Dani

“I don’t wanna go,” you protest, throwing your head back into the car seat headrest. “You can’t make me.”

“You’re fine,” Natasha murmurs as the car pulls into the airport loading area. 

“Don’t make me go.”

“Baby, you're fine.”

You just groan in response. You’d committed to flying home for the holidays, albeit reluctantly. The idea of being trapped in your childhood home with your parents for two weeks doesn’t necessarily sound appealing, but you don’t really have a choice. The holidays are a formality- they always have been. Your relationship with your family has always been strained, especially since you went to college and came out. But that didn’t mean they actually intended to acknowledge it. Your phone buzzes in your pocket and you already know it’s your mom. 

“Hi,” you say with false cheerfulness. 

“Are you at the airport?,” your mother’s voice crackles on the other line. 

“I’m good, thanks for asking.”

“Are you with someone?”

“Why would I be with someone?”

“You’re paying for airport parking?,” she sounds mad, per usual. 

“No mother, a friend dropped me off,” you side eye Natasha who doesn’t even bat an eye. You’d wanted to tell your parents about her, you really had, but their recent behavior towards your sexuality convinced you otherwise. The fact that Natasha happens to be your past university professor would also cause an uproar. That wouldn’t matter of course, if she was a man, but alas. 

“What friend?”

“You don’t know her.” She’s been onto you, but she won’t ask you directly, and so you continue to beat around the bush. 

“I might.”

“Mom, I need to go.”

“Text me when you board.”

“Uh huh.” Click. 

“You look thrilled,” Natasha says next to you, and you turn to her with a weak smile. 

“I hope the wings crack off on the runway.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I’m being serious.” 

“And then what, I’ll just be alone?”

“You’re hot, you’ll find someone else.”

“Alright, get out of the car. I’ll get your suitcase.”

“I hope you’ll visit my grave.”

“You’re making yourself late,” Natasha opens the car door and climbs out. 

“You can sue the airline, it’ll be my parting gift,” you open the passenger door and slide out. You hear Natasha opening the trunk and lugging out your suitcase. 

“You can call me whenever you want,” she grunts, placing your suitcase on the ground and pushing it towards you. You hold your arms out and she shuffles into your embrace.

“It’s not all bad, I like my brother usually,” you mumble, shoving your face into her neck. 

“You like your brother,” Natasha responds, rubbing your back. You love your brother actually, especially considering he’s the only family member that supports you. He came out a year after you did, much to your parents dismay. He’s the only one that knows about Natasha, and he’d been beyond supportive. 

“Can you grab my ass one more time for the road?” “We’re in public,” Natasha scoffs. 

“It’ll be something to remember me by.” “You’ll survive two weeks,” she kisses the side of your head. 

“We’ll see,” you pull back, looking at her with a dramatic frown that she returns with a smile.

“I love you,” she pecks your lips. 

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t make me g-” “I knew you would say that,” she cuts you off, grabbing your face and kissing you again. 

“Yeah whatever, I love you,” you kiss her one more time before grabbing your suitcase and lifting the handle. 

“Let me know when you get through security,” Natasha gives you a warm smile. 

“You’ll be okay alone?,” you give her a knowing look. She’d spent the last couple years alone for the holidays because, well Russia, but you still don’t feel good leaving her. 

“Of course, baby.” “Call me,” you turn towards the entrance. “I will.” “I love you!,” you call over your shoulder. 

“I love you so much,” she says right before you glide through the door. 

You make it through security with an hour to spare, texting Natasha that you made it to your gate and plopping down to scroll through your phone until the plane boards. You find a stream of messages from your brother. Most of them include a mix of “I hate it here”, and “I can’t wait to see you”. You smile to yourself, knowing you’ll be okay as long as he’s there. You really are excited to go home and see him- it’d been almost six months since the last time you saw each other. He’d gone to the west coast for college and set some very firm boundaries with your parents. You loved him for it, but it also meant you got to see him less. You’re about to put on your headphones when a voice comes over the loudspeaker. 

“ALL FLIGHTS ON HOLD DUE TO INCLEMENT WEATHER.” Your heart sinks. You sit in silence for a couple minutes, checking your phone repeatedly to see if the airline’s sent you any emails or updates. You see that the boarding time on your digital boarding pass disappears just as the loudspeaker fires up again. 

“THE FOLLOWING FLIGHTS HAVE BEEN CANCELLED: A634, G87X, F458, A834, W…..” You look down at your phone to confirm that you had in fact been scheduled for flight A634. But this is what you wanted, right? No- no except it isn’t. You want to see your brother and you want to see your family even though they suck, because they’re your family. You didn’t realize how much you missed home until it got ripped away from you. You stare down at your phone in stunned silence. You don’t want to let yourself be sad because you know your mom will just twist this into somehow being your fault, but tears start to fall anyways. You don’t even want to talk to her, you just want Natasha and her warm apartment. You send your brother an unintentionally cryptic text message about not flying home, leaving out the details solely because you don’t have it in you. You call Natasha with shaking hands. She answers on the first ring. 

“I saw, I’m turning around.” Just the sound of her voice sends a flood of tears streaming down your face. “Tasha,” you say through a sob.

“I know baby, I’m coming.” 

“I don’t even know why-” “It’s okay. I’ll be there in five minutes, I love you.” Click. 

You navigate through the airport in a blur of tears, eventually finding yourself outside. Natasha’s already there, pulling you into her arms and then into the passenger seat. She drives in silence, her hand in yours for the entire ride. You don’t have to explain yourself. She already knows the complexity of emotions you’re feeling. It’s somehow worse that you didn’t want to go home in the first place. 

“I’ll buy you a Christmas tree,” Natasha says after a bit.

“Hm?” “We can get a Christmas tree. If you want.” “Yeah.” She pulls into the parking lot of a Christmas tree farm after about thirty minutes of more silence, dropping your hand to put the car into park. Snow is beginning to fall, the evidence of your cancelled flight. She turns to look at you and you look back with your tear burned cheeks.

“Hi,” Natasha says softly. 

“Hi.” “Do you want to talk about it?,” she reaches over and cups your face. 

“Not yet,” you say, closing your eyes and leaning into her touch. 

“You can pick whichever tree you want.” “How are you going to strap it to the car?” “I’ll figure it out.” 

