting to ring hollow. So when the bell chimed again near closing and your head shot up on instinct, eyes connecting with familiar blue ones. Only it wasn’t Johnny. “Sue?” You breathed out, heart stumbling in your chest at the familiar face, equal parts relief and renewed confusion bubbling up behind your smile. “Hi.”

Her face lit up, warm and elegant as always, framed by a neat headband and soft waves, dressed in a powder blue coat that fell just past her knees. You rounded the counter before she could say a word, pulling her into a gentle hug. “Congratulations, you and Reed, you’re both going to be such amazing parents.” Susan laughed softly, pulling back, her hand instinctively resting over the small swell at her abdomen.

“Thank you, darling.” She whispered, her smile tender, eyes softening at your touch as you caressed the curve just barely beginning to show. Susan glanced around the shop, the quiet obvious now that the last customers had filtered out. She must have seen something flicker across your face, something you didn’t mean to let show, because her gaze settled on you a little too knowingly. "Johnny and Ben didn't tell me you were stopping by."

You hoped it sounded casual, but your voice betrayed you, just a little. She tilted her head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “No, Ben's been busy helping Reed with all the baby stuff,” She replied gently. “And, I don’t think Johnny's mentioned anything the last day or two, actually. He’s... been a little off.” Off? Your chest tightened. You didn’t ask why. You didn’t have the right to. You weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t even sure you were a friend.

You were just the girl who made the pastries he didn’t eat, the one he flirted with until fans screamed his name and you reminded yourself to be practical. Still, it gnawed at you. The absence. The silence. The ache that felt like a bruise just beneath the surface of your ribs. You forced a smile. “I’ve got some brioche cooling in the back. Want to take some home?” Susan smiled and nodded, but her eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary.

And you wondered, how much did she know? Because if anyone could see through the armor, it was the Invisible Woman. You wrapped the warm loaf in parchment, the buttery scent of brioche rising with the steam as you folded the edges with careful precision, anything to keep your hands busy while your mind threatened to spiral. Susan lingered just past the counter, fingertips brushing along the glass display case, watching you with an unreadable expression.

Her silence wasn’t uncomfortable, just... weighty. Like she was debating whether or not to cross a line. The silence stretched a few beats longer before she finally broke it. “You know,” She began, almost too casually. “Johnny’s a lot of things. Loud. Reckless. Infuriating.” A wry smile tugged at her lips. “A complete pain in the ass, honestly.” You snorted quietly, folding the twine over the loaf and tying it into a neat bow. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Her gaze sharpened at that, the playful warmth in her voice dipping into something more sincere. “But he’s also been completely, hopelessly hung up on you.” You froze, not dramatically, but just enough that your fingers faltered mid-knot. Susan leaned in slightly, voice softening. “I mean it. Ever since he met you, it’s been nonstop. You’d think Reed and I were hosting a teenage girl in love. Every dinner, it’s always ‘Y/N made me try this pastry’ or ‘You should’ve seen the way her eyes lit up when I told her a dumb joke.’”

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry as your heart pounded loud enough to rival the ticking bakery clock. “I thought it was just another Johnny phase,” Susan continued, her eyes kind now, but serious. “He’s... well. He’s had his share of admirers. Most of them louder. But none of them stuck. None of them made him show up every morning like he forgot how to sleep or act like a lovesick teenager.” Your lips parted, but no words made it out.

Susan gave you a long look, stepping closer until her voice dropped again, almost conspiratorial. “You know what really got me? He started asking me about baking.” You blinked. “He what?” She nodded, confirming that you in fact had heard her correctly. “Wanted to know how long croissants proof. What makes a good butter ratio. If semi-sweet chocolate was the same as milk chocolate, I nearly dropped a plate.”

She gave a quiet laugh, brushing her coat sleeve with her thumb. “He burns toast, Y/N. He once tried to boil eggs in the microwave.” That startled a weak laugh out of you, but the ache behind it remained. “I’m not trying to play matchmaker,” Susan added, gentler now. “And I know he’s a mess, God, he really is, but... this isn’t a game to him. Not this time.” You stared down at the loaf in your hands, chest tightening under the weight of everything she wasn’t saying outright.

You could still feel the ghost of Johnny’s hand on your cheek from two days ago. The way his voice had softened when it was just the two of you. How his grin faltered when he thought you weren’t looking. The worst part? You wanted to believe her. You really did. Yet, that quiet voice in the back of your head, the one that always whispered your insecurities when the lights dimmed and the bakery closed, wasn’t so easily silenced, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.

Why would someone like him want someone like you, when he could have models, actresses, girls with legs for days and zero baggage?

You pushed the thought down, deep, wrapping the last piece of tape around the box like it could hold you together too. Susan’s hand landed lightly on your arm, anchoring you for a moment. “Whatever you decide, just don’t let the noise drown out what’s real.” You met her eyes. And in them, you saw none of the pity you were bracing for, just quiet encouragement. Understanding. You gave a faint nod and offered the brioche across the counter.

She took it gently, her smile warm as she tucked it into her bag. “Take care of yourself, Y/N.” And then she was gone, the bell jingling softly behind her as she disappeared into the golden spill of the afternoon light. You exhaled slowly, and for the first time in two days, you didn’t flinch at the thought of Johnny Storm. You just ached. The door had barely swung closed behind Susan when you stood there, motionless, loaf of brioche crumbs still scattered across the counter like the remains of a decision just made.

Your heart pounded so loudly you swore the walls could hear it. The hum of the bakery lights, the tick of the clock over the register, the faint laughter of kids down the block, it all faded beneath the sudden, sharp thrum of possibility. What if she was right? What if he wasn’t just another cocky grin in a fireproof suit? What if, under all the swagger and fanfare, Johnny Storm had been waiting, hoping, for you to see him the way he saw you?

Your hands moved before your fear could stop them. You ripped off your apron, tossing it onto the hook so fast it spun, grabbed your purse and keys, and locked the till with barely a glance. You rushed around the counter, fumbled with the light switches, not bothering to sweep the back or double-check the signage. The “Closed” sign swung crooked in the door’s window as you burst out into the late afternoon sun, scanning the sidewalk like a woman on a mission.

There she was. Susan, a block away, was sliding her sunglasses on as she reached the driver's side of a navy blue Fantasticar. You called out her name, your voice cracked with urgency and nerves. She turned, brows lifted in surprise, then slowly tilted her sunglasses down as you approached, breathless and wide-eyed. “I need a ride,” You exhaled, planting your feet like you might change your mind if you moved again. “To the Baxter Building.”

A slow, knowing smirk curled on her lips, like she’d known this would happen all along. Like she had simply laid out the breadcrumbs and waited for you to follow them. Without a word, she unlocked the car with a flick of her wrist and gestured to the passenger side. You slid in, heart hammering, palms damp, and stared out the window as the city blurred by. Your mind ran faster than the wheels on the pavement. What would you say when you saw him? What if he laughed? What if you were wrong?

But then you remembered the way he looked at you. Not like you were an option. Like you were it. The crack in his cocky demeanor when he thought nobody was looking. Susan glanced at you from the corner of her eye, her voice casual as she merged into traffic. “Took you long enough.” You glanced down, flushed and nervous, but a small smile crept across your lips. “Yeah, I guess it really did.” And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel afraid of what came next.

The drive to the Baxter Building felt endless, not because of traffic, but because of what waited at the end of it. Every red light was another second for doubt to crawl back in. Every street corner flashed with reminders: his face on magazines in bodega windows, girls with teased hair giggling over autographed photos, memories of your own reflection feeling small in comparison. Still, you didn’t ask Susan to turn around.

The building rose ahead like a monument, sleek steel and glass stretching toward a stormy Manhattan sky. As you stepped through the lobby, nerves clamped around your lungs, but Susan’s hand on your arm kept you grounded. “Just breathe,” Her eyes told you without a word. The elevator ride was silent, the kind that buzzes with everything unspoken. When the doors opened, both Reed and Ben turned like they’d sensed a bomb ticking.

Ben looked you up and down like you’d grown an extra head, half a cookie still in his massive hand. Reed’s brows lifted, already calculating variables. But before either of them could utter a syllable, Susan threw them a look sharp enough to slice concrete, one perfectly arched brow raised, hand on her hip. You chuckled inwardly, thinking she had definitely mastered the 'mom look'. Ben grunted, glanced between the two of you, then quietly retreated toward the kitchen, muttering something about minding his own damn business.

Reed blinked a few times and gave a tiny, approving nod before following suit. You turned to Susan, your pulse thudding like it might give up entirely. She only smiled, placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Third door on the left. Go.” You didn't need to be told twice. Your heels clicked softly against the polished floor as you approached the door, H.E.R.B.I.E chirped a happy greeting in your direction. You waved, resting a hand on the smooth top of the robot’s head with an affectionate pat.

As you eyes locked on the door just past him, you could have sworn your heart lurched. You didn’t bother knocking. Your hand turned the knob, and the door flung open with all the force of your barely-contained storm. There he was. Johnny Storm, sprawled across his navy couch in a gray NASA tee and sweatpants, wearing a full space suit helmet. His posture screamed boredom, limbs flung over the cushions, one leg lazily propped up on the coffee table, until he saw you.

His eyes widened, nearly cartoonish behind the visor, and he jolted upright with such force the helmet slipped sideways on his head. “Y/N!” The name flew from him like he’d been holding it in for days. His voice cracked with disbelief as he scrambled to yank the helmet off, his hair sticking up wildly from the static. “Uh, hi! I mean—hey, you’re here. You’re… in my room.” You stood just inside the doorway, hands curled into your coat pockets to keep from fidgeting.

He blinked at you, breath shallow, eyes flicking from your coat to your flushed cheeks to the tense set of your jaw. “You okay? Did something happen? Are you—?” You didn’t even let him finish. Five steps, that’s all it took. You crossed the room with a force you didn’t know you had, your palms gripping the soft cotton of his white t-shirt, knuckles white with all the tension and longing that had been brewing for weeks, and tugged him down to your level.

Then you crashed your lips into his like it was the only way to keep from falling apart. Johnny’s breath stuttered, caught completely off guard, but only for a second. One of them slid up your spine, fingers splayed wide, pulling you impossibly closer until there was no space left between your bodies. He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss like he’d been starving for it.

Your tongue brushed his, tentative at first, but then his low, guttural moan vibrated through your chest and your grip tightened in his shirt, knuckles aching. You kissed him deeper, mouths moving in perfect sync, hot and messy, with the urgency of two people who had waited too long and couldn’t wait a second more. Johnny broke the kiss just long enough to gasp your name against your jaw, voice rough and reverent.

He ducked his head, lips dragging down your neck in soft, open-mouthed kisses that made your breath catch. When his teeth grazed just beneath your ear, a sharp whimper escaped you, unfiltered and raw. “God, do you have any idea what you do to me?” His voice was hoarse, like the words had clawed their way out of him. You didn’t answer, you couldn’t. Not with your pulse pounding in your ears.

Not with the way he was looking at you like you were something sacred. Instead, you kissed him again, harder this time. The scent of him, smoke and whatever cologne he wore that made your knees weak, clouded your senses as his tongue swept across your bottom lip. Your teeth knocked, breath mingled, and his hand slipped down to the back of your thigh. Without breaking contact, Johnny bent slightly, hooking his arms under your legs and lifting you as if you weighed nothing.

You gasped into his mouth as your back met the cool plaster of his bedroom wall, the contrast making you shiver, but Johnny’s body was all heat, all fire pressed flush against you. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his hips, and the sound he made in response, part growl, part groan, was nearly enough to undo you right then and there. He kissed you like a man possessed, like he’d held back every second since the first time you handed him a croissant and smiled in his direction.

His fingers flexed at your hips, anchoring you, grounding you, while his mouth explored yours with a tenderness that burned hotter than anything reckless. You broke apart only when your lungs screamed for air, panting, foreheads pressed together. His hands trembled slightly where they gripped you, and your own were buried in his hair, fingers tangled and unwilling to let go. Your gaze met his, blue eyes wide, wild, soft, and for once, all the noise in your head quieted.

You could feel it in the space between heartbeats, in the way his thumb brushed over the back of your knee, in the breath he stole and gave back with each kiss. This wasn’t just a crush. It wasn’t a game. “Now, can I take you to dinner?” He murmured, lips brushing yours. You let out a breathy laugh, stealing one more chaste kiss that left both of you grinning like fools. “I think we might've missed a couple steps.” You teased, hands absentmindedly playing with the soft hairs at the nape of his neck.

The same ones you’d always dreamed of running your fingers through but never dared to. His eyes softened, that usual cocky glint melting into something heartbreakingly earnest. “I don’t care in what order it happened,” He whispered, blue eyes tracing every line of your face like he was trying to burn it into memory. “As long as it’s you.” Your chest tightened, the words wrapping around something fragile and long-buried in you. He leaned in, nudging his nose gently against yours, and the breath that left him was barely a whisper.

“I should’ve stayed with you that night. I should’ve kissed you the second I saw you leaning against that wall. I should’ve never let you walk away. God, I’ve been such an idiot.” You drew in a shaky breath, heart swelling in your chest. Lifting your hands from his neck, you cupped his face in your palms, thumbs brushing across the faint hint of stubble along his jaw. “Hey,” You coaxed, voice soft but firm, grounding him before his thoughts could wonder. “I’m not going anywhere anymore.”

He closed his eyes like he didn’t trust himself to believe it until you said it again, so you kissed the tip of his nose. Then the corner of his mouth. Then fully on his lips, almost as if sealing the promise between you. A knock sounded faintly, followed by Reed’s voice muffled through the door. “Johnny! Is your friend staying for dinner?” You paused, eyes meeting his. There it was again, that flicker of vulnerability, like the part of him that still feared you’d run if given the chance.

But you didn’t even need to speak. Your smile answered for you. Johnny turned toward the door, cocky grin returning with full force. “Yes she is!” He called out, eyes never leaving yours. “Tell Herbert to set another plate at the table because—” He leaned closer, pressing a final lingering kiss to your flushed cheek. “My gorgeous girlfriend is staying over for dinner.” You couldn’t help it. You beamed. That word, girlfriend, made your skin tingle.

It felt impossibly good. Honest. Earned. You tugged him back down for one more kiss, slow and sure and full of everything you’d both kept buried for far too long. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t second-guessing it. You were exactly where you wanted to be. Where he wanted you to be. Wrapped in the arms of a man who once flirted like it was a reflex, and now held you like you were the only thing in the world that ever made him feel real.

warnings: angst, smut, profanity, pet names (only sweetheart & baby), mutual pining of sorts, enemies to lovers (kinda), jealous!Bucky, possessive!Bucky, one bed trope, teasing, masturbation (male & female), brief thigh riding, dry humping, nausea/vomiting (not graphically described and not a major part of the story, apologies to my emetophobic girlies), oral sex (female receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, MINORS DNI, 18+.

word count: 43.2k

a/n: Thanks again to @littlemiss-yeehaw for reading all of my shit and listening to my unhinged ramblings when I write, and for her amazing artwork. Thanks to @flowersforbucky for also reading my shit and for taking the time to tell me that it isn't as shitty as I think. Without them, this fic would be unreachable in the depths of my laptop's trash bin. Pics included in the title image for this fic are not representative of reader, location, etc.

            Insufferable. Is that really the right word? Can someone be insufferable when all they do is mope around in silence, giving you looks of disdain? Maybe insufferable is a word better suited to describe someone who says more than five words at a time. And yet, you still feel that Bucky Barnes is insufferable.

            Raindrops patter rhythmically against the roof of the car, making the all-too-quiet stakeout a little more bearable. You shift in the passenger seat, letting your eyes fall closed for a moment as you press your head against the leather headrest behind you. You’ve been sitting here for two hours. That’s two hours of listening to nothing more than the sound of your own breathing, Bucky’s occasional annoyed sighs, and the shitty audio feed of the abandoned storefront just up the street. You’re contemplating giving in and taking a nap when you hear the sound of gravel crunching beneath tires somewhere outside of your parked car, and your eyes shoot open. You catch a glimpse of the flashing yellow lights of a security vehicle in the rearview mirror and Bucky groans, quickly powering down the surveillance equipment and dropping it down to the floor at his feet.

            “Just what we needed.” Bucky says sarcastically, with frustration edging his tone as the security guard pulls in closer and closer. He’s about twenty meters behind the car now, moving slowly. You’re sure he’s taking down the make and model of the car, the license plate, and noting the fact that it’s currently turned off. It looks suspicious as hell, you have no doubt. Your mind is moving a million miles a minute as you start shrugging your jacket off of your shoulders and mussing up your hair. “What are you doing?” Bucky asks, raising a brow in your direction.

            “Getting us out of this.” You mumble, glancing back in the rearview mirror one last time. You see the security vehicle coming to a stop a few meters behind, so you move a little quicker. You’re climbing over the center console in a flash, placing your knees on either side of Bucky’s hips as you come to straddle his lap. You hover over him, with your ass pressing against the steering wheel so hard that it’s a wonder you aren’t honking the horn. “Move your seat back.” You whisper harshly, gripping his shoulders with both hands as you stare down at him. Bucky swallows hard and narrows his eyes at you as if he wants to throw you right back into your own seat, but he reaches down with his vibranium hand and starts sliding the driver’s seat backward.

            Bucky can’t stand you. As you lower yourself down to sit on his lap, he keeps his hands stiff, with one resting along the driver’s side door and the other resting over the center console. His hands curl into fists when you lean in and press your lips against his neck. It’s soft and hesitant at first, as if you’re not really sure that it’s an acceptable thing to do. Bucky’s chin tilts upward and to the side instinctively, giving you more access and a clear go-ahead that has your second kiss coming in a little more desperate and firm against the column of his throat. Bucky tenses beneath you but the barely audible groan that slips past his lips has you wondering if he hates this as much as he’s trying to portray. You glance over his shoulder and see the security guard approaching the car now, his eyes scanning the rear windshield as he speaks lowly into a handheld radio.

            “Barnes, I swear to god if you don’t put your hands on me and make this believable…” Your threatening tone has a roguish smile tugging at the corners of Bucky’s mouth, but he refuses to let it take full form. His hands move quickly now, grabbing onto your hips and tugging them downward. He realizes as he basically grinds your clothed center over the semi-hard front of his jeans that he probably shouldn’t have done that. When you feel his partial erection pressing against you, you falter for a moment, your lips stilling against his neck and your breath hitching in your throat. “And here I thought you couldn’t stand me.” You whisper against his skin.

            “I can’t.” He responds dryly, sliding his hands up the sides of your waist and letting his fingers splay out over your ribs.

            “Are you sure about that?” You ask teasingly, swirling your hips in a circle as you press down on his lap. He grunts and lets his right hand glide up your back, moving higher and higher until it’s tangled in the hair at the crown of your head.

            “Pretty damn sure.” Bucky rasps as he uses his hold on your hair to tug your head back. He takes the opportunity he’s given himself to attach his lips to your neck, sucking a nice little red mark right below your ear before smoothing over it with his tongue. The whimper that leaves your lips at the feel of his tongue against your skin is enough to turn his semi-hard cock into a raging hard-on. The bright ray of a flashlight shining through the driver’s window catches your attention, and you feign surprise as the security guard taps on the window with his knuckles one, two, three times. Bucky’s letting go of your waist and hair and pushing the door open as a sly chuckle climbs up his throat.

            “I told her we shouldn’t do this here.” Bucky says smugly, shaking his head as you place your hands on his chest and lean back, glaring down at him. “I can’t keep her off of me.”

            “Could you uh, dismount? Ma’am?” The officer requests. You turn your head and take in the short, balding man. Blush colors his cheeks a deep shade of red and you wonder if this is the most action he’s seen all year. Moving off of Bucky’s lap, you come to stand just outside of the car, crossing your arms over your chest as the cool night air hits you. You regret taking your jacket off earlier.

            “I’m so sorry.” You say ashamedly, hoping you look as faux-embarrassed as you’ve made your voice sound. The man offers you a shy smile, his eyes wrinkling around the corners as Bucky climbs out of the car next. You smirk at the way Bucky tugs his jeans down and adjusts himself, trying his best to disguise the tent beneath the fabric. He glances in your direction, his eyes briefly flitting down to where your arms are crossed over your chest, before shrugging off his leather jacket and tossing it to you. You’re still for a moment, until you realize that it would probably look questionable if you refused the kind gesture in front of the security guard, so you drape the jacket over shoulders and wrap it around your upper body. Your little act was so believable that Bucky only has to spend about one minute chatting back and forth with the security guard before he lets you both off with a warning. He didn’t even ask to see your IDs. Bucky’s pretty good at bullshitting, you’ll give him that.

            Infuriating. As Bucky stands beneath the steady stream of hot water, letting it soak his hair and drip over the curves of his shoulders, it’s the only word on his mind. You’re fucking infuriating. How he continues to end up on missions with you is beyond him. He never thought he would miss the days of having Sam as his partner, but god, he misses them. He might even take Walker on as a partner if it means getting the hell away from you. Actually, he’d rather put up with you than with Walker. But anyone else? He’d happily work with anyone else out in the field.

             Bucky’s just beginning to rinse the shampoo out of his hair when the sound of his bedroom door flying open registers in his mind. He freezes, both hands hovering at the sides of his head as you angrily rush through his room. The bathroom door is thrown open next, and he feels a whoosh of cold air floating over the top of his glass shower door.

            “A hickey?” Your voice is laced with malice. The fiery rage inside of you is stoked by the sound of Bucky laughing behind the fogged-up glass. “Are you sixteen?”

            “You made a pretty little sound when I gave it to you.” He points out, continuing to work the shampoo into his brown locks.

            “I was playing the part.” You argue. You take a moment to glance around his bathroom, noting the way it looks exactly like yours except it’s devoid of any personality. He has dark gray rugs on the floor, a matching dark gray towel hanging over the shower door, and even a dark gray toothbrush sitting in a little white cup beside the sink. Is he allergic to every other color?

            “The security guard couldn’t hear anything inside the car, you don’t have to lie to me. You liked it.” Bucky says coolly. He rinses the suds out of his hair and even with his eyes closed, he’s sure you’re standing there with your arms crossed. It’s your signature pose in his presence.

            “I have shit to do tomorrow, Barnes. Now I have to worry about covering this up.” You complain. You snatch his towel off of the shower door and use it to wipe at the fogged-up mirror over the sink. You’re studying the sizable red mark below your ear in the reflection when Bucky turns off the running water.

            “You have three seconds to put my towel back before I walk out of here without it.” His voice is low and threatening now. You roll your eyes before tossing the towel back up and over the shower door, he grabs it immediately. When he steps out a moment later, he has the towel wrapped firmly around his waist. As he steps into the view of the mirror, your eyes roam over his wet, toned body in the reflection. Your gaze follows a few drops of water as they drip from his hair and trail down the side of his neck. You stand still in front of the mirror, unmoving as Bucky meets your gaze and narrows his eyes, taking a few steps forward to close the space between you. He comes to a stop with his bare chest nearly brushing against your clothed back, and then he moves his hands to grip the edge of the countertop on either side of your hips. Leaning forward the tiniest bit, his lips graze the shell of your ear and every single muscle in your body tenses up. “Why cover it? You don’t want people to know that you like being marked up?”

            “I can’t stand you.” You spit coldly, crossing your arms over your chest and glaring at him in the reflection. Bucky chuckles lowly before letting go of the edge of the countertop and turning away from you, leaving you alone in his steamy bathroom.

            “I can’t stand you either.” He calls back to you.

            When you stomp through his bedroom a moment later, he watches out of the corner of his eye as you disappear out into the hall and let his door fall shut behind you. He knows that on some level, you’re both liars. There are so many things that you can’t stand about each other, and yet, there’s an undeniable force that seems to keep you both coming back. You could simply stay away from each other when you’re in the tower. You live across the hall from each other but the place is so damn big that you could easily avoid each other anytime you’re not working together in the field. He’s sure that somewhere beneath the haze of false hatred and tension, you can feel that incessant pull just as much as he can. That’s why he can’t stand you. That’s precisely the reason why he finds you so infuriating. Because you act like you can’t feel it.

            The Howling Commandos files have taken up nearly every waking second of your time for the past three days. You’ve read every word, combed through every grainy black and white picture, and taken enough notes to fill nearly twenty pages of the little notebook that currently sits open in front of you. And yet, you haven’t been able to formulate a solid plan. That’s why the conference room is packed full of people with varying skillsets and thought processes. Fury sits at the head of the table, leaning back comfortably in his chair as he twirls a black pen in his right. Sam sits to his left, staring down at the same files you’ve studied for hours. Beside him is Sharon, who looks equal parts bored and entirely over the situation at hand. Knowing the things that she’s been up to lately, she probably has more important places to be right now. A few people are littered around the room, leaning against walls and quietly conversing with each other as they try to come up with the best course of action to solve the present issue. You’re seated at the far end of the table, opposite of Fury, tracing the lines of your left palm with your right thumb.

            Bucky stands near the door, with his back pressed against the smooth wall and his arms crossed over his broad chest. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t labeled a mandatory meeting. Hell, even with it being labeled mandatory, he considered skipping it. He doesn’t particularly enjoy watching everyone read up on his past life, even if it was the era that he considers his glory days. Being a part of the Howling Commandos was one of the few good things he ever did, but letting himself think about that time only leads him down a darker path. He thinks about how each Howling Commandos mission that he was a part of brought him closer and closer to getting captured, to losing his arm, to losing himself. Shaking his head, Bucky pushes away from the wall and stands straight, he wonders if anyone will notice him slipping out the door.

            “I don’t like time travel.” Fury says evenly, keeping his eyes on the pen in his hand as he twirls it around just above the surface of the conference room table. Bucky freezes, his eyes narrowing as he looks to Fury. Everyone in the room halts, all eyes moving in the same direction to follow the commanding voice. “I don’t like time travel at all. It’s risky and it tends to fuck things up in the long run.” Fury takes a moment to cast his eyes around the room, taking in each and every person present. After making the first round, he turns his head to the right and focuses on Bucky. “Unfortunately, I think this situation calls for something risky.”

            Goosebumps spread over the surface of your skin and you tense in your seat. You follow Fury’s gaze and your eyes land on Bucky, who stands tall beside the door. His arms hang still at his sides, and for once, his vibranium arm isn’t hidden behind a long shirt sleeve or leather jacket. The black and gold glints in the fluorescent lighting of the room, drawing attention like a bright red flower draws bees.

            “The intel that we need from a currently non-existent HYDRA base doesn’t exist. The Howling Commandos weren’t tasked with collecting evidence or documenting what they found at each base.” Fury continues. Bucky swallows hard but maintains eye contact. He already doesn’t like where this is going. “So, we send someone back in time to get what we need.”

            As tension rises in the room and the air begins to feel like its crackling with anticipation, Fury lays out the only two potential plans he can think of. The first plan is automatically a no, because of how risky it is to send a full team back in time. The first plan would’ve been to send someone back in time to infiltrate a specific HYDRA base moments before the Howling Commandos take it out, so the intel can be gathered and brought back to the present. But the second plan is the one that has discussion raging around the conference room.

            “Steve wouldn’t trust someone he’s just met, we’d need to get through to Peggy first, then she can sway him and the rest of the Howling Commandos.” Sharon argues, leaning forward and clasping her hands together over the table. Your eyes flit over to her as her blonde hair falls over one shoulder and obscures the side of her face. She’s right, 1940s Steve Rogers wouldn’t even come close to trusting a new person in the midst of a war, let alone one who’s so obviously from the wrong time period. You see Sam laughing to himself further down the table and you’re sure he’s remembering the story Steve used to tell of his past self attempting to kick his present self’s ass during his time travel stint.

            “Peggy wouldn’t be wholly trusting either.” Fury points out, barely looking up from the surface of the table before him. “We need to get Peggy and at least one of the Howling Commandos on our side for this to work. The rest will follow.”

            “What if we go at this from a slightly different angle?” Torres asks. He stands a few feet behind your seat, leaning against the wall as his thumbs rapid-fire away at the phone in clutched in his hands. Everyone turns their attention to him and he finally looks up, blinking once before clicking the phone off and sliding it into the back pocket of his jeans.

            “We’re listening.” Fury says, his interest clearly piqued.

            “We pick someone that Peggy could relate to, someone she would like, maybe become fast friends with.” He starts slowly, letting his gaze roam over each person in the room as he speaks. His eyes stop when he reaches Bucky, and you don’t have to look over your shoulder to know that Bucky’s staring right back at him. “And that same person needs to be someone Bucky would like, someone he’d be drawn to. Steve would trust Bucky’s judgement, and at least by choosing to make Bucky the center of this, we have the advantage of having him right here.”

            It’s silent for a beat as the idea is mulled over. You turn around and look back to Fury, watching as his face shifts from a blank, almost bored expression to a thoughtful one. He nods slowly before tucking the pen he’s been twirling around into the pocket of his jacket.

            “Sergeant Barnes…” Fury’s eyes shift to his right, landing on the stiff super soldier who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here right now. “Does that sound like a feasible plan?” It feels as though everyone is collectively holding in a breath as Bucky remains silent. You can tell he’s thinking, you can almost see the gears turning behind his blue eyes as he zeroes in on Fury. A small nod from him is all it takes to get the conversation churning around the room again. He's in.

            “I can be in and out and have this whole thing finished within just a few seconds of passing time here, I need maybe two days in the past.” Sharon says calmly, leaning back in her seat as she tucks a stray lock of blonde hair behind one ear. You really don’t even know why the discussion is still ongoing at this point. Out of everyone left in the conference room, the majority is most definitely in favor of sending Sharon back in time for the mission. It’s not like there were many other options. You didn’t exactly volunteer yourself and as of right now, you and Sharon are the only women on the team. Sure, Fury could’ve shopped around the agency a bit and found a few other suitable agents to screen for the task at hand, but Sharon seems pretty set on handling it herself.

            “Okay, say you gain Peggy’s trust easily. What about Bucky? What’s your plan for getting him on your side?” Sam asks with a raised brow. The room grows quiet and all eyes land on Sharon as she filters through the possible methods she could use. Your eyes flit over to where Bucky is still leaning against the wall by the door, looking slightly less disinterested in the conversation than he was earlier. He’s studying Sharon with an unreadable expression painted on his face. Instinctively, your hand lifts up to the healing hickey that’s hidden beneath a layer of concealer and foundation right below your ear. For the briefest moment, he turns his head and tracks your movement, his eyes roaming down to the tips of your fingers as they brush over the skin of your neck. You drop your hand in an instant and his blue eyes meet yours. You can feel the arrogance radiating off of him and you roll your eyes before looking back to Sharon. You swear you hear Bucky chuckle under his breath, but when you glance around the room, no one else seems to have heard a thing.

            “I just put on a pretty outfit and dance with him. It can’t be that hard to woo a soldier in his bachelor phase.” Sharon laughs out. A few softer laughs ring out around the table, but Torres’s next question quiets everyone.

            “Bucky, what kind of girl would you have asked to dance back in the forties?”

            You think it must be Bucky’s lack of an immediate response that sucks the air out of the room. It’s so quiet you can hear the sound of your own heart beating in your ears, even though it’s beating at a normal rate and rhythm. You steal a look at Bucky once again, who’s face is cast downward at the floor. He seems to find his shoes overly interesting all of a sudden. Everyone’s staring at him.

            Bucky’s mind is churning, running through all of the girls he ever shared a moment with back in his golden days. He has a type in more ways than one. It’s not just a physical type. He’s always been drawn to women with certain personality traits, women with certain ways of carrying themselves, certain ways they flirt. One wouldn’t think he was picky with the number of girls he found himself in the company of back in the day, but he damn sure was. And he still is. That’s why his heart beats a little harder, vibrating against his ribcage as he lets out a deep breath and finally looks up. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, but he focuses in on the one person that he’s sure his younger self will trust. Bucky’s staring right at you.

            “It needs to be you.” He says firmly, fixing his gaze on your face as the color drains from it. If the air hadn’t been sucked out of the room when Torres first asked a question, it sure as hell would’ve been now. Your breath is hitched in your throat and the skin over your hidden hickey suddenly feels like it’s on fire. No, scratch that. Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire. Color returns to your cheeks as quickly as it first disappeared, and suddenly, you’re flushed pink.

            “Me?” The word leaves your lips as an unintended whisper, but you can’t be bothered to clear your throat and try again. You know he heard you. He nods slightly, looking quite sure of himself, but his expression is still unreadable and it’s driving you mad.

            “Her?” Sharon questions, narrowing her eyes at you and pursing her lips. She’s looking at you in disbelief, but not because it’s questionable that you’d be someone’s type. She’s looking at you like that because she knows, like everyone knows, that you and Bucky are at each other’s throats more often than not. Why would that be any different with a younger version of himself? The last thing the team needs is you getting sent back in time to argue with yet another version of Bucky Barnes.

            “Her.” Bucky shrugs, shooting Sharon a look that easily shuts her up. She leans back in her seat once more and crosses her arms over her chest, indicating that she doesn’t like where this is going.

            “Are you sure?” Sam asks with a raised brow, his eyes flitting between you and Bucky. Bucky pushes himself away from the wall and turns to face the door that leads out into the hall. As his flesh hand wraps around the door handle, he finds himself biting down on the inside of his cheek. He’s sure that his younger self will be drawn to you, that he’ll trust you, yeah. Is he sure that this is a good idea? Hell no.

            “It’s her.” Bucky confirms. Then, he walks out of the conference room as if he didn’t just drop a fucking bomb in the middle of the goddamn gunmetal table. What the hell does he mean it’s you?

            Your silence is unsettling. Bucky thought you might come storming into the gym during his evening workout, ready to give him a violently worded piece of your mind after he left the conference room earlier, but you never did. Then, while a mix of sweat and suds spilled down the drain of his shower, he listened intently for the sound of his bedroom door flying open, but it never came. He sits on the side of his bed in the dim light of a lamp, thumbing through the little red notebook that once belonged to Steve. He isn’t digesting its contents. Really, he isn’t even skimming over the words that are written in pencil before him. He’s zoned out as he strains his ears to listen for you across the hall. He knows you’re in your room. It’s late, just a bit past midnight now, and you’re always tucked away in there by ten. But you’re not asleep, that’s for damn certain. He can hear the occasional sound of your footsteps against the soft rug you have spread over your bedroom floor. Every few minutes, he hears an uncharacteristic scuffling sound, following by a thud. What the hell are you doing over there?

            He waits a moment longer before his curiosity and impatience get the best of him, and then he’s tossing the notebook onto his bed and taking long strides toward the hall. If you won’t come to him to argue about today’s conference room situation, about what’s now lingering on the horizon, then he’ll go to you. Arguing about it will be far better than sitting around while you do whatever the hell sort of noisy thing it is you’re doing over there right now, Bucky thinks.

            In retrospect, he should’ve knocked. By the time he’s throwing your unlocked door open and taking the first step into your room, he’s already sporting a half-hard cock beneath the all-too-thin fabric of his sweats and boxers. The dog tags hanging against his bare chest give away the increased rate of his breaths as his eyes skate over you. You’re on your hands and knees in the center of the room, with your cheeks flushed pink and your oversized t-shirt making it look like you’re not wearing anything else. As you stare up at Bucky, both of you frozen in place, you’re acutely aware of the compromising position he’s found you in. You sit back on your knees quickly, dropping the last few stray rings into the small jewelry tray in your left hand.

            “What the hell, Bucky?” You look up at him with a mix of confusion and annoyance in your eyes as the rings clink against the ceramic tray. Bucky swallows hard as he stares down at you, trying to figure out what the fuck you’re doing in the middle of the floor. His gaze lands on one single golden ring glinting in the low light of your room and your eyes follow his.

            “You missed one.” He says lowly. You reach out and pick it up with your thumb and index finger before setting it on the small tray along with the rest. “What are you doing?”

            “Rearranging.” You respond dryly. You stand carefully, making sure not to dump all of your rings out a second time, before crossing the room and setting the tray on your recently moved vanity. Bucky’s only been in your room once or twice before, but he notices the changes immediately. You’ve moved your vanity from the right side of the room to the left. The chair you used to have sitting near the window now sits in a corner near the bed. A few other small pieces of furniture are strewn about haphazardly, as if you haven’t quite decided where you want them yet.

            “At midnight?” Bucky raises a brow, catching your eyes as you turn to face him once more.

            “What are you doing in my room, Bucky?” In his peripheral vision, he sees the slight reflection of light in one last piece of jewelry on the floor. It’s just a foot in front of him, so he steps further into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him as he bends down and scoops the rose gold ring up in his palm.

            “You haven’t said anything since the team meeting earlier today.” He points out. He studies the small ring in his hand, realizing for the first time just how much smaller your hands are than his. You don’t make a move to take it from him, so he continues fiddling with it as he stands in the middle of your room.

