MishkatelWarriorGoddess

One second you were minding your business, enjoying what was left of your coffee and your relatively peaceful morning, and the next Nick Fury was informing you that you would be spending the foreseeable future pretending to be happily married to Steve Rogers.

"You're going." Fury didn't even break stride. He rolled his eye and kept walking down the hallway toward the conference room, clearly done entertaining your complaints before you'd even finished making them, with you hot on his heel. 

Your footsteps echoed in the wide hallway as you walked backwards, facing Fury. "Can't I marry someone else for this?" You pondered. "What about Barnes?"

Fury stopped so suddenly you nearly tripped. "You want to pretend to be married to Barnes?"

You opened your mouth, immediately closed it, thought for a second and shrugged, squeezing your eyes shut. "That's not the point."

"That's what I thought."

The polished floors reflected the overhead lights as the two of you moved through the hallway. “Nat, maybe? Some of those married dudes would eat up girl-on-girl and spill the beans right away. Mission would be so quick!”

Fury walked with the patience of a man who'd dealt with far worse than you. The fact that he hadn't strangled you after years of working together was honestly kind of impressive, a little endearing almost.

Both of you quickly arrived at the conference room door, Fury stopping with his hand on the handle, turning his face to you and letting our a frustrated sigh. "Do you like working here?"

You rolled your eyes, "Yes, sir." What kind of question was that?

"And what's your title?" His brow quirked up.

A confused look plastered all over your face. "Agent."

He leaned down to talk to you closer, almost like explaining rules to a petulant child, "Then be an agent." and proceeded to push the door open and hold it for you, giving you full view of Steve Rogers sitting at the head of the table with a sour expression on his face, just as displeased to have to pretend to love you for the mission. 

The training room should've been empty half an hour ago, and technically, everyone was done for the day. 

It should’ve been quiet—mats wiped down, lights dimmed, everyone gone for the night.

Instead, the air was thick.

Heavy with sweat, heat, and something sharp enough to make the back of your neck prickle. The entire team and a couple recruits were watching you.

Well, you and Steve. 

At first not openly—no one was stupid enough to make it obvious—but they lingered. Leaned against walls, sat on benches, hovered just close enough to pretend they had somewhere else to be.

It started as any other training session did, you rotated partners, almost like shark bait: in and out, partner after partner cycling through you while you stayed planted on the mat, pushing your stamina, your endurance, your patience.

Until you ended up on the other side of the mat from Steve. 

Barefoot, sleeves rolled, skin already lightly sheened with the littlest bit of sweat that somehow made him look betterinstead of worse—which was deeply, personally offensive.

Here's the thing: he was a super soldier. He had endless stamina, super strength, reflexes that outmatched 99% of the population, and he had it all with perfect blond hair and barely breaking a sweat on his sculpted body.

It infuriated the hell out of you. 

He blocked every kick, every punch, and when he didn't he wasn't even phased. 

It made you go harder, to the point where you found yourselves now: almost trying to hurt each other. 

By then, no one was even preteding to be occupied by anything else, shamelessly staring at the two of you at the center of the mat like Oppenheimer waiting for a bomb to go off. 

Steve had stopped treating you with the same careful restraint he used with newer recruits. He'd throw you harder into the mats, knock the wind from your lungs, shove you back with enough force to remind you exactly how much stronger he was, and you'd borderline play dirty.

Every hit had a little more weight behind it. Neither willing to back down. Neither willing to lose.

Sam was sitting backwards in a chair, chin propped on his arms, watching like he had front row seats to the best show of his life; Natasha looked delighted; Bucky looked concerned, brows drawn, arms crossed tight over his chest, like he was trying to decide whether to step in or let you both learn your lesson the hard way.

Steve stood opposite of you, his feet staggered and his arms up, making a "come at me" motion with his fingers. His hair was slightly mussed, a damp strand falling forward over his forehead.

"Come to daddy."

The entire room held their breaths, and you saw red. 

In hindsight, you should've planned a better move than to just charge at him, the strength in your muscles and bones not being able to match his. You should've thought of something tactical, something smart. 

But also… you fucking hated his guts. 

Which is exactly how you ended up with your cheek and stomach pressed to the sweaty mat, with Steve's whole weight on your back, your wrists pinned between the two of you and his right arm laced under yours and up your back, hand holding your neck down. 

His hands caught you mid-motion, grip iron-tight as he twisted, using your momentum against you with terrifying ease, his grip locking your body in place, the angle just shy of painful.

"You need to work on your psyche. Mind over matter." His stupid voice right in your ear made goosebumps bloom up your spine, so you did what any reasonable person would do.

You flexed the knee that was between his spread legs hard enough that you hit him square in the balls, giving you the out you needed. 

You straightened on your feet, pushing damp hair back from your face, a breathless, borderline feral grin breaking across your lips as he winced on the mat in pain. 

"Who's your daddy now?" 

Your breathless laughter was cut short, Fury's booming voice breaking through any pain or enjoyment present in the room. "You do know domestic violence is not part of your cover story, no?"

Both of your heads whipped in the direction of his voice. 

He continued to walk in your direction, dropping two folders in front of your feet, and Steve, who was still kneeling down on the mat. "Shower this off. You leave in the morning, lovebirds."

The neighborhood looked like the kind of place where people complained to the HOA because their neighbor's hydrangeas were the wrong shade of blue.

Every lawn was trimmed within an inch of its life, sharp lines cutting through impossibly green grass like someone came out with a ruler every morning. 

The mailboxes all matched—sleek, black, expensive-looking—and every driveway held something polished and obscene:luxury SUV or a car that definitely cost more than your first apartment.

The houses themselves were enormous. White trim, brick facades, wraparound porches, massive windows that left little room for privacy on a street that looked like it loved to mind every business but its own. 

You sat in the passenger seat while Steve drove to your home, the undercover file open across your lap like a book while your bare feet rested on the dash. 

Because annyong Steve was free, and your favorite past time. "No feet on the dash."

You turned a page, ignoring him. "They're staying." You read more of the file. "It's more comfortable that way." Your light blue summer dress was bunched up higher across your thighs, and he did a double take before taking a right turn to your house block.

He sighed. "If we crash—"

"Just look at the road instead of me and we'll be fine." That made him shift in the driver's seat, straightening his posture and looking ahead, his Adam's apple bobbing in annoyance.

What irritated Steve about you was the fact that these comebacks never even seemed to make sense or be thought of, it just rolled off your tongue, almost just for the plot. And you didn't even care. 

He didn't even know why you hated him so much in the first place, but he reciprocated the feeling as soon as he saw how insubordinate and bratty you were. 

Steve sighed the long suffering sigh of a man questioning every life decision that had brought him to this moment. "You're impossible." Muttered under his breath. 

"You're a Senior Project Manager at your own company, honey!" Fake admiration and praise filled your voice. "Oh, you proposed quick! Only a year after our first date." You turned to him, your first real smile plastered on your face. "You're so down bad."

The car came to a stop in your driveway, and Steve turned it off, unclipping his seatbelt. "Put your shoes on, we're here and I feel eyes already." 

"Bossy." You muttered, doing exactly as he said. As you got out of the car, your voice went up an octave, carrying through the humid summer weather. 

“Ready, honey?” you asked, slipping the word out effortlessly, like you’d been saying it for years.

He opened the front door for you, making sure whoever was watching heard him just as well, possessive in a way that made your breath hitch before you could stop it.

“After you, sweetheart.”

You'd barely had enough time to figure out which bedroom closet was yours before the doorbell rang.

ding-dong. ding-dong.

You froze in the middle of the bedroom, one hand still gripping a hanger, Steve somewhere down the hall filling a modified cabinet with all sorts of concealed weapons.

You dropped the hanger onto the bed without another thought, smoothing your hands down your dress as you moved. Steve stepped out of the kitchen at the same time, wiping his hands on a dish towel like he’d been doing something domestic instead of checking sightlines and exits.

Ben and Julie Poindexter stood in your porch like they had been plucked straight out of a catalog. They were ones you hoped to make the acquaintance of quickly, as he was the right hand of the big druglord you and Steve were tasked with making an airtight case on.

Years of field work had taught you that monsters were rarely obvious, still, some primitive part of your brain always expected criminals to look like criminals.

Instead, Ben Poindexter looked like somebody who coached Little League and had multiple PTA moms undoing extra buttons in their cardigans to get his attention. Beside him, Julie beamed, already leaning slightly forward like she couldn’t wait to know everything about you.

“Oh my goodness,” she breathed, eyes lighting up. “You must be the Adlers!” You felt Steve shift beside you, his hand coming to rest warm on your back with an ease that shouldn't be there in the best of actors. 

He smiled, and it was a good one. The kind that made people relax immediately. The kind that five years ago made you—

“Guilty,” he said easily. “Frank.” Right. Frank Adler. 

He extended his hand and Ben took it immediately, introducing you then. “I’m Dex,” the shorter blond said in return, just as easy. “This is my wife, Julie.”

“Hi,” you said, stepping forward like you hadn’t been mentally preparing to dismantle her entire social circle for intel. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

She lit up.

“Oh, you are just adorable,” she gushed, reaching out to squeeze your arm like you were already best friends. “We saw the moving truck this morning and I told Ben, I said, ‘We have to go introduce ourselves before everyone else gets to them first.’”

You faked confusion. "Ben…?"

He chuckled lightly in response. "That's me, I… uh… Ben's really only for her and my parents. Friends call me Dex."

You smiled back in understanding. “We appreciate that,” he said smoothly. “It’s been a bit of a whirlwind getting settled.”

“So,” Dex cut in, tone casual but eyes observant, “what brings you two here?” There it was. The first test.

You felt Steve’s thumb twitch slightly against your back. A cue , or maybe just instinct. “Work, mostly,” he said, not missing a beat. “I just transferred to oversee a new branch out here.”

Julie gasped softly. “Oh! That’s right, you’re the project manager, right? We heard something about that—”

Of course they did.

You tilted your head toward Steve, letting your smile soften just a touch as you looked at him. Pride, affection… Just enough to sell it.

“He won’t say it, but he’s very good at what he does.” You interjected, turning your sweet smile to your nosy neighbors again. 

His hand pressed a little more firmly into your back before easing again. “Someone has to pay the bills,” he joked lightly, glancing down at you.

"It's a 50/50 relationship," you shot back, nudging his side with your elbow just enough to look playful. "You earn money, and I look pretty in the things it buys." Your hand reached up to scratch the freshly shaven skin of his chin.

“Wow,” Julie breathed, practically vibrating with delight. “You two are so cute.”

You laughed, soft, a little embarassed… and completely fake. Dex watched that exchange carefully. His smile stayed in place, but his eyes sharpened just a fraction.

“New couples usually take a while to settle in around here,” he said, tone still easy. “But I think you two will fit right in.”

“Well,” you said lightly, leaning just a little closer into Steve without thinking about it, “we’re counting on our neighbors to help with that.”

Julie clasped her hands together. “Oh, you have to come to dinner this weekend! Everyone’s going to be there—it’s kind of our thing.”

“We’d love to,” Steve said, lightly nodding.

Both of them smiled in satisfaction, briefly saying their goodbyes and we'll let you get settled. As they started to step back, Julie waved enthusiastically. “Welcome to the neighborhood!”

Integration happened faster and easier than either of you expected. Almost like… bait. 

It started with waves.

Small, polite acknowledgments from across driveways—neighbors watering already-perfect lawns, women in linen sets pausing mid-walk with their equally curated dogs. At first it was just smiles, quick introductions repeated twice because no one actually listened the first time, or maybe they expected you to slip up. 

Names, occupations, how long you planned to stay.

Somehow, without either of you saying much at all, your lives had already been filled in for you. Steve—Frank—was “the project manager from the city.” You were “so sweet” and “adjusting beautifully.”

It was unsettling.

Steve got pulled in first.

Dex made it look casual—leaning over the fence one late afternoon while Steve pretended to struggle with a hose attachment he absolutely knew how to fix.

“Couple of us head out to the club on Saturdays,” Dex had said, like it wasn’t a test. Like it wasn’t an invitation into something much bigger. “You golf?”

Steve had shrugged, wiping his hands on a towel like the answer didn’t matter. “Enough not to embarrass myself.”

Dex chuckled. “Good. Fisk hates losing.”

That was how Steve Rogers found himself in pressed polos and quiet greens, standing under the sun with a man who ran half the city from behind clean hands and cleaner money.

Wilson Fisk didn’t look like a monster either. They never did.

From the sidelines, it would’ve looked normal—three men talking shop, trading easy laughs, the soft crack of a golf ball slicing through the air.

But Steve came home with tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before, and eyes that thought too much.

You were integrated differently. Faster, deeper in a sense. If you wanna know a man, you need to know the woman in his life first. Julie took one look at you and decided you were hers.

Brunch turned into wine nights, which turned into yoga classes and impromptu shopping trips where you learned which women talked too much, which ones listened too closely, and which ones pretended not to notice everything while noticing everything.

You laughed when you were supposed to, touched arms at the right moments, let yourself be pulled into conversations about renovations and charity events and who was “having trouble in their marriage” this week.

You played the part. Perfectly.

But you also listened. And Julie talked, about Dex, about their marriage, about his schedule, the men he worked with, his "job".

About Fisk in a careful, vague way that told you she knew just enough to be useful and not enough to be dangerous.

Inside the house, however, nothing really changed. You were in bliss whenever Steve was anywhere outside of the five thousand square feet of the house. And in hell when you could hear his footsteps through the hallways. 

“Why are your shoes in the middle of the hallway?” “Because I took them off.”

“You put a gun in the cereal cabinet.” “It was concealed.”

And yet, somewhere in between the arguing and the slammed cabinets and the pointed silences, you moved around each other.

Steve adjusted the cuff of his polo as he stepped out onto the green, the sun warm against the back of his neck, the grass trimmed so perfectly it almost didn’t look real. Somewhere in the distance, a fountain trickled softly—controlled, decorative, intentional.

Everything here was curated, including the people. Dex stood a few feet ahead, already mid-conversation with a Fisk, Steve immediately recognizing his big frame.

“Frank,” Dex called easily, turning just enough to wave him over. “Glad you made it.” 

Steve walked up at an even pace, shoulders loose, posture relaxed, every movement deliberate in its lack of tension. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Dex clapped his hands lightly. “Let’s see if you actually know how to swing that thing.”

The game itself was uneventful on the surface, small talk, a couple of drinks over a few holes, business talk, the kind of conversation that never said anything directly but still managed to reveal everything if you knew how to listen.

Steve pretending to be worse than Fisk at golf remembering what Dex said about him not liking losing. 

Well, who does? He thought.

He missed a shot he could’ve made here and there, fake grimace on his face to help sell the lie, burrow himself deeper in the web.

Dex talked the most—easy laughter, casual stories, the kind of man who filled silence before it could become uncomfortable.

Fisk didn’t, he was quieter, more measured. Almost amused. 

By the ninth hole, Steve could feel the shift, the attention settling more fully onto him. He was past the evaluation phase and onto something else. 

Fisk set his club aside after a clean shot, stepping back as one of the attendants moved to retrieve it. He didn’t look at Steve immediately, instead adjusting his cufflinks with slow, precise movements.

“Beautiful house you’ve got,” Fisk said finally.

Steve shrugged lightly, taking a swing of his beer. “Got lucky to swoop in right when it went on the market.”

Fisk hummed. “I find luck tends to favor the well-prepared.” Steve didn’t respond, Fisk’s gaze lifted then. “You and your wife settling in well?”

For some reason, hearing such a dangerous man mention you made him uneasy. And it shouldn't, because he hated you. Steve forced his expression to remain easy. “Yeah. She likes it here.” He paused for a second. “She’s… adjusting.”

Fisk’s lips curved slightly. “Is she?” Steve’s grip on the club in his hand tightened just a fraction.

Dex shifted beside them, glancing between the two, something quieter settling over his usual ease.

“You know,” Fisk continued, tone almost conversational, “I take a great interest in the people who choose to live in the neighborhood.”

Steve tilted his head slightly. “Seems like a lot of effort.”

Fisk chuckled softly. “It is if you don't have the… resources.”

Steve didn’t like the way he said that, didn’t like the weight behind it.

The back nine loosened things.

Or at least, that’s what it looked like.

Dex got louder, a little more relaxed with each hole, his posture easing into something casual as the game stretched on. Drinks appeared somewhere around the seventh—cold, expensive, handed off by staff who moved like ghosts—and by the tenth, the conversation had shifted.

Way less about business. 

Dex snorted at something one of the other men—some hedge fund name Steve hadn’t bothered to remember—had said, shaking his head as he lined up his shot.

“I’m telling you,” the man continued, grinning like he thought he was hilarious, “if you’re doing it right, she’s not walking straight the next morning.”

One of the others chimed in with something worse, cruder. The kind of joke that got easy agreement and knowing looks passed around like currency.

Steve didn’t react, just stood there, one hand resting loosely on his club, gaze fixed somewhere out over the green like he wasn’t listening.

“C’mon, Adler,” Dex called, nudging him lightly with his elbow. “You’ve been real quiet over there.”

Steve glanced over, trying to seem unbothered. Like he didn't want to roll his eyes at everything coming out of that prick's mouth. “Just listening.”

“That’s not how this works,” the hedge fund guy said with a smirk. “You gotta contribute. You’re married, right?”

“Familiarity,” Fisk continued, almost thoughtfully, like he was discussing market trends instead of people, “breeds a certain ease.”

“Guess some guys are just more private.” Steve chimed, moving as to redirect the conversation, walking a couple steps to the next hole. "I don’t feel the need to talk about my wife like that."

Silence fell upon the group for a second, Dex interjected to change the subject quickly, but the way Fisk looked at Steve the rest of the time made he hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Steve unlocked the kitchen door, toeing his shoes off as soon as he stepped inside. The house was clean, marble countertops reflecting the golden light coming through the curtains.

A candle burned on the center island that made the house smell like a bouquet of fresh flowers, blooming in deepest winter.

The door clocked shit behind him with a soft, controlled click, as he called out "Babe?" while letting his keys rattle against the marble.

He stepped further into the kitchen, eyes sweeping automatically—back door locked, blinds angled just enough, nothing out of place. The cabinet he’d modified earlier sat closed, unassuming, hiding everything it needed to.

He called out for you again, "Sweetheart?", feet padding into the house and when he got to the bottom of the stairs, he heard the shower running on. 

Steve's mind kept replaying the interactions he'd had that day, how Fisk seemed to have too much knowledge of his dynamic with you to not have—

Of course.

A man like Fisk wouldn't just intentionally have a blind side. 

The motherfucker had surveillance on your house. 

In your house. 

The sound got clearer and clearer as he moved up the stairs. The hallway stretched ahead, quiet and sun-dimmed, and then right outside of the bathroom door, steam curling underneath it. Steve paused just outside it, his hand hovering near the frame, his head tilting slightly as he listened.

You were humming, soft and absentminded.

Like you weren’t in the middle of a mission that had just taken a very sharp turn.

He exhaled softly through his nose, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching briefly on the tension sitting heavy there.

He should wait, he knew he should. Whatever he had to say could wait ten minutes.

Five.

Hell, two.

But the words Fisk had said—had implied—sat in his chest like a weight that refused to settle. So if Fisk had creepily put surveillance in your home like Steve was 98% sure he had, you were gonna have to roll with the punches.

Steam hit him immediately, warm and thick, fogging the edges of his vision for half a second before it cleared. 

Stripping his shirt, kicking off the rest of his clothes in a blur of motion that would’ve felt ridiculous under any other circumstance.

He walked into the shower, watching you let the water trickle over you, over your face, your neck, your chest, and he thanked every God he could think of that his body was cooperating and he did not have more than a half-hard on right then and there.

Which meant that you finished rinsing your shampoo off and opened your eyes to find a very, very naked Steve Rogers encapsulated by the shower stall glass around you. 

With you.

All naked, and very wet, and very naked, and—

"Ahh!" You shrieked in surprise, stumbling back half a step, water splashing over him as your hands came up instinctively. "What the f—" Steve put his index finger on his lips with one hand, the other motioning to his ear and out.

We're being listened to.

"Honey," You immediately switched into your undercover tone, "you scared the crap out of me!"

Steve stepped closer, couldn't risk his voice being any louder than absolutely necessary to get you the information right then and there. 

His frame in comparison to yours felt even bigger now, steam curling around him like vines. You'd blame the way your nipples hardened at the sight on the water. 

“Fisk,” he whispered, barely audible over the spray. “He knows something’s off. Pretty sure we’re wired. The house is.”

Your breath hitched.

Absolutely having nothing to do with the fact that you were trying very hard not to stare at his— "Where?"

"Everywhere." He confirmed. 

Water ran down both of you in steady streams, heat curling between your bodies, steam thickening the air until everything felt too close.

“Well,” you murmured, louder now, just enough for anyone listening to catch it, your tone dipping into something softer, more playful, “next time, maybe knock?”

Steve huffed out a quiet breath that could almost pass for a laugh, his forehead dipping closer to yours, but not touching, droplets of water falling from his hair onto you.

“Didn’t think you’d mind.” One of your hands braced lightly against his chest, the other gripping his arm as if for balance.

Your hand slid up to the nape of his neck, pulling the hair there enough to make him hiss. “Oh, I mind,” you said lightly, your fingers threading just a little deeper into the short hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You were pretty good at… faking it. 

Night settled over the house smoothly, the sun bleeding into deep indigo slowly and surely until stars littered the sky and you all you could hear was the fair sound of nature beyond the glass.

The neighborhood dimmed in stages—porch lights flicking on one by one, warm squares of yellow glowing through wide, uncovered windows. Somewhere down the street, laughter carried faintly. A dog barked once, then twice, then went quiet again.

As your brain processed the information Steve had given you, you moved through the motions anyway. 

Teeth brushed. Face washed. Lights turned off and on in the right order. The kind of routine that would look normal from the outside, mundane and unremarkable to anyone paying attention.

The thought sat in the back of your mind, somewhat panicked and loud, but also a constant, steady pressure. 

You dried your hands slowly on a towel, eyes flicking briefly to the mirror. Your reflection stared back—hair dried and silky, skin still warm from the shower, expression carefully neutral.

Steve stood near the dresser, back half-turned to you, pulling a t-shirt over his head. The fabric stretched sinf— normallyacross his shoulders before falling into place, softening the sharp lines of him into something more… domestic.

You watched him through the mirror without meaning to, picking up a book, turning on his bedside lamp, and crawling under the covers of your bed, letting the light comforter rest on his legs and hips while he flipped through the pages with his back resting against his pillows and the headboard.

You bit your lip, thoughts blooming fast and messy under your skull, and flicked the lights in the bathroom off, walking towards your side of the bed. 

Your short camisole shifted through the air as you moved, light and soft, brushing against your thighs. Steve's eyes immediately clocking your bare legs before he forced them onto the words in front of him. 

You laid onto your side and closed the distance between you in one smooth motion, your body fitting against his side like that's where it was always supposed to be. 

Your arm slid across his waist, your cheek pressed lightly against the plane of his pecs, and you felt the very warm, solid, real muscle of him under your face go completely still. 

Not in any subtle way, you could feel the exact moment his brain short-circuited.

He turned his face just enough to look down and meet your gaze. His expression screamed an unfiltered "what the hell?"while yours softly said "we have to sell it."

He shifted, turning just enough so he wasn’t facing away from you anymore, his arm coming up—hesitant for half a second—before settling around you, his hand resting on your forearm, thumb tracing soothing patterns on the soft, moisturized skin. 

As you laid there, the cogs in your brain turned. You bit the inside of your cheek lightly, the more he believes it, the quicker we get out. 

You moved forward, your hand pressed against his chest, using him for leverage as you pushed yourself up, swinging one leg over his hips in a smooth, deliberate motion until you were straddling him.

The poor book slid uselessly to rest on the mattress on the other side of his body. You nuzzled your face into his neck, pretending to pepper kisses on the skin there, and Steve stiffened up.

His hands instinctively came up, not grabbing or even stopping you, just hovering at your waist like he didn’t know where they were allowed to go.

Your mouth lingered by his pulse point just long enough to make it convincing before you spoke, your breath hot against his skin. "Play along." You whispered.

You felt the tension in him—every muscle coiled, controlled, restrained in a way that had nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the position you’d just put him in.

“Sweetheart,” he said, louder now, his tone shifting seamlessly, to something warmer, rougher, like it belonged to someone else. “You trying to kill me?”

From the outside, it sounded like a joke. A husband amused by his wife.

You tilted your head, letting your lips ghost just below his ear. “You just been working so much lately,” you murmured, just loud enough to carry.

His grip on you flexed, and he leaned into it. 

“I know, baby, I know,” he said, voice dropping, threading something you hadn’t heard from him since he had your face pressed into a sparring mat through it as his hands settled more firmly at your hips, anchoring you there. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Your stomach flipped, shameful heat pooling low in your core even though you tried to ignore it and call it by a different name. 

His fingers pressed just slightly, grounding, guiding, selling the illusion with an ease that made your pulse stutter.

Steve moved, fast as always, one second you were on top of him, the next your back hit the mattress, making it dip hard beneath you as he flipped you with practiced ease, your breath catching as his weight settled above you, caging you in without quite touching.

His face dipped toward yours, close enough that your noses almost brushed.

“What you’re doing,” he murmured against your ear, his breath warm, controlled, “is reckless.”

Your fingers curled slightly into his shirt, heart beating too fast, and you tilted your head just enough to whisper back, your tone soft and teasing, so low he almost didn't hear it. “So is getting caught.”

You tilted your neck up, and your lips connected with his.

It had been weeks of little pecks, prim and proper kisses in front of your neighbors, just enough to sell it on the outside. 

Holding his face in your hands and actually kissing Steve Rogers felt like a completely different experience. 

His tongue licked into your mouth with an intention you never really expected from Steve. Specially a Steve that was faking it. Your hands roamed the plane of his shoulders, trying to make it seem like the actual rustling of sheets one would expect of a couple who was going to—

He should really take this shirt off. 

And so your hands went to the hem of his white cotton shirt, pulling it up. Steve reluctantly let you take it off of him, leaving him only in the grey boxers that let you see he wasn't faking that much. 

"Oh my God," You whispered. "Are you serious?" That was more of a hiss. Was he seriously getting hard right now?

"I know," He whispered back, annoyed, frustrated, "I know. Just shut up about it."

Oh.

He wanted you to shut up about it. He wanted you to—

The petty part of your brain took over, and before you couldn't think of a less reckless thing to do, you squeezed your legs tighter around him, bringing his bulge flush against your clothed pussy. 

"O-oh—" Steve was surprised, not about the pettiness, but at the action itself. You bit your lip, almost proud of yourself, and tilted your hips up.

That earned you a scolding look. 

"Mmm," you breathed, just loud enough to carry, your voice shifting instantly to a soft, breathy, higher pitched version of yourself. "Fuck, baby, right there."

Steve's ears were ringing. Mostly because he didn't know what to do with his hard cock rubbing up and down against you. “Relax,” you murmured against his jaw, barely moving your lips. “You sound like you’re filing paperwork.”

He huffed softly, turning it into something that passed. “Maybe I like paperwork,” he muttered.

You scoffed. “You do not.”

“You don’t know that.” He whined softly against you. 

"You need to actually move your hips, Steve. Video needs to look like you're fucking your wife." You whispered in his ear. 

It's not like he couldn't feel how wet you were, slick pressing through the cotton of your panties and onto his underwear, darkening a spot there. 

“You’re unbelievable,” he breathed low, close to your ear.

“Say it louder,” you shot back quietly.

“You’re unbelievable,” he repeated, louder, tone shifting, like it meant something entirely different now.

Your heels dug into his ass cheeks, pulling him closer and closer to you, and closer and closer to the edge. 

You could feel the length of him twitch with each pass of his hips, and you pictured the leaking head of him making a mess out of the inside of his boxers, precum slicking him all over. 

“Okay—” he muttered quickly under his breath, breaking the moment before it could stretch too far. “We need a time frame. We can’t just—keep going forever.”

“Two minutes,” you whispered. “Make it believable.”

“Two minutes?” he echoed, actually offended. “That’s insulting.”