You pull Natasha through the maze of trees, eventually settling on a reasonably sized one- small enough to fit in the living room of her apartment. There’s ratchet straps conveniently sold at the front desk and Natasha buys them along with the tree. She gets a stand as well- you definitely wouldn’t have thought of that and then the tree would end up leaning against the wall of the living room. The two of you eventually get it strapped to the roof of her car after a long struggle. The snow is beginning to fall faster, turning the sky into a white flurry. 

You check your phone as Natasha drives you back into the city. Your brother had texted: “I’m so sorry babe. I’ll take care of it.” You’re so grateful for him that you might start crying again, and so you turn off your phone and pull Natasha’s hand back into your lap. The weather’s bordering on severe by the time the two of you pull into the parking lot. Getting the tree off of the car proves to be even more difficult than initially strapping it on. You resort to just yanking it as hard as you can and then proceeding to drag it up the stairs with Natasha pushing the bottom. 

“Oh my fuck,” she grunts, pushing the tree through the door with a pained groan. 

“Regretting your decision yet?,” you pull it into the living room, equally as pained as your girlfriend. 

“Nope,” she shuts the door quickly as a cold burst of air whips into the foyer. 

“Why is it so heavy?,” you mumble. 

“Hold on, one second,” she runs and places the tree stand in the corner next to the fireplace as you pull the behemoth the rest of the way. 

“I’ll get it upright and then you lift?” “Good lord, okay,” Natasha rubs her hands together in determination. 

“Three, two-” the branches creak as you lift the tree up. Natasha quickly lifts the stump once you get it vertical, shuffling it into the stand with a grunt. 

“God damn,” she says from somewhere behind the tree and you snake your hand through the branches, finding her and pulling her out. 

“Thanks baby,” you kiss her cheek and she smiles. 

You try to help Natasha with dinner, but she just pushes you into the shower instead. You let the hot water run all of the airport air and tears off of you. You smell food as you exit the shower and pull on a pair of pajamas that Natasha set out for you. You continue to avoid your phone for the time being, not wanting to find out what your mom has to say just yet. 

“Hey you,” Natasha calls from the kitchen as you shuffle out of her room. “Dinner’s ready.” 

“I appreciate you,” you murmur as she pulls out your chair for you and you sit down. 

“Snow’s coming down, hm?” “Yeah,” you turn towards the window to see the street piling up with big white walls of snow. “I guess it’s good my flight got cancelled.” 

“Have you talked to your mom?,” she looks up at you from her soup, spooning it into her mouth. 

“Uh-uh,” you shake your head, “I’ll probably put it off until tomorrow.” “It’s not your fault,” Natasha holds your gaze.

“I know,” you look down. 

“Did you text Ty?” “He said he’ll talk to them.” 

“Good, baby.” You end up on the couch after cleaning up dinner, curling into Natasha with your legs resting in her lap. She has her hand gently running through your hair as the two of you watch the fire dance over the logs. Natasha doesn’t have any ornaments, as expected, but she’d placed the presents she was going to give you when you got back under the tree. 

“Do you wish you were with your family?,” you whisper, running a hand over her waist. 

“I don’t know,” she says after a long pause. Even after over a year of being together, Natasha still doesn’t like talking about her family. You know about her sister, you know how much she loves her, but other than that, she’s sparring with any other memories from her childhood. You know something happened, but you also know that whatever it is, it’s far too painful to talk about. 

“I’m glad you’re not alone,” you say quietly.

You shift the cue stick to your other hand before reaching out to shake his, quietly offering your name in return. His black t-shirt clings tightly to a broad, muscular frame, the fabric stretching across his thick chest. His left arm catches your eye, its material sleek and metallic, glinting with black and gold in the light. You catch yourself staring.

“That’s cute, by the way.” Bucky points to the crocheted Santa hat adorning your head. Everyone in your office was strongly encouraged to wear something festive to the holiday party.

You tear your eyes away from his prosthetic arm and manage to uncomfortably giggle, “Oh, uh, thanks.” You fiddle with the drooping pom-pom of the hat.

“You ever played before?” he asks.

“No... But how hard can it be?”

“Oh?” Bucky grins, amused. “Alright then; show me what you’ve got.”

You scoff, step up to the table, and lean in to take your shot. Carefully, you line up the cue, then jab it forward… only to graze the edge of the cue ball, sending it rolling away barely an inch.

Behind you, Bucky chuckles.

You feel your face heating up. Clearing your throat, you shift your stance and try again, more determined… but the cue slips in your grip, scraping the felt, and missing the ball entirely.

Bucky chuckles again. “Are you left-handed?”

You straighten, flustered. “No?”

He smiles, patient but clearly enjoying himself. “Then you’re holding it wrong. Left hand guides the cue. Right hand shoots.”

“Oh…”

“Here, like this,” Bucky says as he takes the cue from you. “Left hand on the table.”

He pushes at your shoulder until you bend over.

You let out an unsure, “Uh…” but he ignores it and grabs your left hand, places your palm onto the table, and adjusts your fingers and wrist.

He slides the cue between your index and middle fingers, then wraps your index around the stick. “Gently, don’t grip it too hard. This is a closed bridge, offers more stability.”

Before you can react, he takes your right hand and wraps it around the end of the stick. “Use this hand to shoot,” he says.

“You wanna get down low,” he continues as he presses down on your lower back. “Get eye level with the ball so you can get a good sightline.”

“Um, Bucky-”

“Hold it steady,” he says as he places his prosthetic hand over yours on the table, “and zero in on your target.” He leans over you and presses his torso against your back; his hips dig into your ass.

“H-hey!” you incredulously protest.

“And then you shoot.” Bucky grabs your right hand and forces you to strike the cue ball.

A sharp crack echoes through the room as the white ball flies forward, slamming into the rack. A cascade of sharp clacks follows as the rest of the balls scatter across the table.

He straightens when you aim to elbow him, and your arm just awkwardly swings in the air.

“And there you have it, doll,” he casually continues. “A bit of practice and you’ll be beating all your pals at this. Pick either stripes or solids and knock them all in, then go for the 8-ball last. If you fuck up and get the 8-ball in before you get your colors, you automatically lose.”

“Uh, r-right… yeah, thanks,” you mutter, your voice catching as you take a step back. You hug the pool cue closer, resting its tip on the floor. Your shoulders draw inwards as he follows you and takes a step forward.

