天使

Prague, maybe. Serbia, possibly. He's on a mission, one of those shadowy, leather-gloved affairs that probably involves scaling rooftops or disarming a bomb with seconds to spare. You don't know the details. But the ache in your chest? That's all the intel you need.

Ten days.

Ten days since you've felt the heat of his body pressed against yours, since you've tasted the soft, devastating edge of his mouth. Ten days since you've run your fingers through his dark hair, felt the shudder in his breath when you tug just a little too hard. You're unraveling, fraying at the edges, a woman starved for the man who's both her anchor and her storm.

So, naturally, you do what any rational, touch-starved, love-drunk soul would do. You grab your phone. You swipe open the camera. And you pose.

It's not graceful. You're not some sultry vixen trained in the art of seduction. You're just you—heart pounding, towel slipping just enough to tease, hips tilted in a way that feels like a dare. You stare into the lens and think, What would make Bucky lose his mind?

The answer is this: you, glistening from the shower, skin dewy and warm, the towel barely holding on, one hip cocked, your lips parted in a look that's half-innocent, half-come get me. It's a snapshot of longing, of I miss you laced with I dare you.

You snap the photo. Your thumb hovers over the send button for a heartbeat—two, three. Then you press it.

The wait is electric.

Your phone buzzes, and your pulse spikes.

Bucky Jesus, sweetheart.

Another buzz, and it's like his voice is in the room, low and rough, curling around you like smoke.

Bucky What are you doing to me?

I'm in a goddamn surveillance van with two other agents and a shared screen. Had to throw a blanket over my lap like some kid who can't control himself.

You bite your lip, a slow, wicked smile spreading across your face. The towel feels heavier now, like it's conspiring with your racing heart. You type back, fingers trembling with mischief.

oops! just wanted to say hi... all clean and wet. is that a crime now?

Bucky You're lucky I'm not there, doll. You wouldn't be standing.

Your breath catches, a soft laugh spilling from your lips. Heat pools low in your belly, and you can almost feel the ghost of his hands—calloused, warm, possessive and grazing your skin. You type again.

hmm, i'm all wet and lonely. you're out there being dangerous and armed... we're not playing fair, are we?

Bucky Say that one more time, and I'm on the next flight home. Mission be damned.

You laugh again, loud and unguarded, because you know he means it. He'd burn the world down to get to you if you asked. And that's the sweetest, most dangerous part of all—this love that's so big, so consuming, it's hard to breathe without pulling him into your orbit.

You sink onto the edge of your bed, still clutching the phone, the towel slipping just a fraction lower. Your skin hums with the memory of him, and you wonder how long it'll be before he's back, before you can trade these teasing texts for the real thing—his hands, his mouth, his everything.

Until then, you'll just have to keep torturing him. One sultry selfie at a time.You spend the next three hours doing completely ordinary, non-sinister things like brushing your hair and moisturizing your soul. Also, watching Mamma Mia! for the hundredth time and pretending you don't keep glancing at your phone every seven minutes.

You do. You absolutely do. And yes, you are tracking Bucky's location like the clingy menace you are.

And it turns out he's checked into his hotel.

Which means—oh.

He's alone.

And probably grumpy.

Which means Bucky Barnes, Sergeant of Chaos, is probably somewhere in Europe brooding shirtless in soft lamplight. All sharp jawline and stormy eyes, still simmering from the situation you personally orchestrated.

Your body hums. Full-body anticipation. Wicked little pulses of mine mine mine under your skin. So naturally, you do what any well-adjusted, emotionally stable girlfriend would do.

You hit the video call button.

He answers on the first ring.

His face fills your screen—all chiseled bone structure and dark stubble and mussed hair like he's been running his hands through it since your last message. His voice is a low growl, sleep-rough and laced with something entirely more dangerous.

"Baby,"

You sprawl across your bed, the towel you're still wearing—barely—slipping dangerously low, exposing the curve of your thigh, the dip of your collarbone. You tilt your phone just right, letting him catch the glint of your damp skin in the soft light. "Hi, Sergeant," you purr, your voice a velvet blade, sharp and sweet.

He groans, head tipping back against the headboard, the sound vibrating through you like a physical touch. "Don't start with that Sergeant shit," he warns, but his eyes are already darkening, pupils blown wide as they rake over you. "I'm barely holding it together."

"Why?" You tilt your head, letting a damp curl fall across your shoulder, your lips curving into a smirk that's pure sin. "I'm just being respectful. Honoring your rank." You shift, the towel riding up just enough to make his jaw clench.

"Fuck," he mutters, the word a prayer and a curse. You hear the creak of his hotel bed, the rustle of sheets as he adjusts himself, and it's enough to make your thighs press together. "That picture you sent? I've been hard since. Had to lock myself in this room just to breathe."

You laugh, low and sultry, stretching out on your bed, letting the towel slip another inch, teasing the edge of decency. "Poor baby," you coo, your voice dripping with mock sympathy. "All worked up because of little ol' me?"

"You know exactly what you're doing," he growls, his eyes narrowing as he leans closer to the screen, like he could reach through it and grab you. "You're a fucking menace."

"I miss you," you whisper, and it's not just teasing now—it's raw, aching truth. Ten days without him, without his hands, his mouth, his weight pinning you down. It's too long. Too empty.

His expression softens, just for a second, before the hunger takes over again. "Miss you so damn much, sweetheart," he says, his voice thick, almost reverent. "It's killing me. Ten days, and I'm dreaming about you, waking up hard, thinking about your taste, your smell, the way you fucking move."

Your breath hitches, heat pooling low in your belly. "Then show me," you challenge, your voice a husky whisper. You prop your phone against a pillow, angling it so he can see every inch of you—towel barely clinging to your hips, your skin flushed and glistening. "Show me how much you miss me."

His eyes go molten, and he shifts, the camera catching the flex of his vibranium arm as he adjusts himself. "You want to play dirty?" he murmurs, his voice dropping to that dangerous, filthy register that makes your toes curl. 

He shifts, grunts softly, and sets his phone down too—somewhere low, tilted up just enough to give you the full view. And oh. Oh, God.

He's shirtless. Hair a mess. His thighs spread wide and bare.

And his cock. Thick, flushed, already hard rests heavy against his stomach.

"Like that, baby?" he asks, a little breathless, a little too smug for someone stroking himself with a metal arm like he's trying to kill you with lust via satellite.

You whimper. That's it. That's your only response. A noise of full-body, feral yearning.

Because his vibranium fingers? Wrapped around the base of his cock like a fucking vice. The gold plating catches in the low light, gleaming wickedly as he strokes once—slow and deliberate, like he wants to ruin you before he even touches himself properly.

"I thought about you all day," he murmurs, lazy now, letting his thumb rub over the head, watching your mouth fall open. "Tried so fucking hard not to do this until I saw you. But then you called, lookin' like you wanted me to lose it... Take that towel off, baby. Let me see you."

You comply, agonizingly slow, peeling the fabric away until it pools beneath you, leaving you bare and breathless under his gaze. His groan is primal, a sound that vibrates through your core. "Fuck, look at you," he breathes, his hand disappearing below the frame, the motion unmistakable. "So fucking perfect. You know what I'd do if I was there? I'd bury my face between those thighs. Lick you so slow, so deep, you'd be begging me to let you come."

You whimper, your fingers trailing down your stomach, teasing yourself as his words burn through you. "Bucky," you gasp, your voice trembling with need. "Keep talking."

"Oh, I'm just getting started," he says, his voice a low, filthy promise. "I'd spread you open, taste every inch of that sweet pussy. Fuck, I can still taste you from last time, all wet and warm and mine. I'd suck that clit until you're screaming, until you're pulling my hair so hard it hurts. You'd be dripping for me, wouldn't you? Soaking the sheets, begging for my cock."

Your fingers move faster against your hot core, chasing the heat of his words, your hips bucking as you moan his name. "Yes," you pant, your body arching off the bed. "God, Bucky, I need you."

"You have no idea," he growls, his breath hitching as he matches your rhythm, his camera shaking slightly as he moves. "I'd fuck you so deep, baby. Pin you down, make you take every inch. You'd feel me for days. I'd fill you up, make you scream my name until your voice gives out."

"Fuck, Bucky—" Your hand trails down again, desperate, twitchy.

He smirks. "Go ahead. Touch yourself while you watch me." His jaw flexes, the vibranium grip stroking tighter. "Wanna see how wet you are for me."

And you do. With him watching. With him moaning. With the sound of slick metal pumping against his cock, slow and devastating.

"I'm gonna fuck you so deep when I get back," he growls, voice wrecked now, gaze locked on you like a threat. "You won't be able to walk straight, baby. Not after this. Not after seeing me fuck my fist thinking about that perfect pussy of yours."

You gasp, your rhythm matching his, your thighs trembling.

"I'm gonna come all over this hand," he grits out. "And the second I land, I'm putting my mouth where this hand's been. Gonna taste you, taste me on you. Make you take it."

The words push you over the edge, your body shuddering as you come, his name a broken cry on your lips. He's not far behind, his groans rough and ragged, the camera catching the tense line of his jaw, the way his eyes flutter shut as he chases his own release.

For a moment, there's just the sound of your heavy breathing, the shared silence of two people wrecked and sated. You're sweaty, flushed, your body still trembling, but you feel alive, tethered to him through the screen.

"Jesus Christ," he pants. "I'm booking the next fucking flight."

You collapse into sleep, hard and heavy, your body still humming from the filthy promises of Bucky's voice over the video call. The blankets cocoon you, your pulse a lazy flutter, your skin tingling with the ghost of his words. You're not even sure if you ended the call, too drunk on pleasure to care. One moment, you're sinking into the soft haze of afterglow. The next—

Oh. Fuck.

You wake to a sensation so sinful it rips you from sleep. A wet, searing heat between your thighs, deliberate and unrelenting. Your hips buck instinctively, a sharp, needy jolt as your eyes flutter open, vision blurry with confusion and want.

Another slow, possessive lick drags up your core, and your brain stutters, short-circuits, melts. Your breath catches, a broken gasp, as you blink down and see him—Bucky Barnes, all six-foot-something of him, nestled between your legs like he was made for it. His hair's a tousled mess, dark strands falling into his eyes, his beard scraping deliciously against your sensitive skin. Those broad shoulders, carved from years of violence and redemption, pin your thighs open against the sheets. And his tongue—fuck, his tongue—is inside you, lapping at you like you're the sweetest thing he's ever tasted.

"Bucky—what—?" Your voice cracks, half a moan, as you try to process the impossible. "How—?"

"Shh, pretty girl," he murmurs, his lips brushing your clit, the vibration of his voice sending a fresh wave of heat through you. "Heard you whimpering my name in your sleep. Fuck, you sounded so needy. Couldn't just lie there and listen."

"You're here?" you gasp, trying to sit up, but his vibranium arm curls over your hip, pinning you down with gentle, unyielding strength. "You—ohmygod—Bucky."

"Told you I'd be on the next flight," he growls, his voice rough with hunger, his eyes dark and feral as they meet yours. "Couldn't stay away. Not after that little show you put on." He dives back in, his tongue swirling deep, dragging a wrecked moan from your throat. "You taste better than I remember. So fucking sweet."

Your hands fist the sheets, your hips grinding up to meet his mouth as he devours you, slow and reverent, like he's worshiping every inch of you. His tongue flicks and curls, teasing your entrance before plunging inside, and you're already trembling, your body a live wire under his touch. "Bucky—please," you whimper, your thighs quaking as he hooks them over his shoulders, spreading you wider, claiming you completely.

"Love hearing you beg," he murmurs against your pussy, his beard scraping your inner thighs, the burn only amplifying the pleasure. "Missed this. Missed you. Been dreaming about this pretty cunt every fucking night." He sucks your clit hard, a deliberate pull that makes your vision blur, your body arching off the bed as you cry out. "Gonna make you come so hard you forget how to breathe."