The thought of it sent heat down your core. His face was buried in your neck, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as your hands threaded through his hair. "Talk about me." Another perfectly placed thrust that nudged your clit. "'bout how I feel."

Steve grinded his teeth like he was fighting a mental battle between letting himself be consumed by this moment, and being proper. 

You nudged him again with your heel. 

"Nice and tight, sweetheart." He let his voice carry, surprisingly unwavering for how close he was. "Never get enough of your pussy."

What in the fuckity fuck?

Steve?

He almost said your name, your very real name, too lost in himself, letting his rhythm build up much too realistically, his thrusts deeper, the bulge now rubbing and nudging your clothed entrance as well. 

Your could hear the sound of wet fabric shifting, your panties getting caught and letting one lip slip out of safety and closer to Steve's leaking cock. 

"Frank," You said loudly, trying to catch his attention without success. "Frank." You tried again, more stern, being met with the same squeezed-shut eyes you tried to get an answer from. You dropped your voice low, hushed like a secret. "Steve."

That made him open his eyes, powder blue irises staring at you as his thursts hit a spot that had him moaning, stuttering over his own breath.

And spilling all inside his boxers, looking right into your eyes. 

His hips stuttered, almost as if his body wanted to milk itself dry, and his breathing slowed. 

You were speechless, big wide eyes looking up at him, genuinely not knowing what to say.

Both of you stared at each other in shock, horror, confusion as to why it felt so good to do that without someone who managed to get under your skin without even trying. 

You stayed like that until you felt the warm trickle of his seed seep through the cotton of his boxers and onto the front of your panties.

Steve dropped back to his side of the bed, and both of you avoided each other's gaze, just staring at the ceiling. 

"Are we—"

“…go to sleep,” you muttered.

Whatever Fisk needed proof of, seemingly he got it, since both you and Steve got invited the the biggest 4th of July bash of the neighborhood. 

Right at the belly of the beast. 

The whole backyard looked like something out of a magazine. 

String lights draped across the perimeter, glowing warm against the deep navy of the night sky, fireworks already starting to crackle faintly in the distance. 

The lawn stretched wide and immaculate, dotted with clusters of people holding drinks in delicate glasses, laughter spilling easily between them like nothing in the world could touch this place.

It was loud, busy, perfect, and underneath it all— wrong.

Steve had light wash jeans and a light blue polo on, you had a strapless summer dress and one of his linen shirts on, the shirt unbuttoned to give the air of a casual outing. 

You stood near one of the long tables, fingers loosely wrapped around a Moscow Mule you hadn’t touched, your eyes scanning without looking like you were scanning. Steve was across the yard, pulled into a circle of men near the grill, one of them mid-story, the others laughing at something you couldn’t quite hear from this distance.

And there she was.

Blonde, tall, and much too interested in your— Steve.

Her hand landed on his arm like she’d been waiting for an excuse, your eyes narrowed at her as you shoved a piece of salami and cheese into your mouth.

“That's Sharon.” Julie’s voice chimed in beside you, far too cheerful for how observant she actually was. “She's new. Came to stay with her aunt a bit, they live a few strees back. Divorced. Which means she’s—”

“—looking,” you finished lightly, before finally taking a sip of your drink like you hadn’t already clocked every detail.

Julie laughed. “Exactly.”

Your eyes flicked back to Steve. He hadn’t moved away, hadn’t stepped back, hadn’t even noticed.

Of course he hadn’t.

He was listening—really listening—to whatever the man next to him was saying, nodding slightly, relaxed in that effortless way that made people lean in closer without thinking about it.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, lowering her voice just enough to feel conspiratorial. “If he's anything like Dex, he's clueless. They don’t even realize when they’re being flirted with.”

You hummed softly. "He is clueless, alright."

“He’s very charming,” Julie added, watching you now instead of them. “Frank, I mean.”

Your lips curved. “He has his moments.”

Julie giggled, and you finished downing your drink, making your way to him, wrapping a hand around his perfectly sculped bicep and turning on your smile to the sweetest setting possible. 

His body reacted immediately, adjusting to your touch like it always belonged there. His gaze dropped to you, surprise flickering for half a second before smoothing into something softer.

“Hey,” he said, one hand coming up to rest at your hip without thinking about it.

“Hi,” you replied, tilting your head up toward him, your smile warm in a way that felt almost too real. “Sorry,” you said sweetly, not sounding sorry at all. “Am I interrupting?”

She blinked, then smiled tightly back at you. “Not at all.” Steve’s hand pressed slightly into your hip, a silent question that you answered it by leaning just a fraction closer into him.

“We were just talking about the neighborhood,” she continued.

“Were you?” you asked, your tone light, but your grip on Steve tightening just enough to be felt.

“Oh—yes,” she said, glancing briefly at him. “Frank was just telling us about his work.”

“Mm,” you hummed, eyes flicking up to his. “He works too much.”

Steve’s brows lifted slightly. “Oh, I do?”

“You do,” you said simply, sighing longingly, your fingers sliding absently against his side like it was second nature. “I barely see you anymore.”

Sharon laughed softly. “That’s a shame.” Steve lifted the beer up to his lips and took a swing.

“It is,” you agreed, smiling again. “But I make sure he makes up for it.”

Steve choked on his drink. Actually choked. Coughed once, quickly covering it with a laugh that didn’t quite hide the surprise.

His hand flexed at your hip. “Yeah,” he said, voice dropping just slightly as he looked down at you, something new threading through it. “I do.”

For a moment it didn't feel like pretending, but it also didn't feel real. It felt like a limbo much too similar to five years ago, when he first recruited you into SHIELD by accident. 

FIVE YEARS EARLIER

Colombia had been too hot. The humid, muggy weather made your skin sticky, a sheen coat of sweat all over your arms and legs, even though you were only wearing a white tanktop and a flowy, maxi floral skirt. 

Music was bleeding from open windows, people crowding narrow streets, making it the kind of place where mistakes didn’t just cost you the mission.

They cost you everything.

You’d been handling it just fine, up until you weren’t. The intel had been wrong. Or incomplete. Or leaked.

You didn’t know which yet—only that the second you stepped into that dim, crowded cantina, something in your gut twisted. Too many eyes, too many men pretending to drink, too many sharp ears and even sharper looks. 

You were planning an exit strategy, a way to get out of here with as few scratches and as many of these men killed. Mid counting how many thing you could use as a weapon, in walked a picture perfect specimen. 

Muscles everywhere, blond hair lightened even more by the sun, the faintest sunburn across his nose and cheeks making his blue eyes stand out more. 

You turned slightly, lifting your drink to your lips like you were just another woman trying to cool off, not someone seconds away from deciding how many people she might have to kill.

He clocked the men immediately. 

And then he clocked you. His broad frame faked a smile at you and stepped quickly to stand beside you at the bar, hand resting on your hip.

“Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, pretending to try to get the bartender's attention.

“Don’t what?” you shot back just as quietly, adjusting your sunglasses on your head like you were annoyed at them and happy to see him, not seconds away from being cornered.

“They’re looking for someone,” he said.

“I know.” A beat where he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“They’re closing exits.”

And you responded through gritted teeth and a smile. “I noticed.” You let your body rest closer to his, feeling the heat radiating off of him.

Outside, thunder and lightning started, and a summer storm came pouring down. 

“Babe,” you said, loud enough to carry, tilting your head up at him like you were teasing. “You said one drink.”

He leaned into you, his hand sliding from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer in a way that felt practiced.

“Yeah?” he shot back easily. “Thought you wanted to see more of the place.”

“Oh, I do,” you laughed lightly, fingers curling into his shirt. “Just… from inside a bedroom window right now." You leaned in closer, lowering your voice just enough to make it look intimate, like you were sharing something private instead of tracking his every movement.

“Relax your shoulders,” you murmured.

He huffed softly—almost a laugh, almost something else—and adjusted just slightly, his grip tightening at your lower back like he was settling into the role instead of fighting it.

A beat passed between you—quick, sharp, charged—and then he leaned in closer, his mouth ghosting just along your temple.

“Storm’s our out,” he whispered. “We gotta go.”

“Come on,” you said, tugging gently at his shirt, turning your body into his as thunder cracked loud enough to rattle the windows. “I am not ruining my hair for this.”

“Tragic,” he murmured, letting you pull him toward the back hallway.

The rain hit hard the second you stepped out of the main room—heavy, sudden, loud enough to drown out most of the noise behind you. The narrow corridor smelled like damp wood and cheap liquor, dimly lit and barely used.

Perfect.

Your hand stayed fisted in his shirt as you stumbled slightly—just enough to sell it—as he caught you, his arm tightening instinctively around your waist.

“Careful, sweetheart.” he said, louder now, for anyone who might still be listening. “You’re gonna slip.”

The back door burst open under his hand.

Rain poured down in sheets, warm and relentless, soaking the edges of your skirt instantly as you both stepped out into the alley behind the cantina.

Steve looked around to make sure no one followed, he kept you closer than necessary as you moved, your bodies angled into each other like you were shielding yourselves from the storm instead of disappearing into it.

One block, then another, until you were far away and safe in the back alley of the Sofitel. Your clothes were soaked, as were his, your shirt basically see through, you kept moving, pulling him down the short hallway and into the first unlocked door you found—some storage room or unused guest space, it didn’t matter.

The door shut behind you with a soft click. Steve walked in last, and you didn't put distance between you two, though right now looking at him through wet lashes you wish you did.

His eyes reflected the gloomy sky outside, his lips were pink and plump, and you felt yourself being drawn closer and closer to him, as did he. 

The storm outside cracked again, lightning flashing briefly through the thin curtains, illuminating the space in stark white for half a second, loud thunder taking you out of your trance, Steve jerking away like he was burned. 

"I, uh… I think we lost them." Your voice was shaky and unsure. 

“Not bad,” he added, quieter now, his eyes flicking over your face like he was reassessing something.

You scoffed lightly. “High praise.”

PRESENT

“Fireworks are about to start,” someone called from across the yard.

And just like that, the moment broke, and your attentions turned to the mission at hand: while everyone is distracted, get into Fisk's office and copy all of his intel. 

Steve leaned down slightly as people shifted away in the direction of the fireworks, his lips brushing near your ear, voice low. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Am I?” you murmured back, sly smirk playing on your lips.

“A little.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "You should go for the office. I'll keep watch."

Steve looked at you like he wanted to say something, but nodded and snuck away, your eyes immediately making sure all persons of interest were accounted for and not in the office. 

The party swelled around you.

Fireworks cracked overhead in bursts of red and gold, laughter spilling across Fisk’s perfectly manicured lawn, glasses clinking, music humming low beneath it all.

Steve had been gone for about five minutes when you noticed Dex was gone mid conversation with Claire and her husband Matthew. You saw the little flop of blonde hair make its way into the house and your blood ran cold. 

Steve.

“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you said lightly, lifting your empty glass as proof, bee-lining up the stairs on the porch and to the kitchen. 

You moved like you weren’t tracking footsteps that weren’t yours, counting seconds, mapping distance in your head.

You slipped inside through the side door, heels soft against polished floors, your breath steady even as your pulse kicked harder.

You moved faster, turning the corner just in time to see the office door slightly ajar, light spilling out onto the hallway, and footsteps approaching from the opposite direction.

You pushed the door open and slipped inside, Steve standing by the big mahogany table with a thumbdrive pluggesd into the desktop, downloading everything.

“What—”

“Dex,” you cut him off, already crossing the room. “Coming.” His expression shifted instantly, worry, anxiety, combat. 

A shadow passed the crack of the door and you closed the distance between you, pushing yourself to sit on top of the table and pulled Steve to stand between your legs. Your hands grabbed his shirt, yanking him down toward you hard enough to make him stumble.

He exhaled harshly the second your lips touched, tasting the vanilla macadamia flavor of your lipgloss. Your tongue licked into his mouth and one of his hands found the plane of your back, the other bracing against the desk behind you as he backed you further into it, the impact soft but enough to sell it.

“Mm—” you exhaled softly, the sound slipping out before you could stop it.

Your fingers thread through his hair as you sighed against him, losing yourself in the cedarwood of his cologne, the taste of beer on his tongue, and— 

The door creaked open lgithly with someone's breathy "oh." coming through at the sight.

You didn't pull away, didn't even flinch. If anything, you leaned in more, your body pressing fully into his, your mouth lingering just long enough to make the moment undeniable.

You heard a the sound of someone clearing their throat, and that made both of you break apart. Your lips brushed his once more before you turned your head, like you’d just noticed her. “Oh—” you said, a little breathless, but smiling.

“Sharon,” your eyes widened slightly when you looked behind you, a flush creeping into your expression like you’d been caught.

Her gaze drifted from his hands on you to the hem of your summer dress, pulled up and draped high on your thighs, then up to your hands in his hair and Steve's face — his expression a mix of very confused, flustered, and fucked out. 

Steve cleared his throat, stepping back just slightly, like he was trying to recover something that had already slipped.

“We were just—”

“—busy,” you finished easily, sliding off the desk but not moving far from him.

“…right,” she said after a second, her lips pressing into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Well, enjoy the, uh… the party."

You stifled a laugh, biting your lip, as she walked away leaving the door open behind her. You hopped off the desk as Steve got his brain working again. 

“What the hell was that?” His voice cut through it, low and sharp.

You shrugged. "Saved your ass, you're welcome." You smoothed the hem of your dress against your thighs and walked around the desk, making your way out the door as Steve hushedly called out for you, swiming the thumb drive into his pocket before following you out of the house. 

Your heels hit the pavement in sharp, even beats, your jaw locked, your eyes fixed straight ahead like if you didn’t look back, he wouldn’t follow.

Fuck him and his long legs that caught up to you as soon as you reached your lawn. 

You stormed into your kitchen, pushing the door closed quicky to slam it behind you, but making it hit Steve on the shoulder as he crowded the space behind you. “Hey—” he pushed still, stepping closer. “No, seriously. What was that?”

You still gave him nothing, your jaw tightened. You stood with your back to the kitchen island, fingers gripping the marble, biting your own cheek. Your gaze stayed anywhere but him.

“That wasn’t about getting caught,” he said. “You knew she—” Then it seemed to dawn on him.  “You kissed me to make her jealous.” His voice was incredulous, almost like he solved a decade long mystery right then and there. "You were jealous."

You scoffed, still not meeting his eye. "Jealous? Over you? Plea—"

He crowded you even more now, bending down to look for your gaze and force you to meet his, sly smile playing on his lips. "You were jealous."

You huffed, finally looking into his eyes, sunlight playing on his face making the blue just a tad lighter. Steve had his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, almost waiting for a response from you. 

For what it felt like a second and a day all at once, your brain went numb. 

And then your hands were on each side of his face, bringing his lips to crash into yours. 

Steve's lips were warm against your mouth in the same way they were minutes ago. He stepped forward, towering over you making you tilt your head up to keep the kiss going, his hands grabbing your hips as he pressed you against the counter. 

He licked into your mouth and your hands fell to the nape of his neck, his shoulders, and finally his arms.

Steve leaned over, pushing you back further, until you had no more oxygen to burn in your lungs and you broke the kiss, making him kiss your jaw, below your ear, and down your neck. "You had no reason to be jealous, you know."

He grinded his hips against yours, letting you feel the length of him hardening by the minute. "'M not jealous." You felt underwater, dizzy, borderline having fuzzies in your vision. 

Steve chuckled against your neck, the warm breath making shivers run down your spine, his hands dropping to graze outside of your thighs. "Mmhmm." His right hand brushed over your thigh and made it way to your core, tickling the skin of your inner thigh. 

His fingers quickly found the wet spot on the front of your underwear, kissing his way back towards your lips. When he pressed deep circled into it, he felt you sigh into his mouth.

"Steve… People might see…"

"Don't care" he pressed his fingers harder, until your hips were bucking to get more friction, and you were whining against him. Words came muffled against your mouth. "Not jealous, huh? Didn't want me a single bit, right?"

You scoffed despite youself, "You're the one that came into your pants the other day." 

That did it. 

Skin to skin. His rough fingers sliding through your soaked slit, dragging your arousal across your folds, teasing you right at the entrance. You broke off mid-sentence, a soft whimper catching in your throat.

His thumb easily found your clit, and one of your hands squeezed around his bicep while the other pulled at the hair at the nape of his neck, your moans getting breathier and breathier by the minute.

His fingers thrusted in and out of you bringing you to an edge so close you could taste it, letting out little pants by the crook of his neck, inflating Steve's ego, making more blood rush south. "Wanna try that again?"

He curled them just right, your slick coating his knuckles as your hips twitched against his hand.

Your head fell back, lips parting on a desperate moan. "N-not jealous…" through gritted teeth, making him click his tongue. 

"Suit yourself." And just like that, his fingers were gone, slick mess on your thighs and an unsatisfied beast inside of you.

"Steve, what the—"

He pulled away the slightest bit and bent down, lacing his arm around your legs and throwing you over his shoulder, walking away in the direction of the stairs.

Steve nudged your bedroom door open once you got upstairs and flopped you down on the bed, making you bounce on the mattress.

He hovered over you, settling between your legs and rubbing the heat of him against you, while one if his hands snuck to the back of your dress and pulled the zipper down. He pulled the clothing item down your body as he kissed the same path, and soon you were only in his shirt and a thong.

Your legs opened to accommodate him further, thighs falling to your sides, and he slotted himself chest to mattress, lips barely an inch away from your pussy. Steve kissed your inner thigh once, then again, and your fingers threaded through his hair. 

"She's wetter than that night," He spoke softly, but his voice had a dark tone to it, blue eyes staring up at you. "Can't blame me from coming in my boxers when," and a bite to your flesh. "you were grinding a wet spot onto me, honey."

Fuck him and that nickname. 

His middle finger came to curl beyond the hem, pulling the sticky wet fabric down your thighs, and both of his thumbs spread your lips, watching your hole clench around nothing. 

His gaze once again reached yours, almost asking for permission. 

You didn't seem to be able to find it in you to say anything, not a single word but a quiet "Please." leaving your lips. 

The second his tongue touched your slit, you were all the way back in that mission in Colombia. Wet, horny, and almost begging him.

At the first taste of you, one would think Steve got possessed, quickly settling further into the mattress and wrapping his arms around your thighs, holding them open. "F-fuck, Steve—"

He groaned against you, the vibration going through you like electricity through water. His tongue traced your entrance, nose nudging your clit, and your back arched off the bed slightly, pushing your hips closer to his face.

Steve's fingers pressed against the tops of your thighs with bruising strength, not that you minded. 

Not at all. 

He licked zigzag patterens up and down your slit, and then would circle your clit with his tongue, sucking the nerves into his mouth and flicking it. "O-oh my God."

He chuckled into you, "Stop squirming." 

Like you could help it. Like it was your damn fault he let Sharon touch him and flirt with him and all but forced you to make sure everyone bought this sham of a marriage. 

"Easier— fuck me, easier said than done, Rogers." Your nails scratched deeper into his scalp.

Steve angled his head differently so he could tense his tongue and fuck you while his thumb moved from your thigh to rub quick circles onto your clit. 

Your thighs closed around his head, eyes squeezing shut as you heard him breathe heavy against you. Steve's other hand landed on your breast, kneading the skin there, pinching and pulling a nipple drawing a mewl out of you. 

"Steve, Steve, I'm— fuck, I'm gonna—"

You really shouldn't have told him, though he'd know you were close judging by the little flutters of your walls around his tongue. 

He pulled away harshly, chin slick and lips swollen, his hair a mess from you running your fingers through it. 

He stood by the foot of the bed, stripping down to nothing watching your dumbfounded fucked out expression. Your hair was matted, your nipples were hard, and there was a wet spot on the white comforter under you. 

In front of you, though, stood 230lbs of pure, unadultered, perfectly sculped by God, blond 100% American Prime Steve Rogers. 

Standing naked, tall, thick and proud.

And hard.

Your mouth salivated at the sight, looking at the leaking head of him appear and disappear inside his fist with each slick stroke he gave himself. Steve caught your ankle with his other hand, and pulled you to the edge of the bed, your toes touching the soft carpet of the bedroom.

He turned you around, fingers gripping the linen of his shirt you had on, dragging it down your arms but not over your wrists, twisting the fabric around his own fist. 

And just like that, you were face and shoulders down on the mattress with your wrists tied behind you, feeling him rub the head of his cock up and down your puffy slit, coating himself in your wetness. 

Steve heard a muffled whine from you, any words being impacted by the fabric of the bedding, "What was that, sweetheart?" He leaned over you, the tip of him notching just a smidge further. 

You turned your head to the side. "Steve, please…"

He clicked his tongue again. "No, you didn't want me, remember? Think I shouldn't even be doing this to you."

He motioned to pull out and you whined louder. "She— she was all o-over you…" Tears pricked your eyes from the pressure in your chest, from the ache between your legs, from the desperation of being kept at the edge. 

“Steve, please put it in…”

"Yeah?" He gave you the cue to keep going, pushing in unbearably slow and barely any. 

You nodded against the mattress. "Pissed me off." You gulped. "Please, please don't leave me like this…"

"All you had to do was stop being such a brat about it."

And then he thrust in enough to knock the air out of your lungs. The squelch of his cock pushing into you was obscene. And in your mind every inch he pushed after that thrust had one though going through your head:

There's more?!

"Oh God…"

That made Steve chuckle. "Just me, baby."

"Is— is it all in?" Your voice trembled, and if you had a mirror you'd see Steve's evil smirk as he dragged your wrists down to where your bodies connected, arching your back and hurting you with the stretch, only to wrap your delicate hands around what was left of him.

"Barely half." He grunted.

You whimpered, both in fear and anticipation, and Steve took the queue to push the rest of the way through, until your hand was flat on his pelvis, and then he let you rest against the mattress again. 

"So fucking good." He gave a couple tentative thrusts. "Can feel you gripping me like you don't wanna let me go."

You moaned at the feel of him hitting that sweet spot inside of you, making your eyes roll. "So— hah! Good, Steve…"

After he felt your pussy get used to the size of him, that when he really stopped playing nice. 

You could feel every ridge of him, every vein, the length of him pulsing and pulsing inside of you, throbbing against the spongy spot that made you see stars.

“Steve, please, please let me—“

Another harsh thrust interrupted you. “Tell me the truth then.”

You whimpered. The bastard was really going to make you admit it.

As you tried to think through it, brainless as you were, he slowed down, and down, until you could feel the pulse of his cock inside of you just as he could feel your walls flutter around him.

You whimpered, cheeks blushing at the thought. “I was jealous! I was jealous, okay?!” You pushed your hips into him, chasing friction harder, deeper.

“She thought she could have you and— and—“ He picked up the pace, your brain mush as your neck strained to keep your voice from being muffled. “And you’re my— Oh— oh my God!”

“Yeah?” Steve leaned over you, fingers finding your clit with ease. “I’m your what?”

You could cry. You could cry right no— oh you had tears streaming from your eyes onto the bedding. “Steve…”

His eyes rolled to the back of his head.

“That’s right, I’m your Steve.” His fingers picked up speed as did his hips, lips kissing your shoulder blade. “Come for me, pretty girl. Come all over my cock.”

“Mmmmngghhh—“ your vision went white, your body clenching tight around him and pulsing, as your moans got drowned out outside by the fireworks still going.

Steve slammed his hips deeper into you, to the point of almost painful, muttering curse words in sequence of “fuck, fuck, fuck.” until you felt him spill thick ropes of cum inside of you, filling you up until it dripped onto the floor.

As you both caught your breaths, you heard the wet schlick of him pulling out, dropping himself on the bed with a bounce.

After a minute, you spoke. "There's gonna be so much paperwork to explain all this..."

He looked at an imaginary watch on his wrist, turning to you with that boyish smile of his, sheen coat of sweat on his chest and hairline. “Got time for a couple more rounds before all that. You tapped out?”

You smirked at him, using your arms to push yourself up, hands on his chest for leverage as you straddled him, slick pussy on top of his hardening cock.

“I could do this all day, Cap.”

final thoughts: this started as me and Maddie just thirsting over the shower scene, and then... yeah... heh

A/N: at this point I guess grumpy lonely old man!bucky being obsessed with reader has become my trademark 😭 jokes aside, this was posted a while ago and tbh, it’s one of those stories that I had trouble finishing because... well, yk... 🥵 sorry for any typo and for the “unpolished” smut but I’m really tired and studying for my uni exams. hope you’ll enjoy it 💋

The small neighborhood sits just far enough from the main road to be quiet at all hours, with rows of modest houses and well-kept lawns. Unfortunately, this also means that it’s the type of place where people wave too much and chat for way too long.

Bucky Barnes doesn’t wave, nor does he chat. He tolerates.

He’s in his late forties and time has etched itself into him in ways that make him seem older at first glance: deep lines permanently drawn between his brows, too many grey hairs in his stubble, and a heaviness in his posture that comes from countless years of keeping the world at arm’s length. He is tall, broad in a way that makes doorframes feel narrow and sidewalks feel smaller when he walks down them. His body is solid, built by labor rather than vanity, with thick arms, powerful shoulders, and rough hands scattered in scars and used to grease. There is also a softness at his middle now, a slight curve beneath worn flannels and old t-shirts, the quiet evidence of comfort.

This only makes him more noticeable.

He is attractive and single, the combination of his size, his silence, and that perpetual scowl working in his favor far more than he likes to admit. There is something about a man who doesn’t chase attention that makes people want to offer it freely. Yet the lingering looks at the grocery store are rudely ignored, just like the awkward attempts at conversation at the garage he owns. The notes shamelessly slipped under his windshield wiper promptly end up in the first trashcan he sees—invitations and phone numbers he never glances at twice.

He had done the whole thing once already: the commitment, the shared space, the careful navigation of someone else’s expectations. It had not suited him then, and it certainly doesn’t suit him now. Whatever desire he had for that kind of life had burned out years ago.

His marriage had not even lasted that long. Too many arguments that circled the same problems, too many sharp words that lingered longer than they should have. His ex-wife cared too much about how things looked; he never cared enough. In the end, there was nothing left to fix that didn’t require one of them becoming someone else.

See, Bucky likes his mornings quiet and his evenings untouched by obligation. He enjoys eating alone, fixing things by himself, existing without explanation. Loneliness is just something other people have projected onto him while he built a life where no one asks questions and no one expects answers. Bucky likes it this way, it has become obvious to anyone who lives within a three-house radius of him.

As a matter of fact, the neighborhood knows him as the burly, intimidating man at the end of the street. The one who never smiles, never stops for coffee, never shows up at barbecues or block parties. If he feels gracious enough, he would reply with either a grunt or a curt nod. Kids are warned to not bother him and adults learned quickly that small talk died on his doorstep.

He calls the cops when the rich couple on his left throws backyard parties that stretch past ten. Not because he’s trying to be petty, he simply doesn’t understand why anyone needs music that loud or laughter that forced. He always waits for the patrol car’s lights to flash briefly across his living room wall, jaw set and arms crossed, before going back to his book the second the noise dies down.

He files complaints when someone’s dog won’t stop barking. He once told a door-to-door salesman to fuck off his property without even opening the door. When Murray Hall, the self-proclaimed leader of the street, came knocking to convince Bucky to hang seasonal decorations and was completely ignored, he taped a passive-aggressive, handwritten note to his mailbox about “participation” and “neighborly effort.”

Bucky took it down, folded it once, and dropped it straight into the trash without removing his blue eyes from the older man staring him down across the street.

He has never decorated after that, out of spite. The house stays dark every year, a silent protest no one dares to challenge directly.

His neighbors also learn to not park in front of his driveway, and to not ask him for favors unless it’s an emergency. They don’t expect pleasantries or smiles anymore, because Bucky exists like a locked door—solid, immovable, uninterested in what’s on the other side.

And it works. Until your arrival.

The moving truck is still there when he gets home from work that afternoon, its engine idling too loud since this morning. He stares from his porch as boxes are unloaded, one after the other, boots still on and shoulders tight from a long day under hoods and engines. He frowns, already planning how long he’ll give them before complaining about the noise.

Then you step into view.