“Starting without us, huh?” one of your coworkers, a fresh-faced intern, remarks as he sidles up to you. He wears a Krampus-themed ugly Christmas sweater.

“Oh, no,” you answer, voice still a bit strained at your earlier discomfort. You quickly step around him to place him between you and Bucky. “I was just practicing.”

Your coworker instinctively turns with your movements to keep you in his view.

“Well,” he quips, none the wiser, “you should really go grab some food before it’s all gone. I swear, these people, it’s like they’ve never eaten anything in their entire lives, the way they’re inhaling those mozzarella sticks.”

“S-sure, Chase,” you stammer, glancing past him to where Bucky is already walking away, heading back to his group of equally muscular friends. A tall man with short blond hair crosses his massive arms and grins at Bucky, while another man with dark skin claps him on the shoulder and lets out a loud guffaw.

You turn and walk towards the food as your coworkers reset the pool table. You find that you've lost your appetite, but try to eat a little something anyway. After all, you had to pay $50 for this. Your bosses are so cheap; they couldn’t even cover the cost of this holiday event. Not only did you have to fork over the cash, but the whole thing was strongly implied to be mandatory. You couldn’t really decline unless you wanted to earn a reputation for lacking the holiday spirit and not being a team player. You’re also pretty sure it doesn’t really cost $50 per person, and that someone is pocketing the change.

You scowl as you crack open a can of soda and take a sip. You glance up to see Bucky staring at you, the corner of his lips turned into a smirk. You quickly snap your head back to the food and randomly fill your plate with a few items.

You sit alone at one of the booths, surrounded by your coworkers’ jackets and bags, and quietly eat your food as your coworkers begin to play. After you manage to chew on a few mozzarella sticks and a couple of buffalo wings, Chase comes over to drag you to a different pool table to start a new game with you.

“Come on,” Chase grins, “let’s see if your practice paid off.”

Your practice did not pay off. With Bucky’s pointers, you’re able to at least hit the balls, but none of them go into the pocket. Luckily, Chase isn’t faring any better. Unfortunately, that means the game is going nowhere, with the balls ricocheting in every direction, but not a single one is sinking.

A coworker from the other table lets out a loud whoop as the clack of a ball indicates a win. You glance over as the winner fist-bumps the air a few times, grunting with each bump, and ending his display with another loud whoop.

Chase sighs as he eyes the scattered balls on your table and steps next to you. He casually drapes an elbow over your shoulder closest to him and states, “Well. We suck.”

You snort and nod in agreement.

“How about we move on to foosball?” Chase suggests.

“Okay,” you answer, voice sounding a bit tired and irritated because you would much rather call it a day and go home, but no one else is leaving yet, so you can’t be the first to sneak out. You continue, “But, uh, let me use the bathroom first.”

“Sure,” Chase grins as he slips his arm off of you.

You walk away, following the sign pointing toward the restrooms, and step into a dim, unsettling hallway with two doors. Golden tinsel garland drapes in sagging U-shapes along the walls, shimmering faintly in the low light. With the crowd now far behind you, the Christmas music from the overhead speakers swells, suddenly louder and strangely hollow in the empty corridor. The last door on the right bears a worn plastic sign of a woman’s figure nailed to the wood. The sound of Darlene Love singing, “Tell me, I've gotta know, where do lonely hearts go? Because nobody oughta be all alone on Christmas…” echoes as you push the door open and step inside.

You squint at the chaotic scene as the door falls shut behind you, the lively music outside fading into a dull murmur. The walls are completely covered in graffiti with layer upon layer of scribbles, tags, and crude drawings. You're not sure if it’s supposed to be some kind of edgy aesthetic or just the result of customers with their pens and Sharpies. Either way, it looks like a mess, and you’re leaning towards the latter.

There are five stalls, and one is already occupied. You skip the next one, not wanting to sit right beside somebody, and head for the stall against the back wall. Gingerly pushing the door open with your index finger, you brace yourself for something gross. To your relief, the toilet is pretty clean, and there’s plenty of toilet paper.

You place a couple of layers of paper on the toilet seat, pull your pencil skirt up and panties down, and finally sit. You sigh as you “release,” your eyes lazily scanning the scribbles covering the walls.

“You still taste like regret,” one accuses from a corner.

“I can’t wash you off my hands,” whispers another, the words looping and rushed.

“You keep running, but you always end up here,” scrawls across the tile in jagged and uneven letters.

Your bored expression slowly shifts to concern as the scribbles start to grow increasingly unhinged and chaotic.

“You belong to me, even if I have to take it.”

“It’s not wrong if you liked it.”

“You’re so sexy when you’re afraid to leave.”

A chill snakes up your spine as your brows pinch. The corner of your lips turns downward before parting in horror, and your fingers tighten against the toilet paper in your hands.

“You said stop, I heard stay.”

“For a good time, scream no.”

BANG.

You suddenly gasp and jump when a door outside is shoved open with enough force to slam against the wall. You huff and quickly wipe as you hear your stall neighbor flush the toilet and step out. You stand, pull your panties up, adjust your skirt, and then flush. Just as you’re about to step out yourself, you hear your stall neighbor squawk indignantly, “Hey, this is the ladies’ room!”

You hear a male voice snarl, “Fuck off,” followed by a shrill shriek of the woman and the chaotic scrambling of footsteps as the door bursts open and then slammed shut with a violent crack. A muffled “oof!” echoes as the woman hits the opposite wall outside. You can hear him flip the lock.

Heart hammering, you fumble the stall lock back into place and retreat until your calves press against the toilet. Eyes wide, you freeze and stare at the door as the heavy thud of his boots begins to move across the tiles. He starts whistling a cheerful tune, a song that sounds like “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” You shift back instinctively, pressing yourself deeper into the stall until you’re wedged between the toilet and the wall.

The whistling stops. His footsteps pause right outside your door, and then you hear three soft knocks. You gulp, pressing yourself tighter into the corner, and praying that your silence convinces him the stall is empty.

No such luck. You catch a glimpse of metal, black and gold fingers curling over the top of the door, before he pushes against the hindrance and the lock gives with a sharp crack, splintering away from the wood like it’s nothing.

“Hiya, doll.” Bucky grins as the door swings open.

“Buck-” you stutter, “Bucky…you…you shouldn’t be in here…”

He tilts his head, lips pursed in mock consideration, then lets a slow smirk spread across his face.