You do. You come so fast, so violently, it's like a supernova bursting behind your eyes, your entire body seizing as you scream his name. He doesn't stop, lapping at you through the aftershocks, drawing out every shudder, every broken gasp, until you're a boneless mess beneath him.

But he's not done. Not even close.

Before you can catch your breath, he's up, his hands—flesh and metal—flipping you onto your stomach with effortless strength. "Ass up, sweetheart," he growls, his voice a dark, filthy promise that makes your core clench all over again. You scramble to obey, your knees sinking into the mattress, your back arching as you press your hips back toward him, desperate, aching, needy.

"Fuck, look at you," he groans, his hands gripping your hips, his thumbs spreading you open as he kneels behind you. "So wet for me. So fucking perfect." You hear the rustle of his clothes, the clink of his belt, and then he's there, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance.

Not yet.

Instead, he presses the hot, leaking head of his cock on your wet pussy and just… holds it there. Teasing. Taunting. Letting you feel the weight of him, the heat, the pressure, everything you want but not giving you an inch.

He grinds in slow, maddening circles, rubbing right where you're soaked and aching, coating his tip in your slick. The sensation is enough to make your knees shake.

You whimper. Push back against him. Beg with your body.

But he only chuckles, low and wrecked. "You want it that bad, sweetheart?" he rasps, dragging his tip up through your folds, nudging your clit before sliding back down and rubbing against your entrance again. "Fuck, look how wet you are for me. Just from my voice. Just from thinking about me."

You sob his name, fingers curling in the sheets, desperate for friction, for fullness, for him.

But Bucky stays exactly where he is. Letting the swollen tip of his cock press against your cunt without breaching it, just enough to make your whole body burn. Just enough to make you feel like you're going to snap.

He groans like he's punishing himself. Like this is torture for him, too. "Could slide in so easy," he murmurs, grinding slow and shallow against you, your slick coating both of you now. "You're begging for it, baby. This tight little cunt's fuckin' fluttering, pulling me in."

Your hips buck helplessly. "Bucky... please—"

"Please what?" he growls, jaw tight. "Please put it in? Please fuck you stupid? You want this cock, doll?"

"Yes—fuck—yes," you cry, nearly delirious. "Please, don't tease, just fuck me..."

"Oh, I'm gonna fuck you," he says, his tone dripping with dark, delicious intent. "Gonna fuck you so deep you'll feel me for days. Gonna ruin this pussy." He slides in slow, inch by agonizing inch, stretching you, filling you, until you're gasping, your hands clawing at the sheets. 

"You're mine, baby. This tight little cunt? Mine."

He starts moving, hard and deliberate, each thrust driving you into the mattress, his hips snapping against yours with a filthy rhythm that makes you sob with pleasure. His vibranium hand grips your hip, cool and unyielding, while his flesh hand slides under you, finding your breasts, cupping them possessively. His fingers pinch your nipples, rolling them just hard enough to make you gasp, your body arching further into him as he groans against your skin. "These fucking tits," he growls, squeezing them from beneath, his touch rough and reverent. "Been dreaming about these, too. So soft, so perfect in my hands."

"Yes—yes," you moan, your body shaking as he pounds into you, each thrust hitting that perfect spot that makes you see stars. "Love it. Love you. Bucky, harder."

He growls, low and feral, and gives you exactly what you want, his pace turning brutal, his cock slamming into you so deep you feel it in your bones. "Fuck, I want to taste you again," he rasps, leaning over you, his chest pressed to your back, his lips grazing your ear.

It's too much. It's everything. Your body is a live wire, oversensitive and overstimulated, but you can't stop, can't pull away from the way he's claiming you, body and soul. His filthy promises, his bites, the way he fills yoU, it's all-consuming. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, white-hot and blinding, your walls clenching so tight around him you feel him falter. You scream his name, a broken, desperate sound, your body shaking as you come so hard your vision goes dark, your pussy gripping him like it's trying to keep him forever.

"Fuck—fuck," he chokes out, his thrusts stuttering as he buries himself deep, his cock pulsing as he spills inside you, hot and thick, wave after wave filling you up. His forehead presses against your spine, his breath ragged, his hands trembling as they lock onto your hips, anchoring himself to you like you're his only tether to the world.

But he's not done. Oh, God, he's not done.

He pulls out just enough to catch his breath, his cock still slick and half-hard, and then he flips you over with a strength that steals the air from your lungs. You land on your back with a startled gasp, your legs trembling as he nudges them apart with his knee, his vibranium hand curling around the back of your neck, possessive and grounding. His dark, wild, starving eyes—lock onto yours as he lines himself up again, pushing back inside with a slow, deliberate thrust that makes you whimper.

"Need to see you," he murmurs, his voice low and wrecked, his lips brushing your temple as he rocks into you, deep and unhurried, like he's savoring every second. "Need to come inside you while I watch those pretty eyes fall apart." His flesh hand slides down to your thigh, hooking it over his waist, opening you up so he can fuck you deeper, his cock hitting places that make your breath hitch.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, his forehead pressed to yours, his hips rolling with a rhythm that's both tender and devastating. "Feel how full you are? That's all me. Gonna fuck you so deep you'll feel me for weeks. Wanna mark you inside and out, make sure you're dripping with me." His vibranium hand slides up to your breast, squeezing hard, his thumb brushing your nipple until you're gasping, your body clenching around him again.

He bites your shoulder again, harder this time, his teeth sinking in as he growls against your skin, the sharp sting blending with the pleasure of his cock filling you. "Love these fucking tits," he murmurs, his hand kneading your breast, his fingers pinching just enough to make you moan. "Love how you shake for me, how you take every inch like you're made for my cock."

You're a mess, slick with sweat, your body trembling as another orgasm builds, unstoppable and overwhelming. "Bucky," you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders, his back, anything to hold onto as he drives you higher. "I love you. I love you so fucking much."

That's what breaks him. A shattered groan of your name spilling from his lips as he comes again, his cock pulsing deep inside you, filling you until you're dripping, claimed in every way. His thrusts slow but don't stop, drawing out your pleasure until you're shaking, your own release crashing through you, your moans mingling with his as you cling to him, utterly ruined.

He collapses over you, chest heaving, his body a warm, heavy weight pinning you to the mattress. He doesn't pull out, just stays there, softening inside you, his lips brushing soft, reverent kisses over the bite marks on your shoulder, soothing the sting he left behind. "Missed you so fucking much," he whispers, his voice raw, trembling with something deeper than lust. "Couldn't stay away from you. Never can."

You hum, too fucked-out to speak, your arms wrapping around his back, holding him close as your body thrums with the afterglow, the marks on your shoulder a delicious reminder of his claim.

"You okay?" he murmurs after a moment, nudging your nose with his, his voice a mix of concern and that smug, bastardly charm.

You manage a breathless laugh, your head still spinning. "I think I died. Twice."

He grins. Smug bastard.

"Good."

You roll your eyes. "You and your fucking audacity," you mumble, barely coherent.

He chuckles, still inside you, still hardening slowly. Still not done.

he insists on carrying your tote bag even if it’s hot pink with glittery letters because “what? it’s functional”

bucky never lets your water bottle go empty. he will walk across the room, the park, the planet to fill it up if he sees it’s low

he’s the type to let you drive and take the wheel when it’s time to parallel park

you mutter, “i hate parallel parking,” already bracing for disaster.

bucky doesn’t say a word. just shifts the gear into reverse, calm as ever.

his right arm moves behind you, resting on the back of your seat. his shirt stretches tight across his chest as he twists, one hand on the wheel, jaw set, brows drawn in just the slightest bit of focus.

he looks unfairly good like this—sharp profile, easy confidence, like he was built to park in tight spaces.

he backs in perfectly. no hesitation, no readjusting. when it’s done, he taps the gear into park and glances at you with that quiet smirk.

“easy,” he says.

and you’re not even mad.

bucky would never tell you that he practiced braiding hair on a mannequin head because he wanted to be able to do your hair when you’re tired—but he would casually offer to do it one night and pretend he’s just winging it

he has exactly one picture of you as his phone lock screen, and he never changes it. “you looked the happiest in this one,” he says

when the squad’s all piled onto the couch watching a movie, you and bucky are off in your own little world.

he’s got one arm around your shoulder, your legs tangled with his, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your knee. he’s not even watching the movie, just quietly mouthing the words to whatever snack you’re eating.

“one more chip?” munch.

“last one?” munch.

Beside you, Natasha slouches in her usual irreverence, legs crossed like she owns the pew. Her red hair tumbles out of its barrette, she leans over, breath brushing your shoulder. “I swear, I’m about to drop dead,” she mutters, voice low and lazy. “No coffee. No air. Your uncle’s trying to preach us straight into Revelation.”

You flick her a warning glance, lips barely parting. “Nat. Hush.”

Her mouth quirks, unapologetic. “What? You think Mrs. Carter’s gonna smite me with that hat?”

You almost laugh, but you don’t. Not when your chest already feels too tight. 

Natasha’s teasing feels distant when you glance across the congregation. The town’s finest: fanning themselves with bulletins, murmuring prayers with dry mouths, shifting in their pews like sheep waiting for the bell to ring. There’s comfort in the predictability of it all—Mrs. Thompson dabbing her forehead, the Levin twins flicking spitballs when they think no one’s looking, old Mr. Jenkins snoring softly into his tie.

Then you see him.

Back row. Second pew from the door. Half in shadow.

Your lungs forget how to fill.

White shirt. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The stark line of his forearms catching the fractured blue light from the window. Broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, as though he doesn’t belong to the pew or the building or even the air. 

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

You know that name. Everyone does. Even when people don’t say it, it lingers in town like the burn of communion wine on the tongue. The sergeant who disappears and reappears like a ghost. The boy who left with too much silence and came back older than the war he fought in.

You hadn’t seen him since last summer—when you passed him roofing nails and lemonade during a heat wave that melted straight through your better judgment. When he called you darlin’ like it wasn’t a sin to speak that way in front of the steeple. When he looked at you with those storm-gray eyes, slow and sure, and smiled like he saw every rule you ever followed curled up at his feet.

He was trouble. You knew it then.

But now? Now he’s ruinous.

His jaw is sharper, dusted with stubble. A new scar drags a pale line across the corner of his chin. His face is unreadable, but his hands, resting on the hymnal in his lap, are tight. White-knuckled. Like the sermon is something to endure. Like you are.

You shift slightly, thighs pressing tighter together. It does nothing to relieve the pressure, only makes it worse.

Natasha leans over again. “No way. No actual way. He's back?” Her voice catches the edge of a gasp, tempered by a wicked sort of thrill.

“I don’t know,” you manage. Your voice is hoarse.

“God, he looks…” She shakes her head, eyes wide. “Like sin in a shirt.”

You swallow, jaw stiff. “Shut up.”

But she’s right. He does.

He looks like a man built out of grief and war and hard decisions. Like someone who wouldn’t flinch if you kissed him wrong. Like someone who would ruin you sweetly and make you thank him for it.

“Bet he hasn’t looked away since you walked in,” Natasha whispers.

You stiffen. You don’t dare turn back. Not yet. You can feel it, though, like pressure against your skin, like being watched through a keyhole, like heat crawling under your dress in places you can’t mention during confession.

“He was staring last summer too,” Natasha adds casually. “Remember the festival? While you were passing out lemonade?”

You don’t answer. Because you remember. You remember every second of it. How he watched your fingers wrap around the cup. How his gaze trailed down the slope of your neck like he was memorizing it. How he didn’t look away, not even when your hands trembled.

“You’re imagining things,” you whisper.

“Am I?” Natasha hums, smug. “Look at him now.”

Your fingers tighten around your Bible, nails digging into the leather. And against every whisper of sense you ever inherited from your grandmother’s lectures and your mother’s modesty, you lift your gaze.

And find him already watching.

His eyes lock with yours—steady, unflinching, like they’ve been waiting. Not curious. Not playful. Hungry. And not in the way a boy looks at a girl in passing, not like a crush or a flirtation.

No.

This is a gaze that says: I would kneel for you. Or make you kneel for me. It depends on the hour.

