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This is not your scene. The chandelier must have cost a fortune just to hang there and look pretty. You know this because you spent the better part of your first ten minutes staring up at it with your mouth slightly open, trying to calculate how many months of your salary it would take to even come close. You stopped at four years because it was getting depressing. Sarah had promised you open bar and good food. She had failed to mention that you’d feel like a fraud the entire time. “You look fine,” Sarah had said this evening, watching you smooth down the front of your dress in the mirror of her condo. You had gone back and forth for longer than you’d like to admit. The dress is nice. It’s the kind of nice where you’d wear it to a birthday dinner, maybe a date somewhere with cloth napkins. It is not, by any stretch, gala nice. The other women in this room are in floor-length gowns with jewellery that probably has names, and here you are in a midi dress off a sale rack. “You’re a guest of a congressman’s daughter,” She’d reminded you, fixing her own earring. “Nobody’s gonna care.” Nobody might care, but you sure do notice. There’s an ease to the way these people move around each other. There’s air kissing, the laughing at things that aren’t funny, the way they hold their champagne glasses by the stem like it’s second nature. You hold yours like you’re scared of dropping it, which you are, because you’re fairly certain the glasses alone are worth more than your monthly metro card. Still. Free champagne. That part, at least, Sarah had been right about. You’ve had two glasses and are working steadily on your third, which is making the whole scene considerably more bearable. The food is also ungodly good. You had swiped four of the little crab toast thingies off a passing tray and felt zero shame about it. You were coming off a forty-eight hour shift two days ago. You deserved the crab toasts. Sarah, for her part, has completely abandoned you. Her father is a congressman from Virginia and this is his world, so she knows everyone in a twenty foot radius of wherever she stands. It hadn’t taken long before she was absorbed into a circle of people you didn’t know.

She’d shot you an apologetic look over someone’s shoulder, and you’d waved her off.

You’re fine. You’re a grown adult. You can stand by the tall cocktail table near the windows and people-watch by yourself like a normal person.

The problem with people-watching, as it turns out, is that occasionally the people watch back.

He’s been drifting in your periphery for a few minutes now. You clocked him when he walked in, because he’s the kind of man you can’t not clock when he walks into a room.

Easy forties, maybe pushing further than that, with dark hair and the kind of jaw that belongs on something carved out of stone. He’s in a suit that fits him the way suits are supposed to fit, which is to say, perfectly. There’s a slight silver threading through the dark at his temples. His left arm is gloved, metal just barely visible at the cuff. You know who he is, vaguely. Congressman James Barnes. Before that, the Winter Soldier. You’ve seen him on the news twice and found him credible both times, which is not something you say lightly. Not that this is relevant. You’re just noting that he’s across the room. That’s it. Just noting.

What is relevant, however, is the man currently sidling up next to you, because the man currently sidling up next to you has had considerably more of the open bar than you have, and he smells like it. “Lovely evening,” he says, in the way that people say things when they are not actually talking about the evening. You give him the polite smile. The one that says I see you, and I’m too tired to be rude. “It is.” “You here with anyone?” “My friend,” you answer, with a pointed glance across the room in Sarah’s general direction. “She’s just over there.” He follows your gaze, disinterested, and then looks back at you. He introduces himself as something, and you honestly don’t catch it because your brain has already filed him under do not engage. He’s maybe mid-fifties, the kind of man who introduces himself at parties by his job title, and his eyes haven’t quite been at eye level this whole conversation. “What do you do?” “I’m in medicine,” you say, keeping it deliberately vague. In your experience, the vague answer is the one that ends conversations faster. It does not, in this case, end the conversation. In fact, it seems to invite more of it. His hand lands on the cocktail table next to yours, he leans in like you’d asked him to, and the smell gets considerably worse. “Beautiful and smart,” he says. “That’s dangerous.” Gag.

“Mm,” you say, which is not agreement, but which he takes as agreement. His shoulder shifts incrementally closer to yours, and your brain is already doing the math. How do you extract yourself from this without making a scene, because making a scene at a congressman’s fundraiser gala, at which you are a guest of a congressman’s daughter, feels inadvisable at best and catastrophic at worst. You can’t exactly do what you’d do at a regular bar, which would be to simply say not interested and walk away, because this is not a regular bar and these are not regular people and you’re suddenly very aware that the champagne glass you’re holding probably costs two hundred dollars. The man leans in further. “Can I get you a drink?” “I have one,” you say, lifting your glass, which is clearly almost empty, which he also clearly notices. “Let me get you another, then.” And that is when, for the second time tonight, you make eye contact with Congressman Barnes. He’s a little closer now, not by much though. He’s watching the scene with an expression that you can’t quite place. It’s not pity, exactly. Not amusement either. It’s more like someone who has correctly identified a problem and is turning over how to address it. You do the only thing that seems sane to you in this moment. You hold his gaze, and your expression says, if you speak even one word of fluent English right now I will owe you forever. He receives it. You can tell by the slight shift in his posture, the barely perceptible nod. Then he’s making his way over, like he’s just wandering and it happens to be in your direction. “Sorry,” he says, stopping at your side. Not to the drunk man. To you. Like he’s the one who’s late. “Got caught up.”

His voice is … nice. A lot different from TV. The drunk man recalibrates visibly. He looks at Congressman Barnes, recognises him the same way you did. There’s that small double-take of oh, him, and suddenly the lean is gone, the arm is pulled back, the proximity becomes appropriate. “Congressman,” the man says, in a completely different register than the one he’d been using on you. “Didn’t realize you two—” “Good to see you.” Congressman Barnes’ voice is perfectly pleasant, perfectly even. He extends his hand and the drunk man shakes it, quietly excuses himself to the bar, which is where he should have stayed to begin with. “Thank you,” you say, once he’s out of earshot. “I really didn’t want to make a thing of it.” “I could tell.” His eyes are blue. A shade darker than you’d expected, up close. “He giving you trouble for long?” “Long enough.” You take a sip of your champagne to have something to do with your hands. “I’m not really sure of the etiquette for telling a middle-aged man to leave you alone at a formal event.” “Usually just telling him works.” The corner of his mouth pulls up, barely. “But I get it.” He reaches past you for the appetizer that a passing server is offering, takes one of the small bruschetta thingies, and doesn’t immediately move away.

You notice that. He doesn’t immediately move away. “You’re Sarah’s friend,” he says. It’s not really a question. “Jackson’s daughter.” “Yeah.” You blink. “How’d you—” “He mentioned his daughter was bringing someone tonight.” A small lift of a shoulder. “I know Richard well. He’s a good man.” “He is,” you agree, which is true, having met Sarah’s father a grand total of three times. “She didn’t warn me that good meant—” you gesture vaguely at the chandelier, the room, the twelve-piece orchestra, “—all this.” His face looks like he found that funny, but he also looks like he doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction. “First time at one of these?” “That obvious?” “Little bit. He doesn’t say it unkindly. “You’ve been staring at the chandelier for the most part.” Your face does something embarrassing. “I was doing math.” “Math.” “About how long it would take me to afford it. On my salary.” You stop yourself, because that is possibly the most un-gala thing you could have said, and he is a congressman, and you are already wearing the wrong dress. “Which — never mind. I’m a resident. I don’t have the money for light fixtures.” He does laugh at that, quietly, more of an exhale than a real laugh, but it counts. “What kind of medicine?”

“Emergency.” You set your now-empty glass down on the nearest surface. “I’m in my third year.” “Long hours.” “Long doesn’t really cover it.” You glance sideways at him. Up, technically, because he has several inches on you and you’re in heels. “But I’m not going to complain at a gala. It seems rude.” “You can complain… I don’t care.” Something about the way he says it is disarming, and you weren’t expecting that. You’d expected… you’re not entirely sure what you’d expected. Polished, maybe. The kind of conversation that sounds like a conversation but is really just two people exchanging pleasantries until someone finds a more useful person to talk to. That’s what galas are, as far as you can tell. This doesn’t feel like that. “How long have you been doing this? The congressman thing.” “Six momths.” He picks up a glass from a passing tray. Water, not champagne. You notice that too. “Why?” “I saw a clip of you once. About pharmaceutical pricing.” You pause, aware that this is maybe strange to bring up. “You didn’t let him deflect.” He looks at you for a moment, and you can’t quite tell what he’s thinking. His face is not an easy read. “Most people don’t bring that up.”

“Most people here probably benefit from him deflecting.” Another one of those almost-laughs. You’re starting to like those unreasonably. “Fair.” He turns slightly toward you, weight shifting, and it’s the kind of body language that says I’m not going anywhere yet, which you are reading, as positive. Possibly incorrectly. “What made you go into emergency medicine?” “I like knowing the answer fast.” It is the honest version. “Other specialties… you wait for labs, wait for imaging, wait for rounds. Emergency, you have to think right now, decide right now. I like that. Also I’m bad at small talk, so at least in the ER nobody expects it from me.” “You’re not bad at it.” “I’ve been talking about chandeliers and my salary.” “I liked it,” he says, like that settles it, and the frankness of it catches you off guard enough that you don’t have an immediate response, which almost never happens to you. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The orchestra has transitioned to something slightly livelier and a few couples have migrated toward the cleared floor at the center of the room. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“How old are you?” The words come out before you can dress them up more politely, you wince slightly at the delivery. You’re three champagnes deep and apparently that’s what three champagnes does.

He doesn’t look thrown by it. If anything, he looks like he’s deciding how to answer, which is its own answer. “Forty-four or biologically a hundred and eight.”

You do the math without meaning to. The math is not small. “Right.”

“How old are you? Just so we’re both working with the same information.”

“Twenty-eight.”

He doesn’t look away from you. “So… age change anything for you?” His voice is quiet enough that it doesn’t carry anywhere.

Oh. We are going there straight. Okay. The warmth that works its way up your neck is something, that even the air conditioning can’t seem to help with. You look down at your empty glass and think about how Sarah is absolutely going to scream when you tell her about this tomorrow. “That’s—” you start. And then Sarah materializes at your elbow like she has a sixth sense for inconvenient timing, slightly flushed and smelling like champagne and grabbing your arm with both hands. “There you are! My dad wants to say hi, he knows you’re here—” She clocks Congressman Barnes. Her eyes go very wide and then very carefully neutral, which is the least neutral expression you’ve ever seen on a human face. “Congressman Barnes, hi, I’m so sorry to interrupt—” “You’re not,” he says easily, and he means it, you can tell, which is somehow worse than if he were being polite. He looks at you. “It was good talking to you.” “Yeah.” Your voice comes out smaller than you want it to. “It was.” He holds eye contact for exactly one beat longer. And then he nods, and turns, and Sarah is already dragging you in the opposite direction with her grip iron-tight on your wrist. “Oh my god,” she hisses, the second there’s enough ambient noise to cover it. “Oh my God—” “It was just talking.” “It was not just talking—” “Sarah—”

“He’s so hot,” she says, almost mournful. “He’s so hot and he was talking to only you for like twenty minutes and I need you to know that Bucky Barnes does not do that—” “Bucky,” you say, and your stomach does a small stupid thing. “His name is Bucky?” She stares at you. “Please tell me you got his number.”

You didn’t. You are, the longer you stand here being dragged toward Sarah’s father, increasingly annoyed about that.

You find him again by accident. That’s the part you’ll tell Sarah later. That it was an accident and she will not believe you, and she will be partially right not to.

Because when you excused yourself from the conversation with Sarah’s father after approximately nine minutes, you were not not looking for Congressman Barnes. You were getting another drink. Those are two different things that happened to involve the same direction.

The bar is less crowded, so there’s an actual open stretch of marble counter to stand at. You order a club soda because your limit is three champagnes and you reached it. You’re stirring it with the little cocktail straw and staring at the ice like it did something to you when someone stops next to you. Not just anyone. You know before you look, from the proximity, from the particular way the air in the vicinity shifts. “Club soda,” Bucky says, nodding at your glass. “Smart.” “I’m a doctor… In theory.” “In theory?” “I mean residency.” You glance up at him. He’s looking straight ahead at the bar, not at you, and yet every part of you is acutely aware of him. “I know my limits.” “Three glasses?” He sounds like he already knows. “How’d you— Were you watching me?” He doesn’t answer immediately. He signals the bartender for something and then he turns his head to look at you. The look on his face is the least congressman-like look you’ve seen from him all evening. It’s quieter than that. More direct. “Yeah… I was.”

The bartender sets his glass down. You notice that it’s water again.

But Bucky doesn’t reach for it yet. He’s still looking at you. You have been through four years of medical school and almost three years of residency, which means you have stood in front of attendings who looked at you like you were a problem they needed to solve, and you did not flinch. You are flinching a little now. Just a little. “You didn’t come find me,” you try to keep your voice even. “You were with Richard.” “For like eight minutes.” Something moves across his face. Not quite a smile but in the neighborhood. “Were you counting?” “I’m not answering that.” He reaches for his water, finally, and takes a drink. You watch his jaw because you’re only human. There’s a scar that runs just beneath his jaw. You have the reflexive urge to ask how he got it, which is the emergency medicine in you, and also probably something else. “I thought about asking for your number,” he says, and he says it the same way he says everything, like he just decided to set the thing down in front of you and see what you do with it. “What stopped you?” He considers you for a moment. “Didn’t want to do it in front of Sarah. Felt like a thing that shouldn’t have an audience.” “That’s—” you press your lips together. “That’s actually reasonable.” “I have my moments.” The orchestra finishes something and starts something else, slower, and the lights in the ballroom dim imperceptibly.

You should go back. Sarah is probably wondering where you are. You have a club soda to finish and heels that are beginning to make their unhappiness known and a 6 AM shift on Wednesday that is always at the back of your mind. His hand finds the bar just next to yours. The same way the drunk man’s hand had, earlier. Except nothing about it feels the same. Not even close. “I have a suite upstairs… I stay here when I’m in the city for these.” A pause. “I’m not— that’s not—” “I know what you’re saying.” He looks at you. “Yeah?” “Yeah.” His pinky finger moves. Just barely. Just enough to press against the side of your hand, the lightest possible contact, and you feel it everywhere. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong.”

You look down at where his hand is next to yours. You look back up at him. And then you do the most impulsive thing you have done since you signed a lease on an apartment you couldn’t afford because it had good light. “You’re not reading it wrong.” He walks slightly behind you toward the elevator, which is not nothing. It is discrete, and you appreciate that without saying so. His hand presses briefly to the small of your back as you reach the elevator, guiding you left. Even through the fabric of your dress, the warmth of his palm is enough to make your brain go briefly offline. The elevator ride is quiet. It’s the kind of quiet that’s loud. He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at the floor numbers. You’re doing the same. The back of his hand grazes yours and neither of you moves away, and by the sixth floor you have resigned yourself to the fact that you are going to be completely useless. The suite is significant. Of course. You take approximately two seconds to register that the entryway alone is bigger than your apartment’s living room before you stop looking at the suite. He closes the door. Turns around. And the way he looks at you when it’s just the two of you, without a ballroom background, is different. There’s nothing measured about his eyes right now. “Hi,” you say stupidly, because your brain has officially handed in its notice. “Hi.” And then he’s crossing the room and his hands are on your face and he’s kissing you. It is hungry in a way that makes your knees register a complaint.

Both of your hands come up to grip the lapels of his jacket just to have somewhere to put them. He pulls back just enough to breathe. His thumbs are at your jaw. “Okay?” he asks.

“Very,” you manage. He kisses you again, slower this time but no less certain, and his hands slide from your jaw to your waist. He walks you backward until your shoulders meet the wall. You make a soft sound against his mouth that you are immediately embarrassed by. “Don’t,” he says against your lips. “Don’t what?” “Do that thing where you get embarrassed.” He pulls back to look at you, properly. “Don’t.” You open your mouth and close it. He’s still in the full suit — jacket, tie, the whole shebang — and you are suddenly very, very aware of that.

His hands find the zipper at the back of your dress. Watching your face the whole time like he’s making absolutely sure. The zipper gives and you feel the fabric loosen across your back, cool air reaching your skin. “Arms up,” he says. You raise your arms and he lifts the dress over your head, and sets it on the chair behind him like it matters, like he’s thinking about the fact that it’s the only dress you brought. Something about that short, practical gesture does more to you than it should. And then he takes you in. It’s for a long moment. His eyes move over you and there’s not a single thing performative about how he looks at you. It’s not the look of someone who is trying to make you feel good, it’s the look of someone who genuinely cannot help himself. You are standing in front of a congressman in a four-hundred-dollar-a-night suite in a bralette from Target and underwear that does not match it, and you are acutely aware of this fact. “These don’t match.” Your face goes hot. “I wasn’t exactly planning this.” “No?” “I was planning on eating canapes and going home by ten.” Your voice comes out more defensive than you intend. “So no, I didn’t— I didn’t put on a matching set, I just—” “Hey.” He says it gently, and his hand comes up to tip your chin. “I’m not complaining.” “You literally just pointed it out—” “Because it’s cute.” His thumb traces your jaw. “Because you’re standing there looking like you can’t decide whether to be embarrassed or annoyed, and it’s—” something moves through his expression, “—it’s really cute is all. And I’m flattered” You stare at him. “You’re a congressman.” “I’m aware.” “You give floor speeches.” “Also aware.” “You can’t just… say things are cute.” “Sure I can.” He’s guiding you back toward the bed, and the backs of your knees hit the mattress and you sit down. He doesn’t follow you down. He just stands there, looks at you, still fully dressed, tie still knotted, and goes to his knees. Oh.

Oh. His hands slide up your calves, and he watches you watch him. You’re gripping the duvet with both hands because he hasn’t even done anything yet and you already feel like the floor dropped out. “You don’t have to—” you start. He looks up at you, and his eyes are very, very dark. “I want to.” His fingers find the waistband of your underwear and pulls them down your legs with an efficiency that should not be as attractive as it is. Then his hands are on your inner thighs, pushing them apart. He looks at you one more time like he’s checking in, which he clearly is.

“Good?” “Please,” you say, which answers nothing and everything. He lowers his head. The first press of his mouth to your cunt makes you bite down on your lip hard enough that you taste something. He takes his time with it. There’s nothing hurried here, nothing obligatory, he moves against you like he has absolutely nowhere else to be and no interest in being there anyway. His tongue finds the bundle of nerves at your center and stays there, slow and devastating, and you have to press the back of your hand to your mouth to keep the sound in. “Don’t,” he says, again, pulling back just enough. His breath is warm against you and it’s its own kind of torture. “I want to hear you.” “There are other rooms on this floor—” “Thick walls,” he says, and then he’s back at it. You stop thinking about the other rooms. He’s good at this in the way that makes you forget your own name temporarily. His hands are on your hips, keeping you from squirming away when it gets to be too much, which it does, quickly, because he has apparently decided to be completely merciless about this.

You have your fingers in his hair now. His perfectly styled hair, which you’re currently ruining, but do not care. And you are saying his name at a volume that would embarrass you under any other circumstances. “James—” you breathe, and then, when he does that specific thing with his tongue, laving at your entrance, “—God, Bucky, please—” He makes a sound against you that you feel everywhere. His fingers find the slick of you, and he looks up at you from where he is, which should be illegal, the visual of this is going to live in your brain for years. “This okay?” he murmurs.

“Yes, please, yes—”

He sinks two fingers into you slowly, and your head drops back. He works them against your walls while his mouth moves on your clit and you grip his hair tighter and he doesn’t tell you to let go.

The tension builds fast. Faster than you’d like, because you’d like this to never stop. When it breaks it breaks completely, your whole body pulls tight and then releases, the sound you make is completely beyond your control. He works you through it. Every last second of it. His fingers slow but don’t stop, his mouth gentles but stays, until you’re twitching away from the sensitivity and pressing weakly at his shoulder, and only then does he pull back. He stands, and he looks… composed, almost, except for the flush at the collar of his very nice shirt, the slick in his beard and the way his hair is thoroughly destroyed.

He’s still in the full suit. The tie is still knotted. You are lying on his hotel bed having just come completely apart and he looks like he’s about to chair a subcommittee meeting. “That’s unfair,” you say to the ceiling.

“What is?”

“You.” You lift your head to look at him. “The suit. All of that.” Chuckling, he reaches up and loosens the tie, pulls it over his head, starts on the buttons of his shirt. You push yourself up to sitting, because if he’s going to do that, you are watching.

He shrugs out of the shirt and underneath is a white undershirt, and underneath the undershirt — well. You were not unprepared for the shoulders. You were unprepared for everything else. “Hi,” you say again. He should be tired of hearing it. He isn’t. He almost smiles. He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, and comes up with his wallet, and from his wallet— “You just… carry that?” you ask. “I was hoping,” he says.

Something about the admission makes your chest do a complicated thing. You reach for him as he comes down onto the bed, pulling him in. He braces his forearm by your head and kisses you and you can taste yourself on his mouth, which makes the complicated thing in your chest considerably worse.

“Tell me if anything’s—”

“I will… I trust you.”

He pulls back to look at you at that. Just for a second. Something moves through his eyes that you don’t quite have a word for.

“Okay.”

He takes his time. He works you back up with his hands first, until you’re arching into him and your nails are at his back and the patience of it is making you slightly insane, and when he finally rolls the condom on and shifts over you and pushes in—

The noise you make is entirely involuntary. Because he’s big. No, that would be an understatement.

“Still with me?” Right by your ear.

“More than with you,” you get out, and he exhales a short laugh into your neck and then starts to move, and you stop being capable of full sentences.

He’s thorough about it in a way that makes your brain melt clean out of your head. He learned what makes you gasp and then does that thing again. His hand slides under your ass and tilts your hips and hits something that makes you dig your nails in hard enough that he hisses.

“Right there,” you say, uselessly, since he clearly already knows.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t stop—”

He doesn’t stop. He does exactly that, again, and you’re gripping his shoulders with both hands and talking without fully knowing what you’re saying.

He’s got his face pressed to your temple and his breathing is not steady anymore, which is information you file away with tremendous satisfaction.

“You feel—” he starts, and stops, like he doesn’t finish that sentence with people often.

“Tell me.”

He pulls back to look at your face. His hips don’t slow. “Perfect,” he says, like it’s a simple fact.

Your whole body clenches around him at that and he groans. His rhythm shifts. Deeper, more insistent, and you have completely stopped worrying about the other rooms on this floor.

His thumb finds your clit and you cry out. He watches your face while he does it, and there is something about being looked at like that, while he’s inside you, while he’s taking you completely apart for the second time—

You come with your face buried in his neck and his name on your lips and his hand pressed flat to your lower back like he’s trying to keep you together while he undoes you.

He follows not long after with a groan against your temple, his whole body tensing.

Then he’s still, and the room is just the sound of both of you breathing.

He doesn’t move immediately. He stays where he is, most of his weight on his forearm, his other hand moving to push your hair away from your face. It’s a gentle thing, automatic, like he did it without thinking. Like it was just the natural next thing to do.

You stare up at the very expensive ceiling of the very expensive suite.

“I came here for canapes,” you say.

He laughs. A real one this tim. Not the almost-laugh from downstairs, an actual laugh, and it does something devastating to his face. “How’d that work out?”

“Better than expected.”

He presses his lips to your temple, and it’s soft. It lingers for a second, and when he pulls back he’s looking at you with that look again. The one you don’t have a word for yet.

He gets up to deal with the condom, comes back with a glass of water that he sets on the nightstand next to you, and gets back into bed like he does this, like this is just a thing he does, take someone apart completely and then bring them water after.

He’s pulled on his undershirt and his briefs and he looks unfairly good in both, and you’re in nothing, and neither of you seems to have a problem with this.

“Bucky.”

“Mm.”

“What actually made you come over? Downstairs. Earlier.” You turn your head to look at him. “Before that drunken guy. You were watching me before that.”

He’s quiet for a moment. He’s on his back, looking at the ceiling, and his jaw shifts slightly the way it does when he’s thinking.

“You were looking at the chandelier,” he says. “Everyone in that room was pretending they belonged there. You were just standing there, looking up, in the wrong dress. I liked that.”

You look at him for a long moment. “I got it on a sale,” you say.

“I like that too.”

You press your face into the pillow so he can’t see you smiling, and he doesn’t say anything about it, which is possibly the most considerate thing anyone has ever done for you.

Light is the first thing you register. It’s not the thin, grey light that seeps through your blackout curtain at home. This is different, the kind that comes from curtains that cost more than they should and don’t quite meet in the middle.

For a moment you don’t know where you are, which is a feeling you’re familiar with from overnight call, that brief horrible second of complete disorientation before your brain catches up.

Then it catches up.

The sheets are softer than yours. The room is too quiet. And the other side of the bed, when you reach for it without opening your eyes—

Empty.

You open your eyes anyway. On the off chance. The suite looks the same as it had last night except for the light, and the way the silence in it has a different quality now. A full kind of silence. The kind where someone has recently left.

His jacket is gone from the chair. Your dress is still on it, folded carefully over the back. So carefully, actually, that it takes you a second to really process the image. He’d folded your dress before he left. Which means he’d been here, moving around the room, and you’d slept through it.

The glass of water he’d set on the nightstand is still there, half full or half empty or whatever. You stare at it for longer than you need to.

You didn’t expect anything. That’s not entirely true; you’re a grown adult and you know the difference between what you expected and what you’d maybe hoped, and those two things are not the same thing, and it’s fine, it was one night, it was always going to be one night, you knew that going in.

Still. You look around the room. Almost wanting to find something. A note on hotel stationery, his business card under the water glass, anything.

Some small proof that it happened to him too, that you didn’t imagine the careful way he pushed your hair back.

Nothing.

You check the bathroom. The bathroom is pristine and smells faintly like whatever he’d used from the amenity shelf, and there is no note on the mirror, no nothing.

Of course there isn’t. He’s a congressman. He has a schedule. He was probably on a 7 AM call somewhere, probably has a driver waiting downstairs, probably has twelve things on his agenda and last night was just one of them. Item six, maybe, between a donor dinner and a briefing.

You sit back on the bed. You pick up the glass of water and drink the rest of it.

Fine.

You find your underwear, the mismatched ones, and even now that makes your cheeks do something. And then your dress, and your heels, and you check your phone.

Three texts from Sarah that escalate in punctuation, one from your roommate asking if you’re alive. Nothing from a number you don’t recognize.

Obviously.

The elevator ride down is considerably less charged than the one going up. The lobby is already busy, morning check-outs and businessmen with rolling luggage, and you walk through it in last night’s dress and last night’s heels with your chin up, because you are an emergency medicine resident and you have walked into much worse rooms than this.

The glass of water, though. He’d gotten up and gotten you a glass of water and now he was just… gone. Without a word.

That part stings a little. You’d be lying if you said otherwise.

Seventeen days later, you are standing in your kitchen at six in the morning counting backwards on your fingers, and the number you keep landing on is not the number you want.

Your period is late. Not a little late. Late enough that you’ve noticed, which takes something, because your cycle has always run regular, every twenty-eight days, reliable enough that you’ve never had to think about it.

You think about it now. You’ve been thinking about it for four days with increasing focus, telling yourself it was stress, it was the hours, it was the back-to-back overnight shifts that had wrecked your sleep, because that’s what happens to residents, your hormones get strange when your cortisol stays high, it happens.

Except.

Except that two weeks before your missed period, which would put it at about a week after the gala, you’d had spotting. You had noted it the way you noted things and filed it under irregular and moved on, because you’d had a fourteen-hour shift and the last thing you wanted to do was think about your own body on top of everything else. You’d thought mid-cycle spotting, stress, nothing.

And the fatigue. God, the fatigue had been something else, but again you’re a third year resident. Fatigue is the baseline. Fatigue is just Tuesday.

Except implantation spotting typically occurs six to twelve days after fertilization. Except you are standing in your kitchen doing obstetric math at six in the morning, and the number you keep landing on is seventeen days post-ovulation, which is—

That’s too late for it to be stress.

You know this. You know this the way you know things you don’t want to know yet, the way you knew a patient’s CT wasn’t going to be clean before the radiologist called. You just know.

You get to the hospital forty minutes early, which is easy enough to explain away to anyone who asks. You’re always early, everyone knows you’re always early.

You take a detour to the ground floor pharmacy. You stand in the family planning aisle for probably thirty seconds longer than a person who is confident about what they’re grabbing would stand there.

You take one off the shelf and tuck it under your arm, and take the stairs up to the third floor resident bathroom, which has a lock that works and more importantly, privacy.

The instructions are not complicated. You’re a doctor. You know what two lines mean.

You sit on the edge of the closed toilet lid you look at the water stain on the ceiling tile for the full three minutes.

There’s a crack in it that branches from the fixture in a way that looks like the course of the facial nerve in the middle ear. You have stared at this ceiling before during bad shifts, during the kind of nights where someone didn’t make it and you had to go somewhere quiet for six minutes, and it has never felt quite like this.

You turn the test over.

Two lines.

Both of them dark. Two unambiguous, immediate, definitive lines.

You sit with that for a long moment. The tile. The test.

You’re pregnant.

You are twenty-eight years old and you are a resident and you had a one-night stand with a congressman whose number you do not have and you are pregnant.

You turn the test face-down again. Pick it up. Put it in a cover at the bottom of your bag under your stethoscope, which feels insane but you’re not leaving it in the trash where someone could see it.

You look at yourself in the mirror. Your face looks the same as it always does. That’s somehow the strangest part.

You unlock the bathroom door. You have a shift to get to.

But one thing you’re sure about is that, you want this baby. Be it a maternal impulse, or whatever it is you don’t have a name for it yet. You want this baby. You need this baby.

Two days of carrying it around inside you like a stone in your chest, and by the third morning you’ve made the decision, or the decision makes you.

Either way, you’re sitting on your bathroom floor at midnight with your back against the tub and the thing is settled.

He needs to know. Whatever happens after that is not something you can fully think about yet, but the part where he doesn’t know is no longer something you can live inside of.

The problem is getting to him.

You try the obvious thing first. His official website has a contact form. For constituents, it says, and you are technically not his constituent, but you fill it out anyway and it autoresponds within thirty seconds with something about being committed to responding within five to seven business days, and you close the laptop.

Five to seven business days.

His office number is listed publicly and you call it the next day on your lunch break. It rings three times before someone picks up.

“Congressman Barnes’ office, how can I help you?”

“Hi.” You try to keep your voice level. “I’m — I’m trying to reach Congressman Barnes. It’s a personal matter.”

There’s a small pause on the other end. “The Congressman has a full schedule. Can I take your name and a callback number? Please describe the nature of your inquiry.”

Right. The nature of your inquiry. “It’s — it’s a private matter. I’d really need to speak with him directly.”

“Ma’am, any personal correspondence for the Congressman goes through his office. If you can describe—”

“I know him personally.” You are aware of how this sounds. You are aware that people who call congressional offices claiming to know the congressman personally are, in fact, not people who know the congressman personally. “I’m not a — I’m not a constituent with a complaint. I’m a personal acquaintance and it’s urgent.”

“I understand,” the woman says, in the tone of someone who does not entirely believe you. “I can pass your information along and someone will follow up.”

Someone. Not him.

“Okay.” You give her your name and your number. You know with complete certainty that you will not hear back.

You dissociate for a minute after you hang up, and then you text Sarah.

You : Hey. Random question. Completely unrelated to anything. How hard would it be for you to get Barnes’ personal number from your dad

Three minutes of silence, which for Sarah is practically geological time.

Sarah: why

You: Sarah please.

Sarah: whyyyy

You: I'll explain later. Is it possible?

Sarah: my dad would notice if i asked. but his phone’s usually just sitting on the counter when he’s in the shower soooo. give me 12 hours and a good reason

You: I promise I'll explain everything.

Sarah: oh this is GOOD. this is so good. okayy

You put your phone in your coat pocket and go back inside.

Sarah texts at eleven seventeen the following night, which means Richard Jackson apparently showers late, and the text is just a phone number and then:

Sarah: okay i need the full story. not a summary. the FULL story. what did you DO??????

You look at the number for a long time.

You: Thank you. I’ll explain everything soon I promise.

Sarah: are you okay??

You think about the test at the bottom of your bag. The ceiling tile with the crack in it. The empty side of the bed with the sheets still warm from him.

You: Yeah. I'm okay. Thank you Sarah.

You add the number to your phone. You just stare at the digits, and your chest is doing the complicated thing again, and you have no idea what you’re going to say when he picks up.

If he picks up.

The first time, it rings five times and goes to voicemail.

His voicemail. His actual voice, which you were not prepared for. You hang up before the beep because you don’t know what you’d say and you can’t practice it out loud yet. The words exist inside your head in a specific order that you’ve rearranged a hundred times since eleven seventeen last night, and none of the arrangements feel right.

You set your phone face-down on your kitchen table. You make coffee you don’t drink. You sit there for twenty minutes and then you pick your phone back up.

It rings three times. You are working out, specifically, how to begin. Not hi, too casual. Not hello, Congressman, too formal and possibly insane. Maybe just his name, just Bucky, like you have any right to—

“Hello.”

Just that. One word. And your heart does something it has absolutely no business doing.

“Hi. This is— It’s — we met at the fundraiser, I mean the gala. About three weeks ago. Sarah Jackson’s friend.” A pause, because you can’t tell if any of this is registering. “The one in the wrong dress.”

“I know who you are.”

Something in his voice. Something that is not nothing. You press your free hand flat to the kitchen table just to have something solid.

“Okay. Good. Hi.”

“Hi.” And there it is, threaded through the single syllable — a smile. The same almost-smile from downstairs at the bar. “It’s good to hear from you.”

You close your eyes for a second. You had not let yourself think about whether it would be good or awkward or somewhere cold in between, because thinking about it felt like jinxing it.

“I need to—” The arrangements in your head are all wrong again. “Is there any chance we could meet? In person. I have something I need to tell you, and I’d rather not do it over the phone.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah.” The word comes out before you can think about whether it’s true. “I just — it’s better in person. I think.”

“I can do tomorrow. I am free tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow works.” Your voice is admirably steady, and you are giving yourself full credit for that. “Wherever’s easiest for you.”

“There’s a place on 54th. Briar something — Briar & Co. You know it?”

“I’ll find it.”

“Two o’clock?”

“Two o’clock,” you confirm. And then neither of you say anything for a second, and you don’t know who should end this.

“It’s good to hear from you,” he says again. Quieter this time, like maybe he’s saying it more to himself than to you.

You don’t know what to say to that. “Right. See you tomorrow.”

You hang up.

You sit back down at your kitchen table, look at your untouched coffee going cold. You breathe in and out very carefully for a minute, and you do not let yourself think about what it meant that he said it twice.

You’re not going to do that. You’re going to be a reasonable adult who goes to work and eats lunch and sleeps normal amounts, and tomorrow you are going to sit across from Bucky Barnes in a coffee shop and say the thing that needs to be said.

That is the plan.

You’re three minutes late. When you push through the glass door and scan the room you find him immediately, because he’s not a man that takes effort to find.

He’s already there. Of course he’s already there, he’s probably never been late to a thing in his life.

He looks like something out of a campaign ad, which is annoying, because you are in your off-duty jeans and the overcoat you’ve had since forever.

He’s at a corner table, which is a thing you file away and he’s got a coffee in front of him already.

He looks up before you reach him. Like he sensed it.

You pull out the chair across from him, sit down and unwrap your scarf. The whole time he’s watching you with an expression you cannot read, which is the same as before, which should not feel as familiar as it does.

“Finally,” he says.

You blink. “Am I late? I thought I was only — what time is it?”

“You’re not late.” The corner of his mouth pulls into a smile. “I’ve just been— Never mind.”

He said finally like he was waiting for you. But he wasn’t waiting long. Does that mean he meant that you finally called? But how would you call if he didn’t leave a number?

No. Nope. You’re not going there.

You look down at the menu you don’t need and tell yourself firmly that it doesn’t mean anything, that he is a politician and politicians are good at making people feel like the only person in the room, it is literally a professional skill.

You’ve rehearsed this. You’ve rehearsed it on the subway here, in the shower last night. You had a version that started with some context, that built up gradually, that eased both of you into it. That version is somewhere on the sidewalk because you don’t have access to it right now.

“I have to tell you something.”

He sets his cup down. “Okay.”

“It’s—” You press your hands flat to your thighs under the table. “It’s not a small thing.”

“Okay.” The steadiness of it is almost its own problem.

Just say it. Say the thing. Spit it out.

You have said hard things before. You have sat across from people and told them their person wasn’t coming home, you have held those conversations together with nothing but your hands and your voice, you can say six words to one man in a coffee shop on 54th Street.

“I’m pregnant.” The words land flat on the table between you. “It’s yours. It’s from — from the gala. That night.”

Silence. Absolute deafening silence.

Not the kind that means he’s gathering himself to respond, or the kind that means he missed it. You can tell from his face that he didn’t miss it. It’s a longer silence. The kind you have to sit with no idea what’s on the other side.

You watch his face. You had run through versions of this moment in your head. There’s shock, the obvious thing, or anger, or some careful measured political blankness.

But it isn’t quite any of those. His jaw is tight and his eyes are on you and he is… not here, quite. He’s somewhere slightly behind his eyes, somewhere you don’t have access to.

“Bucky,” you say, because the silence is going somewhere you don’t like.

He comes back. Just slightly. His hand around his coffee cup tightens and releases.

“Are you sure it’s mine?”

You hear the words. You take a second to make sure you heard them correctly.

“I wore a condom,” he says, and his voice has changed. It’s careful, like he’s walking on ice. “I just — I want to be sure that we’re—”

“Yes.” The word comes out sharp, which you didn’t mean, or maybe you did. “Yes, it’s yours. I’m sure.” You make yourself hold his gaze. “I haven’t slept with anyone else.”

Something shifts in his expression. You can’t tell if it’s belief or the beginning of it or something else entirely.

“We can do a paternity test,” you say, and your voice is admirably level and you hate that you have to say this, you hate that you’re sitting here offering this like it’s a reasonable next step. “If you want confirmation. That’s — that’s available to you. I understand.”

Then you both speak at the same time.

“I didn’t come here asking for anything,” you say.

“What do you want?” he asks.

If only you’d spoken a moment sooner.

Four words. They’re not unkind, exactly. But they land cold, because of what they assume, maybe, or because of what they don’t. What do you want.

As if the only reason you’d be here is because you want something from him specifically, as if this is a transaction he’s being presented with rather than a fact of his life, as if you’d spent three weeks carrying this alone and called his number and rearranged the words a hundred different ways just to want something.

You feel it move through your chest before you can stop it.

“Nothing… I don’t want anything.”

You can clearly see his face change. “That’s not what I—”

“I have to go.” You reach for your scarf. Your hands are steady and you’re glad for it. “I shouldn’t have — I thought you should know. That was the only reason. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

“That’s not—hey—” He’s half out of his seat. “That’s not what I meant—”

“It’s fine.” You stand. You loop your scarf once around your neck and your body is doing the automatic things while your brain is somewhere else entirely, somewhere a little removed and glassy. “I’ll be in touch about next steps. Whatever you want to do. If you want the test, just—” You stop yourself before you finish the sentence because your voice is doing something you don’t want it to do. “I’ll be in touch.”

And then you’re walking. Through the small tables, out through the glass door that lets in a rush of cold air that you are grateful for because it hits your face and gives you something to feel that isn’t this.

The sidewalk is busy, you merge into it and walk because walking is something you can do. You’re not going anywhere in particular. You’re just walking.

“Hey.” His voice is behind you. Close. “Just — stop.”

You don’t stop immediately. You take two more steps, which is honest.

“Please.” His hand closes around your arm, just above your elbow. There’s barely any pressure in his grip, but you stop because ‘please’ is not a word he uses easily, you’ve already gathered that, and the way he said it is not a politician’s please.

He’s standing there without his coat. He left it inside, apparently, didn’t stop to grab it. He looks like a person, suddenly. Not a congressman anymore.

“That came out wrong.”

“It’s fine.” It’s something you have said twice now, which is increasingly not true.

“It’s not.” He runs a hand through his hair. The same dark hair you’d pulled at in a hotel suite three weeks ago, but you cannot think about that right now. “I panicked. I said something stupid and it came out wrong and I— I’m sorry.”

“You asked me what I want,” you keep your voice low. “Like I was — like this was something I came to negotiate.”

“I —”

“I’ve been sitting with this for two weeks by myself.” You hadn’t meant to say that part, hadn’t meant to let him know, but there it is. “Two weeks of figuring out how to even find your number, two weeks of—” You stop. You are not going to do this on 54th Street, you are absolutely not. “I’m not asking you for anything. I just thought you deserved to know.”

He’s looking at you with an expression that you can’t name and have never seen on him before. Something stripped of the careful management, the controlled stillness.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

The wind picks up and he doesn’t even flinch at it, no coat, and you look at him and you are… tired. You are so, so tired, and you don’t have the energy to hold onto any of this out here on the street.

“I have to get back. I have a shift.”

“Can we— Can we try this again? Somewhere. When you’re ready.” He holds your gaze. “I’d like to do that right. If you’ll let me.”

You look at him for a long moment. The sweater. The cold. The line of his jaw that you’d had your hand against on a different night in a different context. The fact that the two things are the same person is almost too much to hold at once.

“I’ll think about it.”

It is not a yes. It is not quite a no. He seems to understand this, because he doesn’t push.

You turn and don’t look back. You get half a block when your phone buzzes in your pocket.

Bucky: I’m sorry. I mean it.

The phone is an inconvenience right now. It’s him.

You stare at it for two full rings.

Then you pick up, because you are apparently a person who does that.

“Hey.” The same voice that said I’m sorry on a windy sidewalk six hours ago, except now it’s evening and you’ve been on your feet since noon and you have considerably less patience available than you did then.

“I’m in the middle of a shift,” you say, instead of hello.

“I know, I just— Have you eaten?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Look up at the ceiling for a moment, which is a habit you’re developing, apparently. Ceilings when you need a second to not say the first thing that comes to mind. “Bucky.”

“It’s a simple question.”

“It is not a simple question, it is a—” You lower your voice because a nurse just walked past and you do not need this. “Can you just not, please? I’m working.”

“Have you eaten?” he repeats, like he didn’t hear the second half of what you said, or heard it and decided it wasn’t load-bearing.

“I had lunch.”

“It’s 8 PM, I’m not asking about lunch—”

“I’m a resident. Having lunch is a privilege.” You hear an ambulance. “Gotta go.”

“I’ll —”

You don’t let him finish.

At eleven thirty, one of the nurses at the front desk — Maya — stops you in the hallway with an expression that is doing something specific.

“There’s a guy at the front desk.”

“…Okay.”

“He brought food.” She pauses. “A lot of food.”

You look at her. She looks back at you with the energy of someone who has decided this is the best thing that has happened on this shift and possibly this month. “He’s very—” She searches for the word.

“Maya.”

“He’s asking for you specifically.”

You close your eyes for exactly one second. Then you go to the front desk.

There’s a paper bag on the desk in front of Bucky and he’s talking to the security guard with the easy manner of a man who talks to people for a living.

When he sees you coming, his expression shifts into something that is not quite relief but is in the direction of it.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you say, before he can say anything.

“I—”

You don’t let him finish. “I’m working.”

“I’m not staying.” He nods at the bag. “It’s just food. You said you hadn’t eaten.”

You look at the bag. You look at him. Maya, behind you, is doing an absolutely terrible job of pretending to type something. “You didn’t have to drive here.” You keep your voice quiet enough that it stays between the two of you. “I’m fine. I can take care of myself.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you here?”

His jaw does the tight-release thing. “Because after you left I felt like an ass… and I need you to know that I’m sorry. Not over a text. In person.” He pushes the bag slightly toward you. “And because you said you hadn’t eaten.”

You stare at the bag. Thai food, from the smell of it, something with lemongrass. Your stomach, which has been ignoring you all evening, suddenly has opinions.

“This doesn’t fix what you said.”

“I’m not trying to fix it. I’m trying to—” He stops himself, and you can see him editing, which is strange to watch on a man who normally seems to say the exact amount he means to. “I’m showing you I’m sorry. That’s all.”

The energy to process this is something you don’t possess now. You pick up the bag. It’s heavier than it looked. “Thank you.” It comes out stiff and you don’t have the bandwidth to soften it. “You should go home.”

“Right.”

“I mean it. You don’t have to — this isn’t something you have to do. Standing in hospital lobbies with Thai food isn’t gonna be your thing, okay? We’re not— that’s not what this is.”

He’s quiet for a second. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Get some food in you.”

“I was going to,” you say, which is not strictly true, and he seems to know it. But he doesn’t say so, which you are choosing to be grateful for.