“Nah… I think I’m right where I belong.”

He steps into the stall, crowding into your space. He kicks the door shut behind him, but it only bounces off the partition, hanging open a few inches. He grabs onto your upper arms and brusquely pulls you away from the wall. You crash against his chest, and he wraps you into a bear hug, crushing you against him.

The air gets squeezed out of your lungs as you wheeze, “Bucky, g-get off me…”

“You’re real cute, ya know that?” Bucky growls, flicking the pom-pom of your hat out of your face. “You in this tight little skirt with your tight little ass.”

He slaps one hand against your ass and grabs a fistful of the cheek.

You grunt as you feel his fingers dig into your flesh. You shove at his chest, but it does nothing to deter him.

“You just kept bending over and showing me the goods. Both the back,” he shakes your ass in his fist, “and the front.” He releases the cheek and then grabs onto the V-neck of your blouse, ripping it down and exposing your bra.

“Did you know you were flashing the entire room your tits when you leaned over?” he snarls. “I bet ya did. You just kept doing it in my direction, making sure I saw ya.”

“It wasn’t-”

“And then swinging your hips as you slowly made your way to the restroom. You wanted me to follow you.”

Bucky shoves his hand under your bra and squeezes one of your breasts. “You’re lookin’ for a good time, aren’t ya?” he snarls.

“No-!” you incredulously yell, but he claps a palm over your mouth and promptly cuts you off.

“Sure, you are,” Bucky confirms for you. “You can’t just go smiling so sweetly and batting your lashes at me and expect me not to do something about it. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

You try to speak, but the hand he holds over your mouth just sounds like gibberish.

“Ah, don’t worry, doll. I’ll give you that good time. I’ll give you everything you want.”

Bucky shoves you against the tiled wall and grinds his hips against yours. You can feel the hard length of him against your pelvis and you whimper against his hand. He pulls at the strap of your bra down until one of your tits falls out. He palms it, pushing it up towards his face as he leans down and takes your nipple into his hot mouth. You squeal and thrash, but he holds you so tightly that all you can do is barely wiggle in his arm.

He moans as he feels you struggle in vain, sucking at the nipple before flicking his tongue up and down at the hardened nub. You jump with every flick as you feel heat pool between your legs at his ministrations. He softly nips your nipple between his teeth and pulls until it slips from him. You squeak and murmur incoherently. He presses his palm harder against your mouth, jolting your head a little, and presses his lips against your ear.

“Shut up,” Bucky demands, his voice deep and unsettlingly calm. The puff of his breath against your ear causes you to tremble. He draws his free hand to your throat and wraps his fingers around your neck gently, but firmly, enough to prove a point but not enough to cut off your breathing.

“I’m gonna take my hand off of your mouth, and you’re not gonna make a sound,” he continues. “You’re gonna be as quiet as a cute little mouse. If you scream, I’ll strangle you until you pass out, you got it?”

After a brief hesitation, you nod.

“Good,” he says as he removes his hand.

You sniffle wetly, take a breath, and whine, “Bucky, I didn’t-”

He suddenly grabs you by your chin, squishing your cheeks until your lips purse.

“I thought I told you to shut up,” he snarls into your face.

“Sorry…” you whisper, tears welling in your eyes.

“Not,” he squeezes your cheeks slightly harder and shakes your head, lightly thumping it against the tile once, “a sound.”

You snap your mouth shut and nod.

He pulls at the cup of your bra until your other tit pops out. He purrs appreciatively as he cups a breast in each hand. The contrasting heat from one and the coldness of metal from the other is striking and you shiver. He circles the nipples with his thumbs, then pinches and rolls them between his fingers. You flinch and bite your lips. Your legs are shaking as they struggle to keep you standing. Your breathing gets heavier as you swallow thickly, clenching your teeth together to keep from making any noise. He leans forward to lick down your neck, and then gives each nipple wet, open-mouthed kisses.

You’re startled when Bucky suddenly pulls the Santa hat off your head and tosses it to the floor.

“Look,” he says, “it’s cute, but ridiculous. I don’t want that pom-pom bouncing around in my face.”

You press your lips together in a pout as you stare at the hat you crocheted yourself sitting on the dirty floor. Bucky snorts as he grabs your face and forces you to look back at him. He slams his lips against yours and tries to force his tongue into your mouth. He’s only able to lick at your teeth since you keep your jaw firmly clenched. He growls impatiently as he gives the side of your face a little tap. When you still wouldn’t relent, he grabs your chin and squeezes your cheeks until the pain causes you to part your lips. He moans as he slips his tongue in. You can taste a hint of beer and something chocolate peppermint from whatever he drank or ate. At least it’s not unpleasant. He brings his vibranium hand up to place around your neck. He didn’t press down onto your throat, but the warning was there nonetheless. Bite, and there will be consequences.

Bucky sucks your bottom lip and then pulls away. He wrenches you from the wall and turns you around so that you face away from him. He sits down on the toilet seat and pulls you back towards him by your hips. He shoves your pencil skirt up to your waist and roughly yanks your panties down, a small translucent line of your wetness stretches from your skin to the panties. When the fabric gets to your ankles, he pats the side of your ankle to get you to step out of them, and then he pockets your panties. He kicks at your feet until you step your legs further apart, and he purrs as he grabs an ass cheek in each of his hands and spreads them. You involuntarily clench as he inspects you and he chuckles. You gulp as you hear the soft clink of his belt, followed by the metallic zip of his fly and rustling denim

“Come on,” he ordered, pulling you further back with one hand as he strokes his hard cock with the other, smearing his precum over his length. He presses down on your thigh, making you lower yourself onto him, his tip poking at your entrance. There’s a little bit of resistance as he wiggles his cock around your hole. You gasp sharply when the resistance gives way, and his head breaches into you with a wet pop, then a soft squish as the rest of him follows. You bite your lips and scrunch your face as he pushes you all the way down, spearing yourself onto him, sitting fully on his lap. He wraps his arms under your still exposed tits and pulls your back to his chest.

Bucky peers over your shoulder and groans, “Look at you, all split open.”

You glance down and feel a mix of horror and disbelief. Your lower lips are forced wide open and stretched taut around him, the hood of your clit pulled apart by his size, and the little swollen pearl glistens on display.