            “You walked out.” You remind him. You turn your back to him and begin straightening up a few things on your vanity. It’s weird to have him in your room like this. Your skin feels warm while the air in the room feels cold. Your oversized t-shirt feels too small while his presence feels much too large.

            “I didn’t have anything else to say.” Bucky takes a few more steps forward and turns, bending at the knees to sit on the foot of your nicely made bed. You watch him in the reflection of your vanity mirror, wondering why the hell he seems so comfortable in your room.

            “And I should? What do you want me to say?”

            “Anything.” His single-word response makes the air in the room feel even icier, and suddenly, you’re wishing you’d put on sweats tonight. A deep breath rattles in your chest before you turn around to face him.

            “It’s not me.” You say evenly. You cross your arms over your chest and focus on his face as he stares back at you. He’s still fiddling with the ring, running the pad of his thumb back and forth over it mindlessly.

            “It’s you.” He sighs. He almost seems tired with the conversation, which is frustrating considering he’s the one who came in here and started it.

            “It’s not, and having me deal with two of you is a recipe for disaster. I can barely handle one Bucky Barnes in this century. Sharon’s the better choice.”

            “It’s not Sharon.”

            “Bucky—”

            “It’s you. I don’t know what you need me to say or do to convince you, but it’s you. The sooner you accept it, the sooner we can start making a plan and preparing for the mission.”

            His words swirl around in your head, bouncing off of the walls of your mind like it’s a fucking pinball machine. It’s not you. You’re pretty damn sure that what 1940s Bucky Barnes needs is anything but you. Maybe Bucky’s so far removed from his younger self that he just doesn’t realize how wrong you are for this mission. He’s gotten too used to working with you in the field lately and he doesn’t want to figure things out in the field with a new partner. Whatever his reasoning is, you need him to figure his shit out before you’re sent back in time to fuck up the op.

            “You can’t convince me.” You reply stubbornly, narrowing your eyes at him. “Sharon is right for this mission and everyone sees that but you.” When he glances up at you this time, his eyes settle on the light pink mark beneath your ear. His mark.

            “You’re my type.” The words slip past his lips before he can stop them, and he’s gripping the ring tightly in his flesh fist.

            “What?”

            “I’m not saying it again.” He decides, pushing himself up to stand. You’re frozen in stunned silence, your eyes wide. You’re sure you’re about to watch him walk out the door after dropping his second bomb of the day, but he turns to face you. He’s moving forward before you have a chance to do or say a damn thing. Bucky doesn’t stop until your arms are dropping down to your sides and his hands are resting on your hips. He walks you backward one, two steps, until your ass hits the edge of the vanity and a gasp parts your lips.

“There was this bar in London, the Whip and Fiddle. I went there with Steve and the guys a few times.” Bucky starts. His tone is low and gravelly and his lips are so close to yours that they nearly touch with every word he speaks. He’s looking down into your eyes with an intense look, a look that keeps you firmly in place, along with his hold on your hips and his muscular frame pressed partially against your front. A shiver runs down your spine, but you stay silent, waiting for him to continue. Bucky’s right hand glides upward, following the curve of your body until his fingertips are ghosting over the side of your neck. He presses his thumb against your healing hickey lightly, feeling you tense against him at the touch. “If younger me saw you walk into that bar, even with all of the noise and the low lights, he’d fucking swoon. It would all be over. The chasing girls around, only ever learning first names and hometowns, the bachelor shit. It would be over. He’d follow you anywhere.”

“Bucky—”

            “It’s you. Not Sharon, not anyone else damn it, it’s you.” His vibranium hand tightens over your hip and his right hand slides further back behind your head. His fingers tangle in your hair but it’s a gentle, careful act. You tilt your head up and take in his serious expression. His brows are furrowed and his gaze heats your face as he stares down at you. He isn’t fucking with you. He isn’t trying to get in your head or manipulate you into being a part of this mission. He means every word of what he’s saying right now and it scares the shit out of you. You move quick, drawing your arms up between the two of you and pressing your palms flat against his bare chest. You shove him back hard, forcing him to take one big step away from you. He doesn’t look surprised at all, and his expression never shifts, the seriousness never leaves his face.

            “You can’t stand me.” You remind him, though the words feel empty as you say them. You’re questioning the notion, as if he hasn’t said those words himself a hundred times before.

            “I can’t.” He agrees, nodding slowly. You take a deep, shaky breath in and let it out through your teeth. “But for some reason, it’s still you.”

            You stand still, with the edge of the vanity still digging into your ass and your chest heaving as Bucky turns his back to you and heads for the foot of your bed. You watch through narrowed eyes as he leans over and scoops up the ring he left sitting there. He straightens up and looks down at the small shiny object held precariously between his thumb and forefinger.

            “Do you know how to dance?” The question rolls off of his tongue so casually that for a moment, you wonder if anything that just happened really happened. Did he not have you pushed up against the vanity only seconds ago? Was he not touching you and leaning in close like you meant something to him after months of acting like you’re nothing more than his shit-giving coworker?

            “What?” You nearly choke on the word. Your throat is so dry after seemingly forgetting to swallow at all in his presence.

            “Do you know how to dance?” He repeats, craning his neck to the side to look at you.

            “What the hell does—”

            “He’s going to ask you to dance, and you’ll have to say yes.” Bucky says matter-of-factly. You find it a little odd that he refers to his younger self as if he’s someone else, but you don’t comment on it. “I can teach you.”

            “Fine.” Bucky freezes at your quick and unexpected caving. He raises an eyebrow at you, still fiddling with the ring between his fingers. “Help me move my dresser.” Your eyes dart over to the large piece of furniture across the room and Bucky’s gaze follows. He looks at it for a second as the realization dawns that you’re really asking for manual labor in exchange for agreeing to go back in time for this mission. The fact that you’re going to do it, that you’re going to be the one who does this with him, leaves an unfamiliar calmness settling inside of him and he lets out a deep breath.

            The sounds of furniture scuffling around the room and soft thuds carry on for the next half hour as Bucky uses the serum in his veins to set your room up just how you want it. When everything is finished and you seem satisfied, he walks over to your vanity and drops the last ring into the ceramic tray. Your eyes rake over his bare back, taking in the way there isn’t even the slightest sheen of sweat present on his smooth skin. You should’ve asked him to move your furniture two hours ago when you first started doing it yourself. If you’d known it was so damn easy for him, you might’ve even said please.

            “You should probably lock your door at night.” Bucky says as he heads toward it. He wraps his hand around the door handle and you watch as the muscles of his flesh arm ripple slightly.

            “Why? Are you going to keep barging in?”

            “You’ve done that a lot more than I have.” He points out, tugging the door open to reveal the darkened hallway beyond.

            “So, start locking yours then.” You retort. He can hear you rolling your eyes. A small smile plays on his lips as he steps out into the hall and runs a hand through his messy hair, keeping his back to you.

            “My door’s always open for you, sweetheart.”

            “Fuck you, Barnes.” You say coldly, just as the door clicks shut between the two of you.

            You can’t stand him.

            Sam doesn’t let things go easily. Sure, if he was really pushing Bucky’s buttons, he might back off a bit, but he hasn’t gone too far yet. Yet.

            “I just want to know how you can go from barely getting along with the woman to demanding that she’s the one for your little forties self.” Sam says through a smirk. He falls into step next to Bucky as the two of them jog through the heavily wooded trails behind the tower.

            “If you’re going to keep talking about this, you can finish the run alone.” Bucky threatens, shooting Sam a deathly sideways glare.

            “I’ve been telling you for months that there was something between the two of you, and you shot it down every time. I don’t get to gloat now?”

            “There’s nothing to gloat about. There isn’t anything between us besides this mission. You’re reading too far into shit, Sam.”

            “That super soldier serum didn’t teach you how to be a convincing liar, huh?”

            “I’ll see you back at the tower.” Bucky says flatly, immediately picking up his pace to an ungodly speed and leaving Sam behind in literal dust.

            Bucky’s ears are filled with the sounds of his feet pounding against the dry dirt path below and his own steady, even breaths as he speeds along the trail. The mission is the only thing between you, he tells himself. There isn’t anything else. As much as he wants there to be, as much as he feels something there, you fight against the tension like it suffocates you. You fight against it tooth and nail, pushing Bucky away every time you think he might be getting a little closer to you. Is it just him? If it was someone else running dangerous ops with you, saving your ass regularly, and sitting through stake-outs with you late at night, would you push them away just as hard? Or is it just because that guy is Bucky?

            Thunder rumbles in the distance, tearing Bucky away from his troubling train of thought momentarily. He glances up through the crowded tree branches and catches sight of the gray sky above. He can smell rain in the air, so he picks up the pace a little more, intent on beating it.

            He can still feel the curve of your hip against his vibranium hand and the way every muscle in your body tensed up when he pressed his thumb against the mark on your neck last night. Fuck. Bucky feels beads of sweat forming around his hairline, and it’s not from the hellish pace he’s bent on keeping. His mind falls even further back to that last stakeout. The memory of you moving over the center console of the car and seating yourself on his lap so effortlessly plays out in front of him like a movie. He doesn’t even realize how fast he’s running until the tower comes into view a whole lot sooner than he expected it to. With sweat dripping down the back of his neck, he tugs his shirt off and scans his palm at the back entrance to the gym.

            He can feel the weight of your body settling over him, feel your thighs pressing against either of his hips as you straddle his lap. Bucky bites down on his bottom lip as he tugs the door open and glances over his shoulder for any sign of Sam. He lets the door fall closed behind him when he realizes that he’s probably still a couple of miles back in the woods. Lifting the t-shirt that’s hanging from his right hand, Bucky uses it to wipe the sweat from his brow and neck. Fuck you. Fuck you for acting like you’re oblivious to whatever the hell has been brewing between the two of you for months now. It’s right in front of your face and yet you act like you can’t see a damn thing, like you don’t feel a damn thing. Fuck you for giving Bucky just enough of you to fantasize about but not enough to feel satisfied. He heads straight for the locker room, shoving the door open hard as he uses one hand to untie the drawstring of his shorts.

            He won’t let himself do what he needs to do. He comes to stand in front of the mirror, placing his hands on the edge of the sink as he drops his head and sucks in a deep breath. He won’t do it. Bucky lifts his head a bit, looking his reflection in the eye for a moment before flicking the faucet on and splashing a handful of cold water against his flushed face.

            Fuck. He’s going to do it. He’s rushing for one of the showers within the next second, turning the hot water on just before he shoves his shorts and boxers down. He steps out of them, already mentally chastising himself for what he’s about to do.

            He’s only been in the shower for a minute when heat begins to spread down his spine, sending a warmth over the surface of his skin and pushing him to lean forward. He rests his forehead against the cold tile wall of the shower, telling himself that this is pathetic. His flesh hand works quickly, moving back and forth while staying wrapped tightly around the shaft of his cock. A shaky breath snakes past his lips as his eyes flutter closed and his hips piston forward once, twice, three times. He fucks his hand roughly, letting out a low groan when the pad of his thumb brushes against the sensitive spot on the underside of the head of his cock. He hates that this is what he’s resorted to. Never once has he left himself do this with you on his mind. It feels shameful, even offensive. You’d kick his ass if you ever found out, he’s fucking sure of that. Still, he continues on, working himself up until he’s teetering on the edge of bliss. It’s the memory of you on his lap in that damn care, letting him tug on your hair and tilt your head back so he could suck on your neck, that almost finishes him. His movements grow sloppy and his breaths come out a little more ragged. He replays the sweet little sound you made when he left that hickey on your skin, when he left his mark on you.

            “Shit.” Bucky groans, scrunching his eyes shut even tighter and stroking his cock a little harder. A shudder races through him and he bangs his vibranium fist against the shower wall just as his climax hits. He opens his eyes and watches as ropes of cum paint the tiles. The steamy shower water washes it all away and carries it down the drain within seconds. What a waste.

            You’ve been lying on your stomach in bed ever since you woke up, watching every video you can find that depicts anything remotely close to dancing in the forties. It’s stressing you the hell out. How long do you have to learn this shit? Does Bucky even remember how to do this? You can’t picture him doing something so…lighthearted.

            You roll over onto your back, tossing your phone to the opposite side of the bed before pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes and letting out a frustrated groan. Why the hell did you agree to this? Oh, right. The memory of last night starts playing in your mind on a loop. Bucky barged into your room like he had every right to. He sat on your bed. He pushed you up against the vanity and…and did absolutely nothing. So, why does your heart race merely at the memory? If it was nothing, why did it feel like something? You let out a louder groan and run your hands through your messy hair, tugging at it a little and feeling the slight stretch of your scalp. You’re thinking about pulling the covers over your face and going back to sleep for the rest of the rainy morning, but your train of thought shifts over to the contents of the communal fridge in the kitchen down the hall.

            Bucky’s chosen to avoid you today. If what he did in the shower half an hour ago is any indication of the dangerous territory that he’s put himself in, he knows he needs to pump the brakes now. So, he stands in the kitchen, leaning against the edge of the countertop as he sips on a glass of orange juice in near-silence. The sounds of rolling thunder and heavy rain are all he can hear as he tries to ignore the guilt eating away at him. He really fucked his hand simply at the memory of being close to you last night. He’s in way too fucking deep and he needs to get a grip before this mission really starts. Maybe he should’ve just let it be Sharon. She probably could’ve pulled it off. Younger Bucky wasn’t really all that picky if he’d had a few drinks, and Sharon could’ve easily been coached to put on a personality that Bucky would’ve been drawn to. But no, he had to make sure it was you. God, he’s kicking himself for it all now.

            He stiffens when he hears your door open down the hall, fighting against the urge to make a dash for the elevator just to avoid you. He glances at the time displayed over the stovetop. It’s still too early to get ready and rush off for his therapy session, but maybe if he drives really slowly Dr. Raynor won’t have to question why he’s there an hour and a half ahead of time. Bucky lets out a heavy sigh as your footsteps patter down the hall in the distance. He’s being dramatic. He knows that. He had a moment of weakness in the shower this morning and it was his own fault. He shouldn’t have let his thoughts carry him that far and he sure as hell shouldn’t have been in your room doing and saying the things he did and said last night.

            When you appear in the main living area, you’re still wearing that damn oversized t-shirt and distinct lack of pants that you were last night, and Bucky stifles a frustrated groan. His eyes roam over your body so quickly that you don’t even notice the look as you enter the kitchen and give him a small nod. You tug the fridge open and rummage around for a few seconds as your mind races. Your heart is beating wildly in your chest, you can feel warmth creeping into your cheeks, coloring them pink. You hate this. Why the hell did he decide to flip a switch this week? You were fine barely getting along, just giving each other shit in the field and then coming home after missions and going your separate ways for the most part. Why did he have to say all of that shit about it being you that his younger self would want?

            Your appetite dissipates more and more with each passing second, until suddenly you’re shutting the fridge and taking a step back. You see Bucky out of the corner of your eye, sipping on an almost empty glass of orange juice as he studies you.

            “You’re manipulative.” You say lowly, crossing your arms over your chest as you turn to face him. He raises a brow at you and takes another sip from his glass, but says nothing in response. “What you did last night wasn’t fair.”

            “Moving your furniture around?” He questions, keeping that one brow raised. You can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s being facetious and it pisses you off. Your tongue presses against the inside of your cheek as you look him over. He’s clearly fresh out of the shower with messy, damp hair. He’s dressed in dark gray sweats and a navy blue t-shirt that hugs the muscles of his upper body a little too snugly for your liking.

            You could just respond to his question with a verbal answer, you know that. You could just open your mouth and remind him about what it was that he did last night that you’re referring to as being unfair and manipulative. But your feet carry you forward. You move slowly, giving him a multitude of opportunities to step around you and leave the kitchen unscathed. Bucky remains planted there, leaning against the kitchen counter with the glass in his hand. When you’re only a foot away from him, you reach out with your right hand and take hold of the glass. He watches you carefully, with his head slightly cocked to the side as your grip tightens and his loosens. When he lets you fully take the glass from his hand, you lift it to your lips and swallow the last sip of orange juice. Bucky’s cock twitches beneath the fabric of his sweats as he watches your lips retreat from the exact spot that his once pressed against the glass. He bites down on the inside of his cheek in an attempt to dissuade the hardening of his already tired cock.

            “Do you really think I’m talking about you moving my furniture around?” You ask in a whisper, taking one more step forward until your chest is nearly brushing against his. You reach past him with your right arm and set the glass on the countertop behind him, holding your breath as your bottom lip comes within a centimeter of his chin. You keep your head tilted up, watching his eyes as the distance between you diminishes. “I couldn’t possibly be talking about you pushing me up against the vanity and putting your hands on me, right?” His eyes flutter closed and you smirk, feeling satisfied with the effect that you’re clearly having on him. You let both of your hands rest against the edge of the countertop on either side of him and suddenly you’re close enough that when you stop tilting your head upward, the tip of your nose is threatening to brush against the column of his throat.

            “Did that do something for you?” His words come out slightly raspy and it sends an unfamiliar warmth surging low in your stomach. You pull your head back a couple of inches and look up at him through your lashes, tilting your head to the side.

            “Not a damn thing.” You lie. He chuckles darkly and lets out a breath that fans across your face. A smug smile takes over his features and you feel your confidence wavering.

            “Right.” He says absently, as his flesh hand begins to move. You can feel your heart rate doubling as you anticipate his touch, and it infuriates you. Since when does he get this kind of physiological reaction from your body? As his fingertips make light contact with the side of your neck, you inhale sharply and let your eyes fall closed. You want so badly to remain stoic, to look as unbothered as ever as his fingers ghost over the now mostly invisible hickey that he left days ago, but you fail.

            Bucky knows that when he presses his thumb against that spot, just like he did last night, your body will tense up. Even with the alarm bells going off inside his head, with that little voice inside of him screaming for him to run, to do anything but the stupid thing he’s about to do, he can’t help himself. His wraps his vibranium around your waist and presses his cool metal palm against the small of your back before tugging you forward. The moment your chest collides with his, he pushes the pad of his thumb against that spot beneath your ear and revels in the feeling of your body tensing against his. Fuck. He’s in deep, but he wishes he was in so much deeper.

            “Not a damn thing, hm?” He teases, looking down at you as your eyes flutter open.

            “I really can’t stand you.” You retort, but you make no move to get out of his hold. You’re sure that he can feel the dangerously high rate that your heart’s beating at, but still, you stay there against him.

            “I know.” He smirks. He lets his thumb trail down the side of your neck until it reaches your collarbone, and then he moves it right back up to the spot where he first marked you. “But you agreed to be a part of the mission anyway, so you’re stuck with me for now.”

            “I still think it’s a bad idea.” You point out. You’re coming to your senses now, realizing just how compromising of a position you’re both in right now and how beyond stupid and careless this is. What are you thinking? You pull your hands up between your two bodies and place your palms against the soft blue fabric of his shirt, getting ready to push yourself away from him. He knows what you’re about to do so he tightens his vibranium arm around your waist and slides his flesh hand back to tangle in your hair.

            “I didn’t convince you last night?” He asks roughly, narrowing his eyes at you as if he’s slightly annoyed. You shake your head and push lightly against his chest, not putting any real effort behind your movement. He holds you impossibly tighter against his chest before dipping his head down toward your neck.

            “Bucky.” You breathe his name out softly, with no other words coming to your mind.

He’s feral. He’s fucking feral. He’s fighting with every ounce of restraint that he possesses to keep from leaving five more marks on the skin of your neck, just to replace the one that’s now faded from there. It’s as if he didn’t fuck his hand to completion less than an hour ago, because his cock sure seems to have forgotten. He bites down on his bottom lip before nudging the tip of his nose against the column of your throat. God, he wants to fucking taste you.

“You know where to find me if you need more convincing.” He says lowly, nipping at your neck one single time before releasing you from his grip and pushing past you. He needs to get the fuck out of here.

            You spend the rest of Saturday morning in bed, just like you’d planned, though you didn’t get much sleep. You laid there under the covers, lazily scrolling through your phone, until you heard Bucky’s door opening, closing, and then locking right before he headed for the elevator down the hall. With him out of the tower, you finally felt like you could breathe. So, that’s what you did. You laid in bed and breathed. You took a nice, deep breath in as you rolled over onto your back and let your hand snake down beneath the waistband of your panties. You let a long breath out as you ran your fingertips through the wetness that had gathered along your folds. Then, you drew a shaky breath in as you circled your middle and ring fingers over your clit, using your own arousal as lube. You don’t feel good about what you did to yourself the moment Bucky was out of earshot. You don’t feel good about pretending that your hand was really his. You really don’t feel good about his name being on the tip of your tongue as an orgasm shook you to your core. But you feel good about the fact that you didn’t actually say his name out loud. That’s something, right?

            As you put the final finishing touches on your makeup look for the night, you force yourself to push Bucky Barnes far out of reach of your mind. You know that you’ll have to deal with him enough come Monday, when there’s another team meeting about the mission, but for now, you tell yourself that he’s off limits. He’s off limits and you get to spend the night thinking about anyone and anything else. Maybe that’s exactly what you should do. Think about anyone else.

            The bar that Sharon chose for tonight is dimly lit and overly full of patrons. You feel like you touch a minimum of three people every time you try to take a step in any direction, so you settle into a cramped booth with your drink and good company, hoping you can get away with sitting there for at least the next hour while the crowd thins out.

            “You could’ve picked a busier place.” Maria remarks sarcastically, shooting Sharon an annoyed look as they both slide into their seats across from you. You take a long sip of your drink before setting it down on the wooden surface of the table and double-checking that nothing was swiped from your clutch on your way through the bustling bar.

            “You need to get used to being around normal people, Maria.” Sharon wiggles her eyebrows. “No gods or mutants or super soldiers, just good old fashioned normal men.”

            “I came here under the impression that this was going to be a girls night.” Maria says as she lifts her drink up to her lips. A mischievous look takes over Sharon’s face and her eyes glimmer as she looks between you both.

            “A girls night where all the girls go home with a plus one.”

            “Oh, fuck off, Sharon.” Maria scoffs, shoving her shoulder playfully. Sharon snorts and casts her gaze around the crowded bar, seemingly browsing the vast menu of eligible men. As you follow her line of sight, you notice that there are significantly more men than women here. Including the three of you, you count maybe a total of ten women versus at least fifty men.

            “Sharon…” You start, narrowing your eyes as you face her.

            “Maybe I chose a bar that’s currently having their weekly guys night.” Knowing that both you and Maria are ready to start in on her, Sharon raises a hand and closes her eyes. “But I did it with a good heart. You both need to get laid.”

            As much as you want to kick her from underneath the table, you know she’s right. You shake your head as you take another long sip from your drink, and wonder just how many of these you might need before you agree to go home with one of the strangers in this bar.

            “I don’t think I’m the one that needs to get laid tonight.” Maria says quietly, casting a pointed look in your direction. Your eyes widen at her insinuation.

            “Why are you looking at me when you say that?”

            “You’re about to spend a whole lot of time with not one, but two Bucky Barnes.” She responds. Sharon nods eagerly, suddenly leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table as she joins Sharon in staring you down.

            “You need to fuck someone and clear your system before this mission takes off. Make sure you’re going into it with an empty tank, you know?” You’re sure that Sharon’s mostly joking, but there’s still an air of seriousness to her words.

            “You both think that I’d be tempted by him?” You raise an eyebrow at both of the women before you. They share an indecipherable look between themselves before all eyes are back on you.

            “Aren’t we all?”

            Bucky doesn’t usually pick whiskey. Nowadays he’s more of a beer kind of guy. Especially when he wants to drink a lot and reminisce about the times when he could get drunk. The feel of a cold glass bottle in his hand and the lip of it pressing against his mouth with each sip reminds him of a time when just a few of those would do him in. But tonight, he’s drinking Four Roses.

            As he swirls the amber liquid around in his glass, he scans the packed bar. The crowd is thick, with men heavily outnumbering and swarming the few women that are milling about.

            “I didn’t take you three for the guy’s night type.” Maria’s familiar voice sounds from behind Bucky’s left shoulder. He turns in unison with Sam and Torres. When their backs are to the bar, they all come face to face with Maria Hill. Bucky gives her a subtle up-and-down look, feeling a bit odd seeing her in an outfit that doesn’t resemble anything tactical for once.

            “I wouldn’t have taken you for the guy’s night type either.” Sam laughs out before taking a sip of his beer.

            “Trust me, I’m not.” Maria responds with a slight grimace, casting a glance over her shoulder in the general direction of where she came from. Bucky follows her gaze and spots a few booths off to a side wall, but it’s too dim for him to tell which one she might be looking to. He focuses back on her as she pushes between him and Sam to get to the bar. She orders three different drinks in quick succession, but only the last one catches Bucky’s attention. It’s your drink. “Is that you guys that I feel staring or is it the rest of the sleazy men in this place?” Maria asks jokingly, looking over her shoulder again. Sam and Torres both laugh, but Bucky’s barely paying any attention. He’s scanning the room again, studying each face with a watchful eye as he searches for you. “They’re in the third booth against the far left wall.” Maria says reluctantly, when she catches the look in Bucky’s eye. She may find him attractive as hell, like everyone else does, but she knows he’s essentially off the market. He may hide it well with the constant bickering and brooding façade, but he’s so fucking into you. Maria knows it as well as anybody else. Well, anybody but you. Sometimes she wonders if Bucky himself even knows it.

            Bucky shoots Maria a sideways look and she shakes her head.

            “They won’t be happy that you guys are crashing girls’ night.” She clicks her tongue disapprovingly, just as the bartender starts working on her drinks.

            “Oh, come on. They’ll be thrilled.” Sam jokes, immediately heading off in the direction of the booth Maria described. Torres stays with her, but Bucky follows Sam closely. He should be running in the opposite direction. He knows it’d be in his best interest to down the rest of his whiskey and run right out the door. And yet, his feet carry him forward like his entire goal since this morning hasn’t been to avoid you.

            You were having a half-decent night before you laid eyes on Bucky Barnes. When he comes into view, wearing one of his signature leather jackets and dark gloves, your heart skips a beat. You’re sure it’s skipping a beat out of protest rather than anything more meaningful, but still, it skips a damn beat. You don’t even hear Sam’s initial greeting, or the immediate banter that he and Sharon get into the moment he’s within earshot of the table. In fact, every single sound in the bar seems muffled all of a sudden. He’s staring at you. Bucky’s looking right into your eyes as he hovers near the end of the table, with his expression as bored and unreadable as ever.

            The intense eye contact is only broken when Maria and Torres appear, and she uses her shoulder to nudge Bucky out of the way so she can set the three drinks down. As soon as she slides the small glass in front of you, the din of the bar is loud again and you’re itching for a higher blood-alcohol level. You down the fresh drink in one long gulp, ignoring the burning in your throat as all eyes fall on you.

            “I think I need something a little stronger.” You say flatly, after clearing your throat and setting your empty glass down on the table. Sharon raises an eyebrow at you but within a second, she re-engages with Sam. Maria and Torres are quick to take your side of the booth the moment you rise to your feet, and Sam slides in next to Sharon. As you saunter off toward the bar, you can hear the sound of Bucky dragging a chair over to the edge of the table to give himself somewhere to sit.

            Bucky can’t seem to tear his eyes away from you as you make your way to the bar. You’re wearing a little black dress that hugs your curves and accentuates every part of you that he’s been trying not to think about all goddamn day. The heels you chose are surely killing your feet with every step you take, but god, they keep drawing his gaze down your legs and then the dress drags him right back up again. The front of Bucky’s jeans have started to feel a bit too tight and his mind is reeling. He wants to pour his glass of whiskey into his eyes. It may be the only way he can stop fucking staring at you.

            Though you feel Bucky’s eyes burning a hole in the back of your head, you refuse to look back. He can stare all he wants, but you’ve decided not to give a shit. He messed with your head last night and manipulated you into being a part of next week’s mission. Then, he messed with your head again this morning, telling you to come find him if you need anymore convincing. What the hell did he mean by that? You swallow hard as you reach the bar, reaching out and grabbing onto the edge of it to steady yourself. You’re two drinks in now and starting to feel a little buzzed, but you sure as hell won’t be stopping if the guys are sticking around. You order something significantly stronger than your last two drinks and then start fiddling with a stray lock of hair that’s hanging over your shoulder as you try to look unapproachable. This place feels like a testosterone festival and although Bucky’s stare was the only one you felt at first, you’re acutely aware of quite a few more pairs of eyes on you now.

            Bucky’s aware as well, so fucking aware. He watches with veiled frustration as you become the center of attention over at the bar. He can tell you don’t even want the attention simply by your body language, but that doesn’t stop men from ogling shamelessly. He knows you can handle yourself, so he bites down on his bottom lip and tries to return his attention to the table, choosing to pick his battles wisely. He tunes into a semi-heated conversation about who’s worse at holding their liquor amongst everyone at the table, but every now and then, his gaze flits back over to you.

            Two minutes go by before Sam notices the tension seemingly rolling off of Bucky’s broad shoulders. The brooding super soldier sits stiffly in the wooden chair at the end of the table, gripping his whiskey glass so tightly in one gloved hand that Sam’s surprised it hasn’t shattered under the pressure. When he follows Bucky’s gaze across the room, he finds the source of all of that angsty tension. There you are, looking undeniably gorgeous in that little black dress of yours with a fresh drink in hand as some tall, charismatic guy tries his best to win you over. Sam chuckles under his breath and watches for a moment, noting the way the guy continues getting closer to you every time you lean away from him. He sees the fake smile painted on your face and the way you keep nodding your head in the direction of the table as you speak in short sentences, probably letting the guy know that you have a group waiting for you.

            “Go get your girl, Bucky.” Sam finally says, lifting his half-empty beer bottle in your direction. “Haven’t you two been a fake couple at least a hundred times by now? Pretend to be her man and get her out of that.” Bucky winces at the idea. Conversation at the table dies down as everyone starts shifting to get a look at you.

            “What do you want me to do?” Bucky asks dryly, taking a long sip of his whiskey as he analyzes Sam’s expression over the rim of the glass. “She can get out of that herself if she wants to.”

            “Yeah, or you could make it easy for her.” Sam points out. Bucky turns his head to look at you again and he doesn’t like what he sees. The man takes one step closer to you, nearly closing the gap between your bodies entirely. He makes it seem as though he was pushed into you, which you seem to buy given how crowded the bar area still is. You let out a stiff but polite laugh, and then the man rests his right hand on your hip as he leans down and whispers something in your ear. That’s enough, Bucky decides. He downs the last of his whiskey before standing up and setting the empty glass on the edge of the table. He’s moving toward the bar before he has a moment to tell himself to stop. In an instant, his gloves are being tugged off one at a time and shoved into the pocket of his leather jacket.

            Bucky could just shove the guy away from you. He could throw a punch and start a good old-fashioned bar fight, maybe get himself kicked out into the street along the way. He could even waltz up and call you some sweet little pet name, because maybe, just maybe, the guy would be respectful enough to ditch the moment he thinks you’re spoken for.

            But as Bucky’s flesh hand tangles in the hair at the crown of your head and he tugs you back harshly, every other possible way to handle the situation is trampled under his feet. His movements are rough but calculated as he separates you from the guy and places his own body between you. Your lips part and you nearly spill your drink as Bucky uses his hold on your hair to tilt your head up so you’re looking right into his blue eyes.

            “Bucky, what—” The. Fuck.

            With his right hand still fisting your hair and his left moving to wrap around your waist, he pulls you flush against his chest and leans in. You don’t realize it, but even in your shocked state, you lean in to meet him. He tilts his head to the side and sucks your bottom lip in between his teeth instantly, barely even kissing you before he’s biting down on it hard enough to draw a gasp from you. He takes the opportunity to slide his tongue between your parted lips and taste you. Fuck. He didn’t mean to do it. He didn’t mean to put his tongue in your mouth, but now that it’s there? Fuck, he’s ruined. Bucky kisses you so intensely, so fucking passionately that for a moment, you’re convinced it’s real. It isn’t until his grip on your hip falters and he has to pull back to take a breath that you realize why he did it, that you realize it most definitely wasn’t real. You’re fighting to catch your breath as he lets you go and glances over his shoulder, making sure the guy is gone. When he looks back at you, you’re pressing your fingertips to your lips lightly, while clutching your drink in your other hand. Your eyes are wide and your hair messy from his touch. His eyes skate over your face, taking in the way your cheeks and nose are rosy and your pupils are dilated as you stare at him. Bucky runs a hand through his own hair and bites down on his bottom lip. Wait, is he…flustered?

            “Stop looking at me like that.” He says lowly. As much as you want to give him hell for that stupid stunt, your brain only seems to be able to focus on one thing.

            “You taste like honey.” Your voice comes out soft but raspy, and your fingertips still ghost over your lips as you speak. Bucky looks taken aback by your response, and he stills for a moment as he looks down at you, his eyes narrowing.

            “You taste like strawberries.” His gaze darts down to your lips, but then quickly back up to your eyes. Shaking your head to snap yourself out of whatever trance you’ve found yourself in, you brush past Bucky, making a break for the table.

            Bucky needs a fucking minute. With your scent swirling around him and the ghost of your mouth on his, he needs a minute to adjust the raging hard-on he’s sporting and gather himself. What the fuck did he do that for? He’s gritting his teeth as he turns on his heel and heads for the bathrooms off to the side of the bar. When he steps foot in the men’s room, he scans the floor of each stall quickly, making sure he’s completely alone before locking the door to the entire bathroom and moving to stand in front of the large mirror displayed across the wall of sinks. Strawberries. Bucky stares down at the ceramic sink in front of him as his hands move to grip onto the edge of it. He fights the urge to break it into a million little pieces as he licks his lips, picking up a hint of your taste. Lifting his head and catching his own gaze in his reflection, he bites down on his bottom lip nearly hard enough to draw blood. The twinge of pain is enough to snap him out of whatever the hell kind of haze he’s in, and he flicks the sink on with his flesh hand. After washing his hands, he splashes a bit of cold water on his face before drying up with a few paper towels. He doesn’t leave the bathroom without adjusting his cock, tucking the head of it beneath the waistband of his boxers and pants to ensure his unchecked arousal won’t be noticed by anyone.

            With lively conversation passing back and forth across the table, no one seems to notice the thick tension brewing between you and Bucky. You haven’t glanced at him once since he came back from the men’s room looking utterly unbothered by the display of public deception that he’d put on just moments earlier.

            Bucky steals looks at you throughout the evening as you go through three of your usual drinks and two shots of vodka with Maria and Sharon. He notices that you smile a lot more when you have some alcohol in your system. You also look at him a hell of a lot less, and he hates that. He can’t seem to go more than a minute or two without searching you out, while you don’t even seem to notice that he’s still in the bar. He watches with a knotted stomach as two other guys attempt to move in on you when you’re up at the bar with the girls, but the knot unties itself when he sees you quickly turn them both down. Why hadn’t you done that with the first guy earlier tonight? A weird sensation bubbles up in his chest as he wonders if maybe you’d actually been attracted to the man you were talking to before Bucky stormed over and stuck his tongue in your mouth. Did you only turn the last two men down because you were worried that Bucky would try to kiss you again?

            As much as you would’ve liked to avoid looking at Bucky all night, your plan is thwarted when Sharon ends up a little past tipsy and Maria decides to Uber back to her apartment early. Not wanting to wrangle a semi-drunk Sharon in an Uber by yourself, you accept Sam’s offer for a ride. With Sam driving and Torres immediately sliding into the passenger seat, you push Sharon into the backseat on the passenger’s side and shut her door. You watch with a small smile playing on your lips as she promptly leans against the door and closes her eyes. You’re sure she’ll be asleep before Sam ever pulls up to her apartment complex.

            You cross around the backside of the car to find Bucky standing, holding the other back door open for you. You glance inside, noting the small middle seat and shake your head.

            “I’m not sitting in the middle.” You say stubbornly, crossing your arms over your chest. A small shiver wracks through your body as the chilly night air blows over your exposed skin. Bucky’s shrugging his jacket off before he even realizes it. When he holds it out to you, you look at it warily, but another cold breeze wafts by and you reach out and grab it. Draping it over your shoulders, you narrow your eyes at him. “I’m still not sitting in the middle.”

            “Yes, you are.” He responds roughly, resting his left forearm on top of the open door as his right hand moves to rest on his hip.

            “No, I’m not.” You’re aware of the fact that you sound like two children arguing over something so trivial, but still, you maintain your stance. Bucky bites the inside of his cheek before stepping back and pushing the door shut. You hear Sam shout something out of confusion, probably wondering what the hell you two are doing out there in the cold delaying the ride home, but you both ignore him.

            “You kissed me back.” He says in a low, raspy voice, making sure no one in the car could possibly make out his words. Your eyes widen and you pull his leather jacket tighter around your shoulders, trying to ignore the way his scent is rolling off of it and surrounding you.

