Roll The Credits

There were days when he didn’t feel so out of time. Sometimes, he could walk down the street without flinching at car horns. And then there were days when everything reminded him that he didn’t belong here. 

He tried the things that friends suggested.

Baseball games, for one. Sam had suggested it like it was a cure-all: You like baseball. Go to a game. So Bucky went.  

Baseball had always made sense to him, but the stadiums were different now. It was too big, too loud, too… commercial. Even worse, the Yankees felt wrong to support, and the Dodgers being in Los Angeles still tripped him up every single time he thought about it. He sat through a few innings, hands folded tight in his lap, before leaving with the same hollow feeling he’d arrived with.

Coffee was worse.

He liked it black, bitter, no nonsense. Now it came with foam and syrups and names he couldn’t pronounce without feeling ridiculous. He ordered the wrong thing more than once and drank it anyway, grimacing through sweetness that stuck to his tongue long after the cup was empty.

Everything felt overcomplicated.

There were too many choices to make, too much noise. Too much pressure to be something to someone. 

So he built small routines, the kind his old therapist said were good for him.

One of them was the weather.

Back in the 30s and 40s, his ma used to turn on the radio every morning. The weather report would crackle through the kitchen while she moved around, apron on, humming a song. It didn’t matter if it was rain or sun. “Listen close,” she’d say, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Weather tells you how to dress for the day.”

It was… comforting.

One morning, after a whole night of being unable to sleep, he turned on the TV. 

That’s when he saw you.

You were the weather newscaster, standing in front of a green-screened map with blues, greens, and yellows curling across the screen. You smiled as you spoke, not forced nor overly bright. Your voice was comforting, like the weather mattered because people mattered.

Bucky sat down on the edge of the couch without realizing.

You talked about cloud cover and chances of rain, gesturing, explaining things like storms and sunshine were just part of a bigger, understandable pattern. 

When the segment ended, Bucky didn’t turn the TV off right away.

The next morning, he turned it on again.

That was all it was at first…. a routine. It was a familiar pattern to anchor himself to. 

He’d wake up, make coffee, and watch the weather. He told himself it wasn’t about you, specifically. You just happened to be there.

Except… he started noticing things.

He noticed the way your brow furrowed when you talked about incoming storms, like you took it personally. He noticed how you leaned into the screen slightly when you were excited about clear skies and sunshine. He noticed your smile when you signed off, wishing everyone a good day like you genuinely hoped they’d have one.

He learned your schedule without meaning to, but not in a bad way. He just knew which mornings you’d be on, which afternoons you covered, though rare. If he missed you because he woke up too late, there was a flicker of disappointment as he pretended not to care about it.

And yeah, okay— he thought you were really pretty. 

And it certainly didn’t help that Bucky caught himself wondering if you liked rainy days or just tolerated them. If you drank your coffee black or sweet. If your smile looked the same off-camera.

Still, he never lingered on those thoughts, never let them spiral. He wasn’t building some fantasy version of you in his head. He knew better than that.

It was just a crush.

A small one, harmless one.

But some mornings, he realized he’d woken up a little earlier than usual, just to be sure he wouldn’t miss you.

—

Letting Sam and Joaquin stay in his apartment after a boy's night out had felt like the decent thing to do.

Bucky had even told himself that as they stumbled through the door sometime after midnight. Sam had been riding the high of a good night out. Joaquin had been buzzing in that restless way, fueled by sugar-heavy cocktails and the thrill of getting Bucky out of his apartment for once.

The mistake became clear the moment the door shut behind them.

They stood in the living room, taking stock of the space like they hadn’t been there a dozen times before. 

See, Bucky only had one spare bedroom. The other would have to stay on the couch. 

“I’m taking the spare room,” Sam said immediately, toeing off his shoes.

Joaquin laughed. “What– that’s not fair!”

Bucky didn’t bother looking up as he shrugged out of his jacket. “Figure it out yourselves. I’m going to bed.”

“You hear that?” Joaquin said. “Man’s clocked out.”

“Rock, paper, scissors,” Sam announced. “Like adults.”

They tied. Once. Then twice. On the third round, Joaquin won and celebrated far more loudly than the victory warranted. Sam accused him of cheating. Joaquin accused Sam of being a sore loser. Bucky disappeared into his bedroom before it could escalate.

—

The next morning, Bucky woke before sunrise. 

He laid still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, orienting himself. He moved through the apartment without thinking as the kitchen light stayed off. He measured coffee grounds, the bitter scent blooming in the air as he brewed. Sam was still sprawled across the couch, throw blanket tangled around his legs, one arm flung over his face like he’d lost a fight with gravity.

Bucky hesitated before turning on the TV.

He told himself it was a habit. Surely, Sam wouldn’t mind. 

So the screen flickered to life as he turned the volume low enough not to wake anyone… at least, that had been the intention.

You appeared on-screen, framed perfectly against a colorful map. You smiled as you greeted the viewers, getting on with your job. Bucky leaned back against the counter, mug warming his hands, shoulders loosening without him noticing.

Sam stirred from his sleep, shifting beneath the blanket. He let out a quiet groan, waking too early against his will.

“Why,” he mumbled, “does it sound like a civic duty in here?”

Bucky didn’t look over. “Go back to sleep.”

Sam cracked one eye open, squinting blearily at the TV. “Why is the news on?”

“It’s just the weather,” Bucky said, casual to the point of rehearsed. “You don’t need to be awake for it.”

Sam hummed, unconvinced. Before he could say anything else, the spare bedroom door creaked open.

Joaquin shuffled out, rubbing his face, hair sticking up in defiance of any law of nature. He paused, eyes landing on the TV.

“Oh,” he said. “It’s her.”

Sam lifted his head now, more alert. “Her?”

Joaquin nodded toward the screen. “The weather girl, she used to cast in Miami. My mom loved her,  even cried when she moved to New York. She used to be on all the time.”

“Well, sometimes,” Bucky corrected, maybe a little too quickly.

You were explaining a shift in pressure systems, gesturing at the metrics. Joaquin watched for a beat longer than necessary, then nodded to himself.

“…Okay,” he said, squinting at Bucky’s response. “Whatever. My cousin thinks she’s cute.”

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded fondly. The moment his reply landed in the room, he knew he’d screwed up.

Sam’s head snapped around. “Hold on.”

Bucky took a long sip of coffee, buying himself half a second that did absolutely nothing.

Joaquin’s eyes lit with sudden clarity. “Do you think she’s cute?” 

Bucky felt heat creep up the back of his neck. “I meant—yeah, she’s objectively—”

“Ohhh,” Sam interrupted, sitting up now, blanket sliding off his shoulders. “Oh, no, no. That was not an objective ‘yeah.’”

Joaquin grinned, instantly energized. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Are you telling me—”

“No,” Bucky said firmly.

Joaquin leaned forward. “—that the Bucky Barnes—”

“Nope.”

He pointed at the TV. “—has a crush on the weather girl?”

“Fuck,” Bucky let breath out through his nose. “…Maybe?”

Big mistake. The room exploded.

“Oh my God,” Sam laughed, dragging a hand down his face. “This is incredible.”

Joaquin clutched his chest. “The Winter Soldier, reduced to heart eyes over the Weather Channel.”

“It’s not the Weather Channel,” Bucky snapped. “It’s local news.”

“Oh, even worse,” Sam teased. “He likes her accessible.”

Bucky shot him a glare. “You’re both idiots.”

Joaquin wasn’t letting it go. “How long has this been a thing?”

“It’s not a thing,” Bucky said, defensive now. “She’s just… she happens to be on in the morning. It’s routine.”

“Mmhmm,” Sam said, nodding exaggeratedly. “And you just happen to know her schedule?”

Bucky’s metal fist tightened. “…Look.”

They both leaned in.

“She’s just my type, okay?” he said finally, words tumbling out in a rush. 

Joaquin’s eyebrows softened, just a bit, as Sam grinned anyway. “That’s adorable.”

“It’s just a harmless crush,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “I don’t think I know her. I don’t pretend she knows me.”

On-screen, you smiled as you wrapped up the forecast. “Looks like clear skies for most of the week. Whatever the weather, have a great morning, folks!”

Bucky’s eyes were glued to your sign off before realizing Sam and Joaquin were staring at him.

Sam nudged Joaquin. “Look at his face.”

Joaquin softened just a bit. “Aw, man.”

Bucky muttered, “I hate you both.”

Sam slapped him on the shoulder. 

“I think it’s good,” Joaquin said. “Means you’re still capable of liking someone who isn’t actively shooting at you.”

Bucky huffed, though a smile creeped on his face. “Real comforting.”

—

A couple of months later, Sam was yet again stuck in Bucky’s apartment after an overnight blizzard.

After it passed, snowbanks still lined the streets like barricades, gray and uneven from plows that had done their best and moved on. The city felt wrong, quiet in places it was usually loud, crowded in the buildings that still had power and heat. People were digging themselves out, checking on neighbors, trying to piece everything back together.

Bucky watched it all from the window, mug warming his hands.

“The shelter’s doing post-storm relief,” Sam said, scrolling on his phone. “They’re short on volunteers.”

Bucky didn’t hesitate. “Let’s go.”

Sam glanced up, eyebrows lifting. “Sure”

To both of them, helping made sense, it always had. They saw a need, they filled it. 

They bundled up and headed out, boots crunching through packed snow, wind biting but manageable now that the worst had passed. The shelter sat on a corner still half-buried in slush, lights blazing inside.

The moment they stepped through the doors, the noise hit them all at once.

People crowded the space, some shaking snow from their coats, others already clutching steaming cups of soup. Volunteers moved quickly, voices raised just enough to be heard. Tables were set up along the walls, one stacked high with donated coats in every size and color.

Sam was immediately flagged down by a coordinator. To be fair, she probably recognised them both.

“Here to help out?” she asked, eyeing both of them.

Sam grinned. “Born ready.”

As Bucky turned to sign in… he stopped in his tracks. His brain just stopped working.

Because you stood near the front door, hair pulled back messily, bundled in a thick sweater and scarf that looked nothing like your formal on-screen wardrobe. Your cheeks were flustered from the cold, sleeves pushed up as you were getting ready to help with the soup stall. You were laughing at something one of the coordinators said..

Sam noticed immediately.

“Oh,” he said, far too casually. “Would’cha look at that.”

Bucky’s heart slammed into his ribs.

“No,” he said quietly.

Sam leaned closer, grin already forming. “Is that—”

“No.”

“That’s the weather girl.”

“Sam.”

“That’s your weather girl.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “She’s not my anything—.”

Sam nudged him with his elbow. “Man, she’s even cuter in person!”

Bucky shot him a glare. “Do not make this weird.”

Sam’s grin only widened. “I’m not making it weird. You are making it weird by staring.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky muttered, pulling his beanie down lower. “We’re here to help.”

They were directed to different stations, mercifully, but not mercifully enough.

Sam was assigned to give away donated coats, and somehow, Bucky was assigned to the soup stall— the very same soup stall you were assigned to.

You approached with a box of cups, setting them down gently. “Hey,are you good to ladle, or do you want me to—”

You looked up. Your eyes flicked to his face, then squinted just a fraction. “You’re new around here,” you mentioned with a smile, before telling him your name in introduction.

Bucky’s mouth went dry. What was he supposed to say? I already know who you are? I watch you every morning? No fucking way.

“Uh…” he said intelligently.

Sam, passing behind them with a crate of gloves, slowed to a stop and watched.

Bucky didn’t look at him. 

“I… nice to meet you. And I-I can—uh, ladle,” Bucky said, clearing his throat. “I’m… yeah. I’m good.”

You smiled at him, making his knees feel vaguely unreliable. “Great. Team soup, then.”

He nodded way too fast.

You both worked in silence at first. The line was steady, from families to elderly couples to people stamping snow from their boots, hands shaking as they wrapped them around warm cups. Bucky focused on the repeated motion: scoop, pour, slide the cup forward.

He kept his gaze down, keeping his hands hidden under the gloves as he continued to pretend not to know exactly who you were.

You, on the other hand, watched him with curiosity.

After a few minutes, you spoke again.

“You do this often?” you said lightly, handing a cup to a woman with a grateful smile. 

Bucky shrugged. “Just… doing what needs doing.”

You glanced at his gloves and the way his shoulders stayed slightly hunched, like he was trying to fold inward.

Then you looked back at his face.

“You did a good job,” you said.

Bucky blinked. “With… soup?”

Your lips twitched into a sweet smile, head tilting.

“With the GRC,” you said quietly. “Things were… a mess. Still are, feels like”

The ladle froze mid-air.

Fuck. You… recognised him? 

His heart skipped a beat as his mouth took off at a sprint.

“Oh,” he managed. “I—uh—”

You smiled again, gentler this time. You weren’t starstruck, nor invasive. You were just…  sincere.

“You handled it with a lot of compassion,” you continued. “I remember watching the live coverage in the office.”

Bucky’s ears burned.

Sam, across the room, caught his eye and mouthed SHE KNOWS YOU.

Bucky did not look back.

“I was just… following Cap’s lead,” he said, because that was safer.

You studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. “Still. It mattered.”

Snow whipped past the windows outside. The line kept moving. The world kept going.

Inside, Bucky Barnes was quietly, internally losing his mind.

You handed him another stack of cups as he tried to focus very hard on the soup.

“Thanks,” he said, voice low.

“Anytime,” you replied with a chuckle.

Over the next few hours, he realised you were chatty in the most charming way.

It started small.

You commented on the soup temperature. Joked that the ladle was deceptively heavy. Mentioned that snowstorms always made communities unite, like shared misery unlocked manners. Bucky responded with short answers at first, and you didn’t seem to mind. You just adjusted, met him where he was, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Conversation was… easy. He didn’t feel like he was calculating every word, didn’t feel like he was performing Normal Guy Behavior™. You filled gaps naturally, let silences exist without making them awkward. When he spoke, you listened like what he said mattered.

Internally, Bucky was losing a war.

Because in a deeply fucked-up, self-preserving corner of his brain, he’d been hoping, praying really, thats you’d secretly be awful. That you’d be rude, or fake, or condescending. 

Because if you sucked, he could move on. He could chalk this whole thing up to a stupid crush and go back to watching you from a safe, distant screen. Maybe even deflate this stupid crush instantly.

But no.

Nooooo.

Instead, you just had to be a sweetheart who laughed with volunteers, remembered regulars’ names, and casually mentioning—

“I’ve been helping out here for years,” you said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. “Since college, on and off. Storms just make it busier.”

Years.

Of course.

Of course you had. Of course you’d been doing good long before he ever noticed you through a screen. Of course you weren’t just someone who cared on-camera. Of course you were and inconveniently wonderful.

Bucky stared at the soup again, and thought, Fantastic. She’s kind AND committed. Kill me.

You glanced at him sideways, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Just… uh—concentrating.”

You chuckled, perhaps sensing his nerves, and something in his chest gave way.

Then the coordinator’s voice cut through the room. “Alright, new volunteers just arrived! Time to rotate stations!”

You peeled your gloves off slowly, like you weren’t in any hurry to leave the moment. “Guess we’re done.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, immediately hating how disappointed he sounded.

You hesitated, then tilted your head at him, studying his face. “You know,” you said lightly, “you’re a lot easier to talk to than I thought a super-soldier would be.”

His heart did a stupid little backflip. “I… uh, thanks?”

You smiled, warmer now. Flirty in that way that didn’t demand anything but absolutely invited him in. “I mean it,” you said. “I’m glad we worked together.”

He nodded, hands curling slightly at his sides. Say something. Say anything.

“Hey, do you maybe want to…”

Oh God.

You looked back up at him as he swallowed hard. Do it. Don’t be a coward.

“...get coffee sometime?” He finished quickly. “If you want. Just, coffee, no foam. I mean—foam’s fine if you like it… sorry.”

Smooth. Real smooth.

For half a second, you just stared at him, then you smiled.

You didn’t look surprised. If anything, you looked pleased.

“I was hoping you’d ask,” you said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Bucky froze. “You were?”

“Mmhmm.” You reached into your coat pocket and pulled out your phone. “But I’m gonna make this easy on you.”

You scribbled your number on a scrap of paper from the counter and pressed it into his human palm.

“Text me,” you said, eyes meeting his. “And we’ll figure out when that date is.”

Date.

His brain short-circuited completely.

“I… okay,” he managed, nodding a little too fast. “Yeah. I can do that.”

You smiled, clearly endeared at how overwhelmed he looked. “I look forward to it, Bucky.”

—

Bucky stared at the scrap of paper like it might detonate.

Your number. It was real. Handwritten, and slightly smudged because his hands had been sweating like he was about to defuse a bomb instead of… text a woman.

He’d folded it once, unfolded it before folding again, tucking it carefully into his jacket pocket like it was fragile glass.

Sam, who just finished his part, noticed immediately.

He didn’t say anything at first. He asked if he wanted to go to a diner— which Bucky agreed to. 

And during dinner, Sam just watched his best friend tap the table restlessly with his metal fingers as he held his phone in his human hand, unlocking and relocking the screen like that might summon courage through muscle memory alone.

Finally, Sam leaned back on the booth cushions, arms crossed. “You gonna tell me why you look like you’re about to jump out of a plane without a parachute?”

Bucky stopped tapping. “I’m fine.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You’ve opened your phone twelve times and haven’t done anything.”

Bucky scowled and lied. “That’s not true.”

“Oh, my bad. Thirteen.”

Bucky let a deep breath out through his nose, before admitting quietly, “I got her number.”

Sam froze. “You what?”

“I got her number,” Bucky repeated, like saying it again might make it less terrifying. “She… she gave it to me.”

Sam’s face looked like it was stuck between joy, disbelief, and chaos. “Whoa, Buck—”

“Don’t,” Bucky snapped, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t yell.”

Sam chuckled, eyes wide. “Sorry.”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. “She told me to text her.”

Sam’s grin was immediate and unstoppable. 

“You will not tell anyone,” Bucky said firmly.

Sam blinked. “Anyone?”

“Anyone,” Bucky repeated. “Not Joaquin. Not even your sister. Not anyone.”

Sam tilted his head. “C’mon man.”

Bucky hesitated, eyes dropping back to his phone. “I don’t wanna jinx it.”

Sam held up two fingers like an oath. “Secret’s safe. On my life.”

“Thank you.”

“Now,” Sam added immediately, leaning forward, “are you gonna text her, or are you gonna die staring at your lock screen?”

Bucky scowled. “I’m working up to it.”

Sam watched as Bucky finally opened the messages app, typed a few words… deleted them. Tried again. Deleted again.

“What the hell are you writing?” Sam asked.

“Something normal,” Bucky said. “Not weird.”

“Define weird.”

“Anything that sounds like I’ve been thinking about her for months.”

Sam snorted. “Good call.”

Bucky tried again.

Bucky: Hey, it’s Bucky from the soup kitchen today.

He stared at it. Read it. Overthought it. Finally, he showed Sam. 

“Too boring?” he asked.

Sam shrugged. “It’s fine, man. Hit send.”

Bucky’s thumb hovered.

His chest felt tight. This was worse than jumping out of planes. Worse than fighting aliens. At least their rejection wouldn't hurt.

He hit send.

The phone was silent for exactly seven seconds before it buzzed.

Bucky’s heart nearly stopped as he opened it immediately.

You: Hey, Souper Soldier :) I was hoping you’d text!

His breath left him in a rush he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Sam watched his face and grinned. “She replied, didn’t she?”

Bucky didn’t even try to hide it. “Yeah.”

—

The texting started… cautiously.

At least on his end.

You: Made it home without slipping on ice 👍

Bucky stared at the screen for a full minute before replying.

Bucky: Yeah. Same. Still thawing out though. I packed some extra soup and it helped.

Three dots appeared. 

You: Soup is powerful like that

You: So is coffee, apparently. You seemed very serious about yours.

He huffed, a smile tugging at his lips.

Bucky: I prefer just black coffee. 

Bucky: It gets the job done.

Bucky: You?

You: Oh I’m a menace

You: milk, sugar, sometimes cinnamon if I’m feeling interesting

He shook his head, fond despite himself.

From there, it got… easy.

You sent him pictures of the ridiculous snowbanks still clogging the sidewalks. He sent back a blurry photo of his coffee mugs. You teased him for being dry over text; he admitted (after some coaxing) that he was better in person.

Then, two days in…

You: So what do you actually do when you’re not saving soup kitchens?

He stared at it, metal plates rippling on his vibranium arm.

Bucky: Bit of this, bit of that.

Bucky: Helping where I can.

You: Mysterious. I like it 😌

You: I’m a little less exciting. I work in broadcasting

He blinked. What am I supposed to say?

Typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Bucky: Oh.

Bucky: Really?

He could feel the universe judging him.

You: Yeah! Local news

You: Mostly mornings

His soul tried to leave his body.

Bucky: That’s cool.

Cool???

He knew. He knew. He should’ve just said something like Hey, funny story, I already know this.

But instead, like a coward, he kept digging.

You: Weather, specifically. Nothing glamorous

Bucky stared at the word weather like he was solving an impossible equation.

Bucky: That’s great. People need to know about weather.

Smooth. Incredible. Nailed it.

You didn’t seem to notice his nerves through the screen. Or if you did, you found it charming.

You: You’re sweet

You: want to get that coffee this weekend?

He said yes immediately. 

—

The date was simple.

It was at a small café of his choosing. It had warm lighting, and it was quiet enough that he didn’t feel like the walls were closing in. You waved when you saw him, bundled in a coat and scarf, smiling like this wasn’t the most terrifying thing he’d done in years.

Conversation flowed like it had at the shelter, maybe even better.

You talked about early mornings, about learning to smile on camera even when you were exhausted, about how weather felt personal because it affected everyone. He listened, genuinely fascinated, occasionally tripping over the fact and deflecting over the fact that he’d watched you tell him it was gonna be chilly over the weekend yesterday morning.  

Fuck, when he developed his silly little crush on you, he had never imagined you’d be sitting across from him, laughing into your coffee.

That was a lie. Maybe he’d imagined it once or twice, but he never actually thought he’d get to do it. 

At one point, you caught him staring.

“What?” you asked, amused.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “You’re just… easy to look at.”

You chuckled, cheeks warming. “You are too, you know.”

By the time you stood to leave, his nerves were back in full force. He walked you outside, cold air biting at his cheeks.

“Well,” you said, “I had a really good time.”

“Me too,” he said, earnest. “I’d… like to do this again. If you want.”

Instead of answering right away, you stepped closer. And before his brain could reboot, you leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

His entire system shut down.

“I’d love to go on a second date,” you said warmly.

Bucky nodded, stunned. “Okay. Yeah. Definitely.”

You smiled at him one last time before heading off down the sidewalk, leaving him frozen in place, hand hovering near his cheek like he needed proof it had actually happened.

Somewhere deep down, he knew he really, really needed to tell you the truth.

But right now, all he could think was… 

Holy shit. She kissed me.

—

​​The second date was easier.

You met him at a bookstore-themed cocktail bar tucked between a laundromat and a bodega that smelled permanently like oranges. Bucky arrived ten minutes early and spent seven of them pretending to browse a shelf labeled Modern Memoirs while actually rehearsing how not to say something unhinged. When you walked in, he forgot every plan he’d made and just… smiled.

You talked for hours.

Not the careful, surface-level kind of talking either, but real conversation. You told him about growing up watching storms roll in from your bedroom window, how weather made you feel small in a good way. He told you about Brooklyn in the forties, about baseball games, about the war. You didn’t flinch when he mentioned nightmares. You didn’t pry. You just listened, nodding like it all made sense.

At some point, you reached across the table and nudged his metal fingers with yours.

“Can I?” you asked gently.

He swallowed. “Yeah. Please.”

You traced the vibranium seams like you were learning a part of him. Bucky’s heart skipped a beat, then settled. When you left, you hugged him, and he stood there afterward thinking, oh no. This is becoming a thing.

—

The third date was dinner.

Nothing fancy. It was a small place you liked near your apartment, all brick walls and low lights. You laughed more this time. He loosened up enough to tease you about your corny ‘souper soldier’ pun, and you teased back about him being emotionally attached to black coffee. Somewhere between dessert and the check, he realized he felt… normal. Like this was just his life now.

Walking you home was not something he planned on.

The night was cold but clear, streetlights glowing against leftover snow. You talked about weekend plans, a storm system moving in next week, until you stopped outside your building.

“Well,” you said, putting your weight slightly back on your heels. “I had a really good time.”

“Me too,” he said, too quickly. Then, because he’d promised himself he would be better than his fears, he added, “I was wondering if I could—” He stopped to take a grounding breath, “—kiss you?”

You smiled, eyes warm. “Yeah,” you said. “Of course.”

He leaned in carefully, like he was approaching a goddess. The kiss was gentle at first, then sure, your hand curling into his jacket as if you’d always known where it belonged. When you pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours, like he needed the contact to stay upright.

You laughed quietly. “You okay?”

He nodded, dazed. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m… yeah.”

You unlocked your door and turned back to him. “Text me when you get home?”

“Absolutely,” he said, already planning to text you the second he was out of sight.

You waved and slipped inside.

Bucky stood there for a full five seconds. Then his brain caught up as he realized three things in rapid succession:

You tasted faintly like coffee and cinnamon.

His heart was trying to escape his chest.

I know where she lives now????

He blinked, looking at the door, then at the building. He felt his soul try to exit his body in a spiral of delight and terror.

He walked home in a fog, lips still burning, heart doing laps in his chest. Somewhere between your block and his, he laughed out loud, startling a passerby.

This was good. This was really good.

It didn’t, however, change the fact that he was absolutely, completely screwed.

—

The fourth date started with him standing across the street from the local broadcasting studio at four-thirty in the afternoon, hands shoved into his coat pockets, teeth clenched like he was bracing for impact.

This was nothing. This was normal. People picked each other up from work all the time. Except, he kinda knew where you worked, like, eight months before you actually told him in a text. After all, he didn’t live too far from the Channel 7 Office. To his defense, before you actually met him, he never ever, even once, thought about trying to run into you there. That would be weird.

Still, it probably explained why his heart was pounding like he was about to jump out of a quinjet.

Then the doors opened, and you stepped out.

You were dressed down compared to your on-camera look, coat slung over your arm, hair loose, face relaxed in a way he’d never seen through a screen. When your eyes found him, your smile bloomed instantly.

“Hey,” you said.

His brain went blank.

“Hey,” he managed, voice rougher than intended.

You fell into step beside him easily, like this was already a habit. On the subway ride to the Guggenheim (your idea for a date), you talked about your day. You talked about early meetings, producers arguing over graphics, and how exhausting it could be to smile before the sun was even fully up. Bucky listened like it mattered. Like you mattered. Every once in a while, you glanced at him as you spoke, checking that he was really there. He was. 

Inside the museum, the space opened up around you. Bucky stood beside you under the spiraling white curves, hands tucked into his coat pockets, head tilted back as he took it in. “Feels like I’m standing inside a thought,” he chuckled.

You laughed as you moved slowly through the exhibits. Sometimes your shoulder brushed his. Sometimes your fingers found his sleeve and stayed there. He didn’t flinch when crowds pressed in, but you noticed him leaning subtly toward you as art curved upward with the building, color and shape unfolding slowly. You walked close, shoulders brushing now and then, never pulling away.

“This one always makes me feel small,” you said, staring at a massive abstract piece. “But not in a bad way.”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. Like… perspective.”

You glanced at him. “You get it.”

Your fingers slipped around his metal finger without thinking, resting there like it belonged. He froze for half a second before relaxing into it, metal plates humming faintly beneath your touch. 

By the time you stepped back outside, dusk had crept in.

“Do you…” He hesitated, heart racing. “Do you want to come back to my place?”

You didn’t even have to think about it. “Sure.”

—

His apartment felt different the moment you crossed the threshold. You kicked off your shoes, shrugged out of your coat, looked around like you were mapping him through his space. He watched you like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

It didn't matter, anyway. You both barely made it past the hallway.

The second it felt private enough, you pulled Bucky’s lips to yours. This kiss was deeper, more urgent than ever before. His hands found your waist on instinct, pulling you closer as if distance had suddenly become unbearable. There was no hiding behind paper-thin pretenses anymore, not that Bucky ever tried to hide his intentions of why he was bringing you home.

“I just—” He pulled back a fraction, forehead resting against yours, breath uneven. “This is okay, right?”

Your smile was unmistakably sure. “Bucky… yes.”

That was it.

The kiss resumed, heavier now. Your back hit the wall as he pressed into you, then your hands reversed it without thinking, guiding him back until his shoulders met the cool surface instead. Your mouth traced along his chin, down your neck, making him inhale sharply.

You laughed breathlessly when he fumbled with your skirt zipper and the buttons of your blouse. “Hey,” you teased gently. “Still with me?”

“Barely,” he admitted hoarsely.

You helped him, and when his shirt came off, your hands explored him like you were curious, like you wanted to learn. You swallowed, cheeks already tinged with how much you were staring. “I… I have to admit something,” you started, biting your lip like it was the only thing keeping your words from spilling over.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, “Oh yeah?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to be too nervous. “At the museum earlier… I kind of wanted to push you up against the wall.”

He froze for a second. Eyes flicked to yours, just the faintest smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Really?”

You nodded, heat creeping up your neck. “Yeah. Nothing says art quite like… Bucky Barnes, displayed right next to a Kandinsky. But I didn’t, because… well, public space.”

Bucky’s smile became a shy grin. He pulled you closer, if it was even possible, peppering kisses on your lips. “I think I could’ve handled it,” he said confidently, surprising himself. “Even appreciated it.”

Your stomach flipped. “Bucky—” you whispered, half warning, half pleading.

“Or,” he added, tilting his head, thumb brushing along your side, “we could make tonight a private showing.”

You laughed, breathless and flustered, trying to play it cool but failing spectacularly. “I—uh… I might need a moment to… appreciate the view first,” you said, voice wobbling, teasing, but utterly incapable of hiding the heat in your chest.

Bucky’s grin widened, the kind that promised he knew exactly what he was doing. He was nervous, of course. But now he was motivated, and a motivated Bucky wasn’t something anyone should evertake for granted. He leaned in, forehead resting against yours, lips just brushing your ear. “I think I could make you forget all about appreciating the art.”

And that was it. You were undone.

After that, the bed was a blur. One moment you were pressing him up against the wall, thinking you were in control, the next he was guiding you down with reverent hands. When he landed on the mattress and helped line your waists together as you back to straddle him, the sound he made was wrecked enough to make you gain a bit of your poise back.

“Oh,” you said, almost teasing. “You okay?”

He laughed weakly. “I’m… yeah.”

You leaned down and kissed him again, and it was thorough and devastating. His hands settled at your hips, thumbs digging in like anchors. The world narrowed to the heat pooling down your core and his breath and the way your bodies fit together like they’d been working toward this for weeks.

Later, after riding each other’s high, you lay tangled together beneath the covers, skin warm and limbs heavy.

Bucky stared at the ceiling for a moment, then turned his head toward you.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hey,” you answered, tracing idle patterns along his human arm.

His throat tightened, looking down. You were not just a person on a screen anymore. You were real. And perhaps, you never needed to know otherwise. “I’m really glad I met you.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Me too.”

—

The next morning crept in too early.

Gray-blue light filtered through the curtains, city sounds still half-asleep, the clock on Bucky’s nightstand glowing 6:02 a.m. You stirred awake first, carefully, like you were navigating a minefield instead of a bed.

You slipped one leg out from under the covers, then the other, wincing when the floor felt colder than expected. You reached for your clothes as quietly as possible, gathering them up against your chest, already rehearsing how to disappear without waking him.

It didn’t work. He had super-soldier senses, after all.

“Hey,” Bucky muttered, voice still rough with sleep.

You turned slowly. He was on his side, hair a mess, eyes barely open but already focused on you like you were the most important thing in the room.

“Sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He pushed himself up on one elbow. “It’s okay. What time is it?”

“Early,” you said apologetically. You pulled on your blouse, smoothing it down. “I gotta run to work. I texted my coworker to see if I can borrow a blazer and shirt so I don’t have to go back to my place, but I… yeah. I need to go.” You hesitated, then smiled sheepishly. “I was gonna leave you a note.”

You leaned down and kissed him.

When you pulled back, he looked… happy, and awake now. 

“I—” he cleared his throat, sitting up a little straighter. “I can drive you? If you want.”

You laughed, warm and fond. “Buck, it’s like three subway stops.”

“Oh,” he said. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense.”

You slipped your bag over your shoulder, then paused at the bedroom door. “Besides,” you added, teasing just a little, “I want you to tune in and watch.”

His heart tried to punch its way out of his chest. He absolutely could not say I do, every morning.

So instead he said, way too casual, “Uh. Okay. It’s… MetroView NY, right? Channel 7?”

You smiled, assuming he knew from picking you up yesterday. “Yeah. That one.”

Nailed it.Totally normal. Definitely not suspicious.

You reached for the door, then stopped when he spoke again.

“Hey… um,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “A couple of my friends are visiting the city tonight. They wanna check out this new dive bar. You… wanna join us?”

You turned back to him, nodding. “Yeah. Of course. Just text me the address and when.”

Relief washed over his face so visibly it made you smile. After what he did to you last night, you found it adorable that he was still kinda flustered.

As he sat straight up, you kissed him once more, quick but affectionate, and whispered, “I’ll see you tonight, then.”

—

Bucky was standing in the kitchen an hour later, coffee gone cold in his hand, shirt tugged on hastily after you left, brain replaying the exact sound of your laugh from the night before like it was on a loop he couldn’t shut off. The apartment smelled faintly like you, and it was doing absolutely nothing to help.

Right on cue, he turned the TV on.

And there you were.

You had bright studio lights on you, a polished smile, hair styled in a way that made it painfully clear you hadn’t been up all night… appreciating art. You greeted the audience like your legs weren’t still wobbly.

“Good morning,” you said cheerfully, standing in front of the weather map. “If you’re heading out early, you’ll want to bundle up, looks like the city’s still riding the weather out today.”

He choked on his coffee.

Riding the weather out. Jesus Christ, in all of his months of watching you on TV, he had never ever heard you say something like that. Especially not after you were on top him like a cowgirl last night. 

But still, it could be a coincidence, right?

You clicked to the next graphic. “Yesterday’s storm cleared beautifully, though. Sometimes all it takes is a little pressure shift to make things fall into place.”

Bucky closed his eyes for half a second.

Pressure shift. It could be totally normal phrase. He was absolutely not thinking about you trailed your hands on his shoulders or the way you’d smiled at him afterward like you knew exactly what you’d done.

“And if you were out enjoying the arts last night, maybe wandering a museum,” you continued smoothly, “you might’ve noticed how the city feels a little less windy. That trend will continue over the weekend.”

He shifted his weight, heat creeping up his neck. 

You gestured toward the screen again. “Today’s actually perfect for something low-key. A walk through the park, maybe. Or checking out a new dive bar while the roads stay clear.”

Bucky stared.

“And for those staying in,” you added, lips twitching just slightly, “it’s a good night for… private showings.”

He let out a strangled noise that might’ve been a laugh.

There was no way. No way that was accidental. The camera didn’t catch it, but he did, confirmed now by the quick little glint in your eye before you smiled wide again.

“Whatever you choose,” you finished, “it’s a good day to go out, or stay warm inside. Please plan accordingly, folks!”

Bucky actually laughed this time. 

You signed off like nothing had happened, like you hadn’t just flirted with one specific super-soldier through an FCC-compliant forecast.

He stood there for a long moment, heartbeat loud in his ears, replaying flashes of last night, thinking about the way you’d climbed into his lap like you already knew exactly where you belonged.

His phone buzzed.

You: I kept it professional, but I figured you’d understand the subtext 😇

He huffed out a chuckle.

Bucky: I understood, sweetheart. Loud and clear.

The reply came almost instantly.

You: Good :) 

You: Tonight’s forecast is still open 😉

He stared at the message, warmth spreading through his chest.

—

Later that night, you were at the dive bar a full half hour early, for no reason except for the fact that you had nothing else to do. 

Your apartment had felt too still after you got home, so you’d just changed clothes, stared at yourself in the mirror longer than necessary, and eventually decided that sitting alone with your thoughts was a bad idea.

So here you were.

The bar was comfortably dim, the kind of place that smelled faintly like citrus cleaner and old wood, neon signs humming over shelves of bottles. It wasn’t crowded yet, just a couple of people nursing drinks like they had nowhere else to be.

You slid onto a stool at the bar and ordered a soda. It felt normal. No cameras, just producers in your ear. Just a denim jacket and jeans, a Tool t-shirt, and your hair down the way it never was on air.

You didn’t mind being early. It gave you time to settle.

You’d just unlocked your phone when someone sat on the stool beside you with an audible little gasp. “Oh my god.”

You glanced over, already smiling because… yeah. You knew that tone.

“You’re the weather girl.”

You laughed, and it sounded light. “I am, yeah.”

His face lit up immediately, like he’d just stumbled into a celebrity sighting he hadn’t expected to happen in a dive bar of all places. You never considered yourself a celebrity by any means, well… maybe a local one. “That’s wild. I mean, sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“It’s okay,” you said, lifting your soda in a small toast. “Happens more than you’d think.”

He laughed, then tilted his head, squinting slightly. “You look… different.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Different how?”

“More real?” He waved a hand vaguely. “Less… map.”

You snorted. “Yeah, the green screen really does a lot of heavy lifting.”

That got a proper laugh out of him. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Joaquin. Nice to meet you.”

You shook it. “Nice to meet you too, Joaquin.”

He seemed genuinely sweet. He was friendly, a little excitable in a way that felt harmless. You chatted idly for a few minutes. About how weird it was being recognized in random places. About how this bar apparently had surprisingly good fries.

Then Joaquin shifted on his stool, suddenly looking like he was working up the nerve to say something.

“So,” he said, lowering his voice just a bit. “This is gonna sound kind of weird.”

You shrugged. “That’s usually how the best conversations start.”

He chuckled, then took a breath. “I have a friend coming in tonight who has… like. A huge crush on you.”

You blinked, then laughed softly. “Oh?”

“Massive,” he said, nodding seriously. “He watches you every morning. Has for… I don’t know. Almost a year, I think.”

You were used to people who knew you, sure, used to people finding comfort in routine, in familiar faces on their screens. There was something sweet about that kind of consistency, but your “fans” usually consist of little kids who wanted to work in broadcasting when they grew up.

“Is he… weird about it?” you asked with an eyebrow raised.

“No,” Joaquin said quickly. “Not at all, I promise. He just has a harmless crush on you. Any chance you’d maybe talk to him? He’d probably die before asking for a photo, but he’d definitely appreciate it.”

You considered it for about half a second.

“Sure,” you said easily. “I can say hi.”

Joaquin’s relief was immediate. “You’re a saint, man.”

He glanced toward the door just as it opened, letting in a rush of cold air and the crowd murmur of the street outside.

“Oh,” he said, pointing. “There he is.”

You followed his gesture.

Oh. 

Bucky Barnes stepped into the bar; shoulders squared, leather  acket pulled close, eyes scanning the room. 

His gaze found Joaquin first.