“Never had a real man’s cock in you before, huh?” he growls into your ear as he gives you a shallow thrust. “Feels good, don’t it? Can feel you leaking onto my balls.”

You shake your head, and he lightly taps your exposed clit with the tip of his fingers, causing you to yelp. You press the back of your head against Bucky’s shoulder and arch when he begins to finger the hardened nub. You start writhing when his other hand plays with your nipples.

“Yeah, you like that,” Bucky states, matter-of-factly. He begins thrusting into you, slow, but hard; his skin claps against yours as the air gets punched out of your lungs with each impact.

Your head lolls on Bucky’s shoulder as you moan breathlessly. He wasn’t wrong when he said it felt good; he knows exactly what to do to set your blood on fire, but like hell you’re going to admit that with words.

He smoothes his hand up from your tit to your neck, and finally up to your mouth. He presses his palm firmly against your lips and you let out a confused sound. You quickly find out why when he lifts you up slightly, and then starts to callously jackhammer into you as he cruelly presses his finger against your clit, rubbing rough and fast circles that have your eyes almost popping out of your skull. You inhale a deep breath through your nose and let out a wail that is muffled against the cold vibranium. Your arms flail as you try to hold onto something, anything. You finally settle on grabbing the back of his neck with one of your hands, and the other grabs the wrist that’s keeping your mouth shut.

“Oh yeah, that’s it, doll,” Bucky grunts, “squeeze my cock.” He’s still looking down your shoulder to watch your tits bounce wildly and to watch his dick, shiny with your arousal, disappear into your sopping cunt.

“You’re tight to begin with,” Bucky continues, slightly out of breath, “but now you’re getting even tighter. You’re gonna come soon, aren’t ya?”

You shake your head as tears spring into your eyes.

“Yeah, you are,” Bucky hisses. “Yeah, you fuckin’ are.”

You shut your eyes as you shake your head again, trying desperately to gain control of your body, but to no avail. Your shrill cry gets stifled as he shoves his hand harder against your mouth, and you feel yourself get thrown over the edge. Your walls clamp down so hard on him that he struggles to keep his pace. He nuzzles into your neck as your legs give out, and you fall into his lap, your body trembling violently against him. He releases his hold over your mouth and you gasp, taking in some much-needed oxygen. He wraps both arms under your tits again as he easily lifts you up and down, using you like a cock sleeve to chase his own high. Your body is weak as you hyperventilate, Bucky forcing you to ride out the rest of your orgasm, with your arms swinging limply at your side.

You feel his cock start twitching inside of you, signaling the inevitable. You flinch and yelp as you feel the first splash of him coming inside. You immediately panic and press your hand against his knee, struggling to push yourself up and away from him. He grabs you by the shoulder and roughly shoves you back down, your cunt squelching loudly as he jams his release deeper inside you.

“Where do you think you’re going, huh?” Bucky snarls, his lips brushing against your ear and his hot breath sending a shiver down your spine. “Stay the fuck on me.”

He wraps his vibranium hand around your neck, squeezing just enough to silence your protest. You gasp and wheeze as he continues plunging into you. You feel hot ropes of cum stream into you with each thrust and your face pinches into a cringe. With one last grunt, Bucky shoves you down onto his cock, impaling you as deep and as hard as possible. He finally stills, you can feel your comingled fluids leak around his shaft and pool into his lap.

Bucky releases his hand around your neck and wraps his arms over your breasts and around your stomach, pulling you tighter against his chest. You squirm and try again to dislodge his slowly softening and seeping cock out of you, but he wouldn’t allow it.

He nips your earlobe and you recoil. He chuckles, “That was good, doll. Think I’ll take you home for Christmas. You can scream as much as you want there.”

Author's Note: I only played pool a handful of times in my life (and I suck), I just googled what I could and then made up the rest, so if my knowledge of pool is wrong, it’s because I have no idea what I am talking about.

By the way, Chase is Chase Collins from "The Covenant," making a little cameo in this fic!

Thanks so much for reading! I would appreciate some reblogs and comments!

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the silence.

Not the tense kind that clings to mafia meetings or the too-loud kind that buzzes after an argument, but real silence. Peaceful, steady, like the house itself is holding its breath. For a moment, it doesn’t feel like you’re in hiding. You’re just somewhere quiet. Safe.

You stretch under the soft covers of the unfamiliar bed. The bedding choice has Wanda all over it, and it smells like clean linen and distant perfume, something vaguely floral, something expensive. The room is small but comfortable: thick blackout curtains, minimal furniture, no personal touches. It’s not home, but it’s fine. It’s neutral territory.

As you roll onto your side and blink at the muted light seeping around the curtain edges, you can hear faint voices. One of them is Kate,bright, chatty. The other is unmistakably Carol, grumbling like someone who’s been up far too long.

You smile to yourself. Might as well face the day.

You step into the kitchen barefoot, still rubbing sleep from your eyes, wearing one of your oversized sweatshirts and a pair of soft shorts. Kate is sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter, eating dry cereal from the box. Carol’s standing near the fridge with her arms crossed, watching her like she’s some sort of wild animal.

“Morning,” you mumble.

Kate lights up like a Christmas tree. “Hey! Sleeping Beauty emerges!”

Carol spares you a glance. “You were out cold. I checked on you twice. Thought we’d need to poke you with a stick.”

“Aw, Carol. You do care.”

She snorts. “I care about keeping you alive. You dying in your sleep would be a paperwork nightmare.”

Kate tosses a piece of cereal at her, which Carol dodges with military precision.

You yawn and pull up a stool. “What time is it?”

“Almost nine,” Kate answers. “Carol made coffee, but she doesn’t share.”

“I’m guarding you,” Carol replies flatly. “Not brewing cappuccinos.”

You glance toward the coffeemaker, which is indeed full of hot, untouched coffee. “Then who made that?”

Carol doesn’t flinch. “I did.”

You blink. “But-”

“It’s mine.”

Kate throws up her hands. “She’s the worst roommate.”

Eventually, Carol relents enough to pour you a cup, black, no sugar. You wince after the first sip and Kate immediately offers you a leftover hot cocoa packet from her purse.

“Don’t ask why I carry these,” she says, tearing it open and dumping it into your mug before Carol can protest. “It’s called being prepared.”

“Prepared to give our position away with marshmallow dust,” Carol mutters.