You’re carrying a box that looks too heavy for you, arms wrapped around it awkwardly, and someone—a friend, maybe—reaches out to help. You laugh, shake your head and stubbornly keep going. It’s an easy sound, unforced, and it carries down the street like it already belongs there.

Bucky’s frown deepens.

You’re younger than most people who can afford a house in this part of the town, and pretty in a way that feels unfair—soft, bright, lively. You’re wearing worn jeans and a loose shirt, and you look… happy, comfortable.

The neighbors are immediately captivated by your charming presence.

Mrs. Collins from the corner house is already hovering, offering help, smiling too wide. The rich couple—fresh off their last noise complaint—wave enthusiastically from their driveway. Linda Whitman—the same woman who never misses a chance to peer through her curtains—shows up with lemonade to cool off, and right on her heels is Mark Donnelly, still convinced Bucky doesn’t sort his recycling “correctly.” 

He just observes, and that’s when you notice him.

Your gaze lifts absently and finds him standing stiff on his doorstep, arms crossed over his chest and expression carved into permanent disapproval. For a split second, something akin to surprise flickers across your face, but then you smile. Not the polite kind people give out of obligation. A real one.

You lift your hand and wave.

“Hi!” You call warmly.

Bucky doesn’t wave back. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t say a word. He just stares at you for a beat too long, then turns and goes inside, shutting the door with more force than necessary.

From behind the safety of his walls, he tells himself you’re just another neighbor, another disruption… another reason the street won’t be as quiet as it used to be.

Bucky starts to realize there is no such thing as mere coincidence in this fucking town.

The first run-in with you happens at the mailbox. He’s just gotten home, tired from the long day at work and as he flips through bills, footsteps echo behind him. He rolls his eyes.

“Oh, hi!”

Your voice again, familiar already, and that alone annoys him. He glances over his shoulder briefly, enough to see you standing a few feet away, clutching your own stack of mail and smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn’t completely ignore you the first time you tried to introduce yourself.

He grunts in response. Not unfriendly, just… noise.

“I’m your new neighbor.” You continue anyway, as if that wasn’t painfully obvious, and you point at the house right beside his. Then, you tell him your name but he just nods imperceptibly.

You hesitate, clearly waiting for something else, his name maybe, a comment about the neighborhood… anything.

However, you are brutally plunged into an awkward silence.

“Okay.” You draw softly, but recover quickly. “Well, nice to meet you.”

You wait another second yet his gaze doesn’t move from the pile of envelopes in his large hands. When Bucky finally turns to walk away, he can feel your eyes burning through his back, curious rather than offended.

That somehow makes it worse.

The next few times, he tells himself it’s just bad timing.

He’s leaving for work when you’re coming out of your house, keys in hand, sunlight catching prettily in your hair. Of course, you pause when you see him, smiling like it’s reflexive.

“Morning.”

He hums, adjusts his jacket, and walks to his truck without breaking stride. 

Two days later, he’s unloading groceries when you’re struggling with a bag that splits at the bottom of your driveway. Peaches roll everywhere, bright and ridiculous against the gray concrete.

“Shit.” You mutter, crouching to gather them. The movement causes your skirt to ride up your thighs without you noticing, fabric bunching dangerously high as you balance on the balls of your feet.

Bucky looks away too late, his heart giving a series of uncomfortable, fast thuds in his chest. Swallowing thickly, his jaw tightens as he forces the fleeting image of your soft asscheeks snuggled in a pair of pastel green panties out of his mind. 

He hesitates long enough to be annoyed at himself for it. By the time he unconsciously steps forward, you’ve already scooped most of them up. He grabs the last one anyway and hands it to you without a word.

“Thank you.” You gasp, smiling too brightly to someone that did the bare minimum of human decency.

Bucky nods once and leaves before you can say anything else, the violent blush still sitting high on his cheeks has him feeling utterly humiliated.

You don’t stop greeting him after that.

At the gas station, of all places, you spot him across the lot and lift your hand in a small wave. He pretends not to see it. Later, he realizes he knows exactly what your car looks like now, right down to the faint scratch along the rear bumper.

On trash day it’s like you’re waiting by the window for him to walk out, because you’re always there. Sometimes you’re early, sometimes late, but you never fail to find a reason to linger: adjusting the lid, brushing dirt off your hands, commenting about how warm it is these days.

“Hey.” You greet him softly one evening.

He doesn’t answer.

“You don’t talk much.” You add eventually, not accusatory. 

He stiffens, only to drag his bin to the curb harder than necessary.

“Sorry,” you rush out. “I didn’t mean—”

He’s already walking away.

That interaction bothers him more than it should.

The next time you meet there, it’s early morning, the air still crisp, and Bucky’s barely awake to deal with existence. He’s dragging his bin to the curb when he sees you already there, kneeling beside yours and struggling with a torn bag that’s almost spilling onto the pavement.

He stops without meaning to.

You look up when you hear his heavy footsteps, relief lighting up your face at once.

“Oh! Good morning—sorry, I think this thing hates me.” You chuckle quietly, embarrassed, still fighting to close it.

He observes you for a second too long, letting his eyes calmly trace the wrinkle between your furrowed eyebrows, before falling on your bottom lip trapped between your teeth.

With a tired sigh, Bucky steps forward. He grabs the bag, ties it off in one quick motion, and lifts it like it weighs nothing.

Your eyes widen. “Thank you! I really appreciated that.”

Bucky shrugs, already turning away.

“Have a nice day!” You call after him.

He doesn’t answer, but this time, he doesn’t feel as justified about it.

By the end of the second week, everyone is talking about you. It doesn’t take long before your name is pronounced with affection and pride, with the same tone people use when they feel incredibly fond of someone.

Mrs. Reeves can’t stop gushing about you often helping her carry groceries inside, and the rich couple brags—loudly—about you offering to water their plants while they were away on their umpteenth cruise. Murray mentions you bake delicious lemon bars, while Mrs. Johnson praised your kind nature after you volunteered to help clean up at the end of the last neighborhood meeting.

Bucky is forced to hear it all: at the local store, at the garage, over the fence when he’s trying to enjoy a quiet evening in his backyard... and he grits his teeth every damn time.

“She’s exactly what this neighborhood needed.” 

Bucky’s nostrils flare.

How can you make time for everyone, always seem present, listening, patient? How can you never complain about the noise, the interruptions, the way these leeches just take, take and take? You are so open, so willing to be involved, and God—your lips are constantly twisted into this bright, welcoming smile. How the fuck are you always so jolly? So damn... real.

And worst of all, you treat him like everyone else. Still polite, still warm. You beam at him like he hasn’t ignored you a dozen times over.

Irritation bubbles sharply in his chest every time his mind lingers too much on that thought.

Bucky is used to being judged and ignored, he knows how to live with it, how to justify it. But this quiet, persistent generosity doesn’t fit anywhere he has known until now.

On one of the rare summer dusks when the street is unusually still, Bucky is in his driveway, hood of his truck open, sleeves rolled up and forearms smeared with grease. He’s been chasing the same problem for an hour, the wrinkle between his brows deepening as his frustration grows. 

He doesn’t look up when he hears footsteps approaching, already huffing in annoyance.

“Hi.” 

His hands freeze.

You’re standing at the edge of his property, far enough to be respectful, hands clasped loosely in front of you. You look unsure for once, like you’re bracing yourself for rejection but trying anyway.

Bucky straightens slowly, wiping his hands on the rag he keeps on his shoulder. His eyes flick to you, then back to the engine.

“What do you want?” He asks flatly.

You don’t flinch, and that surprises him.

“I just...” You hesitate, then let out a small breath. “I wanted to ask if I did something wrong.”

That gets his attention.

He looks at you then, really looks at you. Your expression is genuinely distressed, your eyebrows pulled together slightly like this has been bothering you for a while.

“You don’t like me,” you continue softly. “And that’s fine, you don’t have to. I just—” You sigh, dejected. “I’d like to know if there is a reason, since... you know, we are neighbors, and I want to apologize if I’ve ever done or said something to offend you.”

His jaw tightens.

“You didn’t do anything.” He mutters reluctantly.

You tilt your head, studying him. “Then why won’t you talk to me?”

The silence stretches. A car passes at the far end of the street; somewhere, a lawn sprinkler clicks on. He can feel the weight of your patience like a boulder pressing on his chest.

“Everyone says you like to be left alone,” you go on carefully. “I respect that, I really do. But I thought maybe saying hello wasn’t crossing a line.”

“It was.” He replies sternly, too quickly to be considered a mere slip-up.

You blink, clearly taken aback. A hint of hurt flickers across your face before you school it away very efficiently, as if you are used to regulating your emotions in situations that require neutrality.

You nod once. “Okay.”

Your eyes drop to the ground.

“Well, I’m sorry.” Your answer is no louder than a mumble. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

That word makes his stomach churn, but before his brain can elaborate anything useful, Bucky is watching you walk away with his jaw clenched.

That night, as he lies in bed, he stares at the ceiling longer than usual.

The sound of your voice replays in his head without his consent. The way you didn’t push, didn’t accuse, didn’t demand anything from him. You just wanted clarity, already apologizing without even knowing what you did wrong.

Bucky tells himself he did the right thing. This is how he keeps his peace intact. But why, for the first time since you moved in, the quiet doesn’t feel as satisfying as it used to?

It’s later than Bucky’s usual bedtime, the house dark except for the warm lamp on his nightstand. He’s standing in his bedroom, tugging his shirt over his head, muscles sore and heavy after indulging too much at the bar with his friends. The air is still, window and curtains half-open to let in what little breeze this summer decided to grant them this year.

That’s when a light flicks on across the street.

He freezes mid-motion, shirt clenched in his fist.

At first, it doesn’t register as anything more than irritation; Bucky glances toward the window, already scowling. His face falls the moment he realizes that’s your bedroom. The angle is wrong in a way that makes his stomach drop: same height, same alignment. It allows him a clear, unobstructed view straight into the room across from his.

Straight into your world.

You’re lounging on your bed with your laptop on your lap, the lamp beside you casting a golden glow over the framed photos on the walls and a light blanket he recognizes from the day you moved in.

Bucky definitely believes his optometrist was just trying to squeeze more money out of him when he told him he needed glasses, because from here, he can clearly see your nipples poke through the thin fabric of your camisole.

An old, unfamiliar heat stirs low in his belly. He doesn’t remember ever seeing shorts that minuscule.

He shouldn’t be watching.

The thought makes Bucky turn away at once, like he’s been burned, heart thudding harder than it has any right to. He drops the shirt onto the chair and drags a hand down his face.

Jesus Christ, Barnes. Get a grip.

When he risks another glance, just to make sure the angle isn’t worse than he thought, you’re holding your phone, laughing quietly at something on the screen. Your houses are too distant for the sound to reach him, but it’s not hard to pretend. He’s heard it before anyway—that soft, high melody that never fails to carry a note of genuineness.  

Forcing himself to step back, Bucky pulls his own curtains shut with more force than necessary. The room feels suddenly too small, too warm.

He goes to bed furious with himself, ignoring the sweat gathering on his forehead and the uncomfortable tightening of his boxers.

The following night, Bucky is more careful. He changes in the bathroom, keeps the lights low, tells himself he won’t look.

He looks anyway.

Your window is lit once again and you’re stretched out on the bed, laptop open by your side this time. You look utterly absorbed in whatever it’s playing on the screen, completely unaware of the grumpy creep spying you from his window.

His body leans sideways against the wall without realizing it.

It’s almost… fascinating, being able to witness the quiet intimacy of someone alone in their own space.

And you are even more beautiful lying there, unguarded and completely relaxed.

The thought comes uninvited and unwelcome.

Bucky swallows as his eyes narrow like he can intimidate the word into leaving his mind. There is no need to make a big deal out of this, he just happens to be here and without much urgency to sleep, that’s all.

He doesn’t move until your movie ends and your light goes out.

Some nights your blinds are already drawn, golden light filtering through the slats. Disappointment makes him frown in disgruntlement, keeping him from falling asleep right away. Those are the same nights he spends wondering if you are getting ready for bed or if you have already fallen asleep with another movie on, the sleeves of your camisole delicately slipping down your shoulders and exposing the swell of your breasts for his gaze to feast upon.

When he does catch you, you’re on your bed, similar to the very first time he saw you, laptop placed in your lap or off to the side. Each time, you also check your phone with a small grin, too often to be a coincidence. 

Who is making you smile this much at that hour of the night?

Days go by with Bucky sticking to the same nightly routine, until he eventually comes to the uncomfortable realization that he could watch you for hours and never tire of it. He learns your small habits without meaning to, like the way you pace your room while on the phone, stopping at the window every so often as if you’ve forgotten something; or the way you stretch your arms over your head when you stand up, slow and uncaring of who might see you from the window that you always leave open. 

When you’re thinking hard, you chew on your bottom lip without realizing it, gaze drifting into nothingness. Sometimes you sit on the edge of your bed for a moment in the morning, shoulders slumping as if the day is slowly assembling itself around you.

When you laugh, you always tilt your head back just slightly, eyes closing as though you don’t want to miss the feeling.

Background noise is your best companion: a TV show you’ve already seen, music playing low from your phone, a YouTube video from your favorite gossip channels that help you empty your mind... anything to fill the silence while you move through your space. You never wander barefoot, nudging things back into place with your slippers. And when you finally settle, you curl in on yourself, drawing your knees up, hand tucked beneath your chin. It’s a posture of comfort, one you only take when you think no one’s watching.

It’s summer, and that means you dress for it, much to his poor heart.

You are constantly wearing clothes that cling dangerously tight to your luscious body: lewd shorts, soft tanks, fitted t-shirts that show how your beautiful curves leisurely bounce whenever you move. The way you’re always warm, always shedding layers, tugging fabric down absentmindedly or pushing it back up makes his head spin.

You like cold drinks during these warm nights, condensation beading down the glass as you carry it back to bed. Sitting cross-legged on the mattress, or lying on your stomach with your feet kicking lazily in the air, you keep scrolling on your phone almost absently. When you’re tired, you turn off the light right away, rolling onto your side and leaving the glass on your nightstand—something to busy yourself with first thing in the morning.

Bucky hates how much he notices, how these seemingly stupid details carve themselves into his mind against his will. They feel earned, even though they aren’t.

Tonight, you are definitely not home.

Bucky furrows his brow, eyes flying to the clock on his kitchen wall again as if he didn’t check it merely two minutes ago. It’s past midnight, and your house has been dark since the moment you got out this morning for work. He tries not to let it bother him, because you are a grown woman with a career and it’s a Friday night. Maybe you are still at work, doing something that he hasn’t quite put a finger on yet, or maybe out with friends at a dingy bar downtown.

This doesn’t stop him from perking up like a dog at his owner’s arrival the moment he finally sees your car park in your driveway, his frown immediately deepening as a pair of headlights promptly follows close behind.

You’re not alone. 

Damn this neighborhood and its poor lighting. It’s almost impossible to discern your figure, much less one of someone he doesn’t know. It’s only when he reaches his bedroom after spending ten long minutes behind the curtains in his kitchen in complete darkness, trying to catch sight of you, that Bucky finally registers the mysterious companion’s face.

It’s a man, unrecognizable, only his arms visible as you’re half-naked on your bed, your bra tight against your breasts but your legs bare and parted. Your hand is curled in the man’s hair as his head works under your eager guidance.

Bucky watches you toss your head back and giggle, features crumpled in bliss. 

He rubs his eyes, certain the late hour must be playing tricks on him. Because there is no way his lovely, apparently innocent neighbor is getting her pussy eaten out with her window wide open.

The faint moans from your room inevitably filter into his ears, the shadow of the curtains and his dark room keeping him hidden as his blue eyes hungrily devour the sight. 

Still, an itch burns deep in his chest—an ugly, vengeful beast trying to claw its way out.

Your whimpers and breathy giggles haunt him long after your room has gone dark.

The worst part is that Bucky doesn’t stop there. Maybe he has become a masochist in his old age? Because he truly doesn’t know how to explain how he finds himself so enraptured by you, yet he can’t stop watching as each weekend a new man finds his way into your bed. At this rate, he’d need to make a dentist appointment just to make sure his jaw is still working. It feels permanently clenched these days, every muscle locked tight from the effort of keeping himself under control.

In theory, there isn’t anything wrong with what he’s doing, right? You leave your window open even while getting railed, you keep the lights on, you moan loud enough to attract his attention. And that makes him eventually cave, stroking his cock and coming all over his sweatpants when you’re riding your date of the week, your beautiful breasts bouncing with you as you chase your coveted orgasm.

The worst is that Bucky likes to pretend—in some deeply disturbed part of his mind—that you know he’s there, that you want him to hear. It’s not rare for him to wish your eyes would lock on his cock while you kneel on your bed to allow stranger after stranger to take you from behind.

What a miserable, old man. It’s so pathetic that at his age he’s been reduced to a lonely pervert spying his pretty neighbor while she fucks other men. It’s humiliating enough that he yearns to be in their place.

As much as Bucky enjoys the little shows you put on every weekend, though, the fact that you keep going on dates with random assholes is unbearable. He barely knows you yet he wants to punch in the face every single one of those bastards. Just hard enough to make their smug grin disappear, at least.

That intrusive thought, barreling towards the forefront of his mind before he even realizes it, leaves him with a bitter taste on his tongue. It’s unreasonable, he knows that. You’ve been living in this town for almost two months now and you’ve never exchanged a single word since the day he basically implied you make him uncomfortable with your little hello’s and good mornings’.

But these boys don’t know that you like to curl one leg up beneath you when you sit at your desk, squirming in the chair with a cute little frown until you’re balanced just right. They don’t see the way you pause every night before bed to straighten the trinkets on your nightstand, fingers lingering for a second too long on the framed picture placed there before you turn off the lamp.

They don’t know that when you get home from work you drop your bag by the door and go straight to your couch, stretching out flat on your back to stare at the ceiling. No phone, no music, no TV. Just breathing, like you need those fifteen quiet minutes to reset before the world can touch you again.

Bucky knows because these are the moments no one else stays long enough to notice. That realization sits heavy in his chest, equal parts guilt and something dangerously close to tenderness. 

And yet here he is, three months of unfamiliar men pulling up in cars he doesn’t recognize, of you stepping out onto your porch in the evenings dressed just a little differently than usual—shorter hems, softer fabrics, perfume he can’t smell but somehow knows is there. Of watching you laugh with them, lean in close, disappear inside your house while his stays dark and silent.

The possessiveness settles into him like an old injury: dull most days, sharp when he least expects it. He starts resenting how these assholes get to touch you in the most intimate of ways, how they look at you only to disappear before the sun has fully raised over the horizon. As if they have the right to use you and then run away like fucking thieves.

The first time he talks to you after his fiasco it’s late afternoon, the sky colored with shades of pink and orange, and cicadas buzzing loud enough to make his head ache.

Your lawn mower coughs and dies for the third time in a row. Bucky notices because he’s already outside, wiping sweat from his neck, pretending to not see you wrestle with the big device. You’re wearing shorts that keep riding up your thighs and a fitted top, skin warm and gleaming with what he assumes it’s coconut sunscreen.

Every failed pull of the cord makes your frustration more visible.

“C’mon.” You mutter, releasing a sharp exhale.

Bucky sighs, sharp and annoyed—at the mower, at himself, at the way his eyes have been fixed on your ass for too long.

He cuts his own engine and gets closer.

“That mower’s flooded.” He comments offhandedly.

You startle, turning abruptly to face him. You didn’t hear him approach, that’s obvious in the way your hand flies to your chest.

“Sorry,” you mumble quickly, then hesitate. “I didn’t know you were—”

“Pulling it like that won’t help.” He adds, softer this time, like he realizes how harsh he had sounded the first time.

You step back immediately, giving him room without being asked. 

You sigh. “I don’t really know much about engines.”

He crouches beside the device. “Most people don’t.”

There’s a pause in which you frown at his back, your lips pressed in a thin line. 

“You don’t have to—” You start.

“I can fix it,” he interrupts, then winces slightly, clearing his throat. “If you want.”

You study him for a moment with a crease between your brows, like you’re trying to understand if he’s either onto some cruel joke, or if he’s going to make you pay real money for it.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you.” Your bashful tone lands wrong in his chest.

“It’s fine.” He mutters.

Bucky works in silence, fingers confident, movements fast but professional. You watch from a safe distance to not suffocate him, arms folded loosely across your chest, your weight shifting from one foot to the other. He’s acutely aware of your uncertainty, of the way the last sun rays gently caress the naked curve of your shoulders, and your teeth worry over your glossy bottom lip.

When he’s done, he stands and nods toward the handle. “Try it now.”

You pull once, and the engine starts immediately, without stuttering.

Your face lights up. “Thank you so much.”

He shrugs, suddenly very aware of how close you are. Too close.

Or maybe not close enough.

“Um,” you say, then smile sheepishly. “This is kind of embarrassing, but… I don’t actually know your name.”

His body stills completely.

“I mean,” you fret. “Everyone just calls you Barnes, and I didn’t want to assume—”

“James.” The word comes out before he can stop himself.

You blink, both your eyebrows raised in surprise. “James.”

He nods once, sharply. His ears burn at the way his name rolls softly on your tongue.

“Most people call me Bucky, though. My friends.”

Your smile turns into something less polite and more personal.

“Alright. Well, it’s nice to finally know.”

There’s another pause, a brief moment in which you simply look up at him with the same pretty eyes he has imagined full of tears as his cock sits heavy in your throat.

“You can call me whatever you want,” he adds quickly. “James or Bucky. Doesn’t matter.”

Your smile grows and the unfamiliar warmth of a blush starts spreading across his cheeks. His eyes jump away first.

“Thank you, Bucky.” You answer gently.

After that, it becomes a pattern: you need help? Bucky pops out of nowhere ready to resolve your current predicament.

Like the day your car won’t start. Your hood is popped open as you pace your driveway while on the phone with a mechanic, the guy from the night before leaning against the car door looking useless as he waits for his uber, because the bastard doesn’t own a car.

And neither a wallet since you had to pay the entire check by yourself at a rooftop restaurant that he chose because he apparently knew the owner.

Bucky observes from his kitchen window, jaw tight and arms crossed against his chest. He doesn’t like the way the guy talks over you, especially as you fold your arms, shrinking back slightly.

Bucky is there before he fully registers the decision.

“Move.” He grunts.

The guy steps aside, startled. You look stunned.

“Bucky, hi. What—”

“I’ll take care of it.” He mutters simply.

He fixes it in less than ten minutes, and the guy claps him on the shoulder like they’re longtime buddies. Bucky shrugs him off and stares him down like a rabid dog until the other man clears his throat, awkwardly kissing your cheek before stuttering about his uber waiting for him at the end of the street.

Your eyes don’t stray away from your neighbor.

“I really appreciated it.” You quip. “You keep saving me.”

He lightly shakes his head, shrugging uncomfortably. “I’m just good at fixing things.”

Sometimes it’s a loose nail on your porch steps. Sometimes a shelf that won’t stay level. Then it becomes a heavy package you can’t lift on your own, and too many shopping bags that you shouldn’t carry by yourself. Bucky always shows up like it’s coincidence, as if he wasn’t stalking you from his window five minutes earlier.

He never talks much, just grunts, nods, and mumbled greetings. But you don’t complain; not when you get to have a free front-row seat for his bulging arms as the fabric of his t-shirts fights for its life.

There are moments when you start doubting your own sanity. You swear you catch him looking at you. Not openly, or boldly like some of the guys who hit on you during your girls night at the local bar. Just quick glances that carry an unusual amount of intensity. Well, it shouldn’t come as shocking since your neighbor is indeed intense.

Whenever your eyes meet, however, he promptly looks away, cheeks turning a light pink shade and shoulders tense like he’s been caught doing something illegal.

You notice, but still, you keep your distance. You don’t hover, you just thank him, smile, and step back when he’s done. You don’t invite him to stay longer, nor do you push conversation. And Bucky realizes too late that this distance? He deserved it from the very beginning.

Bucky heaves a sigh of relief when he notices you are already tucked in bed tonight, covers pulled up to your waist and phone in your hand. The lamp on your nightstand casts a soft, golden glow that smooths your features. Even from this distance, he can see the sleepy droop of your eyes, and the way you stifle a yawn with the back of your hand before blinking at the screen.

He was out with Steve, Sam and Natasha for a rare night of beers and meaningless chat, the low hum of the local crowded bar wrapping around them like a familiar blanket. He listened more than talked, like always, nodded at the right moments and let the conversation wash over him.

Still, his knee didn’t stop bouncing under the booth.

Steve noticed first, ever the observant, and reached over at one point to press his palm on Bucky’s thigh to stop the frantic movement, his eyebrows lifting in a silent question.

He stilled for exactly ten seconds.

Natasha watched him over the rim of her glass, amused. “You got somewhere to be, Barnes?”

He grunted. “No.”

It’s a blatant lie, and they all knew it.

The truth was, the clock felt too loud tonight. Every minute stretched, every laugh from the table next to them grated on his ears. He checked his phone more than he should have, though there’s nothing on it—no messages, no missed calls. Just time ticking forward, daring him to miss it.

Because if he stayed out too long, he might not see you before going to bed.

Bucky finally made his excuses and left earlier than planned, ignoring Sam’s pointed remark, “You sure you’re okay, Barnes?” and Natasha’s knowing smirk.

The drive home was fast, his knuckles turning white at the tight hold he kept on the steering wheel.

It’s been a week. Seven days since he’s seen you with anyone. And the fear—that sharp, ugly thing moving in his chest—hasn’t still gone away. It’s just been waiting.

The moment he turned onto his street, his eyes went straight to your driveway.

Empty, except for your car.

Relief hit him so hard his chest hurt for a whole minute.

Still, he didn’t trust it. He knew better than to rely on that alone. One of the first guys hadn’t even had a car and had the nerve to force you to drive him home the morning after, like he had any right to ask such a thing. The memory made Bucky’s hands close into two fists, disgust curling hot in his gut. You shouldn’t have to play chauffeur for idiots who don’t know how to behave in front of a goddess like you.

He parked, cut the engine, and didn’t linger. Inside, he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the couch, kicked his boots off without lining them up like he usually does, and took the stairs two at a time. His heart was beating faster than it should have for a man who claims he cares about himself alone.

Your light is on, and there you are.

No one else in your room, just you—alone, safe, winding down.

Bucky exhales, the sound slow and heavy, as if it waited all day trapped in his lungs. His shoulders loosen, and the tight knot in his ribcage eases just a little. He can tell that you are probably going to fall asleep in the next ten minutes, so he decides to look for the sweats and the old t-shirt he uses as pajamas in the meantime.

He’s in his boxers with his broad, hairy torso fully on display, when he commits the grave mistake of glancing out his window, a meaningless check that ends up punching the air out of his lungs.

The covers have been thrown back and your phone now lies forgotten on the mattress by your side because your hands are too busy fondling your breast through that stupidly thin camisole. Your panties are snuggled between the folds of your pussy, the fabric tight and wet. Your eyes soon squeeze close as your index fingers quickly flick over your nipples, making you flinch at every electrifying jolt of pleasure.

He’s seen you have sex plenty of times, but never succumb to your own insatiable need enough to play with yourself.

You pull your nipples harshly, your back arching up to follow your cruel fingers, before you start playing with them through the fabric of your top. As his boxers grow tighter and his breath labored, he wonders if you are pretending it’s someone else’s toying with your turgid peaks.

Bucky lets out a shaky exhale, his hands limp at his sides clenching into two perfect fists that turn his knuckles white. He could take care of your breasts: kiss the soft flesh until you are begging him to make the ache go away, and then spend the rest of the night worshipping your nipples with his mouth and the light scrape of his teeth. He could suckle on those pretty nubs and then flick them with his warm tongue until you gush in your panties, your tits numb and your pussy clenching around nothing.

What prompted this? Were you watching something on your phone and craved the same release you looked for after every date? Or were you sexting with the guy lucky enough to earn your attention these days?

Your chest heaves as both your hands trace their way down your sides, before hooking into the hem of your panties and throwing the fabric somewhere on the floor.