Then it slid to you, sitting next to him.

The moment recognition hit, it was like watching a system crash in real time.

He froze, just for a beat, but it was enough for his shoulders to go rigid. His steps slowed, face going utterly blank in that way that screamed oh no even if he didn’t say a word.

Joaquin, completely oblivious to the internal apocalypse happening, grinned like he’d just pulled off the greatest surprise of his life.

“That’s him,” he said cheerfully.

You set your side down slowly, eyes never leaving Bucky as he stood there looking like the universe had personally betrayed him.

You smiled fondly, just a little bit confused. “Well,” you whispered, mostly to yourself, “this just got interesting.”

Joaquin didn’t seem to hear. He lifted his arm high, waving enthusiastically over the low din of the bar. “BUCKY!”

Bucky flinched.

Not subtly, either. It was a full-body, caught-off-guard flinch. His eyes darted once more to you before snapping back to Joaquin, as if maybe, maybe, if he didn’t look directly at you again, this would all turn out to be a misunderstanding.

It didn’t.

Joaquin waved again, bigger this time, and patted the empty stool on his other side. “C’mon, man!”

Bucky swallowed and forced his legs to move.

You watched him approach, taking in the way his shoulders were stiff. God, he looked handsome, and for a while you were distracted from the matter at hand. 

You schooled your expression into polite curiosity as he reached the bar.

Joaquin beamed between the two of you. “Okay, Bucky, this is—” He gestured to you dramatically as he nudged his ribs “—well. You know who she is.”

You laughed lightly and turned toward Bucky, offering your hand like you hadn’t already memorized the exact shape of his body.

“Hi,” you said warmly. “Nice to meet you.”

Bucky short-circuited.

His brain screamed. His heart tried to exit his body. His internal monologue dissolved into white noise and regret.

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh absolutely not.

His stomach dropped so hard he was pretty sure it hit the floor.

You were acting perfectly casual, perfectly unbothered, like you’d never pressed him against the wall. Like he didn’t know exactly what you sounded like when he reached that sweet spot on your neck. 

Then, you met his gaze and gave the smallest smile, mouthing: Just play along.

Bucky caught it.

And immediately started spiraling worse.

Play along.

Play along with what?

Pretending he didn’t already know how you took your coffee?

Pretending he hadnt gone on four fucking dates with you already?

He stared at your outstretched hand for half a second too long before taking it, his grip careful, respectful, like he was terrified of doing anything wrong.

“Hi,” he said, voice a little too rough. “I’m… uh. Bucky. Nice to meet you too.”

You smiled at him like this was the first time you’d ever seen him, like you hadn’t woken up in his bed that morning.

Perfect.

Joaquin glanced between you, clearly delighted. “See? I told you he was cool.”

You nodded. “He told me you’re a regular viewer.”

Bucky felt his soul leave his body. Fuck.

“I—I mean,” he rushed out, already spiraling, “yeah, but not like—” He stopped himself, swallowed hard. “I just… uh. Mornings. Routine. You’re very… informative.”

Informative.

Jesus Christ.

You tilted your head, amused. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Joaquin snorted. “Dude watches every morning,” he stage-whispered. “Once, he stayed at Sam’s for work, in Louisiana? He downloaded a VPN to get to a New York server to watch your daily weekday forecast on his phone.”

Bucky shot him a look of pure betrayal. “Joaquin—”

“What?” Joaquin said innocently. “It’s true.”

You laughed again, kind and easy, while Bucky was very very close to jst bolting out of the room.

Then Joaquin checked his phone. “Oh, by the way. Sam texted me. He’s gonna be a bit late.”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“Yeah,” Joaquin said. “Some kinda thing came up.” He leaned back on his stool, completely at ease. “So! Guess it’s just us for a bit.”

You smiled at him again, and the weight in his chest eased just a fraction.

He shifted his weight, hands curling into his jacket sleeves.

But as he sat there, pretending this was the first time you’d ever met, Bucky couldn’t shake the thought looping endlessly through his head:

Please don’t think I’m a creep. Please don’t think I’m a creep. Please don’t—

Oh no.

She is definitely gonna think I’m a creep.

She’s gonna think I lied.

She’s gonna think I stalked her.

She’s gonna think I’m one of those guys who shows up to volunteer hoping to “run into” someone from TV.

He nodded anyway. “Y… yeah,” he said, forcing himself to breathe. “Cool. That’s… cool.”

You turned fully toward him now, resting your elbow lightly on the bar. “So,” you said conversationally, “Joaquin tells me you’re a big weather guy.”

Bucky’s ears burned.

“I—uh,” He laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just like… knowing what’s coming.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “That makes sense.”

Did it?

Did it really?

Or did you secretly think he was a freak who built his mornings around a woman on a screen and then go looking for her in real life to pretend to to—

Joaquin, entirely unaware of the existential crisis unfolding inches away from him, grinned. “See? He’s harmless.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, heart still racing.

You took a sip of your drink, then glanced at Bucky again, eyes dancing just a little. “So. You a regular here?”

Bucky blinked. She’s flirting. Or pretending to.Or both.

“Uh. No,” he said. “This… opened last week.”

“Mmm,” you hummed thoughtfully, as your knee brushed his under the bar.

Bucky stiffened, heartbeat skyrocketing, every memory of the past few weeks crashing into him all at once: coffee dates, stolen kisses, the way you’d laughed when he got flustered, the fact that you’d already seen him naked and were now acting like this was a meet-cute.

You leaned in slightly, just enough that only he could hear. “You’re doing great,” you whispered. “Relax.”

He nodded immediately. 

You smiled, warm this time, and turned back to Joaquin like nothing had happened.

Bucky let out a shaky breath.

God help him.

If this was him playing along, he didn’t know how much longer his nervous system could survive it.

—

For the next thirty minutes, Joaquin, unfortunately, was having the time of his life.

He leaned back on his barstool like a man who believed that he was orchestrating and wingman-ing his good friend.

“So yeah,” Joaquin said casually, taking a sip of his drink, “Bucky doesn’t watch any other news channel.”

Bucky made a noise somewhere between a cough and a plea for mercy.

You tilted your head, resting your chin on your hand, eyes bright with interest. “Oh?”

Bucky tried to shoot him a warning look, but Joaquin missed it entirely.

“He knows which days you’re on,” Joaquin added. “If you’re off, he gets all grumpy. Pretends he doesn’t care, but—”

“That is not true,” Bucky cut in, face heating fast.

You smiled sweetly. “Really?”

Joaquin nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yeah. He’ll be like, ‘Huh. Must be a guest forecaster today.’ Meanwhile he’s chugging two cups of coffee.”

Bucky pressed his lips together and stared very hard at his glass.

You leaned in just a fraction, curiosity sharpening. “Two, huh?”

“Sometimes more,” Joaquin said, delighted. “Depends.”

Bucky groaned quietly. “Joaquin.”

“What?” Joaquin shrugged. “It’s endearing.”

You hummed, eyes flicking back to Bucky. “Is it?”

Bucky refused to meet your gaze. “I like… knowing what’s coming,” he said again. Weakly. Uselessly.

Joaquin snapped his fingers. “Oh! And the show. He calls it by the full name.”

Your brows lifted. “The full name?”

“Yeah,” Joaquin said. “Morning MetroView Weather Update.”

Bucky winced. “You don’t have to say it like that.”

“But that’s what it’s called,” Joaquin insisted. “You correct people when they get it wrong.”

You laughed softly. “Does he, now?”

Joaquin nodded. “One time Sam called it ‘the Channel Seven weather thing’ and Bucky was like—” He straightened, dropping his voice into a hilarious impression, “‘It’s Morning MetroView. It’s different.’”

Bucky buried his face in his hand.

You watched him with open fascination now. “Wow.”

“It’s not—” Bucky tried, then gave up, shoulders slumping. “I just… appreciate accuracy.”

Joaquin pointed at him. “See? Weather guy.”

You smiled, slow and curious. “Anything else he appreciates?”

“Oh!” Joaquin perked up. “The theme song.”

Bucky froze.

“…The theme song?” you echoed.

Joaquin nodded. “He hums it all the time.”

Bucky looked like he might actually pass away.

You stared at Joaquin, then back at Bucky. “You hum the theme song.”

“I do not,” Bucky said weakly.

Joaquin grinned. “You do. It drives me insane on missions sometimes. No offense.”

Your eyes lit up mischievously. “None taken.”

Bucky muttered, “Please stop talking,” as he pressed his forehead to the bar.

You stared at him for a beat, then chuckled. You didn’t laugh loudly or mockingly. Instead, it was a gentle, surprised laugh, like you’d stumbled onto a plot twist you hadn’t expected but appreciated.

“I just…,” you said. “Feel… professionally observed.”

Bucky peeked up at you, horrified. “I swear I wasn’t…  I didn’t— I never. I mean, I wasn’t looking for you. I didn’t even think I’d ever meet you. I just—”

Joaquin checked his phone mid-rant. “Oh, hey. Sam just texted.”

Bucky looked up sharply. “What did he say?”

Joaquin stood, sliding off the stool. “He’s around the block. I’m gonna go meet him outside.”

Relief flooded Bucky’s face, right up until Joaquin pat him on the shoulder.

“You two keep talking,” Joaquin said brightly, then leaned in and winked at Bucky. “I’ll give you space.”

Bucky stared at his retreating back in horror.

You turned back toward him, smile still in place. You said nothing, but your eyes were very, very curious.

Bucky’s silence lasted approximately forty seconds after Joaquin disappeared before absolutely losing the plot.

“I just wanna say,” he started, too fast, hands already coming up like he was surrendering, “I’m not a creep. I swear to God. I didn’t… this wasn’t like a thing I planned or anything. I wasn’t tracking you or showing up places on purpose or—”

You blinked, startled, “Bucky…”

“I know how it sounds,” he rushed on, words tumbling over each other until it blended together now. “Guy watches someone on TV, knows the schedule, hums the theme song…. okay, that part sounds bad when you say it out loud! But it was just routine. It helped me feel normal. And I didn’t know you. I didn’t think I knew you. I never thought you owed me anything, or that you even knew I existed…”

He dragged a hand through his hair, looking up at the bar heavens as though any kind of divine force could save him. 

“I swear I didn’t go to that soup kitchen because of you,” he added, panic in his voice. “That was real. You were just… there. And then you were nice, and kind, and… fuck, I just—please don’t think I’m some creep who built a fantasy in his head.”

You watched him unravel for a few seconds longer before closing the distance before he could spiral any further.

You… kissed him.

It was intentional. You were enough that he could feel the warmth of you, smell your perfume, register the way your hand slid lightly on the front of his chest like you were anchoring yourself there.

He froze for half a second. Then he melted.

When you pulled back, his breathing was uneven, eyes blown wide like he’d just been rebooted.

“I don’t think you’re a creep,” you said, lips still close enough that your words brushed his mouth.

He swallowed hard. “…You don’t?” he asked quietly, almost afraid to hear the answer.

You laughed, thumb tracing the seam of his jacket. “Can I tell you a secret?”

He nodded immediately. Anything to take the pressure off him. “Yeah. Please.”

Your smile turned a little sheepish. “I might’ve had a teeny tiny crush on you, too, way before I first met you.”

His eyebrows shot up. “No way.”

“Way,” you said. “I watched your press conferences all the time.” You rolled your eyes at yourself. “I used to get jealous of my on-field coworkers who got to interview you. I’d be in the studio like, ‘Cool, I’m pointing at a screen while you’re standing five feet away from Bucky Barnes.’”

He let out a stunned laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” you said, amused. “Guess that’s what I get for pursuing meteorology.” You hesitated, before adding, “My parents still have Howling Commandos trading cards in the attic. I found them one summer when I was home from college and absolutely lost my mind.”

He stared at you. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious,” you said. “I thought I had a harmless crush, too. You are… a super soldier, y’know? Avengers-adjacent. No way you’d ever look my way.”

You met his eyes, smile turning shy.

“Well,” you continued, “until… you did.”

Bucky let out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s… that’s— wow.”

You smiled. “So.” You nudged his knee lightly with yours. “We’re even.”

Bucky laughed, nose crinkling adorably, “I guess so.”

You leaned in, voice low and teasing now. “We’re really just different sides of the same coin.”

He chuckled, tension finally breaking, shoulders relaxing as his hand slid to your waist like it had always meant to be there.

“You really don’t mind?” he asked, just to be sure.

You smiled, fingers curling into his jacket. “Bucky, you weren’t a creep about it. It’s not like you stalked or harassed me,” you reassured, “and I think… I would very much mind if you stop.”

You kissed him again.

This one was slower, your fingers sliding up into his hair, his human hand firm at your waist like an anchor. Bucky sighed into it helplessly as the bar noise faded into a dull hum. If anyone was watching, neither of you noticed. You were too distracted with each other, loving feeling the smile on his face when you tugged him closer, loving the way he followed your lead.

—

“Dude,” Joaquin said excitedly as he and Sam rounded the corner back toward the bar. “I’m telling you, you are not prepared for this.”

Sam raised a brow. “You say that a lot.”

“No, this is different,” Joaquin insisted. “We saw the weather girl. Y’know, the one Bucky watches.”

Sam stopped short, a grin spread across his face. “Oh. That weather girl.”

“Yes!” Joaquin said. “And Bucky’s talking to her right now.”

Sam chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, that tracks.”

They pushed the door open.

And there you were.

Bucky had your side leaning gently against the bar now, one hand braced beside you, the other warm and familiar at your hip. You were smiling into the kiss like you already knew something the rest of the room didn’t. Bucky looked… relaxed. He looked in a way Joaquin had literally never seen before.

“Oh damn,” Joaquin froze mid-step. “That was quick.”

Sam burst out laughing, slapping Joaquin on the shoulder. “Quick? Man, no.”

He nodded toward the two of you, still very much wrapped up in each other, completely unbothered by your audience.

“They met a couple months ago,” Sam added casually.

Joaquin turned around. “What.”

“There was a blizzard,” Sam said. “Power outages everywhere. Bucky and I volunteered at one of the shelters. She showed up to help, too.”

Joaquin stared at him, almost betrayed. “You knew this?”

Sam shrugged, still smiling. “Didn’t know it’d turn into that, but yeah.”

Joaquin looked back at the bar. He studied the way Bucky’s forehead rested against yours now, kissing your nose adorably.

“Oh,” Joaquin’s eyes widened. “That’s why he was shitting himself.”

Sam snorted. “Yep.”

“He didn’t tell her,” Joaquin whispered, horrified and delighted all at once.

Sam shook his head. “Not a chance.”

Joaquin looked back at the bar, where Bucky had leaned in to murmur something in your ear that made you laugh before pulling him right back in.

“…Wow,” Joaquin said. “They’re just—”

“Yep,” Sam cut in. “Bet they’re gonna be sucking each other’s face off by the end of the night.”

Joaquin laughed, a little awed now. “Good for him.”

“So…” Sam shrugged casually. “Drinks?”

In your shared bedroom, you were perched at your vanity chair in nothing but lace panties, legs crossed neatly, arms lifted slightly as you kept your freshly painted nails suspended in the air to let them dry. The bottle of polish sat open beside you, the faint chemical scent mingling with your perfume, and the lamplight glowing warm on your bare skin.

The moment you finished your last nail, you glanced up into the mirror, only to find Bucky staring.

His eyes dragged over you, lingering shamelessly on your body before meeting your eyes in the reflection.

“You’re trouble, you know that?” he said, a smile tugging at his lips as he adjusted his cuff.

You arched an eyebrow. “I’m literally sitting still and not touching anything,” you said, although you were checking out his reflection, too. 

Bucky looked incredible in a suit. Ergo, your thoughts were definitely just as sinful as his.

“Exactly,” he said as he walked toward you like a lion approaching his mate. “You’re sittin’ there lookin’ like that… and I’m supposed to remember how to behave in front of my colleagues tonight?”

You held your hands out carefully, showing him your perfect little red nails, though all Bucky could think was how good they’d feel leaving scratches down his back later. “I can’t smudge these, honey,” you pouted adorably, “please don’t distract me.”

Still, he chose to ignore you.

He slipped behind your chair, his reflection towering over yours, and let his hands settle on your bare shoulders possessively. His thumbs brushed lazily across your skin, tracing slow circles that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Buck,” you warned, though your voice had already gone softer than you meant it to.

“Mmhmm,” he hummed, bending to press a kiss to the curve where your neck met your shoulder. “Just appreciating my wife.”

His metal hand drifted lower, following the line of your collarbone, until his palm lay against your chest. He didn’t even squeeze. They just rested there, teasing, knowing the textural difference between his metal and human hands was something that… turned you on.

That bastard. 

You tried not to move.

“Bucky,” you said again, firmer this time, eyes fluttering shut for one second. “My nails.”

“Your nails look perfect,” he praised, lips brushing your jawline. “So does the rest of you.”

His metal hand slid down your side, fingers tracing your waist before curving around your hip, drawing you subtly back against him. He was close enough now that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your ear.

You let out a shaky laugh. “We’re going to be late.”

“We’re always late,” he said, kissing the corner of your neck. “No one’s surprised anymore.”

“Congressman Barnes,” you tried again, hopelessly flustered, “behave.”

He chuckled, hands drifting a little bolder, and you could tell he had absolutely no intention of behaving at all.

You tried to keep your breathing steady while his hands wandered, like he was mapping every inch of your skin. His lips traced a lazy path along your shoulders, and you could feel the smile he wore when your breath caught.

“Alright,” you breathed out with a small chuckle, “if you’re going to keep touching me, you can at least be helpful.”

He hummed, mouth brushing trailing kisses down your arm as he playfully grabbed at you in all the best ways. “Pretty sure I’m bein’ very helpful right now.”

“Honey, my nails are still drying.” you reminded, tilting your chin toward the bed. “Please put my bra on for me.”

He froze just long enough for you to feel the shift in his attention.

He looked over at the lace bra that matched the panties you wore, then back to your bare chest in the mirror, his fingers tightening just a little where they cupped you.

“You really wanna hide these?” he asked, thumbs brushing across your breasts, making your breath hitch. “Feels like a crime.”

You swallowed, heat curling straight down you. Still, you managed to be a little snarky. “Would you rather Senator Brandt see me like this?”

Ugh. Brandt. 

Last time you attended one of Bucky’s work functions, he got very drunk and tried to convince you to go home with him. He didn’t cross any physical boundaries with you, and you had managed to take care of yourself that night, but when Bucky found out, he very nearly broke his jaw. Instead, he only gave him a black eye. 

He got off with a warning, to stop resorting to physical altercations, and was told to behave. 

But you know your husband always found it hard to do so. 

With that, finally, begrudgingly, he reached for the bra.

He picked it up like he’d rather drop it to the floor and forget about the charity auction entirely. Then he came back behind you, eyes still dark on your reflection as he slid the straps up your arms.

His fingers dragging along the curve of your shoulders before guiding the cups into place, and even with fabric between you now, you could feel the hunger in his touch, the way his palms lingered just a second too long.

Then the band brushed your back… and stopped.

He angled the clasp.

Missed.

He tried again, teeth clicking.

The strap twisted.

Could he not… put a bra on?

You could feel the stubborn frustration building in him. He hated losing to anything— especially while touching you.

He pulled the band tighter, his chest pressed almost flush to your back now as his metal hand worked one strap and his flesh hand fumbled with the other.

You bit your lip, fighting a laugh.

Because fuck, he was so close to getting it right, then again and again…. He failed. 

“Everything okay back there?” you asked, teasing.

He growled under his breath, his palm splaying across your stomach to hold you in place as he tried again.

Your husband was an expert with his fingers. In fact, he was devastatingly sinful when he wanted to be. You would know.

But apparently… not at this.

As you laughed at his sloppy attempts, you remembered the first time Bucky had gone head-to-head with your bra.

—

The very first night you ever slept together, everything had been slow at first. After all, he was finally crossing a line you both had been circling for months.

You remembered the way he’d kissed you like he wasn’t sure he deserved it.

You’d been lying back against the pillows, heart racing, his body hovering over yours. His fingers had slid beneath the band of your bra, pausing just long enough for his eyes to meet yours.

You nodded.

And then, within five seconds, Click.

He used two hands, but he was smooth, quick, and clean.

The clasp had opened like it was designed for him.

The straps had slipped away as the fabric fell.

He hadn’t gloated or smirked then.

He just let a deep breath out like your body was a prayer he’d never learned but somehow already knew by heart.

And afterward you’d thought: Of course he’s good with his hands.

—

Then, you remembered your wedding night.

You were both laughing, giddy, breathless, drunk on happiness more than the reception wine, still half-dressed and stumbling through the doorway of your honeymoon suite.

His tie was gone. Your shoes were discarded somewhere near the door. He’d kissed you against the wall like he couldn’t wait another second to be close to you, to finally celebrate being husband and wife and hopelessly in love.

You remembered the way his metal hand had cupped your cheeks while his flesh one traced down your spine… pausing at the clasp of your lingerie.

You barely had time to register the movement before—

Snap.

One-handed, in three seconds

It was effortless.

He pulled back just enough to grin against your lips.

“Still got it,” he’d said, voice smug and unbearably fond.

You’d laughed, breathless, and whispered back, “I married a show-off.”

—

And then, you remembered last night.

You’d been straddling him on the couch, your skirt bunched around your hips, his tie loosened and his hair mussed from your fingers. His hands were everywhere, sliding up your back as he kissed you just a little deeper.

His metal palm ghosted beneath the band of your bra, cool against your skin.

He didn’t even hesitate.

There was a precise flick of his wrist, a quick curl of his fingers—

Snap.

The clasp practically melted for him

He pulled back, chest rising as he muttered under his breath with boyish triumph, “Ha. Sub two seconds.”

You’d snorted, half turned on, half amused, and shoved him back onto the cushions with a grin. You stood up, guiding him to the bedroom as your bra fell to the ground. “Get over here, Congressman.”

He let out a wicked laugh.

—

The memories faded, and you were yanked right back into the present by the sound of Bucky muttering under his breath as the clasp slipped out of his fingers again.

He tugged the band tighter, trying to guide the hooks together.

They slid. Missed.

The strap twisted halfway up your shoulder.

He froze.

You bit your lip so hard you almost ruined your lipstick.

“Don’t,” he warned.

You blinked innocently at the mirror. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t laugh.”

You almost obeyed.

But then he tried again, with that same intense concentration he used when testifying before a committee, and the bra just… refused to cooperate.

A tiny laugh escaped before you could stop it.

“Sweetheart,” you said with faux sympathy, “do you need me to call tech support?”

He looked at you through the mirror. “I can do it.”

“Mmm,” you hummed, far too entertained, “sure you can, big guy. You only took it off in, what, sub two seconds last night?”

“That was different,” he grumbled, fingers fumbling again.

“How?” you teased. He tugged too sharply, and the band snapped against your back.

You jumped.

His hands rubbed where it hit, concern threading through his voice. “Sorry, sweets.”

Then he tried the clasp again.

And missed.

Again.

You sucked in a breath to keep from laughing outright. “This is… kind of adorable.”

He leaned closer, close enough to feel his breath warm at your ear.

“Keep talkin’,” he said darkly, “and I’m just gonna decide it doesn’t need to go on at all.”

As heat rippled through you, but so did mischief.

“Just admit that you can’t put a bra on,” you whispered, eyes sparkling.

He grunted something that sounded awfully like “never” under his breath, as he stubbornly fought the clasp.

“I can strip you blindfolded,” he said, frustration and desire tangled in his tone, “but this— this damn thing—”

You couldn’t help it.

You laughed.

And then, finally, it clicked.

The clasp slid into place, the band settling snugly across your back. 

Bucky froze behind you, like he didn’t quite believe it had happened. 

“Ohhh, look at that,” he said, grinning against your ear, his hands smoothing over the band like he was inspecting the handiwork he was ridiculously proud of. “Hooked. Secured. Aligned. Perfectly installed by your very capable husband.”

You snorted. “Installed?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said smugly. “Professional application.”

Then he gave the clasp its last gentle pat, like it was a trophy.

As you stood up, he stepped back to admire his work, and immediately forgot about his work entirely.

His eyes dragged over you, again tracing the curve of the lace across your breasts, the matching panties hugging your hips.

You watched his reflection: his pupils blown wide, lips parted.

And lower…

Yeah.

There was no hiding the way his slacks suddenly fit a lot tighter.

You let your lips curve into a smile.

“Everything okay?” you asked sweetly.

He swallowed hard.

“Not even a little,” he rasped.

His gaze roamed you again, you could feel him undressing you with his eyes, could practically hear the thoughts rattling around in his head, none of them even remotely innocent.

“Christ, doll… look at you,” he said, visibly breaking a sweat. “Standing there in our house… in our bedroom… in that little set… like you’re tryin’ to ruin me.”

You smiled and leaned up to kiss his cheek, like a counterweight to the heat.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“That’s not even fair,” he said, rubbing a hand over his chin. “You stand there lookin’ like sin and expect me to behave like a gentleman?”

You tilted your head sweetly. “You did great, baby.”

That was his undoing.

His hands came back to your waist, thumbs brushing the satin of your panties before sliding down and hooking his finger on your panties like he needed to feel that he’d earned this moment.

“Damn right I did,” he said, “but I still wanna take it apart.”

You were about to tease him — until you caught sight of the clock on the wall behind him.

Oh no. You were running far behind.

you nodded toward the bed, where your long strapless cocktail dress lay waiting in a pool of satin. “Can you help me with my dress, please?”

He groaned, head tipping back, and eyes closing. 

“Sweetheart…” he said, voice strained, “you seriously want me to cover you up?”

You bit back a smile. “We have to leave. I’ll even have to let my nails dry in the car.”

“We could cancel,” he argued weakly. “Tell ‘em the congressman’s wife had… an emergency.”

“Bucky.”

He rested his forehead to your shoulder for a second, gathering himself like he was preparing for combat.

“Okay,” He sighed, a man accepting his tragic fate. “Okay. I can do this. I’m strong. I’ve got discipline. I’m a government official.”

You bit back a laugh.

He guided the long strapless cocktail dress up your body, smoothing satin over skin he very clearly wanted exposed again. His palms smoothed over your waist. Up your ribs. Along the curve of your back as he pulled the zipper.

You felt him want you, even now, when he was trying to behave.

When the dress was on, he didn’t step away. He stayed, admiring you.

His hands rested at your hips again, fingers pressing gently into the fabric. “My wife,” he said, kissing your temple. “The most beautiful woman in any room she walks into.”

His eyes traced from your neckline to your lips… then down your figure again, then back to your eyes.

“And just so we’re clear…” his voice dropped, “the second we get home I’m takin’ that bra back off in one second flat.”

-end.

Request Guidelines

You hear him before you see him: the soft thud of sneakers on gravel, the low exhale of someone who’s been running hard. Bucky Barnes, late as always, strolling up the driveway like he owns summer itself.

Gray joggers soaked dark at the thighs, white tank plastered to his chest, metal arm catching sunlight like liquid sin. He nods at your parents, cracks open a beer with his teeth, who even does that? and you duck behind the fence before those blue eyes can find you.

Stupid heart, racing like you’re fifteen again.

Then he disappears around the corner, heading for the old jungle gym nobody’s touched in years. You follow like a moth, quiet, barefoot on the hot grass, until you’re crouched behind the wooden slats, peeking through a knothole like a perv.

And holy fuck.

He’s peeled the tank off and hooked it over the swing chain. Bare torso gleaming, dog tags swinging between his pecs, he grips the bar with both hands and starts pulling himself up. Slow. Dirty-slow. Every rep is a flex, a ripple, a quiet grunt that slides straight between your legs and parks there.

Up. Veins popping.

Down. Abs clenching.

Up again. Sweat rolling down the center of his chest, tracing the line that disappears beneath the waistband riding way too low.

You’re wet. You are actually, shamefully wet in your brand-new red bikini bottoms just from watching your dad’s best friend do pull-ups like porn was invented for him.

You shift, thighs pressing together, and the wood creaks.

He freezes mid-air, chin over the bar, muscles locked. Turns his head just enough to catch your reflection in the shed window. Busted.

For three whole heartbeats he just hangs there, staring at you staring at him, chest heaving, sweat dripping off his jaw. Then he drops, silent, lethal, lands in a crouch, and straightens up like a predator who just scented prey.

He doesn’t grab the shirt. He walks straight to the fence, slow, shirtless, dog tags clinking, until he’s right on the other side of the slats. Close enough you can smell heat and salt and whatever cologne he wore before the pull ups turned it filthy.

“Enjoyin’ the show, birthday girl?” Voice low, rough, amused. Brooklyn dragged over gravel and sex.

Your mouth is sand. “Just… checking you’re not breaking my old swing set, Uncle Buck.”

The nickname comes out shaky, half tease, half plea. His eyes darken, pupils blowing wide.

He braces his forearms on the top of the fence, leaning in until you can see the bead of sweat sliding down his temple. “That ‘uncle’ shit ain’t gonna work much longer, sweetheart.”

His gaze drags down, slow, deliberate, over your flushed face, the swell of your chest under the thin red triangles, the way you’re squeezing your thighs together like that’ll hide what he’s doing to you. “You’re eighteen now. All grown.” The last two words come out almost pained.

Your breath hitches. Audible. Embarrassing.

He smirks, soft and dangerous. “Better get back to your party before I do somethin’ your daddy’ll shoot me for.”

He pushes off the fence, grabs his tank, and slings it over one shoulder without putting it on. Walks away like he didn’t just leave you wrecked and dripping behind a childhood jungle gym.

You stay there a second longer, hand pressed between your legs just to stop the ache, cheeks on fire, pulse hammering in every filthy place.

It’s nothing, you lie to yourself as you finally stumble back to the pool. Just a stupid, fleeting spark.

If only I’d known how deep that pull went, you think now, years later, the memory still taunting you like his smirk in the sun.

The old house smells exactly the same: lemon polish, Dad’s aftershave, and the faint ghost of cinnamon from Mom’s candles. The hallway light flickers once when you drag your duffel over the threshold, wallpaper curling like it’s trying to whisper every filthy thing this place has seen.

Early winter. A few weeks before the blizzard that will finally rip the hinges off everything.

You’re twenty-two and your body is a live wire: hips fuller, thighs thick from squats that leave you trembling, embarrassingly wet in the gym mirror; tits high and heavy under the thinnest cropped hoodie you own, nipples already peaked because you knew he was coming.

Your hair is damp from the cold, loose waves brushing the bare strip of skin above your waistband every time you move. You smell like vanilla and the faint bite of your own arousal riding under it, because you’ve been thinking about this all damn day.

The doorbell is a gunshot.

You open it and Bucky is violence in a leather jacket. Snowflakes melt in his dark hair, stubble glittering with them like crushed diamonds. His jacket is unzipped just enough for you to see the black thermal clinging to his chest, damp at the collar from the wind. Cold air rolls off him, but his body heat slams into you anyway, gun oil, pine, sweat, something darker that makes your mouth water.

He looks at your dad first, polite, but his eyes snap to you like magnets. “Hey, kid.”

The hug is illegal.

Metal arm low on your spine, flesh hand sliding under the hem of your hoodie, palm flat against naked skin, thumb stroking once, slow, deliberate, right above the waistband of your leggings. You feel the calluses, the heat, the microscopic ridges dragging across your flesh. Your nipples tighten so hard it hurts. You press closer on instinct, tits crushed to his chest, inhaling him until your lungs burn. Your hips rock forward a fraction and you feel him: thick, half-hard already, trapped against your stomach. His fingers flex, digging in for one greedy second before he remembers where he is and lets go.

Dad claps him on the shoulder. The spell fractures, but the ache stays.

Dinner is foreplay disguised as spaghetti.

You sit across from him and the table is too small. Your knee finds the rough denim of his thigh instantly. You leave it there. He lets you. When you slide your foot up his calf, slow, teasing the seam of his jeans, his fork stops moving. You watch his throat work, watch the muscle in his jaw jump. He retaliates by spreading his legs wider, trapping your ankle between both of his, pressing the hard line of his shin against your inner thigh until the pressure kisses your clit through thin fabric. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from moaning into your pasta.

Every time he lifts his beer, the cords in his forearm flex. You imagine licking the sweat from the hollow of his throat. You imagine his stubble scraping the inside of your thigh. You imagine his metal fingers spreading you open.

You’re soaked. Actually soaked. You can feel it when you shift, slick coating the gusset of your panties, thighs sliding together under the table like a secret.

Dad starts snoring on the couch before the credits roll on his fishing show.

The living room shrinks to the two of you and the low crackle of the fireplace. You pull out the photo album like a loaded gun. Flip to the diaper picture and watch his pupils blow wide.

“Handful even then,” he mutters, voice gravel scraped raw.

You move closer until your thigh burns against his, skin on skin where your leggings rode up. The heat rolling off him is obscene. You can smell yourself on the air now, sweet, sharp, desperate, and you wonder if he can too.

His vibranium hand rests on the cushion between you, close enough that the faint hum vibrates up your leg. You drag one finger across the back of his metal hand, just a whisper, and the plates shift under your touch like a shiver. His breath stutters.

“Gets lonely out there,” you say, barely above a whisper. “No one waiting when you come home bloody.”

His eyes flick to yours, haunted, hungry. “Gets real quiet.”

You lean in until your lips almost brush his ear. “College boys talk big, Buck. But they’ve never made me wet just sitting across a dinner table.”

The growl that rumbles out of him is animal. His flesh hand lifts, slow enough to stop, but you don’t move. Knuckles graze your forearm, trace the inside of your elbow, thumb stroking the thin skin there like he’s memorizing the pulse hammering under it. Goosebumps explode down your arms. Your nipples are so hard they ache against the hoodie, and you know he can see them. You want him to see them.

You tilt your face up. One inch. Half an inch. Your bottom lip brushes the stubble along his jaw and you feel the shudder all the way to your cunt.

“We can’t,” he rasps against your mouth, but his hand slides to the nape of your neck, thumb pressing just under your hairline, metal fingers curling around your thigh now, cold, perfect, possessive.

Dad snorts in his sleep like a fucking air-raid siren.

Bucky jerks back, chair legs screeching. He’s on his feet in a heartbeat, chest heaving, eyes black with want and fury at himself.

“I gotta go.”

You walk him to the door on legs that don’t feel like yours. At the threshold you can’t resist. “Night, Uncle Buck.”

He turns, crowds you against the doorframe without touching, leather creaking, voice so low it scrapes your bones.

“Drop the uncle, sweetheart. Doesn’t fit anymore. And you fuckin’ know it.”

Then he’s gone, cold air flooding in, snowflakes melting on the floor where his boots stood.

You lock the door, lean back against it, and drag in a breath that still tastes like him.

Upstairs you don’t bother with the light. Hoodie hits the floor, leggings shoved down, panties soaked through and clinging. You fall back on the bed and spread your thighs wide, two fingers sliding through the mess he made of you without even trying. You’re swollen, dripping, clit throbbing so hard it hurts. You fuck yourself slow at first, then frantic, imagining him.

You come so hard your back arches off the mattress, his name a broken sob against your pillow, thighs shaking, slick coating your fingers and running down to the sheets.

Downstairs, the house creaks like it’s holding its breath.

The cracks are spider-webbing.

And you both know exactly how loud it’s going to be when the whole thing finally shatters.

The snow doesn’t fall. It attacks.

It slams sideways against the windshield in wet, heavy sheets, each flake the size of a quarter, exploding against the glass like tiny fists. The wipers groan, fighting, losing.

Bucky’s world narrows to the faint red glow of his taillights reflecting back at him and the low growl of the engine. Cold seeps through the door seals, sneaks under his collar, but it does nothing to cool the heat already crawling under his skin. His truck rattled along the salted pavement, wipers beating a steady rhythm as he called your dad on speaker.

“Hey, man. How about one last beer before these roads turn to shit? Storm's moving in quick.”

Your dad's voice crackled through, warm but edged with that parental worry he never shook. “Yeah, come on by. But if it gets bad, pull in the driveway. No heroics tonight, Barnes. You're not invincible.”

Bucky snorted, glancing at the darkening sky. “Speak for yourself. Be there in ten.”

He shouldn’t be driving toward you. He knows it. But the words slip out of his mouth before his brain catches up.

The porch light is a blurred gold halo when he finally skids into the driveway. He kills the engine and sits there a second, breath fogging, watching snow pile on the hood like the storm’s trying to bury him alive for what he’s about to walk into.

He knocks hard. Metal knuckles on wood. Once. Twice.

You open the door and the heat rolls out like a living thing: woodsmoke, cinnamon, your skin.

You’re barefoot, legs bare, wearing the tiniest black sleep shorts he’s ever seen, cotton so worn it’s almost see-through, riding high enough that the lower curve of your ass peeks out every time you shift your weight.

The oversized tee is his old Army one, the hem brushing mid-thigh, neck stretched so it slips off one shoulder and shows the delicate line of your collarbone. No bra. Your nipples are tight, dark shadows under thin gray fabric, and the cold blast that follows him in makes them pull even tighter. You smell like warm vanilla, dryer sheets, and the faint, unmistakable musk of a woman who’s already aching.

He steps inside and the door shuts out the howl. Snow melts off his jacket in fat drops, hitting the mat with soft plops. His boots are soaked; water squelches between his toes. You toss him a towel and he catches it against his chest, the terry cloth rough against his chilled skin. He drags it over his face, through his hair, and water streams down his neck, under the collar of the henley that’s glued to every ridge of muscle like it was painted on.

Your dad saves him for exactly forty-seven minutes.

You watch him sway a little as he pushes up from the armchair, the empty glass still dangling from his fingers. The fire crackles low behind him, painting long shadows across the worn rug.

“Alright… I’m done,” he mutters, voice thick with whiskey and exhaustion. He sets the glass on the mantel with a soft clink, rubs a rough hand over his face, and turns toward the stairs.

Each step is heavier than the last. The old wood groans under his feet as he climbs, slow and deliberate, shoulders sagging like the long week is finally winning. You hear the hallway floorboards creak once… twice… then the bedroom door clicks shut.

Silence settles, thick and golden in the firelight.

You count to ten.

Twenty.

Thirty.

Nothing. No footsteps. No grumbling. Just the soft pop of burning pine and the low tick of the clock above the mantel.

He’s out cold upstairs, sprawled across the bed still in his flannel and jeans, mouth open, snoring before his head even hits the pillow.

The TV spits red warnings: BLIZZARD WARNING. 30-40 INCHES. WIDESPREAD POWER OUTAGES.

The room shrinks until it’s just firelight licking over your skin, the crackle of logs, the wind screaming like it wants in to watch.

You pull the blanket over both of you and it’s a lie you both pretend to believe. Your bare thigh slides against the wet denim of his jeans, skin on cold fabric, then skin on skin when he shifts and the denim rides higher. His body heat is insane: radiating through the henley, through the blanket, into your bones. You can feel the thump of his pulse in his thigh where it presses against yours.

He stretches his flesh arm along the back of the couch. His fingertips brush the slope of your bare shoulder, just a graze, but the tiny hairs on your neck stand up like they’ve been electrocuted. His metal hand rests on his own thigh, plates shifting with a faint, hungry whir every time you breathe.