            “You put your tongue in my mouth.” You respond stiffly, glancing over your shoulder at the car.

            “I’d do it again if it would shut you up and make you get in the car.”

            “Sounds like you’re looking for an excuse.” You say, letting out a fake laugh. Bucky rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed with your accusation.

            “You really think I’d look for an excuse to do that again?” Bucky asks, taking a step toward you and reaching past your body for the door handle. When he’s close enough to you that his lips are nearly grazing against the shell of your ear, your eyes flutter closed. “I think we both know I wouldn’t need one.”

            Bucky tugs the door open just as you open your eyes and look into his.

            “Get in the damn car.” He says authoritatively, holding the door open as you glare at him. You want to dig in your heels and stand on the curb until the sun rises in the morning, but with how cold you are and how late it is, you know you’re fighting a losing battle. You give Bucky a look that could kill as you slide into the middle seat and let out a frustrated sigh. You use his jacket to cover your legs and maintain what little body heat you have left. When Bucky slides in after you and pulls the door shut, Sam’s driving off before either of you have buckled your seatbelts. Bucky fastens his own before noticing that you’re not making a move to buckle yours, so he takes matters into his own hands. He leans over you and grasps the seatbelt in his flesh hand as he brings his lips close to your ear again, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Always so fucking stubborn.”

            With every little curve and bump in the road, Bucky’s leg brushes against yours and you tense up each time. You’re always quick to pull your leg away and back toward the middle of the floorboard, until you start to notice that he never pulls his away. You stare out of the windshield ahead as Sam weaves through the city, heading toward Sharon’s downtown apartment. When you turn your head and glance over at her, she’s sound asleep with her mouth wide open as her head rests against the door beside her. Another bump jostles the car and Bucky’s leg collides with yours, but instead of pulling away this time, you stay still. As the heat of his leg permeates the thick fabric of his jeans and warms your bare knee, you find yourself relaxing a little. It really is way too cold to be wearing such a tiny dress.

            Bucky’s gaze is fixed outside of his window, but he can feel you letting your head fall back to rest against the headrest behind. He tries not to move too much, sensing that you’re somewhat thankful for his body heat warming your leg and side. It’s cold as shit tonight and you picked what has to be the thinnest dress in your wardrobe. If he didn’t love it on you so much, he’d have told you that you were fucking stupid for risking hypothermia by wearing it.

            You let your eyes fall closed as goosebumps prickle across the skin of your arms and you lean back against the headrest. Sharon’s apartment is just another ten minutes away, and then the tower will be an extra thirty on top of that. If you clear your head and pretend like the man beside you is merely a stranger in a shared Uber, and not someone whose tongue was in your mouth only an hour ago, you might be able to get a little sleep before you’re home. But Bucky’s leather jacket sits heavy over your thighs, and his intoxicating scent swirls around the backseat, begging to be inhaled. He’s not a stranger. He’s a fucking coworker who left a hickey on your neck and what feels like a black hole in your gut after offering up some kind of half-baked confession of attraction a couple of days ago. Younger me would fucking swoon. Who the hell says something like that to a girl who thought she was the last person he’d ever be into? Does he get off on looks of confusion and bewilderment?

            The car tires screech against asphalt as Sam slams on the brakes and the car struggles to meet his demand. You’re lurching forward in an instant, the seatbelt pulling coarsely across your chest as it locks and holds you in your seat. But it isn’t the sudden unexpected stop that has everything moving in slow motion. It’s Bucky’s hand gripping your mid-thigh tightly over the fabric of his leather jacket. As your back thumps against the seat and your eyes dart out toward the windshield ahead, you see that Sam narrowly avoided running a red light with a traffic camera posted on the street corner. He mumbles something about refusing to get another citation, but your ears are ringing as you cast your gaze downward. Bucky’s hand is still right there, his knuckles nearly turning white with how hard his fingers are digging into your leg. For a moment, a fleeting moment, you let yourself think about how nice his touch feels. You can feel the warmth of his palm even through the leather jacket covering your legs and the chill in your body begins to dissipate. In reality, he’s only been holding onto your thigh for two seconds, but it feels like it’s been two minutes. You let out a shaky breath as the stoplight turns green and Sam starts driving past it. Bucky’s grip loosens and he starts to withdraw his hand, but something within you stops him. You’re reaching out and grabbing his hand in yours, tugging it back to your thigh and resting it atop the leather jacket again. Neither one of you turns to look at the other. You both stare straight ahead, silently letting the moment play out.

            It feels as though a fire’s been ignited deep in Bucky’s chest. As you move your hand away from his, he has to turn his head and look out the window to keep from looking down at where he’s touching you. If he gets a glimpse of where his hand is at right now, he won’t be able to scrub the image from his mind no matter how hard he tries. And his hand is only on your damn thigh. He takes even breaths through his nose as he watches the city lights dance around outside. He estimates that Sharon’s apartment complex is less than ten minutes away. What happens after those ten minutes? Will you push his hand away and pretend like the moment never happened?

            Each passing minute feels longer and longer as Bucky’s hand remains heavy on your thigh. Two minutes go by before he starts alternating between squeezing your leg and letting his hand rest loosely atop the jacket across your lap. When you reach the third minute, your cheeks are flushed pink and sparks are igniting throughout your body at the slightest touch. There aren’t many thoughts floating around in your head now, which is probably why it’s so easy for you to slide your hand over his and quietly guide it beneath the fabric of the jacket. He doesn’t resist. He doesn’t pull his hand away or fight your movement, and when you feel the warmth of his palm pressing against the bare skin of your thigh, you withdraw your own hand and cover his with the jacket carefully. Bucky’s clenching his teeth as he grips your leg and scrapes his trimmed, blunt nails along the inside of your thigh. He feels you shudder against his touch, but then you seem to press into him a little closer and he can’t fucking breathe. The backseat of this car is suddenly feeling too damn small for either of you, and he wants nothing more than to drag you out at the next red light and find the nearest alley with a brick wall he can back you into.

            She’s just cold. Bucky keeps reminding himself that that’s why you’re letting him do this, that that’s why you’re encouraging him to touch you this way. But are you really that cold? Your skin feels almost overheated beneath his hand. He grips your leg again and then starts drawing lazy circles with his fingertips along your inner thigh. He never once tries to move his hand any higher or lower than the exact spot that you placed it in. You’re having a hard time figuring out if that excites you or disappoints you, especially when all you can do is focus on keeping your breathing unnoticeable and eyeing the three other people in the car to make sure no one is the wiser.

            The tension in the backseat of the car is so thick that you could cut it with a knife by the time Sam’s pulling into a parking spot in front of Sharon’s building. Bucky’s fingertips dig into the skin of your thigh one last time before he drags his hand out from underneath the jacket and back to his own lap. You start to unbuckle so you can help Sharon out of the car and up to her apartment, but Sam shakes his head at you in the rearview mirror and pushes his own door open quickly.

            “We’re not going to make you walk her all the way up there when you’re in heels.” Sam tsks, signaling for Torres to hop out as well. “We’ll take her up and get her settled, just stay in the car.”

            “Are you sure? I could do it, she can probably walk fine, she’s just sleepy.” You say softly, glancing over at Sharon as she begins to stir. She shoots you a sideways smile and starts unbuckling her seatbelt with sloppy movements.

            “Don’t say that, let them carry me.” Sharon jokes, slurring nearly every single word she speaks. You laugh lightly before pushing a bit of her blonde hair away from her face and leaning over her to open the door on her side.

            “Fine, but don’t give them too much trouble.” You concede, watching as Torres takes both of her hands and helps her out of the car. You find your heart racing as she straightens herself up and takes just enough steps forward for Torres to shut the door again, leaving you and Bucky alone in the dark car. You let out a shaky breath as you watch Sam, Torres, and Sharon all move further and further away from the car. You don’t move a muscle. You stay seated right there in the middle of the backseat, painfully aware of how your left side is still brushing against Bucky’s right side.

            Bucky’s sitting stiffly in his seat, wondering if you can hear how hard his heart is thumping against his ribcage right now. His eyes flit downward to where his leather jacket has shifted off of your lap a bit and the skin of the thigh that he was just toying with is now exposed. Gritting his teeth, he reaches over slowly and pinches the edge of the jacket with his fingertips before dragging it back up to cover your lap entirely. Your head moves quickly, tilting downward to watch what he’s doing. You swallow thickly as thoughts start swirling around in your head. It’s a mixture of sane, rational thoughts about thanking him for the jacket and dirty, irrational thoughts about putting his hand back where it was before the car stopped here. Even as your mind is formulating a coherent sentence to spit out, you know you should sit here quietly and act like nothing happened. You know so much better than to speak when tensions are running this high, and yet…

            “I did kiss you back.” The words roll off of your tongue so quietly that you fear Bucky might not even have heard them. But when he stops staring out his window and drops his gaze down to where his hands rest in his lap, you know he heard you.

            “You did.” He says just as quietly, shifting in his seat a bit. You let out a soft sigh and glance over at the empty seat beside you. You know it’ll look a bit odd to Sam and Torres when they get back to the car and see you still sitting in the middle of the backseat. You’re thinking about sliding over and buckling yourself in when movement catches your eye. Bucky’s flesh hand reaches over slowly, and his fingertips take hold of the edge of his jacket just like they did a moment ago, but instead of making sure the fabric covers your thighs, his moves it further down your legs this time. Your breath hitches in your throat as he pushes it down just an inch, revealing the hem of your short dress and the tiniest bit of skin across the tops of your thighs. Goosebumps prickle across your skin, but it has little to do with the fact that you’re still a bit cold. “I put my tongue in your mouth.” He rasps. You’re frozen in place as he starts tracing the hem of your dress with the tip of his index finger. His words hang in the air, swirling around with the thick tension like a heavy fog early in the morning. Bucky leans in as you stare down at his hand. He leans in until his forehead is nearly touching the side of your face and his lips are ghosting around the shell of your ear. “Would I need an excuse to do it again?”

            As your eyes flutter closed and you suck in a deep breath, Bucky can only think of one thing. He can only think about how fucking perfect it felt to have you kissing him back, to push his tongue past your lips and really taste you for the first time. Of all the times he’s kissed you for undercover missions, it was never like that. He never dared to let his tongue get involved, not until tonight. Now he fears he might be ruined.

            You’re thinking about the same damn thing. You’re thinking about how he tasted like honey and citrus and vanilla all jumbled together. You’re replaying the feeling of him fisting his hand in your hair and pulling you toward him in a way that should’ve done nothing other than piss you off.

            Neither of you realizes that you’re both glancing toward the apartment building entrance at the same time, both checking to see if Sam and Torres are anywhere nearby. Are you really about to do this? You finally turn your head to face Bucky, and find him already staring at you intensely. His blue eyes reflect the tiniest bit of light from a street lamp in the distance, and you swear you can see something akin to flames dancing around in his gaze. He stares back at you for one, two, three seconds before the tension hanging in the air between you both shatters. In a flash, you’re shoving the leather jacket onto the floor and moving toward Bucky just as he’s grabbing you by the waist and tugging you toward him. Your lips meet before your bodies do and you’re kissing him so desperately that you almost feel a bit of shame. You’re acting like a horny teenager having her first bit of alone time with a guy on prom night, but as your dress hikes even higher up your hips and Bucky settles you not over his lap, but over his right thigh, every trace of shame disappears. You’re straddling the toned muscles of his thigh as he curls his fingertips against your scalp and takes a handful of your hair in his fist.

            “You like when I do this, don’t you?” He asks lowly, nipping at your jawline as he pulls on your hair just enough to tilt your head back. A soft whimper escapes you and you grind down on his thigh, feeling just the right amount of friction as the fabric of your panties meets his jeans. He falters for a second and looks down, his grip on your hair loosening as you grind against his leg again. “Fuck, don’t do that.” He growls, squeezing your hip with his vibranium hand to make sure you’ll be still.

            “But it feels so fucking good.” You whisper, fighting against his vibranium hand and dragging your clothed cunt against his thigh again. A guttural sound crawls up his throat and he pulls you in for a kiss, sliding his tongue past your lips instantly. There’s that honey taste again. He doesn’t try to stop you this time when you grind down, so you keep doing it over and over again for a few seconds, giving your clit exactly enough friction to elicit a sense of pleasure. If his side of the backseat was bigger, you’d settle yourself over his lap and grind on the bulge that you know is hiding behind the zipper of his jeans, but you’ll take what you can get.

            “Is that enough for you?” Bucky asks roughly, the second he pulls away from your lips and glances down at where you’re grinding on his thigh once again.

            “They’ll be back any minute.” You whisper. You place your hands on his shoulders as you crane your neck to glance back at the apartment building again, ensuring Sam and Torres are still out of sight.

            “Say it isn’t enough.”

            “Bucky—” Both of his hands move down your back and he cups your bare ass beneath the fabric of your dress, squeezing hard enough to leave red fingerprints in your skin. He leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your neck before dragging the tip of his tongue up toward your ear and biting down on your earlobe softly. “It isn’t enough.” You moan out as your back arches and your chest presses against his. Bucky lets out a groan before reaching down with one hand and unbuckling his seatbelt. The thin strap moves between your two bodies quickly before clicking against the door, and then Bucky’s wrapping one arm around your lower back and moving to lay you down in the backseat. He hovers over you as your legs spread a bit to accommodate him, and then he sinks down on top of you. There’s something about feeling the full weight of a man over you that makes it hard to think rationally. That’s why when you feel the outline of his hard cock press against your damp panties, your back arches and his name leaves your lips in such a desperate, sultry moan. That’s why you let him grind and rut against you relentlessly for at least thirty seconds, listening to the sounds of his grunts and heavy breaths as he buries his face in your neck and moves his hips rhythmically. That’s why you let yourself get so dangerously close to an orgasm that you’re circling your own hips against his. It’s because you’re not thinking rationally, not one tiny bit.

            You don’t hear it, but Bucky does. He hears the distant click as the door to Sharon’s apartment building swings open. He knows he only has a few seconds left before Sam and Torres will be close enough to see the car, so he presses his hips into you one last time, making sure you feel the entirety of his hard length against your clothed cunt before he looks down into your eyes and memorizes the look of pleasure on your face. He kisses you one last time, savoring the taste of your lips and letting his tongue dance with yours for one fleeting moment. Then, he’s pulling himself away from you and grabbing your hands to pull you back into a sitting position beside him. You’re in a daze as he leans down and scoops his leather jacket up off of the floor. The sound of Sam and Torres’ voices ring out in the distance and you move yourself to the seat Sharon had previously occupied, quickly smoothing out your dress and hair before buckling yourself in. Bucky holds the jacket out to you just as Sam and Torres are nearing the car, and you take it, draping it over your lap carefully.

            Sam and Torres’ incessant small talk is the only sound to be heard as the car carries you all back to the compound. You’re keeping your legs tightly crossed and your hands folded neatly in your lap as you stare out your window and try to avoid thinking about what just happened. Adrenaline is still surging through your veins, almost cancelling out the alcohol in your system. On top of that, the sexual frustration that you feel from having not finished what you and Bucky so recklessly started in the backseat is giving you a bit of an attitude. You chew on the inside of your cheek as the damp panties trapped between your thighs begin to feel uncomfortable and the gravity of what you just did, what you would’ve done if Sam and Torres hadn’t showed up when they did, begins to set in.  You’re compromising not just the upcoming mission, but your entire working relationship with a damn good partner. And for what? Not even an orgasm. He didn’t even give you that. You have no doubt that he would have if you’d had the time for it. Hell, you were pretty damn close to one with him grinding against you like that and those sounds he was making. Your mind starts to float back into dangerous territory and you bite the inside of your cheek a little harder, nearly drawing blood. You shudder at the sensation of pain, but continue staring out the window, wishing Sam would drive just a little bit faster.

            He could cum right now. Bucky could actually cum in his jeans right now, and it’s been a solid ten minutes since he even looked in your direction. His cock is still painfully hard and fighting against the front of his jeans, threatening to pop the zipper if he doesn’t free it soon. He glances around Sam’s headrest to see that he’s already doing five over the speed limit. Still, it’s not fast enough. Not when you just did what you did, and you’re sitting only a foot away with Bucky’s scent all over you. Actually, that’s not even the worst of it. The worst of it all is the fact that you left wet spots on his thigh and over the crotch of his jeans, both of which hold the scent of your arousal. Bucky lets out a heavy sigh and shifts uncomfortably in his seat, adjusting the seatbelt over his lap so it won’t restrict his cock any more than it needs to. He catches you turning your head in his direction out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t dare look back at you. Screwing his eyes shut, he pinches the bridge of his nose with his flesh index finger and thumb as he presses his head back against the headrest. He can survive the last twenty minutes left in this car ride, but as soon as the car pulls up to the tower, he’s getting the fuck out of here.

            Sam, ever the courteous and thoughtful designated driver, let you, Bucky, and Torres all out of the car right at the front entrance to the tower before heading off to park the car in the underground garage. Bucky almost decided to stay in the car and take the ride down to the garage with Sam, just to keep from being stuck in the elevator with you. However, it turns out that Torres is pretty damn good at icing over the fiery tension in a small space. Bucky is leaned against the back wall of the elevator, staring at the leather jacket hanging off of your shoulders as you stand a few feet in front of him. You’re so close to the metal doors that if you stuck your tongue out, you’d probably be licking them. Torres stands oblivious off to one side, scrolling through his phone absentmindedly as the elevator carries the three of you closer and closer to the main living quarters.

            “Have you two gotten started on the dancing lessons yet?” He asks casually, without looking up from his phone. You say nothing. You stay still, staring at the metal in front of your face as the elevator continues on. Bucky clears his throat lightly and you hear him shift somewhere behind you.

            “Tomorrow.” Bucky replies stiffly, offering no more than that single word. You turn your head the tiniest bit to see Torres nod, still looking down at the device in his hands.

            “Saving it for the last minute?” He jokes. Your eyes dart upward and you see that you’re only a few floors away from the living quarters. “Fury wants you guys back in the past within the next two days.” You swallow hard at the reminder as an uneasy feeling settles in your gut.

            “There isn’t going to be much to teach.” Bucky’s tone is flat, but still somewhat polite. You see Torres nod in your peripheral vision, and then the elevator is dinging and it’s slowing to a stop. You’re hurrying out the second the doors begin sliding open. You hear Torres’ phone ring and he mumbles something about taking the call down in the conference room, but you’re already halfway through the main living area. Your heels click against the hard floor as you make your way toward the dark hall, refusing to look back at the super soldier who can only be a few yards behind you.

            “You don’t have to walk so damn fast.” Bucky mutters, watching you storm ahead. You’re still about ten feet from your door when you slow down and turn on your heel. Now you’re standing there looking at him as he continues walking toward his own door at a normal pace. You stand there and stare at the man you didn’t want to look at for another second tonight. He’s nothing but danger and bad decisions and you’re learning not to trust yourself around him anywhere but in the field.

            “My feet hurt.” You say matter-of-factly, narrowing your eyes at him. You watch as he comes within a couple of feet of you and turns left to face his door that’s right across from yours. “I want to take off these heels and this dress and shower and just…” Your voice trails off and you catch Bucky looking over his shoulder at you with a raised brow. “And just sleep this off.” You finish, making it clear that you’re talking about whatever it is that’s between you right now. He turns to face you right as you’re turning your back to him and reaching for your own door handle.

            “Sleep it off, huh?” He scoffs, noting that you’re still keeping his leather jacket draped over your shoulders. “Whatever this is, it’ll just be gone in the morning?” You keep your hand on the downturned door handle but you pause, not yet pushing the door open fully. You shrug your shoulders and Bucky watches as his jacket moves up and down once around your frame. “Kinda hard to forget what happened tonight if you wake up and see my leather jacket beside your bed in the morning.”  You snort out an amused laugh before casting a glare at Bucky over your shoulder.

            “Maybe you should take your jacket back then.” You respond calmly. As you’re facing your door, letting your head turn forward once again, you hear Bucky shuffling behind you slowly. A chill spreads beneath the surface of your skin as he grows closer and closer, until his body heat is enveloping you and his proximity has your hand faltering on the door handle. When he comes to a stop right behind you, so close that one deep breath from you would have your back pressing against his chest, he braces himself against your doorframe. Both of his arms are outstretched, his hands grasping the doorframe on either side of you as he leans in close to your ear, just as he’s done so many times tonight.

            “But it looks so damn good on you.”  He coos, taking a chance to inhale your sweet scent after he speaks. His breath tickles the side of your face as the wetness in your panties suddenly feels a little less uncomfortable and a little more exciting. You’d like to say your body is beyond your control when you draw in a deep breath and let go of the door handle. When you let your palms glide over the surface of your door and arch your back just enough to push your ass against the front of Bucky’s jeans. You’re met with the same hard-on he was rubbing all over your clothed cunt in the car just a little while ago and warmth pools low in your stomach. Bucky’s hips lean in, pressing himself against your ass a little harder as his flesh knuckles turn white and his vibranium hand whirs with exertion against the doorframe. He gives you a chance to open the door and disappear for the rest of the night, but when you circle your hips back against him a second time, his hands quickly move down to your hips and he pushes your front into the door firmly. He crowds in behind you, dragging his lips over the skin of your neck as you tilt your head to the side. He makes sure your bodies never part as he kisses down the column of your throat and bites down lightly on your collarbone. You grind your ass into him one more time and his control starts slipping.

            “Keep that up and I’ll fuck you against this goddamn door.” Bucky rasps against your neck, tightening his hold on your hips to keep you from grinding anymore. You wriggle in his grasp, but he only curls his fingers against your dress even more, before dragging his lips back up toward your ear. “You’ll wake up tomorrow wondering why the fuck you can’t walk.”

            “I’d blame the heels.” You whisper, surprising yourself at the fact that you’re going along with this. But everything he’s saying, everything he’s doing makes it hard for you to think straight. Bucky lets out a surprisingly gentle, genuine laugh before letting go of your hips and tugging his jacket off of your shoulders. He steps back suddenly, leaving you a bit cold and wanting for his touch. You turn around to watch as he walks over to his own door and pushes it open. “That’s it? You just walk away after that?”

            “You can’t stand me, remember?” He replies. You can hear his smirk showing through his tone. “Should be easy for you to sleep it off.”

            With that last line, Bucky’s shutting his door and you’re left in the dark hallway alone. You have half a mind to kick his door in and ruin your pretty heels, but the other half of you knows he’s doing the right thing. What did you really want him to do? If you’d invited him in and spent the night with him, you have no doubt that your professional life would’ve gone to shit before the end of the week. If he’d invited you in, or even worse, fucked you against right there in the hall like he’d said, the outcome would’ve been the same. You can’t mix work and play. You know that all too well. But why is it turning out to be so damn fun to blur the lines with him?           

            You take your time peeling off your dress and heels, soaking in a long, hot shower, and then getting ready for bed. By the time you’re flicking off the bathroom lights and pulling back the plush covers on your bed, it’s already a bit past one in the morning and the aching between your legs hasn’t ceased. You refuse to indulge your fantasies after having already made yourself orgasm once within the last twenty-four hours at the mere thought of the man across the hall. Twice would be too much, way too much when you’re actively trying to tell yourself that you need to start keeping things strictly professional with him. You choose to lie in bed and scroll through your phone for a bit, but still, Bucky remains at the forefront of your mind.

            Bucky vows not to touch his cock in the shower ever again. Tonight was the last time. As he towels himself dry and avoids looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he’s surprised at the fact that he doesn’t feel so much shame this time. He has a feeling you might’ve even been flattered by just how much cum ended up being washed down the drain after he thought of nothing but you as he stroked himself. Okay, maybe that’s wishful thinking. But seriously, with the things you did to him…with him tonight, he knows that you wouldn’t have kicked his ass for what he had to do in the shower. He has a feeling you might’ve even been tempted to do something like that for yourself after you parted ways.

            One text. That’s all you need to send to give yourself a little peace of mind and maybe set things back on the right track with Bucky. It’s why you’re staring at the typed out message on your phone screen and your thumb is hovering over the send button. It’s late. Maybe too late to be sending him a text. But you feel like you have to do it. You’ll clear things up now and tomorrow everything will go back to normal, or as normal as things can be before a mission like this. When you hit send, let out a deep breath and let your head fall back on your pillow a bit dramatically.

            When Bucky’s phone vibrates on his nightstand, he’s rolling over and grasping it in one hand almost instantly. Holding it over his face and quickly dimming the brightness of his lock screen, he sees your name at the top of the notification and he narrows his eyes. How many times have you texted him since you’ve started working together? Once? Maybe twice? His heart thumps a little harder than it previously had been as he unlocks his phone and reads your message. You don’t need any more convincing? His tongue darts out and wets his lips as he sends his overly simple response through.

            Two question marks. That’s all you see as you stare at his text. Heaving a sigh, you type out a slightly longer message, making sure you’re abundantly clear. You need to make sure that he knows he doesn’t have to keep going with whatever act this is that he’s been putting on the last couple of days. If he’s only been fucking around with you to convince you that you’re the one his 40s self would approach in a bar, he doesn’t have to keep doing it. You’re thoroughly convinced. It’s only a few seconds after you’ve sent your message that you see the little gray typing bubbles pop up on his end of the message window.

            You watch those three little dots with bated breath as your thumbs hover over your phone screen. When his final text comes through, your heart rate nearly doubles and warmth rushes up to color your cheeks a soft shade of pink.

            Shit. You exhale noisily, before clicking your phone off and setting it on your nightstand. Your mind starts rushing back to all of the missions you’ve worked together, all of the times you bantered back and forth or argued and yet, every mission was carried out seamlessly. Was the tension between you two something that you’ve been misreading up until now? Had you been mistaking it for the type of tension felt between two people who don’t really get along, when all of this time it was that kind of thick, suffocating tension that you only find between two people who are oblivious as to how right for each other they really are?

            You wrap yourself up in your bedsheets and let the darkness of your room envelope you. No fucking way. You do not have feelings for James Bucky Barnes. And even more than that, he most definitely does not have feelings for you. There’s simply no way.

            When you finally drift off to sleep, what happened in the car on the way back from the bar replays in your dreams on a loop, growing slightly filthier with each rerun. You wake up three hours in with a pillow wedged between your legs and your hips instinctively grinding down into it in search of friction. You wake up a second time just before sunrise and you almost can’t take the ache between your legs.

            If you really couldn’t stand him, if this was really nothing, you would’ve been able to sleep it off. And that scares the shit out of you.

            Glimmers of early morning sunlight peek through your curtains, casting your room in a hazy yellow glow. Stretching out your legs beneath the covers, you rub the sleep from your eyes and blink a few times. Your gaze settles on the white ceiling above and you notice a slight twinge of pain behind your eyes as a headache begins to set in.

            The night before replays in your mind, almost like a highlight reel, as you push the covers back and move to sit up on the side of your bed. You see yourself being pulled away from that stranger in the bar, being pulled to Bucky’s chest as he kissed you like you belonged to him and no one else. You squeeze your eyes shut and massage your temples with the middle and index fingers of your right hand. You see Bucky’s hand on your thigh in the car, and then him lying you down in the back seat before crawling on top of you and…fuck.

            Tonight had nothing to do with convincing you. His last text to you from just a few hours ago is displayed across a billboard in the forefront of your mind. You rush through pulling on an outfit for the gym, settling on a lazy hairstyle and light makeup to hide the dark circles under your eyes from the poor sleep you got last night. It might be Sunday and you might not have much to do today, but you know good and well that sitting here in your room is only going to send you straight into a spiral of thoughts you don’t need to be dwelling on right now.

            You listen carefully through your door, straining to detect any sounds that might let you know someone else is up and about this early. When you’re sure the coast is clear, you make a dash for the elevator and ride it all the way down to the gym.

            Sam’s sitting in the conference room with Fury and a very hungover Sharon just a little past eight. He’d probably be laughing if she didn’t look so miserable. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail and the dark circles under her eyes are aging her by about five years. He can tell her head must be throbbing by the way she keeps squinting at the bright lights overhead and glancing over at the light switch across the room. Maybe he should’ve made an effort to end the fun a little earlier last night, but in his defense, none of you really made an effort to do that. Besides, he had no idea Fury would want to see them first thing on a Sunday morning.

            “We’ll be sending you in tomorrow to bring Peggy Carter up to speed and establish a safehouse for the mission.” Fury explains slowly, eyeing Sharon as he speaks. She nods along, keeping her hands folded in her lap beneath the table. “You’ll have one day to get it done.”

            “It won’t be a problem.” Sharon affirms confidently, letting her eyes shift between Fury and Sam. “One day is plenty of time. What stipulations do you have for the safehouse?”

            “As long as they have a place to sleep and a door to lock at night, I don’t care. Whatever Peggy can help you find is going to have to do. They’ll only be there for two nights.” Fury responds. His phone chimes and he quickly stands up from the table, pushing his chair in gently. He casts Sam and sideways glance as he heads for the door.

            “Maybe don’t take her out drinking tonight.” Fury advises, letting out a half-hearted laugh as he reaches for the door handle. “And let me know how those dance lessons go later. If those two can’t get along long enough to make it through one song, I have half a mind to scrap the whole damn mission.”

            “They got along pretty well last night.” Sam snorts, remembering the way Bucky kissed you in the bar. Sure, he was the one that encouraged him to do it, but Sam knows for damn certain that it was anything but fake. He wonders for a moment just how complicated this mission might end up being with the two of you being thrust into the past without backup readily available. You’ve always worked well on missions before, but this is so different. This is the kind of mission that’ll make or break a partnership, and he’s very much aware that your partnership is somewhere on a tightrope between being rock solid and completely falling apart at the seams. If he had to place a bet, he’d say neither of you come back from this one the same as when you went in. Something’s going to change.

            It doesn’t feel real. As you stand on a platform that looks like something straight out of a sci-fi movie, wearing a quantum suit in the darkest shade of black you’ve ever seen, you feel a bit like an imposter. It should be Sharon in your position right now. You know she was just in this same spot yesterday, heading back in time to establish a safehouse and make the first contact with Peggy Carter, but still. Who the hell decided that you’re qualified not only to run ops in this century, but to send you back to the last one to run an op as well?

            “Hey.” Bucky says quietly, drawing you out of your spiraling thoughts. You turn your head to the right and take in the sight of him as he takes the few steps up onto the platform. He moves to stand directly in front of you, taking in the apprehension written all over your face. You tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear and let out a shaky breath as you meet his gaze. “Just another mission.” He assures you, keeping his voice low so only you can hear it. You nod, but you’re sorely unconvinced. This is not just another mission. You know it and he knows it.

            “It should’ve been Sharon.” You mumble, averting your gaze and choosing to watch Bruce, Scott, and Torres as they work seamlessly behind a table of screens and electronic devices. Bucky shakes his head and narrows his eyes at you, but you refuse to look at him again.

            “Okay, let me hit a few main points before we do this.” Bruce says suddenly, clapping his oversized, green hands together as he approaches the edge of the platform. “You have one roundtrip each, please make every effort to come back from this together. You can come back earlier if you have to but for the love of all things scientific, don’t come back later than planned. What feels like five minutes to you might be fifteen years here.”

            “Bucky, you’ll keep your watch on at all times in the past. Take that thing off and lose it and you’re stuck in the forties, which I get might not be all that unappealing to a man who’s over a hundred years old, but still…keep it on.” Scott says pointedly. You glance down at your own time-space GPS device. While Bucky’s does resemble a normal wrist watch, yours was made to look more like an inconspicuous necklace so you could continue wearing it in the forties and still be dressed for the time period. “Don’t let anyone take that off of you.” Scott directs his warning at you. You nod curtly, reaching up and running your fingers along the dainty device lightly.

            “Try not to go changing the past.” Bruce takes over again, but he’s backing away from the platform now and moving back toward the table of screens and devices. “Stick to the mission. Get in with the Howling Commandos, get what you need from the HYDRA base, and then get the hell out of there on time. Are we all on the same page?” Both you and Bucky nod in unison, and you finally face forward to meet his piercing stare.

            “It could only be you.” Bucky whispers across the short distance between the two of you. Warmth floods your chest and you barely hear the sound of Bruce beginning to count backwards from twenty.

            “I told you I didn’t need any more convincing.” You remind him, matching his low volume. “I’m here, I’m doing this. I just think Sharon would’ve been the smarter choice.” Bucky shakes his head at you almost disappointingly as Bruce reaches the ten second mark. You see something flash in Bucky’s eyes, something passionate and intense as you ready yourself to activate the helmet and face mask on your suit. When Bruce calls out eight seconds left, Bucky rushes forward, taking two steps before grasping the sides of your face firmly in his hands.

            His lips are soft and gentle when they meet yours, but in less than a second he’s kissing you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance to. It sucks the air right out of your lungs and sets a fluttering sensation off deep in your stomach, but then he’s pulling away and stepping back. You activate your helmets and face masks at the same time, right as Bruce is nearing the end of his count.

            “Three, two, one…”

            With a flash of light and an unusual feeling that the gravity beneath your feet has just increased by a hundred-fold, you’re being dragged through time and space, hurtling toward a period of time that you’re sure you don’t belong in.

             Rain pours down heavily on the roof of the car as Peggy drums her fingertips along the top of the steering wheel. She glances down at the coordinates scrawled on a small scrap of paper for the fifth time, even though she knows she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be. She can’t help but feel a little on edge. The street light perched above her car gives off just enough light for her to lean over in front of the rearview mirror and reapply her red lipstick one last time. It’s a bit of a nervous habit really, because it’s not like she has much reason for her makeup to look perfect with the role she’s about to play. A glorified cab driver. That’s what she is tonight. A flash of light in the distance catches her attention, and it isn’t lightning. She turns the key in the ignition and watches as her headlights suddenly illuminate the alley ahead.

            She isn’t quite sure what she expected the two of you to look like. She should’ve assumed that Sergeant Barnes would age well, but the fact that he’s barely aged has her raising a brow as she studies him from a distance. She notes the fact that he seems taller and much more muscular than the Sergeant Barnes she’s come to know through Steve and the Howling Commandos.

            “Welcome to London.” Bucky mutters under his breath, as he raises a hand to shield his eyes from the bright headlights ahead. He squints slightly and catches sight of Peggy’s characteristic red lip and brown curls through the windshield of a dark Morris eight. You cut your eyes to the side and take in the sight of him, with his hair already soaked through and rainwater dripping down the side of his face. Before you have a chance to say anything back, he’s moving to stand behind you and placing a hand against the middle of your back, lightly guiding you toward the car.

            The rain sends a chill racing from your head to your toes as Bucky reaches past you, tugs the front passenger door open and ushers you into the seat. He leans down before closing the door, letting his scent invade your space as he looks past you to Peggy.

            “Peggy Carter.” He says with a soft smile, looking at her as if he’s seeing an old friend after so long apart. You’re stuck staring at him. You’ve never seen this look on his face before and it lets you see him in a slightly different light.

            “Sergeant Barnes.” Peggy’s British accent is almost musical in a way. You finally turn your head and get a good look at her. She looks perfectly put together and polished with her bright red lipstick, styled hair, and navy blue pantsuit. “If you’d like to hop in and allow your partner here to close her door, we just might make it to your safehouse before you’re both thoroughly soaked.” A laugh slips past Bucky’s lips, but he listens to her and steps away from the door, closing it for you gently. Once he’s settled in the backseat, Peggy shoots a sideways smile in your direction before putting the car into reverse. “Does he always listen that well?”

            “Not at all.” You respond honestly.

            Peggy guides the car backwards out of the alley and onto the very sleepy, rainy streets of London. It’s an odd feeling to be in such a major city but see so little traffic or nightlife. You’re taking everything in with widened eyes, noting all of the little differences between the forties and the time period that you come from. Bucky’s soaking it in as well, but instead of exciting him, it relaxes him. He sinks into the backseat and lets out a deep breath, watching as the old buildings and signs roll past his window. He almost feels at home here.

            The drive to the safehouse on the outskirts of the city doesn’t take anywhere near as long as it would’ve taken in the modern world. When Peggy turns into the long driveway of one of Howard Stark’s many homes, you’re starting to feel the effects of time travel. Your head feels a little fuzzy and you have a sensation almost similar to that of motion sickness. Peggy says something about the house being a bit small for two people, mentioning it being one of Stark’s occasional residences for when he travels alone.

            “Everything you need will be inside. Clothes, food, a few choice weapons for the mission at hand. Please let me know if I missed anything, but I think I was rather thorough.” Peggy says cordially as she leads the way up the paved driveway toward the front door. You take a few steps away from the car but stop short, scrunching your eyes shut as a heavy wave of nausea hits. Bucky’s behind you in an instant, letting his palm press against your lower back as he stands at your side and leans over to look at your face.

            “What’s going on?” He asks in a hushed tone with concern lacing his words.

