😏

The black compression shirt he’s wearing stretches tight across his chest and shoulders, the kind of bulk that says he’s spent the last thirty days punishing himself in the gym instead of texting you. 

You hate how your brain immediately supplies: He’s been working out to forget me. Or getting ready for someone else. The thought stings more than the January air.

And now you have to force your eyes back to his face while his blue eyes flick over you once, quick, then linger.

“Hey,” he says, voice softer than you remember.

“Hey.” You manage a smile that feels brittle. “Happy New Year.”

“Yeah. You too.” He steps back, holding the door wider. “Come in. It’s freezing out there.”

You stay planted on the threshold.

“It’s fine,” you say with your best casual voice. “I’ll wait here.”

Bucky’s brows pull together for half a second. He wets his lips and tilts his head—and lets out a quiet, almost sheepish breath.

“Oh. Uh…” He glances over his shoulder at the box, then back at you. “I was thinking… maybe you’d wanna come in and look around? Just in case I missed something.”

His tone is careful, like he’s testing thin ice.

“Sure, whatever. I can do that.” 

You take off your scarf, and hang it on the coathanger as he closes the door behind you with a quiet click.

He clears his throat, hands shoving into the pockets of his sweatpants. “I, uh… got everything together. Put it in a box. Figured that’d be easier.”

You stand there in the living room, the familiar scent of his cologne in the air. Your fingers linger on the edge of the box as you peer inside—everything folded with that precise, military neatness he always had. Your favorite mug is wrapped carefully in newspaper. Your toothbrush in its little travel case. The books you’d left on the nightstand, spines aligned perfectly.

Behind you, his voice is low, careful. “I put the stuff I bought for you in there too. Intimates, jewelry—all of it. It’s yours. Do whatever you want with it… throw it out, sell it, burn it, your choice.”

The words hit like a slap you didn’t see coming. You swallow hard, throat raw. “I thought you already did.”

A long, heavy silence. Then the scrape of his hand over his face, a sound so tired it makes your chest ache.

“You know I didn’t mean that,” he says, voice cracking on the last word.

You shrug, gripping the box flap until the cardboard bites into your fingers. “Didn’t sound like it at the time.”

Another beat of silence—thick, suffocating.

“You said you were leaving,” he says, quieter now, closer. “You said you were done with me. And then you were gone. I sat in this apartment for weeks staring at your side of the bed like a fucking idiot, waiting for a text that never came. I was angry. I was hurt. So yeah—I said shit to hurt you back. And I’ve hated myself for it every single day since.”

Your eyes burn. You’ve pictured him moving on a thousand times—new girl, new life, your stuff in the trash without a second thought. Hearing he didn’t… hearing he’s been suffering too… it doesn’t fix anything. It just makes the ache sharper.

He keeps going, voice barely above a whisper. “I saw your posts. You looked… happy. Smiling in every photo. And I kept thinking—good. Good, she’s better off. She’s free of me. Because I know what I am. I know I’m difficult. I know I shut down when the work gets bad. I know I’m not easy to love.” A ragged breath. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to walk on eggshells. I’m sorry I ever made you feel small. I just… I miss you so much it’s hard to breathe sometimes. And it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

Your vision blurs. You turn to face him slowly.

He’s standing a few feet away, shoulders curled inward like he’s bracing for a blow, eyes red-rimmed, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping. His hand is still half-raised from scrubbing over his face, like he forgot what to do with it.

The words hang between you, ugly and honest. You want to scream at him. You want to hit him. You want to disappear.

Instead you whisper, “It doesn’t matter now.”

You bend, haul the box up—heavier than your heart—and head for the door.

“Oh come on.” His voice cracks fully this time. Footsteps quick and panicked. “I’m trying here. I’m sorry. I mean it.”

Heavy footsteps follow you to the door.

“I didn’t ask you to come get your clothes today because I wanted you gone,” he says, raw. “I asked because it was an excuse to see you again. One more time. Even if it hurt.”

You’re almost at the entryway when he steps in front of you, blocking the narrow hall. 