“Stuck with me ’til morning,” he says, voice scraped raw, whiskey and snow and restraint. “Hope that ain’t a problem, kid.”

Your answer is barely air. “Only if you snore louder than Dad.”

But your nipples are diamonds against his old shirt and your thighs are pressed so tight together he can probably smell how wet you are.

You stand and the blanket falls away like a confession. The shorts ride higher when you walk; he gets a heartbeat-long flash of the soft crease where thigh meets ass before you disappear into the kitchen. He follows because his body is no longer taking orders from his brain.

The fridge light paints you gold and obscene. You bend for a beer and the fabric pulls tight, seam disappearing between your cheeks, cotton going dark where you’ve soaked through. He’s behind you before he can stop himself, metal arm caging left, flesh right, chest to your back. The henley is cold and wet against your bare shoulders; his belt buckle bites into the small of your back.

He doesn’t mean to grind forward. His hips do it anyway.

You feel him instantly: thick, brutally hard, trapped behind soaked denim, pressing right into the cleft of your ass like he’s already imagining splitting you open. A shudder rolls through him so violent the plates in his metal arm click. His breath is scalding against your ear, stubble scraping the shell.

“Grew up nice, didn’t ya?” The words tear out of him, wrecked. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, look at you.”

You push back, slow, filthy roll of your hips, dragging a broken sound from his throat that he swallows too late. The ridge of his cock slides between your cheeks through two pathetic layers of fabric and you both feel how soaked you are, cotton clinging, slick coating the inside of your thighs.

His flesh hand hovers over your hip, trembling. Metal fingers curl against the counter so hard the granite creaks. He can smell you, sweet, sharp, flooding his lungs like oxygen he doesn’t deserve.

You turn in the trap of his arms and it’s worse.

Your tits brush his chest, nipples dragging across wet fabric, and the friction makes you gasp, soft, open, right against his mouth. Your lips are swollen from biting them all night. Your eyes are black with want.

He cups your jaw with his flesh hand, thumb dragging over your bottom lip, spreading it, pressing just inside so he feels your tongue flick hot and wet against the pad of his thumb and his cock jerks so hard his vision tunnels.

He groans, low, animal, forehead dropping to yours. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

You arch into him instead, tits crushing against his chest, hips rolling so the seam of your shorts rides your clit and you whimper, tiny, desperate sound that spears straight through him.

The guilt hits like a bullet between the eyes.

He jerks back, hands up, palms open like he’s surrendering to a firing squad. Chest heaving, lips wet from almost kissing you, eyes feral.

“No. Fuck. No.” His voice cracks clean in half. “He’s upstairs asleep. I was at your kindergarten graduation. I taught you how to ride a bike. I can’t-”

The words taste like rust and ash, but he forces them out anyway, backing up until his spine slams into the opposite counter, metal fingers digging into his back like punishment.

You’re trembling, thighs clenched, lips parted and glistening, the air thick with the scent of your arousal and the snow melting off his skin.

“Go to bed,” he says, voice shredded. “Please, baby. Before I do something I’ll never forgive myself for.”

You stand there a second longer, chest rising and falling, looking like every sin he’s never let himself have.

Then you nod once, grab a water instead of the beer, and walk away, hips swaying like a threat, bare feet silent on the cold tile.

He stays in the dark kitchen long after your door clicks shut upstairs, forehead pressed to the freezer door, breath fogging the stainless steel, cock throbbing so hard it hurts to breathe.

Outside, the storm screams like it knows exactly what almost happened.

Inside, he’s louder.

And the guilt is a living thing clawing at his ribs, but underneath it, hotter, hungrier, is the truth:

He’s not sure he’s strong enough to stop it next time.

The storm was a monster, wind howling like it wanted to tear the house apart, snow piling against the windows in thick, unforgiving drifts. Midnight had come and gone, the power flickering once or twice but holding steady, for now.

Downstairs, the fire had died to embers, and your dad was dead to the world, snoring upstairs through the chaos. You couldn't sleep, though. Not after that kitchen standoff, Bucky's body pinning you against the counter, his breath hot on your neck, guilt and want warring in his eyes. The pull was too strong, raw and insistent, like the storm itself had trapped more than just the roads.

You slip into the bathroom because your body is on fire and the only thing that might put it out is scalding water. You leave the door unlocked because you’re a liar who’s praying.

The shower is already a furnace when you step in. Steam billows, thick and white, swallowing the mirror, turning the air into soup. You strip bare and let the water hit like punishment, needle-hot, pounding your shoulders, your breasts, running in burning rivers down your stomach. It does nothing for the ache between your legs. If anything, it makes it worse.

You brace one hand on the tile, head falling forward, and let the other slide down your body. You trace the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip, the soft place low on your belly that still remembers the press of his belt buckle.

Your fingers dip lower, parting slick folds, and you bite your lip to keep quiet when you find yourself drenched, swollen, pulsing. You circle your clit once, twice, thighs trembling, and the image behind your eyes is always him: the way his jaw clenched in the kitchen, the tremor in his metal fingers when they hovered an inch from your skin, the raw guilt in his voice when he said we can’t.

You’re so lost in it you don’t hear the soft creak of the door.

Bucky steps in and the world tilts.

He thought the room was empty. He freezes with one hand still on the knob, steam curling around him like cigarette smoke. His eyes go wide, then black, pupils swallowing every trace of blue.

You, naked, water cascading over every inch of you, skin flushed pink from heat, nipples tight and beaded, one hand braced on the wall, the other buried between your thighs.

Guilt slams into him so hard his knees almost buckle.

He sees two versions of you at once: the chubby-legged toddler he used to bounce on his knee while your dad laughed about diaper explosions, and the woman in front of him now, grown, soft and strong and dripping and looking at him like she’s starving.

His cock jerks hard against his sweatpants, a wet spot spreading instantly. He should back out. He should apologise, slam the door, go sleep in the fucking snow.

Instead he whispers, voice gravel and ruin, “Door wasn’t locked, sweetheart.”

You spin, heart exploding, hands flying up to cover yourself, but too late. You see the obscene tent in his sweats, the way his breath catches, the way his metal hand curls into a fist like he’s trying to crush the want.

“Buck, shit, get out-”

He doesn’t move. His throat works. “I thought… you were upstairs.”

But his eyes betray him. They drag down your body, slow, helpless, drinking in water-slick skin, the curve of your waist, the tremble in your thighs. The diaper memory hits him like a bullet, tiny you giggling while he wiped ice-cream off your chin, and the shame is acid in his throat.

You see it. You see all of it.

And instead of screaming, you let your arms fall.

You let him look.

A reckless, wicked smirk curves your mouth. “Save water, old man?” you murmur, voice trembling with nerves and power. “Shower with a friend?”

The growl that tears out of him is broken.

He steps in, shuts the door, and the lock clicks like a starting gun.

“Old man, huh?” His voice cracks on the last word. “Keep pushin’, baby. See what happens.”

He peels his shirt off in one violent motion, muscles rippling under steam and old scars. Sweatpants follow, kicked aside, and he’s bare, thick, flushed, veins standing out like the ones you’ve dreamt about for years. The head of his cock is slick with precome, bobbing heavy between you.

He steps under the spray and the water turns his hair black, sends rivers down his chest, over the dog tags that clink softly. He stops an inch away, hands hovering, flesh and metal trembling.

“Fuck…” he breathes, the word tearing out like a confession, eyes locked on yours, stormy, shattered, raw with a torment that claws at his throat.

“You’ve… you’ve grown up, doll. You’re a woman now. Christ, not that little kid anymore, not my best friend’s baby girl. How the hell am I supposed to fight this when you look at me like that?”

The confession sounds like it’s being ripped out of his chest.

His hands finally land on your hips, reverent, shaking, thumbs tracing the dip of your waist like he’s reading braille. Metal fingers press cool against the small of your back and you arch into the contrast, gasping.

He pulls you flush against him.

His cock brands your belly, hot, velvet-hard, pulsing. You feel his heart hammering against your breasts.

“Then treat me like one,” you whisper, voice cracking with the weight of it.

He makes a wounded sound and drops his forehead to yours.

“Shouldn’t be doin’ this,” he rasps, voice cracking like glass under pressure, his forehead pressed to yours as if the weight of it might crush him.

“Your dad’s right upstairs, trustin’ me to look out for you like always. He’d fuckin’ kill me for this, for touchin’ you, for wantin’ you like I do. And God help me baby, I’d let him. I’d go down swingin’ if it meant one more minute gettin’ to see you like this.”

But his hips roll forward anyway, seeking friction, sliding his length along your stomach. You wrap your fingers around him, slow, firm, and he jerks in your grip, a broken groan vibrating against your lips.

“Christ, the way you touch me…” His voice splinters. “Like you know exactly what you do to me.”

You stroke him root to tip, twisting gently at the head, watching his face contort with pleasure and agony.

“Your dad’s gonna bury me for this,” he chokes out, but he’s thrusting into your fist now, metal arm tightening around your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish.

You pull his mouth to yours.

The kiss is messy, starving, years of almost collapsing into teeth and tongue and shared breath. His flesh hand slides up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, not quite claiming, just worshipping the fact that he’s allowed to touch.

You pump him faster, slick with water and precome, and he breaks the kiss to bury his face in your neck, biting down gently, muffling the sounds he can’t hold back.

“Fuck… gonna make me lose it-”

He spins you gently this time, back to his chest, metal arm banding under your breasts, holding you like something precious. His other hand slips between your thighs, fingers finding you soaked, circling your clit with devastating precision.

You moan, head falling back against his shoulder, hips rocking shamelessly into his touch.

“That’s it,” he whispers, voice cracking with awe and guilt and love. “Take what you need, baby. I’ve got you.”

The intimacy of it, his voice, the way he’s shaking with restraint and devotion, undoes you.

You come with a muffled cry against his neck, thighs clenching around his hand, waves crashing so strong your vision sparks white. He follows seconds later, groaning your name like it hurts, spilling hot over your lower back, hips jerking helplessly as the water washes it away.

You sag together, panting, water cooling around you.

He turns off the faucet with a trembling hand. Steam lingers like a confession.

He wraps you in a towel, hands gentle now, reverent, drying your shoulders, your arms, your breasts, like he’s terrified he’ll break you, like he can’t believe he gets to touch you at all.

You lean into him, towel loose around your hips, and whisper, soft, taunting, loving:

“Admit it. You’ve thought about this since the pull-ups. That day behind the fence.”

He stills, towel knotted at his waist, water dripping from his lashes. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, eyes dark with truth and shame and something that won’t quit.

“Every damn mission,” he whispers, voice raw. “Every night I couldn’t sleep. Thought about you grown, thought about you wantin’ me back. Kept me sane.”

He presses his forehead to yours, breath shaking. “This… this is better than any fantasy. And it’s gonna destroy me. But fuck if I care right now.”

You kiss him, slow, soft, tasting the guilt he’s drowning in and the love he can’t hide.

“Take me to bed,” you breathe against his mouth.“Please, Bucky, we’re not done. I need you inside me, need you to wreck me until I can’t think straight.”

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, arms shaking not from effort but from the weight of what he’s just done, and carries you out of the steam like a man walking straight into the fire he’s always known was waiting.

He carries you naked down the dark hallway, water still dripping from his hair, from your skin, leaving cold little trails on the hardwood that make you shiver against his chest. His metal arm is locked under your thighs, vibranium plates humming faintly against the backs of your knees; his flesh hand cradles your spine like you’re spun glass. Every footstep is deliberate, trying not to let the floorboards scream and wake the house.

The guest-room door shuts with the softest click. He turns the lock so slowly the mechanism barely breathes.

Moonlight through frost-laced windows turns the whole room blue-white. Snow-light. It catches on the sweat still clinging to his collarbones, on the dog tags resting between his pecs, on the wet ends of his hair.

He lowers you to the bed like he’s laying down something sacred. The comforter is cool against your overheated back; the sheets smell like cedar and the faint gun-oil that always clings to him. You sink into it and he just stares, chest heaving, lips parted, eyes glassy with something between worship and terror.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, doll…” His voice is shredded velvet. “Look at you. Spread out on my bed like every filthy dream I never let myself finish.”

You try for a bratty little smirk, want to tease him about finally growing a pair, but the words die when he drops to his knees at the edge of the mattress and spreads your thighs with his shoulders.

The first touch of his mouth is soft, almost chaste, just his lips brushing the crease where thigh meets hip, stubble scraping tender skin, breath scalding. You feel it everywhere.

“You okay, baby?” he murmurs, looking up the length of your body, blue eyes dark and worried even while his cock jerks against the sheets. “Tell me if it’s too much. Tell me anything. Always.”

You nod, throat too tight for words, and he rewards you by dragging his tongue up your center in one slow, filthy stripe that ends with the flat of it pressed hard against your clit.

Your back bows off the bed.

“That’s it, baby,” he growls low against your slick heat, the rumble of his voice making your thighs tremble. “Spread those gorgeous legs wider for me, sweetheart… don’t get shy on me now.”

His tongue drags slow and deliberate up your center again, just to watch you jerk, then he pulls back barely an inch, hot breath ghosting over you as he smirks.

“Uh-uh. Wider. Show me how desperate my pretty little thing is to have her pussy devoured. Go on… beg me with those thighs, baby. Let me see just how soaked you are for my mouth.”

He eats you like it’s the only thing he was ever put on earth to do. Slow, thorough, obscene. Long licks, soft sucks, the gentle scrape of teeth. His tongue fucks deep inside you, curling, retreating, curling again, while his nose grinds your clit in perfect, maddening circles. Metal fingers slide in beside his tongue, two thick vibranium digits curling up to stroke that spot that makes your vision spark white.

He feels you tighten, hears that broken little gasp that means you’re right there, and he stops. Just lifts his mouth an inch, lets the cool air hit your dripping cunt while you whine and try to chase him.

“Mmm-no, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing the sensitive crease where thigh meets pussy, voice velvet-rough. “Not yet. I’m nowhere near done playing.”

He drags his tongue in one slow, lazy stripe that deliberately misses your clit, then chuckles when your hips buck in frustration.

“Aw, listen to that needy sound. You’re fucking soaked, aren’t you? Dripping down my chin and still begging for more.” He nips the soft skin of your inner thigh, soothing it with a kiss. “Greedy girl. I could live between these legs for days… lick you open nice and slow until you’re crying for mercy.”

Another feather-light flick, gone before you can grind against it.

“Hours, sweetheart,” he promises, voice dark and filthy as he spreads you wider with his thumbs, blowing a cool breath over your throbbing clit just to watch you shudder. “I’m gonna keep you shaking on the edge ‘til you forget your own name. Only thing you’ll remember is how to beg me to let you come.”

When you finally come it’s with his name torn out of your throat and muffled against the pillow, thighs clamped so tight around his head you’re scared you’ll hurt him. He just moans like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, licking you through it until you’re sobbing from overstimulation.

He crawls up your body, kissing every inch, murmuring praise like a litany.

“Good girl. So fuckin’ good for me. Taste yourself on my tongue, baby, go on.”

He kisses you deep, filthy, letting you lick into his mouth and taste how wet you made him.

Then he sinks into you from behind in one long, slow glide that punches the air from your lungs. You feel every inch, every thick vein, every throb, the flared head dragging along your walls until he bottoms out and you both groan like dying men, raw and desperate.

He stills, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed hot and sweaty between your shoulder blades, metal hand sliding under you to lace tight with yours on the mattress, vibranium cool against your fingers.

“Fuck… baby,” he rasps, voice cracked wide open, forehead pressed to yours while his breath stutters against your lips. “You good? Please… tell me you’re good.”

His hands are shaking, thumbs stroking gentle little circles like he’s trying to soothe both of you. He pulls back just enough to search your eyes, wide and glassy with something that looks a lot like fear.

“I’ve got you, okay? I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice trembling harder than his body. “Just… breathe with me, sweetheart. Tell me if it’s too much. I’ll stop, I swear I’ll stop, I just-”

He cuts himself off with a shaky exhale when you clench around him involuntarily, a broken groan ripping out of his chest. His eyes squeeze shut for a second like he’s in pain.

“God, you feel so fucking perfect I’m scared I’m gonna lose it,” he confesses, raw and quiet, pressing his face into your neck. “Need to hear you say it, baby. Need to know you’re with me… that you can take me. Please.”

You shove your hips back hard, slamming yourself onto him with a filthy, wet sound that makes his breath hitch.

“Please,” you sob, voice shredded, forehead pressed to the sheets as you fuck yourself on his cock in frantic little jerks. “Please, bucky, I need it so bad-”

Every desperate push back forces him deeper, your ass slapping against his hips, greedy and shameless. You can’t stop; you’re shaking, dripping, clenching around him like you’re trying to pull him in and never let go.

“Fuck, fuck, I can take it,” you cry out, reaching one hand back to claw at his thigh, dragging him closer. “I’m so full and it’s still not enough, please move, please ruin me, I’m begging you-”

Your whole body jolts with every backward thrust you give yourself, thighs trembling, back arched so deep it hurts, tears soaking the pillow as you choke on another broken moan.

“I’m so close already,” you confess in a rush, voice cracking open. “I’m right there and you’re not even moving, I’ll die if you don’t move, please, I’ll be so good for you, I swear, just, fuck, please-”

He does.

Slow, deep rolls of his hips at first, dragging out until just the tip kisses your entrance, then slamming back in until his hips meet your ass with a wet, filthy slap that echoes in the quiet room. Every thrust nudges your clit against his heavy balls, the pressure perfect, relentless, building that burn low in your belly until you’re trembling.

His mouth never leaves your skin, lips and teeth and tongue worshiping every inch he can reach.

“Listen to you,” he growls against your spine, teeth grazing the sensitive spot between your shoulder blades. “Hear how fuckin’ wet you are for me? That’s all you, baby. All for me. My perfect girl takin’ every inch like you were born for it, like this pussy was made to be wrapped around my cock.”

You whimper, fingers squeezing his metal ones hard enough that the plates whir faintly.

“That’s it,” he praises, voice rough with awe and hunger. “Squeeze me just like that. Fuck, you’re so tight, so hot- gonna ruin me, baby. You’re ruinin’ me, and I’d let you do it every goddamn day.”

He flips you suddenly, needing your face, needing to see you take him. Missionary now, your legs thrown over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half, cock hitting so deep you feel him in your throat with every brutal thrust, the angle making you sob.

“Look at me,” he pants, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing in the universe, like he’s memorizing every flicker across your face. “Wanna see those pretty eyes when you come around my cock again. Wanna watch my girl fall apart on me. You’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this, baby- so gorgeous takin’ me deep.”

“Bucky-” you sob, nails digging into his back, leaving red trails down scarred skin.

“Yeah, say my name,” he groans, hips snapping harder, faster, the headboard starting to thump against the wall. “Love hearin’ my name in that sweet voice while I’m buried inside you. You’re takin’ me so good. So fuckin’ good. Never felt anything like this pussy- never gonna want anything else. You’re it for me, baby. You’re everything.”

Against the wall next, your back scraping painted drywall, his metal arm hooked under your ass, holding all your weight like it’s nothing while his flesh hand braces beside your head. He thrusts up into you slow and filthy, grinding on every stroke, the head of his cock dragging over that spot that makes you see stars, makes your toes curl.

“Legs okay, baby?” he whispers, voice ragged and trembling with restraint, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me if they’re shaking too hard… I’ve got you, I’ll hold you up, always.”

You whimper, nodding frantically, and he groans at the way you clench around him in response.

“That’s it… fuck, just like that,” he praises, low and reverent, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder blade. “Wrap those pretty thighs tighter around me, yeah, perfect. God, look at you, taking me so fucking deep, so greedy and gorgeous.”

His hand slips down to lace with yours, squeezing gently as he rolls his hips in that slow, grinding rhythm that makes you sob.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” he breathes, voice cracking with awe. “So perfect for me. My beautiful girl, glowing, trembling, letting me all the way in like you were made for this, made for me. I’ve never felt anything as safe as I do right now, buried inside you. You’re everything, baby. Every fucking thing.”

You barely manage to get the words out between broken gasps, voice shaky and wrecked as you push against him just to feel him throb inside you.

“Thought… thought you were gonna wreck me, old man-” you rasp, trying for bratty, but it comes out breathless, trembling, more plea than taunt.

He freezes for half a heartbeat, buried to the hilt, then lets out the lowest, darkest chuckle you’ve ever heard. It vibrates straight through your spine.

“Callin’ me old man again, huh?” he murmurs, voice velvet and dangerous, one hand sliding up your sweat-slick back to fist gently in your hair. He tugs your head back just enough for you to feel it, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Careful what you ask for, baby.”

Then he pulls out slow, agonizingly slow, until you’re empty and whining, and slams back in with one brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

“That wrecking enough for you, princess?” he growls, setting a punishing rhythm, hips snapping hard enough to jolt your whole body up the bed. “Or should this old man really ruin that pretty little pussy till you can’t walk tomorrow?”

Another deep, filthy stroke, grinding against that spot that makes you see stars.

“Go ahead,” he taunts, breathless but merciless, “keep talking shit. I’ve got all night to teach you manners, sweetheart.”

On the floor because the bed is too far and he can’t wait another second, him flat on his back, you’re straddling his face, knees burning against the hardwood, thighs trembling so hard they’re practically vibrating around his ears. His big hands are locked on your ass, fingers digging in possessively, spreading you open and dragging you down until his mouth seals over your cunt like he’s starving.

“Use me, sweetheart,” he groans into you, voice muffled, wrecked, tongue fucking deep and greedy. “Please, fuck my face. I need your taste in my throat for days.”

His nose grinds against your clit with every roll of your hips, perfect, relentless pressure, while his metal fingers slip lower, cool and slick, gathering the mess dripping out of you and teasing your empty, fluttering hole like he’s thinking about sliding them in later.

You hesitate, thighs shaking harder, a little scared of how fast it’s building, how loud you already are, and he feels it instantly. His grip softens, thumbs stroking soothing circles over the dimples of your ass.

“Hey, hey, baby, look at me,” he rasps, pulling back just enough that his breath fans hot over your swollen clit. His eyes are blown black, glassy with want and something achingly tender. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. Nothing bad’s gonna happen, I swear.”

He presses the softest kiss to your clit, then another, coaxing.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Drippin’ all over my face, shaking for me… my perfect girl. Could stay right here forever.”

His hands slide up to guide your hips again, gentle but insistent, rocking you down onto his waiting tongue.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he begs, raw and desperate. “Ride me. Grind that pretty pussy on my mouth, use me however you need. I want it. Want you to fall apart and soak me. Please, baby… let me have it. I’m dying for it.”

Bent over the dresser, mirror fogged from your breath, his chest plastered to your back, eyes locked in the reflection, sweat-slick skin sliding together.

“Look how gorgeous you are takin’ me,” he rasps, voice hoarse from hours of praise, hips snapping hard and fast now, animal, relentless, the dresser rattling with every thrust. “Look at you. My girl. Mine. Say it.”

“Yours,” you sob, nails scrabbling for purchase on the wood, tears pricking your eyes from how good it hurts, how deep he is.

“That’s right,” he snarls, one hand sliding up to wrap gently around your throat, thumb stroking your pulse like he’s counting your heartbeats. “All mine. Takin’ my cock like a fuckin’ dream. Never gonna get enough of you, doll. Never. You’re perfect, so fuckin’ perfect, squeezin’ me, cryin’ for me, lettin’ me ruin you. My beautiful girl.”

He finishes inside you the first time with your name broken on his lips, hips stuttering, metal fingers laced so tight with yours the plates leave faint crescents in your skin. He stays buried, forehead against your spine, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I love you,” like the words are being ripped out of his soul, voice shaking with the weight of it.

The second time is slow, face-to-face, moonlight painting silver stripes across your bodies. He’s crying a little, you realize, tears mixing with sweat when he kisses you, thrusts deep and deliberate, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re everything,” he chokes on every thrust, voice raw and reverent. “Everything I never thought I’d get to have. My perfect, beautiful girl. Love how you feel around me, love how you look at me, love every fuckin’ sound you make. You’re ruin’ me, baby, and I’d let you do it a thousand times. You’re mine, my heart, my girl, my everything.”

When he comes again he buries his face in your neck, whole body shaking, spilling deep with a sound like it hurts how good it feels, whispering your name over and over like a prayer.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes against your skin, voice raw, holding you close like he’ll never let go. “So fuckin’ perfect I don’t deserve you. But I’m keepin’ you anyway.”

Finally, 4:07 am, he collapses beside you, metal arm draped cool across your stomach, flesh hand tangled in your hair, both of you slick with sweat and each other.

“Tomorrow he’s gonna kill me,” he whispers, voice raw, wrecked, happy. A pause. “Worth it.”

You smile into his chest, fingers tracing the raised skin of an old scar, voice soft and sleepy and absolutely certain:

“Then make it worth it again before sunrise.”

He exhales like a man who’s been holding his breath for decades, pulls you tighter, and starts all over again.

He rearranges you like you’re made of silk and sin.

Big, careful hands slide under your thighs, lifting your top leg higher, draping it back over his hip so you’re completely open to him. He’s still buried deep, thick, half-hard, and slick with both of you, but now he can spoon you flush against his chest, metal arm curled under your neck and breasts like a cradle, flesh arm wrapped low across your hips, fingers splayed wide over the soft swell of your lower belly so he can feel himself inside you every time he breathes.

“Stay right here, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice cracked open with exhaustion and wonder. “Gonna keep my cock nice and warm inside this perfect little pussy while you fall asleep, yeah? Gonna keep you full of me all night.”

He rocks, slow, syrupy, barely a thrust, more like a heartbeat. Just enough to remind your body he’s there, stretching you, owning you, loving you.

You make a sleepy, needy sound and push back against him, trying to get closer even though there’s no space left. He groans, low and wrecked, hips stuttering for a second before he forces himself still.

“Shhh, shh, I’ve got you,” he soothes, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder, your neck, the spot behind your ear that makes you melt. “Greedy girl. Already took three loads outta me tonight and you still want more, huh?”

His metal hand slides up, cupping your breast, thumb rolling your nipple slow and gentle, like he’s petting you to sleep. Flesh hand slips lower, two fingers spreading your folds so he can feel where he’s splitting you open, feel the slick mess leaking out around his cock every time he gives that tiny, sleepy thrust.

“Fuck, listen to that,” he breathes, voice filthy and adoring. “Hear how wet my baby is? That’s me inside you. That’s us. Never gonna pull out, sweetheart. Gonna stay right here, keep you plugged and dripping and mine.”

You whimper, half-asleep, hips rolling back on instinct, chasing the gentle pressure. He hushes you closer, metal arm tightening just enough that the cool plates press deliciously against your nipples.

“Easy, pretty girl,” he croons, lips against your pulse. “Let me take care of you. Let me love on this sweet pussy till you pass out on my cock. You’ve been so good for me, taken everything I gave you, still clenchin’ around me like you can’t get enough.”

Another slow, lazy glide in and out, just an inch, just enough to make you sigh and flutter around him. He moans softly, like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt.

“That’s it… fuck, that’s perfect. Just like that. Fall asleep on me, baby. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep you full. Dream about me stretchin’ you open, yeah?”

Your body goes liquid, melting back into him, head lolling against his metal bicep. The last thing you feel is his mouth pressing soft, endless kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your hair, and the gentle, steady throb of him inside you, like a second heartbeat.

“Aww, listen to you,” he whispers, voice thick with sleepy, possessive love when your breathing finally evens out. “My sweet girl, falling asleep with my cock buried to the hilt. Never lettin’ you go. Never.”

His own eyes flutter shut, arms locking tighter, metal fingers laced with yours over your belly, keeping you pinned exactly where he wants you.

Outside, the storm screams itself hoarse. Inside, the only sound is the soft, wet pulse of two bodies refusing to separate, and the quiet, reverent whisper he breathes into your hair just before he drifts off.

“Love you so fuckin’ much it hurts, baby. Sleep tight. I’ve got you.”

And you both slip under, still joined, still dripping, wrapped in steel and skin and the kind of filthy, desperate tenderness that only comes after everything has already burned down.

The kitchen smells like bacon, burnt coffee, and the kind of tension that could power a small city.

Dad’s at the stove, spatula in hand, humming “Fortunate Son” like he’s in a different decade entirely. You’re perched on a stool in Bucky’s stolen shirt, legs swinging, trying to look like a normal daughter who definitely did not spend the night tangled up with her dad’s best friend.

Bucky is shirtless, because of course, leaning against the counter with his “World’s Okayest Sergeant” mug, pretending to read the cereal box while his eyes keep darting to you like he’s checking you’re still real.

Dad flips a strip of bacon with flair. “So, Buck. That guest bed treat you alright? I peeked in around six to see if the power had come back on. You were dead to the world, man. Didn’t even twitch.”

You and Bucky both freeze solid.

Your coffee mug stops halfway to your mouth. Bucky’s metal hand tightens on his mug so hard you hear the ceramic creak.

Because at six am, you were definitely in that guest bed. Wrapped around Bucky like a koala, one of his thighs between yours, his metal arm locked around your waist, your face buried in his neck, both of you dead asleep and very, very naked under the tangled sheets.

You thank every god you don’t believe in that Dad only saw Bucky’s side of the bed. That the blanket was pulled high enough. That you were on the inside, hidden against the wall. That Bucky sleeps like a damn statue when he finally crashes.

Bucky recovers first, voice suspiciously calm. “Yeah… uh, slept like a rock. Deep. Real deep.”

You nearly choke on air. “Yeah, Dad. He was out cold. Didn’t move an inch all night.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow at you over the rim of his mug. “Funny. I seem to remember someone doing a whole lot of moving.”

Dad turns, eyebrow raised. “What was that?”

Bucky shrugs, smooth as gravel. “Nothin’. Just said the bed was surprisingly comfortable.”

You hide your grin behind your mug. Bucky’s foot finds your ankle under the counter and gives it a light kick. You kick back, harder. He pinches your calf with his toes. Game on.

Dad sets down plates with a clatter. “You two are weirdly chipper for people who almost turned into popsicles.”

You and Bucky answer at the exact same time. “Adrenaline.” “Good cardio.”

Dead silence.

Dad blinks slowly, like he’s buffering. You both sip coffee like it’s the last drink on death row.

Dad finally shrugs and sits. “Whatever. Eat before it gets cold.”

Bucky slides into the seat next to you, thigh pressing yours like it’s an accident. It’s not. You “accidentally” elbow him reaching for the salt. He steals two pieces of your bacon. You flick a tiny piece of eggshell onto his plate.

Bucky mutters under his breath, “Real mature, trouble.”

You whisper back, “Says the guy who begged ‘please, doll, don’t stop’ at three in the morning.”

He inhales bacon wrong and starts coughing. Dad reaches over and thumps his back. “Easy there, pal. Chew.”

You pat Bucky’s back with way too much enthusiasm. “There ya go, old man. Small bites.”

Bucky glares through watering eyes, mouth twitching like he’s two seconds from laughing or strangling you. “Keep it up. See what happens when your dad leaves for five seconds.”

You grin. “Promises, promises.”

Dad, chewing thoughtfully, waves his fork in a circle. “You know, you two are actin’ weird. Like… weird-weird. Like you’re speakin’ in code or somethin’. And Buck, where the hell is your shirt?”

Bucky freezes mid-chew. You freeze mid-sip. You both glance at your chest at the same time.

You recover first, sweet as pie. “Laundry mix-up?”

Bucky nods way too fast. “Yeah. Mine shrank. She borrowed it. Charity.”

Dad squints harder. “It’s three sizes too big on her.”

You chime in, “Fashion, Dad. Oversized is in.”

Bucky adds, “Very trendy.”

Dad stares for a long beat, then shrugs. “Kids these days. And old men pretending to be kids.”

Under the table, Bucky’s foot slides up your calf again, slow and deliberate. You retaliate by pressing your bare foot right against the inside of his thigh, inching dangerously close to territory that would get you both grounded for life.

His hand clamps down on your ankle like a vice. He mouths, “Behave.”

You mouth back, “Make me.”

Dad looks up. “You two are awfully quiet again. Everything okay?”

You and Bucky answer in perfect unison, “Yep!”

Dad eyes you both like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing, then shrugs and goes back to his eggs.

Bucky leans in, voice barely a breath. “You’re lucky your dad’s here, or I’d have you bent over this counter before the bacon grease cooled.”

You grin, all teeth. “Big talk for a guy who begged so pretty last night.”

His metal fingers tighten on your ankle, just enough pressure to promise payback. You wiggle your toes against his inner thigh in victory.

Dad stands up, plate in hand. “Alright, I’m gonna go fight the driveway before the next wave hits. You two want anything from the garage?”

You answer quickly, “We’re good!”

Bucky echoes, “Real good.”

Dad pauses at the door, gives you one last suspicious look. “You sure? You’re both actin’ like you drank Red Bull instead of coffee.”

Bucky shrugs. “Just the bacon high.”

Dad mutters something about “weirdos” and heads out.

The second the back door shuts, Bucky’s on his feet, crowding you against the counter, hands braced on either side of your hips.

“You,” he growls, nose brushing yours, “are a goddamn menace.”

You tilt your chin, smirking. “And you’re a terrible liar. ‘Best sleep in years’? Please.”

He huffs a laugh, forehead dropping to yours. “Fine. Worst sleep of my life. Couldn’t stop thinking about how you sound when-”

You slap a hand over his mouth. “Dad’s literally thirty feet away!”

He licks your palm. You yank it back with a squeak.

“Animal,” you hiss.

He grins, all teeth. “You weren’t complaining last night.”

You shove his chest. He doesn’t budge. “Go put a shirt on before Dad thinks we’re running a nudist colony.”

He leans in, voice low and rough. “I’d put a shirt on, but someone’s wearing my favorite one. And looks way better in it than I ever did.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are on fire. “Flattery won’t save you when Dad notices the hickey on my-”

He kisses you quick and dirty to shut you up, then pulls back just as fast.

“Gotta go before I do something stupid,” he mutters, adjusting himself with zero subtlety. “Like bend you over this counter and give your old man a heart attack.”

You pat his cheek. “Poor baby. Blue balls again?”

He groans, backing toward the door. “You’re evil.”

“Text me when you get home safe, Grandpa.”

He points a metal finger at you. “Keep that shirt. And lock your window next time there’s a storm. I’m not asking twice.”

You grin, sweet as poison. “Who says there’ll be a next time?”

He pauses at the door, eyes dark. “Keep telling yourself that, trouble.”

Then he’s gone, boots crunching through snow.

Dad yells from the driveway, “Buck! You forgot your damn shirt again!”

You look down at the stolen tee, hug it to yourself, and yell back, “Finders keepers, dad!”

Dad’s muffled grumble floats in: “You kids are so weird…”

You sip your coffee, grinning like an idiot, already counting down to the next blizzard.

Because yeah. There’s definitely gonna be a next time.

© 𝓼𝓵𝓾𝓽𝓭𝓲𝓮𝓻 2025 (do not copy, translate or repost)

You huff, unwilling and grateful. “Director’s cut.”

“Hit me, baby.” His hand makes steady circles on your back. “I’m all ears.”

You unload. The email that moved the goalposts. The meeting that could’ve been an email. The co-worker who “just had a thought” right after you said the exact same thing. The way your chest felt tight at 3 p.m. for no reason except the thousand tiny reasons stacked under it.

He doesn’t interrupt. He nods in the right places. He goes soft-mouthed and furious in a way that means he’s on your side, not just mad at the air.

 When you finally run out, you expect him to fix it. He doesn’t.

“That sounds exhausting,” he says simply, forehead resting to yours. “No wonder you’re wrung out. I’m proud of you for getting through it.”

You swallow. Something unknots. “Thank you.”

“Always.” He kisses your temple. “Couch. Shoes off. I’m making you tea.”

“You don’t—”

“I know,” he says, already steering you with a palm at the small of your back. “I want to.”

He tucks you into the corner of the couch like you’re the most valuable thing in the room, plucks your shoes off, slides a throw over your legs. The kitchen light clicks on. You hear the kettle, the small domestic music of a spoon against a mug. He returns with chamomile and honey and the good mug—the one with the chip you like—and kneels to hand it to you with two hands like an offering.

“For my queen,” he says, soft and proud.

The steam kisses your face. You take a sip; the honey blooms on your tongue. Bucky moves behind the couch and sets those hands—one cool, one warm—on your shoulders. He doesn’t push. He listens with his thumbs.

“Here?” he asks, kneading lightly at a knot.

You melt. “There.”

“Mm.” His fingers go to work. Slow pressure, careful mapping. He finds the line where tension hooks behind your skull and rubs it until your breath evens out. Then he cards through your hair, scritching lightly at your scalp the way he knows will make your eyes heavy.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, a litany of comfort leaking out in between slow, sure strokes. “You did more than enough today. You don’t have to be anything for me except here. I’m so lucky I get to take care of you. That’s it, baby. Let it go.”

If you were standing, you’d fall over. As it is, you sag back into his hands and the couch makes a contented little creak like it approves.

“You want a warm bath?” he asks your crown. “Epsom salts, the lavender stuff you pretend you don’t like and then steal. I’ll run it. Wait here.”

You nod, boneless. He kisses the top of your head and slips away.

You try to obey. You last nineteen seconds.

He’s in the bathroom when you pad down the hall—sleeves shoved up, faucet purring, steam frosting the mirror. He’s set a towel on the radiator to warm and your favorite candle is already flickering on the counter. He glances up when he hears you and smiles, that private one he saves for you.

“I said wait,” he teases lightly, reaching for the bath oil.

“You don’t have to go above and beyond.” You lean in the doorway, hands tucked in your sleeves. “Really.”

He looks over his shoulder, brow lifting. 

“What do you mean I don’t?” He turns the tap down to a perfect, steady run. “I said, I want to.”

The way he says it—like it’s obvious, like wanting to is enough—lands in your chest and spreads. He tests the water with his metal fingertips, adds a dash more hot, then pours a ribbon of lavender that sends the room to a field at dusk.

“Arms,” he says gently, and when you lift them he peels your day off: cardigan, top, skirt, then the weight of your bag strap that still ghost-hangs from your shoulder. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t reach for more than you give. When you shiver, he takes the warmed towel from the radiator and drapes it around you like a cape.

“Phone,” he prompts. You hand it over; he flips on Do Not Disturb and tucks it in the drawer. “Crime scene handled.”

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I am,” he says, smug and soft. He taps the counter. “Jewelry tray.”

You pass him your jewellery; he lines them up in the little dish your aunt gave you, careful as a museum curator. 

Then he tilts his head at your hair.  “May I?”

At your nod, he steps behind you and gently gathers it. He twists a loose bun high on your head, secures it with one of your scrunchies like he’s handling something priceless, then smooths your flyaways with his palm.

“Look at you,” he says to your reflection, sincere and a little awed. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, even on a terrible day.”

You roll your eyes because that is the law, but your mouth betrays you with a smile. He sees it. He always does. He winks and turns back to the tub; the water has climbed into that sweet spot—warm enough to unravel you, not so hot it scolds.