He nods once, and walks back toward the entrance. You watch him go for exactly two seconds before you make yourself turn around and go back to work.

Maya spins her chair to face you the moment you’re within range. You point at her before she can speak.

“Don’t.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Maya.”

“He’s so—”

“I will give you a terrible evaluation.”

She turns back to her computer, failing entirely to hide her smile, and you take the bag to the break room and eat the whole thing. It’s very good, which you resent.

Six hours later, at ten past two, you come out of the hospital into the cold. Your brain is running on fumes, and the black car in the far corner of the parking lot does not immediately register.

Then the door opens.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you say, to no one in particular. To the night. To whatever version of your life this is.

He gets out slowly, like he hasn’t spent six hours in a parking lot. He’s in the same coat and he looks it. A little, around the eyes.

“Bucky.” Your voice comes out flatter than you intend.

“I—”

There’s a pattern developing here, the way you don’t let him finish talking. “You’ve been here this whole time.”

“I fell asleep for a bit.”

“In your car. In the hospital parking lot. Why?”

He stops a few feet from you. His face looks tired in a way it hadn’t the other night, something honest about it. “I wanted to make sure you got home okay.”

“I do that everyday… I’ve been doing that everyday for almost three years.”

“Right.”

“Then why—” You stop. You’re too tired for this. The cold is getting into your coat and your feet hurt and you are twenty-eight years old and you do not have the reserves for whatever this is. “Go home, Bucky. Please. Get some actual sleep.”

“Let me drive you.”

“I have my car.”

“You’ve been on your feet for—”

“I have my car.” You hitch your bag up on your shoulder. “Thank you for the food. I mean that. But you can’t just— sit outside my hospital all night, that’s not— you can’t do that.”

He’s looking at you with that expression again. The unreadable one that isn’t quite unreadable anymore, or maybe you’re just too tired to not see it. “I handled it badly yesterday… or today — I don’t know — I said something that I would take back if I could.”

“I know. You said that.”

“I’m saying it again.”

“Bucky—”

“I need you to understand that I’m not— I’m not the guy who says something like that and means it. What I said, the way it sounded. I need you to know that’s not— that isn’t who I am.”

You look at him for a long moment. The parking lot is quiet. A couple of birds somewhere. A car turning out onto the street.

“I know.” Because you do, or you think you do, or you’d like to. “I just need you to give me some room to figure out—” You gesture vaguely between you. “All of this. Okay? I can’t think straight when you’re standing in my parking lot.”

Something moves through his expression at that. He looks down at the ground and then back at you, and the corner of his mouth shifts. “Okay. I’ll go.”

“Thank you.”

He holds eye contact a beat. “Drive safe.”

“You too,” you say, which is automatic, which is ridiculous, and you turn before your face can do anything about it.

You think about him walking to his car in an empty parking lot, and you think about him falling asleep in there, and you don’t do anything with that. You file it somewhere.

You go home. You sleep for nine hours straight. It’s the best you’ve slept in three weeks.

He calls two days later.

You’re off shift, sitting on your couch with an unopened anatomy refresher on the cushion next to you because you’d told yourself you were going to be productive and had instead been staring at nowhere in particular.

You pick up on the second ring. “Hi.” His voice is the same, which isn’t entirely a good thing to your composure.

“Hi.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Tired, but that’s— that’s normal.”

“Oh?”

“The fatigue is normal first trimester. The nausea I’ve been managing, mostly… I’m not telling you this to update you, I’m just— you asked.”

“I’m glad you told me.” His voice is quiet. Careful in a way that doesn’t feel like walking on ice anymore, more like he’s choosing things with intention. “I want to know how you’re doing.”

When you don’t say anything, he continues. “I want to come to your appointment.”

You close your eyes. “Bucky.”

“Hear me out—”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I — I want to.”

“You said that in the parking lot too, about the food, and I told you—”

“This is different. This is— this matters. I want to be there. I know I gave you every reason to tell me to stay out of it. What I said at the coffee shop— I know. But I’m asking you to let me— I’m asking… please”

For some reason, you think about the hotel room. The folded dress. The empty bed. The water glass. You think about a parking lot at two past midnight and a man who fell asleep in his car because he wanted to make sure you got home safe.

“It’s at my hospital… next Tuesday. Eleven.”

“Eleven,” he repeats.

“And if you say anything—” You hadn’t meant to go there, but you’re going there. “If you say anything like what you said on that day, I will walk out. And that’ll be it. I mean that.”

“That’s fair.” Without hesitation. Like he expected it and meant to agree to it.

“I’m serious, Bucky.”

“I know you are. I know.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Okay. Tuesday.”

“Okay… Thank you.”

You don’t say you’re welcome. You don’t say anything for a second.

“Get some sleep,” he says. It’s like the water glass. The automatic thing, the thing that comes out before he decides whether to say it.

“You too.” This time it doesn’t feel ridiculous.

You hang up and open the textbook on whim. You read four pages before you fall asleep on the couch with the lamp still on.

He’s standing at your door at ten thirty with peonies.

Actual peonies, fat and pale pink, the kind that look like someone made a decision.

You open the door in your coat already because you’d been about to leave, keys in hand, and the two of you look at each other for a second in the doorway.

“How do you know where I live?”

“Sarah.”

Of course. You make a mental note to have a word with Sarah, except Sarah will laugh at you and you both know it.

You look at the flowers and then at him and he has the decency to look slightly uncertain, which is the most uncertain you’ve seen him look, and it does something small and involuntary to your chest.

“You didn’t have to—”

He just holds them out, without saying anything.

You take them because leaving them in his hands would be strange. They smell like something expensive and vaguely like outside, and you stand there for a second not knowing what to do with them.

You turn back into the apartment and find a glass in the cabinet and fill it with water, which is not a vase but it will have to do.

Setting them on the counter, you look at them. White and pink against your very normal kitchen, and something about the image makes you feel things you don’t have the time or inclination to examine.

The waiting room at the OB practice is warm and aggressively neutral, the kind of beige that has been carefully selected to be soothing. It achieves the opposite.

You sign in at the front. Bucky sits beside you, and he doesn’t make small talk, which you’re grateful for. He’s looking at something on his phone with the focused stillness of a person who is trying to be unobtrusive, and you watch the fish tank in the corner for lack of anything else to do with your eyes.

Your name gets called and you both stand. There’s a second, while walking towards the exam room, where you’re very aware of him behind you and you don’t know what to do about that.

The room is what it always is. Exam table with the paper that crinkles, the blood pressure cuff on the wall, the small screen angled toward the bed. You hop up on the table without being asked.

The nurse takes your vitals and says the doctor will be in shortly. Then it’s just the two of you in the room.

Bucky takes the chair in the corner.

“You can sit closer,” you say, because the chair in the corner feels like he’s been sent there. “You don’t have to be all the way over there.”

He moves the chair, just enough, and sits back down.

“How are you feeling?” he asks. Same question as the phone call, except in person it is different.

“Okay. A little nauseous this morning but it passed.” You look at your hands. “I have to go back on in the afternoon so I’m hoping the appointment doesn’t run long.”

“I can have you back by one.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” Right. That’s his line.

You don’t argue with it this time.

Dr. Reyes comes in five minutes later and doesn’t react to Bucky’s presence in any visible way, which you appreciate, because you’d anticipated some version of aren’t you. Congressman Barnes or Winter Soldier.

You did not want to deal with that today.

She’s warm and efficient in the way of someone who has done this enough times, and she goes through the questions with you and you answer them like the doctor you are. Last menstrual period, no significant history. Bucky stays quiet in his chair and you don’t look at him.

Then Dr. Reyes reaches for the gel.

“This’ll be cold,” she says, and you nod. She picks up the transducer and you are doing the thing you planned to do. Stay clinical.

Except your resident-brain has never been on this end of a transabdominal ultrasound before and it turns out those are two different things.

The screen fills with the grey static of it. Dr. Reyes adjusts the angle, and—

There.

The flicker. Fast and insistent, one hundred and fifty beats per minute or close to it, the cardiac activity clear enough on the doppler even before she turns the sound on, but then she does turn the sound on.

It’s the sound that gets you.

You’ve heard fetal heart tones a hundred times. A thousand times. You’ve stood in rooms while other women heard this for the first time and you’ve read the chart and noted the rate and moved on, because it was clinical, because it was data.

Except right now your body is doing something entirely outside of your control, something warm moving through your chest without asking permission, and you press your lips together and breathe.

“Strong heartbeat,” Dr. Reyes says, with the particular quiet of someone who knows what this moment is. “Right around a hundred and fifty-four. Looking good.”

You nod. Your throat is doing something it shouldn’t.

From the chair beside you, you hear Bucky exhale. Like he’d been holding something and set it down.

You turn your head and look at him.

He’s looking at the screen, not at you, and his jaw is tight and his hands are braced against his knee. His expression is… soft. You know because it’s the same on your own face.

“Can I—” His voice comes out different than you’ve heard it. Rougher. He clears his throat. “Can I get a copy of that? The image.”

Dr. Reyes glances between you, and you nod. “Of course,” she says.

He looks at you then. Quick, like he’s checking whether that was okay. When you nod, he immediately turns back to the screen.

Dr. Reyes does the measurements. Everything is how it should be, and she gives you the due date. Mid-July. Which you’d already calculated, but hearing it out loud is its own thing.

She goes through the first trimester expectations with you and you listen to all of it with the clinical half of your brain taking notes while the other half is somewhere else, somewhere watching the flicker on the screen and not knowing quite what to do with itself.

When she hands you the printout of the image, you put it in your bag. She hands one to Bucky too, without being asked again, and he takes it with both hands and looks at it for a second before sliding it into his inside coat pocket. Like it’s something he doesn’t want to bend.

He drives you back. You sit in the passenger seat and watch the city go by.

Neither of you speaks for a while, which is fine. Which is easy, actually, and you resent that a little.

You’d like to be uncomfortable. Discomfort is useful.

“Thank you. For letting me be there.” He’s the one to break the silence.

“You asked,” you say. Which is true, but not the full answer, and you both know it.

He doesn’t push.

In front of your building, he puts it in park. “Do you need anything? For the apartment, or groceries, or I could pick stuff up—”

“I’m okay.” You’re already half out of the seat.

“Prenatal vitamins, or—”

“Bucky.” You pause with one foot on the curb. “I have prenatal vitamins. I ordered them the morning after I tested. I’m a doctor. I know what I need.”

He has a hand on the steering wheel and he’s looking at you, and there’s something in his face that isn’t quite hurt and isn’t quite frustration. More like a person who wants to do something and doesn’t know how.

“I know you do.”

“I’m not—” There’s a version of this that comes out wrong, and you navigate around it. “I’m not keeping you out of it. That’s not what this is. I just— I don’t need you to manage things. Okay?” You look at him. “I’ll call you when there’s something to call you about.”

He’s quiet for a second. “Okay.”

“The heartbeat. That was… yeah. It was good.” You don’t know why you said that, only you didn’t want that to be the last thing you told him.

You’re already inside your place by the time you hear his car pull away.

The peonies are still in the glass on your counter when you get back in, and you stand there looking at them.

You are a person who has her prenatal vitamins already ordered and her charting caught up and her shifts covered, and you are also a person who left a one-night stand’s flowers in a water glass because they were too nice to throw out.

You said no three times.

The first time was on the phone, two days after the appointment, when he called with what he’d clearly prepared as a reasonable proposition. He delivered in the tone of someone who has won arguments in rooms full of people who didn’t want to lose.

His apartment was twelve minutes from your hospital by cab. Your commute was forty, on a good day. The first trimester fatigue was going to get worse before it got better. He had a spare bedroom. It was just practical.

The second time was a week after that, in person, when he’d swung by your hospital on his way from somewhere official to somewhere else official. He’d shown up in your break room with a coffee you hadn’t asked for and had the conversation again.

He laid it out like he was briefing someone. The proximity to your hospital, the fact that his building had a doorman and a parking garage and an elevator, the fact that your building had none of those things and three flights of stairs that were already becoming a thing you noticed at the end of a long shift.

The third time was on a Tuesday when you’d gotten home at midnight and stood at the bottom of your stairs for longer than you’d like to admit before making yourself go up them.

You’d texted Sarah about it not entirely meaning to, and Sarah had apparently mentioned it to her father, and her father had apparently mentioned it to Bucky. Your phone had rung at twelve fifteen.

How does news travel so fast?

The fourth time you said no it was because you’d run out of actual reasons and had to fall back on principle, which he received with the patience of someone who understood the difference and was content to wait.

That patience, somehow, was the thing that wore you down. Not the logic of it.

He’d just set the option on the table and waited with his hands in his pockets while you turned it over and found fewer and fewer things wrong with it.

That time you’d said, “Fine. A month. We’ll see how it goes.”

His apartment is on the fourteenth floor of a building that has a lobby with actual plants in it and a doorman named Gerald who learned your name on the second day and now says ‘good morning’ like he means it.

The spare bedroom has a window that faces east, which you hadn’t expected to care about. But find that you do, when the morning light comes in early and clean.

The first few days felt like moving around a furniture arrangement that hadn’t fully settled. Two people with established routines in one space, both of you figuring out the other.

You learned that he woke up early, always, and that the coffee was made before you came out of your room.

You learned that he watched the news in the living room in the evenings with the sound low and that he didn’t talk during it. Which suited you fine because you had charts to finish.

You learned that he stocked the fridge with things you’d mentioned offhand once, twice, in passing.

The ginger tea appeared on the third day, on the shelf above your coffee mug. You hadn’t said you needed it. But you’d been slightly more nauseous every morning and apparently he’d noticed, because there it was, three boxes of it, like it had always been there.

You’re fourteen weeks now. Which means you’d started to show in the way that is noticeable if you know what you’re looking for, the small firm curve of it below your navel that your regular clothes are beginning to politely argue with.

Looking down at it in the mirror still does something to you that you don’t have a clean word for.

Bucky doesn’t comment on it. That might be the thing you appreciate most.

What he does is quietly rearrange things. The stuff on the highest shelves moved down without discussion. A non-slip mat appeared in the shower.

He started being in the kitchen when you came home late, putting something together, and there was always enough for two.

You’d tried to protest the first time and he’d handed you a bowl of whatever it was and said ‘sit down, eat’, and something about the directness of it had short-circuited your objection.

The dynamic between you had shifted in a way that was hard to articulate. He made you laugh twice last week, genuinely. Once about something on the news and once about something Gerald had said in the lobby. You’d felt the laugh leave your body and thought afterward, with some surprise, that you hadn’t been performing it.

You still felt the thing from the coffee shop, underneath. You didn’t think you’d stop feeling that for a while. It is something that won’t stop hurting when you think of it often, and you think of it often.

Tuesday morning, you’re off until noon.

Off, for a resident, means you slept until eight instead of five and only have emails to deal with instead of a full shift, but still.

You come out of your room in your robe and your thick socks, hair in the kind of chaos that only nine hours of actual sleep can produce, and you’re running through the schedule of the day in your head when you turn the corner into the kitchen and stop.

Bucky is at the stove.

In a towel.

Just a towel. White, knotted at his hip, his hair still damp against the back of his neck. He clearly just stepped out of the shower and he’s got the skillet on and he’s doing something with eggs, fully concentrated on it.

You should say something. You should announce yourself, the way a normal person would, and give you both a second to reorient.

You don’t.

You’ve seen him in suits, casuals at home, you’ve seen him in the sweater from the coffee shop, you’ve seen him in the dark of a hotel room. But this is different in a way that your body is entirely on board with and your brain is slightly behind on.

He’s solid, broad across the back and tapered down, and the towel sits low on his hips and the morning light in the kitchen is doing things you’d like it to stop doing.

His left arm, the metal one, catches the light differently than his right, the lines of it tracing the shape of a shoulder, a forearm, fingers curled around the handle of the pan.

You’ve always been a normal amount of attracted to him. You’ve been telling yourself that it was circumstantial. Hormones, proximity, those things. And that it would settle down, because that was the sensible thing for it to do.

It is not settling down.

You press your lips together and look at the ceiling briefly and remind yourself that you are a grown adult in her first trimester who is going to behave appropriately. The first trimester is notoriously unkind when it comes to this, your body does not always know what’s good for it.

“Morning,” you say.

He turns around. To his credit, he doesn’t look particularly thrown. A little caught, maybe, but he rolls with it. “Hey. Sorry… I was running late, I figured I’d just start breakfast before I—” He gestures vaguely at himself with the spatula, which you choose not to find charming. “Didn’t hear you get up.”

“It’s fine,” you say, and you get yourself to the coffee maker and give yourself something to do with your hands. “What time is it?”

“Eight-forty.” He turns back to the eggs. “I would’ve had it ready before you got up usually. Woke up late.”

“You know you don’t have to make me breakfast every single day.”

He shifts the pan off the heat. “I was making eggs anyway. Seemed wasteful not to.”

You look at his back. His very… whatever. You pour your coffee. “Are you going to put clothes on?”

“Yeah, I— are the eggs okay first or should I—”

“The eggs are fine,” you say, which possibly comes out with slightly more feeling than the eggs require, and you turn and look very deliberately at your mug.

He dishes the eggs onto two plates, sets yours on the counter in front of you with a piece of toast that has appeared from somewhere.

Then he takes himself and his towel situation to his room.

You sit at the kitchen counter and stare at your eggs and feel extremely normal about everything.

Hormones. First trimester. Completely explicable.

You eat your eggs. They’re good. They’re always good, which is its own kind of inconvenience.

He comes back in grey sweatpants and a t-shirt with his damp hair and sits across the counter from you with his own plate.

The thing about Bucky Barnes in grey sweatpants is that it is somehow worse than the towel because you cannot blame it on anything. You cannot say you were caught off guard.

He is just sitting there in normal clothes eating scrambled eggs and looking at his phone. This is just your morning now. This is what your mornings are.

“You have the afternoon appointment Friday?” he asks, not looking up from his phone.

“Two o’clock.”

He nods. Puts his phone down. Picks up his coffee. “I can drive you.”

“I can get there.”

“I want to be there.”

You consider pointing out that he says that a lot. You decide not to. “Okay.”

The scrubs have been sitting in the bottom of your bag for three weeks. The dark navy set, the ones you’d bought in your first year when you finally had enough shifts under your belt to feel like they were earned.

You’d packed them when you left your apartment and told yourself it was practical, that you’d need them before the end of your residency, that they’d still fit by then.

Today is the final week. Last stretch before your exams, before whatever comes after, and you’d woken up this morning with the particular weight of an ending sitting on your chest. The bittersweet kind, the kind that doesn’t fully resolve into either sad or glad and just sits there asking you to feel both.

You’d thought about your locker at the hospital, the mug you kept in the break room, the nurses who knew your name and your coffee order and the specific way you liked your charts organized. You’d thought about who you’d been when you started, which felt like another person’s life viewed through glass.

The scrubs had seemed right. Nostalgic. The way you might put on an old sweater, or drive past your childhood home. Just to remember what it felt like.

That was the theory.

In practice, you’re standing in front your mirror at eight in the morning and the scrub top is bunched at your midsection, stuck there, going neither up nor down.

Your stomach has done what stomachs do at nineteen weeks. It is present, unmistakably, the firm round curve of it that you’d spent weeks watching appear like something surfacing through water.

The scrub top, which had been fitted-ish even before, has no interest in accommodating it. The fabric is straining across your chest in a way that would be funny in a different context, because your chest has also done what chests do, which is become something you are still getting used to seeing in mirrors.

The whole picture is that the scrub is basically a crop top, currently. The bottom six inches of your stomach are exposed. It will not go down.

You already know. You knew the moment you got it over your arms.

Still. Something cracks anyway.

It’s not rational. You’re a doctor, you understand what’s happening to your body better than most people get to. You’d read the weekly summaries without sentimentality. You’d taken your vitamins and gone to your appointments and been, all things considered, fairly functional about the whole thing.

But there’s something about the scrubs specifically that you hadn’t accounted for. Three years of who you were, and they don’t fit. You cannot explain why that particular fact is the one that finds the crack, except that it does. And your eyes are burning before you’ve fully registered that they’re going to.

You pull at the hem once more anyway. Just to try. It doesn’t move.

“Hey—” Bucky, in the hallway, knocking twice before he pushes the door slightly open. He does that, announces himself before the door, which you’d noticed in the first week and filed away as a thing you appreciated without saying so. “Breakfast is—” He stops.

You’re not crying. You’re at the stage just before, the one where your face is doing something you can’t control and your eyes are bright and your throat has that specific tightness. And you’re wearing a scrub top bunched up to your ribcage with your stomach completely exposed and your bra visible and your hands still fisted in the fabric.

He comes into your room properly, and stands behind you. You look at him in the mirror. He looks at you.

“The scrubs don’t fit.” Your voice comes out steadier than you expected.

“Yeah,” he says. Like he’s agreeing with whatever the real sentence is underneath the one you said.

“I know they weren’t going to.” You let go of the hem. “I don’t know why I thought—” You press your lips together. The burning behind your eyes is doing what it wants to regardless, and you look up at the ceiling briefly and breathe.

“It’s the last week,” you say, after a second.

Bucky doesn’t say anything right away. Your eyes meet in the mirror and there’s nothing in his face that looks like he doesn’t understand.

“I know.”

The simplicity of it helps more than anything elaborate would have. You breathe again and feel the tightness in your throat ease a fraction.

His hands find the hem of the scrub top, and he looks at your face in the mirror first. When you give the smallest nod, he eases it up and over and off.

You stand there in your bra and maternity leggings.

In the mirror, his eyes make a trip south that he doesn’t intend you to catch. Quick and involuntary and immediately corrected, back to your face. But you caught it. The fraction of a second where they landed, where they stayed, before he pulled them back up.

You don’t say anything.

You’d spent weeks rearranging your sense of your own body, cataloguing the changes the way you would with a patient.

Maintaining the clinical distance had always been your competence.

But clinical distance has a way of not applying when someone’s eyes do what his just did.

This is not the hungry look from a hotel room. This is the helpless half-second kind. The involuntary kind. The honest kind, the kind a person can’t manufacture.

The fact that it was involuntary is the part that does something.

“Breakfast is probably cold,” you say, because you have to say something and the other things aren’t available yet.

“I can reheat it.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’ll reheat it.”

You look at yourself in the mirror. You don’t look like yourself in the way you’ve always expected to look like yourself.

And you can’t tell yet whether that’s loss or just change, whether there’s even a meaningful difference between those two things.

“Bucky…. Thank you.” For the way he’d come in and just stood there and let the thing be what it was without trying to fix it or reframe it or promise you it would be fine.

The anatomy scan is at twenty weeks, which you know from the part of your brain that has been doing obstetric math since the positive test.

It is the one where they can tell you. If you want to know. If you ask.

You hadn’t decided, going in.

Bucky hadn’t asked whether you were going to find out, which you’d appreciated. He’d just shown up, same as always, jacket and the particular stillness that he brought into medical spaces with him.

The scan takes twenty minutes. You lie on your back with the transducer moving over your stomach while Dr. Reyes takes her measurements and narrates in the calm voice she has.

Bucky sits in the chair and watches the screen.

The anatomy is normal. All of it—the cardiac chambers, the spine, the cerebellum, the face. You listen to Dr. Reyes confirm each structure and your brain files it the way it always does, methodical.

Underneath the methodology there is something that is not methodology. something that has been building since the first scan, something that you have been calling various things and none of them have been entirely right.

“Do you want to know the sex?” Dr. Reyes asks.

You look at the ceiling. Then you look at Bucky.

He looks back at you. His expression says it’s up to you, the same way it said that about the apartment, about the appointments, about all of it.

He’d been very careful, the whole time, not to lean on decisions that were yours to make. You’d noticed. You’d been noticing for months.

“Yeah.”

Dr. Reyes smiles, and moves the transducer.

A girl.

You hadn’t had a preference, or you’d told yourself you hadn’t, but when she said it you understood something, like—oh. Oh, of course. Of course it’s her.

You don’t cry in the office. You make it to the elevator.

Its the sudden, quick kind. Two breaths worth, your hand pressed to your mouth, and then it passes.

You’re left standing in an elevator with your eyes bright, and Bucky is beside you looking at your face with the expression that isn’t unreadable anymore.

“Sorry,” you say, which is stupid, crying is a completely normal response to—

“Don’t.” He puts his arm around your shoulder and you let him.

By the time you’re in the lobby you’re fine, or close enough.

“A girl,” you say out loud, just to hear it.

“A girl.” Something in his voice makes you look at his face, and what’s there stops you. He’s looking straight ahead, jaw working slightly, and he looks like a man who has just understood the full size of something and is very quietly being changed by it.

His arm comes down from your shoulder but his hand finds yours briefly, just for a moment.

The first kick happens on a Thursday evening at twenty-three weeks.

You’re on the couch. You’ve been on the couch for an hour, which has become a thing you do now. Come home and decompose horizontally for a while before you can face anything requiring vertical effort.

Bucky is somewhere in his officr and you’re watching something on the television that you’re not fully watching.

It’s not what you’d expected. It isn’t a kick exactly, it’s more like something — someone really — turning over. A rolling flutter from the inside, unmistakable once it happens, unmistakable in the way that means you’d know it anywhere forever.

You go completely still.

It happens again. Clearer this time. More definite.

“Bucky.” You don’t mean to say it at volume. It just comes out.

Following footsteps, you see him. He reads your face immediately and crouches beside the couch without asking ‘what’s wrong’, because whatever your face is doing right now clearly isn’t wrong.

“She’s moving.”

His eyes go to your hands on your stomach. “Now?”

“Just now. She—” It happens again, and your face does something you’re completely not in control of. “There.”

He looks up at you and then at your stomach and then at you again. “Can I?”

“Yeah.” You take his hand and put it where yours is, your palm over the back of his.

For a moment nothing happens, and you think maybe it’s stopped, and then—

His face.

You’ve catalogued Bucky’s expressions for months. You know the almost-smile and the real one and the careful one and the behind-the-eyes one, but this is none of them.

This is something you haven’t seen before and can’t name, something stripped entirely of everything else, just… pure. Open in a way his face almost never is. His eyes are bright and he is looking at your stomach like it is the most astonishing thing he has ever encountered.

“That’s her.” His voice is not steady.

“That’s her.”

He doesn’t move his hand. You don’t move yours. The kick comes again. The two of you stay like that on the couch, with his hand under yours, her making herself known between you.

There are things between you still. Not resolved, the coffee shop, his words you seem to can’t get past.

But right now it’s quiet.

“She’s strong,” he eventually says. A little undone. Trying not to show it and not quite succeeding, which you love. Which you note, quietly, that you love.

He looks up at you and something passes between you that doesn’t need words, something that would have been impossible five months ago.

His thumb moves slightly on your stomach, a small unconscious thing, a hello from the outside. You let your head fall back against the cushion and close your eyes and feel her move again.

Today you notice that your left breast is tender in a specific way. Your colostrum has been leaking for the better part of five days.

Now there’s this localised tenderness. You press two fingers against it, and find the spot immediately.

Blocked duct. Clean and obvious. You’d diagnosed it in approximately four seconds.

The knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.

You get in the shower and let the hot water run directly on it, and you work at the tissue the way you know. Gentle, firm strokes toward the nipple, drained before it blocks further.

It helps a little. Enough to get dressed and eat breakfast and tell yourself it would resolve on its own by afternoon, which it might, which blocked ducts sometimes do when caught early.

By afternoon it hasn’t resolved.

By evening it’s worse.

Bucky makes dinner and breakfast and lunch. It’s something he took it upon himself, and no matter what you did, he insisted he wanted to. You decided that was the least he could do, since you’re already growing a whole human.

You’re on the couch when he brings you your plate, but don’t really eat it, which he notices. Because Bucky notices things. That is one of the more inconvenient facts about living with him.

“You’re not eating.” An observation.

“I’m eating.” You take a bite to demonstrate.

He sits down on his end of the couch, his own plate, and looks at you in the way he looks at things when he’s decided something. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.”

“You’ve been holding your left side since you sat down.”

You look at him. You hadn’t realized you were doing that. Your hand is braced just below your ribs on the left, the pressure of it a reflex you hadn’t consciously authorized. You move it to your lap.

“I’m fine.”

“Okay.” He eats a bite of his dinner. “What’s wrong?”

The repetition startles a short laugh out of you. “Bucky.”

“I’ve got time.”

You look at your plate. The thing about the past several months is that you’d stopped performing fine quite so much. You still did it sometimes. Habit, mostly.

But the effort of maintaining it in the face of someone who was going to sit there and wait it out had started to feel like more work than just saying the thing.

“Blocked duct.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means one of the milk ducts is… blocked”

“You’re… producing?”

“Yeah, for like five days. It’s normal. Don’t worry.”

“Normal? You’re in pain.”

“The milk part is normal. The blocked part is not normal even after delivery.”

“So, what do we do? What’s the treatment?”

Of course. Of course that’s the immediate question. You set your fork down. “Warm compress, massage, expression. In that order.”

“Have you tried all of that?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And it’s… helping. Some. Not fully resolved.”

He’s quiet for a second, and you can hear him thinking, which is a thing you’ve learned to recognize. “Do you want me to— I could help with the massage. If that’s— if it would help.”

Something happens to your body that you are immediately and completely dismissive of. You are thirty-eight weeks pregnant and you are sitting on a couch across from the man who is the father of your child and who is also just a person asking a practical question.

Your body’s response to that question is frankly embarrassing and entirely the fault of the third trimester hormonal profile.

“I’m fine,” you say, for the third time, which even you can tell is getting less convincing.

“You said that.” He puts his plate on the coffee table. “What else is there?”

“What do you mean?”

“For the duct. If massage doesn’t work, what else is there?”

Your face does something you are not responsible for. You think about how to answer this question, which should be simple, which is a medical question with a factual answer, and yet.

“Suction.”

“A pump?” He’s already standing with his not even half finished place. “I’ll go buy one—”

“It’s not the pump.” The words come out before you’ve decided to say them. You look at him.

He looks back at you.

“Tell me what it is.” His voice is even.

You hold his gaze for a second. There are thirty-eight weeks of something between the two of you, not all of it clean, most of it good, and you are in pain that has a solution that you are not asking for.

“Manual suction would be equally effective than the pump. It’s also direct. You don’t have to— I don’t need you to do anything. It’ll resolve.”

He’s very still. “Will it?”

“Probably.”

“Probably,” he echoes.

“Yes.”

He’s looking at you with the expression that isn’t unreadable anymore, hasn’t been for a while, the one that means he’s made a decision and is waiting to see if you’ll come to the same one. “You’re in pain.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve said that four times and eaten approximately one bite of dinner.” His voice is quiet and not unkind and leaves absolutely no room. “You’re in pain, and there’s something that would help, and you’re sitting there not asking for it. So I’m asking. Do you want me to help?”

“It’s not— This isn’t—”

“I know what it is and what it isn’t. I’m asking if you want me to help.”

The honesty of the question, the way he’s asking plainly if you want him to, does something to the knot of your refusal, loosens it.

“Okay.”

The bedroom lamp is on low, which you’re grateful for. You’re sitting against the headboard in just your tank top because bra is compression and compression makes the pain worse.

Bucky is sitting beside you. You’ve walked him through it in the voice you use for medical explanations. Impersonal, methodical, this is the direction of drainage, this much is the pressure we’re aiming for. He’d listened the way he listens to everything, completely, without interrupting.

“Tell me if I’m doing it wrong.”

“You’re not.” You’d watched his hands and the technique was right, working from the periphery inward the way you’d told him.

The heat of it was immediate, the specific relief of pressure moving in the right direction, and you let your head fall back against the headboard and breathe through it.

It hurts. It hurts in the way that relief sometimes hurts, the way that unkinking something that’s been kinked for too long. You press your lips together and exhale.

“Still okay?” he asks.

“Yes.” Your voice is not entirely steady. “Keep going.”

The blocked duct is stubborn in the way they get when they’ve been compressing for a day. The massage alone was never going to be enough, you’d known that, you’d known it since Wednesday morning and done it anyway because asking was harder.

But his hands are warmer than yours, the pressure more sustained, and the way his fingers glide over your swollen skin sends an unexpected shiver through you, the warmth pooling not just in relief but in a deeper, aching need between your thighs.

When his mouth closes over the nipple, the sensation is overwhelming at first.

The sound you make is entirely involuntary and you press your hand to your own mouth immediately.

His hand stills on your ribs. He doesn’t stop. The suction is careful and rhythmic and nothing about the way he’s doing this is anything other than what it is.

Yet your body does not seem to fully understand the assignment. The wet heat of his mouth envelops you, his tongue pressing softly against the sensitive peak as he draws gently, each pull sending a spark of unwelcome arousal straight to your core, making you clench involuntarily around nothing.

You tell yourself you’re not turned on by him relieving your pain. You’re wrong.

Just for a fleeting moment, you wonder, if it's affecting him too. If the intimate act of tasting you, feeling your body respond under his lips, is stirring something in him the way it's unraveling you.

With continued suction, the colostrum releases slowly, the hard cord of tissue beginning to soften under his hand. You feel the pressure shifting, the acute point of pain diffusing.

And your eyes fill without your permission, the specific relief of it after a day of something that just quietly hurt and hurt and hurt.

“There.” Your voice breaks on it, just slightly.

He pulls back. Looks at your face. And then without discussion he puts his arm around you and pulls you into his side carefully. His hand finds the top of your bump in the way he does sometimes without thinking and you let him.

“You’re okay,” he says into your hair. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

You breathe. The ache is fading and you are okay.

But the lingering warmth of his mouth on your skin, the ghost of his breath against your nipple, has left you throbbing with need.

There’s this heat in you that has nothing to do with pain or hurt or blocked ducts. And everything to do with him and his proximity. You don’t think you can blame it on your hormones anymore.

You’re focused on not doing anything more. Because you don’t know how he feels. Just because he’d offered to help doesn’t mean he’s into this. Into you.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

You don’t know what he is talking about.

You lift your head a little. “What?”

His hand moves slightly on your back, a small motion, like he’s deciding how to continue. “The morning after the gala.” He’s not looking at you directly. “I had an early call. I had to be out by 5.30. I didn’t want to wake you.”

That morning comes rushing back like it was yesterday. The empty side. The folded dress on the chair. The glass of water.

“I left my number on the hotel notepad, by the lamp. I thought— I thought you’d call.”

“What—”

“Left side of the lamp. I figured maybe you didn’t want to. And then weeks went by and I thought—” He doesn’t finish that sentence. He doesn’t have to. “And then you called. And I picked up and heard your voice and I thought, okay. Okay, she called.”

If only you’d looked properly.

You close your eyes. Your brain does the math. How close you’d been to something, how much the last eight months might have looked different… if only you’d looked properly.

“And then the coffee shop. I said something— I said something I would take back ten times over if I could. The look on your face.” He finally glances down at you, and his expression is the honest one, the one stripped of the management. “I’d been thinking about you for weeks, and then there you were, telling me something that big, and I panicked and I said the worst possible thing, and I’ve been—”

“Bucky…”

“I’ve been trying to show you that I’m not that… Since then. That — that isn’t who I am.”

“I know.” You mean it fully. “I know.”

His hand hasn’t stopped moving on your back and you’ve gone completely loose against his side.

You turn your face slightly into his shoulder. He smells like the same thing he always smells like.

Something clean, something his.

You look up. He’s looking down. At you.

”I looked, I searched… I — I am so sorry, Bucky.”

He shakes his head, “you have nothing to be sorry about.” His voice is a whisper, gently wiping something off your face, only then do you realise you’d been crying.

Later if you thought about it, you could not have said who moved first. Maybe it was you, maybe it was just the proximity and the angle and months and months of near misses.

But his mouth is on yours and it is nothing like the hotel room. Nothing at all like that.

That had been hunger and dark and mutual want in its simplest form, and this is something else, something that has been earned in increments. When you kiss him back you feel the whole weight of it.

His hand comes up to your jaw, the right one, and he kisses you the way he does things when he means them. Slow. Sure. Like he is not going anywhere and wants you to know it. This time there’s no tears.

When you pull back, his thumb is on your cheek and your foreheads are together and you’re both breathing.

“Hi,” you say, which is what you always seem to say when he takes you off guard.

Something changes in his expression. Soft and a little helpless and very, very him. “Hi.”

You kiss him again, slower, and his hand slides from your jaw to your neck, and when you shift against him you feel him go still.

“I don’t want to—” He pulls back enough to look at you, and his face is flushed, and he’s trying to be responsible about something and finding it difficult. His eyes go briefly, helplessly, to your stomach, and then back to your face. “I don’t want to hurt her.”

You look at him. Something warm and fond moves through you, which is perhaps not the most practical emotion for this particular moment, but there it is.

“Sex is not contraindicated,” you say.

His brow furrows slightly. “How do you—”

“Bucky.”

“I just—”

“It’s actively encouraged in the two weeks before the due date.” You hold his gaze. “Prostaglandins in semen help with cervical ripening. And orgasm stimulates uterine contractility, which—”

“Okay.”

“—can help initiate labour at term, which is why—”

“Okay.” He’s slightly flushed. “I get it.”

“Do you? Because I can explain the mechanism—”

“How do you know that?” He asks with the expression of a man who has already realized the answer.

You cock your eyebrow.

“Right. You’re a doctor.” He looks like he’s genuinely embarrassed, with the kind of blush you have never seen on him before in eight months of looking at his face. “Sorry.”

You press your lips together so you don’t smile too much, because this is not the moment for I told you so, except that it is a little. “It’s okay.”

“I just—I didn’t want to—”

“I know.” You put your hand on his jaw, the same way you’d put it on his jaw in a hotel room eight months ago in a completely different life. “I know. She’s safe. I’m safe. Okay?”

This is different from the hotel room in every way that matters.

“You’re beautiful.” He says it simply, like it’s the truth.

“I’m enormous.”

“Yeah.” He says it like those are the same sentence. Like enormous is included in beautiful, like the distinction doesn’t exist.

You pull his shirt over his head and he lets you, and then his hands find your tank top and he eases it off fully. His eyes move over you the way they’d moved that day in the mirror, except now there is nothing to look away from, and he doesn’t.

“Tell me what feels good. Tell me what doesn’t.”

“You’re going to make me talk the whole time?”

“I’m going to make you talk when I need to know something.” His mouth moves to your jaw, your throat, and his voice is warm against your skin. “Which will be often.”

Your hands find his hair and you hold on.

His hands learn it the way you’d watch him learn anything else. With attention, nothing half-done.

He finds your hip, your thigh, and his fingers trail up the inside of it with the unhurried patience of a man who is not going anywhere. When they reach the apex of your thighs and slip between your folds, finding you slick and swollen, he exhales slowly against your neck.

“Jesus.”

“I told you it was—”

“Not the physiology… Just— you.” His fingers part you gently, circling your clit with soft strokes, and your grip on his hair tightens. “This.”

You stop talking.

His fingers are gentle in a way that is its own undoing. He’s learning, finding the places that make your breath change and staying there, pressing and rubbing with just enough pressure to send heat pooling low in your belly.

You’re on your side, which is where he’d guided you with the easy practicality of someone who’d done their research and wasn’t going to make a thing of it.

His chest is warm against your back and his hand is over your hip and everything about the angle lets his fingers delve deeper, one sliding inside you while his thumb works your clit.

He keeps going until your thighs are shaking and you’re saying his name with your face pressed to the pillow and when his fingers slow, you make an undignified sound

“Don’t stop—”

“I’m not stopping,” he says into your shoulder. “Just changing.”

He shifts, settling behind you, and you feel the warm blunt pressure of his cock at your entrance, the head nudging against your wetness.

He pauses there. His hand is on your hip, his mouth is at your temple. “Okay?”

“Yes… Please.”

He pushes in slowly. All the way slow, inch by inch, stretching you, giving you time to feel every ridge and vein as he fills you completely. You exhale through it and he stays still when he’s fully seated, buried to the hilt. You feel his chest chest rising and falling against your back. “Okay?” he asks again.

“More than okay,” you manage, which makes him exhale a short, warm laugh against your neck.

He moves. The kind of pace that builds rather than rushes, his cock sliding out almost to the tip before thrusting back in. His hand on your hip holds you in place, and you feel every movement everywhere, the particular fullness of him inside you, pressing against that sensitive spot with each stroke, the particular closeness of his body wrapped around yours.

His hand slides from your hip to your stomach and just rests there and something about that, the fact that he thought to do that, his palm warm and open on the curve of your belly while his cock moves inside you, does something to you that is beyond physical.

“Bucky.” It’s not a request for anything, just his name in your mouth, just needing to say it.

“I’m here.” His arm tightens around you. “I’ve got you.”

His other hand finds your clit again, fingers slick with your arousal, rubbing in tight, slow circles that match the rhythm of his hips. You feel the tension building in slow long waves, nothing like the urgent snap of the hotel room, this is the accumulative kind, the kind that climbs and climbs, your walls clenching around him with each thrusts.

His mouth is at your ear and he’s saying your name, just your name.

When you come, you come with his name on your lips and his arms around you and his hand on your belly.

It moves through you like something warm breaking loose from somewhere it had been held for a long time, your body pulsing around his cock, drawing him deeper. You feel it in your chest as much as anywhere else.

His hips stutter and slow and he presses his face into your neck and follows you, spills inside you. His arm fully wraps around you, and then everything is still.

You lie there with his heartbeat at your back, fast still and slowing.

This time there’s no condom to dispose. But he does move, and comes back with a washcloth and a glass of water. A glass of water, again.

His hands are soft and his touch gentle when he cleans you, wiping away the mix of your release and his from between your thighs.

After a while, after he’s made you drink half a glass of water, and you’re settled into him, his hand moves on your stomach. “Hey,” he says. To her. Like a hello.

You press your hand over his.

Something moves under your palms and you realise it’s a hello back from the inside.

my masterlist !

extras. if this flops, i’ll cry. also why was this so long lmao 😭

permanent taglist. @devililithh @buckyfmd @sheriff-bodecker @honeysucklewatr @demiebarnes @solivagant-reverie @kqtholins @amoremarveloustime @colettebarnes @barnes-babydoll @miraclediviner @of-sanguine-eyes @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @manly-man-whore @indigo123789 @wasa-bby @biggestfangirl @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysbunnny @highhopes1008 @castielscaplan @ornateglass @grumpysunnybarnes @luvyoupxmimi @slutdier @yes-ilovetowrite @cautiouscas17 @astridphantom @delusionalwomsn @cinnamon-girl-writes @wherewinterblooms @stifflyspeedyquirk @sassandscribbles @marvelouslyme96 @stesha02 @floatingvalhallasea @goobers-mcgee @t1redphoenix @vickynguyennn @bluellamacheesecake-blog @serenityrjd @pitabread79 @galaxygoddess30 @biggestfangirl @chenoadouble-o7 @phoenix-in-writing @ceoofdisappointment @ladymiseryy @wherewinterblooms @avgdestitute @lunexiax @akthoughtss + to get added to the taglist!

“You are thick,” you mutter, grinning as you lean your hip against the counter, watching him fall apart over meatballs like he didn’t already cry into your pussy three hours ago. “Can’t even button that shirt.”

His grin is lazy, wicked, and stained with sauce. He doesn’t even try to hide his pride. Just sets the fork down, licks his fingers clean, and pats his belly under the henley with no shame whatsoever.

“Yeah? Thought you liked that.”

You do. You really do.

You like that he’s built like a freight train, solid muscle wrapped in soft comfort. You like the way his belly pushes into you when he hugs you from behind at the stove. The way his love handles squish under your palms when you’re straddling his lap. The way he sounds when you mouth at his neck and whisper that he’s yours.

You like feeding him. Teasing him. Touching him. Loving him.

And you like what happens after.

Because every night, after dinner and dishes and a whole lot of shameless food worship, Bucky’s back on his knees.

Which is exactly where he is now.

The plate’s not even fully cold and he’s already sunk to the kitchen floor in front of you like it’s instinct, huge hands on your thighs, head bowed, forehead pressed to your stomach like he’s mourning something sacred.

“I’ll be good,” he whispers, breath warm against the hem of your shirt. “I swear I’ll be good. Just let me, sunshine. Let me taste you. One more time. Please…”

Your fingers slide into his damp hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. He shudders, like that alone is enough to undo him, like your touch is the only thing holding him together.

“Buck,” you sigh, already breathless. “You’ve done it seven times today.”