His mouth doesn’t move. His hands don’t twitch. But the weight of him—of it—lands between your legs with aching clarity. You feel it. Low and deep. Like a question no prayer can answer.

You look away.

But it’s too late.

You’ve already said amen with your body.

The service closes with “Amazing Grace,” the final verse sung off-key but full-hearted. An old hymn, a familiar one, but today the words feel strange in your mouth.  Voices rise and fall unevenly, and when the last note fades, the congregation stirs like a spell has been broken.

The pews empty with the slow chaos of a summer Sunday. Bulletin pages flutter like leaves in the breeze from the open doors. Your uncle stands at the entrance, shaking hands, nodding gently to familiar faces, each one softened by light and routine. Natasha’s already vanished, no doubt chasing lemon bars and iced tea in the fellowship hall, her halo of red hair the only warning left behind.

But you stay.

The quiet chapel feels safer now that it’s half-empty, stripped of voices and eyes. You move through the rows slowly, hands methodical as you gather hymnals, stack them spine to spine. It’s a ritual. One you’ve claimed for yourself. Tidying things while your thoughts fray. Your dress whispers against your legs with every step, the hem brushing your skin, static clinging to your stockings. 

You’re not the saint they think you are. But you’re good at looking like one.

That’s what matters here, isn’t it? Pretty posture. Kind smiles. A polite “bless your heart” that can cut cleaner than sin. You know how to play this part, the girl with just enough shine to distract from the cracks.

Your fingers brush a forgotten tissue in the pew, and you pause just long enough to hear voices drifting in from the vestibule. The low hum of your uncle’s voice. Familiar, reassuring. Then another... lower, rasped.

Him.

“James,” your uncle says, warmth curling around the name, “we’re planning a Thanksgiving Mass. To give thanks for you and the boys coming home safe. I’d like you to speak, if you’re willing.”

Your hand stills, the bulletin in your grasp crinkling beneath your fingers. You hadn’t known. No one had told you there’d be a Mass. That he would be its centerpiece. 

You shift closer to the aisle, quiet as a shadow. Through the curve of the vestibule, you glimpse him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, face angled toward the light. He doesn’t belong there. Not really. But he looks like he could, if he let himself. He takes up space in a way that doesn’t feel fair.

His frame eclipses the doorway. Shoulders broad under crisp white cotton. His sleeves are still rolled. Still wrongfully intimate. Like his wrists have known the burden of restraint, and his forearms could still break it.

“Not sure I’m the man for that, Pastor,” he replies, voice rough and quiet. “Words aren’t my thing. Neither are crowds.”

His tone isn’t humble, it’s factual. Honest. Like he knows what he is and what he’s not, and he’s not interested in pretending otherwise.

You catch the sharp gleam of the scar on his jaw, etched like it was earned. You wonder what part of him bled when it happened. 

Pastor Thomas chuckles, warm and unwavering. “You’ll do fine, son. The Lord brought you back. That’s a story worth sharing.”

Bucky hums, noncommittal, and you should go. You should leave. But your feet are heavy. Rooted to the worn wooden floor like they’ve decided they’d rather burn than miss this.

Then he sees you.

No. Finds you.

Across the room, through half-light and silence, his eyes catch yours like a snare. And something inside you stumbles. Not your feet. Your faith.

He doesn’t look away.

He doesn’t smile.

His gaze doesn’t search, it knows. It lands on you like a thumb pressed gently against the base of your throat, a question and a warning both. You lift your chin instinctively, jaw tight, breath shallow. You hope it reads like defiance. But your heart betrays you, thumping recklessly, desperately, like it doesn’t believe in restraint anymore.

You’re still gripping the tissue like it might tether you when you hear them, his footsteps. Not loud. But sure. Each step is a confirmation that he’s coming closer.

You don’t turn.

Not yet.

“Need help?”

His voice is low. Right behind you. Close enough that you feel it in your spine before you hear it fully. You turn slowly, deliberately, because anything faster might reveal too much. He’s only a few feet away, holding a small stack of bulletins. His forearms flex slightly with the weight, veins visible, movements restrained, like he’s always holding something back. Like he could split a pew with his bare hands and wouldn’t apologize.

“I’m fine,” you say, sharper than you intend, smoothing your skirt out of reflex. You need control. You need space. You need him not to be looking at you the way he is.

“I don’t need saving.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t take offense. Just lifts one shoulder in an indifferent shrug.

“Didn’t say you did.”

He steps forward and places the bulletins gently on the pew, fingers brushing the worn wood with unexpected reverence. Every motion is quiet. Careful. Like he’s spent years learning how not to break things.

“Just offering.”

You grab another hymnal too hard and it lands in the stack with a dull thud.

“Well, thanks,” you mutter, eyes not meeting his. “But I’ve got it.”

He lingers. Not moving. Just watching you.

And it’s worse than a smirk. It’s worse than any teasing or flirtation. His silence is knowing. It leaves room for you to trip over your own heartbeat. It asks nothing and says everything.

You don’t trust it. You don’t trust him.

And yet...

Your body betrays you with every pulse of heat under your skin.

You can feel the faint hum in your fingertips. The way your breath shallows when you finally glance at his mouth. The slight part to your lips. 

“All right,” he says at last, voice dipped in something gentler than before. He turns away like he’s not trying to take the air with him. But just before he disappears into the doorway, he glances back.

“Good to see you.”

The words are simple. They shouldn’t make your knees weak. They shouldn’t leave you standing there, staring at your reflection in a polished hymnal like a girl who’s already been ruined in thought, if not in body.

But they do.

—

Weeks passed. Long, thick cozy weeks filled with the same rituals, Sunday services, choir rehearsals, bake sales, and casserole rotations. You keep yourself busy. Keep your hands full and your smile polite.

You stand behind the soup station, ladle in hand, your dress a soft petal pink that hugs at the waist and flares gently at the hem. It’s modest, church-safe, but the way it clings just enough when you lean forward, it’s not innocent. Not really. Your lips are tinted to a subtle shine, catching the light each time you smile politely at a neighbor or crack a joke to one of the kids. Your hair is pinned back with delicate precision, curls tucked into place.

You’re polished. Poised. Perfect.

And you’re distracted as hell.

James Barnes hasn’t been back to Sunday service since. Not that you’ve kept track. Not that you’ve stared too long at the back seats, wondering if it was him that made the air feel different. Not that your heart doesn’t stutter every time the church doors creak open.

You haven’t seen him.

Until now.

You don’t sense him before you see him. There’s no shift in the air, no chill across your neck like in some storybook.

He’s just suddenly there.

Across the table. Holding a tray in his hands.

His jacket is gone—no black barrier between his body and the room. Just a plain gray shirt, sleeves pushed up. His forearms are bare to the elbow, veins visible like topography on a map you don’t dare read too closely. His hair is a little damp at the ends, curled near the nape like he just ran his fingers through it out of habit. He doesn’t smile too much. Doesn’t speak, only when asked.

Your fingers tighten around the ladle.

“Chicken noodle or vegetable?” you ask, voice softer than it should be.

His eyes hold yours a moment longer, like he’s letting the sound of your voice settle in him before answering.

“Whatever you think’s best,” he says, and the gravel in his tone ripples through you like someone dragging their thumb along your spine.

You shouldn’t react. You shouldn’t feel it.

You dip the ladle into the chicken noodle slowly, trying to look as unaffected as you pretend to be. As you pass the bowl across, his fingers meet yours—just for a second—but it’s enough. The touch sends a jolt up your arm.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, holding your gaze a second too long before moving on, his tray held steady. You exhale only once he’s past you.

He walks to the edge of the room, settling at a small table in the corner, where the noise can’t reach him fully. You watch him eat slow, methodical. He doesn’t glance around. But he’s present in a way that’s almost unnerving—aware of everything, even if he doesn’t react to it.

He looks at families like they’re echoes of something he’s lost. Like he’s not sure if he misses it, or if he just envies the simplicity of belonging.

“Earth to you,” Natasha murmurs, appearing at your elbow with a plastic cup of lemonade and a sly smile.

You blink, pulled back into your skin. “What?”

She grins wider. “You were staring.”

“I wasn’t.” But your voice isn’t convincing. Your cheeks are already warm.

“Oh, please.” She sips her drink, gaze flicking over to Bucky. “That man eats soup like he’s brooding on a mountain somewhere.”

“He’s not brooding,” you mutter, though you’re not sure why you feel the need to defend him. You look back toward him and catch the moment he rises quietly to help Mr. Hargrove adjust his chair. He’s gentle. Careful. He doesn’t rush the older man or flinch when thanked. His movements are restrained, but there’s a softness in the way he places a hand on Mr. Hargrove’s shoulder that twists something in your chest.

“Heard he’s been going to the grief group,” Natasha says, quieter now. “Doesn’t talk much, but he listens. Really listens.”

You swallow.

Of course he does.

—

The church’s annual rummage sale spills across the lawn like a quilt, blankets unfurled, tables groaning under crockpots and glass trinkets, old ladies manning booths with sun hats and clipboards. The air smells like cinnamon bread, mothballs, and last year’s perfume. Laughter rises from the youth tent, mingling with the sharp rustle of donation bags and the distant notes of someone strumming a guitar.

You’re tucked beneath a white canopy, surrounded by cardboard boxes of clothes, carefully folding sweaters and arranging them into neat piles by size and color. Your dress is a pale blue today—modest neckline, flutter sleeves, cinched at the waist. It brushes your knees when you crouch to dig through a box of scarves, the cotton soft and worn from too many washes. 

You’re trying to focus. Really.

But your eyes keep drifting.

You’re folding a forest green cardigan when voices filter through from the other side of the rack, low, familiar, and just loud enough to pause your breath.

“Come on, Buck, it’s not that bad,” says someone with a warm, amused voice.

Bucky.

“Steve,” comes his gravelled reply, filled with dry disdain. “I look like an idiot.”

Another voice, deeper, playful: “Man could wear a trash bag and make it work. Even ugly Christmas sweaters.”

You freeze, clutching the cardigan a little too tightly, peeking between the racks like a guilty thought.

Bucky stands beside two other men, one tall, blond, with kind eyes and a faded plaid shirt, clearly the peacemaker. The other, handsome and grinning, carries the energy of someone who always gets the last word.

And James...

He’s holding up the most hideous red sweater you’ve ever seen. Rudolph stitched with googly eyes and a pom-pom nose. His brow is furrowed, jaw set, expression hovering between horrified and resigned.

But his eyes, when they land on his friends—are softer than you’ve ever seen them. Like for a brief moment, the weight he carries lets up, just slightly. Just enough to let something tender slip through.

“It’s for Christmas,” the blond says, Steve, you guess, trying to sound reasonable.

“It’s October,” Bucky mutters.

“Early prep,” the other man adds, grinning. “Ugly sweaters are a chick magnet. Right, Steve?”

“Sam—” Steve starts, face flushed, and Sam just cackles.

You duck back behind the rack, heart suddenly racing.

You don’t know why seeing him like that, a little relaxed, surrounded by people who know him unsettles you.

Maybe because it makes him human. Not just this dark-eyed soldier who lingers like storm clouds in the corners of sanctuaries. Maybe because it cracks the outline of the mystery you’ve built around him. Maybe because you liked it.

You’re folding a scarf, willing your pulse to settle, when...

“Need help with those?”

His voice slides into your bones.

You spin, scarf forgotten, to find him standing behind you, closer than he should be.

The ugly sweater is draped over one forearm, but it’s his eyes you notice first. Clear, steady, gray as winter and just as cold until they settle on you

Your throat tightens.

“I’m good,” you say quickly, too quickly. You step back instinctively, bumping against a box, the cotton of your dress catching on cardboard. “Just sorting for my uncle.”

He nods once. Doesn’t leave.

Instead, his gaze drifts to the rack beside you.

“Looking for anything specific?” he asks, voice low enough to keep between you.

“My aunt needs cardigans,” you reply before thinking. “Medium. Maybe large. She likes them loose.”

You don’t know why you’re telling him. It’s stupid. Pointless.