He wishes he could be there with you, letting his big, experienced hands work your curves. He wishes he could take the same panties you just discarded and bring them home with him, your unique scent still clinging onto the delicate fabric. Bucky would risk it all and bring them to the garage just to lock himself into the restroom whenever he misses you and jerk himself off with them wrapped around his cock. He would suck on the gusset and let your taste on his tongue and your scent on his stubble tease him throughout his shift, just to keep his half-hard cock in a taunting limbo of pain and bliss until he can come home and finally slide back into your wet warmth.

“Fucking hell.” He mutters, gasping as he palms his painful erection.

A low groan claws out of his throat as his hand meets wet fabric, precum steadily leaking from the tip and knees embarrassingly buckling.

Bucky watches in awe as you lift the hem of your camisole up until your collarbones, your eyelids fluttering shut in relief as your hands can finally feel your tits without barriers. He must look so pathetic as he strains his ears in hope to catch one of your sweet mewls.

Your fingers glisten after you touch your aching pussy. Your mouth forms a perfect circle when you play with your folds, biting your bottom lip as you inevitably end up stroking your throbbing clit.

Bucky can’t help it anymore as he shoves his boxers mid-thigh, allowing his fingers to wrap around his imposing length. His teeth draw blood from his bottom lip as he tries to muffle a loud groan when he falls into the rhythm of lazily strokes.

When your digits finally plunge inside, Bucky shivers with you. Fire burns in his belly wild and uncontrollable as he imagines splitting you open himself and watching you swallow up his long fingers. His eyes momentarily close at the thought of your folds under his tongue and the softness of your skin under his calloused hands.

When his eyelids flutter open again, you are sitting up. His teeth grind as his dark eyes follow the length of your gorgeous body. Then, you turn around, back to the window... and kneel.

His eyes trail the curve of your ass in awe, before a strangled moan almost makes him choke when you bend over, finally giving a clear view of your soaking folds from behind.

His breath hitches, lips parting when your knees spread until there is nothing else to hide. Bucky is one thread of self-control away from running to your door and begging you to let him kiss and lick your pretty pussy the way it deserves. He would nurse on your clit and guide your hips to grind on his face until you suffocate him with your thighs. His cock twitches at the sole thought of playing with you so good you end up squirting all over his face.

He would pay to live between your thighs and for you to use his body whenever, wherever and however you want.

His eyes eagerly follow the movement of your fingers as they are lightly dragged through your wet folds, his tongue lazily licking his lips as he notices your slick lewdly clinging to your skin. From this position, he can clearly see your thighs tensing as you dip your fingers back inside, your other hand snapping back up to grab one of your tits. Your fingers cruelly tug and flick your hard nipple, causing you to squirm at the double stimulation.

Bucky wonders if you would trash around just as much with his cock stretching you out. If your hips would fidget so cutely from how restless and cock-drunk you are; if you would like for his rough hands to press you into the mattress, forcing you to stay put and just take it.

His hand instantly matches your pace as you start to enthusiastically finger yourself, precum sticking to his palm as he uses it to make the glide smoother. It feels so good he wants to close his eyes and savor it. But he can’t, not when you alternate strong thrusts with harsh slap to your clit, almost to the point of pain, whining and gasping as you work yourself up.

Bucky licks his lips again, panting like a dog at the thought of having you on his bed for him to lick you everywhere. You’d be so fucking wet for him as he pounds into you, deep and hard just like he knows you need to be fucked. His ears would be blessed with your little, breathy whines and your nails would dig into his skin as he roughly throws your legs over his shoulders, leaving him to bear the visible marks of your wild love-making.

They would burn every time water hits them, a living reminder of your tight pussy.

Suddenly, you are squirming harder, and Bucky imagines your features go slack. Or maybe your eyes are rolling back as your lips part around a filthy moan muffled by those fucking sheets. He senses the pressure in his abdomen threatening to burst at the thought of how good you must feel right now, utterly lost in the throbbing of your pussy and the cruel thrusts of your own fingers. So engrossed that you couldn’t care less about exposing your bare, wet core to your open window, disregarding the fact that anyone walking by could accidentally look up and see your little debauched show.

Did you do that on purpose? Are you so desperate that you hope someone might see you and touch themself to you playing with your sweet pussy?

Bucky growls out a curse.

He can tell you are close by the way your hips keep jerking helplessly to meet your ruthless fingers.

When you finally come, it’s completely different from the previous times with your dates: your torso heaves dangerously fast and your body shudders and shakes as the electrifying climax claims you entirely. You end up gushing all over the sheets, crying out as your squirt sprays all over your hand, the inner skin of your thighs, the bed... It’s a complete mess and Bucky wants to punch a hole through the wall.

With a trembling breath, the pressure snaps for him as well. He comes with a deep groan, thighs shaking as hot spurts of cum coat his hand—some even land on the wall by the window. He doesn’t stop stroking yet, not when you are still kneeling on your bed, face pressed against the mattress as your fingers lazily tease your wet folds, your poor hole helplessly clenching around nothing.

When he can think clearly again, Bucky notices his sight is a little foggy. The intense release leaves his head spinning, and one of his hands has to shoot forward to balance himself against the windowsill. Yet he refuses to move from his favorite place until you sluggishly straighten up on your shaky arms. His breath hitches again at the weak, content smile on your face as you suck your fingers clean.

Tonight, he reflects with his eyes still hungrily staring at your naked breasts, his need for you has been sated. But Bucky knows this will never be enough.

That Sunday morning you hear on the news that it’s going to rain all day. The sun is out when you check on your flowers by the porch, still, you choose to not water them for now, glancing every few minutes toward the horizon where dark clouds have been slowly swallowing the bright blue sky.

By lunch, the air feels thick and humid against your skin, the familiar chirps of the birds going strangely quiet.

You are rinsing a plate in the sink when the first crack of thunder rolls across the neighborhood. It’s not close enough to be alarming, but you pause anyway.

A second rumble follows several minutes later.

Then a third.

And rain starts shortly after.

At first the sound of the fat drops tapping against the windows is kind of relaxing. You expected it to pass within twenty minutes, just like any other summer storm. Except the wind starts picking up, causing the trees behind your house to sway dangerously strong. Thunders grow louder and closer, and by the time you wander into the living room to look outside, rain is battering sideways against the glass violently enough to blur the entire street.

The power goes out merely five minutes after. One second the living room is faintly illuminated by the warm glow of your rose gold lamp and the flickering light of the television, the next everything vanishes beneath a blanket of darkness.

You have just finished lighting a candle when a deafening crack echoes somewhere outside, followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of wood splintering. The noise is so sudden and so loud that it tears a startled gasp from your throat before you can stop it, leaving you motionless in the middle of your living room with your pulse racing.

It’s the sharp sound of a knock that makes you flinch all over again.

For a brief, embarrassing moment you simply stare at the entryway, your imagination unhelpfully supplying every possible horror movie scenario before common sense finally reasserts itself. Nobody is wandering around suburban neighborhoods during a thunderstorm unless they have a very good reason.

The second knock comes almost immediately afterward, so you finally cross the room to open the door.

The sight of your grumpy neighbor is unexpectedly reassuring, even if he is the last person you expected to find standing on your porch.

Even if Bucky Barnes has slowly become a more regular presence in your life than either of you would probably admit, there is an abysmal difference between him helping when a problem presents itself, and him showing up at your front door in the middle of a downpour.

Rain has dampened the shoulders of his dark t-shirt and left small droplets clinging to his long hair, but he looks otherwise unaffected by the weather. His gaze lands on your face and remains there for a second longer than necessary, his expression carefully neutral despite the obvious scrutiny.

“Are you alright?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question. “Hi, Bucky.”

His mouth tightens slightly, and instead of returning the greeting, he asks again. “Are you alright?”

There is a note of urgency in his voice that immediately makes you straighten.

“Yeah,” you reply, clearing your throat to get rid of that hint of surprise. “Yes, I’m alright.”

His eyes briefly scan your face as though he’s verifying the answer for himself.

“Did the branch hit the house?” The question comes so quickly it almost overlaps your response.

“What?”

“The one that fell in your backyard.”

Your eyes widen. “What the hell?”

A small frown appears between his brows. “Didn’t you hear the noise? A tree branch came down a few seconds after the power went out.”

“Oh.”

That’s what that noise was.

“Did it hit anything?”

Your eyes land back on his solemn expression. “I don’t think so...?”

One of his eyebrows lifts. “You don’t think so?”

Despite yourself, a smile tugs at your lips. “Well, I haven’t exactly gone outside to conduct a thorough inspection. The weather’s been making that a tad difficult.”

For a moment he simply observes you in silence, before giving a short nod. The movement is subtle, but it carries an unmistakable sense of relief, and for reasons you can’t quite explain, that realization warms your chest.

Before you can ask if he needs anything else, a particularly violent crack of thunder splits the air. The sound is so loud it seems to shake the entire street, rattling the windows hard enough to make you flinch.

Bucky’s blue eyes instinctively drop to your shoulders, registering your reaction.

“My electricity’s still on.” He blurts out, the words almost sound as though they’ve escaped by accident.

You blink. “Okay?”

His gaze flicks briefly on your lips before returning to your eyes.

“If you want,” he starts, oddly careful. “You could come over until they fix it.”

Behind him, lightning illuminates the grey sky in a flash of white. You watch him shift awkwardly where he stands, and it occurs to you that he looks strangely tense, though not in the irritated way you’ve grown accustomed to over the past months.

If anything, he seems uncomfortable.

It’s such an unfamiliar look on the mean, old Scrooge of the neighborhood that it takes your brain a moment to fully accept it. In all the months you’ve known Bucky, you’ve seen him annoyed, impatient, guarded, even awkward on occasion... but you’ve never seen him hesitant.

The uncertainty beneath all that careful composure is unexpectedly endearing.

For the first time since you’ve moved in this small town, Bucky doesn’t look like a man trying to keep everyone at arm’s length.

He looks like a man hoping you won’t say no.

Bucky disappears into the kitchen with a muttered comment about making coffee, some of the tension that had accompanied the walk through the storm finally beginning to ease from your shoulders. The sound of running water drifts from the other room as you wander farther into the living room.

You have spent weeks wondering what his house looked like on the inside.

The answer, it turns out, is exactly what you should have expected.

Nothing about the room feels designed to impress anyone. There are no decorative pieces chosen because they match a color palette, no trendy furniture purchased from a catalog, no signs that he has ever stood in a home goods store and wondered whether a particular lamp would tie the room together. Everything appears to have been selected because it serves a purpose.

The couch is large and comfortable, upholstered in a dark fabric that would probably survive a natural disaster. The coffee table is solid wood, bearing enough small imperfections to suggest it was built by hand rather than purchased. A folded blanket rests neatly over one arm of the couch, and even from several feet away you can tell it has been folded the exact same way a hundred times before.

The room is clean but there are signs of life everywhere you look, none of them accidental, though. A mug sits on a side table beside an armchair. A motorcycle magazine has been left on the corner of the coffee table. A set of keys rests inside a ceramic bowl near the front door.

Every object appears to have a place, and every place appears to have been carefully chosen.

Your attention eventually settles on the bookshelf occupying most of the wall where the TV is located.

“Well,” you murmur to yourself, moving closer. “This feels promising.”

The shelves are packed tightly enough that some books have been stacked horizontally on top of others. Most of the collection is exactly what you would expect from someone like Bucky: history books dominate the upper shelves, many of them thick enough to qualify as blunt-force weapons; there are biographies, military histories, books about espionage, intelligence operations, and wars that lasted years. Lower shelves contain books about engineering, restoration projects, woodworking, mechanics, and enough technical manuals to make you wonder whether he has ever encountered a machine he wasn’t determined to dismantle.

The psychology section catches you by surprise.

At first you notice one or two titles.

Then five turn to ten.

Soon you’re standing in front of an entire shelf dedicated to trauma, memory, relationships, attachment theory, behavioral science, and enough books about human interaction to make you laugh quietly under your breath.

Your eyes continue scanning titles with a subtle admiration for the older man, until a pink cover makes you stop.

“No.” A grin immediately spreads across your face, because wedged between two thick books about obsessions sits a romance novel.

You pull it from the shelf and examine the cover, where a broad-shouldered man glares possessively while holding a woman against his chest.

“Oh, Bucky.”

You cover your giggle with your hand, sliding the book back into place only to discover other romance novels not too far away.

The revelation is so unexpected and so delightfully embarrassing that your hopes for this rainy afternoon have been restored.

You reach for one of them, intending to inspect the cover more closely, and that’s when something slips free from behind it.

The object hits the hardwood floor with a heavy thud.

Your smile falters, prompting you to briefly glance over your shoulder, but Bucky seems to be too busy to notice the noise.

Crouching down, you quickly reach for what seems to be a black journal that has inevitably fallen open.

You only glance at the page because you’re trying to close it, until your limbs freeze, because that’s your name written inside.

The handwriting is unmistakably Bucky’s—or well, it must be. Unless there is some roommate hidden somewhere who only comes out at night.

The page begins with a date, followed by a paragraph... about you.

You read the first few lines without fully understanding what you’re looking at, shaking your head in astonishment as your eyes go back to the beginning.

She spent most of the afternoon in her backyard in a red bikini pretending to read. I don’t think she made it through more than ten pages before she fell asleep. The book slid off her lap eventually and startled her awake. She looked around immediately afterward to make sure nobody had seen it happen. Looks adorable when her eyes widen in surprise.

As you turn the pages, confusion gives way to a sharp realization.

Every entry is about you.

Every. Single. Day.

Some are short, others span several pages, yet each one is carefully dated, documenting something from your life.

She came home later than usual tonight and sat in her car for eleven minutes before going inside. I don’t like to see her exhausted. Whatever happened at work must have been bad because she didn’t even stop to check the mail as usual.

As usual?

How many times has your neighbor watched you to take on your little unconscious habit?

Your eyes move lower.

I almost walked over and punched that asshole in his teeth. Didn’t. She probably wouldn’t appreciate that.

The entries continue. Page after page after page.

The yellow sweater again. I still think it’s her favorite. Is yellow her favorite color?

She talks to her flowers when she thinks nobody is listening.

Murray spent twenty minutes talking to her today. I couldn’t hear the conversation and I hated that more than I should have.

You swallow thickly, your breath hitching at what comes next.

Another date tonight. He arrived late and she apologized to him for being too early. I still don’t understand why she lets people walk all over her.

Your eyes momentarily look away with a sigh. 

It’s been weeks from your last date, and though it’s not that long, it still feels strange, noticeable in a way you don’t quite know how to explain.

You haven’t heard back from anyone. Not the guy from the wine bar who made you laugh until your cheeks hurt, not the one who talked about books like they were old friends. A few polite follow-up texts went unanswered, a couple never even shown as read. One morning, you realized that someone had blocked your number altogether.

You know dating is messy, and chemistry isn’t guaranteed. Honestly, you never truly clicked with most of them. There was always something missing—an ease that never quite settled, a spark that fizzled before it could catch.

Still, it stings. Because they appeared charming, funny, attentive. They looked at you like they wanted to stay, like the night spent together between your sheets meant something more than a couple of pleasantries the day after, at best. And then they were gone by morning, disappearing completely from your life. You still had fun, sure, but it left you wondering if you’d imagined the connection at all. Until you’d started to wonder if the problem was you.

You swallow, shaking your head lightly as you go back to the next page.

She came home smiling, but it wasn’t real. I know the difference.

You gasp at the next paragraphs.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I did it. I went over to that asshole and told him to not come back. He ran away. Filthy coward.

I threatened two other guys. I know she would probably hate me for this, but they never wait for her to wake up, and my girl deserves better.

His girl?

The farther you read, the more obvious it becomes that these aren’t mere records of an unstable, bored neighbor.

She bought a new sundress. Nothing too different from the others, but this one is a shade lighter of blue. Like the one covered in small daisies (the same one who hugs her prefect cleavage tightly). Nobody else would notice the difference. I did.

I heard the sound of her laugh from my room yesterday night. I never slept so well.

This morning I caught a whiff of her hair as she greeted me before going to work. Did she change shampoo?

There is something painfully intimate about the way Bucky writes about you, as though every insignificant moment has been carefully preserved and revisited later. He notices things your friends probably don’t register until you are the one telling them. Things you don’t notice about yourself but that completely make sense.

This notebook is not a simple log. It reads like devotion twisted into something unhealthy.

Your fingers tighten around the cover as you turn another page.

I should stop looking for her every night.

The handwriting grows slightly messier beneath that sentence.

I should stop wondering who she’s with when she doesn’t come home until late. I should stop thinking about her when I’m trying to work. I should stop imagining conversations that never will happen. I should stop watching her when she comes out of the shower.

I should stop. But I don’t want to.

By the time you hear footsteps approaching from the kitchen, your pulse is hammering hard enough to echo in your throat.

When you lift your head, you find Bucky standing in the doorway holding two mugs of coffee.

The moment his eyes land on the notebook, every trace of color drains from his face.

“James.”

This mountain of a man actually flinches, his eyes wide on the object in your hands. His jaw tightens when he notices your expression—furious, eyes blazing.

“What is this?” Your voice comes out far quieter than you intended. Still, your hands snap the journal close with a sharp thud.

That seems to unsettle him more than if you had shouted.

Bucky carefully sets the mugs down on the nearest surface before dragging a hand over his jaw.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.” He replies tiredly.

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s what you have to say right now? Seriously?”

His expression tightens. “No.”

“You’ve been literally documenting my entire life like I’m some kind of lab project.”

His jaw tightens. “It’s not—”

“Don’t,” you cut in sharply. “Don’t start minimizing it.”

He swallows thickly.

“You…” Your voice shakes. “You’ve been watching me like this the entire time? Every day?”

“I didn’t—” Bucky starts, then stops again, as if he can’t find a version of that sentence that could help him. “I wasn’t—”

“You weren’t what?” You laugh, caustic and humorless. “Do you have any idea of how I feel right now? It’s fucking insane to find out that the same man who ignored me for months and barely acknowledged I existed, has written pages upon pages describing my fucking perfume and confessing to threaten the people I bring home.”

His gaze drops again as he steps back half a pace, visibly restraining himself. You can see it in the way his hands flex, the way his shoulders rise and fall with controlled breaths.

“Do you do this with everyone?” You press, words coming faster now, sharper. “Is this some kind of fucked up hobby of yours? Being a shitty neighbor until you decide to start… what, cataloguing people?”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You are so fucking confusing.” You continue, voice rising. “One minute you won’t even look at me, and the next you’re mowing my lawn, carrying my groceries like it’s your job—”

“I just wanted to help you.”

“—and for fuck’s sake, you were threatening my dates!” You shriek. “What do you want from me, Bucky?”

The room is plunged into an uncomfortable silence, the only noise being the gentle pitter-patter of the rain from the opened window in the kitchen.

Bucky takes that moment to let his eyes wander over you. Your chest is heaving with distress, your eyes shining slightly… and still, you look fucking gorgeous, wearing one of your stupidly short sundresses that leave everything and nothing to the imagination. His gaze flicks away like the sight burned his pupils, then comes back on your face, darker.

“I just want you safe.” He states roughly, like it costs to say it out loud.

You scoff. “From what? Dating?”

“From them.” He growls, frustration finally cracking through the composed, grouchy facade. “From men who don’t deserve you.”

You blink astonished. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“They take what you give them and then run away,” he shoots back. “They leave before morning like you’re something they’re ashamed of. Like you’re disposable.” His voice lowers, growling with conviction.

You look momentarily taken aback by the abrupt change in his behavior, yet you refuse to back down.

“That still doesn’t make it right for you to meddle in my personal life.”

“I know,” he stresses, stepping closer despite himself. “But watching you give your time so easily to guys who don’t even have the decency to say goodbye before disappearing like fucking criminals—who can’t see how lucky they are for you to spare them even one second of your attention… sweetheart, it drives me fucking insane.”

You can feel a certain wetness spread across your panties at his growl, but your brows furrow in irritation. “You don’t even know them.”

“I know enough.” Bucky answers fiercely. “I know none of them are good enough for you.”

Silence slams down between you, his words hanging in the air like a challenge.

“I didn’t ask for... whatever you are doing.” You whisper eventually.

“I know.”

“Then stop deciding things for me!” You bark. “Stop acting like you know me when you never even bothered to introduce yourself in the first place!”

Bucky steps closer again. Now you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell oil and soap and something unmistakably him. Your anger is still there, hot and bright, but there’s something far too dangerous curling underneath it.

His eyes drop to your mouth, and his nostrils flare.

“Every time you bring home someone,” he starts quietly. “I tell myself it’s none of my business. Every damn time.”

“And yet.” You mock ironically.

“And yet,” he admits through gritted teeth. “I lose my fucking mind.”

Your heart stutters. “You don’t get to be jealous.” Swallowing, you try to steady yourself, though your voice wavers toward the end.

“You don’t get to act like this when you’ve never given me anything back.”

His hand lifts, hesitating before your wrist, then drops again at his side like it’s taking all his restraint to not touch you.

“I’m trying,” he hisses. “I swear to God, I am.”

“Trying what?” Your jaw clenches.

“To stay away from you.”

You take a step forward, chest nearly brushing his. “Then why are you still standing here making excuses?” You provoke, slightly tilting your head.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

Bucky’s brain is screaming at him to step back, to put space between you, to remember every reason this is a bad idea—your anger, his obsession, the line he’s already crossed a dozen times without touching you once.

But all he can think about is the way your eyes are bright with fury and something almost playful, daring, that makes heat coil low in his gut. He’s spent months watching you from a distance, telling himself proximity is dangerous, and now you’re right here, beautiful and fierce, challenging him.

His jaw tightens as he fights the urge to close the last thread of distance between you. His hands curl into fists at his sides, nails leaving behind crescent shapes like that would be enough to hold himself back. His ears are ringing, completely drowning out reason, his heart pounding with the knowledge that one wrong move will ruin everything—or change it beyond repair.

God, he wants you so bad.

He wants to grab, to pull, to prove that this isn’t just mere jealousy or some twisted sense of protection. That it’s been you, all along, settling into his bones without his permission.

He dips his head just enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth, his hands reaching for you like it’s instinct, like gravity has finally won. One hand cups your jaw, coarse and warm, his thumb lovingly stroking your cheek.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, and that’s when you really notice how close he is to losing control. 

His chest rises too fast, too deep, just like yours; his fingers sport a faint tremble that reflects weeks of barely contained desire—it’s so intense that you can feel him everywhere without him completely touching you. The weight of his attention has a sudden warmth creeping up your neck, his blue eyes flicking to your mouth like this is the most beautiful mistake he’s about to make.

Bucky’s been fighting this longer than you have, and every step he’s taken toward you these last months has cost him something precious.

His sanity.

And instead of frightening you, it makes your breath hitch.

Because you need this.

You want the man who’s been watching from the sidelines, holding himself back, burning quiet holes into the space between you. You want the restraint to snap, be the thing he finally stops denying himself.

Your hands are aching to touch him, to guide his palms everywhere and see what happens when he finally understands that you’ve been craving him just as much. Yet you stay exactly where you are, refusing to give him the out he’s begging for.

The journal is long forgotten on the ground by the time hunger flashes across his eyes, and Bucky finally makes you his.

The kiss is exactly what you imagined before falling asleep every night: pent-up and desperate and full of everything he’s been swallowing down for months. His mouth claims yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, more teeth and tongue than lips. You moan quietly at the feeling of his hands moving frantically and certain—one still gripping your jaw while the other fists the fabric at your waist like he needs to anchor himself. 

It’s rough, urgent... too much and still not enough.

You gasp against his lips, the sound swallowed at once when he deepens the kiss. Delicately tilting your head back, he looms over you as his arm tightens around your torso with a low groan. 

Your hands come up without thinking, clutching his shirt as you kiss him back just as hard, just as recklessly, anger and longing blurring together until there’s nothing but your mouths moving against each other and the frenzied pull of your clothes.

Bucky breaks away just enough to press his forehead to yours, breathing heavily while his hand cups your cheek like he needs to make sure you’re real.

“Shit.” He mutters, wrecked. His lips are on yours again, slower this time but no less intense, as though he’s trying to memorize the shape with bruising urgency.

His hands wander everywhere they shouldn’t like he can’t decide what to hold onto first, a low sound out tearing out of his chest when he squeezes the flesh of your ass.

“You know how hard it was watching that?” He speaks against your lips.

You blink dumbly and he laughs once, short and bitter, like the sound hurt him. His grip tightens. 

“You have no idea, do you? I had to stay put and watch them have you. Watch you smile at them, touch them...” His jaw flexes. “Do things I could only live in my wildest dreams.”

You press a hand to his chest, firmly. “Bucky.”

For a moment, he looks like he might shut down completely. His shoulders tense, eyes flicking away before forcing themselves back to yours when that rare pink blush appears high on his cheeks. 

“I started that journal because I thought it could keep me sane.” He swallows. “I didn’t mean to watch you at first. It just… happened one night. And then I couldn’t stop.” His voice drops, raw and shaky. “Every night. I knew your routines, when you were alone... when you weren’t.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and you gulp before peering up at him through your eyelashes. “I know.” You admit softly.

“I apologize for how you had to find out but not for doing it—” He stills, eyes widening slightly. “What did you just say?”

“I hoped you would.” Your voice is steady, even as your pulse races. “Every time I took them home, I wondered if you were there.”

Bucky surges forward before he realizes it, kissing you roughly as his arms squeeze your waist, pressing you firmly against his chest. Beneath your hands, he feels warm and strong in the most reassuring way. His body carries the strength of someone who has spent a lifetime working with his arms, thick muscle hidden beneath a layer of softness that only makes him feel impossibly solid.

“What was that little act you put up here just now, huh sweetheart?” He pants against your mouth. “All this time I’ve been beating myself up over it.” His lips move on your neck, making you gasp. 

“An old, dirty creep jerking off to his pretty younger neighbor fucking other guys, imagining I was the one driving my cock into her sweet pussy.” You shiver as his palm spreads over your asscheek again, squeezing until it leaves a light sting behind. 

“But you are just as filthy as me, baby.” 

Your heart is desperately trying to get out of your chest, excitement and anticipation swirling wildly in your belly at his rougher treatment. 

His other hand grips your jaw sternly to force you to meet his eyes. “Am I right?”

Your fury is now reduced to a distant, fading hum. You don’t stop him when his hand ends up under the short hem of your dress, encouraging you to spread your legs a little. 

“Bucky.” You moan as the tips of his fingers tease your inner thigh. “S—Someone might see.” You protest weakly.

He briefly glances around, noticing the sun is finally out again and you are both standing in the middle of his living room, right before the window overlooking the main street and the sliding ones leading to his backyard, directly attached to the rich couple’s house. 

“Better stay quiet then.” 

And his fingers slide in your panties to play with your folds, his other hand still fondling your ass. 

Your back arches when he circles your clit with slow yet firm pressure. 

“There we go, sweetheart.”

You tilt your hips into his hand in a silent plea for more, and Bucky obliges with a low snicker. 

“How were they?” He mumbles against your collarbone, surprisingly put together as he lowers your panties until they fall, pooling at your ankles. “Did they know how to touch you? Did they make you feel this good?”

You shake your head, eyes squeezing shut as two fingers spread you open without warning. His other palm comes down on your ass, heavy and unforgiving, making you whimper.

“Answer me.” 

“Not—not like you.” You admit, head falling forward with a gasp as his thumb works over your throbbing nub, rubbing it with a steady rhythm. “Oh my God.” 

“Good girl, right answer.” He growls out, attacking the slope of your neck with kisses and bites. “That’s why you put on a show for me every weekend. Those bastards weren’t satisfying you, so you needed your grumpy ol’ neighbor to touch you in front of the whole neighborhood.”

Your fingers dig into his forearms as you feel your climax approaching, raw and electric.

“Don’t be so full of yourself.” You manage, voice shaking and face still hidden against his shoulder.

“Hm, I’ve indeed a thing full just for you, doll.” He smirks, his unoccupied fingers curling around your wrist to yank it on his jeans-cladded crotch, the heat of his cock pressing insistently against your palm. Your eyes go wide at the imposing shape.

Your fingers twitch, squeezing his bulge as his tip leaks under the fabric, eliciting a low noise out of his throat that surprises you. 