            “I’m good, it’s just the time travel thing.” Bruce made you both read an obscene amount of research on the potential physiological effects of time travel, but assured you that you probably wouldn’t experience any of them. Yet, here you are, experiencing a bout of time sickness before you’ve even made it into the safehouse. Bucky scrutinizes your expression, searching your eyes for any sign that you’re downplaying whatever’s going on with you. You wave a dismissive hand at him as rain begins to come down a little heavier.

            “Are you two coming?” Peggy asks from the door up ahead, looking at you both with a raised brow. Bucky turns his head for a second to glance at her, but quickly looks back at you as his hand falls away from your back. He watches you carefully as you put on an unbothered expression and take a couple of steps forward. Shit. The nausea increases ten-fold and suddenly you’re rushing over to the edge of the driveway and leaning over with your hands on the knees of your quantum suit, losing the contents of your stomach all in one go. Bucky’s beside you within a second, gathering your hair up in both of his hands and holding it back behind your shoulders.

            “Don’t say it.” Bucky warns as you turn your head to look up at him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

            “It should’ve been Sharon.” You groan, straightening up and tugging your hair away from his grasp. He shakes his head at you and you can already see an argument gearing up in his head, so you brush past him, feeling significantly better now that you’re completely empty.

            Peggy can’t seem to stop herself from reading into the way you and Bucky interact. When she met Sharon just yesterday, it was made abundantly clear that you and Sergeant Barnes are partners but don’t always play nice with each other. From what she’s seeing now, Bucky wants nothing more than to play nice with you. She has to wonder if the bickering and constant tension that Sharon talked about is a façade, a thick wool blanket over what’s really at the core of your partnership.

            You feel fine just long enough to run your fingertips over the green and cream floral wallpaper that covers the kitchen walls and admire the pristine white oven that anyone’s great grandmother would love. But the moment you turn your attention to the living area just a few steps outside of the kitchen, a fresh wave of nausea begins taking up residence in the pit of your stomach and you breathe in deeply through your nose. Bucky watches you apprehensively from the foyer, waiting to see what you’ll do. He can tell you feel miserable. He can tell you want to get a good look at the safehouse and settle yourself in, but you’re looking a little green and fatigued as you move toward a large dark green couch in the living room.

            You sink into the couch and let your head fall back against the cushion behind you. As you reach up and wrap your fingers around your necklace, your quantum suit deactivates and you’re left in leggings and a black pull-over. Bucky glances around the house, noting the short hallway that leads to the master bedroom and what looks to be French doors leading to a study off to one side. He takes a few steps forward until he’s moving around the couch, and then seats himself in a dainty looking floral-patterned lounge chair that’s angled toward you across from a coffee table.

            “Is this really just a time travel thing?” Bucky finally speaks. Your eyes flutter open and you take in the sight of him in that lounge chair. If you didn’t feel so shitty you might laugh at how out of place he looks in such a pretty little chair.

            “What else would it be?” You ask. Bucky watches closely as you run your fingers through your damp hair and stare right back at him. He narrows his eyes at you and cocks his head to the side and you immediately know what he’s thinking. What is it with men always thinking that a woman is pregnant if she pukes? You just fucking time traveled and he still feels the need to rule it out?

            “I’m not pregnant.” You sigh, letting your eyes fall closed again as you kick your shoes off and draw your knees up toward your chest. “I can’t be.”

            “Can’t be?”

            “I haven’t done the thing that you need to do in order to be pregnant in a long time.” Bucky finds relief in your words. He didn’t really think you were pregnant, but he sure as hell likes knowing that you haven’t slept with anyone recently. He leans back in his chair and lets his gaze float around the comfortable space. The homey kitchen makes him think of his mom. The wooden floor boards make him think of how carefully he’d have to tiptoe around his childhood home to keep from letting his parents know that he was awake past his bedtime. The slight chill in the air guides his eyes over to the fireplace that spreads across one wall of the living room. If it gets any colder he’ll have to start a fire.

            “I kissed you.” He says evenly, turning his head back to you. You open your eyes and give him a hard stare, trying to read his indecipherable expression as his blue eyes zero in on your face.

            “Yeah, you keep doing that.” Your nausea worsens and you draw your knees up even tighter against your chest before dropping your head down to rest on them. Bucky pushes himself out of his chair and heads for the kitchen. You listen as he opens and closes a few drawers, rummaging around for something. A few seconds later you hear the kitchen sink running and then it cuts off. Bucky stands there, wringing out a wet cloth as he purses his lips.

            “You haven’t stopped me.” He points out. He turns on his heel and carries the wet cloth in your direction. When you feel his weight sink into the couch cushion beside you, you lift your head from your knees and find yourself face to face with him. He lifts the wet cloth to the side of your neck and dabs at it gently, watching as your eyes close and you take a deep breath in.

            “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Sarcasm drips from every word. Bucky slides the cloth to the back of your neck and holds it there for a moment.

            “He’s going to try to kiss you tomorrow.” Bucky seems almost annoyed with his own statement and you steal a sideways glance at him as he moves the wet cloth to your forehead. He seems to almost resent the way his younger self behaved.

            “He moves that fast?” Bucky nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he contemplates how much to tell you.

            “You’ll meet and he’ll ask you to dance. You’ll dance and he’ll ask if you want to leave the bar. He’ll take you out into the city, try to show you a good time.” Bucky slides the wet cloth down the side of your face until it’s right below your chin. You look into his eyes, watching as his gaze darts down to your lips for the most fleeting moment. “He moves fast.”

            “I can handle it.” You assure him, but your words come out a lot quieter than you intended. Bucky pulls his hand and the cloth away from your chin and dabs your neck with it again.

            “I know.”

            “Then why does it seem like you’re worried?” Bucky shrugs his shoulders as he focuses in on the skin of your neck. He’s staring at the spot he once marked with his own lips, dragging the cool cloth over it slowly.

            “I don’t like the thought of him touching you.”

            “Bucky…” Your stomach churns violently and you’re rushing off of the couch at lightning speed. Your feet carry you down the hall, into the master bedroom, and into the bathroom quickly. You’re lucky you make it in time to drop to your knees in front of the toilet before the last remnants inside of you start to come out. You hear Bucky step into the bathroom only a second later and he’s tugging your hair back just like he did in the driveway earlier. “Don’t say shit like that.” You groan, grasping the wet cloth that Bucky’s holding out beside your head. You wipe at your lips and reach up to flush the toilet as you stay in place, not trusting that your gut is finished betraying you.

            “Like what?”

            “You shouldn’t care if someone else touches me. We’re partners. We can’t keep blurring the lines like this.” You explain. Bucky’s hands stay firmly in your hair as he waits to see if you’ll get sick a third time.

            “The lines have been blurred for a long time.”

            “Doesn’t mean we should keep blurring them.” You assert. Though you don’t peer over your shoulder to look at Bucky, you can sense the look of frustration that’s written all over his face. He lets out a weighted sigh before moving away from you and reaching over to turn on the shower. As the sound of running water fills the room, you gauge the heaviness in your stomach and decide that you definitely feel better. You remember Bruce’s little pamphlets saying that the first hour after moving through timelines is when you experience the most side effects, and you’re nearing the forty-five-minute mark now. You lean away from the toilet and drop the lid down before pushing yourself up to stand. Though you feel a tiny bit wobbly on your feet, the nausea is mostly gone and the steam from the shower is making you feel a little less chilly.

            “I’ll go grab you some clothes.” Bucky says quietly as he brushes past you and heads back into the bedroom. You take the free moment to search the contents of the bathroom drawers until you find a new toothbrush and some toothpaste. Bucky comes back in when you’re brushing your teeth in front of the fogged-up mirror. “I get the feeling you aren’t going to wear these.” He says with a smirk, dropping a deep red set of folded pajamas beside the sink. You give him a wary side-eye, tucking the toothbrush into the side of your cheek before reaching for the pile of fabric. As soon as you unfold the top, you realize it’s a long sleeve button down shirt with matching pants. It looks like the kind of pajamas you see families wear on Christmas day in lifestyle magazines. Shaking your head, you fold the top and set it back on the countertop. Bucky crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorframe as you bend over the sink and spit out a mouthful of water and toothpaste.

            “That’s all there is?” You rinse off the toothbrush and set it along the side of the sink before reaching down and gripping the bottom of your shirt. You already have it pulled over your head by the time you realize what you’re doing. Bucky stands frozen in the doorway, staring at you with narrowed eyes as you drop the shirt to the floor at your feet. He tilts his head to the side, never letting his eyes stray from your face even as you stand before him in a bra.

            “How is this not blurring the lines?” He questions, jutting his chin out at you. You narrow your eyes back at him and cross your arms over your chest, matching his stance. There’s a palpable heat in the air, and it’s not just from the steamy shower. As you and Bucky stand there staring each other down, each of you refusing to break first, tensions soar and you find yourself itching to push him out of the bathroom and shut the door. He can see the idea forming in your head so he speaks up before you actually have a chance to go through with it. “There was a floor-length nightgown if you’d rather wear that.” He says with another signature smirk. You shake your head firmly.

            “Were t-shirts not a thing in the forties?”

            “You’re going to wear a t-shirt when there’s only one bed?” Bucky asks, raising a brow. A genuine laugh erupts from your chest as you uncross your arms and run your fingers through your damp hair.

            “The bed’s all yours, Bucky.” You say, raising your hands up in a gesture that makes it clear you don’t want the bed for yourself. “I’m taking the couch.” Bucky scoffs as he reaches over for the folded pajamas beside the sink. As he steps out of the bathroom, he gives you a look you can’t quite read. It’s something between longing and frustration and it makes your cheeks feel warm. He pulls the door shut behind him, leaving you alone in the steamy bathroom. As you strip your clothes off and step under the stream of water, so many things are stuck in your head. The way Bucky rushed over and held your hair back not only the first time you puked, but the second time as well. He cares. You know he cares. He cares and it scares the shit out of you. The way he pressed a wet cloth to your neck and sat with you on the couch, even if he was using the moment to warn you about his younger self and reveal a little hint of how he feels about you. I don’t like the thought of him touching you. Bucky’s confession may not have surprised you, but it wasn’t what you were expecting him to say. What did he think was going to happen when he insisted you be a part of this mission? He could’ve let Sharon handle it and he never would’ve had to deal with the jealousy or possessiveness or whatever it is that’s coursing through him right now. But no, it had to be you. It could only be you. As you scrub a sweet-smelling soap into your skin, your mind wanders back to that moment on the platform earlier today. He kissed you. He kissed you in front of some of your coworkers without a care in the world. The lines are so fucking blurred that you wonder if he even knows where they are anymore, or if he cares. You look down as soapy suds circle around the drain near your feet. Do you know where they are? Do you care?

            Bucky rummages around in the bedroom until he finds a plain white t-shirt that he’s sure Peggy meant to be for him. It looks like it’ll probably be a bit oversized on you, so he tosses it onto the bed and stands still for a moment, listening to the sound of the shower running through the wall. He knows you feel the same thing he feels. Every time he’s kissed you, he’s reminded that you feel it. Do you try to deny it because you don’t want to feel it? Sometimes he just wants to grab you and ask what it is that keeps you from being real with him.

            Bucky shakes his head, trying his best to clear all thoughts of you from his mind, before tugging his shirt over his head and dropping it on the bed. He leaves his tactical pants on as he moves through the house, searching for an extra pillow and blanket. He sure as hell isn’t going to let you take the couch, especially not a couch made eighty years before the couches you’re used to sitting on. You’ll wake up in the morning with a stiff neck and aching back. He’ll take the couch and leave you the bed.

            It’s just a few minutes later that you’re stepping out of the bathroom, wrapped tightly in a towel as you pad across the bedroom floor quietly. You glance around but see no sign of Bucky. Eyeing the crisp white t-shirt on the bed, you can tell he left it for you. You run your fingers over it while clutching the towel around your chest with one hand.

            “Is that what you wanted?” Bucky’s voice is low and gravelly as he speaks from the bedroom doorway behind you. Clutching the towel a little tighter, you turn to face him with the white shirt fisted in one hand. Your eyes roam over the expanse of his bare chest, coasting down to the ripples of his abs and the v-line that so prominently drags your gaze even further down to the front of his tactical pants. He smirks at the way you’re ogling him, but he doesn’t mention it. When you finally tear your eyes away from him, the dresser beside the doorway catches your eye. You move closer to it and rummage around in one of the top drawers until you find a pair of simple black panties. Bucky’s eyes follow your movements carefully. He leans against the doorframe just like he did in the bathroom earlier, keeping his gaze trained on your face as you lean over and guide the panties up your legs beneath the towel. You’re just careful enough to make sure not to flash Bucky, but you wonder if his eyes would even stray from your face if you flashed him.

            “It’s fine.” You say, referring to the t-shirt. “Are you gonna shower?” You ask, trying to keep your gaze from drifting down his torso again. You turn away from the dresser and head back for the foot of the bed, dropping the shirt onto the mattress before peeling the towel away from your body.

            Bucky stiffens in the doorway as you let your towel fall to your feet. He’s never seen you this way. As you stand there with your back exposed, wearing nothing but a pair of black panties, he has to bite down on his bottom lip to keep from saying something stupid. Who’s blurring the lines now? He wants to point out your hypocrisy, to make it blatantly obvious, but he stays quiet as you tug the t-shirt over your head and slide your arms through the short sleeves.

            “Did you want to keep staring or were you going to shower?” Your voice rings out playfully as you cut your eyes at Bucky over your shoulder. He tamps down a groan at the way you look at him through your lashes, but then he’s moving toward the bathroom door.

            “If I find you on the couch when I get out, I’m moving you myself.” He threatens, not daring to steal another look at you as he nears the bathroom.

            “I already called it.” You shrug, bending over to scoop your damp towel off the floor.       

            “Take the bed, unless you want me joining you on that damn couch and blurring the lines even more.”

            As you settle into the bed, letting go of your signature stubborn nature for the time being, Bucky’s all you can think about. It’s not the fact that he looked undeniably attractive standing there in the doorway without a shirt on. It’s not the fact that he insisted you take the bed and leave him with the surely uncomfortable couch. It’s every little thing he’s said and done in between that has your heart racing and your mind reeling. What if, just this once, you let yourself explore the tension? What if instead of waiting for the tension to snap like a twig, instead of waiting for him to lay you down in the backseat of someone else’s car in the heat of the moment, you took the initiative and tried to figure out what the hell this is between the two of you? He was right when he said that the lines have been blurred for a long time. Maybe instead of trying to tiptoe around and avoid blurring them, you should just shift them. Shift the lines and see if things end up crashing down in flames. If everything goes horribly, it’s not like you had anything to lose. But if things go well? A shiver runs down your spine and you tuck yourself in underneath the covers of the oversized bed. You sink into the pillow behind your head and let your eyes fall closed as you imagine a moment where your field partner becomes something more. You imagine a moment where all the stolen kisses and touches lately stop being so stolen, and instead are given and taken freely. You imagine what it might feel like to stop running and fighting against this thing that you feel so strongly. Warmth spreads through your body and you relax against the mattress.

            When Bucky steps out of the bathroom a few minutes later and catches sight of you curled up in bed with your eyes closed and the covers pulled up to your shoulders, he lets out a quiet sigh of relief. He really thought you’d try to tough it out and sleep on the couch. He stands in the doorway between the bathroom and bedroom, fiddling with the dog tags around his neck and wondering if he should look for some pajamas of his own instead of crashing on the couch in just a pair of black boxers. When he glances over at you again and sees the peaceful look on your face, he can’t bring himself to go digging through the dresser or closet and risk waking you. Though it’s chilly in the house, he could make it through the night just fine by starting a fire in the living room fireplace and using the spare blanket he set out on the couch while you showered. As he starts moving forward, his dog tags clink against his bare chest and the wooden floor creaks under his feet on the second step. He stills and holds his breath, not even moving to look over his shoulder and see if he’s woken you with those little sounds. After waiting a second, takes another cautious step forward and the floor creaks a little louder. Fuck it. He makes it to the door quickly, with only a few more creaks of wood beneath his feet, but as he exits the doorway into the hall, he hears you stir behind him.

            “Bucky?” Your soft sleepy voice stops him in his tracks. He exhales deeply, feeling a bit guilty about waking you but loving the way you sound when you’ve just woken up. He turns around in the doorway and faces you. You’re propped up on one elbow, squinting at him through the dark room.

            “If I knew the floors were so loud I would’ve just slept in the shower.” He says halfheartedly, speaking quietly to match the sleepy mood of the house.

            “I wasn’t really asleep.” You whisper back. Your eyes follow the curve of his vibranium arm down until you’re studying the black and gold fingertips that hang at his side. Bucky raises a brow at you.

            “You were asleep.” He murmurs, cocking his head to the right. He glances over at the empty side of the bed, noting how little space you take up even when you have your legs stretched out.

            “I was just thinking.”

            “About what?” Bucky wonders aloud. He takes a step forward and leans against the doorframe like he’s done multiple times tonight. He crosses his arms over his chest as you let your head fall away from your hand and lay back on your pillow again. You stare up at the ceiling as nervousness begins to swell up in your chest. You bite down on your bottom lip and screw your eyes shut, holding your breath for a second before deciding to speak again.

            “Blurring the lines.” As you lay there in the dark, refusing to prop yourself back up to look at Bucky, your heart starts beating wildly against your ribcage. He’s silent for a second too long and it has you regretting opening your mouth. When you hear the wood floor creak, you force yourself to open your eyes. Pushing yourself up on your elbows, you see Bucky moving toward the bed slowly. His dog tags swing with each step, clanging against his chest a couple of times before he reaches your side of the bed. You watch with bated breath as he nudges your legs through the covers. Getting the hint, you sit up and pull your legs in closer, drawing your knees to your chest. Bucky sits down on the side of the bed but keeps his face cast downward at the floor.

            “That night you tried to sleep it off…” His voice trails off as he leans over and rests his elbows on his knees. He looks down at his hands as he presses his palms together. “Did it work?” You swallow hard but don’t hesitate to shake your head. You know he catches the act in his peripheral vision, so you don’t say a word. Bucky nods slowly, studying his hands as if he’s memorizing every detail of them. Your eyes drift to his shoulders as he takes steady, even breaths. They rise and fall rhythmically as moonlight from the window across the room filters in through the curtains and highlights them.

            Bucky wants to say more, to ask you more. He can tell that you’re open to talking right now, probably more open than you’ve ever been before, but he has this sinking feeling that you’ll say something that’ll break him. He doesn’t know if he can handle hearing you say out loud just how one-sided you think this thing between you really is. Even though he’s sure it’s not actually one-sided, hearing you say that it is might really break him. He won’t give you the chance to do that yet. He wants to hold out hope a little longer. So, Bucky rises from the side of the bed and exhales deeply. When he turns to head for the door again, intent on settling into that stiff green couch in the living room for the night, every sensory receptor in his body fires at once at the feeling of your hand reaching out and grasping his flesh one. He drops his gaze quickly and sees exactly what he feels: your palm sliding against his and your fingers intertwining with his softly. His throat feels dry and every thought leaves his mind as you tighten your grasp and tug on his hand slightly.

            “Lay with me.” You whisper. Your tone is so meek that he can tell exactly what’s going through your mind right now. You’re afraid he’ll say no. You’re afraid that he’ll reject you and continue on to sleep on the couch, leaving you here alone, feeling vulnerable and stunted. The tone of your whisper puts the tiniest crack in his hard exterior.

            Bucky’s silent as you drop his hand and scoot closer to the middle of the bed, pulling back the covers for him. He moves slow as he settles into the warm spot you’d been occupying, inhaling your sweet scent as he pulls the covers over his body and rolls onto his side to face you. You’re just a few inches away, lying on your folded arm since he moved the second pillow to the couch earlier. He could get up and go grab the pillow. He’d only be gone for a few seconds. But he fears the moment he leaves your sight, you’ll change your mind about having him here and he’ll have ruined everything. That’s why he tugs the pillow out from under his head and moves it toward you, watching with a softened gaze as you accept it and slide it beneath your own head.

            You’re falling asleep right in front of his eyes a few minutes later, when suddenly your eyes flutter open and you reach out for him beneath the covers. Your warm palm lands on his side, skating around to his back before you pull him toward you. He moves in carefully, apprehensively, until his chest is nearly pressed against yours. He watches as you drag the pillow until it’s in the shared space between you and both of your heads fall to rest on it evenly. With Bucky’s body heat keeping you warm and the light patter of rain on the bedroom window lulling you to sleep, your eyes are closed only a few minutes later and Bucky finds himself missing the heat of your stare until he too drifts off into an unusually peaceful slumber.

            You awake in a tangle of limbs with lightning flashing through the curtains and illuminating the room with a ghostly glow.  Everything looks a little scarier in an antique house at three in the morning. Thunder rumbles loudly just above the house, shaking the roof and rattling the glass window. As you fully come to your senses, you figure out just where your limbs are in relation to Bucky’s and your heart rate picks up quickly. He’s asleep directly in front of you, with his face looking more relaxed than you’ve ever seen it. But his legs and arms…

            A shaky breath flows out through your nose as you close your eyes and try not to move. Bucky has one thigh wedged snugly between yours and an arm thrown lazily over your waist. You can tell that your t-shirt has ridden up above your hips and ass, with his forearm resting against the hem of it on your waist. Blurred lines. So fucking blurred.

            You close your eyes tightly as a loud crack of thunder reverberates through the house. Bucky’s instantly awoken as the thunder rolls and you tense up against him. He focuses on your face, on your tightly closed eyes and the way you’re holding your breath. He moves the arm that’s draped over your waist slowly until his hand is ghosting over your hip. His fingertips just barely graze the hem of your t-shirt as thunder sounds again. You look into his eyes right as you move your left hand to clamp down over his, forcing his palm to press flat against your hip and his fingers to curl against your skin. As you stare into each other’s eyes and the storm rages on just outside, the tension rising between you feels just like it did in the car outside of Sharon’s apartment that night.

            “I don’t want to keep blurring the lines.” Bucky rasps as he squeezes your hip once. Your eyes trail down to his lips as he speaks only inches from your face. He leans in slowly until he’s so close that one little shift of your head would have you kissing him. He lets the tip of his nose brush against yours gently before moving down and pressing his lips to your jawline. He leaves kisses in a row all the way back to your ear, moving at a torturously slow pace until he’s nipping at your neck in that way that always drives you crazy.

            “Then what do you want?” You ask breathlessly. Bucky pushes the knee that’s trapped between your legs upward until he’s applying the tiniest bit of pressure against your clothed cunt. A soft moan escapes your lips as you squeeze your thighs around his and focus on the feel of skin against skin.

            “I want to cross them.” He whispers against your neck. You tilt your head back to give him more access as his tongue swirls against the column of your throat. “I want to lay you down on the line and just…” Bucky tugs the neck of your shirt to the side and bites down on your collarbone lightly. “Fuck you on it.”

            “Bucky…” His name is a whimper that floats from your lips and fills the space around you both. Moving his hand back down to your hip, Bucky curls his fingertips into it and pulls you down, making your grind against the firm muscle of his thigh. This time a sultry moan slips out and your back arches slightly, causing your chest to press against his.

            “How am I supposed to keep my hands off of you when you say my name like that?” Wetness pools between your thighs and begins to dampen the fabric of your panties as he pushes his thigh upward again, at the same time that he pulls your hip down and applies pressure to your clit just right. You know you should have better sense than to lay here and let him do unspeakable things to you. You should remind him that you’re partners, that you’d be risking things professionally if you let things go on this way. You should remind him that you’re technically on a mission right now, but his name just falls from your lips again. You’re actively emptying your mind of any thought that would have you push him away when he attaches his lips to your neck again and pulls you in against his chest. You try to push his shoulders and force him onto his back so you can move on top of him, but he fights against you, rolling on top of you instead. He pins your arms down on either side of your head and lets his nose brush against yours a second time. He lowers his hips down slowly as your legs spread on their own accord, giving him the space to press his clothed erection against your wet panties.

            “How do we keep ending up like this?” You whisper against his lips, staring up into his blue eyes as your question hangs in the air. Bucky presses his lips to yours in a short, shallow kiss. “I keep telling myself this can’t happen and we keep ending up here.”

            “Let me have you.” He begs, dropping his forehead to yours. You look at him through your lashes as your breath hitches in your throat. “Let me have you just this once.”

            “Just this once? That’s all you’re asking for?” The words come out airy and light as you struggle to take in a full breath. Bucky grinds against you, circling his hips slowly while he keeps your arms pinned to the mattress.

            “I’d ask you for a lifetime if I didn’t think it would scare the shit out of you.” Goosebumps prickle across your skin and you bite down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

            “We can’t fuck.” You say decidedly. The surety of your voice surprises you, with how malleable you feel having Bucky grind against you like this. You fear that if he really asked you for something specific, you’d say yes in a heartbeat. He circles his hips into yours impossibly harder and shakes his head above you.

            “I wasn’t asking if I could fuck you.” Bucky takes in the confused look on your face and he can’t help but to lean in and kiss you. He envisions what he really wants to do to you. He pictures the way he wants to push your legs apart and eat you out like your pussy is his last meal. Then he kisses you like that’s exactly what he’s doing. His tongue delves into your mouth relentlessly, leaving you gasping for air when he finally pulls back. He lets go of your forearms and pushes the covers away from his back as he shimmies down. He kisses your neck, then your chest through the t-shirt. He leaves soft, gentle kisses all the way down until he’s settling himself between your legs and pressing his lips against the waistband of your panties. You look down at him through your lashes, wanting nothing more than to tangle your fingers in his hair and pull his face closer to where you need it. “I was asking if I could taste you.”

            “You say you want to lay me down on the metaphorical line and fuck me, and then you get between my legs and ask if you can just taste me?”

            “I’m not fucking you until I know I can do it without you running off and pretending like it meant nothing to you.” He plants an open-mouthed kiss right over your clothed clit. The warmth of his tongue seeps through the fabric, sending a jolt of pleasure dancing up your spine and a knot tightening low in your stomach. “When I fuck you, you’re not going to get all in your head about how you shouldn’t have let it happen. You’re not going to have regrets and feel like we ruined everything we had.” Bucky hooks a finger in your panties and gently pulls them to the side, but he never looks down. He maintains eye contact as he starts pressing the pad of his thumb against your now exposed clit. Him finding your clit instantly without even looking, without having your anatomy perfectly memorized, almost ruins you. “When I fuck you, you’re going to realize that you were just delaying the inevitable.”

            “You keep saying when.” You point out between heavy pants. You can’t resist the urge to tangle your fingers in his hair any longer, not when he’s toying with your clit this way and looking at you so intensely. You reach down with both hands, carding your fingers through his hair and tugging on it lightly.

            “Inevitable, sweetheart. Tell me what that word means.” He finally lets his eyes angle downward and settle on your wet cunt. You watch as his pupils dilate and his tongue darts out to dampen his lips as he admires you from just a couple of inches away. He starts circling your clit with his thumb, applying just enough pressure to have your back arching off of the bed and your fingers curling in his brown hair. Bucky inches closer to your pussy and you feel his tongue press against your entrance firmly, before he’s dragging it upwards and using it to replace his thumb. He pulls back abruptly, leaving you whining out in frustration. “If something’s inevitable, it’s certain. It’s unavoidable, it was bound to happen.” His warm breath fans over your pussy as he speaks in a low voice. Bucky sucks on your clit roughly before pulling back again. “When I fuck you, when the inevitable happens, you won’t be able to pretend like there’s nothing between us anymore.”

            You’re torn between wanting to argue with him and wanting to clamp your thighs around his head and grind against his tongue. Bucky smirks up at you and you tug on his hair a little harder out of spite.

            “It’s already happening, isn’t it?” He asks just before flattening his tongue against your clit and letting your circle your hips against him. Your eyes flutter closed as that knot in your stomach tightens more and more. “It’s getting harder to pretend.”

            “Fuck you.” You moan out the insult, but it’s useless as he slides down and pushes his tongue inside of you. His thumb takes over stimulating your clit once again as he starts eating you out like he’s dreamt of doing it since he’s known you. His tongue works you up higher and higher, closer and closer to the edge of the cliff as a sweat breaks out across your forehead and you struggle to keep your ass on the bed.

            “You’re getting close.” He groans against you. You whimper as he drags his thumb away from your clit and switches to rubbing it with his middle and ring fingers. He moves slow now, sliding those fingertips away from your clit and toward your entrance.

            “Bucky…” You say his name in warning. You know what he’s about to do. He plunges both fingers into you, stopping when they’re halfway in and your back is arched inches off of the bed. Your fingertips scrape against his scalp as you hold in a moan that would’ve been damn near pornographic if you’d let it out. Bucky lets out a frustrated sigh before dragging his fingers out and then pushing them back in all the way. As he holds them inside of you knuckle-deep, you cry out loudly. It’s been so long since you’ve let anyone do something like this to you and he isn’t giving you much time to adjust, but god, it feels so fucking good.

            “Breathe, baby.” He says as he presses a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh. He starts fucking you with his fingers slowly, almost gently. In and out they go, first just halfway each time, but then he starts thrusting them deeper and going a little faster with it. “I would’ve gone a little easier on you if you hadn’t held in that pretty little sound.”

            “Just…fuck, Bucky.” You moan, hooking your legs over his shoulders as a loud crack of thunder sends the window rattling again. “I’m close.”

            “Trust me, I know.” He groans, pressing a sloppier kiss to the inside of your thigh as he curls his fingers inside of you. You cry out again, but this time your hands leave his hair and go to grip the sheets on either side of your head. “Are you going to imagine you’re cumming on my cock when this orgasm hits?”

            “No.” You say defiantly, shaking your head as he curls his fingers again. He laughs darkly, clearly calling your bluff.

            “You know you squeeze the hell out of my fingers when you lie?”

            “I do not.”

            “That’s it, baby.” Bucky coos. He positions himself to attach his lips to your clit as he continues his ministrations with his hand. “Keep tightening around my fingers until you fucking cum.”

            Some part of you wants to keep defying him. You want to be stubborn and refuse to give him this piece of you, refuse to give him one of your orgasms. It feels like if you let go and give it to him, you’re going to tumble right over the edge of a cliff and into the unknown. But why does it feel so damn good as you stand on the edge of that cliff? When you stop resisting and let your orgasm wash over you, when Bucky watches as your face contorts with bliss and your knuckles turn white against the bed sheets, he’s just as far gone as you are. You’re cumming around his fingers while he laps at your clit, and he’s cumming in his boxers without even having realized just how close he was to doing it.

            There’s an odd feeling brewing in his chest as he puts your panties back in place and collapses beside you in bed. He can’t quite figure out what it is. When you catch your breath and look over at him, taking in the sight of Bucky Barnes with your arousal painted over his lips and chin, you feel your heart skip a beat. Bucky looks back at you, but he only gets a second to see your dilated pupils and flushed cheeks before you’re leaning in and swiping your tongue across his bottom lip.

            As your lips move against his in a gentle, familiar way, his lungs burn and his heart is pounding in his ears. Because he knows what this is. He knows what that unusual feeling in his chest really is. Love. He’s in love with the girl who lives to ignore her feelings.

            You’re in too deep. You can’t even try to reason with yourself. As you lie in a tangle of sheets, listening to the mixed water sounds of Bucky showering and rain falling lightly just outside the bedroom window, you feel utterly fucked. And not just because Bucky fucked you with his mouth last night. You let out a frustrated groan before rolling onto your back and fisting your hands in your messy hair. You can’t tell yourself to be professional because you’re so far past professional now that it’d be insulting to you both if you tried to revert. You can’t tell yourself to stop crossing lines with him because you know just how good it feels every time you do it. Bucky was onto something last night when he asked you if it was getting harder for you to pretend that there’s nothing between the two of you.

            Your eyes float over to the partially closed bathroom door and you watch for a moment as steam floats through the space between it and the doorframe. Is it steam from the hot shower or is it just radiating off of the man that said your pussy gets tighter when you lie? Blush creeps into your cheeks at the memory of him saying such a filthy thing while his fingers were inside of you.

            Bucky tenses up in the shower when he hears the bathroom door creak open the tiniest bit. When your bare feet lightly tap along the cold floor and he hears them stop in front of the sink, a small smile plays on his lips.

            “You’re not coming in?” Bucky’s smirk is evident in his tone and you’re biting on the inside of your cheek as you reach for your toothbrush.

            “You remember me saying we can’t fuck, right?” You ask, though even as you say it, it feels like a weak statement.

            “Do you remember me saying it’s inevitable?” He retorts playfully. You should tell him to fuck off, but you only find yourself tempted to actually join him in the shower. As you spread a bit of toothpaste along the bristles of your toothbrush, you shake your head to yourself.

            “I’m brushing my teeth in the kitchen.”

            “That’s fine.” Bucky replies nonchalantly, seemingly unfazed by your slight rejection. He spends the next ten minutes lathering and rinsing for the second time in less than twelve hours. He isn’t normally someone who takes a shower both in the morning and at night, but after he came in his boxers last night, he fell asleep next to you and didn’t take the time to clean himself up. He woke up feeling like he’d had a wet dream.

            Peggy sits on the foot of the bed, waiting patiently as you try on a third dress.

            “Are you alright in there?” Peggy calls out politely, uncrossing her legs and readying to rise from the bed if need be. You laugh softly from inside the walk-in closet before pulling the door open and revealing the deep blue dress she picked for you to try a few minutes ago. It has cap sleeves, a high neckline, and an A-line style skirt.  “I think that one looks wonderful on you, don’t you like it?” She asks, pushing herself up and coming to stand in front of you. She catches the pinched look on your face before you’ve even formulated a response. You didn’t quite like the first two dresses either, and at this point there are only a handful left to try. She has to wonder if maybe it’s the dissonance between forties-style dresses and modern dresses that’s throwing you off. “Sergeant Barnes.” Peggy calls for him loudly.

            Bucky’s rising from the couch and heading down the hall as soon as he’s been invited into the bedroom. He was kicked out pretty much the moment he finished up his morning shower, with Peggy showing up and saying she just had to get started on your look for tonight. He was a bit skeptical about how much time it’d really take, but after hearing you try on three dresses and dislike every single one, he sees why she came so early.

            “What do we need him for?” Confusion is written all over your face as you smooth down the blue dress and raise a brow at Peggy.

            “He’s the one that needs to like the dress, isn’t he?” She questions, motioning for Bucky to come in. He takes a few steps into the room and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly as his eyes coast over the dress. It’s pretty, it’s definitely very forties-esque, but it’s not you. It’s not you and it’s definitely not for him. “Help her pick a dress for tonight.” Bucky stares at her for a long moment before she starts moving toward the door. She pats his shoulder as she passes him, leaning in to whisper in his ear just as you’re disappearing back into the closet. “She needs you for this.”

            You feel Bucky’s presence in the closet without having to turn around and look at him. He stops just a few inches behind you, looking over your shoulder at the row of dresses that you have to choose from.

            “It’s a little different than your closet back home.” He says softly, watching as your fingertips dance across the fabric of each hanging dress.

            “You haven’t seen my closet back home.” You point out, tugging on the side of a dark navy dress. As soon as you see the front of it, you let it go. Your fingers continue on, looking for another dark fabric.

            “If you’re looking for something like that little black dress you wore last weekend, you won’t find it in here.” Bucky replies. Thinking about that little black dress sends your mind back to the night in the bar, when Bucky kissed you in front of everyone. Then your mind wanders to what happened in the car after, and you have to shake the thought of it from your head. Your fingers brush along a bright red dress and you don’t even consider checking it out. Bucky steps up close behind you, so close that you feel his body heat permeating your skin through the blue dress you’re wearing. He reaches around you with his right arm and grasps the edge of the only black fabric amongst all of the dresses hanging there.

            “Peggy said something colorful would be best.” You murmur as he removes the dress from the hanging rack and holds it out in front of you both.

            “He won’t be paying much attention to the dress.” Bucky assures you. He leans in close to your ear before whispering his next words. “And you look good in black.”  A chill runs through you but you reach out and grasp the hanger quickly before turning around and pressing a hand against Bucky’s chest.

            “Let me change.” You push against his chest gently and he takes a few steps backward until he’s out of the closet. As he moves across the room to sit on the foot of the bed where Peggy previously was, he hears the sound of your blue dress unzipping but not the sound of the closet door closing. He takes a cautious look as he sinks down onto the edge of the mattress. There you are, slipping out of that deep blue fabric while giving Bucky an almost clear view of you in forties-style black lingerie. His cock is awake instantly and is hardening within the already sort of tight-fitting sweats he took from Stark’s dresser earlier this morning. Bucky leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees as he drops his line of sight to the floor.

            You walk out only a moment later in the dress he chose. It’s all black, with off the shoulder sleeves and a fairly low-cut neckline. It hugs your body tightly. It’s quite similar to the shape of the red dress that Peggy wore when he first saw her in the Whip and Fiddle.