“I know.” His voice cracks, almost a whimper. “I know, but baby please. You smell so fuckin’ good and I missed you and I’m starving for you—” His lips kiss over the cotton stretched across your belly. His tears are real, hot, salty, and desperate. “Lemme earn it. Let me make you feel good. Just one more. I need it. I need you.”

There’s no performance in it. No smugness, no smirk.

Not when he’s like this: trembling in his own skin, eyes red rimmed from need, body heavy with want and love and worship. His shoulders shake, his voice raw and ragged like he’s begging for air instead of permission. He’ll respect your no, he always does, but it breaks him. Breaks him to be kept from the one thing that makes him feel whole.

You.

Not just your body. You.

He kisses your shirt again as his hands slide under the fabric, palms wide and callused, thumbs dragging gentle circles into your skin as though he can soothe you into surrender. Or maybe soothe himself.

“You’re so good to me,” he mumbles, lips moving against your stomach. “You take care of me. Feed me. Touch me. Let me hold you like I always wanted to. Let me be soft with you…”

You breathe in slow, dizzy from the weight of him at your feet, from the ache blooming low in your belly.

He looks up then, blue eyes blown wide with lust and something deeper, something holy. He presses a kiss to your belly button and stares up at you with adoration so pure it almost hurts.

“You gave me a home,” he whispers. “Let me thank you.”

You slide your hands to his cheeks, cupping his jaw, thumbs brushing the damp flush on his face. He leans into the touch like he’s starving, like he’d trade every meal you’ve ever made him just to feel your skin on his again.

And then, quiet, firm, you murmur:

“Then thank me, baby.”

His knees spread wider on the tile.

“Anything you want,” he says, voice wrecked. “I’ll do anything.”

You guide his head lower, slowly, watching the way his lips part, his breath catches, his hands grip your thighs like they’re the only lifelines left in the world.

Because Bucky Barnes doesn’t beg for relief.

He begs to give.

His favorite thing in the world isn’t coming, it’s making you come. Again. And again. And again. His favorite way to fall asleep is with your taste on his tongue, your thighs trembling around his ears, your voice broken and whispering his name like a prayer.

And tonight?

Tonight he’s starving for salvation.

He doesn’t even speak as he mouths at your skin, just breathes hard, eyes fluttering shut as he worships his way down. You’re not even naked yet and he’s already overwhelmed, already needy, already so full of devotion it’s spilling out of him.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, kissing your hip, your belly, the top of your waistband. “Thank you for lettin’ me. For loving me. For this.”

When you thread your fingers through his hair again, tugging gently, he groans.

And then he looks up, mouth already open, eyes already glazed, like a man on the edge of collapse.

“Please,” he whispers. “Lemme have it.”

Your nod barely finishes before Bucky’s mouth is on you, kissing the soft skin just above your waistband like you’re something sacred he’s been denied for centuries. He groans like the taste of your skin alone is enough to make him unravel. His hands, huge, warm, and trembling, slide up the backs of your thighs and around to cup your ass, lifting you toward his mouth like he’s starving.

He is.

“Sweetheart…” he breathes, voice already wrecked, already lowering into that deep, hungry rasp that only exists when he’s about to devour you. “Fuck, I missed you.”

Your fingers slip into his hair, nails scraping gently over his scalp, and the sound he makes is obscene, a moan and a whimper tangled together, his whole body shuddering like you’ve just plugged him into a live wire.

Then he hooks one finger under the waistband of your shorts and looks up at you with those wide, pleading blue eyes.

“Can I take these off?” he whispers. “Please… I wanna see you. Need to see you.”

You nod again. You don’t even manage a word.

He exhales shakily, as if relieved, and slowly pulls them down your legs. He kisses every new inch of skin revealed: the swell of your hip, the hollow beside your thigh, the tender inner curve that makes your breath hitch.

When your shorts finally hit the floor, he just… looks.

God, the way he looks at you.

Like you’re the first thing he’s ever believed in.

His metal hand spreads warm over your outer thigh while the human one slides up, up, up until his thumb rests barely an inch from where you’re already throbbing for him. His gaze flicks from your face to your core and back, pupils blown so wide the blue is nothing more than a thin ring around hunger.

“Doll,” he whispers, voice trembling with need, “I’m gonna cry.”

And he means it.

You can see the shine in his eyes, the way his chest rises too fast, the way his bottom lip trembles like denying him this even for a second would rip him apart.

You stroke your thumb along his jaw. “Come here, baby.”

That breaks whatever fragile restraint he had left.

He leans in, breath hot against your underwear, and presses a slow, shaking kiss right over your clothed heat. The pressure makes your knees buckle, and he groans into you, grabbing your thighs to steady you.

“Taste,” he begs against the fabric. “Let me taste you, please—please, sunshine, I’ll be good, I swear.”

Before you can tease him again, he’s hooking a finger under the edge of your panties and pulling them aside with devastating patience. Not ripping. Not rushing. Just revealing you like he’s unwrapping something priceless.

And when he sees you, wet, swollen, already clenching around nothing, his head drops back on a broken groan.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Baby. You’re dripping.” His mouth falls open. He licks his bottom lip like he’s trying to keep from biting it. “Did you do this for me? Did you get this wet for me?”

Your fingers tighten in his hair. “Bucky. Please.”

He whimpers, actually whimpers, and then surges forward like a man possessed.

His tongue drags one long, slow stripe from your entrance up to your clit, savoring every inch, and your body jerks. His moan vibrates through you, deep and hungry, shaking his whole chest.

“Oh, sweetheart…” he rasps against you, breath warm and trembling. “You taste like home.”

He dives back in, licking and sucking with slow, deliberate strokes, as if he’s determined to savor you, memorize you, worship you. His hands keep you spread for him, palms firm and steady against your hips. Every time you make a sound, every gasp, every whine, every broken syllable, he moans like he’s the one being touched.

You look down at him, and fuck, he’s beautiful like this.

On his knees. Hair falling over his face. Blue eyes fluttering closed as he buries himself deeper between your thighs. His belly pressed against your shin, chest heaving, shoulders trembling, hands greedy and gentle at the same time.

He sucks your clit into his mouth and your hand flies to the back of his head, fingers twisting in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan. He pushes closer, metal hand sliding lower to hold your thigh open as he mouths you like he’s trying to merge with you.

“That’s it,” you whisper, breath broken. “You’re doing so good, baby.”

He breaks.

A shudder tears through him, full-body and desperate, and he moans into you so deeply your legs nearly give out.

“Good boy,” you breathe.

He gasps against you like you slapped him with pleasure, moaning so loudly you feel it everywhere.

“Say it again,” he pants, voice shattering. “Say it again baby, please—”

“Good boy,” you whisper, tugging his hair just enough to tilt his face up. His lips shine with you. His chin is slick. His eyes are glazed, wet, trembling with emotion.

“Yes,” he chokes, already diving back in. “God, yes… fuck, baby, anything you want.”

Then two thick fingers slide slowly inside you, deep and heavenly, and you arch, your cry echoing off the kitchen walls. Bucky whimpers when he feels how tight you are, curling his fingers in a way that makes your vision flicker.

“You’re so perfect,” he gasps, pumping into you while sucking your clit like a man starved. “So fuckin’ sweet for me… let me have you… let me feel you come, doll, please.”

His rhythm gets frantic, worshipful, obscene. His belly brushes your leg with every movement, warm and soft and comforting. Sweat beads at his hairline. His breath stutters.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” he begs, voice thick and trembling. “Please… please, sunshine, let me taste it, I need it, I need you—”

You’re close, so close that you can feel it rising, sharp and fast and hot, your thighs shaking, your hands scrambling for purchase in his hair, on his shoulder, anywhere.

“Bucky, fuck Bucky, I’m—”

He groans and doubles his efforts, sucking hard, curling his fingers deeper, like he’s trying to pull the orgasm out of you with pure devotion.

“Come for me,” he orders, voice suddenly dark, ruined, pleading and commanding all at once. “Come in my mouth, baby, please let me have it, let me taste you—”

Your climax hits like a wave crashing into a rock.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling. Your knees buckle. Your vision whites out. And Bucky moans into you like he’s being saved, swallowing every tremor, every cry, every drop you give him.

He keeps going through the aftershocks, gentle but greedy, licking you clean like he’s afraid the taste will disappear.

When you finally sag against the counter, trembling, breathless, unable to form a sentence, he pulls back just enough to kiss your inner thigh, slow and reverent.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice hoarse, shaking. “More than food. More than breath. More than anything.”

He rests his head against your stomach again, arms wrapped around your hips, holding you like you’re the only thing grounding him to earth.

“Please,” he breathes. “Let me stay here a little longer.”

And you do. You hold his head in your hands, stroking his hair, feeling his tears warm against your skin.

Because Bucky Barnes wasn’t just on his knees.

Shiu sighed, clearly suspicious but too used to Toji’s bullshit to push. “Alright, whatever. So the job’s in Shibuya—client wants it quiet, double the pay if we wrap by Friday—”

Toji hummed like he was listening, but his mouth never stopped. One thick finger slid inside you—then two making your thighs squeeze around him harder. You were dripping down his chin, soaking the collar of his shirt. He didn’t care. Just kept eating like your pussy was the only thing on his mind while Shiu droned on about payout and timelines. “—you in or what?” Shiu finished.

Toji pulled back just long enough to answer, lips swollen, “Mhm,” he finally grunts into the phone, voice lazy. “Double’s good. Send me the location.”

He dives back in without missing a beat—tongue fucking into you deep while his thumb circles your clit in tight, relentless little strokes. Shiu keeps talking logistics—times, entry points, cleanup—none the wiser. Toji responds in short, gruff sentences, each one punctuated by another long lick or a slow suck that makes your hips buck against his face.

Then Shiu pauses. “Yo… what the hell are you eating over there? Sounds like it tastes fuckin’ good. You got some gourmet shit or what?”

Toji laughs against your pussy, “Yeah. Real fuckin’ good. Best meal I’ve had in a while.” You’re mortified and soaked and you feel like you about to fucking cum with Shiu on the phone. Shiu laughs. “Man, save some for me next time. Sounds like you’re enjoying the hell outta that.” He laughs slurping louder, “Nah, I ain’t sharing’.”

Toji’s thumb presses harder on your clit—once, twice—and you can’t hold it back anymore. A muffled moan slips past your fingers. Toji’s grip on your hip tightens in warning, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets meaner—tongue plunging deeper, lips sealing around your clit and sucking hard. “Gotta go,” he mutters into the phone, voice rough. “Food’s gettin’ cold.”

He hangs up before Shiu can say another word, tossing the phone onto the couch like it’s nothing. Then both hands are on you—gripping your ass, spreading you wider, burying his face so deep you feel his nose pressed against you.

Tongue and fingers work in tandem—curling inside you while his mouth devours your clit. You come hard, screaming his name, thighs clamping around his head as you shake and gush against his tongue.

Toji doesn’t let up even after you come, thighs clamped around his ears and your whole body twitching. He cleans up every drop, long, dragging licks from your oversensitive entrance back up to your swollen bud. You can barely form words. Your hand’s still clamped over your mouth even though the call’s long dead, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat.

He crawls up your body, caging you in, lips brushing yours so you could taste yourself on him. “Shiu’s right,” he murmurs, “You do taste fuckin’ good.”

"Bucky," you groaned, digging your fingernails into his rippling delts as you clung onto him for dear life. "I feel so full already, Buck."

His pistoning hips did not relent despite your mewls for mercy, and he buried his hands deep in the sheets besides your head. The tip of his pulsing dick was already spilling inside of you regardless of its short stint of residence, spitting into your wallowing, welcoming cervix with every deep thrust.

"Do you... want me to stop?" he huffed, panting as he sunk his fingers into your thigh and heaved your calf over his shoulder. His hips harshly collided with yours at the new angle and slapped against multiple already existing pleasurable bruises littering your skin. You almost swallowed your tongue at his brutal pace, and your eyes rolled back into your head as you arched into every slap of his balls against your soaked pussy.

"No," you managed to mumble. The stretch in your lifted leg was delicious as his chest rhythmically pressed into the vulnerable joint, and he tugged you closer to him, insisting you farther down onto his dick with every rough hitch of his hips. "No, please don't stop."

Bucky hummed in agreement, and his thrusts grew shorter as he lowered himself to an elbow, his heaving chest rubbing against yours with every jerk of his body. You whimpered, and the friction of his grinding, pumpeling hips easily sent you over the edge as your exhausted body bobbed to the rhythm of his faltering pace.

A visible shiver overwhelmed the entirety of his body, and his grip around your thigh tightened as he simultaneously thrusted up inside you while spearing you down onto his pulsating cock. The tip of his dick rammed itself against your cervix and squirted his cum inside of you, the mere pressure of his excitement producing a twinge of pain deep within you as he dumped his hot seed directly into your awaiting womb.

Bucky's entire body trembled over top of yours, and you watched his eyes roll back into his head as a shudder of pleasure overwhelmed him. His hips instinctively continued thrusting into you, chasing the suction at the entrance of your cervix as he fucked his seed farther inside. You could feel the beat of heart pounding in your pussy with every warm load released, and your grip around his delts began to slip. The feeling in your fingers faded as his dick swelled and another spurt of cum splattered your insides.

"Fuck," you breathed, your four limbs falling flat on the bed, thoroughly spent. He whimpered, baring his teeth as he ground his hips into yours as gently as he could manage until his cock twitched and emptied the last of his load. "Fuck."

"That sums it up pretty good," Bucky wheezed, hanging his head as he tried to catch his breath. You could feel him still subtly rocking his dick inside of you, and the last of his dribbling load trailed after his gushing tip as he slowly pulled out. "Are you okay?"

"Peachy," you murmured, still unable to feel your fingers as he rested beside you.

"'m sorry, I lost it a little there," he murmured and reached over to trail his fingers over your stomach. "You're sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine, Buck," you reassured him, overlapping his hand when it finally settled, fingers splayed out across your belly. "You couldn't hurt me if you tried; I'm practically indestructible."

"Is that right?" he asked, cocking an amused brow.

"Totally," you said. "You should do that all again just so I can prove it."

His chuckle shook the whole bed, and he nodded.

"Be careful," he said lowly, leaning down and pressing a teasing kiss to the underside of your jaw. "I might just take you up on that offer."

You moved to reposition yourself on the bed as you hummed, but a sharp stab of pain deep within your gut sent you wincing back to your original position.

"Oh, shit," you grunted, reaching down and cupping the area of internal tenderness.

"What is it?" Bucky asked, immediately sitting up. His face contorted in concern, and he looked you over for the source of your discomfort. "What's wrong?"

You did your best to quell his worries, brushing his hand off of you as you managed to sit up, but you wore the evidence of your wince plainly across your face, your eyes betraying you as they burned at the searing sensation in your abdomen.

"It's nothing," you promised, waving off his distress. "I'm okay," you added, offering him a shaky, reassuring smile as you dug your fingers into the flesh of your stomach. "I think it's just a bad cramp; I must've forgot my period was coming soon."

The excuse was poor, and you could tell Bucky wasn't convinced as he studied your tight face. His lips pressed together in a flat, dissatisfied line.

"Do you think it's from me?" he asked, his hot palm swallowing the entirety of your hand and providing a soothing warmth to the sore sight. "You'd tell me if I was being too rough, right?"

"It wasn't you, Bucky—"

"Would you tell me?" he pushed more firmly. The bags beneath his eyes were crinkled as he looked between your eyes for an answer.

"Of course I would, Buck," you said, reaching up at smoothing the wrinkle between his brows, "I promise," you assured him as you shifted to the edge of the bed, "so can you please at least pause your worrying and help me get cleaned up before Valentina kills us both for being late?"

And though he didn't look happy about it—his brows still furrowed in unfaltering agitation—Bucky helped you up from the bed and into the bathroom.

You thought the pain would ease as the day went on; maybe fucking like bunnies everyday was not as great for your vagina as it felt like it was, maybe you had been too rough, or maybe you were just genuinely approaching that time of the month.

But this didn't feel like cramps.

No, this felt deeper—more precise.

Every step you took produced a painful cringe, every bend and pivot creating discomfort in the same place, and you found yourself fearing any sudden movements that had the potential to cause a painful reaction.

Ava and Yelena noticed your stiffness immediately.

"So," Ava murmured, trailing after you as you made a swift exit of the concluded team meeting, "you and Barnes had a bit too much fun last night then?"

"Ava," you hissed, head on a swivel for any innocent bystanders. "Jesus, be quiet."

"Everyone knows it," she said. "You look like you're afraid to move."

"You look like walking wood board," Yelena added, looking you up and down as you angrily fought the red flush rising to your neck. "Stiff like statue."

"Alright, I get it—just stop, please," you groaned, and you wrapped your arms around your midsection as you purposefully steered them away from where Bucky was lingering, unable to bare his concerned gaze burning into the side of your head any longer.

"Don't get me wrong," Ava began again, voice raised to its highest potential as she crossed her arms, "I've been fucked near the brink of death before, but I don't remember looking quite so... unstable," she settled on, eyes raking up your teetering stature in concern. "Are you sure you're okay?"

The question barely left her mouth before your entire body crumbled the moment you were out of Bucky's eyeline. Both her and Yelena's arms managed to grasp your falling figure before you ate shit, Yelena's Russian curse searing your ear.

"Okay, yeah, no, not okay," Ava decided as you grasped your midsection and leaned the entirety of your weight onto the wall they led you to, your legs shaking beneath you.

"I think Bucky broke something in me," you whined, pressing your back to the marble and slowly sliding down it until you landed safely onto the tile floor. You hid your trembling lips between your knees and struggled to swallow the lump of pained emotion scraping at your throat. "Something really hurts inside."

Ava clearly heard the uncharacteristic wobble in your voice, and an irritated frown stained her expression.

"Barnes," she grunted. "I should have told that son of a bitch to be more careful. God knows he doesn't know how to control his raging boner."

"How do you know it was his angry boner that did this?" Yelena asked. "It could be variety of things; sore from mission, monthly bleeding—" she said, snapping her fingers as her eyes popped open with another point. "Kate also complains of pain after fun night with me, and—" she said, shrugging as she gestured down to her midsection, "no dick here."

"It was definitely his dick," you mewled, "but it wasn't his fault—God, I didn't mean to make him worry," you cried, your brows drawing together at the idea. "I don't want him to think it was his fault; he'll never fuck me again if he thinks he hurt me!"

You hung your head in defeat, and Ava scoffed.

"Good," she decided, crossing her arms. "Seeing you both practically glowing every morning has made me want to vomit."

That comment earned her an elbow from Yelena as she brushed passed Ava to squat down to your eye level and offer you a reassuring pat to the shoulder.

"Do not give up hope yet," she said, her face warming with a soft smile as she considered your tight expression. "Try again, and if your belly still aches, then you take break. Kate's muscles feel much better after few days time and abuse of heating pad," she said, standing back up. "And then back to business!"

You heaved a sigh, and rubbed your face.

"You're probably right," you murmured, nodding into your palm. "I don't even know if it's serious."

"That is spirit!" Yelena said, patting your back and helping you up from the floor. "Strong woman to your weak and horny man."

"Seriously," Ava grumbled in agreement as the three of you moved to rejoin the gathered group. "Tell Bucky to get a hold of himself and take it easy, or I will," she threatened, casting you a look of lingering concern as she watched your attention stray to the man in question. "We don't need you getting hurt."

As Bucky's equally anxious gaze found yours through the heads of the crowd, you looked back to Ava and offered her a reassuring nod.

"I promise."

And you had meant it—at the time.

Bucky prodded your slick entrance with the tip of his dick, his hands flexing around the base, and he made a high-pitched noise of complaint as he restrained himself from entering. Still seeking some sort of stimulation, he slid his length through your soaked folds, smearing his drooling cum all across your slit as he let out another low, inadvertent whine.

"Bucky, please—" you whispered, reaching down and wrapping your hand around his pulsing cock to lead him to your twitching hole. But he quickly shook his head, and a permanent wince overwhelmed his face as he struggled to control himself.

"You're hurting," he almost pleaded, his voice pained. "I shouldn't."

"You should," you argued, managing to lift your hips. His tip dipped inside of you, and he hissed, violently grabbing your hips and sinking his fingers into the naked flesh. His stiff cock popped out of you, hitting his chest along with an excited spurt of precum. "You really, really should."

"Fuck," he groaned, working his trembling jaw as he stared at your face for a moment too long before you felt his tip prod at your entrance again. His fingers flexed around your sides, and you watched the external evidence of his internal conflict dissipate from his face as he made up his mind. "Fuck, I'll be gentle."

"I know you will," you heaved out in victory, writhing beneath the pressure of his drooling head. "I know you'll be nice, Buck," you repeated, your jaw falling open as his tip pushed inside of you, and he began gently rocking his hips. His hands spanned across the width of your waist, and his caressing thumbs moved to rub stimulating circles across the exposed hood of your clit. You mewled and loosely wrapped your legs around his pistoning pelvis. "So fucking nice."

His eye contact was unfaltering despite his ascending pace, and Bucky was sure to watch every hitch of your breath, every scribble of your brow, and every dip of your slacken jaw as your insides grew wet with his leaking seed.

And it felt good.

It felt so damn good.

God—until it didn't.

A sharp, shooting pain erupted deep inside of you, and the throbbing sensation was only heightened with every thrust of Bucky's dick. Every slap of his hips against yours had his cock nudging that exact, terribly aching spot. You bit your lips in a desperate attempt to hide your discomfort as he bottomed out, a muffled groan filling your ringing ears.

Digging crescents into his shoulders, you squeezed your eyes shut and tried to adjust your hips to get a different angle. But no matter your squirming, his pounding hips managed to thrust his cock plenty deep every time, and the radiating pain stiffened every muscle in your body. The strangled cry you tried so hard to swallow managed to vibrate off of your iron-clad tongue.

"Bucky—" you whined, your voice wobbling and tight. He hummed in response, and his pace only quickened as the finish line neared. The building pressure in the repeatedly pummeled spot had tears welling in your eyes, and you couldn't take it anymore. "Bucky—god damnit—stop!"

His eyes popped open in confusion, and his thrusting, rhythm-bound hips struggled to pause their movements as he fumbled to pull himself out of you.

But it was too little, too late.

Hot ropes of heavy cum spilt into you before he could wrench his dick out of your used hole, his overstimulated cock slapping against his stomach and spitting its load across his chest.

"Fuck!" he snarled, cupping his spewing tip in an attempt to shield you from the mess, but there was just too much. Cum splattered across your contracted stomach, over your spread, quivering thighs, and onto the mess of sheets around you. Bucky whimpered as his entire body shivered and jerked, and his hands desperately squeezed the base of his spasming cock to try and stop the pressure of the flow. "Fuck—shit, I'm so fucking sorry—"

"It's alright, Bucky," you tried, wincing as you struggled to sit up. With your vision quickly clearing of tears, you finally noticed the genuine distress and panic on his face. He bit his lip, head falling back as his dick spewed another round onto your stomach and drooling pussy. "Bucky," you repeated, reaching for him. "It's okay, Buck. Just let it happen, alright?"

You gently insisted his squeezing hand off of his bobbing dick and replaced it with your own. He whimpered as you gently stroked him, the tense muscles in his body quivering with faltering restraint at the soothing sensation. Bucky's head lulled to the side, and his cock twitched as the ample amount of cum gushing from his wet tip poured down his shaft, the milky droplets riding the countless pulsating veins down his length before collecting within your grip.

"Good man," you murmured, leaning forward and pressing an open mouthed kiss to his twitching pec. He grunted, bucking up into your slick palm as you felt his dick swell before his final release soaked your chest. He doubled over and buried his face into your shoulder as the muscles in his back convulsed, surely covering his own chest with cum.

"God—fuck," he breathed, struggling to hump your hand as his tip drooled. "Fuck."

You smoothed your hand over his back and turned your head to press a soothing kiss to his temple.

When his hyperventilating breaths eventually fell into tempo with yours, he slowly sat up, and his trembling hand ghosted over your naked thigh.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he repeated, heavy eyes searching your face. "Are you okay?"

The knot in your gut twisted painfully, but you managed a smile and a shaky nod.

"Yeah," you murmured. "I think I'm still just a little sore 's all."

The lie was anything but seamless, and you could see the crease of disbelief between Bucky's brows.

"Don't lie to make me feel better," he grumbled, his caressing hands slowing out of ashamed reluctance. "I broke my promise; I got carried away again, and I hurt you."

Your smile swelled into something more genuine as you shook your head, and you looked down at your stomach, dipping a finger into the ropes of thick cum painting your skin.

"You do tend to get a bit carried away, don't you?" you asked, trying to fight the teasing smile twitching at the corner of your lips as you exhibited the stickiness to him.

His face burned red, and he groaned as he buried his face in his hands, his body finally seeming to relax.

"Please don't," he groaned. "I told you it was a mess."

"You did," you murmured, lips twitching wickedly as you sunk your two coated fingers into your mouth and watched Bucky's eyes widen behind his parted fingers. You lulled your tongue into every crease and crevice before tugging the digits from between your lips with an obscene pop, licking away the rest of the remnants. "Guess I'll just have to clean it up."

A feral groan rumbled from his chest, and he crawled on his hands and knees to kneel at your feet, looming over you with his broad, damp chest glistening beneath the lamp light.

"It'd be polite to help, you know," you whispered teasingly, swiping your finger through the droplets that had managed to reach the valley between your breasts. You studied your cream coated fingers, and as he shifted to lay over you, arm twitching beside your head, your eyes flicked up to his, an offering within them. "Especially when it's your mess."

His tongue swept over his bottom lip. "I am known for my chivalry," he added hoarsely, unable to stop his eyes from falling back to your extended fingers.

"You are," you breathed, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip as a hot, shaky exhale parted his mouth. His used lips glistened with an overwhelming sense of want as they slowly swallowed the tips of your fingers, and he refused to break eye contact with you as he sunk farther down. Saliva collected in your mouth as his tongue dipped around your second knuckle, and you watched his throat work around a swallow as he sucked your digits clean.

His mouth eventually withdrew from your slick fingers, his tongue skimming his swollen lips. You hummed and opened your mouth to address him only for the seizing of his abdominal muscles to catch your attention. His stabilizing arms shook as he lowered himself, and his mouth closed over the flushed, filthy skin of your stomach.

Your toes instinctively clenched, and your thighs mustered what was left of their strength to lock around the sides of his body as he placed open mouthed, suckling kisses down the length of your torso to clean the mess he had made. You reached down and fisted his hair, whimpering at the sight of his shadowed eyes still staring up at you from down the quivering plane of your body.

As his lips skimmed your mound, peppering themselves around your hood, his lips twitched.

"You said you wanted clean," he murmured as if to warn you of his next move, the air intertwined with his words causing your aching clit to twitch.

"Don't you fucking joke right now you smug fuck," you gritted, and he chuckled, leaning down with his back arched and lulling his tongue through your folds. You squeezed your eyes shut, desperately holding back a moan as his mouth gently eased the remnants of your ruined orgasm. The warmth of his breath caressed the bruises on the inside of your thighs, and his tongue soothed the damage done to your quivering hole, swallowing the seed dripping from the weakened muscle.

"Fuck," you groaned, trembling as he slowly coaxed an orgasm out of you. His hands squeezed your sore thighs, and he nuzzled his nose into the warmth of your folds before raising his head.

"Good?" he asked, heaving himself back over you.

Your fingers caged the upper part of your face, and you pinched the bridge of your nose. "Fuck you."

He grinned, and leaned down to press a messy kiss to your chin.

And despite his best attempts to divert your attention away from his current predicament, you still felt the familiar weight of his round-two-ready boner resting against your aching stomach. He followed your eyes, clearing his throat as he shook his head, his cheeks twinging pink.

"I've got it," he murmured, a teasing smile pulling at his puffy lips as he planted one last kiss to your forehead before moving to pull off of you. "I'll let you recover."

"Don't give yourself so much credit," you scoffed, managing to catch his hand and drag him back once more to slap a sloppy kiss to his wet lips, humming against them when all he could muster was a lazy smile. You broke apart and playfully shoved him away by the muscle of his pec. "You need to recover."

"What do you think I'm going to do?" he asked within a breathy laugh before finally retreating into the safety of the bathroom with the noticeable absence of the loud fan.

The moment the door closed behind him, you spread, your once starfished limbs recoiling into the position of an infant as you were overtaken by the outward evidence of your pain. Your gut burned with a horrific, throbbing tenderness, and an excruciating rubbing sensation filled every part of your innards. You had to bite into your palm to muffle a choked sob.

"It's just fucking cramps," you grunted to yourself, arm lodged around your midsection in a desperate, suffocating squeeze. "'Just fuckin' cramps."

It was not just cramps; It was also particularly painful and consistent convulsions that at one point you were convinced were fully on contractions along with an unusually bright shade of blood staining the bed sheets the following morning.

You tried to act normal when Bucky asked about the mess, but in reality, the signs of untimely internal bleeding was what sent you over the edge.

Or, rather, it sent you to the woman's clinic.

Biting the nails of your fingers as you frantically bounced your leg, your eyes darted between the front door of the clinic and the door leading further into the facility where the same nurse repetitively returned to fetch the next patient.

"What am I doing here?" you grumbled to yourself, burying your face into your hands. "Fuck, maybe I'm just overreacting."

"If you think you are overreacting," Yelena answered from beside you, "we should not be at very expensive American hospital," she murmured. She spared you a brief glance from her wide open newspaper, eyebrow cocked over the rim of her dim glasses. "You should have let me look inside your sore vagina: much cheaper alternative, and we do not lose money from desert budget for meaningless trip to fancy clinic."

"Apologies for not wanting my friend's face up close and personal with my actively bleeding vagina," you grumbled, but your following quip faltered as your scrunched face finally fully focused on her. "That's where Valentina took the deductible money from?"

Yelena shrugged.

"That is what Alexei told me."

"You told Alexei about this?" you hissed at her, grasping the armrest to her chair and violating her personal space.

She nodded and seemed confused by your irritation.

"He is father of two girls; do you think he knows not of these womanly complications?" she asked.

"That's not—" you tried and did your best to reel back your exasperation. "Did you tell anyone else?"

She rolled her tongue, and one of fingers performatively tapped her chin.

"I told Bob," she said and quickly tacked on "He was worried about you!" when she saw your entire face contort. "I told Valentina," she continued, squinting out of concentration as your attention wandered to the movement at the front entrance, "and maybe Mel, and—"

"—John Walker," you finished, staring at the pair emerging through the double doors with your jaw slack on the floor.

"I did not tell Walker," Yelena scoffed in offense, adjusting her newspaper at the mere concept. "I would never do this—do you think so lowly of me?"

A silence stretched, and she eventually followed your spiraling gaze to the two approaching familiars. John's hands were already raised in surrender as he watched your face twist into a number of expressions, and you managed to move your mouth but failed to form audible words.

"For the record," he said, "I don't want to be here either.”

Your lips scribbled into an incredulous shape as you moved to speak—to say anything—but the shock was just too egregious. You dragged your hand down your face and prayed John would disappear the next time you looked up. When his stiff, awkward posture remained, you turned to Ava who shuffled at his hip.

"Ava," you warned, voice shaking.

"I thought," she began, "that this could be a good learning opportunity for our team slut."

John's face scrunched.

"Ava," you repeated. "My whole fucking vagina is about to be exposed for the world to see," you said, struggling to keep your voice clear as you received a few glances from the other men squirming in their waiting seats, "and you thought it was a good idea to bring John "can't keep it in his pants" Walker with like this was some kind of educational school trip?"

"Alright, that's just not fair—" John began, only for his mouth to clamp under your glare.

Ava managed to fight off the flash of offense threatening to take hold of her expression and crossed her arms with a low grunt.

"It sounded better in my head."

Before you could fully unleash your irritation, the same bubbly nurse returned to the door and called your name.

Your legs wobbled beneath you as you managed to get to your feet with assistance from Yelena, your glare shifting to Ava's eyeline.

"He can't come with."

"What do you want me to do with him?" she hissed under her breath, waving to the rest of the room. "If he stays out here, he's going to kill someone."

"Or himself," Yelena added under her breath, giving John a long up-down as she got to her feet.

"You do know I am standing right here," John deadpanned.

You slapped a hand to your face as anxiety burned your throat and forced your feet to flea the series of unfortunate events currently fucking you in the ass.

"Good evening, dearie," the nurse said as you approached, three pairs of feet hot on your heels. Her crinkled eyes did their best to remain focused on you though they inevitably wandered to the group of unwanted spectators as she encouraged your full party through the door. "It looks as though you have been experiencing some womanly issues lately?"

Afraid of your anxiety pouring out of you, hot and fresh, you offered her a nod.

"That is no problem—nothing to be embarrassed about," she said, offering you a warm smile as she led you down the narrow hallway. "I'm sure everything is perfectly healthy, but—" she murmured, thumbing at the corner of the packet of papers in her arms, "—would you be comfortable with receiving a pelvic exam today?"

"Unfortunately," you grumbled. She nodded, welcoming you inside the examination room and once again eyeing the three guests as they filed in behind you. You were instructed to sit on the paper-lined table, and you felt your body already growing squeamish in the overlit setting.

The presence of John Walker awkwardly leaning against the only exit to the room did little to soothe those nerves.

"So," the nurse began, breaking the silence with the chirp of her voice and the crackling keys of the computer keyboard, "are you all friends?"

As Yelena and Ava responded with a simultaneous, accent diverse "yes", you and John passionately went with the latter.

Seeming to prefer the silence after all, the nurse finished the rest of her questions with diminishing enthusiasm before making a swift exit.

You groaned, burying your face in your hands and drawing your knees to your chest.

"I can't believe this is actually happening," you grumbled, shaking your head.

"You have never received oral exam?" Yelena asked.

"I have, it's just—" you murmured, brushing your nose against your forearm as you turned your head. "This is going to be worse," you said, glare finding John. "So much worse," you emphasized, and John's gaze retreated, his swallow audible. You looked back forward, blinking the burn from your eyes. "This time there might be something wrong—something serious," you said, looking up to Yelena and Ava. "What do I do if something's really broken?"

"Everything's broken down there," Ava said. "That's kind of the point."

"But this isn't normal," you whispered, your voice shaking. "It hurts so bad, and there's just so much blood—"

"Isn't that normal?" John tried to put in only to get hit with a chorus of feminine groans.

"I don't want to even feel you speak again, John—" you grunted, rubbing your temples.

"You have no voice in this room," Yelena added, gesturing widely to the area. "Women voices only."

He opened his mouth to argue, and his eyes looked to Ava for support. When she simply shook her head, he snapped his jaw shut, the muscles there ticking as he adjusted his position over the door only to be shoved to the side once it opened.

Every muscle in your body stiffened as a woman wrapped in white stepped inside, and her customer friendly expression faltered as her eyes bounced to each additional party member present.

"Wow," she said, recovering as closed the door. "Big audience today."

"More pressure for you," Yelena murmured, and the doctor managed a laugh, but you had the feeling she wasn't kidding.

"Well," she murmured, finding her place on the rolling chair in front of you and flipping through another clipboard of papers, "it sounds like you've been having some discomfort," she noted, glancing up at you. "Bleeding and pain, is that right?"

You nodded, and your chin twitched.

"And you've had an IUD inserted," she read, "about a year ago, correct?"

"I thought those could only be in for a day," John murmured only to double over after receiving a hit to the gut from Ava.

You bobbed your head to confirm.

"Well, I think based off your information a pelvic exam would be best to confirm that everything is working as it is supposed to, and if anything is off we can go from there," she decided, the pile of papers fluttering back flat as she looked up at you, her smile reassuring. "Sound like a plan?"

You nodded, and she mirrored you before moving to set up her station; she secured the foot stirrups on either side of the table, slapped a pair of latex gloves over her freshly washed hands, and placed a protective mask over her face. The disturbed view of her unfamiliar face almost made you feel better, but you could still feel a flush of embarrassment flare across your cheeks as you shrugged your pants and underwear off.

"Eyes up here, Walker," you warned as you shuffled back onto the paper, noticing his gaze darting around as if unsure of where to settled.

He tossed his hands up in exasperation. "What am I even doing here then?"

"Look like a student, not like a man," Ava grunted.

You felt the speculum brush your exposed thigh, and the doctor waited for your verbal confirmation before prodding the metal inside. You felt your legs instinctively squirm in the foot holds as the foreign object sunk inside you.

And though John's presence in the room felt wrong on so many levels, the absolutely horrified expression on his face provided a brief moment of joy as your vision hazed in anxiety.

"Jesus Christ," he grunted, covering his mouth with his hand as the medical device whined and opened wider. "Does that not hurt?"

"No, John," you grunted, palms sweating around the edge of the table, "it feels absolutely fantastic."

Yelena poked him in the side and grinned as he teetered on his feet. "Has Walker fallen ill?" she teased, watching him turn away.

The speculum finally stilled, and you had to physically contain the urge to close your legs under the prying eyes of the doctor as she began assessing your insides.

"Do you see that part there?" Ava asked John, and you could vaguely see her outstretched finger pointing in the direction of your exposed vagina. "That's the part that gives a woman pleasure."

"Can we please not talk about sex right now?" you heaved, every muscle in your body trembling with exhaustion despite not moving an inch.

"You do not know how to please a woman?" Yelena asked, turning to look up at John's slack jaw with a cocked brow. "It is very sad you need to learn this in doctor's office."

"I know how to pleasure a woman," John immediately countered out of an immature need to defend himself, completely disregarding your request. When he noticed the remaining disbelief in the girls' expressions, he desperately added "I do!"

"You could have fooled me," Ava grumbled, crossing her arms.

"It appears your IUD is out of place," the doctor broke in, quieting their childish chatter. "I can't see one of the strings, so I think we can safely assume it shifted," she said, withdrawing her head and tucking the mask below her chin. "A number of things could have caused the adjustment: a particularly difficult menstruation period, a poor initial insertion, physical exertion—"

"—a big dick," Ava coughed into her arm, and she fell into uncontrollable giggles with Yelena.

"Jesus," you groaned, covering your hot face with your hands.

The doctor clear her throat, though you could see her lips twitch in amusement.

"—physical exertion which could include rough sexual activity as well," she continued. "My point is that this is completely normal," she said, and your entire body jerked at the sensation of her long, metal tweezers brushing the irritated part inside of you. "However, the inflammation around the tampered insertion sight is most likely causing your discomfort, so I would recommend having the IUD completely removed."

The panic on your face must have been obvious because the girls broke into another round of muffled laughter, and you refrained from glaring at them.

"I can't have it removed," you said. "I don't have any other kind of birth control."

"Condoms are always a cheap option," she said, "or you may just have to practice abstinence until you are able to get on another hormonal option."

The word sounded like a slur to you, and another series of laughter followed the simplest suggestion.

"Abstinence," Ava murmured, wiping the amused tear from her eye. "I don't think that will be a sustainable option for her partner."

"Well, then I would recommend the man who did this to you," the doctor said, gesturing to the mess between your parted legs, "to wear a condom," she said with a shrug. "It's the least he can do."

You hated every second of it, but you consented to the removal. As she worked between your legs, cold metal stinging your insides, you rested your twitching hands over your stomach and questioned whether you were losing or gaining something at the loss of the birth control.

The doctor slowly extracted the small medical device from inside you and held it up for the ogling audience to see.

"'Want a souvenir to remember your visit by, Walker?" you asked, finally able to breathe normal again as she finally withdrew the speculum.

"It would make for pretty necklace," Yelena added. "Make all the women know you have seen pussy before."

John's entire face burned bright red, and he struggled to grasp the handle of the door before he ripped it open and made a desperate, stumbling dash for the lobby.

"You may feel some soreness," the doctor warned, disposing of the device before removing the rest of her cautionaries and moving to the sink to wash her hands. "But the most important thing to remember is that you are no longer on birth control, so if abstinence nor pregnancy interests you and your partner, you will need to find another type of safe contraceptive."

"How many times has this happened?" Yelena asked. "Women forgetting they can become pregnant with child?"

"Enough," the doctor said simply, a gentle smile on her face as she dragged her hands out of the sink, "so don't forget."

With options like those, you definitely wouldn't.

You stared down at the box of pills in your hands, glaring at the map of side effects written out within their instructions.

"Jesus," you grumbled, barely able to scan the miniscule, double sided text. "I 'spose I won't be able to get pregnant if I'm dead."

Despite your fingers trembling around the first pill, you managed to force the medication down your throat just before the door to the bathroom creaked. Out of instinct, you tucked the pack of birth control behind your back as you whipped around and found a blue eye peering through the subtly parted doorway.

"Bucky," you breathed, body sagging as the rest of his familiar face came into view. He opened the door a bit wider, his broad, naked shoulders easily filling out the frame.

"Everything alright?" he asked, stepping further inside and taking your waist into his warm, open palms. You hummed as he gently backed you up against the counter of the bathroom, closing your eyes and letting the size of him fully enveloped you. "You've been in here for a while; I was starting to get worried."

He leaned down and pressed a warm kiss between your brows.

"My stomach's just being stubborn again," you murmured, forcing yourself to meet Bucky's gaze as your fingers began to sweat around the plastic birth control packaging. He slid his hands beneath your shirt and smoothed his thumbs over your aching abdomen, stroking a soothing rhythm as his eyes flicked up to yours.

"Should I be worried?" he asked. You quickly shook your head, cupping the nape of his neck as he hummed and leaned down to trail kisses down your throat.

"It's nothing serious," you promised. "No need for concern."

"Are you sure?" he asked, one of his hands sliding around to press pressure into your mid back, arching your spine around the edge of the counter. "Because the way you've been avoiding me makes me think I should be."

"Avoiding you?" you whispered, only for your breath to hitch as he nudged his knee between your legs, the rough material of his work pants digging into the flesh of your inner thighs. You bit your lip to refrain from moaning as he encouraged you to rest all of your weight onto his thick, tense thigh. "Bucky—"

"After the meeting yesterday?" he murmured, teasingly trying to jog your memory as you grasped his shoulder to stabilize yourself. An opaque, horny fog threatened to white out your vision entirely as your panties bunched deliciously against your fluttering folds. "And you barely said a word to me last night."

You winced, and your jaw fell slack as he gently led your hips in a rhythmic circle over the surface of his strained thigh.

"I was... tired," you tried to lie.

"Maybe," he murmured, leaning down and ghosting the tip of his nose across the apple of your cheek, "or you're hiding something."

"H-Hiding?" you whispered, the feeling in your fingers faltering around the burning plastic. The open packaging of the contraceptives fell free from your hand pinned between your back and the bathroom counter—directly into the awaiting hand of Bucky Barnes.

Your cunt went cold.

"Jesus, Bucky, give it back!" you cried, frantically lunging for the forbidden substance in an attempt to take it back before he had the chance to realize what he was holding. He easily caught your flailing hands, trapping your wrists within a single hand as he flipped the packaging over. "Please, it's not what it looks like—" you whispered, watching his gaze rake over the planned weekly schedule.

"Birth control?" he asked, attention flicking up to your tight face. "That's what you're hiding?"

You insisted his thigh down from between your legs, and your pulsing pussy momentarily prevented you from propping yourself up on your own accord, your slick forearms slipping along the edge of the vanity counter.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," you whined. "I didn't think it'd all happen this fast, but I went to the doctor, and she insisted—" you whispered, barely able to find the words under Bucky's stare. "She said the pain was because my IUD was out of place, and so—"

"—they took it out," he murmured softly, his expression lacking the disappointment you had been expecting to see.

"How did you—?"

"John already gave me all the traumatizing details," he said, a smile cracking over his face. "He broke like an egg the second I asked him where you'd run off to," he murmured, his shoulders rolling forward as he severed your space again. "I am a little hurt you invited him and not me."

"I did not invite him," you said sharply. "I just..." you tried again, but your lips scribbled above a trembling chin. "I didn't want you to be disappointed."

His hand stroked a soothing pattern across your naked hip. "Why would I be disappointed?"

You frowned as you plucked the packet of pills from him and ducked down to grab the instructions you had managed to bury deep inside the cabinet before his untimely entrance. "The pills don't take effect until I take a week's worth of them, and with you're..." You glanced up to his eyes and then down to the growing bulge in his pants, "...hefty load," you finished with a twitch of a smile as a twinge of pink dusted his cheeks, "the only effective option left is a condom."

At the mention of the specific contraceptive method, the reassuring movements of his hand faltered, and you watched a sense of awkwardness wash over him.

"Is a condom that scary?" you gently teased to hide the hurt welling in your chest.