“What? Cat got your tongue now?” His hot whisper tickles your ear. “That’s right, feel it sweetheart. That’s all for you, look what you do to me.” He grits out.

His fingers pressing rough and insistent on your sweet spot make you whine, a high-pitched sound that he immediately silences with his lips. 

“Quiet. The kitchen window is open, and that asshole Murray could come out any minute.” He murmurs against your mouth. “Unless you want him to see you like this.”

You can’t elaborate a logical answer, even if you want to scream that no, you only want Bucky’s attention, though the possibility of being caught with him fingering you right in the middle of his living room only makes you clench harder around his digits. The bastard has the nerve to grin at that, curling inside you in perfect tandem with the dizzying friction of his thumb on your clit.

“C’mon, doll.” He pushes, panting as your fingers keep toying with his erection. “Come prettily around my fingers and I’ll let you touch it.”

Your thighs tremble under his relentless pace. “I—fuck!” You moan, tossing your head back as your orgasm finally hits you, your eyes squeezed shut and your hips desperately following his hands as Bucky keeps thrusting into you, until you slump forward exhausted, forehead colliding with his firm pec.

“This is what you wanted?” Bucky murmurs on the top of your head, voice cocky as his fingers slide out gently, leaving you empty but tingling.

He barely puts effort into hiding his smug smile, leisurely looking out of the window for any nosy pair of eyes while he adjusts your dress with such nonchalance. As if he didn’t just make you come on a random Sunday afternoon.

You shake your head, and when you glance back up at him, Bucky’s breath hitches at the sight of your bitten-raw lips and hazy eyes. 

“Need more.”

He makes sure to keep your jaw in place as he thrusts his tongue in your mouth, just like he promised he would do with your pussy. A whimper escapes your throat at the depraved action before Bucky pulls back to study your features, a string of saliva connecting your shiny lips.

“Stay put.” He commands, gently guiding you back until you are bending over the windowsill. 

His muscled arm comes over you and opens the window, leaving your torso exposed to the driveway. 

“Such a messy girl.” He mutters to himself. It sends little shivers down your spine, your face hot as he parts your folds with his thumbs. 

He promised he would let you touch it. 

“Don’t whine. I have to make sure she’s ready for it, sweetheart. How else is my fat cock gonna fit in this tight little pussy?” 

You nod dumbly, biting your bottom lip when the gentle breeze caresses your face, a brutal reminder of your debauched position. You can’t believe you’re really here, bent over his open window for anyone to see. It’d be pretty obvious to anyone walking by what’s going on, since you are literally in Bucky Barnes’ house—the same person who would prefer listening to a chainsaw go off all night rather than say hi to a fellow human being—and your lips keep parting around shameless moans.

It could take anything to make your neighbors across the street look out of their window and see you.

“Bet our dear neighbors would die of heart attack if they could see you crying for a grumpy, old man’s dick.” He taunts, spreading your legs apart as he kneels behind you, softly kissing the inside of your thighs. “Such an adorable angel, so innocent and polite... who likes getting her pussy pounded by mean, cranky Barnes for everyone to hear.” 

His fingers spread through your folds, exposing your core to the humid air to take a tentative lick. “I knew you’d taste fucking delicious.”

“Careful, old man.” You pant shakily, eager to see him lose control. “At your age you can’t go that hard. Heart attacks, herniated disks, cramps... anything can—Bucky!”

Two of his fingers slide inside your hole at once, leaving you gasping and holding onto the windowsill for dear life as your legs tremble embarrassingly hard.

“Ah.” He chuckles, feeling your body gradually melt under his hands. “You just need to have something inside you to shut the fuck up, right sweet girl?”

You nod whimpering, resting your cheek on your crossed arms. It’s incredible how well he knows where to touch, when to tease, what to say to turn your brain into pure mush.

His hands are relentless on your poor body, kneading the flesh of your thighs as your hips literally hump his face. 

“She’s so pretty.” Bucky pants, thumb circling your clit while he watches your slick soil your inner thigh. “Look at your puffy clit, babygirl, throbbing for my attention.”

You squirm a little at his quiet, filthy words, heat already rising violently on your cheeks.

“Perfect pussy,” he breathes out, giving your nub another little lick. “Perfect ass. Perfect tits.” He squeezes your butt. “You’re perfect everywhere, doll.”

A quiet moan falls from your lips as Bucky leaves soft kisses along your core, his salt-and-pepper stubble scratching slightly at your sensitive folds, but the sensation only makes your hole clench desperately around his motionless fingers.

Finally, his mouth closes around your nub, suckling on it gently.

“She’s all sticky and messy because she loves when I play with her, right baby?”

You nod even if he can’t see you, sniffling but still trying to hide your face against your arms resting on the windowsill. It’s only then that your eyes snap open at the sudden loss, hearing Bucky standing up with a little, pained groan. 

He fumbles with the button of his jeans, crudely leaving them and his boxers hanging mid-thigh. His cock stands hard and heavy against his belly, the tip flushed and leaking. Relief washes over him as he strokes it a few times, while his other hand parts one of your asscheeks to expose your core. It would be so easy for him to come all over your ass and your pretty dress, to mark your skin with his cum. He could literally empty his balls over and over again by simply watching you like this: bent over his open window, shameless and needy.

“Did they fuck you raw?” He rasps out, the storm inside him instantly calming down as you eagerly shake your head.

“Good girl.” Your eyes roll back at the praise, shivering when the fat head glides through your swollen folds. “‘M gonna ruin you for anyone else, pretty girl.”

The tip catches on your hole, and your body instantly goes rigid.

“Big.” You gasp out with your eyes squeezed shut. 

Bucky simply chortles, cooing at your shaky breathing.

His hands soothe your hips, trailing up and down your sides absently as his eyes stay locked on your entrance perfectly stretching around his girth.

“You can take it.”

Bucky’s breath hitches as he forces himself to nudge his length gradually in, letting you savor every vein dragging along your sensitive walls, and allowing your body to adjust to the burning stretch. Your toes curl in bliss when you decide to focus on the sensation of being stuffed full, quietly taking a deep breath as his cock twitches softly inside you.

“Look how well you accepted me.” He grunts, a layer of presumption in his words as he draws back gently, fingers gripping the bunched up fabric at your waist to push back inside, his tip now bullying directly your sweet spot. 

You clench around him with a little whimper, relieved that Bucky uses his hands to keep you pinned on the windowsill as he gradually builds a steady rhythm with his hips. He fills you so wonderfully, burying his cock deep enough to make your vision blur. 

However, the sharp sound of your hand smacking against your mouth to stop the squeaks and moans from spilling out is a severe reminder of the unusual silent afternoon.

“It’d be enough for our neighbors to take a peek outside of their window, and they’d catch you like this, whimpering around a fat cock like the little slut that you are.”

You gasp, flinching when his fingers start working over your clit, firmly but not too fast—just how you like it.

“Some of them could be watching right now.” He taunts you in your ear, his other hand harshly squeezing your breast, before yanking the front of your dress down as if the fabric just offended him and his whole family. 

Your pussy makes a squelching, humiliating sound as more slick gushes out at his teases, promptly met by his mocking laugh. “Yeah? You like that? I knew my sweet girl likes to be watched.”

You nod again, drooling at the way his abraded fingers tug and flick your nipples, the stimulation so different from your smooth hands. Bucky’s palms are weathered and callused from his job—he’s always been a little gruff, so there’s nothing gentle about the way he cups your tits while thrusting into your pussy.

It’s primal and fast, overwhelming enough that you sob, loud and breathless and so, so close.

“Feeling good, hm?” His voice drops to a low rasp, chest heaving as fast as yours, even if he keeps up his arrogant facade. “My pretty dirty slut who likes to show everyone how good I make her feel. Jus’ need a thick cock inside her and she’s gushing like a little fountain.” He snickers.

Your entire body locks in at his dirty words, spine arching and hips rolling back, frantic and needy and utterly soaked. You’re pretty sure the mix of soppy sounds of his cock fucking you, and the slapping of your flesh meeting resonates loud and clear across his front lawn.

“Yes yes yes!” You mumble deliriously into your arms. “Right there, Bucky.”

He groans against your neck, sucking and nibbling the sensitive skin.

“Gonna come, oh God, please please don’t stop.” You whimper.

“Fucking hell.” He chokes at a particular hard thrust that makes you tighten. “Sweetheart, if you keep clenching like that I’ll make you leak for days—”

“Please!” You blabber louder, completely forgetting about the fact that you’re getting fucked raw for anyone to see. 

Your eyes roll into oblivion as your climax washes over you, violent and endless. You shatter with a cry of his name, body trembling as each wave of bliss has your hips desperately twitch in his hold.

“That’s it,” he draws out. “That’s it, she’s tightening so good around me. Now it’s my turn, gonna fill you up so good you’re gonna feel me for days.” His fingers are insistent on your clit, making sure to prolong your climax.

“You’ve been so fucking good for me. Keeping your curtains open so I could empty my balls to the sight of these pretty tits…” He keeps rambling, panting against your cheek.

“She’s all full now, hm?” He grits through clenched teeth as you nod eagerly. “But I wanna see her drool, my dumb baby too full of me to keep it inside.”

“Bucky…” You mumble lightheaded. “Gonna come again.”

“Yeah?” His smile is depraved. “Creaming my cock once wasn’t enough? Need to mark what’s yours, babygirl?”

“Yes!” You wail out, falling over the edge for a third time. Your eyes cross as you sob out a string of breathy whines, still clenching, still gushing around him.

This particular orgasm is so powerful that your head starts spinning.

“I’m coming too, baby. Shit—” He groans, loud and broken. His cock throbs, spurting rope after rope of warm cum, his fingers digging into the skin of your waist painfully as he keeps thrusting into your warmth until he is flinching out of sensitivity.

You are grateful for his possessive hold on your body since your legs seem to be too weak to fully support you. Meanwhile, Bucky is still trying to catch his breath against your nape, careful to not put all his weight on you, even if his muscles are starting to hurt because of the strain.

Maybe you were right…. maybe he really did get a cramp.

When Bucky slides out, you let out a pitiful whimper at the loss, pulling a chuckle full of mirth out of him as he carefully helps you in an upright position. Who knows how long you’ve been bent over, too lost in his touch, his words, his cock, to acknowledge your sore joints.

A sharp sting prickles, indeed, your lower back, yet you couldn’t be more satisfied—another reminder of how thoroughly you just got fucked.

“Took me so well, sweetheart.” He mutters, turning you around and letting you collapse against him despite his own exhaustion.

He hums into the soft kiss on your forehead, before his fingers gently cup your chin to press a peck on your lips. Sighing content, his eyes close, allowing his lips to gently ghost over your temple.

“Finally mine.”

The months of stolen glances and burning, unspoken desire have finally paid off. Now it’s just you, Bucky, and no stupid dating app in between.

Still... sometimes you sit right in front of your window, legs spread and eyes fixed on him while your boyfriend sits in his own chair as he strokes his cock to your fingers fucking your pussy. Occasionally, it’s some hefty dildo, or a small vibrator pressed against your clit that is powerful enough to make your eyes roll back.

And although this little game of yours never fails to end with Bucky almost ramming your front door to get to you, his pants shamelessly unbuttoned as he crosses his driveway... Well, it’s not nearly as satisfying as doing it together.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🩶 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

Austin, Texas. Summer heat hangs thick enough to stir with a spoon, wrapping around the city in warm, golden haze. The air smells like mesquite smoke, cut grass, and the faint, sweet tang of wildflowers along the river. Down on South Lamar, there’s a honky-tonk with peeling paint and a porch strung with fairy lights, where the music runs from late afternoon until the sun comes back up.

That’s where you first saw him.

Bucky Barnes leans against the wooden bar like he belongs there — broad shoulders draped in a worn denim jacket, faded blue jeans tucked into scuffed leather boots, a silver belt buckle catching the light. His dark hair is a little longer than he keeps it in the city, falling loose around his jaw, and a faint stubble lines his cheeks. One hand wraps around a glass of whiskey, the other rests easy on the bar, the metal glint of his prosthetic catching the glow of the neon sign outside.

He doesn’t look like he’s looking for anyone. He looks like he’s just passing through, like he could mount his horse and ride out before the moon even reaches its peak.

You slide onto the stool two down from him, heart picking up a little speed. “Bartender,” you call, “another round for the gentleman.”

Bucky doesn’t turn his head right away. He takes a slow sip, sets the glass down with a soft clink, and only then glances over. His eyes are that bright, stormy blue — sharp, guarded, like he’s spent years learning not to let anyone get too close.

“Didn’t ask for one,” he says, voice low and rough, thick with that quiet drawl he’s picked up since settling out here.

You grin, undeterred. “I know. But I figured you wouldn’t say no to something good.”

He studies you for a long moment, like he’s deciding if you’re worth the trouble. Then he nods once, just a flick of his chin. “Thanks.”

It’s the barest acknowledgment, but you’ll take it.

That’s how it starts.

Every evening, you show up at the same time. Every evening, you buy him his drink — straight bourbon, no ice, just the way he likes it. And every evening, he plays it cool.

He’ll answer your questions with one or two words, never more than necessary. If you lean in to talk, he’ll lean back just enough to put space between you. If you laugh at something he says, he’ll give you that half-smile — the one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes — and then look away, like he’s scared letting you in too far will only end badly.

“Y’know,” you say one night, resting your elbow on the bar, “you’re making me work awful hard just to get you to say more than three sentences.”

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “That so?”

“Mhm. I buy you a drink every night. I listen to you complain about the dust, the heat, the way the horses act up when storms roll in. And still… you act like I’m gonna disappear if you look at me too long.”

His jaw tightens, just a little. Old habits, old fears — they run deep in him. “Not used to people sticking around,” he admits, so quiet you almost miss it over the fiddle music.

“Well, get used to it,” you say firmly. “I don’t quit easy.”

For a week, it stays exactly like that.

You work for every little inch. You get him to tell you about the ranch he helps run outside town, about the way the sky turns pink and orange before dawn, about how he still struggles sometimes to trust his own hands, let alone anyone else’s. He’ll give you a crumb of information, then pull back like he’s afraid he’s said too much.

You buy him another drink. You stay a little later. You laugh a little louder, and you don’t push too hard — just keep showing him you’re there, no strings attached.

Then one night, something shifts.

The band plays a slow, swaying tune — soft, warm, carrying that same sweet, longing feel of Mexico Honey — and the crowd thins out, leaving just a few folks lingering near the stage. You slide his usual glass across the bar, and this time, instead of just nodding, he catches your wrist gently before you can pull away.

His fingers — warm, calloused, even the metal one feels careful against your skin — rest light enough that you could pull free if you wanted. But you don’t.

“You know why I’m hard to get?” he asks, voice softer now, no sharp edge left.

You shake your head. “Tell me.”

“‘Cause if I let someone in… and then they leave?” He looks down at your joined hands, then lifts his gaze to yours, and this time his eyes are open, vulnerable. “Hurts more than any wound I’ve ever had. So I make ’em earn it. Make sure they’re not just passing through.”

Your heart swells, slow and steady. “And have I earned it yet?”

A real smile tugs at his mouth — wide, warm, the kind that lights up his whole face. “You’re getting there. You’ve been buying my drinks, listening to my nonsense, putting up with my grumpy self… you’ve put in the work.”

He leans in now, closing the distance he’s kept for so long. The scent of pine, leather, and whiskey wraps around you. His thumb brushes lightly over your pulse, and his voice drops to a murmur.

“Mexico honey,” he says, using the phrase you’ve hummed under your breath around him more than once, “you worked for every inch. And I ain’t gonna make you work no more.”

He lifts his glass, taps it gently against yours. “From here on out? The drinks are on me. And so’s whatever else you want.”

When you lean in to rest your shoulder against his, he doesn’t pull back. He wraps his arm around your waist, pulls you close, and lets you settle against him — no walls, no distance, no playing hard to get anymore.

The song drifts on, slow and sweet, and outside the Texas night stretches wide and open. He still has his guard up, a little — old habits die hard — but now he’s letting you help him lower it, one quiet moment at a time.

You earned every bit of it. And he’s more than happy to give you everything he has.

Mexico Honey

Chapter 2: Under the Texas Stars

The ride out of Austin starts just after midnight, the city lights fading behind you like embers blowing off a fire. Bucky leads the way, his big chestnut gelding stepping sure and steady over dirt roads dusted with limestone. You follow close behind, the warm night air brushing your cheeks, carrying the scent of sagebrush and wild clover.

For miles, there’s nothing but open sky — deep, ink-black, streaked with more stars than you ever see in town. Every now and then, Bucky glances back over his shoulder, checking you’re still there, and when he catches your eye, he gives you that new, softer smile — no more holding back, no more walls.

“Almost there,” he calls, his voice clear over the rustle of grass. “Hope you don’t mind a little rough around the edges.”

“I don’t mind one bit,” you call back. “I like things real.”

Ten minutes later, the ranch comes into view: a weathered two-story cabin with a wide porch, a tin roof glinting pale silver under the moon, and a corral stretching out to the left. Beyond it, fields roll all the way to the tree line. He pulls up at the gate and swings down easily, boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. He ties his horse, then comes over to help you dismount, his hands firm and warm around your waist as he lowers you gently.

“Welcome home,” he says quietly.

You walk together toward the cabin, the horses trailing behind you as if they know the path by heart. Once inside, he lights an oil lamp, and golden light spills over hardwood floors, a stone fireplace, and walls lined with old saddles, ropes, and framed photos. It’s simple, lived-in — all him.

You turn to face him, and the air feels different here — quieter, closer. He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, watching you, his blue eyes dark and open now.

“Took a long time to let anyone bring me out here,” he admits, voice low. “Never thought I’d want anyone to see this place, or see me like this.”

You step closer, closing the last little bit of space he used to keep. “You made me work for every step, remember?” You smile softly. “I’m not going anywhere now.”

His breath catches, just a little. Then he reaches up, brushing a strand of hair back from your face — his flesh hand first, then the cool, gentle press of his metal fingers along your jaw. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You earned every part of it.”

He leans in slow, giving you every chance to pull away, but you meet him halfway. The kiss is warm and slow, tasting of whiskey and the sweet, open air of the ranch — careful at first, then deeper, like he’s been waiting a long time to let himself have this. His arms wrap tight around you, pulling you flush against his chest, and you can feel how solid he is, how all that guarded tension finally melts away.

When you both pull back, breathless, his forehead rests against yours. “You sure about this?” he asks, quiet but earnest. “Once I let you in… I ain’t gonna let you go.”

“Positive,” you whisper.

A soft, grateful smile spreads across his face. Then he bends, slips one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, and lifts you easily into his arms — strong, steady, no hesitation. You loop your arms around his neck, resting your head against his shoulder as he carries you down the short hall to his bedroom.

He sets you gently on the bed, then sits beside you, brushing your hair back again. Outside, the horses shift in the yard, crickets hum, and the night stretches peaceful and endless.

“From here on out,” he says, his thumb tracing slow circles over your cheek, “you don’t have to work for anything. You just have to stay.”

You pull him down to lie beside you, and he holds you close, his body warm and solid against yours, no more distance, no more playing hard to get. He’s all yours — finally, fully, and for good.

Mexico Honey

Chapter 3: No More Holding Back

The mattress dips as Bucky leans over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other resting light but firm on your hip. The lamplight gilds the edges of his frame—broad shoulders, the faint lines of his muscles, the glint of his metal arm catching the soft glow. His hair falls forward, framing his face, and his eyes are dark and burning, all that careful reserve completely gone now.

“You sure you want this, honey?” he murmurs, voice thick and rough, lips brushing your jaw. “Once I start, I ain’t gonna be gentle right away—not after making myself wait this long.”

“Please, Bucky,” you whisper, hands already sliding up his chest, feeling the heat and strength beneath his shirt. “I want all of you.”

A low, hungry sound rumbles in his throat. He shifts his weight, settling fully between your legs, pressing his body close enough you can feel every hard line of him. His mouth crashes down on yours—deep, demanding, claiming the kiss like he’s been starved for it. His tongue slides against yours, slow and heated, and you arch up into him, fingers tangling in his hair to pull him even closer.

He trails kisses down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin until you gasp, leaving dark, blooming marks that will stay there long after the night ends—marks to show you’re his.

“Look so pretty like this,” he growls against your throat, one hand starting to fumble with the buttons of your shirt. “Worked so hard to get here… gonna make sure you know it was worth every second.”

He yanks your shirt open, lips moving lower over your chest, his calloused hands and cool metal fingers roaming over your skin, making you shiver. You help him push your clothes off, kicking them aside, and he sits back just long enough to rip his own shirt over his head, then work his jeans down, his movements sharp and eager.

Before you can fully take him in, he reaches over to the wooden nightstand, yanks the drawer open, and pulls out a foil packet. He tears it open with his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours as he rolls the condom on slow and deliberate. Your breath catches when you see him—thick, long, and bigger than anything you’ve ever felt before. Your pulse spikes, half anticipation, half nervousness.

Bucky notices the flicker in your gaze, and he leans back over you again, brushing your hair back. “Easy now, baby,” he soothes, his voice dropping to a purr, rough and sweet all at once. “I know I’m big. Gonna go slow, let you take me. You can do it—you’re tougher than you think.”

He lines himself up, rubbing the head gently through your folds to wet you, making you moan and arch into the touch. When he starts to press in, you feel the stretch immediately—sharp and intense, enough to make your breath catch and your nails dig into his shoulders.

“Bucky… so much…” you gasp, head falling back.

“I know, honey, I know,” he groans, holding still, letting you adjust. “So tight around me—feels like heaven. Just breathe for me. That’s it… relax, let me in. You’re doing so good, so perfect for me.”

He kisses away the little sounds of discomfort, his mouth soft against yours while he whispers constant praise. “Look at you—taking me already. So good for your cowboy. No one else gets to have you like this, only me. You feel how deep I am? How well I fit?”

Little by little, the sharp burn melts into something warmer, something that makes you ache for more. You tilt your hips up, silently asking him to move, and he rewards you with a low, satisfied growl.

“There we go,” he purrs, starting to roll his hips slow and deep, hitting places no one ever had before. “That’s my girl. Taking every inch like you were made for it. Feel me? All of me inside you… no more walls, no more games. Just us.”

His pace builds—slow, then harder, deeper, each stroke dragging a moan from your throat. He bites and sucks new love bites along your collarbone and shoulders, marking you over and over, while his dirty words fill the quiet room.

“Sounds so sweet when you moan my name,” he grunts, hips snapping harder. “Gonna make you come so hard you forget every other man who ever touched you. Only I can give you this much, baby. Only I can make you feel this good.”

“Bucky—yes—don’t stop,” you cry out, wrapping your legs tight around his waist, pulling him as close as physically possible. The stretch has turned into overwhelming pleasure, every movement sending sparks up your spine.

“Fuck—you feel incredible,” he breathes, his own voice breaking, forehead pressed to yours. “So warm, so wet, so mine. You earned every bit of this, honey. Every stroke, every kiss, every sound you make. I’m never gonna let you go now.”

He kisses you deeply, swallowing your moans as he drives into you with steady, deep rhythm, his praise and dirty talk never stopping, making every second feel hotter, more intimate, more perfect. Outside, the Texas night stays quiet, but inside the cabin, there’s only the sound of skin meeting skin, heavy breathing, and two people finally letting go completely.

Mexico Honey

Chapter 4: Too Good to Stop

The slow, careful pace he started with didn’t last long—not once he felt you relax fully around him, not once you started begging for more. Something in him snapped, that last thread of restraint finally fraying away, and he drove into you harder, deeper, every thrust sharp and claiming, like he wanted to bury himself so far inside you you’d never forget it.

“Atta girl—take it,” he grunts, voice rough and broken, one hand gripping your hip so tight you know there’ll be fingerprints tomorrow, the other fisting into the sheets beside your head. “Told you I wasn’t gonna hold back anymore. You wanted every inch? You’re gonna get every damn inch.”

You were already a mess—eyes glassy, cheeks flushed bright, lips swollen and red from his kisses. Your moans had turned into high, keening cries, your body trembling nonstop as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. He’d already made you come three times, four, lost count of how many times your muscles clamped down around him so hard he had to bite back his own groan.

“Look at you—so sensitive, so perfect,” he growls, his thumb finding that little bundle of nerves and pressing down hard, circling fast and firm. “Can’t take it, can you? But you’re gonna give me more. Gonna give me everything you’ve got.”

It only took a few strokes of his hips and that relentless pressure from his thumb before you were crying out, back arching clear off the mattress, your whole body tensing up as hot, wet release flooded out—again and again, spilling over his hand, down his thighs, soaking the sheets beneath you both.

“Fuck—there it is,” he roars, watching you fall apart with dark, hungry eyes. “That’s my good girl. Squirt for me, honey—let it all go. Give me every last drop.”

He didn’t slow down. If anything, he drove harder, his hips snapping against yours with a deep, heavy rhythm that shook the bed frame. The sheets were soaked clear through, sticking to your skin and his, the air thick with the smell of sweat and sex and the sweet, earthy scent of him. You were both slick and glistening, every movement making wet, slick sounds that only made him growl louder and you cry harder.

Your legs shook uncontrollably around his waist, your nails raking down his back, leaving bright red marks in their wake. It felt too much—so much pleasure it bordered on overwhelming, every nerve ending alight and screaming.

“Bucky—too much,” you sobbed, tears spilling hot down your temples, your voice cracking. “I can’t—can’t take any more… gonna pass out… I swear I’m gonna pass out…”

Your words came out in broken, breathless mumbles, nothing but gasps and sobs and repeated, frantic curses.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—”

You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you anchored, arms locked tight around his neck, fingers tangling so hard in his hair you must’ve been pulling, but he only groaned louder and drove deeper, his mouth latching onto your neck to suck another bruising mark right over your pulse.

“Almost there, baby—just a little more,” he rasped, his own hips stuttering, his rhythm turning wild and desperate. “You can take it—you’re so strong. Look how good you feel… squeezing me so tight… milking me like you were made for this. You wanted me to stop playing hard to get? This is what you get—all of me, over and over till you can’t remember your own name.”

He kissed the tears off your cheeks, biting gently at your lower lip, his words mixing with praise and filthy promises, all while you trembled beneath him, completely unraveled, soaked and spent and so full of him you didn’t know where you ended and he began.

“Say it again,” he demanded, thrusting harder still. “Tell me who makes you feel this good. Tell me you’re mine.”

“Yours—only yours!” you wailed, another blinding peak crashing over you so hard your vision went white, your body convulsing as you came apart once more, gushing around him and soaking the sheets even further. “Fuck—fuck—Bucky—I can’t—can’t—”

Your head fell back limp against the pillow, limbs going heavy and loose, your sobs turning into soft, whimpering breaths, every muscle exhausted. You were half-delirious, barely able to keep your eyes open, already teetering right on the edge of passing out from the intensity of it all.

And even as he felt you start to drift, he kept moving, slow and deep now, drawing out every last bit of pleasure, until with a guttural, broken shout of your name, he finally followed you over the edge, pouring himself into the condom, his whole body shaking as he pressed himself as deep as he could go, holding you tight against him like he’d never let go.

Mexico Honey

Chapter 5: Spent and Sated

The world felt soft and blurry around you, your chest heaving with ragged, shallow breaths, every inch of your skin still buzzing like live wire. You trembled uncontrollably beneath him—thighs shaking, knees still bent and spread wide, too weak to even try to close them. Your whole body felt loose, heavy, melted into the soaked sheets, and he was still there, still buried deep inside you, not pulling away even as the sharpest peaks faded into warm, throbbing fullness.

His hips gave slow, lazy, little pushes against yours—not hard thrusts anymore, just deep, gentle rolls, pressing himself as far in as he could go, like he wanted to stay connected to you for as long as possible. Every small shift sent faint, jolting ripples through your oversensitive nerves, making you gasp and twitch beneath him.

“Easy, baby… easy,” he murmured, voice thick and rough, still breathless, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His arms bracketed you, holding you secure, one hand splayed wide across your back to keep you pressed tight to him. “Got you… I got you. You did so good… so perfect for me.”