            “Don’t look at me like that.” You say lightly, watching as Bucky’s eyes glide up and down your figure multiple times. He clears his throat and sits up straight before motioning with his flesh hand for you to come closer. You move forward until you’re a couple of feet in front of him, but then your eyes drop to his lap and you see his erection pressed against his sweats. Confidence rolls off of you in waves as you stop thinking and take a few more steps toward him. You don’t stop until you’re standing between his legs and he’s looking up at you. You let your hands rest on his shoulders as his move to ghost along the outsides of your thighs.

            “Don’t go too far with him tonight.” Bucky’s tone is almost pleading as he searches your eyes, but his expression is unreadable.

            “How far is too far?” You swallow thickly after asking your question. Bucky curls his fingers into your hips and draws in a deep breath.

            “I don’t know.” He admits, but he does know. He knows that he doesn’t even want you to let this younger version of himself dance with you. He doesn’t want to let him lean in and whisper in your ear, he doesn’t want him to even get the chance to consider kissing you.

            “You told me he moves fast, and we need him and Steve to be on board for this mission tomorrow. I can’t reject him.” You explain quietly, glancing over your shoulder to make sure Peggy’s still in the living room. When you turn your head forward again and look down at Bucky, he’s leaning in closer to you. You watch with your breath hitched in your throat as he lets the tip of his nose brush against your dress, just below your breasts. He moves slow, dragging his nose upward and letting his lips follow in their wake until he’s halfway up your chest. Your hands slide up the sides of his neck and tangle in his hair, tugging him back to look at you again.

            “Why did you ask me to lay with you last night?” Bucky finally asks the question that’s been on his mind since he woke up this morning. You exhale slowly, absentmindedly massaging your fingers into his scalp while his thumbs rub circles against the front of your hips. He watches as you chew on the inside of your cheek, trying your best to come up with a safe answer.

            “I wanted to know what it would feel like…to stop pretending.” You whisper.

            “How did it feel?” His eyes stray from your face, taking in the swell of your breasts over the low neckline of the dress. Filthy memories of last night flood your brain and you clench your thighs together slightly. It wasn’t slightly enough, because Bucky catches on instantly and he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth. While you’re remembering the feel of his kisses against your inner thigh and his tongue on your clit, he’s remembering the sweet taste of your cunt and the pretty sounds you made just for him.

            “Good.” Your whisper is even quieter now, and your nerves are rising knowing Peggy’s just down the hall in the living room.

            “Just good?” Bucky fishes for more. He tests the waters, letting his hands slide down your thighs, closer to the hem of the dress. You don’t move away, you don’t swat at his hands or tell him to stop.

            “Just good, Bucky.” You answer. But as his fingers hook beneath the hem of your dress and he starts guiding it higher and higher up your legs, you know your resolve and will to pretend is crumbling.

            “I think you’re lying.” He says calmly, staring up at you with those blue eyes as the hem of the dress nears the middle of your thighs. You squeeze his shoulders as he lets his flesh thumb graze the lace edge of your panties, close to where your thigh meets your center.

            “Peggy’s here.” You whisper the reminder, but make no effort to break away from him. In fact, you find yourself leaning into his touch. Bucky’s quick as he slips one finger into your panties and drags it along the length of your folds, gathering the slick arousal that’s started collecting between them.

            “Shh, I just want to see if you’re lying to me.” Bucky hushes you just as his gaze is dropping to your lower body and he’s nudging your feet apart with his right foot. You don’t stop him. You don’t do anything but close your eyes and dig your fingertips into his shoulders as he dips a finger inside of you. Your mouth falls open and you inhale sharply as he curls it against your walls. “How did it feel last night? To stop pretending for a little while?” He gazes up at you with what you think is a look of lust, but he knows is all fucking love. “Just good?”

            “Bucky…fuck.” He pulls his finger out before plunging it in deeper than before, and then he curls it again.

            “That’s not an answer.”

            “It felt good…it felt, shit, Bucky.” He starts thrusting his finger in and out of you at a medium pace as you try to piece together your answer. “It felt right.” He slows to a stop as you say that last word. Though you’re tight as fuck, just like you were last night, he doesn’t feel that characteristic clenching when you give your answer. You’re telling the truth. Maybe that’s a stupid way to interrogate you, but his theory is proving true so far. He pulls his finger out of you and brings it to his lips, sucking it into his mouth and savoring your taste. You look down just as he's pulling it away from his lips and tugging your dress back into place.

            “Black heels.” He says lightly, patting the side of your thigh as you step away from him. He rises in front of you and moves a stray lock of hair behind your ear with the same finger that was just inside you. “The third ones from the closet door.”

            Bucky’s waltzing out of the room, tucking his hard-on into the waistband of his sweats as you’re left standing there dazed. Dazed and beyond aroused. Part of you wants to grab him by the back of his shirt and drag him back into the room, telling him to finish what he started. The other part of you knows better than to give him the satisfaction. So, you grab that pair of black heels from the closet and keep your mouth shut.

            You feel uncharacteristically nervous for what should just be another mission on your long list of undercover ops. Maybe it’s because you have one version of Bucky Barnes listening through the in-ear monitor you’re sporting, while you’re moments away from meeting another version of the same man. Or maybe it’s because you’re trying to walk the very fine line between hating Bucky Barnes and loving him. Whatever it is, you’re nervous and it’s showing.

            Peggy walks close to your side, leading the way down the busy street in her red dress and matching heels. You can hear the watch on her left wrist ticking away as you approach the Whip and Fiddle.

            “You seem worried.” Peggy voices her observation softly as she slows her pace a bit and casts you a sideways glance. You let out a stiff laugh before pushing a curl over your shoulder. She did your hair and makeup in a way that has you feeling like something fresh out of a forties fashion catalog. “Is it the mission itself or the man involved?” You swallow thickly, knowing Bucky can hear the entire conversation through your in-ear monitor. You could reach up and turn it off, have a quick girls chat with Peggy while leaving Bucky in the dark. But you’re sure Peggy would instantly realize that you’re on comms and you don’t know how she’d feel about not being let in on it sooner.

            “I’m fine, just not used to life in the forties I guess.” You respond curtly.

            “Well, that wasn’t very convincing.” She huffs. When she slows to a stop beside you, you know it’s futile to keep walking toward the bar, so you stop and turn to face her. “He looks at you like he would’ve given you the world and his last name in any timeline.”

            “Peggy—”

            “Now you have to spend an evening flirting with a younger version of him when you don’t even know how you feel about your version of him. You don’t have to lie to me just because he’s listening in, he knows that you’re conflicted.” Your eyes widen as she lets you in on exactly how perceptive she is. You hear Bucky clear his throat through your ear piece and pink begins to color your cheeks, you’re sure it’s even showing through the blush Peggy applied for you earlier.

            “I’ll be fine.” You assure her, though the words don’t come out sounding quite as convincing as you’d hoped.

            “I’m sure you will be. Sergeant Barnes will show you an exceptionally great time tonight, but it won’t make your problem any easier to figure out.”

            “My problem?”

            “You’re in love with your partner and you don’t know how to handle it.”

            “You just met us last night and you’ve already decided that?” You ask incredulously, crossing your arms over your chest as Peggy glances over at the door to the Whip and Fiddle. You see a few soldiers spilling out of the place with varying degrees of unstable gaits and boisterous laughs. You don’t recognize any of them as Steve or Bucky, so you turn your attention back to her.

            “It doesn’t matter when I met you, I look at you and I see me.” That’s how Peggy sees your situation so clearly. She’s in the same one. She’s in love with Steve Rogers and she doesn’t know what to do about it. She doesn’t know how to handle it yet. You let out a deep sigh and let your arms fall to your sides. Bucky’s staying quiet on the other end of comms, so quiet that you can’t even hear him breathe. “I want to ask you how things end for me in the future…how things end for us, but I won’t.” You know that she’s referring to herself and Steve and your heart breaks a little for her. “Don’t let fear get in the way of the rest of your life. You could live a wonderful life with a man that feels what he feels for you, but you can lose it all by being too afraid to give him a chance.”

            Your black heels are frozen to the sidewalk as Peggy’s words echo in your mind. When she turns and starts heading for the entrance to the bar, you stay still and quiet.

            “They end up together.” Bucky’s voice plays in your ear so quietly that you think you’ve made it up for a moment.

            “How do you know?” You finally ask, speaking under your breath as you start moving in Peggy’s direction slowly. Bucky lets out a long sigh, like he’s dwelling on a memory.

            “It’s the only reason Steve would’ve stayed behind like he did.” Bucky listens to the slow, steady clicking of your heels against the pavement as he grows closer and closer to losing you to his younger self. He wants to say so much more. He wants to point out that you didn’t deny it when Peggy said you were in love with him. He wants to ask if you’re really afraid, if she was right about that. But it’s not the time. It’ll probably never be the time.

            He leans back into the couch as he listens to the distant din of the Whip and Fiddle. The in-ear monitor won’t pick up much background noise, but he hears the sound of a bell chiming as the door opens for you and the sound of way too many soldiers clamoring around the space that you’re in. His eyes scrunch closed and his vibranium arm whirs as he curls his hand into a fist.

            “Captain.” Peggy’s accent carries the title with an air of class as she approaches a man seated at the bar. You recognize the back of his head instantly. Steve Rogers. He turns around quickly, coming to stand only two feet in front of Peggy as his eyes quickly, and quite respectably, roam over her figure.  The room slows and everything starts sounding muffled when the man seated next to Steve turns around and his eyes meet yours. Bucky. You stare at each other for a few long seconds, neither of you saying anything.

            “Agent Carter.” Steve addresses her, breaking you out of your trance. You look over at the tall super soldier with his perfectly styled blonde hair and dress uniform, noting the way his eyes never leave Peggy.

            “Howard has some equipment for you to try.” Peggy’s mouth is speaking business, but her eyes are saying something else entirely as they lock onto Steve’s and refuse to stray. You can feel Bucky’s eyes studying you intensely over Peggy’s shoulder as you avoid his gaze and watch the exchange that’s happening in front of you instead. “Maybe after tomorrow’s mission?”

            “Sounds good.” Steve keeps his replies short, but every word is thick with tension. Peggy leans back a bit and glances across the bar, noting a particularly lively table of men. They lean into each other as they sing along to a tune someone’s banging out on a beat up piano in the corner of the bar.               

            “I see your top squad is prepping for duty.” She says facetiously.

            “You don’t like music?” Bucky asks, tilting his head to the side and cocking a brow at her. Her gaze remains fixed on Steve as Bucky steps to the side to get a better look at you.

            “I do, actually. I might even, when this is all over, go dancing.”

            “And you?” Bucky directs his question at you now, nodding his head in your direction as Peggy steps to the side and gives you space to join the conversation. “Do you dance?”

            “With the right partner.” You reply softly, trying hard not to get lost in his blue eyes. Though he’s younger and so much more naïve, you see the Bucky you know all over the man in front of you. You see him in every artistic feature of his face, you see him in the way he cocks his head to the side and flashes a smirk at you.

            “Then what are we waiting for?” He asks playfully, nodding his head toward the more open part of the bar. You don’t rush to take his outstretched hand, but once your palm is against his, you get the same feeling that you’ve felt every time your version of Bucky has ever touched you. It feels electric. It feels like every nerve ending beneath your skin is on fire. It feels like you’re on the edge of a cliff and a strong wind is about to blow through and send you spiraling down.

            Back at the safehouse, Bucky’s stomach is twisting into knots as he pictures you wrapped up in the arms of anyone but him. He knows it’s stupid. He knows that this guy, in some way, really is him. But it still feels wrong. He listens reluctantly as this younger, more charismatic version of himself flirts and banters with you through multiple dances. He listens as the young soldier leans in close to your ear and tells you how you took the breath out of his lungs the moment you walked into the bar. He starts to feel a little nauseas and wonders if he’s finally heading into his own bout with time sickness when he hears the sound of a genuine laugh slipping past your lips at whatever it was that the young soldier said to you.

            It isn’t long before Bucky’s ripping the in-ear monitor out and tossing it on the kitchen table. He paces back and forth, focusing on the sound of his feet thudding against the wooden floorboards. Don’t go too far with him tonight. Bucky can still hear the way he pleaded with you earlier today. It was pathetic, but it was heartfelt. This younger version of himself would be completely on board with your mission even if you’d just flashed him a smile. Fuck. He runs his hands through his hair and curls his fingers into the soft brown locks, tugging them away from his scalp as he stops pacing. What the hell is he doing? You invited him into bed last night. You slept next to him. You let him slip between your legs and eat you out so thoroughly that he swears he can still taste you now. You let him finger your pussy just so he could find out if you were lying or not. You’re not going to let this younger version of him take things too far after all of that, right?

            Bucky exhales through his nose as he sinks back into one of the kitchen chairs and stares down at the earpiece on the table. He takes it in his flesh hand and rolls it between his middle and index finger for a moment, knowing he has to put it back in. When did he turn into such a jealous guy?

            The young Sergeant Barnes is captivated by you. He watches from the bar as you breeze through casual conversation with Peggy. You have a way of seeming so genuinely interested in anything that anyone says to you. You wholeheartedly hang on every word spoken and you get this look in your eye like nothing is more important to you than whatever’s being said. You seemed every bit as invested in Bucky’s spiel about Ferris wheels as you were when he leaned into your ear and told you about his family back home.

            “She’s a lady, Buck.” Steve says lightly, lifting his drink to his lips and taking a short sip. Bucky swirls amber colored whiskey around in the bottom of his glass as his blue eyes glimmer in the low lights of the bar. “Don’t get any ideas, she works with Peggy.”

            “You work with Peggy.” Bucky points out, casting him a disapproving glance before zeroing in on you again. “And you have ideas.”

            “I have ideas.” Steve mumbles, nodding curtly in surrender. He can’t lie to Bucky.

            “You don’t want to take your ideas over there and ask her to dance?” Bucky shifts his gaze to Peggy. He can almost imagine her proper accent as he watches her lips move in conversation with you. He has no doubt, just from the little interaction between Steve and Peggy when you girls first arrived at the bar, that Steve’s head over heels. Not only Steve, but Peggy’s envisioning a life with him too.

            “It’s not the right time.” Steve replies, setting his mug down on the bar and turning to face the same direction as Bucky.  

            “If you keep waiting, you’ll miss the time entirely.”

            “Can you miss fate?” Steve asks thoughtfully. Peggy lifts her gaze and turns her head slightly to the side, meeting his gaze across the bar for a fleeting second.

            “I’m not going to wait around here with you and find out.” Bucky’s downing the last of his whiskey and heading for you just as Peggy’s heading for Steve. His eyes are all over you as he approaches, sending your confidence soaring and your nerves stirring in the pit of your stomach. When he steps in close and wraps an arm around your waist, letting his right hand rest on the small of your back, you melt into his touch.

            “How much of London have you seen?” He whispers the question in your ear, letting his lips ghost so close to your ear that a shiver rolls through you.

            “Not enough.” You admit, biting down on your bottom lip as he curls his fingertips against the back of your dress.

            “Let me show you?” It’s a request. But when he pulls back and looks into your eyes, there’s no way you could deny him.

            No. Bucky’s clenching his fists atop the safehouse kitchen table as he listens to the sound of his younger self pushing open some creaky door. The din of the bar fades into the background as your heels click against pavement. You’re outside of the bar now. You’re not going to see London, that’s for fucking sure. Bucky grits his teeth as his own voice plays through the earpiece. He’s never wanted to wring his own neck so damn bad.

            “There are a lot of parts of the city that aren’t safe with the war going on, but if you work with Peggy, I’m guessing you’re used to that.” You stand still at the side exit of the bar, watching as Bucky carefully places his army uniform hat over his head. Somehow, the dark brick walls of the alley make his eyes seem more blue.  

            “Are we going somewhere dangerous, Sergeant Barnes?” You ask softly, looking up at him through your lashes as he straightens up his uniform jacket. You let your eyes coast down, taking in the sight of him in full uniform. Why don’t they still dress men this way?

            “Sergeant Barnes, hm?” He repeats the name slowly, taking two steps toward you as you take one step back toward the brick side wall of the Whip and Fiddle.

            “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

            “You don’t like calling me Bucky?” Another step forward and the fabric of his jacket is brushing against the fabric of your dress as your back meets the brick wall. He leans in and raises his arms, letting his palms rest against the brick on either side of your head as he cages you in. Truthfully, you don’t like calling him Bucky. You’ve avoided saying his name all night. It feels weird, it feels wrong. Just last night you were moaning that name with a slightly different man between your legs. By calling this one something different, you can at least separate the two a tiny bit.

            “You don’t like when I call you Sergeant Barnes?” You skirt around his question with one of your own. He chuckles as a smug look spreads over his features. He drops his head lower and lower until his lips are a mere inch away from yours and his blue eyes are staring so far into you that you’re sure he can see every thought in your spiraling mind.

            “You can call me anything you want and I’m damn sure I’ll love it.” He whispers. Your eyes track the movement of his tongue as it darts out and wets his lips.

            Your world shifts when you grab the front of his jacket and pull him in. His lips are soft as they part against yours and move in the way that only men named Bucky Barnes seem to move their lips. He kisses you like he’s done it countless times in every timeline that exists. Even as rain begins pattering down, soaking his uniform and your dress, you only tug on his jacket a little harder and angle your head to the side. As his tongue dances along your bottom lip, you hesitate for the shortest second. You can hear a voice echoing in your head, asking you not to go too far tonight, but his tongue is in your mouth and your guilt only multiplies when the taste of honey-tinged whiskey soaks into your taste buds.

            You taste like honey.

            You remember the first time your version of Bucky slipped his tongue into your mouth as the rain begins to pour down. You don’t mean to be so rash, but you’re loosening your grip on the uniform jacket and pressing your palms flat against his chest in an instant.

            “What were you drinking tonight?” You ask in a raspy whisper. You let Bucky stay close enough that your foreheads are nearly touching as he sucks in a deep breath and bites his bottom lip. Shaking his head like you’ve just asked him the most out of pocket question he’s ever heard, he releases his bottom lip slowly.

            “Four Roses.” He answers just as quietly. You nod to yourself as you commit the name to memory. He lets his left hand trail down the wet brick wall, moving it closer and closer to your face until you feel his warm palm press against your cheek. The fact that his palm isn’t a cool vibranium metal one contrasting with your heated skin makes you draw in a sharp breath and close your eyes. Why the fuck are you having so much trouble with this? You should be able to make out with the guy and put on a convincing act for five minutes. But no, he tastes like honey and you’re done for. You’re suddenly acutely aware of just how long it’s been since you heard even the tiniest noise through your earpiece, and your guilt increases tenfold. As if the man before you can read your mind, he lets his hand fall away from your face. “You’re not mine to kiss like this, are you?”

            “That’s the problem.” You whisper shakily, curling your fingers into the coarse fabric of his jacket lapels one more time. Your eyes float upward and meet his as you fight the urge to swallow the words you’re about to speak. “I think I am, and that scares the hell out of me.”

            Something changed for you at the Whip and Fiddle tonight. Peggy isn’t quite sure what it is, but she senses it. She senses it in the air in the same way she senses the coming rain. Even if she couldn’t see the dark clouds gathering along the edge of the city, if she couldn’t smell the rain in the air, she could feel the atmosphere changing as the storm approaches. Everything is set for tomorrow. The Howling Commandos are going to take down yet another HYDRA base, and now that you have an in with the forty’s version of Bucky, it shouldn’t be all too hard to use the connection to your advantage and slip inside of the base yourself. As far as he knows, you work with Peggy and you can hold your own pretty damn well. So, as you sit in the passenger seat of Peggy’s car staring straight ahead, why do you seem so off? If everything is going according to plan so far, what’s wrong with you?

            “Sergeant Barnes seemed quite taken with you.” Peggy comments as she guides the car away from the city. You’re not really paying much attention to her words, not when you’re still mulling over the realization you came to when you kissed the young sergeant in the alley earlier tonight. You couldn’t stand the fact that his left hand was his own, or that he was missing that characteristic darkness around him. It was Bucky, of course, but it wasn’t really Bucky. It wasn’t the Bucky you know. Sure, when you kissed him he tasted the same, he even smelled the same. But you were kissing a version of Bucky that hasn’t yet experienced any of the things that made the man you slept next to last night. You feel like you’ve been carrying around a perfectly crafted piece of pottery, neatly sculpted and fired in a kiln. It’s been hardened and glazed with dark earthy tones, completely finished. Then, someone shoved that piece of pottery into the back of a kitchen cabinet and handed you a wet mound of clay. You don’t want the soft, unmolded version of Bucky. You want the hardened, finished version.

            “He still drinks the same whiskey.” You don’t know why you’re dwelling on that little detail. You reach up with one hand and press your fingers against your lips, feeling a frustrating warmth awaken low in your stomach. Peggy looks over at you briefly, not letting her gaze linger for long before her eyes are back on the road ahead.      

            “Steve and I…we wait until it’s too late, don’t we?” Peggy’s question snaps you out of your thoughts and your hand drops to your lap quickly. You turn your head and stare at her, but she remains focused on the dark street that the car is rolling down.

            “What makes you ask that?”

            “I have a feeling.” She sighs heavily, pursing her red lips at the end of her sentence. “I have a feeling that we don’t allow ourselves that happiness in this lifetime, and you’re not allowing it for yourself either.”

            “It’s different for me.”

            “How so?” She asks softly, taking a right turn. The car begins coasting down a street you recognize and you know the safehouse is just a couple of minutes away now.

            “It’s just different. I can’t just give in and see if things turn out okay. We work together, we live across the hall from each other.” You’re grasping for excuses.

            “You trust the man with your life but you don’t want to trust him with your heart?”

            Peggy has a way with words. You don’t have a response for her as she slows down and turns into the driveway of Howard Stark’s house a couple of minutes later. As the car idles in front of the house, you feel a heavy weight settling on your shoulders.

            When you reach the front door, you find that Bucky’s left it unlocked for you. You slip in quietly, leaning against the wall of the foyer for a second to gather your thoughts. The house is mostly dark except for a small light glowing in the kitchen. Your stomach is churning as you tiptoe through the foyer and peer into the kitchen, careful not to let your heels tap on the floor. You see no sign of Bucky there. When you turn your eyes to the dark living room, you see him sitting in the middle of couch with his back to you.

            “The mission is set for tomorrow.” Your words come out sounding meek and uneasy as you stare at the back of Bucky’s head. He’s leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees like he’s lost in thought. He doesn’t even move at the sound of your voice and nervousness starts to bubble up inside of you. “Bucky?” He visibly tenses at the sound of his name rolling off of your tongue.

            “I stopped listening when you kissed him.” Bucky rubs his palms together slowly as he stares down at the living room carpet. He doesn’t move from the couch, and he can tell by the silence behind him that you’re not moving either. “Honestly, I didn’t think it would bother me that much.” Bucky lies, tracing the lines of his vibranium hand with his flesh index finger. It’s dark, but he has the golden crevices memorized.

            “Bullshit.” You say flatly, crossing your arms over your chest. “You knew it would bother you, but you swore I was the right person for this op anyway.” You’re not going to let him act like you did something wrong, when you’re doing exactly what you were brought here to do. You watch the back of Bucky’s head as he nods slowly.

            “Okay, that was bullshit.” Bucky agrees. Rain begins to patter against the roof, starting out slow and soft but quickly picking up until the sound of it is filling the house. “I knew it would bother me. I guess I just didn’t expect you to let him take things so far.”

            “How far do you think he took things?” You ask incredulously, with offense evident in your tone. If Bucky stopped listening when the kiss first started in the alley of the bar, then he didn’t hear a damn thing. He didn’t hear the brevity of the kiss or the way you pushed back and stopped it. He didn’t hear you coming to the realization that you already belong to him. He didn’t hear shit.

            “Pretty damn far, if he’s me.” You scoff at his answer and run a hand through your hair, leaving it looking a little tousled and messy.

            “It’s 1943. If pretty damn far means we kissed and went back inside then sure, he went pretty damn far.”

            “That’s it?” Bucky asks, pushing himself up to stand and turning around to face you. The couch and a few feet of distance stand between the two of you as Bucky raises a brow. He doesn’t believe you.

            “He’s not like this modern version of you.” You say defensively, gesturing at him as you speak. “He didn’t want anything more than a kiss from me.” You know your words aren’t necessarily true, but you say them anyway. Bucky shoots you a pointed look before shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest.

            “Yeah, he did."

            “No, he didn’t.” You argue childishly, narrowing your eyes at him. “He was sweet and kind and we had innocent fun.”

            “Innocent?” Bucky repeats the word and narrows his eyes at you in return. You bend one knee and lift your ankle up toward your ass as you start undoing your heels.

            “That’s what I said.” You huff as your heels clatter to the floor and you push them over to the nearest wall with your foot.

            “I was anything but innocent in the forties.” Bucky says lowly. When your eyes land on him, he’s approaching you slowly, moving around the couch but keeping his gaze trained on you. Something about the way he’s looking at you is dark, making your skin feel warm and your muscles tense up. Bucky runs a hand through his messy hair as he continues taking slow steps in your direction. “You’re really telling me he didn’t have you pushed up against a brick wall in some dark alley tonight?”

            You swallow hard, feeling like a kid caught in a lie. Of course he knows exactly what happened. He doesn’t need comms or a surveillance team to know what he himself would’ve done with a pretty girl on a night out. You say nothing as Bucky moves around the couch and comes to stand right in front of you. You take a small step back as he invades your space, but he doesn’t stop. He presses forward until he’s backing you against the living room wall.

            Bucky’s fighting to keep up the charade. He wants nothing more than to just be honest and tell you that he’s jealous. He wants to tell you that even though it was only another version of himself that you went out with tonight, he couldn’t fucking stand it. He needs you to know that he sat here for hours, thinking about nothing but you. He watches you with an intense gaze as your back collides with the wall and you look up at him through your lashes. He’s so close that he can see the wispy black mascara tinting them. It isn’t smudged in the slightest bit and that, at the very least, calms him a little. Bucky’s hands find your hips and he holds you still against the wall as he leans in and nudges the curve of your jaw with the tip of his nose.

            “He didn’t touch you like this?” Bucky whispers against your neck, as his flesh hand glides around to your ass. He grabs a handful and curls his fingertips against the soft fabric of your dress. You offer no response, because although you didn’t let him touch you like that, you know Bucky won’t believe you now. Bucky groans as he nips at the column of your throat, taking your silence as confirmation. He kisses his way up to your lips and then drags his tongue up your chin until he’s letting it delve into your mouth. You tilt your head as he kisses you, feeling a burn in your chest from the lack of air. He pulls back suddenly, and cradles the back of your head with the same hand that was just grabbing your ass. “He didn’t kiss you like that?” He questions, already assuming the answer. You whimper as Bucky tugs on your hair lightly and moves his lips down to your neck again. Instead of simply kissing your skin this time, he sucks on it and scrapes his teeth down toward your collarbone. When he lets go of your hair and slides his hand down your thigh, your back arches off the wall and you swear you feel him smile before he pulls back and smirks down at you coldly. Curling his fingers behind your thigh, he hitches your leg up around his hip and uses his body to push you further into the wall. “He didn’t pull your leg up like this?”

            It’s as if Bucky’s following a script. He knows himself so well that he’s able to carry out every single move his younger self would have made on you if you’d let things continue in the alley earlier. Bucky leans in and presses one last chaste kiss to your lips before he steps away from you entirely, leaving you struggling to catch your breath as he turns on his heel. You watch, thoroughly flustered, as he heads right back to the living room and takes a seat on the center cushion of that ugly vintage couch.

            “That’s what I thought.” He says lowly, causing a pang of guilt to bubble up inside of you. You let out an exaggerated sigh before reaching behind yourself and undoing the back of your dress. Bucky listens as you let the dress slip off of your frame and fall to the floor. He’s still for a moment, refusing to look back as you stand there in nothing more than a lacy black bra and matching panties. You glare at the back of his head for a second too long before stalking off to find a t-shirt and some sweats to put on before you continue the conversation at hand.

            “You don’t get to judge me for what he did tonight, for what you think he did.” You say coldly as you emerge from the bedroom a few seconds later. Bucky’s still sitting on the couch, now with both of his arms outstretched along the back cushions and an almost bored expression on his face. “You told me that your younger self would swoon and that’s exactly what happened. You knew what you were sending me into, you knew he’d want to do all of those things. So, if you want to be pissed, be pissed at yourself. Your current self or your former self, I don’t care. But stop being pissed at me.” Your feet thud against the hard floor, overtaking the sound of rain pouring down on the roof as you come to stand in front of the couch, facing Bucky.

            “I’m not pissed at you.” He says plainly, cocking his head to one side as he studies you. You’re wearing an oversized white t-shirt that he assumes you pulled from his side of the closet, rather than picking any of the forties-style pajamas from your own side.

            “Then why make me feel like I did something wrong? I did exactly what I was supposed to do on this mission.”

            “I’m jealous.” His confession sucks the air out of your lungs and leaves you stunned.

            “What?”

            “I’m jealous.” He repeats calmly, looking you right in the eyes. “It took everything I had not to stop you from leaving earlier. I knew what he’d do. I knew that he’d kiss you, that he’d take every inch you gave him and ask for a mile more.” The fact that Bucky’s so calm and stoic as he confesses all of this has you shaken to your core.

            “No, you don’t get to do this.” You say angrily, running both hands through your hair as you turn away from him. He’s sitting there with his arms outstretched along the back of the couch and his expression as unreadable as ever and it’s only making you more mad. “You don’t get to say shit like that to me. You don’t get to be jealous. You sent me into that situation even after I made it abundantly clear that I didn’t think I was the right person for this mission.” You turn back around and look at Bucky with a fiery rage burning in your eyes, but then your gaze settles on his calm, almost serene expression. He cocks his head to the side as you study him, with whatever angry words you were about to spit at him temporarily on hold. Your eyes float down his chest, passing over the dark t-shirt he’s sporting. With the way his arms are outstretched along the back of the couch, you can see the outline of his abs clearly through his thin shirt. When your eyes land on the front of his sweats, you notice two things. The first is that he's sitting with his legs spread in a way that tells you he’s comfortable as hell on that ugly couch. The second is that his cock is semi-hard and pressing against the fabric of those sweats shamelessly.

            You want to leave. You want to head for the front door and run out into the rain, losing yourself somewhere in this city that you don’t know and this timeline that you don’t belong in. You don’t want to be in this house with Bucky for another minute. You can’t think straight when you’re around him. Here you are, angry as hell over something you can’t even recall in this exact moment, because when you look at him and he looks at you this way…you’re torn between wanting to run and wanting to straddle him right there on the couch. Bucky can tell exactly what’s on your mind when your eyes zero in on his lap. Even though the anger hasn’t dissipated from your features, he can tell it’s sitting on the edge of an abyss, ready to fall in and disappear if he says the right thing.

            “Go ahead.” Bucky says firmly, narrowing his eyes at you.

            “What?” You cross your arms over your chest like he’s seen you do a thousand times before as you stand in front of him. You watch as Bucky looks down at his lap for a moment, letting his gaze linger on his thighs before he lifts his head up and stares into your soul. Your heart begins to race as he tilts his head to the side slowly, the expression on his face never changing.

            “Sit.”

            The three seconds that you stare back at Bucky with your arms crossed over your chest feel like three hours to him. When you finally do take a step forward and let your arms reach out to him, he’s fighting to hold in a sigh of relief. You move slowly, lifting your right knee up to the edge of the couch first and letting it touch the outside of his left thigh. When your left knee lands on the couch beside his right leg, you carefully position yourself over his lap as your hands come to rest on his shoulders. Bucky’s fingertips curl into the fabric of the couch as he wills himself to keep his arms along the back of it, refusing to grab your hips and guide you to sit on his lap himself. You’re apprehensive as you stare down into his blue eyes and sink onto his lap at a painstakingly snail-like pace. Your breath hitches in your throat when you feel the outline of his erection pressing against the black lace panties you have on underneath the white t-shirt, but you don’t stop. You seat yourself firmly on his lap, with your knees bent on either side of his hips and your palms pressed against his opposing warm and cool shoulders. It bothers you that he doesn’t move his arms, that he doesn’t try to touch you. It really bothers you that his expression is still unreadable, as if having you on his lap doesn’t do a damn thing to him. If his cock wasn’t hardening more and more with each passing second, you’d truly believe that you weren’t having any sort of effect on him right now.

            “You don’t get to be jealous.” You whisper, shaking your head just barely as Bucky studies your face.     

            “Why not?”

            “Because this is just…” Your eyes flit down to where your legs are spread over Bucky’s lap, but his never leave your face. He knows what you’re about to say and he’s already wishing you wouldn’t. This is exactly what he’s been trying to avoid. “This isn’t real.” It feels every bit as shitty as he thought it would, hearing you say it out loud. The muscle along the side of his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth together. “It’s just tension. We let it build up too much and then we don’t know how to handle it, and we think it’s something more but—"

            “But it isn’t.” Bucky finishes your sentence stiffly. You nod, but your eyes are searching his. You want him to convince you, you want him to tell you that you’re wrong like he has before. You need him to tell you that this isn’t just tension. But he stays quiet, staring at you like he doesn’t really give a shit what you need right now. So, you ramble on.

            “Maybe if we take a break from being partners after this mission is over. We could let things cool off and give each other space.” The words tumble out of your mouth quickly, but they leave a bad taste. “But it’s hard to give each other space when we live across the hall from each other.” Bucky nods along, cocking his head to the side as he watches you scramble for other options. He doesn’t know why you’re still sitting on his lap if this is the direction you’re taking things, but he isn’t ready to push you off and end this just yet. Not if it might be the last time you let him get this close to you.

            “Do you want space?” He asks lowly. You struggle to find a reasonable answer when his tongue darts out to wet his lips. You watch as it slides across his bottom lip slowly before disappearing into his mouth. He shifts his legs beneath you slightly and it causes his hard cock to press against your barely clothed cunt just a little more firmly than before and you inhale sharply, curling your fingertips into his shoulders as he stills once again.

            “I want to stop thinking about you the way that I’ve been thinking about you.” Bucky’s heartbeat is rising steadily as your words sink in. You’ve been thinking about him. God, he wants to tangle his hands in your hair and pull you in closer, refusing to let go of you until you admit that you fucking want him. “I want to go back to when we had a normal, uncomplicated partnership in the field.” He wants to say fuck normal and uncomplicated and have his way with you, but he stays still. “I want to fuck.”

            Bucky’s stunned. He blinks twice before squinting his eyes at you and letting out a long, slow breath.

            “You want to fuck.” Bucky repeats under his breath, seeming like he doesn’t think he’s heard you right. You nod, coming to the realization that that’s exactly what you want.

            “Maybe if we fuck, it would all just go away.” Bucky scoffs as soon as you’ve said it. He’s never felt as frustrated as he is right now. It isn’t just emotional frustration, but sexual as well. You’re fucking tormenting him. While you sit on his lap actively denying the fact that this thing between you is real, you’re simultaneously telling him you want to have sex with him. You tried sleeping it off once before and it didn’t work out for you, so now you want to fuck the feelings away. He’s pissed honestly. As he sits there, with his arms outstretched along the back of the couch and the girl he’s in love with on his lap, he’s pissed.

            “Go ahead then.” He says roughly, jutting his chin out at you as his eyes flit down to where your legs are spread over him. “Go ahead and see if you can fuck it all away. It’ll work about as well as when you tried to sleep it off, but I’m willing to let you give it a shot.”

            Thunder rumbles in the distance and rain patters against the windows as tensions rise all around you. It feels like the thunderstorm outside has somehow shifted through the walls and lightning could strike you at any given moment. Though your heart is racing and your breaths are coming in quicker than before, you don’t back down. You maintain eye contact as you lift your ass up slightly and then grind back down, dragging the fabric of your lace panties along the front of Bucky’s sweats. You feel his cock twitch in its confines, but his face never changes. Fuck him and his perpetually cold expression. You grind down again, harder this time, and watch as his hands curl into fists at the ends of his outstretched arms. What do you have to do to get him to put those hands on you?

            Lightning strikes somewhere outside as you lean in and dip your head down, pressing your lips to the side of Bucky’s neck in an open-mouthed kiss. You feel his pulse thumping in his carotid artery as your tongue swipes over it. If you’re going to get this out of your system, you can’t take your time. You need this to be quick and dirty. Bucky senses that and isn’t surprised at all when your right hand starts tugging at the waistband of his sweats.