Gently, firmly, he lifts the box from your arms and sets it down.

His hands settle on your shoulders, trembling.

His eyes are glassy and pleading. “If you’re really done… if you don’t love me anymore… say it. Say it to my face, and I’ll let you walk out that door and I’ll never bother you again. I swear.”

You stare up at him. Those blue eyes—stormy, wrecked, more open than you’ve ever seen them. A month of distance collapses into this single moment, and it hurts so much you can barely breathe.

A broken laugh escapes you. “You’re cruel,” you whisper, voice shaking. “You know I can’t.”

Tears spill hot down your cheeks. You try to turn away, but his hand cups your face, thumb brushing the tears like he’s afraid you’ll shatter.

“Look at me,” he whispers again, closer now, forehead almost touching yours. “Tell me you’re done. Tell me you don’t love me. And I’ll let you go. Even if it fucking kills me.”

You crumble.

“How can I—” The words rip out of you, raw and ragged. “I love you. God, Bucky, I love you, you’re so—”

His lips crash onto yours like he’s been starving for this—for you—in the last thirty days. His tongue sliding against yours, claiming every inch of your mouth like he’s trying to erase the distance, the fight, the silence. 

His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tears tracking down your cheeks, but he doesn’t gentle the kiss—if anything, he deepens it, stealing the air from your lungs until your head spins harder and black spots dance at the edges of your vision.

You melt into him, helpless. Your hands fist in the front of his compression shirt, pulling him closer even as your knees threaten to buckle. 

A soft, desperate sound escapes your throat and he swallows it, pressing you back until your shoulders meet the nearby wall.

A low sound rumbles in his throat as the contact ignites—chest to chest, hips to hips—and you feel the shudder that rolls through him.

One of his thighs slides between yours, pinning you there, and the solid weight of him is overwhelming—broad chest, corded arms, the new muscle he’s built like armor against the world without you. 

His hands leave your face, skating down your neck, over your coat, until he’s gripping your waist and lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrap around his hips on instinct, the box forgotten on the floor.

He murmurs something wordless against your lips before he nips gently at your bottom one, teasing, testing. The bite is soft, then sharper, a sweet sting that he immediately soothes with a slow, languid kiss. Again and again—bite, kiss, savor—until your lips are swollen and tingling and you’re arching into him without meaning to.

You open for him without hesitation, and his tongue slips inside again, tangling with yours in a slow, sensual dance until you’re breathless.

It emboldens him; you feel it in the way his grip tightens.

He tenses, every muscle coiling as he presses forward, the kiss turning firmer, more insistent. His mouth moves over yours—angling, retreating, claiming, wringing pleasure from you in gasps you can’t hold back.

His body hardens against yours, arousal throbbing hot and demanding between your legs. Another low moan escapes him as he rocks subtly into you, the friction sending white-hot sparks racing up your spine.

The need builds too fast, too fierce, until you both rip apart at the same moment—lips parting with a suction that echoes in the charged silence. You're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, eyes locked in a haze of raw want.

"Can we..." you gasp, voice husky, barely recognizable, "do this somewhere more comfortable?"

A rough chuckle rumbles from his chest, vibrating against you. "God, yes."

He doesn't let go. His mouth crashes back to yours in a searing kiss, hungry and laughing all at once, as his hands start working. 

Fingers tug at your coat, shoving it off your shoulders; it hits the floor with a soft thud. You stumble backward together, lips barely separating, toward the couch, his hands peeling away layers like he's unwrapping a late christmas present. Your jeans go next—his vibranium fingers cool and precise on the button, flesh hand dragging the denim down your thighs until you kick them free.

By the time you tumble onto the couch, you're straddling him, knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. Your shirt clings to you, the only barrier left, and his sweatpants do nothing to hide the thick, rigid length of him pressing up against your core.

His tongue tangles with yours again, deep and possessive, as the fingers of his right hand trail up the side of your body—mapping every curve. He stops at the swell of your breast, palm cupping it gently, feeling the weight in his hand. A low, guttural groan vibrates against your mouth, and you feel him swell even harder beneath you, his cock straining against the fabric separating you.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice wrecked, before slipping his hand under your shirt and bra. 