You kept making those tiny, broken sounds—half whimper, half sigh—your fingers still tangled in his hair, nails dragging lightly down his damp shoulders. Every time he shifted, you’d jolt, a soft “fuck…” or “Bucky…” slipping past your swollen lips, your body still fluttering and clenching weakly around him even when you were too tired to think straight.

“Still feel me, huh?” he whispered, his lips brushing the marks he’d left all over your throat and collarbone, kissing each bruise like he was soothing them even as he left more. “Still squeezing me like you don’t wanna let go either. Soaking wet… we’re both soaked right through, honey. Bed’s a mess… and I don’t regret a single second of it.”

He lifted his head just enough to look down at you—his blue eyes dark and warm, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed, sweat beading along his jaw and chest. He brushed damp strands of hair off your forehead, his metal hand cool and gentle against your overheated skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his flesh palm cupping your cheek.

“You were a mess for me,” he said, half-smiling, pride and affection thick in his tone. “Sobbing, begging, coming so hard you couldn’t see straight… and you still took every last bit I gave you. My tough girl… worked so hard to get here, and now you’re never gonna have to ask for anything again.”

He rolled his hips once more, slow and deep, making your breath catch again, your legs quaking harder. “Still full of me… gonna feel me for days. Gonna walk a little sore tomorrow, and you’ll remember exactly who gave it to you.”

Your voice came out thin and wobbly, barely more than a murmur. “Still… still so much… feels like you’re never gonna leave…”

“Not for a while,” he promised, kissing you slow and deep—soft this time, no bite, just warmth. “Just gonna stay right here. Keep you close. Let you come down easy. You’re safe… you’re mine.”

He settled his weight gently on top of you, supporting most of it on his elbows so he wouldn’t crush you, but keeping himself pressed deep, his hips still resting snug against yours. Your trembling slowly eased into a soft, steady shiver, your breathing slowing, your eyes fluttering shut as exhaustion finally pulled at you, safe and warm and completely, utterly satisfied.

Chapter 5: After the Storm

After a long, quiet stretch of just holding you, his breathing finally steadies, and he gives your hip a soft, tender squeeze. Slowly, carefully, he eases his hips back—pulling out inch by slow inch, and you both sigh at the gentle drag as he leaves you empty but still warm and throbbing.

Your eyes flutter open, and your gaze drops instinctively. There, in the clear tip of the condom, is a thick, heavy amount of release, more than you’d ever seen before. You blink, half-dazed, and a low, rumbling laugh bubbles up in his chest when he follows your line of sight.

“Guess I made up for lost time, huh?” he murmurs, a faint, sheepish grin tugging at his swollen lips. “Been a long while since I let myself have this—let myself have you. No wonder it feels like so much.”

He carefully slides the condom off, ties it neatly, and tosses it into the small wastebasket by the nightstand. Then he leans over, grabbing a clean cloth and the pitcher of cool water he keeps on the shelf. He dampens the cloth, wrings it out, and settles beside you again, his touch turning impossibly gentle now—nothing like the rough, demanding pace from minutes before.

“Easy now, honey,” he soothes, wiping softly between your legs, cleaning away the mess of sweat and release, his movements slow and careful so he doesn’t irritate your already oversensitive skin. He brushes the cloth over your thighs, your hips, every spot he’d marked and touched, then cleans his own skin before tossing the cloth aside.

When he’s done, he yanks the soaked top sheet off the bed and tosses it to the floor, pulling a fresh, dry blanket up over both of you. He shifts to lie fully on his side, then pulls you right against his chest, tucking your head under his chin and wrapping both arms—warm flesh and cool metal—firmly around your waist.

“Comfortable?” he asks, his voice already thick with sleep, lips brushing the top of your head.

You just hum, already melting into him, your legs tangling with his, your hand resting flat over his heart. The room smells like pine, leather, and the sweet, heady scent of what you just shared. Outside, the crickets hum, and the horses shift softly in the corral, the Texas night quiet and still.

“Told you,” he mumbles drowsily, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, “once you earned your way in… I ain’t ever letting you go.”

Within minutes, his breathing deepens and evens out, his hold staying steady and secure. You drift off right beside him—sore, sated, completely spent, and safer than you’ve ever felt in your life. No more games, no more walls, no more making you work for every inch. He’s all yours, and you’re all his.

Mexico Honey

Chapter 6: Morning on the Ranch

You wake slowly, sunlight already spilling through the gaps in the cabin curtains, warm and golden across the sheets. The bed feels big and empty beside you—cool, no solid weight pressed against your back, no arm draped over your waist. Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you sit up, and a soft smile tugs at your lips when you realize what you’re wearing: Bucky’s faded flannel shirt, hanging loose and oversized on you, the hem falling halfway down your thighs, still carrying his scent of pine, leather, and whiskey.

You swing your legs over the edge and pad barefoot across the hardwood floor, moving quiet through the quiet house. You check the kitchen—empty. The living room, the porch—still no sign of him. You wander toward the back door, and that’s when you hear it: the soft nickering of horses and the low, familiar rumble of his voice.

Pushing the screen door open, you lean against the frame, arms crossed over your chest, and your heart gives a little flutter.

Bucky stands in the corral, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, holding a bucket of feed. His dark hair is messy from sleep, his jaw dusted with stubble, and he moves easy and sure between the animals—his big chestnut stallion, and your mare, Sugar, right there beside him. He’s talking to them like they understand every word, stroking their necks and dropping handfuls of grain into their troughs.

He looks up then, and when his eyes land on you, his whole face lights up—that slow, warm smile that used to be so hard to earn now coming freely, bright and open.

“Mornin’, honey,” he calls out, that soft Texas drawl thick and lazy in the early air. “Sleep good?”

“Good enough,” you call back, grinning. “Woke up and thought you’d ridden off without me.”

He laughs, a deep, rich sound, and sets the bucket down, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Not a chance. Got up early to take care of the herd… and found something I swear I never thought I’d see.”

He gestures toward the two horses, and his grin turns wicked, amused. “You’re never gonna believe what I walked out to ten minutes ago.”

You push off the doorframe and walk out into the sunshine, squinting a little. “What? Did they get into the hay again?”

“Better,” he says, shaking his head, still laughing. “Turns out it wasn’t just us two having a good time last night. Seems the horses decided to join in on the fun.”

Your steps stutter. You blink, confused for half a second—then your eyes dart between Sugar and his stallion, and your jaw drops clean open.

“What?”

You hurry over to the fence, leaning in to check on your mare, who just nickers softly and nuzzles your hand like nothing out of the ordinary happened. “Oh my GOD, Bucky—she’s never even been near a stallion before! Never had one, not once in her whole life!”

He leans against the fence beside you, shoulder brushing yours, that cocky, satisfied smile still tugging at his mouth. “Well,” he drawls, glancing down at you with those bright blue eyes, “she has now.”

He pauses, then leans in a little closer, voice dropping to a warm, teasing murmur that sends heat straight up your cheeks.

“And so have you.”

You gasp and swat lightly at his arm, but you can’t stop the wide, giddy smile spreading across your face. He catches your hand, brings it to his lips, and kisses your knuckles slow and sweet, while behind you, the horses munch away like nothing happened—two new pairs, perfectly matched, just like their owners.

Mexico Honey

Chapter 7: Worries and Reassurance

As the morning stretches into afternoon, that light, giddy feeling slowly fades, replaced by a tight, heavy knot in your chest. Every time you glance over at Sugar grazing quietly in the corral, your stomach twists. You’d bought her two years back—paid $12,500 cash for her, a well-bred, gentle mare you’d handpicked and raised like family. She wasn’t just a horse; she was yours, your pride, your comfort, practically your baby.

By mid-afternoon, you can’t stand it anymore. You find Bucky fixing a loose gate hinge, hammer in hand, and your voice comes out tight and anxious.

“Bucky… can you check her over? Properly? I know horses are tough, but I can’t stop worrying. I don’t want her hurt or sick or anything.”

He sets the hammer down immediately, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Sure thing, honey. Easy now—let’s take a look.”

He leads you both over to the corral, speaking soft and steady to Sugar as he runs his hands carefully over her legs, her belly, her flanks, checking her eyes, her breathing, her pulse. He lifts her tail gently, inspecting closely, then steps back with a slow, thoughtful shrug.

“Physically, she’s perfect,” he says honestly. “No swelling, no tenderness, no cuts or tears. Breathing’s steady, heart rate’s normal. Yeah… there’s still some residual semen, but that’s just how it goes. No sign of pain, no trauma, no fever. She’s calm, eating good, acting like herself. She’s fine.”

He turns to face you fully, and that’s when he sees it—your bottom lip trembling, eyes shiny and glistening, your whole face crumpling before you can stop it. Before you can even say a word, hot tears spill over and roll down your cheeks.

“Hey—hey, c’mere,” he murmurs, dropping any pretense and stepping straight to you. He pulls you tight against his chest, one arm wrapped firm around your back, the other cradling the back of your head, letting you bury your face in his shirt. “It’s okay… I got you.”

You sob into him, fingers clutching hard at his shoulders, voice breaking as the words come pouring out.

“She’s like my baby, Bucky… I love her so much. And she wasn’t cheap either—paid twelve thousand five hundred dollars for her, saved up for months to get her. If anything happened to her… I don’t know what I’d do. I just… I didn’t plan for this, didn’t know it would happen so fast… I’m scared I messed up somehow.”

He holds you through every shaky breath and every tear, rubbing slow, soothing circles up and down your back, his chest warm and solid against yours. When you start to quiet a little, he tilts your chin up gently, wiping the tears away with his thumbs—one warm, one cool—his expression soft and serious.

“Listen to me,” he says firmly but gently. “You didn’t mess up. Horses do this—it’s natural, not an accident that hurts her. She’s strong, she’s healthy, and she’s gonna be just fine. That price you paid? It bought you a solid, sound animal, and right now she’s proving exactly why she was worth every penny. She’s tough, just like you.”

He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, holding you close again.

“And if anything does come up later? We’ll call the vet first thing, pay whatever it takes, fix it together. You’re not doing this alone anymore—remember? You earned your spot here, and that means Sugar’s part of the deal too. She’s my girl now just as much as she’s yours.”

You rest your head back against his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart, the fear slowly melting away under his warmth. Outside, Sugar nickers softly, as if agreeing that everything really is alright.

Mexico Honey

Final Chapter: New Beginnings

Once Bucky calmed you down and assured you Sugar was healthy, you both made the same choice—no rushing to interfere, no unnecessary medications. Just let nature take its course.

“Whatever happens,” he told you that evening, sitting side by side on the porch swing, “we handle it together. If she’s not pregnant, no harm done. If she is? Then we raise that foal like it’s ours too.”

You nodded, resting your head on his shoulder, finally letting go of the worry. “Together,” you agreed.

Three and a half weeks later, Bucky came back from checking the horses with a slow, wide grin on his face. He wiped his boots on the step and held out his hands like he was bringing you the best news in the world.

“Got something to tell you,” he said, pulling you close. “Called the vet out this morning just to be sure. Sugar’s in perfect health… and she’s definitely pregnant.”

Your breath caught, and you laughed through happy tears, throwing your arms around his neck. “Really? She’s gonna have a baby?”

“Sure is,” he chuckled, lifting you right off your feet and spinning you around gently. “That old stallion of mine did his job good. And Sugar’s strong—she’ll carry it just fine.”

Over the next months, the ranch settled into a soft, steady rhythm. You and Bucky worked side by side: fixing fences, tending the pastures, and slowly turning one of the empty stalls into a safe, warm space for the new arrival. You stacked fresh hay, hung extra lanterns, and checked the water trough twice a day. Bucky taught you how to watch for signs of her progress, and together you’d sit on the fence for hours, just watching Sugar graze with her belly rounding out more each week.

One evening, as the sun painted the sky in pink and orange, you leaned against Bucky’s chest while he wrapped both arms around your waist. Sugar stood below, calm and content, her head resting near the stallion who’d fathered her foal.

“Look at us,” Bucky murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Came here chasing a stubborn cowboy who played hard to get… and now you’re helping me build something real. A home, a place to stay, and soon enough, a little one running around the pasture.”

You smiled, lacing your fingers through his. “You made me work for every inch to get here,” you teased softly. “But it was worth every single step.”

“Worth more than I ever thought I deserved,” he admitted, his voice quiet and warm. “No more walls, no more running. You, me, Sugar, that foal on the way… this is all I want.”

The wind carried the sweet scent of clover and dust across the Texas hills. Somewhere in the distance, a whip-poor-will called out, and the horses nickered softly to each other.

He turned you in his arms, brushing a strand of hair back from your face, his blue eyes bright and full of everything he no longer tried to hide.

“Mexico honey,” he whispered, using that name that had started it all, “you earned every part of this. And I’m gonna spend the rest of my days making sure you never have to work for a single thing again.”

The Rogers' backyard was, for all intents and purposes, the hottest wedding venue in town. 

At least if anyone asked nine-year-old you and 11-year-old Bucky, as much was true. 

The cracked sidewalk leading to the clothesline was the aisle, peony and dandelion flower beds were the decorations. The old apple tree was the altar at which Steve stood taller on an upside down wooden crate, one of your father's old dress shirts over his shoulders to pretend he was a preist, or a pope, or some sort of higher entity able to witness this whole thing. 

Bucky had one of your dad's suit jackets on, the navy fabric completely swallowing his frame, overlapping at the front and masking the Yankees jersey he had on, and all the dirt and grass stains on it. 

You had a pillowcase that definitely needed to be in the hamper for laundry day pinned to your hair with your favorite hair clips, of a little crystal blue butterfly. 

"Everybody be quiet," Steve announced, nose high up in the air like he was presenting a case to the Supreme Court. "This is serious business."

"It is serious business," you agreed immediately, failing to bite back a grin, missing your top right canine tooth.

One that Bucky held your hand the whole time so you'd let Steve run away with the string and pull it out. 

"We are gathered here today because Bucky and my sister wanted to play wedding instead of baseball."

"You said you'd play too!" you accused. 

Steve ignored and just kept going. "Now, Bucky Barnes." He cleared his throat, trying to make his voice lower. "Do you promise to be nice to her forever, always save her a seat to watch fireworks on my birthday, and never eat the last s'more?"

Bucky rolled his eyes, his dimple coming out as he smiled wth the side of his mouth. "Yeah," he said simply. "I promise."

You raised your brow, mock-scolding him. "You're supposed to say I do."

"Okay, yes," Your heart did an odd flip. "I do."

Steve then turned to you next. "And do you promise to be nice to Bucky forever, not tell Mrs. Barnes when he sneaks cookies before dinner, and always let him have the red Popsicle if there's only one left?"

"But they're the best ones!" You whined. 

Steve sighed, ever the dramatic, looking at Bucky with fake sorrow. "Okay, then I guess you don't love him as much as—"

That set panic in your little heart. "I do! I do!" His face changed immediately, and Bucky smiled at you. 

The kind of smile that always made you feel like maybe the sun shined a little brighter on your side of the street than everybody else's.

Steve smiled, as if everything was back on track. "Now, for the rings."

Bucky dug into his pocket and produced two dandelions he'd twisted into little circles. Your eyes widened. "You made those?"

He nodded, brown hair bouncing up and down his head with the gesture. "Took me forever, but they're your favorites."

He held one carefully between his fingers before sliding it onto yours with all the concentration in the world.

"You made me a flower ring." Your grin stretched so wide your cheeks hurt.

Bucky shrugged. "Yeah."

Steve interrupted your thoughts, "Okay, okay. By the power in this vest… or in me, whatever they say in movies, you are now married." He pointed at Bucky. "No cooties." Then at you. "And don't make him play tea party every day."

Your stomach did that weird fluttery thing it always did around Bucky Barnes. It did the same thing when you rode rollercoasters, felt like it was gonna fly away and take you with it. 

"You may now high-five the bride." Steve announced, stepping down from the crate. 

Bucky extended his pinky towards you, "We'll be best friends forever."

"No take-backs." You smiled, wrapping your pinky around his.

TEN YEARS LATER

As time passed, you grew up. You got new interests, all of you got new friends, and the found family you had just seemed to get bigger. Of course, you weren't as close with Bucky anymore, no college sophomore wants to hang out constantly with his best friend's kid sister.

It's kind of uncool.

The house was loud in that familiar, comfortable way—the kind of loud that doesn’t feel chaotic so much as lived-in. Every sound has a place. Every voice belongs. Bucky, as much as he isn't family by blood, grew up running up and down these stairs the same you and Steve did, as Steve did in his house. 

Both of your moms were best friends since diapers, and it was only fate that Bucky and Steve were too. 

The kitchen doorway had his height and age and name scratched on it just the same as it did yours, he knew that house in the dark just as much as Steve, trying to sneak around to get snacks during late nights playing video games. 

Controller clicks. Steve muttering under his breath. Bucky’s low laugh every time he wins—because of course he’s winning.

“Dude, you’re cheating,” Steve groans, tossing his controller down for a second.

“I’m just better than you,” Bucky shoots back easily, stretched out on the couch like he owns the place, long legs kicked up, completely at home.

He always is.

Him and Steve drove back home from their Sophomore college parties for your graduation weekend, still half-running on energy drinks and bad decisions from the night before, which just happened to fall in the same one as your prom, only separated by three days. 

They could hear your speaker booming in your bathroom while you got ready with your two best friends, Yelena and Kate, and Natasha, Steve's girlfriend, helped you with your makeup. 

It was a mix of Megan Thee Stallion playing and giggles coming from the three of you, your two best friends gushing over their dates.

Makeup scattered across the counter. Curling iron plugged in and dangerously close to knocking something over. Dresses half-hanging, half-draped over the shower rod.

And Natasha’s laugh, warmer, older, threaded through all of it as she tried to keep things somewhat under control.

Kate is perched on the edge of the tub, kicking her heels against the porcelain. Yelena is leaning into the mirror, fixing her lip gloss with unnecessary intensity.

And you—

You’re standing between them, half-finished, dress still unzipped, hair clipped up, trying to decide if you feel as good as you’re supposed to.

“Okay, no—seriously,” Kate says, pointing at you like she’s making a case in court. “John is going to lose his mind.”

Yelena hums in agreement. “He already looks at you like he has no thoughts.”

You laugh, a little breathy. “That’s not even true.”

“It is completely true,” Kate insists.

“You’re just saying that.”

“We are not just saying that,” Yelena shoots back.

Natasha, standing behind you, gently brushes powder along your cheek, more focused than the rest of them—but she’s listening. And she notices there's a sparkle in your eye that's missing when John's the subject. 

He's nice, he's good looking, he's captain of your football team, maybe he has some anger issues with other guys, but all in all he's a solid boyfriend. He's just not—

“Alright,” Natasha says finally, pulling you from your thoughts, lightening her tone again. “Turn around. Let me see the full thing.”

You do as she asks, and she takes in her work of art, your hopeful eyes, and the soft blownout curls of your hair framing your face. 

"Perfect!"

Careful with your steps as she reaches for the zipper, pulling it up your back slowly, sealing you into the dress, into the night, into everything that’s supposed to happen.

A knock sounds on the bathroom door. "You girls alive in there?" Steve calls. "Or did the hairspray fumes get you?"

"We're decent!" Natasha calls back.

Steve pokes his head in for a second. "Oh."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

His expression shifts immediately into something resembling offense. "What happened to my little sister?"

"Oh my God." You snorted. 

Steve's broad frame now came into full view in the tiny bathroom as he stood on the dorway. "Who is this grown woman and where did she put the gremlin that used to steal my fries?"

You rolled you eyes. "I'll still steal your fries."

He shakes his head. "You look beautiful, Bug."

Your expression softens. "Thanks, Stevie."

As Pietro and Bob scrolled their phones impatiently at the bottom of the stairs, making small talk with Steve and Bucky, you were almost wearing a path into the carpeted floor of your bedroom.

Seconds after he was supposed to arrive with the other two, he texted you some shitty excuse as to why he was taking Olivia, his ex, to prom instead. 

“I was gonna explain,” John says finally, like that makes it better.

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Explain what? That you’re ditching me the night of prom?”

“I’m not ditching you,” he says quickly, defensive already. “It’s just—Olivia asked me to go with her and it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” you repeat, your grip tightening around your phone. “John, it’s prom. We’ve had this planned for weeks.”

“I know, I know,” he says, exhaling like you’re the one making this difficult. “But she’s going through stuff right now and I don’t wanna make things worse.”

Your chest tightens. “So you thought canceling on me last minute wouldn’t make things worse?”

“That’s not what I said.”

You huffed. “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

He goes quiet again for a second, and you can practically hear him thinking—calculating—trying to figure out how to spin it in a way that makes him look less like the bad guy.

“Look,” he says finally, voice shifting into something more controlled, “you’re gonna have fun no matter what. You’ve got your friends, it’s not like you’ll be alone.”

The words hit harder than anything else he’s said.

Because they’re so easy for him. So dismissive.

“So that’s it?” you ask, quieter now, but it wavers anyway. “You just—drop me and go with her, and I’m supposed to be fine with that?”

“I’m not dropping you,” he insists again, frustration creeping in. “It’s one night.”

“It’s prom,” you snap, the word catching in your throat. “It’s not just some random thing, John.”

“Why are you making this such a big deal?” he shoots back.

That’s what does it.

Your eyes sting, tears blurring your vision as you shake your head even though he can’t see it. “I’m making it a big deal?” you echo. “You’re the one who decided, what, an hour before we’re supposed to leave, that I don’t matter as much as your ex?”

“It’s not like that,” he says, sharper now. “You’re twisting it.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” you say, your voice breaking despite your best effort to keep it steady. “You just told me exactly where I stand.”

He exhales, long and annoyed, like he’s already over the conversation. “You’re being dramatic. The words land like a slap. And for a second, you can’t even respond.

“Okay,” you say finally, and your voice is quieter now, but steadier in a way that feels final. “Okay. Go with her.”

“—See? That’s all I’m saying, it’s not that—”

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head again, even though he still can’t see you. “I get it now.”

There’s a shift on his end, like he didn’t expect that. “Wait—”

“Have fun at prom, John.”

And before he can say anything else, you hang up.

The silence that follows is immediate and heavy, pressing in around you as you stare at your reflection, your chest rising and falling too fast, your phone still clutched in your hand.

For a second, you just stand there. And then your face crumples, and the tears come before you can stop them. 

Great. You think. An hour of Natasha's hard work gone in two seconds. 

You ripped a couple squares of toiled paper off of the roll, trying to dab away the tears when a knock interrupted you. You didn't even have time to tell whoever it was to leave you alone, the door opened anyway. 

And of course it was Bucky. 

"Hey, Walker finally—" Then he saw your face. The red rimmed eyes, the puffy nose and lips, he'd recognize your crying face if he was in a dark room blindfolded and you were three states away. "What happened?"

His voice wasn't panicked our loud, just immediate. 

"Apparently my boyfriend had a better offer." You said with a humorless laugh, fiddling with the corner of the tissue. 

His expression then changed to confusion, then disbelief, then anger. "He did what?"

Your eyes stayed on the paper, humiliated. "He took his ex to prom instead." It sounds ridiculous out loud. Embarrassing. "I know it's stupid—"

He shook his head. "It's not stupid."

You shrugged one shoulder anyway. "It kind of is."

"It kind of isn't." Bucky insisted. 

Your laugh broke apart into another shaky breath. "He said I was being dramatic." Your voice was small, like a small part of you almost believed John. 

"No the fuck he didn't." Bucky's voice, on the contrary, sounded like he was about to make sure John was in three zipcodes at the same time.

You wiped at your face furiously. "Can we not do the whole protective older brother routine thing right now? Steve's probably already planning a felony downstairs."

Bucky nodded, as if agreeing that yes, Steve should be planning felonies. "Good."

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you. "Bucky."

"I'm serious." He took the couple steps needed to lean back against the sink, back to the mirror, while you faced it. The familiar weight of him beside you settled something in your chest. "You know what I think?" he asks.

You sniffled. "What?"

"I think he's an idiot."

You snort. "Very eloquent."

"You spent weeks excited about tonight." You shrug. "You talked about your dress for months." A smaller shrug, your head shaking like you agreed with him three weeks was a little excessive. "And some guy decides at the last second that he doesn't feel like showing up?"

His eyes looked for yours, and he continued once you met his gaze. "That's his loss." 

Downstairs someone was shouting something about finding the car keys. "I just feel stupid."

His brows furrowed immediatelly. "Why?"

"Because I was excited." The words came out smaller than you meant them to. "I really thought tonight was gonna be special."

Bucky's expression softens. "It still can be."

You laughed weakly. "My date literally dumped me an hour before prom."

"Okay." He says, like the solutions is obvious. Like a dragon staring you in the face. 

You were confused. "Okay?"

"Okay." He stands up straight. "Counterpoint." You raise an eyebrow. "I've seen enough terrible teen movies to know where this goes." Despite yourself, curiosity wins.

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yeah." He nodded, and started counting on his fingers. "Option one: you go with your friends and have an incredible time."

"Mm." An amused smile played on your lips. 

He continued. "Option two: Steve commits a crime."

You smiled widened. "Likely."

"Or a secret, better option three—"

You quirked a brow. "There are three options?"

Bucky rolled his eyes playfully. "There are always three options." You gestured for him to continue and he grinned. "Option three: some devastatingly handsome college sophomore heroically steps in and saves prom."

You stared at him in disbelief. "Bucky Barnes."

"What?" 

"You are not asking me to prom."

"Why not?"

"Because that's ridiculous." You stammered. "You're a college guy and it's gonna be a bunch of drunk high school seniors and—"

"Seems pretty straightforward to me."

You crossed your arms over your chest, the action making your breasts stand out more, and Bucky had to hold back from looking briefly. "You drove eight hours home from college."

"Correct."

"You haven't slept." Another excuse.

"Also correct."

Truth is… You didn't trust yourself not to ruin your friendship, and Steve's, with Bucky as your date. Yes it was a childhood crush, yes it was stupid, yes he only saw you as a little sister, but for some reason every time you smelled sandalwood and listened to divorced dad rock, your stomach did the same fucking thing it always did.

It flipped. 

"I'm serious." The grin on his face faded into something gentler. "You shouldn't miss your prom because some idiot couldn't see what was standing right in front of him."

Your throat tightens. "I don't want a pity Bucky Barnes date."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Bucky shook his head. "I want to go to a high school prom sleep deprived, listen to bad music, and drink shitty punch."

You pretended to think about it. "I want milkshake and fries from Juniper's after."

Bucky got down on his knees dramatically, clutching his hands together, play-begging. "Please, let me spend my hard earned student loans on a malted brownie shake for you, m'lady."

You signed, as if you weren't blushing seven shades of red at the moment, all hidden by Natasha's foundation. "I suppose."

After Nat talked Steve down from whatever Law Abiding Citizen crap he was gonna pull, Bucky borrowed one of your dad's suits while you touched up your makeup, and off into his jeep you went. 

Bucky lingered back as he watched you walk to the old car excitedly, Natasha stopping right beside him as your friends walked to their cars, watching you get twirled by Kate. 

Bucky noticed Natasha staring at him and raised a brow in question. "What?"

She gave a noncommittal noise. "Nothing."

"Romanoff." Bucky scoffed.

She put her hands up in surrender. "I didn't say anything."

"You've got the face."

Now it was her turn to raise a brow, trying to bite back a grin. "What face?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "The face where you've figured something out before everyone else."

Nat shrugged her shoulders. "I always figure something out before everyone, Bucky." Tapping him on the shoulder and turning arounfd to go inside. 

The prom commitee worked very hard to make sure the night looked exactly like every movie promised it would.

String lights draped from the ceiling of the gymnasium like stars somebody had caught and hung overhead. Balloons clustered in the corners. A photo booth occupied one wall. The basketball hoops had been disguised beneath enough tulle and fairy lights to fool almost everyone.

Turns out, getting ditched by John Walker was the best thing that ever happened to your prom night. You didn't even notice when Olivia was cryingin the bathroom because she caught him making out with someone else. 

No. 

You were too busy slow dancing with Bucky Barnes.

When the first chorus of the song came on, he held out his hand. "May I have this dance?"

You rolled your eyes. "You're such a dork."

"Tick tock, Rogers." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.