He kills the tap, swirls the bath once with his hand to distribute the heat, then sets a folded washcloth on the rim like he’s setting a table. 

“Okay,” he says, stepping back to make space, “we have: perfect temperature, cozy towel staging area, candle that smells like cinnabon, and a playlist that is ninety percent piano and ten percent songs that make you roll your eyes but secretly relax.”

“Which ones make me roll my eyes?”

“Any that start with ‘acoustic version.’” He grins when you snort. “Come here.”

You let the towel slip, and he looks at you like you’re something he’s allowed to gaze at, not devour. He offers his hands—one warm, one cool—and helps you step in. The water sighs around you; you do, too.

“Too hot?” he checks.

“No, it’s perfect.”

He kneels by the tub, forearms on the porcelain, chin propped on his wrist. Close enough to be there, far enough that you have space to float. 

“Sip,” he says, passing you the mug he somehow thought to bring along; the steam curls up to kiss your face.

You take a drink. The next breath you release feels two pounds lighter.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs. “We’re gonna soak for ten. Then I’m gonna wash your hair, put you in my biggest hoodie and your stupidly soft socks. Then we’re ordering dinner from the place that puts too many sesame seeds on everything you love, and we’re watching that show where everybody stares out windows and says ‘We can’t.’”

“They do more than that.”

“They occasionally kiss dramatically in the rain,” he concedes. “But mostly? Window-staring.”

You bite your smile and sink until the water kisses your collarbones. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm. I’m yours.” He traces a fingertip over the top of your shoulder, a barely-there touch that says I’m here more than any speech could. “And I’m not leaving you alone with your brain tonight.”

You look at him. He looks back like he means every word.

“Thank you,” you say, because it doesn’t cover it and is all you have.

He leans in and presses a kiss to your damp forehead. “You don’t have to thank me for loving you.”

“I know.” You reach, wet fingers curling around his wrist, the cool metal and warm skin both yours. “I just like saying it.”

“Then say it,” he says, smiling. “Say it as many times as you want. Say it while you eat dumplings. Say it while I blow-dry your hair. Say it while you fall asleep on me in the third episode because you always do.”

You laugh, full-bodied now, and the day loosens its grip for good. He watches your shoulders drop, watches your face soften, and you can feel the satisfaction roll off him like sunlight.

He stands, squeezes your hand, and starts for the door. “I’ll grab the hoodie and the socks,” he says over his shoulder. “And the remote, so I can pretend I’m not gonna give it to you.”

“Bucky.”

He pauses. “Yeah, baby?”

“Can you… join me instead?”

His smile tilts—soft and a little dazzled. 

“You want me to join you? Of course.” He toes off his sweats, peels his top over his head, and in two unhurried motions he’s bare and beautiful in the lamplight. “Scoot, my love.”

You slide forward through the lavender water; he steps in behind you and sinks with a pleased exhale, long legs bracketing your hips. Heat and him close around you like a second bath. His chest warms your back; the cool kiss of vibranium settles at your waist, anchoring.

“Hi,” he murmurs against your temple, like it’s the best word he knows.

“Hi,” you breathe, already melting.

“Turn for me.” He lifts your hair, fingertips reverent. “Let me take care of you.”

You tip your head forward. He finds your scrunchie and eases it free, letting your hair spill into his palms. He reaches for the cup on the tub ledge and pours a slow ribbon of warm water from crown to nape. It runs over your scalp, your neck, your shoulders; his thumb follows the path in lazy circles.

“Pressure okay?” he asks.

“Mmm—perfect.”

“Good.” He works a little shampoo into his hands, then into your hair, massaging with careful, hypnotic strokes—temples, behind your ears, the base of your skull where all the day’s sharp edges hide. 

Your eyes flutter. The world narrows to the rhythm of his fingers and the steady rise and fall of his breathing at your back.

“Want me to make you forget your day?” he whispers, all praise and promise. “Can I make you feel good, my love?”

“Yes,” you sigh, boneless.

“Good, now lean onto me.” 

He tips a cup of warm water over your crown, shielding your eyes with his palm while he rinses you clean. The lavender slips away; his touch doesn’t. Those hands map lower—slow, reverent passes down your neck, along your collarbones—thumbs drawing lazy circles at the dip of your sternum. He hums like he likes the way your heartbeat stutters under his fingers.

“Just relax,” he murmurs. “That’s it, baby.”

His flesh hand glides over your chest, cupping you with tenderness that turns your ribs to honey. He teases, feather-light at first—fingers skimming, circling, learning the way you arch into the touch—then a gentle roll of his thumb that has your breath catching. 

“So responsive,” he praises, voice a low current in your ear. “Look at you, my love. Such a good girl for me.”

The cool band of vibranium anchors you at your waist while his warm palm coasts down your belly, lower—patient, sure—until his fingers slip between your thighs. He finds heat and slick and groans softly against your temple like he’s the one being touched. 

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, circling your clit with slow, perfect pressure. “Let me have it. Give me every bit of that tension. I’ve got you.”

Your head tips back to his shoulder; he follows the line of your throat with his mouth, dropping kisses like breadcrumbs—tender, claiming—while his hands work in tandem: one coaxing soft, aching sparks over your nipple, the other stroking you in tight, pressured rhythms below.

“You’re doing so well,” he breathes, pace unhurried and coaxing. “Such pretty sounds. You feel how easy you open for me? Mmm. Take what you need.”

“Bucky—” it escapes you, a small, helpless plea that makes his jaw flex against your cheek.

“Right here,” he promises, tightening the arm at your middle to hold you when your knees go warm. “Do you want more pressure? Want me to for faster, Mm?”

“Please.”

He gives it to you—just enough—and you shiver, hips answering for you under the water. He smiles against your skin, proud and a little wrecked. 

“Let me draw it out of you. Let me replace every bad minute with this.”

His fingers circles faster but keeps you exactly where the heat crests and curls, praising you in that low, sinful voice that melts your bones. 

“You deserve to be worshiped after a day like that. Can you feel it building?" Your fingers clutch his forearm; he groans at the cling, at the trust, at the way you anchor yourself to him like he’s the only solid thing left in the room. "Uh-huh, I know. I know.”

A helpless sound catches in your throat. His fingers keep the rhythm—patient, coaxing—until your knees go loose and the tub cradles you both.

“Should I put a finger in?” he asks, voice low, checking your eyes even though your body’s already begging.

You nod, breath hitching. “Please.”

“Yeah?” His smile tilts, tender and a little wicked. “Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, my love? Tell me what you need.”

“Need. . . Your fingers,” you whisper. “Fill me….”

“As you wish,” he breathes, and does exactly that—one thick finger sliding in, warm and sure, knuckle by careful knuckle. He waits, letting you melt around him, then curls. Electricity skates through your belly. Your free hand finds the back of his neck; you pull him closer, mewling into his jaw as his thumb draws tight, merciless circles over your clit.

“That’s it,” he praises, voice going husky. “Hold on to me. Use me. I'm right here.”

He strokes again, precise and . Your hips answer on instinct, a small roll that drives him deeper. He groans softly, forehead tipping to your temple. “So sweet for me. So soft. You’re squeezing my finger like you never want to let go.”

“More,” you breathe, trembling. “I can take more.”

“Anything for you, baby.” He eases his middle finger out just a hair, slicks it with your heat, and slides his ring finger in beside it—slow, careful, praising against your ear. 

“There you go… open for me… good girl.” Both fingers seat to the hilt; you gasp, nails biting the nape of his neck. He stills, gives you one heartbeat, two, then curls both in tandem and finds the spot that makes your vision spark.

Your head falls back to his shoulder; a wrecked moan spills out before you can catch it. He hums approvingly and keeps working that angle—steady, toe-curling pulls, thumb never breaking rhythm.

“Oh baby, you sound so beautiful.” He feels your answer shiver through you. “Right there. Feel it… let it roll through you. You’re doing so well.”

Water laps the porcelain, lavender steam rising while he plays you with unhurried skill. 

The cool arc of vibranium bands your waist; his warm chest cages your back. You’re strung tight between them, every nerve tuned to the slick slide of his fingers and the low river of his voice.

“Listen to yourself,” he murmurs, kissing the hinge of your jaw. “That pretty little whimper—music to me. Give me more. Give me everything.”

You do, helpless and greedy, rolling into his palm. He answers by tightening the circles of his thumb, by scissoring the slightest bit and then curling again, relentless and sure until your thighs start to shake under the water.

“Bucky—” your voice breaks, “you feel so good.”

“Yeah?,” he chuckles, pace tightening. “Let go for me. I’m right here. Fall, baby—I’ll catch you.”

The edge pulls taut—bright, inevitable. He curls just once more, thumb pressing perfect, and the world snaps. Heat bursts low and fast; you clamp around his fingers, shuddering, breath snagging on a fractured cry as he murmurs through it:

“Good girl… that’s it… give it to me… so beautiful… I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

He keeps moving you gently—lighter strokes, reverent circles—working the aftershocks until the tremble becomes a lazy ripple and your whole body goes molten against him. He kisses your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, smiling when you chase the last one.

“Hi,” he whispers, thumb stroking slow at your hip. “You with me?”

You nod, boneless, fingers still looped around his neck. “Y-yeah.”

Your fingers still looped at his nape, you shift to face him—slick, giggly—and your knee slipped on the porcelain. Water sloshes; you both laugh, breathless and bright.

“Are you okay?” Bucky braces you instantly, big hands steadying your waist.

“I’m okay,” you grin, climbing into his lap and kissing him like the relief of a long day breaking—deep, hungry, grateful. Your hand slides down, stroking his thick length under the water until his breath hitches against your mouth.

“Baby…” he groans, forehead tipping to yours as you guide him. “Easy. Take your time.”

“I’ve got it,” you whisper, lining the thick crown to your entrance. You breathe, sink—slow, thick inches—until you’re seated all the way and both of you swear into the steam.

“God, my love,” he rasps, palms spreading over your hips to hold you there, not forcing, just anchoring. “So warm. You feel like heaven.”

Water laps the rim in soft waves as you start to move—small, rolling circles that grind you down on him. His head falls back; his jaw flexes; then he’s looking at you again like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense. One hand drifts to your lower belly, splayed to feel the depth of him; the other slips between you, thumb finding your clit with that patient, perfect pressure.

“That’s it,” he praises, low and wrecked. “Ride me, baby. Let me see you feel good. You deserve every bit of it.”

You take what he offers—pace unhurried, greedy, wet sounds turning the tiny room into something holy. He meets your mouth between breaths—kisses that land on a sigh, on a moan, on your name. 

When your rhythm stutters, he bucks up—once, hard—and your breath breaks against his mouth. 

“Faster,” you whisper, fingers curling at his shoulders. “Please.”

“Yeah, baby.” His hands lock your hips and he drives up to meet you, turning those slow, rolling circles into a slick, urgent bounce that sends water sloshing in greedy sheets over the rim. The tub rocks; the candlelight jumps. He keeps his thumb steady on your clit, tightening pressure just a breath with every snap of his hips.

“Just like that,” he grits, eyes on your face like he’s memorizing each stutter, each gasp. “You look so beautiful riding my cock. Take it—all of it.” 

You do, chasing the pace he sets, thighs burning, breath gone ragged as the rhythm sharpens—up, down, grind—until you’re helplessly meeting him, matching him, losing track of where you end and he begins.

“Bucky—” Your voice pitches high; his palm slides to your lower back, arching you into the angle that ruins you.

“I’ve got you,” he rasps, fucking up into you harder, deeper, water spilling warm around your hips. “Come on, my love, that’s it—come for me.”

It hits—fast, white, toe-curling. You clamp around him and keen into his mouth; he swears, breaks, and follows with a guttural sound, holding you down while his seeds pulses deep, thumb still soft on your clit to milk every last tremor.

You collapse against him, both of you laughing breathlessly when another wave slaps over the edge. He strokes your spine, kissing your temple, then your smile. 

“Worth the cleanup,” he murmurs, smug and tender.

“Totally,” you pant, nosing his jaw.

“Stay,” he says, easing you down until you’re draped along his chest, still joined, water lapping gentler now. “Catch your breath. Then I’m wrapping you in a towel and carrying you to the bed like the princess you are.”

“Bossy,” you tease, eyes half-closed.

“Devoted,” he corrects, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead, thumb idly tracing your hip as your pulse settles. “And completely yours.”

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“Online dating,” Bucky muttered, stabbing a fork into the takeout container on his lap. “I tried it, but it was a disaster, Sam. You swipe left, you swipe right… I feel like I’m making decisions about people like I’m picking produce. It wasn’t like this in the ‘40s.”

Sam didn’t look away from the screen. “Yeah, in the ‘40s all you had to do was show up and girls tripped over their own feet.”

Bucky glared. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Buck, please. Steve told me you were the original pretty boy of Brooklyn,” he laughed, scoffing with amusement. “Don’t rewrite history just because you’ve lost game.”

“People actually talked back then,” Bucky grunted, “We courted. It took time. Now it’s all emojis and ‘wyd.’ What the hell does that even mean?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “It means: what are you doing.”

“I know what it means,” Bucky rolled his eyes.“I’m just saying…. It feels impersonal. And half the time we stop talking before we even get to dinner.”

“Maybe because you open conversations like you’re writing your memoir,” Sam said. “You sent that one girl five paragraphs on your favorite plums.”

“They were good plums.”

Sam opened his mouth to argue, but it seemed like the universe would cut him off.

Knock knock knock.

Both men jumped. Then came the voice.

“James!” Mrs. Carmichael, the old lady who lived next to him, shouted through the door. “Turn that infernal game down! Some of us are trying to sleep before our arthritis medication kicks in!”

Bucky looked at the clock. 

It was like, 6 p.m. And it wasn’t even that loud.

Bucky groaned and got up, dragging himself to the door. He cracked it open just enough to see the elderly woman in her robe and slippers, her scowl carved so deep, he wondered how long it had been since it was permanently etched into her mouth.

“Sorry, Mrs. Carmichael,” Bucky said. “Sam’s really into the—”

“I don’t care if Sam is into it. Turn it down!” she huffed, wagging a finger. 

Bucky sighed. “Yes, ma’am.”

She eyed him another moment, then shuffled back toward her apartment muttering about “handsome men with no manners.” Bucky shut the door.

Sam burst out laughing. “She still lives next door? Oh man, I remember when she tried to get you evicted for using your vacuum cleaner.”

“She’s gonna live there till she dies. And that’s assuming that she can die.” Bucky hopped on the couch and went back to sulking. 

Sam watched him for a moment, eyebrows furrowing. He knew his friend had always been grumpy in the 21st century… but he can’t remember the last time Bucky even tried to date. That effort must’ve counted for something. Right? 

“You know… I might know someone,” Sam started. “Someone who’s not into emojis. She’s sweet. Real sweet.”

Bucky stiffened. “Are you setting me up on a date?”

Sam shrugged. “If you want. I think you’d like her. More importantly, I think she’d actually like you.”

Bucky scoffed, staring at the floor. “I doubt it. I’m… a lot.”

“C’mon, man.” Sam leaned forward. “She’s the kind of person who could brighten a dungeon. You’re the dungeon. She’ll balance you out.”

Bucky cracked the smallest smile. “Wow. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Sam patted, grinning. “Trust me. She’s gonna adore you.”

Bucky wasn’t so sure.

—

Bucky spent the entire subway ride rehearsing how not to sound like an idiot.

Sam’s voice echoed in his head: She’s easy to talk to. Just don’t scowl like you’re interrogating her.

He tried to relax his face. It felt wrong, almost unnatural. Apparently, according to Joaquin, he had a ‘resting bitch face,” whatever that meant.

The café Sam set you up on was cosy, warm, and smelled like cinnamon. Bucky stepped inside and immediately spotted you at a booth by the window: bright smile, sunny sweater, waving at him like he was an old friend instead of a stranger.

His stomach did something embarrassing.

“You must be Bucky!” you said, standing up and offering your hand like you genuinely couldn’t wait to meet him.

He shook it. “That’s me.”

You laughed softly. “Sam showed me your picture. He didn’t show you mine, did he?”

“I—I didn’t ask.” (He absolutely should have asked. He would’ve stress-panicked less if he knew you were this gorgeous. Or maybe he would’ve panicked more. Who knows?)

You sat back down, folding your hands in front of you. “Sam talks about you all the time. He said you two were watching football and yelling at the TV when your neighbor threatened to evict you?”

Bucky groaned. “He told you that?”

“We go to the same gym,” you said with a little shrug. “He shares a lot during cooldown stretches.”

“Yeah, he shares too much in general,” Bucky said, and managed to pull out a genuine chuckle this time.

You laughed again, like you thought he was charming instead of off-putting. Bucky didn’t know what to do with that.

The waitress came by, and you placed your order with cheerful confidence. Bucky panicked and just echoed whatever you picked.

You talked after that. About little things, stories from work, a funny moment at the gym, how Sam always stretches like he’s performing for an invisible audience. And Bucky… listened. Not because he didn’t know what to say, but because for once, listening didn’t feel like a chore. It felt as natural as breathing.

Every time he did speak, even if it was just a small “mmm” or a hesitant answer, your eyes warmed like something important had come out of his mouth. 

It had been a long time since someone looked at him with interest, without fear or pity. 

Your hands wrapped around your coffee cup as your laughter spilled quietly into the air. Your ankle brushed his by accident and he went still, not out of fear, but because a hopeful part of him had opened its eyes. 

He liked how you made the world feel lighter.

He liked the way you filled silences with warmth, not noise.

He liked… you. Immediately. More than he’d expected or prepared for.

When it was time to go, you slipped into your coat, still smiling (always smiling) and Bucky realized he didn’t want the moment to end. Not the cinnamon-scented room, not your sweet voice, not the warmth in his chest he’d thought he wasn’t capable of anymore.

“I had a really, really good time,” you said, meeting his eyes sincerely. “If you ever wanted to do this again… I definitely would.”

And Bucky felt his heart flutter under his ribs.

“Yeah,” he managed. “I’d like that.”

You gave him one last bright smile and your number before stepping out into the crisp evening, the bell on the café door chiming behind you like a promise.

Bucky stood there a long moment before pulling out his phone to text Sam:

She’s… nice.

Sam replied instantly.

Nice?? That’s it?? Did you at least smile???

Bucky didn’t answer right away.

He just looked out the window at the spot you’d disappeared around the corner and let his mouth, slowly, tug upwards. 

Eventually, he typed back:

Yeah. I smiled.

—

Date two was Bucky’s idea.

He texted you a simple “Coffee? Same place?” and immediately regretted the lack of emojis, punctuation, of anything. But you showed up with the same bright smile anyway, excited just to see him.

This one felt easier.

You talked about your week, your favorite silly shows, Sam’s terrible gym playlists. Bucky found himself watching your hands when you talked, the way they moved gently through the air like you were painting your words.

He told you a little more about himself this time. Nothing heavy, just small glimpses, like jazz records he liked, a diner he missed, and that he never understood why people thought biscotti was edible (he always got crumbs stuck in his teeth. You, on the other hand, didn’t mind it.)

You laughed, and Bucky realised he didn’t mind being teased by you. Not at all.

When you said goodbye, you touched his metal arm lightly.

He felt the warmth for hours.

—

After a whole week of texting and adorably calling in the middle of the night, you pulled the trigger on the third date. 

You took him out on an evening walk, warm air, ice cream dripping down your fingers as you both wandered down a quiet street.

Bucky walked close enough that your shoulders brushed sometimes. Close enough that he noticed how you smelled sweet, like clean laundry and just as comforting.

You talked less tonight. It wasn’t awkward, just… peaceful. You pointed out pretty windows, he made small comments, and every silence felt like a blanket, not a void.

When the walk ended at your corner, you stood together, streetlights glowing above you.

“I had fun,” you said, voice smaller than usual.

“Me too,” he answered, and it came out lower than he meant.

You stepped closer. He froze, not out of fear, but because he didn’t want to rush, didn’t want to misread, didn’t want to ruin the warmth that had grown between you.

But you just tipped your face up and whispered, “Bucky?”

“Mhm?”

“Can I?”

He barely got out a nod before your lips met his. You kissed him like you knew he needed slow, not fast; soft, not deep.

His heart did a wild backflip behind his ribs.

When you pulled back, he was still half-leaning toward you, like gravity was confused.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you whispered.

—

Bucky didn’t go home right away after you kissed him goodnight.

He needed… a minute. Maybe more than a minute. His heart was still beating too fast, his lips still tingling, and his head felt strangely clear and warm at the same time. Like you had cracked open a window in a room he didn’t know was stuffy.

He ended up walking a few blocks before pulling out his phone.

Sam was usually up late, but Bucky hesitated anyway. He typed, deleted, typed again.

You awake?

Sam responded within ten seconds.

Yep. Did you ruin it?

Bucky rolled his eyes at the screen, but the smile tugging at his mouth wouldn’t go away.

He typed back.

No. I… actually wanted to say thanks.

Another quick reply.

???

Bucky exhaled slowly. Then he called him.

Sam picked up on the first ring. “What’s up?”

Bucky stopped under a streetlight, staring at the pavement like he could make sense of the last two hours by studying it. “Just had the third date.”

“Oh, that’s what this was about,” Sam sounded way too proud of himself. “How did it go?”

“It was good.” He swallowed. “I haven’t…Sam, I haven’t felt like this in a long time.”

Sam went very quiet. 

Bucky continued. “She’s… kind. She smiles at me like—like I’m someone worth smiling at.”

“Buck,” Sam chuckled, something like relief threading through his voice.

“There was a moment,” Bucky said softly. “We were walking. And she just… slipped her hand into mine. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. And for a second, I forgot to be nervous.”

“Oh damn,” Sam whispered. “You’re in deep.”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “Yeah. I think I might be.”

He leaned back against a closed shop door, watching the city glow. His chest felt full, and it was a new feeling. A good one.

“Thank you,” Bucky said. “For setting us up. For thinking she’d… like me.”

Sam snorted. “You’re like a sad puppy with muscles. Girls eat that up.”

“Sam.”

“Fine, fine.” Sam paused. “But seriously—,you gonna see her again?”

Bucky didn’t have to think. “Yeah. Definitely.”

“Atta boy.”

—

Date four was dinner on a Thursday night. You both sat closely in a dim corner booth, your knee pressed against his the entire time.

You told him more about yourself. Dreams, fears, silly stories. Bucky listened like each word mattered. And sometimes, he reached out, just lightly, brushing your fingers, your wrist, like he was memorizing the texture of your presence.

When he walked you home, you held his hand and came in for a hug.

He didn’t even register how much he was touching you until you turned your face into his neck and whispered, “Bucky?”

He hummed.

“You can kiss me.”

So he did.

One kiss became two. Two became a handful. Your fingers curled into his shirt.

Before you knew it, you pulled him into your apartment. There, he found a couch and he pulled you gently into his lap, mouth brushing yours.

His heart pounded under your palms, not out of fear, but out of want. He whispered your name against your lips and sighed. 

At one point you pulled back just enough to look at him, “You feel so good.”

It sent a shiver straight through him.

He kissed you again, laying you down on the couch, guiding you gently beneath him, one of his knees braced by your hip. He didn’t rush. He didn’t even seem to think about anything except the sounds of your gasps, your fingers curling in his shirt.

You tugged him closer, and Bucky let out the smaller, rasped sound right against your lips—

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

Bucky froze.

You froze.

A very familiar voice shouted through the door.

“Hey, you home? I gotta talk to you bout somethin’” He paused, listening for a response. “Why is it so quiet? You dead in there? Did Bucky kill you?”

Sam.

It was Sam. Knocking on your door in the most unfortunate of moments. 

You buried your forehead to Bucky’s shoulder as you tried not to laugh. Bucky’s hands stayed on your waist, gentle, protective, and mortified all the same.

“Don’t—” he whispered urgently, “don’t make a sound.”

But you were shaking with laughter anyway.

Sam knocked again. “Uh… if you’re not answering, I’ll just wait out here—”

You scrambled out from under him so fast it would’ve been funny if he weren’t panicking.

The moment you cracked it open, Sam barged in like an overprotective sitcom parent.

He pointed at you. Then at Bucky. Then back at you.

“Good. You’re alive.”

You blinked. “I… what?”

“I came to check you weren’t breaking my boy’s heart.” Sam waved a dramatic arm at Bucky. “Because if you hurt him, gym buddy or not, I’ll make your next leg day a personal hell.”

You rolled your eyes and chuckled. “Sam!”

Bucky buried his face in both hands. “Get out.”

Sam ignored him entirely. “I mean it. He told me how much he liked you the other day and if you don’t like him back—”

“Sam,” you interrupted, cheeks burning, “I like him. A lot.”

Sam looked between you two… finally really saw the flushed faces, the messy hair, the way Bucky refused to make eye contact because he was trying not to die of embarrassment.

“Well,” Sam clapped his hands together. “Glad we cleared that up. Now I can go, unless…”

He glanced at the table, where you have a jar of sweets.

“…you got snacks?”

Bucky closed his eyes in despair.

You, of course, too nice for your own good, beamed. “Come in.”

“No,” Bucky muttered under his breath, horrified.

But Sam was already stepping into your living room.

“Smells like cookies,” he said, before looking at the messy cushions on the couch and the super-soldier size dent that was left in it. “You two were definitely making out.”

“Samuel,” Bucky growled.

You patted Bucky’s arm. “It’s okay. It’s kinda cute.”

“See, Buck?” Sam snorted. “She thinks you’re cute. She thinks you’re cute. Wow. Never thought I’d see the day.”

You and Bucky ended up on one side of the couch while Sam plopped himself in the armchair like a self-appointed cockblocker.

The makeout session was now officially over. And you were too sweet to say no to hanging out with a mutual friend. 

But you still leaned your head on Bucky’s shoulder. And Bucky slipped his hand into yours.

Even with Sam loudly narrating the movie (“Girl, don’t go in there, the killer is ALWAYS in the basement!”), Bucky felt grounded and stupidly, unbelievably happy, with his girl on one side and his best friend on the other.

Later that night, when Sam finally left, you turned to Bucky with a smile.

“It’s very late, and I got work in the morning, but you can come back tomorrow,” you whispered, brushing your thumb over his cheek, “this time, I promise I won’t let Sam in.”

—

When tomorrow came, you didn’t even bother pretending it was anything but continuing what Sam had interrupted. 

When Bucky walked through your door, your smile was mischievous, eyes glinting like you knew exactly what the two of you were going to do.

“Hey,” you greeted, stepping close enough that your hip brushed his. The touch was deliberate, teasing, enough to make him tense and melt at the same time. “Come on in.”

He kicked off his shoes, aware of the way you were watching him, the way your gaze lingered on his lips, the curve of his necklace, the muscles under his shirt. His own hands itched to touch you, but he waited, because you wanted this. You were daring him, and he could feel the pulse in his chest quicken at the thought.

You guided him toward the couch, your fingers grazing his hand as you settled close. Just brushing him was enough to make him take a deep breath. His body was already on fire from your proximity and the tension between you that had been building since yesterday.

When your lips finally met his, it was urgent and hungry, but careful. His hands moved to your waist, gripping gently, pulling you closer, tilting your hips just so, pressing you into him with a controlled force. Your lips parted beneath his, sighing against him, and he groaned low in his chest, feeling the coil that ran down your spine.

“You feel so amazing,” he murmured against your mouth, lips trailing down your jaw, brushing against your neck. His teeth caught your collarbone in a teasing nibble, and you gripped his shoulders for balance.

You tugged at his shirt, breathless. “Bucky… I want you.”

He froze for a moment, eyes darkening, chest rising and falling. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

Every kiss, every touch, was deliberate, teasing, filled with heat and care. He slid his hands under your shirt slowly, savoring the feel of your skin, watching your reactions, every moan driving him further. You did the same, fingers threading into his hair, tugging him down.

At some point, your clothes began to come off and he carried you to your bed. His hands traced your curves while exploring, making you sigh against him. You whispered against his lips, little words that made him groan and press closer.

“Bucky… please,” you gasped, breathless, sliding your hand along his chest.

“Shh,” he whispered back, “just let me take care of you.”

And you did. You let him take the lead, let him guide, let him touch and tease in ways that made your knees weak and your heart race. 

You gasped and grabbed his back, pulling him closer, pressing your body against his in every way possible without words.

An hour passed in a haze of warmth, kisses, and touches. Every time you paused to look at each other, the world outside vanished. Bucky’s hands, both vibranium and flesh, mapped you, memorizing your body without ever rushing. Your hands did the same, threading through his hair, across his shoulders, down his back, feeling every inch of him, claiming him just as he claimed you.

Finally, when you both rode out your high, you curled into his chest, tangled together in a blanket. Your thumb brushed against his cheek, and you whispered, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this relaxed after sex.” You chuckled, kissing his nose. “In a good way.”

Bucky smiled against your hair, brushing his lips over your temple. “Yeah?” he said, chest full, voice thick. “What do you usually feel?”

You winked playfully, “You’ll see… if you take me out again, soldier.”

He chuckled, pulling you impossibly close, heart swelling with a feeling he hadn’t felt in decades.

“Oh… I will.”

—

Bucky absolutely took you out again.

He would’ve taken you out the very next day if he hadn’t been dragged off on a two-week mission with Sam and Joquin. And the entire time he was gone, he had one plan waiting for him the moment he got back: invite you over to his place for the first time, cook dinner, maybe cuddle on the couch, kiss you breathless, and, if he was lucky, fall asleep with you in his arms again.

What he didn’t plan for was… whatever the hell tonight turned into.

Your first official sleepover at his apartment started perfectly normal.

He cooked. You teased him about how seriously he took seasoning. He tried (and failed) to not stare at you like you were the prettiest little thing that ever walked into his kitchen.

Then you two curled up on the couch to watch a rom-com with way too many sparkles. Halfway through, you leaned over and kissed him, soft at first… then deeper… then longer. 

Eventually, you kissed him long enough that the movie became irrelevant and breathing became optional.

And then…

Well.

Everything escalated so fast he didn’t remember where the ground went.

One minute you were straddling his lap, his hands on your hips, your mouth hot against his. The next, he was being guided, no, maneuvered— back toward his bedroom, his thoughts crashing, his self-control slipping, and you whispered dirty nothing in his ears like, “aw, Buck… you get so obedient when you’re worked up.”

And at one point he actually had the clarity to think my sweet sunshine… Was this filthy?

Because you were so bubbly in the daylight, warm in conversation, golden when you smiled, and yet here you were pushing him onto his own mattress like he weighed nothing, kissing him like you were claiming territory, looking down at him with this wicked glint that should’ve been illegal.

He genuinely wondered if he should be embarrassed by how fast he let you take over.

Or how he didn’t even protest when you slid his hands up over his head.

Or how quickly he nodded when you reached into your bag, casually, like you were grabbing lip balm, and pulled out a pair of pink, fuzzy metal handcuffs.

“Why do you have those anyway?” he’d asked, dazed.

“Just felt like it,” you said with a shrug. And he swore the universe shifted.

He’d never been that man before.

The kind who wanted to be pinned, teased, ordered, and handled in bed.

But with you?

He was helplessly, shamelessly that man. He would be any man you wanted.

And oh, you took advantage of that on the best way

You wrecked him, rewired him, and made him want to give it.

Without going into much detail, the headboard might consider legal action. The poor mattress probably shifted into another dimension. And Bucky discovered an entire list of kinks he had absolutely zero idea he possessed.

By the time you were done, you were draped across his chest, both of you trembling and completely undone. Your limbs tangled with his like you’d melted into him. His wrists were free now, but faint red marks lingered on his human one as an evidence of trust, surrender, and the fact that he definitely did not want you to stop. He knew he could easily break free, but fuck— he didn’t want to. 

His hands settled on your waist, grounding himself through you as his chest rose and fell under your cheek.

“Holy hell…” he rasped, voice shredded. “Sweetheart, what was that?”

You laughed weakly into his neck. “Fun?”

“That was…” He shook his head, trying, and failing, to catch a full breath. “I didn’t even know I liked half that stuff.”

“You do now,” you giggled, lips brushing his stubble with a smug smile.

His groan was almost a confession.

You kissed him again, softer now, pulling him down from the high. His fingers traced lazy, soothing shapes on your back.

After a long, blissed-out silence, you pushed yourself up on shaky elbows. “I need to shower before everything gets… sticky.”

“It’s already sticky,” he mumbled, hooking an arm around your waist like he could will you back onto him. “C’mon, sweets. Stay with me a minute.”

You swatted his metal arm away. “Behave.”

“After what you just did?” His eyebrow arched. “Absolutely not.”

You kissed his chin, grabbed the towel waiting on the chair, and wrapped it around yourself before wobbling toward the bathroom.

“You sure you can walk?” he teased.

“Barely,” you shot back. “That’s your fault.”

“Best compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

You closed the door before he could continue being insufferably pleased with himself. The shower turned on, steam curling out from the edges, and your quiet humming drifted through the running water.

Bucky fell back into the mattress, staring at the ceiling.

His wrists tingled. His mind spun with flashes of you, your hands, your voice, your wicked smile.

So that’s what you meant…

He dragged a hand over his face, then let it fall again, smiling like an idiot. He could feel you even with the door shut.

He could smell you on his sheets, on his skin, in the air he breathed.

I’m a lucky man, he thought. So unbelievably lucky—

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

“I know you’re in there!”

Bucky shot upright like he’d been hit with a stun grenade.

For a second, and just a second, he truly believed the universe had taken personal offense to how thoroughly you’d ruined him. As if fate itself had peeked into his bedroom, seen the bite marks and heart the things you whispered in his ear that rewrote his entire understanding of himself, and gone Absolutely not. Consequences time.

The knocking thundered again.

He launched himself off the mattress, only then realizing the room looked like a hurricane of love and passion had wreaked havoc through it.

There was a tank top dangling off the lampshade like a surrender flag, your bra clinging to the bedpost for dear life, and the sheets halfway down the mattress.

And, dear god, the handcuffs were sitting perfectly centered on the pillow, catching the light like holy relics.

The voice shrilled through the door again, “Barnes! Don’t make me call the police again!"

Bucky froze in a pose reminiscent of a startled deer halfway into sweatpants. “Again? Oh, just kill me now,” he whispered to no one, wrestling his legs into the pants like they were trying to escape.

He managed to yank them up (inside out, backwards, incorrect in every conceivable way), grabbed the nearest shirt (inside out as well), and attempted to flatten his hair (no luck on that either).

His metal arm gleamed and the skin around it was marked. His neck… well. You’d left plenty of love letters there in the form of dark kisses and very illegal-looking scratches.

Phenomenal for his ego.

Horrific for dealing with his neighbor, Mrs. Carmichael.

Two years he’d lived next to that woman. Two long, traumatic, hyper-vigilant years.

She was, without exaggeration, the undisputed heavyweight champion of unnecessary noise complaints. The woman had called the police on Bucky last summer because he played “Bring It On Home to Me” at a volume that could be accurately described as “normal human.” She once accused him of running “illegal industrial machinery” at 10 a.m., which was just him making a protein smoothie. She left notes under his door if he so much as coughed after 9 p.m. And she had threatened to contact the landlord the one time he dropped a plastic bottle on the floor.

She also had—Bucky had seen it with his own eyes—a laminated, color-coded folder titled:  Building Violations.

So tonight, with how loud both you and Bucky have been? 

Oh, tonight would be her Superbowl.

“Okay,” Bucky whispered to himself as he staggered toward the door. “You survived seventy years of brainwashing. You can survive… an angry cat lady.”

KNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCK—

“No I can’t,” he whimpered.

He swung the door open before she could pound a hole through it.

There she stood, in her pink robes and slippers shaped like furious cats, holding a binder labeled Noise Ordinance Laws – PERSONAL COPY clutched like a holy scripture. (Bucky knew he didn’t violate it. It was only 9.30 PM. Quiet hours in New York start from like, what, 10PM?)

Her eyes traveled from his face, down his neck, over the suspicious red marks, to the shirt that was definitely inside out, and then lower, to where his sweatpants sat incorrectly on his hips like a toddler dressed himself.

She sniffed.

“Well,” she announced. “I see you’ve been… active.”

Bucky sighed. “Mrs. Carmichael, I really don’t—”

She raised the binder like an executioner’s axe.

“Do you know,” she barked, “that the walls in this building are six inches thick? SIX! That is not my fault! That is YOUR responsibility!”

Bucky blinked, mortified.

She charged on.

“The noises coming from your unit tonight were outrageous. Absolutely obscene. Groaning, thumping, banging, the headboard knocking like a cat was stuck in a dryer.”

Bucky choked. “That is NOT— I mean—no one was— there’s no—”

“And the language!” She clutched her chest. “I’ve never heard filth like that in my life! And I was married to Richard Carmichael for forty years!”

Bucky wanted to melt into the floor.

Halfway through his attempt at a defense, you got out of the bathroom and made your way into the living room wearing nothing but a towel.

Oh no, Bucky thought, gotta protect you from Mrs. Carmichael.

But you were clueless, still glowing from the shower, smelling like warm vanilla and sin, water dripping down your collarbones as if you were walking out of a movie scene.

Bucky could feel his soul leave his body.

“Buck?” you asked gently, sweetly, “Everything okay?”

Mrs. Carmichael looked at you so quickly it was a miracle she didn’t injure herself.

“Well I— I— I was just—” Bucky started, but of course the building dragon interrupted him. 

“Everything is not okay young lady—“ she started, but you just smiled sweetly, interrupting her in return.

“Oh!” you beamed. “Your robe is adorable. I love the color on you!”

Mrs. Carmichael actually stopped and blinked.

Her entire posture relaxed like someone had unplugged her battery. “T-thank you?”

You stepped closer with that gentle, disarming sweetness that could make a demon repent. “I don’t think we’ve met properly yet.”

“Martha,” Mrs Carmichael said, voice suddenly meek.

“Well, Martha,” you said, tone honey-smooth, “why don’t you come inside? I was just about to make some tea.”

Bucky’s jaw dropped. “Sweets—she literally tried to have me evicted—last month—”

You patted his cheek lovingly.

“Honey,” you murmured. “Go shower.”

He blinked at you, dazed, almost bewildered.

You guided Mrs. Carmichael— his mortal enemy, as far as he was concerned— inside. Martha fussed with her robe, suddenly shy.

“Well…” she said. “If you insist… I do enjoy a good chamomile.”

You looked over your shoulder and winked. “I got this.”

Bucky backed into the bedroom like a man fleeing a battlefield, closing the door behind him before resting his forehead against it and groaning into his hands.

—

Bucky took one of the fastest showers of his entire existence.

Partially because he was still overheated, skin buzzing with the afterglow. Partially because he was terrified of leaving you alone with her.

The woman who once accused him of “walking too aggressively for a man of his size.” 

He shut off the water and just stood there dripping, towel in hand, bracing both palms against the wall like he was preparing to charge into battle.

“Okay,” he pep-talked himself. “They’re probably done talking. She probably drank her tea, yelled about  me again, threatened to call the cops, and left. Right. Right.”

He dried off, threw on actual clothes this time, not inside-out panic-wear, and dragged his fingers through his wet hair. 