But he nods, like it matters.

Then he starts looking.

No hesitation. No small talk. Just quiet, focused movement as he shifts hangers aside, fingers brushing knit sleeves and lace trim, eyes scanning the rows. His brow furrows in concentration, the same way it did back in the chapel—like he sees the world in sharp lines and weight.

You steal glances.

His scar looks more pronounced in the sunlight. His hair is messier today, wind-tossed, one dark lock falling across his forehead. His shirt clings to his back when he bends to reach a lower hanger. You shouldn’t be looking. You know that. But your gaze keeps betraying you.

Within minutes, he pulls three cardigans from the rack: dusty rose, seafoam green, and cream. All soft, a little worn, and exactly the kind your aunt hoards in her closet like armor.

“These work?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You blink, surprised. “Yeah. Perfect.”

He holds them out. You reach to take them, and your fingers brush.

You don’t pull away immediately.

Neither does he.

When you finally glance up, his eyes are already on yours. And for one breathless, endless second, you’re not in a rummage tent surrounded by old clothes and casserole pans. You’re in some private, weightless space where nothing exists but the hum beneath your skin and the way he’s looking at you.

You open your mouth, unsure what you’re even going to say, when—

“Buck! You buying that sweater or what?” Sam’s voice slices through the air, easy and loud.

The spell breaks.

Bucky’s jaw tenses. The softness fades like a curtain drawn shut.

“I should go,” he says, stepping back.

You nod, throat dry. “Thanks again.”

“Anytime.”

And then he’s gone, the red reindeer sweater swinging limply from one hand as he walks back toward his friends, their laughter rising around him like smoke.

You hold the cardigans to your chest, trying to breathe normally. Trying not to stare. Trying not to feel the ghost of his fingers still lingering on yours. But when you glance up, just once, you catch the faintest twitch of his lips at something Sam says.

And your chest flutters—small and secret and completely, helplessly real.

—

Today's prayer service ends with the slow murmur of Amen echoing through the chapel. Candles flicker across the altar like dying stars. The scent of wax lingers thick in the air, threaded with incense and old wood. Outside, the sky has opened up and rain falls in relentless sheets, hammering the roof and streaking the stained-glass windows with watercolors. Most of the congregation has already fled, their laughter and boots fading across the slick stone path. The sanctuary empties quickly.

All except for you.

And him.

You’re still gathering candles in the soft hush, moving between pews with practiced care. The hem of your green dress skims your legs with every step, fitted enough to cling when you bend, the fabric catching on the curve of your hips. Your lips are red tonight. A sinful shade, bold against the candlelight. Your hair’s loose, damp near the temples from the mist that snuck in earlier, curling slightly around your shoulders. You hadn't intended to stay this long, but you always do. You like the quiet after services. Like to feel the hush settle into your bones.

But tonight, it’s not just yours.

You hear him before you see him.

He’s at the front now, by the altar, stacking hymnals with the kind of care that suggests reverence, not obligation. Rainlight casts him in fractured hues hrough the stained glass. His shirt, gray, damp at the collar, clings to his chest and shoulders. His hair’s slightly mussed from the rain, one curl clinging to his temple, and there’s a shadow along his jaw.

He hasn’t looked at you yet.

But he doesn’t have to.

His presence coils through the chapel like smoke.

"Rain’s keeping everyone out," you say, trying for lightness. Your voice breaks the quiet, but not the tension.

He looks up, finally.

“Good thing,” he murmurs, voice low, rough, quiet enough that it feels like it’s for you alone. “Gives us time to clean up.”

He sets another hymnal down, the muscles in his arms flexing subtly beneath his skin. You catch a whiff of cedar, leather, rain, and maybe war. It fills your lungs and lodges somewhere between your ribs.

You don’t ask for help.

But he joins you anyway, stepping into the aisle beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He doesn’t speak.

And you don’t either.

But the silence between you? It's alive.

The two of you work side by side, collecting stray candles and crumpled programs, and though your fingers never quite touch, they move in rhythm, close enough to feel, never enough to satisfy. You’re too aware of him. Of the heat he carries, the way his movements are quiet but commanding.

He nods toward your dress as you reach to place another candle. “Careful with your dress,” he says, voice steady but low. “Wax’ll ruin it.”

You glance down, then back at him. “This old thing?” you say with a faint smile, brushing the fabric. “You sound like my aunt.”

He lets out a quiet huff—amusement, and his eyes flick over you once more. “Doesn’t look old,” he says simply, and there’s something about the way he says it that makes your spine straighten.

You don’t look at him.

But you feel his gaze like the weight of prayer.

Another candle slips as you move—a clatter against wood that echoes too loud in the stillness. You both reach for it at once, and for the first time, you touch.

His fingers meet yours. Warm, firm. You both pause. You could move. You should move.

But you don’t.

Not right away.

You clear your throat, cheeks warm. “Clumsy,” you mutter, standing again, smoothing your dress more out of nerves than necessity.

“Happens,” he replies, placing the candle down carefully, like it deserves respect.

You watch him for a moment. The way he moves. The quiet precision. There’s no arrogance to him. Just control. And control is its own kind of seduction. You turn, gathering the last of the candleholders, but his voice draws you back.

“Been comin’ here a while,” he says. It’s not a question. Just a thread he’s decided to pull. “Used to feel different. Quieter. Now...” His eyes flick to yours. “Better with more of you around.”

Your lips part. The breath you draw feels too full. “Really, James?.”

He steps closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to crowd your space with his warmth. He sets a hymnal on the pew beside you, then lingers—close enough you can see the faint crease in his brow, the flecks of something almost blue in the gray of his eyes.

“Bucky,” he says, low and certain. “Not James. Not with you.”

It knocks something loose in your chest.

You nod, almost breathless. “Bucky,” you echo, trying the name on your tongue. It tastes like honey and warning.

His eyes darken, not in danger, but in depth.

His hand lifts, hesitates, then settles gently at your waist. The contact is featherlight. Careful. But the intention behind it is anything but innocent. His thumb brushes, just once, over the side of your dress. Not suggestive. Not aggressive. Just there.

And your body hums in response.

“Pretty girl,” he murmurs, reverent, sinful. His voice is the kind that belongs in confession. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout you.”

You feel the words like a hand at your throat. Not choking. Just claiming. And you don’t pretend to misunderstand.

“Show me,” you whisper.

He leans in, barely touching his lips to yours. It’s not a kiss. Not yet. 

But your hands rise, uncertain but brave and settle over his chest. He’s warm beneath the fabric, solid, alive.

Then he kisses you.

Gentle.

Sacrilegious.

His lips brush yours with reverence, not hunger, and your mouth parts without a second thought. It’s not urgent. Your fingers curl against him. His hand finds your lower back, anchoring you, holding without taking. He tastes like rain and smoke, like silence, like ache.

He pulls back first.

Breathing ragged.

Forehead to yours.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he breathes, voice thick. “You’re somethin’ else.”

So is this.

So are you.

You smile, slow and knowing, fingers lifting to trace the sharp line of his jaw. The scar beneath your touch is rough, an uneven line carved by something cruel but here, beneath your fingertips, it feels sacred. Claimed. “Gentleman, huh?” you murmur, teasing, your voice a hush in the chapel’s hush.

He chuckles, deep and quiet, the sound vibrating against your palm. His hand settles at your hip, broad and warm, thumb brushing over the fabric of your dress like he’s checking for fragility. “For you,” he says, voice low and thick, reverent as a vow.

Then he kisses you again. Slower now. Deeper. His tongue parts your lips with careful grace. He tastes like rain, like patience, like restraint stretched too thin. Your breath catches, your pulse thrums, and your thighs press together under the growing heat—soft and aching where you want him most.

But it’s not just lust. It’s the way he holds back, like you deserve more than hurried touches and breathless abandon. 

“Wanna do this right,” he breathes against your mouth, his hand sliding down to your lower back, guiding you gently, reverently, to the back pew. The wood creaks as you lower, the old bench cool against your thighs. He kneels between your legs like he’s done it a thousand times, but never like this. Never for this. His frame is massive, towering, but lowered before you now, his eyes locked to yours, asking. 

You nod—small, sure.

His fingers slide up your legs with aching patience. Your dress bunches at your hips, and for a long moment, he just looks at you—=, at your trembling thighs, your flushed face, your breath shallow. And then he moves, so slowly it feels like a confession.

You whimper, soft, unsure if it’s from the need or the way he’s looking at you—like he’s memorizing you, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

“Touch me, Bucky,” you whisper, barely a sound, barely a breath.

And he does.

His fingers trace higher, finding the hem of your dress, and he pauses again, eyes searching yours. “This okay?” he murmurs, voice rough but soft, like he’s afraid to break you. His care makes your breath hitch, a spark flaring low in your belly, but it’s his gentleness that holds you.

“Yeah,” you whisper, and he groans, soft, his hand inching your dress up, slow, revealing the soft skin above your stockings. His fingers graze lace, feeling the first hint of your slick through your panties, and he exhales, shaky, like he’s been holding it in. 

“Fuck, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice awed, gentle, “this pussy’s already wet for me, ain’t it?”

You blush, biting your lip, not desperate, just curious, wanting. “Maybe,” you tease, voice soft, and he chuckles, low, wicked, his finger brushing your clit through the lace, light, teasing, making you gasp.

"God."

He leans in, his breath hot against your neck. “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, darlin’,” he whispers, teasing, lips brushing your skin. “Not when you’re this wet and sweet under me.”

You laugh, soft, clenching your thighs, earning a low moan from him. “You’re trouble,” you whisper, fingers grazing his neck, wanting to mark him. His free hand cradles your back, keeping you close.

“Love this,” he growls, lips brushing your ear, teeth grazing, soft, his finger still teasing through lace, not pushing, just stoking the fire. “Gonna make you feel so good, doll.” He pauses, eyes meeting yours, checking again, and you nod, leaning into him, wanting more, but patient, letting him lead.

A sudden gust rattles the chapel windows, rain pounding harder, and you both freeze, glancing toward the sound. The moment breaks, tension easing, and you laugh, nervous, the spell softening but not gone. “Storm’s loud,” you murmur, smoothing your dress, and he nods, hand resting on your knee, steady, grounding.

“Keeps us here,” he says, voice low, eyes glinting. “More time.” He leans in again, lips brushing your forehead, a gesture so tender it makes your heart stutter. “You sure ‘bout this, darlin’? We can stop.” His voice is gentle, respectful, and it pulls you closer, wanting him more.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice raw, and he groans, his hand sliding back up, peeling your panties down, slow, careful, lace slipping over your thighs.

“Fuck, this pussy,” he murmurs, voice awed, finger brushing your bare clit now, making you whine, hips twitching. The wet sounds are soft, obscene in the chapel’s hush, and the rain’s roar makes it feel like a secret, sacred and sinful.

“More,” you plead, soft, and he obliges, dipping a finger inside, stretching, curling slow, hitting your spot. Your pussy grips him, cream coating his finger, and you moan, quiet, head tipping back, the intimacy overwhelming. “Bucky, fuck,” you gasp, and he covers your mouth, gentle, muffling, his lips brushing your ear.

“Shh, baby,” he whispers, amused, naughty, breath hot. “Don’t want the angels listenin’.” His finger thrusts deeper, thumb circling your clit, slow, building you up, and you’re trembling, pussy dripping, the risk spiking your pulse, his cock hard, pressing against your thigh, patient but huge.

“Feel so good,” you murmur, muffled, and he kisses your neck, soft, lingering, his free hand sliding up your back, holding you like you’re precious. “Want you closer,” you whisper, fingers tugging his shirt, pulling him in, and he groans, low, shifting, his massive frame pressing against you, shielding you.

And then it deepens everything. The intimacy, the tension, the sheer care of it. His fingers trace slow, deliberate circles, his eyes never leaving yours. The chapel holds its breath, the candles flicker like they're witnessing something unholy. 

Or maybe divine.