You took his hand as if it didn't make your fingers go numb with excitement, and Bucky quickly nestled a hand on your low back, your forehead to the side of his jaw. 

"You know," Bucky said after a minute, "this is definitely better than my prom when I was your age."

"Okay, grandpa." You laughed softly. "What happened at your senior prom?"

"My date spent forty-five minutes crying in the bathroom because her friend wore the same shoes she did."

You clicked your tongue. "That's tragic."

"It was devastating." Bucky agreed, nodding his head, laughing softly. 

You nudged his jaw. "I'll try to hold it together."

"I appreciate that."

A moment passed, then another, and you spoke up. "Thank you for doing this for me."

"Anytime." He let out a soft breath, leaning back the slightest bit so he could look at you. "You do look beautiful, I mean it."

Thank fuck for Natasha's foundation, powder, and concealer for hiding your flush. "Thank you, Bucky." Oh how you wished you hadn't looked into his pretty eyes, reflecting the lights off of the mirrorball back onto the dancefloor. 

The ten seconds seemed to stretch an entire decade. Somehow Bucky's face getting closer and closer to yours, eyes switching from your lips back to your eyes and to your lips again. 

Oh my God, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, he's gonna—

"Hey." The word cut through the moment like broken glass. Fucking John Walker. King of never in the history of the world reading anything. Specialy the fucking room. "Can we talk?"

Bucky's hand tightened around your waist, "What do you want, John? Olivia is probably looking for you."

"C'mon, baby, you're not gonna throw our relationship away over one bad call, are you?" He was seriously trying to play this off. "I made a mistake." His hand reached for you but you stepped away. 

"I'm not your baby."

He scoffed. "Aw, c'mon." And tried again. 

This time, Bucky got between you two. "She's done, Walker. Walk away."

Now John got… Defensive. "This isn't any of your business."

Bucky clicked his tongue. "She kind of is." The words slipped out before he could stop them.

The air stood still for a minute before the football bros came to get John, leaving you and Bucky with the weight of unsaid words and unspoken looks. 

Juniper's was closed by the time you finally left prom.

Not closed enough to stop Bucky from leaning halfway out of the driver's side window and convincing one of the employees locking up to sell him two milkshakes and an order of fries out of pure pity.

It wasn't until you were stargazing in his jeep with soft music from his Spotify mixing with the crickets hiding in the grass that your heart settled again. 

You were in the passenger seat, your burger already eaten, just finishing your delicious fries and your milkshake with Bucky in the same predicament in the driver's seat. 

Now the two of you sat on the hood of his Jeep in the empty parking lot overlooking the river, the New York spring air cool enough that your bare shoulders prickled every time the wind picked up.

Without a word, Bucky shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders. You blushed. "Thanks."

He shrugged. "'M not using it."

"You literally had it on 30 seconds ago." You rolled your eyes. Bucky just muttered details between a mouthful of fries. 

"You know," you said eventually, "this wasn't exactly how I pictured prom going."

Bucky laughed quietly. "No?"

"I don't know. There was significantly less public humiliation in the original draft." You laughed softly. "But I like this version better."

Bucky nodded. "I had fun."

You looked over. "Yeah?" Hopeful little edge in your voice giving you away to anyone that knew you remotely well. 

"Yeah." His expression softened. "Got to dance with a pretty girl."

Heat climbed into your cheeks immediately. "You flirt with everybody." You rolled your eyes. 

Bucky made an offended expression, clutching his chest. "I absolutely do not."

"You absolutely do." You lolled you head to the side, raising a brow to make your point. He laughed.

God, you loved his laugh. Always had. The thought came and went so quickly you almost didn't notice it.

Your eyes drifted back toward the sky. "You know what this reminds me of?"

"Hm?" He lifted his eyes from the milkshake cup he was trying to get every last bit out of. 

"The meteor shower."

Bucky smiled immediately. "Oh man."

You grinned. "You remember?"

"Remember?" Bucky chuckled. "I had baseball tryouts the next day and I was up all night to make sure you didn't miss it."

It stopped you dead in your tracks. He did what? "No, you didn't. Your mom came and woke us up."

Bucky nodded. "Yeah, because I woke her up. I was outside waiting for it while you and Steve snoozed it off. Played like shit the next morning." He continued. "You had the date circled on the calendar."

Your brow furrowed. "I did?"

He nodded. "You drew stars around it."

"Oh my God."

Bucky chuckled, his own head lolling to the side on the head rest to look at you. "You made Steve and I promise we wouldn't stay up late the night before because we had to be rested."

You buried your face in your hands. "That sounds insufferable."

"It was kinda cute." He smiled at you like he always did, and your heart promptly forgot how to function. Bucky, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware of the devastation he'd just caused.

Trying so desperately to change the subject to something that wouldn't make you tear up or your heart jump, you fiddled with your milkshake, taking a sip and making a face. "You know, I think this thing is eighty percent whipped cream."

Bucky grinned. "I can see that, it's all over your face." His left thumb came up to wipe down the leftover shake on the corner of your mouth, and it lingered just a second too long. 

For a second, or three years, the world felt like it stilled. A moment frozen in a snow globe to be forever replayed. 

Neither of you moved, not entirely sure how to. Suddenly Bucky was very close, close enough to see the tiny scar in his eyebrow from falling off his bike when he was fourteen, to count the freckles dusting across his nose, enough that you could feel your heartbeat somewhere in your throat.

His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up, and your heart and lungs stumbled over themselves. 

His hand lowered slowly, resting on your thigh. The night around you seemed quieter somehow. Smaller, as if the entire world had narrowed down to the space between you.

"Buck..." His name came out softer than you intended.

His expression shifted into something you'd never seen directed at you before. "If you don't want—"

And then your body moved forward on instinct, your brain a mess of fuzzy TV static, and when you came back to your body, your lips were on his.

Not because you were brave or even confident, just mostly because if you let him finish that sentence you thought your heart might actually explode.

For one terrifying second you were convinced you'd made the biggest mistake of your life. Then you felt the warmth of his hand on your cheek, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss as his tongue slipped past your lips.

The kind of kiss that felt less like fireworks and more like coming home after a very long trip.

One of your hands quickly found the nape of his neck, gently scratching your manicured nails against his scalp. He whined against your lips, hand drifting to your waist, and just as much as he pulled you onto his lap, you climbed over the console to him, food wrappers forgotten on the floor. 

You shrugged the suit jacket off, accidentally honking the horn with your butt in the process, and Bucky's hands rubbed up and down your thighs as you rocked your hips against him, feeling the heat of him against the suit pants. 

Your hands dropped from his shoulders down to his arms, then forearms, directing him to paw at the zipper on the back of your dress.

That made him pull away, looking for your eyes. "Are you—"

You could not have nodded more feverishly if you were a damn bobblehead.

Bucky needed no further incentive, he made quick work of the zipper, excitement bubbling in your stomach like freshly popped champagne while he peppered kisses along your jawline and neck. 

The now bothersome fabric of the dress fell to your waist as you worked on the buttons of his shirt, hands moving to his belt and pants after.

He kissed you again, deeper as his hand snuck under the hem of your dress to find the wet spot on your panties. 

You moaned against his mouth, your own hand finding its way inside of his boxers. You broke the kiss, gasping for air.

"Is this— I mean— okay?" It was hushed and murured against his lips as you stroked his length. "I've never— oh!"

You got rudely interrupted by Bucky's index and middle fingers rubbing your sensitive clit over the blue cotton of your panties.

He nodded against you, "Y-yeah, you're— fuck— you're doing so good."

His hips bucked up against you, and the second he slipped out of his pants with your movements his hand left your core and now were both squeezing your ass.

Bucky brought you flush against him, the angry red tip of him begging for friction found it when you started to dry hump him through your underwear, gasping into his mouth every time it nudged your clit.

"Bucky, please…" He couldn't not give you what you wanted, right? "I can't take it." Not when you begged this pretty.

He nodded against you, "I know, baby." And his right hand went under your dress, behind you, and pulled your panties to the side. "I know."

The second his bare cock made contact with your wet slit, he hissed, and a lightbulb went off in his head.

Condom.

He did not trust himself to pull out. Not of you. "Condom." His voice was almost distant to you, like it hadn't crossed your mind to use protection. Not with Bucky, anyway. He'd never hurt you, he was your—

"I—" You were dazed, lost and drunk in the scent and thought and feel of him. "My purse."

His hands let you go and you leaned over the seat to grab your purse from the backseat, your ass right beside Bucky's head. 

Of course he took advantage of that fully pull your panties down, now that you had the leg space. 

You sat back down on top of him with a little huff, trembling hands fumbling with the wrapper.

Bucky hissed as you rolled it down on him, and one of his hands lined himself up with your entrance.

As you sank down on him, you thought maybe you should've thought twice about it. I mean, you knew he was packing, you walked in on him changing one time a couple years ago, there was no way you could—

"Hey," Bucky's voice brought you back from your spiral. "Look at me." Beautiful cerulean eyes stared up at you like the moonlight was made to bounce off them specifically. "Breathe."

His other hand brushed your hair away from your face, just as the hand that was holding his shaft traveled up, thumb finding your clit rubbing soothing circles on it.

"Just take it slow." Your eyes fluttered closed. 

"How do you not get knocked over hauling this thing around?" That brought a chuckle out of him, landing straight onto the skin of your neck. "Oh, God..."

You rocked yourself back and forth, until he was fully inside of you, your lips touching the light hair at the base. 

Bucky kissed all over your face, his thumb never stopping its work. "You're doing so good, baby."

"Feels full." He laughed softly. squeezing your waist and helping guide you into a rhythm. "Feels good."

"Yeah?" Hushed and right by your ear, you felt like drowning and the happiest person alive at the same time. "You're so tight," He continued. "So warm."

You whined against his lips, the vibration going all the way down to his core.

He moved you up and down his cock, listening to the obscene wet squelch each time you sat up and sank back down on him, and each time it dawned on him what was actually happening, he got louder.

Bolder.

He bounced you on his length, hissing each time, you squeezed around him. "Feel good, Buck. Hah!"

It surprisingly didn't take long for Bucky to have you right at the edge, not as long as people online led you to believe losing your virginity would feel like. "Can feel you fluttering." His thumb worked faster.

"Wanna come, Bucky." You whined, kissing him, and pulling away with his bottom lip between your teeth, "Can I?"

He hissed, the question making it hard for him to not blow his load right then and there. "F'course you can, pretty girl, c'mon."

Your release felt like a million meteors hitting you at once. Like Earth came apart and got put together all in the same breath. 

It felt entirely different, better, than when you tried to do it on your own. And your orgasm triggered Bucky's, waves of pleasure milking rope after rope of cum from him into the unworthy latex of the condom. 

For what it felt like forever for the milionth time that night, neither of you spoke. Your breaths and the crickets were the only sounds. 

It was quiet after. 

Just… quiet.

The kind that only existed when two people had known each other so long that silence wasn't something to fill. Starts lit up the sky that was now your ceiling, and Bucky had taken the condom off and tied it, throwing it inside of the trash with the fry bag and the milkshake cups.

For once in his life, James Buchanan Barnes appeared to be completely out of words.

Which was concerning.

You smiled a little, back in the passenger seat with the suit jacket around your chilly shoulders. "What?"

He glanced over. "Hm?"

"You're thinking too loud." That got a laugh out of him. A quiet one, but still a laugh. "Sorry."

A beat of silence, then another. "I don't want this to ruin anything."

Your smile faltered slightly.

Of course, you thought. Of course he doesn't feel that way about you, why would he—

"Oh, Buck." You faked a smile as his eyes met yours. "We'll be okay."

A sheepish, hopeful look hit his face. "Yeah?"

"Of course." You nodded and reached over and laced your pinky with his. "We're us."

His expression softened when he looked down at your joined fingers. "We're us," he echoed.

You smiled. "We survived Steve's bowl cut phase." You listed off. "The great Thanksgiving mashed potato incident."

"Traumatic." He chuckled.

"The time I accidentally backed your Jeep into Mrs. Russo's mailbox." You continued. 

He scolded you playfully. "You still owe me for emotional damages."

You laughed softly. "We'll be best friends forever."

The words came so naturally, so easily. The same words you'd said years before ona hot day beneath a tree. A pinky promise.

Forever.

Beside you, Bucky went quiet. Of course she wouldn't want anything to do with you, you're her brother's best friend. That shit only works in mov— "Right." His eyes dropped for a moment. "Friends."

Your stomach twisted at the word for the first time in your life. Because why did that sound disappointing?

Why did it sound like something had slipped through your fingers without you realizing you were holding it?

a little bit of fran in your life: okay did we like it??????? it was meant to read like a first chapter but also a standalone in case you wanted to just be done with it. yippieeeeeeee

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You'd expected him to be quiet and keep to himself, the long sleeved sweaters and shy smiles giving the false impression of someone painfully introverted.

But he's always around, lounging on the uncomfortable couches, reading, sat at the island sipping coffee. He's a constant presence, even if you only speak a few words together. He speaks to the others a lot, and it makes you jealous that they all have this bond that you've missed out on.

It turns out, you're the shy and quiet one at first.

The new girl.

Your first impressions were formed not by TV appearances and interviews, as they were with your other new teammates, but by a single elevator ride with Mel.

"Experiment gone wrong gone sort of right, don't expect too much from him, apparently he's in recovery but…well, he's hard to monitor," she'd said, not looking up from the tablet she was tapping on.

"Sure, okay."

It had felt a cruel way to talk about any human, but particularly a person they'd done actual human experimentation on and, not for the first time, you wondered what you'd got yourself in to.

How strange would everyone be?

Mel had thrown you to the wolves as soon as the elevator opened, "oh, they're here, see you later."

She had given you a little shove, duffle bag swinging at your side, and the doors closed behind you.

"Hi Newbie, I'm US Agent, but you can call me John."

You had recognised the man from the news, Walker, he had a new costume since then, and you shook his hand and introduced yourself while he stayed in what felt like continuous motion, moving towards you, standing in parade rest, shuffling his feet.

"Oh, we know, locked files, redacted names—" he looked impressed.

"She knows who she is, Walker." His voice was soft and low, but firm, when he appeared from behind John. "Hi, I'm Bob, you can call me Bob." He smiled, holding his hand out from the ripped cuff of his oversized sweater.

"Hi, Bob." He held your hand for a second longer than you were expecting, squeezing your palm gently and looking at you as if he was inspecting you. His eyes flicked down and then up, his smile widening and a glint appearing in his eyes.

"They bring food in around six, if you're hungry, but help yourself to snacks." He had lifted his other hand and wrapped it around your far-too-long handshake, his fingernails neat and pink. "If there's nothing you like, I keep some chips and stuff over by the windows, help yourself." And then he was gone, back to a perch where you could see a stack of books and a large water bottle with a straw.

Walker had raised his eyebrows, "not like our Bob to share his secret chip stash. Welcome to the team." He patted your shoulder.

Meeting the rest of the team had been a blur of handshakes and hellos, the feel of Bob's palm never leaving your fingers. Did he realise how soft his palm had been? Did he know how warm and welcoming he was? You couldn't get the feeling of him out of your mind, or the image of his hands wrapped around yours.

Bob is funny and kind, intelligent and thoughtful.

He's forgetful too, sometimes staying in his room for a day or two and then emerging with no memory of his time away or that he forgot to turn up to a meeting.

But he takes it in his stride, lopsided smile and floppy hair and all.

He has a strange sense of routine, attempting the same series of events, even when the timing is wrong. Appearing from his room in the evening with no memory of the day but an insatiable need to eat a deli sandwich. So he does. He follows his routine regardless of what his watch says and the more he does it the more you find you don't mind.

Eating cereal with him at 10pm and watching reruns of Saturday breakfast cartoons on a Tuesday is exactly what you need to stop you worrying about the rapid training programme you're on.

One week, he starts making more of an effort to not only turn up to dinner on time, but also making sure he gets a spot next to you, and you're more pleased than you'd like to admit to spend more time with him. And to be eating dinner at dinner time, instead of in the middle of the night.

Bob angles his chair to ignore whoever's on the other side, usually Bucky or Yelena, and engages you in a series of erratic questions, normally would-you-rathers that have you questioning the sincere look in his eyes while you answer or, out of nowhere, very specific questions like your favoutite ocean animal or if you've ever broken a bone.

Yelena rolls her eyes, smiling fondly before tucking into what is always a plate of mostly Mac and cheese.

Bucky often pulls Bob's seat back, more than once an evening, opening up a space between you both that you hadn't realised Bob had closed. He shuffled closer in tiny incriments until you're pressed together, the closeness only visible when the space is created again.

"So, first test flight tomorrow?" He asks, looking at you from the corner of his eye. "How do you feel?"

"I'm good I guess, it'll be good to go out as a team before were really needed."

You'd spent a few weeks training together, going over some basic combat techniques and getting to know the jet and helicopter that will be your domain.

"Yeah," he retreated a little, tucking his left hand into his sweater and using his right to scoop up some mashed potatoes with his fork, the knowledge that he'll be left behind heavy in the room.

The table lapses into comfortable chatter, plans for what everyone is taking for the flight, routine air reconnaissance, a film they might want to watch later, and you focus on your food, enjoying the soft patter of everyone's voices.

And then fingers touch yours, "here, have some more potatoes, you can't just live on green beans." Before you can stop him he's put two scoops of potatoes onto your plate and pulled the gravy away from Ava.

"Oh, thanks Bob." When you looked up at him he's watching you, a small smile playing in the corner of his mouth, an emotion you weren't sure how to place, but his smile widened as you ate.

Despite being in many ways luxurious, the Watchtower was always somehow…uncomfortable. In the living space, by the large windows that framed the Manhattan skyline, the air was always sticky and hot. Bugs under a glass, you were always too warm so the entire team took to wearing shorts and t-shirts as if it was summer.

But the rest of the building was aggressively air conditioned, kept at a level 64°f in the hopes that it'd keep everyone calm and, more importantly to Val, looking box fresh and ready for whatever PR action she required.

In theory this meant taking a sweater everywhere, just in case. And in reality it meant that everyone left an assortment of sweaters, knitwear and even blankets in odd places like outside of the elevator and by the gym doors.

Which is exactly where you found yourself, sweat pouring down your forehead, hands on your knees, when the AC notched up and sent a full body shiver down your spine.

You were sure Valentina had this particular corridor kept colder than all the others just in case any of you were photographed looking even slightly sweaty in your own home. But now the mix of post-workout come down and over compensating cold air was giving you goosebumps so bad you were shivering.

"Hey," Bob's voice was soft in the quiet corridor.

"Uh — hi," your teeth chattered in response and you put your arms around yourself. Partly for warmth, partly because you were now very aware that you were in tight shorts and a cropped work out top while Bob looked perfectly normal in his jeans and sweater.

"Are you okay?" He squinted a little through the soft curtains of his hair, "you look kinda…unwell?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine, just really hot and then —" as if on cue the AC whirred again, "cold. You know how it is."

"Yeah…do you want to borrow my —?"

Bob was already pulling his sweater off before you could say anything, lifting his baggy t-shirt underneath and revealing a glimpse of those ridiculously toned abs you'd heard all about. While his face was covered by his sweater you took a moment to appreciate how good he looked, muscles flexing slightly when he moved, and then the softness of his chest as he relaxed, the t-shirt falling back down to meet the waist band of his underwear, peaking over his jeans.

"Oh — god, no, that's okay, I'll be alright — I--"

Bob continued to ignore you, frowning while he turned the sweater the right way around and then rolled it up in his hands to slip it over your head.

It'd already been a little oversized on him, but now you felt lost in it, the wool on the arms stretched out of shape but the chest pulling tighter over your breasts.

He smiled, "perfect fit."

It was warm, and it smelt lovely too, of clean laundry and something sweet but fresh like a peppermint candy, a scent so uniquly Bob you had to resit the urge to bring the sweater up and over your face so you could drink it in.

"Thanks," you allowed yourself a smile and glanced up at him, suddenly aware of how close he was, of his fingers lingering at your elbow, the gentle flutter of his lashes and the pout of his lips when he spoke.

"No problem."

He took your hand in his and for a moment your heart fluttered, then he rolled up the sleeves on each side so your fingers could be seen from between the thick cuffs, "there, perfect, see ya later."

He left you in the corridor, surrounded by him, your mind reeling.

"So if you all open your mission briefs you'll see —" Mel paused and waited for Bob to sit down, his late arrival to the meeting resulting in the most awkward of silences.

"Sorry," he whispered, sliding into a chair next to you and placing a coffee cup in your line of sight.

"As I was saying, your mission briefs have an outline of the building inside, I've marked the areas with CCTV, you'll need to recon how wide this is."

"Can we share?" Bob's voice was a soft tickle in your ear.

"Sure," you pushed the manilla folder closer to him and he scooted his chair over.

"Thanks," he shifted, his arm around the back of your chair so he could lean closer over your shoulder. The scent of his body wash was strong and, judging by the damp curls of hair at his nape, he'd run from the shower. Bob's hand brushed your bare arm, warm and soft.

You resisted the urge to lean into him, to allow your cheek to rest against his chest, to wrap your own arm around him in return. You were also suddenly very conscious that you were wearing his sweater today, it had found its way into your gym bag as the perfect cover up to go with your gym workout gear and you'd been reluctant to part with it.

Bob's fingers pulled at the cuff and he smiled.

"Sorry, meant to give it back."

"No, don't, looks better on you anyway."

Across the table Bucky coughed and Ava stiffled a laugh from behind her folder.

Bob tapped the papers together in a poor immitation of a news anchor and you both looked back down at the floor plans.

"This looks easy." He whispered again, "but can I come with you?"

At the front of the room, Mel rolled her eyes again. "Can we please focus on this incredibly short meeting like the adults we are?"

Nodding you tried to look contrite, turning your page in time with the change of slide on Mel's projection.

Mel made a mental note to tell Valentina she'd found a way to get Bob on missions.

"It was not that bad, you exaggerate." Yelena teased.

"It was that bad, fuck, I don't know how I'm supposed to sleep now."

John turned the television off, taking the credits of the bone chillingly freaky film Yelena had chosen with it.

"Derivative." Ava said, sneaking the last of the popcorn.

"I liked the man at the end when he —"

"Oh my god, Alexei, please don't." You buried your face into the nearest pillow and curled up.

"Alright kids, that's enough." Bucky said decisively, stacking snack bowls and turning the blinding overhead lights on. "Bed time," he began shooing you all off the sofas, "you don't have to go home but you can't stay here, bars closed, get out."

He gave a half smile when Yelena and Ava booed, throwing stale popcorn at his retreating back before scurrying away to their rooms.

"I know where you live!" Bucky yelled from behind the dishwasher.

"I choose next film, know good Russian film, very scary."

"Please no," you still hadn't moved, despite the others filtering out into the corridor. The thought of putting your foot down on the floor was giving you the shivers, what if that thing was under the sofa and grabbed you and then —

"Are you alright?" Bob's hand on your shoulder was steadying, as warm as it had been in your mission briefing last week.

"Just…spooked, I guess. I should walk it off. I'll be alright."

The dishwasher clicked, the water starting, and you jumped, throwing the cushion towards the counter and reaching for the gun normally holstered on your thigh. It did get you out of your seat though, even if it was to run for the door.

"Ohhkayyy, you're not fine."

"I am, really, I'll just keep the lights on."

Bob rolled his eyes, keeping pace as you walked down the hallway to your rooms.

"Okay, I'm fine, night, Bob." You gave him a weak smile and opened your bedroom door, the room beyond dark with patches of shadows from the ever present glow of New York.

"Come on," Bob shut the door with a click and took your hand, leading you across the hall to his room, "you can stay with me."

The table lamps were already on in Bob's room, casting a warm light that chased the odd shadows into the corners.

"You can take the bed —" he gestured to the collection of pillows and blankets strewn across his otherwise identical bed.

"Or…we could share?" You suggested, half-hopeful. After all these little touches you were still unsure if Bob even liked you like that. He was always so kind and gentle, thoughtful and friendly.

"Sure, I'll brave your room and get you something to—"

"Do not leave me for the monsters, Robert Reynolds!"

After a promise that he'd never ever let a monster eat you, and a quick turn in his ensuite to wash your face and change into a spare t-shirt and shorts, you climb into bed.

"Thanks for letting me stay here." You whispered into the semi-dark, one little light still on in the corner.

"Of course, I'm here whenever you need me."

Even as Bob wrapped his arm around your waist, his nose tickling the back of your neck, you still weren't sure if Bob realised just how boyfriend he'd become. He was just so kind and thoughtful.

His hand splayed out over your tummy, his thumb tucked under the fabric of your shirt and rubbing soothing little rainbows into your skin.

"I hate these things," Yelena tossed the embossed paper invite onto the kitchen island where it skidded to a halt in front of your coffee cup.

"What is it now?"

"Some gala charity thing," Bob read over your shoulder, his hand brushing your elbow. "Top up?" He didn't wait for an answer before pouring fresh coffee into your cup.

"I'll be in my room," Bob filled his own cup and slouched back to the elevator.

"And is there coffee for me, no, of course not." Yelena muttered to herself, banging her mug behind you.

"The worst part is, I don't even enjoy dress shopping anymore." You let your head rest on the cool countertop, thinking about a day getting prodded and poked by Valentina's staff, fitting you into some awful outfit to satisfy a brand deal.

"No, the worst part is I will have to hang out on my own now."

"What do you mean? We always hang out at these things, I was planning on stealing a tray of cocktails and hiding in a corner with you!"

Ava appeared, yawning and making grabby hands at Yelena until she shared her coffee. Her eyes caught on the invitation and she sighed deeply.

"I guess it's just the two of us this time!" Ava handed the mug back.

"What are you two talking about!?"

The elevator dinged again and Bob strolled back out, "before I forget," he ruffled his sleepy curls, "let me know what colour Valentina puts you in, then I'll get a tie."

He turned away as if he hadn't just said the most confusing thing you'd ever heard.

"See." Yelena said with a smirk.

Ava just pointed, as if that helped at all.

You slumped forward onto the counter. "You are no help!"

Ava and Yelena lent against each other, laughing in a way that just made you angrier.

"Whatever." You dumped your coffee out in the sink and slunk off to your bedroom.

In the end, Valentina put you in black, she put everyone in black and herself in white as if she was arranging a wedding with her own ego.

Just to spite her you'd pretended the heels she'd sent didn't fit and, instead, had chosen a pair in a deep midnight blue that caught the light as you moved.

As always she arranged you all in the living space, scrubbed clean and then styled earlier in the day, heaven forbid people saw that you were normal people, ready for what Alexei called the "family photograph" and Bucky called "pandering to the press."

The only problem was, Bob hadn't arrived yet.

"Mel," Valentina snapped, "go and fetch him!"

Frustration bubbled through the room as Mel scurried to the elevator just as it opened, and out stepped Bob.

He'd brushed his hair back for the evening, long curls hugging his ears. And, like the others, he was wearing a black suit and white shirt. But, around his neck, he wore a midnight blue tie and silver tie pin.

It was like time had slowed down under his gaze.

Yelena smirked at Ava and then you.

But you didn't care, because Bob was looking at you, up and down slowly, landing on your shoes and allowing a soft smile to play across his lips before time started up again.

"I'm here, I'm here." He hurried to take his place, putting his arm around your waist. His grip was warm and firm through the thin material of your dress.

The photographer clicked rapidly, having given up on trying to get you all to look at the camera at the same time a few months ago. He checked his laptop and then, as quickly as he'd clicked, the team dispersed around the room.

Everyone except you and Bob.

"You look beautiful," Bob whispered, his cheek brushing yours when he turned towards you.

"Thank you, you look really handsome."

A blush rose on the back of his neck.

"I especially like your tie," you turned towards him, as if to fix something on his lapel and caught his eyes, a slight sparkle beneath the dark blue.

"Well you didn't tell me what colour you'd be wearing, so I had to guess."

You both looked down at your shoes and, when you looked back, he was already looking at you. He was so close you could feel his soft exhale when you stepped even closer. He was wearing cologne, layered over the familiar scent of his body wash and shampoo.

Bob opened and then closed his mouth, a little frown line appearing between his brows.

You saved him, taking his hand and running your finger over his thumbnail. "I think I've been really stupid."