Warm flesh meets bare skin as he cups you fully, squeezing with just the right pressure—caressing, kneading—until another groan tears from him, deeper this time, his hips bucking up involuntarily.

His thumb circles your nipple, slow and teasing, and the spark of pleasure shoots straight through you. You gasp into his mouth, arching hard against him, the sudden sting of it making your thighs clench around his.

With a rough tug, he pushes your shirt and bra up, exposing your breast to the cool air—your nipple tight and aching, begging. His eyes darken, devouring the sight.

“Fuck. You are so beautiful—you missed me didn’t you?” he whispers, before lowering his head. His lips brush the sensitive peak in a soft kiss, tongue flicking out to taste you, savoring like you're the sweetest thing he's ever had.

The wet heat of his mouth closes over you fully then—tongue swirling languidly around your nipple, sucking softly, teeth grazing just enough to make you cry out. Pleasure floods you in waves, intense and overwhelming, pooling hot and liquid between your legs. 

Every brush of his lips, every pull of his mouth, every gentle scrape of teeth—it's torture, exquisite and unrelenting, building that tight coil inside you until you're trembling, on the edge already from this alone.

His free hand—the vibranium one—slides to your ass, gripping firmly, urging you to move. You grind down on him instinctively, rolling your hips against the hard ridge of his trapped cock. The friction is maddening, and his fingers slip lower behind, stroking you through the thin, soaked fabric of your underwear—teasing your clit in firm circles that match the rhythm of his mouth on your breast.

You moan louder, head falling on the crook of his neck, as he tilts his head to take you deeper—sucking harder, tongue lashing your nipple until it's swollen and throbbing. The dual assault—his mouth devouring your breast, his fingers working you relentlessly while you grind on his thick length—has you shattering toward release, every nerve alight, body slick and desperate for more of him.

Your hips buck harder, desperate and shameless, chasing the pressure of his thigh and of his cock straining against the soft fabric of his sweatpants. Every roll drags the seam over your aching clit, amplified by the circles of his vibranium fingers—cool metal warmed by your heat, slick with how drenched you are.

Bucky pulls off your breast with a wet pop, lips shiny, eyes dark and feral as he watches you unravel. His breath fans hot over the sensitive, swollen peak he just abandoned.

“You gonna come?” he rasps, voice low and wrecked, thumb pressing firmer against your clit in a ruthless rhythm that matches the grind of your hips. “Come on me, baby. Let me feel you soak through everything. I want it fucking dripping down my thigh.”

The words hit like a spark to gasoline. Your body locks up—back arching, nails digging into his shoulders—as the orgasm slams into you, sharp and blinding. A broken cry tears from your throat, hips jerking helplessly against him while you pulse and clench around nothing. 

He doesn’t let up, fingers working you through it, drawing it out until you’re trembling, oversensitive, gasping his name.

“Yeah, baby—say my name just like that,” Bucky groans, voice thick and ragged as your cries echo his name again and again through the aftershocks. His vibranium hand slides up your thigh, fingers tracing the slick mess you’ve made. He glances down, eyes darkening at the dark wet patch spreading across his gray sweatpants. “Fuck, look at my pants. Jesus Christ, you soaked right through ‘em.”

He lets out a low, wrecked laugh, forehead pressed to yours for a beat before he pulls back just enough to growl, “Let me just—”

He reaches behind his head and yanks the compression shirt off, tossing it aimlessly. His hair falls messier across his forehead, chest rising and falling hard, every new ridge of muscle on display from the last month of brutal workouts. You’re already helping him, hands greedy at the waistband of his sweatpants, shoving them down caught in the frenzy until they pool at his ankles. He steps out of them, kicking them aside.

You drop lower, mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down his neck, across the broad plane of his chest, tongue flicking over a nipple just to hear him hiss. Then lower, over the cut lines of his abs, tasting salt and warm skin. Your tongue darts out again, tracing the between the V that disappears below, and he drags a hand over his face with a muffled, “God, you’re so fucking sexy doing it like that.”