Barefoot, heart thudding, he padded down the hallway.

As he reached the living room…

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Because sitting on the couch—on his couch—was Mrs. Martha Carmichael, pink robe draped like a queen’s mantle, angry-cat slippers still on her feet, holding a delicate teacup in one hand, offering her other hand to you as you, still just in a towel, sat cross-legged on the coffee table in front of her, painting her nails a glossy, shade of cherry red.

You were laughing.

She was giggling.

Giggling.

The woman who once threatened to report him to the FAA because she heard a “jet-engine-like noise” from his apartment at 4 a.m. (he had snored).

Bucky rubbed his eyes, fully convinced he was hallucinating from dehydration or post-orgasm brain fog.

“—and then,” Martha was saying in a tone far too lively, “he had the audacity to tell me I was the reason he couldn’t finish! Can you believe that? The nerve!”

You gasped like she was confessing to a federal crime. “Oh my god. I can't believe  he blamed you for his incompetence.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Martha slapped her knee. “Forty years, and the man couldn’t find—well, we don’t need to get into that, but let’s just say Richard was a walking, talking disappointment.”

You hummed sympathetically, rotating her hand to finish the coat. “Trust me, I get it. I got lucky with Bucky, I mean he could rattle my insides like a sailor on leave— but my ex? He was useless. Genuinely didn’t have a clue—”

“HEY,” Bucky barked before either of you could talk about something far more embarrassing.

You looked up with wide eyes.

“Oh! James! There you are.” Martha lit up like a Christmas tree. “We were just discussing men with poor… aim,” she added as if this was a normal Tuesday.

Bucky made the sound of a man dying inside.

You winked at him, as if you hadn’t just implied to his enemy neighbor that he rearranged your organs.

He pointed helplessly between the two of you. “You’re… still here?”

Martha lifted her newly painted nails to the light, admiring your work. “Yes, dear. We were bonding.”

“Bonding,” Bucky repeated slowly, like the word was foreign.

You flashed him a pleased smile that nearly put him on his knees.“She’s a sweetheart once you talk to her.”

Martha actually blushed. “Oh, stop.”

“No, really,” you continued, “you have fantastic taste in robes. Which means we’re kindred spirits.”

“Oh, you’re such a lovely girl.” Martha preened like a bird. “And your skin! My goodness, do you moisturize, exfoliate, what do you use? I’ve been trying everything but nothing makes me glow like that.”

Bucky stared in awe.

You had healed the neighborhood menace.You had actually domesticated the building’s final boss.

A few minutes later, after you’d finished her nails and given her your skincare routine (soap, really), Martha stood.

“Well,” she said, smoothing her robe, “I should get going. I don’t want to intrude.”

She leaned toward you, “But you must stop by for brunch sometime. Anytime. I make wonderful blueberry scones.”

“I would love that.” Your eyes lit up. “But only if you let me bring more colors.”

“Deal,” Martha agreed immediately.

Then, as the miracle to end all miracles, she turned to Bucky and smiled.

“You take good care of her, James,” she said with a wag of her freshly painted finger. “Or I’ll file a noise complaint.”

“Wait—what did I—why—?!” Bucky sputtered.

“Just kidding.” She chuckled. “Mostly.”

She left peacefully, the first time she had ever left his apartment without threatening legal action.

The door closed behind her with a click.

Bucky stared at the door for a good minute before he turned to you.

You sat there, legs swinging lightly off the coffee table, absolutely glowing. “We’re best friends now.”

Bucky tilted his head “How did you do that ? I was in the shower for ten minutes and she wanted me evicted. You talk to her for ten minutes and suddenly she’s telling you about her dead husband’s… performance issues!”

You blinked up at him innocently as you wrapped your arms around him and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “She just needed a girl’s girl.”

His brain short-circuited. 

God, the way you were looking at him now… so gentle and so in love without even saying it—

It hit him like a truck.

I’m gonna marry her.

He hid his face in your neck, arms locking around your waist like.

You giggled again, rubbing his back. “What’s going on in that pretty head, Barnes?”

“Nothing,” he lied, breathless.

You kissed the crown of his head, completely unaware of the way he was in awe of the woman you are, caring and kind to him, a sunshine to everyone else around you, yet so damn filthy when you needed to be. 

But he knew.

Oh, he knew.

I’m gonna marry this girl, he thought again, helpless and certain.

And Bucky Barnes had never been so sure of anything in his life.

-end.

Request Guidelines

When did Christmas become the loneliest time of the year?

Though you may not be a scientist, you’ve been working on a theory.

Once upon a time, December was a month dedicated to love, in all shapes and forms. Christmas mornings were early to start, where a tinier version of you rose with the sun and shot down the hallway towards your parents’ bedroom, if only to force open their door and obnoxiously declare through missing teeth, “Santa Clause came!”

A rift split your family’s tradition with no warning. You had always been told your tenth year would be important, taking your age from single to double digits; but no one had told you it would also take your father. Silence stretched over the walls of your parents’ home like ivy, encasing all three of you within it. Hushed voices whispered of stages and terminal, never loud enough for you to fully grasp what they were saying. By the time you were old enough to understand, your father had already been living in the urn atop the mantelpiece for five Christmases, “There was nothing the doctors could do, he was half-way gone when they diagnosed it.”

The silence persisted until, one year, it stopped. Home for the holidays — your first time returning during your freshman year of college — you stepped foot into a wonderland of lights and noise, the smell of nutmeg dusting your nose with every inhale as you ventured into the once quiet home your Mother had made for herself, only to find her smile bright and her eyes brighter, while a stranger nervously wrung his hands by her side as she looked at you and announced, “This is James, my husband!”

While all the movies may push the narrative that step-parents are the spawn of Satan, you were quick to learn otherwise. The inclusion of James Barnes in your life may have been unexpected, yet the man had shown no qualms with making himself a comfortable, stable figure for you to lean on — one summer back at home was all it took for you to bond. And though there would never come a day where he filled the hollow shape your father’s passing had left in your heart, he carved out his own designated space, somewhere between friend and family. Suffice to say, no one had been as shocked as you when James — Bucky — informed you, “Your mother and I are getting divorced, kiddo.”

Now Bucky is running for congress and your mother is eat, pray, loving her way through life; and maybe that is the reason why you’re all alone, nursing a watered-down espresso martini and partaking in man’s oldest hobby: spilling your troubles onto an underpaid, uninterested bartender.

“- and he’s gonna leave me all alone? On Christmas!?” You almost choke on a hiccup, the outrage in your voice ringing off the walls of the empty bar. “What did I ever do to deserve all that? He can’t even apologise, because God forbid he admits to being wrong for once- ”

“Listen, it’s,” the bartender pauses mid-wipe of the dishtowel over a freshly steamed glass to check his watch, his patience lead to a drought in the wasteland of a December’s night shift. “Officially Christmas Eve. I’m exhausted, I have to be back here in less than eight hours to work the shift of Hell, and we’re forecast for snow. Why don’t you give me your boyfriend’s number and he can get you home, so you can sober up and talk this out?”

Your reply is barely intelligible, a slurry mess of numbers you recite off the top of your head — you’ve never been the best at remembering phone numbers, yet this one has a habit of flying out of you like it’s second nature. Fluent in drunken-speech, the man wastes no time punching the digits into his phone and pressing it to his ear.

As you trace your finger around the rim of your glass, you make out the faint gruff of a man’s voice ringing out of the speaker, “Hello?”

“Hey man, sorry ‘bout the late call,” he flicks his eyes over to you, heaving out a sigh while you fight off sleep with every heavy-eyed blink. “I’ve got your girl here and she’s drunk. Don’t know what kind of argument you guys had, but would you mind putting it on the back-burner for tonight and picking her up?”

Snow falls with patience, not a hint of hurry in the way it floats down to the ground, adding a new spec of white atop the road. It’s mother nature’s promise that, come morning, the entire city will sit beneath a blanket of glittering frost.

A sniffle pierces through the silent night as you press the cigarette butt to your lips again and pull in a breath, welcoming an inhale of cold nicotine. Frost nips at your nose, your cheeks, your eyelashes, threatening to freeze the tears dancing upon them before they even get the chance to spill down your face.

Inside the bar, the man continues to wipe down and clean up for the night, throwing cautious glances your way every so often. It had been a verbal struggle to convince him you would be safe outside, that you just needed to slip out for a breath of fresh air to sober yourself up. If he notices the sobs racking through your body and shaking your shoulders, he makes no attempt to interrupt nor comfort you, leaving you out in the cold to mull over your own emotional ailments.

Sudden and without warning, a vehicle pulls into the bar’s parking lot and a pair of headlights burn your retinas. Free hand reaching up to dampen the intensity of the brightness, a sense of familiarity washes over you with another gust of snow-filled wind.

The car is old. Much older than you are, as is the man stepping out of the driver’s side, his coat already half-way removed by the time he steps under the bar’s awning and brings his furrowed brows and worried mouth into view.

“Christ, kiddo, what are you doing out dressed like that in this weather?” Not once, in the five short years he was married to your mother, did you witness an ounce of anger upon Bucky Barnes’ visage. Standing before you now, draping the heavy weight of his coat over your shoulders and around your shivering bones, you swear you catch a hitch of something in his voice. Frustration. Irritation. Desperation? “Are you trying to give me a heart attack by catching frost bite? You’re old enough to know better than to do something so stup-”

“Why’re you here?” The interruption is harsher than you intend, and you witness how the words slap the older man across the face, forcing him back a step or two in shock.

“You called,” he states, frown returning full throttle as you take another drag of the cigarette, ash clinging to its tip and threatening to float down with the snow any second now.

“I did?”

Ice crunches beneath the red bottoms of his shoes as Bucky inches in a little closer, recuperating from the verbal shove you served him only moments ago. Something about his attire — a charcoal grey suit, wrinkled by a day of hard work yet stretched across the width of him like it’s tailor made and shaped to his body — feels out of place, distant, nothing like the version of him who spent years clinging on to tattered old pyjama pants because, “So what if they’re scruffy looking? They’re comfortable.”

But, then again, that’s all you two have now: distance.

No longer is he the man your mother called her own, nor the man who insisted on driving halfway across the country just to bring you home for the holidays, nor the man who became part of the furniture in your family home. This man is nothing but a would-be stranger, dressed to the nines and feeling ten million miles away, despite the hand reaching towards your mouth.

“We talked about this, kid,” he tuts, plucking the cigarette out from between your lips. “‘S no good for those little lungs of yours to be inhaling this shit.”

Then, with all the hypocrisy of a politician, he brings the nicotine stick up to his mouth and pulls in one sharp breath, before dropping it to the floor, crushing it beneath his heel and expelling a cloud of smoke in your face.

“Hey!” The whine in your voice is pathetic, half-arsed and fading into a hiccup as another sob tears through you. Reaching uselessly for the cigarette now one with the patch of snow on the pavement, your hand finds Bucky instead, who steadies it against his chest and condemns you with the knowledge of how warm his skin feels, even in sub-degree temperatures and through the fabric of a shirt. “That’s not fair! It’s okay when you smoke, but when I do, suddenly it’s a crime?”

“Life’s not fair,” perhaps the worst thing about all of this, in your alcohol-doused judgement, is the amusement Bucky finds in your pouting, the tiniest stretch of smugness turning up the corners of his lips. Unwillingly, it takes you back a few years to your mother’s kitchen. To a late night. To a bottle of wine. To no one but the two of you. To how your eyes kept drifting to his grape stained lips. “You have your whole life ahead of you. An old man like me though, ‘s no point worrying about my lungs.”

“But I do.” Maybe you imagine it, but you swear you feel his heartbeat falter beneath your hand; not for long, barely a beat, but enough for you to notice. “Worry about you.”

“Do you?” Bucky finally lets his mouth fully stretch into a smile, head tilting to the side while he takes to tugging the coat around you a little tighter, shielding you from the bite of the winter night. “‘Course you do. My girl’s still as sweet as she’s always been.”

The praise tugs at something inside you — primal, attached to a part of you no man his age, much less him of all people, should ever activate. Want, desire, an itch that needs scratching by hands other than your own. For the first time since you stepped outside, you’re thankful for the snowstorm, cooling the world around you enough to lend no power to the heat rushing over your cheeks.

Before you can dwell on it too long, the creak of a door interrupts you.

“Leave the girl alone,” there goes the bartender, stepping out into the snowy night with exhaustion on his face and a dishtowel over his shoulder, arms crossing over his chest in a way that’s obviously meant to emphasise his biceps. Nice, thick, firm; yet nowhere near to the muscle you know lies beneath Bucky’s sleeves. “Her boyfriend will be here to pick her up any moment now, so you’d best run along.”

There’s a chuckle from Bucky, tired enjoyment coming over his face as he snakes an arm around you and tugs you to his side, your shoulder pressing against his ribcage.

“Don’t worry, this one’s mine.” Mine. It reverberates in your mind, bouncing off the walls of your skull and echoing. Mine, mine, mine. Oh to be his anything. Did he call your mother that, mine, when he lay her atop their bedsheets? Would he call you that, if you let him lay you down too- “Thanks for calling, by the way. She can be a handful, but I’d never trust my girl going home with anyone else.”

My girl.

It warms you all the way over to his car — a vintage number, the vehicle he used to wax poetic about and polish every Sunday. For as little as you know or care about cars beyond their ability to drive, you miss witnessing his fits of passion dedicated to his precious Bentley.

A perfectly shined body, paired with twin headlamps and a vertical facelift along the bonnet; if you didn’t know any better, you would assume its engine runs on liquid gold instead of gas. You had asked him what model it was once, only to nod along like you understood when he listed off words like 1957 and Continental.

“Let’s get you warmed up, kid,” Bucky mutters more to himself than to you, keys turning at the engine and fingers flicking on the seat-heater, a modification he prided himself on having fitted with his own two hands. “D’you feel that? ‘S it nice?”

Empty-headed and speechless, your body has a mind of its own, thighs squeezing together and spreading a zing of pleasure through your lower abdomen, a new kind of warmth working in tandem with the heater beneath you, as your mind begins to wander off into a fantasy world where Bucky and you are exchanging body heat atop his passenger seat, hands ridding one another of the offensive barriers of clothing, his voice spilling into your ear in a mess of rasp and want, pleading you to tell him how he feels, how good he’s making you feel, how badly he’s wanted you all along-

“Hey, where’d you go?”

You snap back into reality, where his hands are no longer undressing you, cupping your cheek instead and forcing your focus onto his face.

“Huh?”

“Just now, you were drifting away from me, trapped in that pretty head of yours.” He’s gentle, yet everything about it hurts: his touch, his voice, the way his eyes scan over your features and sink deeper into a well of longing. “Thought you said you no longer needed me to come pick you up. What happened, hmm? Did you and Jonah get into another fight?”

“Joaquin,” you correct him softly, gaze daring to look at anything but him. Suddenly, you’ve never been more fascinated by an air freshener. “And no- Well, yes, but it’s not- We’re only- It’s not a big deal, I’m just over-reacting, as usual.”

“You’ve been crying,” a crease forms between his eyebrows, as Bucky slowly soothes the pad of his thumb over your cheek, smudging the tear tracks with his fingerprints. “I don’t know much about this Joaquin kid, but he shouldn’t be making you cry.”

“Bucky,” that name feels too intimate, coaxing a fresh wave of tears from your ducts and forcing you to grasp at straws for any kind of separation you can put between you and a man you once called family. “James, it’s not like that-”

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

“No! No. I just-” A sigh turns shaky as you feel your lower lip tremble, the constant back and forth motion of his thumb finally breaking the dam in your eyes, a fat tear spilling over your cheek. As though his hand is not cruel enough, he catches it with his lips, pressing gently to your cheek. “I don’t want to be alone… Not on Christmas. And I know Joaquin didn’t mean to but, he went home for the holidays and didn’t even think to ask if maybe I wanted to go too. He knows my mom is… Well, wherever the hell in the world she is right now, and that I don’t have anybody here, not really.”

Silence overwhelms the tight space of the car.

Outside, the wind howls and rattles at the windows, smearing the vehicle in tiny flecks of snow. The bar’s lights have gone out, the bartender at long last free to roam home and sleep what little he can afford to before returning to fulfil his opening shift.

Leather squeaks as Bucky shifts in his seat, inching a little closer, and that’s when you smell him. A tickle of lavender, followed by an earthy sweetness that melts into amber and masculinity; the scent of sophistication, of a gentleman.

How could you ever forget that scent? You gifted it to him, after all, the very same cologne your father used to swear by.

“That’s not true,” he finally replies, after what feels like an eternity. In reality, only a minute has ticked over on the car’s clock. “You have me. Do I not count as somebody?”

You expel a breath of laughter, disbelief marking your voice as you counter, “You know what I mean.”

“What, so, one measly little divorce, and suddenly I’m chopped liver?” That damned hand of his is still insistent on cradling your face, slipping down the length of it to grasp at your chin with its fingers while the thumb takes to stroking your jaw. “Cause it sure doesn’t seem that way, not when you keep calling me for a ride any time you catch a whiff of wine. I’m just sayin’, kiddo, I’m here, if you want me to be. You could spend the night, finally see my new place. Then we could head out in the morning, get ourselves whatever we need to cook up a Christmas dinner for two, and make the holidays a little less lonely for the both of us.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Who said anything about have? I want to.” Finite, full-stop, no room for you to bend the truth in his words and convince yourself of a fallacy where he merely feels pity. “C’mon, kiddo. I’ll even make those cookies you like, the ones with the marsh-”

“With the marshmallow in the middle,” excitement catches your tongue and runs off with it, forcing words out of your mouth before you can think better than to interrupt him.

“Exactly.”

Protesting is a fool’s game, and so you give in, let him reach over and buckle you in, before shifting the Bentley into gear and driving out into the night.

You do your best to relax, to let yourself sink into the comfort of the heated leather, and the softness of his coat, and the familiarity of his scent. Streetlights flicker by in a blurry haze of orange, spotlighting the snow as it continues to dance in the air, meeting the ground in its crescendo. When the radio begins to buffer, losing connection with the poor weather, Bucky whips out a cassette and slips it in to play.

Princess’ Playlist.

You’re almost beside yourself, rereading the fading marker along the tapes edge.

He kept it. Even after all of these months, where he likely thought he would never need to use it again — that playlist, the very same one he’d burned onto tape for you, a compilation of all your favourite songs, and all because he wanted to make the drive back from your college together a little more fun, a little more noisy, a little more full of him failing to hit the high notes in Hungry Eyes.

Just when you think you can find any semblance of normalcy, sitting next to your ex-stepfather and wrestling with the all too common taste of guilt at the back of your throat, he touches you.

More specifically, his hand meets your lower thigh.

Just above the knee, nothing scandalous about it, yet that doesn’t stop you from spiralling when he speaks, “Can’t believe you were out dressed like that, in December. You’ve been living in Washington a lot longer than me, and even I know you need more than a flimsy skirt to keep warm. It’s snowing, for god’s sake!”

“It wasn’t earlier,” you mumble, the embodiment of a petulant child as you cross your arms over your chest and pin your gaze out the window, away from those steel blue eyes. “When I went out.”

Fingers squeeze at skin, a reactionary thing; a piss-poor attempt from Bucky to quell that flame of irritation your defiant words spark up inside his chest. It only serves to make you more aware of him, and his hand, and the way it’s forced to inch further up your leg when he presses on the breaks, the car coming to a halt just in time for him to not run a red light.

You can already picture the scandal of it all, the endless headlines… Wannabe congressman runs through light! Worst of all — his passenger princess is his ex-stepdaughter! So really, even if it forces his touch to travel north, maybe it’s for the best that the next three traffic lights all turn up red.

Over the speakers, a wistful synth begins to play, the intro notes to a song you know all too well. While usually someone feels glee when they hear their favourite song, all you feel is the bitter chill of Bucky’s hand leaving your thigh and grasping at the volume dial. Sure, it only takes a moment or two for him turn the music up, and sure, his hand is back against your thigh before you can truly start to miss it, but it’s back at the bottom of your thigh, no longer skimming along the edge of your skirt.

The mixture of coffee and vodka swimming in your veins becomes your own aphrodisiac, poisoning your imagination with visions you promised yourself you would stop having.

Of Bucky, hand grasping your thigh and commanding you, voice slow and deep, to, “Spread your legs, sweetheart. Wanna see the mess I’ve made of you.”

Of that same hand dragging up the stretch of your skin, teasing the inside of your thigh, only for him to press two fingers against your clothed cunt and whisper, “Shit, she’s crying for me, isn’t she? Should have told me, princess, you know how I like to kiss your tears away.”

Of those two fingers taking their time with you, stroking you over your thong and daring to dip an inch or two into your pussy, as deep as the barrier of lace allows them to penetrate, all the while he’s taunting you for, “Just taking whatever you can get, aren’t you doll? Doesn’t matter if it’s that boy-toy of yours or your stepdad, that greedy hole just wants something to stuff it, huh? Well, go on. Ask nicely and maybe daddy’ll finally let you feel what all your mother’s fuss was about, why I had her screaming my name so loud you used to-”

“Merry Christmas!”

The sudden exclamation pulls you from your daydreams once more, Bucky’s hand now balled in a fist and at the level of your mouth, expectant eyes awaiting for you to sing the next line.

When all Bucky receives is silence, he brings his hand over to his own mouth and sings into the invisible microphone, “With a note saying ‘I love you’, I meant it.”

With the combined vocals of George Michael’s velvety voice and Bucky’s rasp filling the car, you pray to god it’s enough to cover the whimper that shakes out of you, sinking a little deeper into the passenger seat as you search for some relief for the burning between your thighs, shifting your hips until you feel the sweetness of pressure against your clit, the meat of your thigh kissing against your panties.

God, maybe Bucky is right.

Maybe you should have worn something warmer, covered up a little more.

At least if you were wearing jeans, you’d have something to rut against. Nothing too ideal, yet the stiff seam of them squeezing up against your aching, drooling pussy might have just been enough to quench whatever newly founded lust has taken hold of you.

“You okay, kiddo?” And, of course, Bucky just has to put his hand back on you, landing halfway up your thigh, all the while he shoots you a cautious smile. “You’re dancing all over the seat, my little squirmer. ‘S it getting too hot for you?”

Not hot enough, you think, and subtly roll your hips up to meet whatever pitiful friction you can gather from the damp lace, panties pulling tight around the puffy lips of your core.

Another readjustment, another shift of your hips, another goddamn red light, and you’re dancing on a tightrope, building yourself to a dull end, a climax serrated by the distance between his fingers and you.

Does Bucky know what you’re doing? Can he smell the tangy sweetness dripping out of you, threatening to leak down onto the leather and stain his seat with you forever? Is he aware of the slow movements, the subtle push and pull you make towards your own finish line, all the while he continues to hum along to whatever festive tune plays on the tape next, hand squeezing your thigh in time with the music?

It’s getting harder to fight the need swelling in your throat, a moan that’s clawing its way out of you. Before it can succeed, you sigh, head rolling to the side and finding the cold of the window, eyes forced shut when that first wave of ecstasy finally hits.

“You tired, princess?” Is the care in his voice fatherly? Or is it something deeper, something warmed not in his heart but in the fire of his loins?

Swallowing down another moan, cunt still grinding against your panties, you find the will within you to nod at his question.

He gifts you with a squeeze of his hand around your thigh, and now you wonder if he can feel the tremble in your muscles.

“That’s okay, you can sleep. I’ll wake you when we’re home, okay?”

For the first time in weeks, months, maybe even this whole year, things do feel okay.

Bucky is taking you home.

“Well, what do you think?”

Bucky calls to you, rustling around the kitchen and doing who-knows-what, one hand stirring a wooden spoon while the other scours through a drawer.

With his coat off your shoulders, his scent does not surround you — it drowns you instead, fermented into the walls of the townhouse. Sleek, modern, refined. The new home he’s made for himself in the city only adds to that distance life has placed between you; no longer does he store his favourite mug in your mother’s kitchen, or keep his record collection on display in her living room, or ease his precious Bentley into the garage.

Not a single trace of Bucky lives within your childhood home any longer, and the thought of it brings you both distress and comfort. Distress at the thought of change, comfort at the fact you won’t be there to confront it this holiday season.

Instead you’ll be here, tucked away in suburbia with the very person you thought you would be missing this Christmas.

Speaking of missing…

“I think,” you draw out the word, a twinge of humour lifting your spirits as you venture towards the kitchen and prop yourself against the marble counter. “That you don’t know how to decorate a Christmas tree.”

“Don’t be mean, kid,” there’s nothing funnier than watching a grown man try — and fail! — to whip you with a tea-towel, the cloth wrapping around his hand and claiming him as its hostage. “I put a lot of effort into that. Shed my blood, sweat and tears just to assemble the damn thing-”

“Uh-huh,” you can barely contain the fit of giggles taking over you, a dull ache forming in your cheeks from smiling so widely as he monologues about the trials and tribulations of decorating the heap of tinsel and baubels by the windowsill. “Is that why you forgot to put the star on?”

Stove off, spoon down, he tilts the contents of the pot into that mug — his favourite one — and slides it over towards you, tendrils of steam dancing upwards to flood you with the rich smell of hot cocoa.

“‘S not going to drink itself. Taste it,” Bucky commands, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his hip against the counter. The first sip has barely flooded your taste-buds with the syrupy sweet warmth of chocolate when he speaks again. “Tailored to perfection, isn’t it? Made just the way you like.” All you can do is nod over a second sip, cocoa pooling at the corner of your mouth. “I don’t forget things. Ever.”

You swear you can hear your heartbeat in your ear, and feel it in your throat, and taste it in your mouth; a constant beat that spells out his name in morse code. Bucky, Bucky, Bucky…

“Then why is there no star?” You no longer feel that giddy amusement, frozen in your spot with the nervous anticipation of a baby bird about to take its first flight — will you soar high into the sky, or will you plummet to the ground and snap your neck?

His hand meets your face — a habit he’s growing all too comfortable doing this evening, touching you with casualness, as though it doesn’t bring you casualty.

“Because,” he reaches a little closer, thumb swiping over the stain of chocolate at the side of your mouth. “The star was always your job.”

The words hit you like a sucker-punch, leaving you winded and bruised. Torrid winds drag you into a tornado of memories; a twister made up of Christmases past, in which your first night back home for the holidays passed with a cup of cocoa and the starring of the tree, it’s top sitting empty for weeks in anticipation of your return. Heartbeat moving faster, mind working slower, mouth hanging lower; the only semblance of a reply you can muster is, “Oh.”

There’s every chance he’s lying, creating a fallacy to cover up his own forgetfulness.

But you want to believe it, believe him.

So, when he offers “Why don’t I go grab the star so you can finish off the tree?”, how could you possibly refuse?

If you knew the answer, then perhaps you wouldn’t have ended up in your current predicament: stood on a dining chair, perched on the tips of your toes with an arm reaching up helplessly, and the itch of Bucky’s stare pinned against you, tempting you to glance back for the millionth time and take in the mouth-watering sight of him. Tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair a dishevelled display of stress; he looks like something out of those dirty novels, a stiff-lipped CEO ready to fall head over heels in lust with his ditsy new assistant.

He looks like the only gift you want this Christmas, all wrapped together by a disapproving scowl.

“Let me help-”

“No, I’ve got it-”

“Kiddo, you’re going to fall,” thick fingers wrap around your calf, a look of anger melting into one of concern as Bucky glances up at you.

Staring too long would be a sin. You pin your eyes up ahead and remind yourself of what you are trying to do, turn it into a mantra that both grounds and controls you.

Put up the star. Put up the star. Put up st- Oh.

When did his hand reach the back of your knee?

“I said I’ve g-” Before you get the chance to finish the sentence, gravity declares itself your enemy as you inch a little taller, moments away from forcing the golden ornament onto the tree’s top, and the chair wobbles.

You tilt to the right.

Bucky pulls you to the left.

With the blink of an eye, you’re crashing down against him, arms flying out to grapple for any semblance of stability and finding his neck. Bucky’s own arms travel from legs to waist, snaking around your middle and shouldering the weight of you, now looming over him.

Eyes meet and words falter, a curtain of tension closing in around you both. Inches sit between your faces, a distance you could so easily end by simply leaning down and bracing for the ultimate impact — your lips colliding against his.

You feel Bucky pull in a breath.

His scent surrounds you once more, tempting fate with its erotic energy, a battery ready to charge up your lust. You’re more conscious than ever of the mess that stains your panties, a wetness that only seems to grow the longer you feel his hands on you. Around your waist, gripping your hip, returning to your thigh.

You’ve never seen his mouth this up close, a set of rosebud lips that practically beg to be bruised with kisses and nips.

Bucky rarely kissed your mother. A chaste peck, saved for special occasions. Yet there was one time… You arrived home early as a surprise, only to unlock the front door to find him pinning your mother against the couch, rutting against her while he unravelled her with his mouth. A mess of tongue and teeth, pulling lullabies of pleasure from your typically reserved mother.

That night, staring up at the bedroom of your childhood home, was the first night you gave in to temptation and let your mind wander, your hand slip beneath your cotton shorts and your ears tune themselves to the low register of grunts coming from the bedroom next door.

No words exchanged, just a primal orchestra composed by Bucky.

A dirty sense of shame stopped you before you could really start, two fingers barely dipped inside the entrance to your gummy walls before you remembered who he was fucking in that moment, who’s marital bed he was defiling.

“You’re staring, princess,” Bucky makes no attempt to straighten you up. If anything, you’re pretty certain he just pulled you deeper into his supportive hold. “Get lost in that dirty little head again?”

A bucket of ice-cold embarrassment pours over you, drenching you into a state of sweaty palms and burning cheeks.

“What- What are you,” flustered does not even begin to cover it, his question fully rattles you — almost as much as the hand inching up your leg. “Talking about?”

“Really, this is the route you’re going to take?” God, why is his hand still moving? “You’re a big girl now. Graduated with honours, got yourself that fancy paying job, living full-time away from home. I think you’re old enough to be honest.”

“Bucky I really don’t-”

“So you’re telling me, when my hand reaches your underwear, I’m not gonna find you wet as a whore on duty?”

Your response takes a moment too long, frozen with shock at the sudden shift in his tone, the eyes of a would-be father figure shifting into that of a predating animal that’s at last locked in on it’s prey, “No!”

The world tilts back into place in tune with the way Bucky slowly perches you back up onto the chair, the fingers trailing up your thigh slowly grazing inwards as they slip beneath the surface of your skirt.

“D’you know why your mommy taught you not to lie?” He’s mocking you with a pout, head tilting to the side.“‘Cause you’re bad at it, baby. Pathetically so.”

Two fingers ghost over the front of your panties, barely a shadow of a touch yet enough to send a ripple through your composure, lips parting to pull in a breath.

It’s getting harder to stand, knees weakened as you witness one of your dirty fantasies manifesting before you and forcing you to question life as you know it — Bucky is not supposed to touch you like this, not really. His hands are only ever supposed to be a thought, a prayer, a longing for you to cradle close to your chest and never speak aloud.

How are you supposed to think straight when a set of fingers are hooking themselves beneath your panties and tugging them down your body?

“Last chance for a little honesty, kiddo,” he calls up to you, gaze pinned on your face above instead of the lace pooling around your ankles. Words fail you as Bucky quirks an eyebrow, awaiting whatever poorly-crafted excuse you have to offer, only for him to cut you off before you can really start, “You really think I don’t know what you were doing earlier, hmm? Sitting in my car, feigning innocence. Pretending my touch didn’t have you creaming in those pretty panties. Did it feel good, grinding like a slut in heat, fighting for whatever semblance of friction you could find? Should’ve just said somethin’, princess, or asked me to help.”

Help is the opposite of what Bucky’s doing, especially when he’s grabbing at your left ankle and lifting it, nice and slow, perching it upon his shoulder. All the while his eyes never stray from yours, never give in to the darker temptations that clearly are calling for him to check on the mess he’s made of you, the mess he let you sit there and think he was unaware of.

“She’s soaking under this skirt, isn’t she?” When you shake your head at his question, he punishes you with the bite of his nails, digging into the skin around your ankle; the first mark he’ll leave on your skin.

How many more marks will he gift you, before the night comes to an end?

“If you won’t tell me the truth,” still burning you with the heat of his attention, Bucky turns his face towards your leg and caresses his lips against it, a mockery of a kiss. “Maybe I’ll just have to check for myself.”

In what may go down as the most mortifying moment of your life, you witness as satisfaction takes claim of his features and an I told you so takes shape on his tongue when at last he lowers his gaze to where your underwear lies, a streak of sticky wetness staining dark lace and brandishing you guilty as charged.

But Bucky cannot just leave this matter well enough alone, no.

It’s not enough that he’s caught you wet-handed, still teetering on a dining chair with one foot tossed over his shoulder and a star clenched in your fist, dusting your skin with golden glitter. No, this man is an observer, a researcher, a sceptic; and therefore it should be no surprise when circumstantial evidence is not enough to satisfy his curiosity. He simply must experience it with his own two eyes and his wandering hand.

Hostage to his touch, he grapples for your ankle and drags it back over his shoulder, the bottom of your foot now pressing down against his trapezius. The stretch in your thigh has a sting to it, one that pinches at both ends of your muscle. If the circumstances were different, maybe you would complain. Unfortunately, you’re a bit too conscious of your bare cunt, now thrust into the spotlight, to really notice anything else.

“Well isn’t she just the cutest thing? All drooling and glistening,” he’s not touched you, not really. Somehow, that feels more sinful, because it leaves you space to still wonder, to still hope, to still agonise over all things right and wrong that you never could have imagined this man truly doing to you. “Crying for some attention, isn’t she? Begging for someone to give her the loving she deserves. Y’gonna let me give her it?”

Your answer is half gasp, half stutter, a broken concoction of noise in reaction to the first press of his fingertips against your lower lips. Eventually, you manage a sentence, “I have a boyfriend.”

“You do,” nonchalant and free of care, he indulges in the luxury of spreading you open, parting your folds to take a peak at what’s between the curtains.

Where he hums in satisfaction, you bite back a squeal.

“You are-” like he can tell where your sentence is heading, Bucky chooses the right time to cut you off with the dip of a finger into your honey pot, barely the tip of it swiping up your slit and landing a warning tap against your clit. You correct yourself. “You were my stepfather.”

“I was,” he replies with a casualness that does not match the way he’s assessing your body, inspecting the state of carnal need he’s placed you in. “But this is what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”

“James, n-no, I-”

“Shh,” he circles around your pearl, marvelling at the way your body reacts to him, subconsciously grinding against the rough pad of his finger. “You don’t have to lie, not to me. God knows I’ve wanted it too. That first summer you came back from college… Fuck, baby, you had me feeling like a dirty pervert. Strutting around the house in those see-through shorts, and laying out by the pool in the skimpiest bikinis; you were like every man’s dream and nightmare all wrapped in one.”

Just when you think you might explode or burn up in a cloud of dust and lust, Bucky eases a finger inside of you. Thicker than your own, the stretch is delicious, enough to have you throwing your head back and your eyes slipping shut.

In the heat of bliss, you forget where you are, who you are with, who you should be with. Joaquin becomes as distant of a thought as he is in presence, run away to his hometown with his precious duffel bag and his sorry excuse for an apology, and abandoning you to the capable hands of a man who picks up when you call, a few drinks too deep and searching for any excuse to see him — even if it lasts only the short drive back to your apartment, in which you once again feign that it won’t happen again.

How many nights have you forced him out of bed and behind the wheel? The tally is uncountable, at this point, lost in time throughout the near-year he’s been living in your city. And not once has he complained, or told you to stop calling…

Now, knuckle-deep inside of you, you’re starting to feel why he’s been so caring.

“Do you know how guilty I felt, getting hard over my pretty stepdaughter? I thought I was the biggest fucking cliche, seeing someone young… Something shiny and new… And wanting her all for myself,” despite the delicate delivery of his confession, there’s a certain kind of anger behind each word, brandishing you in his disappointment while his finger starts a slow rhythm, slipping out of you only for him to push back in. “So imagine my face when, after months of cold showers and trying not to picture you under me instead of my wife, I catch my precious princess burying her nose in my boxers and splitting herself open with a plastic cock.”

“Oh my god!” You’re not even sure if your exclaim is born from the shameful knowledge he just dealt you, the dirty deeds you’d long tried to keep to yourself, or the fact he’s slipping a second finger inside you, pointer meeting middle with a curl, fingertips pressing up against the spongy tissue.

“Turns out the real pervert was you. Wasn’t it?” He grants you no grace period, no moment to grow accustomed to the new stretch of your walls, and instead takes to working an ache into his wrist, fingers scissoring you open. Toes already curling, one spine-tingling thrust has you buckling into him, leg slipping back over his shoulder and your hand flying out to grasp his hair, stabilising yourself like he’d ever truly let you fall. With a sharp tug to his scalp, you witness him moan for the first time without the barrier of a bedroom wall. “I know all about how you used to listen to us, to me. Hey, hey, don’t look so shy, princess. It’s okay, d’you know why?”

Somehow, you muster the ability to reply — not verbally, but with a shake of your head.

Bucky shows no sense of urgency to finish his sentence, lazily fingering your cunt while he drags the length of his tongue over your inner thigh, teasing its way up to the crease where leg meets pelvis.

“‘Cause I was doin’ it for you. Wanted you to hear it all, wanted to be the reason you’d turn on that buzzing toy and get yourself off,” a third finger joins the fray and Bucky at last gives himself a taste of you, tongue brushing over the side of his fingers as he licks a stripe up your pussy. It’s unclear whose response is louder: your half-choked cry of his name or his animalistic groan. “God, sweetheart, she tastes so sweet. Like fucking ambrosia. Do I need to start calling you my little angel, hmm?”

Like any good drug, one hit of you is enough to have Bucky hooked.

In a matter of minutes, he goes from composed gentleman — still clad in a suit and tie, poking and prodding you in his living room like you’re nothing but a science experiment, the subject in a theory on wetness he’s trying to prove — to a debauched image of a man, knuckles bullying themselves against the dripping lips of your pussy each time he buries them deeper inside of you, while his tongue lavs over you with wanton abandon, hellbent on drinking you down and angling the right amount of pressure against your throbbing clit to have your leg clamping around his head and an orgasm ripping through you.

Gone is the star in your hand, slipped out of your grasp and now surrounded by a mess of gold dust on the floor. You’ve anchored yourself completely in his hair, your head thrown back while your hips buck against his face, guided by the firm grasp his spare hand has claimed one of your ass cheeks with, squeezing and playing with the swell of skin all the while he continues to worship up towards you with words of praise.

“Look so beautiful, you know that? So fucking pretty when you let me have my way with you.”

“Wanna taste ‘er all the time, angel. Can I do that, hmm? Can I make my sweet girl feel good everyday? I‘d treat you so good, princess.”

“Wake you up with my tongue in this tight pussy, and fuck her to sleep, send you off into your dreams with my cum stuffed nice and deep inside of you.”

“ You gonna cum? Yeah, you are. Can feel her squeezing me, gripping my fingers like a fuckin’ vice. Let go, let me see it, c’mon. Please, princess-”

“Daddy!”