"No!" he quickly said, setting the pills on the counter and grasping your waist with his other hand. "No, it's not that I wouldn't be willing—I would be—I am. It's just..." he said, but he trailed off. You looked between his eyes as he struggled to find the words, and he winced within his silence. Accepting his hesitancy, you reassuringly patted his fluttering chest.

"It's alright, Buck," you promised.

"No, it's not," he said. "I'm just... I'm afraid," he said, finally meeting your eyes. "I'm afraid a condom won't be enough to..." He bit his lip. "...do the job."

You cocked a brow, expression clearly riddled with disbelief as you chuckled and brushed past him into the bedroom.

"Don't get too cocky," you called.

"I'm serious," he said, turning out the lights of the bathroom as he followed you out.

"What happens when you use one? It gets too full and falls off?" you asked, shooting him a lopsided smile over your shoulder as you shrugged his oversized t-shirt off over your shoulders.

"They have worked before," he said slowly, and you felt your face pinch in confusion, "but it's different when I'm with you," he said. You listened as his heavy footsteps approached you from behind, his trembling fingers ghosting the exposed muscles of your upper body. "I don't understand why it happens either, but..." he murmured as he finally wrapped his arms around you, stubble rough on your cheeks and words hot in your ear, "I think there's more of it when I'm with you."

You hung your shaking head.

"Jesus, Buck," you breathed, reaching down and overlapping his hands splayed across your stomach. "I don't think that's how it works."

He swallowed around your pulse point and trailed wet, sloppy kisses down your neck as he hummed a tone of disagreement.

"I know you don't believe me," he murmured, "so I'll just have to prove it—just have to show you."

You settled your head back into the pocket of his shoulder and felt the tip of his nose caress your jaw, his blown pupils skimming across your eyes as the corners of your mouth twitched.

"Then show me what you've got, Barnes."

Bucky groaned into your ear, and his hips instinctively twitched against the panties cupping your ass as he insisted your forward until you were folded over the edge of the mattress. He shoved your legs apart and scrambled to swipe a finger across your clothed cunt as he fumbled with the function of his fly, the pulsing pressure on the iron track causing the zipper to struggle.

A whine fell from your mouth as his ripped his stimulating fingers from your damp panties and left the cool air of the bedroom to nip at the spoiled undergarment as his chorus of frantic and desperate grunts grew more prominent. You squirmed at the lack of contact, moving to flip over only for your Bucky to plant his metal hand between your naked shoulders blades and push you back into the sheets. His hot, wet tip pressed against your clad hole, and you were suddenly overwhelmed by the heat of his body as he fisted the sheets on either side of your head, his chest brushing your naked back.

"Fuck," he groaned, restraining himself. His hips twitched despite his best efforts, and one of his stabilizing hands moved to fiddle with the waistband of your underwear. A sharp friction of pain erupted over your bikini line, and it was only when you felt the full slop of his tip slide through your exposed folds that you realized he had ripped the fabric straight off.

"Bucky!" you whined in complaint, watching from over the waves of sheets as he flung your panties away from the bed. Despite your audible dismay, he was unbothered by the destruction of your clothing and was instead focused on squeezing the base of his dick, his eagerness clear by the mess he had already managed to make between your thighs. The precursor to his pent-up release coated your outer folds, and you felt his leaking cock jerk as its tip caught your drooling entrance on a particularly deep but still superficial stroke. Your fingers tug into the sheets as his breathing stuttered, and he withdrew his hips in preparation to enter.

"Fuck, Buck," you grunted, reaching back and slapping the hand that had you pinned to the mattress. "Condom."

His strokes didn't cease, and a particularly violent pulse of his cock doubled him over you, his chest brushing your arched back as his tip bobbed in and out of your needy hole.

"It won't make a difference," he whispered. "I swear, it won't."

"Bucky," you groaned, a whimper of need falling from your parted mouth as he reached between your thighs and strummed your aching clit. "It's...you said—you said you had to prove it," you whispered, lips brushing the linen. "You..." Your eyes rolled back as his thumb smothered your nub, and your hips jerked. "You need to wear a condom."

He groaned and slowly withdrew his tip from you, a squirt of precum painting your slit as he lifted himself off of you. The chilled air filled his absence, and you watched through blurry vision as Bucky rifled through the bedside drawer, his fully erect dick spitting all over his stomach while papers and other items flew out in his haste.

And, as the mattress dipped with his weight, you rolled to your back to witness him kneeling on the mattress in all his glory: strong thighs quivering and glistening with precum, chest exposed and clenched with a barely contained desperation, and his cock eagerly bobbing as he struggled to open the wrapper to the condom.

Stomach clenching as you sat up, you took the condom from his fumbling hands, ripping the wrapper open with ease. He watched, eyes unable to sit still as you shifted to your knees in front of him. The latex easily rolled over his slick dick, tight and unmoving.

Bucky let out a slow, controlled exhale.

"I'm warning you now," he said shakily. "It won't work."

Without hesitation, you gave his cock a testing stroke that milked a grunt from his slackened jaw and a twitch from his trembling hips as he settled on top of you.

"It seems pretty tight to me," you said, lips sinking into your bottom lip. "I don't think it's going anywhere."

"That won't be the problem," he murmured, smothering your twitching clit with his tip before dragging it down your slit and thrusting himself inside your soaked hole. You watched through squinted eyes as tension tugged at the tendons in Bucky's neck at the sudden movement, and blown wide pupils flickered down to yours with a silent question.

"I'm good," you whispered, your legs clamped around his body as he tested another thrust, the coarse hair at his base brushing your hips. Your lashes fluttered on heavy lids, and your vision pulsed as you struggled to get the reassurance off your numbing tongue: "I'm really good."

His lips twitched, and he eased himself farther inside you with the following thrust. Your hands instinctively grasped his bulging delts, desperate to ground yourself as he found his pace. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, his grunts and whines of premature overstimulation giving you strength to join his rhythm.

And, when his hips stuttered and you felt a new, uncanny weight deep inside of you dragging with every piston of his hips, you had to wrap your arms around his neck, the sensation almost causing your eyes to roll back into their sockets.

"I can feel it," you whispered, mouth falling open. "I can feel the goddamn condom," you said, almost unable to believe your impossibly filthy words. "You're filling it already."

Bucky's dilated pupils were shadowed under weighted lashes, low, repetitive moans falling from his lips at the same rhythm of his hips. He managed a frantic nod, and you felt a coil of nervousness wind itself in your gut at his confirmation.

But just beyond the anxiety, you felt the fluttering sensation of excitement.

The idea of his warning coming true—taking his seed head on, without barriers, without backups, just straight inside of you—had your walls clenching around his pulsing cock, and you knew Bucky could feel the evidence of your buried elation.

His chin fell to his sternum, heavy head bobbing in tandem with each of his fluid thrusts, and you watched his loose lips twitch with unspoken words.

"What?" you whispered, following his tongue as it darted out to wet his lips. "What is it?"

But his head jerked with an aggressive shake as if to throw the persistent thought from his mind.

"I can't—" he whined, one of his arms crumbling. The weight of his chest rested on top of you, his hot, naked skin rubbing sensually against yours, and you felt the rapid pounding of his heartbeat against your own ribs, feeling as though it was about to burst through his own cage. He whined into your throat. "I can't say it—God, you'll fucking hate me."

You arched your back, winding your arms around his neck and spreading your clinging fingers across the rolling muscles of his shoulder blades in an attempt to pull him closer.

"I couldn't hate you Buck," you whispered, "even if I wanted to." You inhaled sharply as he sunk his hands into your ass and hitched your hips up to meet his, his throat vibrating with a moan. "Especially with your cock inside of me."

Something that sounded close to "fuck me" was grumbled under his breath as he buried his face into your shoulder and sheathed the remaining length of his dick inside of you with one quick and effective thrust.

"I hate myself," he whispered, desperately grinding his hips into yours. "I fucking hate myself for how goddamn happy I am," he groaned, nuzzling his nose into your neck as he hummed. "'So happy you got that stupid—" Another violent thrust, and the tip of his dick squished against the entrance of your cervix, giving it a nasty, obscene kiss before popping off, "—fuckin'—" he grunted, furrowing his brows as he slammed his hips against yours again, and you felt the weight of the rapidly filling condom bloat inside you "—piece of goddamn sheet metal taken out."

Your eyes fluttered, your mind fogging at the sensation of his balls slapping your pulsing slit, but the grip of your sweating arm around his neck faltered.

"What?" you managed to sputter, but you knew the question was rhetorical—you knew what he had meant. "You—you're happy I got my IUD out?"

He whined, mouthing at your shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he mewled, and you felt his back arch alongside a desperate moan. "I tried not to be—'tried to fight it," he insisted, raising his head with exhibited effort. Your wide eyes flicked across his desperation-taunt expression as he leaned down, and his sweat-tinged hair brushed the edges of your face as his eyes lulled between yours beneath weary lids. "But I just want to fucking fill you."

Your caressing hands stilled at the nape of his neck, and your spent eyes widened in shock.

"Buck, what—" The weight at the tip of the condom plugged the entrance of your cervix before popping off with a salacious, suctioning sensation. "What are you talking about?"

"I need to fuck my baby inside you," he breathed, the words obscene and raw out of his throat.

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.

A unrestrained moan of surprise left your lax lips as Bucky ran his shaking hand down the side of your body before cupping the small of your back and arching you off the bed, the weight of your spasming lower body settling on top of his wet, pistoning hips. "Please," he said. "Please, let me."

Your eyes rolled back as you felt the latex protection inside you expand with evidence of his want—his need. His wet whimpers were music to your ears as he desperately held back, awaiting your final verdict as he gnawed at his bottom lip in a silent plea.

"God—Bucky we can't," you mewled, but your hands tightened around his back, dragging red trails across his sweaty skin. "You can't just say things like that while I'm—"

His thumb buried itself between your folds, and you cried out, walls clenching around his plastic-wrapped dick.

"You gotta push me away then," he whined, his rhythm growing sloppy as you felt his body tense with his approaching peak. "Can't pull out—I just can't—"

"It's okay, Bucky," you tried to reassure him through tight lips. "You... you can stay inside; You've got the condom on, remember?"

Through the horny haze in your mind a cloud of confusion settled over your blurry vision as you watched him frantically shake his head, continue to insist that he needed to pull out as he approached the end. And yet, despite his persistent pleas, Bucky's grip around your back squeezed, and he shoved you as far down onto his cock as possible. You cried out as the latex-covered tip of his dick shoved itself into your cervix before you felt the condom balloon inside your womb, flooded with his hot, awaiting seed. He rolled his hips through his overwhelming orgasm, and his expression tightened in distress as he doubled over and buried his face into the sheets, the iron grip he held around your waist ensuring you remained impaled on his dick for his ensuing release.

Bucky mumbled something into the bedding beside your ear, incoherent behind the roar of your pulse in your ear as his body grimaced and stiffened with his final load. He rocked his hips into your own as if forgetting his efforts would be in vain as the heavy, stuffed condom trailed behind his slowly withdrawing dick.

As you came down from your high, your quivering body relaxed at the moment of emptiness only for every muscle to immediately seize around the entire length of him thrusting fully inside you again. You squealed in surprise, arms flying to cling onto his trembling arms on either side of your quaking body.

And then you felt it.

With every punctuated piston of his hips, you could feel the artificial bulge inside you swell until his balls slapped your pussy with a final thrust and a warm sensation flourished in the pit of your stomach. The pressure felt familiar, and you watched through palpitating eyes as goosebumps erupted over Bucky's arms. He shuddered over top of you, and his lips parted with ultimate satisfaction.

His hips hitched against yours, the audibly sopping squelch forcing a mewl from you, and he mumbled more clearly this time, "until it takes."

You felt lightheaded, and the entire room felt like it was spinning.

Bucky languidly rocked his cock inside of you, the fronts of his thighs glistening with your shared filth as he kept you pinned to the mattress with a large, splayed out hand. Your entire body felt numb, and you couldn't take your eyes off the unfamiliar expression crossing his face; it was almost dark—stoic—as he stared down at your naked chest, watching your breaths come in slow beats.

He sluggishly sat up, thighs quivering as he brushed the hair from his face, and you whined as he slowly withdrew his cock and confirmed your fears; the latex around his dick was not only doused in your fluids but his own as well, the plastic protection busted around the tip and dribbling with the consequence of the damage.

"Well," you murmured, trying to catch your fleeting breath as you watched stars circle your plane of vision, "fuck."

"Shit," he groaned in tandem, staring down at the actively occurring mistake. "Fuck, what did I do?"

"It's okay, Bucky," you tried to reassure him even though it very much was not. You sat up as far as your body would let you and reached for him. "I promise it's okay."

"God—fuck," he groaned, pulling his arm away from you as he climbed out of the bed. "I need to—" he tried, practically tripping over his own feet as he hurried to find clothes. "I need to run to the drug store and get you a pack of Plan B—Jesus Christ I can't believe I just did that to you."

"It's really not your fault," you said, hoping your words would calm his frantic state as you watched him stumble around the room. "I should have learned to not underestimate you and your..." You paused, eyes falling to the dick swaying between his naked thighs, "...condition."

He groaned, managing to clean himself up enough to tug on a pair of briefs.

"Please don't talk about this like it's funny," he said.

Your nose scrunched in coping amusement.

"It is just a little bit though, don't you think?" you asked, a smile rising to your face. "You just broke a condom, Bucky. That feels like something that needs to be celebrated."

And despite your best attempts at lighthearted chatter, you could see the weight of the situation settling on his shoulders.

"Bucky," you murmured a bit softer.

"I'm sorry," he said, not looking at you as he paused his fumbling fingers as they failed to find the neckline of a shirt. You heard the fabric squeak within his trembling grip. "Just... just let me try to fix this, please."

"Bucky," you repeated, forcing your voice to be louder—steadier. He finally met your eyes from across the room. You pinched your lips together and briefly glanced down at your stomach before looking back up to him. "Stay?"

He narrowed his eyes and quietly echoed your question, his lips barely moving around the loaded word.

"But..." he tried, already falling in step in the direction of the bed. "But what if—?"

"It's okay," you murmured, taking him by the metal arm as the mattress squeaked beneath his weight.

He stared at you, searching your eyes for a tell.

"Yeah?"

You nodded.

You’re not sure he even knows you’re awake, continuing to tongue at you like he hasn’t even noticed.

He’d crawled down your thighs with reverence, planting kisses along the way. Then he whispered tenderly against your stomach. “Gonna clean you up, okay?”

You’d already been half-asleep, nodding off as you hummed in recognition. You’d fallen into dreams, lulled by the rhythm of his tongue. A false since of peace built by the way he carefully avoids your clit.

It used to confuse you, the way he’d spend hours eating you out if you’d let him.

The first time he’d done it, crawled down to kiss your hips and asked if he could put his mouth on you, you’d stilled, ready for a hot washcloth and maybe some cuddles.

Might fall asleep. You’d whispered, carding a hand through his hair, a gesture meant to entice him back up.

Bucky just pressed a second kiss, this time to the curve where your thigh meets your hip and said that’s okay.

Sleep took you quickly once you realized he wasn’t eating with his usual precision. Your body fell apart in his hands the way it always does, utter relaxation claiming each of your limbs.

When you came too, the room was pitch black, he must’ve gotten up to shut the lights off. Numbly, you patted the bed next to you, reaching for him.

Then you felt him.

A kitten lick between your folds, tongue flat over your entrance. Your head snaps to the end table, where the only source of light blinks at you.

2:00 am.

It was easily 12:30 when you fell asleep.

He brought you to a high then, careful and precise, as if he was singing you a lullaby. It crept over you slowly, a gentle wave starting at your toes and working its way up until your back was arching into his mouth. It left you just as softly, each muscle unclenching as you fall back down onto him.

The next time you woke up, the sun was peeking through the curtains. The top sheet thrown half-hazardly over your chest and arms. Beside you was still empty.

His name was on the edge of your tongue when a snore echoed off the walls.

There, asleep on your stomach, arms curled around your middle, was Bucky.

His chin still shining with slick, expression the picture of peace.

With a sheepish smile, he’d tried to explain after the second or third time it happened.

Just like it I guess, he’d shrugged, Can’t fall asleep easy and it’s nice to have something to focus on.

You’d melted. Nearly cooed. Then, as if he could sense your softening Bucky smirked.

You never let me spend enough time with her anyway. He joked, Gotta take every opportunity.

He’d murmured the rest against you later that night, when he thought you were sleeping.

Taste like fuckin’ candy, he’d whispered, tongue dragging over your clit. Sweetest thing in my life.

Now, as your back arches and your taste floods his mouth, you think Good, give him a snack.

Bucky moans into your cunt, ragged and utterly pleased with himself. As he takes you through the aftershocks, gentle running his hands up and down your thighs, the last thing you hear is “Fucking delicious.”

Then, just as Bucky’s tongue begins to drag back down, sleep claims you again.

Pinktober Masterlist

Main Masterlist

help I’m still at the restaurant (the chapter of rough day by @no-droids where mando eats her out while she sleeps ((which I took HEAVY inspo from)))

Bucky hadn’t slept. The apartment looked exactly the same as it had hours ago, and the morning light did nothing to ease the headache brewing behind his eyes. The couch was still pushed too far back. The laptop still sat on the coffee table. Like the room had frozen on purpose just to piss him off. He paced back and forth across the living room, metal fingers flexing and unflexing like they had nowhere to go. He’d started pacing sometime around dawn and apparently his body had decided that was the only motion it was capable of now. He couldn’t sit. Couldn’t stand still. Felt like if he stopped moving, he’d have to actually think. Every time he stopped moving, he could hear your voice from last night. Please, James. Please. “Get a grip, Barnes,” he muttered under his breath, though the empty room just swallowed the words, leaving them hanging weak and useless like everything else he'd said and did lately. The phone was still on the table. He hadn’t touched it since the block went through. Hadn’t had the guts to flip it over and look at the blank space again. He’d stared at the ceiling for hours instead, replaying everything until it turned into one long loop he couldn’t escape. You were gone. And you had every right to be. That didn’t stop the panic clawing up his throat. By five in the morning he couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to see something, anything, that proved you still existed outside of the mess he’d made. Needed to know you hadn’t vanished off the planet the second you vanished from him. So he did the stupid thing. He made a new account. New email. New username. Even new password, for God knows why. He wouldn’t remember it in an hour anyway. Saved it to apple passwords. As the confirmation page loaded, this made him a very pathetic stalker, the kind of guy who deserved to be laughed at, and he still clicked subscribe anyway. He subscribed again before he could talk himself out of it, the familiar profile picture popping up like a punch to the chest. Just the same teasing little glimpse of skin and shadow that had wrecked him from the beginning. His eyes went straight to the activity log. Last seen: 9:14 p.m.

Hours ago. Before everything. Nothing. No new posts. No stories. No updates. Not even a note. There was nothing to show you’d even touched the account since the call ended. “Come on, sweetheart,” he whispered to it, like you could somehow hear him through the website. “Just… be okay. Please be okay.” He refreshed the page. Then again. Then a third time like that would magically change the answer. But it was still nothing. A fucked up feeling settled in his stomach. He closed the laptop harder than he meant to. There was one place he knew you had to be. One place he could actually see you with his own eyes instead of hunting ghosts on a screen. The hospital. Internship shifts didn’t pause for heartbreak. They didn’t care if you’d slept or cried or sworn off men forever. You’d be there because you were responsible and you took your job too seriously to call in sick over a broken heart. He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and was out the door in under five minutes. The bike ride across the city barely registered. Just traffic lights and potholes and the cold needling into his cheeks while his brain ran in circles. He rode like he was chasing something he might never catch again, By the time the hospital came into view, his heart was pounding for an entirely different reason. Please be there. Please don’t hate me. Killing the engine, hejust sat for a moment, trying to get his breathing under control. Everything felt the exact same as it did a month ago. Everything except the fact that you were hurting this time, the reason being him. Bucky scanned the room the second he walked in. He didn’t have to look long. You were at the nurses’ station. The sight of you hit him so hard he had to stop moving. You looked… exhausted. This wasn’t your usual kind of tiredness. The one with with messy hair and a lazy smile after a long shift. This was different. Your shoulders were slumped. The usual brightness in your face was muted, like someone had turned the volume down on you overnight. He hated that he knew the difference. Hated that he’d memorized your tired smiles and now he was looking at the version that had nothing left behind it. You looked like you hadn’t slept at all. Guilt punched him square in the chest. That was his fault. Every last bit of it. For a second he thought about turning around and leaving. About walking right back out the doors and sparing you the shock of seeing him. But he just wouldn’t be a coward anymore. Forcing his feet to move, he took steps in your direction. You didn’t notice him at first. You were flipping through a chart, biting the inside of your cheek in that familiar little way you did when you were concentrating. He remembered thinking it was cute the first time he saw it. He remembered a lot of things now that made his stomach twist. He was halfway across the lobby when you finally glanced up. Your eyes landed on him. And you smiled. The same polite, easy smile you’d given him the very first day. The kind of smile you gave patients because that was your job, because you were good at it. It felt like a knife between his ribs. That smile wasn’t for him anymore. For Bucky-the-patient, sure, but not for the Bucky-or-James who'd lied his way into this mess. “Bucky,” you waved him over like he was just another familiar face in your day. His heart did something painful. You didn’t know.

Of course you didn’t know.

He walked up to the counter on legs that felt way too heavy for his body. Up close he could see the details he’d missed from a distance — the faint redness of your conjunctiva, the way you kept blinking like they were dry, the way your fingers trembled just a little when you set the chart down. “Hey— didn’t expect to see you. You okay?” Your voice sounded normal. Friendly. Tired, but normal. The words stuck a bit, because how do you say you're here to beg forgiveness in a lobby? It nearly killed him. Already slipping into that automatic caretaker mode he’d watched you use a dozen times, you asked, “need to see the doctor?” Same gentle voice. The one he’d gotten way too attached to. Attached like a fool, now it just underscored how much he'd ruined. He shook his head, suddenly aware of how ridiculous he must look standing there. You didn’t seem to mind though. Or if you did, you hid it well, professional as always. “No… I’m not here for that.” You tilted your head, confused but still smiling. “Oh. Paperwork or something? Follow-up appointment?” “I’m here to see you.” Jesus Christ, that sounded so fucking stupid out loud he wanted to punch himself in the throat just to keep him from speaking. Your brows knit together in confusion. “Me?” “Yeah,” his voice had fallen down a few octaves. “You.” There was a beat where you just looked at him, clearly trying to figure out what he meant. He could practically see the thoughts lining up behind your eyes — confusion, curiosity, the professional part of you searching for a reason that made sense. He took a breath he didn’t feel ready for. He didn’t plan to say it. Didn’t even think it. The word just slipped out like muscle memory. “Sweetheart—” The second the word left his mouth, everything changed. He saw it happen in real time. Your smile faltered. Just a tiny crack at first, like a hairline fracture. Your eyes focused on him in a way they never had before. Recognition crept in slowly, horribly slowly. Slow enough to torture him as it dawned. He watched the moment the pieces clicked together. The voice. The nickname. The way he said it.

Your face went blank. “Wait. No— no, that’s not—” He reached for you on instinct, hands hovering uselessly in the space between your bodies. “Baby—” “James?” your voice trembled on the single word. “Yeah, babydoll. It’s me. James. Bucky.” Words tumbling out, hoping they'd bridge the gap but knowing they wouldn't. What else was there, really? Nothing that fixed this. All the air seemed to disappear out of the room. You stared at him like you were trying to wake up from a bad dream and he refused to fade. Emotion crossed your face in waves. Waves he wished he could stop, but he'd started them. Disbelief hitting youfirst, like surely this was a joke; then understanding sinking in, and finally betrayal washing over. Your eyes filled with tears so fast it stole the breath out of his lungs. Panic surged inside him, “hey, baby, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please… can we talk? Just let me explain—” He reached out and gently gripped your arms before he could stop himself, desperate to keep you from slipping away. You flinched like his touch burned. “Don’t… Just don’t.” “Please, sweetheart—” “Don’t… call me that.” The words were soft, but they hit harder than anything else. People were starting to look now. A few curious glances from nurses and visitors who didn’t understand the storm brewing in front of them. You didn’t seem to notice. Tears spilled over, tracking silently down your cheeks, and you didn’t even try to wipe them away. “All this time,” you breathed, more to yourself than to him. “All this time it was you.” “Yeah, and I know how bad that sounds. I know. But I can explain everything, I swear—”

“You lied to me.” Your voice wobbled on the last word like it didn’t want to come out. Four simple words. They were a slap to his face. Bucky’s hands dropped from your arms. “I know. And I hate myself for it. I never meant for it to go this far. I never meant to hurt you.” Your laugh was small and broken. “Well, congratulations. You did.” Every ounce of exhaustion you’d been carrying seemed to rise to the surface at once. Your shoulders shook, whether from anger or hurt he couldn’t tell. “I trusted you… I told you things I’ve never told anyone. I let you see me. I begged you to see you. And you just— you were standing right in front of me the whole time.” The memory of that plea flashed behind his eyes and he felt sick all over again. “I wanted to tell you. I did. I swear I did. I just— I didn’t know how to start.” “So you thought hiding was better?” you shot back, finally finding your anger. “You thought letting me feel stupid and used was better?” “No… God, no.” You wiped at your cheeks with the back of your hand, furious at the tears that wouldn’t stop coming. “I feel like an idiot,” you admitted in a low voice. “Like a— like a complete, pathetic idiot.” “Don’t— don’t say that. None of this is on you.” “Isn’t it?” you asked, looking at him like you didn’t recognize him at all. “Because it feels pretty on me right now.” He opened his mouth, but nothing came out that didn’t sound weak and useless. The world refused to pause for either of you. A phone rang somewhere. Someone laughed down the hall. Your whole world had narrowed to the man in front of you. “I need you to let me explain,” he tried again, softer this time. “Please. Just give me five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.” For a split second he thought you might actually consider it. Then your expression hardened. “No.” The word was firm this time, stronger than the first. “No,” you repeated, taking a shaky step back from him. “I… just don’t want to hear it.” “Sweetheart—” “Stop calling me that,” you snapped. First time he’d seen you do this, and he’s the reason. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

You stared at him for a long moment, like you were memorizing a stranger who used to feel safe. “I have to get back to work,” you said finally, the professional mask sliding back into place with visible effort. “Please don’t walk away,” he begged before he could stop himself. He knew you’d walk away. Didn’t matter. He was still going to follow you. Had to. Explaining was the only plan he had, and it wasn’t even a good one. There was never a version of this morning where he would have just stood there and let you disappear down the hallway like a stranger. His feet moved before his brain had fully caught up. You walked fast. Faster than he’d ever seen you walk before. Like you were late for something important instead of just trying to outrun him. You didn’t look back once. Not even a glance over your shoulder to see if he was still there. But he was.

He stayed a few steps behind at first, close enough to keep you in sight but not close enough to touch. He didn’t trust himself to touch you again. Not after the way you’d flinched like his hands had burned. That kept replaying worse than anything else. Worse than the yelling he’d expected. Worse than silence. The hallway opened up into another nurses’ station, busier than the first one. You slipped behind the counter like it was a shield and he hovered awkwardly on the other side, suddenly aware of how out of place he must look. Big guy in a leather jacket, looming where he didn’t belong, eyes glued to an intern who clearly wanted nothing to do with him. Great. Fantastic. Perfect. He watched you pick up a chart with hands that still weren’t quite steady. Watched you focus very hard on anything that wasn’t him. Watched the way your jaw tightened when you realized he wasn’t leaving. He felt about like he was sixteen years old and hopeless. “I just— I just need a minute. Please.”. You pretended to read something on the paper in front of you, but he could tell you weren’t really seeing it. Your eyes kept skimming the same line over and over again. “I’m not trying to make a scene.” He kept his voice low on purpose. “I swear I’m not. I just… I need to talk to you. Just for a minute.” You inhaled slowly through your nose like you were counting to ten. “Bucky… James— whoever you are,” you spoke without looking at him, voice tight and professional in a way that hurt more than yelling would have. “I’m at work.” “I know.”

“I have patients. Shit… you know what? Even if I didn’t, I don’t wanna talk now.”

“I—”

“Surely you must understand why this isn’t the time?”

He opened his mouth to argue and then closed it again because, yeah, he did understand. He understood too well. You were trying to hold yourself together in a place where falling apart wasn’t allowed. Still, he couldn’t make himself back off.

A nurse at the station glanced between the two of you, picking up on the tension. She had probably seen a hundred versions of this exact situation. Concern flickered across her expression as she leaned a little closer to you. “Hey, hon, you okay over here?” You finally looked up then, and Bucky hated the way you forced a small smile onto your face. “I’m fine, Dana, it’s just… a misunderstanding.” Dana didn’t look convinced at all. Her gaze flicked to Bucky, taking him in with that assessing, protective nurse stare. “Need me to call security?” she asked you quietly, like he wasn’t standing right there. That was what he was to you now. Not James. Not the guy you’d poured your heart out to at three in the morning. Just some man making you uncomfortable at work. For a split second he thought you might say yes. He even braced himself for it. But you shook your head. “No,” came your voice softly. “It’s okay.”

Hope flared in his chest so fast it almost hurt. You didn’t want security. You didn’t want him dragged away. That had to mean something. It had to mean you didn’t completely hate him. Maybe you still cared enough to— “He’ll go away on his own,” you added, still not looking at him. The hope died just as quickly as it had bloomed. “Alright,” Dana squeezed your arm briefly. “I’ll be right here if you need me.” Bucky swallowed around the lump in his throat as she walked a few steps away, leaving the two of you alone again in the middle of a room that suddenly felt way too small. He’ll go away on his own. You’d said it like a fact. Like he was a problem you were waiting out. Like he was already fading from your life and you just needed a little patience until it was official. He hated how much that hurt. “I’m not going away.” He heard how stubborn it sounded and didn’t care. You let out a humorless breath. “Of course you’re not.” “I mean it.” “Good for you.” The sarcasm in your voice was so unfamiliar it almost made him flinch. You’d never talked to him like that before. Not as Bucky. Not as James. You’d always been soft with him, even when you were teasing. This version of you felt like a stranger. A stranger he helped create. He stepped a little closer to the counter, lowering his voice so only you could hear him.

“Please— just one minute. Outside, or — or an empty room, hell, a fuckin’ supply closet, I don’t care. I just need one minute.” You finally looked at him. Your eyes were still red-rimmed and so full of hurt that he had to fight the urge to reach across the counter and pull you into his arms right there in front of God and everyone. For a heartbeat he thought you might soften. Thought you might give in. “No,” your voice was firmerthis time. “I don’t want to talk to you.” He nodded slowly, like he was trying to absorb a language he didn’t speak. “Okay,” he said, even though it very much was not okay. “I get that you’re mad. You have every right to be mad.” “I’m not mad,” you replied, turning your attention back to the chart in front of you. The lie was obvious.

“You’re kinda trembling,” he pointed out before he could stop himself. “That happens when people don’t sleep.” The words slipped out sharper than you probably meant them to, and he latched onto them immediately. “Have you eaten anything since last night? Or— I don’t know— coffee, water, something?” The question came out softer than everything else he’d said, genuine worry breaking through the panic. You let out a disbelieving little laugh. “That’s none of your business.” “It is my business if you’re running around this place on an empty stomach and no sleep because of me.” “Since when do you get to care about that?” you shot back. The sting of it made him wince. “Since always… I just can’t stop caring about you, even if you don’t want me to.” You pressed your lips together, clearly fighting back another wave of emotion. “I don’t need you to take care of me.” Your voice did that shaky thing you were pretending it wasn’t doing. He could see the conflict on your face, the way part of you wanted to fold and the other part wanted to keep your armor on as tight as possible. You’d always worn your heart right out in the open with him. Now he was the reason you were trying to hide it. “I’m working,” you said after a beat. “I don’t have time for this.” “Then let me at least do something useful,” he was grasping at anything that would keep you from slipping completely out of reach. “Let me get you something to eat.” “I don’t want anything from you.” “You look like you’re about two seconds away from passing out.” Your glare would have been impressive if your eyes weren’t so glassy. “I am perfectly capable of getting my own food.” He hesitated, searching your face for any crack, any tiny opening he could fit himself into. There wasn’t one. Still, he wasn’t ready to give up. “Just let me do this. I just… don’t want you to keel over in the middle of a shift.” You stared at him for a long moment, clearly torn between telling him to go to hell and bursting into tears. He hated that he’d put you in that position. “Five minutes. I’ll grab something from the cafeteria and bring it back. You don’t even have to talk to me.” “I don’t want you buying me things.” “I’m not buying you things. I’m buying you breakfast. There’s a difference.” It was fucking stupid, but it was worth a try. Your mouth twitched despite yourself. That twitch, like you were fighting a smile despite the mess, gave him a spark of hope that flickered weak. For a second he caught a glimpse of the you he knew, buried under all the hurt he’d caused. It only made the guilt worse. You looked down at your hands, then away from him, then back again like you couldn’t quite decide where to put your eyes. “I don’t need you hovering,” you said finally. “I won’t hover,” he promised. “Scout’s honor.” “You were never a scout.”

“Details.” Another almost-smile that you fought hard to suppress. God, he missed you and the smile he’d imagined a thousand times. “Fine,” you muttered. “Do whatever you want.” “Okay,” he was quick to say, like you might change your mind if he gave you too much time to think about it. “Okay. I’ll be right back.” You didn’t dignify that with an answer. He took a step away, then hesitated, looking at you again. “You don’t have any allergies, right?” You let out a tired breath. “No.” “Anything you hate or don’t want to eat right now?” Yeah, he was absolutely being a pain in the ass. “I’m so not doing this with you.” “Right— right. I’ll figure it out.”

Bucky stood in the middle of the cafeteria, staring at a glass case full of pastries, feeling stupidly and embarrassingly out of his depth. The kind of out-of-depth that made him question every choice leading up to this, wondering if a simple bag of food could really patch over the disaster he'd created. He hadn’t been inside a hospital cafeteria in years, and he’d definitely never been inside one with a mission this specific. Get her food. Something she’ll actually eat. Something she won’t throw back in your face. Scanning the options once more, he racked his brain for every tiny detail you'd dropped casually, those offhand comments now feeling like lifelines he should've held tighter. You drank too much coffee and not enough water. You skipped meals when you were stressed even though you pretended you didn’t, and he'd teased you about it before, never realizing how those habits might stem from nights like last one, the kind he'd caused. “Can I help you, sir?” The interruption jolted him, pulling him from the mental list he'd been building. The woman behind the counter was looking at him with polite impatience, probably wondering why a grown man was glaring at a muffin. “Uh, yeah. I need… breakfast. To go.” She raised an eyebrow like she was saying ‘pardon me?’ “Most people do at this hour.” Right. Real smooth.

He forced himself to focus. “Something easy. Light, I guess. But also filling. And not— not too greasy.” The woman gave him a look like she’d been awake since 4 a.m. and didn’t have patience for men who couldn’t make decisions.. “So basically everything and nothing.” He ended up grabbing more than he probably needed. A bottle of juice. A yogurt with fruit on the bottom because he remembered you saying once that plain yogurt tasted like sadness. A small sandwich in case you wanted something more substantial. And a stupid little chocolate croissant that felt like a peace offering he wasn’t sure you’d accept. Definitely overcompensating. The croissant especially, recalling how you'd mentioned craving sweets during tough shifts, but now it seemed pathetic against the hurt His hands hovered over the coffee station before he decided against it. You’d had enough caffeine. What you needed was actual fuel. What you needed was sleep. And probably a world where he didn’t exist in it. At least without his lies complicating everything, leaving you to heal on your own terms. He paid, shoved everything into a paper bag, and then just… stood there. Going back to you scared the hell out of him.

This was ridiculous. He’d fought wars, survived things most people couldn’t even imagine, and here he was terrified of handing a woman a sandwich. But it wasn’t just any woman, was it? It was you. The walk back through the hospital felt longer than it should have. Every step gave him too much time to think. Too much time to replay your face from earlier. The way your voice had trembled when you’d said his name. The way you’d looked at him like he’d taken something from you that you could never get back. All because he hadn’t told the truth soon enough. He stopped a passing nurse, asked where you might be, and got pointed toward the on-call rooms down a quieter hallway. He saw you sitting on one of the couches just inside the room, head flopped back against the wall, eyes closed like you were trying to steal five minutes of peace in a place that never gave any. You looked exhausted, wrung out, like someone had reached inside you and twisted. And it gutted him, knowing your exhaustion ran deeper today because of his mess. He knocked lightly on the doorframe. Didn’t want to scare you on top of everything else. Your eyes opened immediately. The second you saw him, every bit of softness drained away. He deserved that.

“I brought food.” He held up the bag like it might count for something. “I told you I didn’t want anything.” “Yeah. I didn’t listen. You still gotta eat.” You let out a tired breath, like you were already sick of him all over again and looked away, staring at the opposite wall like it was suddenly fascinating. He stepped inside carefully, like you were a skittish animal he didn’t want to scare. He set the bag on the little table in front of you and started pulling things out one by one. “Orange juice, yogurt with the fruit you like. A sandwich if you’re hungrier than you think. And… a croissant.” You stared at the small spread like it might be a trap. “I didn’t ask for any of this. Why are you even doing it?” Because I screwed this up and I don’t know how to unscrew it. “Because you need to eat.” “I don’t need you deciding what I need, okay?” You looked like a kid sitting there with your arms crossed, and eyes fixed on the floor. He didn’t answer you, everything that might come out of him would only anger you more. “Thank you. You can go now.” Your voice was formal, as though you were dismissing him. “Please… just give me five minutes.” You laughed, but there wasn’t any humour in it. “Five minutes for what? So you can feel better about yourself?” “No… to explain.” “You already explained enough.” “No, I didn’t. I didn’t explain anything that mattered.”

You finally looked up at him again, and the raw hurt on your face almost knocked the air out of his lungs. “I still have six hours left in my shift… six hours of pretending I’m fine and doing my job and not falling apart. I don’t have the energy to do this with you right now.” “I know… I know it’s a bad time.” “It’s not just a bad time, James. It’s a long time.” He frowned slightly. “What do you mean?” “I mean even if I wanted to talk to you, which I don’t actually, I can’t just disappear for half an hour. I have responsibilities… patients. Real things that matter.”

The way you said real things that matter felt deliberate. Like you were reminding him he wasn’t one of them. “I’ll wait.” “You what?” “I’ll wait,” he repeated. “Until your shift’s over.” “Do you have any idea how long six hours is?” He almost smiled despite everything. “Six hours isn’t gonna kill me.” “No. I’m not asking you to wait around all day like some lost puppy.” “I’m not a puppy.” “You know what I mean.” He did. He just didn’t care. “I need to talk to you,” he repeated, softer this time. “I need you to hear me out. And if waiting is what it takes, then I’ll wait.” Your expression wavered for a split second. Just a crack in the mask. Just enough to let a little emotion slip through. “Why are you doing this?” you whispered.

Because I love you. The answer came uninvited, stupid dangerous and far too big to say out loud right now. “Because you matter to me,” he said instead. That’s safer. You looked away quickly, like you couldn’t fathom hearing those words. “Please stop saying things like that.” “I can’t.” “You can. You just don’t want to.” He had no argument for that. “Whatever… do what you want I guess.” Relief and dread bloomed together in his chest. “So… I can wait?” “I’m not giving you permission. I’m just too tired to fight with you about it.” You gestured toward the door. “Now please leave. I need to breathe without you standing in front of me.” The honesty of that hurt, but he respected it. “Okay, I’ll be… outside.” “Don’t hover near the station.” “I won’t.” “Don’t talk to my coworkers.” “I won’t.” “And don’t expect anything from me when this shift is over.”

That one hurt the most even though he deserved every bit of it. “I won’t,” he said anyway. You picked up the yogurt finally, peeling the lid back without looking at him. He lingered for a second longer, wanting to say a dozen different things and knowing none of them would help. “I’m glad you’re eating.” Lame excuse in trying to talk to you. “Goodbye, James.”

Message received. He backed out of the room and pulled the door shut behind him, leaning against the wall for a long breath. Six hours. Six hours of sitting with his own thoughts. Six hours of wondering if you’d walk out at the end of it and tell him to go to hell anyway. He made his way out of the hospital in a kind of daze, the automatic doors whooshing open to let him back into the bright, noisy world he suddenly didn’t care about at all. His bike waited in the parking lot where he’d left it. He sat on the curb beside it instead, and started the long business of waiting. The curb was cold under him, but it felt like the only penance he could offer for now.

Everytime the automatic doors slid open, his heart would jump. But all of them would be false alarms. Everytime it was the wrong person. Until it wasn’t. You stepped out just after dusk, with your coat wrapped tight around you. You had your bag slung across your chest and a look on your face that was pure exhaustion. For a second you just stood there at the top of the steps, closing your eyes and breathing in the freezing air, trying to remember how to be a person again. When you opened them, your eyes landed straight on him. Something crossed your face so fast he almost missed it. Surprise first. Then disbelief. Then, slowly, something softer he was too afraid to name. A kind of calmness. He straightened immediately, hands falling to his sides, trying not to look like he’d been sitting there all day thinking about nothing but you. You walked down the steps toward him, boots crunching over the thin layer of fresh snow that had started to stick to the pavement. “Hey,” he greeted you quietly when you got close.

“Hey.” Up close you looked even more tired than you had earlier. Your eyes were heavy, your mouth set in a small unhappy line. But you were here. You hadn’t slipped out a side exit. You hadn’t pretended you didn’t see him. You hadn’t called security and had him dragged off like he half expected. That had to count for something, right? “You waited.” “I told you I would.” “I didn’t think you meant it.” “I try not to say things I don’t mean.” Fuck, he really shouldn’t go act all noble now. Thankfully, you didn't call him out on it. You let out a slow breath that fogged the air between you. “Okay… talk.” Just two words that carried way too much weight. He opened his mouth. Absolutely nothing of value showed up. That was when he realized he didn’t know where to start. All the things he’d rehearsed in his head for six hours suddenly sounded stupid and thin and nowhere near enough.

“I don’t really have anything better than I’m sorry.” Your expression didn’t waver. “You already said that. It didn’t fix anything.” Snowflakes drifted down lazily around the two of you, catching in your hair and on the shoulders of your coat. He watched one land on your eyelash and melt. "I've got a lot I should say. I know I do. But you look dead on your feet and I don't—I don't wanna dump all of it on you in a parking lot.” Something in your face softened just a fraction at that. “You don’t have to worry about me.” “Yeah, I do.” You didn’t argue this time. As the wind picked up, you shivered before you could hide it. He stepped a little closer, putting himself between you and the wind without meaning to. “Let me get you a cab, it’s freezing out here.” “It’s close… I can walk.” “But… it’s snowing.” “I walk every day.” “Not when you’ve been on your feet for twelve hours and haven’t slept.” Your eyes flicked up to meet his. “I’m fine.” “You don’t look… fine.”

“That’s not your problem anymore.” There was the reminder again, that he doesn’t have any right to be here. “I could take you home,” he tried again. You glanced at his motorcycle and let out a small, tired laugh that surprised him with how normal it sounded. “You’re on a bike. It doesn’t exactly come with snow coverage.” God, he’d missed that laugh so much. It was such a tiny thing, barely even amused, but it felt like someone had cracked open a window in a room that had been sealed shut all day. He found himself smiling before he could stop it. “I’ve ridden in worse.” “I’m sure you have, but that doesn’t mean I want to freeze to death on the back of it.” “I’ve got an extra helmet.” “Helmets don’t have heaters.” “They do kinda protect you from snow if you think about it.” You looked at him for a long moment, weighing something he couldn’t see. “I don’t know, James… It’s really not that far.” “Then it’ll be quick. You — you won’t even have to touch me if you don’t want to. I’ll go slow… very slow.” He could see the conflict in your face. The part of you that was still angry. The part of you that was exhausted and just wanted to be home. “Fine… but only because my feet feel like they’re about to fall off.” He reached for the spare helmet strapped to the back of the bike and held it out to you. You took it without meeting his eyes, turning it over in your hands like you’d never worn one before. “I — uhm— need directions. You’ll have to tell me where to go.”