He looks back down, blue eyes blown wide and hungry.

You chuckle low, the sound vibrating against his skin as your hand slips under the last scrap of fabric—his boxers—palming the heavy length of him. He tenses, abs flexing under your lips, a sharp inhale whistling through his teeth. You tug the waistband down slow enough to tease, and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, curving up toward his stomach with a bead of precum already glistening at the tip.

You lean in, lips parting, and take just the head into your mouth—slow, luxuriant, tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge. 

He twitches hard against your tongue, a guttural “Ohh baby—” ripping out of him as his hips jerk forward involuntarily. You feel him swell even fuller in the wet heat of your mouth, hardening impossibly in seconds like his body’s been waiting a month for this exact moment.

You work lower, taking more of his shaft inch by inch until your lips meet your fingers wrapped around the base, then slide back up, hollowing your cheeks, tongue lavishing the head again with greedy circles. You pull off just long enough to look up at him through your lashes, lips shiny and swollen, a wicked little smile curving your mouth.

The look on his face—brows pinched tight, jaw clenched like he’s in pain, eyes dark and desperate—tells you everything. It’s definitely been a while.

Your free hand cups his balls, heavy and drawn up tight, rolling them gently, tugging just enough to make him throw his head back with a broken curse, vibranium fingers tangling in your hair.

“Shit—I’m so sensitive,” he rasps, voice cracking, looking down again with that wild, pleading edge. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

You pull off him with a lewd, wet pop. His cock—glistening thick and slick from your mouth—bobs heavily in front of your face, flushed dark and veined, a string of saliva still connecting your bottom lip to the swollen tip.

You let out a low, throaty giggle, eyes locked on his as you tilt your head and stick your tongue out flat. Then you guide his length with your hand, slapping the heavy weight of it against your tongue once, twice, three times—hard enough to make wet, filthy smacks, precum and spit smearing across your taste buds and chin in shiny streaks.

Bucky’s breath punches out of him in a shocked laugh as he stares down at the sight, vibranium fingers tightening in your hair.

“Holy shit,” he rasps, voice wrecked and incredulous, a dazed grin pulling at his mouth. “You dirty fucking girl.”

You hum, pleased and wicked, letting the head rest heavy on your outstretched tongue again, giving it a slow, lick from base to tip while you look up at him through wet lashes.

His thighs flex hard, abs clenching, and a low, desperate groan rumbles out of his chest.

“Baby,” he warns, hips shifting forward just an inch—like he’s already fighting not to thrust. “You keep playing like that and I’m not gonna last.”

You pull back just enough, lips brushing the sensitive underside as you murmur, voice husky and teasing, “Good. You can come in my mouth.”

The words hit him like a punch—his eyes flare wide, dark blue gone almost black, a ragged “Fuck—” punching out of him as his cock jerks hard against your lips. You don’t wait for more; you sink down again, taking him deep in one smooth glide until he hits the back of your throat. Your hand works the base in tight, twisting strokes while the other keeps teasing his balls, rolling them gently, feeling how tight and full they are.

He’s unraveling fast—head falling back, throat working on a swallow, a string of broken curses spilling out as his hips start to rock in shallow thrusts he can’t quite control.

“God, your mouth—feels so fucking good,” he pants, looking down again with that pinched, wrecked expression, like pleasure’s bordering on pain. “Not gonna… fuck, baby, I’m close—”

You hear the warning in his voice, feel it in the way his cock throbs heavier against your tongue, but it only spurs you on. 

You double down—suction tightening, cheeks hollowing as you bob faster, hand twisting in that perfect corkscrew motion guys swear by, the one that strokes him root to tip in sync with your mouth. Your tongue presses flat against the sensitive frenulum on every upstroke, flicking quick, while your other hand never stops its worship of his balls—rolling them gently, then tugging downward just enough to heighten the pull.

You pull off for a breath, dropping lower to take one ball into your mouth, sucking soft but firm, tongue swirling as your fist pumps his slick shaft in twisting pulls. 