Kate leans across the counter, stage-whispering to you. “She’s cranky because she hasn’t threatened anyone yet today.”

You giggle and nod solemnly. “We should give her a target.”

Carol levels you with a look. “Careful. I’m trained to take out targets I don’t like.”

“Oh good,” Kate beams. “That means we’re safe!”

“I’m not so sure,” you whisper.

The three of you settle in the living room with a random sitcom playing in the background. You take the middle of the couch, curled up with a throw blanket, while Kate scrolls through TikTok on her phone, occasionally shoving it in your face to show you something unhinged.

Carol stands watch near the window, arms crossed, always within line of sight. She’s clearly on edge even though everything seems calm. But despite her icy exterior, she hasn't snapped at you yet today, which, in Carol terms, is practically a hug.

“So,” you say casually, kicking your feet up, “what would happen if I wanted to go outside?”

Carol’s glare is immediate and devastating.

“I’m joking,” you laugh, holding up your hands.

Kate adds, “She’d probably tackle you before you hit the doormat.”

“I would,” Carol confirms.

“You’d like it,” you tease. “You probably dream of chasing me around like a spy movie.”

“Only if I get to tranquilize you at the end.”

“Tempting,” you say, pretending to think. “Depends on the outfit.”

Kate fake-gasps. “Oh my god, Carol, are you blushing?”

“I’m plotting your deaths.”

“Same thing.”

Eventually, the energy settles, but the ease of the morning lingers. You feel normal. Which is ridiculous, because nothing about this is normal. You’re in a safehouse with a soldier and a girl who treats danger like a fashion accessory.

But for a moment, sitting here with them? Laughing like this? You almost forget why you're here.

Until you don’t.

Because you know this is borrowed time.

And eventually, it runs out.

_____

The knock is quiet.

So soft, you almost don’t hear it. But Carol does.

She’s on her feet in an instant, one hand going to her side where you assume a weapon is tucked into her waistband, not that she’d admit it. Her shoulders go tense, and she gestures for both you and Kate to stay behind her. No one speaks.

Another knock. Louder this time. Just once.

Carol moves to the peephole and then relaxes, barely. “Secure delivery. Maria must’ve sent it.” She opens the door, retrieves a small black package with no label, and shuts it again in one fluid movement.

“Is that for me?” you ask, your voice hopeful.

Carol tosses it onto the couch beside you. “Says ‘Sunshine’ on the tape. So unless Kate has a secret nickname.”

Kate clutches her chest. “I wish Yelena was sappy enough to call me that.”

You’re already tearing at the tape. The package is sealed with high-grade black gaffer tape, folded neatly and tucked without scissors. A professional touch. Inside, there’s folded tissue, thick and black, wrapped around something soft. A handwritten card rests on top.

Your heart skips.

The handwriting is unmistakable, looping, strong. Natasha’s.

You slide the note out and open it. Kate leans over your shoulder, but Carol remains where she is, arms crossed, watching with that same unreadable expression she always wears when it’s about them.

You read the letter quietly to yourself, your hands trembling just enough to make the paper rustle.

My sweet girl,

You didn’t wake when we said goodnight. You looked too peaceful. I  wanted to kiss your forehead and I’d promised I’d keep you safe, even if you couldn’t hear me.

This is not forever. Just a precaution. A breath between battles.

The hoodie was Wanda’s idea. She said you’d miss our scent. She’s always right.

Speaking of her, she picked the color. It’s ridiculous and soft. She said it reminded her of you. I can’t argue. She tucked a second note in the pocket. She wouldn’t let me read it.

You’re not alone. Even if the house feels empty. Even if you wake up and your favorite coffee isn’t made. Even if I’m not there to scowl at your outfit.

We are still yours. And you’re still ours. Always.

—Natasha

Your throat tightens. You reread it twice, pressing your fingers against the edges so it doesn’t shake.

Kate wipes her eyes dramatically. “Okay, that’s unfair. I want a package from my mafia girlfriend.”

Carol looks mildly uncomfortable. “They get like that when they’re in love.”

You reach into the package and pull out the hoodie. It’s oversized but not one you’ve seen before. Deep burgundy red with a small embroidery near the wrist: a delicate scarlet thread in the shape of a heart. You don’t have to ask to know Wanda did that.

The fabric smells like them. Vanilla, leather, the faintest trace of perfume and gunpowder. You bury your face in it, breathing deep.

Kate hands you the small folded note from the hoodie’s front pocket.

Hi baby,

You’re safe. That’s what matters.

Don’t listen to Carol, she’s a softie deep down. (Really, really deep.)

I love you. You’re mine. Don’t forget.

P.S. I want the hoodie back. Eventually.

– Wanda

You laugh, a watery, uneven thing that makes Kate rub your back and Carol glance away like she’s pretending she didn’t see you tear up.

Then you pull the hoodie over your head.

It’s huge. Soft. Warm in all the right ways. You curl your knees up to your chest and tuck your chin into the collar, letting it swallow you whole. Like armor. Like home.

Kate smirks. “You look like a mafia girlfriend.”

“I am a mafia girlfriend.”

Carol snorts. “That’s not something you’re supposed to say out loud.”

You grin. “I’m wearing the uniform. I think I’ve earned it.”

The letter and notes get tucked into the nightstand drawer for safekeeping. You think you might read them again before bed. Maybe every night.

You sit with Kate and Carol a little longer. The sun filters through the windows, and for a brief, perfect moment, it feels like things might be okay.

You're still theirs.

And they made sure you wouldn't forget it.

__________

The sunlight has shifted since morning, softer now, stretching long across the floor as the day starts to age.

Carol had mumbled something about checking the perimeter and left through the back door half an hour ago. You weren’t sure if she was doing it because she needed space, or because she could tell you needed it.

Now it’s just you and Kate, curled up on opposite sides of the couch, with the television playing something neither of you is watching.

You’re still in Natasha’s hoodie. It hangs off your frame like a blanket, the sleeves falling well past your hands. You haven’t taken it off since it arrived. You don’t want to.

Kate breaks the silence first.

“So,” She shifts, hugging a throw pillow to her chest. “You wanna talk about it?”

You blink. “About what?”

She gives you a look. “You’ve been sighing like you’re the heroine of a tragic period drama. All you’re missing is a storm and a piano.”

You snort. “That’s not true.”

Kate raises an eyebrow. “You literally sighed, ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ ten minutes ago.”