“Obviously.” “Obviously,” he echoed, a little smile tugging at his mouth. You rattled off the address. He memorised it like it matterd. He’d probably remember it for the rest of his life after today. As the bike rumbled to life beneath him, he waited for you to to adjust the helmet and climb on behind him. He kept his posture careful, made sure you had room. Even then, he felt you hesitate for a second. Then your hand came up and rested lightly on his shoulder. Just enough for balance. Just enough to keep yourself steady. It wasn’t even close. The weight of your fingers on his shoulder did stupid things to his brain. He knew he didn't deserve that touch. He drove exactly like he promised he would. Taking turns easy, making sure the ride was smooth enough that you didn’t have to hold on tighter than you chose to. Every now and then he felt your grip shift, the smallest squeeze when the road got uneven, and each time it sent a quiet jolt through him. You trusted him just enough to get you home. For now, that had to be enough. He tried not to think too hard about how right it felt to have you there. Tried not to let his mind wander to all the other rides he’d imagined with you before everything went to hell. “Turn left up here,” you called over the engine. “Next right.” Your apartment building came into view sooner than he wanted it to. Too soon. Way too soon. He slowed to a stop at the curb, cutting the engine so the sudden quiet felt loud. He felt your hand leave his shoulder. He missed it already. “This is me.” You climbed off carefully, handing the helmet back to him without quite looking at his face. “Thanks.” Suddenly he was aware that he was running out of reasons to stay near you. This is it. The clean ending. You go inside, he drives away, and the two of you figure out the rest of this mess some other day. Or never. Except he didn’t want it to end like that. He fumbled with the strap of his own helmet, pretending to be busy with something that didn’t actually need doing. Adjusted the mirror. Wiped imaginary snow off the handlebars. Anything to buy a few more seconds.

Just a little longer. You must have noticed because, “are you stalling?” “No,” he spoke too soon, then decided lying about this is definitely not the way to go about it, “maybe. A little.” Your mouth twitched like you were trying not to smile. “I’m literally standing in front of my building, James.” “I know.” “So… what are we doing here?” “I don’t know. I just— I didn’t want you to walk in without saying goodnight properly.” You studied him for a second, and he had the uncomfortable feeling you could see every nervous thought bouncing around in his head. “Well,” you said finally, steppinga little bit towards the door. “Goodnight.” That’s it. This is it. You’re going inside, he will probably never see you again. “Yeah… goodnight.” He forced himself to answer, the words tasted heavier in his mouth. Your boots made their way to the entrance. He told himself to put the helmet back on, start the bike, and leave before he made things worse. Instead he just sat there and watched you go. Because apparently he was incapable of doing anything the easy way when it came to you. Because this might be the last time he ever sees you. On reaching the door, you paused. For a second he thought you’d forgotten something. Then you turned back, toward him. “James.” You called him. You’ve called him. Are you going to ask him inside? His head snapped up immediately. “Yeah?” You hesitated, like you weren’t sure you believed the words you were about to say. “Do you— I don't know. Do you wanna come inside?" There’s nothing that could describe what happened to Bucky. His brain short-circuited. Inside meant your space. Your couch. Your kitchen. Fuck, your bedroom. It meant walls and the two of you without the hospital or the parking lot or the weight of strangers walking by. It also meant he could screw things up even more. “I—uh,” apparently he’d forgotten how to speak. “You — you don’t have to invite me. I mean, if you’re just … you know… being polite, you really don’t—” “Wouldn't ask if I didn't mean it,” you interrupted his train of half formed thoughts. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Yep. Okay.” He winced at himself, at his cartoonish response. You were watching him fumble with a small, tired smile on your face, and he could see the tension in your shoulders ease just a little. Seeing him nervous probably helped. He didn’t know how or why, but he was sure it did. “Wow. You’re actually flustered.”

“A little.” “That’s new.” “That’s…. that’s not new. You always have that effect on me.” The honesty slipped out before he could stop it, and for a moment he thought if you’re going to take back your invitation, let him out into the night. But to his surprise, you pushed the door open wider. “C’mon. Before we both freeze out here.” He killed the engine and followed you inside. The warmth of the building hit him all at once, making his cheeks sting. He stomped snow off his boots and trailed behind you up the stairs, trying not to think too hard about the fact he was about to see the rest of your life for the first time. He’d seen your bedroom before. On a screen. In stolen pieces.

But this was different. This was real.

Your apartment smelled like you. That was the only way he knew how to put it. The living room was small but comfortable, a couch with too many pillows, a coffee table stacked with medical journals and random pens, a plant in the corner that looked like it was barely hanging on.

It felt like you.

“Sorry it’s a mess.” You flicked on a lamp, the light illuminated enough for him to see you differently. Soft.

“It’s not.” It really wasn’t. It was lived in. Couch cushions not perfectly straight. A mug on the table. A blanket that looked like it got used instead of arranged.

He found himself glancing down the hallway without meaning to, knowing your bedroom was back there somewhere.

Don't be a creep. She let you in. Don't make it weird. Don't fucking make it worse.

“Want something to drink?” You were already heading toward the kitchen.

"No — I mean, you should change or shower or… something. Get comfortable. You've had a long day."

You paused and gave him a look. “Are you telling me I look gross?”

Surely he didn’t mean that. “"What? No. Jesus. I just meant — comfortable. Like... change clothes, relax, sit down, not look at me." Not look at me because it’s fucking terrifying, he kept that last piece to himself.

You rolled your eyes a little but there was no real heat in it. “Right. Make yourself at home, I guess.” You disappeared down the hallway.

The second you were out of sight, he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Okay. Okay, you’re inside. Don’t fucking screw this up.

He wandered into the kitchen because standing in the middle of your living room like a statue felt wrong. He found the fridge mostly empty in the way of someone who worked too much and forgot to grocery shop.

Eggs. Bread. Two takeout boxes he didn't want to inspect too closely. Some veggies that had definitely seen better day.

He hesitated at first, listening for the sound of the shower or a sink running, then made a decision before he could talk himself out of it.

You had needed food earlier. You probably still did.

So he did the only thing he could think to do. He cooked. An apology without words.

It was nothing fancy. Just scrambled eggs and toast, something simple and easy to eat. Even though he’s never been in your kitchen before, he’d heard you here a hundred times before.

It felt strangely domestic. Almost like the kind of normal he’d stopped believing he’d ever get.

Soldier instincts say he should know by default when someone walks in. But Bucky didn’t hear you until you spoke, you were stopped on the doorway. “Did you… cook?”

He had never been this self-conscious. “Yeah. I hope that’s okay. You just … didn’t eat much at the hospital.”

You just stared at the plate he’d set out for you on the counter, so much he thought he should bolt. But then you smiled. A real smile that reached your eyes.

“That’s really nice.” The same quiet voice you used on late night calls.

He could feel relief flooding him. “It’s not much.”

“It’s perfect.”

Sliding onto one of the stools, you pulled the plate closer, and he just watched the way your shoulders dropped, and the soft smile still lingering on your face.

“Sit. You cooked. You have to eat too.” It wasn’t quite a statement as much as it was a command.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Yes you are.” You pushed a second plate toward him. “Don’t argue with me.”

He didn’t.

You ate in comfortable silence, that felt almost normal if he ignored everything that had brought you here..

“So.” You poked at your eggs, moving them around on your plate. “You wanted to talk.”

This deserved his full attention. He set his fork down. “Yeah.”

Like you were bracing for impact, you folded your hands in front of you.

“Okay. Talk.”

Taking a long breath, “I’m sorry. And I know you don't wanna hear it again. But I need to say it anyway. I lied to you. I dragged it out. I should've told you the second I figured it out."

Your eyes dropped to the table. “You made me feel stupid,” you said softly.

The words hit him harder than anything else had all day.

“I didn’t mean to. Swear I didnt.”

“But you did. I— I told you things. Real things. And the whole time you knew exactly who I was and I didn’t have a fucking clue.”

“I wanted to tell you… every time I saw you I wanted to. I just— I didn’t know how.”

“That’s not a good enough reason.” Your hands started to shake. “I trusted you,” your voice wavered, he could hear the tears creeping in now. “I trusted James. I trusted Bucky. And they were the same person and neither one of them bothered to be honest with me.”

What would he even say to that? “I screwed this up.”

“Yeah… you really did.” A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, and he felt his own eyes sting in response.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said quietly.

“But you did anyway. I don’t even know why I’m crying. I’m so… tired of crying.” You wiped at your face angrily. “

He reached for you without thinking, then stopped himself halfway, hands hovering uselessly in the air.

“I’m so sorry.”

You looked at him then, he could see how close you were to falling apart. No, you were already falling apart.

“I don’t know what to do with you. I hate that I missed you.” Small, broken voice.

The confession undid him. He broke you.

“I missed you too.” He hated how useless and stupid that sounded.

He stared at the plate in front of him a little too hard, like the eggs were suddenly the most complicated thing in the world.

You went still, not even picking at your food.

He knew he couldn’t keep circling around it. “I need to tell you something.”

You didn’t answer him, fair. He didn’t expect you to.

“I’m gonna be completely straight with you… about everything. No more half truths.”

You watched him carefully, like you were trying to decide what to do with it.

"The day I came into the hospital — that same day, I found your page. Total accident. I swear I wasn't looking for you. I didn't even know it was you."

“Babydoll,” he clarified softly.

Not that it needs clarification, but he saw the way your shoulders stiffened at the name.

“I didn't know it was you. Not at first. There was no way to know. You didn't show your face. Something about you was familiar, but it was just a feeling. And then the next day, I saw that bandage on your finger, and the same thing on your hand that night. Same finger. Same day. And it just… clicked.”

“So you figured it out.”

“Yeah.”

“And you kept watching.”

There was no other truth. “Yeah… I wanted to tell you though… even if not right away. I did. But I didn’t know how to say it without sounding like some creep who tracked you down.”

A small laugh that was not at all amusing escaped you. “You are a creep.”

“I am.” That was the truth.

“I hate you.”

The three words hurt him more than everything, but this was what he deserved. He deserved to be hated. By you.

“I know,” it was an admission of defeat.

He swallowed and forced himself to keep going, because stopping now would be worse. “At first I told myself I wasn’t gonna talk to you. I thought I’d just… leave it alone. Keep it separate… you know. Hospital you, online you, two very different worlds.”

You gave him a look that said that was the dumbest thing you’d ever heard.

“But then your stream cut off that night. Right in the middle of everything. And you didn’t come back on. So I freaked out.”

Your face softened just a fraction, despite yourself. Something about this man freaking out because your wifi went off, seemed to falter something in your resolve.

“I didn’t know if something had happened to you, I kept checking and refreshing. I texted you because I was genuinely scared… worried if something had happened to you. That’s all true. Then it felt like—” He stopped, searching for the right words.

“Like what?” you asked.

“Like a dream… like some ridiculous, impossible dream. You were right there. You were real, and funny, and — and kind. And you actually wanted to talk to me.”

Your eyes dropped to the table again like looking at him was hard.

“So I couldn’t stay away. Even though I knew I should have told you.”

“You could’ve.”

“I know.”

“You really really could’ve, James.”

The way you said his name this time made his chest ache. It reminded him of last night when you basically pleaded with him.

“You could’ve pulled me aside at any point and just said it… instead you let me go on and on like an idiot.”

“I was scared.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“It’s not… it’s just the truth.”

You were quiet for a moment, chewing on your bottom lip. “If you’d told me, I wouldn’t have… I wouldn’t have reacted the way I did last night.”

“Yes you would have,” he said before he could stop himself.

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah. You would have.” The gentleness of his voice surprised even him.

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it again. “Okay… yeah probably.” A tiny laugh escaped you.

“I really wanted to show myself last night. Turn on the switch and everything’s out in the open and I could be down with it.”

“Coward.” You pushed your plate away, appetite apparently gone now. “So what now?” you asked. “You’ve apologized. You’ve explained. You’ve admitted you’re a certified creep. What’s the plan, James?”

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “I’m here to make things right.”

Your eyebrows lifted, in surprise or challenge, he couldn’t yet figure out. “And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

“However you want me to.” The sincerity in his voice surprised even him. “I’m serious… whatever you need. Space, time, yelling at me, never seeing me again, I’ll do it.”

Maybe the never seeing him again part was a bit much. What if you actually choose that?

“And if I tell you to disappear?”

Fuck.

“Then I disappear.” The thought made him feel sick to his stomach, but he meant it.

You studied him for a long time. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“It’s not. But you matter more than my comfort. I’m the same guy… I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but I am. Everything we talked about, everything we laughed about, that was me. All of it.”

You still looked unconvinced. “Except the part where you were lying.”

“Yeah… except that part.”

You rubbed at your eyes, the tiredness creeping back in. “I don’t even know what to believe… one minute you were this sweet patient who made dumb jokes, and the next minute you were—”

“Some asshole on the internet pretending to be someone else,” he finished for you.

“I was gonna say mysterious internet guy, but sure, we can go with asshole.”

Despite everything, a small smile tugged at his mouth. “I missed this… you.”

“Don’t… get sentimental on me.”

“‘m sorry.”

Then came silence, both of you not wanting to fill it with anything.

“You really hurt me,” you spoke after a while.

He knew you wouldn’t just open your arms and let him in, but it hurt him more hearing you say that. The simplicity of the statement hit harder than any yelling could have.

“And I don’t forgive you yet.”

“I’m not asking you to.” He really really wasn’t. But he definitely hoped for it.

“I don’t even know if I can.”

Ouch.

“That’s fair.”

You stared at him like you were trying to peel him apart and see what was real underneath.

“Why did you keep talking to me?After you knew. Why not just… back off?”

He thought about lying. About making it sound noble. But you deserved better than that.

“Because I liked you. Way too much to stay away.”

“That doesn’t make it okay. You should’ve been stronger than that.”

“I should have…. but I wasn’t.”

He watched the way you twisted your fingers together on the table, nervous habit he’d noticed about you. The way your shoulders slumped now that the adrenaline was fading.

“You look dead on your feet.”

“Thanks.”

He hesitated, then spoke again. “Do you… want me to go?” The question felt dangerous. Because if you say yes, he will never have another reason, another opportunity.

You seemed to consider it. “No, not yet at least.”

Relief washed through him so strongly he almost felt like he was going to fall.

“But I might change my mind in five minutes. And I kinda want to hit you with something.”

“I’d deserve it… you totally should hit me, you know.”

A ghost of a smile bloomed on your lips. “You really don’t make this easy to stay mad at you.”

“I’m just trying real hard to not make it worse.”

“You’re doing an okay job.”

He took that as a small victory.

You carried the plates to the sink. He dried them.

Somehow you both ended up in the living room after that.

Choosing one corner, you left him no other choice but to choose the other.

“Can I ask you something?”

He nodded immediately. “Anything.”

You leaned your head back against the cushions, eyes on the ceiling.

“Was any of it real?” The question was quiet. It wasn’t even angry, no, it was just tired, like somehow you’d decided that it wasn’t.

He saw how small you seemed curled up there. It broke him how he’s made you doubt everything. “Of course it was real.”

“All of it?”

“All of it.”

You let out a slow breath.

“Because it was real for me… I know we never showed faces, and I know it was stupid internet stuff, but I actually… opened up to you. I talked to you about things I don’t talk about. I told you things I haven’t even told my friends. And I liked you,” you admitted, like the confession hurt coming out. “I really liked you. Not just the flirting and… the other stuff. I liked talking to you. I looked forward to it.”

He closed his eyes for a second. If he thought whatever you said before hurt the most, he was wrong. This is it.

“And now I don’t know if that makes me an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot.”

“Feels like it.”

He shook his head. “Don’t do that. Don’t rewrite it like that. What we had, what we talked about, it was real for me too.”

You turned your head to look at him. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

There it was again. The question he kept tripping over. No matter how he’d explain, he’d always fall short. Because he was just s plain coward.

“I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of you hating me.”

A bitter and humorless laugh leaves you. “Worked out great.” You pulled your knees up onto the couch, wrapping your arms around them. “I kept replaying everything, every conversation, every joke. Every time I thought you were just being sweet. And now I don’t know which parts were genuine and which parts were you just… playing along.”

He felt that like a punch. “I wasn’t playing. Not once… It was real to me too, sweetheart.” The word slipped out, but you didn’t seem to mind, or you didn’t seem to mind enough to correct him.

Your eyes searched his face like you were trying to dig for proof.

“I was so worried about screwing this up. From the second I realized who you were. I kept thinking, don’t mess this up, don’t mess this up.” He let out a small, helpless laugh. “And then I messed it up worse than I could’ve imagined.”

“At least you’re self-aware,” you muttered.

He loved that there were still real pieces of you that came out, making him believe he could still somehow reach that part of you.

You shifted on the couch, exhaustion written all over you now. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes, the way your body seemed heavy with it. After a minute you spoke without looking at him. “Why are you sitting all the way over there, not even looking at me?”

Surely he must be hallucinating, “what?”

“You’re practically on the other side of the couch, like I’m contagious or something. Just because I work at the hospital doesn’t mean I’m contagious at all times you know. Also nothing spreads through eye contact. I mean, sure, there’s eye-to-hand-to-eye contact, but there’s no such thing as eye-to-eye contact.”

That brought a real smile out of him, reminding him once again of the true you, “I just didn’t want to… uhm… crowd you.”

“Or are you not looking at me because if you do you’ll get horny?” The words were blunt. Crude. Thrown out like a small grenade.

What the fuck?

Caught completely off guard, he managed to get one little word out. “What?”

“You heard me.”

He felt heat crawl up his neck. “That’s not— I’m not—”

“Because that’s what this was, right?” your voice became suddenly sharper. “Just some convenient fantasy. Doctor by day, porn girl by night. Best of both worlds.”

“Hey… that’s— that’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. It isn’t.” Firmer now.

You looked away. “I don’t even know why I said that,” you murmured after a second.

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re hurting, and you don’t know what to do with it.” He shifted a little closer without really thinking about it, careful not to touch you still, just not so far away anymore. “I’m not avoiding looking at you for that… I’m avoiding looking at you because you look exhausted and sad and I know I’m the reason, and it makes me feel sick…. And I don’t want you to think I’m here for the wrong reasons, because I’m not.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Everything feels like the wrong reason right now.” You rubbed at your face with both hands. “I feel stupid.”

“Stop… saying that… please.”

“I do,” you insisted. “Because I handed pieces of myself to someone who didn’t even exist.”

“I existed… I just didn’t exist the way you thought… because I was a fucking coward.”

“Did you… did you ever laugh at me?” The question was so small it nearly broke him.

“No. Never. How could I?”

“Not even once?”

“Not even once.”

“Did you ever show anyone, share that it was me?”

“No.”

“Did you save anything?”

He shook his head. “No screenshots. No recordings. Nothing.”

You studied his face like you were trying to decide whether to believe him. “I need you to be honest with me, James.”

“I am.”

“Even if it makes you look bad.”

“I swear, I am not lying now. I will never lie to you again.”

“I don’t know what to do with all of this.”

“You don’t have to decide tonight.”

“But I feel like I should.”

“You don’t,” he repeated. “You’ve had a horrible day. You’re exhausted. You don’t owe me clarity right now.”

“That’s annoyingly mature of you.” You laughed softly.

“I have my moments.”

Before long, another small silence settled in. You turned your head to look at him again. “I wish I could hate you properly. Would make things… easier.”

What could he even say to that? He nodded, accepting whatever you said, and what you are about to say .

“But I don’t,” you finished quietly.

Is this a relief? Or is this a punishment? He didn’t know. “I don’t deserve that.”

“Yeah… probably not.” Your agreement was casual but laced with that unresolved ache.

The honesty of it made him smile sadly. He hated that he was the reason you were like this.

Shifting, you pulled a blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over yourself. “I’m so tired.”

“I can go,” he offered immediately. That was the least he could do.

“No. Stay.” He knew he didn’t deserve to stay in your place, stay with you. But if this was what you wanted, he’d stay.

After what felt like seconds, he could see that you drifted off without meaning to.

One minute you were sitting there wrapped in that blanket, with heavy eyes, trying to listen to him talk, and the next your breathing went soft, uneven and your head tipped just slightly to the side.

He noticed the exact moment it happened. Your face relaxed in a way it hadn’t all night, the tension smoothing out like someone had finally turned the volume down inside you. And it made something in his chest ache, seeing how worn out you really were.

He stayed still for a few minutes, hardly breathing, like any small movement might break the fragile peace you’d fallen into. But the couch wasn’t meant for sleeping, and the blanket barely covered you, and he knew you’d wake up sore and miserable if he just left you there. He couldn’t do that to you.

He got up quietly to make your bed. Maybe he could wake you up, let you sleep there. Honestly, there was no thought process behind it, only that the couch seemed uncomfortable and you deserved to sleep in your bed at the end of this brutal day.

He moved carefully through your apartment, taking in the small details he hadn’t really had the chance to see before. The little stack of mail on the counter. A crooked photo frame on the wall. A mug left beside the sink with some faded cartoon on it.

Ordinary things. Real things. Your things.

He stepped into your bedroom with a strange, cautious feeling in his stomach, like he was crossing some invisible line even though you were the one who had allowed him here.

Your bed was exactly what he expected because he’s seen this a million times before, but this time it lacked any performance. Simple sheets, a soft comforter, a couple of mismatched pillows that looked like they’d been loved for years. The ones you use for comfort, not for show.

He started straightening the covers, smoothing them out with more care than the task really required. That was when he heard your footsteps behind him.

“What are you— Are you snooping?” Your voice was rough with sleep and suspicion.

He turned around to see you standing in the doorway, eyes narrowed at him like he’d been caught doing something terrible.

“No, Jesus, of course not. I was just—”

“Going through my stuff?” you cut in, like you were hell bent on saying something, pinning something.

“No, I was just making your bed,” his voice had gone softer.

You crossed your arms like you were protecting yourself. “Right.”

The look on your face hurt more than he wanted to admit. You knew it wasn’t true. He could see that you knew. But you said it anyway. Like you wanted to push him. Like you needed him to feel bad.

“You think I’m that much of a creep?”

“I don’t know what to think about you anymore.” He could hear the pain in your voice. It was very obvious you weren’t trying to blame him, only following your emotions. You stood there staring at him for a long moment, chest rising and falling a little too fast.

“I’ll leave. I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t.” The word came out sharper than he expected.

“Don’t what?” His legs were frozen in place.

“Don’t leave,” you turned away, suddenly not looking at him.

He searched your face, trying to understand the shift. “You just accused me of snooping. And… now you don’t want me to go?”

“I’m allowed to be conflicted,” you shot back.

Of course you are. You’re just human.

“I’m not snooping,” he sighed. “I just… didn’t want you to sleep on the couch, wanted to make your bed so you could sleep properly.”

You glanced past him at the neatly straightened sheets. “Oh.” Your shoulders sagged a little, finally understanding the whole situation. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not. I’m being awful… and you were just trying to help.”

“You’re just hurt,” he corrected.

You didn’t argue with that or you didn’t have any energy left. He finished smoothing the comforter, folding the edge down the way he’d seen people do in movies, trying to make it look inviting instead of just functional.

When he turned back, you were still there, closer now. Too close if he was being honest.

He could see the tired redness in your eyes, the way your bottom lip was caught between your teeth. “Bed’s ready.”

“Thank you.”

“You should get some rest.”

But neither of you bothered to move. The space between you grew smaller by the second, like a single breath could tear it. You stepped forward, just to close the last bit of distance.

Before he could even process it, your arms slipped around his middle and you hugged him. It was tired, desperate and a little bit broken.

His body stilled in surprise, hands hovering awkwardly at first, not sure if he was allowed to touch you back.

Your face pressed into his chest. Before he could think better of it, you tilted your head up. He realized what you were about to do a second too late.

Your lips brushed his. It was barely a kiss. More like the idea of one.

Bucky pulled back immediately like he was shot. “Baby,” the word was barely a whisper, only that much he could manage. “Hey, no.”

Confusion painted your face as you blinked up at him, probably a little stung too. “Why not?”

He set his hands gently on your shoulders, keeping a small but firm distance. “Because this isn’t right.”

Your brows pulled further together. “Least you could do is entertain me,” you tried for a joke that didn’t quite land.

“I want to kiss you. Believe me, I do.” Getting those words out while being in such close proximity was a pain.

“Then do it.”

He shook his head. “You’re angry, and sad, and… exhausted.” He listed things that had nothing and everything to do with this.

“So?”

“So this is not how I want our first kiss to be.”

Your breath stopped, then became faster. “What does it matter?” It doesn’t mean anything anyway.” There was a tremble in your voice, he would’ve missed it if he was far.

Without thinking, he reached out, his hand landing gently on your waist. “It means everything to me. And I’m not gonna fuck this up.”

Bucky saw the anger giving away to pure, raw hurt. He saw it happen in real time, your eyes welling with tears.

“Stop saying these things… the right things.”

“I’m not trying to—”

"Yes you are. You're doing that thing. That calm voice. The one that makes me feel like I'm overreacting even when I'm not."

He realized his thumb had moved on its own and had no idea when it started. “It’s not a thing. It's just… me.”

An ugly sound left your mouth as your face crumpled. And then you did something that nearly broke him, you hit his chest. It was just a small, frustrated little fist against his shirt. But it was enough to break his heart. “I hate you.” Another weak thump. “I hate you for making me miss you.”

He made no efforts to stop you. He just stood there and took it. The least he could do.

Your hands curled into the fabric of his shirt and you hit him again, softer this time, more like you were running out of steam. “I was fine before you,” "I had a routine. I had my stupid little routine and my stupid little life and it was fine. I was fine… then you showed up and… and messed everything up.” Your shoulders shook, the fight draining out of you completely. “You ruined it, James.”

Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you in.

This time you didn’t resist. You folded against him like you’d been waiting to. Your face pressed into his chest again, and he could feel the damp warmth of your tears through his shirt. “I’m so tired. I don’t wanna be sad anymore.”

His own eyes burned, chest aching in a way he didn’t have a name for. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I’m so damn sorry.”

Your fingers gripped him tight, not wanting to let go. And he didn’t.

He didn’t let go of you for a long time. Not until your breathing evened out a little and the trembling in your shoulders settled.

Eventually you pulled away first. Just enough to look up at him with tired eyes.

“I should leave,” he spoke softly, not to spook you, because it felt like the responsible thing to offer, even though every part of him hated the idea.

“No.” Your answer came too fast.

He tried again. “I… I can take the couch. You know, give you some space.”

“No.”

“Alright,” he said after a second. “I’ll take that chair over there.” He pointed at the chair by the window.

“No.”

A small helpless laugh escaped him. “Okay, then I’ll just stand here all night.”

“No.” You looked at him like the suggestion itself offended you.

He rubbed a hand over his face, unsure about what you actually wanted. “Sweetheart, you gotta help me out here.”

Instead of answering, you reached for his hand and tugged. “Bed.”

His brain went blank. Surely you didn’t mean that?

“Just… lie down with me… please.”

He’d imagined this moment a hundred times, a thousand times even, but none of them were under these circumstances.

The both of you lay there stiff as hell first, like teenagers who didn’t quite know what to do with their limbs. You were on your side facing the window, and he was on his back beside you, staring up at the ceiling and trying to remember how to breathe normally.

The room was dark, warm and filled with the soft sounds of the night. Everything that brings one to sleep.

It should have felt peaceful. It was anything but.

He decided against tossing and turning, he didn’t want to disturb you. Laying still like a statue near you, until your voice interrupted his thoughts. “Are you sleeping?”

“No.”

A couple minutes went by and he figured you'd fallen asleep again.

Then the mattress shifted.

Before he could ask anything, you moved. Suddenly you were over him, knees bracketing his hips like you'd decided something without telling him.

No. No. Absolutely not.

His whole body went rigid with surprise. Apparently it didn’t get the memo about the situation, and it did exactly what a guy’s body would do, if the girl he loved straddled his crotch.

Shit.

“What— ah— what are you doing?”

There was hesitation in your eyes, but there was something else too. Something restless and raw.

You leaned down like you were about to kiss him.

Instinct took over before he could second guess it. His hands found your hips to steady you, to keep things from tipping over into something neither of you was ready for.

Gently, he rolled you off him and switched positions so he was the one hovering above you instead.

“What are you doing?” he asked again, a little more serious this time.

Your eyes searched his face. “I — I don’t know.”

“Are you checking… testing me? To see if I’m just here to get you into bed?”

Your mouth pressed into a thin line. “Maybe.”

The word stung more than he expected.

“If that’s what you think,” he tried to keep his voice steady, failing nonetheless, “then you’re wrong.”

“I don’t know what to think anymore.” You turned your head away.

He climbed off you slowly, careful not to make you feel cornered, and settled beside you instead, lying on his side so you were face to face.

The distance between you felt less dangerous like this. Safer even.

“I know you’re hurting,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “And I know I’m the reason. But I’m not here for sex.”

You let out a humorless little sound. “That’s not what it looked like five minutes ago.”

He didn’t mean to get hard. It just happened. “I’m a guy with a pulse. You climb on top of me in the middle of the night… I’m not made of stone, though I wish I was. But that doesn’t change why I’m here.”

Expecting a response, he looked at you. But you stayed quiet, your gaze focused on the ceiling.

“So listen to me… and please believe me when I say this.”

Your eyes flicked back to his.

“Look- yeah. I liked your stream. I'm not gonna pretend I didn't. I'm not that noble. I loved watching you, loved seeing you confident and in control, loved that version of you. But that’s not why I stuck around.”

He took a breath before continuing. “I stayed because I loved talking to you.” The words came out simple and honest.

“I loved hearing about your day and your dumb vending machine coffee and the way you laugh at your own jokes before you even finish telling them. I loved the sound of your voice when you were half asleep. I loved that you called me out when I tried to dodge questions. That’s what mattered to me. That’s what matters to me.”

Your eyes were fixed on him, searching for any cracks.

“If it was just about seeing you on a screen, I could’ve done that with another account. I coudve stayed anonymous and kept my distance and none of this would have fuckin’ happened. But I didn’t want that. I wanted you.” The last part came out softer.

Sure, he’s just poured his heart out, amending all his mistakes, it’s normal to expect a reply. But you didn’t give him one. As time went on, he watched you blink slowly, the day finally catching up to you again.

But then you shifted closer on the pillow, studying his face in the dim light. “Are you gonna disappear if I fall asleep?”

Whatever he had expected you to say, it wasn’t this. “No. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

He reached out carefully and brushed a strand of hair away from your face, giving you plenty of time to pull back if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

He stayed exactly where he said he would, listening to your breathing slow down, hoping with everything he had that this fragile little truce was the beginning of something he hadn’t completely ruined.

Morning light crept in through the window and woke you up whether you wanted it to or not. For a few seconds you didn’t remember where you were, or why the bed felt different, or why the room smelled faintly like him instead of just you. The weight beside you registered then, pulling your focus to the man who'd turned your world upside down yet somehow made the bed feel less empty. Everything from the night before drifted back in slow pieces, unwelcome. He was still asleep. Curled toward you, one arm resting loosely across your waist, his shoulder angled in a way that almost looked protective. Like his body had decided sometime in the middle of the night that this was where it was supposed to be. The first thing you noticed was that he was warm. The second was how safe you felt without meaning to. It caught you off guard completely. You lay very still for a moment, watching him breathe. Up close like this he looked younger and softer. There were faint lines around his eyes and a tiredness to his face that hadn’t been as obvious yesterday. Dark circles, the kind that came from nights that weren’t really nights at all. He hadn’t slept much either. Your eyes traced over him slowly, taking him in without the panic and anger that had colored everything before. The slope of his nose. The stubble along his jaw that had grown in just enough to be noticeable. The way his lashes rested against his cheeks. He looked peaceful. And for the first time since all of this exploded, you let yourself think something gentle about him.

He didn’t mean to lie. The thought arrived quietly, without excuses attached to it. He didn’t wake up one day and decide to trick you. He worried too much about doing the wrong thing and ended up doing it anyway. He got scared. He hesitated. He made a mess. Your hand moved before you really planned it. Slowly, you lifted your palm and let it hover near his face, giving yourself a chance to change your mind. When you didn’t, you rested it against his cheek, fingers just barely brushing his jaw. His skin was warm under your touch. He made a small sound in his throat. That sound birthed an intense need right under your ribs.

You wanted to kiss him. The thought surprised you. You’ve felt this before with him, before all the hurt and drama, before he took your heart to pieces. But now you want to again. The realisation scared you a little. Your thumb brushed along his cheekbone almost absentmindedly, and he shifted closer without waking, like his body recognised you even in sleep. You didn't give yourself time to overthink it, you’ll probably chicken out if you did. Leaning forward, you pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. It was small. Almost shy. You pulled back and watched him, expecting him to wake right away, to jump, to pull back like he had been doing all night. But he stayed where he was, breathing still even. A few seconds passed. Then his eyes fluttered open. At first he just blinked at you, unfocused and sleepy, like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was still dreaming. You saw the exact moment he realized where he was and who he was with. The moment everything came rushing back. “Oh.” His voice was laced with sleep. His gaze dropped to the way he was wrapped around you and he immediately tried to move away, pushing himself back on instinct. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—” You didn’t let him finish. Your hand caught the front of his shirt before he could get far. “Don’t.”

James froze, you could see the panic already start to build behind his eyes. To ease him, you added, “I’m not mad.”

Still, he hesitated, unsure of what to do. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

He looked like he didn’t quite believe you, but he stopped trying to put distance between you.

The space felt too big anyway.

You tugged him closer again, just enough so he understood you meant it.

He watched you carefully, probably waiting for some kind of catch.

Truth is, there wasn’t one.

This time you kissed his cheek. You could feel him going very still.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Good morning to you too.”

You kissed his forehead next. Then his jaw. Each one was gentle, unhurried, like you were trying to tell him something without actually finding the words.

His face went warm under your lips.

“You’re… uh,” he started, then stopped. “You’re being very nice for someone who wanted to throw me out last night.”

A tiny laugh escaped you. “Don’t ruin it.”

“I’m trying not to.” He sounded flustered in a way you only heard on calls.

He looked different like this. Sleepy and confused and a little overwhelmed. Not the confident steady version you were used to. More like a boy who didn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

And he really didn’t. They hovered awkwardly between you for a second before settling carefully at your waist, like he was afraid to touch too much.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not planning to stab me, right?”

“Not today.”

“Well… that’s comforting.”

A smile broke before you could stop yourself.

You studied him for a moment, still close enough to feel his breath on your face

It felt like the both of you were trying to figure out the rules of a brand new game you’d never played before.

Clearing his throat, “just so you know, I wasn’t trying to… you know… crowd you. I move around when I sleep. I didn’t want you to wake up and think I was being weird.”

Immediately, you shook your head, “I didn’t think that.”

He watched you closely, like he was trying to figure you out maybe. “How are you feeling?”

The question was simple, but it carried a lot. That he cared, that he was not just in it for the fun.

“Better than yesterday.”

Relief flickered across his face before he could hide it, bringing a sort of warmth to you.

You let your fingers trail lightly along the collar of his shirt, just something to do with your hands, because staying still brought new thoughts into your head, ones you’d rather not have now.

“I meant what I said… about not going anywhere.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“I think so.”

He exhaled slowly, like that meant more to him than he wanted to admit. “This is just… not how I pictured any of this going.”

“You pictured waking up in my bed differently?” You raised an eyebrow.

“I — I didn’t picture waking up in your bed at all… not like this. I mean. You know what I mean.”

You did, but watching him stumble over his words was strangely comforting. “You’re blushing.”

“’m not.”

“You absolutely are… it’s kinda cute.” You laughed again, and the sound felt easier this time, less forced, reminded you of times when you used to laugh together.

His eyes fixated on you, while he let out a soft sigh. “You… confuse me.”

“How?”

“Last night you wanted to murder me. This morning you’re… kissing my face like I rescued a puppy.”

“That’s a weird comparison.”

“You get my point.”

“I’m allowed to feel more than one thing at once… and I’m still mad at you… but I’m not mad right this second.”

He nodded slowly, accepting that. You stayed close to him for a while longer, neither of you really knowing what to do with the quiet comfort that had settled between you.

Eventually you shifted a little, inching closer until your face was against his shoulder.

He hugged you back, but it was a bit awkward. A little hesitant, like he was trying to remember what he was allowed to do now and what he wasn’t. His hand rested between your shoulder blades, you could feel how cautious he was being.

It almost made you laugh.

Almost.

You could hear his breathing change, slower now, calmer, and it occurred to you that this was the first time since that night you didn’t feel like your chest was being squeezed from the inside.

“I have to get ready for my shift,” you broke the silence, even though you really didn’t want to. The words felt heavy leaving your mouth.

Nodding immediately, his hand started to release you from its touch, “okay. You go take a shower. I’ll make something to eat and then I’ll drop you.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Didn’t know I signed up for a maid.”

A small crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Baby, come on.”

Narrowing your eyes at him in mock offense, “did I tell you that you can call me baby?”

James looked at you like he’d given up, like he was sure this is it, he’s fucked up again.

“I don’t remember giving you permission.”

His face shifted from worried to confused to amused in about two seconds. “You’re messing with me, aren’t you?”

“…no.”

He reached over without thinking and tickled your side, just once. You yelped and laughed before you could stop yourself, instinctively curling into him to make him stop.

“That’s cheating,” you complained, still half laughing.

“I didn’t sign anything that said no tickling.”

To stop him from trying again, you wrapped your arms tighter around him and pressed your face against his chest. He went still, clearly not expecting that reaction, though after that, his arms settled around you properly.

Ending up nose to nose, you were close enough that you could see the little flecks of color in his eyes.

He held your gaze for a second too long and then suddenly looked away, staring somewhere over your shoulder instead.

“Are you scared of doing something to me?” The question slipped out before you had time to soften it.

“Yeah.”

“Because… you think you’ll lose control?”

He shook his head slowly, like you were ridiculous for asking him that. “No. Not that.”

“Then what?”

You could tell he’s hesitant, choosing his words carefully. “I’m terrified because this feels really good. Laying here next to you. Talking to you without everything being a mess for five minutes. And I don’t want this to turn into something I only get to remember later.”

Whatever you’d expected, this wasn’t that. This moment felt delicate, like it needed to be handled gently. But you’re really not ready for that conversation yet.

Reluctantly, you pushed yourself up on your elbow. “I really do have to get ready.”

“Yeah… adult responsibilities and all that.”

Getting out of bed felt harder than it should have. He stood up with you, stretching a little, suddenly looking big and out of place in your small bedroom.

“I’ll be quick.”

“Take your time. I’ll figure out something edible in your kitchen.”

You grabbed your things and headed toward the bathroom, glancing back once to see him already moving toward the kitchen.

The shower helped clear the rest of the sleep from your head. Hot water, familiar routine, the simple comfort of something normal. You let yourself stand under the spray longer, replaying the morning in small pieces.

It was strange how different everything felt in daylight.

By the time you finished and wrapped yourself in a towel, the apartment smelled like coffee and something cooking.

That alone made you pause.

When you walked out, he was standing at the stove looking far too serious about scrambled eggs.

“You didn’t have a lot to work with,” he called out without turning around, “so don’t expect a five star breakfast.”

“I’m impressed you found anything at all.”

“You underestimate my survival skills.”

You leaned against the counter and watched him move around your kitchen. There was something almost domestic about it, something that tugged at you in a quiet, unexpected way.

He set a plate in front of you a few minutes later. “Eat. Doctor’s orders.”

“I’m the doctor.”

“Then consider it patient’s orders.”

A loud laugh escaped you because of its ridiculousness. You sat down to do as you were told.

The food was simple, but warm and made by someone who clearly wanted to take care of you. That mattered more than anything.

Halfway through the plate you glanced up at him.

“I liked it.”

Glancing at your plate, “the eggs?” “No. Well, yes, that too. But not just that.” You poked at your food, suddenly feeling shy for no good reason. “I liked when you made me eat. When you… you know… took care of me.” The words sounded small coming out of you.

“Can I be honest?” he asked, but didn’t wait for your response. “That’s my favorite part too.”

“Not my stripping?” You raised an eyebrow, because that surprised you.

A slow grin spread across his face. “You do a terrific job, don’t get me wrong.”

“But?”

“But no.”

“Not even when I jerked off for you?”

His cheeks went pink in an instant. “No,” he admitted anyway.

You laughed at the reaction. “Wow. That’s a hit to the ego.”

“It shouldn’t be.” He leaned back in his chair, searching for the right way to say it. “I liked all of that. Obviously. But the part I looked forward to the most was after. When you’d ask me to talk about my day, and I’d ramble on about stupid stuff, and you’d fall asleep while I was still talking.”

You stopped chewing for a second. “That… that’s your favorite part?”

“Yeah. It is.”

“Not exactly sexy.” He shrugged. “Didn’t have to be.”

Something warm and uncomfortable and hopeful settled inside you all at once.

The two of you finished breakfast slowly, filling the space with small, ordinary conversation. Work schedules, bad hospital coffee, how little sleep either of you had gotten. Nothing earth shattering, but it felt important anyway.

When you finally stood up to get dressed, he cleared the plates without being asked. “Ready whenever you are,” he called out.

You got changed, grabbed your bag, and met him by the door.

He held your coat out for you without thinking, and you slipped into it with a small smile. This felt natural, like it was meant to be.

“You really are leaning into this whole caretaker role,” you teased.

“Figured I’d start building up some good karma.”

The ride to the hospital was quiet. Not the tense silence from before, just two tired people sharing space. He drove carefully, like he was more aware of you than the road half the time.

When he pulled up in front of the building, he turned toward you.

“You sure you’re okay going in today?”

“I don’t really have a choice.”

“Text me if it gets rough.”

He looked like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how.

“Thank you… for everything this morning.”

“Anytime.”

You reached for the door handle, then paused.

“You’re still gonna be around later, right?” Your voice was shakier than you meant it to.

You scanned his eyes for any emotion, anything, mainly hesitation, but you didn’t find it. “Yeah. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Okay.”

The rest of your shift dragged in that slow, heavy way work only drags when you are waiting for something.

Everytime the automatic doors slid open you glanced up without meaning to, expecting to see him leaning against the wall with that nervous, hopeful look on his face.

He’d said he’d wait, not come barge inside the hospital. But that didn’t stop you from hoping and disappointing yourself.

By noon you had convinced yourself you were being ridiculous. By three you had convinced yourself you were being delusional.

By the time your shift finally ended and you walked out into the cold evening air, you had convinced yourself of something worse.

He wasn’t there.

You just stood on the steps outside the hospital, letting the doors hiss shut behind you, feeling a small foolish knot form in your stomach.

Of course he wouldn’t be there. He had his own life, probably realized babysitting you wasn't as fun as it seemed at the moment.

Besides, he’d already done enough. He had driven you in, made you breakfast, stayed all morning. You hadn’t actually asked him to wait.

See you around later don’t really mean that he’d be waiting by the door.

Expecting it now felt childish, like believing in promises that were never really spoken.

Still, you looked anyway.

Your eyes scanned the sidewalk. But nothing. No tall familiar shape. No leather jacket. No slightly anxious smile.

You told yourself not to care. You didn’t listen. Listening would mean admitting how much you'd let him in already, how the absence gnawed like hunger.

That’s when you saw the bike.

Parked exactly where he had left it that morning.

Your chest did a strange confused flip. Relief and irritation mixed together. He was here, but he wasn’t here?

A tiny stubborn voice in your head whispered that maybe he had gotten tired of waiting after all. Maybe he had changed his mind. Maybe all the careful gentleness of the morning had worn off in the daylight. But who would leave their motorcycle behind?

You stood there for another minute, pretending to check your phone while the thoughts went in unhelpful circles.

Finally you sighed and did something you hadn’t planned on doing. You unblocked him.

Feeling a little pathetic, your thumb hovered for a moment, but you called him anyway.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” you tried to sound casual, not at all suspicious, not at all missing him. “Where are you?”

There was a pause and a little rustling. “Turn around.”

Across the street, stepping out of the small café on the corner, he appeared holding a paper bag in one hand and two cups in the other. He lifted the phone slightly in a small wave.

“I’m right here,” he said into the line. “Sorry. It got a little cold out there.”

Deciding to walk toward him, “Were you just here all day?” you asked once you were close enough.

“Not all day. I went back home for a bit, showered, changed clothes, and then I came back with lunch.”

Lunch? For you? The idea bloomed within a moment, because no one's ever thought that far ahead for your sake.

“But when I got here you were already eating in the cafeteria with some other interns. You looked kinda busy… so I didn’t want to interrupt,” he smiled sheepishly, like he was the one that did something untoward.

“So you just… stayed?”

“Yeah.” Like it’s the most obvious thing.

“James.”

He gave you another sheepish smile. “I didn’t really have anywhere better to be.”

A strange warm ache spread through your chest. “So you waited outside the hospital for hours?”