His thighs quake harder, a strangled “Fuck—yes—” ripping out as you switch back to his cock, taking him deep again, throat relaxing to swallow around the head while your fingers keep that gentle downward tension on his balls.

His hips stutter, vibranium hand leaving your hair to grip the edge of the couch—his whole body goes rigid, abs clenching visibly as the orgasm barrels through him.

“Shit, I’m gonna come—I’m coming, I’m coming—” he chokes out, and then he’s pulsing hard against your tongue, thick ropes of cum flooding your mouth in hot, heavy spurts. You swallow greedily, milking him with your lips and hand, drawing it out until he’s shuddering violently, a low, broken groan dragging from his chest.

When it finally ebbs, he slumps against the couch, chest heaving, cock slipping from your lips with a wet sound. You sit back on your heels, licking the corner of your mouth, watching him come down with a satisfied little smile.

Bucky drags a shaky hand through his messy hair, letting out a breathless, incredulous laugh—the classic post-nut clarity hitting hard, loose and dazed.

“Where the fuck did you learn that?” he pants, voice hoarse, blue eyes wide and still a little glazed as he stares down at you. Another huff of laughter escapes him, fond and wrecked. “Jesus, baby. You trying to ruin me for good?”

He reaches down, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip, smearing the gloss there like he can’t help himself.

You lick your lips slowly, tasting him still, and meet his glazed eyes with a soft, teasing smile.

“Just my way of saying sorry to you. . .” you murmur, voice husky from everything you just did to him.

Bucky’s breathless laugh turns darker and hungrier. He sinks fully onto the couch now, legs spread, chest still heaving as he reaches for you with both hands, pulling you up from your knees.

“Come here,” he says, low and rough, patting his thigh. “Sit on me. I’m not done with you yet.”

His cock rests heavy against his stomach, semi-soft and glistening from your mouth, twitching faintly like it’s already eager for round two. You don’t hesitate—clothes half-shed, you strip off what’s left.

You know exactly what he loves, what gets him hard again. 

Lowering yourself slowly, you drag your bare, soaked pussy along his length—just slick skin on skin. The head of his cock nudges your clit on the first pass, and you both groan at the contact. You rock forward again, grinding slow and languid, coating him in your wetness, feeling him thicken and harden beneath you with every slide.

Bucky’s head falls back against the couch for a second, eyes hooded, before he snaps his gaze down to watch—transfixed by the sight of your folds parting around his shaft, gliding up and down, your arousal making everything shiny and messy.

“Oh my God,” he hisses through clenched teeth, hips lifting just slightly to chase the friction. “That’s it… just like that.”

You guide his hands up to your breasts, pressing them into his palms, and he doesn’t need more invitation. His flesh hand cups one, thumb circling the nipple before pinching while the vibranium one mirrors the motion on the other, cool metal warming fast against your skin. He tugs and rolls your nipples between his fingers, twisting just hard enough to make you gasp and grind down firmer, your clit dragging along his now fully hard length.

Every rock of your hips pulls a low rumble from his chest, his cock throbbing hot and rigid between your folds, precum mixing with your slickness until you’re both dripping.

“God, look at you,” he breathes, voice gravel-rough, eyes dark as he watches himself disappear and reappear between your lips with every roll. “Using that pretty pussy to get me hard again…”

You nod slowly, breath hitching as you grind down one last time, feeling him throb fully hard and ready between your slick folds.

“How do you want me?” you ask, voice soft and needy, eyes locked on his.

Bucky’s lips curve into a wolfish smile.

“How do I want you?” he echoes, voice low and rough, vibranium hand sliding down to grip your hip possessively. “I want you under me, baby. Ankles right beside your ears.” His eyes darken further, thumb stroking your skin. “How do you want to take it? Rough? Slow?”

You lean in, pecking his lips quick and teasing, a breathless laugh escaping you. “That’s up to you.”

His brows lift, surprise flickering before that hungry edge sharpens again. “You really trusting me to leave it up to me?” He swallows hard, throat working, gaze searching yours for a beat—like he’s making sure. Then he exhales, soft and resolute. “Alright. We can take it slow.”