            “I said go ahead.” He rasps, tilting his head to the side to give you more access to his neck. “Take what you want.” You take the encouragement and run with it, slipping your hand into the waistband of his sweats and boxers, quickly finding his length and wrapping your hand around it. He lets out a shaky but controlled breath as you start stroking his cock. He has to bite down on his bottom lip when you tighten your grip around the head and he feels his precum wet your palm. This is going to haunt him forever. He wants this, you, so fucking bad that he’s willing to take whatever he can get. And this is the most he can get. Your hand is around his cock with the sole intention of fucking around with him until you forget your feelings. He should feel used. He does feel used, but if you’re only okay with using him, then he’s fine with it. He’s fine with it because he fucking loves you.

            You feel Bucky’s chest rise and fall at a quicker pace against your own as his cock twitches in your hand. Thunder shakes the house again and a tear slips down your cheek. It feels clinical when you push Bucky’s waistband down further and drag your lips along the curve of his jaw.

            “He kissed me outside of the bar.” You whisper against the column of Bucky’s throat, hating the way he tenses up underneath you. You let your hand fall away from his cock and shift it between your legs, tugging your lace panties to the side beneath the oversized t-shirt. “And I couldn’t fucking stand it.” Your voice breaks and Bucky curls his fingers into the couch cushions so hard that he might’ve heard them rip if the storm raging outside wasn’t so loud. “You weren’t listening, so you didn’t hear me stop him.” Another tear falls as you rise up on your knees and guide the head of Bucky’s length to where it belongs. “But I stopped him.” Lightning strikes and you swear it nearly hits the house as you let out a shaky breath and start lowering yourself down. The sheer size of him makes your thighs ache and the walls of your cunt burn with the stretch. “I stopped him and he knew, before I said anything, that I wasn’t his to kiss.” Bracing your hands back on Bucky’s shoulders, you sink down onto him one slow inch at a time as he stares up at you. His expression isn’t so unreadable now. It’s showcasing the torment he feels, the torture you’re putting him through…the torture he’s enduring just because he loves you.

            “Whose are you then?” He asks, his voice tense and strained as you seat yourself entirely on his cock. He can tell by the look in your eyes that you’re not going to answer his question. You know the answer, the tears rimming your pretty eyes and the pleading look taking over your face tell him that much. But you just can’t bring yourself to say it out loud. You’re his.

            You didn’t give yourself any time to adjust to his size and you’re paying for it as you start riding him. You move slow at first, lost in the way he’s looking at you, wondering why the hell he won’t touch you. But as the storm picks up outside, so does your pace. Faster and faster you lift and lower your hips until it couldn’t possibly be more obvious that you’re trying to fuck your feelings away. Bucky’s pushing past the obscene sounds of skin against skin, past the rumbling thunder and heavy rain on the rooftop, until all he can hear is your heartbeat. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, but you’re timing each bounce of your hips with the steady beat of your heart. He focuses in on that when the walls of your pussy begin fluttering violently around his shaft, because if he lets himself focus on anything else, he’ll fall over the edge with you and he refuses to let it happen this way. Your goal isn’t to get him off, it’s to get something out of your system.

            Bucky clenches his teeth when you start coming undone around him, he clenches his teeth and his vibranium arm whirs loudly along the back of the couch as you grip his shoulders and ride out your orgasm. It’s only a few seconds later when you blink your eyes open and let a few tears fall onto the fabric of his shirt.

            “Did it work?” Bucky asks breathlessly, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around you and pull you against his chest.

            “What?”

            “Did you fuck it out of your system?” He narrows his eyes at you. He’s sure the answer is no, but he isn’t so sure that you’ll admit it. As you stare back into his blue eyes, he can tell you’re giving up and something akin to hope stirs in his chest. You shake your head gently, loosening your grip on his shoulders as the weight of your silent confession settles over you both. “Okay, let’s try again.”

            Bucky doesn’t give you a chance to full catch your breath before he’s slipping his flesh arm around your back and rising from the couch, keeping his cock buried inside of you.

            “Bucky—”

            “You want it out of your system, don’t you?” He asks roughly, carrying you away from the couch and toward the kitchen table. You swallow hard as he skillfully uses his vibranium hand to shove a kitchen chair to the side before laying you down on the table. Still, his cock never leaves your pussy. “If we go at it from another angle…” Bucky’s voice trails off as he pulls his hips backward slowly until only the tip of his cock is left inside of you. You whimper at the loss of his length, hating the way your pussy fights to grip onto what he’s left you with. Bucky pushes your white t-shirt up until it’s sitting just below your bra. Though he doesn’t let himself get a glimpse of your chest, he has no problem with sliding his hands beneath the shirt and running his palms over your breasts. You arch into his touch and another whimper leaves your lips. “This might be the right angle.” He whispers, dragging his hands down until his fingers are curling into your hips roughly. You see stars when he pistons his hips forward so hard that the table shakes beneath the force and you feel him brushing against your cervix.

            “Fuck.” You moan the word out as your tears begin to dry. Your hands circle around Bucky’s wrists as he holds your hips in place and starts fucking you relentlessly. Your mascara is smudged beneath your eyes but you still look so pretty that it hurts him to look at you. You wrap your legs around him as his head falls back a little and a guttural groan escapes him. It feels so damn good, you feel so damn good, but this isn’t how he wants you. Your whimpers and occasional swears turn into uninhibited, borderline pornographic moans as he fucks you until you’re lost in the bliss of it all.

            “If you cum on my cock a second time, is it going to be enough?” He wonders aloud, slowing the pace of his thrusts and simultaneously deepening them as much as he possibly can. His balls press against your ass as a loud clap of thunder leaves the lights flickering. You’re shaking your head before your brain has a chance to reason with your heart. It won’t be enough. “You don’t think so? You seemed pretty damn sure of yourself when you said that this isn’t real. Cumming on my cock this time should be enough for you.”

            “Shit, Bucky.” You let out a frustrated moan as he pulls his hips back slowly and starts giving your cunt the most shallow thrusts yet.

            “This is so fucking real to me that I’d let you do it a thousand times if that’s what it takes to make you realize you’re wrong.” Bucky snaps his hips forward and hits your cervix again, admiring the way your body reacts to him as your back arches off of the table and your t-shirt rides up a little more. A tiny bit of the black lace of your bra peeks out beneath your shirt and Bucky lets out another groan before thrusting hard again. He wanted to slow down and make you feel even just a shred of the torment he’s been feeling tonight, he wanted to give you shallow, unrhythmic thrusts and delay your orgasm, but he’s already fucking his cock into you at an unforgiving pace and depth. His name falls from your lips in a breathless moan as your fingernails leave little crescent-shaped indents in the skin of his wrists and your pussy tightens around his shaft all over again. He has to bite down on the inside of his cheek, nearly drawing blood, just to keep from cumming with you. His own level of restraint is surprising himself. He hasn’t done something like this in decades and yet, he’s holding himself together pretty damn well.

            “Bucky.” You gasp as your orgasm washes over you and he continues to pump his cock into you. He lets his thrusts slow more and more with each passing second until he’s just lazily circling his hips, giving you the faintest sensation of pleasure mixed with overstimulation.

            “Did it work that time?” He asks between pants. He lets go of your hips as his eyes scan over the expanse of your skin where he had gripped you so tightly before, checking for marks. He can see his own handprints on each hip, but they aren’t red enough that he thinks he’s left bruises. You stare up at him as a sigh of relief slips past his lips. When his eyes finally meet yours, you know he’s waiting for an answer.

            “It didn’t.” You admit. The lights flicker again, going out for a few seconds before coming back on. “I’m sorry I—”

            “I don’t want to hear you say sorry.” God, that’s not at all what he wants to hear you say. He wants to hear you say you were wrong or that you were lying and this is as real to you as it is to him. He wants to hear you say that no matter how many times his cock slides into your pussy, the feelings aren’t going anywhere. As his hands find yours and your fingers intertwine, he tugs you up into a sitting position on the edge of the table and then slips his palms around to cup your ass as he lifts you once more. “We’re going to try this one more time and if it doesn’t work, if you can’t fuck the feelings away…” His voice trails off as the lights flicker one final time before shutting off completely. Bucky carries you down the hall and through the bedroom door in near total darkness. Every few seconds, lightning flashes and illuminates the house through the windows and sheer curtains, and you get a glimpse of Bucky’s serious face. “If this doesn’t work, you have to say it.” Keeping his flesh arm around your lower back, he lowers you onto the bed, hovering over you as his still-hard cock slips out of your sore cunt. You prop yourself up on your elbows as he stands at the foot of the bed and reaches back over his shoulders, grasping the fabric of his t-shirt and tugging it over his head in one smooth move. Lighting strikes again and you watch, with warmth pooling low in your stomach, as Bucky pushes his sweats and boxers down to the floor.

            “I have to say what?” You ask, fighting hard to keep the stutter out of your question. Bucky wraps his right hand around the base of his cock tightly, but he doesn’t dare stroke it. He gives it a quick squeeze before moving that same hand down and palming his balls in an effort to slow himself down.

            “You have to say that you’re mine.” He has no idea that you’ve already said it once tonight. He took his earpiece out, thinking you were having a heated moment with another man, when you were really telling that man exactly what Bucky wanted to hear.

            “That’s how this works? You fuck me a few times and then I’m yours?”

            Bucky can’t stop the dark, hair-raising chuckle that tumbles past his lips when you tilt your head to the side and narrow your eyes at him. He moves toward the bed slowly, placing one knee on the end of the mattress and leaning forward until both of his palms are flat on the bed. He’s hovering over you, his face only a few inches from yours when a burst of thunder rings out.

            “You’ve been mine since the day we met, sweetheart. I just let you run around and deny it for too damn long.” Your breath hitches in your throat as he angles his chin toward the headboard, silently letting you know that he wants you to move further up on the bed. You scoot backward, keeping your eyes on him as the room grows impossibly warmer and goosebumps prickle over your skin. When your back lands flat on the bed and your head is laid comfortably on the only pillow there, Bucky’s over you in an instant, nudging your legs apart with his knee as he settles between them. The head of his cock, still dripping with precum, presses against the lace of your panties and he hisses at the contact. He hasn’t let himself cum yet and he’s dangerously close to losing control over his impending orgasm.

            “Since the day we met?” You ask, scrunching up your face in confusion as you think of all of the missions you’ve been on, all of the senseless arguments and shit-giving. Did it all have a deeper meaning for him? Bucky nods as he stills above you and braces himself with his arms next to either side of your head. When he looks into your eyes you can tell that he’s straining to maintain his composure and it almost makes you feel guilty. Here you are two orgasms in and he’s hanging on by a fucking thread. You slide your hand down between your bodies, wrapping it around his length and giving it a few long, slow pumps as his eyes flutter closed and his head falls to your shoulder.

            “I can’t stand you.” You say evenly, as he starts rutting into your hand carelessly. His small thrusts are sloppy and restrained, but he continues on as you stroke his cock and smear his precum around the length of it. He groans in response and bites down on your shoulder hard enough to make you inhale sharply. “I can’t stand the way you slept so close to me last night, because the next time I sleep alone, I’ll feel like something’s missing.” Bucky freezes, but you continue your ministrations with your right hand. He doesn’t lift his head, fearing that if he so much as moves an inch you’ll stop talking. “I can’t stand the way you say my name, because when anyone else says it, it doesn’t sound as good.” He lets out a shaky breath as he builds up the courage to move. Snaking his vibranium hand down between your legs, he starts tugging your panties to the side just like he did earlier. You move in tandem with him, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance as he clears the way. “And I really can’t stand the way you kiss me, because if I ever let anyone else kiss me, I’ll only ever be disappointed.”

            Bucky pulls his head back and stares down at you with a furrowed brow, looking as though he’s thinking hard. The head of his cock notches into your pussy and he pushes his hips forward just enough to sink the first couple of inches inside of you, watching as your mouth falls open and your eyes close tightly. He’s staring at you with such an intense focus in his blue eyes that when you finally look back up at him, you feel like his gaze alone is burning a hole through your head. You spread your legs a little, bending your knees slightly to give him a better angle as he pulls his hips back slowly. When only the head of his cock is sheathed inside of you, he licks his bottom lip before snapping his hips forward and delivering one hard, deep thrust that forces the headboard to slam against the wall.

            “I love you.” Bucky says the three words with conviction, with a confidence you’ve never heard before. You wait a few seconds, trying to recover from the earth-shattering sensations of your pussy being destroyed and actual bliss. His words sink into your skin and melt into your soul with an unexpected warmth as he drags his cock out of you and then pushes back in again. He loves you.

            “You can’t stand me.” You correct, not even trying to hide the smile that’s beginning to spread across your lips as Bucky starts setting a rhythmic pace. He laughs, but then groans as you scrape your nails down his back roughly.

            “I can’t, but still…”

            “You love me.” You repeat smugly, finishing his sentence. He doesn’t need you to say it back yet. Just the fact that you didn’t shove him away and flee the house when he said it is enough for him right now. A few sultry moans play in his ears and he pushes himself up to sit on his knees, moving your legs so that one is over each of his shoulders before he starts fucking you so hard that he thinks Howard Stark might need to buy a new mattress, new headboard, and maybe even have the damn wall re-plastered.

            The next few minutes consist of nothing more than filthy, pornographic sounds. With skin slapping against skin, the headboard snapping against the wall, your moans, and Bucky’s strained groans, neither of you can really hear the storm raging outside anymore. You focus in on Bucky as much as you can, watching as his abs ripple and the muscles of his flesh arm flex repeatedly. He catches you staring at him as he fucks you and he holds eye contact, letting his mouth fall open and his eyelids drop down halfway as he watches you watch him. Filthy. It’s filthy the way he's fucking his cock into you in someone else’s bed. You moan his name out in a raspy tone and it sends him over the edge. He guides your legs down, setting them back on the bed before crawling over you and fucking you missionary while he swallows every moan you let out. His lips brush against yours over and over again, but you don’t kiss. You breathe each other in until you feel his cock twitch and his thrusts grow sloppy.

            “Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” Bucky groans, thrusting a little harder and deeper as he nears his release. You grip his sides and bend your knees as your own orgasm looms. “You’re so fucking tight and….fuck, you’re just…shit, baby.”

            “Bucky, I love you.”

            He loses every last remnant of control when you finally admit it. He can’t stop the flood of cum that starts spilling out of his cock and into you. Truthfully, he wouldn’t want to stop it. He thrusts as deep as he can and grinds his hips into you, watching your eyes scrunch closed and your mouth fall open as you take every last drop of his cum. It’s everything to him. Not you taking his cum this way, not you letting him have you like this, but you telling him the one thing he never thought you would. You love him.

            His post-orgasm haze should last longer than yours. He should be collapsed next to you on the bed right now, but as you lay beneath him trying to catch your breath, he’s staring down at you with perfect clarity.

            “If you go back to pretending you don’t feel anything after this…” Bucky’s voice trails off as he feels a good bit of his cum dripping out of you and back onto his shaft. He moves in a little closer and pushes his cock the rest of the way inside you as gently as possible, earning himself a whimper from your pretty lips.

            “You’ll what? Fuck me on another table?” You tease, smiling up at him. He shakes his head and bites down on his bottom lip in an attempt to hide his own smile, but you catch it anyway.

            “Why would I do that when there are so many other surfaces we haven’t tried out yet?”

            “I hate you.” You retort playfully, sliding your hands up his chest and preparing to push him off of you. His cock hasn’t softened in the slightest bit yet and you don’t know if you can take another round tonight. His small smile turns into a hearty grin as his cock twitches again.

            “That’s a lie.” He smirks, dragging his tongue along his teeth after speaking. You narrow your eyes at him as you realize he’s still leaning on his ridiculous theory that your pussy clenches down when you lie. “You love me.” He says slowly, dropping his head down and pressing his lips against yours. He kisses you gently at first, pecking your lips twice before going in for a longer one. After a few seconds, he slips his tongue into your mouth and the longer he kisses you, the more weight you feel lifting from your shoulders. You didn’t realize how exhausting it was to deny this for so long. But now that you’re here, letting it happen, you can’t stop the tear that starts rolling down your cheek. Bucky pulls back as soon as he feels it, searching your eyes to see what’s wrong. “What did I do?” He asks quickly, preparing to separate himself from you. You stop him, sliding your hands down his sides and curling your fingers against his skin to hold him in place.

            “Nothing.” You answer honestly, smiling up at his look of concern even as that tear continues to roll down your cheek. “Peggy has a feeling that she and Steve wait too late in this lifetime, that they don’t let themselves have this kind of happiness.”

            “I told you they end up together.” Bucky says gently, using the pad of his thumb to wipe the tear from your cheek.

            “I know. I wonder if this is how they felt when they finally made it back to each other.” Bucky takes a moment, really thinking about it before he moves a stray lock of hair away from your face and lets out a deep breath.

            “How do you feel?” He asks, speaking with a soft tone as he eyes you closely.

            “Like if you asked me for a lifetime, it wouldn’t scare the shit out of me.”

            As Bucky stares down at you, you can see that all of those times you thought his expression was so unreadable were because you didn’t really want to read what was there. All you see in his eyes is love. Love and probably some kind of half-assed plan to ask you for a lifetime while his dick is inside you, just so he can see if you’re lying or not.

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DAWN HAS BARELY LICKED THE COAST WHEN YOU ARE SUMMONED TO THE QUEEN’S APARTMENTS. 

A concealed yawn, flushed cheeks - sleepily, you exchange whispers with your handmaids as your hair is styled and a dress is laced onto your waking frame. A quiet morrow, spurred by the diminishing dark blanket of night and and the beginnings of chirping birds as you eye the guards that meet you at your chamber doors with confusion. 

They stand tall, their armor glinting in the rising light - you stare, somewhat foolishly, with suspicion - You’ve never had personal guards here at Dragonstone, but as they begin to escort you, a sinking feeling falls into your stomach. 

Last night, your mind whispers, they found out about last night. A foolish anxiety, you realize; there were no guards in the hall between you and Jacaerys’ rooms - you’d delivered a story of sneaking to the kitchens to your handmaidens upon returning, telling them your dinner had been interrupted and you’d amended your hunger. 

You had, in a way - but not down in the kitchens.

The click of soled shoes down the stone hall masks the sharp inhale you let out at such vivid memories - waking up this morning, still syrupy with remnants of your previous night between your thighs and a desire to feel him against you. You wonder, absently, what Jacaerys did once he returned to his quarters last night; the thought burns your cheeks further. 

You do not even consider your own concern until you are crossing halls to the eastern wing of the castle; your brows furrow when you ask softly what the meaning of this early meeting is - silence is your answer. 

The pebble in the pit of your stomach sinks lower when you turn the hall towards the Queen’s council chamber - Baela and Rhaena walk from the Southern quarters, their own confusion upon their faces. “Good morrow,” You greet them, blinking at the absence of guards accompanying them; Baela’s brow furrows in return. “Good morrow,” she responds cautiously. “Why such early summons?”

Rhaena nods in agreement, her eyes scanning the corridor behind you as if searching for answers; a gentle grasp of your forearm before you’re all three leaning together, heads hovering in a conspiratorial whisper. “Did you hear anything? Did something happen last night?”

You feel yourself turn hot rather instantly, innocent as the question is: 

Did something happen last night? You’re reminded rather vividly of what activities you found yourself engaging in last night; Jacaerys, with his smooth hands and scorching stare, lips kiss-bitten, whispering to you in High Valyrian. The muscles of your inner thighs, burning with strain even when you awoke, the memory of his breath against your core and his mouth against yours. 

Instantly you shake your head, a mix of embarrassment and concern knitting your brows; “No, nothing I know of. I thought perhaps you both might know something - my guard hasn’t said a word since he escorted me.” You recover quickly. 

The three of you exchange uneasy glances and relent the odd undercurrent of urgency as you push through the threshold into the council chamber. A burst of air, cooling against your beating heart, brings you flanked with your cousins to face the strategy room. 

The gentle smell of morning tea and fruits welcome your empty stomach with a grumble and you bow at your Queen sister, who stands at the head. 

The long, wooden table is surrounded - your uncle, nodding to his daughters as they take their places standing next to him, Rhaenys and the Maester just across from them; Joffrey and the babies are absent, likely in their playroom with the nannies. You swallow - the air is thick with some anxious energy and you are quick to divert the attention from you as you take place aside Rhaenys. 

No moment after you have just graced your Queen and the others at the council with a good morrow do the large wooden doors creak open once more.

 Jacaerys, freshly shaven and hair still damp from bath, enters. The morning light yawns into the room - redder, more orange than the quiet whispers of eve, the sun off of Dragonstone sends streaks through the obsidian and into the honey of Jacaerys’ eyes. 

The prince is addressed by nods and murmured greetings from the room as he takes his place at the table - a tightness grows in your throat as his eyes, laced with curiosity, search until they land on you. 

His movements do not falter; practically, dutifully, Jacaerys stands before his place, hands falling onto the top of the carved chair. They are long, with slender fingers that curl over the top, veins that split off in deltas before rosy knuckles and two dark signet rings- capable hands. You blink hard, skipping your gaze over his hands and up - to his shoulders, the same ones he’d so dutifully laid your thighs upon as he knelt between your legs just last night- 

You snap your eyes, forcing them to him in a wash of embarrassment over your scandalous thoughts. 

As he comes to find his place, he gives a small nod to you, a gentle dimple poking his cheek in the short shadow of morning. Torturous. 

You look away quickly as you try to cast out all thoughts of him; you cannot bear the smirk you see growing upon his lips in your peripheral vision as you wait for the Queen to take her seat.  

It isn't until she bids you all seated that you notice what lies in front of her, and with it grows a fear deep within your breast. With a dry swallow, you watch as Rhaenyra takes into her hands a raven’s letter.

The broken wax has crumbled, but its seal bears the unmistakable sigil in its dark green wax: the Iron Throne.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice.” She begins, “We received early this morning a message from King’s Landing.” 

You shift in your seat, heart pounding, feeling Jacaerys' presence across from you even without looking at him; The atmosphere is charged with the weight of Queen Rhaenyra’s voice as glances are thrown around. You catch Baela’s eye, the concern of your own mirrored in her expression. 

“From the Hand of the King, Ser Otto Hightower,” Rhaenyra begins, her voice steady, laced with an undercurrent of steel, “It has come to our attention that the Dowager Queen Alicent’s eldest daughter has been kidnapped from King’s Landing.”

A breath falls from your lips, eyes widening in surprise. A murmur of concern ripples through the room, but Queen Rhaenyra continues, her voice unwavering.

This is a grave violation: This coerced departure is a grave misstep and betrayal of her responsibilities to the Crown - constituting the highest treason as sister to the King. Immediate return is demanded to rectify this misunderstanding - failure of this will constitute unavoidable consequences.”

Daemon, leaning to pour himself some tea, lets out a dark chuckle. “Treason, they say. More like liberation from their clutches.” 

It is a tone which you cannot afford to laugh at - nobody can. Rhaenyra’s gaze flicks to him briefly, as he gestures to you with the teapot, lifting a brow in question. You nod stiffly, throat dry as you look back to the Queen, who resumes reading:

“The Princess is hereby demanded to be safely returned to King’s Landing. Failure to do so will result in severe repercussions. King Aegon II will not rest until his sister is returned and those responsible are brought to justice.”

The room falls silent as the Queen lowers the letter, her eyes finding your own. 

A third betrayal; like some passage of the new gods, telling of foes coming in three. You grip the side of your chair, eyes swimming with hatred for what they’ve done to your family. “It seems our enemies are eager to paint us as villains,” she says, her voice carrying the weight of authority and indignation. “But we know the truth.”

You cannot find words; floundering, your mouth opens, though nothing but shock, anger, fear courses through your veins. Kidnapped? 

Baela leans forward, “What will we do, your Grace?”

You, plunged in a sea of ice - betrayal, your mother’s eyes and your brother’s cruel tongue, hatred sewn into every look given to you by the King’s court members. And now, they wish for you to return? Spreading the narrative that you were kidnapped? 

“We must respond swiftly,” Jacaerys says, brows drawn, “Show them we do not take to threats kindly.” 

Queen Rhaenyra nods, “There must be a response - but we must also be strategic. We cannot afford to be drawn into open conflict just yet.” 

It is true. After the loss of Lucerys, it is not the time to engage in conflict; strategy must be held over any will of force. Feeling the weight of their eyes on you, you take a deep breath and speak up, your voice steady. “Loyalty is not just about words, but actions. Actions that demonstrate commitment, even in the face of…baseless accusations."

You feel Jacaerys's gaze on you, but you refuse to meet it directly, instead focusing on the others in the room who listen intently.

"I choose to be here because my loyalty lies with Queen Rhaenyra and the realm," you continue, your tone measured but firm.  You do not let your eyes land on the man who sits across from you; the one you’ve had to convince time and time again that you are no traitor. Something like frustration brims at the surface of your tongue, but you mind your manners and bite it back. 

Disdain bites somewhere within you; now, suddenly, Jacaerys has come to your side so quickly? You find yourself bitter at the thought of him suddenly coming to his senses after allowing a small chance of indulgence in such an…improper way. 

His words from the night before sting: Is it true that your taste in fashion matches your taste in allegiances? A bit confused, I presume.

Soon they all echo in your mind - his taunts, jabs, those mutterings from under his breath. You’re nothing but a traitor…A snake in dragon’s clothing. A puppet, dancing on strings pulled by whoever promises you a bit of power.

You refuse to meet his eye, clearing your throat as you tilt your chin, "Anyone who doubts my allegiance has mistaken my intentions for weakness. Perhaps I should deliver the message myself.” 

The room remains silent, the weight of your words hanging in the air. You resist the urge to glance at Jacaerys, knowing that the hurt and frustration still simmer beneath the surface of your calm demeanor, and a spare glance might undo your manner. 

Daemon sits forward with interest, lifting a brow, “You make a suggestion to return to King’s Landing yourself.” He observes, watching your expression for any betrayal of schemes, “To proclaim your allegiance to Queen Rhaenyra.” Several eyes slide to you after this accusation and you close your lips, looking at your queen. 

Jacaerys, unable to keep silent, leans forward in protest. "We cannot allow that," he states firmly, his jaw set as he speaks directly to his mother, "Sending her back to King's Landing would only play into their hands."

He pauses, as if weighing his next words carefully.

"We must show strength and unity here. If we send her away, we not only weaken our position but also risk her safety," Jacaerys asserts, his voice steady but with an underlying intensity; your lips purse, flickering down to your empty plate as a rush of affection pulls at your chest. 

Rhaenyra’s gaze softens slightly with some kind of surprise as she looks at her son, your own expression shocked.

Daemon, ever the provocateur, holds a playful glint in his eye, "If Jacaerys is so concerned about her safety, perhaps he should teach her to wield a sword, like he learned as a squire in his youth." An inkling of jest brings a sigh from Rhaenys and Rhaenyra alike; you look down to the empty plate before you, at the steam that swirls up from the teacup. 

You truly do not have the skills you wish to possess; though you’ve been a dragonrider your whole life, should you ever find yourself on the ground with a weapon in your hands, you’ll be useless. The thought of Jace teaching you lessons sparks some kind of embarrassment through you - to show him your weakness, to admit a flaw in your armor… you swallow down the defensive wall that slides up. 

Jace stiffens at the remark, a faint blush coloring his cheeks and his jaw tightening as he turns towards Daemon with a glare. "This is not a matter of personal sentiment," he retorts sharply, his tone defensive. "It is my duty to ensure the safety and well-being of all within her Grace’s realm. Do you really believe Alicent will let her leave once she’s there?"

Your cheeks seem to be permanently heated; biting your lip, you resist sending a sharp look to your uncle. Rhaenyra, sensing the tension, interjects calmly, "Jacaerys, your concern is noted." She turns her gaze to you, giving you the floor amidst the charged atmosphere of the council chamber - with your name, she asks, “What do you think?” 

It is indeed uncomfortable to be scrutinized by those around you - to return to your family, to face them and expect to be returned unscathed? It’s much more likely your throat is slit in the night by your brother, or being chained up below the keep the moment you touch foot in King’s Landing. 

Taking a breath, you speak carefully, "I… agree with Jacaerys. Sending me back could be seen as a concession." You wring your hands together, a habit you’d picked up from your younger sister Helaena in your youth; at the memory of her, that soft smile and sweet humming, your heart pangs. You shake your head, “They’d never let me leave.” 

Rhaenys nods thoughtfully beside you, "It would weaken our position, especially if we are to fairly assume they would not grant her safe voyage back to Dragonstone.” 

Your sister nods in thought, "Perhaps a different approach is needed," she says, her gaze shifting to you once more. "We will have you write a letter personally in response to your grandsire, clarifying your position. Send it by raven this evening."

“Yes, your grace.” You agree. 

As the council delves into the specifics of the response, the memories of last night come creeping back into your head, try as you do to ignore them; a silent undercurrent, a reminder of the sacrifices necessary to personal desires for the sake of political obligations. 

A reminder, a mutter of last night that replays in your mind: You are quite beautiful like this. You do not dare look over at Jace, palms sweating as a longing desire pumps the blood to your veins. You take a shaky sip of your tea, biting your lip - never before have you thought a woman could experience such…selfish pleasure - taking, taking, taking. It is with a jolt of heat that you realize: you’d likely take anything Jacaerys would give you, and perhaps that is what you fear the most. 

You’re not betrothed, you remind yourself. Last evening was a mistake. 

The drone of a voice is cotton to your ears; Under the table, you suddenly feel Jacaerys’ foot brush against your own - whether by accident or design you can’t be sure, but you jolt slightly, eyes flicking to him.

 The touch sends a shiver down your spine, and despite the gravity of the situation, a small, traitorous part of you enjoys the attention as your eyes flicker back to his own. He watches you, a brow twitching, as if he cannot help himself - with an urge you do not resist, you allow your own foot to brush in return; a slight slide against his calf, scarcely there. An admission of some kind, even as his eyes return to the conversation at hand. 

You’re beginning to believe you choose to do these things just to see the pink blush spread across Jacaerys’ face - you find that you’d be happy to do anything to see that flush again. 

You are very rudely ripped from your thoughts as your uncle clears his throat; with a blink, you turn your attention back to the task at hand at the tail end of a discussion, “-Did they really expect her to return quietly?” Rhaena asks. 

Something prods the back of your mind, and you bite your lip. 

“They waited two weeks to declare this alleged kidnapping,” You say slowly, gathering attention from the attendees, “It must have been for a reason. There can be no mistaking; they saw me leave, it was not easy. I dragged a Whitecloak out to the sea with the mouth of my dragon when I did finally escape.” You admit somewhat bashfully. 

Several faces turn to you in surprise at your candid admission. You had indeed left in a flurry of anger, fueled by determination and perhaps a touch of recklessness.

Your half-sister’s brow furrows slightly, her expression thoughtful. "A deliberate delay," she muses aloud, her gaze sharpening with insight. "They seek to paint your departure as a kidnapping rather than a choice." Her eyes meet yours, a silent understanding passing between queen and subject.

“To make me seem,” You swallow, “Delicate.” 

Jace’s eyes flicker to you, but you promptly ignore the stare once more, his stare burning through you.

Daemon leans back in his chair, nodding slowly. "Crafty, indeed," he remarks, his voice tinged with admiration for their opponents' cunning. "They mean to leverage this against us." 

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, the weight of their scrutiny heavy. Jacaerys, perhaps sensing your unease, clears his throat softly. "We must respond swiftly," he suggests, his voice firm with determination. "To show them that we will not be manipulated. That she is not weak."

Queen Rhaenyra nods in agreement, her resolve firm; "You will draft the letter," she tells you, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Make it clear that your allegiance lies here, and that any attempt to manipulate the truth will not go unanswered." 

You nod, still reeling in shock at the letter sent to you. "Yes, your grace." 

YOU FIND YOURSELF WEARING FITTED ARMOR OVER YOUR CLOTHING THAT VERY EVENING. 

Indeed with a bit of reluctance, you know your uncle’s words are right; after sending a raven to return to your Grandsire’s Maester, Queen Rhaenyra had suggested that, despite her husband’s teasing words, perhaps it would be obliging for you to learn to handle yourself should you ever find yourself in danger. 

The practice yard is surprisingly alive with clashing steel and grunts of exertion; determined to clear your mind and improve what little skills you possess, you seek out Ser Marbrand from across the yard. 

Arms crossed, the Queensguard watches as the men in the yard spar - a flare of anxiety as you spare a glance around, the thick black of your cloak fluttering in the breeze. 

“Ser Marbrand.” You call his attention as you near, hands clasped together. He greets you with a small bow, turning to face you, “My lady.” He nods. 

You purse your lips, “I was hoping I might train with you today?” A flash of something warm in his eyes as he nods easily, "Aye, m'lady. I've been expecting you."

You blink in surprise, letting your head tilt slightly, "Expecting me?" You parrot. The wind off the island whips your hair into your eyes, and you pull it back with a lifted brow. 

He nods, "The King Consort's orders. He thought you might benefit from some training. And," he glances over your shoulder, "His Grace the Prince is to oversee your session."

Oh, gods. 

You follow his gaze behind you to see Jacaerys sparring with another soldier; you blink, face hot with irritation at Daemon. Always one to poke the bee’s nest. 

“I’m sure he is quite busy, Ser,” You say quickly, protesting; the thought of Jace scrutinizing you, teaching you with those hands and his face and- you’ve already begun to sweat. Ser Marbrand shakes his head, "Busy or not, orders are orders. Besides, His Grace surely will be more than willing to make time for you, Princess." He says, chivalrously. Ironic, you think - before yesterday, you could barely get a word in with His Grace Jacaerys before he’d storm the other way or hide in his chambers. 

You remain to follow the man, pursing your lips in irritation as you walk with him towards Jace.  The sun against your eyes, you watch with a silent curiosity - memories of watching he and Luke in your youth, sparring with trainers in the yard of the Red Keep; when Ser Harwin Strong would wield a sword and guide their young fights. 

You must not have seen Jace spar since you were near three and ten - back when you were giddy to be betrothed to such a valiant boy, kind and strong-willed. The memory is bittersweet as you watch him move now, fully grown and confident. 

Jacaerys, mid-swing, notices you approaching beside Ser Marbrand and finishes his bout with a swift, decisive move- in the glint of sun, he steps back, nodding to his sparring partner before turning to you. The sun has kissed him in his practice outside; freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, one just upon the bow of his lip. You blink back the urge to smooth your thumb upon it. 

The prince’s surprise is evident, though he quickly schools his expression into one of polite attentiveness as he greets you with a soft voice and a nod. 

"My Prince," Ser Marbrand begins, "as per the King Consort’s orders, you are to supervise m’lady’s training today."

Jacaerys blinks, clearly taken aback; you feel just as slighted by Daemon’s clear jest, but the Prince quickly recovers with a polite, honorable nod. He glances at you briefly before turning to Ser Marbrand. "I... see. Of course."

The Queensguard raises an eyebrow but nods, handing Jacaerys a training sword and gesturing to an open space. "Very well. I'll leave her in your capable hands."

Capable hands. Your stomach flips, eyes unintentionally falling to Jacaerys’ hands, where they hold the hilt of his sword tight. 

Soon, the man is gone; a silence covers you awkwardly and you bite your lip as Jace looks towards his own boots in the dirt, taking a deep breath. “Right, shall we begin?” He offers.  

You should by now be used to Daemon's meddling - perhaps this was a ploy to foster camaraderie and trust between your formerly betrothed and yourself, yet indeed it feels more like some torture, a tease.

 A curse from the gods, for your sins.

When you give him a tight nod in affirmation, Jacaerys takes up position opposite you. "We should start with the basics," he said briskly, his tone professional. "Grip your sword firmly but not too tight.” You do as he says, but his hands are on yours; palms large, they cover yours easily, unfurling your pointer finger to re-grip it on the leather of the training sword. Blinking at the image of your hand in his, you become dizzy with his proximity. His hands are soft, warm - strong. 

Your face burns when his finger gently traces the inside of your palm,“Your fingers must-"

Panicking, you jump, "-I know how to hold a sword," you cut in, your voice sharper than intended.

He pauses, his jaw tightening briefly as he eyes you; For a moment, you know he can read right through you. "Forgive me," he replies evenly, schooling the twitch of his lips, "Let's begin with a simple parry."

The lesson begins, and it’s immediately clear that Jacaerys is both a skilled fighter and an ardent teacher; standing before you, sword in hand, his expression a mixture of patience and determination. The sun casts a golden hue over his features, highlighting a stray curl across his forehead that begs your fingers to brush away. You don't, though; instead you remain, desperate to feel his body against yours again and terrified of what it means. 

"Keep your stance steady," he instructs, gesturing to your hips, "Balance is crucial."

You mirror his stance, albeit awkwardly, the weight of the sword feeling unfamiliar in your grip. "Like this?" you ask, trying painfully to focus on the task at hand despite the lingering tension between you.