“Not exactly,” he suddenly looked a little embarrassed. “I ate the lunch I brought for you, then I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I sort of just… hung around. And then it got cold, like I said, so I went in there for coffee.”

He held out one of the cups toward you. “Got you something too.”

The expression on his face was almost painfully hopeful.

“Oh, James,” you said before you could stop yourself.

He shrugged again, clearly unsure how to react. “It’s just coffee and a scone. Nothing dramatic.”

Nobody has ever done something like this for you before, the realization hit you harder than you expected.

Without thinking much about it, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

He went still for half a second, surprised at your sudden affection, then relaxed into the hug like he had been waiting for permission all day.

“You didn’t have to stay,” you murmured against him.

“I — I wanted to.”

The simplicity of that answer made tears well up. You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Can we go home?”

You could see relief on his face. “Yeah. Absolutely.”

The ride back today felt different from the one yesterday. You held onto him a little more easily, not worrying so much about where your hands were supposed to go. He drove slower than necessary, like he was stretching the minutes on purpose.

By the time you reached your apartment you felt tired in a good way, the kind of tired that came after a long honest day instead of the exhausting kind that came from crying.

Dropping your bag by the door, you kicked off your shoes. “I have a show tonight,” you casually told him, shrugging out of your coat. “If you want, you can watch from here.” The words felt bold the second they left your mouth.

He froze halfway through setting the coffee on the counter. Just by staring at his face, you couldn’t decipher his thoughts.

“No. I’ll leave.”

But this, you hadn’t expected at all.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think you’ll be comfortable doing that with me sitting in the other room.”

You studied his face, trying to figure out if he was being noble or just scared.

“Who said you’d be in the other room?”

If eyes could spontaneously fall out of orbits, you’d think James’ would’ve done that this second. “What— I mean — what do you — uhm — mean? By … uh… that?”

Do all grown men get this flustered? You didn’t hide the smile on your face. “That you’d be in the same room?”

You don’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t this. He stood there like a frozen statue, mouth half open in a small ‘o’, and it didn’t look like he was going to speak any soon, “okay,” you said after a moment. “Then I’ll cancel the stream. We can do something together instead.”

Finally, he seemed to gain back his composure, he shook his head. “No, you don’t have to change your plans for me. I’m already bothering you enough. You go on with your night and I’ll come by tomorrow.”

The idea of him walking out the door right now made your stomach twist.

“Oh, you’re cumming tonight,” you said before thinking it through.

His eyes widened and a deep blush crept up his neck. “Baby, please,” he muttered, a soft laugh slipping through.

You couldn’t help smiling at the reaction. Teasing him felt easier than admitting what you actually wanted to say.

Then you took a breath and said it anyway. “I like you, James. Or Bucky. Or whoever you are when you’re not confusing the hell out of me.”

He went quiet, really quiet, like he was trying to make sure he heard you correctly. “I don’t care if I’m James or Bucky. I’m just… yours. If you want me.”

The room felt suddenly much smaller.

Looking at him, you saw tired eyes and nervous hands twisting together, you realized something very simple and very frightening.

You did want him. You wanted the complicated, slightly awkward man standing in your kitchen who had waited a whole afternoon, just to see you walk out of a shift.

“I want you to stay.”

He didn’t do anything except nod.

“So,” you lifted the coffee he had brought you, “what exactly did you get me?”

“Vanilla latte. Extra hot. And a scone that the lady at the counter swore would change your life.”

“High expectations for baked goods.”

“I believe in small miracles.”

He leaned against the counter while you took a sip, watching you carefully like your opinion on the coffee was somehow very important.

“It’s good.”

His shoulders relaxed a fraction.

The two of you settled, talking about nothing in particular for a while. Work stories. Bad patients. The ridiculous price of hospital parking. Ordinary things that filled up space in a gentle, easy way.

At some point he rolled up his sleeves to help you put away a few dishes you had left in the sink. You protested out of habit and he ignored you out of stubbornness. The domestic normalcy of it all made you feel oddly shy.

“So what do you actually want to do tonight?” he asked after a bit.

“I don’t know. I didn’t really plan past surviving the day. We could just… exist.”

He smiled at that. “Existing together sounds nice.”

You sat on the couch and he sat beside you, not too close but close enough. The television stayed off. The room stayed quiet. It felt like learning each other in small manageable pieces.

After a while he glanced at you.

“Are you really okay cancelling the stream?”

“Yeah. I don’t feel like pretending tonight.”

“That’s fair.”

You turned toward him a little more. “And I don’t feel like hiding you.”

Because finally, it felt like maybe the two of you were finally standing on the same side of the mess instead of opposite ends.

He was nervous again, you could tell. The careful kind of nervous, where he was afraid to say the wrong thing and tip the balance.

The two of you had spent so much time talking about the big heavy stuff that now the small things felt strangely intimate.

You watched him. He looked tired again, but he looked real.

Not like the confident voice you had imagined through a screen. Not like the stranger from the hospital hallway. Just a man sitting on your couch, holding a cup of coffee, hoping he hadn’t messed things up beyond repair.

“Thank you for staying.”

His face softened. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

“I do… nobody really… does that for me.”

He shifted closer without thinking about it, the space between you shrinking little by little in that natural, unspoken way.

“I want to be the person who does.”

You looked down at your hands, suddenly unsure where to put them, what to do with all the feelings that had been building for days.

“James?”

“Yeah?”

“Are we okay?” You don’t know why you asked him that, especially because you were the one who should be making the decision.

He didn’t answer right away. He reached over instead, carefully taking the cup from your hands and setting it on the table beside his.

Then he turned back to you.

“We’ll get there… if you want us to.”

“I do.”

That was the moment something shifted. Just a quiet turning point, like two people finally stepping onto the same page at the same time.

He brushed a strand of hair away from your face with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

You leaned into him without hesitation, fitting yourself against his side, your head resting on his shoulder. His arm came around you easily, like it belonged there.

He called you by your name for the first time ever, as he turned to properly look at you, “I’m scared of this, of whatever this is… I don’t want to ruin this again… not hurt you even by accident.”

“You won’t.” You surprised yourself with how sure you sounded.

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re trying.”

He went quiet at that. He searched your face for a long moment, making sure you meant it. You did.

Reaching up, you touched his cheek, the same way you had that morning when he was half asleep. This time his eyes were open, watching you, waiting.

“I’m not angry anymore.” He could feel your words more than he could hear them.

“I know.”

“And I’m not doing this to test you.”

“Do… what?”

Your thumb brushed along his jaw and he closed his eyes, leaning into your touch.

“This.” You leaned forward to meet his lips with yours, initiating the thing you’d long wanted.

When he kissed you back, it was slow and full of everything the two of you had been trying to say all day. An apology and a promise wrapped up in one simple act.

You kissed him back without holding anything in reserve.

His lips moved against yours like he'd been holding back a storm, and now that the dam had cracked, there was no containing it.

The kiss had started soft, almost careful, his mouth still tentative as if he were testing, afraid one wrong step might send everything crumbling again. But you pressed closer, your fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt at his chest, that seemed to unravel him just a little.

You could feel the shift in him, the way his hand at your waist tightened just fractionally, fingers splaying wide like he needed to remind himself you were real and here and not mad at him.

His other hand came up to cup the back of your neck, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw in a stroke that was so gentle, contrasting the growing hunger in how his lips parted yours.

God, this was him. Your James. The one you’d longed to see. Not the voice through a phone or the shadow across a screen, but flesh and breath against you.

The realization chased away the last lingering chill of yesterday's anger, leaving only this raw, aching want that had been simmering under everything else.

You wanted to drown in it, in him.

He broke the kiss first, but only barely, his forehead resting against yours as he dragged in a breath that fanned warm across your mouth.

Dark eyes met yours, when he pulled back just enough to look at you, a flush creeping up to his cheek.

"What?" Your hand stayed fisted in his shirt, not quite ready to let go, because if you did, maybe this fragile thing between you would slip away again.

Part of you still waited for the catch, the moment he'd pull back and remind you both of the mess, but he didn't. Instead, he just looked at you, like he was memorizing the way your mouth looked swollen from his, the way your breath came a little faster now.

"You're — Jesus, you're … perfect." Another low groan escaped him as you shifted closer, your thigh brushing his, feeling the hard line of him pressing insistently against the fabric of his jeans, unmistakable where it nudged your hip.

It sent a fresh wave of heat curling through you, making your core clench with a need that surprised you with how immediate it was, how it basically drowned out everything else.

He noticed you noticing, his body going tense under your hand like he'd been caught, a deeper flush staining his cheeks. "Sorry, I— shit, I didn't mean to—"

You cut him off with a small laugh that bubbled up unbidden, teasing despite the way your pulse raced. "Don't apologize for that." Your fingers loosened in his shirt just enough to trail down, brushing the edge of his belt buckle in a graze that made his breath hitch audibly.

He was so responsive like this, all that careful restraint from earlier cracking under the simplest touch, it chased away the last shadows of doubt.

You'd spent so long feeling exposed, vulnerable in ways that left you raw, but right now, with him flushing under your fingertips, it felt like power, like you could take back a piece of what he'd accidentally stolen.

His hand caught yours gently, holding it there, thumb tracing circles over your knuckles as he let out a shaky exhale. His eyes flicked down to your mouth, lingering there, and you could see the war in him.

The want was clear as day in the way his hips shifted almost imperceptibly toward you, but the hesitation still clung to him, like he was afraid one wrong move would shatter this.

Leaning in, you nipped lightly at his lower lip before soothing it with a slow drag of your tongue. Your free hand found its way to the nape of his neck, fingers threading into the short hairs there, tugging just enough to tilt his head back to expose the line of his throat.

Pressing your lips there, you tasted the salt of his skin, feeling the way his Adam's apple bobbed under your mouth as he swallowed hard, another proof that this affects him much like it affects you.

"God, baby." The nickname slipped out, his hand sliding from your wrist to your hip, gripping just tight enough to bunch the fabric of your shirt.

You could feel the heat of him through your clothes, the way his body tensed and released in waves, like he was fighting not to pull you flush against him.

It made your thighs press together, the ache building sharper now, a steady throb that had you rocking forward without thinking, grinding lightly against the hard length of him.

Hissing through hiss teeth, his head fell back against the couch cushions, eyes squeezing shut for a beat. "If you keep — keep doing that, I'm not gonna be able to think straight, or last much longer, fuck —"

"Who said it was a problem?" The words came out bolder than you felt, laced with that teasing lilt you'd used on streams a lifetime ago, but this was different, it was real. Because it was just for him.

He turned his head, capturing your mouth again in a kiss that was less gentle this time, more insistent, his tongue sweeping in deep, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.

Matching him, you let your teeth graze his lip, drawing another of those low, guttural sounds that made you clench tighter, gathering slick between your thighs.

His hand slid up your side under your shirt, palm against the bare skin of your ribs, stopping just short of your breast like he was waiting for permission. It made you want to push him further, to see how far that restraint would hold before it snapped.

"James... can we go to the bed?"

You felt him go still beneath you, his hand pausing its slow circles on your hip. He shifted you effortlessly in his arms, one arm banding secure around your waist as he stood, lifting you with him in a fluid motion that had your legs wrapping around his hips.

A surprised laugh escaped you as he carried you toward the bedroom, his steps steady despite the way his breath came ragged against your neck.

"Careful.” There was a smile in his voice as he nudged the door open with his shoulder. "You're gonna make me drop you if you keep laughing like that."

His free hand braced against the doorframe for a second, steadying you both. You could feel the tremor in his arms, the effort it took to hold back, to not just press you against the wall and take what he'd been denying himself all night. Take you.

"You won't." You nuzzled into the crook of his neck, lips brushing the carotid. "You're too strong for that." The words were teasing, but there was truth in them too, a quiet awe at the way he held you, careful and sure.

He lowered you onto the bed like you were glass, following you down without breaking contact, his body settling over yours in a way that pinned you gently, thighs bracketing yours, forearms braced on either side of your head.

The mattress dipped under his weight, and you arched up, chasing the friction that sent sparks skittering through your veins.

He didn't grind down like you expected. Instead, he hovered there. "God, look at you," he breathed, his hand coming up to trace the line of your collarbone with his thumb.

His touch was feather light, exploratory, like he was relearning every inch of you now that he could see it all, touch it all without the barrier of a screen.

"James..." It came out as a whine, needy and and his eyes flicked up to meet yours, darkening further at the sound.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, trailing down the column of your throat, lips parting to let his tongue flick out against your pulse there.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured against your skin, the words vibrating through you as he nipped at the hollow of your throat, then lower, shoving your shirt up with one hand to expose the soft plane of your stomach.

His lips followed, open-mouthed kisses scattered across your ribs, tongue dipping into your navel in a way that pulled a startled laugh from you, quickly dissolving into a moan as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pants and tugged them down inch by inch.

The cool air hit your skin, but it was nothing compared to the warmth of his breath ghosting over your hipbone, his teeth scraping lightly there.

Every touch felt like worship, like he was mapping you out with his mouth, committing to memory the way your body responded.

He was everywhere all at once, hands sliding up your sides to push your shirt higher, exposing your breasts to the air, thumbs brushing the undersides in slow circles that had your nipples peaking tight and aching.

"Fuck," he groaned, voice muffled as he ducked his head to take one into his mouth, tongue swirling around the peak while his hand cupped the other, rolling it gently between his fingers until you were panting, hips canting up toward nothing.

The sounds you made mingled with his low hums of approval, the wet slide of his mouth as he lavished attention on first one breast, then the other, sucking until you were sure he'd leave bruises blooming under your skin, marks that would remind you of this tomorrow, of him.

Your hands found his hair, tugging at the strands, and he groaned against you, making you slicker, needier, the empty ache inside you throbbing with every flick of his tongue. "Please, James" you whispered, not even sure what you were begging for, just knowing you needed more, needed him to fill the space he'd hollowed out in you with all those careful, devastating touches.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, lips shiny and swollen, eyes nearly black with want as he took in the sight of you. Your shirt was rucked up to your neck, pants tangled around your ankles, skin marked from his mouth.

"Tell me what you need.” One of his hand slid down to hook into your panties, tugging them aside to let his fingers brush through the wetness there.

You keened at the contact, hips bucking up, and he pressed a kiss to your sternum, then lower, trailing down your stomach as he worked the fabric down your legs. "Tell me, baby. I'll give you anything."

"You," you managed, the word a moan as he settled between your thighs, shoulders nudging them wider, his breath hot against your core. "Your mouth... please, James."

It felt vulnerable saying it like that, exposed in a way that went beyond the physical, but the way his eyes softened even as they darkened made it worth it, made you feel seen in the best possible way.

He didn't make you wait. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there as he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh, then higher, lips brushing the edge of your folds before his tongue flicked out, licking a fat stripe up your center, a choked cry spilling from your lips.

"Oh god," you gasped, fingers flying back to his hair, holding him there as he groaned into you, the sound muffled and desperate.

He was starving for it, you could tell in the way he devoured you, tongue delving deep to taste you fully, lapping at your entrance before circling your clit with precise, devastating strokes that had your legs trembling around his head.

Every flick, every suck sent sparks, building that coil tighter and tighter until you were rocking against his mouth, chasing the pressure, the heat.

His nose nudged your clit as he thrust his tongue inside you, fucking you with it in shallow, greedy strokes that had you babbling nonsense, pleas and his name entwined together on your tongue.

"James— fuck, right there, don't stop—" One hand left your thigh to slide up, two fingers pressing in alongside his tongue, curling just right to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids, and you shattered.

The orgasm ripped through you like a wave, your walls clenching around his fingers as you cried out.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it, your whole body shaking as he worked you through it, not stopping until you were gasping at the oversensitivity.

He pulled back slowly, lips glistening with you, eyes locked on yours as he licked his fingers clean with a groan that bordered on paine. "Taste so fucking good." He pressed a kiss to your hip that had you twitching.

His mouth trailed back up, worshipping every inch he'd just ravaged. Kisses were scattered across your stomach, nipping at the underside of your breast, sucking gently at your nipple until you whimpered, still too sensitive.

He murmured praises against your skin, words half lost in the haze of your afterglow. By the time his lips found yours again, you were arching into him, hands roaming under his shirt to feel the hard planes of his back.

When you kissed him, you taste yourself on his tongue, the tang of it filthy and intimate, making you clench around nothing.

"Your turn," you whispered against his mouth, pushing at his shoulders until he let you roll him onto his back, straddling his hips in one fluid motion.

He went willingly, hands settling at your waist, but his face was a deep, burning red, spreading from his cheeks down his neck, eyes wide and dark as you rocked against the hard ridge of him straining against his jeans.

"Look at you." You leaned down to nip at his earlobe. "All flushed and pretty. Bet you'd cum in your pants if I kept going like this."

A strangled laugh escaped him, his hands flexing on your hips like he wasn't sure if he wanted to pull you closer or hold you still. "Don't— fuck, don't say that."

Once again there was no real protest in it, just raw want, his hips jerking up once before he caught himself, breath coming in short pants.

You could feel how wet you still were, slicking his jeans as you ground down, the friction pulling a moan from you that had his eyes rolling back for a second, grip tightening enough to bruise in the best way.

Your hands found the hem of his shirt, tugging it up and over his head in a slow reveal that let you take in the broad expanse of his chest, the faint scars scattered like stories you wanted to learn, the way his muscles shifted under your palms as you traced them.

He helped you, as he tossed it aside, and then you were working at his belt, the clink of the buckle loud in the quiet room, your fingers brushing the hot skin of his abdomen.

"Lift." He obeyed, hips coming up so you could shove them down, boxers following, until his cock sprang free. Thick and flushed a deep, angry red, the head glistened with precum that beaded at the tip and dripped down the shaft.

"Fuck." You wrapped your hand around him loosely, feeling the velvet heat of him twitch in your grip, a bead of precum slicking your palm as you stroked once.

He bucked into it, a choked groan tearing from his throat, head falling back against the pillows with his eyes squeezed shut. You could feel the tension coiling in him, the way he was holding back by a thread, and it thrilled you, that power, the knowledge that you could unravel him just like he'd done to you minutes ago.

"So pretty," you pressed a soft kiss to the tip, tongue flicking out to lap at the salt of him, drawing another ragged sound from deep in his chest.

“The photos never did him justice, James.” You placed another wet kiss to the underside, the veins ridging your tongue. He groaned beneath you, probably from you referring to his cock as ‘him’, probably from you calling him pretty. Definitely.

His hand found your hair, tangling gently, like he needed the connection as much as the sensation.

"Baby— please," he rasped, voice breaking on the word, hips stuttering up toward your mouth. "Gotta be inside you. Can't— fuck, need to feel you."

He flipped you in a blur of motion, suddenly above you.

Settling between your legs, his cock nudged against your inner thigh as he braced himself over you, forearms caging you in without trapping.

"James—" It came out a moan as you hooked a leg around his hip, pulling him closer, feeling the broad head of him slide through your folds, slicking himself in your wetness with a drag that had you both shuddering.

He did it again, just rubbing up and down, the thick length of him catching on your clit with every pass until you were whining into his mouth, hips canting up to chase the friction.

With a low growl, he tapped the head right against that bundle of nerves, the wet smack of it obscene and filthy, sending jolts of pleasure sharp enough to make your toes curl.

"Fuck.” Your nails dug into his shoulders, leaving half-moon marks that he'd probably find later, and trace with a quiet sort of pride.

He looked wrecked above you, hair falling into his eyes, lips parted on ragged breaths, that flush still burning across his skin like he was running a fever just from touching you.

But then his expression shifted, something like realization cutting through the haze, and he stilled, cock still pressed hot against your clit, hips grinding shallow little circles that kept the pressure there but didn't give you what you both wanted.

"Shit… don't have a fuckin’ condom." The curse was a groan as he dropped his forehead to yours, breath coming in short, frustrated bursts.

He didn't pull away though, couldn't seem to, his hips keeping up that lazy humping rhythm, sliding through your folds in slick, teasing drags that had you biting your lip to stifle the sounds threatening to spill out.

The head caught your entrance on one pass, nudging just inside before slipping free again, and you both moaned at the almost-there of it, his grip on your hip tightening like he was using every ounce of willpower not to thrust home.

"I'm clean." The words tumbled out before you could second guess them, your hand sliding down to wrap around him, guiding him back to your entrance with a slow stroke that made him tremble above you. "On the pill too... it's okay."

He lifted his head, eyes searching yours in the dim light, that careful, hesitant part of him flaring up even now, like he needed to be sure, needed to know you meant it. "Baby, I— haven't had sex in... decades. Like, actual decades. Hydra perks. Get tested anyway, I’m clean too, but... you sure? Don't wanna—"

A laugh bubbled up from you, cutting through the tension, because of course he'd say something like that, turn a moment this charged into something so achingly him. He’d be worried and sweet even when his cock was leaking against your folds.

It eased the last knot in your chest, made everything feel lighter, realer, and you pulled him down by the back of his neck, sealing your mouth over his in a kiss that was all reassurance, all yes, tongue sweeping in to tangle with his, swallowing the little relieved noise he made.

He kissed you back like he was drowning in it, one hand cradling the side of your face while the other guided himself lower, rubbing the broad head through your folds again, coating himself in you until you were both slick.

His thumb found your clit on the next pass, circling, the pressure building that coil again, had you breaking the kiss to gasp against his lips. "James— please, now—"

With a final, teasing rub that had you keening, he notched himself at your entrance and pushed in, slow at first, stretching you open inch by thick inch until you felt impossibly full, the burn of it perfect and overwhelming, your walls fluttering around him like they were made for this, for him.

"So — fuck, so tight," his voice was muffled against your shoulder as he bottomed out, hips flush to yours, holding there for a beat while you both adjusted, breaths mingling in short, shared pants.

You could feel every twitch of him inside you, the way he throbbed, filling you in a way that pressed against every sensitive spot.

"Move," you whispered, nails scraping down his back in encouragement, and he obeyed, pulling out slowly before thrusting back in, the drag of him pulling a moan from you that he caught with his mouth, kissing you through it like he needed to taste every sound.

The rhythm built gradually, his hips rolling in steady, unhurried snaps that hit just right, grinding against your clit with every forward motion, your legs tightening around his waist to pull him impossibly closer.

You kissed him messy, tongues sliding together in time with his thrusts, breaking only for air, for half formed words— "Harder," and he obliged, pace quickening just enough to make the headboard tap faintly against the wall, the wet slide of him in and out filling the room with that intimate rhythm.

He was so big, stretching you to the point of ache and bliss in equal measure, every vein and ridge dragging against your walls in a way that had you clenching around him.

God he felt perfect like this, solid, warm and yours, the way his body moved over you, like he was controlled but fraying, sweat beading at his temples, dripping down to mingle with yours.

Everywhere, you felt him, the press of his chest against your breasts, the flex of his ass under your heels where you'd hooked your ankles, the way he whispered your name between kisses, lips brushing your temple, your cheek, your mouth again and again. And again.

The coil wound tighter with every thrust, every grind, until you were right there, teetering on that edge, his hand slipping between you to circle your clit in quick, desperate strokes. "Cum for me," he rasped, hips snapping harder now, as your walls started to flutter around him. "Wanna feel you— fuck, baby, cum on my cock."

It tipped you over, pleasure exploding, ripping a cry from your throat as you clenched down hard, milking him through it, your whole body seizing in waves that left you shaking, tears slipping down your temples.

He followed right after, burying himself deep with a guttural moan that muffled against your neck, spilling inside you, pulse after pulse that you could feel flooding you full.

His rhythm stuttered, hips grinding erratic as he rode it out, breath uneven against your skin, until he finally stilled, collapsing half onto you, close enough that you could feel every ragged inhale, the damp press of his forehead to your shoulder.

You could feel the warmth of him leaking out of you, sticky where it trickled down your thigh, and without thinking, your hand drifted lower, fingers dipping into the mess, coming away glistening with the mix of your release.

He lifted his head just enough to watch, eyes going hooded again as you brought them to your mouth, tongue darting out to taste the salt and tang of him mingled with your own sweetness, a soft, satisfied hum escaping as you licked them clean.

A curse slipped from him as he dropped his forehead back to your shoulder, body shuddering once like the aftershock of it hit him all over again.

His weight settled heavier against, like he needed the press of your body to steady him, his cock twitching inside where he was buried deep.

You could feel every bit of it. The slick fullness of him that stretched you still, the way your walls fluttered lazily around him, holding him close like your body wasn't quite ready to let go.

It was intimate in a way that went beyond the rawness of what you'd just done, this quiet aftermath where breaths mingled and skin stuck damp to skin, and part of you marveled at how right it felt, how his presence filled not just the space between your thighs but something hollower in your chest that had been aching since the moment everything shattered.

One of his hands drifted up from your hip, fingers tracing the curve of your side before finding the soft swell of your breast, cupping it gently at first, thumb brushing over your nipple in a lazy circle that made you hum, oversensitive but craving more all the same.

He pinched light enough to tease but firm enough to pull a gasp from you, rolling the peak between his fingers before releasing it, watching the way it pebbled tighter under his touch, begging for attention.

"These," he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to the valley between them, his breath warm against the damp skin there. "God, in real life... they're even better. So soft, so perfect. Streams never showed 'em like this — couldn't capture how they feel under my hands."

The words washed over you, warmth spreading to your neck that had nothing to do with the heat still simmering low in your belly.

You turned your head slightly, catching his gaze where he hovered above you, that post-orgasm haze making him look almost vulnerable.

It stirred something in you, a flicker of that old doubt creeping back in despite the way your body still sang from him, the way he'd just poured himself into you like it was the only place he wanted to be.

What if this was it, the peak, the moment he got what he'd been chasing through all those late-night calls and stolen glances? What if now that the fantasy had flesh and sex, he'd pull away, leaving you to wake up tomorrow with nothing but the ache of remembering?

"James." You lifted your hand to to trace the line of his jaw, feeling the faint prickle of stubble under your fingertips. "Now that you've... got a taste, you gonna just... go? Disappear again, now that it's real?"

He stilled above you, fingers pausing their lazy play at your breast, thumb hovering just over your nipple like he'd been caught mid-thought.

His expression shifted, something raw flickered behind his eyes, gone so quick you might've imagined it if not for the way his grip tightened fractionally on your hip.

Instead of words, though, he ducked his head, lips finding the curve of your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses there that started soft, almost apologetic, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt on your skin.

You felt the scrape of his teeth next, sucking in a slow pull that had your breath catching, a quiet moan slipping free.

"James," you tried again, half laughing through the whine building in your throat, your fingers threading into his hair to tug lightly, to remind him you were waiting, needing the answer more than the distraction. "Answer me... please. Don't just... hide like that."

His mouth paused, hovering warm against the fresh mark he'd left, the skin there tingling where his breath ghosted over it, already darkening under the faint throb of blood rushing to the surface.

Lifting his head slowly, his eyes met yours with that steady intensity, like he was seeing straight through to the scared little knot you'd tried to bury under the teasing.

Then his hand moved again, fingers returning to your breast, pinching your nipple a touch harder this time, rolling it with a twist that pulled a sharper gasp from you, sparks shot straight down to where he was still nestled deep inside, softening.

"I'm right here, talking about how goddamn beautiful you look right now.” His thumb soothed the sting with soft circles even as his eyes traced the way your breasts rose and fell with each quick breath.

"All marked and wrecked from me, and you're asking if one taste is enough? Like I'd walk away after this?" The pinch came again, harder now, drawing another whine from you, your hips shifting restlessly under him, feeling the slick mess of him leaking out where you were joined.

He knew exactly how to play you like this, turning your doubt into something molten and distracting, but the ache in your chest wouldn't quite let go, that nagging whisper wondering if he'd still be here come morning, if the tenderness in his touch was as real as it felt or just the afterglow talking.

You rocked up against him once, feeling him twitch inside you, still half hard and sensitive. The way his breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut for a beat, made you bold enough to push. "Feels like you're avoiding the question," your voice was breathy but laced with that teasing edge you'd always fallen back on when things got too heavy.

Sliding his hand between your legs, his palm came down on your clit again and again in quick, greedy bursts, the sharp little shocks making your thighs tremble while he kept you pinned on his cock.

"If I could stay buried inside you all day— fuck, I would. Wouldn't move an inch, just... feel you like this, warm , fuckin’ tight and mine." You could see the way his throat worked, like he was handing you a piece of himself he wasn't sure you'd keep, but it was harder to focus on his words when he’d just smacked the most intimate part of you, making you want to climb the crest once again.

As the heat of it pooled low again, the part of you that hates feeling adrift, that needs the solid ground of answers to keep from spiraling, surfaced yet again, impulsive and final.

You twisted your hips suddenly, pulling off him with a wet slide that left you both gasping, the sudden emptiness making you whine as his cum oozed out, trickling down your folds to pool sticky against your ass.

"Okay, now that you're not buried inside me, tell me. For real this time. You gonna stick around, or was this... enough?" You propped yourself up on your elbows, watching the way his eyes followed the mess, darkening with something hungry and conflicted.

He just stared at you for a beat, cock lying heavy and spent against his thigh, still glistening with you both. Then, with a grown, he shifted forward, hands finding your breasts again, thumbs circling your nipples in slow drags that had you arching despite yourself, a moan catching in your throat before you could bite it back.

"Enough?" he echoed, leaning down to kiss the swell of one breast, lips parting to let his tongue flick over the peak, sucking gently until you were trembling, hips lifting off the bed like your body had a mind of its own. "Baby, look at you — swollen, marked and so fucking responsive. How could this ever be enough?"

You tried to hold onto the need for clarity, but it frayed under his mouth, the way he lavished attention on first one breast, then the other, teeth grazing just enough to sting before soothing with wet, open-mouthed kisses that trailed lower, across the soft give of your stomach, nipping at the faint curve of your hip.

Moans spilled from you unbidden, your hands fisting in the sheets as heat built, chasing away your question.

"James— stop, I— answer me," you managed, voice wavering as his lips brushed the crease of your thigh, breath hot against the slick mess he'd left behind.

But he didn't stop, he couldn't seem to. His hands slid down to hook under your knees, spreading you wider with a gentleness that belied the hunger in his eyes as he settled lower, face level with your core.

The position left you exposed, vulnerable in a way that had your thighs tensing, trying to close against the sudden rush of self-consciousness.

His cum still leaked from you, mixing with your own arousal to glisten in the low light, folds puffy and flushed from everything you'd done.

You shifted, legs pressing together, a flush burning hot across your chest because, what if he saw it all now and regretted it, the reality not matching whatever perfect picture he'd built in his head from streams and fantasies?

His hand landed firmly on the inside of your thigh, palm warm and steady as he smacked, the pressure enough to still you, to remind you he wasn't going anywhere.

"Hey," he coaxed you, eyes met yours with that patient intensity that made your defenses waver. "Look at her— look how pretty she is."

You realised he was not talking about you, but your pussy, intimate and filthy all at once.

It pulled a shaky breath from you, heat flooding your face even as your legs parted under his touch, opening for him because how could you not, when he looked at you like that?

He reached up to cup the back of your neck with a tenderness that contrasted the rawness of everything else, guiding your head down gently so you could see for yourself.

The way your pussy looked, swollen and slick, his release still seeping out in lazy rivulets that caught the light, making everything gleam wet and inviting.

"See?" he whispered, thumb stroking the nape of your neck in slow circles, his other hand tracing feather light strokes along your inner thigh, like he wanted you to take in the sight, to own it with him. "So beautiful, all messy from me... fuck, she's perfect."

He spoke about your pussy like it was a privilege, fingers parting your folds gently, spreading you open to let the cool air kiss the sensitive skin there, dipping just the tip of one inside to swirl through the cum leaking from you.

A whine escaped your throat that turned into a full, broken moan when he slapped your pussy once, the sting blooming hot, making your hips buck up off the bed.

"James—" It came out wrecked, your hand flying to his wrist, needing the anchor as fresh arousal slicked your thighs.

He watched you with that dark, intent gaze, bringing his coated fingers to your mouth, pressing them past your lips as you sucked without being told to.

The flavor pulled another soft sound from you, he thrust his fingers shallow, mimicking what he'd done with his cock earlier.

"That's it…. taste us... fuck, you look so good like this, babydoll."

You hollowed your cheeks around him, sucking harder, eyes locked on his as heat built fresh between your legs, the slap still tingling where he'd struck.

Withdrawing his fingers slowly, trailing saliva and slick down your chin before he leaned in to kiss your pussy once, lips sealing around your clit for a beat before his tongue flicked out, lapping through the mess.

"Streams never got this right," he murmured against you, your hips lifting toward his mouth without meaning to. "Couldn't show how she flushes like this, all slick and swollen, leaking for me... god, she's gorgeous."

His fingers came back, one sliding in easy alongside the wetness he'd left, curling just right to hook against that spot inside that made your vision blur, thumb circling your clit in tandem with his mouth sucking gently at your folds, opening you wider with his free hand to taste deeper, to explore every crease and dip like he was committing it to memory.

The pressure built fast, overwhelming after everything else, your thighs trembling around his shoulders as you chased it, moans spilling free and unfiltered, "James, oh god— don't stop, please—“ until it crested, crashing through you in waves that left you crying out, walls clenchingg around his finger as you came again, harder this time, tears slipping hot down your temples, body shaking like you'd been wrung out.

He worked you through, mouth never leaving you until you were gasping, finally pulling back with a final, soft kiss to your thigh, eyes lifting to meet yours, dark but tender too.

"I can never be away from her again," he whispered, crawling back up your body to capture your mouth in a kiss that tasted of you both, tongue sweeping in to share the flavor as his hand cupped your face, thumb brushing away one of those stray tears with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

You kissed him back, pouring everything into it, the gratitude, the lingering want, the quiet certainty that this was real, messy and imperfect but yours.

When he finally broke it, he gathered you close until your face was against the warm plane of his chest, his heart beating steady under your cheek.

"Baby," his voice carried a weight, like he'd been turning the words over in his head while you caught your breath, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your spine, dipping low to rest at the curve of your lower back.

"It's not just sex for me… I've fallen in love with you. Been falling, probably since that first stupid hospital visit when you smiled at me. It's been... god, decades since I felt anything close to this, and I want to be yours, all in, if you'll have me. So no, I'm not going anywhere now that I've got a taste— I only want more. And I need you all for myself, if that's okay... if you want that too."

The confession was soft but heavy, pulling a quiet hitch into your breath because you'd felt it building too, that pull toward him that went beyond late-night whispers and online undressing, but hearing it out loud made it real.

You eyes met his, seeing the raw hope there, the faint lines of worry etching his forehead, easing something in you, made the world feel steady for the first time in days.

"Yeah," you whispered back, your hand lifting to cup his cheek, thumb tracing the edge of his stubble in a mirror of how he'd touched you earlier. "I want that... all of it. I want you, James."

His relief was immediate, a soft exhale that fanned warm across your forehead as he pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple that lingered, like he was sealing it, making it promise.

His heartbeat lulled you toward sleep as his fingers resumed their lazy path along your back.

series masterlist || main masterlist

extras. i am so relieved no matter how this actually turned out, bc this is the first time ever i’ve completed smth, let alone a series. as someone who never ever finishes anything, this is totally a huge deal. it was really a great experience writing and sharing this, made my heart burst with all the support, truly, that kept me going. thank you for all of that. i am in love with these two idiots, so if you want drabbles, or just to talk about them, my asks and dms are always open. even if my requests are closed, i’m always open to taking requests for these two! GOOD NIGHT WORLD.

permanent taglist. @devililithh @buckyfmd @sheriff-bodecker @honeysucklewatr @demiebarnes @solivagant-reverie @kqtholins @amoremarveloustime @colettebarnes @barnes-babydoll @miraclediviner @of-sanguine-eyes @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @manly-man-whore @indigo123789 @wasa-bby @biggestfangirl @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysbunnny @highhopes1008 @castielscaplan @ornateglass @grumpysunnybarnes @luvyoupxmimi @slutdier @yes-ilovetowrite @cautiouscas17 @astridphantom @delusionalwomsn @cinnamon-girl-writes @wherewinterblooms @stifflyspeedyquirk @sassandscribbles @marvelouslyme96 @stesha02 @floatingvalhallasea @goobers-mcgee @t1redphoenix @vickynguyennn @bluellamacheesecake-blog @serenityrjd @pitabread79 @galaxygoddess30 @biggestfangirl @chenoadouble-o7 @phoenix-in-writing @ceoofdisappointment @ladymiseryy @wherewinterblooms @avgdestitute + get added to my taglist!

It was easy, far too easy, to enter both your house and you. 

Mid-term break not only meant a reprieve from the endless workload your professors crushed you with, but a chance for you to finally visit your hometown. How lucky for you, the man you had been seeing in college (and the man you didn’t tell your parents about) lived across the street. Three soft taps on your window and you were quickly rushing to let him in your room and arms.

Speaking of arms…

Bucky’s arm is wrapped around you in a shameless headlock, strong bicep pressing against your neck (not with enough force to restrict your air flow) and flexing intermittently as he pounds into you from behind. With your back flush to his chest, his cock sinks into your cunt and his teeth sink into your neck, marking you in more ways than one as he fucks you in an unrestrained manner.

Two of his long fingers are buried in your mouth, tampering down the lewd moans and whimpers that would undoubtedly fall from your lips. If it were any other time, he would’ve loved to hear the sounds that escape you as he takes you to the crest of your pleasure, but with your parents sleeping just down the hall, Bucky had to accept that he wouldn’t have the joy of listening to your eager cries of lust tonight.

Quite ironic that he was so worried about noise because he was letting out his own quiet groans and grunts against the soft skin of your neck, as if your pussy had him enraptured.

A shift of his hips has the angle changing, his cock hitting a spot within you that has you choking around his thick fingers, breath hitching in your throat and saliva slicking down his digits. 

His lips curve up in a smile at your reaction and his length knocks against that same spot again, causing your walls to clench around him. “Fuck, baby,” he groans into your hair, nose nuzzling against the strands and taking in the faint aroma of your shampoo. “Squeezin’ me so good.”

You moan in response, a sound muffled by his fingers stuffing your mouth full. Bucky tuts in response and before you know it, his free hand is coming down on your poor clit, making your body lurch. 

“Gotta keep quiet, sweetheart, don’t want your parents to hear.”

And with that, he cruelly increases the force of his thrusts, thick cock plunging into your needy cunt in deep drags that have sparks igniting in your nerves. You nearly wail with pleasure as he brings you closer to the edge, your pussy fluttering around his length in a way that has his hips stuttering against yours and more pearly white precum spilling from the flushed head of his cock.

The feat that seals your fate, Bucky retracts his fingers from your mouth, delicate strands of your saliva snapping from his digits to your lips as that same hand travels down, down, down your body, finding your clit and drawing messy, uncoordinated circles on the slick pearl. 

Electricity zings through your body as those tight circles have you cresting over the peak of pleasure, your thighs trembling and your cunt spasming. With his cock being milked and squeezed by your pussy, Bucky reaches his climax not long after you, blunt teeth sinking into the curve where your neck meets your shoulder as thick, warm ropes of his cum flood your pussy.

It’s not enough to satiate either of you.

That’s why, three additional orgasms later in the night, he has you on your back against the sheets of your childhood bed, his body flush against yours as his still-hard cock fucks into the creamy mess of your cunt. Low groans and whines fall from Bucky’s pink lips and are muffled against your skin, his sweat-slicked forehead pressing against your collarbone and his mouth sucking marks onto your breasts that’ll bloom into darkened hues come morning. 

“Mmph, so good, Bucky, making me feel so good,” you moan breathlessly against his temple, tasting the salt of his sweat on your lips, and he shivers in your arms when your warm breath fans across his skin.

The praise spilling from your delectable lips has his cock twitching in you and his hips moving with renewed vigor, mind dead set on making your other lips sing the same praises for him. The obscene squelch! of his length thrusting through the mess of his cum between your thighs has his mind spinning, and Bucky has to slow down for a second to stop himself from cumming right then and there.

“Honey,” he pleads, and you swear your pussy gushes with a wave of arousal when you hear his desperate whine. “I can’t… ‘s too much. Feels like ‘m about to explode.”

“Aww, Bucky,” you murmur with faux sympathy, watching in delight as the tips of his ears turn a rosy pink. “‘S okay, you’re making me feel so much too right now.”

Bucky’s hips stutter against yours momentarily before he grits his jaw, bone and joints ticking, and then he slams into you, the blunt tip of his weeping dick kissing your cervix. He has to quickly slap his hand over your mouth to muffle the way you moan loudly, eyes blown wide with lust and the adrenaline that comes with the risk of being caught.

“Yeah?” Bucky rasps, nose bumping against yours as he leans down close enough for you to see every fleck of silver in his azure eyes. “That’s not enough, baby, need to make you feel even better.”

Your back arches off the sheets like a bowstring as his cock drives into your pussy, repeatedly hitting the spot in you that has you seeing stars. Like a moth to a flame, his eyes are drawn to the place you both are connected, darkened blue irises watching with primal lust as each thrust of his cock has his cum spilling past the puffy and slick lips of your pussy. Bucky leans back far enough to spit down onto your cunt, the glob of his saliva landing directly on your clit before his thumb begins to smear it around.

“Bucky!” You keen, pussy clamping down on his length as he doesn’t slow the rigorous pace of his thumb on your swollen clit. “It’s too much. ‘M gonna—”

“Cum f’me, sweetheart, please,” he begs, eyes blown wide with lust and adoration as he looks down at your wanton figure: eyes glassy with pleasure, breasts bouncing with each one of his thrusts, pussy swallowing his cock like she’s his new home.

Starting in your core and spreading to every pore of your body, the embers of your lust are stoked further and further until they ignite into an inferno. Crashing over you in rolling waves like a conflagration in a forest, your climax is ridden out until Bucky too is enveloped by the flames of your shared passion.

“Can’t, fuck, hold back. Gonna cum,” he grunts through gritted teeth and drives his aching length so deep in your cunt you think you feel him in your throat. Then, warmth floods you from the inside, a pearly spill of his cum heating you up.

Bucky collapses (carefully) on top of you, slick chest pressed flush against yours and softening cock still shallowly thrusting into your pussy as he drags out the fading sparks and aftershocks of his release. He decides that your décolletage is his new fixation, plush lips dragging over your shoulder, the swells and valley of your breasts, and your collarbone.

You can feel his dorky smile against your skin, and you lightly tug on his hair to coax him to speak.

“James?”

“Mm?” Is his slow response, a deep hum that vibrates underneath your skin.

“You’re crushing me.” He wasn’t, but the warmth of his body was quickly becoming a stifling furnace.

“‘M not,” he mutters begrudgingly, but rolls off of you the second you mention discomfort. A low hiss escapes your lips when he finally pulls out, the loss of his cock causing his cum to ooze out of your pussy and make a sticky mess of your inner thighs. Heat envelops you from behind now, still there but less suffocating as Bucky spoons you.

“Honey?” He murmurs against your hair, one arm loosely draped over the curve of your waist and the other resting beneath your head, his firm bicep acting as a makeshift pillow.

It’s your turn to respond with a slow hum, eyes threatening to close as sleep whispers for you to accept its embrace.

“Think your parents heard?”

That has your eyes springing back open, body tensing for a second before relaxing into his hold once more.

“No. They can sleep through an apocalypse. And weren’t that loud.”

Bucky just lets out a soft huff against the top of your head, arm tightening around your waist as he pulls you closer and closes the nonexistent space between you. With a last chaste kiss to your temple, he lets himself succumb to a peaceful sleep, taking you with him as well.

Come morning, he would have to find a way to slip out of your room before your parents were alerted of his presence. The neighborhood block would be flipped upside down if your parents discovered a very naked Bucky (who, in their minds, was just a neighbor the same age as you) in bed with a very naked you.

But for now, let him relax.

annie’s extra notes: exposing myself as a lover of finger sucking and fingers in mouth 😛 oral fixation tag, my beloved

Bones shattered like glass, eyes wide and unfocused, he lies in the snow like a child’s doll discarded. His arm is crushed like ants under a boot.

Had it hurt?

He can’t remember, he thinks, as he lies limp in the sea of snow like rotten fruit.

His sole companion is a woman quite strange, with flowing hair and eyes so pale and hands far too frail.

The world is silent around her, and the dying soldier knows,

That this is Death, she came for his head. He knows it won’t be long until Death sings her forlorn song.

“Save me,” cries the young soldier. 

“Let him die and see,” Death whispers in your bones, her filthy hands tugging at the empty recesses of your mind for wrath.