Perhaps you spoke too soon earlier, believing that Bucky’s knowledge of your actions in the car was the most embarrassing thing that could ever happen to you.

Perhaps, instead, the name you just cried out in a blinding pleasure is far more mortifying, enough to leave you wishing you would fall off this damn dining chair and smack your head off something sharp on the way down, leaving you dead on impact and unable to deal with the consequences of your own actions.

Locked and loaded with an apology, you poorly attempt to gather the fraying edges of your senses in hopes of stitching yourself back together and appearing as anything slightly more composed than someone still in the throes of pleasure, walls squeezing around his fingers and clit bumping against his nose, despite the fact Bucky has been frozen with no movement since that word tore through your mouth.

You keep waiting for it to happen: the rejection, the disgust, the polite send-off to be followed by him never picking up the phone again, never mind laying a single finger on nor in you.

Unlike you, it never comes.

“Come on, that’s it, put your foot down nice and careful,” it twists up your insides to hear him still speak to you so softly, like his fingers aren’t staining your skin in your own essence while they grasp your ankle and guide you back down onto the chair. “Let’s get you off of there, yeah?”

You already got me off, you bite back the urge to say.

Feet back on solid ground, you continue to feel the wobbling effect of an orgasm, legs shaky like a foal taking its first steps when Bucky’s hand flattens itself against your lower back and begins to lead you towards the grandiose windowsill.

Nearly reaching from floor to ceiling, the window sits divided by multiple wooden beams cutting through it and curtained on either side by a rich shade of crimson. Past the glass sits a neighbourhood stripped right out of a Christmas movie, with twinkling lights as far as the eye can see and the fluffiest looking snow settled upon rooftops. Fireplace blazing out into the living room and the stifling heat of Bucky’s presence at your back, the subtle chill radiating off the window is inviting, daring you to press your burning face against it.

“See all those houses, princess?” Just when you think you have your breathing under control, Bucky’s hands land upon your shoulders and send a shockwave through your system, stuttering over your next inhale. “All glittery and bright. Full of families excited to spend the holidays together, just like us.”

His hands are moving, curving down the stretch of your torso and settling momentarily on your hips. With a soft squeeze to them, his fingers slip beneath your sweater and begin to draw it upwards, trailing the cloud-soft cotton over your abdomen, your breasts, your sternum, eventually peeling it over your head and letting it drop somewhere in the room — it’s hard to focus or care when his hands dive immediately back into business, fiddling with the hooks of your bra.

“In fact, I bet there’s even someone else watching the snow fall right now,” slow, calculated, Bucky sets your breasts free from their confines only to wrap them up in his touch, palms curving around you to take them into his grasp. He tuts in disapproval, two fingers pinching at your right nipple, when you give in to the feeling and let your eyes slip briefly shut. They snap back open within an instant and faintly find his own glaring in the reflection of the glass. “What do you think, sweetheart? Think there’s another house in this street with a woman staring out into the night, about to be pressed up against the window and fucked by her daddy?”

Lost in the moment, still trying to process the way he sounds out that dirty word, you barely register the way he drags down the zipper of your skirt and leaves it to collapse to your feet, a pool of satin too delicate for the debauchery taking place between you both.

Condensation prickles your skin and raises your nipples as he forces your skin to kiss the glass, the weight of his solid figure pressing itself fully to your back. That’s when you feel him, for the first time.

Thick, heavy, trapped behind the confines of trousers; the shape of his cock pokes against your ass, enticing you with the answer to a question you would have never dared to ask aloud…

“Wait,” a little less secure than you would like to seem, you call out softly when you hear that unmistakable noise of metal unclasping, a belt unbuckling. “I want to- Let me do it, please.”

“How can I say no, when you ask so nicely?”

Turning to face him, you’re struck with the desire for something a little more intimate, a little too out of reach of what you’re comfortable asking for: a kiss.

So, instead, you take over where his hands once were and finish undoing his belt buckle, sliding the expensive leather out of the loop before letting it fall limp against his trousers. Next comes a button and a zipper, pried open by eager fingers that unwrap him like he’s the final present on Christmas day, the biggest and best that’s been saved for last.

“Careful, princess, you might break one of those pretty nails,” he says, teetering off into a chuckle when not even the prospect of ruining your manicure halts you, tugging at the navy blue band of his boxers and at last unveiling the part of him you’ve been most eager to see. “Shit! Aah- Gonna ruin me before we even start if you keep touchin’ him like that.”

His warning is half-hearted, void of sincerity, as you wrap your fingers around the width of him and slowly stroke, tip to base, imprinting the shape of his cock into your mind.

Longer than Joaquin, and thick enough to have you clenching around nothing, pussy twitching at the thought of how sweet the burn will be when he finally splits you open on it. A mushroomed tip, blushing pink and rhinestoned by a bead of pre-cum that dribbles down the underside of him and traces over the pretty blue of his vein.

He’s mouthwatering, so much so that you feel yourself swallow back a mouthful of stale saliva, your gaze fully glued to the way your hand works over his cock, somehow getting him even harder than he already is, the tip playing a game of peak-a-boo with your fingers each time they encase it.

“Does that feel nice, doll?” His own touch meets your face, thumb brushing an imaginary hair from your cheek before Bucky reaches up fully to grab a fistful of it, blunt fingernails scraping over your scalp. “Having a big, hard cock in your hand? Bet it feels like home to you, huh? Like the only thing you were put on this earth to do is to make me cum.”

“Yes,” you breathe out, without truly meaning to.

Bucky welcomes your confession with a glowing smile and a tightened fist, shifting pressure on your head and forcing you to follow the path he drags you down, mouth hovering over the heat of where his cock stands at attention against his abdomen.

“Then get him ready for you, princess,” Bucky coos, fingers massaging at your jaw as you slowly let it drop. “Show a little gratitude and give him a kiss.”

The heady scent of man floods your nose and the salty tang of cum streaks over your taste-buds as you lay a delicate kiss against his tip, gazing up at him from beneath your lashes and watching as the pink tip of his tongue — a shade you now know matches his cock — wets his lower lip.

Before you can taste much more of him, swallow him as deep-down as your throat and temperamental gag reflex will allow, Bucky is prying you off of him and turning you back around. Hands pin your own to the cold glass of the window, a silent threat commanding you to keep them there, then his touch slips elsewhere, tracing over the skin of your spine and settling at your waist.

His foot kicks at your own, nudging you to deepen the spread of your legs and make way for him. Moulding you into whatever shape he likes, tilting your hips back to an angle he deems satisfying enough — one that grants him the sight on your naked core, glistening like the lights decorating the tree, and winking at him as you clench around nothing, your body far too aware of how exposed it’s become.

“Think she can take it, angel?” Bucky’s mouth finds your neck, smattering it in a series of sloppy kisses. Between your thighs, his cock starts to edge back and forth, rutting over your folds and lathering himself in your liquid lust, head teasing your clit with a gentle nudge or two, enough to remind you of how good the friction can feel yet never enough for your moans to come to fruition, dying out in your mouth as he retreats. “Or am I going to break her? Hmm? Do I need to fuck her so loose, no man but me can ever fill her again? Go on, want you to ask for it. Beg for me, tell me how bad my baby’s cunt needs her daddy.”

Why does it feel like such an impossible task?

Each time your mouth parts, ready to shape thoughts into words, all you seem to give is whines and mewls.

Until you manage a simple, “Want it, daddy, please!”

“I know, baby,” the head of his dick presses against your entry, slipping into you with a slow roll of his hips. The action is not merciful, meant to spare you from the discomforting stretch of him splitting you open. No, it is purposeful, a way for him to make sure you feel every cunt-drooling inch of him as he sheaths himself to the hilt. “Daddy knows.”

You’ve always been a quick learner: quick to learn that your mother’s curling wand was not to be touched, quick to learn that boys often say one thing and mean another, quick to learn that secrets tend to travel places they shouldn’t once you speak them aloud.

And now you’re quick to learn that Bucky fucks with no inhibitions.

There is no learning curve, no push and pull where he tests the waters of what feels good for you, no gradual descent into a feral state where an exchange of words becomes a cacophony of grunts and groans. Where Joaquin treats you gently, takes his time to build up the heat, Bucky throws you into a immediate state of boiling, blood bubbling beneath your skin as he pounds into you.

Full does not begin to describe the feeling, the walls of your cunt gripping at his cock each time it reaches that eye-rolling spot inside of you. The sound is enough to fuel your shame, a wet shlick filling the living room with each thrust he gives, balls slapping against your pussy lips.

His hands paw at you. Deepen the arch in your spine, dig bruises into your hips, separate your cheeks just to watch the way your pussy swallows his length, in and out, coating him and yourself in your juices.

Your own hands are faltering, slipping from the glass podiums he perched them on and making their way down the length of the window. Fingerprints imbedded in condensation, you smear streaks where your hands have been, grip failing you. Bucky stops them in their tracks, the rhythm of his hips never even faltering while he grasps at your wrists and manoeuvres them behind your back, hands pinned against your tailbone.

In the reflection of the glass, you spot as he reaches for his throat.

Silk binds itself around your skin, the brown of his tie now encasing your wrists and affording him a makeshift rein, the perfect tool for Bucky to bend you to his will, fingers tugging at the fabric around your wrists and forcing your body to jolt back against him, ass smacking against his pelvis and grinding his cock that little bit deeper into you, tip teasing at what must be your cervix.

“Fuck- That’s it, princess, fuckin’ grind,” teeth clenched, he drags the word out and emphasizes it with his own hips, stilled to the hilt inside of you and sending you slumping forward, whining as your face meets the chilled glass. “Back against him, show daddy how much of a slut you are for this dick.”

“Such a slut- I’m- Oh god!”

“D’you even know how hard it used to be for me, baby? Fucking your mother, trying not to call out your name? Shit, think I actually did once, but she was too cockdrunk to notice.”

The rational side of you is begging for a little shame, for you to find repulsion in the way he’s speaking to you. But you’re too far gone, barely managing cohesive sentences while Bucky continues to fuck you against the window, imprinting more than just the shape of your hands against the cold glass.

“You had me thinking I was seeing visions, baby. Thinking I was imagining your eyes lingering over me- So tight, wanna- Ngh! Wanna fuck this pretty pussy forever. And then I caught you, saw how dirty my stepdaughter was behind close doors. All those tabs on your computer, all those girls begging for their stepdads. Knew then that I wasn’t imagining any of it.”

It’s electrifying, like walking a tight rope between ice and fire. The skin-prickling chill of the frost-bitten window against your form, pairing delectably with the thigh-shaking warmth of Bucky blanketing you from behind, mouthing at your neck, filling your cunt with cock and your ear with filth.

“Now look at my precious pervert, all fucked out for her daddy and still begging for more. Wasn’t bad enough for you that you made yourself cum in my car, with nothing but my hand against your thigh, then you had to lie to me and feign like you didn’t want it, want me. Shut you up real quick, didn’t I, once I got my fingers and my tongue on this cunt. Now you remember that you’re mine, don’t you? Remember how badly you used to dream about me having my way with you.”

It’s all becoming too much, too fast.

His thrusts. The contrast of temperatures. The sounds of his moans in your ear. The sight of your own breath stretching over the cold of the window.

You’re losing yourself, faster than you can find yourself.

“Bet you’d have even let me take you in my marital bed, right where your mother slept-”

“Stop!”

The moment that cry leaves your mouth, the world comes to a halt.

Bucky peels himself off of you like you’re on fire, tearing at the binding around your wrist only to grab at your waist and turn you to face him, stare full of care and worry as he assesses you.

You can already taste the next question he’s forming, before he even says it, and so you beat him to the chase.

“I’m okay! I just-”

In a reaction unbefitting of the man who was just fucking you six ways into Sunday, you watch his shoulders deflate and the stress exhale out of him with a single breath, the confirmation that he hadn’t inexplicably hurt you in anyway soothing an ailment inside of Bucky.

Like he can sense your hesitance, fingers pinch at your chin and steady your eyes on his, “Just what, kid?”

“I want to, you know,” you blink away a shy look, swallow back a lump in your throat. God, why does he still make you so nervous? “See you, when I- When you make me-”

“Cum around my cock?” A shit-eating smirk takes over him as you shamefully nod, hands grabbing at your face as he presses his forehead against yours. “Aren’t you just the cutest? One minute, you’re acting like a cockslut, calling me daddy and squeezing around me while I list off all your perverted actions. And then, the next minute, you can’t even tell me how you want me to make you cum.”

“Stop being mean-”

He cuts you off with a kiss, mouth melting against your own.

You feel as Bucky sighs, like he is relieved to finally grace you with the intimacy of a lover, tongue prodding at your lower lip before you open and let him in. He still tastes like you, like cum and cunt, heady and sweet as he explores the warmth of your mouth.

The buttons of his shirt fall open much slower than the one on his trousers had, the movement of your fingers slowed by his kiss. Sad to feel him stray, even if only for a moment to discard the white button-up, you pull him back into your kiss with renewed fervour.

Bucky takes the lead, guiding you away from the window and over to the wall, forcing your back against the expensive wallpaper a personal assistant or underpaid intern picked out for him, the kind of home decor a man who thinks purple socks pair well with textured green shorts would never think to use.

Next to go are his pants and boxers, shoved unceremoniously over the globe of his ass and kicked away from his feet in a joint effort from the both of you, mouths still exchanging spit.

He’s boxing you against the wall, cock pressed flush between your bodies and drooling over your torso, the faintest stain of sticky white liquid leaving his own custom art behind on your skin. Leg perching itself on his waist, Bucky takes the hint and with ease slides both hands down to the back of your thighs, scooping you up and helping you wrap yourself around him fully.

“This how you wanted me, sweetheart?” His hands rise to find your ass cheeks, squeezing them as he guides your pussy over his cock, sinking you down nice and slow. This time, he’s savouring it, watching with awe how your pelvises meet and the subtlest bulge that makes itself known beneath your skin, a visual display of how deep inside of you he is. “Face to face, watching how eager you are to swallow my dick, and how those pretty eyes stretch almost as wide as your cunt?”

“Yes, daddy,” empowered by the desire swallowing his irises in a pool of black, you find that words come a lot easier in this position. “Want you so bad.”

“God, think I need to record that, make it my goddamn ringtone so I know who’s calling every time my baby gets a little tipsy and needs her daddy to come rescue her.”

Nerves still on edge and body pushed to its limit, it doesn’t take long for Bucky to build you back up to the same electrifying state as before. Cock filling you over, and over, and over, sending your back further up the wall in tune with each thrust of his hips. With one hand gripping your waist and the other weaving itself between you both in search of your clit, something rough and steady for you to grind up against while he chases your high from inside, Bucky is rewriting the meaning of heaven, reworking the wires of your brain and showing you that this was all you’ve ever really needed, ever wanted.

Someone to pick up each time you call, and to kiss all your tears away, and to know you in a way not even you do.

“He doesn’t get me-” Cut off by your own whine, your teeth bite down on your lip as you take a peak at the fluid motions in which he slips in and out of you, a white ring forming around the base of his cock the longer he wears you both out. “Doesn’t know me like you do.”

“Who, angel?”

“Joaquin-” It feels illegal to even think of his name, never mind speak it, while tangled up with Bucky.

“‘Course he doesn’t, sweetheart.”

His pace is turning brutal again, as mouthwatering and back-arching as it was against the window.

Fingers flex in search of him, weaving themselves around his neck and up his head, tangling in his hair while Bucky smothers you in him, chest to chest. Kissing at your neck, mouthing at your ear, nipping at your collarbone. Every inch of you is connected to him, body and soul.

“He doesn’t know how desperate this cunt is,” he’s panting into your ear, the exertion he’s putting into fucking you clear in his voice. “I mean, look at how she’s behavin’ for me, baby. Crying all over daddy’s cock, screaming out for more, more, more. Have you ever told him how much of a slut you are? Ever let him see those perverted links you use to cum?

“No, I never- James! God. Please- So good.”

“Stepdad gives his stepdaughter a thorough spanking,” he lists the title off so casually, like this hasn’t plagued your guilty conscious each time you finish to it. “Stepdaughter swallows her new daddy deep. Stepdad licks his stepdaughter’s pussy. Did you always have such a depraved mind, or was it because of me?”

Gone is the shame, you find no point in even attempting to feign a different answer as you cry out, “It was you, daddy. Just wanted you.”

The longer it goes on, the further you feel yourself straying from sanity, mind lost in lust and pleasure, tightening like a coil inside of you.

“That’s right, it’s just daddy that you want,” he stills against you momentarily, hips beginning to falter like he too can’t keep going much longer, the ache in his balls growing deeper and begging for a release of pleasure. “Wanna know my favourite, the one I keet going back to?”

“Yes! God yes- Bucky- Keep going- I’m gonna-”

“Stepdad stuffs stepdaughter full of cum.”

You recognise the title better than the rest, a tab still open deep in your phone from the last time you made yourself cum to it. Now, knowing Bucky has watched the very same video, hand wrapped around his big, thick, desperate-to-cum cock…

You squeeze around him without really meaning to, sending him into a flow of curse words. Recuperating a tiny bit of restraint, he continues speaking.

“‘S that something you want, princess? Want me to paint your walls with my cum? Fuck- Cause I’ll have you feeling me for days, have it staining your little panties and letting the whole world smell it on you,” He’s so close to caving in, the end in sight for both of you, yet he still awaits that last bit of approval. One last chance to make you beg. “Shit, maybe it’ll stick. Oh, she squeezed me extra tight at that, I think she wants it, angel. Wants me to breed her real good, give you no choice but to tell your mother how you went and fucked her ex-husband, seduced him right out of her arms.”

It doesn’t matter that your mother asked for the divorce.

It doesn’t matter that it was a mutual agreement, where both parties agreed they never truly loved one another and now wanted different things.

Your mother wanted freedom, to find herself in ways she never had before.

And Bucky wanted… Well, you.

Why not give yourself entirely over to him? ‘Tis the season of giving, after all!

“Cum in me, Bucky! Please, wanna feel it- Want you to flood my pussy, to have it dripping out of me while you just keep fucking it deeper- Oh god. Yes, yes, yes!”

A blinding light overcomes your vision, turning everything hot white as your walls clamp around Bucky’s cock one last, definitive time.

One twitch of his tip and he’s spilling into you, ribbons of hot, sticky cum filling your cunt. He doesn’t relent, doesn’t still the movement of his hips. No, he keeps rolling into you slowly, whining and whimpering in your ear as he milks himself dry into your womb, a shiver shaking down his spine.

The two of you pull the other closer, as though there’s any space left to cross, hands reaching and grasping and searching for an anchor in the hectic haze of your climaxes. Just as you feel a tear of his cum roll down your thigh, the soft stab of his cock still pushing into you, something pulls you back into the living room: a meow.

There his cat sits, a ball of snow-white fur, pawing at the forgotten star on the floor.

“We still haven’t put up your star.”

Hearing his laugh warms your heart, just the same as it always has, despite the lewd position you’re in.

There’s the faintest brush of his mouth over your cheek, the same spot he’d kissed earlier in the car.

Except now the tears in your eyes are full of love and ecstasy, instead of pity and despair.

“Guess I’ll just have to make sure you’re here next year to remind me.”

No longer homesick, maybe Christmas won’t be so lonely after all.

+ extra hyde!

· raise of hands, who here is a freak? · don't forget to smash that reblog button, comment down below, and subscribe to houseofhyde for more of whatever-the-fuck-this-was <3 · pov: alpine watching these two freaks get it on:

The three of you had your own gravity, and for a long time, that bond felt unbreakable.

But after Lemar died… the gravity collapsed. The three-point structure you’d built your entire life around suddenly snapped down to one unstable line. 

You and John were still here, technically, but neither of you stood in the same place anymore. Grief changed people. But what grief did to John, and what it did to you, felt like being pulled in two different directions by invisible hands. And you couldn’t see him the same way, no matter how badly you wanted to see the version of him you remembered— the one who would’ve died for Lemar, not killed for him.

After all, you were there when it happened. 

You were close enough to hear the gasp leave Lemar’s throat as he hit the pillar, close enough to hear the sickening crack of impact, close enough to see the light drain from his eyes even as John screamed his name. The two of you rushed to his side at the same time, knees slamming against concrete as if pain could jolt Lemar awake again.

“Hey man—hey, c’mon.” You pressed your hand against Lemar’s cheek, trying to steady your own breathing. “Wake up. Come on. Just look at me.”

“Hey, hey.” John’s voice cracked, trying to slap him awake like you both used to do playfully when he fell asleep on the bleachers in high school. “Lemar, Lemar!”

He didn’t. 

He couldn’t.

Lemar’s body gave nothing back. His chest stayed still under your trembling palm. John was still calling his name, and you were still trying to haul him upright, even as hope had already slipped through your fingers faster than you could close your hands around it.

When the truth hit John, it hit like a detonation.

When it hit you, it was more like drowning.

You barely registered John stumbling to his feet, barely heard as he tore out of the room in search of someone, anyone, to blame. You didn’t chase him. Your world had narrowed to Lemar’s head slacking against your shoulder. You held him like he was still alive, still your brother in every way that mattered but blood.

Soon, your tears soaked into the fabric of his uniform. You brushed your thumb across his brow the way he’d once done for you after a bad tour, your voice a broken whisper against his temple.

“Lemar… I’m here. I’m right here,” you choked out, “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t see what John did next until much later. But you knew what he was doing. 

You didn’t see John bring the shield down on that man. But only heard the distant, wet sound of impact.

You heard the distant shouting, the panicked voices, the rhythm of violence. And then the silence afterward. 

That was when you realized that John Walker had transformed from a soldier into a broken man.

Later, much later, after Sam and Bucky wrestled the shield from John, Bucky came back to check on you.

Maybe he expected to find you standing over the body. Maybe he thought you’d moved on from Lemar’s side. But when he stepped into the room, he noticed you were still there, still holding Lemar as tightly as if letting go would make his death real.

Bucky didn’t speak at all. He didn’t try to pull you to your feet or tell you it was time to go. He simply walked over and lowered himself onto the cold cement beside you. The vibranium of his left arm scraped softly against the floor as he settled, but otherwise,he made no sound.

Your voice was barely audible now, no more than breath crossing your lips—“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”—on repeat, the words falling apart each time you said them. It was a confession of grief and guilt, until you didn't know where you ended and he began. 

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. You couldn’t tell. 

Eventually, when your fingers loosened just slightly out of exhaustion, Bucky reached out. He didn't do it to pull or to take Lemar from you, but to help you ease him gently onto the ground. 

You bowed your head, your hands still gripping the fabric of Lemar’s sleeve even as your body finally gave in.

When you did let go, it was surrender.

And after that moment, nothing between you and John could ever be the same. 

–

You didn’t go back to anything after the mission ended.

After the GRC debacle, after Sam stepped forward as Captain America, after Karli’s death, you disappeared into your room in the temporary barracks the government insisted on giving everyone. You weren’t sure what they expected you to do there. Grieve quietly? Be a good soldier one last time?

Still, you didn’t leave. You didn’t sleep. You just existed between four walls and let the hours pass over you like waves you were too numb to drown in. You didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to hear anything, didn’t want to feel anything. 

So when John came knocking, you didn’t answer.

“Hey… it’s me.” He tried.

Nothing. 

He knocked again. “You in there?”

You heard every word. None of them stirred anything in you.

“Look, we should talk.”

You stayed silent, pressing your back to the wall. Every instinct told you to run, to hide, to shove a pillow over your head and pretend you didn’t exist. But a part of you that had loved him like a brother once, knew that he wasn’t here to brag, to demand, to argue. He was here to face you.

He eventually jiggled the handle. When he failed, he sighed, then spoke through the wood in a tired voice. “Please.”

He sounded small. So small it almost sounded like it belonged to someone else.

Finally, you unlocked the door.

John stepped in cautiously, his eyes scanning the room like he expected to find a gun in your hand.

What he found instead was you, his sister in arms, hollowed out by a kind of grief he didn’t have the vocabulary to process. You didn’t even tell him to come in. 

“Christ,” John breathed. “You look—”

“Don’t.” Your voice wasn’t sharp, nor was it mean. “Don’t finish that.”

“I came because… I don’t know.” He swallowed, pressed a hand to his face. “I thought maybe we could figure things out.”

You nodded very faintly. He took it as permission to continue.

“No one’s heard from you.” He sighed, “you just shut down and—”

“Lemar died,” you said, but the words fell flat, landing like bricks. “The world should’ve shut down too.”

John flinched, and you just watched him struggle for words without emotion.

He rubbed a hand over his face. “I know we’re both hurting, but we can’t—”

“You’re a piece of shit, John.” There was no anger or volume as you said it, the words coming out like a diagnosis. You were simply stating what everyone already knew but refused to admit.

He blinked, startled, and opened his mouth. “Okay. Fine. If you need to yell at me, then yell—”

“I’m not yelling.”

It unsettled him more than rage ever could have.

You stepped closer. It wasn't enough to be threatening, just enough that he couldn’t look away.

“I followed you to the ends of the Earth once,” you didn't pause or breathe. You laid it out as plainly as fact. “I believed you when you said the ends justify the means. You know that.”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“We’ve done horrible shit in the name of our country,” you continued. “Things we don’t talk about because someone higher up said they were necessary. They told us it was patriotic. We knew it wasn’t,” You inhaled a slow and thin breath. “And we did them anyway.”

John’s hands curled into fists. “We did what we had to. We—”

“And now…” you interrupted whatever sorry excuse he had, “you killed a man in Lemar’s name.”

The silence in between made John wish you had screamed at the top of your lungs instead.

“We are not executioners, John,” you continued. “We never should have been.”

John tapped his feet on the ground anxiously as if he could outrun the words. “You know why I did it. You know—”

“You killed the wrong man,” you said. “And even if you hadn’t, Lemar wouldn’t have wanted that.”

His breath caught.

“Some leader you are,” you said, still calm. “John, I followed you to the ends of the Earth and look where it led me.” Your looked down at your feet. “Look where it led Lemar.”

John staggered back a step. He was still waiting for your anger. He was still waiting for your screaming, for you to hit him, for you to break, because if you broke, then at least he could hold the pieces and say he was sorry.

He whispered your name like a plea. “Please… don’t do this. Don’t shut me out. Don’t—”

“I’m not shutting you out,” you said. “I just don’t have anything left to give.”

John let out a shaky breath, shoulders sinking. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

You didn’t hesitate. “I want you to leave.”

He stood there for another moment, as if waiting for a second chance, a change of heart, anything at all.

But you didn’t look away. And he understood.

John nodded once, stepping out into the hall.

You closed the door gently, and on the other side, you heard him murmur something you couldn’t quite make out. Maybe your name. Maybe Lemar’s.

It didn’t matter.

After that, you didn’t hear from John Walker again for a long, long time.

—

You didn’t go back to the life you’d known. You quit quietly enough that no one could argue or talk you out of it. You signed papers, requested your files to be cleared and accounts erased. And because you needed a new start, you moved out as soon as you were able to sign a lease.

The small apartment you settled for was in New York. The city felt anonymous, crowded, and brutally loud. It felt like somewhere you could disappear into the static of streetlights and taxi horns. The endless pulse of a city probably didn’t care who you were, or who you’d lost. Your new home was in the Lower East Side, a place with a brick facade and a rickety staircase, but it was yours.

You hadn’t expected anyone to show up to help or care. You had resigned yourself to stacking boxes alone, to carrying the weight of your own life from one address to another. 

But as you pulled up to your new address in the moving truck you rented… you saw Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes on your doorstep.

Sam lifted a hand in a little wave. “Morning,” he said, like this wasn’t completely insane.

Bucky just gave a chin tilt, his arms crossed, looking like he’d been drafted against his will but didn’t really mind.

You jumped off the driver’s seat. “What the hell are you two doing here?”

Sam grinned like the answer was obvious. “Helping you move.”

“Why?”

Sam and Bucky exchanged a glance.

“We just wanted to check in,” Sam said in that annoyingly sincere voice he probably used with his therapy circle at the VA. “Y’know, we wanted to make sure you’re alright. 

“Right,” you opened the back of the truck without even facing him.

Sam opened his mouth again probably to say something diplomatic, but all you could see was Captain America.

That's who he was now, right?

You couldn’t look at Sam without seeing the shield. Sure, the metal would have no blood on it now, but you’d seen it once drenched, dripping red, reflecting a world that had tilted sickeningly out of axis. The shield that had taken a life in Lemar’s name. The shield John had held. The shield Sam now carried.

A hundred guilt-ridden, heartbreaking thoughts popped to your head, but none of them made it past your mouth. You just couldn’t look at him.

So, you snapped instead. “Oh, what—you think I need babysitting? You feel guilty or something?”

Sam sighed, not even defending himself. He just stood still, the smallest frown on his lips like you’d reached in and scraped nails down something tender inside him. “I'm not here out of guilt,” he said sternly. “I’m here because—”

“Save it.” You cut him off with a shake of your head. “I don’t want a lecture. I don’t want you.”

Sam swallowed hard. You knew it hurt him. After all, your words rarely landed softly.

But he respected your wishes, even when you were tearing at him like a wounded animal. “I…,” he started, “I’ll go.”

And he did. He turned, heading back toward the street without another word.

Bucky watched him leave, before coming back to you.

And you didn’t, couldn’t, say the same words to him as you did to Sam, not when he had sat next to you as you knelt over Lemar’s body, shaking and soaked in someone else’s blood. Not after he helped you lay Lemar on the floor. Not after he put a hand on your shoulder, because comfort wasn’t his language but he tried anyway, because he knew what it meant to lose someone who defined you.

You opened your mouth, maybe to apologise, maybe to ask him to leave, too, but Bucky cut you off with a grunt. “Don’t even think about kicking me out.”

Your head snapped up. “Bucky—”

He jerked his head toward the back of the moving truck. “Look at that thing.” There were boxes, furniture, and duffel bags stacked precariously.

“You need help with the heavy stuff,” he said, matter‑of-factly. “And let’s be real, you’d throw out your back before you asked for it.”

Despite your grief, your exhaustion, and your hollowed‑out insides, you almost laughed. Almost. 

Bucky didn’t push, didn’t comfort you or tried to pry. He just grabbed the biggest box and said, “Lead the way.”

Your new apartment wasn’t much. I was just one of those small places in New York with hardwood floors, high ceilings, windows that let in a little too much light.

And the moment you walked in, Bucky stepped inside behind you, wiping his boots on the mat. 

“I only live ten minutes down that way,” he said, nodding toward the street.

“How…” you started, “How did you even know I was moving here?”

Bucky shrugged, deadpan. “Like Sam said… we kept an eye on you.”

You snorted. “Stalker much.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he rolled his eyes. “Come on. Box goes where?”

There was no lecture, no pity in his voice.

And maybe that’s exactly what you needed.

—

The first couple of days in your new apartment was a blur.

After Bucky left that day, you didn’t unpack like you said you would. You didn’t even touch the boxes. You didn’t even step inside your bedroom unless you had to. The suitcases stood abandoned like a monument to your inertia, the few duffel bags left half-open as if they were still waiting for you to decide whether the world mattered enough to keep living in it.

You didn’t eat. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t answer calls, texts, or messages, not that you had that many people checking up on you. The walls of the apartment became a cage and a coffin at the same time, and silence around you grew so thick you could feel it pressing in on your skull.

After two days of no contact, you heard a knock on your door.

For reasons you didn’t even want to articulate, you unlocked the door, knowing only one person could possibly have the balls to do it.

As you expected, Bucky was there. His metal arm was crossed over his human one, his eyes scanning the apartment with the exact combination of judgment and patience. He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.

It became evident to him that nothing had been touched. The boxes were stacked neatly, but unopened. The mattress was still rolled up in the corner. You hadn’t even plugged in the fridge in your kitchen.

“Deep shit, you are,” he said flatly, carrying a hint of humor that you almost hated him for.

“What are you?” you sneered, but closed the door behind him anyway, “Yoda?” 

Bucky ignored you. “Look at this place. You’re going to collapse on the floor one day and never get up again if we don’t fix this.”

Oh well, you wanted to say, but bit your tongue.

He didn't wait for your reply anyway. He just grabbed your brand new, vacuumed, rolled up mattress, and dragged it into the bedroom. “You’re laying down. Now.” He sounded firm, but not cruel. There was no argument in it, no room for negotiation. 

You didn’t resist.

After all, the exhaustion in your bones was heavier than pride in your heart. You even let him maneuver the mattress until it was flat enough to sleep on. 

The second your head hit the mattress, sleep claimed you entirely.

—

You didn’t even know how long you slept, only that when you woke up and willed yourself to stumble back to the living room, something had changed.

The sun had set, so you must’ve been out for at least four hours. Some of the boxes were open, the furniture arranged. The place no longer felt like a storage unit with your name on it. Instead, it felt like a home someone had arranged against your will. On the stove, was a pot of mashed potatoes simmered next to thick, pale gravy. 

The smell was absurdly domestic, incongruous with your grief.

You froze mid-step. “Where… did you even get that?”

Bucky leaned against the counter, arms crossed, the faintest hint of a smile on his face. “Brought some food from my place. Mashed potatoes and gravy is the only things I can make well. Got a 1940s taste palate, apparently.”

You stared at him for a while, then at the apartment itself. Everything he had touched, arranged, set in place was meticulously and carefully. Your books were arranged alphabetically on a now-assembled bookshelf, your shoes were stacked neatly by the door, the stupid polkadot umbrella you owned was hanging on the hook behind your door. And on the coffee table, framed among the little displays he had put together, was a photo.

It was a photo of you, John, and Lemar on the first day of boot camp. You were standing awkwardly in uniform, smiles plastered across your faces.

You all looked… alive.

You reached for the frame slowly, as if it might bite. And then you turned it face down.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said, watching him plate the food before handing it to you.

“I know,” he admitted. “But I also know what it feels like to lose everything.”

“I…” you breathed out, “I don’t know what to say.”

“A thank you would be nice,” he added sarcastically, almost teasing, almost human.

You stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged, feigning indifference. “Yeah, yeah,” you dismissed, scooping a forkful of mashed potatoes. “Whatever.” You didn’t look at him as you put it in your mouth, not wanting him to see the small, reluctant concession of defeat.

The potatoes were perfect. 

You chewed slowly, swallowing the first bit of food you had in days. “You could have been a great 1940s househusband.”

Bucky scoffed, but didn’t push further. He just sat across from you, letting you eat, letting you breathe, letting the apartment become more than a tomb.

—

The next few weeks repeated into a strange kind of routine. You don’t remember ever agreeing to it, nor have you ever asked for it, but Bucky simply… created one around you. 

He didn’t hover, though. He didn’t smother, nor did didn’t treat you like you were fragile glass that might shatter at the next strong wind.

He just showed up. And, you let him.

Some mornings he arrived with groceries, saying “you’re gonna starve if you keep forgetting to eat again.”

Some evenings he’d sit on your couch, boots kicked up on the coffee table like he owned the place, watching whatever mindless show you put on to keep the horrible thoughts away. 

Sometimes he cooked, terribly. Sometimes you cooked, also terribly. There had been burnt eggs, over-salted pasta, a near kitchen fire, and still, you both ended up chuckling dryly at yourselves like neither of you didn’t quite remember how laughter worked.

Still, you didn’t talk about Lemar. Still, you didn’t talk about John. Even after he told you about his past to try to coax out yours.

Soon enough, Bucky became your only friend.

He always would nudge a glass of water toward you when your hands shook. He would wordlessly take the knife from your trembling fingers when chopping vegetables. Sometimes he’d just sit near you on the floor, leaning against the same wall, breathing slowly enough that you found yourself matching it without meaning to.

After all, there were nights the grief hit so hard you folded into yourself on the kitchen floor, gasping like you were drowning in your own ribs. And every time it happened during Bucky’s little visits, he didn’t try to fix it. He didn’t give advice, like Sam would, or get loud like John would. He didn’t touch you unless you reached for him first. He would just sit, knees drawn up, his shoulders close enough to yours, yet still not close enough to cage you.

Over time, you got better at pretending.

You even joined a gym.

Bucky didn’t really celebrate it. He didn’t say I’m proud of you or good job. He just raised an eyebrow when you told him and said, “Try not to get kicked out.”

You went every morning before sunrise, when the place was nearly empty. You started hitting the punching bag like it had killed Lemar. You punched until your shoulders ached. You punched until your arms trembled, until your knuckles split and bled through the wraps.

Bucky noticed— it was impossible not to. 

One afternoon, he walked into your apartment as you were rinsing blood from your hands. You didn’t even flinch, since you gave him a key. You kept your eyes on the sink as rusted pink water swirled down the drain.

“You get into a fight with a brick wall?” he asked, leaning against the doorway with that dry tone he’d perfected over the weeks.

“Brick wall fought back,” you said.

“Ah.” He crossed his arms. “Did you win?”

You huffed half a humorless laugh, shocked he’d gotten even that out of you. “Depends on your definition of winning.”

Bucky just walked past you, into the kitchen, opening the fridge like a man who lived there, pulling out leftover mashed potatoes he’d made two days ago. He stuck them in the microwave without asking, without looking at you, without making it a thing.

Because he knew if he gave your pain too much space, you’d collapse beneath it.

If he treated it like it was normal, manageable, as if it was survivable… maybe you’d start to believe it was.

—

Before you knew it, reality caught up with you. This time, it came in the form of money.

Your savings began shrinking in small increments. The numbers ticked down every time you paid rent, every time an electric bill was auto-drafted, every time you opened the fridge and remembered you needed to go grocery shopping for milk. The rent wasn’t cheap, the utilities added up, and grief had a funny way of making you forget that the world kept spinning even when yours didn’t.

At first you ignored it. You told yourself you’d figure it out. You’d always been the “competent one” out of the trio, the one who could charm her way into anything, the extrovert who turned strangers into friends with nothing but a few well-placed jokes.

But that version of you felt like just another body added to the pile.

And now money was running out, and the world didn’t care that you were hurt. It never paused, never reached out a hand unless it was to take something else from you. Responsibilities kept coming, and you couldn’t hide from the fact that you needed a job.

But a job would involve people.

You could barely talk to the barista downstairs without feeling like your vocal cords were rusted from disuse. You, who used to hold whole rooms captive, couldn’t stand to be looked at anymore.

Besides, you had sold yourself to “serve your country”, whatever that meant. You had no civilian skills, nothing resembling a normal career path. Everything you’d ever been good at involved weapons or tactics or throwing a punch.

You thought about applying somewhere, anywhere, but each attempt ended with your chest tightening, hyperventilating. You’d have to shut the laptop and press the heels of your hands into your eyes until stars burst behind your eyelids.

So you went back to the only place you could breathe: 

The gym. Where your punching bag lived. The punching bag that couldn’t talk back.

And it was during one of those nights—when your fists slamming again and again into the canvas, each impact ricocheting up your arms— that you noticed it.

A red flyer, lazily to the wall like an afterthought, corners curling from humidity. You would have ignored it on any other day, but something in the bold lettering caught your eye— or maybe it was the promise underneath it.

FIGHT NIGHTS — CASH NIGHTLY.

GOOD PAY. NO RULES.