“Gonna give you everything,” he murmurs, adding another finger, fucking you slow, deliberate, wet sounds louder now, your pussy clenching. Your eyes roll, thighs shaking, and he watches. “Fuck, look at you,” he whispers, voice thick, “takin’ my fingers so sweet.”

You chuckle, shaky, clenching again, earning a moan. “Tease,” you whisper, biting your lip, and he smirks. 

“Cum for me, darlin’,” he murmurs, fingers curling, thumb relentless, and you shatter, pussy spasming, cream coating his finger, a muffled scream against his hand. He holds you, lips on your neck, soft, whispering, “That’s it, baby, fuck, so perfect.” 

“I need you, Bucky,” you whispered, voice raw and dripping with want, your gaze locked on his steel-blue eyes, darkened with lust.

He exhaled a low, guttural sound, his hands finding your hips, pulling you flush against him. Through the rough denim of his jeans, you felt the hard, throbbing outline of his cock, thick and insistent, sending a pulse of heat straight to your core. Your fingers fumbled with his belt, brushing against him, and he hissed, head dipping to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the curve of your neck. “Baby,” he murmured, “you’re gonna kill me.”

With a swift motion, he freed himself, his cock springing free, veined and heavy, the tip glistening with precum. You swallowed hard, your mouth watering at the sight of him, so potent, so ready. His hand guided himself to your slick folds, rubbing slow, deliberate circles against your entrance, teasing you with the promise of what was to come. Your breath hitched, a soft whimper escaping your lips as you pressed yourself closer, your thighs quivering. “Please, Bucky,” you begged, voice a sultry plea, your legs hooking around his waist, urging him nearer.

He growled low, his hand cupping your ass, lifting you effortlessly onto the edge of the old wooden pew, the creak of the wood echoing in the sacred space. “Gonna love this pussy,” he rasped, his eyes burning into yours, holding you captive as he positioned himself at your entrance.

The first push was exquisite agony. His cock breached you slowly, the thick head stretching your tight walls, parting you with a delicious burn that made you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. It felt like he was carving a space inside you, claiming you inch by inch, the sensation overwhelming—full, hot, and unrelenting.

He’s watching you come apart, his lips parted, reverence in every movement. His fingers never rush, never push too far. He keeps you right at the edge, not to tease, but to honor the feeling. His hand curls around the back of your neck, grounding you, and your head falls forward, resting against his.

Your pussy fluttered around him, gripping him instinctively, and you moaned, head falling back as the pleasure-pain of his size consumed you. “God, Bucky,” you whimpered, “you’re so fucking big.”

“Shit, so tight,” he groaned, his voice strained, his vibranium hand steadying your hip as he eased deeper, giving you time to adjust. The stretch was intense, but the intimacy of his restraint made it sacred, a slow, deliberate act of worship. When he bottomed out, filling you completely, your walls pulsed around him, and you both stilled.

He began to move, slow and deep, each thrust a promise, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you, igniting sparks that curled through your spine. The wet, filthy sounds of your bodies filled the air, and you clung to him, your fingers raking down his back. 

“Fuck, feel that,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, “your pussy’s grippin’ me so good.”

“Harder,” you whined, craving more, and Bucky obliged, his thrusts deepening, the pew creaking louder under the force. “Yes, fuck, yes!” you cried, your pussy creaming around him, the slickness easing his glide, making every thrust smoother.

He shifted you then, guiding you to turn, your palms bracing against the back of the pew as he positioned you on your knees, your dress hiked up around your waist. The new angle made you gasp as he re-entered you, his cock hitting deeper, stroking a spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. “Goddamn, look at you,” he growled, his hand smacking your ass lightly, the sting blooming into warmth that made you yelp, then grin. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ well.”

You arched your back, pushing back against him, meeting each stroke with a desperate need. “Cream on my cock,” he urged, his voice a dark caress, and the combination of his words, his touch, and the relentless drive of his cock sent you spiraling.

"That's it, that's my pretty girl, Oh— God."

Your orgasm crashed over you, your pussy pulsing, clenching around him as you screamed into the crook of your arm, cream dripping down your thighs.

He wasn’t done. With a gentle tug, he pulled you upright, your back against his chest, his lips finding your neck as he guided you to straddle him, facing him now. You sank onto his cock, the new position intimate, your faces inches apart. His eyes locked on yours, and the connection was electric, his hands guiding your hips as you rode him, slow and deliberate. “Fuck, darlin’,” he panted, his flesh hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing your lips. “You’re really somethin’ else.”

The pace built again, your thighs burning as you chased another peak. When you came again, it was softer but no less intense, your body trembling as you clung to him, his name a prayer on your lips. 

His groan was raw, almost feral, as his body tensed beneath you, his hands tightening on your hips. “Fuck, baby, this pussy’s gonna make me lose it,” he growled, his voice rough and urgent, thick with lust. “So fuckin’ tight, squeezin’ my cock like you were made for it.” His hips stuttered, thrusting up into you with a desperate edge, and you felt the first hot pulse of his cum spilling deep inside you. “Shit, I’m cummin’ so hard for you,” he rasped, his words dripping with filthy reverence. “Gonna fill this sweet pussy up, make you drip with me, baby—fuck.”

Each pulse of his release was a searing claim, his cock throbbing as he poured himself into you, the heat and fullness overwhelming, slick and messy as it leaked down your thighs and onto his lap.

His thumb strokes slow across your cheek, and the air between you is heavy with unsaid things, with want, with restraint. His other hand finds yours, interlacing your fingers, as he leans closer, kissing your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, like he’s tracing a rosary made of skin.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he murmurs, and the words are hoarse, unraveling. “Pretty thing. Touchin’ heaven sittin’ on this pew.”

You stayed like that for a long moment, your bodies entwined, the rain a soft murmur outside, the air thick with the scent of sex and intimacy. Your fingers carded through his damp hair, tracing the strands that clung to his forehead, and he sighed, leaning into your touch like a man starved for it.

The storm rages outside.

And inside, he worships.

Not God.

The first year was a masterclass in loneliness. You moved into a modest house off-base, paid for by your father's money, and threw yourself into being a wife. You learned Bucky's routines: up at 5 a.m., home late, dinner reheated in the microwave. You kept the house spotless, ironed his uniforms, sent care packages during his deployments with notes you spent hours writing: Stay safe, I’ll see you soon. You attended family days at the base, standing awkwardly beside wives who knew each other.

He was not cruel. That was the worst part. If he'd been a jerk, you could've hated him, could've justified the ache in your chest. But Bucky was just... absent. Polite when he was home, thanking you for dinner in that same flat tone, but never lingering. He would sit on the couch with a beer, staring at the TV like it held the secrets to the universe, while you sat at the kitchen table, pretending to read. His phone would buzz, and he'd step outside to answer, his voice too low for you to hear. You didn't ask who it was. You were afraid of the answer.

Nat, Steve's wife, was the first to hint at it. She'd become your friend, dragging you to coffee or yoga when Bucky was away. One day, over lattes, she hesitated, then said, "He's... complicated, (Y/N). I've seen him at the bar near base a few times. With a woman. I don't know if it's anything, but... you should know."

You nodded, your throat tight, and changed the subject. But the seed was planted. Wanda, who worked in the base's admin office, mentioned it too, casually, like it was common knowledge, "Bucky's always at that dive bar when he's on leave. With some blonde woman." 

And you do not know if it was just the imagination fueled by the stories you hear, but you started noticing things—lipstick on a glass he'd left in the sink, a faint floral scent on his jacket that wasn't yours. You never confronted him. What was the point? He'd married you for a deal, not love. 

You were just collateral.

By the second year, you stopped trying to win him over. You still cooked, still cleaned, still sent the packages, but it was rote, a performance for the audience that never existed. You poured yourself into other things: volunteering at the local animal shelter, where the dogs didn't care who your father was; book club with Nat and Wanda, where you could lose yourself in stories that ended better than yours. You smiled at family days, but you stopped seeking Bucky out, stopped hoping he'd notice you.

But what made it harder was the knowledge that he was trying, in his own quiet, crooked way.

Not with words. Never with words.

But you started to notice things. The way the dishes were done before you got home, though you hadn't asked. A blanket folded at the end of the couch when you were working late nights, a mug of tea left steaming beside your laptop. Once, when the kitchen sink started leaking, you came downstairs to find him knee-deep in the mess, shirt rolled up, trying to fix it himself. He didn't even tell you, just muttered about needing new washers and brushed past you without waiting for thanks.

You'd mention something in passing, how the porch light flickered, or that you missed your favorite kind of cereal—and a few days later, the problem would quietly solve itself. No fanfare. No "I did this for you." Just... presence, like he didn't know how to say what he meant but needed to show it somehow.

He sat beside you more often now. Not close enough to touch, but near. Like proximity was the limit of what he could give. Like he wanted to be near your warmth without knowing how to step into it.

But he never asked you why your eyes were red after a call with your mother. He never reached for your hand in the dark. He never said your name like it mattered.

And again, he wasn't cruel. Never that. 

He just stayed on his side of the invisible line. Always.

You told yourself it was enough. That effort, even unspoken, even clumsy, was something. Maybe this was just how he loved. But most nights, you lay in bed with your back to his, and all you could feel was the miles between you.

You told yourself you were fine.

You weren't.

—

The injury happened, one autumn during your second year of marriage. A training accident, faulty equipment, a misstep, shrapnel tearing through Bucky's left arm, giving him the metal prosthetic. It's not life-threatening, but it's bad. Nerve damage, torn muscle, months of recovery. He's sent home, grounded, no deployments until he's cleared.

He's a ghost in his own house, haunting the living room with a scowl and a sling. He's restless, snapping at small things—the remote's out of reach, the coffee's too cold, why is the thermostat so high? You don't take it personally. You know it's the pain, the fear of losing his edge, the weight of being useless in a life defined by duty. 

But it hurts.

It hurts in the quiet moments. When you bring him his meds and he doesn't look up. When he winces as you help him change, like your touch is another burden. When you sit across from him at dinner and he can't meet your eyes, as if even that much might make it real: that you're here, and he's falling apart.

But you stay.

You drive him to physical therapy appointments that leave him shaking with rage. You wait in the hallway with magazines you don't read, staring at the same page until your vision blurs. You cook meals he doesn't ask for. You change his bandages like you're dressing a wound on your own body. You try not to flinch when he does.

He doesn't say thank you. Not at first. Just grunts, shrugs, nods that barely register. And yet... things start to shift in the quiet.

He stops pacing when you're near. Sits longer at the table, even after his plate is empty. Watches you from the corner of the room like he's trying to remember something. One night, when you're rewrapping the gauze around his arm, his fingers graze yours. It's the lightest touch. He doesn't pull away.

But he doesn't lean in, either.

Then one evening, weeks in, you're standing at the counter chopping carrots for soup, when his voice breaks through the low hum of the radio.

"Why do you do this?"

You freeze. Knife mid-air. "Do what?"

"This." He gestures vaguely. The kitchen. The food. The gauze and the clean laundry and the appointments marked on the calendar. His arm rests on a pillow, sling abandoned for the night, his expression drawn tight. "All of it. You don't have to."

"You're hurt," you say simply. Because it's the easiest truth to give.

"You don't... you don't owe me this. You never did."

You feel it land in your chest. That low, dull ache. The one that never really goes away.

The thing is, you've told yourself the same thing, a hundred times. You don't owe him this. You never did. And yet here you are, night after night, "loving" him in ways that don't even look like love anymore. Just maintenance. Just endurance.

"I'm your wife," you say, barely louder than a breath. It sounds strange now, worn out, like a word you've been carrying too long without using.

He closes his eyes. Just for a second. Then shakes his head, barely. "Not really."

It's not said with anger. Not with venom. Just... resignation. And somehow, that makes it worse. It's not meant to hurt. But it does. God, it does. Because he's not wrong. You're not really a wife. Not in the way that counts. Not in the way that's felt.

You stand there for a beat, silence pressing against your chest like a fist. The ache of a marriage lived in pieces. A love that outlived its shape.

You turn back to the cutting board, blinking fast.