You groan and bury your face in your knees.

She nudges you with her foot. “Talk to me.”

You peek over your arms. “It’s stupid.”

Kate shrugs. “I like stupid. I thrive in stupid.”

Another beat passes. Then you breathe in and admit, quietly, “I think this is my fault.”

Kate’s smile drops.

You press your forehead against your knees. “If I had just stayed where I was supposed to be, if I hadn’t wandered off, or talked to that guy, or, ” Your voice cracks. “If I wasn’t in the picture at all, maybe no one would be in danger.”

There’s a long pause.

Kate gets up from the couch, walks over, and sits down beside you instead. Close enough that your arms are brushing. Then she leans in and deadpans, “Okay. I didn’t realize I was gonna have to fight you today, but here we are.”

You look up, startled. “What?”

“Because that’s the only way I’m letting you say that again. That this is your fault.” Her voice is soft, but firm. “You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I broke their rules-”

“Wanda and Natasha’s rules,” Kate cuts in. “Not mafia rules. Not your rules. And let’s not pretend those rules were always clear.”

You fidget with the hem of your sleeve. “Maria made it pretty clear how she felt.”

Kate’s jaw tenses. “I heard what she said. About civilians. That wasn’t fair. She’s just scared.”

“She’s mad,” you whisper. “She said it under her breath like I wasn’t even there. Like I’m a burden. And maybe I am.”

Kate takes a breath like she’s steadying herself. “Okay. First of all? You’re not a burden. You’re someone they love. And that makes you part of this whether you like it or not.”

You blink.

“And second,” Her tone softens. “Do you know how often I’ve felt like that? Like I don’t belong? Like I’m just one wrong move away from messing everything up?”

You look at her. Really look at her.

Kate sighs. “I’m not mafia. I’m not trained. I don’t carry a weapon. I don’t know how to code a safehouse or make a clean kill or lie to a federal agent without blinking. All I know is that I love someone who does.”

“Yelena,” you say softly.

Kate nods. “Yelena.” Then, a smile. “And I love the chaos that comes with her. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel, small. Like I don’t have any right to be in their world.”

You nod. “That’s exactly how I feel.”

“But the thing is,” Kate continues, “they chose us anyway. They let us in, even though we’re soft. Even though we’re not like them. And they like that we’re not like them.”

You go quiet. Let her words sink in.

“Look,” Kate touches your arm. “Wanda and Natasha would burn down this entire city for you. And not just because you’re theirs. Because you’re you. They don’t want someone like them. They want someone good. Soft. Kind. The only reason Maria got her arm broken is because they needed everyone to remember that.”

“I didn’t want that,” you say quickly. “I didn’t want her to get hurt. I just wanted her to stop hating me.”

Kate leans back. “She doesn’t hate you. She’s angry. She feels like she messed up, and instead of processing that, she aimed it at you. That’s on her, not you.”

You chew on your lip. “I just wish she liked me.”

“She will. Or she won’t. Either way, you’re not going anywhere.”

You glance sideways. “Neither are you, huh?”

Kate gives you a smug smile. “Yelena threatened to zip-tie me to the bedpost if I tried to sneak out with you again.”

You snort-laugh, wiping at your eyes. “That actually makes me feel better.”

Kate throws an arm around you. “Good. That’s my job.”

You lean into her, warm and heavy in the quiet. And for the first time all day, you don’t feel like you’re about to shatter.

_______________________

The bedroom is too quiet.

Too dark. Too safe.

You’ve been lying in bed for over an hour, curled in Natasha’s hoodie, wrapped in layers of soft blankets, but your thoughts refuse to quiet down. Everything that happened today keeps replaying behind your eyes. Maria’s voice, cold and sharp. The crack of her arm breaking under Wanda’s grip. The way no one even flinched.

Not even Kate.

You don’t know how to feel about that.

You push the blankets off your legs and sit up, the floor cool beneath your feet. A glance at the digital clock says 12:42 a.m. You tiptoe to the door, careful not to creak the old hinges, and slowly pull it open-

Only to stop short.

Carol is sitting just outside your door.

Leaning back against the wall, arms folded over her chest, one leg bent, the other stretched out. Her eyes flick open the moment she hears you.

You blink at her. “You’re still here?”

She gives you a look. “Obviously.”

“Have you just been sitting there all night?”

“Babysitting detail,” she says flatly. “Someone has to make sure the princess doesn’t sneak off and end up talking to another assassin.”

You narrow your eyes. “I didn’t know he was an assassin.”

Carol raises an eyebrow. “Still not great instincts.”

You sigh and step out, lowering yourself to sit beside her, knees pulled to your chest.

She doesn’t move away.

For a long stretch of silence, the two of you just sit there. The only sound is the soft hum of the safehouse heating system and the occasional creak of old wood settling in the night.

Then you murmur, “Do you think Maria’s okay?”

Carol’s head turns slightly. “She’ll live.”

“I mean, it was just her arm, right?”

Carol’s eyes narrow. “She insulted you. Repeatedly.”

“I know, but-”

“She needed to be reminded of her place,” Carol says, voice sharp. “And of yours.”

You frown down at your hands. “She was right, though, I’m not like the rest of you. I don’t belong in this world.”

“Exactly,” Carol says. “And that’s why they’d burn it down for you.”

You glance over at her.

Carol’s gaze is fixed straight ahead, jaw tense. “Wanda and Nat don’t care if you fit. They don’t want you to. They want you untouched by it. Clean. Safe. Far away from everything they’ve had to survive.”

You chew your lip. “It just felt like, everyone was fine with what happened to Maria. Like it was normal.”

Carol shrugs. “It is normal. For us.”

You nod slowly, unsure what to say to that.

Then, a beat later: “She looked at me like she hated me.”

Carol sighs, glancing your way. “Maria hates feelings. And you? You turn two of the scariest people in the world into giant, lovesick teddy bears.”

You let out a tiny laugh, shoulders easing a little. “Teddy bears?”

“Okay. Maybe attack dogs who only roll over for you,” Carol amends. “But still.”

A pause.

Then you whisper, “I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.”

“I know that,” Carol says simply.

You don’t speak for a while after that.

Eventually, your head starts to drift toward her shoulder. Not quite touching, just leaning closer, until the space between you disappears. Carol doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t tease. Just shifts the slightest bit to let you rest there.