“Don’t let me die!”

“Watch as he suffers and cries!”

“No please! My broken body, I know you can mend!”

“Foolish soldier, don’t you know that Death is the end?”

You watch in melancholy and Death watches with apathy, as the broken soldier screams in agony.

“Oh, save me, Death!” The toy soldier cries. 

Death jeers and watches with cold, cruel eyes as the plastic warrior dies and dies and dies.

Silly toy soldier, fighting the corrupt man’s war. Broken toy soldier, dying for the corrupt man with a rotten core.

The snow fills his withering lungs like ash, the blood is a poisonous oil that chokes him and spills out of his mouth as an unholy sacrament. The crows wail skyward and the boy looks downward, his body failing him and the cold wintery landscape accepting him like a mother’s embrace. 

Death smiles with glee, as the boy dies in absolute melancholy.

Sprawled out on the bed like a god, golden sunlight washing over his bare chest and painting the fading scars silver, he had a metal arm thrown behind his head while the other one was resting at the back of your head, callused fingers playing with the soft locks. You were between his thick thighs, the warmth emanating from his skin enveloping you like a fine blanket as you leisurely mouth at his cock. 

His eyes are heavy and hooded, dark with lust and soft with something unspoken as they track the movements of your lips, cataloguing the faint sheen of saliva you leave behind on his length as you switch from his shaft to the swollen head.

One of your hands rests on his thigh, feeling the muscles tense and relax under your touch, while the other slowly teases his heavy balls. Your head dips lower as you suck the head of his cock into your mouth, suckling on the warm skin like it’s a sweet pop. 

With the snapping of a few delicate webs of saliva, you pull away from his tip, resting your cheek against his hip and watching as the plush head leaks a few more pearly white drops of precum. 

Drops that you swiftly lick up.

“‘S so pretty, James,” you murmur in awe, your eyes wide and locked on his hard and heavy cock. The head is flushed pink, a shade that rivals the color in his cheeks when your slurred words reach his ears.

“‘M not that much to look at, honey,” is his gruff response, and his hand moves from its position in your hair to your jawline, caressing your skin and giving your aching jaw a brief reprieve.

“Nonsense.”

Your eyes lift up to narrow at him momentarily, only to lower back to his dick. It’s as if you’re entranced, blessed to watch how he twitches when your soft breath wafts over his leaking tip. You lift a pointer finger to trace along the length of his cock, catching a stray drop of precum and bringing it to your mouth. Humming at the taste that blooms over your tongue, you dip your head down once more and take his cock in your mouth, your hand wrapping around what you can’t fit. His hand shifts back up to your hair and tightens, lightly tugging on the strands as your head starts to bob up and down.

The slick sounds of your mouth mix with the soft groans and grunts that spill from his pink lips, echoing off the bedroom walls and settling into the ache forming between your thighs. You could tell he’s getting closer—his cock twitches in your mouth, his thighs tense under your hand, and his grip in your hair hardens until he’s white-knuckled.

“Honey, fuck, please,” Bucky gasps, his cheeks dusted rosé and his eyes blown wide as he dips his chin down to look at your form between his legs.

You increase your efforts, twisting your hand around the part of his cock you can’t fit in your mouth and hollowing your cheeks. The groan that falls from his lips is nothing short of pornographic, and you slot that sound away in the back of your mind.

With a last lick to the underside of his cock, he spills into your mouth with a low groan, his hips rocking into the warm, wet confines of your lips and his thumb reaching down to stroke your jaw. After swallowing his cum and wiping your chin with the back of your hand, you press a soft kiss to his softening cock, a breathless laugh leaving you when his dick twitches in oversensitivity from the contact.

You crawl up his body, limbs sore from your continuous position between his thighs. Bucky helps you halfway, his strong arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you to his side. His lips press against your temple and your hand rises to brush a few sweaty strands of dark hair out of his forehead.

“You were so good,” he breathes out against your cheek and tilts his head down to meet your lips in a lazy kiss, his tongue lacing with yours and his hand cradling the back of your neck. 

When air becomes a necessity, you break away, a soft breath leaving you at the sight of his pink lips, swollen and shiny with your saliva.

“You feel so good,” you breathe out, your hand sliding up his bare chest and finding a home over his cheek.

The smile on his face is soft and he leans forward to steal another kiss from your swollen lips. But when your eyes open once more, the soft smile on his lips is already turning into something hungrier.

“‘S my turn now, honey.”

for staying and reading my debut drabble, here’s a sweet treat

You had expected a quiet night’s rest, but instead, you found yourself standing in your pajamas—half asleep and face-to-face with the man you thought had forgotten you after months of silence.

Bucky stood there, bloodied and bruised, one hand braced heavily against the doorframe. He looked like he’d crawled out of a nightmare. His long hair was matted and greasy with a fresh trail of blood trickling down his forehead.

“Bucky?” your brow furrowed as you opened the door a little wider, letting the warm light of your home hit his cold face.

You winced, taking in the dark red staining his skin. His pupils were blown wide—dark and glassy, nearly swallowing his irises. “What happened to you? You look terrible.”

He let out a shaky breath, his eyes lingering on the curve of your neck for a second before he looked up.

“It’s a long story,” he rasped, his voice straining in pain. “I didn’t know where else to go. Please... can you let me in, doll?”

Your heart ached at the sight of him. As much as you wanted nothing more than to pull Bucky into your home and care for him, you knew you weren’t being fair to yourself. He hadn’t spoken to you in months—only ever seeming to need you when it was convenient for him, whether it was gathering intel or needing a place to lie low.

“Bucky, you can’t just... show up at my place in the middle of the night whenever things go south for you,” you said with a sad, incredulous laugh.

You gripped the edge of the door, holding your ground despite how badly your heart was telling you to let him in. “Especially not when you haven’t spoken to me in months. It’s not fair to me.”

Bucky scrunched his face in pain, a low, agonizing growl vibrating in his chest. He took a staggering step forward, closing the distance between you but not yet daring to pass the doorframe.

“No, sweetheart... baby, listen to me,” he pleaded, voice cracking.

He reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from your skin, trembling weakly. “I know I haven’t been around much, and I know you don’t deserve this. But I didn’t have anywhere else to go—no one else I could trust with my life.”

He leaned his forehead against the doorframe, looking down at you through his lashes. He looked so much like a wounded puppy that it only tugged at your heartstrings even more.

“I’m hurting, doll. Badly,” he whispered, his gaze dropping back to the pulse jumping in your neck. “Please. Don’t leave me out here like this. Just let me in... and I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

As you parted your lips to deny him—to push him away—Bucky suddenly let out a sharp, choked hiss and doubled over. His hand clutched at his lower stomach as if a fresh shock of pain had just hit him, and when he pulled his hand away slightly, his palm was slick and dark with blood you couldn’t recall being there before.

Guilt started to eat at you quickly as he groaned. His breathing was heavy and ragged, and he looked utterly helpless.

Just one last time, you told yourself, a pathetic lie meant to quiet the warning bells screaming in your head.

I’ll help him tonight, and that’s it.

This is the last time I’ll ever let him in.

You cast a wary glance over his shoulder, peering past his hunched frame and into the darkness of the empty street.

“You’re not being followed, are you?” you whispered, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement.

Bucky didn’t look back to double check. His eyes remained locked on you, watching the way your teeth pressed into your lower lip. He let out a trembling breath, his body swaying closer to you, but still not passing the doorframe.

“No,” he rasped, his voice sounding thinner, more desperate. “But I can’t stay out here in the open, doll. Please... I just need to sit down. I’m losing too much.”

He looked so small in that moment, despite his size—so broken that you felt like a monster for keeping the door even half-shut.

“Fine,” you breathed, forcing your gaze away from his broken one. You stepped back, pulling the door open wide to clear a path. “Come in. Quick, before someone sees you.”

Bucky wasted no time.

He stumbled past you, his shoulder bumping yours as he nearly lost his balance. As he crossed the entrance and stepped into your living room, the air suddenly went cold; you couldn’t tell if it was the rush of him moving past you or the outdoor breeze.

You pushed the door shut, the lock clicking into place with a definitive snap.

“Sit down on the couch. I’ll get a wet rag,” you said, keeping your back turned to him as you headed toward the bathroom to fetch the supplies.

You returned to the living room with a bowl of warm water and a clean rag. Bucky was slumped on the couch, his head leaning back against the cushions. As you sat beside him and began to gently dab at the blood on his forehead, you realized the red stains weren’t wiping away as easily as they should with a fresh wound.

“How’d you get these, Bucky?” you asked softly, your eyes searching the messy red smears for the actual cut. “Who did this to you?”

“Uh... just got into a fight,” he mumbled. “Some guys outside a bar. It got messy.”

You paused, the damp rag hovering over his temple. You had seen the aftermath of Bucky’s fights before; you had seen him walk away from a dozen men without a scratch.

“You never look this beat up after a ‘fight with some guys’. You look like you just went through a war.”

Bucky’s eyes looked heavy—like he was not only just tired, but also annoyed. He tilted his head, his dark, dilated eyes locking onto yours so intensely that it made your breath catch.

“Had a rough night, sweetheart,” he rasped, dismissing the question entirely.

Before you could press him further, he suddenly leaned in to invade your space. You were close enough that you should have felt the warmth radiating off of him, but instead, you felt nothing but an unnatural coldness.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered, his voice low and hypnotic. “I forgot how good you smell. Like flowers and… something sweet.”

He reached out, his blood stained fingers grazing your jawline and leaving a faint, copper-scented streak on your skin.

“I missed you so much, doll,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips before settling on the side of your throat. “Come here... scoot closer to me. Can I just hold you for a second?”

You were flustered—your face heating up in a way that felt foolish given the situation. It wasn’t just his insistence on proximity that made you shy; it was the way he was talking. Bucky was usually a man of few words, his affection usually hidden until he had you in bed.

This was a man who was hungry—starved for your attention and your care.

This was a man who had no trouble maintaining eye contact while calling you names like ‘doll,’ ‘sweetheart,’ or ‘baby.’

This was not the Bucky you knew.

“Bucky, stop,” you managed to say, attempting to hide the creeping blush forming on your face.

Trying to regain some sense of control, you reached out and grabbed his hand. It felt like ice against your skin, a complete contrast to the warmth burning in your cheeks. You pulled his hand away from your jaw and began to wipe it clean with the damp rag, focusing intently on his dirty fingers so you wouldn’t have to meet his dark, dilated eyes.

“You’re being… a lot.” You murmured, scrubbing gently at his knuckles.

As you scrubbed at his knuckles, the rag started to tint a dark red, but the skin beneath remained flawlessly pale and cold. There were no split knuckles, no cuts, and no bruises.

You froze for a split second, but before you could pull away to inspect it further, Bucky’s fingers curled around your wrist. His grip was firm and unrelenting, tugging you towards him until you winced.

“I can’t stop,” Bucky whispered, his voice deep and gravelly. “I can’t do anything without thinking about you. Every time I’m out there, every time it gets dark… my mind always comes back to you, whether I want it to or not. It’s always been you.”

“Bucky—”

“And sometimes… I find myself getting stuck in these fights just so I have an excuse to come here,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the veins in your wrist. “Just so I can have an excuse to see you, because I know you’d take care of me. I know you’d always let me in.”

He leaned closer, his chest nearly brushing against yours. The wounded slump of his shoulders suddenly turned tense, replaced by a looming, heavy presence.

“Because you want me too, baby,” he rasped, his gaze dropping to the pulse point in your neck, which was now thrumming with a mix of excitement and fear. “I know it. I can feel it. I can even hear your heart screaming for me right now.”

You swallowed hard, unsure of what to say while Bucky held your arm tight in his grip, suffocating your personal space with his heavy presence.

To say that you didn’t miss him would be a lie spilled right between your teeth—and one he would surely catch.

“I... I don’t know what you need from me—”

“I don’t need anything,” Bucky interrupted impatiently.

He could see the fear flicker across your face. Your eyes—innocent and unassuming—widened as you slightly recoiled from the way he had just raised his voice.

Bucky’s breathing grew heavy, coming in uneven pants as he leaned in even closer. His grip on your wrist tightened, holding you in place and forcing you to remain still as he moved his face closer to yours. His lips hovered just a breath away from your own.

“I’m sorry,” he spoke softer, reeling himself back in lest he scare you away. “I just need you.” He whispered against your mouth, the words and their implications sending a violent shiver through your body.

He tilted his head slightly, his nose brushing against yours in a way that should have been sweet, but instead felt like a predator gauging the distance to its prey.

“Tell me you want me too,” he commanded, though he kept his voice gentle.

Your heart was beating so loudly in your chest that you couldn’t have drowned out the sound even if you wanted to.

In truth, you missed him.

The few times Bucky showed up at your doorstep helpless and in dire need of aid were the moments you secretly relished—because it meant you caring for him, and in return, him wrapping you in his large, protective arms.

It had been so long, too long, since he held you.

And fuck, did you miss being held by him.

“I… I miss you, Bucky,” you admitted, the confession feeling like a surrender.

Bucky caught the flicker of resignation in your eyes, and a slow, knowing smile spread wide across his lips.

He had been reaching his limit. If you hadn’t given in soon— if you had kept questioning him and pulling away—he was going to stop the games and simply take what he wanted right here in the middle of your living room.

But this was better.

He much preferred you inviting him in willingly, just as you had unknowingly invited the devil into your home.

Without wasting another second, he closed the already small distance between his mouth and yours, his lips moving with a hunger that made your lower belly pool with heat.

In this new form, every sensation was magnified a thousand times over.

As he lifted his rough hands to cup your jaw with his fingers trailing down your neck, he could feel the frantic, delicate beat of your pulse beneath his fingertips. He knew the exact temperature of your skin and the sweet, dizzying scent of your blooming arousal—how your panties were getting wetter by the second as your mouth was getting violated by his own.

It was an intoxicating rush that went straight to his head, turning his hunger into something far more carnal, and far more dangerous.

He didn’t just want to kiss you.

He wanted to consume you.

Bucky deepened the kiss, his tongue slick and demanding as your breathes merged into one. He wanted it all—your love, your devotion, and eventually, every drop of the hot, copper life force singing inside your veins. He wanted to reach inside, tear you apart from inside out, and pull your very soul into himself until there was no telling where he ended and where you began.

His other hand slid from your wrist to the back of your head, his fingers tangling roughly in your hair to hold you exactly where he wanted you. He let out a low growl against your lips, the sound of a predator who had finally been allowed to feast.

You moaned softly against his mouth, and the vibration of that helpless noise was enough to make him deepen the kiss even further. His body—big and heavy—pushed against you, his hands trailing down to your waist to pin you flat against the couch that was already creaking with your movements. 

The kiss was desperate, hungrier than anything you had ever experienced with him.

You tried to pull back to catch your breath, but as your hands pushed gently against his broad shoulders, Bucky let out a disapproving growl. He tightened his grip on your hips, the sudden rough squeeze making you mewl and wince against his lips.

“Bucky, I—mmph—”

“Don’t say anything,” Bucky snarled against your mouth, watching you with half-lidded eyes filled with a lust and a hunger that shouldn’t be normal. “Don’t even think. Just feel, sweetheart. Just let me in.”

Bucky didn’t dare give you the time to respond before he was over you again, his mouth crashing onto yours with a force that made you whimper and press deeper into the couch. His hands—which had been gripping your hips—began to roam frantically, grasping and groping at the delicate fabric of your shirt.

His fingers curled against your collar, and your breath hitched as he began to pull. You tried to shift against the cushions, attempting to help him navigate the hem, but instead, he simply tugged—hard.

The front of your shirt tore clean through.

The cold air hit your bare chest, and you gasped, the sound choking in the back of your throat.

Bucky had always been careful with you. He had always been the man who unzipped your dress with trembling, hesitant fingers. He had never destroyed anything you owned, and he had never been this reckless.

Terrified, you wedged your hands against his chest and pushed. “Bucky, what’s gotten into you! You’re tearing my clothes!”

Bucky was forced back just an inch, his shoulders hunched over your frame as his chest heaved with ragged, uneven pants. He looked less like the man you loved and more like a cornered animal.

A low, upset growl vibrated in the back of his throat—an ugly sound of pure irritation.

“What?” he snarled roughly, the sound making you flinch.

You stared up at him, your heart fighting against your ribs like a trapped bird. The light from the warm living room lamp caught his face, and your eyes widened at what you caught.

His jaw was hanging slightly loose, and a thick, glistening string of saliva was trailing from the corner of his mouth, dripping onto his chin.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice small and trembling. “You’re… you’re drooling.”

Bucky froze, his eyes widening slightly—looking very much like a man caught red handed. His gaze darted over your face, taking in the fear written all over it, before he forced the tension in his shoulders to ease just slightly.

He reached up, his fingers gently wiping the glistening streak from his chin. He let out a low, breathless chuckle that sounded almost sheepish, designed to lower your defenses.

“Sorry, doll,” he murmured, forcing himself to sit up and lean back on his heels.

He looked down at you—at your lips, puffy and wet from his brutal kisses, and the shirt that lay torn and discarded.

“I… I must’ve gotten ahead of myself. It’s just been so long. I missed you so much, you know?”

He reached out, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. The gentle gesture made you finally release the breath you had been holding, your body losing its rigid tension.

He saw the subtle shift, and he knew he was winning.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he whispered, searching your eyes. “I just can’t help it. Being this close to you… it makes me lose my head. You’re just so beautiful, and you smell so good—I can’t think straight.”

Bucky had always been so controlled when you two made love in the past. To see him this unraveled, this desperate for the mere taste of you, felt like a testament to how much he truly cared.

Shamefully, you had always wanted him to want you. But you had never imagined it would look like this.

“It’s okay,” you breathed, meeting the desperation in his eyes with your own. “I just—I’ve never seen you like this. You never really… drool.”

Bucky watched the flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. He was still breathing hard, his chest heaving as he stared at your mouth, his mind spinning with how effortlessly he could make you submit.

He leaned in closer, his voice a low rasp that made you shiver.

“... Wanna taste?” he questioned, his eyes flicking down to his damp fingers before returning to your lips.

It was a filthy, humiliating suggestion—one that should have made you break eye contact in shame. But under the haze of his hungry gaze, the question only made the heat pool lower in your belly, forcing you to clench your legs together.

“I want all of you.” You admitted quietly.

Bucky’s grin was immediate. Those words were the ultimate invitation; for him, there was no backing out now, even if you wanted to. He reached out, his rough, cold hands cupping your cheeks. He gave them a firm, demanding squeeze, forcing your lips to part as he hovered directly over you.

“Open.”

You whimpered softly, eyes wide and brows furrowed as his large frame completely loomed over your timid one, casting you in shadow. He opened his mouth, letting a thick bead of saliva drop from his tongue directly into your waiting mouth.

It was disgusting, it was primal— and before you could even process the sheer, salivating amount he was feeding you, he leaned back down. He slammed his lips against yours with a needy moan, his tongue forcing you to swallow everything he had given you.

Bucky’s hands left your face and moved downward, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of your pajama bottoms. He tore them away, baring your legs to his hungry eyes.

Another groan shook in his chest, followed by a quick sweep of his tongue over his lips at the sight of you. He lifted your legs, hooking them over his broad shoulders before gripping your hips to pull you flush against his hard body.

You felt completely exposed—your shirt torn, your bottoms discarded—and before you could even think to recoil shyly, Bucky was already descending on your inner thighs like a starving man. He started with soft, deceptive kisses, his lips shockingly cold against your heated skin, but the gentleness was fleeting.

The kisses turned into nibbles, and the nibbles turned into sharp, stinging bites that made you gasp and arch your back against the cushions.

Beneath you, the couch groaned under your guys’ weight. Above you, Bucky was coming apart at the seams.

Every time a soft, helpless moan escaped your lips, his entire body shuddered. To Bucky, the sound of your pleasure was like gasoline on a fire. The scent of your blood, rushing just beneath the surface of your warm skin as your heart raced, was like a siren song screaming in his ears.

His fangs began to ache, pushing against his gums, demanding to be used. It took every ounce of his remaining willpower—every shred of the man he used to be—not to simply sink his teeth into the soft meat of your thigh and drain you empty right there.

“Look at you,” Bucky breathed, running his rough hands up and down your bare leg before giving your thigh a possessive squeeze. “I could eat you right up, doll.”

A dark smile pulled at his lips. He began to rock his hips against you, his length hard and straining against the fly of his jeans.

Small, needy pants escaped him as he began humping against your bare leg like an animal—the rough, abrasive denim grinding unevenly against your skin with a desperate friction that made your head roll back.

You forced your half-lidded eyes open, blinking through the thick haze of your own lust. You couldn’t tell if it was the flickering, warm glow of the living room lamp or the dizziness of your mind, but his canines looked… longer.

Sharper.

Bucky looked like a beast starved just for you—and you wanted to be the very thing that made him lose his mind.

“Then do it,” you panted, your eyes hazy and unfocused with need. “Take me, Bucky. I’m yours.”

His smile grew impossibly wider, and he let out a short, cruel laugh—a dark, mocking sound that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. He leaned down until his face was inches from yours, his breath smelling faintly of copper.

“You don’t know what you’ve got yourself into, baby,” he warned, his eyes swirling with a dark, bottomless void.

Bucky’s fingers fumbled with the metal teeth of his zipper. The sound of it sliding down was loud and frantic, and he nearly tore the fabric in his frustration when it snagged against the denim.

He didn’t bother taking his jeans off all the way. He just shoved them down enough to free himself, his skin surprisingly cold as marble against the flushed heat of your inner thighs.

“Jesus, Bucky!” you gasped, arching your back the moment he rubbed himself against your wet, slick entrance. “You’re freezing—”

“Fuck,” Bucky grunted, his eyes rolling back into his head as he poked and probed his throbbing length against you. He dragged himself through your wet folds, gathering your sticky slick over his tip.

“And you’re so wet... so warm. It’s driving me out of my goddamn mind.”

“Are you feeling okay? You feel so cold—”

“I’m more than okay, doll,” he cut you off, his voice sounding like two stones grinding together. “I’ve never felt more alive.”

Grabbing your hips hard enough to make you whimper, he pushed his hips forward, sheathing himself inside you in one heavy, unrelenting thrust.

Your breath hitched, a silent scream escaping the back of your throat as your eyes flew wide. The sensation was overwhelming. It was overwhelming enough to strip your senses bare, drowning out every thought until your mind went completely blank.

You gasped, your fingers digging into the couch cushions as you tried to accommodate him.

He felt larger, thicker, and far more needier than he ever had before. It wasn’t just his desperation of the moment; it was as if his new form had altered him physically, making him stretch you out to your absolute limit.

Bucky let out a long, shuddering groan, his head falling back as he stayed buried deep inside you. His muscles were rigid, his cold skin twitching with all the effort of not losing what little control he had left.

“God, you’re so tight,” he choked out, his voice dark and primal. “Feels so much better when I’m like this. I just want to break you open.”

“... this?” you managed to choke out, your head spinning. You wanted to ask what he meant—what he was now—but the question died in your throat.

Bucky didn’t give you the air to breathe, let alone the space to think. He let out a rough, animalistic sound— like a snarl—and began to move, pounding into you with a sudden, violent rhythm.

Each thrust was heavy, jarring shock that sent ripples through your entire body, the couch creaking and crying beneath you as he fucked you right into the cushions.

“Fuck,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his jaw tight as he stared down at where his cock disappeared inside your warm cunt. “You’re so damn tight... it nearly hurts.”

The sensation was unlike anything you had ever felt. Every time he bottomed out, a fresh wave of sparks danced behind your eyelids, your toes curling in the air as your cunt tried to clamp down on the very thing that was stretching you so thoroughly.

It felt wrong, it felt dangerous, but it felt better than anything you had ever known.

For Bucky, it was pure, unadulterated torture and ecstasy.

Being inside you was like being plunged into a furnace. Your warmth was intoxicating, a drug that his dead nerves were screaming for. He felt every clench of your tight muscles, every frantic pulse of your blood through your veins, and it made the hunger in his gut roar even louder.

“You’re making it—” he drew his hips back slightly with a pant, “—so hard—” he shoved himself an inch deeper, your walls restricting him until his jaw clenched in agony, “—to fuck you…” he forced himself to bottom out again with a snarl, “… properly.”

The couch shook, the wooden frame crying for help as Bucky used it to anchor his hips into yours.

“Bucky, careful—ah—wait, th-the… couch—!”

The moment your hands flew up to grab his shoulders for support, his restraint shattered completely. You were mewling, high-pitched whimpers escaping you, your mind so far gone you couldn’t form a single coherent word.

Bucky pounded into you with a force that was almost terrifying. He wasn’t just fucking you anymore, it was like he was trying to merge with you, to bury himself so deep that the coldness of his soul could finally be warmed by yours.

A low, snarl rumbled in his chest, a desperate sound that harmonized with the wet, slapping sound of his hips hitting yours. He was drooling again, thick strings of it falling onto your bare chest and chin, slicking your skin with the result of his hunger.

“So... gh... fuckin’ good...” his mouth was a mess of desperate, broken sounds. He was mumbling against your neck, but the words were incomplete. “… Mine... need to... st-starving...”

“I cant—I don’t know what you’re—oh!”

“Fuck! Gonna cum!” he roared, the words sounding more like a threat than a warning.

He buried his face into the soft, inviting column of your neck, inhaling your scent with a staggering, lung-bursting depth. His teeth began to graze your skin—nibbling at first, then testing the sensitivity of your flesh with his sharp, aching canines.

“Gonna pump you full while I drain you dry, baby,” he panted against your ear, his tongue darting out to wet the skin he was about to break.

“I can’t… gonna—” you squeezed your eyes shut, the sensation of being used so thoroughly by him finally overwhelming your senses.

Bucky felt the way you tightened around him, your walls fluttering in a frantic rhythm as his teeth grazed your throat, sensing how close you were.

A dark, predatory smirk curled his lips, his drool glistening on his chin as he prepared to take everything.

“This is what happens when you invite the devil into your home, sweetheart.”

“W-what was that—?” your voice trembled, not even registering his words entirely.

You forced your eyes to open, blinking back the stars dancing in your vision. When your focus finally landed on Bucky, the man hovering above you looked completely unfamiliar. His eyes were entirely blown out, a terrifying darkness swallowing the blue you once loved, leaving only his pupils gleaming a bright, dangerous red.

He looked down at you with a grin that could only be described as evil, his lips pulled back to fully reveal the unnatural length of his fangs.

“Bucky, what are you—”

The question was cut short as his hips snapped into you one last time, making your body jolt against the couch.

Bucky slammed into you with a growl, his cock filling you so deeply that it left the broken couch groaning once more. As he began to pump his hot, heavy load deep inside you, his head snapped down, teeth sinking deep into your vulnerable neck.

The sting was instantaneous and blinding.

You let out a broken, painful cry as he buried his fangs into the sensitive column of your neck, his jaw clamping shut as he finally broke the skin. The sensation was a terrifying paradox—the agonizing puncture of the bite clashing with the burning hot waves of your climax as he claimed you from both ends at once, draining you and filling you simultaneously.

He groaned against your throat, a deep, vibrating sound of unholy satisfaction, drinking your life force while filling you with his own.

As you cried out, the sound was abruptly stifled by the heavy weight of his hand clamping over your mouth. His palm was ice cold, forcing your scream back down your throat. He pinned your head against the ruined cushions, his fingers digging into your cheeks as he continued to empty himself inside you.

“Mmmph—mph!”

“Shhh,” he hissed against your neck, though the sound was more of a wet vibration than a word. “It’s okay… almost… jus’ take it… s’gonna be over soon…”

Bucky’s voice was a jumbled, incoherent mess, slurred by the overwhelming sensation of climax and the intoxicating rush of your blood hitting his tongue.

He was speaking into the wound he had made, his words lost in the sound of his own heavy swallowing. You could feel him pulsing inside you, a deep throbbing that matched the way your own life was being drawn out of your neck.

You felt your energy quickly fading, the sharp pain of the bite turning into a cold numbness that enveloped your entire body. Your eyelids grew heavy, and your world began to tilt and grey.

The room spun in slow, sickening circles, the ceiling receding as the lightheadedness of the blood loss took over your senses.

Bucky finally slowed, his throat hitching with one last, greedy gulp before he pulled his fangs from your flesh with a wet sound. He shifted his weight, slowly peeling his freezing hand away from your mouth.

“Why…” you somehow managed to croak, the word barely a whisper as your throat felt as dry as sandpaper.

Bucky sat back on his heels, his chest heaving as he licked his crimson stained lips. He reached up, casually wiping a stray smear of blood from his chin with the back of his hand, his eyes still glowing with a faint, satisfied embers of red.

“Don’t worry, doll,” he reassured, though you didn’t feel reassured at all.

He leaned over you, his shadow swallowing your trembling form as he tucked a lock of hair behind your ear with such a gentle care that was never there before.

“Go to sleep. I’ll be right here when you wake up,” he promised, a slow, possessive smile spreading across his face.

“We’ve got all the time in the world. We’ve got forever now, baby.”

The first time you’d met the leader of the Zenin clan had been far before he ever had to bear such a title- in fact, he hadn’t even been considered an adequate heir. 

Back then you’d never in a million years have thought that Toji Zenin would be your future husband. 

It was a humid summer at the Zenin Estate.

Almost two decades ago to the day; on a day when even the cicadas seemed to sweat off the trees, echoing their sun-baffled frustrations out into the open air. And the clouds slugged across a blue sky that battered down mercilessly its balmy glare upon the heat-drunken Earth. Upon the type of people that padded their perspired foreheads with embroidered handkerchiefs, tailored hand-made for but one clan.

Just five years old, you’d been running through the Zenin Estate’s hallways in an effort to get away from the heat and your family. Your tiny feet thundering down the polished floors. Your best kimono flapping behind you.

Your clan was always rather close with the Zenin’s - on a business level, if nothing else.

So it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for them to visit Naobito and his council to go over numbers you didn’t understand, and contracts you couldn’t read yet, and shake hands with men that made your stomach lurch in nervousness. But what was out of the ordinary was the fact that you had joined them this time—your private tutoring had been paused for the summer, as most conventional schools would have. And so your father had thought that perhaps bringing you along to one of their meetings would be more fruitful than leaving you alone with the garden and the house staff. 

But the corridors were hot, and even hotter were the meeting halls your father made you bow to elders in: thick and saturated with the sweetness of expensive perfumes and clan deals done well. 

So well, in fact, that no one had noticed when you’d slipped out the mahogany double doors.

You knew you’d get in trouble sooner or later- so you might as well do as much exploring as you could!

You weaved through the expansive compound.

Skipping rocks from atop their garden bridge, feeding the koi with shreds of bread one of the house attendants had handed you, swinging from the conservative branches of gingko trees. There weren’t many flowering trees or bushes, you’d noticed. The garden was green and sterile of any other color. 

Then you’d taken to being fed little morsels of delicacies by the ladies in the kitchens- at least, until one of the Zenin elders had barged in and started barking out orders. You’d escaped immediately - not wanting to get caught just yet - and run out into the sun-scorched corridor outside.

It was there that you’d flung yourself into the nearest open room you’d found.

Its grand sliding doors shuddering shut behind you, you’d cowered into the shadows as the elder’s grumbles walked by outside.

You’d only breathed out a sigh of relief when you were sure that his feet had trundled towards the end of the hallway, making a swift turn on the pathway to the meeting hall. Sitting down on the cool wooden floor, you clutched your knees to your chest. “Thank heav-”

“If you’re gonna make this much noise then at least do it where it’ll disturb those old toads.”

You’d nearly jumped out of your own skin- in fact, you think you just might have.

If the shadows could speak then you’d have said that they sounded oddly young, though the growl in his voice made you think of those types of boys that would graze their knees and then pretend it didn’t hurt. There weren’t many children in your estate outside of you, but sometimes you’d watch over the walls at the neighborhood children from afar—and you found there seemed to be at least one or two of those always. 

He sounded like the rowdiest of the bunch.

And who you’d first thought to be a ghost - perhaps in hindsight you weren’t too far off - turns out actually to be a lone figure in the middle of the dark room. A little boy. 

He was sitting before nothing, he was sitting against nothing. 

He had long shaggy hair that covered his eyes, and a mouth permanently downturned. An irritated red scar shone from one side of it.

A drop of red blood trickled down it and made you wince.

You attempted to take a step closer-

“Didn’t ya hear what I said?” That hoarse voice - much too grown-up for but a mere child your age, perhaps a year or two older - rang out before you’d even let the soles of your feet rest. Echoing. Foreboding. “Get. Out.”

“And who are you to tell me what to do?” And you always did have a habit of questioning elders that you should perhaps not question - at least not according to your etiquette classes. So who was a little child?

He scowled and looked away.

Through the shreds of his death-black bangs, you thought you saw a glimpse of green eyes, so much like the gardens of the Zenin Estate. And you can’t help but step closer—“Who are you, anyway? What’s your name?”

“Zenin.” He spat out as if it was venom. 

“I could’ve guessed that.” You sighed, with all the wisdom of a five-year-old. Most Zenins had those sharply handsome features, the dark hair, and green eyes that glimmered like crystals. You could already see the burgeoning Zenin in the boy your age, the weight of it. “What’s your first name?”

He didn’t answer.

With a huff, you’d stepped closer.

“What’s your first name?”

He still didn’t answer.

And closer.

“What’s your first name?” 

He didn’t answer still. Not even when you were standing right beside him, he remained turned away as if you didn’t exist. 

You leaned down to try and glance at his face- but the boy snarled and whipped away. His lips stretched almost garishly underneath that fresh scar—even in the darkness it was obvious: a ruby-red slit, a slice of torture.

It looked like it hurt.

“Fine then.” You said, and he almost flinched at the exhausted tone of your voice. There was a slight collapse of his raised shoulders, as if he expected you to leave him to his shadows-

But the only thing you’re doing is grabbing onto his face and bringing it up to yours.

With the silken fabric of your very best kimono, you’d dabbed away gently at the cut on his lip. “But if you’re not going to treat this thing any time soon- then at least wipe away the blood.” Though you knew that this wasn’t the lady-like thing to do, nor even polite in any sense of the word, you couldn’t feel even a twinge of regret. “It looks pretty deep. Don’t you think you should tell your momma and papa?”

You tilted his head to the side, and he glared at you through long black lashes. “Tch…”

“Hmpf-” Puffing up your cheeks in annoyance, perhaps you’d used slightly more force than necessary when touching away the rest of the blood on his lip.

He grimaced but he didn’t move. And just when you think he might not say anything at all—“My…attendants.” 

You almost thought you’d imagined it. Eyes wide, your hands stopped. “P-pardon?”

“My attendants.” He repeated, more sure than before. “My attendants will take care of it…later.”

“I see.” It almost looked as if he was searching for your reaction, and you don’t satisfy him by showing anything. You merely tilted his head from side-to-side and checked for bruises, the way your mother would whenever you fell outside while playing by yourself. He had a few more scratches here and there - though none too deep like the scar, they stood out starkly against this pale skin. He looked like a sickly boy. “And why are you here all alone?”

“Punishment.” This answer comes out easier than the last, as though it should have been obvious.

A cold shiver ran down your spine. “Oh…I’m sorry about that.” You knew what it felt like to be punished by the council for doing things that went against what a ‘respectable daughter’ would do. Though your punishments were more writing lines and standing outside. “But I don’t think you deserved it.”

He scoffed, “You don’t even know what I did.”

“I don’t.” You shook your head, “But I still know.”

And that had been that. You finally let go of the boy’s face - there had been no more bleeding for some time now, and you almost felt embarrassed to have been holding onto him for so long. 

In the obscurity between you two, you stood in silence for what felt like a few minutes- but might as well have been eternity. You’d stared at him - the strong jaw, the hunched shoulders draped in a kimono with the Zenin emblem on the back, the scar that made him look older than he was - and he’d stared right back.

Brows furrowed, yet still looking. 

Eventually, you heard the harried calls of your mother outside - she was searching for you.

With a final look at the boy - he’d turned his face away now - you started to take a step towards the door—

Only for a small hand to clutch onto your wrist.

Stopping you in your tracks, you’d snapped your head to him immediately- but the boy still wasn’t looking at you. He had his gaze fixed on the floor, and the air about him was as if you didn’t even exist.

Though the tightness of his grip was undeniable-

“Toji.” Out had come a tiny voice. Steely. Slightly trembling. 

And for a second you were more confused than anything, before the realization had dawned upon you like the beaming of the summer Sun’s rays. 

He had repeated, “Toji Zenin.”

You repeat, “Toji Zenin.”

And then Toji had let go of you.

You nodded.

You told him your own name.

And for the first time since you’d barged into his life, Toji Zenin had looked at you with his green, green eyes. Sparkling.

It was only later - years later - in one of his letters that you’d learned of just how he’d gotten his scar. And the weight of knowledge was much heavier than the abyss of not knowing; your tears had blemished the starchy paper upon which he’d written to you about being thrown into a pit of cursed spirits by none other than his own family. That day.

All because he had no cursed energy.

And that was another thing - when you first found out about it, it hadn’t been from Toji himself. Grown-ups talk. And you’d come to realize far before he’d confessed to you that this was that infamous oldest son of the Zenin clan, one year older than you, with not a single speck of cursed energy to show for it.

Jujutsu society hated him for it.

How odd it was that they couldn’t seem to keep his name out of their mouths, then.

Though you didn’t quite care—you yourself didn’t put much weight onto the strength of one’s cursed energy. It just seemed too confusing to you as a child, and more confusing still once you grew up.

You visited the Zenin Estate as often as you could after that, often tagging along with your parents for their business meetings, or sometimes even begging some of your attendants to take you if they weren’t home. All for one person.

Him.

And though he never showed it, you knew he was happy to see you.

Happy to roll his eyes and drag you all through the hallways and secret doors and gardens- it was at your insistence that Toji had gotten the gardening staff to plant a few rose bushes there. A dash of pink in the landscape of Zenin green. You’d even managed a few times to sneak away and play together with his new cousin, only just crawling.

And just as life heartens a child, Toji also grew strong.

You saw it in him each time you visited - the way his grip on your hand would grow stronger, the way he’d tell you about another cool trick he learned in training. By himself.

And you were proud of him, you really were—“Don’t get too strong though- because what if you get all big and scary like Vegeta?”

“Vegeta’s cool.”

“Toji Zenin.”

You just didn’t expect it all to come to head like this.

The letter had arrived when you were seventeen - Toji was eighteen then, and had just gone through his coming-of-age ceremony. It was a private affair attended only by the Zenin clan members, and you understood that customs dictated their rituals remain hidden- besides, you and Toji had promised each other to celebrate in your own way with some takoyaki later on.

But the letter…

“To whom it may concern,

By decree of the Elders and in accordance with the ancient traditions of the Zenin clan, you are hereby notified of termination of regular visits to the head of the Zenin clan.

This decision is irrevocable, and any further personal association with the master, outside of compulsory business and contractual visits, is prohibited. Henceforth, you are instructed to discontinue contact with Master Toji Zenin without delay. Failure to comply with these prompt directives will result in the appropriate consequences.

Our new clan head must now focus on what is truly important.

With respect.

The elders of the Zenin clan.”

That was the first you’d ever heard about him being clan leader- or even the fact that he’d had a chance.

You had visited the Zenin Estate immediately afterwards, of course.

And it was only because of the rather close relationships that you’d grown with the house staff and guards over the years that you weren’t thrown out immediately. Though, you definitely weren’t allowed inside, either. They’d told you with grave faces that you were no longer welcome in the Zenin Estate without a guardian with you at all times - and even then you couldn’t meet with the clan leader. 

You’d been forced to trudge all the way back home, letter in hand. Toji in your heart.

You’d visited a few more times afterwards, of course. 

Perhaps for a peek of Toji if anything. But the only thing that greeted you were those looming iron gates and the same answer.

You were not welcome. No matter how much you pleaded or cried or begged for answers. 

You didn’t see Toji Zenin, newly-dubbed leader of the Zenin clan, until ten years later - and by then you’d missed him as long as you’d known him. In the meantime you’d heard whispers of him in every corner and corridor of those stuffy clan functions you were forced to attend—oh, have you heard of that Toji boy? Have you heard he’s the new Zenin clan leader now?

Have you heard they overlooked his little…lack of cursed energy if he proved himself?

Have you heard he has a gift of power said to be from the heavens?

Have you heard he’s the cruelest clan leader they’ve ever seen?

Have you heard he’s grown up to be so tall?

Have you heard he’s looking for a wife?

It was that last one that got your ears perking - no matter how much that rational part of you knew that eavesdropping wasn’t a polite habit. No matter how much you knew that you and Toji Zenin were people that didn’t know each other. And hadn’t for a long time…and perhaps might never. 

You shuddered to imagine - according to the rumors - what blood-thirsty clan leader he might have grown to become like all the Zenin clan leaders before him. But a part of you just kept circling back to the little boy in the dark room, with a scar that wouldn’t stop bleeding. 

Sure enough, by the time you’d stepped foot inside your own estate after the function- your attendants had informed you that a letter was awaiting.

A letter of proposal.

Of marriage.

.

.

.

The ceremony was a message.

Every clan leader and madam and mistress, every sorcerer and higher-up, everyone that was someone was invited to your wedding to Toji Zenin. It was a lavish affair, overripe with the most succulent foods and drinks. 

Though the week leading up to it…not quite as much.

You hadn’t gotten the chance to speak with Toji during the marriage meeting- rather ironic considering, well, the two of you would be the ones getting married. But where you might have answered the few stray questions posed by Naobito and his council, Toji had merely sat silently opposite you. 

He didn’t speak to you, he didn’t gesture at you, he didn’t even raise his green eyes and look at you.

Not during the marriage meeting. Not after.

Perhaps some stupidly hopeful part of you still thought that it was the meeting hall’s oppressive air that kept him from speaking- but Toji hadn’t spoken to you even when most of his advisory council had filtered out towards the end. When they’d left the ‘young couple’ alone to get to know each other better, but Toji had stayed silent.

“Toji?” You’d tried - and he hadn’t responded. “I suppose it’s clan leader Zenin now…”

To that, he’d flinched.

There were no more words exchanged between the two of you, and you’d travelled back to your estate to cry yourself to sleep.

The wedding vows had been written to you by your family elders. And in the days that followed - not wanting to make a fool of yourself in front of the wedding guests nor your family nor your in-laws - you’d recited and re-recited your vows until your tongue got sick of the words. Until your tongue could feel them tingling at the tip of your tastebuds every passing moment.

Like a nagging, ever-present dread.

So it was rather anticlimactic when that portion of the wedding ceremony went by without a hitch—you were awoken with the blinking sun, and dressed in a wedding kimono of snow-white. Escorted to the Zenin Estate in one of their glossy black Mercedes, you were ducked from view and taken to the family shrine there like a secret.

You shuddered as you stepped inside this land for the first time in ten years.

Deep in the gardens. A froth of wedding guests already lined the lantern-lit pathway from the gates to the shrine, they turned their heads and attempted to peek underneath your white headpiece. You were grateful for the lady attendants who would smack them away no matter which higher-up they happened to be.

You found that you had been strangely calm up until this point - strangely feeling as though it were a dream.

But you’d raised your head just as you’d come to the steps of the shrine -and the first thing you’d seen were pink roses. Upon either side of the steps.

And the next thing you’d seen was Toji’s calloused hand - you’d recognize it anywhere - outstretched to help you up them.

That was when it had become real.

The binding rituals and sharing of sake passed by in a blur. Your voice shook as you stumbled through your vows, and Toji had steadily echoed his out—it seems they were written to match. Something about upholding the values of the household and furthering the Zenin name, words that were wiped from your mind as soon as they escaped your mouth. Then, after barely stealing a glance at those green, green eyes trained on you- you were dashed to the wedding reception.

Both you and Toji sat at the head of a U-shaped dinner table.

Winding around the massive dining hall like a serpent with a feast laid upon its silken white belly: sashimi platters, rolls and fragrant white rice, broths and pasta, cakes of all different kinds. The wedding reception was so big that professional chefs (some from the Zenin Estate, others hired from the best Michelin Star restaurants around the world) lined their workshops in the middle of the U and cooked for the guests live. 

The scrape of flat-top grills.

The clinking of sake cups.

The laughter of drunkards.

And the longer the night went on, the more rambunctious they seemed to become.

They toasted, they guffawed, they pretended not to brag, they asked for more.