"Soup'll be ready in ten," you whisper.

—

The months drag on, and Bucky's arm heals slowly. He's still home, still grounded, but he's different now. He's not the same man who came back bruised and wordless. He moves softer, like he's afraid of waking something.

He starts fixing things, not just the leaky faucet you once complained about, but other things too. A crooked drawer. A jammed door. A broken chair leg that's been wobbling for some time. He does it without a word, as if he's trying to apologize with actions instead of sentences. He loads the dishwasher, folds laundry without asking which pile is yours. And then there's dinner. He sits across from you like he used to, but his gaze doesn't burn—it lingers. He asks about your day, about the shelter dogs, about the book you leave open on the coffee table. He listens.

And it's unbearable.

Because his voice is gentler now, like he's relearning tenderness. And when he smiles, tentative, almost shy. It's the kind that makes you feel seen. And you hate how easily it slips beneath your skin. How your guard falters with each passing evening. How part of you wants to believe in this version of him, in this life he's trying to build out of the rubble.

But you can't.

Not again.

—

The weather is unusually kind, sky pale, and air light with the first sigh of spring. You say something offhand about needing to get out of the house. He nods. And somehow, a blanket is packed, sandwiches are made, and you're driving to the park like it's something you've always done.

You sit beneath a tree, a little away from the others, just close enough to hear the laughter of children playing nearby. The sun filters through the leaves, dappled gold on his shoulder. You eat quietly. He leans back, hands behind his head, eyes half-lidded like he's trying to memorize the way the breeze feels.

"I used to think I'd be a dad," he says, not looking at you.

The sentence hits you sideways. Not hard. Just... unexpected. Like a memory you forgot was yours too.

"Yeah?"

"Back before," he shrugs, gesturing vaguely, to the war, the wounds, the life that took root in ashes. "Before everything got loud."

Not long after, a kid, maybe five, six at most—wanders a little too far from their parents, a juice box clutched in one hand, a plastic dinosaur in the other. He stumbles near your blanket and looks up, blinking at Bucky with the quiet boldness of someone too young to understand fear.

Bucky gives a small smile, tentative but warm. "Hey, little man."

The kid just stares. Then holds out the dinosaur wordlessly.

Bucky glances at you, confused, and you nod.

He reaches out slowly and accepts it.

The kid beams, then turns and runs back to his mother, giggling.

Bucky stares at the dinosaur in his hand like it's something ancient and precious.

You don't say anything. But he turns to you. The warmth between you isn't loud. It doesn't demand. It just exists. And for the first time in months, maybe longer, you both let it.

—

But you spent three years loving a man who wouldn't let himself be loved—three years waiting for words that never came, watching him vanish behind his silences. You built your walls out of the quiet he left behind, bricked them with disappointment and varnished them with restraint. You've done too much work to let him unravel you now.

So you keep your distance. You learn how to speak in half-smiles, to answer his questions without letting him in. Even when Natasha raises an eyebrow at the way he looks at you. Even when Wanda laughs behind her mug and says...

"He only loads the dishwasher when you're in the room." 

Even when Steve and Sam swing by, their voices full of old warmth and new hope, clapping Bucky on the back like he's returned from some personal war. You see their glances, those knowing flickers toward you, like they're already rewriting the story you're still afraid to start.

You feel your heart thudding against its cage, restless. Hopeful. Terrified.

Because he's not just changing.

He's making it harder not to believe he means it this time.

—

Your third anniversary arrives like a storm you've been bracing for, every detail of the evening planned with the precision of a final act. Not for love, not for celebration, but for an ending. The "warranty" is fulfilled. Bucky's promotion is secured, his family's debts wiped clean, your father's influence no longer binding him to you. The deal that forged this hollow marriage is done, and you're both free. 

The divorce papers, stark and final, have been hidden in your dresser for weeks, their presence a quiet ache in your heart. Tonight, over dinner, you'll give them to him as a gift—his freedom, wrapped in an envelope, the last thing you can offer a man who probably never wanted you.

You spend the day crafting his favorite meal with trembling hands. It's not about romance, it's about dignity, a way to prove you gave this marriage everything before letting it go. You set the table with your mother's cherished china, plates used only once before, at the engagement dinner that sealed your fate. You pour two glasses of red wine, your movements deliberate despite the grief clawing at your chest, and sit, waiting, the napkin in your lap pressed smooth.

Bucky descends the stairs, his steps lighter than you expect, almost hesitant. He's in a button-up shirt, slightly wrinkled at the collar, his hair damp from the shower. His metal arm catches the candlelight as he pauses in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over the table, then settling on you. A small, rare smile tugs at his lips, not wide, not warm, but genuine in its quiet way.

"Wow," he says, his voice soft, almost reverent as he takes his seat across from you. "This is... somethin' else."

"Happy third anniversary," you say, and your voice is almost too soft, worn down from days of rehearsing it into something neutral. You manage a small smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes. "Three years. I thought... I should give you something worth remembering."

He nods slowly, his gaze dropping to the table. "You didn't have to go all out," he says quietly, like the words are too big for the space they're in. Then, after a pause: "Thank you. For staying. For these three years."

The words land like an apology and a goodbye, all at once.

Dinner unfolds in a quiet torment, the candle's flame wavering between you, casting shadows that feel like ghosts of your years together. You fill the silence with safe topics. He responds, more engaged than usual, his voice carrying a warmth you haven't heard in months. He even chuckles once, a low, rough sound, when you mention a foster dog's habit of stealing socks. It's disarming, this glimpse of a Bucky who could have been, and it makes the envelope in your purse feel heavier, like a betrayal.

But you can't delay the inevitable. 

"I have a gift for you," you say, standing to retrieve your purse from the counter. Your hands shake as you pull out the envelope, but you clench your jaw, forcing composure. This is your offering, the final act of a wife who tried and failed. "It's time."

Bucky's smile fades, his brow furrowing as you slide the envelope across the table. The word Divorce stares up at him in bold, unyielding ink. His jaw tightens, a muscle pulsing under the skin, and his eyes narrow, not with anger but with a raw, wounded shock that steals your breath. He doesn't touch the papers, just stares at them like they're a wound he didn't expect.

"What's this?" His voice is low, rough, trembling with something that sounds like fear.

"My gift," you say, sitting back down, your heart pounding so hard it hurts. You keep your voice steady, though it feels like you're shattering. "Three years, Bucky. Your promotion's secure, your family's debts are gone. My father's influence isn't holding you anymore. This is your freedom. You don't need me now."

He stares at the papers, his good hand curling into a fist, knuckles whitening against the tablecloth. "You think that's what this was about? The deal?"

"Wasn't it?" You meet his gaze, refusing to flinch, though your chest feels like it's caving in. "You never wanted this marriage. You never wanted me. I've seen it every day for three years. And it's okay—I'm not angry. I just want you to have what you truly want."

He shakes his head, a harsh, broken laugh escaping him, raw and jagged. "You think I want this? You think I want to be free?"

The pain in his voice is a blade, cutting through your defenses, and you see it—the anguish in his eyes, the way his shoulders slump like he's been carrying a weight you never noticed. 

"I know there's someone else," you say, softer, the words bitter on your tongue. It's the only truth that's made sense, the only way you've survived the late nights, the private calls, the whispers from Nat and Wanda about a woman at the bar. "I've known for a long time. I don't blame you, Bucky. I just want you to be happy."

His head snaps up, his eyes blazing with a desperate intensity. "There's no one else, (Y/N). There's never been anyone else."

You blink, his words crashing into you, unraveling the story you've clung to for years. "But... the nights you didn't come home, the calls you took outside—"

"Work," he cuts in, his voice rough but unwavering. "Training that ran late. Calls with my CO, Carol Danvers, with Steve, with my mom about her medical bills. I don't know what you heard, what you thought, but there's no one else. There couldn't be."

Your mind spins, memories fracturing. The lipstick on a glass, the floral scent on his jacket—had you misread it all? Had Nat and Wanda's hints been nothing but your own fears reflected back? You've spent years believing he was unfaithful, because it was easier than facing the truth that he simply didn't love you.

"Then why?" Your voice breaks, a sob clawing its way out. "Why were you so cold? Why did you shut me out? I tried, Bucky. Believe me when I say that I gave you everything... and I am sorry if it didn't feel like it."

He looks away, his jaw clenching so hard it might shatter, his eyes glistening with tears. "I was wrong," he says, his voice low, trembling with regret. "I was wrong to hide how I felt, to keep you at arm's length. I thought... I thought I was protecting you. My life was a mess. Debts, my mom's health, this damn arm. I didn't want to drag you into it, didn't think I deserved to let you in. I thought you'd be happier if I stayed out of your way."

The confession is a gut punch, stealing your breath. All this time, you thought he was indifferent, but he was shielding you from his own brokenness, believing he was saving you by breaking your heart. The realization is a knife, twisting deeper with every word.

"But God help me, I fell so hard for you."

He swallows hard, the muscles in his throat working like it physically hurts to speak. His eyes don't leave yours, shining and desperate in a way you've never seen.

"I don't want the divorce," he says, and his voice cracks halfway through the sentence, even though he fights to keep it steady. "I don't want to lose you. I never did."

He takes a breath, shoulders trembling as he tries to hold the rest in, but he can't. Not anymore.

"I want you," he whispers. "Not the house. Not the papers. You. I want the chance to finally, finally, get it right."

The silence between you swells.

Then his voice breaks, barely a sound, just the echo of something crumbling from the inside out.

"But if this... if me trying now is too late, if it just hurts. I'll go. I'll sign whatever you need me to. I'll make it clean."

His jaw tightens, and he looks down, blinking too fast, as if holding back years of words he never gave you.

"Just… say the word," he says, breath shallow now. "Say go, and I swear, I won't make it harder for you."

The question hangs like a guillotine, and your heart stops. You look at him, at the man you've loved through every silent, aching moment, and the thought of him leaving, of this house empty, of your life without him—rips you apart. But you've spent three years believing you were a burden, a duty he endured. You think of the freedom you're offering, the life he could have without the weight of this marriage, and you force the words out, each one a shard of glass.

"It's best," you whisper, barely audible, tears choking you. "For both of us."

His face crumples, a flash of devastation so raw it nearly breaks you. He nods, once, like a soldier accepting orders, and stands, his chair scraping against the floor. "Okay," he says, voice hollow. "I'll... I'll get my things."

You sit there, frozen, as he moves upstairs, the sound of drawers opening and closing echoing through the house. The candle gutters out, leaving you in darkness, and you clutch the tablecloth, tears falling silently. You tell yourself this is right, that you're setting him free, but the pain is unbearable.

He comes down with a duffel bag, his essentials packed, clothes, his old journal, a photo of your wedding day. He pauses at the door, looking back at you, his eyes red-rimmed. "I'll have Steve come back for the rest," he says, voice breaking. "I'm sorry. For everything."

And then he's gone. The door clicks shut behind him, too soft for the way it cleaves the moment in two.

You hear the jeep's engine start, it was the sound of goodbye.

You just sit there, numb, your body too stunned by the silence. It isn't until the engine fades down the roadway that the grief begins to rise, slow at first, like a tide. And then all at once, it drowns you.

You stumble out to the porch, one hand gripping the railing like it might stop you from falling apart. But it doesn't. Your knees hit the wood. A sob rips through you, and then another, until you can't breathe past the ache.

He's gone. He's really gone. And everything you never said now echoes in the emptiness he left behind.

The jeep's taillights pause at the gate, and then they're moving backward, the engine growing louder. You look up, blurred through tears, as Bucky pulls back into the driveway and steps out, his face etched with panic and resolve. He crosses the lawn in long strides, dropping to his knees in front of you, his hands hovering near your face, afraid to touch.

"I don't ever want to leave," he says, voice rough with tears, his eyes searching yours. "I have only ever loved you, and I was too damn scared to show it. Tell me to stay, baby. Please, tell me you want me to stay."

You sob harder, the weight of his words crashing into you, and you reach for him, your hands trembling as they grip his shirt. "I don't want you to leave," you choke out, voice raw. "I never wanted you to leave."