He shifts, strong arms lifting you effortlessly as he moves you both to the chaise end of the sectional, laying you back against the soft leather. The cool surface contrasts with the heat of your skin, and he settles between your thighs, nudging them wider with his knees.

“Get in position for me,” he murmurs, voice deep and commanding, sending a shiver straight through you. “Ankles up by your ears. And spread that pretty pussy—use your fingers on both sides of your lips. Show it to me.”

You obey without hesitation, legs folding back until your ankles frame your face, knees splayed wide. Your hands slide down, fingers parting your slick, swollen folds, baring yourself completely—glistening, aching, dripping for him.

Bucky groans low and guttural, eyes locked on you like he’s starving. “Fuck, look at that… I just wanna eat that pussy, but next time—right now, I need to fuck you.”

He leans over you, one hand bracing beside your head, the other guiding his thick cock. He slaps it against you once, twice—wet, heavy thuds that make you gasp and clench around nothing. Then the broad head teases you—rubbing slow circles over your clit, then dragging down to nudge your entrance. 

He presses in just barely, stretching you open an inch before pulling back. Again—deeper, teasing—until he surges forward in one controlled thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

The stretch is overwhelming, his thick length splitting you wide as your walls flutter and grip him. A muffled moan tears from your throat; his rumbles deep in his chest, ragged and desperate.

“Oh fuck—” he murmurs, forehead dropping to yours. 

He stills, hips flush, letting you feel every pulsing inch—impossibly deep in this folded position, the head kissing your cervix until your toes curl beside your ears.

Then he pulls back slow, dragging every ridge along your walls, before slamming home again. Each thrust jolts through you, wet slaps echoing, your slick coating him, dripping where you’re joined. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you pinned open, helpless to his rhythm.

“Look at you,” he rasps between thrusts, voice wrecked, eyes flicking from your face to where he disappears into you. “Taking me so deep… feel how full you are, baby?”

His control frays—breaths rougher, hips snapping harder as you gasp, “Fuck me like that.” Sweat beads on his skin, vibranium hand tightening on your thigh.

He locks eyes with you. “Look down,” he orders, gravel-rough. “Watch me fuck this pretty pussy. Watch how you take every inch.”

You obey, gaze dropping to where your folds stretch tight around his glistening shaft, swallowing him whole on every sink.

“That’s it,” he growls, pace turning heavier, more possessive. He slams deep, grinds slow circles against that spot that sparks stars behind your eyes. “You feel me? Feel how deep I am? I’m not letting you go this time—never again.”

He rasps against your ear, thrusting faster—balls-deep slams marking you inside out. “Gonna fuck a hole inside you only I can fill.”

“Oh God—yes,” you choke out, voice breaking on every word as tears prick your eyes from the intensity.

“Yeah?” His eyes lock on yours, wild and undone, but soft at the edges with everything he hasn’t said in a month. “You want me to give you everything? Want me to knock you up so you never forget who you belong to—who you love?”

You nod frantically, nails raking down his back. “Yes—God, yes—don’t stop—”

“That’s my girl,” he breathes, vibranium hand sliding to your lower belly, pressing just enough for you to feel him moving inside you. “Gonna give you all of me. Gonna love you so fucking deep you’ll feel me for days—every time you move, you’ll know you’re mine.”

His forehead drops to yours, sweat-slick skin sliding, thrusts frantic now—hips snapping, chaise rocking.

“Look at me,” he rasps, cupping your jaw. His blue eyes lock wild and intense. “I love you too—fuck, I love you.”

“I love—”

His mouth crashes onto yours, devouring, tongue thrusting in time with his cock as he ruts like he’s possessed—pouring a month of longing into every slam. His vibranium arm hooks your knee tighter, folding you impossibly deeper.

“Bucky—I’m gonna come—”

He grunts into the kiss, nipping your lip. “Then come. I want that pretty pussy squeezing me first.”

His thumb finds your clit, circling hard in sync with his relentless thrusts—and you shatter.