It’s quiet.

Warm.

And before long, your voice comes again, soft as a secret.

“Thanks for being here.”

Carol shrugs. “Don’t make it weird.”

You smile sleepily, eyes finally beginning to drift shut.

She stays right where she is.

______________

You try to sleep.

You really do.

But after sitting next to Carol for nearly an hour in silence, and still not feeling tired, you finally gave up and retreated back to the safehouse bedroom. You’ve changed positions six times, kicked the blankets off twice, then pulled them back on. Natasha’s hoodie helps a little, her familiar scent wrapping around your shoulders like a shield. But it’s not the same.

You miss them.

You roll onto your side and grab your phone from the nightstand. The brightness stings for a second in the dark room, but your fingers move automatically.

FaceTime: Wanda + Natasha

It rings.

You chew the drawstring of the hoodie nervously, wondering if you’re being annoying. It’s late. They’re probably working. You should be strong. You shouldn’t need-

The screen lights up.

Wanda’s face fills the frame first, makeup smudged and hair pulled into a loose braid, clearly in bed. Natasha is next to her, propped against the headboard with a laptop still open beside her. Wanda lights up immediately when she sees you.

“Hi, baby,” she says softly. “You okay?”

Natasha’s eyes flick over you instantly, scanning. “What’s wrong?”

You blink hard. “Nothing’s- I’m okay. I just,” You curl your knees to your chest, cradling the phone. “I couldn’t sleep.”

That earns a soft look from both of them.

“Did something happen?” Wanda asks. “Did Carol say something? Kate?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, nothing like that. Kate’s asleep. Carol’s guarding the hallway like some grumpy watchdog.”

Natasha snorts. “Good.”

Wanda smiles. “You called just because you missed us?”

You nod, a little embarrassed. “It’s quiet here. Too quiet.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Wanda coos, reaching toward the screen like she could hold your cheek through it. “We miss you, too. So much.”

Natasha leans closer, her voice low and even. “I don’t like you being there without us.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I don’t either.”

They’re both quiet for a moment, just watching you on the screen. Then Natasha says, “You’re safe, though. You know that, right?”

You nod. “I do.”

“But you don’t feel it yet,” Wanda adds gently.

You look down. “Not really.”

Wanda and Natasha exchange a glance, silent but knowing.

Natasha closes her laptop, shoving it to the side. “What can we do?”

“Talk to me?” you ask, voice small. “Just until I fall asleep.”

Wanda immediately shifts to lie down, arm tucked under her head. Natasha moves beside her, mirroring the position.

“Of course,” Wanda says. “Tell us about your day.”

So you do.

You talk about breakfast with Kate and Carol, about how happy you were about the package they sent, the hoodie and the letters.You tell them about the little patio you discovered behind the kitchen, the afternoon you spent doing puzzles with Kate, the soup Carol made for dinner.

Then, quieter, you say, “I asked Carol if Maria was okay.”

Natasha’s jaw tightens.

“She’s alive,” she mutters, not hiding the chill in her voice.

“I know,” You look down. “I just, I don’t want her to hate me. I didn’t want her to get hurt.”

“She crossed a line,” Wanda says firmly. “We don’t let anyone talk to you like that.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But I don’t want to be the reason people get punished.”

“You’re not,” Natasha says, sharper than she means to be. Then she exhales. Softer: “You’re the reason people show who they really are. That’s different.”

Wanda smiles gently. “And you didn’t make Maria disrespect you. She chose that. She thought we wouldn’t care.”

“She was wrong,” Natasha finishes, eyes dark. “And now everyone else knows it.”

You shift, pulling the hoodie tighter around yourself. “I just want her to be nicer.”

“She apologized,” Wanda says carefully. “Because she had to. But whether she’s nice, that’s up to her. Not your responsibility.”

“Still,” you mumble. “I wish she didn’t look at me like I’m ruining everything.”

Wanda’s expression softens. “You’re not. You’re the only thing that keeps us from becoming monsters.”

Natasha nods. “You’re the reason we don’t go too far.”

You blink, surprised. “I thought you liked going too far.”

Natasha smirks. “Not when it means you flinch at us.”

Your chest aches, but in a full way. Warm and cracked open all at once.

Wanda shifts under the blankets. “Close your eyes for us, baby.”

You hesitate. Then nod, setting the phone on the pillow beside you so you can still see them.

Natasha watches your face carefully. “You’re safe. Carol’s watching. Kate’s nearby. We’re only a phone call away.”

“Say the word,” Wanda murmurs, “and we’ll bring you home.”

You nod sleepily. “Just one more night?”

“One more,” Natasha promises.

You finally close your eyes.

Their voices stay with you, low, soothing, familiar.

____________

The safehouse lights are still on.

That little porch lamp over the side door flickers every so often, cheap wiring, maybe. Or just human error. The kind of mistake they wouldn’t normally allow.

But things are changing.

They lean farther into the shadows, hood up, breath held as the brush rustles behind them. It’s late, well past midnight, and the house has gone quiet except for one window glowing faintly on the second floor.

Her window.

They recognize the silhouette.

She’s curled up in bed now, phone beside her pillow, dim light reflecting off the glass. They watched her pace the room earlier, wrapped in that stupid hoodie like it was armor. It’s not. Not really.

Not anymore.

Not now that they know where she is.

They glance down at their phone. A grainy photo fills the screen,zoomed in, timestamped, tagged with GPS. One touch and it’ll send. One swipe, and the whole game changes.

But not yet.

Not tonight.

Because tonight isn’t about blowing the whistle.

It’s about confirmation.

It’s about proving that even the great Wanda and Natasha Romanoff-Maximoff can be outplayed. That their kingdom, no matter how brutal, how obsessive, how well-guarded, isn’t invincible.

And this girl?

This girl is the crack in the glass.

The softness they never should’ve let into the empire.

The traitor takes one last look through the binoculars, eyes narrowing as Carol Danvers steps into view downstairs. She’s patrolling again. Same path, same routine. Predictable.

Good.

They slip the binoculars back into their bag and retreat silently into the trees, leaving no footprint behind.

They’ll wait.

They’ll watch.

And soon, when the timing is perfect, they’ll strike.

Let the mafia queens think their secret is safe.

Let them think love makes them stronger.

Because that girl in the hoodie?

She’s going to bring the whole empire down.

______________