ASK FOR JACE.

Your eyes stuck to it longer than it should have, a strange numbness sliding through your chest. 

It wasn’t safe.

It wasn’t smart.

But it was something you knew how to do. You’d certainly find it familiar. All you had to do was survive and hit back.

The punching bag swung slowly in front of you, your last hit still rippling through it. Your fists throbbed, your knuckles split and bleeding under the wraps, and when you finally reached out and tore the flyer from the wall, the blood had dried. After showering, after taping your hands again, you approached Jace— the guy at the front desk.

He stood behind the counter, wiping down a set of dumbbells. When he saw you walking toward him with the flyer crumpled tightly in your hand, he didn’t look surprised. 

He’d been expecting you.

“I want in,” you said without hesitation.

Jace eyed you, gaze moving from your bruised wrists to your wrapped knuckles to the stiffness in your shoulders.

“You sure?” he asked finally. His voice wasn’t mocking or skeptical. Rather, it was weary. It's as if he'd asked this question too many times to too many people who’d lost too much.

“Yeah.”

“You know what you’re asking for?”

“Yes.”

“It’s underground. No doctors. No one will save you if you get in over your head.”

“I know.”

He sighed and nodded once. “Fine. First fight’s next Friday. Nine p.m. Don’t bring friends.”

You almost laughed. “Don’t have any.”

That was a lie. You had one. 

Jace passed you a small card with an address scribbled on it.

“You will after this,” he said. “Though I’m not sure that’s a good thing.

—

On Thursday night, the weather was miserable. Cold rain slapped against the windows like impatient fingers tapping at glass, and the whole building hummed with that metallic shiver old New York apartments got when the heating system was doing its best. 

Bucky let himself in without waiting for you to answer, two grocery bags dangling from his human hand, the smell of something vaguely Italian trailing behind him.

He kicked your door closed with the heel of his boot and announced, “I’m making dinner. Don’t argue. The last thing I saw in your fridge was a questionable yogurt cup and a bottle of mustard.”

You rolled your eyes, collapsing onto the couch like your bones were filled with wet sand. 

The comfort of him was dangerous, but you tried not to think about it.

Bucky put the bags on the counter. It had pasta, sauce (he never ever ever ever wanted to make his own again after what happened last time), and some overpriced artisan bread, because Bucky pretended he didn’t care about food but apparently did.

Before long, he was stirring the sauce. “Hey,” he started. “There’s a new pool bar opening down the street. Sam keeps talking my ear off about it. I was thinking…” He paused, spoon still in the pot. “I was thinking maybe we could check it out. Friday night. You know… if you want.”

Your heartbeat dropped into some dark pit in your stomach.

Of all the weeks, of all the days…

“No,” you said, like you were cutting the word from your own throat.

Bucky turned towards you. “Okay. Why?”

Fuck. What were you supposed to say?

Because if I go with you, I won’t make it to the fight. And if I don’t make it to the fight, I won’t make rent. And if I don’t make rent, everything falls apart. And I don’t know if I’d survive another thing falling apart.

But none of that came out.

“I…”

Bucky leaned against the dinner table just off the side, crossing his arms, giving you that annoying smirk he used as a pressure tactic. “You what? Got a secret date? Some fancy event? Do you moonlight as a magician on Fridays?”

He was teasing, trying to coax something real out of you, unaware of how close you were to shattering.

“Something like that,” you muttered into your sleeve.

“That’s not an answer,” he said, nudging your shin with his boot. 

You lifted your head and gave him a flat look, an abyss of tiredness that had no bottom.“None of your business, Barnes.”

That wiped the smirk off his face. For a long moment, Bucky didn’t say anything. Then he nodded, “alright,” he said. “I’ll drop it.”

You watched him turn back to the stove. His shoulders were tenser than before. 

You hated withdrawing from him, but you couldn’t possibly tell him that tomorrow night you’d be in a basement surrounded by screaming strangers, trading blows with someone twice your size because you needed the money, because you needed the pain to feel like something you could control, because life had taken so much that you had nothing left to lose except your own body.

—

On Friday, you went to a scribbled address to find a deceptively large basement by the docs.

It looked like a different world. It was hot, loud, pulsing with neon lights and sweat, and smelling of beer and blood. It was one of those places people came to lose themselves because the world had nothing left to offer, a place you’d once sworn you’d never go near.

Funny how promises rot faster than people.

The guy from the gym, Jace, guided you in with a hand on your shoulder, weaving through the crowd as if he’d been doing this since birth.

“Only two rules,” he said, raising his voice over the roar. “Tap out or get knocked out. Don’t try to be a hero. Heroes die broke.”

The deeper you went, the hotter the air became. The hallway buzzed under flickering industrial lights, the bulbs old enough that every flicker felt like they might give up and leave you in the dark.

When the corridor opened into the underground arena, the sound slammed into you, stacking on top of each other like a wave breaking over stone. A ring of lights framed the cage at the center of the room, the metal bars catching flashes of neon pink and electric blue that made the place feel like some hellish carnival.

People crowded the place shoulder to shoulder— sweating, shouting, holding plastic cups sloshing cheap liquor.

Jace placed a steady hand on your shoulder as he pulled you through the crowd

You noticed a row of VIP booths elevated above the rest of the mob, lined with bulletproof glass and flanked by security that looked ex-special service or worse. Inside, were men in tailored suits lounged behind the glass like bored gods watching a lower species fight to the death for their amusement. You recognised a couple of them there, including New York’s Mayor in a crisp white suit, sitting with two councilmen and a state senator whose faces you remembered from a press conference about “cleaning up the streets.”

Clean up the streets. Best way to do that was to fund the blood beneath them, right? 

The sign-in table was a dented metal slab balding under stacks of paperwork. The woman behind it had tattoos creeping up her throat like vines strangling her skin. “New?” she asked.

You nodded.

“Alias?”

You hesitated, then gave her the truncated field name you hadn’t used since a dust-covered hellscape years ago. 

She stamped your wrist with a red mark that burned faintly, then typed something into a tablet.

“Payout is seven percent if you win,” she said flatly. “Three if you lose.”

“That’s it?”

Someone behind you snorted.

“Yup.” She slid a clipboard toward you. “And the pot tonight is sitting at a hundred and thirty two thousand. And climbing”

A hundred.

And thirty-two.

Thousand.

You’d expected maybe a couple hundred bucks. Not enough for rent, maybe enough for groceries. But even if you lost, three percent of that much money could make your rent in one night’s work.

And if you won, you could pay every unpaid bill sitting unopened in your apartment.

Not that any amount of money could pry Lemar’s death out of your chest or undo John raising the shield like a butcher’s blade. Not that cash could undo the feeling of your own hands, clutching your best friend’s cooling body while your brother-in-arms lost his mind.

But money could keep the lights on. It could keep the landlord off your back. It could keep Bucky from worrying more than he already did.

“Fine,” you said. “Where do I go?”

“Locker room. Down the hall.”

—

The locker room felt sterile, metallic. Rusted showerheads drooped from tile walls, and the benches were bent enough to suggest someone had once been thrown across them.

You rolled your shoulders, cracked your knuckles, and began wrapping your hands.

The tape felt rough against your skin, digging into your calluses, biting into the places where your palms had split during training back in the service. Your reflection in the cracked mirror looked foreign. 

The speaker overhead crackled with static, then your alias was called.

—

The cage door slammed shut behind you like the lid of a coffin.

Your opponent stood across from you. He was tall, thick-necked, and looked like he had broken more bones than he could count. He rolled his shoulders once as shouts rippled across the crowd’s attention. People leaned forward, hungry.

You looked him straight in the eye.

“First time here?” he asked. He didn’t sound like he was just mocking you, just curious. A veteran sizing up another.

“Yeah,” you said, tightening the last wrap of tape around your wrist. “You?”

“Second season.” His grin widened. “Don’t worry. The first fight’s always scary.”

“I’m not scared,” you said.

He huffed a small laugh. “Everyone’s scared in here. Doesn’t matter how tough you—”

“Military?” you interrupted, looking down familiar scars down his arm.

He paused, surprised. After a beat, he nodded. “Two tours with the Navy. You?”

“Quit the army a couple months ago,” you said, mouth curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. 

“Any achievements?” he asked.

“A Medal of Honor.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Shit. For what?”

“For doing something stupid enough I got promoted for it.” You shrugged, rolling your shoulders. “Anyway, that's nothing. Guy I used to work with got three.”

Talking about John made you sick, but you said it anyway.

The ref repeated the rules.

“Tap or get knocked out.”

Then, the bell rang.

He swung first. It was a fast, sharp hook meant to rattle your skull.

It connected.

Your jaw snapped to the side, your vision spiking white before the world steadied. You exhaled a shudder of relief.

There it is. A familiar pain.

He followed with a jab that slammed into your ribs, knocking air from your lungs. You staggered but didn’t fall, feeling blood dripping from your split lip.

You… laughed. “That all?”

He blinked, thrown off by the sound, shoulders rolling like you were finally waking up.

You moved an elbow up, sending a crack into his sternum, before driving a knee driving into his thigh. You followed up with a short hook against his ear that rattled him off balance.

He swung again, wilder this time, and you ducked beneath his arm, your breath hot against his shoulder.

“You hit like paperwork,” you whispered.

He barked a laugh, lending him one second of humor, before your fist buried itself into his gut. He folded, air exploding from his chest.

The crowd howled.

He went down on one knee, palm flattening against the mat.

“Tap out,” you warned.

He shook his head, teeth gritted. 

You drove your shoulder into his chest, sending him sprawling. He grabbed your ankle, desperate, but you twisted free, pinning him with your knee on his sternum. 

His hand smacked the mat.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

The bell shrieked overhead.

The ref grabbed your wrist, lifting it high as the crowd erupted. Your opponent wheezed beneath you before finally pushing himself upright, one hand clutching his ribs.

He looked at you, blood from his nose and respect in his eyes. 

“What the hell were you over there?” he asked with a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Dunno.” You wiped blood from your chin. “Just felt like it.”

—

Bucky showed up on Monday like he always did, with no warning, no text, no knock worth a damn.

When he saw you, he stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes flicked to your lip, split at the corner, swollen a dusky purple. Then to your arm, where a bruise bloomed like spilled ink beneath the skin.

“The hell happened to you?” he asked. He didn't sound angry. It was just that soft, Bucky’s version of worried, which somehow hurt more.

“It’s nothing,” you said.

He stepped inside anyway. He laid a metal hand on your shoulder, turning you gently but firmly toward the kitchen light. He lifted your chin with the back of two fingers, inspecting the damage up close, the way you imagined he’d once been trained to look for shrapnel wounds.

“‘Nothing,’” he repeated flatly. “Looks like you got hit with a baseball bat.”

You shrugged. “Walked into a door.”

Bucky stared at you, long enough that you had to look away.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said quietly.

You swallowed, but continued lying anyway. “It was a door.”

He exhaled through his nose, sounding displeased, but he didn’t push, didn’t corner you. Maybe he’d learned too much about what happens when you corner someone like you.

Instead, he moved past you, going straight for your freezer. He grabbed a bag of ice, wrapped it in a dish towel, and asked it carefully to your lip.

“You bruise easy now?” he muttered, eyes still narrowed.

“Guess so.”

“Bullshit,” he said, but the bite wasn’t there. He held the ice there until the sting dulled, until your shoulders loosened enough he knew you weren’t going to pull away. Then he set the ice on the counter and looked around.

And that’s when he noticed the cupboard door, slightly open, showing a lineup of groceries that hadn’t existed last week. There was a coffee maker you definitely hadn’t owned before, a couple new shelves. You had a new reading lamp, and an unwrapped stack of folded cotton towels.

“You went shopping?” he asked.

You shrugged again. “Figured I should.”

“That why you’re covered in bruises?” he asked, raising a brow. “Whole Foods parking lot get rowdy now?”

You fought the instinct to smirk, but didn’t quite win.“Maybe,” you said.

He rolled his eyes. “You’re a terrible liar.”

He walked toward the living room, metal fingers trailing the edge of the new table you’d assembled at 3 a.m., half delirious, hands shaking from adrenaline and fatigue. He tapped the corner of the new lamp. Opened your fridge again.

“Looks good,” he said finally. “The place. You’re really… spruced this place up over the weekend.”

You nodded.

He turned back to you, and sat on the couch. “Just because I’m giving you space,” he said, “doesn’t mean I’m not paying attention.” He leaned back. “And it doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

Your throat tightened. “Yeah,” you managed. “I know.”

He didn’t believe that, but he didn’t correct you, either.

Instead, he picked up the ice again, gently pressing it back to your lip.

“So,” he said. “Door, huh?”

“Big door,” you gave a small chuckle.

“Mm,” he said. “Must’ve been.”

—

The next time you signed up to fighting, your opponent was already in the cage.

He was bigger than the last guy. Still, he was lean in the way people get when their survival depends on speed, but broad enough that his punches would crack bone if he felt like it. His skin was mapped with old scars, the kind you earn rather than inherit.

He looked you up and down. “You’re the new one, right?” he asked, stepping closer until you could smell the smoke on his breath. “The one who doesn’t block.”

You popped your new mouthguard in and gave him a smile that wasn’t a smile. “Blocking’s overrated.”

He chuckled. “Or you’re suicidal.”

“Maybe.”

His grin widened. “Name’s Cal.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

The bell rang.

—

He punched first, and you didn't even attempt to dodge or brace.

His first punch slammed into your ribs so hard your vision stuttered.

Perfect.

Your world lit up in white agony, foreign and familiar all at once. Your breath left your lungs, but you didn’t care. You wanted it to hurt. You needed it to hurt. You needed the pain to fill up the hollow places inside your skull.

He struck again, first your jaw, cheekbone, ribs,and you absorbed it all like a sponge,, your nerves on fire until the flames ran out of oxygen and collapsed into cold numbness.

A blissful nothing.

You grinned as blood dripped down your chin.

Cal hesitated, just shy of a heartbeat, but it was enough for you to launch.

The crowd howled as you collided with him, your fists slamming into anything soft enough to give, anything solid enough to bruise. You felt like a feeding frenzier piranha tearing into poisonous meat with no concern for what it did to your own body.

He grappled you, shoved you against the cage; your head cracked against steel, a ringing burst of stars exploding across your eyes.

“You’re slow,” you spat blood onto the floor.

He swung, you ducked, you surged forward and caught him with an uppercut that snapped his jaw back.

He staggered. You pressed harder.

Harder.

Harder.

At this point, both you and Cal were dripping sweat, both of you gasping, both of you bleeding and shaking and running on the last threads of adrenaline.

You both hit the mat, grappling like animals in the dirt, breath intermingling, fingers slipping in blood. yours, his, you couldn’t tell.

He hooked your arm.

You twisted.

You hooked his.

Cal struggled beneath your weight, your elbow locked your arm around his neck, your body shaking with exertion.

Then, he tapped the mat three times. “I’m done—fuck—let go—”

You released him, rolling onto your back.

When the announcer lifted your arm, you barely registered it.

All you felt was the ringing hum inside your head, the hum that meant you were alive, even if living felt like the most reckless thing you’d ever done.

Cal sat up beside you, wincing as he wiped blood off his chin.

He looked at you.

He stared at you for a long moment, then snorted a laugh, shaking his head. “You want a drink later this week? Off the clock?”

You didn't know why you said, “sure.”

—

Bucky showed up the next day.

You didn’t hear him at first. You were too preoccupied in the bathroom, staring at the bruises that painted your ribs in sickly yellow and deep violet, the newest ones still fresh and angry across your neck. You were pressing a cold rag to them when you heard the door open.

You debated locking the bathroom and pretending you weren’t home. You debated climbing out the window.

Instead, you opened the door.

He took one look at you, at your split lip reopening, a fresh scrape across your eyebrow, and his posture changed.

“What happened?” he asked. It was the same question as last time, the same attempt at being gentle.

“Gym,” you lied.

“You sparring with trucks?”

“Sure.”

He nudged you toward the couch. He reached into your freezer again and pulled out one of the ice packs he’d brought over on his last visit.

He pressed it to your cheek. You hissed, but he didn’t let go.

“You’re gonna run out of excuses eventually,” he murmured.

“No,” you said, leaning back, exhausted. “I’ll just get more creative.”

He didn’t laugh. He just held the ice there, his human hand steady on your shoulder, his eyes full of a concern he tried so damn hard to hide.

When he finally let go, he looked around the apartment again, to see more food, more furniture, despite the life draining from your eyes.

“You’ve been busy,” he said.

“Something like that.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say more, but closed it again.

He left it alone.

He left you alone.

For now.

—

Two days later, he was walking home from dinner with Sam when he passed the pool bar, the new one he’d asked you about. The one you said “no” to.

He didn't intend to look inside.

He just… did.

And through the large windows, he saw you, and you weren’t alone.

You were sitting at one of the high tables, leaning back in your chair, and letting out a small laugh. Across from you, was a guy with battered knuckles. You had matching bruises, though neither of you seemed bothered by it.

Bucky stopped walking.

Oh.

He had just bought a bouquet for you, since he was heading to your apartment. It was nothing fancy, just a handful of wildflowers he’d grabbed from a florist because they reminded him of your smile.

He looked down at them, then up at you.

The guy you were with leaned forward, saying something that made you shake your head. He said something else, and you smirked. It wasn’t warm, but it was… something. Bucky stood there on the sidewalk, flowers hanging useless in his grip.

He didn’t storm in or interrupt. He didn’t knock on the window or call your name.

He looked down at the bouquet again, turned, and walked away.

Eventually, he left the flowers on top of the trash can by the corner.

—

Inside, the bar smelled like chlorine and stale IPA, an odd combination that should’ve been unpleasant but somehow felt comforting, the way a dying motel neon buzzing was comforting. 

Cal was sitting next to you, the wood creaking under his weight. His nose looked freshly reset, eyes still bruised from the fight he lost to you. He grinned anyway, and you hated how familiar it felt.

He reminded you of Lemar in the way he carried conversations easily, like he’d never once questioned whether people wanted him around. And he reminded you of John in the way unhinged simmered right behind his teeth. As if he was restless and volatile, a spark waiting for gasoline.

You’d said yes to his invitation because that combination hurt. And you needed hurt.

Because if you were going to drown, you’d rather do it with someone who’d already tied their own weights on. Someone you couldn’t ruin any further. You didn’t want to pull Bucky into your undertow.

He laughed at a self-deprecating joke you made. “You’re real fun, you know that?”

You shrugged. You didn’t feel fun. You felt like a ghost trying to animate a corpse. But Cal was the same. He talked like a man dragging his own coffin around, making jokes to keep from tripping over it. 

He asked about your training. You told him. He asked if you always enjoyed pain that much. You didn’t answer.

Before you knew it, hours passed. You weren’t sure why you talked about what you talked about— violent stories, his dead wife and the struggles of being a single dad to a six-year-old, and you even mentioned your tours with John and Lemar without ever mentioning them by name. He was a car crash in slow motion. You were standing in the middle of the road.

At the end of the night, stumbling out into cool air that smelled like wet concrete, he reached for you.

His hand slid onto your face, thumb brushing the fading bruise Bucky had noticed days before. He just leaned in, and… kissed you.

It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t rough. It was a moment of pressure and heat that felt more like a dare than affection.

Your body froze before your brain caught up. After a suspended second, you stepped back, breath catching in your throat.

“I…” Your voice cracked, embarrassingly soft. “No. I—no.”

Cal blinked at you, drunk confusion twisting his features. “You seeing somebody else?”

“No,” you said. “Not really. Not—no.”

“Huh.” he looked down.

“I just…” You looked away. “I don’t feel like that. Thought this was a… friend thing, you know?”

You expected him to get angry. Men like him usually did.

Cal just let his hand fall, nodding once. “Yeah. I… yeah, I get it.”

He wasn’t hurt, because he recognised that you were just two people with empty chests staring at each other, realizing neither had enough heart left for two.

He stepped back, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “No hard feelings. Still wanna grab a drink sometime. Just drinks.” He lifted his chin up. “You’re good company, even when you’re sad as hell.”

You huffed something like a laugh.

He walked you to your building without trying to touch you again. You weren’t sure if it comforted you or unsettled you that someone else was just as hollow.

—

The next time Bucky came by, he tried to act normal.

You noticed something off the second he stepped through your door. His smile was a little too even, like he was trying to convince both of you that everything was fine. His hands were tucked in the pockets of his jacket, and he was breathing a little too loudly.

You raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”

For a split second, his mask cracked. You saw a flicker under his carefully controlled exterior. Was it Anger? Concern? 

“Yeah. Fine,” he said, quick and clipped, like deleting a message you weren’t supposed to see.

Dinner was quiet at first. You cooked, halfheartedly. He watched, arms folded, occasionally sipping from his glass of water. He looked… smaller than usual, like trying to occupy less space in case the world decided to shove him.

When you finally set the plates down, he let slip, almost by accident, “I saw you the other night… with a guy.” His voice was neutral, but the way his eyes flicked to you for your reaction betrayed him. He knew, on some level, that you could do whatever the hell you wanted. That didn’t stop the little stab of jealousy that he felt.

“You did?”

“Was it… a date?” he asked carefully, trying to sound unconcerned.

You snorted, a little amused. “What if it is?”

He shrugged stiffly. “It’s fine.”

You shook your head, leaning back in your chair. “No. I don’t see him like that.”

“Then how do you know him?” His voice was calmer now, but the question was suspicious in the way Bucky always was.

“Coworker,” you said immediately.

He raised an eyebrow. “Where the fuck do you work?”

You grinned faintly, the kind of sarcastic look he knew too well. “I’m a crash test dummy at the door factory,” you said, calling back the joke you made a couple of weeks ago about running into one.

Bucky stared at you for a second, clearly unimpressed. “Not funny.” But then a little chuckle escaped him. He shook his head and muttered something under his breath, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to look too happy that it’s wasn’t a date.

—

Weeks bled into months, each one folding into the next like bruised pages in a book no one wanted to read. You were making friends in the fights now. It was not that many, but enough to feel camaraderie that didn’t come with interrogations. Cal invited you to drink with some of the others, and eventually, names stuck to faces, faces stuck to injuries, and you could tell each other, I get it. 

You’ve gotten a name for yourself in the ring, and perhaps you had become undefeated because you did not give a fuck if you died trying. Every fight, every tap-out, every close call fed a part of you that you didn’t know even existed.

Still, it was a secret to Bucky, even when saw you often. He stood in your doorway just long enough for you to sense him, just long enough for you to notice the way his teeth tightened whenever you came back bruised or tired, or when you laughed too hard or too little.

Little by little, you started being… affectionate with him. Not openly, nor obviously. But you started resting your hand near his on the counter when he handed you coffee, your shoulder brushed his as you passed, giving little touches on his arm that lingered just a heartbeat longer than necessary. 

He noticed. To your surprise, he started responding. He’d bring you flowers, leaving them casually on the counter, wild ones you didn’t ask for.

One evening, after doing a whole lot of nothing, you sat in the corner of your apartment crying.

It was the first time you had actively asked Bucky to come over.

He arrive seven minutes later, he didn’t ask anything. He sat down beside you and let you lean into him, one arm around your shoulders, and you didn’t try to fight it. You just let yourself lean into him like you used to with Lemar’s shoulder, like you used to with John before everything went to hell. But this… it felt different with him. It felt more vulnerable with him.

Another time, you couldn’t get out of bed. Your body ached with bruises, and even swallowing made your ribs scream. Bucky didn’t ask. He came in and did your dishes, because moving your arms hurt like hell.

That day, he helped you to the bath, metal and human hands steadying you as you undressed. You’d complain, but you didn't have the energy to. 

As he helped pull your shirt over your arms, he saw the bruises. They were a mix of deep purples, fading yellows, dark reds that outlined your ribs, breasts, and shoulders and arms. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he tilted his head, lips sadly taking shape into that half-smile, half-grimace you’d grown to love.

“Door factory jobs must be rough,” he said, teasing, but you could tell he was worried.

You couldn’t help the laugh that came out.

He helped you climb into the bath he prepared. “You don’t have to do… whatever it is you do alone. I’m right here.”

You just stay there in the puddle, water running over the bruises, over your hair, over the places you hadn’t wanted anyone to see but him and whispered, “Hmm.”

Bucky had his suspicions— maybe you were training people at the gym, maybe it was private security. But no, you never intended to tell him the extent of it.

—

Tonight had started like every other night at work. 

“Clocking in?” Jace asked.

“Yeah,” you said, chewing your gum. You passed through the locker room, exchanging half-smiles with familiar faces, hearing the rhythmic slap of gloves on bags, the the bass in the arena floor, the faint metallic tang of sweat in the air. 

Everything felt almost normal. You greeted other fighters, nodded at the bartender, even managed a small laugh when someone joked about surviving the last fight without losing teeth.

Everything was alright up until you made your way to the cage.

Until you saw him.

What the fuck was he doing here?

Sam Wilson. 

He was standing near the back, his shield strapped across his back. His Captain America uniform looked like it glowed under the harsh neon lights, and you knew the exact second he noticed you were there, too. 

Suddenly, as you got locked in the cage, the world narrowed. Your vision pinched itself down into a tunnel centered on the red, white, and blue star that had haunted your nightmares for weeks. 

That shield.

That fucking shield.

The shield who was and still is a beacon of hope for many… was something entirely different to you.

It was the shield that John had carried when he took a life in exchange for Lemar. And now, it was on Sam’s back, and suddenly air didn’t reach your lungs the way it should.

All you saw was Lemar’s body. All you saw was John executioning an surrendering man.

You wanted to look away, but you couldn’t. 

Your heartbeat kicked in like a jackhammer. The sound of the crowd, the roar, the laughter, the clinking glasses, the shouted bets, all faded to white noise, leaving only your own panicked heartbeat, the metallic taste of adrenaline on your tongue, the molten ache in your chest.

You had to fight. 

You couldn’t break down here, not now. 

You glanced at Cal across the ring, bouncing lightly on his heels, a cocky grin stretched across his face. “I’m gonna win this time,” he said, teasing.

But instead of seeing him, your brain decided to play a trick on you and just showed you a Flag Smasher.

The bell rang.

You moved.

And from the first second, you were no longer just yourself. You were fury made flesh. Each step, each punch, each pivot felt like it had been pure instinct and desperation. Cal’s ribs groaned under the impact of your fists, his forearm splintered under your elbows, but you didn’t pause. Pain didn’t exist. Fatigue didn’t exist. The world had dissolved into a blur of neon light and sweat-slick skin and the taste of blood already collecting at the corner of your mouth.

He tried to reach the ground to tap, but you couldn’t stop. 

All you could see was a faceless man and a shield that triggered your fighting instinct. You were in a feeding frenzy, knuckles raw, arms trembling, lungs burning, heart hammering like it wanted to escape. You were rage incarnate. Every strike screamed I exist, I exist, I exist.

Then…

After a quick one-two on his face…. his body collapsed. 

He looked limp.

What?

What?

“Cal?”

The world shifted around you as the announcer blared over the speaker— “Knockout!”

The roar of the crowd came crashing back into your ears. You froze, chest heaving, staring down at him. Black streaks danced at the edges of your vision. 

You had done it. You had gone too far. You had knocked him out. 

Did you… did you kill him?

Oh no.

You dropped to your knees, holding his face. “Cal,” you tried to tap his face awake, like John did to Lemar, “Cal. C'mon, Buddy.” You shook him, shaking harder, pressing your forehead to his shoulder. He’s got a life. He's got a daughter who depended on him.  “Cal. Cal!”

The ref’s hands were on your shoulders before you even realised, lifting your hand up to declare victory. 

You gasped, chest heaving, before you remembered where you were. 

Someone came in the ring and said something you didn't hear, before repeat-ting it louder. “He’s alive. He’s going to be fine.”

Relief washed over you and it nearly buckled your knees.

He was… alive. Your friend, Cal, was alive. You didn’t kill him.

And then… your eyes met Sam. He looked annoyingly, impossibly calm. And the panic returned.

The shield. That shield. Lemar. John. The guilt. The fury. 

Your stomach recoiled. You wanted to run. You wanted to dissolve into the floor. You wanted to hide in the wash of adrenaline and blood and sweat that had temporarily made you feel alive. And for the first time, you realized that no amount of victory, no amount of frenzy or punching or bleeding or winning, would ever be enough. 

—

You stumbled out of the arena into the cold night, sweat still cooling on your skin, knuckles throbbing. You hunched your shoulders, trying to make yourself smaller, trying to ignore the way your entire body still vibrated with adrenaline.

“You look… good in there.”

The voice cut through the haze like a bell. 

Sam. 

Of course he followed you outside. 

You froze mid-step, head snapping toward him. He was standing casually against the brick wall of the alley, shield slung across his back, hands in his pockets. The uniform made him impossible to ignore, made you want to disappear entirely.

You opened your mouth, tried to brush him off, but nothing came out right. “Yeah… thanks,” you said finally.

Of course, he remembered you in the fight with the Flag Smashers, remembered how you’d kept up. He knew you were good.

“What are you doing here?” you asked

“I’m investigating a senator,” he said, shrugging. "He was seen here last week. Figure I’d see if there was anything else worth noting.”

An air of silence settled awkwardly between you. You wiped your fist on your shorts and didn’t answer.

Then, quietly, he asked, “Does Bucky know?”

“No,” you said flatly.

“Ah,” he said, as if he already knew the answer. His eyes softened just a fraction. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell him.”

You let that hang there, staring into the darkness, feeling the sting behind your eyes. “Appreciate it,” you repeated.

Sam sighed, sounding almost patient. “Look. You might not want my help, but I’m always here if you want to talk to somebody.”

You shook your head saying, “Whatever, man,” and turned slightly, pretending to tie your straps tighter, trying to close the conversation.

He didn’t push, but added. “I know you two have gotten close. Go Bucky tonight if you need to. Don’t spend tonight alone, okay? Not after what happened in there.”

Just like that, he left you alone to settle in the cold night air.

—

You stumbled through the streets, every step dragging, muscles trembling with adrenaline that had nowhere to go. Your fists hung limp at your sides, fingers still raw from the fight, from the punches you had thrown just to feel something other than the gnawing guilt. The city blurred around you, signs flickering against darkened windows, and all you could think about was Cal, unconscious in the ring, your hands shaking over his chest, the thought that you might have killed him.

When you finally made it to your apartment, you collapsed against the doorframe, braced yourself, and stripped off your fight gear. You shoved yourself into the shower, letting the hot water pound down on you. You scrubbed roughly, letting the water carry the blood down the drain, but the memory didn’t follow. It clung, sticky and sharp, inside your mind.

You dried off mechanically, wrapped a towel around you, and picked up your notebook. Bucky’s address was still there. He had given it to you, months ago, and you hadn’t gone. 

But tonight, you decided to take Sam’s advice.

Because tonight, the punching, the blood, the fight, it hadn’t given you the rush anymore. It hadn’t fixed anything. It hadn’t made the guilt smaller. The fear that you could hurt your friend, that you almost did, followed you like a shadow. You needed something else, someone else, to feel.

By the time you reached Bucky’s door, your legs felt like cooked spaghetti. You raised your hand, hesitated, then knocked. When the door swung open, he was there, and his eyes immediately tracked the blood and fresh bruising on your face and arms.

He didn’t say anything at first. 

You… hadn’t meant to do what you did next. But you were numb to the bone, and when you saw him, you saw the world.

And you simply needed to feel him.

You didn't even think. 

You pressed your lips to his, and it was rough, hungry, and desperate. The world shrank down to you and him and for a heartbeat, you thought… you think… that maybe he might pull away, maybe he’d finally reject you after all this time.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he kissed you back.

He shifted closer, his hands coming up to frame your face, tilting your head gently. His lips moved against yours with intent, letting you lean into him, pressing the heat of his body against yours. His chest met yours, and your hands dug into his shoulders instinctively.

You whispered breathlessly against his lips “I want you.”

He responded in kind. Not with words, but with pressure. His hands traced your jawline, slid into your hair, pulling you closer. His body curved around yours, and the tension between you crackled, like static.

Every nerve ending in your body lit up, every muscle tensed and then relaxed as he held you. The need was there but there was also restraint, a slow burn that made your heart beat in delicious agony.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, forehead resting against his. You could feel the tension coiling in him too, the restraint in his movements.

And then, after kissing the cut on your forehead gently, he trailed down and kissed your lips again, gentler this time, letting the tension build and linger, letting you feel it in every inch of your body. 

He pulled you in closer, shutting the door behind him. Months of restraint, months of unspoken words and half-touching glances, months of grief and rage and adrenaline and survival, all coiled up inside you, and now it unspooled all at once. 

Your hands fumbled, sliding under the hem of his shirt, feeling the warmth of skin and the plane of muscle beneath. He caught your wrists, guiding them, encouraging the exploration, pressing his body more firmly into yours. His metal hand found the small of your back, pulling you impossibly close, while the other, feeling the skin by your waistband, sent a shock of heat into your core.

Your lips moved against his again, tasting, claiming. You could feel him respond in every fiber of his body, every heartbeat echoing in yours, every sigh synchronized.

The air between you became humid with your combined heat, your breath mingling. Your hands roamed over him, tracing scars, tracing the texture of his vibranium arm. 

You whispered against him, trembling, “I need you.”

And he whispered back, a growl of a sound that made your knees threaten to buckle. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

You pressed yourself to him like you were trying to merge into his skin, like if you could just fuse with him, you might stop shaking, stop thinking, stop feeling the hollow ache of the fight. His hands roamed your sides. You needed more, and he sensed it. He guided you carefully toward his bedroom, one hand at the small of your back, the other tangling in your hair, tilting your head, peppering kisses all across the sensitive spots on your neck. 

Gently laying you on the bed, he lifted your shirt up over your head. But as he admired his eyes flicked down and then back up at your bruises. They were fresh and angry, and much worse than it was when he last saw your body. 

“What…” he kissed the dark spots on your body, hoping he could take the pain away, “What happened?”

“Bucky… don’t…” you gasped, pressing your palms to his chest. “Look at me. Look at me. I’m fine.”

“You’re hurt,” he said, worried. 

You laughed, a short, breathless laugh and kissed him again. “I’m not,” you said, chest rising and falling, still pressing against him. “I’m not hurt. I’m not—” You trailed off, biting your lip. “I’m not.”

His hands moved faster now, almost possessively, skimming under your pants, tracing bruises, brushing over the sensitive spots you didn’t even realize were tender until he touched them. 

You tugged at his shirt, tugged at the hem of his pants, urgently trying to feel every inch of him against you. 

Your bruises stung under his touch, but you didn’t care. His hand brushed over the cut on your temple again, and you gasped. “Don’t,” you warned, almost pleading. “Don’t… don’t make me think about anything else.”

His lips pressed to yours again, like he was telling you he got it. He got you. 

When you finally pulled back slightly, just enough to catch your breath, your foreheads pressed together and skin to skin, you realized that you hadn’t been this alive in a long long time. 

You braced yourself on his shoulder and licked the shell of his ears, “You’re mine tonight.”

He laughed, tracing his fingers down your sternum, “Yeah… I think I’m yours too.” For hours, you stayed entwined, tangled, and consumed by each other. 

Finally, finally, both of you found release in each other. When you collapsed together, limbs draped over one another, he held you close, fingers tracing absent patterns along your back, your temple pressed into his chest.

—

The next morning, sunlight filtered weakly through the blinds, dust mites drifting in the air. You woke to the ache of sore muscles. For a moment, panic crept in… you’d thought you were alone, but then you remembered you were not even in your apartment.

You were at Bucky's apartment, though he wasn’t sleeping beside you anymore.

You shifted out of the bed, and noticed your body hadn’t hurt as much.

Bucky had been tending to you while you slept. You were bandaged in places, and there were cool bits of ointment along your skin. 

You got up, put on one of his clean henleys, and found him on his couch in the living room, still in the loose T-shirt he’d fallen asleep in, a coffee mug in his hand. When he noticed you, he smiled sheepishly. “You’re up.”

“Yeah,” you said, voice hoarse. “Looks like you… did some work on me.”

He shrugged casually. “Couldn’t let you walk around like that.”

Without thinking, you leaned down, pressing your lips to his temple in a lingering kiss. He hummed, eyes closing briefly at the touch, and pressed a hand to the small of your back.

You sat on the edge of his couch. The heat of last night still lingered in your skin, in the memory of him pressed against you, of his hands on your body, of the way he’d let you come undone in his bed.

He watched you patiently.

“Is it okay?” you finally asked, “If… nothing changes?”

He tilted his head, the hint of a sad smile tugging at his lips. He’d been holding back, holding you at arm’s length for months. He knew he couldn’t push you into a rigid relationship you didn’t want, but neither can he hide his disappointment. So he reached out, tracing your features with the pad of his thumb. “It’s okay,” he reassured. “I can be whatever you want me to be.”

You looked at him, searching his face. “You’re sure?”

“Hey,” he said softly, brushing your hair behind your ear, “Whatever you can give, however you can give it, it’s enough.”

You let your head fall against his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around you, thumb tracing lazy circles on your arm.

“Okay,” you whispered.

“Okay,” he echoed, resting his cheek against your hair.

—

Things changed.

And… didn’t.

The next couple of weeks were strange, like you were walking underwater and everyone else was on land.

You and Bucky still circled each other the same way, but now there were nights you ended up in his bed or he in yours, and mornings where he made coffee while you sat on his counter in one of his shirts, pretending it didn’t mean anything.

Pretending it meant everything.

He didn’t say the word I love you, because that was a line you had drawn. But he kissed your forehead every time he saw you, and you let him. You’d lean into him without thinking. You found you liked falling asleep against him, and eventually, he printed photos of the two of you and put them up above the mantle of his fireplace, right next to a photo of him, Sam, and Joaquin, at one of the Wilson’s family cookouts.

But the fights… your job, changed.

You still showed up, still clock in, still nodded at Jace, still talked to Cal and his buddies (who never blamed you for what happened), but the moment you stepped into the cage, something inside you froze. You couldn’t explain it. You’d see Cal’s face, or the way Sam looked at you, or the moment you thought you’d killed your friend, and your hands would freeze.

You threw punches, but they were hesitant, soft around the edges. You could hit, God, your still body remembered how, but your mind pulled your hand back at the last second, afraid of that terrifying moment where someone didn’t get up.

So you stopped trying to win.

In true Achilles fashion, your opponent hit land, absorbing each blow like a punishment you’d earned. You went from undefeated to losing more than winning. Getting knockout after knockout, lights-out after lights-out. You’d wake up in the back room with someone snapping fingers near your face, and you’d mumble that you were fine, you were fine, you were fine.

You cried sometimes, still— that hadn't changed. In stairwells. In the shower. At the corner store staring at rows of cereal. The grief would come in unpredictable spikes, remembering Cal, Lemar, John, the shield, the guilt, the shame. It all pressed down on you until you had to sit on the floor just to breathe.

And then, once you were done, you’d check your phone to see a message from Bucky.

You home?

Bucky always showed up like the universe had put a tracking chip in your sadness.

Sometimes he brought food. Sometimes flowers. Once, when you couldn’t get out of bed, he sat beside you and rubbed your back until you stopped shaking.