He nods, adjusting your posture gently with respectful hands: A glimpse of the boy you knew in your youth; the graceful nod, gentle instructions, flushed cheeks. You hope he does not feel you shiver when his hand pulls your hip, lingering for a moment longer before he pulls away. "Better. Now, let's try the strike I showed you."

As you attempt the movement, your sword clangs against his, the sound echoing in the quiet courtyard. Frustration bubbles within you, fueled by the reminder of your inexperience, a worry nibbling at the back of your mind, some old insecurity fostered in the ravages of your unloved childhood. Must she always be annoying someone?

"Again," Jacaerys encouraged, his voice calm yet insistent, brow drawn low as his eyes take in your form. You bite your lip, wishing you could have had your peace learning with Ser Marbrand. 

You move to strike; he blocks it with such ease it makes you huff in exasperation. A light tap on your stomach with his own training sword - he shakes his head. 

A memory, flashing in your mind at the action: your fingers, tugging his hair until he looks up at you - gently continuing his ministrations upon your heat, shaking his head as he shushes you. His voice, low against your trembling skin. Gaomagon daor vīlībagon ziry, Sodjisto. Do not fight it. 

You set your jaw, flustered and torn between such emotions - his voice brings you back to the yard. “Again.” He orders. 

Gathering what strength you remain, you lunge at him; He parries easily, his eyes never leaving yours as he nods patiently, “Better. But you’re still too predictable.”

Your jaw ticks once again, regretting ever having agreed to the Queen’s wishes: you’re now stuck with Jacaerys, your desire burning you to the touch each time you so much as grace your fingers against his, and your anxiety whispering in your ear - Must she always be annoying someone?

The lesson remains incredibly torturous. 

He is attentive, correcting your stance, your grip, the angle of your strikes, all with a mixture of patience and intensity. You begin to sweat, though the island boasts a cold seabreeze that blows your hair away from your face. It begins to dawn on you; he’s playing a game.  Jace’s touches begin to linger a moment too long - on your wrist, your arm, your hips; his breath warm on your neck as he adjusts your position. A wry grin when you stumble over your words. Each time he corrects you sparks a flare of anger and something else you’re not willing to name, and it is not long until the prince notices it. 

“You’re holding back,” he says as he blocks another strike. “Why?”

You pause, breathing hard, your eyes locked on his own with a breath of deception. “Maybe I’m afraid of hurting you.” You say, lifting a brow. 

He laughs, a short, sharp sound. “You won’t.” He assures you, regripping the training sword. 

It’s true; your moves are slow, ungraceful; next to him, you look like a stumbling little lamb. You grit your teeth, resisting a glare as he smirks gently in the light. 

With a huff of frustration, you attack again, putting all your strength into it. This time, he doesn’t hold back either - He disarms you after two short moves, his sword pressing against your throat; Then you’re both breathing hard, faces inches apart.

Oh. 

Hunger crawls its way up your throat. It burns- a real desire, as his breath hits your forehead, to feel his lips against you again. No, you school yourself, you mustn’t give in to temptation. 

“You need to keep your guard up,” Jacaerys says, his voice low as his eyes search yours, “Or you’ll leave yourself vulnerable.”

You glare at him, the frustration from the council meeting bubbling up as you sigh, "I'm trying, not all of us are born swordsmen. This isn't exactly my forte."

You watch his head dip down, close to your face - hair glinting in the sun as he shakes his head subtly. Your stomach flips, a slip of arousal as you smell that same cologne oil that curled you into his bedsheets the night before. 

A slight trickle of irritation leaks through his otherwise chivalrous, patient disposition as lifts his head again, leveling you with a look, "No, it really isn't."

The comment pricks at your pride; setting your jaw, you tear your eyes away from his plush lips, downturned in a frustrated pout. 

You can see the regret at his words as he sighs sharply. He breathes your name, "It takes practice. Even I had to learn."

"Easy for you to say," you shoot back, your voice tinged with sarcasm. "You were trained from childhood.” You state, taking a step back - his sword moves away from your throat, the pressure of the wood removed as you shake your head, “I can’t believe I have to do this,” Your voice, exhausted and petty with the humiliation of performing so poorly in front of Jacaerys, “Just because you wished to see me flail around with a sword.”

Jacaerys sighs, his patience clearly fraying, “I never suggested you take a blade in your hand.” he replies, his tone defensive.

“-Wouldn’t be the first time I did, would it?” You counter. At this, his eyes flicker down to your palm, bearing the nearly healed, puckered scars along the fulcrum of your fingers from where you’d taken his sword in your hand in this very courtyard. His voice, echoing through the empty stone walls those weeks ago. You think you can just waltz here, switch sides, and everything will be forgiven? That you can replace my brother? 

It seems he, too, recalls the words spit to each other that evening; with a sigh, he nods. "Perhaps it does not feel like it, but you've improved," he remarks, his voice softening, “Even in just a few hours.” 

A flash of guilt in your stomach as you avoid his gaze, nodding curtly as you hand him your sword from the ground. “Thank you, my Prince."

Your words must give him pause; with a hesitation that sends your heart stuttering, he looks down at you, squinting against the reflection of the sun on the shields beside you. 

His tone is cautious - you’re stuck counting the splatter of freckles which grace the strong slope of his nose, that speckle up his cheeks and lead you to his gentle eyes, usually so sharp with fire. He says your name so softly it sounds foreign. "Last night," he breathes - but it makes you tense. 

Fear, panic. Must she always be annoying someone? You cut him off, shaking your head quickly,  "Let's not talk about it." You saw weakly, sending him a close-lipped smile. 

You cannot talk about it, not now - if you do, the words will spill out; I am worried you hate me, how could you not hate me? My brothers called you a bastard. My brother took the throne from your mother. My own brother killed yours. I am too consumed with the desire to be loved by someone that I do not believe it is possible anymore. 

All you can do is look away, heartbeat in your throat. You know what I want, he’d said. Do you?

Jacaerys sighs, running a hand through his hair. His voice is gentle once again as it comes from his plush lips. "As you wish."

You glance around the training yard, noticing the curious glances from the soldiers and servants - several of whom avert their eyes when you look their way. You can’t help but to feel like a snake, come to nest in the dragonpit. "I should go," you decide, palms sweating as you turn away.

"Wait," Jacaerys calls out, his voice urgent. Heads turn, not just yours - he seems to register the panic in your eyes, and he shifts on his feet as he looks around at the others before returning his gaze. "Nyke jāhor daor ȳzaldrīzes hen ziry.” He calls; a warmth floods through you at his use of the language, knowing nobody else in the yard will understand what he says to you, “Ivestragī issa geron ao arlī." His eyes are kind, if not desperate; I will not speak of it. Let me walk you back.

You wish you didn’t immediately nod; barely a hesitation before you agree with a small, “Sȳrje.” 

IT SEEMS THAT WHEN YOU WALK WITH JACAERYS, YOUR HANDS CANNOT HELP BUT BRUSH AGAINST EACH OTHER. 

It happens once and you pull your hand away slightly, taking a step sideways to avoid his warmth. It’s quiet, as he leads you up the path from the sparring yard and to the crossroads - your hands and shoulders brush once again as you take a small step towards the pathway to the cliffs; he, one to the castle. 

Jacaerys tilts his head towards the castle with a questioning look, but does not say a thing. A clear of your throat before you whisper, “I wasn’t planning on going to my quarters. I’d like to watch the sun set.” 

The slope of his shoulders catches your eye as he turns to you, clearing his throat with a nod that is so similar to how he once carried himself in your youth that you nearly forget where you are. 

His doublet is black, matching the cloak that flutters behind you in the gentle breeze; pinned with the sigil of his bloodline, he looks all the Prince he’s been raised to be. You look down, wondering what he might see when he looks at you, wearing black and red, your House’s dragon sigil on your chest. Perhaps, in another world, you and Jacaerys would be Lord and Lady of this very castle you look at. 

The thought strikes a deep melancholy through you, and as he begins to walk away, you gasp out a rush. “I wouldn’t mind some company.” 

He levies you with that look; indescribable, his lips pink and eyes burning with something - inhaling through his nose, he nods. 

You walk towards the cliffs in silence; the path winds rugged terrain with jagged rocks and ancient obsidian underfoot, and Jacaerys offers a hand to you as you climb down one boulder to settle into the small bedding of grass that watches the sea. You pretend the touch does not send sparks through your hand. 

The wind whips your hair as the breathtaking beauty of Dragonstone unfurls before you. The sky ablaze with the streaks of purple bled from the blue of daytime; releasing pink and gold, the sun sinks slowly into the vast expanse of the ocean. The waves crash against the rocks below, sending sprays of saltwater into the air, carrying the scent of the sea. 

When you lower yourselves to rest against the grass, it is quite pleasant. 

You know, however, what you’re both thinking: you came from that sea, bleeding and wheezing, just over the horizon - only weeks ago. And somewhere, in that very distance, your grandsire is likely reading your letter swearing to Queen Rhaenyra. 

The breeze dies slowly with the falling of the sun; your hair settles, Jace’s curls blowing just so in the breath of the ocean. It suits him, this island; it’s somewhere laced within that blood, the same blood you share. Your blood. 

After a moment, he speaks. 

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” He starts, “But I’d be remiss if I didn’t say this.” His voice, so sincere; you cannot help but nod, giving the grace for him to speak, knowing at some point it will have to happen. 

“I was blinded by grief, when you returned.” He says quietly, thumb picking at the skin of his nail - a habit you’ve noticed he’s picked up in recent weeks. His younger brother Joffrey does it, too. “I didn’t want to let myself feel relieved when you came to us.” He shakes his head, clearing his throat. “Even though I was. It never quite felt like you belonged with…them.” 

You cannot speak; tears, welling but unshed in your eyes as you watch the set of the sun. He lets his words become swallowed by the wind for a few moments and gives you the grace of peace to gather your tears before they fall. 

After another minute of quiet, he shifts beside you. 

“Did you really drag a Whitecloak out to the bay in King’s Landing?” His voice is curious, soft; jesting. You let out a small laugh, feeling some kind of tension melt from your shoulders. 

“I’m afraid so,” You admit, recalling the day with a tight throat. You glance at the scar on your arm from where the guard’s sword had struck you; how your dragon had listened to your scream of pain, pierced him with its teeth, and thrown him down into the depths once you found your way out of the City. 

You take a deep breath; be it the sun warping the reflection upon the sea, or the heat of the man sitting beside you, the words you’ve been holding back for so long finally find their way to the surface. “I heard you,” you say quietly, “the night you left the Red Keep. I heard you talking to your mother and Daemon about your…” You feel a pang of vulnerability, “...concerns about marrying me.”

Jacaerys's expression softens, and he shifts uncomfortably, his voice tinged with regret. “I didn’t realize you were there,” he admits quietly. “I was foolish back then,” he begins, his voice tinged with self-reflection. “It was after that last dinner, when..” 

He trails off, and does not need to finish his words; you remember all too well Aemond’s antagonistic words against his parentage, Aegon’s tease over you and Jace’s betrothal - all of it, that night. 

You nod slowly; it feels like ages ago.  

“Like I said yesterday,” he continues, his expression shifting, “I... I didn’t know what I wanted then.”

His words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning; what could have been feels awfully close as your knee touches his own, your eyes over the ocean. His sword lies in the grass beside him, the silver metal reflecting the dying sun. You revel quietly in the kindness his voice can carry when he is not laced with mistrust or disdain. 

“It is a shame,” He starts again, hand roving through his curls,  “You will be a wonderful wife to whomever you marry."

Your heart catches in your throat - his candor catches you off guard, your chest soaring. His curls dance around his jaw.

“I’ll likely wish I were him for the rest of my life.” 

Jacaerys' words hang in the air - longing, a deep sadness that swirls within you for what could have been. You cannot find the words to respond as you stare into his eyes - they search you, open and dripping with honesty. His vulnerability has opened a door you've both tiptoed around for so long; you’re afraid to go through it, to admit what you’re telling yourself cannot be true. What you’ve told yourself your whole life. 

“Jace, I...” Your voice catches, nerves tingling with the weight of your own feelings; you look down in embarrassment. “...I’ve spent so much of my life trying to prove myself, to show people why I’m worthy of…” you trail off softly, eyes tracing the horizon where the sun dips closer to the edge of the world.

Now, if ever, you know you can be honest. You clear your throat, “If it were up to me, you would be that man.” You admit, not daring to look at him. 

Your heart beats hard in your throat; Jacaerys reaches out, his hand finding yours tentatively. You nearly jolt at the warm touch of his fingers, but you curl yours around his as you look down.

“You’ll make a fine King one day, Jacaerys,” You say with a small half smile, rising your eyes to watch him wistfully. His chin tilts down, eyes flickering from your own to your lips and back, laced with that same melancholia you feel. “And even after all this time, I still wish…” 

The unspoken wish is palpable between you when Jacaerys meets your gaze, his forehead resting on yours. 

“As do I.” He whispers. 

IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO FIND SLUMBER THAT EVENING. 

You try. 

The handmaidens bathe you; you ask them quietly of their childhoods, dazy and staring over the rim of the bath, watching the swirls of heat escape the milky water. They tell you of their homes, families, parents, brothers, sisters, lovers. When you ask them to continue, they whisper of the smallfolk on the island, sharing laughter and gossip. Usually, you indulge them in the more lively stories - ask more of the people, question whether any of them have taken a husband; they are unlike your old handmaids in the Red Keep, who whispered only when you were not there, more oft than not to your own mother. 

Here, they are kind, quiet. They are just girls. 

Tonight, you cannot help but wish you were one of them. 

A foolish, senseless thing to say - you, indeed, have had a better life than any of the smallfolk, a truth which has always rubbed the wrong way as velvet on cracked skin; you sigh nonetheless and move silently as they dress you for slumber. 

You ask them of their lovers - few of them have one, but they flush and giggle and whisper their names; you, ecstatic for them but confined in your little cage of gold, smiling wistfully and yearning. To love who you could, to marry who you could. 

“Princess,” One of them asks as she prepares your hair for sleep, “Is it true, you can see the entire world on dragonback?” 

A sweet question, one that would usually make you grin. Yet the words stirred a deep melancholy in you and all you could do is murmur a small affirmation. 

The memories come in the dark. 

As you lie restless in your bed, tossing every moment, your desire for Jacaerys consumes you. 

Breath, hot and willing, against the skin of your neck. Fingers, nimble and intent, sliding up your thigh, dragging the skirt of your dress. A groan, melting into your mouth as your lips find his. 

Sinner, your mother’s voice in your head. You sin. 

One candle, faint and flickering as it weeps white wax, mocks you in the corner of your room. You tire of counting the cracks in the stone of the ceiling; turning, the empty space of your mattress is cold and uninviting.

You were not cold when you were warming the sheets of Jacaerys Velaryon last evening. 

Writhing in pleasure in his room, the hearth still drawn and hot, his sharp jaw against your thighs as he mouthed over you. A small grin, face between your legs, fingers reaching the most secret part of you. 

Gods. 

You try to ignore the ache, the desire; but when the witching hour is far gone, you drop your bare toes onto the stone floor with a sigh. 

Just to see him, you tell yourself. There is no ache so insatiable that you cannot ignore it for the evening. For the rest of your life, your mind chides, he is not yours to have. 

Just to see him, you promise yourself. You tug over a robe; it is red, it drips off you like blood. Just to see him. 

When you open the doors to your chamber, mouth opening to instruct your guards to allow you to leave, you stop short. 

The hallway is not empty.

His tunic tousled and lips puffy as if he could not sleep - in the midnight hours, his hair is a black mass, his eyes sharp and dark. It is an honest Jacaerys in front of you with his eyes wide, insistent: no uniform, nor sword, nor duties, nor titles; clad in a tunic and trousers. Simply Jace. 

"-I must speak with you.” His voice is near desperate. 

You take a sharp breath, eyes falling aside to the guards who stay vigil at your doors. “Leave us.” You command; the guards move to stand sentinel in the hallway, giving you a moment of privacy with the prince.

 You close the door behind Jacaerys after he enters your chambers, the sound echoing in the quiet room. You light several of the candles near your resting table, smoothing over your nightgown as it dawns on you how inappropriately you are dressed to hold company of your Prince.

He remains, standing ever-respectful, eyes roving over your personal belongings, scarce as they may be as you fled the Keep those weeks ago. Seashells along the windows; flowers, picked by you and Baela the other day before breaking fast. A needlepoint hangs beside your bed - the web of a spider and a small butterfly, the wings singed at the ends as it flies away from a dragon - A gift from your younger sister for your last nameday. Mere days before you escaped. 

When your eyes meet his finally, your hands wringing together, you whisper to him. “Jace.” 

"I can't bear this," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper; his eyes are sharp, near pain. Your teeth clench; a fire burning in your stomach, desire coiling once again. 

“Jacaerys,” You repeat, eyes fluttering, unable to stop yourself as you take steps towards him, feeling his warmth as he steps to close the gap. 

"Think of it,” He begs, “You, sister of the Usurper; I, the son of the Queen.”

Your brows, furrowed as they were before, begin to untangle at the realization of his words, his intention. Heat douses you, stomach flipping. 

“-To show them where your loyalties lie. It would unite our cause with a single banner.” He adds, shaking his head as he takes yet another step towards you. The smell of him; it catches upon your nose and you inhale, stuttering as you swallow thick cotton down your throat. You can imagine the horror on your mother’s face when the news came to King’s Landing; you, married to him. 

“As we were meant to.” You nearly whimper it - and it is true; you indeed spent childhood with Septas and Maesters, sitting under tutelage and furiously studying for your future roles. To rule one day; Prince and Princess of Dragonstone, King and Queen of the Seven Realms. What could have been, may still be. He is right; too many things have been lost to time and circumstance. 

There is a delicious, angry possessiveness that takes over you, burning in your abdomen, sliding through your stomach, infiltrating your lungs as you stare at the man before you. You were promised to each other. 

Jacaerys's eyes are dark, intense, and filled with a longing that mirrors your own. He steps closer until there's barely any space between you, his breath warm on your face. "Please,” His lips brush your own, “Do not make me beg for you.” 

You curb your gasp, legs nearly weak as he huffs against your lips, “-Because I will. Until my last breath,” He insists, and you press up onto your toes, lips grazing his own, “You mustn’t.” You soothe. Fingers find purchase on your waist as he lets out a shaky breath. 

 "I crave you,” He confesses, his voice trembling, “To have, as a husband may have his wife."

Your heart races, the heat of his words igniting something deep within you. It is all you can do to lay your hands on his chest; his heart, beating strong and true beneath your fingers that tremble with desire. Your lips brush his cheek as you pull him to you; down, bending his neck so your lips can meet flush with his ear. 

 “Pār emagon nyke, valzȳrys.” You whisper into his ear, biting at the soft skin of his lobe. Then have me, husband.

A deep growl; fingers flexing around your hips before gripping tight, Jace groans into you, face burying in your neck as you kiss along his jaw. He is far too impatient for such teasing; his lips find yours with a heat you’ve never felt - soft lips with urgent fervor, pulling and tugging and giving, taking, giving, taking. 

You are delirious with the scent of him in your own chambers, the curls that wind themselves through your fingers when you tug him by the nape of his neck. He tastes of peppermint tea; he nips at your lips like a balm to a cut as you sigh his name. 

You take a gasp as his lips travel; they roam your neck, first - teeth sharp when he leaves a bite against your pulse, as if reminding himself of your humanity. Hands, still trembling, slide around until he drags a palm up your stomach; cascades of arousal follow in his wake, your skin perking at such light touch. 

His grasp finds your breast; you both stutter an inhale. Your sleeping gown is thin enough - your nipples, pert and aching with need, are pinched gently as he explores you, leaning back with attentive eyes as if to see what you like.  

But he cannot resist; your head tips back, hair cascading down your back as his lips follow his hands - over the hemline of your dress, his lips press the plush skin of your breasts, his breath hot against your skin. 

You swallow your heartbeat, gasping sharply as he suddenly grabs your arse. “gaomagon daor henujagon ēnka, mandia trēsy,” You moan as his hand squeezes you, lifting until you’re coaxed on to the tips of your toes. Do not leave marks, nephew.

 He groans against your skin, lips just barely pulling away from your heaving chest; a pinch of your pert nipple has you biting back a moan as you ache for him. He shakes his head, mouth brushing over your skin as he whispers lowly, “Kesan tepagon ñuha ābrazȳrys hae nyke jaelagon.” Shivers rove over you as you pull his hair; desire too much for you as you crash your lips once more with his own. I will mark my wife as I wish. 

He moans a sweet thing; one you wish to hear every day for the rest of your breaths. With desiring hands, he pulls you until the lines of your bodies are flush, stumbling as he begins to take staggering, heady steps broken by kisses. You stumble backwards, unwilling to let him go as his hungry palms slide up your spine. “I need you,” You whisper, “I must have you, Jace, please.” You beg yourself, eyes finding his own with a spark; his hands, warm, curl over your shoulders just as they did the back of the chair yesterday. 

And then a light nudge until you fall to the seat with a gasp. 

Your hands slide out of his grasp as you slide into the chair; he bends his neck to watch you in the candlelight. Tall, standing above you - your hands tug at his tunic, unable to voice your desire but staring up into those dark eyes, pleading. 

A smirk in the faint light; flickered flamelight against his dimpled cheeks as a slender hand cups your jaw, thumb gracing your cheek. You thrum with desire. “I have not ceased to think about you,” Jace rumbles, “And how you taste against my tongue.” 

You let out a gasp as he once again brings himself to his knees - his face, right in front of you. Breath hitting his lips, you hum, “I have not ceased to think about it either,” You admit. 

A smile, eyes teasing:  "And here I was, believing I was the only one losing sleep over it," he murmurs. You smirk, near a retort until his strong hands grasp your legs, tugging you towards the edge of your chair; a yelp as he begins, then, to drag your thin gown up your thighs. Toes curling in anticipation, you let out a shaky breath. 

He lets out a deep groan as you are once again exposed to him; eyes flickering up to you before returning to your glistening cunt. A thumb, curious and feather-light, swipes up your center, collecting your arousal and sending you jolting. He hums lowly as his hand raises; in the low light of the chambers, your desire glints on his thumb and you flush, watching him with a gasp as he brings the digit towards your lips. 

Your tongue swirls around his finger - a moan at the sweet, earthy taste of yourself with him. He presses curiously against your pliant tongue, eyes fixated on your glossy lips. “Please,” You gasp when he pulls his thumb away, sinking lower to pull your thighs over his shoulders once more. 

He gives you no more than a caress on your inner thigh before his tongue delves into your soft folds; eager, impatient to taste you.

A gasp that tapers into a low whine escapes your lips as his find your pearl, tongue swirling and hands holding you to the chair. 

It is all you can do to prevent the swear words from tumbling from you; his low hum at the taste of you sends tremors of pleasure through your body. Your hands find their home once again in his hair, clenching against his curls as you gasp. 

“Jace,” You whisper breathlessly, “D-don’t stop-” 

You are full of pleasure; his tongue moves lower, nose pressing against your sensitive nub as his tongue slides into your entrance. A moan of his name, your back arches as he moves; pulling you impossibly close by his arms, your eyes fall shut in bliss. 

You begin to near your high incredibly soon; eager, your prince does not cease - teasing, groaning, whispering broken phrases in High Valyrian into you. 

A few moments until your head is thrown back over the top of the chair; gasping with stutters, you whimper as a hand once again finds your breast, squeezing and pinching as his tongue continues to drive you towards the edge. 

Your chest stutters, littered with love bites and marks - nearing the edge of bliss quick, your legs clench around his head. Groaning into your center, he pulls you tighter, tongue swirling over your pearl as he drags one hand, slow and wanton, to your cunt.

There is a moment where the waves crash in tandem with your shudders; as if you and the ocean are one, Jacaerys taming your storm with a groan and hands splayed over your hips. Soon a finger slides, teasing your entrance; your spine bends as you let out a gasp, shifting to stare down at him.  

“Jace, I’d-” You gasp, “I’d like to-to feel you.” 

He hums softly against your folds, sending shivers over your chest. “You do not feel me now, Sodjisto?” 

You flush, your breaths ragged as he resumes, slipping his middle and ring finger within you - the stretch makes you groan, desire dripping from his glance as he watches you. A lifted brow, some cocky glance of pride from the prince - You nearly smack atop his curls for the look, but you’re near writhing, the wood of your chair creaking, his hum a low grumble that sends sensations through you. 

He knows what you’d meant - but as he begins to work a rhythm against you with his fingers, sweat beading at the skin of your chest, he does not seem keen to stop. “I am close,” It comes out as a gasp, eyes rolling back momentarily as some fire strikes in your abdomen. He gives no response yet continues to curl his fingers, exploring you, tongue swirling around your sensitive spot and pulling you closer and closer to release. 

His name is the sole thing which passes your lips when you hit your pleasure; shaking legs, your fingers tug hard enough on his hair to elicit his own moan. He watches you, chin tilted up as he slows his fingers, riding you through your ecstasy as you release his curls. 

“Gods,” He whispers, eyes searching yours as you catch your breath. Your legs slide off his shoulders; he, with a deft hand, catches an ankle and presses a chaste kiss before lowering. The grin you share is shockingly bashful, for the misbehavior you’ve just found yourselves in once more.

You sit up slowly, heart pounding as you grab his face, pressing a heated kiss to his lips. You taste your essence, rising gently as he does, your hands rising to his tunic.

A fervor you’d not known you possess takes you - tugging him harshly, he grunts your name as he stumbles with you, hands falling to your hips. A smile in the candlelight, a soft chuckle as he tilts his head, “You’re quite eager,” He mutters lowly, lips catching your jaw. You tilt your neck, humming as your hands begin their descent, trembling with desire and the unknown. 

You hum - indeed, you’re eager. Your fingers graze the waist of his trousers before he pulls back, staring at you, “My love,” He whispers; it sends warmth through your veins, heart rushing with affection. 

You shrug, “Might I return the favor, nephew?” You ask, schooling your face as innocently as possible, though you yearn to climb atop him this very moment. He is once again red, swallowing thickly, his eyes widening slightly. “You... you don’t need to,” he stammers, trying to maintain his composure as you bite your lip, “We shouldn’t—”

You place a finger on his lips, silencing his protest; they press against your hand in a silent kiss as you shake your head, “Jace, please,” you whisper, your voice soft and enticing. “It is all I can think of, even this morning, at the table-” 

He coughs, eyes widening in desire before he grasps your cheeks tight, pressing his lips to yours. He pulls away, with eyes darkened. “You drive me mad,” he confesses, his voice trembling.

You smile, your heart pounding in your chest. “You’ve said as much before,” you whisper, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. His eyes have left yours to trail over the marks that litter your chest; a possession that flickers within his gaze. 

You grasp his jaw tighter - tugging him until he looks at you with a small smirk, “Do not make me beg for you, Jacaerys.”

His eyes nearly roll as he registers his own words used against him; “I wouldn’t say no to you,” he breathes, his lips brushing against your neck, "Never." You shiver at his touch, a thrill running through you. “Good,” you reply, your voice low and urgent. “Because I cannot wait any longer.”

You tilt his head up, your lips meeting his in a searing kiss that he returns with equal fervor, his hands roaming your body as if trying to memorize every curve, each contour.

Breaking the kiss, you look into his eyes, your own filled with determination. “Lie back,” you instruct softly, guiding him down towards your bed as he’d done to you just last night. His brows raise slightly and you kiss the freckle above his cupid’s bow.  “Let me take care of you.” You whisper against his lips. 

He obeys, his gaze never leaving yours, filled with a mix of anticipation and need. As you straddle him, you feel his hands on your hips, steadying you.

Upon his elbows, his eyes watch as you unlace his trousers - his arousal hard and lying just above where you straddle him, you feel a deep ache to fill yourself with him. His hand slides up your hip, dragging your nightdress upwards in the action, until his thumb graces below your breast. “Beautiful,” He whispers, eyes true. You smile, tugging his tunic until he leans forward; you pull the fabric from his frame, eager to feel his warm skin against your own. 

When his chest is bare, you splay your hands over him; pale skin, glowing with the hue of night, planes of muscle and lithe hips. A shiver of desire - a hunger more possessive than you’ve ever known. You trace the lines of his body, marveling at the strength and grace he possesses.

“My Prince,” you murmur, your voice filled with awe and affection. “You are… exceedingly handsome.”

It takes no longer that the blush rises to his cheeks than you’ve found your way to crawl between his thighs, releasing him from his trousers; his cock, hard and weeping of precum. An exhale from his full lips as your hand grazes him - lying long against his lower stomach, you run your fingers over the base of him, watching as his hands grasp your bedsheets. Perhaps, you hope, your sheets will smell of him on the morrow. 

You’ve touched men before; in the days of boredom, in the shadow of your family, sneaking off behind walls or hiding in the Keep. Yet none of them, like this - none of them, how you want to touch Jace. 

“Jacaerys, what you did…” Your eyes flicker to the chair, “kissing me, there…” You sound foolish - but his eyes are wide, always listening. “I want to do that, too.” You say earnestly.

At your words his head falls back on the pillow. “Gods be damned,” He mutters to himself, a hand pushing his curls back from his face as you lower yourself, spitting gently - a string of saliva, falling onto the head of his cock, your eyes wide at the deep scent of his bath oils and him. 

You grasp him in your palm - thicker than you’ve known, and it makes you ache in an indescribable way as you slowly move your wrist, staring up at him. “Fuck,” He whispers, biting his lower lip and sitting up slightly, “My L-” 

Whatever he planned to say is forgotten; flown from his brain the moment you wrap your lips around his warm cock, tasting the beads that leak from him. Jacaerys lets out a moan so lustrous it makes you keen yourself - spurred on by his reaction, you suckle, sliding your tongue lower, to meet where your palm moves up his cock and back down. 

“G-Gods-” He stutters, a hand threading through your own hair, guiding you quite gently as you begin to bob your head with the motions of your palm. He is heavy against your throat, thick - large, you cannot fit him all but you try as he lets out a short gasp, tucking a strand of hair from your eyes. 

It is only a few more moments before you become more confident; the man beneath you writhes with restraint, one hand fisting the sheets and the other tangled in your hair, guiding you upon his length. 

Your desire for him aches - to see him in his own state of bliss, as he has so unfairly seen you in twice by now. You breathe through your nostrils, slowing your fist and taking him deeper into your throat, relishing in the gasping grunt you pull from his flustered lips.

It is nearly too much - you gag slightly, moaning at the feeling as you feel your own arousal drip onto the mattress below you. His own hand tightens in your hair; he is holding back, you think. 

“Love,” He mutters, voice sewn with heady desire. You do not listen to his call, instead bobbing your head, feeling him tighten, knowing he too is close to the bliss you just felt minutes ago. “L-laesi,” He stutters, using the incorrect word, eyes. You continue moving upon his cock until he hisses, tugging your hair gently, “Jurnegon rȳ nyke.” He commands, voice full of pleasure with a steel edge to it. Look at me.

You do. 

Eyes full of lust, the muscles of his abdomen tight with desire, sweat upon his chest. You nearly lose your mind in his beauty for a moment, before he groans, “Where- I’m close.” He is unable to speak full sentences; a part of you rings with pride, the same pride he likely feels reducing you to such a similar state. “Where shall I-” 

You hum, pulling your lips from his cock and replacing your movements with your hand, tilting your head, “I told you,” you say, “I’d like to taste you, My Prince.” 

His head throws back at this, muttering a string of swears and High Valyrian - and when he hits his own high, you slow your movements, lips wrapped back around his head, stroking his pulsing cock as he lets out a groan. He comes inside your mouth, his seed coating your tongue as you moan. He is warm, salty; Kin of the Sea, after all. 

You collapse against his clothed thigh once he is through his clouded bliss, breathing heavy. Your throat has begun to ache; with shaky legs, you crawl up to where Jace tugs you, his eyes warm and spilling with honey. 

You were once told by a handmaid that men often fall asleep after such release; Jacaerys seems none more keen to stay awake, his hands sliding over your figure, eyes stuck on your frame. It sets a fire back within you as he hums, hand sliding over where your dress rides up, grasping your arse once again. You let out a choked moan, eyes finding him with heat, “Jacaerys?” You ask, voice hoarse, quiet. 

His brows furrow only slightly; you kiss the wrinkle away gently. “I want you to take my maidenhood,” You whisper, cheeks hot as your lips brush his forehead. His swallow is thick, the desire coursing through your veins as his hand trails your spine delicately - His eyes darken with desire, lips falling to nip gently at your throat, “You mustn’t say these things when I have you in bed.” He nearly growls against your skin. 

You hum, hands sliding over his naked torso, traveling the contours and planes. “I mean it.” You whisper - he groans your name, head falling back - but there is a flicker of something else; resolve. 

“We must wait,” he says softly but firmly, his hands gently but insistently pushing you back. You let him, knowing he is right but wishing for once you could ignore such obligations. “-Until we are married. For your honor, and…” His eyes fall away from yours and you must duck your own to keep sight of him, “...and for ours.” He adds quietly, thumb stroking your hip. 

And there, in the soft candlelight, your heart strikes; You can see the internal struggle in his eyes, the memories of whispered accusations and doubts about his own parentage surfacing. He has lived a life of whispers, many of your own family’s doing - one he does not wish upon another.

Your heart aching with him, you nod, hand cupping his cheek, “Jace,” you say gently, “You are the very embodiment of duty - and an honor to your lineage.” He looks away, but your hold on his jaw remains as you kiss his temple, “We will wait.” You agree softly. 

“I WISH YOU COULD STAY,” YOU WHISPER. 

Jace presses a kiss to your forehead, pulling his tunic back on as you hover by the doors. 

His eyes soften as he takes in your frame,  “I’ll speak to my mother in the morrow.” He says gently, nodding, "And we can make arrangements for our betrothal."

You hide a grin with a ducked head, feeling giddy like the child you were the first time you were promised to each other.

When you open your chamber door to bid him farewell, you are once more met with a shock; Ser Marbrand stands, about to knock on your quarter doors.

You must mirror his own look of surprise; you at him, he at the sight of you and Jacaerys together. Your own throat runs dry, blood rushing from your face as you clear your throat, knowing how very indecent it all must look. 

“Princess…" He greets, eyes flicking from you to Jace, "Prince.” His eyes flick then to the guards standing vigil outside your door; A brief moment of tension, palpable in the air, before he clears his throat and speaks firmly, "Apologies for the disruption. There's an urgent matter - An incoming ship has been sighted in Dragonstone bay, wishing to hold court with our Queen."

Your mouth opens in shock - the middle of the night? You share a sharp look with Jace - Your letter. You open your mouth to speak, but Jacaerys takes a step forward, “How many ships? Who leads them?” he asks sharply, his mind already calculating the implications. You turn to gather your robe as Jace asks once more, “Where is my mother?” 

“In the council’s chambers. You have both been requested.” Ser Marbrand meets Jace's gaze evenly, "A single ship, my Prince - bearing a green, three-headed dragon.”

requests open.

Unknown to him, she too marveled at him. There he was, broad shoulders cloaked in a fur coat; the simple attire did nothing to hide his powerful frame. His longsword loomed behind his back, a silent testament to his strength. His brows were furrowed, as if analyzing her, his rugged looks captivating despite the absence of a beard. His eyes were a piercing gray, like the stormy skies of the North.

Aelyria felt her heart stop; he looked so... so masculine. The raw power he exuded, the sheer presence he commanded—every inch of him screamed strength and resilience. She was utterly smitten, drawn to him in a way she had never experienced before. This was a man forged by the harsh northern winds, tempered by the cold, and she found herself undeniably entranced by him.

Cregan's heart began to beat faster once more; an unfamiliar feeling stirred within him. He couldn't help but admire her beauty—her slender figure, the silver braid, the soft features on her round face, the way she smiled at the children…

He was taken aback by his own reaction. He had seen many beautiful women before, but none had affected him like this. Perhaps it was her Valyrian blood that made her so mesmerizing, or the way she radiated an aura of kindness and grace.

"You are more beautiful than I imagined," he said, his voice low.

"Oh… she truly is." Jacaerys interrupted his thoughts, walking closer to Aelyria, his hands intertwined with hers.

Cregan's eyes flickered to their hands, a pang of jealousy stirring within him. He knew she was betrothed to the prince, but it didn't stop him from feeling a sharp jealousy at seeing them so close.

He forced a smile, though it felt cold. "Indeed, my Prince. You are a lucky man."

"Truly." Jacaerys' hands gripped hers.

"Good afternoon, my Lord." Her voice, like honey; she bowed gracefully.

Cregan couldn't help the way his heart skipped a beat when she spoke. Her voice, soft and sweet as honey, mesmerized him. His gaze lingered on her, taking in every detail.

He bowed back, a bit awkwardly, feeling out of his depth. "Good evening, my Lady. I hope your journey here was pleasant."