“Yes—yes—” you cry, walls clenching vise-tight, pulsing around him as pleasure whites out everything. Your nails dig bloody trails down his back; he hisses, thrusts erratic, chasing your climax.

His hips stutter, losing all rhythm as the pressure coils unbearably tight at the base of his spine.

“Fuck—oh fuck—” The words fracture against your neck, muffled and raw. His cock jerks again and again, thick ropes of semen flooding deep in hot, endless surges while he grinds slow circles. Each spasm drags helpless whine from him, hips grinding instinctively, dragging every last shuddering drop as far into you as he can get.

Finally spent, his body sags heavily on top of you—warm, sweat-slick weight pressing you into the chaise cushions, chest heaving with ragged pants against your throat. 

You unfold slowly, legs trembling as you lower them, ankles sliding down his sides until your thighs bracket his hips. The shift draws a soft groan from him—cock still buried deep, softening but reluctant to leave, letting gravity ease him out with a warm trickle of your mixed release leaking onto the leather.

Bucky lifts his head just enough to find your mouth, kissing you sweetly—slow, tender presses of his lips, gentle brushes of tongue, no hunger now, only devotion. He trails soft kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the tip of your nose.

He stays close, forehead resting against yours, the faint sheen of sweat cooling between you in the dim glow of the lamps. Those blue eyes, heavy-lidded and unguarded, trace your face like he’s memorizing you all over again.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough with leftover want, thumb stroking slow along your cheekbone. “So fucking much.”

You lean up just enough to brush a soft peck against his lips, lingering there a second before pulling back. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, guilt threading through the words. “I’ll be more mindful when you’re stressed. I didn’t mean to push.”

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, the sound warm and forgiving as he nuzzles closer, lips grazing yours again. “It’s okay, baby. Honestly? Best kind of stress relief I’ve had in weeks.” The corner of his mouth quirks—that familiar teasing glint flickering back into his eyes. “Might start picking fights on purpose if this is how we make up.”

He steals one more slow, sweet kiss before easing his weight off you. The cool air of the room rushes between your thighs, sticky and sensitive, and he notices the way you shift. “C’mon, let me clean you up.”

Before you can protest, he’s sliding his arms beneath you and lifting you effortlessly against his chest in a bridal carry. You tuck your face into the crook of his neck, legs dangling, still boneless and floating as he pads barefoot across the living room toward the bathroom.

That’s when you glance over his shoulder—and freeze.

The tall brownstone windows are thrown wide open, sheer curtains pushed aside, and directly across the narrow street, in the window of the opposite brownstone, Mrs. Kowalski—the sweet little old lady who always bakes too many cookies and leaves them on Bucky’s stoop—is standing there in her robe, sipping coffee.

She’s holding up both hands, fingers splayed: a perfect 10.

Then she gives an enthusiastic thumbs-up, mouths “Happy New Year!” and adds a cheeky little golf clap.

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, mortified heat flooding your face as you duck your head into Bucky’s neck.

Bucky slows, brow furrowing at the sudden tension in your body. “What?”

“Don’t—don’t turn around,” you hiss, burying your face deeper into his neck. “You’ll flash the entire block.”

Bucky freezes mid-step, confusion flickering before realization hits him like a truck. He’s stark naked, dick out in the breeze, carrying you the same way. His eyes widen, a rare flush creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears—the Winter Soldier actually blushing.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, shifting his hold on you instinctively to angle his hips away from the window, using your body like a very strategic human shield. He risks one quick, awkward sideways glance—just enough to spot Mrs. K’s scorecard performance—then snaps his gaze forward again, jaw tight and cringing from motification.

Mrs. Kowalski winks, points at you both like a proud matchmaker, and shuffles off—probably to speed dial her bridge club with the gossip of the century.

Bucky exhales a choked laugh, dropping his forehead to your shoulder as his whole body vibrates with it. “Well… at least we got a perfect score?” he manages, voice strained between amusement and genuine mortification. “Fuck, I’m never living this down. She’s gonna tell the whole block I’ve still got it.”

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