#(challenge accepted)

His jaw ticked. “You said that two hours ago.”

“I mean it this time.”

“You said that too.”

You grinned faintly, distracted. “You’re very persistent for someone not helping me find the tape.”

He crossed his arms, metal fingers flexing. “You need a break.”

“I don’t—”

“Someone,” he interrupted, voice dipping lower, “doesn’t wanna be able to walk tomorrow.”

You barely heard him over the rustle of paper. “You’ve said that before, but I’ve always been able to walk the next day.”

It was supposed to be a flippant, automatic response—a tease to shut him up while you finished tying your ribbon.

But the room went quiet.

You looked up slowly. Bucky’s expression had changed. His head tilted just slightly, that wolfish smirk pulling at his lips. A spark lit behind his eyes.

He murmured, “Challenge accepted.”

And that was your only warning.

Hours later, the only wrapping paper in sight was shredded beneath you.

Your back was arched off the sheets, wrists pinned, your voice long since broken to hoarse little whimpers. Bucky had been relentless—every time you begged for a break, he’d just hush you, murmuring, “You wanted to walk tomorrow, sweetheart? You better start prayin’.”

You’d lost count of how many times you came. How many times he pushed you past it. His words had turned into a blur of rough affection and filth:

“Keep lookin’ at me like that, and I’ll make sure you forget your own name.” “Fuck, you’re so sweet like this—takin’ everything I give you.” “Who’s gonna walk to the store tomorrow, huh? Not you, that’s for damn sure.”

By the time he came—deep, possessive, groaning your name against your ear—you were trembling, legs shaking so badly he had to hold you up.

And he still didn’t stop right away. He eased you through it, slow thrusts until your body twitched, until he was sure the only thing you could manage was breathing.

When he finally collapsed beside you, sweat-slick and smiling, he pressed a soft kiss to your temple.

“Still think you’ll be walkin’ tomorrow?” he whispered, smug and tender all at once.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just hummed, deliriously boneless, as he gathered you into his chest.

He chuckled lowly. “Thought so.”

Morning came cruelly.

You blinked awake to sunlight slicing through the curtains—and immediate regret. Every muscle below your waist throbbed. You tried to sit up and immediately hissed, falling back into the sheets.

“Holy shit,” you groaned. “He actually did it.”

From the doorway came a low laugh.

You turned your head—slowly, painfully—to see Bucky leaning there in nothing but gray sweats, hair messy, a mug in each hand. He looked disgustingly pleased with himself.

“Mornin’, doll,” he said, handing you one. “How’re those legs feelin’?”

You glared weakly. “I hate you.”

He crouched beside the bed, grin widening. “No, you don’t.”

You groaned again, hiding your face in the pillow. “You’re insufferable.”

“Can’t hear you, sweetheart. You’re mumblin’.”

“Bucky.”

He laughed outright now, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “I told you to take a break. You didn’t listen. So I found a way to make sure you did.”

“Yeah, by crippling me.”

“Temporary side effect,” he said smoothly, brushing his fingers through your hair. “You’ll thank me when you realize you don’t have to do a damn thing today. I got it all handled.”

You cracked one eye open. “Handled?”

He nodded, pleased with himself. “Gift wrapping, grocery run, laundry—all done. Called your mom, too, told her you’d been workin’ too hard and you’re takin’ a personal day. She said, and I quote, ‘Good. About time that girl relaxed.’”

You groaned again, this time hiding your blush. “You didn’t.”

He hummed innocently. “I did.”

“Bucky!”

He just smirked, standing to stretch. “Now, drink your coffee and stay in bed. I’ll bring breakfast up.”

You watched him pad toward the kitchen, that unfairly pretty back flexing with every step. “You’re way too proud of yourself.”

He turned halfway, flashing a grin that made your stomach flutter. “Proud? Sweetheart, I’m smug. You said you could always walk the next day. Had to prove you wrong.”

You threw a pillow at him. It barely made it off the bed.

He caught it easily, laughing as he lobbed it back onto your stomach. “See? Can’t even throw properly. My work here’s done.”

You tried to pout, but the ache in your thighs turned it into a helpless little whimper instead.

He caught it immediately. His grin softened into something gentler as he returned to your side, brushing a kiss over your forehead.

“You sore, baby?”

You nodded. “In the best way.”

His voice dropped, soft as velvet. “Good. Means you’ll actually rest.”

And true to his word, he spent the entire day hovering—bringing you breakfast, rubbing lotion into your legs, switching out your heating pad, refusing to let you lift a finger. Every time you tried, he’d give you that knowing look and murmur, “Didn’t I tell you to take a break?”

By evening, you were nestled in his lap under a blanket, a Christmas movie playing in the background.

You sighed, eyes fluttering closed. “You’re impossible.”

He pressed his lips to your ear, low and satisfied.

“Maybe,” he said. “But you’re not walkin’, are you?”

You groaned softly, hiding your smile in his chest.