You’re watching the scene unfold before you like a Renaissance painting—The Throes of Gluttony—and rub your weary eyes. Strained. The thing that no one seemed to mention about keeping a smile on your face for hours on end was just how deeply it caused a headache - all the way from the back of your eye sockets.

“Would you like to leave?”

It’s a gruff voice- deep. One that you haven’t heard in so long that it might have been someone unrecognizable completely.

But you knew who it was.

Even if the husky baritone didn’t come from right beside you - sending goosebumps skittering down your spine - you would have known that slightly teasing tone anywhere. You could have picked it out in a crowd of about a thousand voices- and Toji didn’t even seem to know that that familiar tease was slipping into his voice.

He looks dead serious when you turn to him, for perhaps the first time since the shrine. And oh—you’re hit with something indescribable.

Because what the rumors hadn’t seemed to mention about him was that he was so devilishly handsome.

He’d grown into those Zenin features he seemed to hate so much—now with a sharp jaw, a smoldering gaze, hair that seemed to fall effortlessly over his forehead. His tannish skin looked almost golden in the yolky yellow of the wedding lights. Puckered, pretty lips. Even the scar on there only served to make him look even more attractive. 

There was an intensity about him that only seemed to have grown tenfold in the years that you didn’t see him. There was sadness.

Despite knowing very well of his numerous fighting accolades as of late, you were taken aback by just how large he’d grown to be. The first time you’d seen him, he’d been a scrawny six-year-old that wasn’t even as tall as you. The last time you’d seen him, he’d been a gangly seventeen-year-old suffering from a sudden burst of height, and threatening to show signs of growing even taller.

And he had grown taller.

Broader.

Beefier.

Toji shifts in his seat to face you more clearly, and you watch as his dark hakama stretches over his wide shoulders. Puffed-out chest. Slender waist. Large arms. Barely doing anything to conceal his muscular frame-

He raises one jet-black brow at you and you jolt.

“Pardon?” Breathless.

Toji shoots you a slightly knowing smile, “Would you like to leave, my wife?”

My wife.

It’s more of a factual statement, than anything - a confirmation of what you already know. But you can’t control the sudden lurch in your stomach as he says it—

“Yes.” You’re blurting out the answer faster than your mind can compute it. And you reach your hand out to him. “Yes, I would like to leave.”

Toji clasps your hand with a slight chuckle, “As you wish, Madam Zenin.” Both your golden wedding bands twinkle in the dim lighting.

“Look! Look! The newly-weds are leaving their own reception-”

“Am I drunk or are they being audacious enough to hold hands-”

“Do you think we may see an heir soon?”

“All rise for the esteemed clan leader of the Zenin family, and his madam.” The last one is a booming announcement by one of the Zenin council members.

In unison, the wedding party rises to their feet.

Cluttering and slightly clumsy with liquor.

“All bow for the esteemed clan leader of the Zenin family.”

In unison, they bow.

And you’ve just about had enough of being ogled as if you were a party trick- smiling politely and tugging on Toji’s hand to leave. And perhaps the thought that you wanted to be alone with him - with your husband - was hastening your movements-

“All bow—” But Toji stands firm. Raising his stern voice above the chaos, so that every corner of the dining hall shall be able to hear his crystal-clear words. You look up at him in slight shock at this sudden speech—did he want them to bow to him again? Before he’s saying your name- “—my wife, the esteemed madam of the Zenin family.”

Your heart drops to your stomach.

Your gaze snaps to the audience- you could see the confusion simmer across their faces, the realization, the shock, the slight apprehension. It was a chamber filled to the brim with men who’ve never had to look up at a woman a day in their lives.

And here they were, bowing to you.

It doesn’t happen instantly - not at all.

They first look at each other, they first bend at their knees as if in the motion of dry heaving (and some of them look as though they just might at this very notion), then—to your surprise, Naobito Zenin is the first to bow.

Then more of your family.

Then some of the Kamo clan.

One by one, they were bowing before you. 

“Lower.” Toji barks, and they each flinch- before doing as he said. Until their heads touched the floor, the higher-ups of that room bent before you.

As if worshipping.

All but one, of course - the blond-haired man stood out amongst the crowd. In more than one way. He was well-dressed in a way that denoted him as one amongst the clans, the Zenin emblem peeking out in silver, barely twenty with black dye fringing his pale hair. There was a coarse smirk twisting his lips, and he stood with his arms crossed in the front row.

You have to squint your eyes to realize that this was none other than Toji’s cousin—Naoya Zenin. The very same little boy the two of you had played with years before.

And he was refusing to bow before a woman.

Toji, of course, would not stand for this.

One split-second, he’s beside you, the other split-second, he’s in front of the young man and grabbing Naoya’s head with one hand. So fast that you didn’t even see him move. Slamming him down until his forehead hits the floor- “I said—” As Naoya scrambles to get up, Toji raises one foot and stomps it down on the other man’s head. “-bow.”

Naoya sputters, “T-Toji-sama-”

“Lower.” He’s pressing down even harder with the heel of his golden-clad sandal. Naoya flails like a turtle overturned- “Lower.”

“Toji-sama, I didn’t mean to-”

“Lower—”

Naoya’s cheek was pressed to the floor, tears running down his cheeks and darkening the color of the ground. He was no match to your husband. “I-I apologize for-”

“Do not apologize to me.” Toji gruffs out from above, lips slightly twitching at the ends. He was enjoying this. “Apologize—to her.”

Hearing this almost seemed to hurt Naoya more than being stomped on.

He gasps.

He chokes.

He attempts uselessly to stand.

But who was he to reject a command from the clan leader?

“I…” A rush of near-satisfaction goes through your body as Naoya raises his teary eyes to look up at you- and that was only because Toji had allowed him barely even leeway. His bruised lips babble, “-apologize-”

“Madam.” Toji finishes.

“Madam.” Naoya repents, “I-I apologize, madam.”

Toji looks at you with peripherals darkened with anger, and you can only nod at him to spare the other man. You wouldn’t want a bloodbath on your wedding.

He spits down at Naoya before taking his foot off- and where his cousin darts behind the legs of Naobito Zenin, Toji calmly walks over to you and holds out his hand. For you to take.

For him to take you away from all this.

.

.

.

The elders were outside.

The elders were outside your martial bedroom and listening to every slight noise you were hatching-

“Zenin-”

“Toji.”

“Toji—” You’re gasping out wetly into the crook of his neck, your hands fisting in the expensive silks of his hakama. Heated proximity. His panting breath. Toji was pushing you flatly against the king-sized mattress, one hand on the back of your neck, the other pressing down your front.

He reaches the edge of your abdomen, almost near where your cunt was throb-throb-throbbing wildly between your legs. And you have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep the most lecherous sounds from escaping- “T-Toji, so they’re going to be listening all night-”

“All night.” Toji affirms. Pearly white canines glinting between his scarred lips, “So we might as well give them a show, hm, my wife?”

And then he’s gliding the tip of his nose down your neck, down your collarbones, right between the valley of your breasts. Breathing in. “O-oh—”

Your head tilts away to give him more access- and it’s then that you’re seeing yet another glimpse of the sliding doors to this grand chamber. Paper-thin screens. Shadows of council members here to affirm that the marriage was actually being consummated - you knew it was a tradition in the Zenin clan. For the council to stand guard behind the bedroom and make sure that another heir would be born. You just didn’t think that it would be taken so seriously with rows upon rows of-

“Focus on me, darlin’.” Toji’s rasping tone warns, something primal curdling at the very back. You’re snapping your gaze over to him and zapped with electricity a darkened look in his eyes- “Or should I say…”

“Sh-shit.” You whisper as he starts shifting down your body. Lips kissed numb.

The clan leader reaches between your trembling legs. “I beg for your attention, madam.”

“Yes.”

Your whisper billows out and makes some of the elders behind the screen flinch- their shadows stretch and grow on the pale sheet almost as if they were listening even closer.

Listening in for the whoosh of Toji pushing up your decadent silks and stuffin’ his head straight into your pretty cunt. His nose dives between your pussylips. His chin hits the base of your folds. He sticks out his lengthy tongue and manages to sluuuurp! up the wads of slick stuck to your pussy.

He manages to sniff.

“Oh.”

Something cracks at the back of his throat, and you’re looking over at him curiously.

Only to find that Toji wasn’t looking at you- not even close.

He had his murky green peripherals permanently fixated on your drippin’ wet pussy, a line of slick sliding between your folds. He was almost entranced. He was almost speechless.

“Oh.”

He had his gaze locked with your throbbing cunt until it’s only a slight creak from outside that makes him break his stare to look at the elders. And then over at you and oh—you notice that his pupils were blown so wide that you nearly couldn’t see a speck of green.

You almost feel…strangely cautious at the animalistic way he was acting. Blinking down at him, “T-Toji, are you-”

But it’s almost as if hearing his name wrapped around your pretty lips is enough to send Toji Zenin into overdrive.

And he’s startling- almost fight or flight, before slapping a hand down on the side of your hips and draaagging you halfway down the damn mattress. Letting the expensive bedsheets bunch up where your hips were pulled.

Because Toji doesn’t seem to care for your trembling questions- he doesn’t seem to care that you were bucking your hips up n’ down his handsome face for more.

No.

He was gaping his maw over your wet cunt and slippin’ his tongue inside in a mere split-second- not even waiting for your elastic hole to stretch properly before starting to fuck you like a madman. Like a madman.

He was holding onto either side of your thighs n’ pressing his nose up reeeeal close to your clit- breathing in gutturally as he swabs his tongue inside. Spit dribbling. Scar grazing your folds. “Sh-shiiiiit—”

And, usually, he’d tease your whiny voice—wouldn’t he?

But right now Toji Zenin can’t even fucking breathe as he’s pistoning his fat tongue in. And out. Repeatedly, he’s swervin’ the curled tip of his tongue against the roof of your cunt and feeling as you clench all ‘round him. 

As you buck your hips off of the rickety mattress - it must’ve been decades old by the way it was protesting your every movement.

But Toji doesn’t even register just how close his bed was to shattering into a zillion pieces right now.

The only thing on his mind was…

“You.”

You’re snapping your head down in shock and confusion at the abrupt groan of a word barked between your pussylips - no warning. It hums vibrations of pleasure up your spine and makes you arch into Toji’s slidin’ lips. All dazed, as if he doesn’t even know he’d blurted it out loud.

The only thing - one - he can think of is you.

You, you, you, you.

You with your soppy wet walls wrapped around his pokin’ tongue, you with your cunt throbbing away every time his nose dug between your pussylips. You who was sucking him back in every time he pulled out, you who was- fuck. Enough to drive a man wild.

And you could feel the change in the way that Toji was makin’ out with your pussy, too.

He had gone from the slow and sensual kissing when you first entered the room- into the rapid gestures of his tongue now. Manhandling you. Not letting you escape.

Your voice cracks once he’s pinning down your flailing limbs, feeling the bulge of his big beefy biceps against your skin. “Shit, and you just really did no- ngh- preparation or anything? Just fucking me—mm, like that?” He was stretchin’ you out so hard with his mere tongue that it was making you see white.

“All the better to feel you, my dear…” The way he says it itches something carnal at the back of your mind. And you shiver as he purses his lips and gives your clit a harsh suck. 

“A-and you’re just being so- ngh, rough.” You mumble out between wet lips.

“All the better to eat you, my dear.” Toji flicks a careless look at the grey shadows beyond the screen, the way they stirred as they surely knew what was happening in here. Almost to taunt them - Toji’s taking a few more hefty thrusts inside your hole and moaning. Loud and proud. 

“And, Toji…” Breaths hitching a mile a minute - right on time with the sloppy cadence of his tongue. You gasp, “-you’re just so damn…” Rough? Needy? Gluttonous? “-loud.”

“All the better to make them know you’re mine, my dear.”

And it’s as if your mind is suddenly made of nothing but fuzz and the most lecherous swipes of Toji’s tongue- he was holding you so tight to him that you can feel the half-moons of his fingernails embed onto your skin. Pointed chin smacking against the base of your pussy in a constant drumming that leaves you maddened. Tongue viciously pummeling in and out—

So damn noisy with the most primal slurps that you almost can’t hear yourself over it. Whining maddeningly.

“And by the sounds of it-” Toji’s continuing into your cunt, as if he was still in the middle of a conversation. Just casual. Not even with you - he was chattin’ away lovingly to your pussy. “-m’eating you pretty well, huh?”

“Fuck, when did you get so cocky—mmpf.” You’re raising a hand up to muffle the noises leaking from your throat.

But Toji catches the slight movement- and in the blink of an eye, his trained reflexes have both of your hands pinned to the front of your stomach. Wrists restrained. Your tits pressed together in a way that presents a feast for his eyes.

The way he looks at you…oh.

You’re just so wet that you could already see the gleaming layer forming on Toji’s face like a medal of honor. And you’re sure the squelches were loud enough that they could be heard even outside- “Shit.” Struggling against his lewd restraints, “Toji, but they’re gonna hear us-”

And when he still doesn’t stop his motioning face, you find yourself breaking away a hand and running it through his sweaty black locks.

Having to lightly tug to get his attention on you instead of your sopping pussy- “Toji, they’re gonna hear-”

Your husband whispers something breathless against your cunt that you don’t quite catch.

“What was that?” You’re leaning up on your elbows to hear. And you can only stare into the murky depths of his gaze, pupils blown and dazed. 

He smacks his scarred lips- slightly parted as he tries desperately to crane himself closer to your quivering hole. “Cheh.” Toji rolls his eyes and lurches back a mere centimeter or two - the expression on his face was something agonized as if it hurt him to pull away - only to spit a dripping wad of saliva down onto your cunt. 

“Please…” You’re shivering, “What was that?”

Breath choppy. Tone absolutely shattered. He repeats- “Who did ya marry?”

His voice muffles into your folds. You’re looking away from the traditional sliding doors and finding that he has his eyes dead-set on you—intense.

For a few seconds you’re so enraptured by the look in his verdant eyes that you’re speechless- and only then do you register what exactly he asked. “Wait…what?” He looked dead fucking serious.

Splat! Another wad of spittle. “Answer the question, will you, madam?”

His voice was full of authority. The beastly man from earlier. “Y-you…? Toji Zenin.” You’re just managing to gasp out, shivering at the feeling of his tastebuds then rovering uuuup and down your slit. Teasing. Then pushing inside. He’d stretched his muscle out so that very honed tip would graze your most sensitive insides, “Toji, why are you asking me-”

“Then why dont’cha fucking scream your husband’s name for them to hear, hm?”

And you swear you can feel his smile against your very pussylips for a mere sultry moment.

Before he’s back to swipin’ into you like a machine. 

Except this time…he’s using both his mouth and the two globular ends of his fingertips.

The fingertips on his left hand.

They were thick and rough after years of training- perfect to swab against your most tender spots and leave your walls raw with pleasure. And just when you thought his size and shape would be enough to drive you frenzied, Toji was curvin’ up his fingers in a way that let the frigid metal of his wedding ring press against your walls.

All cold and making it easy to follow his movements. He was forcing in his solid inches with quick, methodical strokes down your velvety channel.

Probin’ into the sweetest spots - you’re sure that Toji was just so generous with his size that he doesn’t even have to try to fill up your every orifice. He spreads his fingers apart and scissors into your insides, pumping them roughly.

In and out. In and out. In and out.

“Oh my god—” Let them hear? Let the elders hear? “Toji, what has gotten into-”

Thwack!

“I said…let them hear.”

Just then he’s puckerin’ his two fingerpads against your poor g-spot- already having mapped your cunt out with his tongue. It was almost as if his digits were on a treasure hunt to find where you liked him thumpin’ away into the most.

So hard that you think the elders outside can hear it. So hard that you swear they’re flinching-

Thump-thump-thump!

And whatever question you had on the tip of your tongue before is immediately evaporating at the sheer frenzy Toji shows when he’s drilling into you. The realization hits you like a truck. “Toji, are you…pussydrunk?”

He merely flicked his half-lidded eyes up at you- “Mmmm—” Groaning his deep baritone against your raw n’ rubbed lips - it makes you leak out in your syrupy sap even more. He has the audacity to look at your ruined expression and giggle. “I dunno, council, am I pussydrunk?”

Though it wasn’t as if they could hear that slight whisper- or even if they could, it was impossible that they’d answer.

But Toji seems to be utterly unaffected by that little tidbit, and instead looks even more gleeful at the silence from the audience just behind a thin screen on the door. “Heh- when they hear they’ll know I fuck my wife goooooood.”

You supposed that answered your question already. And you’re holding onto Toji’s crown and rutting up against his ajar mouth. “Shit- shit, I never thought you’d be so—”

“Look- I think they’re squirming.” Toji glances over at the shadows that still loomed, as present as ever. “I think they’re already startin’ to find out.”

“Fuck.” He’s thrashing his wedding ring against your g-spot once more. 

And from then on you were merely at your husband’s mercy - at the mercy of the clan leader of the Zenin’s. He was acting just as ruthlessly. 

Almost as if he wanted them to hear everything he was doing.

“Bet they can hear just how wet ya are f’me- just how much you’re leaking over this damn fucking Zenin bed they love so much.” On cue, he’s rutting against the bedframe to leave its springs creaking. “Bet they can hear the way you suck me up like thaaaaaat- atta girl. My wife.” Toji hooked his fingertips at the ends and made them splosh out even more slick- dragging them out of your puckered hole and fucking them right back in. “Wonder if they know how sweet ya are though, huh?”

Like your body was ready to prove his point, your hole gapes with a gush of glittery slick. One that Toji’s gulping up with as much noise as he could possibly make.

Purposefully bucking his hips against the mattress even more - it was almost as if eating you out like this was too much to bear. He bites down on the insides of his cheek as his rock-hard erection crushed against the soft comfort. He just needed to fuck you—

Toji has his teeth nibblin’ over your pretty clit and sucking until his chiselled cheeks hollowed and it made the most lecherous squelching sounds. Each of them a cacophony that echoed outside. He moans, “Bet they can hear how ready you are-” And you’re noticing that at this particular sentence, your husband raises his volume just a tad. He raises it. “-how fucking neeeeedy ya are to get fucked stupid by me.”

A rattle outside.

Both of you turn your head in unison to look at the commotion, but whatever the incident may have been, no one seems to move from their seats at your audience. Almost glued there - and not by duty any longer.

You look back at Toji who was grinning.

He puffs out a snicker above your swollen folds—“Pwah! If anything, at least the Zenin clan leader knows how to eat pussy.”

Toji’s shaggy bangs graze across your clit and make you twitch, “T-Tooooji—I don’t think m’gonna last…”

“What was that?”

“I think m’gonna cum.”

A smile he can’t control breaks out across his face, “Louder, madam.” Toji alternates his greedy gaze between your enraptured audience, your lewdly twisting expressions, and your pussy. All gulping him down greedily.

What a sight it was to behold - and that noise? Who’s going to stop him from reaching over to grab at one of your sandals and fling it against the sliding door- where it knocks against the cedar screen and clatters to the floor. “Ya hear that?” He calls to those uptight elders, surely horrified by now… “Louder for the ones in the back~”

Turning your head, you see that your clans are more restless than ever. “M’gonna cum-”

“Louder.”

“Gonna cum—”

“Louder.”

It seems that no matter how loud you were, it just wouldn’t be enough for him.

So the only thing you could do at this point is to throw your head back and get lost in your sudden wave of bliss - throw your head back and cum.

You’re grabbing handfuls of Toji’s shaggy black hair and yowling out his name as loud as your voicebox could handle it- “T-Toji.” Bubbling out past the sizzlin’ mouthfuls of saliva welling up at your throat. “Toji—shit, shit, shit, Toji m’cumming.”

“Mmm—” He barely had the time to respond, fucking his fingers into you furiously. His mouth latched on permanently to your clit as he dragged on your high, digits hittin’ your g-spot at every startling peak of euphoria. Again. And again. And again and again and again.

Somehow he managed to pinpoint each highest point of pleasure, and you have to bite back tears at the sheer intensity. Heartbeat thundering in your eardrums. Toes curling until it almost hurts. 

And through it all the handsome clan leader below you was readily taking on each of your cunt’s drags. Each of the gyrations you were pumping down on his swollen lips and his nose. Each of the little jerks as you had to be pulled back onto his swollen lips and his nose- he wasn’t letting you escape until you were well and thoroughly fucked through your orgasm.

You blink down dazedly at him once you’re clear-headed enough to formulate proper sentences. “Toji, m’cumming and it’s all because of you—”

“Fuck.” And with that said, he’s ruuuutting harshly against the mattress. It groans even louder in response and makes the chamber vibrate with noise.

You swear at the shaking of the bed, “Y-you’re gonna break this bed tonight, I swear-”

“Good.”

And it’s with a few more vulgar strokes that your high’s dissipating into a mere few tingles at your core - which, even that Toji’s threatening to swerve his fingers into you through. And you’re completely sure that he would’ve elongated you through your first high and straight into a second one had it not been for you pulling him off by the strands of his hair.

Begging through choked-up sobs, “Toji-” You were straining to get him to move- not that you didn’t want it, but you were just so sensitive that you wanted something…else more right now. “Toji, I’m begging you to—hah.”

“To what, my wife?” He’s running his calloused hands up and down the sides of your body. “I’ll give you anything, madam.”

Your lips quivered, “I want your cock, Toji…”

And, well, how could he ever say no to his pretty wife?

In no time, Toji’s lifting himself off of your lower half and climbing further up the bed. Something about the way he looks right now - half-lidded gaze, primal smirk, panting chest, throbbing erection through his wedding hakama - made you shift yourself up to the headboard.

And once you’re hitting the cool plane of mahogany, Toji grins.

“Nowhere to run, darlin’.”

The Zenin clan leader considers tearing off your kimono with his bare hands - before that admiring look you’d directed towards the garment makes him reconsider. It makes him sigh and gently start to part through the layers. They were much too much work, in his opinion.

And he’s practically jittery with need by the time the last of your obis are thrown over his shoulder.

And as for his clothes…

Toji takes his sensual time slipping off his robes - so many layers that it makes you so thoroughly impatient. And so you can’t help but reach out and threaten to rip his decadent clothes off-

“Tearing your husband’s clothes off already?” Toji says to you, though you do notice that he’s lilting his pitch up just a bit to let the elders outside hear. “S’that pussy that needy f’me already, my wife? Can’t wait until I take it off, huh?” You smack his chiselled pec and he grins even wider, “Oh, madam, we’re gonna have a looooong and happy marriage—”

Toji doesn’t even properly expose himself.

He’s merely lazily pushing aside his robes until you could practically see all of him: the naturally ripped lines of his muscles, his toned abs, his cushy pecs. All outlined with the scruff of his happy trail that wedged between his prominent v-line.

Toji’s meaty thighs peeked out from where his robes flapped open, and he was pushing them aside to bear you his aching hot erection—

You count.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven

Eight.

Nine entire inches that glistened in dripping hot precum, glazed the shiniest ruby-red on the top of his shaft. Flared tip. Heavy balls. Not only was Toji so long - but he was juuuuust as thick, with enough veins that you can already feel the phantom graze of them inside you.

Toji’s balls tightened as he took in the way you were looking at him-

“Like what you see, huh?” He’s smirking down sleazily at you, giving a playful smack on the sheeny inner part of your thigh. “Don’t you worry, darlin’, you’re gonna be feeling me very soon.”

“Shit, I can’t wait.” Your legs drop open around him - and end up wrapped around Toji’s slim waist to get him to buck his cock against your cunt. “I need to feel you now, Toji.”

“Now? No preparation or nothing?” He’s cocking his head down at you—cute. Just too cute how you were shaking your head like so. Not that Toji Zenin really had any idea of stretching you out even more and teasing you endlessly, but it was nice to see you deny it all the same.

His dark fabric was still semi-draped over his shoulders (though they were falling off uselessly by now and you could spot his tanned deltoids peaking out…hoenstly, how had they trained him in the years you hadn’t seen him? Because Toji was just…incredible). And it falls over you almost like a curtain as the man pushes you back against the sweat-dampened mattress.

One hand of his presses down on your stomach, the other snakes downwards to cup his thick hilt. “But I’ve gotta warn ya…s’gonna be a biiiig stretch- alright, my girl?”

You’re nodding, “Yes—”

“And when I say big stretch, I mean a biiiiiiig one- alright?” His black brows furrow at the sensation of his tip kissin’ your pussylips - you were just so hot and soft. So ready that he almost couldn’t bear it, “Enough to make that pretty mouth of yours scream, alright?”

You huff, “A-alri—fuck.”

And those elders stationed outside your martial bedroom could probably pinpoint the exact moment that Toji’s slipping his cock inside. Red-hot. Furiously hard.

Your mouth drops into a soundless scream, and the bed dips as he rests his weight on top of your lower half. The bulbous end of his cock swabbin’ between your pussylips and finding its way inside your tight hole, he’s fitting in just the crown of his shaft and making you squeal. “Sh-shit, you’re just so big-”

“What was that?” Toji’s rutting his hips against you, his cock giving you a probing thrust. “Didn’t hear you darlin’...”

“You’re just so-” Yet another thrust. And this time you swear you can feel Toji’s salty-sweet precum trickle out at the very back of your throat—”-big, Toji—”

And this time, it’s loud enough for him.

He’s tilting his head over to the silent sliding doors with an utterly arrogant look on his face, lips turned upwards priggishly. “Ya hear that?” He’s calling out to those dusty ol’ elders - most certainly, not the least bit that softly teasing tone he’d use with you. “You small-dicked motherfuckers wish you could be me.”

“Toji—” Uselessly smacking at this bicep to no avail.

But he merely keeps going- “The only thing you can do is watch- only watch everything I do. Everything I will become.” It was like this. It was always like this - Toji had fought tooth and nail to come to where he was right now. And he’d be damned if he let some old fossils ruin his wedding night with you—they were going to have a show. He’s snarling down - and just as soon as you’re registering the expression, Toji’s crashing his lips against yours in an open-mouthed kiss. “And right now…”

You’re whimpering as the hand on top of your stomach comes pressing dooooooooown.

“-I think m’gonna become a dadda, hm?”

“Fuck-” And it’s with a single hammering thrust that Toji’s forcing his swollen cock past all that slight resistance. His head falls forwards, bangs obscuring part of his face- and he can’t stop from heaving out a shuddering groan. 

You swear you can see the exact moment that Toji Zenin breaks.

Because you’re clenching your syrupy wet walls ‘round his tip, and it’s enough to make the hulking man above you shudder. Shake. Stop your moving hips with the hand on top of your stomach.

Toji presses down—“E-easy there, darlin’.” He’s rasping between clenched teeth, sounding for all the world as if it was taking every ounce of will in his body not to let his voice tremble. “Let your—haaaah, husband fuck you like you deserve, alright?”

Just as shaky as his words were aching to be, he’s compelling his hips forwards and swabbing the back of your pussy with a plap! “Fuck.”

“Fuh-fuck.” He echoes after you. Yet another hammering movement. “Fuck, I can’t stop myself.”

“Sh-shiiit, how is it even possible to feel like this-” You’re babbling out. And it seems that that’s what Toji wanted to find out, as well.

He’s thrusting his hips forwards again.

Shaking.

And again.

And again.

And again and again-

Soon enough, Toji was fucking you. In long, deeeeeep thrusts that bruise his split-ended tip all the way against the back of your cervix—before then dragging riiiiight back out till your hold was just stretched around his mushroomy cockhead. Then all the way inside again.

“T-Tooooooji—” You’re bawling out at this point, the sheer stretch of him inside you making your cheeks drench with tears. It really just felt as if he was openin’ up every hidden spot and crevice inside you, and Toji had his pointed tip acting as the spotlight.

Pinpointing each sweet spot-

And again…

Your legs start to thrash at the constant rhythmic feeling- “Ah ah- no running away, madam.” He’s scooping you up even further into his arms, “What’d I say? Let your husband- fuh-fuck you like you deserve, hm?”

“But- but you already are—” You cry out.

“Oh?” He’s darting his eyes down to the thick little bulge that had started forming at your stomach - just the slightest movement of his globular tip swabbin’ inside. And out. Inside. And out. No matter how much you bent and curved, Toji was just so big that you could see him from the outside. He’s grinning all of a sudden. “Oh…you’re right.”

Your eyes widen, “Toji, did you just realize-”

“But that doesn’t mean m’fucking you pregnant just yet—let me breed you, darlin’.”

Your head’s falling into the pillows, your back’s arching, your throat’s crying out - your cunt just wasn’t used to him. Which is why he was fucking you harder with no hesitation like he was trying to mold himself to your pussy.

To meld himself.

To which Toji doesn’t let you last even two seconds before he’s grabbing both your limbs and wrapping them around his neck. He lets your ankles intertwine securely before bending you neatly in half until your kneecaps spank your tits. 

You were being folded.

Straight into a-

“Mating press.” Toji rasps out, his scorching hot breath tickling your face. “This is called a mating press, darlin’.” Almost as an example, he’s pumping his solid inches all the way inside your channel - Toji stirs your insides just a little bit in swervin’ motions so his veins slip and graaaaze down your sides. “But you probably already knew that—now do you know what we use it for?”

“Well, it’s to—mmpf.” But how could he expect you to answer when he was smacking the curve of his tip against your sweetest spots. Every time you were opening your mouth to try n’ form a coherent sentence, your husband was fucking that sentence right out of your throat.

And the answer was simple: he didn’t want you to answer. He looks over at the shuffling shadows through the door screen—apologies, he should’ve emphasized. He didn’t want you to answer. “Oi.”

Toji barks out, and you could see the elders physically flinch at being addressed.

He smirks, “How about ya answer it f’me?” It almost makes you shy to hear your husband speaking to them while he was absolutely ruining your insides with his cock- tone breathy, hips smacking yours in an obvious background music to what you two were doing. “What exactly is a mating press used for?”

There’s a silence- and then a noise.

A slight whisper of an answer that only Toji’s extra-honed ears, trained through years of his Heavenly Restriction, manage to pick up. He’s nodding his head down at you, “That’s right?”

“What’d they say, Toji?”

“Oh—you wanna know what they said?” He’s cooing down at you—cute, cute, cute. Your lips were wobbling adorably whenever he grazes the rounded flare of his tip near your g-spot.

“Yes-” You’re nodding, “Yes, please-”

“Louder?”

“Yes, please—”

Loud enough that it rings across all four corners of the heady chamber, saturated with sex. “Good girl.” And Toji snickers as he pulls your restless body once more down to his- and as if that wasn’t enough, he’s craning his head down and blowing against your left ear. “A good girl that’s gonna get fucked full of my heir soon.”

An heir.

An heir.

So that was what it was used for - not that you didn’t know, or couldn’t have guessed. But just hearing your husband himself utter the very words made your pupils shape into heart eyes.

Staring up at him lovingly.

Toji was pounding your cunt against the mattress as though he was furious at you- and the constant creaking noise almost made you embarrassed. It was proof that he was fucking you had and rough. That he was pinning you down with one ruthless hand and shovelling you with every inch of his thickened length, swervin’ the nerves of your g-spot. “Even they approve.”

You’re snapped out of your dreamy little reverie, “Wh-what?”

“Even they approve.” Toji cocks his head down at you with a smile, “And I don’t give a fuck what they have to say about me- but if there’s anything I—ngh, am, it’s that I’m a man of my word.”

“And so…?”

But he merely glides his hand down your belly, feeling for that cute sensitive spot where Toji was rubbin’ your cervix raw. There was such an openly loving look on his face as he stared down at your body. “And so welcome baby Zenin—” Hyphenated with your family’s last name.

Toji shudders as he fucks you.

To be quite honest, he didn’t think that the thought of having an heir would affect him so much - he never has been one to be so hellbent on carrying the family name. Hell, he’d have been happy to take your last name.

But it was the vision of you all pregnant and plump and glowing—

Now that could do something to a man.

And it’s sending a thrill across Toji’s veins to see the tummy bulge he hammered into you, almost as if a little teaser for what was to come. He presses down on your stomach once more as he eases in and out, in and out. “Gonna be the prettiest momma f’me, right?” He’s grumbling out through his large canines, snarled as though he wanted to bite into that pretty lil’ throat of yours. “Gonna suck Toji Zenin dry and keep all my cum inside that- ngh, pretty pussy? S’that what yer gonna do? Suck me dry—?”

“Y-yes-”

“Louder, darlin.” He interrupts you, “I need them to hear their madam.”

“Yes—”

As a little reward, you’re getting Toji’s fat thumb spankin’ down on your clit. He rolls the pad of it over and over that spot- “And the madam is gonna be the one overspilling niiiiight after night while I fuck you pregnant, right? Gonna be the one that won’t even be able to move once I’m done with ya because you’re gonna be, mmm, too fucking full?”

“Yes, please-” Your voice was barely a whisper. And Toji pinches your clit until you manage to raise your warbling tone.

“Gonna be my poor baby with all that sickness, aw?” He’s fauxing out a pout- one that makes you bite on his scarred lips. How rude. “Don’t worry- I’ll massage those pretty feet of yours when the time comes, I’ll paint yer pretty nails, I’ll toy with that pussy- heh.”

“Is that even…”

“Gonna be my bossy lady, aren’t ya? Gonna order me around and make me get every pregnancy cravin’ ya want- as you should.” He’s chuckling at the mere notion of it, so sweet on his brain. “Gonna be asking me to fuck you all over again when those pregnancy hormones hit, huh? And then…”

“And then?” You eagerly ask.

He leans down to whisper - just for you, this time. Not any audience. “Then - if you want - I’ve gotta fuck you with our second kid all over again, huh?”

Your jaw drops.

But Toji continues - his hips and his fingers and his words. “And then a third.” He plummets his thoroughly swollen tip once more against your g-spot - so hard that it sets the crowns of your teeth on edge. “A fourth.” Another.

“Shit-”

“A…” Toji trails off, his dazed head raising blearily towards the sliding doors. “How are we feelin’ about five kids, eh?”

Whatever they answer makes him smile.

“You heard it, momma.” He gutturally moans, “M’gonna cum inside this cute cunt- fuck, m’gonna cum inside and pump you all fuuuuuull.”

Your heels attempt to find purchase on his sculptured back, and you’re kicking madly because of the sheer force of pleasure coursing through you - though, of course, to a man with Heavenly Restriction it feels like nothing but kitten punches. “T-Toji…”

He smiles like he already knew what you were about to say, “Yes?”

“Toji, m’gonna…”

“Cum, huh?” He’s narrowing his sultry eyes down at you, “And do you think she deserves to cum?”

For a second there, you think he’s almost talking to you - and you’re wondering just what he was talking about…before the shuffling and murmurs from beyond the sliding doors catch your attention. “You’re seriously asking them—”

“Ah ah-” Toji hums, “The council is in session.”

You couldn’t believe your damn ears- and you’re getting lost in Toji’s aggressive strokes for some time. Looooong and hard and driving your pupils into the back of your skull. Before Toji’s hand suddenly comes slamming down atop your pussylips-

“And can ya guess what the council has decided for you, madam?” Toji grins from ear-to-ear, “Hm?”

“I-I don’t—oh.” He’s pinching your clit hard enough to make you see stars.

“They’ve decided that you can cum.”

Hard enough to make you reach your high all at once. 

It’s shuddering through your body in waves, and you find your hips arching damn-near completely off of the bed. Toji has his cock stuffed in you deep and his fingers squeezing your clit through each throb of your high. 

It was harder than the last one.

Mind-baffling. 

Earth-shattering.

It was as if a warmth had flooded through your entire being, and Toji was only heating up the temperature a few notches with each probe of his cock. His flared tip swabs down the sides of your g-spot every single time - and Toji was more than happy to send your body twitching each time he did so. 

More than happy to watch the waves of your high turn out to be splashes—

You were squirting.

“Hear that—?” He calls out breathlessly, above the liquidy noises emanating from between your legs. The volume of your sap clearly drenched your legs and left his cock soaked. Thoroughly soaked. “She’s fucking—oh, she’s…” He fucks you through your high with roughened grunts, “Fuck- fuck.”

It left you salivating and unable to string together a full sentence- your arms wrapping tight around Toji’s neck to kiss him. “Want it-”

“Hmmmm?”

“Want you to cum inside me now, Toji.” You’re begging up at him, batting your tear-stained lashes. Pulling him in even closer, “Please?”

“Cheh-” He snickers- though even through that smug demeanour, you could feel the animalistic flinch of his cockhead deep at your innards. He was unravelling as well. “I’m gonna cum in-haaah, inside you- of course m’gonna cum inside you, my wife.”

Toji funnels into you so hard that the crowned top of your head hits the headboard.

“Gonna cum inside you and feel it in your womb-” Toji snarls out, his blushin’ tip starting to trickle out in something hot and gooey. “Gonna give these needy walls of yours something ta really hold onto- gonna have her sucking me dry.” And you swear you could see tears glittering in his dark eyes. “Gonna pump you so full that you have no option other than to- hah, overspill. But oh, don’t worry, my madam, when you overspill your husband will be riiiiight here-”

You hiccup, “Please-”

“-to fuck it right back in again.”

It’s then that you’re really feeling the full force of Toji’s high - because he empties out thiiiiick and miry ribbons of cum that puddle at the back of your pussy. So much of it. So much being poured out. They were just so sticky, with a salted caramel taste that you swear sizzles at the back of your throat.

Muscular back arching.

Eyes shuttering.

His heavy balls hitting your cunt with a thwack-thwack-thwack!

He digs his feet into the springy mattress and arches into you through each peak of his high, dragging his veiny cock right through it. Your velvety walls were just perfect to elongate the feeling of his airy sensation, and Toji can’t help but let out husky groans as he gets lost in the feeling—fuck, he didn’t even know that he could cum this much.

Trickling into you like honey.

Toji glides a hand down your front and feels for that little tummy bulge that was once there- now all bloated with his sheer white sap.

But it’s almost as if it was refusing to stop by this point, and Toji can only swat his ruby-red tip against the deepest depth of your cervix and thank her for taking it all. His eyes fluttering open and shut as he attempts to clear his damn mind.

You’re biting down on your tongue, tears exploding behind your eyes. “Sh-shit, it feels so good.” Pressing your lips to his scarred ones, so familiar now. “Toji, you feel so good.”

He shivers.

“Fuck, we’re gonna make a cute baby.”

Before…Toji Zenin doesn’t stop.

In fact, you learn that he doesn’t stop - and you don’t want him to - even past your second round. Your third round. Your fourth round. Your fifth round.

Toji might have had all those delicacies before him during your wedding reception, but it was here between your legs that he couldn’t stop going back for seconds. Filling you again and again and again- it was by the sixth round that the bed frame had completely broken. And by the eight that he’d stopped taking you on the shattered mattress and fucked you on the polished wood of the floor.

Just two feet away from the sliding doors, your head was being pushed up and up and uuuuuup towards it. As he just kept on thumpin’ his rotund red tip into the base of your pussy until the sun started to rise.

Taking you on all fours this time—doggy style, with a mean headlock gripping your throat.

And the elders outside were slouched and fatigued, if their shadows were anything to go by.

And you yourself was just so sensitive-

“Where’d you think you’re going, madam—?” You’re feeling Toji dragging you down into his beefy arms before you even understand his question - before you even realize that your feet had already planted on the wooden panels and had started to push off. It was as if your body couldn’t decide whether you wanted to bounce up more into his ruinous length, or to bounce away for your own sanity-

He helps you make a choice - and that was by grabbing onto the column of your throat with his biceps and raising your muddled head up to his. Kissing you, “Are we sure it’s even taken, yet?”

“Yes—” You’re babbling out over…the murmurs of a council that agreed immensely. They themselves were sure that their clan leader would continue until the end of time if possible. “Yes, it’s taken- it’s-”

“But are we- sure-” Each word punctuated by a thorough slash of his puckered pink tip.

He was so sensitive by this point that Toji himself was leaking his ivory sap out like no other- not enough space inside you for all of it. It froths down the middle of your cunt and creates such a gooey mess—“Yes.”

“Mmmm, well anything you say, madam.” He’s humming out. Pussydrunk. “But are we really-”

“Toji Zenin.”

The clan leader shudders, “I love it when you do that.” He kisses you with a rather loud smack, “I love you—”

And he doesn’t feel a shred of regret in the world for what he’s just confessed. Always wanted to confess.

“Always have.” Toji swallows, looking deep into your dazed eyes. “Always will- and I tried—oh, how I tried to get to you. But it was never enough. How I imagined holding you and loving you all these years but…but I understand if you don’t feel remotely the same, and if the council’s distance b-between us has already changed your mind on-”

“Toji Zenin.” He shuts up and looks down at you- only to be greeted by your smile. Head turned over your shoulder to keep staring at him. His own scarred lips turn up into a grin, green eyes twinkling. “Come here and kiss me, my husband.”

And so he wastes no time.

Murmuring into your mouth.

Pulling away for a split-second.

Raising his meaty thigh up and pressing the heel of his foot straight on top of your head- “Should we ask those damn old toads for baby names now?”

.

.

.

“Toji Zenin.”

You’d repeated, all those twenty years ago when you met him for the first time.

And for the first time, said Toji Zenin could feel his heart give a little…lurch.

How strange—he clasps at his small chest through his yukata as he watches you leave for your mother with a final wave. How strange, indeed.

The door closes and a little boy with green eyes and a scar is left sitting in the darkness, hoping you’ll visit him again.

.

.

.

The door opens.

What could buy a small apartment in Tokyo, barely the size of your closet, could buy an entire home in Hokkaido. Modest yet spacious. 

With an arched doorway and the curious guest of vines growing down the side of the house,peeking its leafy little head inside in the presence of dim yellow light. A stone pathway zig-zagging through the foliage to lead one right inside. A roof the color of a pastel green that marked it out from the others around it. A plumage of flowers - roses and tulips and lavender - each lifted their head up at the rays of early morning sunlight—this was why Toji had picked this place out.

It was somewhere no one would find you.

With enough space for three people.

You keep a hand on top of your growing belly and take in the scenery around you,as if a moving post card. After your wedding night, Toji had forgone what all the elders said and given you the choice on what you wanted to do in case of a real pregnancy. Taking you to the doctor to know every option in-depth. And, at the end of the day, well…

It hadn’t been easy to run away from the Zenin clan - let alone burn their whole estate down. Carrying only with you your most essential belongings, your wedding dress, and enough money to last the two of you four lifetimes - but Toji still would insist on working. 

It hadn’t been easy.

But you had done it.

The both of you- you had done it.

And through your fingertips were still slightly charred from the remnants of ash and memories, you don’t think you’ve ever felt more free in your life-

A jingle of keys.

While you had been basking in the natural world outside, Toji had gone ahead and opened the door to your new home. He’s staring softly at you from inside, smile crooked, large frame leaned against the door frame.

“What?” You ask him in slight amusement.

He shakes his head and quietly passes you the keys.

They were like any other - a set of glinting keys that had a little tag on them. It was one of those tags people attached to the schoolbags of their children (speaking of, was it too early to start looking into those now?) and at the top of its white face was written—your name. First and maiden last.

And then Toji—not Zenin.

Rather…

You look up at him with glistening eyes, “You took my last name?”

He nods, eyes slightly downturned. “I did- just before we left I handed in the paperwork.” Taking a long pause, “I apologize that I’m no longer your Toji Zenin-”

You’re cutting him off by throwing your arms ‘round his neck and pulling him in for an embrace. Toji steadies you easily, hands automatically then gliding down to your swollen stomach. “You never need to apologize to me for not being Toji Zenin, my love.”

“I see…” He’s clutching you even tighter, while the garden chirps around you two. Slightly choked up, “That reminds me- we need to pick out a name for our son, too, huh?”

Ah yes- a day before you left, the doctor had confirmed that you two would be having a son. A little boy. An heir to the Zenin clan. 

Those days, you just couldn’t help but think of another little boy with the weight of being an heir on his shoulders, sitting alone in a dark room with a bleeding scar.

But now you smile, “All in good time. Though I do have some ideas in mind.” Toji did, too, and you giggle as you think of the little notebook he’d been secretly writing down names in - one at the very top circled ‘Megumi’. 

“Mhmmm.” He’s looking at you with those eyes, green like the gardens of the Zenin Estate - but now green like the gardens of your home here. Toji looks so serene—you should’ve known that your boisterous husband wouldn’t let that tranquil air last too long.

His scarred lips lift up in a smirk, hand gliding across your pregnant belly. And you already know-

“Toji…”

“How about we start practicing for the second, huh?”

A/N. AWWWW I LOB HIM- feel like making a whole series for him now lowk.