"You could never —"

"This whole time I thought…I just thought you were being friendly and maybe you just didn't realise how flirty you were being..."

Bob squeezed your fingers and then let them go, stepping back and bursting the bubble you'd found yourselves in.

"Oh — I'm sorry, I didn't mean to over step, I made you feel uncomfortable and —" he blew out a breath, scrunching a hand in his hair.

"You didn't overstep, I…understepped?" You laughed and he paused, looking at you again with such intensity that you lost your words. Instead you tugged on his hand again, stood on your tiptoes and kissed him.

His lips were soft beneath yours, a gentle caress, his hands slid down your bare arms and he encouraged you to loop them around his neck, pulling you closer.

His hand on your waist had been warm during the photographs, but it was nothing to the feel of his entire body pressed against your own, each part of you slotting together perfectly. The bubble you were worried you'd burst grew, a rainbow slick of sunshine warming you both in the setting New York sun.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady the building heat, your eyes flashing with frustration. “Look, this isn't ideal for me either. We need to focus on the mission or getting out of here, not... this.”

Bucky's jaw clenches as he catches the subtle change in your scent, his enhanced senses picking up on what's coming. His vibranium fingers flex reflexively as he turns away, moving toward the far corner of the cramped cabin to put distance between them. "You should've been prepared," he mutters, though his voice lacks its usual edge—there's concern there beneath the gruffness.

He runs his flesh hand through his dark hair, exhaling slowly as he tries to control his own Alpha instincts that are already beginning to respond to your pheromones. The cabin suddenly feels even smaller than before, the walls closing in. His blue eyes meet yours briefly before he looks away again, fighting against the primal pull. "don't tell me to focus on the mission when you're about to go into heat without any way to manage it."

The temperature in the room seems to rise, though whether from the situation or from your electrical nature beginning to spark in response to your stress, he can't quite tell. Bucky moves to check the windows, looking for any possible escape route or distraction, anything to keep his mind occupied.

You clench your fists, orange sparks flickering at your fingertips as you fights the rising heat. “It's not like I planned this, Bucky. We need a plan— to get out of here or something”

Bucky's eyes track the orange sparks dancing across your fingers, his instincts warring between the Alpha response to an Omega in distress and the soldier's need to maintain control.

He paces like a caged animal, the floorboards creaking under his weight. The scent of your impending heat is getting stronger, and he can feel his own body responding despite his best efforts to suppress it. His pupils dilate slightly as he forces himself to focus on practical solutions.

Bucky pulls off his jacket, suddenly too warm, revealing the tactical gear beneath. He moves to the small kitchenette area, searching through cabinets with perhaps more force than necessary. "There has to be something here—medical supplies, anything." The tension in his shoulders is visible, every muscle coiled tight as he fights against nature itself.

pacing the cabin floor, orange electricity crackling faintly along your arms as you absorb a tiny bit of power from the lights to steady yourself, dimming them slightly. “Let’s just— talk.. I don’t know— about something else”

Bucky's nostrils flare as he watches you absorb the energy, the lights dimming and casting longer shadows across the cabin. The darkness only heightens his other senses, making everything worse.

He leans against the wall, pressing his back firmly against the cold wood as if it might ground him. His metal arm whirs softly as he crosses his arms over his chest, a defensive posture. "Fine. The mission." He forces his tactical mind to engage, though his eyes keep drifting back to you despite his best intentions. "We're waiting for intel on a Hydra cell that's been operating in this region. Contact should arrive at dawn with coordinates. We extract the target, bring them in for questioning."

The temperature continues to rise and you can feel sweat beginning to form at your temples. Becky’s voice becomes strained as he continues, "The target is a scientist—low-level, but he has information on their new weapons program. Non-lethal extraction preferred." He shifts uncomfortably, his Alpha instincts screaming at him to close the distance, to respond to your needs. "—this isn't going to work. Talking about the mission isn't going to be enough distraction for either of us."

His blue eyes lock onto yours, darker now with barely restrained desire. "We need a real solution."

stepping back further, your eyes narrowing as orange sparks intensify along your skin, trying to channel the energy inward. “Bucky—we can't risk anything. if you get too close, my powers might surge out of control. I don’t know what-“ you cut yourself off, sucking in a deep breath. Eyes closing and a wave of arousal hits you. “What’s your plan?” You ask almost desperately. Hoping he somehow has a magic solution.

Bucky's chest heaves with a sharp breath as he watches the orange electricity dance across your skin, the sight both mesmerizing and dangerous. His vibranium hand clenches into a fist, the metal plates shifting with a soft mechanical sound. "My plan?" His voice comes out rough, almost a growl. "My plan was to wait out this storm. My plan-“ he cuts himself off. “your scent is filling this entire goddamn cabin and my instincts are telling me to do things that would definitely complicate a work relationship."

He pushes off the wall, but instead of moving toward you, he heads to the bathroom, the only separate room in the cabin. "The bathroom. You take the main room, I'll lock myself in there. It's the only way." He pauses at the doorway, his knuckles white where his flesh hand grips the frame. "Your powers surging is the least of our concerns right now. At least electricity I can handle—it's the other biological imperatives that are the problem."

Bucky's jaw works as he tries to maintain control, his super-soldier physiology making everything more intense. "Once you're through the worst of it, we signal for extraction. Mission's compromised anyway if we can't function as a team." He looks back at you, and there's genuine concern beneath the desire in his eyes. "I won't let anything happen that you don't want, But we both know what happens when an Alpha and an Omega are trapped together like this. The instincts... they don't care about logic."

You nod, eyes locking onto Bucky's with hesitation , “Alright, bathroom it is..”

Bucky nods curtly, his soldier's discipline warring with every primal instinct in his body. He steps into the small bathroom, but before closing the door, he turns back one last time. The look in his blue eyes is tortured, conflicted. "If it gets too bad... if you need..." He can't finish the sentence, his jaw clenching hard enough that you can hear his teeth grind together.

Before he can finish his sentence,He slams the bathroom door shut, and the sound of the lock clicking echoes through the cabin like a gunshot. Inside, Bucky braces himself against the sink, staring at his reflection in the small mirror. His pupils are blown wide, his breathing labored. The cold water he splashes on his face does nothing to cool the fire building inside him.

Through the thin door, he can still sense everything— your heartbeat accelerating, the ozone smell of your electricity mixing with your increasingly potent pheromones.

Bucky slides down the bathroom wall until he's sitting on the cold tile floor, his back against the door that separates you. He can feel your presence on the other side, close enough to touch if not for the barrier between you. His head tilts back, eyes closing as he tries to focus on anything else. “Talk to me” he says, voice strained. “When was the first time you used your powers?”

You slide down to sit on the floor too, mirroring Bucky's position on the other side of the door, orange electricity flickering softly like a calming glow as you absorb steady energy from the wiring. “First time? I was 14, petting my dog during a thunderstorm. Felt the lightning hit nearby and suddenly I was generating my own—orange sparks everywhere, scared the hell out of my family. But it felt... powerful. Like I was part of the storm… What's next for you after this mission?”

Bucky lets out a strained laugh that sounds more like a groan, his head thunking back against the door. He can picture you on the other side, separated by mere inches of wood, and the image makes his chest tighten. "After this mission? Assuming we both survive it with our professional relationship intact?" There's dark humor in his voice, edged with tension. "Probably therapy. My therapist is going to have a field day with this one."

He runs his flesh hand through his sweat-dampened hair, the dark strands sticking up at odd angles. "Honestly? I was supposed to have a week off. Maybe actually sleep in my own bed for once, try to be normal for a few days." His voice drops lower, more intimate despite—or perhaps because of—the barrier between them. "But normal isn't really in the cards for people like us, is it? The one who can control electricity and the reformed assassin with a metal arm."

A particularly strong wave of pheromones seeps under the door, and Bucky's entire body tenses, his knuckles going white where they grip his tactical pants. "Jesus—" he breathes out, his super-soldier enhanced senses making it impossible to escape.

The bathroom suddenly feels suffocatingly small, and he can hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, matching rhythm with yours through the door. His Alpha instincts are screaming now, demanding he protect, provide, claim. "Talk to me about something else. Anything. whatever—just keep talking."

pressing your palm flat against the door, feeling the faint warmth of Bucky's presence through it, your orange electricity humming softly but controlled. “I have a cat—he's a rescue. How about you? Got any pets or anything like that?”

Bucky's vibranium hand moves without conscious thought, pressing against the door where he senses your palm on the other side. The metal is cold against the wood, a stark contrast to the heat flooding through him.

He shifts his weight, trying to find a more comfortable position that doesn't exist. "No pets. I can barely take care of myself most days, let alone another living thing." There's self-deprecation in his tone, but also honesty. "I had a cat once, back in the forties. Before everything. Named her Alpine" The memory surfaces unexpected and bittersweet. "Steve used to joke that she liked me better than him, which drove him crazy."

His breathing becomes more labored, and he can feel his control slipping degree by degree. The super-soldier serum that usually gives him such precise command over his body is working against him now, making every sensation more acute.

You tilt head against the door, voice softening as orange sparks dance gently along your fingertips. “Alpine, huh? That's sweet.“

He closes his eyes, forcing himself to keep talking even as his body demands action. "Alpine was a pain in the ass, actually. Used to knock things off tables just to watch them fall. Steve would try to discipline her, and she'd just stare at him like he was speaking a different language." A rough laugh escapes him, tinged with both nostalgia and current strain. "She'd sleep on my chest at night though. Heavy little thing. It was... comforting."

The bathroom walls seem to be closing in, and Bucky can feel sweat trailing down his spine despite the cool tiles beneath him. His enhanced hearing picks up every subtle change in your breathing, every shift of your body against the door. "Tell me more about your cat. Is he a pain in the ass too?" He's grasping for anything to keep them both distracted, to maintain this tenuous thread of normalcy.

You draw a slow breath, channeling a soft orange spark to trace a calming pattern on the door. eyes closing briefly. “No.. not unless you give him treats” you say with a small laugh

his vibranium hand remains pressed against the door, and he realizes with a jolt that he's tracing small circles against the wood—an unconscious attempt to touch you, to soothe. he says your name, coming out rougher than intended. "I need you to promise me something."

"Promise me," he says, his voice thick with restraint, "that if I lose control—if the Alpha in me breaks through this door—you'll use those powers of yours. Shock me, knock me out, whatever it takes."

He shifts again, his body coiled tight as a spring ready to snap. "I've been a weapon before, I won't be one again, especially not to you." There's genuine fear beneath his words now, the terror of a man who knows exactly what he's capable of when control slips away. "I need to know you can protect yourself from me if it comes to that."

You press your forehead against the door, letting a gentle orange spark flow into a small, harmless constructed shaped “I promise, Bucky—I'd zap you if I had to, but I trust you more than that…Tell me something good.. something about Steve?”

despite everything, a genuine smile tugs at his lips—small, strained, but real. Your trust in him feels both like a gift and a terrible responsibility. "Steve," he breathes out, grasping onto the lifeline you’ve thrown him. "God, where do I start with that punk?"

He shifts his weight, the movement causing his shoulder to press more firmly against the door, as close as he can get without breaking through. "Before the serum, Steve was maybe ninety pounds soaking wet. Asthma, heart problems, you name it. But he had this thing—this inability to back down from a fight, even when he should." His voice softens with genuine affection, the memories helping to center him. "I spent half my time in the forties pulling him out of alleyways where he'd gotten his ass kicked by guys twice his size."

A tremor runs through him as another wave of your scent hits, stronger now, and his vibranium hand makes a small dent in the tile floor where he's gripping it. His voice becomes more strained. "The thing about Steve though—he never fought for himself. It was always for someone else. Some guy getting harassed, a woman being disrespected. He couldn't stand to see injustice and do nothing."

Bucky's breathing becomes more ragged, his tactical vest suddenly feeling too tight across his chest. "I can hear your heartbeat through this door… I can smell every change in your body chemistry." His control is fracturing, evident in every word. "Maybe we should reconsider that shocking option."

Bucky can feel his resolve crumbling with each passing moment, the Alpha instincts becoming harder to suppress. “I can feel my control slipping, and I—" His voice cuts off as another powerful wave hits him, and he has to brace both hands against the floor to keep from standing up and testing the strength of that door lock.

Bucky stands abruptly, the movement sudden and predatory despite his best intentions. He paces the tiny bathroom, three steps one way, three steps back, a caged animal looking for release. "I need—" His voice is barely recognizable—rough, commanding, the Alpha breaking through despite his attempts to contain it. "I need you to move away from the door.. Because in about sixty seconds, I'm not going to be able to make rational decisions anymore”

He braces himself against the sink, staring at his reflection—pupils blown wide, jaw clenched, every muscle taut. "Either you shock me into unconsciousness or..." He can't finish the sentence, but they both know what the alternative is.

Taking a shaky breath, standing up as orange sparks intensify around you, your own desires fueling your words. voice soft but firm. “No zapping... come through the door, Bucky. We can handle this together—I trust you.”

For a moment, there's absolute silence from the bathroom—the kind of stillness that comes right before a storm breaks. Then Bucky's forehead drops against the door with a heavy thud, and when he speaks, his voice is raw with barely contained need and something deeper, more vulnerable. "you need to be sure. Once I open this door, once I'm in the same room with you while we’re like this..." He trails off, his breath coming in harsh pants. "I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop."

His vibranium hand grips the door handle, but he doesn't unlock it yet. "I need to hear you say it again. Tell me this is what you want, not just the heat talking. Because I won't—I can't—do this if there's any doubt." Despite the Alpha instincts screaming at him to claim, to take, there's still enough of Bucky Barnes left to need conscious consent, your clear choice.

Heart beating out of your chest, “please..” you say, almost sounding like a plea. “I need you”

The lock clicks open with a sound that seems impossibly loud in the charged silence. Bucky opens the door slowly, deliberately, giving you every chance to change your mind. When he finally steps into the main room, the sight of you nearly drives him to his knees— hair slightly disheveled, eyes dark with need, orange electricity crackling across her skin like living fire. You’re devastating, powerful, and completely his for the taking if you’ll have him.

"Last chance," he growls, though he's already moving towards you, drawn like a magnet. "Tell me to stop, and I will. I'll lock myself back in that bathroom and ride this out if that's what you need."

You take a slow step forward, orange electricity flaring brighter as you meet Bucky's gaze, eyes filled with trust and heat. “Come here, Bucky. I need you—trust goes both ways. If you want to stop.. we stop”

The last thread of Bucky's control snaps at your words. In one fluid motion, he crosses the little distance between you, his vibranium hand cupping your face with surprising gentleness despite the urgency thrumming through his body. "You have no idea what you do to me," he breathes against your lips, his blue eyes searching yours one final time for any hesitation. Finding none, he crashes his mouth in a kiss that's equal parts desperation and reverence.

The orange electricity crackling across your skin doesn't hurt him—what touches his flesh feels like a pleasant tingle. If anything, it makes everything more intense, more electric in the literal sense. His flesh hand tangles in you hair as he walks you backward toward the cabin's single bed, never breaking the kiss.

"Tell me if I'm too rough," he murmurs against your neck, his stubble scraping your sensitive skin as he trails kisses down your throat. Every Alpha instinct is screaming at him to mark, to claim, but he forces himself to maintain some semblance of control. His hands find the hem of your shirt, pausing. "Can I?" Even now, even with his body on fire and your is calling to him, he needs permission for every touch.

The cabin's lights flicker from your power fluctuations, casting their shadows in dancing orange light. Bucky has never wanted anything as much as he wants you in this moment—not his freedom, not his memories, nothing compares to this primal, all-consuming need.

Your body arches into Bucky's touch, orange electricity dancing across his vibranium arm without harm, a soft gasp escaping as you tug at his shirt. “Bucky... yes, take it off me. Just need to feel you..all of you”

Bucky's breath hitches as your fingers work at his tactical vest, his own hands trembling slightly—whether from restraint or anticipation, he can't tell. He pulls the shirt over your head in one smooth motion, and the sight makes his chest tighten with something beyond just desire. The orange electricity plays across your bare skin like living art, illuminating you in ways that make you seem almost otherworldly.

"You're beautiful," he says hoarsely, the words pulled from somewhere deep and honest. His vibranium hand traces the path of electricity, fascinated by how it doesn't burn him, how it seems to welcome his touch. His flesh hand splays across your waist, feeling the heat radiating from your skin. "So damn beautiful."

He sheds his own top quickly, revealing the scarred tissue where metal meets flesh at his shoulder, evidence of a body that's been through war. For a moment, vulnerability flashes across his face—he's shown this body to others before, but never like this, never when it mattered so much.

But then heat-driven need pulls him back, and he's lowering you onto the bed, his body covering yours as he kisses you again with renewed intensity. His knee slides between your thighs, and the contact makes him groan against your mouth.

channeling your electricity into gentle pulses that massage Bucky's muscles, eyes locking onto his. “—make me yours.” You plea, hand coming up to rest on his neck “I need you”

Something feral and possessive flashes in Bucky's eyes at the words—make me yours. The Alpha in him roars in triumph, but the man holds on just enough to make this good for you, to make this more than just biology. "Mine," he growls, the word vibrating through his chest as he claims your mouth again, this time with more dominance, more certainty.

His vibranium hand slides down your body, the cool metal a stark contrast to your overheated skin, while his flesh hand works at the remaining barriers of clothing between you. The orange electricity pulsing through his muscles feels incredible, easing tension he didn't even know he was carrying. "That thing you're doing," he pants against your lips, "don't stop."

He kisses down your body with deliberate slowness despite the urgency thrumming through him—your throat, the hollow between your collarbones, lower still. Every Alpha instinct tells him to rush, to take, but Bucky Barnes has always been stubborn about doing things his own way. "I want you ready for me," he murmurs. "Want you so desperate you can't think of anything but this."

His enhanced senses pick up every hitch in your breathing, every acceleration of your heartbeat, every subtle shift in your scent as your arousal builds. The bed creaks under the combined weight as he settles between your thighs, looking up at you with eyes gone almost black with desire. "Tell me if I do anything you don't like. Promise me."

You gasps, orange electricity flaring in response to Bucky's touch, wrapping gentle tendrils around his back like an embrace. “Bucky... you're everything I need right now. Don't hold back—I've got you.”

Your permission shatters the last of Bucky's restraint. He rises back up your body in one fluid motion, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss as his hands finish removing the final barriers between you. The orange electricity wrapping around him feels like your claiming him just as much as he's claiming you, and something about that equality—that mutual need—makes this more than just a heat-induced coupling.

"Hold on to me," he commands, his voice gone gravelly and deep as he positions himself. His vibranium hand braces beside your head while his flesh hand grips your hip, steadying you. When he finally enters you, slow and deliberate despite every instinct screaming to thrust hard and fast, the sensation is overwhelming. Your heat, your electricity, your scent—it's everything his Alpha nature has been craving, and his head drops to you shoulder with a guttural groan.

"Fuck" he breathes against your skin, giving you a moment to adjust even as his body demands movement. His hips roll in a controlled rhythm, each thrust deeper than the last, building intensity gradually. The bed frame creaks ominously beneath them, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Bucky notes they might actually break it before this is over.

His mouth finds your throat, and the instinct to bite, to mark, is almost irresistible. Instead, he kisses and sucks at the sensitive skin there, leaving marks that will fade rather than permanent claims. "Tell me how it feels," he demands between thrusts. "Need to hear you, doll."

You dig your fingers into Bucky's back, channeling energy to heighten his senses with gentle shocks, your voice breathless. “You're perfect... don't stop, Bucky. I want more—i want everything.. I want all of you”

The enhanced sensations from the electricity make every nerve ending sing, and Bucky's control finally breaks completely. His pace increases, the controlled rhythm giving way to something more primal, more demanding. The vibranium hand moves to grip the headboard, which groans in protest, while his flesh hand slides beneath you to angle your hips higher, deeper.

"Everything?" he growls against your ear, his voice barely human now. "You want everything, Omega?" The word slips out unbidden, the Alpha in him fully ascendant. His thrusts become harder, faster, the sound of skin against skin mixing with their ragged breathing and the creak of protesting furniture. "Then take it. Have all of me."

The orange electricity crackling between them intensifies with each movement, creating a feedback loop of sensation that threatens to overwhelm them both. Bucky can feel his release building at the base of his spine, but he refuses to finish before you do. His flesh hand slides between your bodies, finding the bundle of nerves that makes you gasp and working it with practiced precision.

"Come for me, baby" he commands, his lips against your throat where your pulse pounds. "Want to feel you fall apart. Want to know I did this to you." His movements become almost desperate, chasing both their releases with single-minded determination. The cabin's lights flicker wildly from your power surges, casting your joined bodies in strobing orange light.

Outside, the blizzard howls, but inside there's only heat and electricity and the feeling of two people surrendering completely to something bigger than both of them.

You cling tighter to Bucky, your orange electricity pulsing in sync with the rhythm of buckys movements, heightening every sensation as you gasps. “Bucky... I'm so close... make me come, please—claim me completely”

Your plea undoes him completely. Bucky's movements become almost frantic, driven by pure Alpha instinct as he drives into you with everything he has. "Mine," he snarls against your throat, the possessiveness absolute. His fingers work faster between you, and he can feel your body tensing, tightening around him in ways that threaten his own control.

When you finally breaks, crying out his name, the sensation of you climaxing around him combined with the surge of electricity is too much. Bucky follows you over the edge with a guttural roar, his release crashing through him with an intensity he's never experienced before. His body locks up, every muscle taut as pleasure overwhelms everything else. The vibranium hand dents the headboard, and somewhere distantly he registers the sound of wood splintering.

He collapses onto you carefully, mindful of his weight even in the aftermath, his face buried in the crook of your neck as you both struggle to catch your breath. The orange electricity still dances across their sweat-slicked skin, gentler now, almost soothing. "Jesus Christ," he pants against your shoulder, his heart hammering against his ribs. "That was..."

Words fail him. Instead, he presses soft kisses to your throat, your jaw, your temple—gentler touches now, his flesh hand stroking soothingly down your side. The Alpha instincts are satisfied for the moment, leaving just Bucky, overwhelmed and slightly awed by what just happened between them. "You okay?" he murmurs, pulling back enough to search your face. "Did I hurt you?"

You sigh contentedly, orange electricity fading to soft glows as you traces Bucky's vibranium arm with your fingers, eyes soft. “You didn't hurt me—you made me feel safe, even in the chaos…How about you?”

Bucky's entire body seems to relax at your sweet words, the little tension he didn't even realize he was still carrying bleeding out of him. He shifts to lie beside you, careful not to crush you with his weight, but unable to break contact completely. His vibranium arm wraps around your waist, pulling you against his chest as his flesh hand continues its soothing path along your spine.

"I'm..." he pauses, trying to find words for the tangle of emotions. "I'm good. Better than good." A rough laugh escapes him. "Probably the best I've felt in decades, if I'm being honest." He presses a kiss to your forehead, gentler now, almost reverent.

The confession surprises him with its honesty. He watches the soft orange glow of electricity dance across your skin, mesmerized. "Your power is beautiful like this. All of you is beautiful." His thumb traces absent patterns on your hip.

Your throat burns when you try to speak. “Steve…?” The name comes out broken. A whisper dragged across glass.

No one answers. You try again. “Bucky…?” The door opens. Two men step inside. For a moment, your mind refuses to process what you’re seeing. They’re too tall. Too broad. Too… large.

Your boys had always been scrappy. Lean from rationed meals and hard years in Brooklyn. Even after the serum, Steve had still moved like someone who remembered hunger. But the men standing in front of you look carved from stone. Like a Statue of David come alive.

The blond one freezes first. His breath catches. “Holy—” His voice breaks.

Your heart stutters. That voice. “…Steve?”

Steve Rogers looks like someone punched the air out of him. He takes one slow step toward the bed, eyes wide and glassy. “Hey,” he says softly.

Your stomach twists.

His voice is deeper now. Older. But it’s still him. Still the boy who used to pull you between him and the street when fights broke out. Still the boy who kissed you behind the Stark Expo and turned red for an hour afterward.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

Your eyes fill with tears instantly. The nickname hits something deep in your chest. “You’re… big,” you whisper.

Steve laughs weakly through the tears forming in his eyes. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Got a little upgrade.”

Your gaze shifts to the other man standing near the door. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. A metal arm glinting in the light. For a moment, you don’t recognize him. But the way he stands—half-guarded, shoulders slightly forward like he’s ready to step between you and danger— You know that posture.

“Buck?”

Bucky doesn’t move. Not at first. His jaw tightens so hard the muscle jumps. “You… remember me?” he asks quietly.

Your brow furrows. “Of course I remember you.” Your voice shakes. “You idiot.” Your fingers tremble as you lift your hand weakly off the blanket. “You vanished.” Your eyes burn. “You both did.”

The room goes painfully quiet.

Steve sits on the edge of the bed like he’s afraid you might disappear if he moves too fast. “You were supposed to stay in the hospital that day,” he says hoarsely.

You blink. “What day?”

Neither of them answers immediately. That silence scares you more than anything. “Steve.”

Your voice is small now. “What day?”

He exhales slowly, like the truth physically hurts. “1945.”

The number hits you like ice water. You stare at him. “…No.” Your voice cracks. “That plane crash was only a few weeks ago.”

Steve’s eyes close. “Oh, sweetheart.”

Your chest starts rising faster. “No.” You shake your head weakly. “No, that’s not—”

“Seventy years,” Bucky says quietly from the doorway. 

The words fall like a bomb. You stare at him. “Don’t lie to me.” Your voice trembles. “I was just looking for you yesterday."

Your throat tightens.

“You were missing. Steve was missing. I got on that damn plane because someone had to find you.”

Your breathing becomes uneven. “I wasn’t gone seventy years.”

Steve reaches for your hand. “Hey—hey, look at me.”

You yank your hand away. “No.” Tears spill down your temples.

“You don’t get to look like that and tell me I lost my whole life.” Your voice cracks open. “I was twenty-three.”

The silence in the room is suffocating. Bucky finally moves closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal. “You didn’t lose it,” he says quietly.

Your laugh comes out broken. “Didn’t I?” You gesture weakly at the room. “At… whatever this is?” Your gaze flicks between them. “You’re giants now.” Your voice trembles. “You’ve lived whole lives.”

Steve shakes his head immediately. “No.” His grip tightens on the mattress. “We didn’t.”

Your eyes flicker to him. 

He swallows. “Not without you.”

The confession hangs in the air.

Bucky’s voice comes softer now. “We thought you were dead.”

You look at him. Really look. The lines in his face.

The exhaustion in his eyes. 

“You fell off a train,” you whisper. “I searched every damn mountain for you.” His mouth tightens.

“And you disappeared in the ice,” he says quietly. “And I spent decades not knowing who I was.”

Steve exhales shakily. “I woke up thinking everyone I loved was gone.”

The room feels too small for all the grief in it.

Your chest aches. “God,” you whisper. “You both got so big.”

Steve lets out a watery laugh. That familiar crooked grin flickers across his face. “You’re still tiny.”

You glare weakly at him. “Shut up.”

For a moment—Just a moment— it feels like Brooklyn again. Like cramped apartments and cheap diners and late-night walks. But then reality crashes back in.

Your voice drops to a whisper. “…Did either of you move on?” The question terrifies you. Steve looks at Bucky. Bucky looks at the floor. Steve finally answers. “No.”

Your heart stutters. “Why?”

His voice is soft. “Because you were our girl.”

Your throat tightens. “Still are,” Bucky murmurs.

Your eyes burn again. “…You’re old men now.”

Steve grins.

“Technically I’m only about thirty.”

Bucky snorts.

You stare at them. And suddenly you start crying. Not the quiet kind. The ugly kind. The kind that comes from losing seventy years in the blink of an eye.

Steve panics immediately. “Oh God—did I say something wrong—”

Bucky moves faster. He sits beside the bed and carefully pulls you into his arms like you’re made of glass. You bury your face against his chest. And you realize something strange.

He still smells the same. Metal arm. War scars. Decades of pain. But underneath it all— It’s still him.

“Hello,” he murmurs softly into your hair.

Your voice breaks. “Hi, Buck.”