Your bruises multiplied. They were blooming, finger-shaped, fist-shaped, dark purple shadows that wrapped around your ribs and throat and hips. You’d catch Bucky staring sometimes, confused and angry in equal measure.

“Door factory’s rough this month,” he’d mutter, trying to sound amused. You’d laugh because he wanted you to.

—

This Friday was just another Friday at work.

You told yourself you needed the cash, you still needed the noise in your skull drowned out, needed the ache of impact to chase away the demons.

Jace clapped you on the back. “Big crowd tonight.”

You wrapped your hands alone, knuckles still tender from the last beating you let someone hand you. 

And then, on the way to the ring you saw the familiar red, white, and blue shield casually over someone’s back like it wasn’t a gravestone.

Sam Wilson stood across the room, dressed in full uniform as he leaned in to speak to some suit, no doubt the senator he was tailing, or someone who knew him. He was probably here for the investigation.

But when he looked up, his eyes found you instantly.

He nodded a quick hi to you, but you tore your gaze away quickly.

He was just getting another lead. He wasn’t here for you.

So you just ignored him and climbed in the cage.

The lights scorched down on you. Your opponent bounced on his feet. This was a new guy. He was young and eager. You almost didn’t pity him.

He smiled at you, perhaps excited. You tried to smile back but your body already felt wrong, like your limbs were filled with water instead of blood.

So you pulled your hands up, waited for the bell, and told yourself you could do this.

The bell rang.

He came in fast.

You threw a jab. It landed—barely. Soon enough, your arms didn’t want to lift again.

Then he hit you.

A clean, precise cross to the cheek that rattled your skull. Then another. Then a hook that made your vision flash white.

You staggered, but didn’t cover. 

The crowd roared.

You heard someone shout your name. Maybe Jace. Maybe Cal. Maybe Sam. Maybe someone in the front row who bet on you winning. 

He hit you again. And again. And again.

Your head snapped back, knees buckling, tasting blood in your mouth. Still, you refused to tap out because you thought this was all you deserved.

But that familiar numbness, the one you used to chase, didn’t come this time. Only that sinking, choking thought…

What if he doesn’t stop? What if I don’t get up this time?

The new guy wound up again.

You saw the punch coming, and you didn't even try to stop it.

The hit detonated against your cheek and your legs gave way, collapsing under you like cut wires.

The roar of the crowd dissolved into static.

You caught a glimpse of Sam as you head lolled to the side, forcing his way forward.

But the world was already closing in on you.

Your last thought before the blackout was stupid and childish. 

If he tells Bucky, he's going to be so pissed.

—

You came back to consciousness like rising through deep water. A dull throb pulsed behind your right temple. The air smelled like antiseptic and old wood as a single bulb flickered overhead.

And someone was humming a Marvin Gaye song.

You tried to move, and felt a cold pack pressed to the side of your head.

Sam Wilson sat beside you, sleeves rolled up, eyes fixed on your face like he was making sure you were still here. “Welcome back.”

You looked sideways and found him perched on an upturned crate, elbows on his knees, holding the ice pack gently against your head.

You flinched away weakly. He pressed the ice back anyway.

You groaned and tried to sit up. He pressed a gentle hand to your shoulder. “You took a hard hit. I’ve seen soldiers with bullet wounds look better.”

Your eyes adjusted. You were in the warehouse’s back room, an emergency cot pulled out. 

“What happened back there?” he asked, like he was asking for a secret. “You looked like you forgot how to fight.”

You swallowed. Your throat burned, but said nothing.

“And that doesn’t seem like something you’d forget how to do,” He added.

“Why does it matter?” you snapped. You didn’t look at him. “Why the fuck does it matter to you—or me—if I died in there?” Your voice cracked at the end. 

Sam let out a deep breath. “It would matter to Bucky.”

Right.

You winced.

Sam tapped the melting ice pack gently against your temple. “I’ve seen a lot of hurt people. Enough to know when someone’s trying to kill themselves without technically killing themselves.”

Your lip trembled before you dug your nails into your palms.

“When you went down tonight…” Sam started, “For a second I thought you weren’t getting back up. And I saw the look on that guy’s face. He wasn’t trying to kill you. But you didn’t care if he did, right?”

You didn’t answer, because what could you say? You were tired, so goddamn tired.

And he was right. There had been a flash where you had genuinely thought, If this is it, then fine.

Sam sighed and rested his elbows on his knees, looking at the floor. “You’re not Achilles,” he reassured. “You’re not doomed. You don’t have to go out in some blaze of glory just because you’ve convinced yourself you don’t deserve anything else.”

Heat pricked behind your eyes. You bit your tongue to stop anything from slipping out.

“There are people who love you,” Sam said, more firmly now. “Might not be many. But enough. One, for sure.”

Your throat tightened.

“Don’t do this to him,” Sam said. 

You looked down at your hands. Finally, you muttered, “Whatever, man.” You didn’t want his lecture, didn’t want anyone to tell you you were too far gone or too reckless. You didn’t want to feel accountable.

Sam didn’t take the bait. He didn’t get mad, and didn’t leave. “You scared me,” he said quietly. “And if Bucky knew… well, you know how he gets.”

“Good,” you said, almost bitterly. “Glad I’m scary.”

“You’re better than what you’re doing to yourself,” he insisted. “And I know you don’t believe that right now. But borrow my belief until you do.”

You flinched. You wanted to argue, wanted to curl up and tell him he was wrong, but for the first time… you wanted to believe in him.

You swallowed hard. “And if I can’t?” you whispered.

Sam leaned closer. “Try anyway. You take one step at a time, yeah?”

Fuck.

Fuck.

“…I’m trying,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m trying, okay?”

Sam’s lips curved in an approving smile. “That’s a step,” he said. He stood, tugging gently at your shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you home before Bucky comes looking and tears this place down.”

A laugh slipped from your lips, and you let him guide you out. For once, you didn’t fight it. You didn’t resist. You let him help.

—

That night, Sam dropped you off at your building. You shuffled through the doorway and he followed just a few steps behind, like a shadow you didn’t mind.

You expected him to leave. You didn’t expect him to sit on your couch, to pour a drink, to ask how you were really doing.

You told him a little, carefully.

He listened like it mattered. You laughed a little at one point, and he smiled at the progress. After talking to him, it wasn’t hard to understand why he was Bucky’s closest friend.

By the time he left, you could probably, tentatively, cautiously, consider him your friend, too.

—

Bucky came over twice that week. You went to his place once.

Those nights that felt strangely gentle, with smooth vibranium fingers on your ribs. His human thumb brushed a bruise without speaking on it. You laid in his bed afterward, and you thought about telling him everything.

Fuck, you wanted him. Not just the skin‑to‑skin contact or the sex. You wanted the part of him that cared all to yourself. He wanted the part that loved you, apparently, if Sam’s words were to be believed.

So yes, you considered telling him about the fights. And the losing streak. And Sam hauling you out of your own graveyard of self‑destruction.

And honestly, fighting for as long as you did was lucrative enough that you could quit. You could down deposits, pay rent, eat for a year. You could stop letting people beat the shit out of you. You could stop chasing the punch that didn’t thrill you anymore. You could stop trying to die on the mat every weekend.

You could.

But you hadn’t told him.

You were scared he’d look at you differently, and perhaps scared he’d see what you saw in yourself.

—

Friday night came. And you had decided that day that you were going to fight again.

You were just grabbing your jacket, just about to head to The Basement to clock in for work, when someone knocked.

Who on earth could that possibly be?

You opened the door.

Olivia Walker, John’s wife, stood there holding her son against her hip like she was shielding him from the world. “I didn’t… I didn’t know where else to go.”

You froze. Olivia noticed.

“Is this a bad time?” She asked hesitantly, “Are you busy?’

You opened your mouth to say the words you wanted to say, perhaps I need to go to work, I can’t, I’m busy, but you didn’t. 

Because you couldn’t turn her away. 

Olivia wasn’t just John’s wife. She was your friend, too. She had laughed at your bad hair days in high school. She had been a popular girl in the cheer squad when you were too loud and too sarcastic, and yet she always included you. That's when you dragged her into the cafeteria to introduce to John, thinking, somehow, that maybe sparks would fly and everything would fall into place.

And for someone you cared about, and someone who clearly cared for you… you’d do anything for her.

“No.” you said, opening the door a little wider, “No… come in.”

—

After Olivia tucked her son into your bed, the same one you’d crawled into half-dead more times than you could count, she built a little baby‑gate out of mountains of pillows. She smoothed his hair, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and stood there for a while.

When she finally emerged from your room, her eyes looked older than you remembered. She hovered by your couch until you gestured for her to sit. She sat on the edge, hands knotted in her son’s blanket.

You both just… sat there, letting the silence stretch, letting her gather whatever shards of courage were left.

She inhaled. “I’m leaving John.”

It hit you like a punch, like one of those blunt, center‑mass strikes that knocked the breath out of you.

“You… y-you mean,” you croaked, thinner than you expected, “like… you’re done?”

Olivia nodded, the smallest nod imaginable. “I can’t stay.”

You stared at her. This was Olivia. Sweet, bright‑as‑sunshine Olivia. And John. Yeah, he had been complicated, hot‑headed, occasionally a bull in a china shop, but you’d see him in ways other people didn’t. You were there when he took her to prom. You helped him propose to her. You’d watched him wedding‑day nervous. You’d heard him talk about her like she hung the damn moon. 

“What… what happened?” you whispered. “He, John? He was…” Perfect, stable, whole. “…a good husband.”

“He was.” She swallowed hard. “He tried. I don’t think he meant to change. But… after… After Lemar, he got recruited by this woman, Val. I don’t even know who she really is, but John said she gave him purpose. She gave him missions. He was gone all the time, and… he wouldn’t tell me anything.”

She stopped, pressing the heel of her palm to her eyes before she completely broke. Tears started streaming down her eyes, and before you could say anything, she leaned on your shoulders and broke down completely.

“He started coming home angry, and bruised, and then detached… And I can’t—” Her voice cracked. “I don’t want my son to look at his father and think that’s normal.”

Your heart sank.

So… John wasn’t a perfect husband. John was just like you. Self‑destructive. Running toward violence because standing still hurt worse. He needed the next hit of adrenaline, the next bruise, the next fight because it drowned out the voices in his head.

And the worst part was that you understood him more than Olivia could ever know.

Your voice came out small. “Olivia… he—he didn’t hurt you, right?”

“No,” she said immediately. “Never. He’s still John. But he’s… lost. And I can’t follow him into whatever he’s doing. I can’t drag our baby into that life.”

You nodded slowly. Little did she know, she wasn’t just describing John. She was describing you.

Your bruises, your secrecy, your spiral. The way the violence was a pressure valve and a prison at the same time.

Olivia took a shaky breath. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

You rubbed your palms against your jeans, suddenly aware your hands were shaking. You wanted to tell her you were scared shitless, that you were standing on the same ledge John had fallen from.

But you couldn’t pile that on her. So instead, you reached out, covered her hands with yours, and said, “you did the right thing coming here.”

—

After microwaving a portion of Bucky’s mashed potatoes and giving it to Olivia, you caught her looking at hotel rooms, frantically searching for accommodation that had any rooms left at the last minute.

But she wasn’t doing that on your watch. You stepped aside and motioned toward your bedroom. “You can stay here tonight,” you said.

Olivia looked at you, surprise flickering across her face. “I… I can’t let you sleep on the couch in your own home,” she said.

You shook your head, a rueful smile tugging at your lips. “It’s okay, Olivia. I… I can stay with Bucky tonight.”

Her brow furrowed, almost knowing. “Bucky?”

“Yeah,” you said, trying to sound casual. “He doesn’t live too far.”

Olivia’s shoulders relaxed just a fraction. “I… okay,” she said, and the tension in her posture softened, just a little.

You gave her a small, reassuring smile, stepping back to let her settle in as you packed an overnight bag. 

Before you left, you looked at the picture of you, Lemar, and John in boot camp, and picked it up. 

For the first time in month, you could look at it without feeling like you had to throw up. 

—

Bucky’s apartment was lit only by the streetlamp bleeding in through the window. You stood outside his door for a good thirty seconds before knocking, bag slung over your shoulder.

The door opened almost immediately.

Bucky’s hair was damp, curls pushed back from his forehead, like he’d just showered. He was wearing sweatpants and a worn shirt that clung to his chest in ways you really, really shouldn’t be noticing right now.

“Hey,” he greeted softly, the way he always talked to you.

You swallowed. “Can I stay here tonight?”

His brows lifted slightly in surprise.

“What, no work?” he asked, leaning against the frame. “Door factory closed early tonight?”

You snorted despite yourself. “Bucky—”

“You work every Friday,” he said. “You always do.” He wasn’t accusing you, but he just knew you.

Your throat tightened. You stared at the floor. “I… I’m quitting.”

That made him tilt his head. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He could see the storm under your skin. He could always see it.

He opened the door fully. “Come in.”

You stepped inside. The familiar warmth of his apartment made you feel at home. You came to love the waterstain on the counter, the lingering steam from his shower, the hum of the old heater in the wall. It always felt like safety.

Bucky closed the door behind you, turning slowly, like he was giving you space to run. Or to stay.

You kept your eyes on the floor, fingers twisting in the strap of your bag.

After a long while, you finally said, “I don’t want any more secrets between us.”

Oh, Bucky thought.

You swallowed hard, your voice coming out afraid. “I talked to Olivia.”

His brows pulled together. “About John?”

You nodded, a shaky breath slipping out. “She came over with their baby. She… told me what he was like after Lemar. He… he pushed her away. He didn’t tell her everything.”

Bucky listened, guiding you to sit down on his couch. 

“I saw myself in him,” you whispered. “And it scared the hell out of me.”

Bucky sat next to you, human hand holding yours now.

You forced the words out before you lost the courage. “I’ve been fighting underground.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped to you. You could tell he was surprised, that he didn’t expect it. But in that moment, all your bruises, all your cuts started to make more and more sense,

You kept going. “I started after— after moving. I didn’t know how else to feel anything but grief. Or to shut it all off. I didn’t tell anyone.”

Your hands were shaking now, but Bucky held you, rubbing small circles on the palm of your hand.

“And when Sam found me…” you continued, “I was losing on purpose. I-I didn’t care if I got hurt. I didn’t care if I didn’t get up.”

You felt a tear fall, and wiped it quickly.

“I didn’t want you to look at me broken,” you whispered.“I thought you’d judge me. Or walk away. Or decide I wasn’t worth the trouble.”

You finally lifted your eyes.

“I didn’t want to lose you,” you whispered.

Bucky sighed, lifting one hand to your cheek. His thumb brushed away the rest of the tears you hadn't bothered to hide.

“Sam knew,” he observed, not bitterly. Not jealous. 

You nodded, ashamed.

“And not me,” he said.

Your throat threatened to close. “I was afraid.”

“You should’ve told me,” he cupped the back of your neck, gently pulling your forehead to his. “You shouldn't've put me on some pedestal where I can’t reach you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “I’m trying not to.”

His fingers slid into your hair. “That’s all that matters.”

“I’m tired,” you whispered, voice breaking on every syllable, “I’m so fucking tired.”

“I know.” He said. “But look how far you’ve come.”

You let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “I’m a mess, Buck.”

He shook his head, brushing his nose against yours. “I’m proud of you.”

“Why?” you whispered, desperate. 

“Because,” he said. “Because you are here telling me the truth even though it’s ripping you apart. Because I’m glad, even if it's not me, that you let Sam help. You let someone help.”

“I thought… you’d hate me,” you breathed.

Bucky pulled you into him, his arms around you, his metal hand spanning your back like a shield. You clutched his shirt, fingers curling tight in the fabric.

His voice dropped to a whisper against your temple.“I could never hate you.”

Your body shook as he held you tighter. 

“I don’t want Lemar’s death to turn me they way it turned John,” you cried into his chest. “I don’t want to push you away. I don’t want the violence to be the only place I feel alive. I don’t want to lose the only person I—”

Your voice cracked again.

“The only person I love.”

Bucky’s hand in your hair froze. His heartbeat kicked against your cheek, like you’d shocked him back to life.

“I... This… whatever this is—” You lifted your head, eyes burning. “No. I know what it is. It’s love. I love you.”

He lifted your chin in his hands. “I love you too,” he whispered, “You know I have loved you for a while.”

His thumb traced the curve of your bottom lip, You felt the world spin, the way it did when you first kissed him.

“Come here,” he breathed.

He didn’t yank you forward. He guided you, giving you space to pull away, right up until you closed that last distance yourself.

Bucky kissed you like he’d done so many times, your breath tangled with his. His hands slid from your jaw to cradle the back of your head. His other arm wrapped around your waist, drawing you in until you didn’t know where you ended and he began.

His lips parted against yours, asking without demanding. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his T-shirt, pulling him closer. He made a low sound in his throat, and you responded in kind with a sigh.

Bucky pulled away, his forehead resting against yours, both of you holding that breathless space between wanting and restraint, catching the moment before it could burn too fast.

And today, of all days, you understood what you had once done for Lemar, and for John, you’d do the same for Bucky. 

For him, you’d stay alive. 

For him, you’d face life as a worthy opponent.

-end.

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Masterlist

The early afternoon sun was a relentless spotlight, shining directly on the fragile facade you and Bucky had meticulously constructed around you two.

Today, that facade was titled "Sarah’s Annual Backyard Birthday Bash," and it felt about as sturdy as a house of cards in a hurricane.

You adjusted the strap of the mickey mouse printed diaper bag slung over your shoulder, trying to look casual as Bucky wrestled Jamie, the three-year-old embodiment of pure, unadulterated energy, out of the backseat. Jamie was already shouting instructions about which color sidewalk chalk he intended to use first.

“I’ve got the heavy lifting,” Bucky murmured, his hand brushing the small of your back—a touch that was now purely logistical, no longer intimate. “Ellie’s still asleep?”

“Miraculously. Don’t wake the princess,” you replied, nodding toward the car seat where your one-year-old daughter, Eleanor, was nestled, her tiny chest rising and falling rhythmically.

Bucky flashed you a practiced, public grin—a perfect symmetry of strong jaw and crinkled blue eyes. Then expertly unbuckled the sleeping baby, lifting her gently and settling her against his chest in one practiced motion.

 He was, undeniably, good at this. He was good at all of this, which was half the problem; the logistics of your life together were seamless, but the emotional core had become fractured and complicated, heavy with unspoken expectations and missed connections.

“You look nice,” he added, the compliment slipping out effortlessly, catching you off guard.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, suddenly self-conscious of the sundress you’d debated over for twenty minutes. “Go survive the bouncy house. I’ll make the rounds and find something cold to drink.”

“Yes ma’am”

The yard was a chaos of primary colors and shrieking joy. 

You watched Bucky navigate the crowd. With Jamie clutching his hand and Eleanor resting peacefully on his shoulder—a tableau of idealized fatherhood.

 He looked less like your now distant—temporarily-separated fiancé and more like the anchor you had always needed.

As you mingled, the play felt exhausting. The well-meaning, side-glances were worse than the open questions thrown at you. 

Are you guys okay? You seem… fine. Is Bucky doing alright?

You perfected the “non-answer—answer”: "We're prioritizing the kids right now," delivered with a smile that masked the relentless ache in your chest. The truth was, you were focused on co-parenting because that was the only safe option left. Jamie and Eleanor needed stability, and their parents were determined to provide it, even if it meant Bucky spent his nights on the couch at his sister’s house in the next town over.

You found Sarah by the grill, juggling metal tongs and a plastic cup filled with rose beaming when you walked over to her. "You brave soul, bringing both of them," Sarah laughed, giving you a quick hug, nodding to your kids. "Bucky looks like he’s in his element. He really is so good with them."

"He is," you agreed, the simple statement holding more truth than Sarah could ever know. Bucky wasn’t just a decent dad; he was a partner in the most critical and beautiful part of your lives. He didn’t "babysit"—he parented, fully and completely. Even now, separated, his commitment to the kids, to you, hadn't wavered.

You stayed outside until the heat started to feel oppressive, the sun baking onto your shoulders. You needed a moment of genuine stillness, away from the watchful eyes and the happy loud noise.

“I’m going to grab a bottle of water and check on how low Eleanor’s snacks are getting,” you called out to a passing friend.

The transition from the blazing patio into the cool, shadowed interior of the house was a relief. The kitchen was mercifully empty, save for two women huddled near the pantry door, balancing plates of potato chips and onion dip.

One of them was Chloe, a new chipper woman from school drop-off, recognizable by her impossibly expensive sunglasses perched atop her head. The other was an unidentified blonde, dressed in crisp white linen. They were clearly deep in conversation, and your entrance, though quiet, made them freeze momentarily hearing the door creak and slam again.

You moved towards your diaper bag slung across the island barstool when your ears perked.

Chloe leaned closer to the blonde, her voice dropping, but not quite low enough. “Honestly, I don’t know how she does it. I mean, he’s fine to look at, sure, but I heard from Lisa…who heard from Jen…that the separation is definitely about the fact that Bucky is just… miserable.”

The blondes eyebrows rose as she leaned in adding—“Miserable? Or just checked out? I think the second baby just absolutely broke him. Some guys are fine with one, but lord… two under three? Especially when the mom is always so… frantic and desperate… I wonder if she baby trapped him?”

You stiffened, the cold air from the fridge not reaching the sudden, hot flush crawling up your neck. Frantic. Desperate. Trap. Was that what they saw? The stressed mother constantly managing a three-ring circus?

Chloe sighed dramatically. “Well, whatever it is, it's messy. People say he’s already spending more time at the gym and less time bringing Jamie to T-ball. Seems like he’s just using the separation as an excuse to bail on the hard stuff.”

The blonde nodded sagely. “Classic baby daddy flight. He’ll come back once she hires a nanny and drops all that baby weight, but for now, he’s probably reveling in the freedom. You know, guys like that, the ones who seem too perfect, they always crack the hardest. I may just have to get my own hands on him.”

The women didn't know the first damn thing about your life, about the sleepless nights you’d spent arguing over finances and future plans, about the core disagreement over where the family should settle, or the painful, mutual decision to step back and breathe. 

Your separation was about stress, growing pains, and a desperate attempt to save the marriage before the partnership was destroyed. 

It certainly wasn't because Bucky had checked out.

A raw, protective anger sparked in your chest. It wasn't the anger of a woman scorned; it was the fury of a mother and partner defending her family. These women were tearing down the walls you and Bucky were working frantically to fight for and hold up.

You slammed the diaper bag down, the sound echoing unnervingly in the quiet kitchen. Chloe and the blonde officially stopped talking, eyes wide as saucers, belatedly realizing they were in fact not alone.

You took a slow, deliberate step toward them, planting your hands on your hips. The polite smile was gone, replaced by a cold, hard glare.

“Are you finished?” you deadpanned, your voice deceptively quiet.

Chloe, the quicker of the two to recover, tried to stammer out an apology. “Oh! Um, hi! We didn’t—we didn’t realize you were in here. We were just—”

“Gossiping about me?” you supplied, cutting her off. “No, I know what you were doing. And since you seem so concerned with the state of my family, allow me to clarify something for your little rumour mill to spread.”

You took another step, closer, forcing them to look past their own discomfort and into your burning eyes.

“Bucky is not ‘miserable.’ He is a man who is exhausted from working seventy plus hours a week to provide for his family, and who, also, yes, agreed with me that we needed a temporary separation to address our issues before they began to grow and poisoned our home.”

Your voice rose, firm and uncompromising. The pain of the separation fueled the conviction in your defense.

"And as for him bailing on the 'hard stuff'?” You paused, letting your gaze sweep over Chloe, who was now clutching her plate of dip like a shield. “While I was inside putting out the dumpster fire that is your poorly judged conversation, Bucky is outside wrangling a hyperactive three-year-old and holding a sleeping baby through the entire bouncy house maze, ensuring both of them were happy, safe, and hydrated.”

You leaned in with finality.

“That is the father of my children and a pretty damn good one, considering your husband just slept with nanny…what was it?…number three.”

The silence that followed your hiss was thick and suffocating. Chloe’s face went pale white. The blonde gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. The reference was clearly specific enough to land squarely on the intended target.

You didn't wait for the inevitable, pathetic justification or the backpedaling apology. 

Your intention was complete: the line had been drawn. 

This was your man, the father of your children, and no amount of temporary pain or miscommunication between the two of you would ever allow someone else to disparage his character without consequence.

Spinning around, you left the quiet, shamed kitchen and burst back into the bright, noisy backyard feeling shaky but strangely light. 

Your heart pounded, fueled by adrenaline and the residual heat of the sun.

You scanned the green lawn, looking for Bucky’s familiar broad shoulders or mop of hair. Before you could spot him, a small, delightful squeal broke through the commotion.

“Mama! Up!”

Little Eleanor, surprisingly awake and mobile, had spotted you. She pushed off Bucky's leg and toddled toward you on unsteady, adorable cherub legs, her face alight with recognition. She reached you and grabbed onto your knees, pulling herself up.

You scooped her up immediately, burying your face in the soft crook of her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of grass and baby powder. The anger immediately dissipated, replaced by the warm, palpable love only your children could evoke.

"Hey, sweet girl," you whispered, holding her tight.

Bucky arrived in your gaze moments later, looking concerned. He had Jamie balanced on his hip, who was now clutching a slightly deflated blue balloon.

"Is everything okay?" Bucky asked, his brow furrowed. He hadn't seen the confrontation, but he had certainly seen the change in your demeanor—the sudden, sharp energy that radiated from you. "I saw you coming out of the house like you were fleeing a fire."

"Someone’s, maybe, not mine.” you managed, forcing a small smile.

He stepped closer, concern overriding his usual public reserve. He didn't ask what happened; he simply registered that something had happened and that you were upset. He reached out, not to touch you, but to gently brush Eleanor’s hair off her forehead.

"Are you tired? Is the heat too much?" he asked softly,  voice low enough that only you could hear it over the bass of the party.

Looking at him—the leaves clinging to his dark hair, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin, the careful, loving way he held Jamie—you were hit by a wave of unexpected tenderness. 

You were separated, yes, no secret, but this safe man, this devoted father, was still your haven. You had just defended him because, deep down, he was still and always will be yours.

You reached out to him, fingers finding the familiar warmth of his large rough hands, intertwining with his strong, calloused ones. It was the first unscripted, non-logistical physical connection you had shared in weeks.

You leaned close to him, whispering the question that felt less like a request and more like a desperate need for his peace. “James...Can we go home?”

The question hovered in the air—not just to his sister’s apartment, or to your house, but home, the place where you were a unit, a family, safe from judgment and prying eyes.

He didn't hesitate. Not for a second. The look in his eyes clarified everything: the gossip, the rocky separation, the pain—none of it was more important than the four of you in this moment.

“Of course,” he said immediately, squeezing your hand, his gaze intensely focused on yours. “We’ll pack up. It’s been a long day, huh buddy?” he directed toward Jamie, who was perfectly happy to be going anywhere, as long as the blue balloon came too.

“Say goodbye to Sarah, okay? I’ll grab the bag and kids,” Bucky smiled, already pivoting into action. He gently shifted Jamie onto his shoulder, scooping your girl up with minimal fuss. He was a master of efficiency when the kids were involved. “Alright sweethearts let’s go.” 

As you walked past the patio, you saw Chloe and the blonde staring at you from the corner of the yard. They didn't try to look away this time; they just watched. You met their gaze briefly, offering a final, smile—the kind that showed you were completely secure in the loyalty of the man walking beside you.

Bucky quickly gathered the remaining gear, strapping Eleanor into her car seat and securing Jamie, who was already drifting into a post-party sugar-crash sleep.

The drive was quiet, the only sounds audible the soft hum of the air conditioning and the rhythmic breathing of your sleeping babies. You sat in the passenger seat, your muscles finally relaxing. You glanced over at Bucky. His profile was sharp against the cotton Candy setting sun. He was concentrated on the road, but his exhaustion was visible along the lines of his pursed mouth.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

He spared you a brief glance then right back to the street. “For what? For leaving a hectic party? I was ready to go an hour ago. The bouncy castle nearly killed my lower back.” He laughed.

“Nooo,” you insisted, drawing the word out. “For not asking. For just saying yes.”

He reached across the console, and this time, he took your hand fully, resting it on the gear shift where both of your hands could remain tethered. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, a warm, reassuring movement.

“You,” he stated simply, voice rough with sincerity, “and the kids. That’s always the priority. Whatever else is going on, whatever we’re fighting about, or disagreeing on or even in the middle of a hot makeout…”

That made you laugh.

“..that fact never changes, okay?”

You squeezed his hand. The fight for your future was still ahead of you—all the hard, agonizing conversations needed to bridge the gap between where you were and where you needed to be. But for this moment, driving toward the house that was still ‘home’ for all of you, surrounded by the physical proof of your partnership, you felt an overwhelming sense of peace.

He pulled into the driveway but didn't immediately turn off the ignition. He looked at you instead, in the dim light, taking a deep breath. “You want me to take the kids inside, or…?”

“Let’s do it together,” you decided, nodding. “Jamie first. Then Eleanor.”

You unbuckled your seatbelt, spinning around looking at your kids. Drooling, heads lolled to the side. But before Bucky could slip out to get them you caught his wrist. 

“Babe?” 

He looked down at your hold on him then your eyes, searching. “Hmm?”

“Can…can we talk tonight…after they go down for the night?”

He blinked then slipped his hand from your grasp. “I—, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” 

part two posting November 11th ->

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On the endcap, tucked by the makeup and lotion, a pack of Lip Smackers glared at you in bright plastic. Not just any Lip Smackers either. Soda flavors. Eight tubes lined up proudly: Coke, Cherry Coke, Vanilla Coke, Sprite, Barq’s Root Beer, Fanta Grape, Fanta Orange, Fanta Strawberry.

You didn’t even hesitate. Straight into the cart. The list was a distant memory now. You were already imagining the look on Bucky’s face, already hearing him grumble about how ridiculous it was while secretly loving it.

He was on the couch when you got home, hair tousled perfectly on his head, mismatched socks propped on the coffee table. He gave you a side-eye the second you walked in.

“You look suspicious.”

“I don’t look suspicious.”

“You absolutely do,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

You plopped the bag on the table, pulled the package free, and tossed it at him.

The plastic crinkled in his hands. He frowned down at it. “What the hell is this?”

“Lip balm.”

“I know what chapstick is, sweetheart.” He tilted the package toward the light, squinting. “But why does it say Coke? Sprite? Root beer? These are drinks.”

“Flavors,” you corrected, grinning.

His brows pulled tight. “So what, you smear this on your mouth and your mouth tastes like soda?”

“Exactly.”

He looked back at the package, baffled. “Your generation is out of control these days. First I nearly die trying soda, now you’re telling me they put it in chapstick too?”

You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your keys. “I warned you about that Sprite.”

“You didn’t warn me enough. That wasn’t a drink, baby, that was a live wire.”

“McDonald’s Sprite,” you teased, wiping tears from your eyes. “The strongest of all Sprites.”

“I thought my throat was closing,” he muttered.

“And yet you still tried Coke. Fanta. Dr. Pepper. All of it—"

He groaned. “Don’t say it.”

“For the plot.”

He tilted his head back, eyes closing like he was suffering. “I hate how you say that.”

“No, you love it.”

He cracked a smile he tried to hide.

“So what’s the point of these then?” he asked, shaking the package like maybe the answer would fall out.

“The point,” you said, sliding in beside him and ripping open the plastic, “is a game.”

“A game.”

“Yep. I put one on, you kiss me, you guess the flavor.”

There was silence, then the corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s your game?”

“Yes.”

Another long pause, then a quiet laugh. “Only reason I’m agreeing to this is because it involves kissing you.”

“Exactly what I was counting on.”

“Eyes closed,” you said.

He sighed but obeyed, lashes resting against his cheeks. “This feels like a trap.”

“Just trust me.”

“I did that once. You gave me Sprite.”

You rolled your eyes, twisting the first cap off. Coca-Cola. It smelled like syrup, sugary and sharp. You smoothed it on and leaned in, pressing your lips softly to his.

Bucky kissed you back slow, like he was concentrating. His mouth was warm, familiar, and you almost forgot this was supposed to be a game until he pulled back, lips pursed in thought.

“That’s Coke.”

You grinned. “Yep.”

He smirked without opening his eyes. “Better on you than outta the bottle.

Cherry was next. It went on slick, sweet. You leaned in, and this time he met you halfway, hand sliding to your thigh like he couldn’t help himself. The kiss lingered, a little longer, a little deeper.

When you pulled away, he licked his lip, brow furrowing. “That’s… strawberry?”

You laughed. “Wrong.”

“Cherry then?”

“Cherry Coke.”

“Close enough.”

“Doesn’t count,” you teased.

“Cruel,” he muttered, pulling you back in for another kiss anyway.

Vanilla was softer, sweet like candy. You kissed him again, slower this time, letting his hand cup your jaw. When you pulled back, he hummed low.

“Coke again. Sweeter. Vanilla.”

You smiled. “Correct.”

“I like it.” he murmured, brushing his mouth against yours once more.

You couldn’t help grinning when you pulled the Sprite tube out. He was going to hate this.

The citrus smell hit your nose as you swiped it across your mouth. You leaned in and barely brushed his lips before he recoiled with a dramatic groan.

“Nope. No way. That’s Sprite.”

You were laughing too hard to breathe.

“Tastes like a damn battery,” he complained.

“It does not.”

“Baby, I think I would know what a battery tastes like.” He kissed you quick, sharp, like he was proving a point. “Never put that on again.”

Root beer was warmer, creamier, and the second you kissed him, he didn’t pull back. He deepened it instead, thumb rubbing slow circles at the back of your neck.

You tried to pull away for his guess, but he chased your mouth, kissing you again, then again.

“Buck,” you mumbled, lips brushing his, “you gotta guess.”

“Don’t care what it is,” he said, kissing you once more before pausing. He licked his lip thoughtfully. “Root beer?”

“Yeah.”

“Keep that one, doll.” His voice dropped, rougher. “Could get addicted.”

The grape balm made you grimace, so you weren’t surprised when Bucky kissed you once, then pulled back with his whole face twisted.

“Absolutely not.”

You snorted. “Guess.”

“Grape. Cough syrup.”

You nodded, laughing.

“Terrible. Never again.” He kissed you once more anyway, muttering, “Just to make sure I hate it.”

Orange was easy. Sweet and bright, it reminded you of summer. You swiped it on, and before you even leaned in, Bucky had his hand on your collar, pulling you to him.

The kiss was firmer, hungrier. When he finally pulled back, his lips were curved into a smirk. “Orange soda. My favorite.”

“You’re stealing this one, aren’t you?”

“Already mine,” he said, leaning in to kiss you again.

The strawberry balm went on smooth, sugary sweet. You leaned in, but Bucky didn’t give you the chance to tease. His hand was already sliding to your waist, tugging you into his lap.

The kiss was messy, hot, his mouth moving against yours like he’d been waiting all night. By the time you pulled back, you were breathless.

“Strawberry,” he murmured, finally opening his eyes.

“Correct,” you whispered.

“Good,” he said, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “Means the game’s over. Now I don’t gotta pretend I care about guessing.”

You laughed softly, right before he kissed you again, deeper this time, his hand slipping under your shirt like the little tubes scattered across the table didn’t exist anymore.

bucky's a jealous person. he always has been.

he doesn't like to share, nor does he pretend otherwise. not his kitchen, not his recipes, not his workers, and certainly not you.

he doesnt like it when you're working the front of house, all bright smiles and flirty little laughs, coaxing tips and compliments from men who don't deserve your attention, and it doesn't help that you're walking around in that tiny little skirt and buttering up the customers, it also doesn't help that you're so good at it.

bucky knows it's a part of your job, knows that you do it to survive— but do you really need to be doing all of that? he's sure that if you lean any closer to the guy at table seven, he'll be able to see the lining of your panties, and at this point, he's not even sure if you're wearing any.

the kitchen behind him is organised chaos— pots and pans clattering against the stoves, utensils scratching against ceramic, and shoe soles padding around the linoleum floor.

but bucky doesn't hear any of it. his eyes are locked on you through the serving hatch, where you're leaning over a little too close to the asshole at table seven, your smile soft and sweet as you pour him another glass of whiskey and giggle at something he says.

bucky hates it. you might as well be sitting on his lap and hand feeding his steak to him. hell, you might as well pull down his fancy suit pants and just start fucking him in the middle of the restaurant with everyone watching.

"you're staring."

bucky's jaw clenches as he glances sideways. steve stands next to him at the grill, sliding a seared salmon onto a plate, eyebrow arched like he's just caught bucky with his hand in the cookie jar.

"i'm not." bucky snaps back a little too fast, eyes darting back down to the pan in his grasp. his knuckles are bone white from how tight he's gripping the handle.

steve smirks as he places the seared salmon onto the counter with practiced ease, "y'know, you could just tell her. it won't hurt. you're already staring at her like you've claimed her."

as well as being jealous, bucky's awfully proud. chateau barnes is a renowned high-end restaurant in new york. as the head chef of his own restaurant, he almost has to be. he prides himself on order, control, and precision in the kitchen— every knife sharpened, every pan and pot in its place, and every dish leaving the kitchen exactly as he had envisioned it.

and because of that, bucky would never admit that he loses all control of his mind the second you step out onto the floor. he'd rather die than admit it to steve, who seems to notice everything anyways.

"i don't know what you're talking about." bucky grumbles, basting the steak in butter, eyes fixed firmly on the pan as if it's the only thing that matters.

steve cocks a brow, "you know what i'm talking about."

bucky doesn't respond. he doesnt want to give steve the satisfaction of knowing he was right, and this steak was currently more important than whatever bullshit his sous chef was about to spew.

steve stops what he's doing just to taunt bucky, his voice low enough that only he can hear. "the fact that you wanna bend her over the counter and take her right there in front of—"

"finish that fucking sentence and you're on dish duty for the next month." bucky cuts him off, eyes snapping towards steve. the glare alone would have made an apprentice shit their pants, but it only makes steve grin wider.

"tough crowd." the blonde mumbles. he shrugs as if its the most normal thing in the world, then goes back to slicing into a perfectly roasted duck breast.

there's an annoyed quirk in bucky's eyebrow as he goes back to plating the dish. putting steak down, drizzling the sauce, adding garnish, every detail done with deliberate and precise movements— anything to keep his hands and mind busy. anything to keep steve from seeing how close he'd come to hitting an exposed nerve.

bucky doesnt look up. he knows that if he does, he'll see that rich asshole at table seven still trying his luck, and he'll see you entertaining him like he's paying you a million dollars to do so. both of you would piss him off, and right now, he needs his head in the pan. the butter's foaming and the steak is searing, and focus is the only thing that keeps him from calling a smoke break.

so he keeps his eyes down. baste, tilt, baste again. control. order. discipline. that's what he's good at.

but it's you out there, and that alone stirs up an itch under his skin that he can't ignore. its an almost unbearable urge that picks at him— the urge to just look up. because if its you, then he wants to see. he needs to.