He pulls you into his arms, crushing you against his chest, his face buried in your hair. "I'm here," he murmurs, over and over, like a vow. "I'm here, and I'm never leaving again."

You cling to him, your sobs mingling with his, the porch cold beneath you but his embrace was warm. And above you, the night stretches on, quiet, endless, and full of stars you hadn't noticed before.

The skies watched as you rekindled the flame. Loving him was never easy. It will never be perfect. But this time...  you're not reaching alone in the dark.

This time, his hand finds yours.

This time, he stays.

Not because he has to. Not because it's safe. But because he wants to, because he finally understands that love is about choosing.

And he chooses you.

there was a pause, the kind that stretched just long enough to be awkward. you swallowed. “what are you doing today?”

“not much. just heading out to meet some guys.”

your brows knit together. “guys?”

“bike guys,” he said, the way someone might casually say mailmen or golfers. “motocross stuff. nothing big.”

that made you sit up straighter. motocross? he never told you about that.

“you do motocross?” you asked, unable to hide the surprise in your voice.

“i dabble,” he said, as if the word dabble could ever apply to something that involved literal dirt tracks and flying motorcycles.

there was something smug in his tone, and it annoyed you. “i want to come.”

he went quiet for a beat, as though weighing the idea. “you sure?”

“yes,” you replied, maybe too fast. then, to cover it up, you added, “why? don’t want me there?”

“i didn’t say that.” you could practically hear the smirk through the phone. “alright, i’ll come pick you up.”

you hung up before you could overthink the way your pulse quickened at that.

fifteen minutes later, the low rumble of his car echoed outside your apartment, and you caught sight of him leaning against the door, looking unbothered in that infuriatingly effortless way of his. no honk. no knock. just a single text: outside.

you rolled your eyes and grabbed your jacket, muttering under your breath as you locked the door behind you. “so dramatic.”

the second you got into the passenger seat, you shot him a glare. “you could’ve told me to bring a jacket. or warned me if this was a dusty-freaking-arena situation.”

“you asked to come,” he said, not even bothering to hide his grin. “you don’t get to be mad now.”

“i’m not mad,” you muttered, crossing your arms as the engine roared to life. “i just have expectations.”

“uh huh.” he spared you a quick glance. “you’re frowning.”

“this is just my face.”

he laughed softly and shifted gears, the car pulling away from the curb. the drive was longer than you expected, back roads that coiled past empty fields, stretches of gravel, and rows of warehouses you hadn’t even known existed. you stayed quiet most of the way, trying not to look too eager every time he adjusted the rearview mirror or shifted in his seat. eventually, the landscape opened into a clearing of packed dirt, aluminum bleachers, fluttering red flags, and the low growl of engines filling the air.

you blinked. “this is… loud.”

bucky didn’t say anything, just parked the car and walked around to open your door. you stepped out before he could fully reach it, brushing past him with a frown that deepened the moment the dusty air hit your face.

he fell into step beside you, hand briefly grazing your lower back to guide you through the thickening crowd. it was subtle, but you felt it anyway. warm, grounding, annoying in the way it made your chest tighten just a little.

when you reached the metal stands, he left you alone for a few minutes, only to return balancing two drinks, a salted pretzel, and a tray of hot dogs like some casually gifted street magician.

“i didn’t ask for all this,” you said, looking down at the mess of food he shoved into your arms.

“i didn’t want you passing out mid-eye-roll,” he said, settling beside you. “consider it survival rations.”

you shot him another glare, but it didn’t land quite the way you intended. he was already backing away, pulling off his hoodie and slinging it over his shoulder. “enjoy the show, princess.”

you opened your mouth to argue, but he was gone—already jogging down toward the track area where a cluster of guys were lining up bikes and pulling on gear.

you didn’t expect much. honestly, you thought he’d just hang out, maybe talk to people and watch a few races. you figured it would be loud and dirty and maybe boring. what you didn’t expect was for bucky to slide on a helmet, kick up a leg, and mount a bike like he’d been born on one.

“what the hell,” you whispered, sitting up straighter in your seat.

it happened fast. one moment, the bikes were circling the track in practiced formation, weaving around mounds and ramps. the next, one of them peeled away from the group and launched off a jump, flipping through the air before landing in a blur of dirt and smoke. the crowd erupted in cheers.

your jaw dropped as the rider sped through the track, pulling trick after trick, every turn sharper, more impossible. you squinted through the dust, heart pounding, and that’s when you saw it—that unmistakable red stripe on the back of the shirt.

“no. way.”

it was bucky.

bucky, who never told you this was his thing. bucky, who just dabbled. bucky, who was currently flipping through the air like gravity owed him money.

you sat there, stunned, pretzel in one hand, drink forgotten in the other. every time he jumped, your stomach lurched. every time he landed, you barely breathed. and when he did a midair twist off the biggest ramp on the track, you felt actual rage bubbling in your throat.

he was grinning when he returned, helmet under his arm, sweat on his brow, hair sticking to the sides of his face. he looked too good for someone who just disrespected physics.

“well?” he asked, catching the look on your face.

you didn’t answer. just stared at him with wide eyes and a scowl that could peel paint.

“you didn’t like it?”

“you never said you’d be flying through the air,” you snapped. “you said motocross, not death wish. you also told me you just dabble!”

he blinked, then broke into a full grin. “you’re mad.”

“i’m not mad.”

“you’re frowning.”

“i’m always frowning.”

he dropped down beside you, thigh brushing yours. “it’s cute.”

you shot him a glare sharp enough to kill a man. “it’s reckless. and unnecessary. and you’re… you’re insane.”

bucky reached over, plucked a piece of your pretzel, and popped it into his mouth like he hadn’t just been scolded. “you should’ve seen your face.”

you wanted to smack the smirk off him, and maybe also kiss it, but mostly smack.

before you could snarl something else, he stood and held out a hand. “come meet my crew.”

you hesitated, then took it.

the group of guys waiting by the fence were all rough voices, sunburnt arms, and grease-stained jeans. they took one look at you and immediately turned to bucky with raised brows.

“this her?” one of them asked, looking you over with an amused grin.

“yup,” bucky said, pulling you slightly behind him.

“she looks pissed,” another said.

“i am not pissed,” you snapped.

they laughed.

“she’s cute when she’s mad,” someone said.

“she’s always mad,” bucky added, glancing at you. “that’s her thing.”

you glared at him. “it’s not my thing.”

he leaned in just a little closer. “it is now.”

you didn’t say goodbye to his friends. you didn’t even wait for bucky to follow. you turned on your heel with a dramatic scoff and stormed off toward the car like you were about to sue gravity itself.

dust kicked up around your boots with every step, sun hot on your skin, but nothing burned hotter than the fury curling in your chest. the kind that made your hands ball into fists and your mouth twist into something dangerously close to a pout. he could’ve told you. hell, he should have told you.

motorcycles. tricks. midair flips. like he was invincible.

you reached the car, yanked the passenger door open, and slumped into the seat with your arms crossed tight over your chest. you didn’t look at him. not when you heard his boots approaching. not when he opened the driver’s side door and leaned against it instead of getting in.

he let out a low chuckle. “so that’s how it’s gonna be?”

you didn’t answer. you stared straight ahead through the windshield, jaw set, like ignoring him might buy you back a shred of dignity.

the silence stretched. then you heard him move, footsteps crunching against the gravel, and the next second, the driver’s side door shut. he didn’t start the car. didn’t touch the wheel. instead, he turned to face you fully, elbow propped against the console, eyes fixed on your profile like he was trying to memorize it.

“c’mon,” he said softly, voice rough in that way that always made your stomach flutter whether you wanted it to or not. “talk to me.”

still, you didn’t move.

he leaned in a little closer. “what’s wrong, baby?”

your head whipped toward him, eyes sharp. “don’t call me that.”

his mouth twitched, but he didn’t back off. if anything, he got bolder, voice dipping lower, tone all velvet and coaxing.

“tell me what upset you,” he murmured, like he wasn’t trying to win a fight, he was trying to win you. “you looked so worried when i was out there. can’t get that look outta my head.”

you hated that your pulse betrayed you. you hated that his voice could get under your skin like that.

“i wasn’t worried,” you muttered, face turned away again. “i was annoyed.”

“oh?” he drew the word out, slow and smug. “annoyed by me flipping midair like a goddamn legend?”

you glared at him.

he raised both hands in mock surrender but kept smiling. “okay, okay. no jokes.”

you looked away, biting your cheek. “i didn’t know you did THAT kind of thing. that you… you’re just so damn reckless. you didn’t even warn me.”

a pause. then a quieter, more honest reply.

“you’re right. i should’ve told you.” he leaned in just a little closer, his knee brushing yours. “i didn’t think it’d matter. didn’t think i’d matter that much to you.”

your eyes met his then fully, finally. and it was infuriating how sincere he looked.

“of course it matters,” you said, voice breaking around the edges. “of course you matter.”

bucky went still, just for a second.

like your words landed somewhere deeper than either of you expected. his gaze flicked to your mouth, then back to your eyes. and when he spoke, it was quieter than before, almost unsure, which was rare for him.

“you mean that?”

you didn’t answer right away. instead, you turned to face him fully, both knees tucked under you on the passenger seat now, hands folded in your lap so you wouldn’t do something stupid… like reach for his.

“i didn’t come here just to be entertained, bucky. i came because i… i like being around you. even when you’re an idiot on a motorcycle.”

he exhaled something like a laugh. soft. nervous.

“i didn’t know you felt that way.”

you rolled your eyes. “yeah, well, i didn’t either. not really. not until you started launching yourself into the sky like a dumbass.”

“and that’s what did it for you?” he teased. “the danger?”

“no,” you snapped, heat rising to your cheeks. “what did it for me was realizing how scared i was. how mad i was at the thought of you getting hurt. because it wouldn’t just be some guy wiping out on a track. it’d be you.”

a pause stretched long and heavy between you.

then his voice, low and steady.

“you were scared for me.”

“yes,” you muttered. “obviously.”

he reached over, hand curling lightly around your wrist. not pulling, not grabbing. just holding.

“‘m sorry, doll, didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “i just—i wanted to show off a little, i guess.”

you squinted at him. “for me?”

he grinned sheepishly. “yeah. is that pathetic?”

you blinked. “a little.”

his grin widened. “thought so.”

you sat there in the hush of the cooling car, engines revving distantly outside, the soft buzz of wind against the windows. his fingers hadn’t left your wrist. and slowly, it turned into your hand. into your fingers slipping between his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

he looked down at it. then at you.

“if i kissed you right now,” he said carefully, “would you punch me?”

“depends how good the kiss is,” you replied, brows raised.

he smirked. “so i’ve got one shot?”

“mm-hmm.”

and then he kissed you.

slow at first—like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to. then deeper, more certain, like he’d been holding it in for years and didn’t plan to stop now. his hand slid behind your neck, thumb brushing your jaw. you made a quiet sound, one he swallowed up like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

when you finally pulled away, breathless and dazed, you were the first to speak.

“okay,” you whispered. “you get one more.”

especially not when you're in sweatpants with a coffee stain on the knee and a ratty college shirt you've had since freshman year. and especially not when bucky looks like he walked off a mechanic calendar—tight black shirt stretching across his chest, jeans that hug in all the right places, that metal arm flexing under cardboard weight like he's deliberately putting on a show.

you pretend not to notice. you're getting good at that.

the door finally swings open, revealing your dad's beaming face and bucky's imposing figure right behind him, box balanced effortlessly on one shoulder like it weighs nothing. the sunlight catches on his metal arm, and you have to squint just to look at him.

"there she is!" your dad exclaims, placing his significantly smaller box down to wrap you in a bear hug. "my little homeowner."

"it's a rental, dad," you mumble into his shoulder, but you're smiling despite yourself.

over his shoulder, your eyes meet bucky's. he gives you that infuriating half-smile, the one that makes you want to either slap him or…

you push that thought away so fast you almost give yourself whiplash.

the move goes fast, too fast. you barely get a word in before the couch is already set against the wall, your boxes stacked alphabetically (thanks, bucky, you controlling jerk), and your dad's cracking open beers like he just fought a war instead of carrying a microwave.