"It was… My Prince and I enjoyed the sights."

Cregan felt a pang again; his eyes darted to their intertwined hands once more.

"I am glad to hear that," he said, his voice coming out a little gruff. "We have prepared a feast tonight in your honor. I hope you will both enjoy it."

"You are far too kind, my lord," Jacaerys spoke.

Cregan forced a smile. "It is the least we can do, my Prince. You are our honored guest, after all."

His eyes flicked to Aelyria again, taking in her soft curves and delicate features. He could see why Jacaerys was so besotted with her.

Lord Cregan gave them a tour of the place, hoping Aelyria would not be too bored. She seemed to enjoy it—or was she merely being polite? Why was he overthinking it?

The tension lingered. As much as he tried to ignore it, Cregan could feel it every time he looked at them together; how easily Jacaerys' hand found her waist; the way they shared brief moments of laughter…

Cregan subtly shook his head, as if to banish all those unseemly thoughts of the lady.

She is to be wed, Cregan! Pull yourself together.

Yet, despite his attempts, Cregan found himself unable to keep his mind from wandering back to the lady. He tried to focus on the conversation, to ignore the way her eyes seemed to shine in the light of the corridor; the way her laughter filled the air; and the way her hand fit perfectly in Jacaerys’.

He found himself lost in a confusing mix of guilt and longing, his mind at war with his heart. He tried to remind himself constantly that she was betrothed—to his guest of honor, no less…

Cregan’s hands were slightly nervous upon shaving his growing beard. He wanted to maintain some semblance of youth, even though the Lady and the Prince were close to his age—or perhaps it was an effort to look presentable in front of the Lady? He shook his head as his hands continued to shave. He ensured his guests of honor had time to prepare and rest before the dinner.

“Fuck.” He inhaled sharply; he cut himself, just a tad bit.

His fingers rubbed the cut, feeling a pang of frustration at his own clumsiness.

He looked at himself in the mirror, taking in his appearance. He was handsome, strong—a true Northman. That was how he had always thought of himself. Yet now, as he stood there in the mirror, he couldn't help but feel a pang of self-doubt. He had never felt this way before, never before had he cared so much about how he looked.

“Damn it…” he muttered to himself.

He was first in the dining hall, ensuring all was well for tonight’s dinner. His guests were of royal, Valyrian blood, after all.

The dining hall was meticulously prepared for the occasion. The tables were set with the finest china and silverware. Fresh blooms adorned the tables, filling the air with a pleasant fragrance. The food was a feast fit for royalty, each dish a testament to the North's bounty and hospitality.

As Cregan waited, his thoughts kept drifting towards her. The Lady Aelyria, with her silver hair and brown eyes. He couldn't shake off the memory of her soft laugh and her sweet scent.

The door was slowly filling in with his bannermen, his guests, his squires. The doors to the dining hall opened, and the room slowly filled with the sounds of hushed conversations and the clinking of silverware.

His bannermen were in attendance, their proud, stern figures a stark contrast to the lavish setting. They took their seats, whispering amongst themselves, their eyes discreetly flickering towards the door. Cregan stood near the head of the table, his eyes darting to the entrance, waiting for the arrival of the Valyrians.

Then— The door opened. All eyes turned towards the door as it opened. Cregan's heart skipped a beat.

There she was, just as beautiful as before, but now she was dressed in a gown that seemed to accentuate her feminine curves. She looked like Valyrian royalty; her silvery hair cascaded over her shoulder in waves; her eyes sparkled with a soft light.

Cregan watched as she walked towards the head of the table, accompanied by the prince. Jacaerys was a gentleman—a true, well-mannered royal. Aelyria and Jacaerys politely greeted everyone in attendance. As Aelyria and Jacaerys greeted each person in attendance, Cregan found his gaze drawn to her. He watched as she smiled politely, her voice soft and pleasant as she spoke to each guest.

Her elegance was undeniable; every movement she made seemed graceful and poised. He felt a pang as he saw the prince’s hand on her waist, pulling out her chair like a true chivalrous prince. Cregan clenched his jaw.

“Good evening, my lord… my, the dinner is truly magnificent,” she smiled, the reds in her dress bringing out her eyes.

“Good evening, my lady,” he managed to say, his voice a bit hoarse. He was aware of the other men in the room, some of them stealing glances her way as well.

“Lord Stark,” Jacaerys greeted, his voice smooth and courteous. “Thank you for your generous hospitality. The feast looks splendid.”

Cregan inclined his head, acknowledging the prince’s words. “It is our honor to host you, Prince Jacaerys. I trust your chambers were comfortable?”

“They were,” Jacaerys replied with a smile. “We rested well. Your keep is as warm and welcoming as it is grand.”

Cregan nodded, satisfied. “I’m glad to hear that. Please, take your seats.” The three of them settled at the head of the table.

“Aelyria here enjoys fish,” Jacaerys mentioned, pointing out the plate of fish to Aelyria.

Cregan’s eyes followed his gesture to the plate of fish. For a brief moment, his mind wandered to the idea of personally catching and preparing a fresh fish for Aelyria. But he quickly pushed the thought away, realizing how ridiculous it was.

“Ah, fish…” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “We have the finest salmon from the streams of the North. I hope it is to your liking, Lady Aelyria.”

“We rarely get good salmon in Dragonstone, so this is truly wonderful for me.” She smiled, her eyes lighting up with excitement as she looked at the salmon.

Cregan felt a pang of pride at her words; he couldn’t help but feel pleased that he could offer something new and special to her.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, his voice a little gruff. “We Northerners take pride in our fish, especially salmon. It is a staple in our diet, especially during the winter.”

“Then, Aely, I suppose you should vacation here during winter,” Jacaerys smiled at her.

Cregan's mind briefly imagined Aelyria visiting Winterfell during winter—dressed in furs, cheeks flushed from the cold, laughter in her eyes. He quickly pushed away the thought, feeling guilty that he was indulging in such fantasies.

“Yes, the North is quite a sight during winter,” he said, forcing a smile. “But the cold is not for the faint-hearted.”

“I have a dragon… it can make me a pyre,” she jested.

Cregan chuckled, surprised by her jest. The sound of her laugh echoed in his ears, making him want to hear it again.

“Ah, I suppose that is true,” he said, his smile widening. “With a dragon to keep you warm, the North wouldn’t seem so cold after all.”

The dinner was splendid. Cregan enjoyed it—but he enjoyed looking at her sweet smile even more. He enjoyed Jacaerys’ company as well; the prince was quite intelligent and dignified despite being young. He truly was made to be a prince.

Throughout the dinner, Cregan found his gaze drawn to Aelyria again and again. He hung on every word she spoke, every time she laughed, every gesture she made. He conversed with Jacaerys as well, finding the prince to be a good conversationalist. Despite his young age, Jacaerys was intelligent, charming—a true prince. Cregan couldn’t deny that he was a good match for Aelyria.

Despite his best efforts to enjoy the dinner and the company, Cregan found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything but Aelyria. The sound of her laughter, the way she smiled at Jacaerys—it all filled his mind, making it hard for him to focus on anything else. He couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy as he watched them. They looked so perfect together, a true match, a future couple destined for greatness. The thought sent a pang of pain through his chest.

Cregan and Jacaerys quickly found a comfortable understanding, their banter flowing easily as they sipped their mead.

"You Northerners certainly know how to brew a fine drink," Jacaerys commented, raising his mug in a toast.

Cregan chuckled, raising his own. "Aye, we have to. The cold makes a man appreciate a good, strong drink."

They exchanged stories, Cregan sharing tales of the harsh Northern winters and the battles fought against the Wildlings; Jacaerys spoke of the courtly intrigues of King's Landing and the fierce loyalty of the people of Dragonstone. The prince's laughter was infectious, his wit sharp and easygoing, making Cregan feel more at ease than he had in years. As the evening wore on and the mead continued to flow, Cregan found himself growing more unguarded. He was drinking a little more than he should; the alcohol made him feel a bit loose and unguarded.

"What is it like living on Dragonstone?" he asked, his voice tinged with a hint of slur.

“Salty,” Aelyria spoke first. “If you stand still enough, you’ll taste the salt on your tongue.” She added, her tone light and playful.

Cregan chuckled at her answer, imagining Aelyria standing still, tasting the salt in the air.

"Ah, so it's quite the salty place then," he said, his eyes studying her face. "I imagine the castle must be built to withstand such conditions… after all, the Targaryens have called it home for centuries."

Jacaerys shared more about Dragonstone, painting a picture of a strong, proud, and ancient castle. As he spoke, Cregan listened intently, his eyes flickering between Jacaerys and Aelyria.

“You should visit one day,” Aelyria spoke softly.

Cregan's heart thudded at her words. Her soft, sweet voice was like a caress, making it even harder for him to think straight.

"Visit Dragonstone?" he repeated, his voice rough. "I… I would love to, my lady."

The thought of seeing her in her home, seeing her on her own turf, stirred something in him. It was a dangerous idea.

Unknown to Cregan, Jacaerys’ hand squeezed hers tighter.

“Tell us more about the North,” Aelyria continued, her eyes following him.

Cregan felt his heart race at the sound of her voice, her eyes fixed on him. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

"The North," he started, his voice still a little shaky. "It's vast, unforgiving, and beautiful. We have endless forests, snowy mountains, and icefields. It's the coldest region in Westeros, but the Northmen are hardy folk. We thrive in the cold—it's in our blood."

"Then there is the Wall," he said, his voice growing softer. "A colossal structure of ice that spans the length of the continent. It's the first line of defense against the Wildlings and the terrors from beyond it. The Night's Watch, an ancient order sworn to defend the realm from those threats. It's a formidable place—cold and harsh, just like the North itself."

“Terrors?” Jacaerys nearly chuckled.

Cregan gave Jacaerys a wry smile, realizing that tales of White Walkers might sound like a strange concept to a man from the South.

"Yes, terrors. Creatures from beyond the Wall, creatures of ice and cold. They are called the White Walkers, or the Others. They are said to bring with them the cold and the dark—a darkness that can last for years."

He paused, his eyes flickering to Aelyria's face, hoping she wouldn’t belittle or laugh at him.

Aelyria’s lips pursed, clearly in a bit of thought.

“Oh, you humor me, my lord,” Jacaerys witted.

Cregan bristled at Jacaerys’ comment but held his tongue. He knew that the prince was jesting, that he didn't believe in the tales of the Others. Many in the south didn't, and Cregan couldn't blame them; it all sounded like legends and fairy tales.

But the thought of the prince dismissing it so lightly made him feel another pang of… something he couldn't quite name.

“Darling, if dragons exist… surely there might be something else?” Aelyria looked at Jacaerys, then at Cregan, seemingly agreeing with the lord’s tales.

Throughout the dinner, Cregan found his gaze drawn to Aelyria again and again. He hung on every word she spoke, every time she laughed, every gesture she made. The sound of her laughter, the way she smiled at Jacaerys—it all filled his mind, making it hard for him to focus on anything else.

Cregan felt a strange sort of relief at Aelyria's words. Her agreement made him feel a little less foolish, a little less like the northman whose tales were seen as barbaric and primitive. But another part of him bristled at the endearment she'd used for Jacaerys—"darling." He found himself gritting his teeth.

"You see, my lady understands," Cregan said, his voice betraying a tinge of irritation.

He watched as Jacaerys placed his hand on Aelyria's waist again; that casual, familiar gesture set his teeth on edge.

“But, let’s not hope such terrors become our priority,” she added.

Cregan nodded, his irritation slightly quelled by her words. "Indeed. We should not hope for such horrors to come to pass."

He took a deep breath, trying to shake off the strange mix of emotions swirling within him.

“I pray that they get lost by the snow somehow,” she chuckled.

Cregan couldn’t help but smile at her soft, musical laugh. It sent a little thrill through him; he found himself wanting to hear it again.

"Ah, perhaps the snow will confuse them. They’ll wander around in circles until they get so cold they’ll simply freeze to death."

"Or better yet, maybe they'll try to attack a polar bear and get their heads bitten off." He chuckled at his own joke, hoping to get another laugh out of her.

“Prince Jacaerys!” A bunch of young boys came upon him, eager to show the prince something.

“Well, the young need me,” Jacaerys chuckled, and left a kiss on her cheek, sighing as he stood up to face the young boys, “I’ll leave you to the company of Lord Stark.” Jacaerys smiled at Aelyria first, then waved them both farewell.

Cregan watched as Jacaerys left, his eyes narrowing slightly at the kiss Jacaerys left on her cheek. He found himself clenching his jaw again, his jealousy flaring. With Jacaerys gone, he turned his attention to Aelyria, a sense of nerves and desire stirring within him. He was alone with her, and he couldn’t deny the thrill that gave him.

"So… now it is just the two of us," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. He glanced around, seeing that the others around them were engrossed in their own conversations, paying them no mind.

“Oh yes…” she smiled; he could sense she was a bit nervous as she sipped some of the wine.

Cregan took note of her nervousness—the way her fingers fidgeted with the stem of her goblet, the way she avoided his gaze. Knowing that she too was feeling the same tension he was only heightened his own desire.

"Are you enjoying yourself, my lady?" he asked, his voice lower than usual.

“I have been enjoying myself,” she smiled. “Your people’s and your hospitality is lovely.”

"I'm glad to hear that," he said, his heart thudding in his chest as her smile made him feel a little breathless. He leaned a little closer, drawn to her like a magnet, wanting to be nearer.

"Is there… anything else you have been enjoying?" he asked, his voice a little gravelly.

“Ooh! The food, yes… the salmon was delightful—I think I may have overeaten.” She smiled.

Cregan chuckled, amused by her description. "You enjoyed the salmon, did you?" he repeated. He found himself enjoying just listening to her talk; her voice was so pleasant to listen to. He reached out to refill her goblet, his fingers brushing against hers for a moment.

He liked hearing her talk… about anything.

“Oh… and the pig too,” she smiled, continuing.

Cregan took a sip from his own goblet, his eyes never leaving her face. Her smile was enchanting, her cheeks slightly flushed from the wine and the heat of the fire.

"The pig, of course," he echoed, his voice lower.

He wanted to touch her, to reach out and pull her closer to him, to feel the heat of her skin against his fingers. But he held back, not wanting to be too forward.

"You seem to have enjoyed quite a bit of our food," he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

He took another sip of his wine, watching her over the rim of his goblet.

"I suppose that's a good thing, it means you're not… unsatisfied with our hospitality."

“Oh, you are all so kind… the customs and attitudes are definitely different from the south— but it’s not a negative one. But rather, better,” she said with a diplomatic tone.

Cregan raised an eyebrow at her comment. Better, she said.

"Better, you say?" he repeated, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He found himself amused by her diplomatic tone, but also strangely pleased to hear that she preferred the North to the South.

“I suppose, I’ve been used to the courtly manners of acting kind upfront while being a monster behind you,” she chuckled candidly.

Cregan nodded, understanding her point perfectly. He had never much cared for the politics and scheming that were so common in the South. He preferred honesty and directness, things that were valued in the North.

"We don’t have much use for fake pleasantries in the North,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice. “We say what we mean and mean what we say."

“There’s always a hint of fakery and dishonesty down south.”

Cregan chuckled, her words making him feel even more comfortable in his own skin.

"Sounds exhausting, having to put on a false facade all the time," he said, his eyes tracing the line of her jaw, admiring her profile in the firelight.

“Oh, and you cannot— I repeat cannot make a mistake. Even a spelling writing in your parchments will surely have everyone questioning your intelligence,” she chuckled.

Cregan chuckled along with her, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Question your intelligence over a spelling mistake?” he repeated, his tone incredulous. “We’ve got more important things to worry about in the North, like not freezing to death."

He leaned in a little closer, his voice lowering again.

"We don’t sweat the small things here, it’s not worth the effort."

“I suppose… perhaps the pampered life has over sensitized us…”

Cregan chuckled again, his eyes glinting with humor and something else. He liked her more and more, the more they talked.

"That’s what it is. You Southerners are too soft, too used to living a pampered life," he teased. "You’d never survive a northern winter."

“I have a dragon. I think I’ll manage Lord Stark.” She smiled.

Cregan chuckled again, enjoying her clever response.

"Ah, yes. Your dragon," he said, his eyes roaming over her face, taking in her every feature.

He found himself wondering what it would be like to ride a dragon, to feel the wind through his hair as he soared through the sky. But he pushed the thought aside, focusing on her.

"Yes, a dragon would keep you warm, I suppose. But you’d still have to eat northern food… and drink northern ale."

“I’d love to eat northern salmon all day… everyday… the ale? I cannot say positively about it, I get drunk rather fast.”

Cregan laughed heartily at her admission, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

"You get drunk fast, eh?” he said, a bemused smile on his lips. "You might want to be careful then, our ale is strong enough to knock a grown man off his feet."

“When I turned 15… my granduncle Corlys gave me dornish wine… he had to carry me 4 flights upstairs because I passed out!” She laughed.

Cregan couldn’t help but laugh along with her, picturing the image she painted.

"Dornish wine, eh? No wonder you passed out," he said, his tone light and teasing. "That stuff is strong, but even I wouldn’t give it to a girl who’s just turned 15."

“Oh and I vomited on a few maidens…”

Cregan’s eyes widened in surprise, a burst of laughter leaving his lips.

"You vomited on your handmaidens?" he repeated, still chuckling. "Ah, that must have been quite the scene."

“Oh Granduncle Corlys still won’t let me forget… even Jacaerys who was one of the poor audience of my drunkenness.”

Cregan chuckled, imagining the look on Jacaerys’ face.

"Poor Jacaerys, having to witness your drunken escapade," he said, his tone playful. "I can only imagine what his reaction must have been."

“How about you my lord? How are you when you’re drunk?” She smiled.

Cregan chuckled, his eyes meeting hers.

"Me? I can hold my liquor well enough, if I do say so myself," he said, a hint of pride in his voice.

He paused for a moment, studying her face again, feeling that familiar stirring in his chest.

"But sometimes... when I've had a few too many ales, I tend to get a bit... bold."

“Hmm? Like… how? I know some men who tend to start a fight.”

Cregan chuckled, shaking his head.

"Oh no, I’m not a brawler. I’m just... more honest when I’m drunk," he said. "I say things I wouldn’t normally say, I act on my impulses more."

He paused, his eyes roaming over her face, his gaze lingering on her lips.

"I might... say things I wouldn’t normally say to a lady I'm interested in," he added, his voice lowering.

“Ooh… pray tell… which lady here has caught your eye?” She could tell she enjoys gossiping.

Cregan smirked, enjoying the playful lilt in her voice.

"Ah, well, there is one lady..." he said, playing along.

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, as if he was sharing a secret with her.

"She is beautiful, intelligent, and kind. She has eyes as deep and dark as the night sky, and a smile that could rival the stars themselves."

“My lord, I believe you are… drunk!”

Cregan chuckled at her response.

"Perhaps I am, my lady," he said, a hint of sheepishness in his voice.

He took a sip of his ale, his eyes roaming over her face.

"But I am still perfectly aware of my thoughts and feelings," he added, his gaze growing a little more intense, more heated.

“Please do not vomit all over my dress, the silk came from Essos.” She sighed dramatically.

Cregan laughed, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

"Oh, I’m not that far gone, I assure you," he said, lifting his ale-filled goblet in a toast.

He paused, his gaze moving from her eyes, down to her dress, drinking in the soft material, the way it hugged her curves.

"Wouldn’t dare ruin such a lovely dress with my vomit."

He took a moment to collect himself, his eyes moving back up to her face.

"Besides, it would be a shame to ruin something so... beautiful," he said, his voice lowering again, a hint of huskiness in his tone.

"Red and black..." he repeated, his eyes roaming over the dress again.

He was even more aware of how closely it fit her frame, how the color brought out her eyes.

"It suits you," he said, his voice lower than usual. "You look... stunning."

“Oh… thank you, my lord.”

Cregan felt a pang of desire shoot through him as she thanked him in that sweet, polite tone. He took a mouthful of ale, trying to calm himself, but his eyes kept straying to her, taking in every little detail of her face, the way her silver hair cascaded over her shoulders, the fullness of her cheeks. He found himself wanting to say something more, something bold, something that would express exactly how he was feeling in that moment.

He had never felt this way before, this intense, almost overwhelming desire for someone. He was a northern lord, after all, used to living in the cold, unforgiving North.

And yet here he was, sitting next to a southerner girl, a dragon rider of fire, blood and the sea, whose eyes could disarm him with a single look.

He took another large gulp of ale, trying to steady himself, but he could still feel the heat radiating off his skin, the way his pulse drummed in his ears.

“Jace is taking a bit too—“

“You look incredibly beautiful,” he interrupted.

“Huh… oh?… oh.”

Cregan chuckled at her flustered response, his eyes flicking over her face again, taking in her cheeks slowly turning pink.

“Did I surprise you, Aely?” he teased, a smirk on his lips.

“I did not expect you to be so… bold.”

Cregan chuckled again, the sound low and rumbling in his chest.

"You have no idea how bold I can be," he said, leaning in a little closer.

He was taking a risk, he knew, but he was feeling a little tipsy, a little more confident than usual. The ale and the heat in his veins had given him a certain... recklessness. He loved looking at her perfect face. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her face, the perfect shape of her cheeks, the rosy color on her lips. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to feel the softness of her skin under his fingers.

He took another sip of ale, trying to calm himself, but the heat in his veins was only growing stronger.

“Is there something on my face?” Cregan thinks he might have stared a little too long.

Cregan chuckled, a hint of sheepishness in his expression.

"No, nothing on your face," he said, shaking his head. "I was just admiring your beauty."

He let his eyes roam over her face again, taking in every little detail, the curve of her lips, the flutter of her eyelashes. He knew he should stop staring, but he just couldn't help it. He couldn't get enough of her. He sees the way her expression changes.

Cregan raised an eyebrow at her reaction, sensing a subtle change in her expression. Was he being too much? Was he making her uncomfortable? He leaned back a little, giving her some space, but his gaze was still fixed on her face.

"Is everything okay, Lady?" he asked, his voice low.

“I’m fine…” she spoke, he noticed a little tinge of anxiety.

Cregan furrowed his brow, sensing the hint of anxiety in her voice. He knew he needed to be careful, to tread lightly. He set his ale goblet on the tabletop, giving her his full attention.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his tone softer now. "You look a little... uneasy."

But he couldn’t be bothered. He didn’t care that she was betrothed. The thought of her being betrothed didn't sit well with him. He knew he was a northern Lord, and she was a southern dragon lady. It was completely improper for him to have these feelings for her.

But the ale had made him bold, and the desire that was coursing through his veins made it difficult to care about propriety. He wanted her. He tried to push the thought away, but it kept resurfacing, like a wave breaking against the shore.

“Gods, I wanna kiss you right now.” He blurts, his words slightly slurred.

Cregan's eyes widened as the words left his lips before he could stop himself. He had not intended to say that out loud, but the ale had loosened his tongue, and the desire that had been building within him was too strong to ignore.

He studied her face again, seeing the surprise and the hesitation in her eyes. It was not a polite thing to say, certainly not to a betrothed girl. But he couldn't take the words back, and a part of him didn't even want to. Her eyebrows furrowed, her mouth dropped.

“My lord… you are… so drunk!” She nervously laughs, and her body faces away from him.

Cregan chuckled at her reaction, the slight slur in his voice more apparent now.

"Aye, I may be a bit drunk," he conceded, his eyes roaming over her face, not quite able to look away.

He noticed her body turning away from him, and it sent a pang of disappointment through him. He had overstepped, and now she was pulling away. He reached for his ale again, taking a long gulp to soothe the dryness in his throat and the nerves in his body.

"But... " he said, his voice low and a little rough. "I meant what I said."

The ale had made him reckless, and he was past caring about propriety or what was right. All he could think about was the way her lips would feel against his, the way her body would feel in his arms.

“I should go look for Jace…”

Something in him flared at the mention of Jace’s name, a pang of jealousy. He didn’t want her to go looking for the other man. He wanted her to stay with him, to keep talking to him. He reached out, his hand darting out to grasp her arm, gently but firmly.

"No, wait…" he said, his voice low, his grip tightening, preventing her from leaving.

Cregan's hand was still gripping her arm, holding her in place. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin material of her dress, and it only served to intensify his desire. He leaned in closer to her, his face just inches away from hers. His ale-soaked breath fanned over her face as he spoke.

"Stay with me a little longer," he said, his voice a soft, commanding whisper. Cregan's heart thudded in his chest as she sat back down. The knowledge that she was staying, that she wasn't leaving to find Jace, made his pulse race. He released her arm, but kept his gaze fixed on her face, his eyes roaming over her features like he was trying to commit them to memory. The ale had made him bolder, more confident, but it had also heightened his desire for her. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to take her in his arms, to kiss her senseless.

“Just for a few minutes… I want to know if Jace is alright.”

Cregan's eyes narrowed a bit at the mention of Jace again, but he tried to push the annoyance aside.

"Aye, a few minutes," he said, his voice a little gruff.

He took another long swig of ale, trying to calm his racing heart and his restless hands. He wanted to touch her, to pull her closer, but he knew he had to restrain himself. For now. She remained silent, self-conscious as Cregan drunkenly looked at her. Cregan's gaze lingered on her face, his eyes tracing the curves of her jawline, the slope of her cheeks. He was drunk, and the ale had made him completely forget about propriety and what was appropriate. He had never wanted anyone so badly in his life.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his words a bit slurred. "Can't take my eyes off you."

His hand reached out, seemingly of its own accord, his fingers brushing lightly against her cheek. The skin was soft, as soft as he had imagined. He wanted to touch more, to explore every inch of her body. But he knew he couldn't, not yet. He needed to maintain some semblance of control, no matter how difficult it was with the ale coursing through his veins.

“Thank you, my lord… perhaps you can keep your hands to yourself?” she smiled as she pulled away.

Cregan's hand froze in mid-air, hovering a few inches from her face. He felt a pang of disappointment as she pulled away, but he couldn’t deny the fact that he had overstepped.

"Aye," he muttered, dropping his hand back down to his lap. "Forgive me, Lady. I’m afraid the ale has made me a bit… forward."

“It’s fine…” she sighed.

Cregan took another gulp of ale, trying to steady himself. He had come on too strong, too fast. He should have known better, but the alcohol and the desire he felt for her had clouded his judgment. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a slow exhale.

"I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable," he said, his voice sounding a bit more clear now. "I just… I can’t stop thinking about…"

He trailed off, his eyes roaming over her face again.

“Please don’t be inappropriate again…but it’s alright... just not again.”

Cregan nodded, realizing that he was once again overstepping his bounds. The ale was still coursing through his veins, making it difficult to think clearly, but he tried to rein in his impulses.

"Aye, I understand," he said, his eyes downcast. "I’m sorry for being so forward."

He took another sip of ale, trying to control his trembling hands. He wanted to reach out and touch her again, to feel her skin under his fingers, but he knew he should keep his distance.

“I must remind you that I am to be wed to the prince…” she spoke.

Cregan's expression darkened at the mention of her betrothal to Jace. He had nearly forgotten about that for a blissful minute. He clenched his jaw, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his tankard. He knew he had no claim on her, no right to harbor feelings for her.

"Aye, I’m aware," he said, his voice gruff. "But that doesn't stop me from wanting you."

Cregan realized his slip too late. His words had been more honest than he had intended, and he saw the look of surprise in her eyes. He stared down at his hands, his fingers trembling slightly. It was all so damn frustrating. He wanted her so badly, but he knew he could never have her.

"It's not fair," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Then, the doors opened, revealing a rather happy-looking Jacaerys.

“My loooove,” he sang out, clearly tipsy enough to miss the tension.

Cregan's heart sank as Jace burst into the room, looking all too cheerful. The sight of him only served to fuel the fire of his jealousy.

He watched as Jace sauntered over to her, his arm wrapping around her waist possessively. Cregan clenched his jaw, his hands balling into fists as he fought the urge to punch the other man in the face.

He noticed how immediately relaxed Aelyria looked…

“My dear. How’d it go?” She smiled again, the tension from her face disappearing slightly.

Cregan watched as Aelyria leaned into Jace's embrace, her body relaxing against his. He could see the affection in her eyes as she looked at him, and it made his heart twist with jealousy. He took a long gulp of ale, trying to calm his racing heart and his growing anger. But it was difficult to ignore the pang of jealousy that stabbed through him every time he looked at them together.

"It went well," Jace replied, his voice a little slurred from the ale. "Everything is all sorted out."

He tightened his arm around Aelyria, pulling her closer to him. Cregan couldn't help but notice the possessiveness in the gesture, and it only fueled his jealousy more.

Cregan's grip on his ale tankard tightened as he listened to their playful banter. He could feel his jealousy growing stronger with every word. He wanted to be the one she was laughing with, the one she was leaning into.

“Did the kids make you drunk?” She giggled.

Jace chuckled. "A little bit," he admitted, his voice still slightly slurred. "They were relentless in their drinking games. I had no choice but to join in."

Cregan's grip on his ale tankard tightened as he listened to their playful banter. He could feel his jealousy growing stronger with every word. He wanted to be the one she was laughing with, the one she was leaning into.

“Come… we should go upstairs.”

"Aye, good idea," Jace agreed, his arm still securely around her waist.

Cregan watched as the pair prepared to leave the room, his heart sinking lower with each passing moment. He knew he had no claim on her, but it didn't make the pain of watching her leave with Jace any less painful.

"Wait," Cregan blurted out, the word leaving his mouth before he could stop himself.

“Oh yes— my lord, me and Jacaerys will be going upstairs now?” She spoke.

Cregan's eyes flicked between Aelyria and Jace, seeing the possessive way the other man held onto her. It only fueled the jealousy that burned within him.

"Aye," he muttered, his voice low. "Go on then."

He couldn't bring himself to protest further, knowing it would be pointless. He watched as they turned to leave, his heart heavy with unfulfilled desire.

“We’ll see you tomorrow?”

Cregan forced a tight smile onto his face, trying to hide his jealousy and hurt.

"Aye," he replied, his voice gruff. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He watched as they left the room, his eyes following them until the door closed behind them. He was alone now, with only his jealousy and unrequited feelings to keep him company.

He could only imagine what the two will be doing tonight… and he gripped his tankard so hard the wood chipped at his nails.

Cregan's mind began to race with images of Jace and Aelyria together, in each other's arms, in a tangled web of limbs and desire. The thought only made the jealousy and anger burn hotter in his chest. He took another long swig of ale, trying to drown out the images and the unwanted thoughts in his mind. But even the strong ale couldn't completely erase the pain and longing in his heart.

He threw the tankard across the room. The tankard hit the wall with a loud thud, sending splinters of wood and droplets of ale flying everywhere. Cregan sat there, breathing heavily, his body tense with anger and frustration. He clenched his hands into fists, his nails digging into his palms.

The sound of the shattering tankard echoed through the room, Cregan runs a hand through his hair… “fuck.”

All photos sourced through Pinterest, dividers made by @cafekitsune

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★ part one bucky recs

★ @kinanabinks

☼ jealousy and flirtation

☁︎There's nothing you want more than Bucky Barnes - but you and his best friend, Juniper, seem to have that in common.

☼ sesame and the sweetheart

☁︎ You've been on a few dates with Bucky now, and the sexual tension is at an all-time high. After another cute date, you realize you can't keep your hands off him for very much longer.

★ @bucksangel

☼ beneath the milky twilight

☁︎ Being Mr. Barnes’ personal assistant has been tough, balancing a full time job while taking care of your younger brothers has you running yourself thin. Then, things take a sharp turn after a dinner with your boss when you disclose your financial situation.

☼ give me a minute

☼ the spark

☁︎James Barnes, the bane of your existence, the man you swore to stay away from. Though his naturally good looks and charming smile may fool many of the women around you, you refuse to fall into his trap. It gets harder to do with every interaction you have with him, and when Bucky gets taken by Hydra, you're forced to face your feelings or risk losing him forever.

☼ until we meet again

☁︎ The Blip changed everything and everyone. With Bucky now gone, and a toddler to raise, you find yourself leaning on Steve for support, as he does with you. What happens when, five years later, Bucky returns to find his best friend and best girl raising a kid? His kid.

★ @adrinktostopyourthirst

☼ sniper

☁︎ Reluctantly, you get thrown into an assignment with Bucky and Yelena, but Bucky doesn't trust you as far as he can throw you. When he's proven to be correct, it turns out you're still a hell of a good team.

☼ pride and privacy

☁︎Bucky works on himself as he gets used to a roommate. Turns out, she has a much better room than him and he crossed the line.

★ @lives-in-midgard

☼ don’t tell bucky

☁︎ After a night out with Natasha and Wanda reader gets drunk and tells someone about her secret crush on Bucky.

★ @thestarkinternship

☼ mine

☁︎When you went out for drinks with the team one Friday, you had no idea that this was how the night would end: with your back pressed flush against your bedroom door, a shaking thigh hitched over your boyfriend's shoulder and his pretty mouth daring you to completely let go for everyone to hear.

★ @winterarmyy

☼ welcome home…soldat? pt2 pt3 pt4

☁︎ Y/N had make a habit of greeting Bucky a warm 'welcome home' everytime he came back from his missions, but there was one particular day when she unknowingly greeted someone else.

★ @amathslutsguidetofandom

☼ guess i’m just good with them

☼ big, strong man

★ @scoonsalicious

☼ unwanted

☁︎ When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn't be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

★ @lanadelreyscokewhor3

☼ sleepwalking

☁︎when your boyfriend bucky wakes up with the winter soldier mindest, you do the only thing you know how to do- comfort him. he does the only thing he knows how to thank you- possessive sex. 

★ @wkemeup

☼ masterlist

☁︎ all their works <3

★ @seventven

☼ masterlist

☁︎ all bucky works

★ @allyouneedisbuck

☼ i’m begging for you (take my hand)

☁︎ bucky doesn’t do love, you love bucky. being friends with benefits makes sense, right?

★ @jurassicbarnes

☼ please thy neighbor

☼ what a night

☁︎ Bucky Barnes is out in the new world, navigating through everyday life and its trials and tribulations. His therapist insists he tries new things. He has collected a few new hobbies. But when it comes to making new acquaintances, what’s a better way to meet new people than a little dating site called Tinder.

★ @watchmegetobsessed

☼ paper thin walls

★ @onceuponastory

☼ upstairs

☁︎Bucky Barnes is constantly annoyed by his cat Alpine going to visit his upstairs neighbour for treats. That is however, until Bucky meets his new upstairs neighbour Y/N. Who Bucky definitely isn’t in love with. Not at all.

Turns out that a 106 year old man might know more about love than he first thought. And that cats can make excellent wingmen.

★ @dreamwritesimagines

☼ burn the witch

☁︎ There’s a thin line between mission and love, and spies aren’t allowed to cross that line.

★ @bccky

☼ unrequited

☁︎ you realise that you are in love with your best friend, only for him to confess that he loves someone else.

★ @buckysboobs

☼ raw

☁︎ she just wants bucky to fucking destroy her insides and rearrange her guts, but bucky's scared so he rejects her before another one of their love making sessions. she gets mad so making him jealous is the only way left to get him to fulfill her fantasies.

★ @bucksfucks

☼ after hours

☁︎ it’s hard to focus on your PhD when your supervisor is none other than Professor Barnes.

★ @bucky-bucket-barnes

☼ the two of us

☁︎ You and Bucky go to investigate the phenomenon happening in Westview, New Jersey. While attempting to understand the issue, you yourselves are sucked into Wanda's world of pretend. Now, you believe yourselves to be the happily married Mr. and Mrs. Barnes; in real life, you are most definitely not a happy pair. It is up to you and Bucky to piece together what's happening while dealing with one another inside the hex.

★ @honeybunchesofbucky

☼ crawling back to you

☁︎ After your breakup with Steve Rogers left you heartbroken and lonely, a night in with a bottle of wine gets interrupted by a familiar face; Bucky Barnes, who’s on a mission to show you what you’ve been missing out on.

★ @samingtonwilson

☼ little boy blue pt2 pt3 pt4

★ @inkedbybarnes

☼ his baby

☁︎ bucky won't call you by your name.

★ @lanabuckybarnes

☼ damn bear

☁︎ Sgt Barnes wins you a bear at a carnival. What he doesn’t expect nor like is when you give it more attention, Bucky shows you that he’s better than the bear.

★ @imyourbratzdoll

☼ angst request

☁︎ bucky flirts with sarah to make you jealous, forgetting that you aren't as secure as you come off.

★ @buckys-wintersoldier

☼ home is where you are

☁︎ when you hear someone talking about Bucky you offer them your help to find him.

★ @duuhrayliegh

☼ fondue

☁︎ bucky and steve’s daughter have been dating secretly for over half a year, this is how steve finds out.

• masterlist

• marvel masterlist

hopefully all links work, let me know if not <3