"to new beginnings," your dad toasts, raising his bottle.

"and to actual furniture," bucky adds, eyeing your mismatched thrift store decor with amusement dancing in his eyes.

you try not to scowl when bucky ruffles your hair like you're still twelve and says, "proud of you, kid. all grown-up and everything."

you bat his hand away with more force than necessary.

"i could've done it without you guys," you insist, chin raised slightly in defiance.

your dad snorts so hard beer almost comes out his nose. "sure, pumpkin."

bucky doesn't say anything, but his eyes say everything, skepticism mixed with something softer that you refuse to analyze.

they leave an hour later, your dad promising to bring extra tupperware because you can't live on takeout forever, bucky making a joke about your fridge being stocked with "fermented oat milk and nothing else."

"i have condiments too, asshole," you mutter.

"ketchup packets don't count as a food group," he fires back without missing a beat.

you flip them both off behind the door once it closes.

the first few hours alone are glorious. quiet. yours.

you open boxes. hang photos. light candles that smell like "urban rainstorm" and "financial stability." you blast music no one can tell you to turn down.

but then you make the mistake of tackling the bedframe.

four pieces in, you realize the screws don't match the holes. seven pieces in, one of the slats breaks with a crack that sounds suspiciously like laughter. ten pieces in, you're sweating and breathing heavily and considering just sleeping on the damn floor forever. you lie there for a full minute, sprawled among wooden planks and screws, trying to will the bedframe to finish itself through sheer female independence.

it doesn't.

you groan. you curse. you dramatically fling an allen wrench across the room like it's personally betrayed your lineage.

then you reach for your phone.

your thumb hovers over your dad's contact, but something makes you scroll down to the "b" section instead.

it's 12:41 am when you open the door, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, hair tied back in a messy bun, wearing mismatched socks and the expression of someone who has swallowed a gallon of pride and is still choking on it.

bucky leans on the frame, toolbox in one hand, unreadable smirk on his face. he's still in the same clothes from earlier, but somehow he looks even better in the dim hallway light. it's patently unfair.

"you look like you've been through war," he says, stepping in without waiting for an invitation.

"i hate furniture," you mutter, closing the door behind him. "it's a capitalist conspiracy."

"i told you to wait till tomorrow." his voice is low, amused but not mocking.

"you said that, but you also laughed when i said i'd build it myself."

he shrugs, bending down to examine the wreckage that was supposed to be your bed. "and i was right. you built a modern art installation. could probably sell it for thousands."

you glare, arms crossed over your chest. "less talking. more fixing."

to your surprise, he doesn't say much after that, he just works. efficient. calm. occasionally giving you little instructions like you're his assistant and not the one who dragged him out of bed past midnight.

"hold this." 

"hand me that phillips head." 

"not that one, the other one." 

"no, not—jesus, do you know what a phillips head looks like?"

you sit back at some point, watching him. the way his brows furrow in concentration. the steady pace of his hands, metal and flesh both equally gentle with the wood. the flex of his back muscles under his shirt as he leans forward to tighten a screw. it's annoying, how naturally capable he is. like he was built for these kinds of moments. like he was meant to be there, in your apartment, fixing the things you couldn't.

you cross your arms. "why are you always with him?"

he doesn't look up. "with who?"

"my dad. you never come without him. doesn't it get old? being his... sidekick or something?"

he lets out a quiet breath. almost a laugh. tight and amused. "he's my best friend."

"i know. but still. it's like he can't go anywhere without you. i invite him for dinner and boom—there's bucky. i call him for help, there's bucky. i move out, and who's lifting my couch? bucky."

this time, he pauses. looks up. his blue eyes lock onto yours, searching for something. his expression is unreadable, but something in it makes your breath catch.

"you mad about that?" he asks quietly.

you blink, suddenly unsure. "no. i just... notice."

something shifts in the silence between you. he nods once, like he understands more than you're saying, and goes back to work. his movements seem different now—more deliberate, careful, like he's thinking about something else entirely.

it's 2:07 am when the bedframe finally stands tall and smug in the middle of your room, a testament to his skill and your failure.

"built like a tank," bucky says, brushing his hands together, metal glinting under your cheap overhead light. "you'll sleep like a queen."

you give it a test push. it doesn't creak. not even a wobble. of course it doesn't.

he's walking toward the door, toolbox in hand, when you stop him.

"wait."

he turns, one eyebrow raised in question.

you try not to look too hopeful, too eager. "i baked cookies earlier. i was gonna give them to dad but... you want some? as a thank you."

his brow rises higher, and there's the faintest twitch of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "you baked?"

"yes, barnes, i can bake," you snap, defensive. "i'm not completely useless."

"never said you were."

he accepts one like it's an offering from another realm, bites into it cautiously as if expecting it to bite back. chews. Nods.

"these are actually good," he says, genuine surprise in his voice.

you cross your arms, trying to look offended but secretly pleased. "wow. you sound shocked."

he licks a crumb from his thumb, throws you a look over his shoulder that makes your stomach do something complicated. "you finally did something on your own. i'm proud."

you hurl a pillow at him. he catches it midair with his metal hand, reflexes sharp as ever.

smirking. always smirking. like he knows something you don't.

"thanks," you say, softer this time. "for coming over. at midnight. you didn't have to."

he studies you for a moment. "yeah, i did."

something in his tone makes you look up, really look at him. for a second, you think you see something in his eyes— beyond the teasing, it was warm and genuine and it makes your heart skip.

but then he's moving toward the door again, and the moment evaporates like it was never there.

"next time," he says, pausing with his hand on the doorknob, "just call me first. not after you've demolished half the furniture."

"there won't be a next time," you lie, and both of you know it.

he just shakes his head, that infuriating half-smile back in place. "night, brat."

you watch him leave, metal arm glinting under the kitchen light, and wonder if he knows he's the one thing you wouldn't mind your dad bringing around all the time.

maybe someday you'll tell him.

but not tonight.

tonight, you sleep on a perfectly built bed, stomach full of cookies, and the faint scent of his cologne still hanging in the air.

you're independent. kind of. but you're not stupid.

You sighed and handed him the batteries. “Fine, since you’re so desperate to be the hero.”

Chase chuckled and stood, dragging the step stool from the corner. He climbed up and easily reached the smoke alarm, his hands skillfully replacing the batteries. He looked down at you, that smirk still plastered on his face. “See? Easy.”

You crossed your arms, shaking your head. “You just like showing off because you’re taller.”

“Not my fault you’re vertically challenged,” he shot back with a grin as he jumped down from the stool, landing lightly on his feet.

“Sure, rub it in,” you muttered, but your lips twitched into a smile. “So, what now, hero? Want a reward?”

He flopped back down on the couch beside you, making the cushions bounce. “Maybe stop hogging the couch?”

You bumped your knee against his, shifting a little to give him space. “I wasn’t hogging anything.”

He gave you a playful nudge in return, and the two of you fell into comfortable silence, the TV filling the room with background noise as the clock ticked closer to midnight.

“Happy New Year, by the way,” Chase said softly, breaking the quiet.

You glanced at the clock—it was two minutes to midnight. “Happy New Year.”

It was a simple exchange, no fanfare, no fireworks, just the soft hum of the TV and the warmth of Chase beside you. The way you were sitting, your shoulders were pressed together, your knees bumping occasionally. The quiet felt different, heavier with the weight of something unspoken between you two.

Midnight arrived, and outside, you could hear fireworks exploding in the distance. But inside your little apartment, it was calm. Chase reached over, casually resting his arm on the back of the couch behind you. You felt the shift in the air, like something was about to happen but neither of you was quite ready to acknowledge it.

You broke the silence with a sudden, almost impulsive question. “Should we kiss?”

Chase’s head snapped toward you, eyes wide, the question catching him off guard. “What?”

“What?” you echoed, immediately regretting your boldness. “I mean, it’s New Year’s and… isn’t that a thing people do?”

He blinked, his mouth twitching into a small smile, but his eyes remained serious for a beat longer. “Only if they want to.”

A warm flush crept up your neck. You hadn’t thought this far ahead—what had you been expecting? Before you could come up with something coherent, he reached for your hand, his fingers brushing against yours softly. His touch was gentle, like he was asking for permission.

“Well, do you?” His voice was lower now, a little more serious.

You opened your mouth to answer, but then you saw it—that vulnerability behind his teasing smile. The way he looked at you wasn’t casual, it wasn’t something you could laugh off. You swallowed hard and nodded, the air between you thickening with unspoken feelings.

Chase didn’t hesitate after that. His hand cupped your jaw softly, and he leaned in, pressing his lips against yours. The kiss wasn’t hurried or awkward—it was slow, like both of you had been waiting for this moment far longer than either was willing to admit. You could feel the warmth of his skin, the way he breathed against you, steady and grounding.

When he pulled away, there was no rush to speak. You both sat there for a moment, eyes locked, the gravity of what had just happened hanging between you. The TV droned on in the background, but neither of you noticed it.

“I didn’t know you felt…” you trailed off, unsure of what to say.

“Yeah, well,” Chase rubbed the back of his neck, the familiar playfulness creeping back into his voice, though his eyes remained serious. “Guess it took New Year’s for me to stop being an idiot.”

The days following your accidental confession were filled with strange, unspoken moments. There were times when Chase would brush past you in the kitchen, his fingers lingering on your arm a little longer than necessary. You’d catch his eye during breakfast, and he’d give you that knowing smirk, like he was waiting for you to say something.

One evening, a few days after New Year’s, you walked into your room to find a bouquet of flowers sitting on your desk. A little card was tucked into the stems, and the handwriting was unmistakably Chase’s.

“Did you get me flowers?” you asked, holding them up as you walked into the living room where he was lounging on the couch.

Chase glanced at the flowers and then back at the TV, nonchalant. “They were for decoration.”

You raised an eyebrow. “In my room?”

He shrugged, refusing to meet your gaze. “Thought it could use a bit of color.”

“Right,” you muttered, but you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. You set the flowers back in your room, your heart doing that weird, fluttery thing it had been doing ever since New Year’s.

The shift between you and Chase wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet and subtle, like two puzzle pieces finally snapping into place after spending too long figuring out where they belonged. You spent more time together, lingering in each other’s spaces, exchanging glances that carried more meaning than words.

One night, after a long shift at the hospital, you came home to find Chase trying to change the batteries in the smoke alarm again. The step stool wobbled slightly under him, and you stifled a laugh, crossing your arms as you leaned against the doorway.

“You’re gonna fall,” you called out.

Chase turned, glancing down at you. “What, you don’t trust me to handle this?”

You let out a loud laugh, and you saw how his expression softened even more, as if knowing that you generally find him funny cures something in him.

“Get down, then,” he said, stepping off the stool with a grin. “I’ll let you try.”

You rolled your eyes, pushing him out of the way. “You’re hopeless.”

As you climbed up, Chase stayed close, his hands resting on your hips as if ready to catch you if you lost your balance. You could feel his breath on your neck as you fumbled with the smoke alarm, and despite your best efforts, the moment felt heavier than it should’ve.

“You’re not even doing anything,” you muttered.

“Just enjoying the view,” he teased, squeezing your hip playfully.

“God, you’re impossible,” you grumbled, but there was no real annoyance in your voice. You liked it—this new, easy intimacy between you.

---

The clock struck midnight again, marking a few weeks since that first kiss on New Year’s Eve. This time, there was no hesitation. You and Chase had settled into this new chapter, one filled with teasing, casual moments, and the quiet understanding that, somewhere along the way, your friendship had shifted into something deeper.

As you sat together on the couch, his hand resting lazily on your thigh, you couldn’t help but smile. “So, we gonna kiss again at midnight, or is that only a New Year’s thing?”

Chase looked at you, his green eyes twinkling with amusement. “Nah, I think we can make it an everyday thing.”